Author's Note: This began as a parody of "The Little Mermaid," but quickly grew beyond that into … well, into this. If you're a fan of Anti-Cosmo, this should be a lot of fun for you. If you think Anti-Wanda has been unfairly ignored, I hope this satisfies you, too. In fact, I hope all fans of The Fairly OddParents will enjoy reading this!
What Would I Give?
What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,
Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do!
Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.
What would I give for words, if only words would come!
But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb.
O merry friends, go your own way, I have never a word to say.
What would I give for tears! Not smiles but scalding tears,
To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,
To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.
Christina Rossetti, "What Would I Give?"
Chapter One: Imprisonment
Timmy regarded the figure in the mirror, still scarcely able to believe it was him. So much had changed: the fangs, the boils, the yellow skin, the claws. Only a pair of black shorts, with white skulls emblazoned on the buttocks, concealed his modesty. He ran his bony fingers through the hair on his head, which was now raven-black, shoulder-length and always tangled, no matter how many times he thought he had brushed all the knots out this time. His eyes used to be bright blue and sparkle with life; today, they were as dull as fog, occasionally glowing red with the embers of fear and misery.
He sighed without making a sound and settled down to bed. In a darkened corner, he rolled part of the bear rug around him, seeking as much comfort as possible. Though a giant fireplace was roaring along one wall, the castle remained deathly icy, and the large black stones comprising the walls and floor did little to brighten up the place. He sunk into the bear's soft fur and squeezed his eyes shut, glad to have some respite after his long day.
A giant wooden door burst open with a tremendous squeak.
His eyelids snapped back again. A creature with azure skin, bat-like wings and a giant monocle drifted into the bedroom.
Anti-Cosmo. The self-proclaimed leader of the anti-fairies.
"Timothy," he announced in a smooth British accent.
The being he addressed did not reply. Maybe if he ignored the intruder, they would go away.
"What's this I hear about you destroying a chandelier and punching my son?"
That made him sit up and listen.
"Foop tells me you two were playing catch in the dining hall of all places because you wouldn't let him find a more suitable venue." Anti-Cosmo approached in a slow, stately manner. "You threw the tennis ball to him, but it bounced off the wall and hit the chandelier, sending it crashing to the ground. When he tried to tell Anti-Wanda what had happened, you yanked him back and punched him to keep him quiet."
Timmy shook his head furiously. It was all nonsense. Foop had been the one to blow the chandelier to smithereens with his magic baby bottle. The black eye was from when he hit himself in the face with the ball, in a completely unrelated incident. He hadn't even wanted to play with Timmy, he was just bouncing things against the wall by himself, so it was his own stupid fault that he hurt himself.
Sadly, the dumbstruck fellow had no way of communicating this to Foop's father.
"Is it true?" Anti-Cosmo knelt on the floor and held Timmy by the shoulders. "Say yes or no. That's all I ask."
The accused mouthed, "No."
"I can't hear you." The man cupped his pointed ear. "Speak up!"
Timmy tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. Why was Anti-Cosmo playing his ridiculous game? He knew perfectly well what the situation was like. Nothing about this line of questioning was fair.
"Well, it's my son's word against yours." The patriarch sniggered. "You don't even have a word for me." He stroked his chin. "How should I punish you, I wonder?"
The judge ambled in the direction of his four-poster bed, a large steel tomb with a blood-red quilt, thick black curtains and cobwebs hanging in every corner. Timmy chewed on his bottom lip as he waited and waited for the sentence to be passed.
A wave of the wand exchanged Anti-Cosmo's old-fashioned suit for a surprisingly-normal set of stripy pyjamas. He snuggled down, paused, and then shuffled over, folding the quilt back and patting the space he had left behind him. "Come to bed with me."
Timmy remained where he was, his stare fixed on this sinister gentleman.
"Now."
The command was abrupt and verging on a shout – yet the servant stayed absolutely still. He wasn't ready to give in, not now, not like this, not when he had no idea what was coming next.
"Very well." Anti-Cosmo rolled his eyes. "I'll have to make you come to me, won't I?"
All of a sudden, Timmy was standing, but not of his own accord. He was pulled towards the bed by an invisible rope, feet dragging along the ground. With a sickening lurch, he spun through the air until he was horizontal and flopped onto the mattress.
The curtains closed around the bed, sealing in both the slave and his master. They were plunged into blackness, save for the sheen of Anti-Cosmo's fangs and the glint in his eyes as he hovered above Timmy.
