Fairytales Slashed, Volume Two
By Megan Derr & Sasha Miller
Published by Less Than Three Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
The Beast edited by Samantha Derr
The Wizard's Tower edited by Alice Montrose
The Huntsman edited by Michelle McDonough
Sleeping Beauty edited by Megan Derr
Cover designed by Lainey Durand
www.laineydurand.com
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
Electronic Edition December 2010
The Beast Copyright © 2010 by Megan Derr
The Wizard's Tower Copyright © 2010 by Sasha Miller
The Huntsman Copyright © 2010 by Megan Derr
Sleeping Beauty Copyright © 2010 by Sasha Miller
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-936202-52-2
Table of Contents
The Beast
Prologue
Alcor loved the smells of a party, even if they would set his head to throbbing in a few more hours. Even when they did, he would enjoy them until exhaustion finally snatched them all away and ended the revelry by force.
For now, he basked in the sweet-sour smoke of the dragonweed someone had brought, the way it made everything too sharp, too bright. Dragonweed brought faerie sight, the saying went, for it was the reclusive faerie who knew the meaning of true decadence.
Mingled with the dragonweed was the scent of wine and ale and stronger spirits, the smell of rich food—and the smell of some of it burning as the laughing group by the fire tossed some random bits into the flames to watch them burn.
He could also smell lust, musky and salty and sharper than even the dragonweed. He could smell it on the half-naked men collapsed on the long sofa with him, smell it on himself, smell it on the pretty little thing whose lips were wrapped around his cock.
Somewhere in the mess he could hear his father singing in his sloppy, drunken way, strong voice, for once, unsteady, the verses breaking off at random so he could recount the tale of his grand victory for the millionth time. The pungent scent of his black violet cologne mingled into the mess of scents, as well.
Alcor's own cologne was sweeter, softer, and by now mostly lost to the other scents in which he had drowned himself. He smiled in drugged contentment as a bit of dragonweed, crudely wrapped in cheap paper, was put to his lips. Pulling it in, unbothered by the bitter flavor of the smoke, he let it out slowly.
Knocking away the hand of the giver—yet another pretty boy brought in to entertain and pleasure him—he pulled him into a slow, thorough kiss even as he thrust lazily into the mouth of the one between his legs.
He came with a shudder and pushed both the boys away with a sigh. Shoving off one of the drunken fools beside him, he took over most of the sofa and stretched out languorously, lacing up his pants again only as an afterthought.
The haze of smoke and myriad other scents made him sleepy, but the dragonweed kept him from falling asleep just yet.
But even drugged he could feel eyes upon him. Two sets of eyes, and it had not taken him long to find either that watched.
He did not know either and did not care if they wanted to watch him—or join him, which would be amusing for at least a little while longer. The first one he had picked out of the crowd still sat where Alcor had first seen him, in a chair in the farthest corner of the room. He did not move overmuch, merely sat and sipped at some dark wine. He had long black hair, neatly tied, and his clothes were elegant and rich without being showy. Where everyone and everything else in the room seemed to move, he was still. Where all else was bright and gaudy, he was dull and somber. Handsome, but in the way a statue of a man might be handsome.
The other man was stranger still—pale gold hair, long and loose. He was slender and delicate looking and dressed in clothes that, while respectable, were old-fashioned and close to being described as tattered. Noble, from his bearing, but one long-fallen on hard times. He was quiet, but not in the same way as the first one. More—where the revelers were noisy and busy, the first man was a statue. This man—Alcor could not put his finger upon it. He seemed calm, perhaps.
He was drawn from his ponderings as something warm and soft and pliant crawled atop him. Laughing, Alcor permitted a kiss, then pushed the eager thing away, laughing harder as the man he had shoved off the sofa took immediate advantage of his sudden lapful of pretty.
Alcor returned his gaze to the table where the pale-haired man was sitting and saw he was now walking toward the corner where Alcor lazed. Up close, he was far more than pretty—Alcor might actually have described him as breathtaking, even if the hair was untidy and the clothes quite tattered indeed, and he was obviously awkward and shy and uncertain. An admirer, most likely.
