I stand just outside the Lands of Tale and Song, considering. “How best to return? What tale shall I tell? A grandiose entrance set to victorious fanfare—a hero saving a personl in need? A surreptitious inquisition through the shadows, seeking information on dangerous unknowns? The possibilities are endless!” I spin and dance on this side of the border, knowing that an eager audience awaits me if I should take but one more step. But it would be folly to do so unprepared.

  I snap my fingers a few times, and with each sharp note, my outfit changes—evaporating to reveal a new layer beneath in a shower of golden sparks.

  A royal dress in tatters? Indicating a long history of risk and adversity? But arriving alone in such a state would beg the question as to how I did it alone! A princess of my caliber could surely handle any threats alone, but that would be a failure all the same. “And then the protagonist solved all her own problems and everyone clapped!”

  Pass!

  Wounded, dragging myself into our homeland by the skin of my very fine teeth? Fun, but could definitely lead to a misunderstanding unless I play the role perfectly, and while I am quite capable of doing so…too much risk!

  Pass!

  Head held high, a returning champion, having saved a cursed soul and the life of a colossal dragon whose scale can only be described by stacked white capped mountains?

  I pause. “Well, how would that outfit work…?” Zipping back and forth by flitting about in a figure of eight with my hand on my chin, I consider. After a few moments, the idea strikes me. Perfection in its purest form.

  I snap my fingers and in the most impressive display of magical prowess yet seen, I return my dress to its normal, simple, elegance. Ankle length with simple pleating, understated, still charmingly beautiful, and showing off all of my modest assets just so. Its pearlescent gold fabric is broken up by braided strings of mostly blue and green beads as accents. I conjure a small hand mirror from my storage and set it floating around me as I spin. Viewing myself from every angle, something feels like it’s missing. A sign of struggle. A mark of mischief. A note of….negativity? With a slash of my hand, I commit an act most foul—the sort of thing only the worst of villains could manage.

  My dress splits open just above my knee in a thin line, and upon my pure, radiant skin? A scraped knee.

  Looking round one more time, I realize I have, once more, achieved perfection, and I beam at the air and the skies and the crowd that has surely gathered on the other side of the barrier to the Land of Tale and Song.

  Gathering my wits, and preparing to enter the grandest tale the world has ever known and will ever know, I alight upon the ground and step amongst the blades of grass into the Land of Tale and Song.

  The curtains part, the band begins to play a theme so triumphant that it must surely befit the return of a hero, and gasps are heard from every direction. Into the lands I stride, and I launch into the heroic monologue I have surely earned the right to tell, “The Princess-”

  “-Has some explaining to do.” Somewhere off in the distance, I hear the sound of a cart going straight into a wall, the horses slipping free, and terrorizing a town. I scowl at the lilting, singsongy voice of my Watcher. My Guardian. My Eternal Annoyance.

  Caoimhín.

  Caoimhín is a dryad, a fae most concerned with nature as their personal obsession. This predilection is represented by his appearance: looking like a bark and vine covered kyn, with growths of branches and leaves about his hips and shoulders to give the vague impression of ostentatious clothes. Draping all around him from those branches, like a cloak, is a sheet of woven bioluminescent vines and leaves. His personal favorite article of “clothing”, and one that is based on a design from a mutual friend named Weaver.

  His features are sharp, as with most fae who don't make a deliberate decision to be otherwise, with silver, pupil and sclera-free eyes and a luscious and highly enviable head of thin and fine vines braided into the common knotwork associated with the court acting as hair.

  He's stylish (especially by the standards of dryad's, who don't normally go in for that kind of thing), he's beautiful (among the most winsome of every fae in the court) he's charming (above and beyond almost everyone I know) and worst of all -- he knows it. And has the audacity to remind me about it constantly by existing. A fact that he reinforces by continuing to doggedly exist, dragging the average beauty in the world up by a percent or so from his countenance alone.

  I adore him most of the time, how could anyone not?

  That answer is “by having him standing there looking smug after interrupting a planned monologue.”

  I flit up to him, standing not even a tenth of his current height. Unlike a self-respecting fae (me), he assumes forms on the typical scale of mortals as a matter of “preference”. His actual reason was so he would appear larger than me in most circumstances, and nothing would ever convince me otherwise. “What happened to your flair for the dramatic, Caoimhín?” I gesture to my knee, “Witness the effects that battle has wrought upon my fair countenance! I might have bled a little!”

  “You can’t bleed, Lilidh, and there was no battle.” He looks at me, rolling his eyes of flowing quicksilver and tossing his unfairly perfect hair of braided and blooming vines in a display surely to goad me!

