Chapter Text
Time and its ever-changing tides devoured the mortar and bone in the earth. The ebb and flow of the ages touched man and his makings, but not Fairy, nor its king. In the place between places, the Lord of the mists and mires ruled the darkness and all its denizens - unchallenged, unchecked.
Just was his rule, and his court, well-kept, due in part to the fear of his ire that struck like a squall. But his sovereignty was magic-made, and always would he be beholden to the unknowable will of the force that crowned him.
His was an immovable kingdom, as ancient and fixed as the roots that bound the old oaks to the earth. But father time would test him, and magic would play her part.
She came from the north, or so the amanitas claimed. The moss muttered of darker things, of which little sense was made. The moss did not take to speech as the mushrooms did, but still, they speak in the way that only the trees and rocks fully comprehend. And theirs is a language lost to both fairy and man.
It is of little consequence by the time she breaches the gates. She is a broken vision of a realm he does not recognize, garbed in vibrant colors and unearthly vestments. Her eyes are wild, her hair the color of peat. Steel glints in her hand, trembling fingers gripping the hilt through gritted teeth and he can smell the blood on her. His nostrils flare. It’s true, then. She is human. She is mortal.
Slowly, he rises, clutching his scepter of thorns and burrs, brilliant amber glowing atop it in a cradle of earthen knots. His guards close in, but he raises a hand in a wordless command and they freeze where they stand.
The sword she carries bears a mark he’s not seen in eons, and it makes his grip tighten around his staff. She holds her weapon low - she is unaccustomed to the weight, he can see that plainly - drawn and poised. Her footfalls are heavy - she bears more than the weight of her own body, that much is clear.
A labored stride brings her to the steps at the base of his dais. Blood trickles down the swell of her cheek from an unseen gash, obscured by her wily locks. Slight and breathless though she is, she booms with a voice that belongs to a warrior twice her size.
“Bog King! Fight me, or die a coward!”
For a moment, he does not understand her. Her tone is so foreign, a moment passes before her meaning reaches him. Stunned though he is by the strange affectation of her words, he does not dawdle. He steps forward and stares down the length of his nose at her paltry display of defiance.
“What mortal fool is this who trespasses in my kingdom, demands a bout and threatens me with disgrace?” The walls shake as promises of violent recompense fill the halls, but she does not tremble with them.
She does not buckle as she beholds his grotesque countenance - no, her eyes burn as they lock on him, alight like wisps on the moors.
She does not falter under the weapon she is too novice to wield. But she brandishes it shortly before her, sparks spitting where the blade connects with the stone at her feet. But if she is mortal and of this world, he can claim her. With a word given of her own volition, she will be his to rule.
He will have her name and he will break her with it.
“Nice try,” she spits, venomous.
He seethes and takes a menacing step forward, jeering downward. Distantly, he is amused by her antics - few possess the gall, but he is unaccustomed to it. The air around her is thick with a potent magic, and he cannot allow himself to toy with her as he is want to do.
“Then you shall die nameless.” His snarl widens. Tattered, iridescent wings fan out behind him.
A cry erupts from her and he does not expect her reckless advance. But he is ready - two hands grip his staff and spin across him. The blade clangs against the metal, locked between them. She glowers upward at him, and he can see her clearly at last. He briefly eyes the iron teeth on the flaps of her grey tunic.
“What magic is this?” The King sneers.
“I don’t know,” she winces, and the steel in her voice weakens, “but it… fucking… sucks.”
Her sword scrapes loudly against his staff as she is suddenly boneless, sagging where she stands. The hilt tumbles from her slackened grip and clatters down the rough hewn steps, sliding to a stop at the feet of his guardsmen. They look up at him for guidance, but he offers none. He is preoccupied with bowing over her, clutching at her cowl to stop her as her unconscious body begins to slide down the steps. Long fingers pierce the damp, woven fabric. A black claw slips through a blood-rimmed tear.
Beside him, a burly guard ambles up the steps and offers the discarded sword in his thick, scaled hands. “Sire.”
The Bog King does not look at him, but accepts the prize while he searches the strange creature’s ashen, slack features. A small black slab slips from an unseen pouch on her person.
A jarring racket echoes through the castle, and his subjects clasp their claws, hands, and paws over their ears in unison, shrinking away from the cacophony. Fear reigns in his court then, but he alone is overcome then with a mild irritation as he reaches for the contraption and prods it into silence. He straightens, staring down at the motionless woman with a thin-lipped look of disgust.
When the echoes at last subside, his subjects return to the light. A diminutive, frog-like creature hobbles up to his side. “My king, shall we cast her out?”
“And deny a road-weary traveler our hospitality? Nae, I think not,” he drawled, gripping the hilt of her blade and turning it until the sigil caught the light. Eyes like glaciers narrowed at the mark. “Take her to the dungeon and bind her there.”
The Bog King lets slip a low rumbling noise, his eyes still fixed upon the sword. Anger blooms in his heart, and the centuries come flooding back through memories best left forgotten.