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tpc-tangled-au · 4 days ago

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Chapter 12: The Hope

“So that’s how the little bodkin got in the hole!”

The exclamation—and its sharp, accompanying clap—would have startled Melisande. Would have. That is, if she hadn’t been expecting such a reaction. But she knew Naphtali too well to expect less.

“That’s just how, isn’t it?” he went on, striding to the window and back again. His thoughts could never bear to sit still. “The lady buried the thing there, so she might be rid of it! And well for me, it’d seem!”

“It’d seem!” Baron repeated, smiling. Then, again, almost hushed, “It’d seem.”

Melisande’s eyes narrowed on him.

That smile wasn’t a full one.

What reason there was for it, she couldn’t imagine. And the smile was there. If not a full moon, a crescent still. Yet something, some unknown meaning, made a mask of it. There was a storm somewhere behind the moon.

She did not watch it longer. Even if she’d tried, she couldn’t. The stormclouds broke before the dawn she loved.

“Yes,” Naphtali picked up again, “but what about this fine Wayland fellow?”

Baron shook the moonlight from his face. “What about him?”

“Well, he was listening rather close to that young fae’s warning. And there’s their mysterious talk after! Not to mention his phantomly friend-turned-foe, off gallivanting the countryside.” He threw out his arms. “What did our Wayland do next? I’m sure he didn’t simply return home after all that!”

This, Melisande could answer. But another mouth opened first.

“Well,” Baron began, before he could have noticed her, “even if he did, he couldn’t return quickly. Azarias, you remember, had brought them both from the Underworld.”

Naphtali nodded, slow then quick. “Yes, wisping about like that.”

“And you know better than anyone how long a journey that is, without the aid of phantoms.” Baron sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever the case, his tidings did reach King Elian. By his own hand, or another’s.”

“Another’s,” Melisande whispered, hidden in her own hand.

“Wayland then either returned—or remained—here, in Othrys.”

“Remained.”

“Here?” asked the sunbeam. “Why did he stay?”

“To search, then…”

“Melisande, perhaps you should tell us this part.”

Melisande dropped her hand like a glass of water. When she looked up, Baron was eying her with lifted brows.

“After all,” he continued, unable to wash away the traces of his smirk, “you seem to be breathing footnotes already.”

Though feeling silly for being spotted, Melisande rolled her eyes. “Oh, Baron, you.”

But then, “Yes!” put in Naphtali excitedly. “Yes, why don’t you tell us? I should like to hear you tell more of the story. And—why, you must know more than even Baron at this part: you said you’d spoken to Wayland afore!”

At the attention (and the familiar little afore), her annoyance and embarrassment were all uprooted in an instant.

“I… I have.” She nodded once, slowly. “Very much.”

Naphtali’s eyes and smile widened. Then, all of a sudden, he dropped right down on the floor into a crouch, sitting like a scarlet frog. Staring up at her, intently and earnestly. “Then say on, fairest of storytellers! Say on! Tell us of your noble friend!”

It took her a false start or two to even begin speaking. The very sight of him, so silly and so sincere, brought spring itself into her heart. A garden of warmth grown in her chest, and reddening roses bloomed across her cheeks. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly for a moment. (Nor did Baron’s grinning help matters in the slightest).

Eventually, though, Melisande pulled in a long, deep breath. She met Naphtali’s eyes, then closed her own. She searched out the trail of Wayland’s story amidst her ivied mind. Then, at last, she found her voice.

Wayland knew he could not leave the kingdom of Othrys without finding his partner. So he gave his message to an Othryan herald, and sent him on to Elian in his stead.

That Reuel fellow, I’ll wager!

Then he searched. Across all the land, in every hiding place, higher and lower than many dared go. For days into months, he hunted. But he could find neither the greatest ruin nor the smallest sign. It was as if the phantom had vanished utterly that night. In the end, he had to give up, and pray that Azarias had become himself again.

Had he?

You already know the answer to that!

I know, Baron, but—

Hush!

Well, he was gone, wherever to. But since he WAS gone—and knowing all that he knew—Wayland decided to follow a new path. One that took him back, but not back to the Underworld…

At the sound of a door opening at his back, King Frederick turned. Before he could greet the welcome sight, it split itself. The smaller portion was plopped in his lap.

“Well, what’s this little man doing here?” he smirked affectionately.

The infant was already reaching for his face and babbling. “Der! Der!”

“He missed you,” replied Eudoria, with a knowing beam of a smile. “And I thought you might like to see a face not spouting Matters Of State.”

“Oh lord, don’t remind me of those.” He sighed, stretching his stiff spine. “I think it’s a conspiracy. Every article of business bushwhacking me at once.”

As if on cue, the baby smacked both his little hands on Frederick’s chest. “BAH!”

“Well, if they were plotting to assassinate your reading time with us, they succeeded.” She laughed a merry laugh.

The reading. That was today. Frederick shook his head, exhausted with himself. “Oh, my Eudoria. Why you married a king, I just don’t know.”

“I didn’t. I married a prince.” Her delicate hand slipped over his huge one. “And merchants and farmers have long days too.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Come, now. The cooks have been keeping the royal dinner warm almost twenty minutes, and even kings need sustenance.”

Frederick returned her smile wryly, even as his stomach rumbled. Oh, she always knew. Shifting his son in his arms, he started to get up.

A door echoed open from the other side of the throne room.

“Y’majesty?”

Frederick looked up. At the familiar sight, he sighed a grin. “Well, Lazarus, unless you’re asking if you’re still invited to dinner, I’d guess there’s some late-coming little affair of state scratchin’ at my door?”

But Lazarus didn’t grin in return. No sympathetic smirk. No look to reply ‘they just keep coming, don’t they?’ without a word, as he so often did. Neither the straight face he reserved for difficult diplomats, nor even the full solemnity he reserved for high councils, held his features. Not this time.

This time, there was hesitance. There was caution.

“Not state exactly, sire.”

“Oh?” Frederick furrowed his brow. Whatever lay beyond the door, it was something even Lazarus was wary of, and that deeply. “What, then?”

A moment’s hesitation. The counselor glanced behind, as if to make sure his eyes had not deceived him.

“A knight and a phantom, seekin’ audience with Your Majesty.”

The King of Othrys sat up as straight as if his spine were shot with ice.

A knight and a phantom.

Could it be?

He heard himself asking, “What names did they give?”

“The phantom called herself Lia.”

She calls herself Lia. Frederick began to feel the ice melt. Herself.