  It works, like it always does, “You call me a liar? That’s a capital offense, you know. I should have you drawn and quartered!” Behind me, a quick and dirty sketch of the fae before me appears before being ripped into 4 rough pieces and falling to the ground to dissipate into Elysian essence.

  “I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are no liar, my Lady, but neither are you The Traveller, despite your apparent insistence to the contrary.” The sigh he lets free sounds so very tired. “I am, however, absolutely certain as to how your battle turned out and know who took the worse wounds from it.”

  I pause, readying my next verbal joust, but freeze at the final sentence as I’m about to speak. “Did you leave? You finally did something? And that something involved meeting Sir Henry Slinks? I’m so proud of you! I didn’t know you had it in you.” I say, starting to drift away. Yes, drift. I am not retreating from an oncoming tongue-lashing. The wind is merely carrying me away while I’m distracted.

  Caoimhín, however, clearly interprets the situation differently, and sidesteps in my way, gently catching me in his hand. “Princess, please. Let us return to the castle and speak amongst kin. Your father has been genuinely worried sick about you. He thinks he can hide it, but whatever happened outside our borders has him beside himself.” The smirk that floats to the surface belies his feelings about my father being “beside himself”, but it does give me a nice and clear indicator of the types of complaints I’m going to be receiving.

  That robs all of the wind from my sails as quickly as…a wind that stopped blowing. Or even one that started blowing in reverse. “Seriously? Why?”

  “I shouldn’t presume to speak for the Fair Lord, Princess. It might be that he would best be the one to explain it, anyways.” Caoimhín shrugs apologetically. Even apologetic, he is absolutely stunning! It’s unfair! No remorse can ever truly show upon his face.

  “Ugh…fine!” I pause before sighing, “Land of the Fairfolk Speed my Passage…and… Never mind! Just take us to the castle.” I finish in a more than annoyed tone, and the world around me bends, momentarily appearing to pull itself apart and reconstituting itself in a different position around us.

  No longer standing on the edge of our territory, we’re instead standing before the most grandiose castle ever constructed. Each observer sees their own idealized version of it, their own perspectives on the concept of a castle shaping their perception of reality. But, as it's my castle, I'm largely immune to its charms. Much to my eternal chagrin.

  I can see the hazy outlines of spires shooting hundreds of feet into the air, of grand parapets girded by impenetrable towers, and the Gate of Tale, which would open only for the grandest of storytellers of the realm. But they’re hazy outlines of a dream of a dream. I see the castle’s true form. A tavern. The tavern.

  Possessed of no more fanciful construction than any other tavern in the world. Less, probably, as people have greatly innovated since this wretched thing was plopped down on a roadside like a broken cart nobody saw fit to move ever again. It bears a simple thatched roof and stacked log walls. At the end of a short walkway of granite cobblestones, not marble or bauxite or anything interesting, just loose pieces of gray rock, it sits. About a story and a half -- as the saying goes -- tall, and proportionally wide, with three warm, inviting windows placed regularly along its front face, and a simple carved wooden door beneath a rustic sign that merely says, “Wayfarer’s Rest”.

  I hate it. I hate that everyone else in the land gets to see and even experience the real grandiose tale of the grandest castle ever constructed specifically to their own specifications and dreams, but I'm stuck with a piece of rotting nostalgia from a page long-lost after being written over with far better stories. I live in the inkstain of a page forgotten in the rain, and like that same inkstain, I will never stop running. I just let out a disgruntled “Aaaagh!” and then straighten my dress, fixing the tiny tear and my scraped knee. With a final snap, I begrudgingly take on the appearance most suited for this portion of the Tale. A simple commoner’s outfit—the innkeeps beautiful daughter. My hair changes from spun gold to dried-straw blonde, and my eyes to simple hazel. The transformation is completed when my, now mortally scaled, boots hit the ground and I begin trudging with great reluctance forward.

  “Princess, the tavernkeep’s daughter, doesn’t trudge with great reluctance. She skips with gaiety.” Smug. He sounds smug. Why must he be this way?

  “Stop listening to my internal monologue! It’s not for you! And today the tavernkeep’s daughter is trudging with great reluctance! Even the beautiful girl next door can have a bad day every now and again!”

  “I believe she was trudging with great reluctance the last five times.” Helpful as ever.

