For if I had kent what I ken this night,
If I had kent it yestreen,
I wad had taen out thy heart o flesh,
And put in a heart o stane.
- Tam Lin

---

Been a hot minute since I've written something, so I decided to just power through the writer's block and write anything I could be satisfied with. I'm honestly pretty pleased with what I've got. In any event, I hope people like this one.

---

To Come or Go by Carterhaugh

(Alternative Title: Form Over Function)

“So,” said Lucas, his stare pitiless and more than a little smug.

“So,” Marcel agreed, focusing all his attention on the freshly-brewed coffee in front of him.

Lucas let the moment hand in the air, and then smirked.

“So you’re a dragon.”

Marcel’s very-human head receded into his neck, as if recoiling from a thrown object. “I’d prefer if you didn’t announce it to the whole café.”

Lucas rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that. Everyone knows magic is real now.” As a demonstrative, he swirled his finger around idly, and a miniature fireworks display boomed above his head. The staff and patrons of the café briefly glanced his way, and there was a lull in the din of the room, but it passed quickly, and the moment was forgotten. “See?”

“All the same,” said Marcel, his voice so quiet it barely crossed the table, “I’d prefer if you didn’t broadcast it. People get… weird, when they learn about it.”

Lucas rolled his eyes yet again. “Whatever. It can’t be too hard to just ignore them, but fine, your business is your business. I won’t make a scene about it.” A foxlike grin spread across his face. “But I am gonna demand you spill the beans. This is a rare opportunity for me.”

Marcel merely pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath. “This is what I meant by people getting ‘weird’.” He gave Lucas a long, pained look, before finally relenting. “But fine. Ask away. I’ll answer what I can.”

Lucas grinned even wider, not bothering to hide the excitement in his eyes. He interlocked his fingers as he leaned in closer, his voice still casual, but with a conspiratorial edge. “What does your True Form look like?” He somehow managed to pronounce the capital T and F.

Marcel simply rolled his eyes. “You’re looking at it,” he said, taking an idle sip of his coffee.

“C’mon,” Lucas jeered playfully. “I’m not one of the plebs, I know how magic works, you don’t need to be cagey with me.” Something about the way he’d said it seemed to annoy Marcel; Lucas figured it was probably bad for his long-term health to imply a dragon was lying directly to their face. He knew he was playing with fire here (perhaps more literally than usual), but he had a favor to call in, and he was going to get his money’s worth.

“What’s your True Form?” Marcel asked, the capital letters not coming out quite as clearly in his french-tinted accent. “Is it when you wake up in the morning before all your hygiene rituals and a full meal? Is it your appearance in the brief moment after you walk out the front door, before entropy begins to degrade it all?” Marcel shook his head. “It’s neither and it’s both. Your ‘true form’ is plastic; dependent on the instant and the context. Same with me,” he finished with a shrug.

Lucas just smirked in response. “You’ve practiced that speech more than a few times.” 

Marcel allowed himself a short laugh. “It’s a very common question. I’ve performed it more than I’ve rehearsed it.”

“But you have to admit, your form is more plastic than most. Most people can’t turn into a 200-foot kaiju, no matter how much make-up they put on.”

“The principle is the same. Just… a little more literal, in my case. I am as I imagine myself to be.”

Lucas leaned forwards even more, overshadowing the coffee cup which was starting to teeter dangerously close to his edge of the table. “So, you can turn into anything?”

“Yes,” said Marcel instantly, but after a second, his expression turned pensive. “Well…” he mused. “I think so. I don’t tend to do a lot of shapeshifting, but I haven’t run into anything I can’t yet.”

Lucas pondered for a few seconds. “How about a lion?”

“Did it once as a gag,” Marcel said with a nod and a smile. “It’s already a real animal, so it was pretty simple.”

“How about something that doesn’t exist? Like, an alien from a movie.”

Marcel thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I think so. It’d probably take me some time to get the appearance down properly, but I’m sure I could.”

“What about something that doesn’t have a visual reference? Could you turn into something just from a verbal description?”

Marcel’s head tilted suspiciously. “I can see the clockwork moving behind your eyes. Most people would’ve moved on to another topic by now.”

Lucas waved his hand dismissively. “I promise, there’s method to my madness,” he said with a smile.

Marcel rolled his eyes again before resting a cheek on his hand. “To answer your question; yes, but it probably wouldn’t be very good. Although-” Lucas could practically see the lightbulb above his head. “You’re a Wizard, aren’t you?” Lucas began to correct him, but Marcel interrupted. “Mage, Sorcerer, Witch; peu importe. All mortal magic requires a very strong mind’s-eye, doesn’t it?”

“Does yours not?” Lucas asked. It was his head’s turn to tilt in suspicion.

Marcel shook his head. “Not quite. It’s more… immediate than that.” He waved the question off again, though this time it was less of a ‘let’s move on’ and more of a ‘let’s not ask any follow-up questions’. “Anyways- Push come to shove, I could always read your mind to ‘see’ what it is you’re imagining. The rest is trivial.”

“You can read minds?” Lucas asked, though the surprise in his voice was muted; Dragons were beings of unfathomable magical power. Reading minds was probably more like a parlor trick than anything major.

