Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Softly, like a lullaby, the moonlight slips through the dense, shadowed canopy, pearly white against the serene darkness of night.

When the moon is high, the Faerie Kingdom falls into a dreamlike trance—the playful breeze dims into a mere whisper, barely rustling the leaves; the animals return to their burrows, their calls replaced by the quiet breathing of the forest; most of the Faerie Cookies have retired for the night, the streets empty aside from, perhaps, a handful of rambunctious teenagers sneaking out.

Tonight is a night like any other—the stars continue to spin a lazy waltz on the heavenly firmament as the moon smiles down on Earthbread, bathing everything in sight with a pale glow.

It is also a suitable night to take a walk.

Elder Faerie Cookie glides across the forest path he knows like the back of his hand, hands clasped behind his back as every twitch of the wind caresses loose strands of hair and his wings, draped behind him like a long, iridescent cape.

He isn’t wearing his typical monarch garb, all quiet elegance and silver finery—instead, a simple, white silk robe embroidered with patterns of silver flowers billows around his ankles and wrists, cinched around the waist.

His hair is likewise loose, pale lavender hair spilling over his shoulders, a warm and comforting weight around his neck. Under the gleam of moonlight, it looks more like silk than his actual silk robe. If there are a few knots in it he couldn’t be bothered to comb out, no one would be any the wiser.

Mind blissfully calm, Elder Faerie Cookie continues his late night stroll into the depths of the forest, and for tonight he is free from the duties and responsibilities of the daytime—just another Cookie walking alone under the stars.

In the far distance, a nocturnal bird sings out before the song fades back into stillness. The music echoes throughout the forest, sweeping past Elder Faerie Cookie as if he isn’t even there. Fleeting, but beautiful all the same.

He smiles to no one in particular, closing his eyes briefly while breathing in deeply—the cool night air fills his lungs, permeating every inch of his being before he exhales, and the air rushes back out.

A handful of seconds go by as the monarch simply breathes, with moonlight and shadow as his only companions, and his feet as his guide.

“Hmm...” Elder Faerie Cookie opens his eyes. His surroundings have not changed since a few seconds ago—he is still very much alone. Yet, the wind has shifted...

Carried by the breeze, a crisp, subtle scent of salt floats by, along with heavy footsteps that stride with the purpose of trying to be noiseless but failing. Muffled metal clinking grows closer from behind, along with...something sharply floral, with a hint of spice...?

Elder Faerie Cookie immediately stops in his tracks before making an abrupt turn off the path, vanishing into the treetops as swiftly as his wings will take him. One moment, he was there; a blink of an eye, and some scattered fallen leaves swirling in wake of the disturbance are the only proof of his existence.

As per his faerie nature, it takes no effort to blend into the forest—every breath he takes is the forest’s breath, every movement he makes the whispering of foliage.

Between one breath and the next, Elder Faerie Cookie is settling on the higher branches of a tree with thick, emerald leaves and silver white bark, wings flaring out behind him as they fold back into a resting position. One nimble hand is placed on the sturdy trunk next to him as he peers curiously at the forest path he was walking on previously.

Sure enough, another Cookie appears on the path, seemingly having walked behind Elder Faerie Cookie without him knowing for quite a distance. He treads the forest path lightly, perhaps not wishing to disturb the tranquility of night.

This Cookie wears heavy, polished armour that gleams brilliantly under the snowy moonbeam, reflecting the light like a mirror. He’s tall, possibly taller than Elder Faerie Cookie himself by a head and a half. A knight’s helmet obscures his face, leaving only a cloud of white hair trailing behind him, but Elder Faerie Cookie gets the feeling that underneath is a mien of stoic benevolence.

Under hefty pauldrons, a cape as unblemished as moonlight and touched with the barest hints of pale green ripples behind him, a greatsword nearly as long as the Cookie himself bound by leather straps to his back. One gauntleted hand swings minutely by his side, while the other seems to be hidden in the folds of his cloak.

Elder Faerie Cookie watches, amused, as the armoured Cookie comes to a halt on the forest path, standing stiffly for the span of several heartbeats before his head turns this way and that, even turning ninety degrees on the spot, as if looking for something—or someone—that he swears was there only a second ago.

Even mired in such confusion, the Cookie is a gentle silver giant amongst silver trees, each rise and fall of his chest from the simple act of breathing endearing to no end. He holds himself with a commanding presence that lends not a sword to attack but to defend—strength without virtue is mindless violence, after all.

One second, two seconds, three seconds, four—

The Cookie still looks hopelessly lost.

Sigh.

“My oh my, whatever do we have here?” Elder Faerie Cookie calls out in a sing-song voice, still perched like a bird on the tree’s upper branches. “If it isn’t Lord Commander himself.”

The other Cookie doesn’t bother to turn around, but his soundless jolt and subsequent exhale is clear to see. “Elder Faerie Cookie,” he eventually sighs. “Must you keep doing this?”

“Perhaps you could simply try not to be such an easy target?”

“Hilarious.” He deadpans.

“Thank you, it comes with the crown.”

Another sigh comes, a breath of warm air. “Will you come down now?”

“Hmm…” Instead of coming down, Elder Faerie Cookie decides to lounge back on his branch instead, reclining against silver wood. “I’m perfectly comfortable up here, actually.”

Grass crunches under sturdy boots. They grow closer and closer until Elder Faerie Cookie can spy metal glinting from the corner of his eye, and the crisp scent of salt overwhelms the cooling forest air. “Elder Faerie Cookie.” That baritone voice says again, a slow rumble deep in his chest.

“Salt of Solidarity,” Elder Faerie Cookie answers easily.

“This is your last warning. Come down.”

