A lone king wanders into the faerie realm, with none but his closest advisors and a babe cradled in his arms. His crown is left home, his jewels kept away, his face tilted down in sullen determination. The child whimpers and coughs as the king flinches in fear. Sniffles can be heard under the green hood decorated with the coat of arms of the Evimerian Royal family, the only sign of the King’s heritage.
The faerie land, littered with marble columns wrapped in floral accouterments, stops to see the king come through. His attendants remain at a distance and watch for any signs of distraction or violence, but see none but the Fae, of differing sizes, shapes and existences, gawking as the last possible sight they could have imagined coming through their land. The moonlit sky, a deep purple, seems to glow and illuminate the trail that the king must walk. He never turns to see the faeries. He stares only at the child in his arms.
The land itself seems to clear as the Fae remove themselves from his path. He shirks and waves in his step as he approaches the center of a large open air court. Floating lanterns illuminated with bioluminescent rosary and floral arrangement, pepper the court in a pure array. Tables made of wood, a forest dotted with oaks and marble alike, and Fae encircle what could only be framed as it is, the court. At its center, atop a throne of vine and rose and lily, sits the only person this king cares to look to beyond the child. The queen sits taller than he stand, with four blue-green arms resting on four armrests and six eyes blinking asynchronously as she cocks her diamond sharp head at the King. Her mouthless face still purses, as her three fingered hands outstretch over the edges and her legs, covered by a long blackrose dress, cross, her hooves clacking as they bump the wooden endtables. The tall tree behind her throne outstretches the sky itself, reaching into the heavens, as sprites and pixies encircle like flies, preparing for danger, should it come.
For a long moment, the two stare at each other. They have not met like this since the king was a child himself. He catches his breath and lowers his hood to reveal a bald, dark red-bearded face with kind eyes and a thin nose. The laugh lines tell the queen how the king’s life began and the bags tell her how it is now. After a moment, he kneels.
“Lord Alexander Of Evimeria.” She says into his mind, a sharp and piercing Fey language echoing through the court alike. “After all our people have been through, the nerve you have to show your face here could snap like a bone.”
“I understand, my lady.” Alexander responds in her tongue. For a king no older than 32, he responds with certainty and maturity. “I thank you for responding to my missive.”
“I should not have.”
Alexander does not flinch at this. “My people have done your land wrong. Time and time again, we have removed you and the land you hold from the island. We have caused irreversible damage, and for this I am sorry. My father, and his father before him, were wrong to war with you and your court. I knew it then, and I know it now.”
“And yet you remain.” She seems more bored than enraged. “Why do you dare show yourself?”
“My son.” The king holds the child in his arms. He unrests the bundle and removes the cover from his head, revealing a bright red and thin smatter of follicles. The baby can be no older than six months. It is pale. It breathes, with consternation and hesitation. “He is dying, my lady. My wife did not survive. I have been told that I will never have another son. He is all that I have.”
The queen pauses and stares down. “And you believe I can assist you?”
The king looks down at the boy. “You are the only one who can. I’ll not go to the devils. The sea will wash him away. The gods have forgotten we were here. You are all I have.”
The queen stands and snaps with her two left hands as her arms, buglike and thin, extend for her servants. They leave. She looks at the king’s attendants, and they know to do the same. She looks to the boy and examines him from her standing shape. She appears to shrink in real time to the same height as the King. “You know that a deal with me is final.”
“I do.”
“You know that you put your kingdom in danger by simply being here.” She says. Never asks. She knows.
“My son *is* my kingdom. Without him, I am nothing.” Tears well up in the king’s eyes. “Queen Kalosyni the benevolent. I beseech you. Anything, to save my boy.”
Kalosyni hesitates for a moment. Only a moment. She kneels to examine the boy closer. “I cannot save him.” The king looks back up in shock. “I can only delay the inevitable. His death is fate itself.”
The king looks back down and begins to sob. The child coos in his arms. It has fallen asleep. “That is what the Seer told me. Please, Syni.” He cries. “Please.”
Kalosyni opens her arms and gently takes the child. “His name.”
Alexander looks down at his child. “Olivia passed before he could be given a name. I haven’t the courage to name him myself.”
Kalosyni nods. She touches a finger to the child’s forehead as it rocks back. The child’s eyes go wide and the newborn grey begins to illuminate into an amber. Its mouth hangs open as light begins to emanate from his pupils. Just as fast, the light disappears. “Astrophel.” She nods. “As true a True name can be.” She sets the babe down as a flower bed cradles him. “You say your son is your kingdom. Is that true?”
Alexander doesn’t hesitate for a moment. “I would trade it all for him to live.”
“Choose your words carefully, mortal.” Syni holds her hand up. “I can delay his Fate. I can prolong his life for years, decades even. But to do so for this child requires a strength that me and my people have not had since yours arrived on the island.” She nods. “I offer this: Your son for half of your kingdom.”
“Half?” The king gazes up at the queen. “How do you mean, half?”
“That is all you are allowed to know.”
The king thinks. “And if he dies?”
“When he dies, we will mourn together. I offer this as a truce.”
For the king, an eon passes as he considers the ramifications. For the queen, it is only three seconds. In the first, she sees confusion, a flurry of thoughts rushing through Alexander's head. In the second she sees hesitation, a fear of what her offer means. And in the third, she sees a decision. He nods. “So it must be.”
The queen presses her hand to the child’s head and bestows a gift, a star from the night sky brought to rest on his chest. “Then he will live.” She stands and moves to return to her chair, growing in size as she sits so as to tower over them again. “Do not let us down.”
King Alexander gently picks his child up and gazes as the coughing baby settles into a resting sleep in his arms. “Thank you, my queen.” She simply nods back to him and beckons him to leave. She begins to plan behind her mask. Thoughts race for eons and a day. But the queen of the Unseelie Court of Flowers is certain that she has done what is right for the child. Prince Astrophel of Evimeria will live for today.