Marcel shrugged his shoulders equivocatingly. “Sort of. It’s more like opening a radio channel. I read their surface level thoughts and vice-versa. In my experience, any magic involving the mind tends to be reciprocal like that; the abyss gazes back, that kind of thing. It’s why I tend to avoid it, but I don’t speak when I’m not my usual self,” he said, gesturing to his body.

Lucas nodded thoughtfully. “So, you can’t speak while you’re a dragon? Or in your proper draconic form, I should say.”

Marcel gave him another pained look. “No, I can. I just don’t. It… feels odd.”

“Go on,” Lucas drawled, prodding him on.

Marcel tossed him a strained look. “When I’m normal, speaking is a boring, mundane process, same as for everyone else on earth. It’s caused by air being pushed up from the lungs, through the larynx, and out the mouth.” He explained, annoyance in his tone. “When I try to speak without a voicebox, though, it comes out… different,” he said, grasping for the right words. “I’m struggling to describe it… I can feel my ‘mouth’ moving, and I can hear the words I’m trying to say, but it’s as if the two events are,” his hand made a wild circular gesture. “Disjointed. Like there’s no causal relationship between them.” There was a visible shiver along his spine, which only seemed to intrigue Lucas more, but his follow-up’s were quashed when Marcel interrupted with a question of his own. “Before we get stuck in the mud, why don’t you explain something to me about this ‘favor’ you claim I owe you?” 

Lucas resisted every urge in his body to stiffen. Dragons were known to be shrewd negotiators, and he suspected that ‘Marcel’, for all his simple, casual demeanor, had been sizing him up this entire conversation. He had to project surety and confidence or else the whole thing would go sideways.

“Well,” he started, trying to remain casual and mostly, to his reckoning, succeeding. “It’s more of a ‘my dad knew your dad’, sort of thing. My father was always light on the details, but he mentioned that he’d once performed a great service for the Tarrasque of Tarascon,” and as he said it, he gestured at Marcel. “And that he’d earned himself the dragon’s favor, to call upon as he wished.”

“Right.” Marcel’s expression didn’t change, though he did lean as he began to speak, his voice firm and direct. “I’ll admit, I never heard my father mention any such favor before he died,” and for a split second Lucas felt the pit of his stomach drop, at least until the “But I’m going to take you at your word”, that followed, causing the aforementioned stomach pit to return to its regular place.

“Now, with that said,” Marcel intoned. Lucas felt like his gastrointestinal-tract was doing the Salsa at this point. “I want to make two things clear. First,” he held up a finger. “Dragons are not Fae.” Which Lucas obviously knew; dragons were closer to divine beings; In the same weight class as Zeus or the Princes of Hell. “I’m not magically bound to promises or favors; I’m free to lie, renege on deals, or refuse them outright, just like you are.” The sternness in his voice made it clear to Lucas that he’d had to explain as much to someone before. “And even if that weren’t the case,” Marcel put up a second finger as he continued. “I am not Oliver. Whatever deal your father might’ve made with mine was with him, not with me.” A twinge of despair touched the small of Lucas’s back as he began to realize that this whole affair had been pointless.

“So,” Marcel began again, and Lucas could’ve thrown up from all the ways his stomach had been abused in the past 30 seconds. “I just want you to keep this all in mind when I tell you that I’m going to agree to this favor of yours. Remember that I’m doing you a favor, not acting as your slave.”

Lucas felt his well-maintained composure collapse as he took a sharp intake of breath; he realized he must’ve been turning blue from having it held in for so long. But this was it; the culmination of all his dreams. He could hardly withhold his excitement as his mouth opened of its own volition, and he began his rehearsed business pitch…

“So, first, I need to know if you’re busy this Hallowe’en…”

---

“This feels ridiculous,” Marcel said. He pulled idly at the treads of his costume; Lucas had spent many, many hours getting the historical details exactly right. He’d even summoned up the spirit of a nobleman from 13th-century Scotland to ask his opinion on the specifics. Granted, the spirit hadn’t been very happy to be pulled from its rest just for fashion advice, but he’d been much easier to dismiss than summon.

“It’s necessary. Everything has to be perfect. I’ve got people from the highest echelons of society, both arcane and mundane, here to see this performance,” Lucas began, his voice straining from all the stress. “I wasn’t kidding when I said that I’ve spent years on this project.” It had to go right. This was his ticket to the top; to the most exclusive corners of the elite world, and all the prestige, wealth and power, both social and magical, that entailed.

“Sure,” Marcel conceded, before gesturing to the rest of himself. “But is it really necessary that I look like this?” Marcel’s formerly average appearance had given way, by means of his own magical abilities, to something Lucas had claimed was far more ‘appropriate’. His medium-length dark hair was now a moon-bleached white, and reached down to just above his waist. His ears were pointed and his facial features softened and rounded.

“It’s meant to look elfin,” Lucas said with a roll of his eyes. “It’s a fairy tale, after all.”

