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laequiem · 4 years ago

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Pie-eyed piper

Severin and Ben attend Balekin Greenbriar's "coronation", and Ben lets himself get tempted by faerie wine.

Fandom: The Darkest Part of the Forest - Holly Black, The Folk of the Air - Holly Black

Characters: Ben Evans / Severin with brief mentions of Taryn Duarte, Locke and Balekin Greenbriar.

Rating: General

Word count: 844

Short fluff I wrote on my bus ride home for International Fanworks Day 2021.

Read on ao3 • masterlist

Ben knew better than to drink faerie wine, especially at the coronation of Balekin Greenbriar, king-to-be and well known Prince of Debauchery. Severin had briefed him about other courts, especially drilling into his head information about the higher court of Elfhame, so he knew about the oldest prince's reputation. But when he saw other non-glamoured humans amongst the crowd, he felt somewhat safe. One of them, the softer-looking half of a set of twins, even drank wine given to her by a fox-faced faerie boy, no question asked. She even ate their food, hors d'oeuvres lathered with everapple jelly and cakes sprinkled with golden dust.

While Ben was not stupid enough to eat faeriefruit, especially with nobody he knew around, he let himself be tempted by the wine.

Only one glass , he thought naively. But the servants kept coming, refilling the chalice as he drained it. Soon enough, he was tapping his broken fingers on the cup to the rhythm of the music and faeries drifted towards him.

One of the court musicians came over to hand him a lute, and Ben gladly started playing. The crowd around him grew and it was a matter of time before his sister found him, muttered a curse under her breath and left in a hurry to find Severin.

Ben kept drunkenly playing the lute, paying no mind to the faeries dancing and singing around him. He didn't even notice the ones at his feet, giddily running their hands up his calves. There was only him and the music, the notes calling to him, begging to be played.

"Benjamin Evans," a familiar suave voice called him out of his trance, "stop this at once."

Ben beamed up at his boyfriend. His sleeping Prince looked good in everything—regular human clothes, nerdy shirts he picks up off the floor when he needs to quickly find something to dress and, of course, completely naked. Yet, seeing him in regal court wear was always a sight to behold. He looked every inch the prince—now Lord—with whom Ben fell in love with. Golden jewelry hung from his horns, his hair was perfectly curled in all the right places, his clothes pressed and clean. If he weren't already madly in love, Ben would fall for him again.

"Sevy! Come dance," he said, his hands still playing by their own accord.

"Ben, we talked about—oh," Severin frowned and crossed his arms, "Ben, are you drunk?"

"Mayyyyyyybe," Ben said guiltily.

Severin sighed and looked at the gathered crowd. They were mostly just dancing, it could be worse. With a raunchy enough song, Benjamin could force anyone who listens to strip. He could feel the pull of it in himself—the irresistible urge to dance to Ben's piping. He fought it and extended a hand towards the musician.

"I'll dance," he said, "but with you."

Ben's smile grew larger and he finally stopped playing, delicately laying the lute on the floor before taking Severin's hand. Around them, the gathered folk seemed to come back to their senses, looking around in confusion. Benjamin got up and immediately stumbled forward into Severin's extended arms, giggling the whole time. The revel around him was a blurry mess of colours, so much that he could not stand still. With another sigh, Severin crouched and slipped his arm under Ben's knees, lifting him in his arms.

"Sev, that's not—hic— that's not how dancing works!"

"We can't dance if you can't even stand."

Ben let Severin carry him out of the main hall to one of the empty rooms. The Alderking's son set him on the bed gently and brushed a red curl off his face.

"Sober up, Benny" he whispered kindly, "we'll dance afterwards."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Ben's heart skipped a beat at the smile Severin gave him. Even after years together, it still felt improbable that he loved him. He knew everything about him, all the terrible, selfish thoughts that plagued him since he was old enough to talk. The glass casket had been his place to confess, unaware that Severin heard everything. He told him of school drama, of all his fights with his sister, of his crushes on teachers, his first kiss. He told him how he broke his hand, that he misses music but can't get himself to play again. Hell, he even made out with boys on top of the casket. He cringed every time he remembered, yet Severin assured him that he did not see how any of this was embarrassing. That it was charming, adorable, and that he would look forward to the awkward boy's visits.

