Fairytales Slashed, Volume 2

by Megan Derr

  As easy as that, Alcor thought in bewilderment, he seemed to have acquired a horse. He would have to pick up a few things in the village for it, because he had nothing on hand for taking care of a horse. Alcor returned to the house just long enough to grab a bag of coin and then they were off, riding away in the chilly morning toward the village—away from the lodge and Meir's grave. Mutt ran at his side, subdued but clearly just as happy to be going away for a bit.

  The village was noisy and crowded and smelly, and Alcor nearly turned right back around and fled home, but he wanted the book, and he needed supplies for his horse, and what was waiting for him at the lodge? Nothing. In a matter of minutes, he had been reduced to stark loneliness once more, and somehow this was far worse than losing even his family.

  He shoved back the emotions threatening to consume him and followed quietly along to the little bookshop that had been owned by Roger's family for generations—something Thomas had told him, at some point. If they garnered many curious glances, well, at least they were not screaming in horror and making warding signs.

  The quiet of the shop was a relief and Alcor let out a long sigh. "I'll have the books for you in a trice," Roger assured.

  Alcor nodded. "Do you know where I can go to purchase what I need for the horse?"

  "Thomas can see to it," Roger said immediately. "He's good friends with the man's son. They'll get you fixed up."

  Contrary to arguing, Thomas almost looked relieved to have something to do, some of the shadows still upon his face fading as he took the money Alcor held out and raced off to see to his mission.

  Roger worked in silence, which was a relief, pulling down several books before finally setting three upon the counter. "I think these will suit, my lord." Alcor startled at the honorific, staring at Roger in confusion.

  "They're recent volumes, and many swear by some of the older tomes, but I have found these to be sound without inundating the reader in needless detail. If you decided to pursue the subject, I can see you get the other books."

  Nodding, Alcor handed over the necessary coin and took up the books. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure," Roger said. "I really am sorry for all that happened. He was a good man, my lord, much like yourself."

  Alcor almost laughed, but was afraid how it might sound. Bitter, angry, despairing—all of those and more. Him, a good man. He had never been that. "Thank you," he said again.

  "I'll have Thomas bring up the purchases tomorrow," Roger said. "Are you—is there—can we help in any further way, my lord?"

  "Why do you call me that?" Alcor asked. "I am no lord."

  "You—" Roger shrugged. "Something about your bearing. Master does not seem respectful enough. You have a presence. I meant no offense."

  "There was no offense," Alcor said. "Merely confusion. Do as you please, though I am hardly worthy of being addressed so." Roger followed him through the store, opening the door and stepping outside with him.

  The noise from the villagers had grown, and it seemed as though the crowd had doubled. Even Roger seemed surprised by it all. He called out to a small cluster of men, realization flooding his face at their reply. "The healer is in town," he said, smiling. "It's rare he comes straight into the village like this, usually we go to him when something is needed."

  Alcor nodded, losing interest. He wanted to get home, to be alone. Nodding and murmuring a final thanks, he strode to where his horse was tethered and freed the reins, then swung up into the saddle. His entire body hated him at the moment, but he was past caring. Caring took too much energy, and at that moment all his energy was devoted to simply functioning.

  He glanced reflexively toward the crowd, the heart of it where the noise was worst—and felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. In a single, sharp moment everything came back to him. Rohese, he thought numbly. His name was Rohese.

  He was even more beautiful now than he had been at fifteen, Alcor could not help but observe. He tugged at the hood of his cloak, more desperate than ever to go unobserved. His eye was fastened to Rohese's hair—pale gold, long and straight, barely restrained by a ribbon as Rohese contended with the eager masses clamoring around him. Not overly tall, but not really short, either. He would come to about Alcor's shoulder. His eyes, Alcor knew, were palest amber.

  And Alcor, high on dragonweed and his own grand image, had laughed in his face and rejected the gifts that even now were tucked inside his jacket.

