Chapter Text
Softly, like a lullaby, the moonlight slips through the dense, shadowed canopy, pearly white against the serene darkness of night.
When the moon is high, the Faerie Kingdom falls into a dreamlike trance—the playful breeze dims into a mere whisper, barely rustling the leaves; the animals return to their burrows, their calls replaced by the quiet breathing of the forest; most of the Faerie Cookies have retired for the night, the streets empty aside from, perhaps, a handful of rambunctious teenagers sneaking out.
Tonight is a night like any other—the stars continue to spin a lazy waltz on the heavenly firmament as the moon smiles down on Earthbread, bathing everything in sight with a pale glow.
It is also a suitable night to take a walk.
Elder Faerie Cookie glides across the forest path he knows like the back of his hand, hands clasped behind his back as every twitch of the wind caresses loose strands of hair and his wings, draped behind him like a long, iridescent cape.
He isn’t wearing his typical monarch garb, all quiet elegance and silver finery—instead, a simple, white silk robe embroidered with patterns of silver flowers billows around his ankles and wrists, cinched around the waist.
His hair is likewise loose, pale lavender hair spilling over his shoulders, a warm and comforting weight around his neck. Under the gleam of moonlight, it looks more like silk than his actual silk robe. If there are a few knots in it he couldn’t be bothered to comb out, no one would be any the wiser.
Mind blissfully calm, Elder Faerie Cookie continues his late night stroll into the depths of the forest, and for tonight he is free from the duties and responsibilities of the daytime—just another Cookie walking alone under the stars.
In the far distance, a nocturnal bird sings out before the song fades back into stillness. The music echoes throughout the forest, sweeping past Elder Faerie Cookie as if he isn’t even there. Fleeting, but beautiful all the same.
He smiles to no one in particular, closing his eyes briefly while breathing in deeply—the cool night air fills his lungs, permeating every inch of his being before he exhales, and the air rushes back out.
A handful of seconds go by as the monarch simply breathes, with moonlight and shadow as his only companions, and his feet as his guide.
“Hmm...” Elder Faerie Cookie opens his eyes. His surroundings have not changed since a few seconds ago—he is still very much alone. Yet, the wind has shifted...
Carried by the breeze, a crisp, subtle scent of salt floats by, along with heavy footsteps that stride with the purpose of trying to be noiseless but failing. Muffled metal clinking grows closer from behind, along with...something sharply floral, with a hint of spice...?
Elder Faerie Cookie immediately stops in his tracks before making an abrupt turn off the path, vanishing into the treetops as swiftly as his wings will take him. One moment, he was there; a blink of an eye, and some scattered fallen leaves swirling in wake of the disturbance are the only proof of his existence.
As per his faerie nature, it takes no effort to blend into the forest—every breath he takes is the forest’s breath, every movement he makes the whispering of foliage.
Between one breath and the next, Elder Faerie Cookie is settling on the higher branches of a tree with thick, emerald leaves and silver white bark, wings flaring out behind him as they fold back into a resting position. One nimble hand is placed on the sturdy trunk next to him as he peers curiously at the forest path he was walking on previously.
Sure enough, another Cookie appears on the path, seemingly having walked behind Elder Faerie Cookie without him knowing for quite a distance. He treads the forest path lightly, perhaps not wishing to disturb the tranquility of night.
This Cookie wears heavy, polished armour that gleams brilliantly under the snowy moonbeam, reflecting the light like a mirror. He’s tall, possibly taller than Elder Faerie Cookie himself by a head and a half. A knight’s helmet obscures his face, leaving only a cloud of white hair trailing behind him, but Elder Faerie Cookie gets the feeling that underneath is a mien of stoic benevolence.
Under hefty pauldrons, a cape as unblemished as moonlight and touched with the barest hints of pale green ripples behind him, a greatsword nearly as long as the Cookie himself bound by leather straps to his back. One gauntleted hand swings minutely by his side, while the other seems to be hidden in the folds of his cloak.
Elder Faerie Cookie watches, amused, as the armoured Cookie comes to a halt on the forest path, standing stiffly for the span of several heartbeats before his head turns this way and that, even turning ninety degrees on the spot, as if looking for something—or someone—that he swears was there only a second ago.
Even mired in such confusion, the Cookie is a gentle silver giant amongst silver trees, each rise and fall of his chest from the simple act of breathing endearing to no end. He holds himself with a commanding presence that lends not a sword to attack but to defend—strength without virtue is mindless violence, after all.
One second, two seconds, three seconds, four—
The Cookie still looks hopelessly lost.
Sigh.
“My oh my, whatever do we have here?” Elder Faerie Cookie calls out in a sing-song voice, still perched like a bird on the tree’s upper branches. “If it isn’t Lord Commander himself.”