Severin leaned forward and kissed his freckled cheek.

"I have to attend the ceremony, but I will be back as soon as I can," he brushed his knuckle to Ben's jaw, "then, we will dance as long as you wish."

Ben's eyelids drooped as Severin let his hand travel to his hair, lightly scratching that spot on the back of his neck that makes him purr. He fell asleep with his prince watching him.

#darkest part of the forest #severin #ben evans #benjamin evans #the folk of the air #dpotf #tfota #holly black #international fanworks day 2021 #the darkest part of the forest

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rainbow-reilly · 6 years ago

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Faeriefruit

By Claire-Louise Reilly [originally posted to r/nosleep]

All the neighbourhood kids knew Ms. McKinley was a witch.

It was a playground truth whispered with such conviction and awe that you didn't dare think to question it. "Ms. McKinley—you know? The witch?"

Old ladies were supposed to be grandmothers and give out hard candies and sit inside knitting all day. Not live alone, in decrepit old cottages overgrown with ivy, with only the stray cats and crows for company.

And they were definitely not supposed to live in graveyards.

"Cemetery," my mother would correct me. "And she's not a witch, she's the groundskeeper. You wouldn't want anything to happen to granddad, would you?"

"Still weird to live beside a bunch of dead people," I'd mumble under my breath. Never mind our house was so close I could see the headstones from my bedroom window.

But kids never like the truth when the truth is too mundane. We wanted to believe that Ms. McKinley would dig up old bones to scry with—whatever scrying was. That any missing cats had ended up in her cauldron. That she'd eaten the last little boy who'd dared to wander through her garden.

That one especially sparked our imaginations. Every other kid claimed it was their cousin's friend's neighbour's brother, whose name always seemed to change with each new telling. Some days it was Jimmy, others it was Tom, and once I swore I heard he was called Harris. But one thin fact always stayed the same: he had gone into Ms. McKinley's garden and never come out again.

Perhaps it was that pretend touch of danger that tempted us to make a game out of going in.

It was Lizzie who suggested the idea. Lizzie wasn't exactly our leader—we didn't need a leader, and we weren't exactly friends. But there's only so many kids your own age within walking distance. Lizzie was one of them, and as the tallest and the loudest her ideas often ended up counting the most.

I, like an idiot, spoke up. "What if she catches us? We'll get in trouble."

Lizzie barked out a laugh. "What? You scared of the witch?"

"No! My mum said witches don't even exist," I spat back. I didn't believe her, but Lizzie didn't need to know that.

"Then you've got no reason not to go, right?"

I bit down on my cheek. Dammit, she'd tricked me. Either I was scared of a witch, or I was scared of a little old lady, and neither was an acceptable option. All I'd managed to do was get myself nominated.

"Fine, then."

The way I walked down the narrow road to Ms. McKinley's side of the graveyard, you'd think I was being led to my own execution. Nervous energy fizzled under my skin like lightning in a bottle, as I made myself sick imagining all the hundreds of millions of ways this could go horribly wrong. But it was too late to back out now. If there's one thing worse than a coward it's a cowardly quitter.

The cottage sat on the edge of grounds, just off the street and right beside the front gates. I suppose it was her duty to lock up at night—not that it'd do much good, the wrought iron would be easy enough for hoodlums and teens to scale. Liz gave us all a leg up and then pushed herself over in one go. From there, a thin short hedge was all that separated us from Ms. McKinley's garden.

It was a sprawl of overgrown grass, filled with wildflowers and weeds, Not that it wasn't well-tended to in its own way—she clearly liked to grow her own fruits and vegetables. My mouth glistened at the sight of strawberries, and I had to remind myself that food from a witch is probably poison.

