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Rose-gold string lights shine on the surface of caramel apples, arranged neatly on a wooden display block with tiny holes carved for the sticks to fit inside. Scathacha’s eyes sparkle as she curves away from Naoise’s side and scurries over.
“What are these? Naoise, explain.”
Inhaling sharply, said hapless knight rushes toward her, apologizing as he swerves between fair-goers to catch up. “Scathacha, please refrain from running off! This is a crowded venue!”
“It’s alright, Naoise. There are three of us here to watch her this evening.” Heles steps past him, sporting a coy smile as she examines the treats. “These are candied apples, Scathacha — the fruit is coated in a rich syrup and decorated with sprinkles... I would like one, myself. Why don’t we purchase two?”
“Lady Heles, please! Be mindful of your health.”
“A noble endeavor,” Seruel chuckles. “But I’m afraid nothing has ever come between my dear sister and her penchant for sweets. Why do you think she taught us how to bake such superb cakes?”
Ignoring the three of them, Scathacha’s eyes dart across the rest of the stand. “Oh? This ‘fried cookie’... yes. I would like three of them.”
Naoise gapes. “A single fried cookie would be dangerous enough-”
“What’s that, Naoise?” Scathacha coos, looking at him over one shoulder. “You’d like us to order eight, instead? An excellent suggestion.”
“Absolutely not- Seruel! Not you, too!”
“Hm?” Holding a corn dog in each hand, Seruel pointedly takes a good chomp out of one of them. His ears perk up as he fixes Naoise with a smug stare. “Is something the matter, Naoise? You look faint.”
Naoise shakes his head, accepting defeat. “Let’s move on, please… there’s much yet to explore.”
Laughter glitters in the air as Erune children chase each other from game to game, tossing darts and water balloons to win plush dragons. Scathacha pauses, tapping her chin.
“Is that supposed to be a caricature of me?”
“Er… so it would seem.” Naoise steps forward and examines it closely. The features are oversimplified perhaps to the point of insult — fluffy cotton fur, dulled vinyl claws, and sparkly copper eyes with irises that, when shaken, rattle around in circles. “Does it bother-”
“They’re delightful, and I want all of them. Naoise, win the game for me.”
Naoise scarcely has time to open his mouth before a harried, sweating man rushes over to him. “Sir! Sir, hello, I-I need your help!”
“Worry not,” Naoise snaps to attention. “I am here to assist.” He places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “What troubles you? Are you alright?”
“Oh, I just knew I could trust that face!” The man catches his breath. “It’s my game — see that tank?”
Where he points is a blue, rectangular tank painted with smiling pink squids and purple fish. How quaint. “I have a guy who was supposed to come in a half hour ago — he’ll probably show up soon, but until then, I gotta start the game. If we don’t make a guest quota, we won’t be able to table here next year! Please, sir — can ya sit in the dunk tank until my buddy gets here? You’re perfect for it!”
“I see.” Naoise pauses, brow furrowing. He clears his throat. “If it’s only for a short while, I suppose there’s no harm in helping. But if I may, sir, what exactly are the rules of-”
“Excellent! Right this way!”
Dragged along by the arm, Naoise’s eyes dart apologetically to the others. “My apologies! Carry on, I-I will catch up with all of you later!”
“And miss your performance, Naoise?” A grin spreads across Scathacha’s face. “Of course not.”
“Ever the knight,” Seruel sighs. “So easily swayed for the good of the people.”
Too easily.
“Step right up, folks! Do you have the precision, the aim?! Try and dunk this handsome man into the tank! Three tries for just two tickets!”
Naoise’s ears turn bright red. As far as he is aware, “handsome” was not listed among the job requirements.
“Here.” Scathacha hands the man two tickets. “Will these colorful papers allow me to dunk him?”
“Oho! It all depends on how good your aim is, kiddo.” The man beams, handing her three tennis balls. “See that target? If you hit it hard enough in the right spot, your friend there will plop down into the water, and you get a prize!” He gestures to a familiar row of fluffy, plush dragons. Scathacha’s eyes sparkle dangerously.
“What a wonderful game! Thank you kindly for the explanation.”
