Chapter Text
The morning that the news about the ball gets out, Charles has just come to the damning realisation that he is never going to make his dad happy.
It’s not a particularly noteworthy moment that triggers this. It’s a morning like any other. Charles’ mum asks him if he’s working late again, and when he takes too long to reply, his dad reaches out and slaps him, very casually and still hard enough to knock him to the floor.
Charles stays there for a few seconds, his head ringing. He’s had much worse, but until now, there’d always been the vague assumption that he’d be able to fix it eventually. Fix himself, maybe.
But this morning, for the first time ever, a treacherous thought sneaks into his mind. The thought is, what if he never fixes it? What if it’s going to be like that for the rest of his life?
He’s thinking about it all the way to the Fading Light, so caught up in his thoughts that he barely glances at the people he passes. On the small bridge that crosses the Heartsblood River and leads straight into town, he’s so distracted that he almost gets run over by old Mr Hale’s cart.
“Oi, watch where you’re going,” the driver yells at him, but when he recognises Charles, he just shakes his head and gifts him two oranges and a paper bag filled with walnuts.
Charles tries to pay better attention, but by the time he arrives at the Fading Light, he’s still feeling all out of sorts. He absently strokes the doorknocker that’s shaped like a unicorn’s head, and the door swings open and reveals Crystal standing in the middle of the shop, drawing a rune on the floor.
“Why do we need a protection rune?” Charles asks.
Crystal frowns at him like he’s said something very stupid. “Last week, a customer tried to curse us.”
“Yeah, so? Scared him off, didn’t I?”
“Next time, you might not be so lucky,” Crystal says, and before Charles can get offended, she adds, “just shut up and let me do this, okay?”
“Fine,” Charles says, even though he reckons it’s a waste of time. Protection runes are tricky, anyway. They tend to give you a false sense of security. Plenty of people got themselves killed because they put too much trust in a rune.
While Crystal finishes up, Charles starts sorting through the new shipment of books that arrived last night. The Fading Light is half bookshop, half supplier for potion ingredients, and it’s the sort of place where touching an item carelessly might very well get you turned into a toad or something.
Last year, Charles spent three days as a large, shaggy dog before Crystal figured out a way to turn him back, and when he returned home, his dad beat him so badly that he had to take time off work. Not a great week, all things considered, although being a dog wasn’t so bad. Lots of people stopped to pet him, which sounds proper creepy for a human, but as a dog, it’s basically the best thing in the world.
“Did you see the news?” Crystal asks once the rune is all done.
“Um. No? What news?”
Crystal stares. “The pamphlets? The pamphlets they put up all over town?”
“Must’ve missed it,” Charles says, shrugging.
“One of them is on our door.”
“Been busy, haven’t I?” Charles says defensively.
“Busy with what?”
Charles opens his mouth and closes it again. It’s not just that he doesn’t really want to get all complain-y about his home life with Crystal, even though that’s part of it. Mostly, though, it’s that he doesn’t know yet what his new-found realisation means.
He reckons that realising something that big ought to come with some consequences, right? Some sort of action. But before he figures out what action he’s going to take, it doesn’t feel right, telling Crystal about it.
Crystal rolls her eyes at his silence, like she thinks he’s being difficult on purpose, and hands him a pamphlet. Charles skims it, frowns, and hands it back to her.
“Yeah? So?”
“So?” Crystal echoes incredulously. “What do you mean, so?”
“I mean, all I’m seeing here is some posh party at the palace next month. That’s not news, Crystal, that’s olds.”
“Don’t you get it? It’s not just any ball. They’re marrying off the prince. They’re inviting potential suitors.”
“Right,” Charles says, nodding. “Okay.” He pauses. “So?”
“Charles, I’m trying to gossip,” Crystal snaps. “That’s what normal people do. They gossip, and they talk about who might show up for the ball, and they speculate which rich lord or lady is going to embarrass themselves, and they make bets on who the prince is going to pick.”
Charles is starting to feel a little out of his depth. But Crystal is his friend, and he likes making people happy, so he gives it his best go. “I bet the prince is going to marry someone fit.”
“Nevermind, forget it, it’s no fun with you,” Crystal says, grabs a can and goes outside to water the Deadman’s Maple.
