A/N: Warnings - Prisoner of war in the beginning, mentions of starvation, beauty-and-the-beast style entrapment etc. Oh, and swearing! That being said, it's not actually too dark, which surprised me! I hope you enjoy it! And this was written for the A-to-Z-of-AU's over on AO3, so I'll post it there too!
Wars are fought and won with love / I'm undoing love like a button-up blouse / Slipping it off your shoulders and mine / Letting war fall to the ground
i.
Red dust filled the air.
It was lazy, almost, the way it moved. Mesmerising, the way it danced like it had nothing better to do. Great plumes of it whirled and spun like a drunken ballerina, graceful only by memory. The ground was soft like soot, but he knew that it was red too. It shifted like sand beneath his feet, threatening to give way.
But it was his knees that gave way instead. The noise tore from his throat, a silent scream, something ripped right out of his soul. Blackness blotted his vision. He blinked once, twice, slick fingers grasping at the ground, and finally fell all the way forward.
A pair of boots entered his blurred vision. He could hear low-pitched chanting, an almost mangled set of words that fell down on him softly, like snow. Something rose in his throat, and his eyes fluttered closed. It was the last thing he heard before he sank into a dream that was redder than the dust in the sky.
ii.
The walls were all made of stone. Cold, dry stone that never dampened with condensation. Cracks appeared every now and again, little slits in the magic that held him captive. But deadly nightshade unfurled from the black spaces, filling the air with a sweet, deceptive aroma.
There was no door in the stone cell, but faeires came to visit him anyway.
They never laid a finger on him. They didn't beat him black and blue the way the stories suggested they would. The shackles on his wrists and ankles were stronger than iron, and he couldn't move away from the platters they offered him. Sweet meats and fresh, ripe fruit had his mouth watering, but he turned his head achingly away. It didn't stop them trying to tempt him. His stomach gurgled in protest when they swept the flaky pastries stuffed with creamy sauces and rich fish out of the room, only to groan when they brought in dishes of light, fluffy meringue, drizzled with lemon.
James leaned against the cell wall, sleeping fitfully. It wasn't the hunger that worried him. A dry rasp crept up his throat and left his mind buzzing with desperate thirst. It grew harder and harder to ignore. There was no telling how long he'd been in the cell for, how long his body had gone without water, but the more he thought about it, the more it felt like it'd been years since he last drank something.
iii.
Three days. James lasted three days before he opened his mouth and drank deeply from the offered goblet. Icy cold water flooded his parched throat. He would have cried if he weren't so dehydrated. It welled up in his chest anyway, tight and painful.
The fae smiled down at him. Not with malice, but with polite satisfaction, as though there'd never been a doubt in his mind that James would cave.
He ate the bread and berries they brought him too. It was already too late.
iv.
When he woke next, there were no stone walls keeping him prisoner, no chains pulled tight around his wrists, and his cheek was pillowed on something soft. He sat up slowly and took in the room. The bed beneath him was a four-poster, plush and dressed in thick quilts. Heavy drapes were peeled back to reveal an oval-shaped room full of empty shelves and oak furniture.
"You're finally awake."
James tensed. He reached for his belt, but it wasn't there. Someone had dressed him in airy cotton clothes, simple and plain.
"We took the liberty of liberating you of your weapons," said the voice.
James flung himself from the bed, aiming for the corner. Someone rose from a chair, quick as a flash, and caught James's fists before they could land. He struggled for a moment, knees trembling.
"It's been a while since you've eaten," the fae said, arching an eyebrow. "Even so, this is pathetic."
"Who the fuck are you?" James demanded.
"Regulus."
The name was given so easily that James floundered for a moment. He narrowed his eyes, not yet willing to lower his fists. The man had a wiry strength despite his slim frame, and he easily gripped James tight, keeping his arms aloft. He could feel his tremulous energy fading, shudders running through him.
"I thought fae weren't supposed to give out their names," James said. "Is this a trick?"
Regulus sighed, pushing him away. "You're weak. You need sustenance. I'll cook tonight, but don't imagine it'll be a regular thing."
And he turned and left, heading for the round door at the end of the room. He didn't produce a key or even shut it behind him, simply striding away. James stared at his back. An indignant sort of anger rushed through him, and he stumbled on unsteady legs until he reached the door. Regulus was not too far away, moving silently down a long, dark green hallway.
"You're just leaving me alone?" James called. "That's it? You kidnap me and curse me, and then you just leave me here alone? You didn't even shut the fucking door!"
