the fair folk are born with silver tongues, his mother once said to him, and they spin golden stories. do not give them anything willingly.

he should be only minutes away from his hut, but he may have become lost somewhere under the cover of the stars. with a sigh he pushes through the brush before him.

‘are you weary, traveller?’ it is like a bell has rung, and he turns and sees a girl with flowers growing out of her skin. ‘may i have your name?’ she asks.

‘no,’ he says, remembering. ‘but you can call me icarus.’

she tries the name on her lips and her smile twists when she realizes it is a false one. still. ‘icarus,’ she says, ‘who was in love with the sun. i wonder if you will meet the same fate.’

‘and would you be the sun?’ he is almost enjoying the game, the thrill of knowing that any word misspoken could be his last.

‘i am not. but i would like you to be in love with me.’

you would like me to give myself to you, he thinks, but what he says is, ‘it is late.’

‘yes.’

‘i was on my way home.’

‘yes.’

‘will you permit me to leave?’ he asks finally.

her grin widens. ‘perhaps. what do you offer in return?’

his mother had said: make no promises with the fae, and especially none you cannot fulfill. they will twist every word that you speak.

so he takes her hand and brushes his lips against the back of it. ‘i offer you nothing.’ he tells her, ‘i give you this kiss freely and separately, without obligation.’

she takes back her hand but her eyes dance with light. ‘then i suppose i will let you leave. freely and separately, without obligation. come see me again. i shall be very upset otherwise.’

make no promises. ‘we will see.’

it’s a bright spring day, too perfect, the kind of day that lends itself well to being painted; the sky is blue and the clouds are white and puffy. you sit with her in a field of daisies, and the few buds that you crush under you are compensated for many times over by the miles of flowers before your eyes.

“i love you.” her eyes are warm and dark as she catches your hand in hers, interlaces your fingers.

“i love you, too,” you tell her. the words are rich swirled around your mouth.

“are you happy?” she asks.

you pause. “yes.” your voice barely even quavers with how much you want to mean it. “you make me happy.”

her eyes slip closed and she leans into your shoulder. “good,” she murmurs. she slips off into dreams and you are left to stare at the silken sky with her weight a constant warmth in your side.

soon you shut your eyes as well and let the sun wash over you and forget. why squander gold when you have it? you turn your face to feel the gentle breeze when it sees fit to come by. it is all so that you do not notice the beeping at first.

cold seizes you like a downpour and you startle awake. the field of flowers is only cold metal after all and you sit alone in a dim room. “session over,” intones a female voice, a cruel robotic parody of the gentleness she’d spoken with before. “please reinsert payment.”

your hands shake and you tell yourself it’s because of the drop in temperature as you fumble for your wallet. a few more coins, a few more moments - you won’t have dinner tonight but that’s okay, that’s nothing if you get another minute now. you barely manage to shove the money in the slot.

you close your eyes. you open them.

it’s a bright spring day, too perfect.

She slits the man’s throat in the dark, cutting short his labored breathing. Her eyes are dispassionate as blood pools around him and soaks into his silken sheets - a house fallen and a legacy unraveled in a matter of seconds, just underneath her fingers. As mercies go this is a substantial one; the people, she knows, would see him suffer.

The crown is strewn carelessly on a cushion near the cooling body, evidence of the man’s reckless security in his own wealth. Her lip curls. She remembers past winters, watching her father leave bloodied footprints on the snow because he couldn't afford shoes for both himself and his child. Tyrant, she thinks. Death was too kind a fate for you.

But she takes the crown - the symbol of years’ worth of suffering - in hand and steps around the four-poster bed without sparing him another glance. There is nothing to be gained from resenting the dead.

The doors from the room’s east wall open up to a grand balcony where just days prior the king had condescended to look down upon his citizens. She steps out onto it now. It glistens with gold and it demands attention, and that extravagance suits her purposes.

From the vantage point, she looks out above the city. So many buildings are dilapidated, crumbling, as they have been for too long, but now she sees them for what they could be.

In the distance, the sound of gunfire comes to a halt, and over a faraway mountain the sun begins to rise. She sets the crown on the floor and leans over the square below and waits for the people to come. They will come.

“The king is dead,” she whispers to herself. Even for her it is difficult to believe. “Long live the republic.”