“First, most elves don’t look like this,” Marcel said with a glower. “Only the ones born in the past century or so, ever since Tolkien set the standard.” He then dismissed his own point with a wave of his hand. “And barring that, Tam Lin wasn’t an elf! That’s the whole point of the story. He’s a human who was kidnapped by one of the queens of faerie.”

“Well, I think it’s cute,” said a feminine voice from behind the two of them.

Ciara stood in the doorway of the so-called ‘greenroom’; She was dressed in clothing of the same make and period as Marcel, a grin splitting all the way across her face. Her flowing red hair and green eyes had made her perfect to play Lady Margaret opposite Marcel's Tam Lin. That, and everything about her life and background, made her perfect for Lucas’s ‘Grand Finale’. It was what his vaunted audience had come to see, after all, even if his actors had to remain in the dark until the end: It made the reactions all that much more ‘real’. Or so he hoped.

“I mean, I wouldn’t tackle a guy off his horse in defiance of a Faerie Queene for just any old so-and-so,” Ciara mused as she pulled Marcel’s doublet tight, dispelling the last few wrinkles that remained. Lucas wasn’t into guys, as a rule, so his barometer of what made a ‘sexy man’ was less of a precise instrument, and more of a vague indicator. But judging from Ciara’s reaction, and the way that she seemed to constantly be pulling in closer to Marcel, he felt confident he’d been Johnny-on-the-spot in that department.

Marcel, for his part, leaned further back each time Ciara pushed her body closer to his, though it didn’t seem like an intentional reaction; more of an instinct to keep her at arm’s length. That’d hardly surprised Lucas: no matter how human Marcel might appear, Lucas knew he was dealing with a Dragon- capital D. And that Dragons rarely ever bothered to give mortals the time of day. It took a mortal of pure gumption, strength, and will-to-power, to get so much as their attention. 

And Lucas’s father had managed to extract a favor from one. 

He felt his heart begin to beat faster; just to think, that that man’s blood ran in his very own veins. Lucas just knew he was bound for greatness…

“Right,” Marcel said with an awkward cough as he, gently but firmly, pulled Ciara’s hands from his chest. “I think, right now, my primary question is ‘where, exactly, are we meant to be performing?’” An inquisitive, and somewhat annoyed, glance passed from him to Lucas. “Considering the ‘backstage’ you’ve brought us to is the back room of a hair salon, and I can’t see so much as a coffee shop within spitting distance, let alone some Grande Scène of Magick and Wonder,” he said, somehow managing to put a particular stink on the ‘k’ at the end of ‘magick’.

“No, no wait, I got it,” said Ciara, barely containing her mirth. “This whole thing is actually a very avant-garde commentary on the musical Hair.” She received a jocular poke in the ribs from Marcel’s elbow and Lucas simply rolled his eyes. 

“Of course the stage isn’t here,” Lucas said, his disdain obvious. “There isn’t a stage on Earth suitable for the kind of production I have in mind.” He figured it was time; his ‘troupe’ of two was as ready as they could possibly be. He pushed a bar on a small exit door and with more than a bit of a smug look on his face, he made a grandiose gesture.

Past the doorway, there was a wondrous garden that couldn’t possibly exist anywhere near the city outside. Flowers of all shapes and colors lined a cobblestone path downwards, while archways made from the roots of trees growing out of the ground acted as trellises for the morning glories that seemed to hang in the air. Butterflies of shades that shouldn’t have been possible flitted about from plant-to-plant, and the smell of freshly-cut grass wafted from beyond.

Lucas cast a glance at Ciara, and was well-pleased to see that she was enraptured by the beauty beyond; her eyes alighted with wonder and amazement, and she took a cautious step towards the door.

Marcel’s face, meanwhile, soured immediately, and he placed a careful hand on Ciara’s shoulder to keep her from continuing. Seemingly snapped out of her reverie, she glanced at Marcel, and then at Lucas, confusion clear on her face.

“You never mentioned,” Marcel said, his voice low and dangerous, “that the performance would be in Otherside.”

For anyone else, Lucas would’ve simply rolled his eyes, but he figured that doing that to a Dragon whose opinion of him was dropping steadily by the second would be a bad gamble.

“It has to be,” he said, forcing a smile. “It’s like I said; there’s nowhere else on Earth capable of containing the sheer majesty of a performance like this.”

“Otherside?” Ciara chimed in, her curiosity apparently overriding the sudden, sour tone of the room. Though it did seem to focus Marcel’s attention away from Lucas, which he appreciated.

“Fairyland, Tir na nÒg, The Nevernever,” Marcel listed, “Everyone’s got a different name for it, but it’s the place that runs…” he gestured searchingly for the right word. “Perpendicular to reality as you know it. Like another dimension, but where all the thoughts and dreams of the waking world are made into a kind of semi-solid reality.” His eyes turned coldly back to Lucas. “It’s also very probably the single most dangerous place in existence to hold a stage play that isn’t the surface of the sun.”

