Fairytales Slashed, Volume 2

by Megan Derr

  "That may be so," the captain said lightly, "but one of those men was my godson, and you'll pay dearly for hurting him.” He rested his hand lightly on his own sword, but his expression now was as cold as Meir's.

  Alcor felt sick to his stomach. He didn't want violence.

  He and Meir would live through whatever happened, these men would not. He did not want more deaths. "Stop this—"

  It was only as Mutt snarled that he realized he should have figured out much sooner where the damned dog had gone. Seemingly out of nowhere, Mutt launched himself at the soldiers, causing one to cry out in pain, and the smell of blood was suddenly thick in the air. Then Mutt yelped in pain, and fell to the ground, lying still for a moment before he began to struggle to his feet.

  After that, the world spun out of control. Try as he might, Alcor could not make sense of all that happened. Heshouted and struggled to put an end to it, but when he wasn't doing his best to avoid a blade himself, he fought uselessly to get Meir and Mutt to back off—

  Until, abruptly, everything went too still.

  Alcor stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the sword thrust through Meir's chest. That was going to be hell to clean up, and now they would have to deal with the matter of Meir not dying as the guards thought he should.

  But then Meir merely tumbled to the ground, making awful noises as he struggled for a breath he could not take. Ignoring the soldiers, Alcor dropped to his knees and pulled Meir close, not really certain what he could do but hating those terrible sounds.

  Meir's eyes were glazed with pain, but he still somehow managed to smile faintly. "Finally broken."

  "What?" Alcor asked.

  "You—broke—" Meir made a hideous choking, coughing noise "—my curse. Thank y—"

  Alcor stared in horror at the body that went abruptly slack in his arms. "Meir, you gods damned idiot—wake up! This is not funny. Meir! Meir!"

  He let go of the body, feeling cold and numb with shock, with disbelief. Meir couldn’t be dead. They were both cursed, they couldn’t die until—but Meir had just said—but how was that—

  Somewhere, he realized he was screaming.

  Then something, or someone, moved behind him, and Alcor snapped. He heard someone scream in pain, others bellowing in anger and knew he was the cause, but simply did not care. Here and there he heard Mutt growling and snarling, followed by more cries of pain.

  At last he had the captain, meeting the contempt in those eyes with a cold fury of his own. Knocking away the bastard's sword, he grabbed him hard and shoved him into the side of the house so hard he could see the man struggle to stay conscious. "If you wanted your godson to live," he said, "then you should have drilled hard lessons into him. If you did not want him cut down like a common thug, you should have taught him it was wrong to rape and steal and murder—or did you think his status made him special and exempt from those rules?"

  "He did not deserve to be cut down by filth like you," the captain retorted.

  Alcor laughed. "Filth like me. That's amusing." He slammed the bastard's head into a wall again. "My friend did not deserve to be cut down by filth like you, but he was. Life's not fair, I suppose. Tell me why I should not kill you for killing my friend."

  "If you kill me, more will come to take care of you. An animal like you? They will stake you out and light a fire."

  "Do I look as though I have any further reason to fear fire?" Alcor demanded. "The worst it can do now is kill me." It was hard to be flippant, so hard, but not as hard as living with the knowledge that Meir was dead.

  He loosened his hold and threw the captain back toward his fallen men, wondering if either of them was alive. Turning to Meir, he heard too late the sound of a sword and snatched up Meir's, turning just in time to barely avoid the sword aimed at his back and to sink his own into the captain's gut.

  Wrenching the sword free, he cast it aside and ignored the captain as he fell.

  Striding to the other two soldiers, he saw that both were, in fact, still alive—if only barely. Mutt's muzzle was soaked with the blood of at least one. "Get out," he said softly. "Tell your superiors that the matter is resolved. If ever people come to trouble me again over this matter, I will hunt you down and kill you myself. Do you understand me?"

  They said nothing in reply, merely nodded and fled to their horses, struggling through obvious pain to mount and ride off.