Charles stays behind to continue sorting the books, which he likes to do a little differently every week, depending on his mood. Today, he sorts them by colour. He wonders if this whole conversation was a sign of Crystal missing her old life, before she’d stopped talking to her aristocrat parents and moved into the rooms above the Fading Light. If that were the case, she’d tell him, right?
Then again, a traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispers, it’s not like he told her about this morning’s realisation, is it?
Perhaps, Charles thinks, while he puts the Warrior Grimoire (mustard) next to The Road to True Love Via Spell (corn), perhaps this is a sign that he’s a bad person. He doesn’t mean to be, but sometimes it just happens. If he could just be a little better, he’d manage to be completely honest with his friend.
If he could just be a little better, his dad wouldn’t hit him so much, he thinks instinctively. The thought is like a reflex to him. But now, for the first time, it doesn’t stop there. For the first time, he wonders if ‘being better’ is even possible for his dad.
He's so distracted that he accidentally puts the reds next to the yellows, forgoing the orange, so he has to start all over again. If he’s honest, he doubts his dad even thinks in quantifiable terms like ‘good’ and ‘bad’.
Arcanist’s Guide to Spellcraft (honey) goes next to Meditations on Wild Magic (carrot). Charles has always been good at memorising titles, but he’s never even opened most of these. Sorting books is only his job because Crystal says it gives her a headache. The little bit of magic he can do is all self-taught, after a lot of trial-and-error experimentation.
He knows there are schools where you can learn magic for real, but even if his family had the money to send him to one of those – even if he’d been good enough to be accepted –, he probably wouldn’t be able to hack it there. Besides, he wouldn’t want to be a scholar. If he could choose, he’d probably like to be an adventurer, just travel the world, rescue princesses and slay dragons or something.
His gaze falls on the pamphlet Crystal left behind on the counter. It’s not an invitation or anything, not like the ones he imagines the actual guests got. More a bit of propaganda, telling the common folk what the royal family is up to.
Charles has spent the last eighteen years of his life cheerfully uninterested in anything going on at the palace, and he doesn’t care any more about it today. He vaguely recalls that the prince is his and Crystal’s age, but that’s about it. Eighteen strikes him as a bit young to be married, but then again, it’s none of his business.
Maybe the prince got someone pregnant, and this is the royal family’s way of saving face.
Whatever it is, one thing is for sure: it’s got absolutely nothing to do with Charles.
*
The day after the whole big ball announcement is a rest day, which means all the shops stay closed and Charles doesn’t have work. He’s had his job at the Fading Light for three years, and it’s honestly been the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Earning money to support his family is nice, sure, but also it gets him out of the house.
On the rest days, he tries to leave as early as possible and then just stay outside until it gets dark. Sometimes, he meets up with Crystal, but more often than not, he’s on his own.
When he was still in school, he used to hang out with his mates on the weekends and after class, but after they tried to feed him to a sea serpent as a joke, their friendship notably soured, and school ended soon afterwards, anyway. Most of them have left town to do an apprenticeship somewhere, but not Charles.
When Charles lies awake at night, he sometimes imagines leaving. He wouldn’t have a destination; he’d just start walking and never stop. He wouldn’t even take any of his things with him. He’d leave them all behind, just like he’d leave behind this town and the people in it. And if he walked far enough, perhaps somewhere along the road he’d find a better and improved version of himself.
Today, though, he wakes up to incessant knocking on his window. He sleeps in the basement, and there’s only one tiny window that he has to climb on a chair to reach. When he opens it, it’s a pigeon, and it’s carrying a slip of paper in its beak.
Charles immediately knows that the message is from the Fading Light’s owner. She’s rarely in town, but she tends to send her instructions via letter. This time, she’s sent him a short note, telling him to cut off three leaves of the Deadman’s Maple outside the shop and send them back to her.
It doesn’t sound that urgent, but the pigeon is here now, and it’s not like Charles had other plans for the day. He pockets the note and pats his shoulder invitingly. “Go on, then. Looks like the two of us are going on a walk, yeah?”
The pigeon coos and lands on his shoulder, and together, they leave the silent house. It’ll probably be another hour or two before his parents wake up. As long as Charles is back home for breakfast, he’ll be fine.
The streets are empty, the whole town still asleep. The only person he passes is old Mr Hale, who waves him over and gives him a shiny red apple before taking his cart and resuming his journey. It’s an early morning in mid-summer, it’s shaping up to be another hot day in a long series of hot days, and Charles is in a good mood by the time he arrives at the Fading Light.