But the winter was not gone yet.

“The knight,” Lazarus went on, before the seasons could change, “is called Wayland, and says he knows you well.”

Silence frosted the room. Then Frederick nodded. “Yes. I know Wayland.”

The baby on his lap clapped his little hands.

“They appear to be from Elian, sire.”

“I’m sure that they are. Do they come bearing a message?”

Another glance, then back again. “They did not tell me their business, Your Majesty. The knight only said he wished to speak with you.”

Though the room was warm, chills ran beneath his sleeves.

But Frederick refused to succumb to them.

“Bring them in, Lazarus.” He lifted his crowned head. “I will hear them.”

A few seconds hovered. Then Lazarus nodded, and ducked back beyond the door.

The hand on his moved to his forearm. Frederick looked up. His dear wife’s grey eyes held him, questioning without defiance. His own gave silent reply, grave yet firm. He watched hers drift, and followed them to the sword hilt at his side. She knew what had happened before. And he remembered it all too well.

A moment’s consideration. He shook any doubt from his head.

Eudoria squeezed his arm gently, then let go. She reached to take the baby in his lap. Prometheus fussed and squirmed away, protesting the too-soon departure.

A sudden second-thought. Frederick took her outstretched hand.

“Leave him with me.”

Blinks fluttered her eyelids, and her brow furrowed. But he gave her the corner of a smile.

“It’ll be all right.”

He kissed her hand.

Eudoria didn’t say a word, but her eyes showed their struggle. Their doubts. Then, as he watched, they shifted. They chose. Their grey gleamed trust.

As the throne room door opened once more, Frederick’s dear queen nodded. She turned and was gone through the door behind the throne. Her husband then faced his visitors.

Two entered at the ushering of Lazarus. The phantom was indeed a woman, a silvery lady. Frederick had not seen her before. Her hair seemed an auburn brown, long and waving. And… she was old. Not old in age—from her appearance, she had died a woman, not a crone. But the years since that day left her eyes ancient.

Almost like the frost-child that night, if any who had once been human could be like that.

But, though Frederick did not know the dead, he knew the living at once. In trod Wayland, the same messenger he met that fateful night. Yet… not quite the same. His face was more worn, his gait more weary. A shadow-beard crept across his chin. And his eyes…

His eyes were fastened wide on the golden-haired baby.

They did not stare too long. Almost as soon as Frederick noticed it, Wayland met his gaze. He bowed, deeply but not dramatically. The silver lady did the same, curtseying in a style long forgotten by the world.

“Greetings, King Frederick, Master of Othrys.”

“Greetings to you, Sir Wayland,” nodded Frederick, as Lazarus took his place at the king’s side, “and to your companion.”

The phantom called Lia dipped her head. “Thank you, young king,” she answered, and spoke to him no more.

Frederick lifted his hand for them to rise. As they obeyed, he continued, “I must give you my gratitude, Sir Wayland. I have spoken with King Elian, and he has aided me in making preparations for what may come. Your service to your master saved my kingdom.” He smiled grimly. “Your service to me saved my life. For that, and for your warning, I thank you.”

Little Prometheus dipped forward, swinging his arms out. “Da ka!”

Though Wayland bowed his head, there was a cloud over it. “I fear, sire, that my warnings are not yet ended.”

Frederick’s firm hold tightened, ever so slightly, around his son. “Is it your friend, Azarias?”

The silver lady did not speak. But her gaze hardened at the mention of that name. No—it softened.

Wayland’s face gave answer before his words. “No, Your Majesty. I have hunted for Azarias a year and a day, and I have found nothing.” He took in a slow breath. “Either he has become himself again, and hides where I cannot find him, or he has remained… as last we saw him, and left the world of men. The form he took could not last this long.”

The baby cooed inquisitively, playing with Frederick’s sleeve cuff. Wayland’s eyes dropped once more before he continued.

“I do not think Azarias will trouble your household, great king.”

The slightest sigh came from behind him—all the sign of relief Lazarus would show in council.

Frederick’s chest loosened. But not his hold.

“That is well,” he nodded. “But, if he will not trouble us again…”

“Why, then, does his partner?” finished the knight grimly, with the faintest specter of a long-dead smile.

He could not help but return it. “Nay. You, sir, I welcome. But what do you warn me of, if not of him?”

The specter vanished. “Of something I do not know, Your Majesty.” And with that, Wayland began to relate all the things he had been told by the Winter Child that night.

Frederick did not doubt that it was truth. The Boy, he had no doubt, was not a child of man. The look in those eyes was more ancient, wise, kind than any, even the primeval woman before him now. And after that night, he trusted Wayland with his life. It was the reason he could be so bold as to keep his infant son in the throne room with him; a thing he refused to do at any other meeting (even meetings with safer lands than the Underworld).

It was not the only reason he chose to do so. But it was the only reason he could.

Soon, Wayland had spoken all (or at least, all for the moment). The king leaned back in his throne and considered. The infant on his lap shook his curly head, bobbling gravely.

“So,” he said at last. “You warn me first that the stars themselves are fixin’ to wage war on my kingdom. Now you come again to tell me some unknown witchery is gunning for my family?”

“I can see no other possibility, Your Majesty.”

He was silent. At his side, Lazarus was silent.

Only little Prometheus was not, swinging a tiny fist as if with a tiny sword, squealing at his unseen enemies.

They seemed a legion. A devilish horde, with each spear pointed at his son’s heart.

“Then we will guard,” he declared, set in steel. “Set a watch at all times. Make every soldier a silvren sword.”

A sudden stream of words burst from the phantomess, who had watched Wayland silently for so long.

Frederick sat forward, opening his mouth to engage her. But she did not look at him. Her eyes of objection turned only to Wayland. She seemed not to notice that Frederick had even moved.

So he leaned back instead, keeping hold of the baby (who was occupied in squealing and gibbering in return).

“Lazarus,” the king whispered, “do you know what she’s saying?”

Lazarus shook his head. “I ain’t even sure what language she’s speaking. It’s old, though.” He tsked, then added in a whisper, “Mighty old.”

The ancient complaint ceased, as suddenly as it began. Wayland looked as if he had spoken to her. But he had not uttered a word.

Lia spared a glance toward Frederick. Then she spoke silence to the knight.

The knight shook his head.

“Well?” Frederick sat straight, folding his hand round the baby’s little chest. “What says she, Sir Wayland?”

With a sigh, Wayland turned from the lady. “She protests that such measures will do little good, Your Majesty.”