He sat up and invited the pale stranger to sit, but the man only shook his head. Around them, many of the others had noticed the odd man and were watching—some covertly, some blatantly—to see what Master Alcor would do with such an out of place stranger daring enough to approach uninvited.
"My lord," the stranger greeted, voice quiet but still somehow heard over the din. "I came to wish you a happy birthday."
Alcor laughed. "Indeed, why else would you come? Are you making yourself a present, pretty? That is a gift I would accept and enjoy, unless you are as tattered as those sad clothes you wear."
"No, my lord," the man said quietly. "I have brought gifts, however, if you would but accept them."
Alcor lifted one delicate brow, the pleasant buzz of the dragonweed fading beneath the peculiarities of the stranger. "The only gifts I care for are great treasure or warm, eager flesh riding me hard. But let us see your gifts, then."
The man licked his lips and held out a small wooden box that Alcord had not noticed until that moment. It was made of some dark, reddish wood, carved with figures and shapes that he could not quite distinguish in the smoke-hazed light.
Wondering if perhaps there was some great joke at the end of all this, he took the box with an amused grin. He fumbled briefly with the catch, the gold gleaming brightly and somehow hard to grasp—or perhaps that was the dragonweed.
At last he managed a victory, however, and flipped it open. He had half-expected to find some perverse toy, something he could make full use of after stripping the stranger bare and spreading the man over his lap, something to tease and torment before finally giving the stranger his cock.
What he saw, however, he could make no sense of. Three objects, each more amusing than the last. The first was a dagger made of silver with a hilt of gold and sapphires. It almost seemed to glow, and he thought he saw markings in the blade itself, but when he looked more closely he saw only silver.
"Loyalty," the stranger said quietly.
Alcor laughed and cast the dagger aside, then picked up the next object—a small crystal bottle with a delicate stopper, filled with some clear liquid. He could not tell if it was the contents or the crystal which sparkled.
"Protection," the stranger said.
"Oh, yes," Alcor said with another laugh, "perfume to protect me. These are not treasures." He threw the crystal bottle over his shoulder, uncaring as to where it landed and picked up the last object in the box. A single rose of a deep, rich red. The color was beautiful, to be sure, but a rose was a rose. Alcor yawned.
"Love," the man said. "I would give you all three, if you would accept them, instead of—" He motioned to the room, the occupants, and the gaudy displays of wealth and decadence.
Alcor let the rose fall to the floor. "I can find trinkets anywhere, pretty, but thank you anyway."
The man frowned. "I know they seem but humble trifles, and my timing is poor—but they are more than they seem, and they are offered out of love."
Alcor laughed again and reached out to snag the man, draw him down and close. He smelled like honeysuckle, though Alcor was surprised he could smell it at all. "Love, pretty? Love is for fools and fairytales. Do I look a simpleton to you? If you are not going to offer me pleasure, then I have no need of you. Take yourself off and give your love to someone foolish enough to take that bait. You are pretty, but not that pretty."
Then he let the man go, roughly enough that he stumbled and fell down awkwardly on his ass. Around Alcor everyone roared with laughter, calling out their own jibes and taunts before slowly returning to their smoking and drinking and fucking.
When Alcor looked up again, the pale-haired stranger was gone. The wooden box still lay on his lap, and Alcor tossed it aside in favor of drawing up the eager little thing he had rejected before, shoving the boys face to his crotch and making it clear what he was meant to do with that delicate, pink mouth.
Before anything could come of it, however, the boy was shoved aside, and Alcor was yanked roughly to his feet. He bellowed in outrage, but stopped short as he met cold, violet eyes. The dark-haired man. "W-who are you?"
The dark-haired man said nothing, merely tightened his grip on Alcor's hair and dragged him away from the sofa and across the room to where Alcor's father had bent a dark-haired boy over a table and was fucking him enthusiastically.
His father stopped when he saw Alcor and the dark-haired man. Alcor tried to speak, but the man twisted his fist, pulling hard at Alcor's hair, making him cry out—and the he felt the cold, sharp point of a dagger at his throat.
Alcor's father pulled out of the boy and cast him roughly aside, absently refastening his pants. "What is the meaning of this?"