The pigeon coos again, so Charles takes out his pocket knife and cuts up the apple, feeding half of it to the bird in little pieces. The other half he intends to keep for himself, but when he turns back, another pigeon has joined the first. It’s perched on one of the branches of the maple tree, looking at him with reproach, so Charles gives in and feeds it the rest of the apple.
They call it Deadman’s Maple because the trunk looks unsettlingly like a man is trapped inside it, his face twisted in untold agony. It gives Charles the creeps every time he accidentally looks at it, but its forever-red leaves are supposed to be great for all kinds of spells, so he’s not allowed to chop it down. Another quirk of these kinds of trees is that they don’t let just anyone rip out their leaves or cut off their branches. The tree outside the Fading Light has never liked Charles for some reason, so it takes him half an hour of coaxing, bargaining and threatening until he’s allowed to take three leaves with him.
“Took you long enough, you ugly old bastard,” he mutters.
“I wouldn’t advise insulting them,” someone says dryly. “These trees are known to hold a grudge.”
Charles turns around. Standing outside the low stone wall that surrounds the property is a young man, around Charles’ own age. He’s dead fit and looks faintly amused, but that’s not what gets Charles’ attention. What gets his attention is the horse.
There are a few people around town who own horses, of course, but none of them look like this one. This horse stands tall and strong, its grey coat shiny and well-cared for. This is a horse that has never had to spent hours pulling carts or wagons. No one Charles knows could afford to own a horse and not use it for manual labour. It’s unthinkable.
His gaze flits back to the young man. He has dismounted, his hand absently caressing the horse’s white mane. His eyes are on Charles, though, and now that Charles is looking, properly looking, he suddenly can’t look away.
If the horse had been an unusual sight in this town, this man might as well be from a whole ‘nother plane of existence. Distantly, Charles notes that he’s dressed in riding attire, simple but well-made, also distantly, he notes the sturdy boots, the leather gloves, every single item more expensive than all of Charles’ belongings put together.
But these are trivial observations, disappearing from his mind as soon as he’s made them, because his entire focus is on the young man himself, who is possibly the fittest person Charles has ever met in his life.
Their eyes meet, and Charles’ stomach drops in an oh, no sort of way, because he’s pretty sure that the hot flash of desire that just shot through him isn’t really appropriate. He tries to give his body a stern talking-to, and so almost misses it when the rider speaks again.
“Are you- watch out!”
Charles frowns, still caught up in telling himself to keep it the hell together. But he sees the man’s eyes widen, and the next moment, he feels something crashing into him from the back, sending him to the ground.
Charles rolls onto his back, his world spinning. What the fuck just happened?
From the corner of his eye, he sees a pair of expensive boots approach, walk past him, and come standing a few feet away, next to the Deadman’s Maple.
Wait.
“Oh, come on,” Charles says, getting back up and staring the stupid tree down. “Are you for real? You wait until my back is turned and then you attack me? I don’t care what the owner says, I’m getting an axe and chopping you to firewood.”
“Absolutely not,” the young man says in alarm. “Your careless brutality would risk cursing your family for seven generations.”
Charles blinks. “Really? You’re not taking the piss?”
“I am quite serious, I’m afraid. Telling jokes was not deemed an important part of the curriculum by our instructors.”
“Oh,” Charles says as understanding sets in, “wait, I get it. You’re one of those students at that royal academy, aren’t you?”
“I- yes.”
Charles frowns, gesturing at the Fading Light behind him as he says, “What, are they out of money or something? They send you here to get better prices? Bit cheap, mate.”
If he’d thought about it for even one second, he’d have guessed it sooner. The Royal Academy of Arcane Arts is right next to the palace, and they only accept the best of the best. Charles knows that because he was rejected, a few years ago.
Both the palace and the academy are located in the capital, a day’s walk away, and probably at least a two-hour ride, which is why they only rarely see nobles or students in town. Except for this man, who’s got a strange, arrested look on his face, like this conversation has taken a turn he wasn’t expecting.
“Come on, then,” Charles says, “we’re not technically open today, but I can give you a few minutes to- what are you doing?”
The Deadman’s Maple, which for three years has actively tried to make Charles’ life harder, is currently allowing its trunk to be petted. The creepy agonised face actually twists in a disturbing smile, and then one of the branches shakes and dozens of red leaves come tumbling down.