The fairy monarch makes a show of mulling it over, rubbing his chin dramatically as his wings twitched in silent laughter. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make mEEK—!”

Out of nowhere, the entire tree shudders violently, throwing Elder Faerie Cookie off and making him fall sideways off the branch. One moment he was looking up at the viridian canopy above and the next gravity is trying to kill him.

Fwish! Gossamer wings snap out automatically, catching the wind and gently carrying Elder Faerie Cookie to the ground. Somewhat gracefully, he keep his balance and manages to land on the ground, cool grass tickling against the soles of his feet.

He stares up at Salt of Solidarity. All he can see is metal, so polished he can make out his own reflection, but somehow he senses an amused kind of judgement, Salt’s gaze pointedly staring down at him.

“Was that you?”

“I’ve not the faintest idea what you mean, O Fairy King.”

“…You didn’t see anything,” Elder Faerie Cookie says, ignoring the way warmth creeps up his face.

“Sure.” The insufferable Cookie replies, as coolly as ever.

Elder Faerie Cookie narrows his eyes. Silence reigns for a while more between them.

Letting out a fond laugh, he straightens out his robe, dusting off a few stray leaves and imaginary dust. “Alright, alright, you got the best of me this time. I suppose congratulations are in order?”

“I shall treasure this victory,” Salt of Solidarity responds solemnly, “It shall be celebrated for centuries to come.”

“Hah! Such arrogance.” Elder Faerie Cookie leans against the trunk of the tree, raising a single eyebrow at Salt of Solidarity. “Be warned; I’ll get you back one day.”

“I’m positively shaking in my boots.” For extra dramatic effect, Salt of Solidarity raises a foot and shakes it back and forth.

“I’m surprised. Since when did you grow a sense of humour?”

“Sometime between sunrise and you falling off that tree.”

“…”

“Oh, too soon?”

“Ha…” Elder Faerie gives a long-suffering sigh. Another breeze floats by, bringing that strange scent of fresh spice to him again. It’s distinctly unlike anything in the Faerie Kingdom, piquing his curiosity. He looks down—it seems to be coming from the folds of Salt’s cloak.

“Say, old friend. Is there something you’re hiding in that cloak of yours?” Elder Faerie asks with a tilt of his head.

At the question, Salt of Solidarity’s hidden hand seems to unconsciously retreat further into his cloak. “Ah, about that…do you recall when we last met, I told you I would be heading into the Land of Spice for a month-long campaign with my knights?”

The monarch nods. “Mm. I do. What about it?”

“Well, when we arrived, I found this most exquisite flower growing amongst the dry sands. The locals there called it ‘Pure Saffron’, and said that it blooms even in the most unhabitable of lands, boldly showing off its vibrancy even in the face of death—as such, it’s considered a sign of resilience as well as—well, um...”

His words trail off into thin air. Elder Faerie watches him expectantly, patiently.

“…so, I got some,” He manages to say. “For you.”

A tad awkwardly, Salt of Solidarity takes out a bouquet of the flowers of the most exuberant purple Elder Faerie Cookie’s ever seen, unfurling a sharp yet delicate aroma into the cool forest air, tied together with a shimmering ribbon of silver. The petals and leaves are slightly rumpled, evidence of the long journey home, and on the underside of the ribbon a tiny rune has been scrawled in precise handwriting—one for preservation.

The bouquet consists of twelve saffrons, clearly carefully arranged. Each bloom drinks up the moonlight greedily, red stamens leaning outwards as if desiring to be free. Elder Faerie Cookie cradles the bouquet in his hands, the pads of his fingers brushing against the stems as gently as possible—almost reverential.

Sensing Elder Faerie Cookie’s stunned silence, Salt of Solidarity does something he has never done in his life—he fidgets, with the hem of his cloak. The fabric slips from his grip smoothly. “I—well, I saw the flowers, and my first thought was that they—reminded me, of you, so—and, also, I thought you’d like them, so I—”

“I love them.” Elder Faerie silences Salt’s rambling with a delighted whisper. “Salt, these are positively breathtaking—I love them. Thank you, for bringing them to me.”

“Ah.” Salt tenses, stops, and relaxes. “That’s—good. To hear.”

The monarch brings the bouquet closer, and breathes in deeply—for that moment, the foreign yet aromatic scent of the flowers overwhelm him, but not too much—he’s transported to the Land of Spice, a place he’s only ever known through rumours and unreliable gossip and Salt’s stories.

The saffrons’ petals catch the edge of a passing wind, swaying ever so gracefully in Elder Faerie’s reverent hold. A symbol of resilience, dripping in beauty—now, doesn’t that remind him of someone?

Then, a realization hits him with all the force of a meteorite crashing down on Earthbread—grasping the flowers, some memory resurfaces in his mind.

“Oh,” Elder Faerie says, snapping his attention back onto Salt’s helmeted face. “Oh, Salt, you brought me flowers! From before you left, I asked if you would bring back a souvenir, and you...”

“I remembered, yes.” Salt of Solidarity acknowledges with a slight incline of his head. “I remember everything you say.”

“Oh, but you didn’t have to—you must’ve been so busy, with your campaign, you needn’t have taken it so seriously—I’ve wasted precious time...”

“Elder Faerie, time spent on you is no time wasted at all—in fact, I might say the opposite.” Closing the distance between them with a single step, Salt continues, “The act of gifting is an immense joy in and of itself.”

As if to emphasize his point, a gauntleted hand reaches forward, meticulously removes a single blossom from the bundle and in one swift motion tucks it behind Elder Faerie’s pointed ear.

Cool metal brushes against loose hair, the curve of his ear, the expanse of his cheek; his touch softer than the petals that tickle his skin, stem held in place by undone strands of hair.