Another surge of ancient whispers.

“And that your history will prove it.”

“That so, indeed?” cut in Lazarus, stepping forward and looking most civilly nettled. Frederick could see his head held high from the corner of his eye. Oh, this was not a thing to disparage around Lazarus. “And does this fine lady know our history? Does she know King Carter? King Thomas the Fearless? King Ward?”

“She knew them indeed, advisor,” Lia replied, looking as if seeing him for the first time. “Yes, I knew them.”

A moment he stood. Almost hesitating on the border between awe and offense. When he spoke again, it was carefully. “And do they prove that Othrys can’t protect her own?”

“Oh, they were valiant. And the power in their hands was great indeed. Their own were safe in even the shadows of their kings’ cloaks. With the stones’ power, they protected against all this land faces and more.”

As Lia spoke, she did not look at Lazarus. Not truly. Her eyes stared, as if watching the years of the world span ethereal before her, immaterial monoliths of history all risen at once, somewhere far beyond the world they belonged to.

Then she turned to the physical man. And she may as well have been turning to spot a fly going past.

“But for you, little one, they are long dead. The men you have among you now never waged war with the likes of these. You tell your stories of those who could. But their distance proves.”

Lazarus dipped his head and smiled up tight. Oh, he was far past the borders of offense now. “’scuse me, ma’am, but we’ve had phantoms a-plenty, pickin’ fights with us, and losin’ em, too. Sire, we don’t—”

“Phantoms, yes,” sighed Frederick, guessing her end. “Not sorcerors and faes, though. Not for generations. That, I think, is your point, ma’am?”

The woman nodded, and looked at them no more. Her intangible eyes seemed to have other things to look at than mortals. Than mere men of any here-and-now.

A moment. Then, “Yessir, Y’Majesty,” muttered Lazarus, stepping back. But Frederick could almost feel the glower he sent toward the right-proven phantom.

In the midst of this silent strife, Wayland stepped forth, interposing a truce. “Swords can slay sorcerors, O Master. And silvren can indeed pierce the fae. Such things have protected me in many a battle.”

“I know this,” Frederick nodded, “firsthand.”

“But what good will a thousand swords do a man, if he is enchanted ere he can wield the one he holds? If he cannot see through the guises a witch may take? Your men are brave, Your Majesty. I have seen them. But they do not know what they are fighting.”

Lazarus started to step forward once more, but Frederick held up his hand. “What, then, do you suggest, sir?”

“That you grant the hope of a messenger.”

With these words, Wayland took a knee, sinking to the floor. And that sinking was heavy, as if he had been wounded and would not rise again. But his knees held firm. He bowed his head, and did not fall.

“Good King Frederick, I humbly ask that you take me into your service.”

Wordlessness gripped every Othryan in the room. The king, in wonder. The counselor, in stark bewilderment. The prince, in blind curiosity. None knew what to say to the kneeling knight.

“Well, sir,” was all the reply Frederick could find. He hardly knew why. “Well, sir, now.”

“Is my boon so strange, sire?”

“No.” He chuckled softly. “No, I can’t say it is. Sudden, striking, surely so. But not strange.” Not in my courts, he added in thought. Then, again, And… somehow… not for you.

“Well, now—if I may, sire,” put in Lazarus, tentatively. Frederick nodded. The counselor took another step forward. “Well, now, it might be a little strange, considering this fine fella’s warning. Now, I ain’t meanin’ to be rude by this,” he added, his gaze turning over the phantomess before reaching the man on his knees, “but… well, sir knight, if you say a thousand swords do no good, what help’ll one more bring?”

Wayland nodded. “An honest question, counsel.” He lifted his face to the king. “In the Underworld, in my lord Elian’s service, I and my fellow sentinels have battled many such foes. We have contended with dark forces, by strength of arm or of will. And we have contended with their charms and deceits.”

Prometheus suddenly swung his arm down, screaming delight once more.

A glance down. It quickly flicked away, as if forbidden. “I know how to fight them, sire. More still, I know how to spot them, and how to drive them away. Those who prowl, and those who pretend, will not pass my notice.”

Frederick began to see his intention. Yet something else reminded itself into consideration. “You have done all this in Elian’s service. What, then, of him? Does your own master know you have come to me for this purpose?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. If you grant me my hope, I have his leave. If you deny, I shall return to the Underworld with this good lady,” —he lent Lia his eye— “and continue in his service, as I have these sixteen years.”

His hand went to the scabbard at his side. Lazarus jolted slightly.

Frederick did not.

Slowly, Wayland drew the blade he had used to defend the King of Othrys, that winter’s night that seemed so lately passed. He held it up in both hands. One of his gloves was gone, revealing the handmark of Elian’s men.

“I offer you my sword and my service, King Frederick. I ask no rank nor title, but only to wear the red of your livery. I cannot ward off every danger. But set me as a watchman over your royal family, and I will do my utmost to drive away any who would harm them.”

Frederick believed him. But now came the test. Not only of Wayland, but of his own decision, just before the messengers entered.

“Even though they only live by the refusal of your first warning?”

The man lifted his stony eyes. It was not Frederick’s face they found. But in that look, Frederick found the answer he’d been looking for. The reason for keeping his son with him. He had seen something that night, something in his eyes when Frederick spoke of his family. The eyes had hardened. But they had not lost it.

“Yes, sire,” said Wayland, his stare fixed unwavering on the child. “Yes.”

Prometheus’ round face turned upward. He spotted Wayland at last. Instantly, he lurched forward. His grabby little hands stretched out eagerly. He was reaching for the raven-haired soldier who wanted and hoped—truly—to protect him. He was cooing. What’s more, he was beaming.

And, in that little moment, Wayland’s gaze lost all its hardness.

~*~

A knock came at the door. “Prince Prometheus?”

Naphtali did not rise, but turned his head. Baron couldn’t see his expression. However, the prince shifted forward eagerly. His hand lifted in half-gesture, half-greeting. And from his voice, Baron knew he was beaming.

“Ah, welcome, good Travers! Aye, here’s your quarry! Come in, fellow!”

The raven-haired soldier stepped into the room, the red of his livery catching the last light. He bowed to his royal charge. He nodded to Melisande, then to Baron.

“Evening, Travers,” greeted Melisande, with growing smile.

(Baron almost smirked. The one man who could get her to smile like that, besides Naphtali at least.)

A flash of softness as Travers returned her smile. Then he went straight as steel. Oh, he was here officially. “What have you been doing today, Your Highness? You’ve hardly been seen since lunchtime.”