  Alcor strode back to the body of the dying captain, watching dispassionately as he died slowly from the wound. A flash of silver in moonlight caught his eye, and he bent to pick up the silver case he had seen the captain draw before, what Meir had called a mirror of seeing.

  Undoing the clasp, he flipped the case open and saw that one half of it was, indeed, a mirror. Not a very good one, however; it was oddly clouded, and he could see no reflection whatsoever. Shrugging, he tucked the mirror away and finally returned to Meir's body.

  His strength gave out halfway there, though, as he saw the too-still form lying there, barely lit by the moon above. Nearby, Mutt gave a mournful howl. Alcor collapsed to his knees and threw up the little tea still in his stomach. Even when there was nothing left, his stomach kept trying, his entire body shaking as it fought his stomach and the wracking sobs that had at some point overtaken him.

  Only the sound of Thomas' distress drew him from his own shattered state. He stumbled his way to Meir, resting a hand on his friend's chest, hating the faint smile frozen forever in place. "I hate you," he said softly.

  What had Meir meant by his curse being broken? He did not even know what Meir's curse had been! He'd just assumed it was the same as his own, but that obviously was not the case. With a rough sound, he withdrew and forced himself to his feet.

  "Is he—he—" Thomas stared at Meir, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Alcor strode up the steps and picked Thomas up, carrying him back into the house and upstairs to his own bed. "Stay here," he said quietly.

  "He's dead," Thomas whispered.

  "Yes," Alcor said, just as softly. "I am sorry you saw all that. Stay here, rest if you can, and tomorrow I'll take you to your father, all right?" He would have done it then, and should have, but— No, he had other things to do.

  "If you can't sleep," he said, "make some tea. But stay in the house, all right?"

  Thomas nodded slowly, face a mess of tears and dripping snot. Alcor reached out, but faltered, not really certain what to do, but Thomas took the matter into his own hands, obviously reading some sort of permission, for he threw himself into Alcor's arms and hugged him tight, sobbing hard. "I heard the screams—and saw—and why would they—"

  Alcor held him awkwardly, wanting to cry again himself, but a numbness was setting in that he could not seem to overcome. Worse than when he'd woken in that monastery, worse than realizing his family was dead and he was a monster, worse than even looking in the mirror. Meir was dead. Meir, who despite everything, had been his friend—and it was only now, too late, that Alcor realized friend was indeed the word.

  Eventually, Thomas calmed down and fell asleep. Alcor lay him down and wiped his face, then pulled up the blankets and left him to sleep. Out in the hallway, he trudged wearily toward the stairs, but a spill of silver light upon the floor stopped him short. Looking up, he followed the light to Meir's bedroom, pushing the door open slowly to see the faerie lantern on the table beside the bed.

  Meir had obviously been in bed when the trouble had started, just as he had said. He had been interrupted writing, however, rather than reading. Alcor had glimpsed the beat up looking journal once or twice, but never asked after it.

  His chest tightened, and he almost thought he'd start crying again, but after a moment the strange, distant numbness settled. He reached out idly toward the lantern, lifting it with no expectation—except he nearly fell over as it lifted light as a feather in his hand.

  Then tears did sting his eye. Somehow, someway, Meir had given the lantern to him; that was the only possible way that he could have picked it up.
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br />   Setting the lantern down again, he quickly gathered up Meir's personal effects to bury with him. That seemed proper somehow. There were pathetically few of them, and beneath the cold numbness he felt a brief twisting pang. He picked up the journal last, slipping it into his pocket, then retrieved the lantern and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Lantern held high, he went back down the hallway to the linen closet and pulled out two old sheets. Then, he went downstairs and back outside. As though sensing his need, the lantern flared brighter, casting light across a large portion of the yard. Closest to him, the captain finally lay dead, his face frozen in a grimace of pain.

  Alcor walked past the bodies, on to the stable, where he quickly found gloves and a shovel in the backroom, as well as an old horse blanket. Carrying it all in addition to the lantern was difficult, but he managed well enough, depositing them finally well behind the house in a small field where, at his sister's insistence, a few of her favorite hunting dogs had been buried upon their deaths.

