Fairytales Slashed, Volume 2

by Megan Derr

  As the figure drew closer, he realized it was a man of thirty or so years, though it was obviously hard to be certain. Poor, but not as bad off as a beggar—or himself, Alcor thought bitterly.

  There was also the lantern. It did not appear to be the sort of thing a poor man would carry. The light was strange, a pure, unwavering silver-white. No flame made a light such as that. It was brilliant, but did not extend for more than a few paces around the man.

  Curiosity drew Alcor unthinkingly from his shelter of trees, and he realized only too late what he had done, but could not retreat before the man reached him and came to an abrupt halt. "What, ho!" the man exclaimed and lifted the lantern higher. Beside him, a large dog gave a deep chuff.

  Alcor drew back, not wanting to know what might happen if the man saw him and decided to sic the dog upon him. Then the man whistled low and long. "My, my—you look like you've a story or six to tell, my friend. Never seen one who looks like you. More than a little ugly, aren't you? Can't have been fun, getting to look like that."

  A scathing reply formed in Alcor's mind, but all that came out in his broken voice was a dry, shaky laugh. He cut it off quickly, unable to bear the sound of the animal noises he made where once he had been able to sing and recite at least as well as any player.

  "Oh, lad, be careful there," the man said, smiling. "You sound in no condition to be talking." Alcor glared at him, not needing to be told the obvious. The man laughed. "If looks could kill, I'd be dead, all right. You should be dead, but you're not. I don't know if that makes you a lucky sod or an unlucky one."

  Why in the name of the gods would it be lucky? Obviously the man was an imbecile.

  Stroking his beard thoughtfully, apparently not finding it odd to strike up a conversation with a monster on a deserted road in the dead of the night, the man stared at Alcor in silence for several minutes. His eyes, Alcor noticed for no good reason, were pale blue. Like the flowers his sister had picked as a little girl before she'd developed their mother's taste for expensive orchids.

  "I know it right enough you should be dead," the man finally said. "Interesting that you are not. I suspect, from the look of you, that faerie magic is responsible."

  Alcor had been on the verge of shoving past the man and continuing on his way until he found solitude again, but those words drew him up short. He pointed at the man, conveying his question with a look.

  The man nodded. "Aye. Cursed myself, nearly a hundred years now." He peered thoughtfully at Alcor. "You're pretty fresh, I'd say. You got that sour, bratty look to you still." That deserved a contemptuous sneer, and Alcor gave one. The man did not look impressed. "Lad, you can keep trying to kill me with those looks, but I just said I'm cursed the same as you. A stab to my chest would just cause a great deal of mess and pain so your looks won't accomplish much."

  Taken aback, Alcor stopped sneering then his earlier words really sunk in. "Hundred?" he ground out.

  "Aye," the man replied. "I'd lived thirty-odd years when I was cursed, so I've been around far too long. You've not been cursed long, that I can tell." Despite himself, Alcor held up a single finger. The man grimaced. "One year is all? No wonder you look and act so bratty."

  He'd had enough. Cursed or not, he was not going to stand around and let the man cast further insults on top of the countless injuries he had already suffered. Ignoring both the man and the dog at his side, Alcor shoved past them, then abruptly stopped, caught by the strange lantern.

  Up close, it was even stranger. It was a thing of beauty, made of silver and glass etched around the edges with ivy and lush blossoms. More of the same was carved into the silver frame. Inside, the source of light… it could not be, but he could think of no other way to describe it than to say it looked like a star. Truly, it looked as though someone had reached up into the heavens and plucked a star then secured it within the delicate-looking lantern.

  He reached without thinking to touch it and was surprised when his fingers knocked against the glass. It abruptly recalled him, and he dropped his hand. Before he could walk away, however, the man spoke in a shocked voice. "You can see it. My stars, my stars, you can see the faerie light for true."

  Alcor flinched at the word 'faerie' and made to move on, eager to be away. "No—please—" the man said and reached to grab Alcor's arm.