This is my punishment? A night in a comfortable bed instead of tossing and turning on the floor? Timmy allowed himself a tiny grin.
"What's so funny?"
The grin vanished. How could he see that?
Judging by the intensity of the glow-in-the-dark scowl and the strong scent of cologne, danger was just inches away from Timmy's face. He had to get out. He had to get away from this malevolent person. But he couldn't. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. Every attempt to flex a muscle was met with a futile fight against the dead weight in his limbs. He was paralysed, floppy as a rag doll.
The anti-fairy picked up Timmy's hand and placed it on Timmy's bare chest. They waited together.
"There's nothing there," said Anti-Cosmo. "No heartbeat whatsoever. Do you understand? You're nothing, Timothy. You're a worthless piece of meat. Nobody cares about what happens to you."
By now the child's eyes were brimming with saltwater. He wished it wouldn't spill over. He wished he could kid himself that Anti-Cosmo's barbs were merely lies. Why does he let me live if he hates me so much?
"Oh, don't cry, Timothy. It's pathetic." He scraped the moisture away with firm, frosty hands. "You brought it on yourself. Do you think anyone would listen to your tale of sheer idiocy and feel anything close to pity? Do you think anyone could still find it in themselves to love a horrible little creature like you?" He halted his tirade before conceding, "Of course, you have me." He rolled Timmy over and tugged his shorts over his buttocks. "But what I feel for you can't exactly be called love."
What is he talking ab-?
Timmy's thoughts were interrupted by the sharp pain shooting up his spine.
…
Timmy knew exactly when his troubles began. It had been the day after Valentine's Day, and Cupid's triumphant parade was trundling through Fairy World. Rows of cherubs with feathery wings and oversized diapers marched down Main Street, followed by giant tanks in incongruous shades of pastel pink.
The godchild looked up at Cosmo and Wanda. They were focused on the parade, one arm around their beloved, the other waving tiny white flags with "I Love Love" written in red cursive. He turned away, picked a path through the crowd and scoured the area for street signs.
Left, right, left again, and it's the tent on the edge of Fairy World. Shouldn't be too hard.
And it wasn't. Timmy soon came across a tall octagonal tent, big enough for roughly six people, definitely not many more. It was a retina-searing mixture of deep navy and bright orange, and the canvas was frayed at the edges. The yellow words reading ETERNITY SCHEME APPLICANTS had been sloppily painted onto a board covered in rusty nails, a board that appeared to have been cobbled together from fragments of driftwood.
This should have been the first sign that coming here was a terrible idea.
But instead of turning back, Timmy slipped through the flaps and entered. The circular hole in the roof of the tent illuminated a round table laden with coloured bottles – potions, Timmy theorised. Behind this, a short man lingered in the shadows.
"Greetings, Timothy," said Anti-Cosmo. "I've been expecting you."
This should have been the second sign.
Fortunately, unlike the first time, Timmy listened to his gut. "I was just leaving," he blurted, spinning around to make his escape.
ANTI-POOF!
"GAH!"
Anti-Cosmo had teleported right in front of him. "Where are you going, lad? You've only just arrived." He leaned forwards, forcing Timmy to step back inside.
"There-there must be some mi-mi-mistake," Timmy stuttered. "I'm-I'm trying to join the Eternity Scheme-"
"Which is my area of expertise," the mischief-maker butted in. "I'm sure you're aware that it's normally only meant for godchildren with terminal illnesses. However, I have persuaded the Fairy Council to make you a special case." He swept back into his starting position behind the desk.
Timmy scrutinised the crumpled flyer he had found attached to a lamp post in Fairy World weeks ago. Nowhere did it warn him that he would have to contend with magical beings whose raison d'être was spreading bad luck. "Who put you in charge?" he grilled.
"Jorgen Von Strangle, of course. I have the certification here." Anti-Cosmo waved a card in front of Timmy's face, too quickly for the boy to read it. "Letting the anti-fairies organise the programme acts as a nice little incentive to the new recruits."
"What kind of incentive?"
"Mr Von Strangle likes to set each potential fairy three tasks." He opened a royal blue bottle; its thick pungent smoke in a matching shade billowed into the tent. "If you complete them all within the week, you can remain a fairy forever."
The smoke thinned out to reveal three white silhouettes. They all had wands and wings and floaty crowny things, the characteristics of a fairy. The figure in the middle, the smallest one, appeared to be dancing, while the other two looked on and clapped along.