Lucas hesitated. Marcel’s reaction seemed odd; if he’d been human, he could’ve mollified him easily. But again, Marcel was a dragon. He was powerful enough to give even a being like Zeus a run for his money. Or, at least, he should’ve been. His recalcitrance could only indicate two things:

The first, was that Marcel wasn’t nearly as powerful as Lucas had been led to believe. This wasn’t a problem, in theory; He hadn’t recruited Marcel for his power, as much as for the sheer prestige that would’ve come from having a Dragon performing in his production. But it also seemed unlikely; Dragons had been essentially synonymous with power and magic for as long as Lucas had known, and even in just standing near him, he could feel the sheer, reality-warping power that radiated from Marcel, even while he chose not to use it. It was like standing next to an electrical pylon.

The second option was that there were things in Otherside that could scare even a dragon. And that was something Lucas didn’t like to dwell upon.

Still, the show must go on. He made a conciliatory gesture. “I have taken every precaution,” he explained. “Technically, the stage and auditoria is not within Otherside-proper. It’s in a liminal area between it and our reality. I had to build everything by hand, instead of conjuring it by magic.” Well, technically, he’d hired help from the various corners of the supernatural world to build it by hand, but he considered the difference to be academic.

That seemed to put Marcel somewhat at ease, though his shoulders remained stiffened, and he hadn’t yet let go of Ciara. “That might keep everyone inside safe if local reality shifts, but what about someone trying to break in on the Otherside end?” His chin turned up, though his tone was less accusational, more exploratory. “You are essentially performing a piece about the Unseelie Queen’s greatest failure to keep house, just a stone’s throw away from her realm. I can’t imagine she’d be very happy about it.”

Lucas simply shrugged. “I actually did prepare for exactly that. I requested the help of the Princess of the Seelie Court to help strengthen our defenses against most anything, but that in particular.”

“Sarissa?” Marcel said, his tongue seemingly familiar with the name. “Will she be attending?” There didn’t seem to be any particular excitement or dread in his voice, just simple, surprised curiosity.

Lucas simply shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not, though she would’ve made a wonderful guest of honor,” he mused wistfully. “I’m afraid for security reasons that everyone attending will have to be from the ‘reality’ side of the great divide.” He considered explaining the complex vetting system he’d developed for making sure, but considered it a poor use of their time. “The local reality bubble, it’s like a Prince Edward Drop; it’s extremely resilient from the outside, but from the inside, it’s extremely malleable and brittle; for a Queen of Faery, it’d be as easy as kicking over a sandcastle.”

Marcel seemed mollified. “Fine. But I'd just like it stated on record that I still think renting a blackbox would’ve been a better option.”

---

Lucas stood at the center of the stage. An amphitheatre that rose high into the mountain it was built into loomed above him, terraced benches arranged like staircases for giants sat empty in the pre-show din. 

Nobody could take their seats now, even if they’d wanted to; It wouldn’t be until an hour before the show that the portals around the world could be opened, and allow passage through. But still, in his mind’s eye, he could already see them. CEO’s, Archmages, clandestine agencies (both mundane and paranatural), diplomatic envoys, and government officials from at least 30 different countries… The odeon was large enough to seat them all, and then a thousand more. 

He congratulated himself on choosing to host the performance outdoors; it had taken a lot of work to make sure that the reality bubble’s climate perfectly mimicked a cool, Mediterranean summer’s evening, but feeling the breeze gently across his face, he knew it could only be perfect.

On the opposite side of the Amphitheater, forming a beautiful backdrop to the stage, was a bay that stretched for at least a mile. The wine-dark waters were placid, and the sound of the waves crashing against the stones and the bottom of the cliff could be heard, but didn’t overpower his actor’s voices as they practiced their lines.

“What’s with the Villa over there?” Ciara asked, pointing across to the sunbleached walls of the blue-domed buildings that sat on the opposite side of the bay. A Greek-style village seemed built directly into the mountain itself, climbing up and down its cliffs with a care and precision that could only come from many, many hours of focus-grouping. 

“Oh,” Lucas said, appreciating that someone had noticed his handiwork. “That’s where the afterparty will be. The performance is just the start of the events, a way to kick off the soiree, so to speak.” He turned back to the both of them, and stared Marcel directly in the eyes. “You’re free to join afterwards, if you like, though there’s certainly no obligation.” As fantastic as it would be to have a Dragon as a guest of honor, he figured it wouldn’t be good to push just how far his ‘favor’ could go.

“I’ll consider it,” Marcel said guardedly, though it was clear that he was at least somewhat intrigued. 

“Now then, from the top,” Lucas said, shifting back into business mode, before he began to recite his lines. “Lady Margaret is over gravel green, and over gravel grey…”

---

“... And she’s awa to Carterhaugh, lang lang three hour or day.” His Scots accent had taken weeks to get right, and he’d even hired a proper tutor from Inverness, but now, it was all paying off. He was the mastermind behind the show, after all; it seemed only fair that he should get to be the narrator.

Dusk had turned to evening, and the once-empty amphitheater was now filled with people, even in the highest seats above, all watching enraptured at the mystifying scene on stage. Lucas didn’t generally truck with illusion magic; in his opinion, most problems could be solved with the simple application of more force. But still, his father had taught him the basics, once, and he was glad for it. The simple stone stage was now magically decorated with shifting scenes of a meadow, or a medieval village, or the darkest depths of the forest, as needed. When Ciara moved, the scene moved with her, giving the appearance of traversal far better than any film could. It was a great trick, a little bit of perspective magic was all it had taken, but he’d been proud of it.