“There,” the young man says, sounding satisfied. “There’s no need for thuggish threats, you know. All they need is a bit of affection.”
Charles ignores that he’s just been called thuggish and decides to focus on the more important bit. “Okay, you’ve got to show me how to do that. What’s your name?”
The strange look from earlier returns. After a long pause, the man says, “Edwin.”
Charles laughs. He’s gone to school with three Edwins, and he knows at least ten more. Popular name, after the prince was born. In his dad’s generation, every other man is called Richard. “I feel that, mate. Don’t let it get to you.”
“What?”
“I’m Charles. Think they named me after some bloke who’s, like, tenth in line to the throne.”
“Eleventh,” Edwin says. He is studying Charles intently for some reason, and Charles is starting to fidget a little under the scrutiny. “Do those birds belong to you?”
Charles follows his gaze to see the two pigeons from earlier now perched on a low-hanging branch of the maple tree, watching them. “Nah, just met them today.” Like it’s been listening, one of the pigeons takes flight and settles on his shoulder, its beak gently snapping at his ear and catching on his earlobe. “Sorry, sorry,”
Charles says, “you’re probably getting impatient. Give me one minute, and I’ll send you off to your owner.”
He throws Edwin an apologetic smile before unlocking the door after a quick stroke over the unicorn-shaped doorknocker. He returns outside a minute later, this time with a velvet satchel in which he’s stored away the three leaves that he was able to take earlier without Edwin’s help. He carefully ties the satchel to the pigeon’s leg while it coos at him.
“Off you go,” he says and watches the bird fly away. The other pigeon stays on the branch, though, still watching him with beady black eyes, and after a moment, Charles shrugs and turns back to Edwin. “Sorry about that.”
“Not to worry.” Edwin says this a bit stilted, a bit awkwardly, but it’s clear to Charles that he’s trying to be nice. It reminds him of his three days as a dog, when people kept stopping to pet him. He’s got the strangest feeling that Edwin is doing the human equivalent of that.
He doesn’t have a tail to wag, so instead he grins at Edwin and nods to the tree. “How’d you get it to like you? I swear to you, that prick has it out for me.”
“I’m certain that is not true,” Edwin says, raising his voice a little and raising his eyebrows at the tree, as though to reprimand it. “Though if you wish to befriend it, you may find that a gentle approach works best.”
Charles winces. “Not really the gentle type, me.”
“Well, that simply cannot be true, either,” Edwin says, and he sounds so confident about it that Charles automatically stands up straighter. “You treated that carrier pigeon with the utmost care just now.”
Charles fights the urge to look over his shoulder, double-checking that no one is hearing this. If word got out about how gently he treats birds, he can just imagine what his dad is going to say. His dad already thinks he’s wasting his time working at the Fading Light, he doesn’t need more ammunition.
“Besides,” Edwin says in a voice that brooks no argument, “it really is very simple. Come here, put your hand on the bark, like this.”
Charles does as he’s told, placing his dominant left hand next to Edwin’s right, close enough that they’re almost touching. Edwin has even taken off his gloves. His hand is slightly bigger than Charles’ own, pale and soft, but he reckons that impression is deceiving, if he rides that horse a lot. Charles has spent his entire life around strong hands, but never ones like these.
“Good,” Edwin says quietly to him. “Now imagine a happy memory. It does not have to be a lifechanging moment, any everyday flash of happiness will do.”
Charles thinks back to earlier, when Mr Hale gave him that apple, he thinks to Crystal drawing a protection rune, he thinks-
The tree shudders beneath his touch, and suddenly there’s red all around him as countless leaves rain down upon him.
“There.” Edwin gives him just the hint of a smile once all the leaves have settled on the ground. “That is all these trees want, really. They are stuck in agony, so we must share our happiness with them.”
That flash of desire returns suddenly and with a vengeance. He has to turn away before Edwin sees the blood rushing to his cheeks. “Cheers, mate.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Did you- I don’t mean to keep you, or anything, but if you like, you can take a look around the shop, see if anything strikes your fancy. Free of charge.”
“I couldn’t possibly-“
“Shop’s already open now,” Charles says, shrugging. “It’s no trouble. What’d you come down here for, anyway? Any book we have, they’ve probably got at the academy thrice over.”
Edwin notably hesitates. It’s only once he has followed Charles inside that he says, “I was merely passing by. I heard you insulting that poor tree, and felt a warning was necessary.”