The other Cookie doesn’t bother to turn around, but his soundless jolt and subsequent exhale is clear to see. “Elder Faerie Cookie,” he eventually sighs. “Must you keep doing this?”
“Perhaps you could simply try not to be such an easy target?”
“Hilarious.” He deadpans.
“Thank you, it comes with the crown.”
Another sigh comes, a breath of warm air. “Will you come down now?”
“Hmm…” Instead of coming down, Elder Faerie Cookie decides to lounge back on his branch instead, reclining against silver wood. “I’m perfectly comfortable up here, actually.”
Grass crunches under sturdy boots. They grow closer and closer until Elder Faerie Cookie can spy metal glinting from the corner of his eye, and the crisp scent of salt overwhelms the cooling forest air. “Elder Faerie Cookie.” That baritone voice says again, a slow rumble deep in his chest.
“Salt of Solidarity,” Elder Faerie Cookie answers easily.
“This is your last warning. Come down.”
The fairy monarch makes a show of mulling it over, rubbing his chin dramatically as his wings twitched in silent laughter. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make mEEK—!”
Out of nowhere, the entire tree shudders violently, throwing Elder Faerie Cookie off and making him fall sideways off the branch. One moment he was looking up at the viridian canopy above and the next gravity is trying to kill him.
Fwish! Gossamer wings snap out automatically, catching the wind and gently carrying Elder Faerie Cookie to the ground. Somewhat gracefully, he keep his balance and manages to land on the ground, cool grass tickling against the soles of his feet.
He stares up at Salt of Solidarity. All he can see is metal, so polished he can make out his own reflection, but somehow he senses an amused kind of judgement, Salt’s gaze pointedly staring down at him.
“Was that you?”
“I’ve not the faintest idea what you mean, O Fairy King.”
“…You didn’t see anything,” Elder Faerie Cookie says, ignoring the way warmth creeps up his face.
“Sure.” The insufferable Cookie replies, as coolly as ever.
Elder Faerie Cookie narrows his eyes. Silence reigns for a while more between them.
Letting out a fond laugh, he straightens out his robe, dusting off a few stray leaves and imaginary dust. “Alright, alright, you got the best of me this time. I suppose congratulations are in order?”
“I shall treasure this victory,” Salt of Solidarity responds solemnly, “It shall be celebrated for centuries to come.”
“Hah! Such arrogance.” Elder Faerie Cookie leans against the trunk of the tree, raising a single eyebrow at Salt of Solidarity. “Be warned; I’ll get you back one day.”
“I’m positively shaking in my boots.” For extra dramatic effect, Salt of Solidarity raises a foot and shakes it back and forth.
“I’m surprised. Since when did you grow a sense of humour?”
“Sometime between sunrise and you falling off that tree.”
“…”
“Oh, too soon?”
“Ha…” Elder Faerie gives a long-suffering sigh. Another breeze floats by, bringing that strange scent of fresh spice to him again. It’s distinctly unlike anything in the Faerie Kingdom, piquing his curiosity. He looks down—it seems to be coming from the folds of Salt’s cloak.
“Say, old friend. Is there something you’re hiding in that cloak of yours?” Elder Faerie asks with a tilt of his head.
At the question, Salt of Solidarity’s hidden hand seems to unconsciously retreat further into his cloak. “Ah, about that…do you recall when we last met, I told you I would be heading into the Land of Spice for a month-long campaign with my knights?”
The monarch nods. “Mm. I do. What about it?”
“Well, when we arrived, I found this most exquisite flower growing amongst the dry sands. The locals there called it ‘Pure Saffron’, and said that it blooms even in the most unhabitable of lands, boldly showing off its vibrancy even in the face of death—as such, it’s considered a sign of resilience as well as—well, um...”
His words trail off into thin air. Elder Faerie watches him expectantly, patiently.
“…so, I got some,” He manages to say. “For you.”
A tad awkwardly, Salt of Solidarity takes out a bouquet of the flowers of the most exuberant purple Elder Faerie Cookie’s ever seen, unfurling a sharp yet delicate aroma into the cool forest air, tied together with a shimmering ribbon of silver. The petals and leaves are slightly rumpled, evidence of the long journey home, and on the underside of the ribbon a tiny rune has been scrawled in precise handwriting—one for preservation.
The bouquet consists of twelve saffrons, clearly carefully arranged. Each bloom drinks up the moonlight greedily, red stamens leaning outwards as if desiring to be free. Elder Faerie Cookie cradles the bouquet in his hands, the pads of his fingers brushing against the stems as gently as possible—almost reverential.