Then the scene took a turn. The middle figure fell to the floor, sprouting horns and a tail. The other two flew away. The smoke turned red. The child whipped its head from side to side, searching for a friendly face.
"But if you don't pass the test, you'll turn into a hideous beast and thereafter belong to the anti-fairies for all eternity."
A swarm of bat-like creatures surrounded the fiendish silhouette and dragged him into the darkness, leaving claw marks in the ground behind him.
The story having reached its conclusion, the smoke dissipated.
Anti-Cosmo stroked the godchild's paling cheek with his cold blue fingers. "If you want to cross the Rainbow Bridge, Timothy, you'll have to pay the toll."
Timmy's heartbeat was so loud it echoed in his ears. Part of him was begging him not to go through with this. Haven't you always had a bad feeling about this guy? How do you know he knows what he's doing? How can you trust him to be telling the whole truth? Plus, if you fail, you're basically stuck being his slave. Don't do it. It's not worth the risk.
Another part was egging him on. It's just a bit of hazing, the usual Von Strangle treatment. How bad can it be? If you can defeat the pixies, fight comic book supervillains and stop Vicky using a magic TV remote to take over the world, you can do anything. Besides, you'll never have to say goodbye to Cosmo and Wanda and Poof. Isn't that what you want?
He gulped down his last lingering doubts. "Let's do this."
"Brilliant!" Anti-Cosmo ducked under the table and returned with a coffee-stained document and a quill. "Just leave your signature at the bottom of this declaration."
Timmy took the sheet and skimmed over the clauses. "Wait a minute, it says they'll want to take my voice for the week. Why do they want my voice?"
"To prevent cheating."
"What kind of cheating?"
"They don't want you calling on your godparents and making wishes." Anti-Cosmo nonchalantly polished his monocle, as if he'd had to explain this a million times before. "If you did, you would simply be having other fairies solve your problems for you. It wouldn't be a true test of skill."
Timmy shrugged. "Makes sense, I guess. But I'll get my voice back at the end, right?"
"If you succeed."
He didn't like that tone. "When I succeed," Timmy corrected him, more for his own benefit than Anti-Cosmo's. He finished reading, took the pen that was offered to him and scrawled his name on the dotted line.
The paper folded itself up and dissolved into thin air before he could change his mind.
Anti-Cosmo mixed two potions together in a vial, one lime-green, one baby-pink, together forming something brown and cloudy. He pressed the concoction into Timmy's hand. "Drink this. All of it."
Timmy took a quick swig and handed the vial back, gasping at the way it burnt his mouth.
"Talk," he was ordered.
"Talk?"
"Yes, about yourself, about your friends, about anything you want. Hurry! The spell won't wait forever."
"Uh, my name is Timmy Turner, I'm ten years old…" He hesitated.
"Keep going!" Anti-Cosmo snapped.
"What? You want me to keep talking? Okay, uh, I live in Dimmsdale with my mom and dad, and my fairy godparents are Cosmo and Wanda, and they have a son called Poof, and they live in my goldfish bowl…"
He choked on his own words and spat out a thread. He gagged a little as this thread was followed by successive folds, a lilac ribbon spiralling away from him into Anti-Cosmo's hand.
A glittery yellow mist swirled around the boy's body and lifted him up. It burst outwards and dropped him again almost immediately after. He arched his back and winced as tiny insect wings were thrust from his shoulder blades, crackling as they came into existence. His head felt so light it could float off his body; patting his hair, he caught the points of the crown.
The transformation was complete.
But the most difficult stage was only just beginning.
…
Complete a two-million-piece jigsaw puzzle without assistance, either personal or magical.
That was his final task. For some reason. But Timmy, being his naïve simple-minded self, didn't question it. He didn't have time to question it. It was the last day of the deal and he needed to make up for falling behind earlier in the week.
He'd got up at the crack of dawn and found the perfect open space for the task: a meadow in Fairy World, devoid of obstacles except for a tree growing at one end. He scrutinised the picture on the deceptively-small box. He would be recreating a fairy's party scene, brimming with colour and energy, scattered with some familiar faces here and there. It was detailed. It was huge. It was nearly impossible.
I can do this before sunset. I have to do this before sunset.
He tipped out a mountain of pieces and began the daunting challenge of sorting the edges from the rest. Sky, cloud, sky, sky with bird, grass, nose, grass with foot…
Time passed. The sun rose and bore down on him, willing him to melt. His stomach protested against the lack of food and wouldn't stop; he ignored it and slotted a piece with part of Jorgen's biceps into its proper place.