The flower stays balanced on Elder Faerie’s ear, but the hand does not retreat—it stays, lingering, and Elder Faerie has to fight to keep his wings from twitching erratically when Salt’s finger hooks itself on a thin lock of pale lavender hair and brushes it away from his face.

Oddly enough, the world seems to have gone entirely silent—all Elder Faerie Cookie can hear is the pounding heartbeat booming in his ears and all he can feel is the weight of Salt of Solidarity’s hand against his face, the mere presence of it setting something in his ribcage ablaze and his knees to weaken.

Only muscle memory keeps the precious gift in his hands from spilling out—before the monarch’s eyes, he sees himself reaching up, clasping his friend’s hand then, with all the passion his kind are known for in their moonlit revelries, bring him close—breathe in the ever so tempting scent of salt and whisper, Stars, I could kiss you.

The thought—or more like an impulse, by how sudden it gripped him with a chokehold—crossed Elder Faerie’s mind like a bolt of lightning and went just as quickly. Yet, much like watching said phenomenon in real life, his mind was active but his eyes were glued to Salt’s face, to where his eyes would be; hands frozen into a cradle for the saffrons.

What was that, Elder Faerie Cookie demanded internally. What on Earthbread was that?!

The moment passed—it was like time sped up once more, and Salt’s hand retracted back to his side, with a hint of unwillingness.

“See,” Salt of Solidarity’s voice has a smile in it, stepping back as if to admire his craft. “I knew it would suit you. It matches your countenance perfectly.”

Witches, since when has his gaze been so, so—fond?!

Elder Faerie’s hand frees itself from the death grip, jerking upwards to brush against his ear, caressing the saffron’s petals, feeling strangely abashed—the heat in his chest is growing inch by ravenous inch. I am beginning to think I am ill, he thinks. Am I ill?

Warmth creeps up on his face. “Ah—well, I suppose I have your good taste to thank for that.” Words roll off his tongue automatically. “Erm—thank you, these really are...” He clears his throat forcibly. “...Well. Thank you, for the gift. These saffrons really are magnificent.”

A soft chuckle escapes Salt of Solidarity, reverberating through the knight’s helmet. “Next time I go to the Land of Spice, I’ll remember to bring you more.”

A promise uttered so carefree but still holds the unmovable weight of steel. Elder Faerie Cookie holds the bouquet of saffron closer to his heart, a mock embrace. The flower tucked into his ear is spilling a sharp fragrance, yet it cannot overpower the crisp aroma of salt.

“I’ll hold you to it,” he hears himself say.

Next time, the unspoken words ring out in the silver forest, as transparent as the guileless moonlight above.

Chapter Text

“Your Majesty! Correspondence for you!”

Elder Faerie Cookie briefly looks up from a scroll packed full with ancient text, sprawled across his lap and halfway across the pristine floor where its brethren lay.

“Ah, Silverbell Cookie. Thank you, please leave it here.”

In the silver halls of Elder Faerie Cookie’s palace, jovial sunlight filters in through ceiling-to-floor windows, nigh invisible dust motes swirling delicately in the air.

Though it may be rather quiet, it is far from unlively. The sound of Faerie Cookies’ hurried footsteps and rhythmic beating of their gossamer wings echo through the hallowed halls like the beats to some imperceptible symphony, each laugh and whisper decorating the walls.

The throne room is spacious and refined, thick silver vines with wide, heart-shaped emerald leaves blooming outwards intertwined with the columns, reaching towards the ceiling. Ever so often, the leaves shiver as if in silent laughter, as if the vines were truly alive.

There’s no meeting taking place today—yet Elder Faerie Cookie sits on his throne, surrounded by books and scrolls and paperwork. After all, as the King of the Faerie Kingdom there is always more to do, even when the day is done—such is his responsibility.

Elder Faerie Cookie motions to the top of a rather precariously stacked pile of leather-bound texts with loose papers sticking out between the pages. Seeing this, Silverbell Cookie hurriedly walks over, taking care to not step on anything, or Witches forbid—trip and fall on His Majesty.

Silverbell Cookie gently places a tightly sealed envelope on the stack of books—the envelope is pure white, with pale gray swirls dotting the corners and Elder Faerie Cookie’s name written in familiar, straight, concise calligraphy.

The monarch looks up from his scroll once more, and much to Silverbell Cookie’s surprise, his eyes widen with what could only be described as unbridled joy—as though becoming ten years younger from excitement alone.

He makes to grab the letter, the scroll nearly spilling out of his lap—but he catches himself and turns to Silverbell Cookie with a slightly abashed, “Ah—you’re dismissed, Silverbell Cookie.”

“Alright, Your Majesty.” A tad nonplussed, Silverbell Cookie salutes Elder Faerie Cookie regardless and turns to leave the throne room.

When he leaves, he notices that the faint scent of salt still lingers on his palms.

Meanwhile, back in the throne room, the moment Silverbell Cookie had closed the heavy doors, and Elder Faerie Cookie is once more alone, the monarch eagerly looks down at the envelope, delicately tracing his name written with dark gray ink with a finger.

Flipping the envelope around reveals the seal of the Kala Namak Knights, a round wax seal stamped with care. Elder Faerie Cookie fumbles around for a letter opener, gives up when the mess around him proves too difficult for him to find anything, and uses the tip of a quill instead.

“Careful, careful...” Elder Faerie Cookie mumbles to himself as the wax seal slowly comes off, bit by bit. When it’s completely off, he sets the small seal aside, then opens the envelope.

Immediately, the distinct scent of salt hits his nose—underscored with something smoky and leathery. As Elder Faerie slides the folded letter inside out, a second piece of folded paper comes out with it.