“Why, writing the story, Travers!” exclaimed Naphtali, turning in his crouch.

“The story of what?”

“The story of everything!”

“Or at least, everything we know,” Baron added with a wink.

Travers aimed a different sort of nod at him, and his smile turned wry for a moment. “Is everything you know interesting?”

A shrug. “That’s the hope.”

“Well, that hope’s been fulfilled, at least!” put in Naphtali, grinning from one of them to the other. “We’ve talked of the fireflower, and the lighthouse, and the little poniard in the hole, and all the happenings of my early winters! It’s been grand.”

Baron noted a stony look when Naphtali told their ‘talked-ofs’. Though, he couldn’t tell if it was the ‘early winters’, or if the fireflower’s mention put it there. I suppose either might make sense, Baron pondered. I know he still remembers the night that witch finally slipped past his guard.

But, in the midst of this pondering, another strange thing caught his attention: Melisande, sitting quite still. Her hands were folded. Her eyes were affixed. She was waiting for something, waiting patiently. Then the soldier seemed to notice.

“I was just telling them of Wayland,” Melisande said, perfectly plain, “and the day he came to the Othryan guard.”

Silence caught in the air. It hovered there, if only for a moment.

In that little moment, Travers’ gaze lost all its hardness.

“Ah.”

The moment lingered a bit longer. But, soon enough, it was royally expelled.

“Aha! So Wayland did come into Father’s service, then?”

Melisande held on a few seconds more, then turned away. “Yes, Naphtali. King Frederick granted Wayland his boon, and he became a soldier of Othrys. He left behind his old name, and his old life, that day.”

“A little like his partner, perhaps?” proffered Baron.

But Melisande shook her head firmly at that. “No. Wayland did so, not to flee, but to defend. To faithfully guard the fiery child…” She turned her gaze, brimming with gratitude. “…and others he had no need to keep as he did.”

Travers said nothing.

Oh, Baron would have a great deal to write of that nothing.

“A fine fellow indeed,” sighed Naphtali, who seemed to have missed every bit of nothing said. Once it had passed, he turned in his crouch once more. “Well, then, fine fellow, what news? What’s brought you to our scriveners’ den, hmm?”

In the fading light, it was hard to tell if Travers had shivered. But his official straightening was plain to see. “Your orders, Your Highness.”

A wild-haired head cocked. “Mine?”

“Yours, sire. You had wanted me to remind you,” he cleared his throat, quite unsuspiciously, “when it was time.”

“Time? Time for—”

Naphtali fell over backward.

“OH! Yes! Yes, yes, quite right, quite—quite so, indeed, yes!”

Even as he spoke, he scrambled from the floor, trying desperately to straighten his clothes. (They weren’t at all wrinkled.) If Travers’ nothing had been silent, Naphtali’s was said aloud, a stammered nonsense.

Baron couldn’t help but snicker at his flustered display. If Melisande says no to THAT, I’m sure I never knew a thing about her. But, his thought added, as he saw her fond smile bloom unhidden, I know her well indeed.

The same scarlet as his vest, Naphtali cleared a swarm of butterflies from his throat. “Yes, well. Well, my thanks for the reminder, good sir.” He sighed, quite sharply. That seemed to do it, for afterward, he squared his shoulders, head held high, and offered a hand to his lady. The crack in his voice was almost imperceptible.

“Will you come, me dear?” he asked.

Surprise lifted Melisande’s brows, but her smile did not vanish. If anything, it grew. “Aye, mo dòchas.” And she took his hand as she rose. “I’ll come.”

Naphtali swelled at the sight and sound of it. But he seemed to try to suppress the energy threatening to erupt. He nodded to Travers. “Thanks, good soldier.” He nodded to Baron. “Thanks, good friend.”

“You’re welcome,” Baron smirked, then shooed them away. “Go on now. I’ll handle the letters, you two… have a good time.”

It was as much as a starting gunshot. Naphtali bounced on his heels, then shared a glance with Melisande. She seemed to see the burst coming. She picked up her skirts with her other hand. The second after, Naphtali catapulted out the door, holding onto her like his life depended on it. They disappeared into the castle halls. And—Baron wasn’t quite sure of this—it almost sounded as if a laugh echoed after them.

He was sure that he heard a soft laugh from Travers, though. As he looked up, he caught something even softer in his face. Something… well… peaceful.

“Look at them,” he breathed. “Still those same children, really. Running down the halls together, off to some surprise. But look at them now.” A deep, slow sigh that hitched. “Just look at them now.”

Baron thumped his arm playfully. “Don’t tell me this soldier is a sap.”

Travers rolled glistening eyes, thumping him right back. “He’s a father. You’ll understand that sometime.”

Baron laughed. Then, he looked at the stack of letters on the desk, barely still illuminated. He looked at the ring on his hand, catching a faint gleam from the window.

He looked at the corner of the bench. And he could have sworn he saw the future sitting there, waiting for him to read.

“That’s the hope.”

~*~

[Chapter 1/Writing the Story]

[Chapter 11/Wayland and the Winter Child ... Chapter 12/you are here! ... Book Two/yet to come!]

[Also on AO3, if you want to hop on over!]

#tpc tangled au #the kingdom of othrys au #salt and light #the actual fic #naphtali #melisande #baron #wayland #travers #king frederick #lazarus #queen eudoria #lia

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tpc-tangled-au · 1 month ago

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Chapter 11: Wayland and the Winter Child

I say, why did she go so quickly?

Hmm? From Wayland, you mean?

Why, after all, if she was so very mesmerized by the fellow, why rush to leave? Or… well, no, not like that. I only mean that… oh, how to word it?... well, only that he seems to have been rather striking in that moment, rather impressive. Would she not think it rude to excuse herself from such a fellow’s presence so hurriedly?

She might not have thought of that. She might’ve been too afraid to consider it.

Not afraid. No. Not afraid. Only unsettled.

But why, Melisande?

It’s what we’ve seen already. When she hears the boy speak so strangely, it’s the same. It’s that little incongruity, the mismatch of words with face and voice. In a man like this, it’s stronger still.

Why, yes… yes, it’s the ancient in the voice of the child!

And then the desolation in the voice of the comforter. The stone in the soft heart. Wayland.

As the lady scuffled off, Wayland heard it. The cry, hazy with distance, of what had once taken man’s form. His every muscle went taut at the sound, hand cautious on his hilt. But it was far-off still. Nothing swooped into sight, nor descended on him in fury.

