Fairy tales were not made to be pretty. Cinderella did not marry her prince before her sisters slashed off parts of their feet to fit into the slipper; Little Red Riding Hood was swallowed by the wolf before the lumberjack cut her out of its stomach. The stories are meant to be lessons, warnings to the children who read them. The same is true here. And yet, this is not an average tale.
After all, Antonio was not a prince. He didn't retain a large tract of land, didn't live in a castle. He bossed no servants, lorded over no riches, fed himself on no feasts. In fact, Antonio lived in a very small house, owned by the noble that claimed the land, which in turn belonged to the monarch of the kingdom.
No, see, the place Antonio where lived was tiny and held two rooms. One side had a meager table with four chairs (two room which didn't match the others) and a small fireplace, and the other was reserved for three small cots and a chest at the foot of each of them. He lived there with his two best friends, all three of them having fallen on hard times.
Antonio, in short, wasn't happy with those conditions. Not many people would be. The only solace he could find was that the other two had jobs and so were gone much of the day, and while he didn't have one, he did have the task of getting them food. For it, the fourth, unneeded chair was stationed in the corner and was where he now sat, sharpening the tips to his arrows he would take soon to hunt. The motions were concise and controlled, the only noise the crackling of the fire and the glide of stone over metal. And, unfortunately, the rumblings of his stomach. The forest had brought no luck to him for the past three days and they only had enough money to make flour cakes.
If he had a choice, Antonio would set them all up with their own house. They didn't have to be big, no, but something that could sustain them, and that they could always have at least a small bit of money to run off of from there. Alas, it was not his choice, and so he kept sharpening, bow leaning against his other thigh.
Before long, he heard the telltale sounds of life from inside the other room. The familiar voices of his companions was a tune he was accustomed to- after all, no matter how surprising, he was the one who usually woke first. First came Francis, his blonde hair a mess atop his head, but his eyes bright and ready for the day.
He came over and ruffled Antonio's hair affectionately. "Morning, Toni," he beamed, an ever present sweetness in his voice. No matter how bad things got, he always seemed willing to cheer them all up, telling stories of when he had been rich, filling their heads with dreams of gallantry and a life of ease. That wasn't going to come, of course, but he didn't give up giving them hope. "What's for breakfast?"
The Spaniard let him play with his hair for a second before shaking his head. "Nothing you'd like. Cakes again, like usual." His lips twitched up when he heard the resulting groan, not phased in the slightest. It wasn't like this morning was any different than any other. Antonio watched for a moment as Francis readied a mixture of flour and oil, then began to heat a pan on which to cook them. The only grace Antonio could find was that the blonde had a small stack of spices beside the hearth, and while the cakes were sometimes still hard to swallow, they went down a lot easier with that tiny bit of taste.
It was another few moments before Gilbert came stumbling out. Antonio only needed one look at the man's ruffled hair, careful steps, and the hand pressed to his head to know exactly how he had gone to bed. A frown took away his contented look. "Gil," he said accusingly, staring at him. "You came home drunk, didn't you?"
The albino scoffed at him, but not very loudly. "Of course I did. What the hell do you expect? If we're stuck in this heaven forsaken hellhole we might as well eat, drink, and be merry about it. I'm sure you'll manage to get something for us to eat to complete that circle." He seemed undeterred by Antonio's disapproval, tugging down his light red tunic.
It was only by grace that the three of them didn't have to wear brown rucksack like most of the other peasants; a lucky couple of weeks had led to them getting a small amount of dye. While their pants remained the normal brown, and their boots varying color only because of the different feet in them, each managed to have a separate color tunic. Gilbert's was red, Francis blue, and Antonio green. Francis' ties that held the neckline closed was always very loose, Antonio wore a small cross made by Gilbert around his neck, and the albino himself seemed to have a permanent litany of bruises peeking out from the hem from his frequent bar fights. Those were pretty much the only variations in their clothes one to another. In a word, being so poor was disgusting.
"Mon dieu. How are we supposed to save our money for a better home or for food when you keep spending it all on alcohol?" Francis accused, turning to wave a finger at him. The tension began to grow between the three of them, something that happened very frequently, but luckily usually never got out of hand. "I would like to eat something more than this meager little thing!" He shook the bowl before pouring it onto the little skillet, making three circles.
Gilbert rolled his eyes, plopping down into one of the two matching chairs. "We've been living in this little hovel for over two years now, and plus, we have that stupid fucking creep up on the hill lording over us and making us pay him monthly."