He decides to open the letter first. As expected, there’s only one Cookie in the entirety of the Great Barrens that would write to him—Salt of Solidarity’s heart-wrenchingly familiar handwriting sits innocuously on sturdy, high quality paper lying on his lap.

Feeling strangely giddy with anticipation, Elder Faerie Cookie leans back in his throne and starts to read.

Dearest Elder Faerie,

(Elder Faerie will deny having choked upon reading the word ‘Dearest’.)

It has been far too long since I have last seen you—or written to you, in fact. Recently, my duties of Solidarity have left me with little time to myself, though I realize it is no excuse to not write. How have you fared as of late? I sincerely hope you are well—your companionship and presence are greatly missed.

The Cookies of the Great Barrens are all well, however, peculiar events have occurred since we last spoke. A popular trend has arisen recently, specifically in terms of modern vernacular used among the youth. I profess to have never paid much attention to such matters, as it matters not to me what the young Cookies do or say, so as long they are well. However, it seems this particular trend has infiltrated my order, which is how I have come to know of its existence.

Tell me, old friend, do you have any idea what ‘rizz’, ‘skibidi’ and ‘baddie’ mean? My knights have been increasingly using such terms lately, and—to be completely honest—I am utterly lost. I have no idea what those words mean—if they are even words to begin with. As I am writing this letter, a knight is passing by my tent proclaiming that they will ‘rizz up the hottie that lives by the river’. Should I be concerned?

Do not worry—I believe I will manage, although my ears are beginning to grow tired whenever I converse with my knights. It was especially tiring when I led my knights to the Ivory Pagoda for a ‘cultural exchange’ with Flour of Volition three and a half weeks ago. When I asked, not even she knew what those words meant. The world is truly changing at a much faster pace than anticipated...

The ‘cultural exchange’ went quite smoothly. The Kala Namak Knights bonded with the Cookies at the Ivory Pagoda, creating friendships that I daresay will help facilitate peace and unity among differing factions. The Ivory Pagoda was as peaceful as usual—the crisp mountain breeze and graceful scent of incense permeated the grounds.

During my stay at the Ivory Pagoda, Flour of Volition introduced a new form of art to me—ink painting, as it’s called. Ink painting is exactly what it sounds like—painting with ink. I was quite surprised to find that the ink is unlike the kind you or I use in our everyday lives, as it is more water-based and fluid.

To start, they burn wood in order to collect the fine particles of soot produced. Typically, they use pine wood, though Flour has said that sometimes she uses wood from the Mountain Dumpling Trees. They then grind the soot to a fine powder.

Then, they simmer animal connective tissues like egg whites in water until the liquid becomes gelatinous, which is then cooled to a gel and can thus be dried or used as a liquid.  They take the soot powder from earlier and mix it with the glue, kneading and pounding the mixture until the ink stick finally forms its shape, and their patterns come from the ink molds which were pressed on them. Poorly made ink sticks will crack very easily, Flour has told me.

After several long months of patience, the ink stick will be dried enough for use. To use, the ink sticks are ground with circular motions in a slate bowl where drops of water are added—then, the ink is ready.

When Flour finished explaining, she showed me several ink paintings that she did of the Ivory Pagoda and the many gardens within the Pagoda’s grounds. They were genuinely magnificent—artistic masterpieces in their own right, I said as much. Though the artworks were only painted in shades of black and gray, they conveyed a sense of ephemerality and transience unique to the Pagoda. I do believe you would have loved to see them.

Unexpectedly, Flour then invited me to make an ink painting of my own. At first, I declined the invitation, as I profess to have little talent with the arts. As you know, old friend, my hands are better suited to the hilt of my sword.

Flour was quite insistent, however, saying that as my knights were eagerly participating in the ‘cultural exchange’, as she put it, wouldn’t it be unfair that I, as their Lord Commander, would abstain from this activity? She also said that I ought to relax a bit in her temple, though I dare not say that my lack of relaxation was because the incense made me sneeze.

Under her guidance, I attempted to create an ink painting. I do not think I have to tell you how it went—I can already hear your mocking laughter even in the safety of my tent. Suffice to say, it was nothing short of complete and utter humiliation.

The trees I painted looked nothing like trees, more like deformed monstrosities, and the mountains were more akin to giant ink blots the size of my gauntlet. I still do not understand how I managed to make the brush lose half its bristles—I swear to you, Elder Faerie, that when I showed Flour the brush, she was silently laughing at me. The brush looked like a half-bald cat.

I suppose it did not help that I did not have a vision of what I wanted to paint—I attempted to create something similar to Flour’s, but what half-baked results that emerged lacked a sort of...soul, or emotion, perhaps. It was very perplexing—creating art is much, much more challenging to master than the art of the blade. I kept thinking not only would you have a much easier time mastering it, your paintings would’ve been utterly mesmerizing to behold.

Nevertheless, over the course of two weeks I continued to persist—trying again and again to create a presentable artwork. Believe me, I gave it my all—but as one honest knight put it when he happened to pass by and see what I was doing, it looked like nonsense.

Flour didn’t say anything of the sort, but I suspect she thinks the same.

Then, on the second last day of the ‘cultural exchange’, Flour suggested that instead of trying to draw the landscape, I could paint the very first thing that came to mind. It could be anything—she gave several suggestions, which included: my knights, my horse, a sword, or just a really big sun.

Coincidentally, we happened to be sitting on the highest level of the Ivory Pagoda, where our balcony overlooked the entirety of the Flour Mountains. I cannot describe the sheer awe-inspiring view that I saw that night—gigantic mountains that tower over the average Cookie yet present a sensation of gentleness, painted with cascading shades of vibrant greenery, creating a cradle for the Pagoda to nestle within.

