Apeiron

It was the fifteenth winter that Derrick Cheshire had seen, felt, and breathed. Under a moonless night he found the quiet of his surrounding neat and cozy, warm even. The wood smelled and felt like polished—though smooth and rough at one crest or the other—sandalwood. He took it in, breathing the thick musty air, the tip of his nose itching to be scratched, the deep wound through his right shoulder begging to be cleaned and sealed. The blood crusted at the very dead point of the enclosure. Beneath him, the pool of red dripped quietly, soundly.

He tried once more, calling for help in his already croaked voice, knowing it was futile.

The branches crisply cracked and willowed under the pressure of the aching wind. Birds and bears slept silently in their abodes. The icy crystal flakes fell gently atop the coffin, with the youngest boy of House Cheshire buried alive under the Courtyard of the Living—fifty two strides from the newly painted sill of his father’s study’s window.

It was bright and sunny in the Cheshire Straits for the first time in months. Hand maidens and cooks bustled about in merry and toil, working through watered gardens and waxed floors. The strikingly green and moldy gray walls of the castle were awash with high spirits, the gentle nature of the horses in the stables rippling and undeniable: it was a great morning and a greater day still.

A black crow called high upon the tallest pyre, “They are coming! They are coming!”

The bustle rushed. Royalty was fed and washed and dressed. The rest were summoned and ordered and hushed.

The gates rose, and the legendary Marquis D’ Solace strode in.

One by the other they rode past the seedy files of Cheshire peasants who were knee-down and hands, recently washed and oiled, high up. It was the King who spoke first when the procession stopped.

“You have arrived, Your Highness. Finally, the feast may begin!”

His counterpart smiled in remark, keeping his responses to a fair nod. He snapped his fingers and five perfect glows of light, fairies, lifted from the end of his caravan. They floated lightly, almost carefully above the waiting hands. Each received a white stone; soft as a bottlebrush and supple and wet as a teat.

The fairies went back to the King’s caravan at the snap of his thick fingers, the villagers grateful and happy. The two Kings; King Cheshire and King Seronin, seemingly wafted above the cobblestone steps and into the large golden palace through magnificent oak doors.

“What will you wish for?” the woodcutter asked.

"I don’t know dear,” his wife confessed. “This is a great thing this is.”

“A Golden Wish so very often is,” he replied. A moment passed between husband and wife in a mushroom shaped hut at the far corners of the walled kingdom. Then, with a rise of his feet and a worried furrow of her brow he answered, “I wish to be King for a day.”

“Watch your tongue!” she spat, reeling at his feet and pulling him down to the earth. He fell and toppled over her shawl. “Do you think you’re the only mortal to ever wish such folly upon himself? Once,” she went on, “I heard that Marnie Millins and her young boy wished themselves immortal. Do you know what happened to them?”

The woodcutter shook his head woefully. She swallowed hard.

“They were a family of painters. Haven’t you ever wondered why there are such lifelike murals of her and the boy down at the fountain?”

“Do you mean this is witchery?” he regretfully asked with a horrified glance at the glass jar casing their wishes.

The pale woman mulled her teeth over and chewed her tongue, and then said, “Fairies and kings and endless winters and sickening bread for supper, and you think it normal? I must have married a dunce then!”

“Since you’re so clever, dear wife,” he swung, “tell me then, what you wish for.”

She watched as shadows moved below the entrance to their abode from across the street. They seemed stealthy, listening to every damning word that left their lips. She could feel the dryness of her throat, the aching tenderness of her feet and the dreaded cold that crept up bit by breaking bit up her spine the longer she stayed washing in the palace. Carefully, she thought it through. The last time anyone had wished for something selfish, the opposite was true. The woodcutter’s wife shuffled her feet and rubbed her palms together, opened the brown bread box that smelled of old crumbs and peanut butter, and took out an old cloth. The husband held his mouth and let the tear drop from his right eye.

“I wish for one thing dear husband,” she said with a drawn out whiff of the royal handkerchief. “I wish we could be King and Queen once more.”

The palace was awash with royalty, food and all manner of drink and heresy. The two kings watched as the dancers made sway with the wind across their hips and clapped as the jugglers rolled and spit flame. It was a merry night indeed.

“So, Your Highness, what makes of your dear boy?” inquired the guest royalty.

King Cheshire put his chunk of mutton down and swung the golden cup to his mouth before answering.

"You mean the prince? Olaf is in his quarters ensuring the continuity of our bloodline, of course.” He chortled. “You make these things possible Your Highness.”

King Seronin chuckled, leaned in, and whispered.

“I meant the youngest.”

Cheshire’s face went pale. He mustered courage one more time from the drink and wiped his mouth, his joy sapped away almost at once.

“Fifteen years, Seronin. We agreed it would be fifteen years for the spell to be broken.”

“I know,” snickered Seronin. “The boy must be grown by now.”

Cheshire’s face was wet, carefully hidden under the faint glow of a stunning performance. He leaned in closer to Seronin, carefully whispering.

“He bleeds in the Courtyard.”

Dance and song erupted in the ballroom. Fire and drink spat and flared across the walls. The prick of a thin knife pressed gently, caringly, against King Seronin’s side, his wicked smile never fading.

“You will take his place tonight,” whispered Cheshire.