The Laundr-o-mat's Case of a Magical Divorce Calamity

No one ever said being the chosen one is easy. Val Clemence is living proof of that. On her quest to return the world to normalcy, she'd gone from a Cali-born beauty with lustrous red hair and a slim fit to a soldier who bested beasts with ease. Her long ruby red hair had been lost to a fireball, and she'd had to crop it short to her shoulders, so that it layered in a wild, frenzied look. Her stormy gray eyes had been the prime feature of her face, until she'd lost the right one to a lucky fling of the dagger. Now a scar stood in its wreckage, a black eyepatch hiding the gaping hole where her eye used to be. She used to prefer short summer dresses but over the long weeks of war her summer bod had grown muscles in every soft place. Her shoulders were wider, her stomach a firm board and her thighs weapons of mass destruction.

Val's never been a slacker for a good grind or some hard work but even she can say she's ready to throw in the bag with all this 'Chosen One' schmuck. After three years of hunting down the worlds most evilest sorcerer -Count Redballs. And another two hunting down his evil brother, Lord Shottlemeyer, she was beat. Everyone's always bragging on about the glory. The ballads they write about you. The mighty golden statues they erect in your honor. No one ever talks about the boil and toil of being a hero.

Walking, on foot, through thousands of acres of enchanted, bug-infested woods. The neon lice you have to cast out with holy water. The ruddy, pussy blisters on the soles of your feet. The bog stench that seems forever stuck to your hair, your skin, your tongue. Camping with four other warriors had been fun in the beginning. A royal prince of Greece, blonde and cocky, Prince Phillip was a man whose valor could only be contested by his beauty. A half orc named Pip, from the Velderlands, whose tall stature and green-tinted skin could not hide his soft heart. A cousin of Count Redballs himself, who went by Little Balls. He'd deserted his cousin when he couldn't stand idly by all the baby-killing and maiming. And, of course, Henrik Of The Vale, a rogue Fae rider. Gorgeous as all Fae were, with an arrogance to match his wicked aim.

He'd been the sole reason she'd been able to bear those grueling weeks of sleeping in a small tent with four burly brutes. Don't get her wrong, she loves them all. She'd die for them in a heartbeat. But after a week or two of neither a shower nor bath, even a royal princes' bottom starts smelling like stale dung. She'd never known humans could reach that level of poignant stench, but they had. They'd practically been walking toxic waste.

Her lone eye stung just from the memory of it. And she wouldn't of survived it, she would've thrown in the bucket at the start of week three. Forget the world, forget salvation - she'd of taken death over rolling into a filthy armpit mid sleep. Her saving gracing had been Henrik.

One thing they don't teach you in history class, is that the Faerie don't smell. Ever. They don't even sweat. Or piss. Hell, they bleed some silver sparkly goo that tastes like elderberries (probably the reason the Orcs like to eat them.) Henrik had been born smelling of fresh rosemary with hints of seasalt. And he'd never smelt of anything else. Not through a too-long trek, not through war, not through being imprisoned in the shadow realm. He'd smelt divine. She took to laying atop him, his scent ingraining its way into her memory as promises of safety, warmth and care.

If asked when she'd fallen for him, she'd say at the Battle of the Beetles. When Count Redballs had awoken their accursed nest and summoned up a battalion of volcanic, sulfur spitting beetles. The smell of shit had been so strong, they'd all immediately puked. Fighting 10 000 beetles while simultaneously vomiting had not been easy, but they'd managed and after a unsatisfactory wash in a pond she'd fallen asleep in Henrik's arms. Rosemary chasing away the horrid burn of sulfur. She'd promised herself then that if they both made it out of this alive, she was going to marry him. And bind them together by whichever mad Fae rituals he preferred. On the first eve of Count Redballs death, they'd married. Using the magical ring of Ursa to bind their souls together. She'd worn it through the battle against Lord Shottlemeyer and she still wore it to this very day. Four years after they'd put Shottlemeyer into the ground, laying to rest the last of the black sorcerers.

The two of them retired and moved to the outskirts of Welling. A small human village in North America. Just a little off to the Woods of Wander, where Henriks clan of Fae resided. They'd enjoyed both the luxuries of modern human technology and the beauty and mystique of the fae lands. It was the happiest time of her life. She'd felt complete. Whole. Fulfilled.

She couldn't say the same for Henrik. Of course he'd been happy. He loved her. But Henrik had been a rogue rider long before their journey together. He wasn't made for settling down and slumming the day to day. In the beginning he'd ride off in the evenings to quench his thirst for wander. But as the years passed, his time on horseback had increased and their time together had slimmed. He'd be gone for days at a time, returning with a rare pelt or priceless jewel. The days had turned to weeks and the distance had turned her lonely and solemn. Her bed no longer smelt of rosemary or seasalt, only the grime of her own body. She wished to join him, to be with him for every journey, every memory - but she couldn't bear it. Not after everything. Her life had been usurped by the hunt. She could not return to it, not in her time of peace, it would drive her mad. So she took to her days with as much joy as she could muster. Watching TV. Playing badminton with Pip. Helping Phillip with his royal taxes and making sure Little Balls didn't succumb to his darker urges and start a new revolution.