The golden rooftops glistened underneath the pure moonlight, above an infinite expanse of stars like tiny diamonds on an endless swath of black silk. It was truly stunning. The very picture of tranquillity, and yet, there was nothing that captured my fancy enough for me to put it to ink and paper.

I did not have to ponder for very long—listening to the wind whistle around the hallowed peaks, singing a lovely and carefree tune, I was reminded of the euphonious melodies you sing to the stars at night when you think there isn’t anyone around.

My skills with the brush leave much to be desired—admittedly, I do much better with a pencil. Nevertheless, I give to you a token of my endearment, which enclosed within is my heartfelt desire to see you again.

May your dreams always be sweet.

Yours, always,

Salt of Solidarity

Elder Faerie Cookie lowers the letter, tongue frozen to the roof of his mouth.

A stunned laugh escapes his lips as he raises a hand to his cheek—yes, it’s scalding hot. There’s something akin to embarrassment burning where his heart should be—but it isn’t embarrassment at all, no, it’s sweet and warm and fanciful and oh so overwhelming.

“Goodness,” Elder Faerie laughs to himself, as if that could stave off the heat in his face. “You and your silver tongue…”

He can’t quite tear his eyes away from the ‘Yours, always’ at the very bottom of the page. Salt has always written that at the bottom of his letters, yet this time around it feels…different. More…meaningful, in a way. Purposeful. But for the love of Earthbread, Elder Faerie cannot parse its meaning, let alone the reason for his own beating heart.

And, wait, what does he mean by ‘melodies you sing to the stars at night when you think there isn’t anyone around’ ? Does that mean Salt has been listening to him sing? And he thinks his singing is nice??

Elder Faerie Cookie has no idea what to do with this information.

And the letter—he can’t explain it, it’s so very him. It’s as though Salt himself is sitting right next to Elder Faerie, regaling his experiences with that calm, baritone voice of his, rich and velvety and smooth, hand brushing Elder Faerie’s own as he looks at him with nothing but fondness in his eyes.

Just imagining it has Elder Faerie giggling for a split second before he clamps his mouth shut. Witches above,he exclaims in his head. Was that a giggle? Am I still a teenager? Witches, what if someone overheard me—get it together!

Firmly (gently, as if made from spun sugar), Elder Faerie Cookie sets the letter aside as he picks up the second folded piece of paper—unfolds it, and gasps.

It’s a miniature painting of Elder Faerie Cookie himself. The visage is unmistakable—the strong nose, the flowing, loose hair—is all too familiar to Elder Faerie.

Even though it’s obvious the painter is an amateur, every stroke is filled with absolute focus and determination, as if the painter was trying to literally transfer his memory to paper and ink.

In the painting, Elder Faerie is half-turned towards the viewer, gazing over his shoulder with stars in his eyes, laughter in the crinkled corners of his eyes; his hair is completely loose, swept to one side, exposing the smooth expanse of his neck. Elder Faerie’s mouth is curved into a playful grin, lips open, as if calling out a name—and Elder Faerie Cookie knows instinctively whose name it is.

The painting is so detailed Elder Faerie can see individual strands of hair being tugged by an unseen wind, looping around his pointed ear. In the background, petals are being carried by the wind, haloing the smiling figure like a mark of divinity.

Endearing. That’s the only word for it. Salt had called this a token of endearment.

Was this how Salt saw Elder Faerie Cookie? If so, then…

Elder Faerie presses a trembling hand to his mouth, eyes wide. There is nothing in the throne room is except himself and the painting, and the longer he stares at it the more he feels like he is not holding a piece of paper but a fragment of Salt’s soul.

Every stroke, every blot feels intimate. Affectionate. Elder Faerie knows it well—because hidden behind the walls of his heart is the fact that he sees as Salt much the same way.

The focus of his world, the apple of his eye—so to speak. In a certain moment when all else falls away and all you can see is them, the curve of their smile and the shape of their laughter, like all the forces of nature collectively decided that yes, this is the Cookie that the stars would weep for and the sun would rise in the east for.

Unbidden, Elder Faerie feels his lips curving into a stupidly wide smile, and that second when he closed his eyes he could see Salt, bent over a table, brush perched in his hand as he painted with the kind of absolute attention only Salt could give.

The very image of it was adorable. Yes, Elder Faerie could see it now—the slight furrowing of his brows, the tiny divot in his forehead. Those eyes, shining with determination; those gentle, warm, calloused palms, holding a brush that he could never break no matter how frustrated he got. The near indiscernible jut of his lower lip if he made a mistake.

Cute, Elder Faerie thought giddily to himself. I want to kiss him.

Ten seconds later, when his brain functions normally again, Elder Faerie Cookie is going to freeze in mortification and scold himself for thinking of a dear friend in such a depraved manner.

For now, though, he clutches the painting to his pounding heart, smiling to the honey-warm sunlight pouring through the window, and sighs like a lovesick teenager.

Chapter Text

The smell of rain hangs heavy in the air.

And most unfortunately for Elder Faerie Cookie, it does not seem like he would be able to make it back to his palace in time.

Grey clouds are tumbling over one another in an effort to completely shield the sun from view, casting wide, sweeping shadows over the Faerie Kingdom. As if in anticipation, the animals call out and flee the open spaces, and the grass rustles loudly.

Perhaps he should’ve brought an umbrella…it was arrogant of him to assume he could make it to the veil and back before the storm rolled in.

In his defence…no, actually, there isn’t anything to say in defence. Elder Faerie Cookie just made a rookie mistake, that’s all.