“A proper gentleman,” Charles says and winks.
His joke doesn’t land, because Edwin looks away and clears his throat, and Charles belatedly remembers that Edwin actually is a gentleman.
Seeking to change the subject before Edwin is forced to, like, confront the fact that he’s accidentally talking to the plebs or whatever, Charles says, “Think fast!” and throws the next-best object at Edwin.
Edwin nearly drops it twice, fumbling with it and very much acting like this is the first time in his life he's had to catch something. He shoots Charles a withering look when he struggles to contain his laughter, before evidently deciding to ignore him and focusing his attention on the small wooden box in his hands.
“A music box?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t work,” Charles says. “A customer dropped it off, said she has no use for it anymore.”
“There is magic in this,” Edwin says, gently tracing a single, ungloved finger over the wooden ornaments. “I can feel it.”
“I know. Been trying to fix it for a week. The customer didn’t really say what it’d do once it’s fixed, but I mean, a magical music box? That’d be aces to have.” Because Edwin is doing that weird thing again where he is suddenly looking at Charles with renewed focus, like he’s trying to see right through him, Charles rubs the back of his neck and says, “You study magic, so feel free to give it a go if you like.”
“Me?” Edwin says in surprise.
Charles shrugs. “Yeah, why not?” And then, inspiration striking, he adds, “Take it with you. You can bring it back, yeah?”
In the brief silence that follows, Charles has just enough time to berate himself for being too forward, too clingy, too obvious that he wants to see Edwin again, when Edwin finally says, “Very well. I will see what I can do.”
Such a sudden rush of joy fills Charles that he knows he could present the Deadman’s Maple with enough happiness for a thousand leaves right now. He feels like he’s vibrating with it, his skin buzzing, and the feeling increases when Edwin pockets the box and gives him another one of his tiny smiles.
His good mood doesn’t even evaporate after Edwin glances at the clock on the wall with some regret and announces that he has to get going.
“The clock is enchanted,” Charles points out, desperate to get Edwin to stay just a little longer. “Never did figure out what time it actually shows. My mate Crystal says it shows you when you’ll die, but that’s bollocks.”
“Nevertheless, I must be off. No doubt my absence has been noticed by now. But- this has been- pleasant,” Edwin says, saying pleasant in a way that indicates he meant to say something else. “I shall return swiftly to return your music box.”
He watches Edwin mount his horse, giving Charles one last glance over his shoulder before he’s off in the direction of the royal academy. It occurs to him that since Edwin apparently didn’t come here to buy supplies at the Fading Light, he never did say what brought him into town instead.
*
Charles doesn’t mean to actively hide his meeting with Edwin from Crystal, he just never gets around to telling her. As the new workweek starts, they’re busy juggling customers and new shipments, all while also sorting out a crisis because the unicorn doorknocker catches a cold and refuses to let them in half the time.
Crystal only started working here last year, so most of the coordinating falls to Charles, who accumulates an impressive amount of overtime and starts returning home close to midnight. He’s exhausted, but not necessarily unhappy. He’s always liked keeping busy, as long as ‘keeping busy’ means he gets to be out of the house.
He manages to avoid his dad for four whole glorious days, and then on the fifth day, the first day of the week where things have been looking up a little (the doorknocker’s fever broke, so they don’t have to enter and exit through the window anymore), his dad is still up when he comes home.
What follows is pretty much the usual. Dad’s in a bad mood, but he’s always in a bad mood, and Charles tries and fails to make it better, just like he always does.
After his dad leaves him curled up on the floor next to his bed, slamming the door to Charles’ bedroom, Charles thinks back to his realisation from last week. He still hasn’t made up his mind what to do about it. All he knows is that he has to do something.
Without meaning to, his thoughts wander until they reach Edwin. They must be around the same age, right? If Charles had been accepted into the academy back then, they might have been in the same year. They could have studied together. They might even have become friends. Charles is pretty sure Edwin would never feed him to a sea serpent.
But the academy rejected him, so Charles went to a regular middle school instead, and after that was over, he watched everyone he knows start an apprenticeship and move on with their lives. Charles did, too, but then he lost his job at the blacksmith’s because he couldn’t come into work for a few days, and afterwards, that had been pretty much it. He’d taken the job at the Fading Light to make some money while waiting for something, anything, else, and when nothing else ever happened, he stayed.