  Turning away with a rough sound, Alcor fled back to his empty home.

  Once there, he busied himself for a good hour or two with making the horse comfortable, cleaning out a stall, fetching what food could be found as well as water and blankets to keep him warm once the weather really dropped. Already he could see clouds on the horizon which looked like a promise of snow.

  When there was not a single thing more to be done in the stables, he went into the back room to find two suitable planks of wood, as well as hammer and nails. A few minutes of fumbling work later, he made his feet move, slowly trudging around the house to the back yard.

  He was not surprised to see Mutt lying on the mound of Meir's grave. Smelling or hearing Alcor, he looked up and gave the saddest whine Alcor had ever heard. Rising slowly, he wandered over to Alcor and rubbed against his legs, pushing disconsolately at his hand.

  Alcor dropped his things to kneel and pull Mutt close, petting and rubbing, hating the way no life would really come back into Mutt, though he did seem a little bit better when Alcor finally stood again.

  Moving to the grave was even harder than he had feared it would be, but it would be far worse to leave it unmarked. A proper stone would have to wait until the spring; his crude cross would have to suffice for now. He dug into the earth at the edge of the grave a bit then plunged the cross into it, using his hammer to drive it further in until it stood securely.

  Then he simply stood, willing, wishing his friend not to be dead.

  But he was as dead as everyone else Alcor had ever known. All for what? Because lessons needed to be learned? Revenge? What was the point of revenge when all it did was spread more pain, more revenge, more tragedy?

  "Goodbye," he said, the word barely audible. Then he turned and strode back into the house, Mutt at his heels. He left the hammer just inside the door along with his muddy boots and cloak.

  The journal caught his eye immediately, forgotten on the table until now. He did not want to read it. The journal was none of his business. It was Meir's and should have been buried with him.

  Yet it was soft in his hand, warm from age and use, and the image embossed on the front was of two swans, twined together, sitting on a lake with lilies in their beaks.

  What…? Barely realizing he did so, Alcor dropped down in a seat at the table, flipping open the journal and staring in wonder at the first page.

  The swan seal again and, below it, words in the old language. He would have to hunt down his two books on it, but he suspected the words spelled out Meir's name. Why would Meir have a journal bearing the royal seal?

  He shook his head and, turning the page, began to read:

  My name is Meir Rosenberg V, eldest son of King Rosenberg IV. You will not, however, find my name in any book. I was cursed in the fourteenth year of that same king. Part of that curse was to be completely forgotten, and so the world will never know that I lived.

  I was cursed by a dark faerie shortly before my thirtieth birthday after my actions caused a great tragedy. Upon my fifteenth birthday, I was betrothed to a young princess, at that time the age of twelve. After the formal betrothal, we scarcely saw each other and were content to keep it that way throughout the course of our lives.

  We were married when I was twenty-one and she eighteen. She died of illness a few months later. I did not remarry. Throughout, a pretty noble's daughter in my mother's court fawned over me. I paid her little mind beyond stealing a kiss or three, though I at least was smart enough not to steal more than that.

  Her family was actually quite sc
andalous, for she was half dark faerie. Her brother was not accepted overmuch at court. I recall being amongst those who denounced him, though never where his pretty sister might hear of it.

  Shortly before my thirtieth birthday, she confessed she loved me. I laughed at her and rejected her, and in my heavily inebriated state made cruel sport of her.

  When I woke in the morning, I learned she had killed herself. I did not even have the decency to blame myself for it, but called her weak and pathetic.

  Six days later, upon my thirtieth birthday, her brother cursed me. To be forgotten. To live and wander forever, until I was willing to die for an unrequited love.

  Alcor threw the journal across the kitchen, barely hearing it slam against the door, screaming in rage and pain and disbelief. He buried his face in his hands, the words seared into his mind. Until I was willing to die for an unrequited love.