Regulus paused at the end of the hallway, tilting his head to listen to the ranting and raving. When he peered over his shoulder, his eyes were brimming with a dark, bitter sort of understanding.
"Where are you going to go?"
The green hallway swallowed him up. James clung to the door-frame, frozen in his tracks, mouth still hanging open. He closed it and forced back the lump in his throat. He remembered the cool taste of water, the sharp tang of berries. He remembered feeling heavy and full under that amiable smile, under their watchful eyes. And then he remembered nothing more.
v.
"Never let yourself be captured by the fae," the commanders said. "They are as cunning as they are cruel. One sip of their water, one bite of their food, and you'll remain trapped in their lands forever. You may think you're strong enough to resist, but they will never stop trying to tempt you. They have ways of making you want to eat if mere starvation doesn't work. Better dead than caught."
vi.
The kitchens were not hard to find. The house itself was surprisingly small, just two floors and a handful of rooms, all joined together by the same winding green hallway. He followed a rich, smoky scent downstairs and ended up in a narrow kitchen filled with herbs and strings of garlic, a menagerie of brass pots and pans.
"I didn't expect you to get out of bed so soon," Regulus said, tending to something on the stove. "The last person I took in didn't come out for days. I had to slide a plate under the door. Perhaps you won't be as weak as I thought."
James glared at him darkly. He wondered if there was a way to break the curse, if it had to do with killing this fae. But of all the faces and smiles he'd seen in the stone cell, he couldn't remember one quite like this.
"Where am I?" James asked.
Regulus made a strange, garbled noise that tipped off his tongue like honey, slow and congealed.
"Come again?"
Regulus shook his head, fine dark hair shifting loosely with the motion. "Your pathetic human ears will adjust to the language soon. It translates to sweet below. Your kind calls it the Fae World, or the Lost Place."
"But where am I?" James insisted, frowning at the pale white walls, the window that looked out at more dark greenery. "It can't be a whole other world, surely. And if it is, then there have to be different towns, different places. What building am I even in? Why the hell am I with you of all people?"
"You talk too much."
James reached for the nearest thing-a glass vase holding a selection of plain white flowers-and launched it across the room. Regulus whipped around, but the vase shattered against the wall, raining glass and water over the stove. The aborted cry morphed into a rough snarl. Regulus brushed a slice of glass out of his hair and glared hatefully across the room, the first true bloom of emotion James had seen since he woke up.
"Break as much as you like," he said coolly. "It won't change anything."
"Forgive me if I want to take stock, if I have a few questions about what the rest of my damned life is going to look like." James reached for another weapon and came across a fish-slice, which made him grit his teeth but hold on tighter. "I don't give a shit what you think of me, if you think I'm a weak little human or doomed to die here, or whatever. I don't care if you were forced to take me in or if you did it out of the goodness of your pure little heart. I'm getting the fuck out of here."
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen. Regulus's low, muttered cursing followed him out, as did the sound of glass shards tinkling to the ground. He ignored it. He still had the fish-slice in hand, something he'd be more embarrassed about later when his heart had stopped beating so insanely. Fear and desperation drove him deeper into the house, passing a living room and a cramped study until he finally came upon a door that let in fresh air when he opened it.
The world bled purple. It rained down from the sky in drops, perfect spheres of violet liquid. Clouds blushed up above, and the ground was sodden, crowded with aconite. The house was on a hill, situated above everything else. Far against the horizon, so far from where he was, mountains encroached on a gleaming sea. Closer to home, a dirt path led down into a town woven from stone and trees.
James sat down in the dirt. His legs felt weak. He sat in the rain and cursed, using every swear word he knew and then some new ones. He clenched his fist in the mud, letting go of the utensil. He bit so harshly on his bottom lip that it bled.
"Normally people take a few days before coming outside," Regulus said, from behind him. James looked back to find him leaning against the door, just out of the rain's touch. His gaze was distant, fixed on the mountains, and his arms were crossed over his chest. "Seeing how wide this world is… some people can't handle it. It's an adjustment to make."
Something wry in his voice drew James's attention. He didn't bother wiping the tears away, frowning up at him.
"Were you taken too?"
Regulus shook his head, but didn't elaborate. There was definitely something there though, even if he wasn't inclined to share.
"There's a river around the edge of town," he said. "The terms of your capture, your specific curse, are tied to that river. No matter how much you try, you won't be able to cross over it. As big as this world is, you only really need to worry about what's outside the front door."