"A life for a life," the dark-haired man said and drew the dagger lightly across Alcor's throat, drawing a thin thread of blood. It trickled hot and sticky down Alcor's throat, though he felt completely cold and entirely too sober. "You took my family and my friends—now I will take yours."
"You—" His father made a choked, garbled sound, his lunge across the table turning into a clumsy, awkward slump. "Who—"
Alcor could practically feel the dark-haired man grin and swore as the knife at his throat cut a little deeper. "Next time, make certain we are all dead."
"Filthy dark fae," his father gasped out, but the anger in it sounded somehow weak and pathetic, as if his strength was being leached away.
"Indeed," the dark-haired man said coolly. "You were warned to leave us in peace. Your wife and daughter have already suffered. They died slowly, and their screams…" The smile was back in his voice. "Sweet."
"Bastard!" his father gasped out, obviously struggling to move against some force keeping him in place.
"No," the dark-haired faerie said. "I am, or was, a true prince. Now I will make all of you pay for your selfish, greedy ways. Did you enjoy the castle you stole from me? I hope you did, because that will it make all the sweeter when you burn with it."
Only then did Alcor realize the smoke he was smelling was entirely too strong; only then did he realize the haze in the room was not right for dragonweed. He could see in his father's face that he had only just realized too.
And only at that moment did the screaming begin.
Then the world turned into a hideous nightmare as smoke turned into flame and the smell of burning food and dragonweed became the scent of burning flesh. Screaming and shouting and sobbing filled the air as people began to realize what was wrong, as they tried to escape and found they could not. One by one they fell victim to the fire that quickly consumed the room. Alcor tried to close his eyes, but could not—he could do nothing but stand and watch everyone in the room burned alive.
When he started screaming, he did not know, but he screamed until when his voice no longer worked, until smoke and ash seared his throat, ruined it. Smoke burned his eyes, and he could feel the fire and yet not feel it, not quite.
Eventually, it seemed only they three were still alive. Then his father started burning, and Alcor found he could still scream. When nothing remained of his father, Alcor felt cold steel at his throat and then he mercifully felt nothing more.
Part One
He stood before all that remained of the life he had known. Nothing but ash and burned bits of wood, here and there chunks of stone that had not quite succumbed to the intense, destructive heat of faerie flames. A thousand emotions made him forget for a time that he had not eaten in three days and that his entire body ached with a pain like no other.
He remembered nothing.
Well, that as not entirely true. He wished it were, because having no memories would be so much easier than what he did have. He remembered the smell of burning flesh. His father's screams. His father burning. He remembered dragonweed, that it had been his twentieth birthday. He recalled the man—the dark faerie—who was responsible for it all.
After that, he remembered an eternity of pain, hands holding him down, rough rope keeping him in place despite the way they added wounds of their own, cold things smeared over his body, nasty things poured down his throat.
Nightmares. He remembered so many nightmares.
Worse still had been the waking. No nightmare could compare to finally, truly waking up to the hell that was his new reality—a reality in which he was too scarred, too ruined, too hideous for anyone to bear looking upon. He had found a mirror, in the depths of the monastery where he'd been taken, and dared at last to look upon his own reflection.
He had promptly been sick and since then had not been able to stomach food.
Gone was his beautiful, long blue-black hair. It had finally begun to grow in again, but it was white and coarse. His one remaining eye was still green, but that single bit of health and color could not overcome the horror of the rest of his body. Burn scars over the whole, accented by cuts and rope scars where he had apparently struggled throughout the healing process. He did not remember any of it. And though the hair on his head had returned, such as it was, it would grow nowhere else.
Across his throat, the crowning touch, was a livid scar put there by a cursed blade. He remembered that blade, the way it had felt hot-cold as it sliced his throat. He had not known, then, that it was cursed. They'd told him that after he woke up fully aware of himself at last.
In slicing his throat, the dark faerie had cast his terrible curse—to live as the dark faerie had for so long: reviled, rejected, unwanted, unloved, hated, feared, and all that he had been forgotten by all who had known him.