Ciara, now fully in-character as “Lady Margaret”, kneeled to pluck a flower from the stage, and a fog seeped in from without, not only on the stage, but throughout the whole of the odeon, growing thicker, until it obscured all vision for both audience and player. It was a bold move, to obscure the stage so completely. But when a pair of brilliant, silvery eyes pierced through the mist, with the radiance of suns, Lucas could practically feel the audience lean in in anticipation…

The mists dissipated, and there, Tam Lin, white-haired and elfin, stood imperiously above Lady Margaret.

“How daur you pu my flower, madam?” Marcel’s voice tolled like a bell through the amphitheater, and it cut through the very air itself. Lucas’s only regret was that Marcel hadn’t quite been able to get the accent down perfectly; normally, his English was only lightly accented, but when it mixed with his attempt at a heavy Scots dialect, it created something that could best be described as ‘odd’. Not too distracting, thank God, but still, if he’d had more time…

“How daur ye break my tree? How daur ye come to Carterhaugh, without the leave of me?” Marcel intoned, finishing the rest of his rhyme. 

The performance, thank God, continued exactly how Lucas had hoped. ‘Tam Lin’ explained that he’d been kidnapped by a Fairy Queen, to be sacrificed on this very Halloween night. Lady Margaret, in her compassion, agreed to help the young wretch, and the two planned his escape.

The actors having exeunt, Lucas gave a flick of his wrist, and the scene changed; Now, a caravan of ghostly horses pulled across the stage, lead by a rider formless and shapeless (clearly meant to represent the Queen of Air and Darkness herself). Lucas figured he was already pushing too close to the line by doing this performance at all; hiring an actor to play the Unseelie Queen would’ve been too great an insult to go unchallenged, so Lucas had chosen to summon another illusion instead.

Then, a pale-white stallion appeared on stage, at the rear of the caravan, with Tam Lin clearly sitting astride it, hooded though he was. Lady Margaret sprang from the bushes, tackling him to the ground below, and Lucas steeled himself again, sidling once again into the role of the story’s narrator. He’d very pointedly not told his actors how things continued from here; they had no more lines, the rest was pure physicality. And magic, of course.

“They first shaped him into arms, an adder or a snake;” And as he said it, he watched out of the corner of his eyes as Marcel obliged, his body transforming into that of a hooded viper, large enough to crush a building by squeezing its tail around it. “But she held him fast, let him not go, for he'd be her warld's make.” Lucas continued, and indeed, Ciara held tightly to him, her arms struggling to reach around, even as the snake mouth opened, revealing a pair of deadly, venomous fangs as long as she was.

“They next shaped him into her arms, like a wood black dog to bite;” and again, Marcel changed as prompted, transforming into a beast that reminded him of Cerberus, minus two heads. “But she held him fast, let him not go, for he'd be her heart's delight.” Ciara indeed refused to let go, though Lucas noted that, for just a brief moment, she’d managed to sneak in a little ‘scritch’ into the collar of Marcel’s canine neck, and he cringed a bit as he saw his tail twitch from it. He chanced a glance at the audience, and smiled as he recognized the look of collective, dumbfounded amazement. People were practically falling out of their seats. “

The performance continued as such for some time. Throughout the course of the evening, Marcel transformed into many things; a lion, a white hot coal, even fire itself. And each time, Ciara held on tightly until, at least, Lucas came to the last of the transformations…

“They next shaped him into her arms

Like the laidliest worm of Ind;

But she held him fast, let him not go,

And cried for "Young Tamlin"“

Lucas watched with amazement as Marcel grew rapidly, dwarfing the stage, and then much of the amphitheater, as he materialized into his ‘true’ form. A Dragon; a real, true, Dragon. Silvery scales and black claws shining brilliantly in the pale light, reflecting onto the water below like the visage of a moon God. 

He was beautiful. Like a marble colossus brought to life. 

Lucas' awe lasted only a second before he remembered himself. They were so close to the end; he couldn’t choke now. He made a subtle gesture towards Marcel: a signal they’d concocted early that meant ‘open telepathic channels’. There was only one last instruction to give.

Now what? Marcel’s voice rang clearly in Lucas’ head.

You did fantastically, Lucas thought back. We’re at the end. There’s just one thing left before the performance ends.

Tear her to pieces, Lucas thought with finality.

Marcel simply didn’t move. You mean, like, her dress? He thought-asked, confusion obvious in his mental tone. I don’t recall Tam Lin ending that way. And also, I’m sure I’m not comfortable with it.

No! Dammit, Lucas thought back, realizing that the window of ‘dramatic pause’ was beginning to close, and the one for ‘awkward silence’ was starting to open. I mean- he didn’t even bother with words. He just sent him mental images. Death. Gore and viscera. A sacrifice. Hadn’t he understood that? How could he not? But he hadn’t expected what he’d receive back…

Horror. And then Anger. Pure, righteous anger.