Still, he could not rest easy.

He knows the stone. More than anyone living, Azarias knows the stone. It would not be out of the question for him to know its hiding-place. And I cannot risk him attacking the Othryans again. Not in… in that form.

His gaze sank into the snow.

How could he give in? Why now? He’s held off this power for so long. And how often have I seen him come back from the edge! How often has he mastered it! If I had done something more, done something sooner, perhaps he could have… perhaps he would…

He halted.

No.

His fist clenched at his side.

No, stop. I cannot think of that. Not now.

He held his breath tight until he was sure it would not come out shaking.

I will not weep until the work is done.

Wayland turned his back, forbidding it to bend or bow. He dragged his eyes up from where they had fallen in the trampled snow. And there they found one place where the white was unbroken. There they found light. The stone of Glaedsar, burning like a drop of sunlight.

The fireflower they had come to preserve.

He had only ever seen one of the seven: the darkened stone of the Underworld. He had only ever seen the catastrophe its power wreaked upon that kingdom. He had never seen it—or any of them—as things of beauty or restoration or peace. And now he looked on another of the seven.

He knew that it would restore those for whom it was sought. It would heal the queen and save her child.

And oh, it was beautiful indeed.

But as he stared at its glowing petals, he could not help but wonder—how long would it bring peace? How long would its healing be a joy, and not a regret? How long before the breach in the shining barricade let loose that perilous influence upon this kingdom?

How long before the dark star-heart’s power runs wild?

Wayland’s chest clenched at the words, ringing through his head almost—almost—as if his partner had notioned them himself. For his words had been true. War would come. Upon the Underworld, upon Othrys, upon all the kingdoms.

Through this little peace would come war, great and grievous. And that was exactly what he had come to prevent.

What they had come to prevent.

That moment was a moment of danger. Choices flickered in one man’s sight. Voices echoed through one man’s memory. Two words hovered parallel, suspended in the dark air, looming as mountains and fragile as flowers. And a little lie could keep them from crashing ruinous into this kingdom…

A distant cry came from somewhere he could not reach.

And suddenly, the moment was over. The choice was no choice at all—even if he could have found a way to mislead the Othryans now, and swear the strangers to secrecy, it was not for him to decide. Such an act would betray the alliance between Elian and Frederick. Such a decision was not in his authority to make.

I was sent here this night as a herald. My duty is to deliver my message… and, now, to find Azarias. Not to sabotage. I cannot risk one war to prevent another, even if—

He could not finish the thought.

Even if his friend had lost the silver in his soul to do so.

The fist on his hilt—the heart in his chest—tightened. The choice was made. Yet not one muscle was at ease.

How now, peace-giver? Hast none for thyself?

Wayland’s head jolted upright. He heard it truly this time. Notioned words, like another’s thoughts conversing with his own. But not his partner’s thoughts. This voice was different. It was younger. And it was older.

Yet his eyes stayed fastened on the gleaming war-banner in the snow. Peace? he notioned back. What peace have I given this night?

‘Tis in thy nature, soldier though thou be. The steps were silent that brought a pale form small to his side. Thou wear’st the livery of Stamros stained; yet that star Restimos shone o’er thy birth.

Wayland felt a smile’s edge threaten his face, though a grim one—how many times had his parents told him that as a boy? How many times had he gazed up at that star in foreign lands? And how often had he missed the sight in the Underworld?

‘Tis so, notioned the lad beside him, seeming to nod. The seventh star—last, greatest day! O day and star of peace, and rest, and hope! ‘Tis that fair influence works in thy blood; ‘tis Restimos that finds its way in thee.

At that, though, even the edge of smile vanished. A different edge turned in his heart. Through me, I hope. But not in me. The knuckles on his bare, besymboled hand whitened on his hilt. Not for a long time.

The silver image of his friend blackened in his memory. The golden image of the flower blurred in his vision.

How can there be peace again after this night?

A hand, cold and small, touched his arm. And it was not the touch of a child. It was not the touch of some wide-eyed little one who knows no other way to comfort. Nor was it even the touch of comfort.

But when he heard the notioned voice, the words did more than comfort could.

When thy burden’s like a stone, know it is not thine alone. When thy worries, wearying, steal, may thy sleeping soundly heal. When the light is blinding thee, may’st thou all things, by it, see.

Wayland, at last, dared to turn his darkened eyes. By the gilded gleam, in the frostlike face, two other eyes smiled up at him, dimmer and brighter both.

When too many pay the cost, know that death already lost.

Sound drew near. Shouts and hoofbeats, men and horses. Kings and soldiers and red-haired maidens. But in the snow beyond their sight stood Wayland and the winter-child, wordless together. Yet though the soldier was silent, his head rang with benediction.

Now, we must keep in mind that these are just our initial drafts of what the real letters will be.

Eh? Why must that be kept in mind?

After all, we don’t KNOW what all these people were thinking in these moments, or what notioning went between them. Some of them, we can ask, but—

You won’t have to ask him. Those were exactly the sort of thoughts in his head, whether his own or another’s, and that certain.

Why, how do you know, dearest?

Because I asked him already.

Portent Longwhite stood with the soldier, the man named Wayland, a moment more. Then came voices. Then came soldiers. Then came a king, by a red maid led.

“Yes, they’re right down here, sire,” she was saying, as down the slope she came with care. “Your soldier friend, and my… my guide, sire.”

Down they came, then, red on the white snow, gathering all in the hollow there. Soldiers stood, then, waiting for orders, waiting for word from their king to act.

But he just stood there, silently staring, staring with wonder upon the bloom. Hardly a breath did stir from his lips then. Hardly a cloud in the frosted air.

Yet at last, King Frederick of Othrys, shaking his head with an awestruck smile, straightened tall, in spite of the tear-wells, gilding his eyes in the star-lost light.

“What a miracle,” came the muttered words. “Thank the Lord, what a miracle.”

Portent heard the thanks in his murmur, though there were few who caught its sound. On that king, he looked then with reverence, notioning greeting that none else heard.

Noble master, full of care! O man strong enough to bear all the things that are to come! Crownéd head with heart of home!

Frederick started, scanning the hollow, searching for he who the words had thought. He found Portent, and his head lifted. Understanding there passed between.

Yet he spoke soon, turning to Wayland (whose silent war had been stemmed for now). Words unheard between them by soldiers yet were marked by the winter-child.

“Any sign of that friend of yours?”