Hey, it’s not like he could foresee the weather…

(“Your Majesty, it’s going to rain…”

“Ah, fret not. I’ll be back swiftly. I just need to check on the integrity of the veil.”

“Um, but it’s going to storm—“

“I’ll be back before you know it. Besides, it’s just a little rain. I’ll be fine.”

“But, your Majesty!…And he’s gone.”)

Ahem. Anyways…

Elder Faerie Cookie stops and looks out at the horizon. Then, he turns his head up to the rapidly graying sky and takes a long, deep breath. Petrichor rushes into his lungs, heavy and cool, a prelude of what is to come. As expected, he’s going to get soaked.

As if in defiance, his wings twitch and unfurl behind him. What little sunlight is left catches the iridescent, semi-transparent surface, casting rainbow light on the foot-worn path below his feet.

Of course, he could fly. Speed across the plains and over the treetops, and make it back without getting absolutely drenched. However, if rain was to catch him midair, there’s a chance he’d have a nasty fall—and he’d rather not break a leg or an arm today, thanks.

He’s not so sure he can fly that fast, anyway. It’s been a while since he’s raced in the skies.

Still, was it worth it…?

Just as a gust of pre-rainstorm wind blows in from over yonder, Elder Faerie Cookie’s wings sweep downwards, creating wind that propels the monarch upwards. They flap again and again until Elder Faerie is at a decent height, and the expanse of silver-green trees are in view. Bracing himself, he—

“NEIGH!”

Startled, Elder Faerie Cookie makes a mid-air stumble, nearly tumbling out of the air in shock. Whipping around, he searches for the source of the disturbance when he sees a Cookie sitting on a horse, at the edge of the veil, staring at him judgmentally.

An all-too familiar looking horse. And an all-too familiar looking Cookie.

“Elder Faerie, old friend,” Salt of Solidarity greets politely, amusement hidden badly in his voice. “You keep falling over whenever we meet. I’m beginning to think you’re starting to fall for me.”

“Nonsense,” Elder Faerie retorts, gracefully landing next to Salt and smoothing out his clothes. “You should blame your horse for that.”

“Neigh,” says the horse, flipping its mane.

“She’s a good horse,” Salt defends. “Look at her, she’s the very picture of innocence.”

“Neigh.” The horse agrees. It then tries to chew on Elder Faerie’s hair.

The fairy monarch takes his hair out of the horse’s mouth without looking. “You’re right—I should blame her owner.”

“I am a Virtue. I radiate nothing but virtuousness.”

“Sure you do.”

They lapse into momentary silence—Salt sitting with his back abnormally straight, chest puffed out dramatically; Elder Faerie looking up at his armoured friend with narrowed eyes; Salt’s dearest horse trying yet again to chew on Elder Faerie’s hair.

Their mouths twitch, and both Cookies break out into laughter. “Ha—haha, oh, is it good to see you again, Salt,” the monarch manages to get out in between giggles. “What brings you to the Faerie Kingdom this time around?”

Salt stifles his laughter and clears his throat. “I merely wanted to visit you. Is that not reason enough?”

“Ah, well, as you know, my gates are always open to you.” Just then, thunder rumbles in the far distance as another gust of cool, precautionary wind passes the Cookies by, picking up speed and intensity. “Although, I will say, you chose quite the unusual time to be out in the open.”

“Indeed,” Salt gazes up at the sky. “I don’t suppose you have an umbrella on you?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Salt’s horse paws at the ground nervously, getting a reassuring pat from her owner. “Hm. Then I suppose I will be seeing you around, then.”

“Wait, what—?” But it’s too late, as Salt’s horse is already racing down the path at neck-breaking speeds, her owner nothing more than a speck of white in the horizon. Elder Faerie Cookie is left gaping at where his friend was a second ago.

He laughs incredulously, the fire called competitiveness burning to life once more. “You! Get back here!”

With a powerful flap of his wings, Elder Faerie Cookie zeroes in on the horizon, soaring through the air after his friend.

Wind whistles sharply in his ears, tugging at his hair, trailing after him like a banner of pale lavender.

The coolness of it stings his cheeks lightly, but Elder Faerie is no stranger to such winds, His wings easily split the air into two halves as cleanly as a knife, propelling him even further forwards without much effort at all.

If one were to look this way from afar, all they would see was a blur of gossamer wings and pale lavender hair, racing across the landscape as it chases after another blur—of white and galloping hooves.

A near-silent yet razor-sharp whistle dances on the uneasy wind before it’s gone as quickly as it came. It’s a common misconception that just because the Faerie Cookies’ wings look as delicate as stained glass, they aren’t sturdy and adapted for sheer speed.

(Water is still a pain to deal with, though.)

In no time at all, he’s neck-to-neck with Salt of Solidarity himself. The knight turns his head slightly to the right, making eye contact with a very smug fairy monarch effortlessly keeping pace with his trusty steed.

“Feeling tired yet, Your Majesty?” Salt teases lightly. “You’re welcome to stop and take a break—wouldn’t want to tire you out, now would we?”

Elder Faerie’s laugh rings crystal clear like a handful of silver bells. “I see your arrogance knows no bounds! The rain will drown me first before I yield to you, dear knight!”

As if on cue, a single drop of rain falls from the gathering storm clouds, landing on Salt’s helmet with a soft tink!

It slides off harmlessly, flying off to oblivion.

Wordlessly, both Cookies glance up at the sky. Then, at each other. At that moment, the world seemed to be holding its breath…

…Only for the heavens to start vomiting an entire ocean’s worth of rainwater on them.

“Curses!” Elder Faerie Cookie exclaims, shielding his eyes with a free hand. He seems uncaring of the fact that his hair now bears incredible resemblance to a sopping wet towel. “To the forest, hurry! We’re almost there!”