  I wheel around, feeling honest fury. “Why are you like this? You’re a background character. Go stand in the background!” I see the words hit home, realizing that they’re daggers the moment they leave my mouth. Caoimhín simply bows, and steps backwards, turning translucent and making a “zip my lips” gesture over his own mouth. I frown, thinking I might have gone too fa- I terminate that thought. Nobody needs to hear it.

  I turn, and begrudgingly put on the expected smile, and skip with gaiety to the door, conjuring a basket of flowers of the former gold of my hair and eyes to hold on my arm. A small concession to vanity. “Dear father!” I push the door open and the noise assaults me as it always does. Idyllic on the outside, but full of noise, joy, and stories on the inside, I work to keep the smile up, knowing my voice will be drowned out, but continue regardless “I have returned from the edge of town, I found the most peculiar creature and saved a dragon and a noble prince!”

  As soon as “I have” leaves my mouth, the tavern goes deathly silent, suddenly empty of merriment and chatter, The patrons all turn to look at me at once, which is honestly quite unsettling even from my voyeuristic perspective, and then slowly, almost comically, turn to look to my opposite in the tavern.

  I see them sitting there. Maybe her, but from this distance it’s hard to tell. The Traveller, the Fae Ruler of Song and Tale, and my progenitor. They are beside themselves, as Caoimhín warned me. One version of them is sitting there in a comfortable chair looking distinctly unamused, while another copy, that one a beastkyn man, I think, is absolutely beset with grief. Sobbing and crying with such incredibly overacted emotion that it physically hurts me to witness.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Lilidh! You’ve finally returned! I felt a great deal of pull from outside our lands today. I was worried you had gotten hurt.”

  “Lilidh… I’ve been worried sick. There was a terrible pallor on the air that I couldn’t stand. I was worried you had gotten hurt.”

  Both of them speak in unison, being understood clearly despite the almost conflicting messages, but definitely conflicting tone. I begin my stroll across the floor of the tavern, the various patrons looking equally concerned as what I suspect is my father's true emotions, the court naturally reflecting their ruler in his care for me.

  “I assure you, Father, I was in no danger. But it was an interesting series of events you might find amusing, or at least worthy of sharing.” I arrive at his chair, and watch as the chair the unamused version of my father was sitting in evaporates along with that simulacra, leaving just the distraught, now highly and incredibly fae-looking, man sitting “alone”.

  The Traveller -- the bearer of our court's gate, founder of the court, and the one who bore me into existence twenty some-odd years ago — in his preferred form. Tall enough to be remarked about as tall, but not so tall as to be remarkable. Strong of frame, but not at the expense of his air of gentle frailty. His face reveals the youthful vigor of a young man in his prime at the same time one can see the wizened wrinkles of a village wisewoman.

  He's a creature of contradictions, and he's adopted more forms and lived more lives than any other fae in the world, aside from maybe his counterpart rulers in the Court of Dreams and Desires.

  He's currently wearing what I most associate with him as normal: the garb of a retired adventurer — no specific garments, but instead whatever comes to mind for the viewer. Which, for me, is a fine long sleeved, pocketed, red shirt with a checkered black and white vest atop it. Simple slack black trousers, and a stylish red and black befeathered hat with a wide brim. Tucked into one of his pockets is a golden handkerchief, folded into an impossibly elaborate pocket square that seems to go inwards forever, twisting and turning in a mesmerizing fashion.

  His hair is salt and pepper, and cut on the shorter side, and he's free of bushy facial hair apart from a thin, mouth framing, goatee connecting hair on his chin to a fine mustache in a loose circle beard.

  The thing that stands out most to everyone, though, is one thing that he's never seemed able to glamour. His intense, mismatched, eyes. One swirls with silver and gold, the other with purple and red. The amounts of each side change seemingly at random, giving him a massive array of “styles” to see his eyes in. But they're always unmistakably him.

  It's a commonly held belief in the court that the prevalence of heterochromic heroes in the stories of the mortals has been highly influenced by the Travellers' long millennia of participation in the wider world before settling to form the Court of Tale and Song.

  He sits up straighter and composes himself, the sharpness of the fae returning to his features as he returns to his normal form, or at least the one that I most associate with him. Admittedly, I don't even know if my father has a “normal” form. His features are like most fae, angular, hauntingly beautiful and handsome in equal amounts, tall and thin, and graceful beyond compare, but exaggerated more than any others. The fae are made of our unique essence and that shapes us, but my father, one of the Royals of the Courts, is himself a Gate to that energy, and thus is shaped the most by it out of anyone.