To live nameless and alone, loathed by all, and unable even to die unless the curse was broken.
The monks had healed his body and eased his pain as best they could, but only for the sake of their duty. They had not shoved him out the door in the end, but neither had they seemed unhappy to tell him goodbye.
He had asked them how the curse might be broken, but when he heard the answer, he had wished he had not. It was nothing but nonsense. Love, the monks had said. He had angered a dark faerie something fierce, and the curse upon him was the kind reserved for only the cruelest of transgressors.
Alcor wished the dark faerie were still alive, that he might kill the bastard himself. If anyone should have been cursed, it was his father—
He immediately stopped thinking about his father, the memory of burning flesh and screaming making him almost grateful that he had no real need to eat—he could not die, not even of starvation.
Just over a decade ago, his father and his small army had wiped out the dark faerie from that part of the world. Victorious, they had taken over the castle and surrounding land to make of it a small village. There they had lived from the time Alcor was eight.
Obviously they had missed one, but why had the faerie cursed Alcor and not his father? He'd only been eight years old when his father had slaughtered the dark faerie, and that at the bidding of the King. Why was Alcor left a cursed monster while his father—
It wasn't fair. He'd done nothing, nothing at all. Why was he alone left to suffer this way?
He had asked the monks that very question, but their answers had held no sympathy, nor even pity. Nothing, they had said, was even worse a crime. Willful ignorance and taking no action was worse than actively doing the wrong thing.
Shortly thereafter, he had taken his leave. He was miserable enough without their high and mighty prattling. Love, they had said. If he ever wanted to break the curse inscribed on his throat, then he must get someone to fall in love with him—and return that love. Love and be loved.
Personally, he thought the monks were nitwits. Love? Even pretending love was real and not a tool to use on lesser minds, who would love someone who looked as he? It was a curse with no true way to be broken, which struck him as cheating and a typical faerie thing to do.
Then again, Alcor acknowledged, nothing was harder to take than the impossible. If the bastard faerie had sought to ruin his life and make him suffer forever, well, he obviously had known what he was doing. It was as brilliant as it was stupid.
Alcor made his way slowly through the remains of his home, not certain why he bothered, but what else did he have to do? The monks had given him clothes, a warm cloak, food for a couple of weeks—not that he needed it, he doubted his appetite would ever return—and some coin that did him no good because wherever he went, people screamed or cried or threatened to kill him if he did not leave immediately. All of them made the sign of warding against evil.
It wasn't fair, but after weeks of trying, he was starting to accept there was nothing he could do. He hated it, and he hated the damned faerie responsible for it. He was cursed and cursed forever.
Something caught his eye—a flash and sparkle, completely at odds with the remains of what had once been a beautiful old castle. Alcor walked toward it, kicking away bits of debris. He had not been here in over a year, yet so much of the destruction remained. Perhaps it was cursed as well; he wouldn't put it past the vindictive bastard faerie.
Kneeling in the grime, he pushed away bits of burned wood and stone to reveal a small bottle. It was made of crystal, flawless and beautiful in the light, the delicate stopper made to resemble a rosebud. It was filled with some clear liquid, and he could not say for certain if it was the crystal or the contents which sparkled.
Something flickered through his mind, then was gone, like a candle lit and promptly snuffed—the scent of honeysuckle, warm and soft and sweet. Frowning, confused and annoyed, Alcor stood and examined the bottle more closely. Perfume, of some sort? How had it survived the fire? He grasped the stopper and pulled, but it would not come free. He pulled and pulled and began to swear, but all for nothing. Surely the fire had not done it, not if the bottle had survived.
Irritated, he tucked the bottle away to figure out later and continued to make his way through the ruin that had once been his home. His stomach roiled as he caught a faint whiff of dragonweed, but surely that must be his imagination. Any such scents would be long gone, fifteen months after the damned faerie had destroyed his life.
The dark faerie who was dead now, and that was perhaps the hardest part to take. The bastard had taken his revenge—on Alcor, unfairly—then killed himself to cheat Alcor of his own chance at revenge. He had questioned the monks a thousand times on it, but they had been quite firm about it. T hey had recognized what was left of one corpse to know it for a faerie.