Rain slams down on Elder Faerie’s wings, obscuring his vision, attempting to drag him down. It raps a steady rhythm on Salt’s armour, sliding off and coming down again relentlessly. Persistent as ever, it only grows in intensity before their eyes, the wind blowing the rain so that it sweeps across the landscape in sheets, horizontally attacking any unlucky passerby.

It’s getting increasingly harder to see—if it weren’t for the unchanging tempo of Salt’s horse’s hooves on the soaked earth below as it sprints, Elder Faerie might’ve actually flew off course and crashed.

“Oh—there, I see it!”

Quickly growing in size before their eyes, the edge of the forest swallows the path they’re on. Neither of them has to be told twice to speed up and duck under the rain-heavy canopy, branches swaying loudly under the sudden downpour.

Thankfully, the canopy takes the brunt of the assault, leaving only a few strings of raindrops slipping through the gaps. The horse gradually slows down, huffing annoyedly at the weather.

Salt, seeing how he’s safe from the rainstorm for now, decides to disembark, swinging a leg over his horse and landing on the ground in one swift motion. His cape and robe are completely soaked through, the fabric trawling after him on the forest floor, catching stray fallen leaves and twigs.

Rainwater continues to drip down his armour as if he was shedding a second skin. From his silent discomfort, it’s obvious he doesn’t appreciate the sudden powerwashing. His horse isn’t faring much better—at least her mane’s glossy?

Elder Faerie Cookie tsks as he picks at his drenched clothes, sticking to his skin uncomfortably so. Strands of hair are practically glued to his face and the corner of his lips; his ponytail having been all but destroyed by the wind.

His wings trail after him, weighed down with rainwater. It puts some strain on his back, so he decides not to fold it back and just let it drag, hoping that it’ll somehow miraculously dry in an instant if does so.

The road back to the Faerie Kingdom is still long, but the good news is that the forest will be covering them for the rest of the way.

Sighing, Elder Faerie takes his long curtains of hair and twists them as if it really was a towel, sending water to be squeezed out and pool at his feet in a sad puddle. He tosses it back over his shoulder when no more water can be squeezed out.

“Are you soaked?” He asks Salt.

“I am.” Elder Faerie can hear the grimace in his voice. “Water got into my armour. My clothes are wet.”

“If we hurry, we can make it back to my palace before the rain gets even heavier. Shall we go on?”

Salt picks his cape off the ground, tries and fails to get a dead leaf off, gives up and lets it flop back down. “Let’s.”

Above their heads, the rainstorm rattles the safety cover of the forest canopy, a gust of chilling wind howling through the wall of trees; a warning that the brunt of the storm is yet to come.

Compared to the outside, the palace is delightfully warm, like sitting by a campfire and wrapped in a thick cotton blanket.

Even through the thick walls and windows, Elder Faerie Cookie can hear the stubborn rain pounding on the outside of the castle, demanding attention.

Inside the halls, however, there are no Cookies to be seen. If Elder Faerie were to guess, the Faerie Cookies probably all left to make sure there isn’t anything important still left outside in the pouring rain, like a book left on a bench.

“If it is your horse you are worried about, please cease your worry—she will be in good hands in the stables,” Elder Faerie reassures Salt, mistaking his discomfort for worry.

“Oh, I am quite sure Nox will be fine.” He replies.

Meanwhile, water continues to drip steadily onto the polished floors. There is a trail of water following them like a persistent stalker, and as they stand in the hallway, twin puddles of water by their feet are slowly growing in size.

Salt sighs. Rainwater is dripping from the crevices of his armour. Since entering the castle, he’s resorted to holding his cape in one gauntleted hand, perhaps not wishing to muddy his friend’s floors even further. It’s sopping wet, though, so it barely makes a difference, but it’s the thought that counts.

Well. This horrid weather could very well last all throughout the rest of the day and night, so there’s no way Elder Faerie Cookie is sending Salt back out. At the very least, he could offer him to stay for the night, maybe dinner and a change of clothes…?

Seeing his friend shift awkwardly in place, a lightbulb turns on in Elder Faerie’s head.

Before he can stop himself, he asks, “Salt, would you like to sleep with me for the night?”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“WAIT NO NOT LIKE THAT—”

Salt blinks.

 “Oh.”

“Wait, no, I meant—!” Elder Faerie buries his face in his hands, thoroughly embarrassed, feeling heat burn in his cheeks. “I miss-misspoke! I wanted to ask if you wanted to stay for the night! Yes! That’s it!”

“Oh.” A beat of silence. “Then I’ll gladly take you up on that offer, old friend.” The knight inclines his head graciously, with elegance and grace, because of course he does.

“R-right…”

Another beat of silence. The rain continues to pour outside, pounding persistently on the walls and windows.

Elder Faerie clears his throat loudly, as if that could stave off the raging humiliation. “W-well then, follow me...”

“Of course.”

The monarch turns on his heel and starts to walk down the hallway, determinedly staring at the ground, still feeling his face burning hotter than a campfire. Never in his life has he wanted to dig a hole and jump in it more than now.

Okay, that was completely unnecessary and absolutely humiliating. Where did those words even come from? Entirely unprompted, too! He hasn’t misspoken in decades! What is wrong with him?! So inappropriate, too!

Right, right, just ignore it! You have a goal, so just focus on that! Elder Faerie scolds himself.

Also, was it just his imagination, or did Salt sound…disappointed?

As expected, Elder Faerie Cookie has made yet another blunder. Should he be surprised?

An hour ago:

(“Salt, you need a change of clothes. There’s no way you’re going to spend the night sopping wet.”

“I am just fine, thank you. I’ve been in worse conditions.”