Time passed. He found something that looked suspiciously like Cosmo's hair. He was then diverted, rummaging through the pile for the rest of Cosmo, and Wanda too. If nothing else, he had to make sure those two fairies were complete.
Time passed. He grew weary. He could barely keep his eyes open. His miniscule insect wings could barely support him. The shadow of the tree lengthened until it was obscuring half the picture. He wished the day could last for a month, a week, and then the jigsaw would be done.
Time passed. Timmy was desperate. He crammed a disembodied hand into a slice of cake, even though they clearly didn't fit together, because he was wild, because his heart was pounding, because he needed to do something, anything –
The sun dipped below the horizon.
It was over.
He briefly surveyed his full day's work.
The jigsaw was still only half-finished.
Timmy Turner had failed.
Anti-Cosmo arrived in a plume of filthy black smoke. He looked down on his new possession with cold green eyes. "Give up, boy."
Timmy did not halt his frantic hands. He still had a chance. It wasn't the end. It couldn't be.
"You're too late." The devil folded his arms. "Stop struggling on. It's no use."
The kid faltered, letting the pieces slip through his fingers.
Anti-Cosmo unsheathed his pitch-black wand and pointed the star-shaped tip at the quivering fairy. "You're mine, Timothy."
A stream of energy crashed into the youngster's head and knocked him over.
The world vanished until all Timmy could see was red. He doubled over in pain as the wings and crown were torn off. His skin shifted out of place, twisting and stretching like an elastic band. Tiny (but sharp) claws burst from his fingers and toes. He expelled a muted shriek and clutched his head as fangs jutted out beside his buck teeth. Giant boils erupted on his face.
When the ordeal ceased, Timmy dared to sit up and look at himself more closely. His skin was now a sickly grungy yellow. When he stroked his arm, it felt like sandpaper. No. This isn't happening. It's a dream. It's a nightmare. I'll wake up soon. I will.
Unfortunately, it wasn't, and he didn't.
He had mutated into something monstrous that night.
And Anti-Cosmo had been smiling the whole way through.
…
That was before, and this was after.
Following his light dreamless sleep, Timmy was jolted awake by his superior sliding out from under the covers and drawing the curtains around the bed. "Good morning, Timothy. Last night was absolutely marvellous."
Last night?
Then he remembered.
And he really wished he hadn't.
Timmy could not respond to Anti-Cosmo's statement. He lay on his back, the sheets wrapped tightly around him. He stared at the roof above the bed, still recovering from the torment. His pupils shrunk in fear, in the anticipation of further…
The elder one chuckled. "Was I too rough with you? You should have just said so." He cackled at his own cruel joke. "Still, I hope you've learned your lesson."
Timmy nodded. Stay away from Foop so he can't get me into trouble again.
The door was suddenly flung open, making him flinch. A female anti-fairy, with pink eyes and crooked teeth and bouffant hair and the same unusual shade of skin as her husband, presented a tray of what she clearly thought was food. "Howdy, partner!" Anti-Wanda drawled.
"Good morning, crumpet," was her husband's rather stiff reply.
"Ah made ya breakfast in bed!" She thrust the tray into Anti-Cosmo's lap. "Waffles an' eyeballs!"
In spite of the unusual ingredients rolling about on the plate, Timmy's stomach rumbled at the thought of waffles.
Anti-Cosmo noticed. "Oh, do you want some, too?" He skewered a large steaming waffle on his fork and held it out to Timmy. Sumptuous butter dribbled between the square holes. The boy licked his lips and reached for the treat.
The waffle was pulled back. "Say please!"
Timmy froze. He'd walked right into another trap. He bowed his head, unable to answer.
"No? More for me, then." Anti-Cosmo took a large bite and chewed very slowly, revelling in the torture he was inflicting on the lad, whose tummy was growling without end.
"Aw, don't be such a meanie! The boy needs food!" Anti-Wanda offered Timmy an eyeball. "There, sweetie. Git yerself somethin' in yer belly."
He obliged, popping the whole organ into his mouth, trying to ignore its gruesome origins out of respect for her. It had a sharp bitter taste, but it was something to eat, and he needed to be thankful for that.
"You spoil him, dear," Anti-Cosmo grumbled.
"Nah, Ah ain't spoilin' 'im. Yer jus' hurtin' 'im." She put her hands on her hips. "Why ya doin' that, huh?"
"A more pressing question is, why am I married to you?"