  Depositing the shovel, he pulled on the gloves and returned to the front yard. Getting the bodies around to the back was laborious, and he could barely bring himself to touch Meir, but he at last managed it. When that was finally done he paused only long enough to place the lantern and strip out of his sweat and blood soaked jacket before bending to the task of digging graves.

  It took hours, and his body was screaming in pain by the end of it. The gloves had not really proved terribly helpful in the end, not when the blisters and blood and pus had managed to stick them to his skin, and he had to tear them off.

  But, at last, he got the Captain into a shallow, half-dug grave and covered over. Then, he carefully wrapped Meir's body in the sheets, tucking his belongings in with him. He was dizzy and exhausted and near to sobbing with pain by the time it was all done, but as the sun came up, Meir was properly buried.

  Alcor threw the shovel to the ground, picked up the lantern, and started to stride back to the house. Halfway there, however, he remembered his jacket. Purely from habit, he went back to fetch it. As he picked it up, objects spilled from it, clearly upset by the way he had tossed it carelessly aside.

  Meir's journal—he had forgotten to put it with everything else. Stooping, Alcor retrieved it and stared at the worn brown leather, mind too drained to formulate any thought. Then he saw his rose lying upon the ground, and bent to retrieve it as well.

  Rage filled him then. Rage and pain and misery. It wasn't fair! Meir had helped him, helped those stupid peasants. Meir, who obviously was long past needing to be cursed, had been struck down by the sort of bastard who could stand a hard lesson of his own. Why? What was the point of all this if it only ever resulted in more pain?

  He hated the rose suddenly and everything associated with it. Love vows! Ha! What was the point? Only one person had wound up mattering to him, and that person was dead because of someone very much like the person he used to be.

  Alcor grabbed a handful of petals and tore, rage growing by leaps and bounds when the rose exhibited no sign of damage. He tore and tore, casting handful after handful of petals aside, heedless of the pain wracking his body, ignorant of the fact he was crying again, aware of nothing but the tearing and throwing of petals—until exhaustion and grief and pain abruptly overtook him, and he dropped to the ground unconscious.

  He woke to the scent of roses and wondered at first if he was dreaming, so strong was the scent. In no hurry to find out, for he preferred dreaming to waking, he simply lay there with his eye closed and breathed in the scent of the roses.

  Meir was dead, he had recalled that immediately. The question was why, but finding the answer would require moving, and Alcor had no desire to do that, even if he could.

  But, there was Thomas, whose father must be frantic right now. Alcor curled his hands to ready himself to stand—and instead dug his fingers into thorns. His eye popped open in surprise, and he realized he still held the rose he had tried to destroy in a fit of temper the previous night.

  He also saw much that should not have been there.

  Gawking, he slowly regained his feet, turning around in a slow circle to take in what had become of his lawn. Roses, hundreds upon hundreds of roses grew across it, right up to the house, climbing the walls, tangling with the roses he could just see from the garden. They ranged in color from a delicate blush to a red so dark it was nearly black.

  They were beautiful, but where had they come from? Surely not his one… yet he must have cast thousands of petals to the ground before dropping. Oh, he would never understand faerie magic. Shaking his head in wonder, Alcor sought and found the faerie lantern, carefully not looking at the mounds of fresh earth, and made his way back to the house.

  He let himself in through the kitchen, setting the lantern on the table along with his jacket and the journal. His fingers lingered briefly on it, but then he walked on, up the stairs to see how Thomas fared. Opening the bedroom door, he saw Thomas was still fast asleep. Well, he would wake the boy after he got something together for him to eat.

  Just thinking about food made his stomach roil and knot. Grimacing, he turned away to go back downstairs but stopped halfway down in surprise when someone began pounding on the front door. Realizing belatedly he had left Meir's sword out front, but deciding his appearance might give him a moment's surprise to work with, Alcor strode to the front door and threw it open.

  "My son," the book clerk—Roger—gasped out, pale and exhausted. "Please, is my son here?"