“No, Your Majesty. Only sounds, and those distant.”

“But he was heading the same way that boy pointed out to us. Do you think he’s trying to find this place?”

“I don’t know. But I… think he’s too far to spot us. For now.” Wayland’s voice here lowered still further. “If Your Majesty still plans to dig up the fireflower, I suggest it be done swiftly and secretly.”

Frederick nodded. Then, to the soldiers, orders he gave, which they fast obeyed. Dug up, placed in cloths was the fireflower. Wrapped were its roots in their earth-stained cloak.

Then they took it. Gone was the fireflower. Gone was the light that in hollow gleamed. Gone were the soldiers. Gone was their master. Only three in that place remained.

“Well… that was quite something!” breathed out the lady (Wayland was standing still at the top of the hollow-hill). “To be thanked by a king, and—and to help save a queen! Not the sort of thing that happens to you every day, is it, boy?”

“Many things there are that rare occur.” Portent nodded to her excitement—how like a red-haired child she was! “But this is surely one, Miss Somerset.”

“And there I should hope you agree!” In her palm, she tapped something little, restlessly toying, as on she spoke. “Oh, I wonder what their little prince will look like—I heard them say the queen was about to have a child, you know. I hope they make their way back to her in good time. And—”

There she turned. And there were her hands shown. Clear now at last was the thing she held.

Portent froze, with eyes locked upon it.

Dark was that dagger, with sablen blade.

“Where did you get that knife, Miss Somerset?”

Green eyes, turning, glanced at the bodkin, borne in her hand like a harmless stick. Then she looked back. Then shrugged her shoulders. Then came a smile, with the least concern.

“Oh, this?” She laughed a little. “Oh, I just stumbled across it somewhere—”

“Whence came that dagger’s hilt into your hands?”

Forth came Portent, fierce as a snowstorm. Hardened as hail had his eyes become. Wide were hers, though, staring upon him. Never once yet had his anger shown.

“What? You… oh, you don’t really think I stole it, do you? Because I didn’t! I swear!”

“A sablen blade the worst of swearing breeds.” Firm and desperate gripped he her forearm, searching her face for the awful truth. “O, tell me how it found its way to thee!”

Just a moment stared his companion, darting her gaze to and from his own. Then she breathed in… slowly released it, clouding the air… and her answer came.

“I found it. After you left, when I walked over to the fireflower, I found it in the snow. I picked it up—I thought it’d be good to have some kind of weapon while I was alone.” Many feelings bubbled inside her: agitation, confusion, dread. “But that’s all I did! Really, believe me!”

Portent Longwhite sighed without misting. Fury—and fear—he released unseen. “I do believe your word, Miss Somerset. There is no guile upon your honest face.”

Yet, while smiling came to relieve her, once more stealing across her lips, trouble darkened the pallid princeling, casting omens into his thought.

“But this bodes ill for Frederick and his house. The fireflow’r was long considered lost, a jewel mislaid by time’s forgetful lords. But this, thy finding, hath disproved the tale.” Here, he nodded down toward the dagger (how he hated the sorcerous blade!). “‘Tis clear some wicked person kept it hid, by spell or charm or violent defense; for none but wicked ones do sablen use.”

She looked down then, eying the dagger, the night-forged poniard, in her hand still. “So… so it’s some sort of black magic? And someone used it to hide the fireflower, to keep it from the Othryan kings of old?”

“Aye, so it seems; but it is worse than that.”

“Worse? How can it be any—well, perhaps I shouldn’t say that.”

Portent fixed his eyes on Miss Somerset, certain as death and as grim as stone. “If witch or warlock hid the bloom away, what will he do when he has found it gone? The story will go out across the land—the miracle that saved the Othr’an queen—and there can be no chance he will not hear. I ask again, what think you he might do?”

Though her face was tinged with the sunlight, tan as if she were born thus burned, at these words, she paled like the hoarfrost. Hardly a word could she bring to bear.

“But… but they can guard. Can’t they? They can watch out for anyone like that.”

“Perhaps. But of this peril, they know not, nor needed they to guard against such kind in many years. They need a man who knows of this, their present danger, and of ways to fend off those who love the sablen blade.”

There, a frown crept over her features. She eyed Portent uncertainly. “You can’t. You know you can’t. We have our own important business to tend to—and anyway, you’re not a man! I don’t think the Othryans will take to having a child watch over them.”

No rejoinder made he to that word (though her own steps could prove her wrong). Still, he knew he could not abandon this, their mission, for anything.

“I will not leave you now, Miss Somerset. Yet I believe that there’s another one, who knows the danger and knows his defense. An you stay here a moment, I will go, and speak to him who’s marked our every word.”

Then they turned their eyes to the hilltop, where still was outlined a blue-cloaked form. Still stood Wayland, still as a statue, features affixed… and resolute.

Portent Longwhite went up to join him, leaving below his companion fair.

“Well, I don’t know what’s going on anymore.” She stared up for a moment, squinting. Then she looked at the little knife. “But I do know I don’t want this black thing for one more minute. Ugh!”

Holding it gingerly now, she looked around for a place she could ditch the thing. Not in a tree trunk, not in the bushes. Certainly not in the snow again! Maybe, if she just threw it away, as hard as she could, off in the woods…

“No, that’s silly too. That would just leave it somewhere for some stranger to pick it up, or some little creature to cut itself on it. And who knows what that might do? I don’t.” She frowned. “If I knew anything about sablen, I might.”

Still, she searched on, trying to figure how to get rid of this stupid thing. She stood still, her head on a swivel. Where could she put it? Where—

Unless…

An idea growing in her head, she tiptoed until she was standing right over the spot that had warmed her an hour ago, though it was now just a hole in the ground.

Over her shoulder she glanced one more time. There were Wayland and her strange friend, talking away (though she couldn’t quite make out what they said). Then she glanced at the dagger in hand. She glanced at the hole. And, sighing a mist, she made her choice.

“At least nobody will step on it,” she murmured, already dropping onto her knees.

~*~

[Chapter 1/Writing the Story]

[Chapter 10/Go Back ... Chapter 11/you are here! ... Chapter 12/The Hope]

[Also on AO3, if you want to hop on over!]

#tpc tangled au #the kingdom of othrys au #salt and light #the actual fic #wayland #lynn and the boy #king frederick #melisande #because she gets a mysterious line in the narration #long chapter

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tpc-tangled-au · 1 year ago

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Lol, I have a prince in a lighthouse tower, but it's a little weird. Plus the Lighthouse is inspired by the Nickel Creek song, so yeah.