  His eyes lock onto me with a sort of jovial intensity that makes me squirm despite my general confidence in my actions today, “Leave my daughter and I be for a time, The tavern will reopen when the time is right. You will know when.” His voice carries power behind every word, which is why he often splits himself when he’s feeling complicated emotions—split the potential impact of his words or to lessen them with conflicting emotions. In moments, each of the fae scattered around the tavern leave: running for the door, folding space around themselves to be elsewhere, or simply opting not to exist within this scene.

  He draws in a deep breath and sighs, He begins to speak in earnest with me, his powerful tone carrying his voice, “Lilidh, all the pomp and circumstance aside, you drew a phenomenal amount of essence today to cast a potent healing spell immediately following binding a creature to the court. I had no idea what to make of it, and I was worried. Scared even.”

  As he says the word “scared” I realize the severity of my decisions. He didn’t scare easi- “Lilidh, can we dispense with the detailed internal monologue and just speak? I don’t have it in me, and I don’t want the others in the court hearing this discussion.”

  [Scene]

  The tavernkeep of the Wayfarer’s Rest is up late this evening, sitting in a chair near a sputtering fireplace, wiling away the hours waiting for his troublesome daughter to return home after a full day missing. The tavern is as cold as the lump of ice in his heart. But that ice begins to melt when the wayward daughter returns home bearing a grand story and a promise. They gather around the dying hearthlight together for an important conversation that will shape her future.

  [Lilidh O’Ceilidh : Looking pensive but hopeful. Anticipation is wrought clear on her face.]

  “Uh…yeah, sorry. It’s a force of habit. I had a very interesting day, all things considered, but I didn’t mean to worry you or anyone else. Exceptional things were happening. And I seriously mean it this time. I saw the epic tale between me and my rival brought to a conclusion, I found a cursed man drowning in a river, and I saved my friend's life after the aforementioned cursed man almost killed her by accident.”

  [The Traveller : Leans forward in his chair with interest, placing a hand bedecked with five quicksilver rings on his chin and smiling]

  “A curse you say? Of what variety?”

  [Lilidh : She breaks into a smile, all but vibrating in excitement]

  “I don’t know! It’s obviously very dangerous, but it left him with no memories. It’s as if his arm has been consumed by some terrible destructive energies unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Not only that, but it draws power straight from the world around it and anything he touches, but that’s all I’ve been able to glean. I am really keen to know more. I think he might be a cursed prince, possibly? It would be an excellent narrative, at least. But not super needed, Amnesia and a curse is probably enough to be a great hero. Being a prince on top might be a bit unrealistic.”

  [Traveller : Eyes widening fractionally with worry, a momentary grimace parting his lips, he leans back and gestures for her to pull up a chair. His cool, confident smile returns by the time she turns around. ]

  “That is fascinating, truly. How did he get out of the river? You saved him? ”

  [L : Scooting a chair over, making a terrible racket, she sits, looking a bit worried.]

  “Initially yes, admittedly. He was just cartwheeling under a waterfall and that seemed like a pointlessly boring end for one of our mortal kyn, let alone someone who seems so interesting. So, I pulled him out and set him floating on down the River Song to be found by someone else. Just enough to make sure he got a fair shot at whatever he’s destined to do.”

  [T : Nodding appreciatively, scratching his chin in thought.]

  “I’d say that that was a good way to handle it. You know our rules.”

  [Both, at once in perfect unison: Both smiling as they speak in a singsong tone]

  “A good playwright would never star in their own play—It’s the height of arrogance and shows a lack of confidence in one’s own creations.”

  [T: Smiling broadly at the shared moment]

  “And what of the others? An epic rival whose tale came to a conclusion?”

  [L: Goes from a broad smile to a pensive frown near instantly.]

  “I’ve told you about him in the past. The weasel who’d been so kindly playing the role of my rival for years. We had one more duel, and I nearly lost but for some quick thinking… But I hurt him, and in a way that probably would have led to his eventual death by starving or being unable to defend himself.

  [T : Nods along, watching Lilidh closely and with obvious concern]

  [L : Looks up with sad eyes beginning to tear, but a bright smile beneath.]

  “I felt like that end after, even inadvertently, helping me craft my first tale of real importance to me, would be ignoble and inappropriate. He was a rival, not an enemy in our tale, and so I extended to him the branch of peace to see him healed. I imbued him with a piece of my—our—essence to bring him into the court.”

  [T : Wiping a tear from the corner of his eye and smiling warmly, pride clear on his face.]

  “Lilidh, I can say beyond the shadow of a doubt that that was the right way to handle that situation. You have a pure heart, and I’m sure he will come to appreciate that once he adjusts. And the last part? Saving your dragon friend after the cursed man nearly killed her? Would that not have been denying the cursed man a moment of darkness to allow him to either stand above or fall below?”