  Shock jolted through Alcor, rendering him incapable of moving. Then he trembled. No one touched him anymore. He'd not been touched by any but the monks in more than a year, and they had never been particularly gentle—quite the opposite. The moment their duty was done, they had ceased touching him as well. Once, people had fallen over themselves for the honor of touching him. Now, he could barely remember what it was like to be touched, save with malice.

  "Don't go," the man pleaded. "I've run across cursed folk before; the faerie are a nasty bunch when they want to be, but I've never met another who could see my faerie light true. You must have a token as well—you bear faerie gifts as well as a faerie curse."

  Alcor stared at him, too confused to manage anything more. "I'm not mad," the man said. "You're just more than a little clueless, I'm thinking, which is a mighty stupid state for a cursed fellow." He glared.

  The man only laughed and motioned. "Let's sit, shall we?" He finally let go, and Alcor could not move for a moment, still surprised that the man would touch him so easily and obviously without even really noting he had done so. Then he shook his head and slowly followed the man back amongst the copse of trees.

  "There we are," the man said. "You've got a sore need to listen to what I can tell you. Lucky for you I like to talk." Oh, yes, that sounded thrilling. The dead of night, he'd rather be sleeping, and instead he was going to get a lesson in—what? How to be a properly cursed crazy person? "Don't roll that eye at me, lad," the man said. "It won't get you very far at all."

  Alcor just glared harder. "You're a boy, all right. I'll eat my lantern if you're more than twenty two summers. Now cease glaring and listen, if you want a chance at breaking that curse of yours."

  "Im—poss—" Alcor broke off as the word proved too difficult to wrap his mangled voice around.

  "Oh?" the man asked. Alcor laughed bitterly, or tried, but it only devolved into a coughing fit. He sneered and turned to leave again. "I know a bit about the faerie," the man called after him. "Looking as you do, my friend, I bet you must have to learn humility or kindness or love."

  The word made him stop, despite himself. Slowly, he turned back around. "Love, aye, that don't surprise me. A real bitch, love. That one they leave for the ones who really anger them." Alcor scowled at him.

  "Come sit down," the man said and whistled to his dog as he settled more comfortably on the ground, moving the lantern so it filled the little clearing, but did not strike anything beyond the trees. Rifling in his bag, he put something in his mouth then fed a few small bits of it to the dog. Jerky, likely. There had been plenty of that in the pack Alcor no longer had; he hoped the bastards who'd stolen it were choking to death.

  He did not want to be here. He did not want to listen to some stupid hundred-year old man—if he really was—discuss those things which had turned Alcor's life into something for which the word 'nightmare' did not seem powerful enough a descriptive.

  But no one had simply flat out said he was ugly and continued to look at him without flinching. No one had ever touched him unless it was to inflict more pain. Reluctantly, Alcor sat. "How?" he croaked, then coughed. A few measly words and his throat positively burned with the effort.

  For reply, the man only lifted one brow that, out of nowhere, reminded Alcor of his nanny. The old woman had been tough, crotchety. She'd died… oh, seven, eight years ago? From drinking too much of her precious 'tonic' that, as he'd gotten older, Alcor had realized smelled suspiciously heavy on the gin.

  She'd been one of the few people he had feared growing up, the way she had lifted that single brow when he'd finally crossed over the line, then she'd move quick as lightning, snatch him up and throw him o
n or over something. She'd see he was held down one way or another and beat his backside until even the thought of sitting down made him grimace for a week straight.

  "Have a swig of this," the man said and held out a leather flask. Alcor started to refuse it, but was given no choice in the matter as it was thrust into his hands. The man gave him the nanny look again, and Alcor obediently lifted the flask to his mouth if only to make that look go away.

  Holy father of the gods, that burned. Alcor choked and coughed and sputtered and gasped for breath that did not want to come. And all the while the stupid fool across from him howled with amusement.

  Of course. How stupid could he have been, to fall for all this? Hot with shame and humiliation, he shot to his feet and fled the trees. What had he been thinking to believe—this was all just a grand midnight game of taunt the stupid beast.

  And the stupid beast had fallen for it every step of the way. What had become of the person he had once been?