#tpc tangled au #the kingdom of othrys au #salt and light #chapter related #the lighthouse ghost

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tpc-tangled-au · 4 months ago

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I have decided to illustrate my stories. Well, okay, not just now, I decided a while back. But now I'm sharing the fact! And possibly some of the illustrations.

#tpc tangled au #the kingdom of othrys au #salt and light #illustrations

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tpc-tangled-au · 8 months ago

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Chapter 10: Go Back

From the day she stole his memory, Salome raised the boy as her own. Instead of cruelty, she feigned friendliness, calling herself ‘mother’ instead of ‘witch’. She hid him from the world, and it from him, for she could never let him go back. But her deceptions and spells could not hide everything. Each year, on his birthday, the King and Queen released thousands of lanterns into the sky, in the hope that one day, their lost prince would return. And, though even he didn’t realize it himself, the lost prince watched them every time.

Melisande listened to the silence after the storyteller stopped. She was aware of him, setting his pen to rest in its inkwell. She did see him stretch his hand muscles. And then he turned, hands and eyebrows lifted.

“Well?” asked Baron, looking from one friend to another. “How does that sound?”

Melisande was wordless. She’d expected she would be, after a point. And she’d expected another to fill her silence until she could speak again. But that other was silent too. No laughter, no triumphant shouts, no bright encouragement of any sort. Naphtali sat just as still as her for that moment.

At last, he stirred out of his thoughts.

“I very nearly forgot who the tale was about.”

Something about those simple, almost ridiculously innocent words sowed chills along Melisande’s arms. Her lips parted, then curved up. She didn’t even cover them as she whispered, “Oh, solas mo ghràidh…”

She was startled from her reverie by a loud chuckle—the expression of Baron’s surprise.

And it brightened her prince’s face too. “Well, nearly!” he exclaimed, his ever-so-familiar grin returning. “It was simply such a… such a story that… well, that I hardly thought of it as mine!”

“So far, most of it isn’t.” Baron shook his head, still smiling with amusement. “We haven’t much gotten to the parts that are really yours, have we?”

“No!” He laughed delightedly. “And look how far we’ve gotten!”

“Far enough for quite a few letters.” Baron blew on his last page of notes and fragments of prose. Then he set it with its fellows in stack.

Satisfied with her listening now, Melisande turned her eyes to the window. The glass gleamed amber—they’d been in here all day. Talking, telling, coming up with ideas and scribbling them down. A number of the details, even she’d never known before. About Naphtali, about his life after that night, about… about…

Her eyes drifted to the sunset, scarlet as flame. Red sky at night, sailors delight, her grandfather had taught her. It caught the light from one of the castle’s towers, standing like a lighthouse against the dusk.

“There’s one thing I should like to know,” she said quietly, not turning to look.

“What is it?”

“The Lighthouse Ghost.” After a moment, she turned a troubled gaze from the window. “Could he do nothing? Was he unable to help, to tell him the truth, to free him?”

It was Baron who answered, sighing. “I’d say so. After all, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t touch anything—at least, not in any way that would affect it. He couldn’t even leave the lighthouse to find help. What could he have done?”

Her heart twinged, and her voice softly saddened. “He was trapped too.”

Two reactions came at those words. Baron sat a little straighter, lifting his head in surprise, as if to nod in sudden realization. But not Naphtali. Shock struck across his face, like a stab in the heart. “Oh.” His eyes fell. A faint shiver seemed to rush over him. “Oh.”

Silence held a moment as the window slowly dimmed. But it wasn’t the pane that Melisande watched.

Still, at last, she sensed someone needed to speak. “The sunlight’s leaving us,” she put in, gently clearing her throat. “The story’s come to a place. Perhaps we ought to go back to our duties.”

They gradually began to move. Baron urged them to relate any questions or ideas they had back to him. Melisande said that they would. Then she took Naphtali’s hand and led him out the door. He was still uncommonly quiet.

As they walked down the hall, Melisande tried to catch his eye. “Are you all right, Naphtali?”

For a moment, he only stared on, as if he hadn’t heard her. Then he shook his head. “Hm? What? What did you say, Sharp Eyes?”

“I asked if you’re all right.”

“Me? Oh, yes, I’m quite all right, quite, yes. I’m perfectly well.” His eyes drifted again. “Poor fellow, though…”

A heavy sigh escaped her. “I know.”

“And after all he’d already seen, being trapped by that horrible witch, and…” He slapped a hand to his own chest. “…and me forgetting him entirely!”

“It was the witch’s doing, not your own. You didn’t forget him yourself.” She paused a little. “You didn’t forget anyone yourself.”

Naphtali slowed at her reminder. “Oh… oh, perhaps so. Even so, I wish I could have done something more to help the poor ghost.” His heartsick frown turned to the floor. “I wish it dreadfully.”

It wasn’t often that he was the one who needed cheering. But Melisande touched his arm and tried. “You were a friend to him. Even without your memory, you were that.” Her lips tightened, knowing too well she was speaking truth. “For a lonely one, that’s a help beyond wishing.”

His eyes lifted to hers, starting to hope again. At the sight, her lips loosened into a smile. “Besides, Baron is writing it all. Whatever happens to memory, your ghostly friend won’t be forgotten again.”

Naphtali stared a moment, never letting go her gaze. Then, his smile broke through the clouds, and her heart bloomed in its light.

But suddenly, his head jerked up in realization. “Wait, Baron? Where is he?” And he swiveled to search for him. “Where’s he gone?”

“He’s back in the room. We left him to make a few notes before it’s too dark.” A little amusement budded in her eyes. “We’ve walked out into the hall, you know.”

“Well—well, yes, yes but—” Naphtali kept looking round, as if for his train of thought. “But he said something. Didn’t he? I thought he said something. As we were going. I’m sure he did. Do you—”

Melisande smothered a growing laugh. “Calm down, Naphtali, calm down!” She couldn’t keep back her flowering grin. “He only said for us to tell him if we had any questions or ideas about the letters.”

He stopped. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

A moment’s muteness. Then his thoughtful look exploded into idea. “Why, then, I have to go!” His feet had begun moving already.

“What? Go where?”

“Back!” And he spun round to run the way they’d come.

~*~

“AND ANOTHER THING!”

The shout shocked the quill right from Baron’s hand, the very moment he’d picked it up. It nosedove, staining the floor with its crash. He glared down at the splatter and growled. Waste of a good pen.

