Ok, I haven't written a multi-chapter fanfic in forever. And I kind of doubt I'm going to finish this. But I'm going to try. Updates every Wednesday and possibly Friday, idk. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this post-QoN fic about forty-year-old Carden being angsty.

The smell of rain is the first thing that greets me when I land in the mortal world.

Not the fearless, exciting smell of rain at midnight.

The ugly, angry smell of rain and smoke.

Puddles cover the streets, and the sky is painted a merciless gray with dark clouds drifting in and out. I trek through the foreboding streets of the moral city Jude's sister, Vivienne, has made her home. I have glamoured the tops of my ears and changed into the mortal clothing Jude bought me forever ago. But unlike every other time I have entered the mortal world, I am alone. I am not going to Vivienne's apartment either.

Instead, I am going somewhere I am already feeling guilty about going. Somewhere stones sit in my stomach just for thinking of it.

Jude will kill me if she finds out. Probably literally. It will be well deserved.

All the same, I have shed the clothes of the High King of Elfhame, snuck out of the palace, and turned weeds into a flying steed to get where I am going.

Because despite the stones in my stomach and the guilt I feel in every inch of my being, I have to do this.

Suddenly, a group of women intercede my path, giggling and drunk. They look a few years younger than me, but I doubt she knows that. I may be forty, but I look no older than thirty. We all do. Well, except…

"Hello, pretty boy," A blond throws herself at me, her hand on my chest. "Where have you been?"

Inwardly, I groan. I am long past my years of flirting shamelessly with every person I meet. Even if they are drunk and attractive as hell. I carefully step away from the woman, saying,

"Sorry, ma'am, I'm busy right now."

The woman chortles. "Maybe later then?"

Why is it that whenever you really need Jude, you absolutely cannot ask for her help?

I sidestep the group of women and walk swiftly toward what Jude calls "Main street", grabbing a fist full of leaves as I do so. This street is full of shops and people, and I must become nimble to not get lost in the storm of it all. I stop at a curve and wait.

A yellow car. I need a yellow car. That is how we reach the strange vacation house Vivienne and her wife, Heather, rent every year for the family.

Finally, I see a streak of mustard yellow make its way down the road. I stick out my hand, the way Jude always does, and yell,

"Taxi!"

Minutes later I am handing a man my glamoured 'American' dollars, sliding into the leather seat of the taxi, and attempting to seem as normal as possible.

"Where do you wanna go?" The driver drawls, his hands barely on what Taryn has explained is a "steering wheel".

The stones in my stomach transform into boulders. I was really doing this. "Sycamore Summer Camp, it's outside the city a little, I think."

"Yeah, I know it," The driver nods, tapping the screen of a strange glowing little box. "Let me just plug it into my GPS."

Sycamore Summer Camp is in full swing in mid-August, from the little cabins full of naughty little children to the counselors that are ready for the summer to be over, to the activities that aren't nearly as fun as the brochure says they are. I'd never been there before, but I'd learned of the place bit by bit every time Jude's family and I visited Vivienne. They would bring it up, mostly to poke fun at the place and one of the people who now worked there. Once, Heather had pulled up what she called the camp's "website" and Taryn and Jude roared with laughter.

The second I step off the taxi, I regret not wearing my regular boots. The sneakers Jude bought me are only for show and are not made for the post-rain mud that now covers the Camp.

"Can I help you?" A young man approaches me, no older than twenty. He's strong and heavily tanned, and if he were an elf I'd tell him to join the army. "What's your name, man?"

I'm not a man. But no matter.

"I'm Carden," I say, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. "I'm looking to talk to someone who works here?"

"Oh yeah, and who would that be?"

I'm going to regret this for the rest of my life.

"Madoc."