  Eyes burning from alcohol and rage, he moved as quickly as he could without actually running. He would not disgrace himself by running away. Walking would suffice plenty.

  He didn't need people laughing at him. In fact, he didn't need anyone period. When had people ever been worth more than a quick tumble or a cheap laugh?

  People were useless.

  Shouting reached his ears, but Alcor only increased his pace. He'd fallen low, but not so low he'd tolerate beggars having a laugh at his expense. He walked until he simply could not stand to go another step. His body still hurt from the recent beating and all the walking he had done afterwards. His brief rest in the trees had not been sufficient to overcome the worst of his aches, and this additional exertion did not help at all.

  Damn it, he just wanted to stop hurting for a few minutes. He wanted not to be a monster. He wanted for that damned faerie never to have ruined his life.

  He collapsed as he reached the massive boulders which gave Stone Crossing its name. It was a primary crossroads here, with one way leading toward and eventually up into the mountains where his hunting lodge awaited him. The other roads led toward the royal capital and the main harbor city.

  High above, the sky was littered with stars. His tutors had taught him to read the stars once, or tried. They'd been insufferably boring, his tutors.

  But, looking at the stars now, he thought he might remember a few of them. Not that it amounted to anything. Priman, the father star, had a blue tint to it that no other star possessed. Looking, he could pick out the eight great stars. There were the four stars of blessing: Rackus, Trius, Mathe, and Finari. Then there were the four stars of tragedy: Wyn, Tristi, Nathe, and Alcor.

  His lip curled in contempt. He'd always thought it amusing to be named for one of the dark stars, a name chosen at his father's insistence.

  The four stars of tragedy were the most prominent; it was said that when such was the case, the coming winter would be particularly brutal. He did not want to think about winter, or what he would do when the snow came. If something went his way, he would be safely within the walls of his hunting lodge. But he doubted anything at all would go his way.

  He froze at the sound of feet, a soft woof and a softer voice muttering words too low to hear, but the tone of annoyance was clear enough. "Go away," he snarled as the dog and man found him. He climbed slowly to his feet, biting back cries of pain because he would be damned if he made them.

  "You ran like your ass—" the man cut himself off. "Bad expression, maybe."

  Alcor said nothing, merely gave him a withering look and shoved past him, struggling not to limp or otherwise show weakness. He did not have much left, but gods damn it all, he still had some meager dregs of pride.

  The man heaved a long sigh. "I laugh at everyone who drinks that stuff the first time, you know. Been so long I've enjoyed it, I always forget the punch it packs the first time around. Never laughed at an initiate yourself, have you?"

  Oh, he had, Alcor recalled, though it was not with the amusement he might have once felt. Thinking of dragonweed now only made him nauseous, at the very least. Once, though, yes, he had loved to watch people smoke it for the first time.

  "You're as quick and prickly as you are ugly," the man said.

  "Who are you?" Alcor managed to get out, though he immediately dissolved into a coughing fit afterwards.

  The man laughed. "My name is Meir. I had a longer name, once, but it means nothing to anyone, now. Meir will do. You, lad?"

  Alcor wanted to tell him to bugger off, it was none of his damned business, that he'd only wanted Meir's name so he knew who he was about to throttle—"Alcor," he said roughly.

  "Rather a grim name," Meir said critically. "Your bloody parents maybe should have rethought that one and listened to the priest who I hope had the good sense to advise against it." He liked his name, even if it wasn't half as amusing as it had once been. He glared. "All right, all right," Meir said, holding up his free hand. "Let's try the sitting down and talking thing again, shall we?"

  Alcor said nothing and made no move to do anything. He didn't want to be here.

  "We'll build a fire, have a proper sit. My lantern provides light, but no warmth." He started to argue, to snarl and rage, but then he shifted and his whole body screamed in agony, and it was only stubborn pride that kept him from expressing any of that pain aloud. Giving up, he stalked back into the little hollow formed by the three massive boulders and dropped down.

  Meir gave him a nanny look. "I'm not doing all the work. Don't you know how to make a fire?"