Lizzie nudged me. "Dare you to grab one."

"Why?"

She cracked a toothy grin. "You want a trophy, don't you?"

I'd have been happy to get out of there with all my fingers and toes and skin still on my bones. But I nodded anyway. Whatever got Lizzie to shut up and get on with it.

The buzz of excitement faded away, as the group all held its breath in anticipation.

And then I was running.

Leaping across the hedge, catching my foot on the way down. My hands in the dirt pushing myself back up before I'd even finished stumbling. Every moment in here was another chance to get caught.

I darted across the grass, kicking up dandelions as I went. I needed to grab something. Not the strawberries, they were too close to the window. More chance to be seen, more chance to get eaten. Something else, something else—there. A bush of gleaming blood red berries in the far corner.

I sprinted towards them, arm outstretched, grabbed a fistful, and turned. I could see Lizzie and the others now, quietly cheering me on. I was so close, so close. My aching limbs loosened up with relief.

And then a shadow passed across the window.

I stopped dead.

Had she seen me? She had to have seen me. But if she saw me, why wasn't she coming out? She should be coming out—

"What are you doing? Hurry up!"

I was running again. Fumbling over the hedge, not stopping till I reached the wrought iron of the fence that marked freedom. I leaned against the flaking paint of the bars, beginning to feel the burn of a stitch in my side. The others crowded around me, howling and hollering, but it all seemed so faint when I could still hear my heartbeat hammering inside me.

Ms. McKinley had seen me, and I didn't know which possibility was worse.

A creepy old witch who could curse me.

Or a little old lady who could tell my parents.

We'd walked a little ways away from the graveyard before I made up some excuse about needing to head home. Instead, I circled back to the McKinley cottage. This time I came up the front path, dragging my feet like stone all the way. The door glided open before I even had a chance to knock.

I don't know what I expected when I saw Ms. McKinley. Of course I'd seen her before, but never up close. Never like a person. Her skin was creased like a well-loved book and she wore her hair rebelliously long and loose for a woman her age. She wasn't how I imagined her, or thought I'd imagine her, but as soon as the image settled in my mind I couldn't picture her any other way.

She looked down at me with cold, curious eyes, and any hope I had that she hadn't really seen me fizzled out like a candle. I didn't say anything. I just held out the clump of berries sheepishly. "Sorry," I muttered, wishing I could disappear into the neck of my too-warm jumper.

She plucked the clutch of berries from my hand and held them up to the light, inspecting them like a jewellery and diamonds. "Didn't think you'd come back," she said. She slipped the berries into her skirt pocket, before eyeing me up and down. "You're Philip's granddaughter, aren't you?"

I momentarily forgot my fear. "You knew granddad?"

Her face softened into an almost-smile. "Only a little. Good man; always tipped his cap whenever he came to see his wife. Your mother still brings him flowers every other month."

A pang of dread rattles around inside me at the mention of my mum. I stare down at my sneakers. "Are you gonna tell her?"

"Tell your...? Ha!" She starts laughing—a hearty rasp that reminds me of the cackle of a crow. "Girl, I was never gonna tell your parents. Gettin' sick off faeriefruit would have been punishment enough. But since you brought it back, I think we can call things even."

"Faeriefruit?"

"The berry." She patted her pocket indicatively. "Makes a person awfully sick if it's not properly prepared. You can't eat it off the bush, but it does make a tasty jam. I made a batch the other day, if you'd like to try some?"

I nodded automatically. Maybe out of politeness, maybe out of fear, I don't know. But that was all it took for her to lead me inside, through the hallway, into a cosy kitchen with gauzy curtains and mismatched cookery lining the walls.

This was the home of a witch?

I sat myself down at the table, continuing my in-depth analysis of Ms. McKinley's home decor, until a slice of sponge cake was placed in front of me. It was spread with juice red jam that threatened to trickle down the sides in thick, gleaming globs if not gobbled up fast enough.

Ms. McKinley took a seat opposite of me, folding her hands on the table expectantly. "Enjoy," she said.