"Even Ah know that. 'Cause Cosmo married Wanda."
"Don't remind me."
"You asked, dingus! Now who's the stupid one?" Her eyeballs spun in two different directions. "Speakin' o' stupid one, Ah gotta go soon."
"Ah, yes." Anti-Cosmo swept up the last dregs of butter. "I almost forgot about Scrutiny Day."
Anti-Wanda peered round at Timmy's puzzled face. "Ya never heard of it? It's an inspection. They git some random anti-fairies tuh meet their counter – counter – whatever you call 'em – counterparts! That's it! They meet us an' make sure we's all behavin'." She tugged her husband out of bed by one of his pointy ears. "An' you, sir, gotta git yer poor wife tuh th'Anti-Fairy Council buildin' 'fore she gits a black mark 'fore she's even beginned."
"Begun," Anti-Cosmo corrected her with a groan.
"Well, 'scuse me! Ya know I ain't a linguist!"
"And you should know that I'm not a patient man. Can't you find your own way there? You're moronic, yes, but not that moronic. Begone and sort yourself out while I prepare for today's many meetings!"
"You an' yer meetin's!"
"They're very important meetings, I'll have you know. With our greatest enemy virtually incapacitated," he explained, ruffling Timmy's hair with a sickening smile, "nothing can stop us taking over the world!" He swept past his wife and left the room, leaving behind the echoes from his evil laughter.
Anti-Wanda giggled. "He's so cute when he's plottin'." She flew to Timmy's side. "Jus' ignore that other stuff. Ah think he's stressed. He don't mean nothin' by it."
Without warning, Timmy wrapped his arms around her. His eyes were pricking, and he wished they weren't.
"What's wrong, buddy?"
There was no reply.
"Ah can't help ya if ya don't use yer words."
Timmy's anguish would be fairly hard to describe even if he did have a voice. He knew that anti-fairies were the opposite of fairies. So if Anti-Wanda was being kind to him, it surely meant the real Wanda hated his guts. But why? Because he'd disappeared without telling her why? Because she'd somehow heard about the plan and knew how dangerous and irresponsible it was and couldn't believe he really went through with it?
Actually, he'd answered his own question.
Then again, Timmy knew how frightening Wanda could be when she was slighted. When they found Vicky's diary and read the passage in which she called Wanda a "fat pink squirrel", the godmother was itching to set a gang of ruffians and thugs on the babysitter. So if Wanda could be mostly supportive with moments of ferocity, maybe it made Anti-Wanda mischievous with moments of kindness. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to believe that.
Likewise, Cosmo was an idiot with flashes of genius, so perhaps Anti-Cosmo was really a genius with flashes of idiocy. And one of those flashes would be a great time to make his getaway.
A flicker of hope danced in Timmy's mind, the only light in this gloomy situation. He released Anti-Wanda and smiled at her.
"Did Ah make it better?"
He nodded.
But the return of a now-fully-dressed Anti-Cosmo threatened to undo it all in less than a second.
"Are you still here?" he asked his wife.
"Y'all have a nice day, too," she hit back.
He grudgingly left a peck on her forehead. "Remember, Anti-Wanda, do not say a word about Timothy."
"Gotcha."
"I mean it. No-one must know we have him."
"Okay, okay! Ah ain't gonna say nothin'!" She disappeared in a flurry of navy fairy dust.
Anti-Cosmo and Timmy were alone together. The tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife.
"I bring news of Cosmo and Wanda."
Timmy leapt out of bed.
"Do you remember the clone of you I sent down to Earth while you were trying, and failing," he added with a smirk, "to complete all those tasks? It turns out he was much less well-behaved than you are. Over-wishing, insolence, physical abuse … Cosmo and Wanda were run ragged under his dictatorship."
Timmy's stomach lurched. Don't tell me…
"They quit, Timothy. They don't want to be your fairy godparents anymore. They don't want anything to do with you."
So they really did hate his guts. And it was all Anti-Cosmo's fault for not conjuring a better clone.
No. It's my fault. I didn't think. I never think.
Somewhere, in the distance, a grandfather clock chimed.
"Ah-ha! Time to depart." A shiny briefcase appeared in Anti-Cosmo's hand. "You've been up all night, so I'll grant you a short lie-in." He kissed a boil on Timmy's cheek. "But you must be ready to attend on Foop by eleven o'clock. He's always a little troublesome in the middle of the day." He left Timmy with the image of his passive-aggressive toothy grin burnt into his memory.
