Author's Note: Originally written for Azpidistra in the 2011 Yuletide challenge.
Most times, Puck is pleased with himself. He has reason to be proud, for he is an ancient thing, old almost as the world itself, with powers of enchantment equal to any faerie's, and mayhap even greater in the matters of trickery and deception. Under cover of darkness, he has kissed and teased the prettiest girls and boys in Athens; he has masqueraded as Duke Theseus and dispensed his own strange brand of justice; he has been the lover of the Faerie King, and even once of the Queen, though he hardly dares remember that encounter now, lest Oberon pluck the image from his mind like an autumn apple and cast him out of favour.
It is only at moments like these, when the King's retinue and the Queen's have met in the wood for a night of revelry, and he sees his master and mistress hand in hand, that he is reminded of how like unto each other they are, and how unlike he is in comparison. For while all faeries are creatures of earth, the King's domain is verdant grass, is cool mist, is the quick living deer in the glade and the bursting fullness of ripe berries; and he, Puck, is for the crackling dead leaf, the rotting carcass, the strange fungus that sprouts up overnight. He may love the King as much as the Queen does—or more, for she is froward and difficult, and he has never refused his lord anything—but he cannot offer beauty along with his loyalty, and it breaks his heart.
"You must be still, Master Robin," scolds the dark-eyed girl who is attending to him—one of Titania's pets, a human who has pledged her life away to follow and serve the Queen. She wears a vaguely dazzled expression, as all her kind do when in their realm, and he wonders how she sees him: as he is, small and thin, sharp of feature and gnarled of limb, or as tall and fair as the King and Queen.
"Why must I?" he says distractedly, watching Oberon stretch out on a damp, yielding cushion of moss with his head in Titania's silken lap, watching her fingers twine into his hair, the way Oberon's sometimes twine into Puck's with pleasure when Puck kneels before him.
"So I may wash you, of course," she says.
Puck does not especially wish to be washed, but he is already in the pool, with the moon-silvered water slick and cool on his bare flesh, and so he lies back with a discontented sigh and lets her do what she will. Her black hair spills over her shoulders as she leans forward, and secretly, out of habit, he makes a few small elf-locks in it for her comb to catch on later. Even she, weak, foolish daughter of men, is beautiful, he thinks, though it be a beauty destined to fade. He considers bestowing a harelip on her, or a scattering of pockmarks, or a black tooth, but decides against it; she is Titania's creature, after all, and he will only interfere with the Queen at the King's behest.
"There, Master Robin," the girl says to him, all unaware of the fate she has just escaped. "You are lovely and clean."
The words sting, though she did not mean them to, and Puck pulls a face. It is an art he has spent thousands of years perfecting, and the result is hideous enough to curdle milk and affright birds in their nests.
"Clean perhaps, but lovely never," he says, and scrambling out of the water and gathering his clothes together, slips away from the glade without looking back.
He thinks at first to find some game to occupy his restless mind—a wayward traveller to lead astray, a herd of cattle to send trampling across a farmer's near-to-harvest field, a sleeping shepherd to bedevil with unquiet dreams—but instead he finds himself wandering alone through the midnight wood, pulling up herbs and flowers as he goes and crushing them in his hand. It occurs to him that one of them may hold some sap, some essence that could change his appearance more permanently than his own glamourie can do, and that if it were so, Oberon would know which one to pluck and how to prepare it; no one has more skill in such craft than the Faerie King. But at the same time, he knows he will not ask, not only because it would reveal his weakness, but because it is not his place: his purpose is to serve his master in all things, not to mope and whinge about the face and form that nature has given him. Indeed, he should be glad that Oberon has not commanded him to fix an ass's head upon himself, the better to amuse.
"What a sight I should be then," he says aloud, to himself.
"What a sight you are now, my Puck," says another voice, "all covered over with flowers like the Queen of the May," and Puck looks up to discover Oberon leaning coolly against an oak tree as if he has always been there, his green cloak glimmering with the dust of fallen stars.
A human might gasp in surprise; might ask How came you here?, but Puck does not bother, for he knows the Lord of Shadows may travel unseen when he wishes.
"I beg your pardon, my lord," he says instead. "I did not know you saw me go."
"Of course I saw," the King says, "and seeing how you went, I could not but follow. It is not like merry Robin Goodfellow to look so sad and angry. What is troubling you?"
"Nothing, my lord," says Puck, both thrilled that Oberon is concerned for his feelings and horrified at the possibility of being forced to confess them. "I am very well. I am only looking for some mischief to do."
"You could find mischief between the pages of a prayer-book," says the King dryly. "I cannot believe you need search all through the wood for it."
"Oh, but I must look into each hollow stump and under every mushroom cap," says Puck, "to be certain I have not missed a jot or tittle."
Oberon smiles, but Puck can see he is not fooled. "No, there is something the matter, and you will tell me what it is. Has someone treated you ill? Titania's girl, perhaps? Her attendants do not always show the proper respect to me and mine."
"No, nothing like that," Puck says. He clenches his hand into a fist, realises the flowers he plucked earlier are still in it, and lets them drop to the soft dark earth in a scatter of white petals. "You know that I love you, my lord."
"Of course," says Oberon, accepting it as his due with a nod. "And I love you, not only as my true servant, but my dear friend and companion. Why should that make you unhappy?"
"It is only," Puck says, plucking up his courage, "it is only that because I love you so, I wish I could be more pleasing to your gaze. So many of our kind are beautiful beyond the dreams of mortals, but I am not one of them."
He thinks he spies tears in Oberon's grey eyes then, and it strikes him full of wonder and fear, for neither he, nor any other faerie, has ever seen the King weep. But then a passing wind tosses the tree branches overhead and blocks out the moon, and when it reappears, the telltale glitter is gone.
"You must never grieve over that," says Oberon, coming close and resting a slender, long-fingered hand on his head. "All things and creatures are beautiful in their time and fashion; to claim otherwise were to judge winter's frosts lovelier than summer greening, or spring blossoms more precious than autumn leaves. And I would not trade you for all of those combined, my Puck."
"Truly?"
"Truly."
"Nor—" He licks his lips, already shocked at his own daring before he utters the words. "Nor for my lady the Queen?"
"Nor even for the Queen," says Oberon, "though I love her well."
"Then I do love you even more, my lord," Puck says, "though I had not thought such a thing were possible."
The King holds out his green-clad arms, and Puck falls into them.