Short story for fun – “Unpredictable”

For the folks from Rainbow Dragon Readers on Facebook (where FB has decided all long stories are spam) here’s the fantasy story I promised you – it’s not specifically Halloween, although some of the stories on my FB group – Kaje’s Conversation Corner – are (like this one – Promises to Keep but I hope you enjoy it.

Unpredictable

I try to remember how long I’ve been doing this. Time passes differently in Faerie. Are there seasons here? I think I remember snow, but maybe it was white petals on the grass.

“Are you well?” My guard tonight is Sira, one of the youngest of them. I’m sorry about that, because the Queen will punish her, later. I won’t let her pain deter me though.

“I’m fine.” I nudge my horse to a trot, then a gentle canter across the springy turf. The Queen dislikes tall weeds, so they don’t grow on her palace grounds. The lawn rolls out like a carpet, never mowed, just obedient to her will, a smooth green sward to the boundary where her power rises up in a shimmering wall, keeping her enemies out, and her prisoners in.

“You seem quiet.” Sira sits her horse’s gait easily, her voice unaffected.

I can’t tell her that I’m regretting the stripes the Queen will cause to be sliced into her back. Faeries heal well. She won’t feel the pain long, but she’ll remember the cut of the whip for centuries.

Too bad. I didn’t choose her. Still, I say, “You could go help Jimo with the new horses. Send Roland to watch me, since he’s no good with livestock.” Roland’s not good with anything that feels pain. Sadistic bastard. I could enjoy thinking about him being punished.

Unfortunately, Sira shakes her head. “I can’t change our duty roster. Not without orders.”

“Ah. Well then.” I push my horse Star into a faster gallop, leaning over her neck as the trees approach.

Sira whoops with pleasure and joins me, letting our mounts have their heads. Her gelding’s faster than Star by a few lengths. The Queen chose my mount for her steady temper and short legs.

When the woods begin to close in, we slow to a walk. Even now, with the shortest night of the year upon us, the shadows are tricky. Would Sira be spared if her horse goes lame and I ride away? Sadly, no, the Queen would demand why she didn’t ruin the gelding, forcing him on to catch me. Same outcome, two casualties.

I pack away my ideas of how to trip up a horse for future use I hope never to need.

At the boundary spell, we turn and ride north. Sira’s done this with me at least fifty times by now. The key to relaxing someone’s guard is repetition and boredom. She has no idea that, as I casually scan past the strange pink light of the barrier to the Fae lands beyond, I’m watching for you. That for however long— months? Years?— there’d been no sign. Until yesterday.

We reach the spot where I saw the symbol, a running man inside a rectangle, carved in the trunk of a tree, visible through the curtain of the Queen’s power. An Earth symbol, where none had been before. Exit.

Casually, I flick my gaze across that same tree. There’s a blank square of peeled bark now. Which I hope means you know I saw the symbol. I pull my mare to a halt and swing off her back.

Sira looks down at me, perfect forehead creased. “What are you doing?”

“My muse is upon me.” Freaking pretentious words, but they echo the Court’s old bard, who was a freaking pretentious person. “I’m writing a song.”

“Oh. Here?” She glances around. The spot looks like any other spot along the Queen’s boundary.

“Here.” I unsling my guitar from my back. There’s a handy boulder, and I sit on it, letting my hands run across the strings. The guitar sounds odd, because her soundbox isn’t empty. I hope Sira will think this is intentional creativity.

She cocks her head at the first notes, but then goes back to scanning the woods around us.

Usually I play my own songs. The Queen prizes novelty, after however many centuries of life. That’s a reason she kidnaps humans. We’re ugly and fragile and slow-witted, compared to the Fae around her. But we’re unpredictable, something her people, caught in their ages-old dance, don’t seem to manage.

Watch me be unpredictable now.