The day after his dad loses his temper, Charles wakes up still tired and aching all over. He’s bled on his bedsheets, which is annoying, because blood is almost impossible to get out, and he doesn’t want to bother his mum more with this stuff than he has to. He wonders if there’s a spell for this kind of thing. If so, they probably have a book on it at the Fading Light, right? He’ll have to check.
As soon as he leaves the house, a pigeon flies over. The carrier pigeon from his boss still hasn’t returned, but this one is its friend that showed up the day he met Edwin. It’s been following him all around town, and old Mr Hale has started to give him two apples when he sees him. Charles doesn’t mind; he likes birds.
Today, though, when the pigeon’s claws dig into his shoulder, Charles winces. “Not today, sorry,” he says. The pigeon lets out a weird grunting noise of distress, and Charles immediately feels bad enough that he holds out his left arm instead. “How’s this?”
The pigeon makes another distressed noise before releasing its grip on his shoulder and taking flight, ignoring his outstretched arm. Within a few seconds, it’s disappeared from sight.
By the time Charles arrives at the Fading Light, his mood has taken a turn for the worse, and it’s not improved by Crystal waving another pamphlet at him.
Crystal, evidently undeterred by his previously lacklustre ability to gossip, doesn’t even wait until he’s finished reading before saying, “I bet the prince doesn’t want to be married.”
Charles blinks, looks down at the page and then back at her, unable to connect her words to what’s written on the pamphlet. “Um, this just says they’re holding a magical tournament two weeks before the ball.”
“Yeah, and to do what? To give the winner the honour of the first dance. Charles, this means there’s someone at the palace right now, super worried that the prince can’t be trusted to fall in love without additional help. They’re basically, like, using this tournament to speedrun a romance.”
“I don’t think that sounds too bad,” Charles says.
Crystal stares at him incredulously. “What?”
“I mean, this way he’s given, like, an extra chance to find love, yeah? That’s loads better than just marrying him off to some random noble. I reckon it’s probably the best they could do under the circumstances- ow! What the hell?”
“He won’t find love this way,” Crystal says. She doesn’t hit his arm again, but she still looks like she thinks he’s gone insane. “No one would, Charles, that’s the only reason nobility still exists, because everyone can just marry off their children whenever they want.”
Belatedly, Charles recalls that day last year when Crystal showed up, as out of place here as Edwin was, carrying a bag and nothing else, her eyes red and puffy. Much, much later, Charles had found out why she’d left her home in a hurry, and he hadn’t liked it one bit.
If he’s honest, he can’t help but feel that the circumstances of her and the prince are a little different, though. An arranged marriage to some random arsehole obviously sucks, but the King and Queen clearly want to at least try for a love match, or else they wouldn’t go to all this trouble.
Crystal has the afternoon off, so Charles is alone in the shop when the door opens, and Edwin comes in. He’s dressed in riding attire again, and his cheeks are a little flushed, as though he’s been hurrying for some reason.
But before Charles has even managed to get out a greeting, Edwin’s eyes fall on the pamphlet that Crystal left here earlier. All the blood drains from his face.
“You alright, mate?” Charles asks lightly as he comes out from behind the counter.
“I had not realised that the information about the upcoming – festivities would be this publicised.” Edwin’s voice is a little shaky, and he looks faintly nauseous.
“Worried that some of the common folk will show up to ruin the party?” Charles says, only half-jokingly.
But Edwin sharply shakes his head. “Hardly. In truth, I would prefer no one would show up at all, both to this tournament and especially to that blasted ball.”
“No one forcing you to go, is there?” Charles winks at him. “If you’re not feeling up to it, you could always just come and hang out here instead.”
“Tempting, but utterly impossible, I’m afraid. There are certain – expectations.” Edwin sighs.
“Well,” Charles says, striving for a cheerful tone, “at least the tournament might be fun, yeah? You get to show off your magic skills, properly impress everyone.”
“I don’t want to impress everyone,” Edwin snaps. “The only thing I would like is to be left alone.” Charles’ smile slips, but before he can say anything, Edwin is already adding, “Apologies. My temper is rather frayed at the moment.”
“It’s all cool,” Charles says. “I get it. I’m just saying, maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“Unlikely,” Edwin says, but his words have lost their bite. He closes his eyes for just a moment, and when he opens them again, it seems like he’s trying hard to pull himself together. “Speaking of magic, I fear I bring bad news. I was unable to repair this for you.”