Encased in glass, poor, hapless Naoise is at her mercy. Divine retribution, perhaps — it’s only fair that she, of all people, should be allowed to deliver unto him his chilly fate. In fact, he supposes this is a very
reasonable
punishment for an oathbreaker of his caliber. Merciful, even. As she picks up the first of her three projectiles and locks down her aim, she levels Naoise with the same look he’s seen her eye a steak sizzling on the grill.
Naoise swears he can see tiny fangs poking through her grin.
-----
“How is our little guppy doing?”
“Seruel is looking after him,” Heles chuckles. “He went to fetch a fresh pair of clothes. With any luck, Naoise should be dried off and changed by now.”
Scathacha stands facing the river dividing one side of the carnival from the rest, watching ferris wheel lights of gold and green dance across the dark, bobbing current. The wheel itself sits on the horizon, wood and iron towering over the two of them. As she looks up with wide, wondering eyes, Heles glides with even steps to stand beside her, a caramel apple in each hand.
“For the guardian of this island,” Heles passes an apple to Scathacha. “There seems to be so much you don’t yet know.”
A treasure worthy of a dragon’s hoard — Scathacha grabs the stick and chomps down on her treat. “Ash an obshuhver- ahem,” she swallows. “As an observer, I cannot simply walk among you mortals and interfere in your affairs,” Scathacha huffs. She watches shadows across the river move and laugh their way along in pairs. “Sensing the auras of nearby monsters requires focus. I had little time to see these things for myself. Such is the burden of a guardian… and so, I’m happy to reap the rewards,” she looks up with a crooked grin. “Having you three pamper me is a delightful change of pace.”
“Hehe. Of course.”
Carnival curraghs circle a makeshift harbor just below the pavilion. Heles watches groups of three or four row along, usually two parents and a child. One boat catches her eye — a young man, no older than his teenage years, helping two children hold their oars properly
“To be a guardian is to refrain — to protect and observe, and never partake.” Heles’ smile thins. “For a time, I suppose I rejected that.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, even the refined Princess Heles was a child, once... she liked to cause all sorts of trouble.”
“Did she, now? Tell me more.”
“We stayed out late to play in the snow, for one… and we raced through the autumn woods to hide from Father and his guard during hunts. The one who remained hidden the longest would win. I won, usually; Seruel always gave himself away, hiding too close to Naoise and rustling the leaves. But,” her voice softens. “Even though these little games were my idea, it was Seruel who got the harshest scoldings. Naoise and I took it upon ourselves to comfort him where Father refused. And when Naoise was upset, I remained the only one they could turn to.” She looks away, out into the river. “Perhaps I led our rebellious crusades against the burden I was made to bear as the eldest child… against Father himself, for treating my brother and I with scorn. I had never asked to make up for Mother’s absence.”
Only the wind moves between the two, brushing past on its way toward the lilting waves. Scathacha is quiet, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Hmm.”
“Even so,” Heles continues. “With time, I came to appreciate the value of protecting not only each other, but our people. The joys of a thriving nation, of seeing children smile, of fighting with pride to defend our home… these were gifts, to me. The way that Father’s apparition said we, too, were gifts to him. I learned to live not in spite of him, but for myself — for all of us. Perhaps,” she murmurs. “The burden you carry, and the resentment toward us mortals that brewed in your heart… I understand it in hindsight, if only a little.”
“Hah.”
Scathacha reaches for Heles’ hand, clasping it warmly in the mid-autumn chill. “Then as the rightful guardians of both Alster Island and its former royalty, we shall protect each other.”
Blinking, Heles pauses, betraying a moment’s surprise. “Having a little brother is nice,” she says. “Perhaps a little sister would be fun, too?”
“Little? My lifespan dwarfs yours by thousands of years, I’ll have you know.”
“Hehe, of course. I could be the little sister, if it would please you.”
At her declaration, the sky is set ablaze with light and color — flowers of scarlet bloom and sparkle, rivaling the stars as they crack to life. Heles and Scathacha look up just as the fireworks begin, mesmerized.
“Hmph.” Scathacha grins from ear to ear. “I suppose that would be nice, Dear Sister.”
-----
“Is this a funeral or a ferris wheel, Naoise? Judging by the look on your face, I find it difficult to tell.”
“Forgive me, Seruel,” Naoise sighs, squeezing out his golden hair like a long, sopping dishcloth. Scattered droplets plop onto the carriage floor. “However, I believe it should be our priority to return to Heles and Scathacha.”