  What sort of cruel fate was that? To know that the only peace that could ever be achieved was to die for—

  Then it truly struck him. An unrequited love? Surely not—it couldn't—why would Meir have loved him? It did not make any sense. There was nothing about him to love, least of all for the man who beat the spoiled brat out of him.

  Feet feeling leaden, he went to retrieve the journal then strode from the kitchen to settle in the study. Even now, despite everything, it was some sort of refuge. Strange, really, when once he had only thought of it as the place where his father fucked his secretary when he wasn't busy hunting or sleeping.

  He settled into the leather chair that had long since become his and opened the journal again. Though he dreaded it, he wanted to know more about the man who had taken care of him when he deserved nothing, and who had somewhere along the way loved him enough to die.

  Except Meir hadn't died because of an unrequited love—they had been after Meir the whole time—

  No, Meir had provoked them. Given half a chance, Alcor did not doubt they would have gone for the beast and done their best to rend him limb from limb. Or burned him—that would not have killed him, but death would have been kinder.

  Shaking his head, Alcor continued to read. Halfway through, too tired to stay awake, he strode to the kitchen and put on water for tea, never entirely pausing in his reading while he did it.

  Two pots of tea later, he closed the journal with a soft snap and set it on the kitchen table. Words filled his head, a low steady buzz that spoke in Meir's low voice, but there was too much of it for him to sort it out properly.

  Other than the very last passage, which would never be finished:

  I seem to have fallen in love with the boy. After so long, I had accepted I would never be capable of the one thing the curse was meant to teach me. Yet it seems I am, or very nearly. The boy is gone on a person his mind does not remember, but if there is one thing I do know, it is that the heart never forgets. His love is there, waiting for him to find it. He is smarter and less stubborn than I; he will find it. I, on the other hand… I love him, and he another, and so my curse is nearly brought

  Alcor picked up his cup and drained the last dregs of tea—and only then did it strike him that he had been drinking tea, and quite a lot of it. He traced the rim of the teacup which bore a peony pattern that seemed utterly ridiculous in the homely simplicity of the kitchen.

  Meir had loved him.

  The thought was humbling. Love was not something in which he had ever believed. Such a frivolous thing, even if it were real, had no place in the world he had once inhabited. But Meir had died because of it, and that made it entirely too real.

  Meir had loved him, even after having seen the worst of him, inside and out. Alcor did not deserve it, especially since, even amidst the realizations, his thoughts strayed to Rohese.

  Could Rohese ever love him again, despite—no, he rather thought not. But Alcor could not let go of the feelings that proved Meir's words all too true. If he was not in love, then he was at least obsessed, with a memory. With the precious few bits of Rohese he had and the portions of his life which could be smelled through the rose.

  Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew the rose, breathing in what he recognized as the scents of the village. So Rohese was still there.

  The temptation to go and look, just one more time—

  But how dare he, when Meir was barely cold in his graave. He had lost track of time, and how pathetic was that? Ashamed of himself, Alcor put the rose away, made fresh tea, and returned to the study.

  He sat at a loss, fingers rubbing over the journal, drumming on the desk. He was exhausted, but had no desire to sleep. Standing, he stoked the fire and sat for a while with Mutt on the rug before it, letting his thoughts meander as they chose.

  Eventually he dozed, despite not wanting to sleep, at some point simply tumbling down to stretch out on the rug, the fire warming his back and Mutt warming his front. How long he slept, when something finally jerked him awake, he could not say.

  Stumbling groggily to the desk, he rubbed the sleep from his eye and wondered what he was to do now. He glanced over the desk, where the journal and mirror and books—ah, well, there was a brief distraction. Sitting down, he pulled forward his new books and examined them carefully before finally settling on the smallest of the three.

  It took surprisingly little time to find what he sought. Amongst the lists and lists of rare faerie artifacts, there were only three entries under the general topic of 'mirror'.

  A Mirror of Seeing, he read, was precisely that. It permitted whoever held the mirror, and had the permission to use it, to see whatever he wanted. The present anyone could see. A truly skilled mage had power enough to compel the mirror to show him the past.