Charles takes the music box from him. He lifts the delicate lid, and as always, nothing happens. The box stays silent.
He is surprised by the pang of disappointment he feels, and it takes him another moment to parse out that he’s not disappointment because Edwin failed to repair it, but because Edwin returning it to him now means they likely won’t see each other again.
Still, he tries for a smile and thinks he almost pulls it off when he tells Edwin, “Oi, don’t worry about it. If you can’t repair it, I’ll bet no one can.”
“You cannot know that,” Edwin says, sounding very much like his inability to get some random music box working is a severe character flaw. “I admit my skillset lies more in arcane languages and spell work, but nevertheless, I ought to have succeeded. No doubt my instructors would be horrified to learn of my failure.”
“Good thing your instructors aren’t here, then, innit? There’s only me, and I don’t mind one bit. I’ll just put this in the backroom. You wouldn’t believe how many broken items we get.”
True to his word, Charles stores the music box on the same shelf as a satchel of marbles and a bracelet, both of which were dropped off in the last week. The top shelf is where he likes to store items that aren’t working as they should, and the rest of the shelf-
“Charles, what is all this?” Edwin asks quietly. He slowly, almost reverently reaches out to a glowing orb, stopping just short of touching it.
Charles shrugs. “Just bits and pieces I’ve fixed up over the years, yeah? Like I said, we get loads of broken stuff.”
“If these have been restored to working order, why are they not out on display in the shop?”
“Don’t know if they really work properly, do I?” Charles says, rubbing the back of his neck. It strikes him as vaguely embarrassing that they’re even talking about this. “Don’t want a customer to blow up just because I’ve done a bad job.”
Edwin no longer appears to be listening. He lets his eyes roam over every item, every single object that Charles has tried to repair, not touching, but seeing. Seeing it all.
Eventually, he straightens and turns back to Charles, a strange look on his face. “This is very impressive,” he says. “If I may ask, where did you study magic? Was it at the Seven Towers?”
“What? Nah, I didn’t study it anywhere, mate. Just went to a regular school here in town.”
“Your mentor, then,” Edwin says impatiently. “Who was your instructor?”
“Didn’t have one,” Charles says. “Look, I’m not- no one taught me anything, alright? I just picked some things up while I was bored, that’s all it is.” He doesn’t say that he got rejected, because this whole conversation is already awkward enough as it is.
Edwin opens his mouth like he means to object, but then there’s a strange noise coming from the front door. When Charles goes to check it out, Edwin following right behind him, he finds that it’s the pigeon again, only this time, it’s brought its friend with it. They are both cooing incessantly at the doorknocker, but as soon as Charles steps out of the house, they stop and stare at him.
“Oi, you could’ve let them inside,” Charles scolds the doorknocker. “They’re only birds, it’s not like they’ll do any harm.”
Edwin’s frown grows more pronounced. He takes one step toward the two pigeons hovering in mid-air. The reaction is instantaneous: one pigeon escapes to the maple tree in a panicked flutter of wings, and the other snaps its beak at him.
“Behave, you lot,” Charles tells them. “Be nice to Edwin.”
Edwin studies the birds with narrowed eyes. “This is highly unusual behaviour for carrier pigeons.”
“I know,” Charles says, grinning unapologetically. “I reckon it’s my fault, I’ve been feeding that little fat one over there all week.”
Edwin hums, neither agreeing nor objecting, still watching the pigeons intently. Charles doesn’t mind, because it means he gets to watch Edwin in turn. Once more it strikes him how different Edwin is from everyone he knows.
His clothes are the most obvious difference, of course, anyone can notice that. But it’s not just that.
It’s in the way Edwin talks, in the way he carries himself, in the confidence that shines through every one of his movements and sentences. It’s less that Edwin is never unsure of himself, Charles thinks, but underneath any shallow uncertainty, there is a strong sense of self-assurance at the core of him.
Abruptly, Charles is selfishly glad that Crystal isn’t here. She and Edwin would probably hit it right off. They’re from the same aristocratic background, they might even know each other, and even if they don’t, they probably have lots to talk about, stuff that Charles could never participate in.
The clock strikes, which is a little weird because it’s never done that before, and right on cue, Edwin pulls out his own pocket watch and sighs.