You want me to kill her!? Marcel’s thought-voice rang in his head. And it hurt. Like a deafening noise, but one that couldn’t be blocked out by covering one’s ears, though God knew that Lucas tried. And from the look of the pained audience, it seemed as though they were hearing it too.

He couldn’t understand it. What was the problem? Was Marcel upset that he hadn’t mentioned the Ciara was meant to be a sacrifice up front? Surely that would’ve been obvious from the outset. And even if it weren’t, what would it matter?

I think, Marcel’s ‘voice’ boomed again in his head, that you have a serious misunderstanding of who I am. Lucas realized that the telepathic link was still ‘open’. Marcel could still hear his thoughts.

“She’s just-” Lucas said aloud, his voice unsteady from the sheer stress his brain was suddenly under. “She’s just some mortal. What does it-”

A paw the size of a car planted itself into the ground next to Lucas. Lucas gulped.

You refer to ‘mortals’ as if the category doesn’t include you. Marcel ‘said’, disdainfully. But if you like, I’d be more than happy to demonstrate that you are, in fact, very, very mortal. Double-gulp. 

Ciara stood up, having realized that something was, in fact, off, and began to retreat behind Marcel’s hind leg. The details might’ve escaped her, but she was smart enough to know who was on her side, and it sure as hell wasn’t Lucas, and as for the audience…

Marcel gazed out into the amphitheater. The crowd was still and silent, seemingly unsure if this was still part of the show. These kinds of performances could get pretty avant-garde, after all. But when a mental question passed like a wave over everyone assembled, Ciara and Lucas included, it dispelled all doubt.

Did everyone here know that this performance was meant to end in a human sacrifice?

Lucas couldn’t hear the hundreds of responses Marcel was doubtless receiving, but he didn’t need to; he hadn’t exactly kept it a secret. Except from Ciara, of course. Every member of the audience had been carefully vetted, to ensure that only those had no qualms would even be invited. It was also why everyone had needed a pat-down for phones and cameras before entering from wherever their end of the Otherside portal was. For everyone there, the sacrifice had been the main selling point. For Lucas, it was supposed to be the climax to his magnum opus, dripping with symbolism and meaning. The old, weak, mundane world was dead; long live the new world of magick, where those with power would at last, freed from the shackles of ignorance, and ascend to their rightful place as-

Lucas had never imagined the face of a disgusted dragon before. But as he watched the great beast’s nostrils flare, a jet of smoke escaping from the end of his snout as the corners of his mouth twisted into a lopsided shape, he felt like he would've been perfectly happy to never see it again. And he certainly would prefer to not have the expression pointed directly at him, as it currently was.

A few of the smarter members of the audience, realising that things had gone sideways, had stood up from their seats, and the real geniuses had already begun making a frantic dash towards anything that looked like an exit.

“Stop.”

That hadn’t been telepathically projected. It had come straight from the dragon’s mouth. Low, and rumbling, it seemed to shake the very ground itself; and it was more than just a command; it was a law, in the same way that gravity was a law. It was the kind of utterance that could only be likened to its distant cousins: “I Am Become Death,” and “Let There Be Light”. Like clockwork soldiers, the standing members of the audience stood frozen at attention as the Dragon’s chin tilted upwards.

“Return to your seats.”

With military-like precision, the few who had stood did as directed, until the audience sat motionless, like a thousand dolls carefully arranged in a diorama.

Cool. Marcel’s internal musing emanated out from him, and it seemingly released the audience from whatever spell he’d had them under, though nobody was fool enough to make another break for it. Also, horrifying. I’d apologise, but… The broadcast thought simply trailed off.

“Marcel,” Lucas began, and it felt odd to say it. He’d always had the idea in his head that Dragons should have names that inspire awe and go on for at least 4 syllables, preferably with lots of X’s, S’s, and Z’s. ‘Marcel’ was just the French form of ‘Marcus’, and he couldn’t help but feel that such a name was inadequate to the moment, but if this dragon had a ‘true name’, it was unknown to Lucas. 

“If there’s anything I’ve done to offend you, please, understand that such was not my intent.” He’d negotiated with beings as disparate as djinn, genius loci, and a princess of Faery. He knew that the best way to handle an angry, powerful being, was to supplicate oneself without looking weak. A difficult balancing act, to be sure, but it had got him this far…

Except, he couldn’t really placate someone without knowing what got them angry in the first place. Marcel had seemed a reasonable sort until only a few moments ago; was he upset about being part of a ritual without his foreknowledge? A faux pas, Lucas conceded, but surely not something worthy of this strong of a reaction. “Whatever I can do to make amends,” Lucas said, diplomatically, “only name it. I am at your disposal, uh,” he bowed politely to give himself a moment to think. Did dragons even have titles? He knew some did. ‘My Lord’ or ‘Your Grace’ was usually a safe bet, but Marcel hadn’t seemed to expect such obsequiousness beforehand. Eventually, he landed on “Sir” and hoped that was sufficient.

“Shut up.”

Lucas’s mouth shut as hard and fast as a mousetrap. Even if he’d wanted to protest, his mouth couldn’t physically move, held down by some unknowable, abstract power that Lucas intuitively knew could only be measured against galaxies in terms of scale.