  Alcor picked up the mirror, rubbing his thumb over the swan seal, frowning in thought. Then he shrugged and opened it, staring for a moment at the cloudy mirror. He hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged again and said quietly, "Show me Rohese?"

  He'd not really expected it to work, but the mirror flashed with that blue light and suddenly he could see Rohese, as clearly as if he were standing right there watching him. Rohese was laughing and being jostled in friendly fashion by his dinner companions, cheeks flushed with amusement and what looked like ale.

  Almost unthinkingly, he picked up his rose and brought it to his nose, breathing in ale and mutton, the scent of too many people.

  Someone, a man, looped an arm around Rohese's shoulders and tugged him close, saying something in his ear that made Rohese all the redder—

  Alcor shut the mirror with a snap and threw it and the rose on the desk. What did he think he was doing? Rohese had nothing to do with him, not anymore. Even pretending for a moment there had been a chance he might still care, a curse was a curse, wasn't it? Meir had said finding Rohese would be a key to breaking it, but if the curse held true, Rohese had forgotten all about him. Why would he want to remember?

  No, Rohese was not an option. There was nothing Alcor could do, but to watch from afar.

  Anyway, this was all likely just an effort to avoid thinking about Meir. He sighed softly, picking up the journal again. Meir, who had lived so long and gone through so much, and paid a price which far outweighed the initial crime. It seemed far beyond cruel that at the end of it all, only Alcor had known him and would remember him. He did not even have someone to whom he could tell stories of Meir—

  Stories. A story.

  Alcor sat up slowly, turning to look at his books, mind awhirl with a strange, crazy, but so very enchanting idea. Surely it was stupid, a waste of time. He'd never been a reader before, much less a writer. What could he possibly know about writing a story? Nothing.

  But the idea would not go away.

  Well, why not? It was not as though he had to show it to anyone if it proved awful. He suspected Meir would have protested, but Meir should not have died. Alcor nodded, decided.

  Except, he realized he had no idea where to start. Well, first thing was first, right? He would need ample paper, quills and ink. That was simple enough; he had e
nough to make a start and could arrange for Thomas to bring him more and keep him well supplied. Pulling out ink and paper, he wrote out his requests, then sanded and sealed the letter.

  Now, where to begin?

  He stood up, feeling restless and let his feet carry him outside. Mutt came quickly, following him outside to stroll through the strange new rose garden which had overtaken nearly all the clear land between the house and the forest.

  At some point, snow had fallen, but the roses did not seem to be affected by it in the slightest. He wondered how his one fit of temper could have resulted in all of this; the magic in his rose must be powerful indeed.

  They were beautiful, though, so the details little mattered to him in the end. If they were all he would ever have of Rohese, then so be it. He would take what he had and be grateful.

  He walked until Mutt began to look tired, then returned to the house and made certain Mutt had food and water. Then he made himself more tea, and with Mutt on the hearth rug to keep him company, he slowly began to try and write.

  So he spent his days, thereafter. They passed in a blur – writing, walking through the rose garden or riding through the forest, writing, sleeping, writing, breaking pattern only here or there to make something for Thomas once in a while when he came to visit and help with the lodge. Everything was secondary to the writing.

  He wrote and wrote and wrote, discarding as many pages as he kept, constantly referring back to the journal, to history books for details and embellishments, to books of magic for still more of the same. Occasionally he lost his temper and pitched a bottle of ink across the room. The back of the study door was permanently ruined, but throwing the bottles and cleaning up the subsequent mess always restored his calm. And he resumed writing.

  Until, one day, he realized he had written The End. He stopped, pen frozen in the air, and stared uncomprehending for a moment before he slowly set it down. Disoriented, he glanced around the room and saw that it was snowing—had he really been writing a year? He remembered spring and summer, but only now did it strike him what that meant. It really had been a year, give or take a few weeks.