James was too exhausted to fully take it in, but he did laugh bitterly. "So it's not enough to imprison me in another world. You have to imprison me in a town too."
"As for me, I didn't take you in out of the goodness of my pure little heart," Regulus continued, as though James hadn't spoken. "I wasn't forced either. New fae are put to work almost immediately, so they don't fall prey to the urge to live in trees and eat dirt, or do despicable things. You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, but I was the only one in town with a job opening."
That plucked a dull thread of curiosity. James wasn't sure what kind of job Regulus had, but he was sure that he didn't want to be a part of it. He stared at him glassily, emotions ballooning into an airy, vacant sort of weight. There was too much to untangle. Too much to fade head-on. Maybe Regulus had a point about not coming out of his room for a while.
"Now, it's none of my business, but are you going to sit out here until you erode, or are you going to come in out of the rain?"
James got slowly to his feet, unsteady and covered in mud, and came in out of the rain.
vii.
The house was not just a house. It was also a shop. The door only appeared when Regulus murmured the right words in the right place. James stood behind him, watching as the red brick melted into oak panels. The handle was a little silver thing, barely larger than a button mushroom; Regulus touched it, but did not turn it.
"Before I let you in," Regulus said. "This is my life's work. I'd appreciate it if you didn't break anything."
James had broken a lot of things over the last few days. The window in his room was the first thing he smashed, right after the vase. The cushions were nothing but tatters, the curtains reduced to ribbons. One of the bedposts had given in under his fist, splintering cleanly, and he'd screamed himself hoarse.
He'd fallen asleep on the rug, exhausted, and when he woke up, the room was back to normal. Everything was fixed. Even the window gleamed mockingly at him, not a fracture in sight. The only thing that still held a hint of damage was his throat, and that more than anything compelled him not to try again.
"No promises," he said, instead of any of that.
Regulus narrowed his eyes. But he turned the handle and let James inside.
The first thing that hit him was how light it was. It fell through the tall glass windows in pools, illuminating the shelves crammed with trailing plants and blossoming flowers. An array of colours met his eye, and there were numerous plant pots stacked here and there. Regulus pushed past him, their shoulders barely brushing; it was enough to send a tiny shiver down James's spine.
"This isn't what I pictured you doing," James said, gazing around the shop.
"What did you picture?"
"I don't know, I figured you made a living eating babies or something. Floristry just seems so… mundane."
Regulus actually snorted, coughing to hide it.
"Yes, well. Eating babies doesn't pay very well, so I have to make do with cursed bouquets and lemon trees instead."
James hid his own reluctant laugh. He ducked behind the long dark counter and brought out a roll of brown paper, fiddling about with a black vintage-looking box as he did so.
"We keep all the money here," he said. "Make sure not to touch it. I used magic to make sure it only accepts my touch, and you won't like what happens if you get too close."
That was fine with James. The only thing he wanted to buy was a ticket to the surface, and that seemed highly unlikely.
It turned out that Regulus was not joking about the cursed bouquets. James stuck to the shadows or dithered in the back room when the fae came in to make requests, but he heard their words all the same.
A flower or two to make them feel blue. Something to blind them, something to bind them. Give me the sweetest, sickliest bouquet you have, so that they dream only of illness and decay.
Regulus didn't turn down any of the requests. He instructed James on how to cut the stems, how to keep the flowers fresh, which blooms paired well together. He gave him the materials to weave a wreath, and judged his resulting mess of thorns incredibly harshly, considering James didn't want to be here.
"You haven't taught me how to make curses yet," James said. "Don't you have orders piling up?"
Regulus peered at him over a sprig of morning glory. "Do you want to learn to curse people?"
Blinding and binding. Sickness and decay. Dreams and the colour blue.
"No," James said, slowly. "I can't say that I do."
The morning glory landed with its brothers, wrapped in plain brown paper. Regulus's hands were elegant, delicate, careful as they tied the twine tightly. Sunlight hit him strangely, reflecting off his silky hair, catching in the darkness of his eyes.
"Then you won't learn," he said, and that was that.
viii.
Every morning, James went to the river. It was a long walk, so he got up early and headed out without breakfast, determined to make it before the sun rose. The sky was usually a pearly orange by the time he reached the water's edge, skirting around the town in order to avoid any unwanted attention. He dipped his toe in, and then the rest of him, and then he set off as fast as he could, determined to cut through the swift current.
Every morning, James skulked back into the house, soaked from head to toe and scowling.