I lifted up the cake, trying my best to keep my fingers away from the ever-sticky jam, and took a single cautious bite.

And then another. And another. Until the generous slice has disappeared entirely.

It tasted achingly sweet in my mouth. As smooth and rich as you imagine the wildest berry to be, as deliciously forbidden as sips of wine stolen on New Years. I already wanted more.

"You like that?" Ms. McKinley chuckled.

I nodded, licking away a swear of jam that'd spilled down my chin. A wave of self-consciousness ran across my skin as I tried to recompose myself. "So why's it called faeriefruit?"

It's a question that makes her eyes light up. She pulled the berries out her pocket, holding them out for me to see. "See the leaves?" I did. Each one had five gangly points, making it resemble a little person with a head and arms and legs. "Beware the men who grow from roots and never eat their faeriefruits."

"Umm...sorry?"

"Do you read much folklore?"

I gave a soft shrug. Maybe I had a copy of The Brothers Grimm under my bed somewhere, but that was about it.

"Well, in the old stories it's bad luck to eat the food of the fae. Faeries, that is. The humans that do usually end up getting trapped in faerieland or get eaten themselves. So when people discovered the strange berries that look like little people make you sick, they simply assumed it was a faerie curse."

I nodded along thoughtfully. It made enough sense. And then a thought spilled out of my sticky, jammed-up mouth before I could stop it.

"Do you know a lot about curses?"

She tilted her head to the side curiously. "Now what makes you say that?"

"You...I mean...it's not...nevermind, I..."

"Because you kids all think I'm a witch?"

I'm pinned to my seat. My face perfectly placid, while underneath I'm bubbling with fear. She stares down at me, an unreadable expression, until I realize she really is waiting for an answer.

"Well..." I manage to choke out, "Are you?"

And then she laughs. Long, and hard, and longer still, until even my relief turns tepid. "At least you're honest, girl," she finally says. "No, I don't ride a broomstick, or dance with the devil, or anything like that. I'm just a simple old woman who keeps to herself and her garden."

"And lives in a graveyard." I clamped my hand over my mouth a moment too late.

A coy smile worked its way onto the corner of her mouth. "That too."

"But don't you ever get creeped out?"

She gave her head a soft shake. "You know, your grandfather was a good man. It'd be strange to think any less of him just because he's in the ground.

I stared down at the table. I could feel an unpleasantly itchy pang of guilt crawl up through me. "Ms. McKinley, I'm sorry."

"You already said sorry once, girl. Don't say anything you mean more than once."

"No, not just for the berries. I'm sorry I thought you were a witch."

She smiled at me. "You come say hi whenever you like, dear. I could use the company. Keep your nose clean, and I promise I won't curse you." And then a wink at me.

I walked home that day a little brighter, a little bolder. And the sweet taste of faeriefruit still lingering in my mouth.

I wasn't scared of Ms. McKinley after that. If I saw her on our way to visit granddad's grave, I'd give a wave no matter how far away. On some slow days when there was no one to play with, I'd wander over to her cottage and sit in her kitchen a while, learning bits of folklore I'd never find in the books under my bed and happily eating faerierfruit cake.

She'd tell me more about faeries—real faeries, cruel faeries, not the dainty kind in flower petal dresses found on postcards. About their weakness for iron, the secrets of their names, the way they'd twist the truth into knots on their tongues to make up for the fact they can't lie.

"You'll never get a straight answer out of a fae," she said, once. "Always dodging questions. Sometimes the words you don't say are more important than the ones you do."

I enjoyed that. Little bits of knowledge, however pointless, that gave me more power. A new way to see the world.

The cake was nice, too.

But what soured the taste was the days I didn't see Ms. McKinley. When I slipped back into old patterns and found myself playing with my maybe-friends. She didn't come up all that much, but when she did I took note of every whisper and snicker and jeer wrapped around her name. She didn't deserve it. Any of it. Annoyance started to buzz under my skin like an ugly itch, and it didn't take long for me to scratch it.