Another glint caught his attention, and Alcor immediately went toward it, curious despite himself that anything—let alone two things—would survive the inferno that had leveled a centuries old faerie castle. Reaching into the broken bits, he pulled free a dagger which seemed to be made of purest silver with a hilt of gold and sapphires. Useless, but beautiful.
This time an image came to mind, fragile as morning mist burned away by the sun—pale gold hair, long and soft looking.
Mysteries and more mysteries, and didn’t he have enough problems without adding that to the mess? When was enough enough? Stifling a sigh, he tucked the dagger into his jacket with the crystal bottle and decided he'd had enough of the entire mess. What was the point in coming back here? Nothing remained, no one remembered, and he would not break his curse by skulking around these pathetic ruins.
But as he was nearly clear of them, he caught sight of yet another oddity. It not the sparkle of crystal or the shine of silver. No, this time it was color. A deep, rich red. It was like nothing he had ever seen, not really. Kneeling, Alcor plunged his hand into the muck and grime—and managed to prick his finger on something. Jerking his hand back, swearing loudly, he glared at the blood which well up from the small puncture at the tip of his finger.
Wiping his hand on his filthy breeches, he reached again into the mix of mud and ash, and this time was braced for when his fingers were again pricked by something. Pulling the object free, he stared in shock. A rose. A perfect scarlet rose. It was the color of fresh blood or a dark ruby or a heady wine, and yet none of those exactly captured the depth and richness of its color.
Loyalty. Protection. Love.
Alcor frowned and held one dirty hand to his head, which had begun to throb. He could hear the words in his head, spoken in a soft, shy voice. He could see the pale gold hair, smell the honeysuckle—
That was all, and the dreamlike image was gone. Until he brought the rose close and caught its scent. It did not smell like a rose, however, but like honeysuckle and green things, herbs and spices, tea and lemon. He heard the soft, shy voice again, but could not quite hear the words it said. Saw the pale hair…
It must be some dream, a hallucination or some such. Anyone so soft spoken was not his sort; they were too easily broken, the nice, gentle, weak ones. But why dream such a thing? Was it a memory from that awful night?
He could not remember. Perhaps it was some faerie trick. That would explain how the three objects had survived the inferno. If that were the case, he was best rid of them, yet he could not bring himself to throw them away.
Shrugging, irritated by his own strange behavior, Alcor nevertheless inhaled the bizarre scents of the rose once more before tucking it away with the bottle and dagger.
Then he strode to clean grass and cleaned his hands as best he could of the filth of the ruins, ignoring the way his skin and muscles pulled and ached as best he could. Finished, he stood at a complete loss. The monks had tended him in a little church closer to the village when first they had been called to save him. When he was strong enough to be moved, they had carried him to their monastery for proper healing. All told, he had spent just over a year recovering his full health—or as much of it as he would ever recover.
When he and the monks had no longer been able to stand one another, he had decided to return here. But whatever he had hoped to find, it was not here. Nothing was here, and this had been a waste of time, but what else did he have to do? No goals, no acquaintances who would talk to him whether they remembered him or not.
Not for the first time, and far from the last, he wished he were dead. Everyone else was, including the damned faerie, so why couldn't he die as well?
He had tried to do it, back when the pain had still been more than he could bear, but it had only added further scars to his body and made the monks give him even more of their condescending looks. As if they had any idea what it was like to live the existence forced upon him. They had no right to judge.
Distant thunder rumbled along the mountains a few miles off. A storm was coming, which meant he should try to find shelter of some sort. If the foul weather stood no chance of killing him, then he saw no point in suffering it.
Getting away from the rain was, at least, a goal. Pathetic, really, when once his only priorities had been which of the dozens of parties to attend, who to invite to his castle, and which ones were worthy of being taken to his bed for a short time.
There was something else he would never again experience. No more fucking, no more pretty boys with eager mouths. Even if anyone could stand the sight of him, he no longer had any interest. Recollections of the pretty things he'd fucked night after night left him cold. Beyond that, he suspected that even if he had the interest, the ability would not be there.