"You can't leave," Regulus said, as he piled fruit onto a plate. "You know that. You ate our food and drank from our streams, so you have to stay now."
James wrung his shirt out on the kitchen floor. "Do you think that's going to make me stop trying?"
"No, I don't think anything will make you stop. You'll die trying."
He said it airily, as though it was a fact. As though James's death was scratched in his infernal fucking calendar, just a few weeks away. A minor inconvenience. A bump in the road.
"I won't die at all," James said.
Maybe if he used the same tone, even death wouldn't challenge him.
Regulus handed him the plate of fruit and said nothing.
ix.
James hated to say it, but it was easier to settle into a routine than he liked. He never stopped walking to the river, never stopped trying to swim across. Regulus never asked him what he was doing, and never tried to talk him out of it. Idly, he wondered why he wasn't more angry with Regulus, but any thoughts that cropped up in response made him restless, uncomfortable.
He didn't want to get stuck here. A routine was one thing, but accepting his fate was another. He refused to become complacent.
"My weapons," he said, one morning over breakfast. "Do you have them?"
Regulus lowered his fork. He didn't look much like any fae James had ever seen, but the only fae he'd ever seen before his little trip down under were the illustrated kind. Sure, his teeth were a little sharper in a certain light, and his eyes were full of ever-blooming flowers, and there was a wickedness to his tone sometimes that took James by surprise. But his skin wasn't green and he didn't spew rot wherever he went, so the stories were definitely at least half wrong.
"I don't have them," Regulus said. "Why do you need them?"
"I want to practice," James said. "It's been a long time since I last swung a sword, and I don't want to get out of shape."
"With all the running away you do, it's hard to imagine you getting out of shape."
There was a brief moment where James felt himself being looked at, not with disdain or dislike, but with interest. It was subtle, barely noticeable in the hollows of Regulus's eyes, but he saw it nonetheless. A flicker of attraction.
James licked his lips. "Maybe," he said. "But I'd like to practice anyway. You let me use a knife in the shop to cut the flower stems."
"There's a bit of a difference between a knife and a sword, don't you agree?"
"Only to someone who doesn't know what he's doing."
Regulus paused, glancing at him. Their gaze broke after a moment, and James felt a frisson of heat down his back at the flush he saw on Regulus's face. But he pushed it down. It wouldn't do to feel anything other than disinterest in the person keeping him captive.
"Fine," Regulus said quietly, after a moment. "I'll see what I can do."
He went back to eating, thumbing through a herbology book at the same time. He studiously didn't meet James's gaze again, and James didn't meet his. He wasn't interested, he told himself. He couldn't be interested. It didn't matter if embers burned in his chest, threatening to catch it all alight like a forest of paper bones; the only choice he had was to snuff them out.
x.
Embers caught on fire quickly.
James noticed, more and more, how Regulus hovered around him. Never quite touching, but each touch that landed lingered. He cooked for him despite saying that he wouldn't. His humour was dry and a touch dark, but occasionally he would laugh at something James said. He couldn't find James's sword, and the Seelie King wasn't taking visitors, so he paid for a new one to be made.
"It's made from Silk Steel," he said, leaning against the door. "Perfectly balanced, I'm told, although it might take a while to get used to it."
James stood on the garden path under the pale sun, and swung the sword. It was so light that it felt like hollow wood, but the metal glinted painfully brightly. It cut silently through the air.
"Silk Steel," James repeated. "I've never heard of it."
"It's rare. It's to your liking?"
"It's beautiful," James admitted. "What's the price?"
"Already paid for."
"Not for whoever made it. What do you want in exchange?"
Regulus tilted his head. Whether he could see the fast beat of James's pulse at his throat, or if something simply tipped him off, James didn't know. But he bowed his head a little and then backed away into the house.
"I have some boxes that need lifting in the store," he said. "And you'll cook for the next few nights."
James did not have time to answer before Regulus was gone, vanished into the shadows of his own dark hallways. He felt a little guilty, glancing down at the flat of his blade. Regulus had done something nice for him with no ulterior motive in mind, all to make him feel safer in this world, and James had demanded not to owe him in return.
But the guilt resolved itself into something tougher, stronger. He regretted hurting Regulus, but he had never planned to stay.
The sword was only the first step on the road home.
xi.
James had learned many things about the Fae World, or the sweet below. The rain here always fell in perfect spheres, all the same size. The name thing was outdated information, and Fae gave out names, true or otherwise, freely and without fear. And when the sun shone, it shone with a vengeance, burning and bright.