Antonio spoke up then. "That was your own fault. If you had minded your own business, and maybe not been drunk, we wouldn't be trying to pay back a burned down stable. We're very lucky that we were not all three strung up for that stunt." Gilbert didn't reply, settling instead for grumbling to himself and using the ladle settled in the bucket of clean water on the table to take a drink. Antonio didn't envy the man; he must have drunk more than just a little to induce such a quiet morning.
"Strung up? You really think that yellow belly would have us strung up? The idiot can't stand the sight of an animal being by itself, and you really think he'd off us?"
"No. But I do think that if he had reported it to the king, then we definitely would be dead right now."
Gilbert glanced at him, scoffed a little, but didn't deny it. Francis kept his mouth shut, not even having the grace to interrupt. After all, they all knew he was right. Had word reached the king only a city away, there would have been a guaranteed death- whether that was just Gilbert or all three of them, bloodshed would have been the only outcome.
Silence pervaded then, only interrupted by the soft licking of flames on wood, the sizzle of the cooking cakes, and the rhythmic thumping of Antonio fitting the arrowheads onto the sticks he had whittled. Minutes passed before Francis turned from the hearth. He held the skillet in one hand and a small bundle of plates in the other, spreading them out on the table. A little shake of the pan for each person awarded a single cake onto each plate. Gilbert grabbed the stack of plates by the pail and set them out, doing his job of pouring the water in each. They couldn't even afford milk for their breakfast. It was embarrassing, really, but considering they didn't exactly have much correspondence with anyone else- at least in the sense to be friends with them- it wasn't a surprise that they were going without even charity.
"Antonio, mon cher, put those things down and come eat," Francis coaxed, pushing the former's plate a little closer to his side. There was a worried crinkle in his brow, gentle eyes not swaying from his friend.
Antonio, however, waved a hand. He ran the file down the metal tip of the arrow (having metal instead of wood was one of the few graces he could glean from flirting with the blacksmith's sister) one more time before standing. Each arrow was fit into a material sling, that of which was pulled onto his shoulder. The bow, a beautiful thing carved of red oak, went over his head and under an arm, settling nicely against his side. "No, no! You two split that. If I make a catch today, I'll take a portion and a half when we cook it. Sounds good, sì?"
Francis didn't look happy about that, but sighed. They might have been friends, but all of them were stubborn; once their mind was set on something, they couldn't easily be persuaded. "Alright," he nodded. "If you really want to do that, then I can't stop you." Stepping over to him, the blonde patted his cheek. "Come home safely."
"Yeah!" Gilbert chimed in, putting a hand in front of his lips to hide the mouthful of food he'd already tore from the cake, trying to be semi polite. "Come home quickly!"
Antonio only gave a laugh as he slipped out the door, the beginnings of dawn illuminating the sky in brilliant pinks and reds, blooming over the walls that surrounded the village. The town was just barely waking up, and so he had no problems slipping through the contorted, winding streets and to the gates. The guards there had no problem letting him through, used to his daily coming and going, and in just a few strides he transitioned from hard working, sweat drenched air, to a luscious green, peaceful atmosphere.
The sweet aroma of the trees filled his lungs as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, before starting along a narrow, foot trampled path, ready to start hunting.
The sun was high in the sky before Antonio had any luck. The sweltering heat was driving any sane creature into shadows and burrows and the protecting leaves of trees, leaving almost no trace behind for him to follow. Even so, he was very skilled after all this time. That shred of opportunity was all he needed, and though sweat was dripping down his back by the time he found it, he managed to discover fresh tracks from a deer. Without a thought, he began to follow the hoofprints.
It crossed his mind for a moment that technically, if he caught the deer, it could be construed as poaching. After all, it had been about mid morning that he had crossed the ravine that separated public lands from Royal lands. It wasn't the first time he had done this before, however, knowing the king didn't very often hunt in this particular section of woods. Why? He didn't know. Did he care? Not really.
The gentle scent of the forest and the morning dew had turned more rotting as the day had wore on, a natural smell of the forest breaking down what was dead and dying beneath its leaves in order to found new life. The longer Antonio followed the trail, the more prominent it became, until all of a sudden, he stepped across a line of mushrooms, and it was just… Gone. It was as though the stench had never been present in the first place. Not only that, but his ears tuned in to the sound of rushing water, as though from a heavy river.