  Alcor just sneered at him. He had not invited Meir to bother him, he didn't want Meir bothering him, and if he was going to do it anyway, he could build the damned fire by himself.

  "You're remarkably expressive for someone with a face like that," Meir replied. "Fires are easy enough, and I'll teach you."Despite the nanny look, Alcor did not move. If he ignored Meir, maybe he would finally go away. "Unless you're enjoying the cooling weather and are looking forward to freezing but never to death when the snow comes, and—"

  Snarling, Alcor stood again, if only to get the irritating bastard to shut up. What did a monster have to do to get some peace? If he had to build a fire, fine.

  "Hmm," Meir said, but did not elaborate. He picked up his lantern again and turned around to lead the way to whatever building a fire entailed. "Come on, then. Mutt!" He called, and the dog barked in reply, coming toward him. "Firewood, Mutt. Go!"

  Gathering the firewood took a while, and by the end of it Alcor wanted badly to fall over dead. By the time they finally returned to the boulders, it was all he could do to keep moving. So far, he was not terribly impressed by or enthused about fire building.

  Meir seemed not to notice his agony, however, and only gave him more nanny looks as he set about showing Alcor how to start and build up the fire until it reached the right level of flame, adding other bits of instructions and tips as he went.

  Alcor listened, but only because he wasn't in the mood for whatever he'd hear if he stopped listening. Meir wasn't a tutor, and so wouldn't strike him, but he might prattle on about something else, and the more Alcor listened, the sooner Meir would shut up andthe sooner they could all finally go the hells to sleep.

  "There," Meir said approvingly when the fire was finally built and he'd run out of lecturing things to say. In reply, Alcor only grunted in relief, then yawned.

  Meir was silent for a long time, clearly lost in thought, and Alcor started to think he was finally to be left in peace. But just as the warm fire had lulled in what was proving to be the best sleep he'd had since being cursed, Meir resume speaking.

  "You can see my lantern," Meir said. "Most only see a torch or a broken lantern not worth a ha’penny."

  Alcor's irritation at being woken died as the words reminded him of the robbers. They had called the bottle and dagger junk and the rose a dead weed.

  "I see you know what I'm talking about," Meir said. "You've experienced the same thing. So, you do have a faerie love
token." Alcor nodded slowly, but did not move to remove the objects from his jacket.

  Meir laughed. "I can't take them, if that's what worries you, lad. If they were given to you, then only you can hold them, unless you give another permission. They'd appear as worthless junk to me, save I have a token as well. Like knows like and all." He nodded toward his lantern. "Try picking it up."

  Eyeing him, Alcor nevertheless obeyed, if only to sate his curiosity and speed them to the point where he could go back to sleep. He reached out and grabbed the lantern, but couldn't lift it. It was too heavy for him to pick up. Meir had held the lantern as though it weighed no more than a feather, but it seemed as heavy as the boulders around them now. He let go and looked at Meir in question.

  "So what gift do you carry?" Meir asked.

  Alcor hesitated then decided he didn't care. Whatever shut Meir up. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the three objects and set them out before the fire.

  Meir drew a sharp breath and moved around the fire to examine them more closely. "Oh, lad… I've never seen the like, though I've heard…"

  "Heard?" Alcor managed.

  "Aye. These aren't love tokens, lad. These are love vows."

  "What?"

  Meir nodded. "Love vows. Pity you didn't get them 'til after you were cursed. They would have protected you from it. Strange they don't protect you now, at that, but then again— If you had accepted a declaration of love from the giver, likely there would have been no reason to curse you in the first place. So I'd imagine, anyway."

  Alcor shrugged, and spread his hands; he did not remember, though he did feel suddenly sick to his stomach. Loyalty. Protection. Love.

  They are more than they seem, and they are offered out of love.

  He picked up the rose and held it to his nose, breathing in the rich profusion of scents that emanated from it. Except it was different this time than it had been the last. The honeysuckle remained, but now it was mixed with citrus, a hint of vanilla and… brandy.