It was a good existence. But as the years past, her smiles began to thin, her longing only increasing with the swift appearances of Henrik's fierce obsidian eyes and rugged edges. She'd loved him so fiercely in battle and the fire had never withered. Kindled easily by the smallest of things. A kiss to the cheek. A twinkle in the eye. The petals of rosemary between her fingers during gardening.

It was during one of these gardening sessions that Pip found her. Balling her eyes out with a few leaves of rosemary in her fingers. He'd sighed with his whole chest and hoisted her up on his shoulder, the harsh movement causing her eyepatch to flutter to the grass. "C'mon Val. You're better than this."

"I know," she sniffled, bringing the petals to her nose, "I just miss him so much."

Pip grunted and brought her into the cottage. He threw her on the couch, it grunted under the weight of her. "You need a reset love." He slapped her lightly on the cheek. "You're the bloody chosen one. Savior of the nine realms. Defeater of Count Redballs and you don't need no man. Say it with me!"

"I don't need no man..." she mumbled.

"That's better. No go pull the bedding, this place smells of lonely middle aged lady."

She sobbed louder but obediently began pulling the bedding as Pip got the rest of her laundry. "No," she said pulling a shirt from the hamper. "That one's Henrik's." He sighed but laid it aside for her.

The laundr-o-mat in Welling was an old-school, quaint place. It smelt of soap and fresh linens and always brightened her up. A few people stared at Pip as he struggled to push the coins in with his large orc fingers, but he ignored it with practiced ease. Val took to sitting on the benches, letting the rumble of the machines drone out the storm in her heart. She thumbed at the ring of Ursa. It sat a perfectly on a finger. A band of pure Fae silver, cast in the rivers of Yore, engrained with a bloodstone. It had belonged to Ursa Odell, the first Fae rider. Henrik had nearly lost a leg chasing it down an Orc's mouth when a band of them had raided the sacred treasury of the Wanderer Woods. When he'd placed it on her finger, it had melded to the burly size of her human fit. Binding their souls and making sure the two of them could never lose one another, no matter where they drifted off too. The red bloodstone matched her hair perfectly. Warmth welled up in her eye and soft drops blurred her vision.

"Oh for sorry's sake," Pip mumbled over her, taking a seat beside her and causing the bench to creak ominously beneath them, bending in slightly at their heft. "You've got to get over this. You know Henrik, you couldn't chain the man down if you used incarcerated iron."

"I know. I know." She wiped the tears away from her cheek. "He's just never been away for so long before. It's reaching four months."

"He's Fae. You know their concept of time is bogwater."

She rolled the ring over her finger. "Still. I miss him. And he...he-" she stuttered, throat clogging with grief. "He clearly doesn't miss me," she wailed, ripping the ring off and placing it in her pocket. "Maybe. Maybe the distance is good. I need to evaluate my importance. To him. To myself."

"You've got to be your own person."

She nodded fiercely. "You're right. I'm the freaking chosen one. And boy's are stupid."

"So stupid," Pip voiced, passing her a tissue. She blew her nose into it heartily. "Now let's finish up. Phillip's hosting game night."

"Phillip's still in Greece."

"We'll take the unicorns," Pip said with an evil grin. Val held in a sigh, Pip always loved tormenting the unicorns.

They finished up the bedding swift haste and threw in the socks alongside it. Pip turned to her, "What about that jacket. It's full of soil stains."

Val looked down at the jacket. Gardening had certainly done a number on it, the sleeve ends painted an icky brown. She shrugged it off and handed it over. It'd take about three hours to get to Greece by unicorn, so they paid extra for a dryer and delivery service. The clerk was a tired teenage girl who barely blinked at Pip, Kelly, as her name tag said, took a long arduous slurp from her energy drink and pocketed the spare change.

"The cottage just off Wanderer Woods," Val explained, writing down the address.

The girl nodded mutely, "Hmm..."

"The Wand-"

"Val, hurry up! They're going to riot soon," Pip called from the exit, where he'd rallied two wild unicorns into his hold.

Val tapped on the paper. "Just follow the address." She rushed off before the unicorns started shooting bolts of lightning.

Greece was usually one of the most beautiful places in the nine realms. With its clear turquoise waters and pristine white architecture. It was not a pretty sight, when half of it was on fire. A great black wyvern circling the royal castle, darting down every few minutes to spit fireballs. Game night was going to have to wait.