This was strange. Antonio couldn't remember ever finding an area like this before in all his other excursions to this side of the forest. The colors of the leaves, the ferns, the occasional blossoms seemed more brilliant now, purer almost. A strange feeling descended upon him like a cloak; he was not meant to witness whatever lay beyond that line. Nevertheless, Antonio was Antonio, and he pushed forward anyway, curious, the deer (and the sudden disappearance of its tracks) forgotten.
The light was at first brighter than the rest of the woods, but the further he went towards the sound of the water, the darker it became. No gloom was cast upon the world for it though; it was more like candles being snuffed out one by one as a prelude to a warm summer night. The darkness didn't reach that of the night, but the Spaniard could have sworn it was late afternoon instead of midday.
Each step he took brought him closer and closer to the sound of water. It grew until he was certain he was perhaps thirty feet away, and that was when he heard the singing. Soft, gentle tones floated through the air, a voice contorted into sounds and words he could never hope to understand. The melody, lilting and lifting and dropping, was enchanting, beckoning him closer. Something about it hinted at danger, but Antonio paid no mind.
Finally, finally, he reached the last line of trees. As quietly as he could, employing the same tactics as normally used when stalking prey, he pressed his chest to a thick trunk and peered around it. What Antonio saw was nothing short of shocking.
A river, rich and full and sparkling with crystal clear water cut a path through the earth in a place Antonio never saw recorded on any maps. Crimson bell top flowers bloomed around the banks, crooked over the water, swaying gently in the soft breeze. But that wasn't what had Antonio frozen, eyes glued to one spot, his fingers digging into the bark of the tree.
Naught but perhaps fifteen feet away was a man kneeling by the river. No- not a man. A fairy. With green, tight leggings, a flowing shirt that was belted at the waist and the sleeves sewed tight around the wrists to prevent the billowing fabric from slipping off his hands, and a silver necklace dangling from his throat, the fairy was beautiful. The shirt was cut with slits in the back where two pairs of wings sprouted from. They were huge, Persian blue and shaped like those from a swallowtail butterfly. Black created a thick rim around the edges of the wings and made a latticework through the membrane. Antonio hardly blinked and was glad he didn't; the fairy bent forward towards the stream, and the blue turned azure, shimmering its change in the dappled sunlight from the canopy.
It was with considerable effort that he forced his gaze away from those beautiful things. The fairy's skin was darker than most at the town, but still lighter than Antonio's own, and his hair was shiny, seeming almost tinged red at times depending on how much light touched it. A funny little curl bobbed up from one side. It prompted a tiny smile from Antonio.
The fairy's hands, which had been dipped in the water, raised. Instead of them cupped, however, they were separated, a bubble of water suspended between his palms. It was pressed to the creature's lips and he drank, seemingly pleased by the rich quality of the river.
His ears were pointed slightly. They were not so exaggerated as Antonio remembered his mother speaking of them as, but then again, she had told of fairies that fit between fingers, that used thread spools for tables and thimbles for chairs. This fairy… He was as large as any normal human, completely at ease with his surroundings. It was a beautiful sight…
But now Antonio had a choice.
A sick feeling sunk into his stomach as he realized the decision that had to be made here. Fairy wings- if he had a way to take them from this creature and take them to the king, he and his friends would immediately jump straight to noble status. The process would not be hard. Much of a fairy's magic was stored in those wings, and there were only two ways to preserve that magic away from the creature itself.
The first option was ghastly. The fairy had to live through the whole procedure, strapped down, a saw taken to the appendages. Antonio had not heard of any living more than a day without them. He also was very sure he would never use that method.
The second was better, but not by much. Still, the fairy had to live, but this way was much easier, if only for the person taking away the wings all Antonio needed to do, in theory, was find a hemlock plant, incapacitate or trap the fairy, make them drink or eat something stained with the poison, and then cut off the wings once paralysis had set in. The fairy would still be conscious, completely aware of what would be happening- but there would be no struggle, as death would come soon after the removal of the wings, not hours later due to infections, trauma, or exhaustion.
Antonio knew these things. Hell, a neighboring noble had gone through the second option- that was why he was a noble in the first place. Knees feeling weak, he bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough that he could taste copper on his tongue. He only had one chance here, one decision, and despite the way a brick of ice had settled in his stomach, he knew what he needed to do for the good of himself, Francis, and Gilbert.
Antonio was not one for senseless killing, but he had to do what he had to do. As silently as before, he drew away from the tree, and reached for an arrow from the sling on his back. He wasn't going to waste his opportunity.