“Right, you probably have to go,” Charles says quickly, since in his experience it’s easier to tackle disappointments head-on, “so-“
“I have a request,” Edwin interrupts. “It’s a bit forward, but-“
Charles laughs, the idea of Edwin being improper about anything just absolutely hilarious to him. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”
“When you repair that music box,” Edwin says, “do not exile it to the shelf in your backroom. I wish to acquire it.”
“What, you want to buy it?”
“That is what I said.”
That’s- Charles doesn’t even know where to start. No one has ever wanted to buy something of his before. Customers know he likes to tinker with that stuff, sure, that’s why they keep dropping off all these items, but it’s not- no one ever- Charles didn’t think anyone really cared.
“If you’re absolutely sure,” Charles says eventually. “Got to be honest with you, I don’t even know if I can fix it.”
“You will,” Edwin says, sounding more confident than Charles feels. And Charles suddenly realises that Edwin didn’t say, ‘if you repair that music box’. He said when.
He lets out a somewhat nervous laugh. “Alright, fine, whatever. You can have it. But don’t start with that buying nonsense again, got it? We’re mates, aren’t we? Mates don’t make each other pay for stuff.”
Edwin’s eyes had widened when Charles called them mates. Now, he says softly, “Very well. I look forward to seeing you again, Charles.”
As soon as Edwin has mounted his horse and taken off in the direction of the academy, Charles allows himself to sag a little. There’s something about chatting with Edwin that makes him desperate to leave a good impression.
It occurs to him that Edwin looks at him like no one has ever looked at him before, like he sees something in Charles that eludes others. Charles doesn’t think he could take it if Edwin looked at him any other way.
Alright, enough lazing about. Him and Edwin didn’t even set up another meeting, and Charles has no means of contacting him. If Edwin never comes back to the Fading Light, they will likely never see each other again, and there is, plainly, nothing Charles can do about it, so he might as well get back to work – except when he tries to go back inside the shop, one of the pigeons swoops down to block his path to the door.
“What’s this now?” Charles says, amused and annoyed at equal measure, “Come on, out of the way, little birdie.”
The pigeon stays where it is, and Charles, exasperated, turns to the other one, still perched on the tree.
“Is this because I called you fat?” Charles asks. “Look, I didn’t mean it. You’re a very healthy weight for a pigeon, yeah? Now will you tell your mate to let me in?”
The pigeon by the door coos, and the chubby one on the tree now drills its beak into the bark. A little weirded out, Charles watches as the creepy face in the trunk twists into a smile. It already did this once before, he recalls, back when he first met Edwin.
Hold on.
“Are you feeding it happy memories?” Charles demands. “Do birds even have memories? No offense, but I sort of thought you lot basically just eat all day.”
The pigeon doesn’t react, the beak still drilling into the tree. Charles expects to be showered in red leaves again, but that’s not what happens. Instead, what falls down is a single maple seed.
Charles bows down to pick it up. But the second his fingers brush over the seed, he feels it changing beneath his touch, increasing in size, growing larger and smoother until it has transformed into a small silver jar, about the size of his palm. He opens it to find thick white ointment inside.
What the hell, he thinks, and looks back up at the fat pigeon. “This better not be poison. I will be so upset with you if it is.”
As if abruptly done with him, the pigeon coos and takes off, the other one following right after it, leaving him alone with this strange jar.
Charles waits until he’s sure that no customers will arrive any time soon before unscrewing the lid and inspecting it again. The ointment smells strongly of herbs, and when he carefully dips one finger inside, it’s cool to the touch.
He doesn’t need a healer’s apprentice to know that this very much appears to be a healing balm, meant to be put on wounds to ease the pain. Charles thinks back to this morning, when he’d shooed away the pigeon after it tried to sit on his shoulder.
Well, he won’t get anywhere if he’s just staring at it. Making an executive decision, he swiftly takes off his shirt and starts spreading the ointment over his back as best he can, brushing over old scars as he does so. He can’t reach everywhere, but every bit that he does reach goes numb pretty much immediately. His back has been hurting all day, but now, he can’t feel anything anymore.
When he is done, there are still almost two thirds left in the jar. Charles carefully closes it, thinks about taking it home with him and immediately decides against it. He stores it in the backroom instead, with all the stuff he’s repaired. It’s there now, ready for whenever he needs it again. The thought is comforting.
He wakes up the next morning with all his wounds completely healed.