“Oh!” A wild-haired head popped into view, following his glare. “Oh, dreadfully sorry. I’ll have someone clean it up later.” But the shock-shouter was not to be distracted for long. “But what about the knife?”

A little annoyance threatened to linger. But Baron shooed it out, turning in his chair with a sigh. “What are you talking about, Naphtali?”

“Well, you told us to tell you of our questions when we left—and I thought of one! So what about it?”

Baron shut his eyes and shook his head. “What about what?”

“The knife!” When he still saw no grasp of his words, Naphtali tried to explain. “Well, you’ve shown how the witch found the thing, and how the prince used it to escape—”

“The prince, of course, being you,” added a feminine voice. Melisande must have slipped in just behind him while Baron was distracted with the inky wreckage.

“Yes, yes, the prince being me. But you’ve not shown how the poniard got there in the first place!” He began to pace out his thoughts, as he did—he could rarely stand still if his mind was racing. “If it were on the ground, it’d be all right, of course. But buried in the hole the fireflower left!” He flung out a hand in gesture. “It can’t have simply burrowed itself in! And—”

Here he gripped the back of Baron’s chair.

“—and what about all these other characters you’ve talked about? Where have they all gone? Shall we see more of them?”

At the utterly childish image, Baron laughed aloud. “It’s your story, Naphtali! It’s not about them!”

“Well, yes, but… but…” He twisted a sort of frown. “But dash it all, I already know myself!”

Baron shook his head, still chuckling. Then he leaned back on his desk to look over Naphtali’s shoulder. “Melisande,” and he nodded up, “what do you think? What should we do with all these questions?”

Melisande was covering her smile. He guessed, from the familiar way her eyes gleamed, that she was just as amused as him, and at the moment, more in love than anyone but Naphtali.

Still, she lowered her hand. “Answer them, I would think.”

“How?” Challenge flashed like lightning in his eye. “Should I make a footnote? Or simply wait a few years to put it in a later letter?”

“Baron!” exclaimed Naphtali in exaggerated offense.

Melisande bit back another smile, but her mind was working. She kept her mouth closed tight for a minute. Then she opened it.

“Go back.” She nodded. “Yes. Go back to that night, when the fireflower was found. Go back to the ones who found it. They’re the ones with the answers.”

~*~

The sounds from the sky—faint and intermittent, but no beast or bird she’d yet heard—had made her uneasy for nigh a half hour. At the sound of hoofbeats, galloping nearer, Lynn jumped to her feet. She gripped the slippery little dagger as well as she could. Not that it would do much good, if it came to that. Especially against someone on a horse!

But when the horse came into sight, she sighed a cloud of relief. The steed was white, but the child it bore was whiter.

“Twas here she found the fireflow’r, in all of its life-giving pow’r.”

“There you are!” she fogged, lowering her tiny weapon. “You found a herald, then!”

“A herald, aye,” said her guide, gliding from the saddle, “but not of Othr’an blood, nor any Othr’an sign of heraldry.”

Lynn fluttered two blinks. “Not Othryan?”

“Nay, miss; yet Othr’an soldiers come behind.” He nodded to her. “‘Tis they shall take the fireflow’r away.”

After another glance at the sky, she gave a side-eye to the dismounting ‘herald’. His cloak, a dim blue, was nothing like the red worn by the herald they’d met. That ghost had born an emblem, too. She hadn’t gotten a terribly close look at it. But the mark this man bore—to fasten his cloak, to darken his hand—was not the same.

Frowning, Lynn turned a sideways squint toward the boy. “Are you telling me you’ve pulled some unsuspecting traveller off the road? Some messenger off his duties?” He opened his mouth, but she waved him off. “No, no, don’t poeticize it. You and all your soliloquys won’t change the fact that the poor man has no reason to be dragged out here like—”

The ‘poor man’ turned. And Lynn’s words vanished like the breath-clouds round her head.

Not that his was an extraordinarily handsome face. Nor was it a cruel face—if anything, it was the opposite. But there was something there that should not have been. Carved on the face, graven in the eyes. Something grim, something desolate, and so terrible that her heart stopped to look at it. Yet it did not belong there.

“My name is Wayland,” said the man, with a voice too soft for the stone in it. “And the fireflower is my reason for travelling this night. It is my purpose and duty in this land. I believed the boy’s word. I chose to come.”

Lynn only stared.

She still had questions. Dozens. She knew she did. But the words for them were completely forgotten now.

It was a familiar voice that broke her frozen silence. “This soldier good was with the Othr’an king, when came I thence to tell them of our news. The king is coming; this man faster rode. Nor tree nor stone could hinder all his speed.”

Wayland’s darkened eyes fell, heavy as hail. But, catching themselves, they turned to Lynn. He stepped toward her. “Miss, I understand from this lad’s story that you were the one to find the fireflower?”

She blinked. A baffled “Me?” was all she could manage at first. Then, “Oh, w-well, it was sort of the both of us. I only ran ahead. I thought…” Lynn felt shame match her face to her hair. “I-I thought it was a campfire.”

A hand gently touched her forearm. When she glanced up, Wayland was there. Not in severity, nor in a smile, but the solemnest of solace.

“Your campfire will save a family this night.”

Lynn shivered. She could not help herself. How she wished she could! But the contrast—the face to set a heart at rest, troubled by some war that could not be seen—the soft voice to comfort a soul, hardened by some comfortless grief—struck her spine all a-tremble.

But then Wayland was turning away, and his face gone. She almost felt his shadow as it passed over her.

“King Frederick and the soldiers we met are minutes from here,” he was saying. “One of you should go back and stand watch for them while I guard here. This hollow is well hidden, and they may not see it.”

“Yes, good, quite right,” replied Lynn, a little too rushed. Then, clearing her throat, “I-I can stand watch. I stand out from the snow a little more.” She bit her lip.

But Wayland only nodded to her, saying, “Thank you for offering, miss. They come from the northwest.”

He stepped away, and without another word, Lynn picked up her skirts and did the same, hastily heading back the way the herald had come.

She did not hear the distant, dreadful cry this time. She did not see the way the strange man tensed at its sound.

~*~

[Chapter 1/Writing the Story]

[Chapter 9/Workings of a Witch ... Chapter 10/you are here! ... Chapter 11/Wayland and the Winter Child]

[Also on AO3, if you want to hop on over!]

#tpc tangled au #the kingdom of othrys au #salt and light #the actual fic #melisande #naphtali #baron #lynn and the boy #wayland

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