I pluck a few notes, hoping for a sign. Will, I’m here, I’m ready, but I don’t know what you need. I’ve sustained hope for so long, based on one note, smuggled in to me seasons ago. “Come to the wall when I call and play ‘Open the Gate.’ Wait for my sign.” I’d begun to think you’d forgotten. I run through a verse.

“I like that,” Sira says. “It sounds almost like one of our traditional ballads. But different. What’s it called?”

“I don’t know yet,” I lie. I puck a few more notes, hum the chorus. When she turns away, I tilt the guitar, dig my fingers inside, and pull out my prizes. Hiding them under my knee, I strum a chord, then stop and fiddle with the tuning. “Damn, this peg’s tight. You’re stronger than me. Can you get it loosened up?”

Sira swings off her horse, leaving the gelding ground-tied, and comes over to me. “What do you need?”

“Right here.” I point to a peg, then as she reaches for it, I whip the poisonwood thorn out with my other hand and press it to her wrist. “Don’t move. Not an inch.”

She freezes, as well she should. I take hold of her arm with my other hand, steadying my grip. The slightest prick from that thorn brings weeks of agony, and if it plunges into your bloodstream, you die. “Where did you get that?” She almost manages a steady voice.

I ignore the question. The Redcap sent to kill me by a discarded favorite of the Queen had used his bare hands, but in the hat that fell from his head as my guard removed it from his shoulders, I’d found a blade. That, I’d given up right away, as proof of my trustworthiness. Everyone knew those fae carried a cap knife. The thorn, sheathed alongside it, I’d hidden. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’re one of the best. But I will.”

“What are you doing? There’s nowhere to go. This is futile.” Sira doesn’t have the Queen’s Voice, but I hear the harmonics of persuasion.

I keep my grip steady and slide my knee to the side, baring my other prize hidden under my thigh. “Put those on. Slowly.”

Sira’s tone sharpens, persuasion forgotten. “Prison manacles? How—” She realizes I’m not going to answer.

Simple answer. The Queen’s not the only bored fae who likes a bit of human slumming now and then. The magic-blocking manacles were a gift. Of sorts.

“Put them on.”

“No.”

“Your choice. I can scratch you, render you half-mad with pain, and put them on you afterward. Much simpler.” That’d been my plan if my guard was Roland or Nol. I stare into her inhuman gold eyes and hope my conviction comes through.

It must, because after a long, long pause, she picks up the bespelled manacles. Slips one over her wrist. “I need my other hand to close it.”

“Slowly.” I’m watching for a trick, and sure enough, as her fingers brush the clasp, she jerks away from me suddenly.

If I’d meant to scratch her with the thorn, her clever twist might’ve let her escape. But instead I’ve dropped the thorn and I crunch the manacle in my grip, locking it closed. Sira goes wild, kicking and punching, but without her magic, now blocked by the spell, she’s a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter than me. I get her other arm behind her at last and close the second cuff.

I push away from her and roll to my knees. I’m bruised and I think I have a black eye. She struggles up, about to run, and I tackle her down, whistle Star to my side, and use one of her reins to tie Sira’s feet. Then the other to tie her knees, because I don’t underestimate her.

When I roll Sira over, she glares at up me. “This is crazy. You can’t escape. You’ve just let us both in for a world of pain for nothing.”

“Oh, not for nothing,” I tell her, hoping, praying, that it’s true. I pick up my guitar again, pluck a note. And begin.

“Open the Gate” has a hundred verses, probably. It’s one of those filk songs that expands to any fandom. Whether you’re singing, “In Moria’s mines, Where dwarves once ruled, Stands a gate as black as pitch, And beyond its bars, On a mound of gold, Lies a dragon, its dick atwitch…” or “In the transporter room, Under Scotty’s eye, A circular portal passes, Bringing miniskirt girls, In gogo boots, For Kirk to assess their asses…” you can pretty much find a gate, and some filthy goings on behind it to suit any mood.