  [L : Noticing a darkening expression on his face, she speaks quickly, stridently]

  “Maybe! But it seemed so…frivolous the way it happened. He didn’t make a choice to do it, he didn’t lose control of himself. She touched his hand while tending to his wounds, and he nearly killed her while unconscious and unaware by damaging her soul.

  [T : Challenging her, standing, and making a grand, sweeping gesture.]

  “And? Many people suffer fates beyond their control and have to keep moving forward. I think that you might have med-”

  [L : Leaping to her feet, hair shedding its mundane colors to reveal silken gold. Face set confidently, stance wide and strong.]

  “I did not meddle! I set the foundation for a grand tale. Consider, father. A man awakes, he has no memories, but he sees someone dead at his feet. What assumptions does he draw? Does he fall to despair and take his own life? Does he turn into a slavering beast having enjoyed the feeling? I can’t say, but I can say that Ayre is someone who has lived through some tragedy, and without a chance to right that wrong, her story goes untold. He can’t tell it because he wouldn’t know. I can’t tell it because that would be meddling.

  He could still reach all of the same outcomes now that he could have then. Despair, rising above, turning to evil. I denied him no options. I merely gave two stories a chance to be told alongside one another and be made greater as a whole than apart!”

  [T : Sitting back down, looking pleased as a cat with a kill.]

  “Very well, daughter of mine. You make a convincing argument.’

  [L : Had been beginning to launch into another line, but stammers]

  “W-what? You’ve never said that before. I’ve made plenty of convincing arguments other times, too!”

  [T : Smiling down at his daughter, he grins wider]

  “You always have had your heart in the right place in those other arguments, but this one seems special, I think. It’s a convincing argument, but I must contest one part of it. You did meddle. Had you not sent the man down the river, your friend wouldn’t have saved him, wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and wouldn’t have needed your meddl-… intervention. You nearly brought her story to an ignominious end, but were able to course correct and in a way that will surely lead to a better story.

  There is a single remaining problem, though.”

  [L : Looking confused at the rapid changes of pace and tone in the conversation]

  “What do you mean? I’m pretty sure that they will both be able to move on from here, though?”

  [T : He gives a soft smile to his daughter, looking almost sad at the coming words.]

  “I’ve told you how I’ve been drawn into many tales over the long millenia? How there had been times when I made a choice or mistake that required me to ride a story out to its natural conclusion, not as a playwright, but as a supporting actor, or even the lead role?”

  [L : She glances around, looking almost scared, panicked]

  “Well, I’m not that involved, I just healed the damage to her soul vessel and left immediately afterwards!”

  [T : Standing and moving over to his daughter and placing a hand softly atop her head with a warm smile, Eyes tearing slightly just out of her line of sight]

  “Daughter-mine, you ended a tale that you said was the first that truly mattered to you on the same day that you saved the lives of two people clearly destined for great stories—imbuing one of them with your essence to do so. Not mine, or our lands. Yours. When you are outside our lands, your efforts are your own. You are deeply entangled in this plot already and you haven’t even realized it.

  I think a grand tale awaits you, oh, my dearest daughter. One to surpass my own. You need only be willing to take the first step, and to accept that your new story is starting in a tavern.”

  [L : Steps back from her father, who rapidly wipes away his hidden tears. His apprehension plain to see for anyone but his buoyant daughter. She seems excited and scared all at once]

  “I…you’re saying I can go? I can leave the faelands? You can’t take this back, father, you know that, right?”

  [T : Giving a sad, but reassuring smile]

  “I tell you not what you should do. I am just allowing you the chance to spread your wings if you so desire. Some opportunities only come around once in a lifetime, even ones as long as ours.”

  [L : Throws herself at her father, wrapping around his waist as tears begin to flow—tears of joy from the faerie princess]

  “Then I’ll do it. I’ve never not trusted you, so I’ll embrace it. I’ll make you proud, and tell a story worth being remembered for ages!”

  [T : Watches as Lilidh breaks the embrace and runs for the door, shedding the trappings of her own expectations along the way and returning to her true form and colors as she flies out of the door a golden blur, never once looking back. He gestures after her with a hand with four rings of quicksilver, all emitting a blue hue. Slowly, patrons reappear one by one and liveliness returns to the tavern, though more subdued than previously, as though with great apprehension.]

  “Of that, I have not one doubt, my dear Lilidh. Not a one.”

  [End Scene]