Timmy wanted Cosmo and Wanda. He needed Cosmo and Wanda. But they weren't coming; he knew that now. They would think of him and see a brat, a tyrant, a thug. Oh, how much worse it would be if they knew what he'd really done, what he'd been through as a punishment, how badly he'd been soiled…
He clutched his stomach, panting, barely holding back the vomit. Last night was, without a doubt, the worst night of his life. He was like a flower whose petals had been stripped by a girl singing, "He loves me, he loves me not." He had been emptied of all that was made of light and goodness, and Anti-Cosmo had replaced it with shaking trembling fear, sticky murky disgust, suffocating heavy sadness – things that do not belong inside a ten-year-old boy.
And then a question was raised, a question so horrific it made his flesh crawl. Could he – could he get pregnant from that?
He shoved the thought into the furthest corner of his mind. It was only the fairies who made the men carry the babies. Anti-fairy pregnancy worked in the same way as human pregnancy. So two men couldn't have a child, not like this. And wasn't he still too young?
But the thought was still there. It returned, begging to be listened to, begging to make him anxious. He couldn't let it go.
I have to get out while I still can.
He ran. He ran along the hallways, down the stairs, past the portraits that seemed to watched him wherever he went, chasing down the exit.
The drawbridge! It was open! Yes, the purple path leading away from the castle was covered in giant silver thorns, but so what? It was freedom! Timmy picked up speed, ready to feel the fresh air on his body –
He slammed into a wall.
He stumbled back and fell to the floor. What the heck was that? He stood and stretched his hands out. They pressed against an invisible barrier, which started to glow white and hum the more they tried to break through.
There had to be another way. Flitting from draughty chamber to draughty chamber, Timmy tried a window, then another, then another. Every time, the result was the same: he reached a limit that forbade him from going any further.
Anti-Cosmo had erected a force field around the fortress. He had anticipated Timmy's next move before Timmy knew he would make it. He truly was an evil genius.
What now? The kid could hardly cry for help.
Unless…
Back in the bedroom, Timmy flung open the drawers in Anti-Cosmo's mahogany desk, searching for paper. He grabbed a quill and scribbled a letter – with difficulty, because he wasn't used to writing with a feather.
Cosmo, Wanda,
I'm sure you both hate me now, but I hope you get this message because I need you. I'm scared. I'm scared of what I've turned into. I'm scared of being alone. But most of all, I'm scared of Anti-Cosmo. I'm stuck in his castle and I can't get out and he's horrible to me. He makes me feel dirty and small. I don't know what bad thing he's going to do to me next and it terrifies me and I hate it! I want to go home. I want to be an average kid again and not this beast. I want you guys back. I'm sorry I was so stupid. I wish you were here. I wish there was something you could do to save me. I wish you would forgive me.
Timmy
He wrenched open a barred window and stuck his hand out as far as he could. He let go of the piece of paper and watched it dancing on the wind, twirling to and fro, zigzagging across the sky.
It snagged on a curl of barbed wire.
He held his breath.
It broke free. It disappeared behind an angry blood-red cloud.
All he could do now was wait for them to come.
He'd been offered a lie-in, but he couldn't face the bed, not after what had happened there last night. Lying on the bear rug, all alone, Timmy had plenty of time to reflect on his many, many, many mistakes.
How could he leave? He rolled over in a huff. Getting past the magical force field and the barbed wire surrounding Anti-Fairy World (and possibly a dozen other booby traps) would be bad enough, but wherever he went, his captor was sure to follow him, breathing down his neck, reminding him that he would never be safe. If he were a raindrop, he could fall into the ocean and never be found again; sadly, life would not be so simple. It was a valuable lesson he had learnt from having fairy godparents: nothing is ever as easy as it should be.
And what about those godparents? What about Cosmo and Wanda and Poof? Timmy had no idea where his fairy family could be found and had little confidence in his letter reaching them. They probably wouldn't even want to see him, let alone help him out of this predicament. If they quitted after a week of being taken for granted, how badly would they react to the knowledge that their godson had been so desperate not to lose them that he had made a deal with one of the most devious anti-fairies in existence?
Timmy buried his ugly face in the rug to catch his tears. He had tried to cling on to the past, and in the process he had thrown away his future. From now until eternity, he was completely at Anti-Cosmo's mercy, a toy in his grip, to be pushed and pulled this way and that, with no hope of release.
He wept and wept, but his sobs were silent. No-one could hear him, and no-one came to rescue him.