He swung his sword in a practiced arc and jabbed forward, moving his feet in time to an invisible drumbeat. Sweat soaked him; the sun was fierce today, beating down on the back of his neck. His shirt was sticking to his skin, and he plucked it at the hem, trying to get some air.
A cough came from the doorway. He glanced up in time to see Regulus glance away, face burning. Part of him wanted to saunter forward, to smile a cocksure grin and see how far down that blush went. But that was exactly the sort of thing that was making it hard to focus on leaving, so he remained rooted to the spot.
"You asked for books and maps," Regulus said. "I have some in the store when you're done."
He was gone before James could say anything. He huffed with amusement, pulling his shirt off and sheathing the sword. The maps and books could wait until he'd sluiced all the sweat off him; it would give them both time to calm down too, which couldn't hurt.
Regulus was dealing with a customer when James came through the door of the shop. The fae had a willowy figure and straight hair the colour of wheat. They looked up in keen interest when James halted in his tracks, and their mouth split in a hungry smile.
"Hello," they said, in a hauntingly sweet voice. "You're the new apprentice?" They licked their lips, eyeing him up and down. "You'll have to let me borrow him for some of my own work."
Before James could open his mouth, Regulus glided around the counter, one palm held up in a furious supplication. The Fae scrambled backward. A choking noise left them, barely audible over Regulus's low-pitched voice. Black petals tumbled from their mouth, clogging their throat; they backed into the door and fell right through it, landing in the grass. The door swung shut again before James could see if they got back up.
The shop fell silent. Regulus lowered his palm.
"I know that voice," James said. "The chant. I remember that."
"James," he said, turning slowly on his heel. "I…"
"It was you," he said.
Regulus grimaced. Guilt and regret rose up in his eyes. But in the next breath, his face was blank, clear of all expression.
"Yes," he said.
"You brought me here," James said slowly. "You were the one I saw up there, on the battlefield. You're the reason I'm trapped down here."
"You were the one that marched on our borders," Regulus said, although he looked frustrated with his own words. "You came to rinse us of this land, to rid both worlds of our presence."
"Because you kept stealing children!"
"Yes, we did. And we'll keep stealing children. We'll steal children and play tricks and poison people, and when war rises up on our borders, we'll rise to meet it. That's the way things are."
"But why?"
"I can't give you an explanation or an excuse." Regulus shrugged, averting his gaze. "We're dark creatures in the eyes of most, and it's like that for a reason. We earned our reputation fairly. You won't find many apologies here."
James made an ugly sound and turned away. He left Regulus in his shop, surrounded by wilting flowers, and went back to his room. The door didn't shut properly behind him, but if he turned around to do it, he was going to slam the thing until the hinges broke. He was tempted to smash everything in sight, but as much as it would be blisteringly satisfying to smash the windows and the bedpost and the cushions, it wouldn't do any good. It wouldn't fix anything.
He sat heavily on the ottoman at the end of the bed. His neck bowed almost automatically, lowering his head in his hands. He didn't cry; he felt too frustrated and empty to cry. It shouldn't really have made a difference if it was Regulus that brought him down at the battlefield or not, considering he'd been trapped here with him the whole time, but it did. More than anything, the fact that he'd lied about it hurt.
"Was it all a lie?" he muttered.
"No."
James tensed. He didn't look up, keeping his eyes on his boots. Regulus's footsteps made little noise on the floorboards, but James felt it when he settled on the ottoman, there at his side.
"I was there," Regulus said. "I fought against you in that battle. Most of us that were well and able were drafted into the war the moment it began. I may be a florist, but I know how to fight with more than flowers."
James waited for more. That wasn't too dissimilar to his own experience, although he wondered how the Fae trained their soldiers, if they beat them for slacking or cast them aside the moment they showed the slightest hint of fear.
"The red dust you saw was part of an experiment. The Seelie King ordered that we were to take as many warriors alive as possible. I spent weeks working with the others to make flowers that exploded upon contact with oxygen. We transported them to the surface in glass bell-jars. They were supposed to release a gas that would weaken any human who came into contact with it. But it didn't work."
"What do you mean? Obviously it worked, or I wouldn't be here."
"No, it didn't. It killed some instantly, and the others all fled, crazed but not weak. You were the only one that had an expected reaction to the dust. But it still didn't stop you from trying to fight. You were the last one on the battlefield, the last one standing." Regulus looked at his feet, frowning. "I watched you. I found you quite captivating. And then, when you finally fell, I walked up to you and brought you back to sweet below. It was either that or let the others kill you. Do you know what you kept muttering, even when you were unconscious?"