  Alcor nodded. "Yes. Upstairs, sleeping. I was going to take him home today. The soldiers—"

  Roger held fast to the doorframe in relief, pushing up his spectacles with his other hand. "Yes, the soldiers—" He stopped abruptly, seeing Alcor's face. "Master Meir?"

  "Dead," Alcor said flatly and turned away to go prepare food and tea for his guests, even if he wondered if he could keep his stomach behaving long enough to make anything.

  It seemed he could, though, so long as he did not think about anything. He very nearly fell apart when he removed his jacket from the table, however, and saw the rose and the journal and the mirror. In daylight, it was a beautiful piece. It looked almost exactly like the compacts his sister had carried, just slightly larger. It was made of silver, but with a design of two swans twined together on a lake with lilies clutched in their beaks.

  That was the royal seal. He flipped the case over, but the back was smooth and polished, nearly a mirror itself. Opening the case, he found what he had been seeking—opposite the mirror was an inscription, written in the old language. He frowned in thought then abandoned the kitchen to go to the study.

  Once there, he immediately pulled out a book, flipping it open to the list of traditional phrases still used to inscribe various royal belongings. It took him only a moment to find the one carved into the mirror case. Gifted to the royal family, for their exclusive use, may it assist you in your noble duties.

  "For their exclusive use…" He knew enough now to know that meant the magic could only be used by anyone with royal blood. Which, technically, he possessed. He just didn’t know what a magic mirror was supposed to do. A mirror of seeing, Meir—

  With a rough sound, he carefully did not think about Meir. A mirror of seeing. What did that mean? He wished he had a book of magical objects or something along those lines. Maybe Roger had one? Tucking the mirror away, grimacing with the sudden realization he was in sore need of a bath, Alcor returned to the kitchen.

  There, he found Roger and Thomas sitting at the table drinking tea. Moving to the stove, Alcor finished preparing the porridge he had started and ladled out bowls for both of them, setting out cream and honey to go with it.

  Sitting at the farthest end of the table, nauseous at the smell of the food and tea, he waited while they ate. After a few minutes, Roger looked up hesitantly. "I am sorry," he said.

  Alcor nodded, hands clenching into fists in his lap. "Do you have any books on magical objects, or something of the sort?" h
e asked.

  If Roger was surprised by the question, he gave no sign of it. "Yes," he said. "A few. Shall I send Thomas with them, or—"

  Though he was loathe to go into the village, something he had done only once before, Alcor wanted the books. Anything was better than staying alone in this house where every little thing would remind him that he was alone in it. "I will come."

  Roger nodded and turned to encourage Thomas to eat, pushing until the bowl and cup were both empty. "Thank you for the food," he said. Alcor shrugged. Better it was eaten and not wasted. Thomas mumbled his own thank you, and slowly they stood.

  "Let me clean up," Alcor said, "and then we will go." Roger nodded.

  Gathering up his things, Alcor went swiftly to his room, tossing everything down upon the bed to deal with later. Moving to his pitcher and basin, he poured out fresh water, grabbed a bar of soap, and cleaned up as best he could. He would have to take a proper bath when he got home, but right now there simply wasn't time to heat the water and everything else.

  Moving to the wardrobe, he quickly pulled out fresh clothes and dressed. The dark brown coat had belonged to his father, and it had been—well, not his hand which had tailored it to fit. He was hopeless with a needle beyond the most basic of repairs.

  Swallowing, he combed back his rough hair, then grabbed up a medium weight brown cloak, swirling it around his shoulders and drawing up the deep hood. So long as he kept his head down, no children or women would be terrified by the sight of him.

  Downstairs, Roger and Thomas waited in the foyer. They made their way outside in silence, and it was only outside that Alcor realized what else was left behind by the death of the captain. His horse. Alcor approached the beast slowly.

  It was a beautiful horse, a roan stallion, surprisingly calm for a soldier's horse. Alcor held a hand out, and the horse sniffed it then pushed at it, stepping closer to butt against Alcor's chest.