It was a summery day when the hazy heat was making us bored and sluggish. It was Lizzie who started it, of course. It was always Lizzie. "We could see what mental old McKinley is up to. I heard Janine Davey's cat hasn't come home since—"

"Leave her alone, Liz."

She turned to me. "What?”

"She's not harming anyone. Let's just do something else—"

"Since when are you scared of the weird old witch?"

An indignant spark roared up inside me. "I'm not," I muttered."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are!"

"Not."

And then an idea snapped into my head. Behind it was a trickle of guilt, but it was easy to drown it out under all my anger and pride. "Fine," I said. "I'll prove it."

Without another word I turned and walked away. Down the narrow road to Ms. McKinley side of the graveyard, all the while vaguely aware the others were following bewilderedly behind. There was no hiding this time, no clambering over fences to avoid perfectly fine front gates. I walked right up the front path and knocked, the way I would if this were a visit on any other day.

As soon as I thumped my fist on the painted wood of the front door I heard the scuffle of scattering feet, the group rushing to seclude themselves in the safety of shadows and trees.

Ms. McKinley didn't seem surprised to see me. She never did.

For a moment, I felt that same flicker of guilt fizzle up inside me. Here I was, exploiting the unearned reputation I hated to make myself look better. But I couldn't let them call me a coward. Sorry, Ms. McKinley.

"Hello, dear," she said brightly. She peered over my shoulder curiously. "Are your friends not going to join us?"

"No." I didn't ask how she knew they were there. I simply slipped inside and let her close the door behind me.

A little while later I emerged from the cottage again, this time carrying a box of faeriefruit cakes. "For your friends," Ms. McKinley had said with a wink.

As soon as I was past the graveyard gate I was swarmed, the centre of a mass of grasping hands and awestruck eyes.

"You actually went in there!"

"What was it like?"

"Are you crazy?"

I tried to give my most casual shrug. I was already struggling to keep the proud grin off my face. There was nothing scary about what I'd done, but they didn't need to know that.

My eye caught Lizzie, leaning back against the fence and projecting to the whole world how much she didn't care. I stared up at her. "Told you I wasn't scared."

She looked at me all dark and stony, her eyes drifting down to the box. "What's that you got there?" As if she couldn't see through the clear plastic.

"Just some cakes from Ms. McKinley." I gestured to the rest of the group. "Want one?"

Lizzie scoffed. "How do you know they aren't poisoned?"

There was a murmur across the group. A battle between hesitation and temptation.

"Well..." I pried off the lid, reached in, and lifted one out to take a bite. "I've been eating plenty and I'm not dead, am I?"

That was enough of an invite. One sticky hand reached in and took a cake, followed by another, and another, until everyone but Lizzie had had a taste of faeriefruit.

"Liz?" I said, holding out the last one.

Her mouth was a tight, thin line as she eyed the cake. "What kind is it, anyway?"

"Faeriefruit. She grows the berries that make the jam herself."

"And you think I wanna eat witchy food?"

"Fine." I shoved it in my mouth before she had a chance to change her mind. She rolled her eyes and walked away, hands in pockets, but for a second I thought I saw a twitch of regret on the corners of her mouth.

"So," Ms. McKinley said, setting down two cups on the table. Tea for her, hot chocolate for me. "Did your friends enjoy the cakes?"

I nodded. "Everyone except Liz. She's just so...ugh! She doesn't want anyone to do anything except what she tells them. It's so annoying."

She tilted her head sympathetically. "Some people are just immature. She'll never be a grown up if she doesn't learn to act like one. Cake, dear?"

I nodded again, maybe a little too vigorously. Ms. McKinley rose up to retrieve her jam and sponge from the cupboard. I was still sat at the table, sipping my drink and swinging my legs, when the gangly shadow flicked across the window.

I shot round to look, a splash of hot chocolate hitting my dress as I turned. The garden was empty, the trespasser gone, but a tell-tale trail of trampled grass led to the faeriefruit bush and back.