I make it through Stargate and beyond, and now have Quark and Odo in a compromising position, when the Queen’s boundary shivers in front of me.

“What?” Sira’s been eyeing me with a mix of perplexity and what looked like pity, but now she scrabbles awkwardly onto her side, staring at the boundary. “How did you do that?”
Since I have no clue, I continue with, “A Ferengi’s balls, Are the only thing, He won’t just sell for profit—”

A sound like a sheet ripping shakes the ground under me, and up ahead, a gate appears. Iron, ornate, set in a carved stone archway. It seems like a mirage, but Sira’s swearing tells me I’m not the only one seeing it. My voice falters and the solid iron fades. Immediately I almost shout out, “The same can’t be said, For Farengi ass, If he can make money off it.” The vision firms up.

Ignoring Siri, strumming my guitar and inventing lyrics as I go, I stride toward the gate. As I reach it, I sing to its solid reality, to the flake of rust on the hinge and the curling tracery of ornate iron vines, and to the arch of stone overhead, holding back the Queen’s magic. The gate stands before me, real and solid, and closed. Now what? I slander the integrity— but praise the ingenuity and flexibility— of the Nightrunners as I press up against the bars.

Then I feel the gate shift. Shiver. And slowly swing open.

Playing, singing, I lean into that gap, turning my back so I can press the halves wider apart with my ass without losing a note. Back where I came from, Star lifts her head from grazing to eye me, then goes back to her lush grass. Sira’s yelling, humping like a caterpillar in slow pursuit, but I ignore her.

“Seregil’s dick, Is long and thick, For which Alec is most grateful—” I fall through the gap, my guitar hanging up for an instant on a curlicue, then coming free. I turn—
You grab me in the hug I’ve dreamed of for so, so long. I try to sing and press close to you, and you laugh. “You can stop.” I swallow Seregil’s name and go silent. Behind me, the gates slam shut with a metallic clang that shakes my bones.

I uncramp my fingers from the guitar and hold you for a proper kiss. Our mouths meet for a fleeting moment of perfection. Then you break free and grab my wrists. “Later. Jesus, I want so much with you. But later. Come on. The Queen will know you’re gone by now.”

Still gripping one of my arms, you tug me toward a pair of waiting horses.

“What now?” I sling the guitar roughly to my back. She’s been my joy and salvation, but I’ll sacrifice her in an instant for you.

“We ride, fast as we can. It’s Midsomer’s Night, and the gate to Earth stands open, but only a little longer.”

“Lead the way.” I swing up on the black gelding you shove me toward, and wheel my horse alongside your chestnut mare.

“Come on.” You set your heels to the mare.

I slot in behind you down the narrow forest track. Part of me is bemused, watching you balance on your horse at full speed across rough terrain. You, my darling realism-only nerd, who once asked while watching Lord of the Rings about how one parked a horse. When did you learn this? How?

That’s irrelevant now. I pray I’ll have time to tease you about it later.

Our horses gallop out of the woods onto a lawn almost as smooth as the Queen’s. I look back, to reassure myself we’ve left her seat of power behind, and see a shimmer the color of decaying roses break from the trees behind us.

“Liam!” I gesture back at that oncoming magic.

You kick your horse to greater speed. “This way. Move your ass, Joe.”

Up ahead, I see another gate, much like the one we came through. Standing beside it are a company of the fae, several in battle armor, and one man mounted on a huge black warhorse.
“Liam? Who are they?”

“Our ticket home.” We pound toward the group.

I’ve spent the last however-long as the Queen’s pet human. You set this up. I’ll follow your lead. I glance over my shoulder. The queen’s magic is pouring out of the woods now, taking shape like a tidal wave. Our only hope is ahead.

As we reach the group of fae, the man on the horse says, “Quickly now, William of Earth. You have it?”

You swing down off your horse, not gracefully, but competently, digging in your shirt pocket. “Here, Your Majesty.” You pass over something small.