“As I recall, my sister’s instructions were to return you dried off. If she were to see you in your current state, we would fall short of her expectations.” Much as he likes to pin all the mischief on Heles, Seruel hasn’t fully grown out of his adventurous side, either. Not when teasing Naoise is on the table. “A few minutes more should rectify the issue.”
There’s no victory to be had, here. Naoise shakes his head, smiling all the same, then looks out across the carnival below. Glimmering lanterns cast his expression in emerald and aureate glow, the world illuminated in his searching eyes and lashes.
“We haven’t wandered about like this since we were babes,” Seruel says. “When we were trekking mud through the palace halls.”
Naoise turns to face Seruel once more. The autumn wind blows and lightly jostles the carriage, and he remembers himself. “That is true enough, yes. We haven’t.”
“Have you considered why that may be?”
Onward and upward, the ferris wheel pulls the two closer to the stars. Tiny wooden creaks peek out between their shared silence. Naoise folds his hands in his lap. “A great deal has happened since, Seruel. We are bound to our duties; there remains little time for excursions like these. There’s no reason for us to dwell on days that have passed us by.”
“Indeed. Though, I believe you are missing a crucial piece of the matter.” Seruel looks to him with a wry smile. “As long as I have known you, my friend, you have been so eager to do anything for those around you, and yet so little for yourself. For instance,” his shoulders bounce lightly with quiet laughter. “It was second nature for you to be swindled into a silly carnival game, while the mere thought of tasting a single bite of fried food left you mortified.”
“That’s- it’s necessary to mind one’s health, Seruel! You know this as well as I do.”
“Of course. However, relaxation is a key aspect of maintaining good health, is it not?”
“I had forgotten as much.”
The admission is enough to give Seruel pause. Hearing Naoise speak his mind in earnest is a rare enough occasion that he dares not break the fragility of his words by moving, breathing.
“For a time,” Naoise continues, his voice quieting. “I considered nourishment an accessory to survival. An obligation… perhaps even a punishment, where it was well-deserved. When my cowardice bade me flee from the kingdom, I could not simply await death in the wilds — that would be far too easy, too merciful for the gravity of what I had done. I thought to impose upon myself a mere fraction of the pain I caused countless families, and eat only rotten apples and monster hides when I could no longer move. Even now, it’s… difficult,” he exhales, looking down to the floor of the carriage. “To indulge, lest I forget the agony I’ve inflicted upon our homeland.”
A light shuffle of paper draws Naoise’s gaze upward. Seruel is holding a napkin, and as he folds it open, he reveals a single fried cookie within. Without a word, he breaks it in two and extends one half to Naoise, whose lips are parted in surprise. Just when did he hide that?
As Naoise reaches out to take it, a whizzing crack bursts through the tranquil night air. The two look up and meet a blossom of gold sparks among a sky of glimmering constellations, at the very crest of the ferris wheel’s rotation. Between each singing flare is a comfortable silence, neither daring to disturb it for minutes on end.
“Do you recall toasting chestnuts each autumn, Naoise? After we returned with Father’s company from the hunt?”
“Yes,” Naoise chuckles. “I could never forget. Such a crisp, charred taste… I savor it to this day.”
“Er,” Seruel pauses, deciding not to mention that he and Heles always fed Naoise the ones they’d held over the fire for too long. “I am glad to hear it. However, in my experience, the chestnuts did not taste particularly wonderful on their own. Far sweeter were those nights themselves, where we huddled around the fireplace together. It is the same reason my sister and I baked together, and why Scathacha could eat a fortnight’s worth of caramel apples with us in one sitting if we let her. The social act itself is the appeal; the indulgence of the food itself is but a minor piece. Simply put,” he takes a little bite off the corner of his cookie. “Sharing a meal is a means of enjoying company… and perhaps, of loving one another. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Words have never been Seruel’s strength, at least not in regard to communicating his feelings. Hearing these, Naoise is silent, taking in each breath as gospel. At last his eyes soften, fireworks glittering within.
“Let’s find Heles and Scathacha once we reach the ground. I suspect they would enjoy watching the rest of the fireworks together.”
“I concur,” Seruel smirks. “You look far less like a wet dog now.”