Sensing Elder Faerie Cookie’s stunned silence, Salt of Solidarity does something he has never done in his life—he fidgets, with the hem of his cloak. The fabric slips from his grip smoothly. “I—well, I saw the flowers, and my first thought was that they—reminded me, of you, so—and, also, I thought you’d like them, so I—”
“I love them.” Elder Faerie silences Salt’s rambling with a delighted whisper. “Salt, these are positively breathtaking—I love them. Thank you, for bringing them to me.”
“Ah.” Salt tenses, stops, and relaxes. “That’s—good. To hear.”
The monarch brings the bouquet closer, and breathes in deeply—for that moment, the foreign yet aromatic scent of the flowers overwhelm him, but not too much—he’s transported to the Land of Spice, a place he’s only ever known through rumours and unreliable gossip and Salt’s stories.
The saffrons’ petals catch the edge of a passing wind, swaying ever so gracefully in Elder Faerie’s reverent hold. A symbol of resilience, dripping in beauty—now, doesn’t that remind him of someone?
Then, a realization hits him with all the force of a meteorite crashing down on Earthbread—grasping the flowers, some memory resurfaces in his mind.
“Oh,” Elder Faerie says, snapping his attention back onto Salt’s helmeted face. “Oh, Salt, you brought me flowers! From before you left, I asked if you would bring back a souvenir, and you...”
“I remembered, yes.” Salt of Solidarity acknowledges with a slight incline of his head. “I remember everything you say.”
“Oh, but you didn’t have to—you must’ve been so busy, with your campaign, you needn’t have taken it so seriously—I’ve wasted precious time...”
“Elder Faerie, time spent on you is no time wasted at all—in fact, I might say the opposite.” Closing the distance between them with a single step, Salt continues, “The act of gifting is an immense joy in and of itself.”
As if to emphasize his point, a gauntleted hand reaches forward, meticulously removes a single blossom from the bundle and in one swift motion tucks it behind Elder Faerie’s pointed ear.
Cool metal brushes against loose hair, the curve of his ear, the expanse of his cheek; his touch softer than the petals that tickle his skin, stem held in place by undone strands of hair.
The flower stays balanced on Elder Faerie’s ear, but the hand does not retreat—it stays, lingering, and Elder Faerie has to fight to keep his wings from twitching erratically when Salt’s finger hooks itself on a thin lock of pale lavender hair and brushes it away from his face.
Oddly enough, the world seems to have gone entirely silent—all Elder Faerie Cookie can hear is the pounding heartbeat booming in his ears and all he can feel is the weight of Salt of Solidarity’s hand against his face, the mere presence of it setting something in his ribcage ablaze and his knees to weaken.
Only muscle memory keeps the precious gift in his hands from spilling out—before the monarch’s eyes, he sees himself reaching up, clasping his friend’s hand then, with all the passion his kind are known for in their moonlit revelries, bring him close—breathe in the ever so tempting scent of salt and whisper, Stars, I could kiss you.
The thought—or more like an impulse, by how sudden it gripped him with a chokehold—crossed Elder Faerie’s mind like a bolt of lightning and went just as quickly. Yet, much like watching said phenomenon in real life, his mind was active but his eyes were glued to Salt’s face, to where his eyes would be; hands frozen into a cradle for the saffrons.
What was that, Elder Faerie Cookie demanded internally. What on Earthbread was that?!
The moment passed—it was like time sped up once more, and Salt’s hand retracted back to his side, with a hint of unwillingness.
“See,” Salt of Solidarity’s voice has a smile in it, stepping back as if to admire his craft. “I knew it would suit you. It matches your countenance perfectly.”
Witches, since when has his gaze been so, so—fond?!
Elder Faerie’s hand frees itself from the death grip, jerking upwards to brush against his ear, caressing the saffron’s petals, feeling strangely abashed—the heat in his chest is growing inch by ravenous inch. I am beginning to think I am ill, he thinks. Am I ill?
Warmth creeps up on his face. “Ah—well, I suppose I have your good taste to thank for that.” Words roll off his tongue automatically. “Erm—thank you, these really are...” He clears his throat forcibly. “...Well. Thank you, for the gift. These saffrons really are magnificent.”
A soft chuckle escapes Salt of Solidarity, reverberating through the knight’s helmet. “Next time I go to the Land of Spice, I’ll remember to bring you more.”
A promise uttered so carefree but still holds the unmovable weight of steel. Elder Faerie Cookie holds the bouquet of saffron closer to his heart, a mock embrace. The flower tucked into his ear is spilling a sharp fragrance, yet it cannot overpower the crisp aroma of salt.
“I’ll hold you to it,” he hears himself say.
Next time, the unspoken words ring out in the silver forest, as transparent as the guileless moonlight above.