But what was most interesting, and most disconcerting, was that the command hadn’t simply overridden Lucas’s body; it had taken control of his mind, as well. It had forced upon him not only the physical constraints involved in ‘shutting up’. It had forced the desire upon him as well. Or, perhaps not a desire, exactly. Something deeper than that. When a dragon spoke, you obeyed; as instinctively as yelling ‘Ouch!’ when touching a sharp object. Only in the deepest recesses of Lucas’s mind was, only barely alive, the faint remnant of something that possessed a will of its own; quietened and feeble against the force of this superior will, this superior being. 

A rumble escaped from the deepest, darkest corners of the dragon’s throat, so low that Lucas briefly thought that the ground had begun to shake. You brought an innocent woman here to die? All for the sake of a damn play? The disdain in the dragon’s thoughts was thick as they passed through Lucas’s own mind.

That was what had him so upset? Lucas simply didn’t believe it. He was a Dragon for the love of God! What was one mortal life among any other? Surely, to him, it would’ve been like snuffing out an ant.

The Dragon’s enormous head suddenly pulled in closely to Lucas, twice as tall as he was on the tips of his toes. The rumbling had swiftly given way to growling, and it wasn’t until Lucas noticed the row of 20-or-so razor sharp teeth as long as his arm that he remembered that the telepathic connection went both ways…

Do not, Marcel’s thought-voice intoned with particular emphasis, project your misanthropy and delusions of grandeur onto me.

“Delusions?!” Lucas practically screamed, suddenly freed from whatever mental control had been imposed on him. Perhaps it was the stress of the moment, the frustration with having had his mind so effortlessly dominated, or just the sheer anger of this whole performance having gone wrong, but he could no longer hold his tongue back. “I am Lucas Rowland! Son of Elijah Rowland, the greatest mage of his era! I am a king among mortals, and I will not be treated like some common-” he practically stamped his foot to emphasize the thesis of his tantrum. “Like some nobody!”

“You’re a loathesome, lying weasel.”

And it was true. Not just in the metaphorical sense, but as soon as the dragon had spoken, it became literally true as well. One moment, there had been a young man, bravely staring a dragon in the face and demanding respect. And the next, there was a tiny, brown-furred ferret, bravely staring a dragon in the face and making adorable, defiant squawking noises.

From Lucas’s perspective, it had been just as instant. Hands and legs turned into fore-and-back paws, and he found himself suddenly crawling on all fours, unable to keep any balance while standing. His senses were over-stimulated with a whole host of news smells and sounds that he never could’ve noticed before, all the while, he struggled desperately to fit his human-shaped thoughts into a weasel-shaped brain, which strained from the sheer effort of it… Meanwhile, the dragon’s already-imposing frame seemed to grow by an order of magnitude. While before, he’d merely been the size of a small house, now he was seemingly as tall as a skyscraper. A skyscraper with 100% of its attention on him…

I think, Marcel’s voice echoed in Lucas’s head. That maybe you need a demonstration of where exactly you sit in the food chain. And as if on-cue, a claw the size of a stadium lifted beside him. It hovered overhead for only a moment, and for a brief second, Lucas considered running, but his newfound weasel instincts could only think to freeze.

Gently, almost daintily, Lucas’s tail was plucked between a pair of talons several times larger than he was.The air rushed past him as he was lifted higher, then higher still, and he nearly blacked out from the vertigo. And when he finally opened his eyes, he desperately wished he hadn't. The dragon’s maw opened into a black abyss below, and the rows of teeth, now as large as his entire body, seemed designed to turn him, specifically, into an unidentifiable mush.

The claws loosened, and Lucas found himself falling, the dragon’s mouth growing larger and wider and darker by the second. He desperately swung his unfamiliar arms around with abandon, trying desperately to cling to any vain hope. And then, at last, when he was sure that he was about to be devoured, the dragon’s mouth closed with a loud SNAP, leaving Lucas perched on the tip of Marcel’s snout, his fur standing on edge as if someone had rubbed a balloon over it.

Marcel’s snout descended, and Lucas fell harmlessly to the ground below, where he suddenly found himself returned to his human form. The change had happened so quickly that he hadn’t even noticed it until he spread out his hands to catch himself as he fell.

Marcel’s attention then turned to the audience. Tonight, he ‘said’, his thoughts broadcast to everyone assembled. You all attended this event knowing it would end with the death of this innocent woman. The dragon’s head tilted towards Ciara, he was still sitting on the cobblestone stage in a fearful daze. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that this show will not be going on. Nobody so much as made a peep. But I hope, at least, that you enjoyed the performance that you saw. I, myself, am honored to have played opposite such a fine actress. He paused, waiting, and after an uncomfortable length of time, a brilliant soul in the audience began to clap. Others joined in soon after, and before long, the audience was clapping as though their life depended on it.

After some time, when the crowd had quietened, Marcel continued. I hope, also, that you enjoyed my transformation act. It was a rare treat, and I only wish I had gotten to perform it in a more reputable production. The clapping began again, but Marcel silenced it with a hard glance from his silvery, slitted eyes.