The man opens a container shaped like an Easter egg and nods. “Yes, paid in full. Go now. Leave everything not of Earth.”

You turn and tug at my pants leg. “Down now, and strip.”

“Strip?” I dismount, the guitar bumping my back. “Why?”

“Anything from Faerie will anchor us here.” You tug your shirt over your head, step out of your pants. You’re still skinny as a rail, awkward as a colt, and still perfect. You whip the pants at my head, and stand there in cotton briefs with a Hanes waistband. “Come on, Joe!”

I can no longer remember what I brought to this realm, or what the Queen’s seamstresses made, to mimic my human wear. I strip naked and hurry to your side. My dick’s swinging free for everyone to see, but that’s a tiny pinprick beside the tide of power pouring down the valley behind us.

The man on the horse raises a hand, and cool blue power surges to meet the pink and green. “I can hold her for a while. Go now,” the man says. “Before it’s too late.”

You grab my hand. I reach for my guitar, then stop. I replaced her strings, over the months or years. Material from Faerie. I swiftly touch her soundboard. “Goodbye, lady. Thanks for everything.” Leaving her in the grass, I turn to the gate. “So, Liam, do I have to sing this one open too?”

The man behind us laughs. “No, we’ll open it for you. Although my bard thanks you for the gift of a new song.”

A ripple of notes sound from a man in the group carrying a lute. He opens his mouth and sings, in the glorious voice of a true fae, “Although Sam and Dean, Two brothers be, Still you might just be surprised—”

The gate ahead of us swings open. I sprint forward, your fingers clasped so tightly in mine it hurts, but I’m never letting you go again. We duck through the gap and into darkness.
As the voice of the fae bard behind us fades out detailing the joys if incestuous fucking, the world around us spins, tumbles, and brightens. We’re thrown forward, hands still locked as we fall. And then we hit, and roll, and I lose your grasp. But your voice is still there, saying, “Joe. We’re home.”

The grass under my cheek is rough and weedy. I want to smooch every dandelion. I roll over and the star field above me has a scant hundred points of light, struggling to shine past the haze of city lights. I roll further and there you are.

There you are.

You turn to me, and suddenly we’re wrapped up together, kissing ferociously. Your mouth under mine is breath and sustenance and joy, a gift I’ve missed for far too long. Your wiry arms hold me as tightly as I hold you. I pull free enough to gasp, “How—”

The end of my question is lost in our next kiss. And really, it doesn’t matter. How did you find me? How did you get me free? How did you figure it all out? Those are questions for later. Kissing is for now. Breathing your breath. Touching your skin. Freedom, and you.

Suddenly overwhelmed, I bury my face in your neck.

You kiss my forehead, my hair. “Hush, Joe, it’s okay, we’re safe now. Under the king’s protection, and home at last.”

I can’t help asking the one thing that rises to mind. “What did you give the king, for his support?”

You push back enough to see my eyes, and you’re grinning. “Something precious, something useful for their magic, in ways no other substance is.”

“Jewels? Incense? What?”

Your smile gets wider. “Silly Putty. Turns out it traps magic, as well as cartoon ink. But only the original pink kind.”

I stare at you, waiting for the punch line.

You stare back.

Eventually you say, “By the way, this end of the gate is in the center of Lincoln Park. And you’re naked. We may want to get out of here.”

The giggles hit me. I can barely breathe. Which is why, when a blurry picture is printed of “Streakers in Lincoln Park” in the paper next day, your arm’s around me, and I’m stumbling as we run.

We escape the park patrol.

You steal me some clothes.

We make it home at last.

There’s a whole lot of story still tucked away, for me to tell you, and you to tell me— three long years, it turns out, since the Queen stole me away. But the important thing is you and me, together, laughing at the morning paper. Our feet touch under the table as some part of us has been touching, every moment of every hour since a bad filksong sent me back into your arms at last.

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