They rode the unicorns to where prince Phillip's glinting golden hair was barking orders at his troops. "What the bloody hell is that?" Val exclaimed, summoning up her sword.

Phillip turned to them, his face breaking into a relieved, watery smile. "Friends, Godsend you're here. I fear the worse has arisen."

"What goes Phillip?" Pip asked, dismounting from his unicorn.

Phillip rushed up to them, a small burn atop his cheek. "It's Little Balls, the mad fool."

"He's gone rogue!?" Val said, trying to find the resemblance between her old friend and the black scaly beast above.

"No, he'd just forgotten to take his calming draught. He'd been in the timeless realm and now the order of the doses has been all confounded." Phillip retrieved a vial filled with purple liquid from his pocket. "We only need to make sure it reaches his skin, but the beast flutters too quick and we only have one dose." He turned to Val with a serious expression. "I hate to ask it of you. You know I do, but we must summon Henrik. I fear he is the only one who could make the shot."

Putting her marital problems aside, Val nodded earnestly, reaching for the ring of Ursa. But her finger was bare. A flood of cold shock rushed through her before she remembered she'd pocketed it. Her hand moved to her side, but only her short tshirt laid under it. Her jacket was gone. The ring having been thrown to the wild rushing cycle of the washing machine. She paled.

Both of them immediately noticed her hesitance. Gazes glancing to her empty finger. "Where is the ring?" Phillip asked warily.

Val turned to Pip, stoicism painted on her features. "It was in my jacket."

"The soil stained one?"

She nodded.

Pip nodded and Phillip looked between them in confusion. Little Balls swooped down and burped a great fiery gust at them. They ducked under the soldiers' shields.

"Gather up" Val announced in her battle voice. "You and Phillip go back with heatrender. The clothes should be back at the cottage by now. I'll try to bargain with the beast. Try to reach Little Balls."

Phillip, ever dutiful, nodded, leaving his questions behind him. He summoned up a great golden watch that ticked and ticked until they both vanished in the air.

There was a truck in front of the cottage. A logo with three bubbles and yellow writing that read Suds Laundr-o-mat stamped on its side. Both orc and man rushed forward with such aggression that the delivery man squeaked and let his parcel drop to the floor. Pip ran after it as it rolled down the hilltop and the man took the opportunity to jump back in his truck and drive off, speeding past the residential limits.

Phillip rushed after, only to watch as Pip was dismantling the bag, throwing clothes across the valley in a wide berth. Blankets flew. Socks were volleyed far off into the treeline. A lone pair of jeans hit a sparrow a few miles off, felling it. Until the bag was empty, just broken strands of plastic.

"It's not here," Pip turned to face him.

Phillip strutted up, kicking a tshirt across the lawn. "Don't jest with me Pip. Where else could it be. It's a sacred ring for Soloman's sake!"

Pip squeezed his bald, green head. "It must still be at the laundr-o-mat. They must've left it behind."

"Well c'mon then. My kingdom burns with every passing breath." He summoned up heartrender once more. The great clock glinting gold under the sun. Tic Tic Toc.

They turned the laundr-o-mat upside down. Right side up. Left and right, they laid ruin. Pulling the machines from their places, hoisting them up in the air. They broke into the back vault, throwing bags across their heads. Ripping them open until clothes fluttered in a wild, pleasant-smelling storm. The whole of Wellings finest fashion mixed into a great pot of despair. And just as Phillip was about to return them to the battlefield empty-handed. Kelly, the teenage clerk, exited out the staff room. She donned a pastel purple bomber jacket with the words 'chosen one' stomped on its breastplate. Pip howled loudly, flinging a bag sideways. A lone sock landed on his head.

Even Kelly's teenage indifference faltered under the great mess of clothes and the large angry green man, who was foaming at the mouth, glaring venomously at her. "Five seconds and I'm calling the cops," she said, taking a great slurp from her energy drink.

Phillip pinched the bridge of his nose. Approached her and leaned forward to dig in the jacket's pockets. Out came the the ring of Ursa, glinting a beautiful silver under the fluorescent lights of the laundr-o-mat. He turned to Pip, "Post-haste!" They rushed to summon heartrender and return the ring to its owner. As they disappeared Kelly took in the sorry state of the laundr-o-mat and muttered a sullen, "Freaks." Before returning to her booth. Later the manager would return to his shop, wailing and screaming at the state of it. Customers would file outside the door, fighting over jerseys and underpants. Rioting until all the clothes were returned to their rightful owners.

Meanwhile the old box-television that hung in the top corner of the shop would showcase breaking news from Greece. The Furious Five reunited in the quelling of a great black dragon. Little Balls returned to a calm state of mind. Henrik of the Vale, on his knee, returning a glowing ring of Ursa to his teary wife and rising, only for her to grab him by the lapels of his puffy shirt and quench her battle fury with a long, heated kiss. He willingly succumbed to her power.