So, as my parting gift to you all, I hope you’ll appreciate this last performance. Adieu, and good night! There was an uneasy din that passed over the crowd, but before anyone could properly respond, there was a flash of light on the stage, bright enough to blind everyone for a brief second. And when the light died away, Ciara and the Dragon had vanished, leaving the audience and Lucas alone. Some, figuring that this was their last chance to leave, stood up and made various beelines in every direction. Seemingly, nobody had wanted to stick around for whatever ‘last performance’ was in mind, but it was to no avail. The various Ways in and out of this section of Otherside had been closed off, and Lucas could sense the beginning of a mass panic in the air. All he’d have to do is to open a way home, and they’d all be fine. The night had been a bust, but at least he had his health.

That hope was dispelled when he saw a man turn into a chicken.

It happened in waves. Lucas watched as fleeing members of the audience transformed into various forms of vermin, fowl, chattel, and every other kind of humiliating beast in the dictionary. A piglet ran past him, squealing in terror, while a rat scurried in the opposite direction. Lucas, realizing he’d been completely and utterly defeated, rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

After what could’ve been either 3 minutes or 3 hours, when the noise had died and the rest of the barnyard had run off into the woods, he opened his eyes. All 5 of them. In place of his arms, were long, stick-like appendages, and he could feel the antennae on his head. The cobblestone stage now stretched seemingly for miles in every direction at his new, miniscule size. And one of the last things that passed through his mind, before it was subsumed by the encroaching insect-thoughts, was a memory; Something he’d thought only a little while earlier. About how, to a Dragon, killing a human couldn’t possibly be any more serious than crushing an ant…

---

“So, wait,” Ciara said. “You mean they're all in there?” She pointed to the small, snowglobe-like object that Marcel held in his hand. He no longer looked like Godzilla, but he was still dressed in his Tam Lin attire, white hair and elfin features and all. 

Marcel simply nodded. “Easy enough to do, from the inside. For me, anyway. It was already disjoined from the rest of this half of reality, and Otherside doesn’t need to map perfectly onto our understanding of physical space.” He shrugged. “Same way you can do ‘bigger on the inside’ tricks for your closet if you don’t mind the odd bogeyman sneaking in.” He looked at Ciara, who just gave him an amused glare that could only be described as a  ‘you-know-I-don’t-know-what-any-of-that-means’ look.

He tilted the object in his hand. To Ciara, it looked like a hand-sized diorama of the place they’d been only moments ago. She could see the stage, the amphitheater, and the Greek-style village built into the side of the mountain on the opposite side of the bay they’d been on.

“Anyways; it’ll keep them alive and well until someone lets them out. I figure in maybe a hundred years or so, the lesson will have sinked in.”

“A hundred years?” Ciara said, a look of shock and discomfort crossed her face. “Isn’t that… somewhat excessive?”

“Time doesn’t flow in Otherside as it does in reality,” Marcel said with a shrug. “By the time they get out, only about two days should have passed. And since it’s a weekend, they won’t even have to miss a day of work”, he added with a wry smile.

“Still,” Ciara said with a grimace, though an eased one. “100 years is a long time to experience anything. Won’t they starve to death? I can’t imagine they’ll be building farms with their hooves and paws.”

Marcel just rolled his eyes, though more playfully than disdainfully. “I’ll throw in a few fish flakes every now and then, and I’ll make sure to do regular check-ins and let people out for good behavior.” His voice turned sober. “They did try to kill you, remember.”

“Techincally, only Lucas tried to kill me,” Ciara said with a smile. “And technically-technically, he only tried to get you to kill me. Which is probably why you’re so upset about it.”

Marcel gazed deeply into the snowglobe, deep in thought. “Maybe you’re right,” he said after some time. “I hadn’t realized how much it had bothered me. I just knew I was angry.” He turned his attention back to her. “Sorry. I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“Honestly,” she said, stifling a laugh. “Now that my life isn’t in mortal danger, it was kinda hot.” Marcel visibly gulped, and his face pinkened, slightly. “When you growled at Lucas like that, and it shook the ground, woof.” Marcel’s visible discomfort only seemed to egg her on even more. “I’m gonna be chasing that high for the rest of my life, and I don’t think I’ll ever find something quite as good, so if you want to apologise to me for something…” she trailed off, a smile in her voice. “And if you really wanna make it up to me, you could at least let me buy you a coffee. As thanks for saving my life and all.” Her smile grew more lopsided by the minute.

Marcel cleared his throat. “R-right,” he said, clearly in unfamiliar territory. “Just, uh. Give me a call whenever. My schedule’s pretty free these days. But for right now,” he gestured to the shrunken piece of Otherside he held in his hand. “I’ve got to put this back at my place. Gotta keep it under a heat lamp and all that, you understand,” he said, his mojo swiftly returning to him.

Ciara bumped him teasingly on the shoulder with her elbow as she made her exit. “All right. But don’t be a stranger,” she said with a wink as she sauntered again into the light of the real world. Marcel waited for a while to watch as she left, before he tucked the miniature piece of geography into his pockets. 

There was a flash of light, and the room was empty.