I bolted up. "Ms. McKinley, I think—"

"Leave it, pet. Some people need to learn a lesson the hard way."

The next time I saw Liz she looked thinner, paler. She didn't seem to tower over the rest of us as much. In the back of my head, I wondered if it was sickness from eating faeriefruit.

Good, I thought. That'll teach her.

But a day of tiredness and lethargy soon turned into a week. She was speaking less, standing back more, fading from the group like a shadow scattering under cloud cover. Soon there were days where she didn't come outside at all.

I asked her about it at school, once. She shrugged from across the lunch table, too busy pulling the crust off her uneaten sandwich to even look up. "Just don't feel like playing much, Getting too old for it, you know?"

I tried to nod convincingly, sympathetically. I didn't know, not really. But it seemed like the polite thing to do. "How come you're not eating?"

She shrugged again. "Just not hungry. Hey, did McKinley give you any more of those cakes?"

I shook my head and pretended not to see the way her shoulders drooped with genuine dismay.

It turned out there wouldn't be any more faeriefruit for me either.

"Afraid the plant's withered up, pet," Ms. McKinley told me the next time I came over. She pointed out the window to where the faeriefruit bush once grew. Now there was only a path of empty earth, as fresh as a newly-dug grave. "Faeriefruit can be fickle like that. I don't even know if it'll be back next year."

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it. But not as much as Lizzie, I bet.

After all, she only got the one taste.

I never got the chance to tell her, or even time to decide if I should, because that's when she disappeared from school. First it was just a day. Then a second, a third, but by the end of the week our teacher announced Lizzie was in the hospital. Something about not getting enough nutrition.

We scribbled cards in class and waited eagerly for the return of the bold, brash Liz, hopefully with hospital stories and maybe a scar. But the weeks passed into months, and the weather turned grey, and all our morbid curiosity died away as we realized Lizzie wasn't getting better.

I went to see her once. Just once. In books and stories they always say sick people look like ghosts. Lizzie didn't look like a ghost. Lizzie looked dead. The girl who once stood like a sunflower in a field of weeds now lay back on a bleached white pillow, little more than a gauzy skeleton. Her lips were cracked like crumbling dust and I could see the blue of her veins pulse weakly under her pale skin.

She didn't talk. I don't think she could talk. And maybe that's for the best.

What do you say to someone who's obviously going to die?

Lizzie didn't make it till spring. She was buried in a grave so far up the hillside I could see it from my bedroom window. I kept my curtains closed for a long, long time.

Some months later, when the last of the slush had melted, my mum took me on one of her regular visits to granddad's grave. She didn't stop me when I slipped away, wandering my way up the hill. I don't know if I wanted to see Lizzie, but it felt like I had to.

As I worked my way through the rows of mismatched headstones, a figure came into view. Kneeling over a grave, the grave, with gloves and hat and trowel in hand. A figure I now knew even from afar.

Ms. McKinley.

"They never tell you about the weeds," she called out, as I kept coming closer. She didn't seem surprised to see me. She never did. "Good earth makes for good weeds, even when there are bodies underneath. But maybe today we've got something even better..."

She looked so at ease with her hands in the earth, the new grass not even grown over. As I watched her, I remembered what Ms. McKinley said about faerie folk. How you'll never get a straight answer out of them. I remembered how I asked her if she really was a witch. She gave me a list of all the witchy things she didn't do.

But she never said no.

With one tug, Ms. McKinley pulled something up. A tangle of roots, thin and fine, that seemed to go on forever. She wiped the glistening sweat off her brow. "Good news; there'll be plenty of jam this year."

My stomach lurched. I could see the head she was holding now—gangly leaves of five and blood-red berries not yet ripe. Growing right over Lizzie's grave.

Ms. McKinley gave me a dark, knowing smile. "You know, some people think faeriefruit is a bit bitter."

She plucked a single berry and popped it in her mouth.

"But I think it's the sweetest fruit of all."

#writing #my writing #mine

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