He was not eager to confirm the fact, either, and so left well enough alone.
Turning away from the remains of the castle, Alcor began to trek back along the road he had once traveled nearly every day of his life. His father had hired men to maintain the road year round so that it was always traversable for the family and whatever guests came to call.
Now, it was overgrown and uneven, rapidly being consumed by the dense forest on either side. In a few more years, no sign of his family would remain at all.
Dark came quickly, hastened by the storm he could feel now in the air. He would not find anywhere to shelter before it struck. That fact might have angered him, but it seemed only one more unfairness in a life suddenly overfull of them, and he could not spare the energy to resent the weather specifically. Much easier to lump it into the general mass of resentment he felt for life.
He walked on, even when it got too dark to really see—and seeing well was hard enough, when he had only one eye remaining. Occasionally he slipped a hand inside the threadbare jacket he wore, absently touching the bottle or the dagger or the rose. He kept hoping for something more to come to mind, something that would explain the strange, ghostly images that flickered for all too brief a time. He did not like mysteries, but the mystery was better to think about than other things.
Perhaps he was hoping for a memory stronger than scorching fire, of screams of agony, the stench of burning flesh and the hot-cold bite of steel at his throat. The months and months spent in a hell composed entirely of pure pain. Even sickly-sweet honeysuckle was preferable to the memory of his father burning to death before his eyes.
Immersed in his thoughts, he did not see them until they were upon him—three of them, he thought, though it felt more like six of them by the fury of their grabbing and punching and kicking, the way they shoved him down and pressed him into the ground, tearing fabric in their greed to empty his pockets, take his little knapsack.
He curled up in a ball of agony as the beatings finally eased, unable to do a damned thing as they reached for the inner pockets of his jacket. He grabbed feebly at a wrist as they latched onto the objects he'd found in the castle remains, but his own wrist was twisted hard and a sharp cuff to the face put a final end to his protestations.
"Bah," the attacker muttered as he examined the three objects. "Nothing but junk and some nasty little bit of dead weed. Pathetic little beggar, he's got nothing but the food and coin we already took. Maybe that cloak. Take it, too." He laughed in an unpleasant way and threw the objects down, then kicked Alcor hard in the gut before backing off entirely. "Come on then, lads, nothing on this sad thing."
The sound of their laughter as they left was slow to fade, and he did not really draw breath until at last no sign of them remained.
He breathed, but carefully, because even that caused a thousand new pains to flare up. On top of the permanent miseries attached to his burn scars from where he'd hurt himself while hysterical and feverish during the healing, this was all his nightmares returned. Once upon a time, no one would have dared touch him in any way without permission. Once, he would have ridden a great stallion or in a fine carriage bearing the family crest. No one would have stopped him or hurt him. He could have traveled this road at any time of day or night with not even a touch of fear.
Now it was half-reclaimed by the forest and polluted with robbers, all but forgotten by the rest of the world. The bastard thieves had taken his few belongings, minus the oddities he had recently collected. Strange, but he just didn't care right now. He didn't care about anything, and no one cared about him. No one even knew he lived. No one to help him with the pain, no one to care that he was alive, no one who would care to hear if he died.
Curled up in the middle of the dirt road that had once led the way to his family home, in too much pain to even think of moving, Alcor sobbed.
The rain forced him to his feet some time later as it began to fall hard, swiftly turning the dirt road into a muddy river. As he had no desire to learn what it was like to drown without actually dying, he picked himself up slowly and started to walk away—when he suddenly remembered the objects the robbers had cast aside.
Turning back sharply, he scrambled almost frantically through the mud to find the discarded objects. Such stupid, trivial things should not matter; he'd once owned a hundred things a hundred times more beautiful, but they did matter, and he was not in the mood to question it
At last he found them and clung fiercely to them. Junk, the robber had called them—junk and a dead weed. Why? That made no sense— Is that what they saw, in place of the jeweled dagger, the crystal vial, the perfect rose? How could they see only trash in such beautiful objects?
He laughed bitterly. Unless he was clinging to junk and a dead weed and only seeing the beautiful objects now clutched tightly in his hands. Perhaps he was deluding himself; after all, it was impossible that the flower especially would survive that gods damned fire.