James shook his head. The whole thing was a blur of red dust and black blots.
"Better dead than caught."
The words sunk in. Regulus's expression was grim, his eyes glittering. And James hated that he understood it, that his mind flashed back to cold war rooms and courtyards lined with soldiers, each of them calling out the same thing, determined to carve it into their soul. He hated that he understood what Regulus was trying to say, even as he opened his mouth to ask: "What are you trying to say?"
"Maybe that we're not the only monsters in the world," Regulus said. "Maybe that this could be somewhere you could grow to love." He hesitated, and the next bit came out quieter. "And be loved."
James closed his eyes. There it was, out in the open. Not a true, real thing yet, but spoken aloud. The possibility for love was there, the possibility for something deeper and stronger and more important than any war. But how could it come from a lie, from something so twisted and warped?
"It's all so messed up," he said. "None of this is right."
"No," Regulus agreed, and when his cold touch grazed James's cheek, all he could do was shudder with anticipation, squeezing his eyes shut harder. "No, it's not right. I've been working on a way to make it better, if you'll let me."
"Oldest line in the book," James croaked, around a laugh.
"Not that." Regulus moved a little closer, a warm solid presence at his side, and cupped James's face properly. "There's something I've been meaning to say…"
He leaned in to whisper a secret in James's ear. Something impossible. Something that made his heart stop and his breath stutter. He leaned away again, his hand falling to land in his lap. James blinked his eyes open, swallowing thickly, and finally met his dark and curious gaze. There was hope in there, a tentative thing, and a sad sort of knowledge that only made James want to sweep him up.
"Really?" he said.
"Why do you think I was always cooking for you?" Regulus said, with that wry little smile he didn't want to love. "I wouldn't lie about that, James."
And James suddenly didn't care if it was a bad idea anymore, if it would hurt all the more in the morning; he leaned in and swept Regulus up and kissed the living hell out of him.
And Regulus kissed him back.
And held him close.
And fell with him onto the bed, where they didn't sleep until long after the sky had gone dark.
xii.
James crept downstairs before the sun had risen. His shoes were already laced, and the sword hung neatly at his belt. He filled a pack with fruit and mushrooms, paper and ink, bandages and a skein of water, and then he ducked inside the shop. Flowers bloomed at the sight of him, turning their pretty faces his way. His heart twinged. It was Regulus's magic that flooded through the shop, tangled in every root and stem, and it was Regulus's magic that softened in his presence.
He almost turned right back around, but he braced himself at the last moment. Painful or not, it had to be done.
Regulus's instructions were simple, and it was easy enough to follow them. He ran his fingers over the veneer of the vintage wooden box, the place that supposedly held all the money. He cracked it open, and peered inside.
"You really weren't lying," James said, half-laughing. "Oh…"
The secret Regulus had whispered in his ear last night was this: "Your information is outdated. If a Fae feeds you with the intention to make you stay, then stay is what you must do. But if a Fae feeds you with the intention of letting you roam, then over the river you'll go. An old rhyme, but it rings true. There's a way out, James, and you can take it with both hands."
Inside the box was a wreath and a folded piece of parchment. He unfolded the parchment first, greedily devouring each neatly-penned word. Directions to the skies above, the human world, and a map for good measure. Tricks and herbs and useful things. James ate it all up and pocketed the parchment, careful not to crinkle it. He turned his gaze to the wreath, something warm flowering in his chest.
It was a crown of forget-me-nots. James knew exactly how to tweak it, how to bend the magic filaments woven through the wood until the crown shrunk and fit perfectly around his finger, a ring of wood and pretty buds. Regulus had been the one to show him how. And now James was using that knowledge to leave him behind.
It stung. Hesitation gripped him when he reached the door to the shop, and he stood there for a while, half-hoping Regulus would come down to meet him, to say goodbye or ask him to stay again. He watched the door, dithering, but it didn't open. The stairs didn't creak. Regulus stayed upstairs, in James's bed, asleep or awake, and left him to do what he needed to do. That, more than anything, gave him the strength to do it.
"I'm going," James said. "I have to go. I have to leave."
He pressed the ring of forget-me-nots to his mouth and spoke against it, knowing Regulus would hear him.
"But that doesn't mean I won't come back."
And then he stepped out of the door, into the pale sunlight, and went off down the path towards the river.
[Word Count: 5,800]