Well, if he was crazy, so what? Being crazy hardly mattered on top of everything else inflicted upon him. Just one more problem on a very long list, a list that was titled 'things about which nothing can be done.' Tucking the objects away, fixing his torn, wet clothes as best he could, Alcor walked.
How long he walked, he did not know. Every step hurt, every movement ached, but it would hurt the same if he held still. Eventually, the sun came up and the rain stopped, though he could not say for certain in which order those two things occurred. At some point, the forest had thinned out and then finally vanished, leaving nothing but fields all around him. So much open space did not sit well with him—he was too visible, too vulnerable. He wanted to hide away and never endure again the pain of other people. He was done with them.
A few hours later, he saw a family walking toward him. He kept his head down and was sure to stay well away from them, but still the woman screamed, the child cried and all three of them made the sign of warding against evil.
Ignoring them as best he was able, Alcor walked on. He wished the robbers had at least left him his cloak—that would have given him some cover. He wondered when he would become used to the screaming and sobbing and threatening.
Some time later, he saw the telltale signs of a village drawing close and turned off onto a road that seemed to lead well away from it, not eager to find out what an entire group of people might do if suitably horrified by the sight of him.
At least he knew where he was, though why that should be comforting he was not sure. He did know where he was, though. Alcor had always travelled by horse or carriage, but he knew the way to the family's hunting lodge like—
The hunting lodge! Why had he not thought of the bloody thing before? It was perfect. No one but the immediate family and a very few precious guests had ever used it. Mostly, his father had kept it exclusively for the family. The two of them had hunted with relish, with his mother and sister not far behind.
He doubted the dark faerie had known of it or even cared. If the curse held true, it was as forgotten by everyone who might have known of it as everything else. It was a place he could live alone, untroubled and unseen. As he never bothered to eat, he had no need to worry about a cook or cleaning. Well, how much of a mess could one person make, and who would be there to care, anyway? He had well established the answer was no one.
What he was going to do when he got there, he did not know, but it was a destination and that was something. Anything was better than wandering aimlessly and encountering shrieking morons. The journey would take some time; the hunting lodge was a one week journey by horse. Really, it was more of a winter home than the much draftier castle. They had often left in early fall and stayed until spring thawed winter away.
Yes, it would be perfect if he could just get there. Going on foot, it would take much longer. Then again, it was not as though he had anywhere else he needed or wanted to be.
That brought the realization that he had been walking long and hard for a man with nowhere to be, and in a great deal of pain besides. The moment he thought that the pain hit him as if he had run straight into a wall.
A little ways ahead rested a copse of trees and Alcor made himself walk toward it only because he had no other option unless he wanted to rest in the open, which was a bit like inviting people to inflict more pain. He didn't want more pain. Over the course of the past year, he'd gotten to know pain better than he had once known dragonweed. It was more pain than anyone should have to bear, and it never went completely away. The monks had loved informing him it never would.
When he reached the copse of trees, he collapsed with a ragged sigh, wincing at the sound of his own ruined voice. Finding a spot that looked relatively comfortable for the ground, he pulled off his jacket and draped it over his head.
Immediately half-asleep, he lay there for some time not quite able to drop off completely. After a moment, he reached with sleepy, unthinking fingers into the inner pocket of the jacket. The awkward angle caused him to fumble for a bit, but at last he wrapped his fingers around the rose, uncaring of the thorns.
Then he fell asleep.
He was jerked from his sleep by the sound of whistling, but for a moment, could not think of anything but the lingering scent of honeysuckle that had followed him from a dream that was already slipping away. Muttering a soft curse, Alcor fumbled to sit up and drew the jacket from his head, pulling it back on with stiff movements.
Even before he had removed the jacket, he'd known it was late at night. Pitch black, dead of night, and barely a sliver of moon by which to see, and yet there was light. Silver white light, close and moving closer and, he realized after a moment, in perfect time with the whistling. An insufferably cheerful tune, especially for the late hour. What sort of idiot whistled cheerful songs while travelling in the dead of night?
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 on 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."