“Yes, well. The Faerie Cookies will think your dough has turned to water and come crying to me about treating our guests horribly if I let you do that.”

“It was already incredibly kind of you to offer me to stay in your castle overnight—”

“It isn’t even the first time I’ve offered you to stay here—"

“Please do not concern yourself with my well-being, as you know—I am most comfortable when impervious to most forms of physical attacks.”

“Does rainwater count? Drowning in your armour? Getting a cold?”

“I do not get sick—”

“Oh, look. We’re here. The guest chambers.”

“…”

“…Is there a problem?”

“…I did not realise the guest chambers have been renovated.”

“They…have not. Why?”

“I believe you have brought me to your chambers instead.”

“…”

“Elder Faerie—”

“…The guest chambers have all been destroyed in a freak accident.”

“Pardon—?”

“My chambers are the only ones intact.”

“…So, about what you said earlier.”

“Get in.”)

The monarch himself sits in a plush armchair, a book open and abandoned on a nearby table. The curtains have been drawn shut, muffling the downpour outside from a roar to a mere mumble.

The room is cast in a warm glow, illuminated by lamplight and candlelight. Elder Faerie’s room is tidy, with bookshelves stuffed full to the brim with all his favourite books, and vases of flowers set on another table. One of them contains the bouquet of saffron Salt brought for him from the Land of Spice—they have yet to lose their fragrance.

On another side of the room, there is a shelf filled with various trinkets. Some are those he found on walks in the forest, some were gifts from the Faerie Cookies, and some are, of course, from Salt. Those he puts on the middle rows. There’s a framed painting of Elder Faerie himself that Salt made in the Ivory Pagoda—it far outshines the other works of art on the shelf.

Elder Faerie Cookie is dry and no longer wet—his hair pulled rather sloppily into a bun, with locks of pale lavender hair escaping and framing his face. His wings are also no longer heavy with rainwater, which gives his poor back some relief.

He’s swapped his soaked clothes for a thick, warm robe. In the privacy of his own room, he can hide his fingers and hands inside the wide sleeves.

Ah, but he isn’t actually alone in his chambers, is he. Because his malfunctioning brain decided to offer Salt to stay the night in his chambers. And who somehow agreed?!

Salt, who is currently using his bathroom. Who is washing up just behind that door over there. The fairy can literally here the sounds of rushing water, and frankly, the mere sound of it is making his heartbeat race.

Elder Faerie looks at the wall next to the bathroom door—Salt’s armour is standing there; the helmet having been set down on the carpeted floor. Just before his friend had disappeared into the bathroom, he had caught the glimpse of glistening white hair, droplets of water running down.

Alright, so this really is happening. Don’t worry, Elder Faerie tells himself, taking a deep breath, just as he always does before giving a speech before a large crowd of his subjects. It isn’t like you’ve never seen his face before. It’s nothing—why are you still panicking?

“Oh my Witches, please shut up,” Elder Faerie Cookie mumbles under his breath, once again burying his face in his palms.

Then, inaudibly because the bathroom door is very well-maintained, Salt steps out, a cloud of warm steam rushing out with a very soft hiss as it does.

“Elder Faerie,” a hesitant voice calls out.

Hearing his name, he automatically looks up—and is instantly struck dumb.

Without his armour, Salt of Solidarity loses all semblance of mystery—the hard edges of metal now replaced with the softness of dough. Broad shoulders with a narrow waist, the thick cotton robe doesn’t cover those, nor does it cover the rise of his collarbones. It only reaches to his knees, showing something never before seen on Earthbread—Salt being barefoot.

Oh, and Elder Faerie can see his muscles. Not that it’s relevant.

A towel is hanging off Salt’s arm, a large hand holding it gently. He holds it so, as if even with all his Witches-given strength he can’t imagine holding something without gentleness. His other hand is resting on the doorframe, one long finger positioned on the edge.

And Witches, his face. Salt has mesmerizing eyes like the clearest salt crystals, shimmering vibrantly against the warm hue of his dough. A strong nose set in a handsome face with a strong jawline, only slightly rugged. Unlike what most Cookies would probably imagine, his face speaks only of gentleness—the only indication to what he does being the jagged, torn scar on the edge of his left cheek, running down his chin and neck like a tear stain.

Tiny silver freckles like grains of salt peppered below his eyes and over his nose, so very reminiscent of luminous stars set in the inky darkness of the night sky.

Salt’s hair is completely loose, tumbling down his back in waves of mildly wavy white. Unlike Elder Faerie’s own, it’s pure white—maybe even brighter than the white of his cotton robe, which he dons perhaps more comfortably than his armour in this moment, between one breath and the next.

But what truly captures Elder Faerie Cookie’s attention, in that moment, is Salt’s expression. He’s looking straight at him, with his full, undivided attention, no longer hidden behind the wall of his helmet, and it feels like trying to stare into the sun and feeling no discomfort in one’s eyes, only effervescent warmth and utter fondness.

Goodness, there’s still tiny droplets of water dripping from his hair, running down his face, down his chest. It follows the lines of his muscles, unconsciously guiding the mind to—

Elder Faerie swallows dryly.

This is who he’ll have to share his chambers with for a full night?!

“Elder Faerie? What is the matter?” Salt’s low, dulcet voice only makes the blood rush faster to his face. “Are you quite alright?”

No, because I’m going to have to share my chambers with you for a whole night!

Those pure, unguarded eyes are still gazing at him with unparalleled warmth and concern.

Stars above, he won’t survive the night. He is going to die, he’s sure of it.

Otherwise, how do you explain the thumping of his heart, the sudden dryness in his mouth? The ever-so-slight trembling of his fingers, hooking into the plush cushion below him? The heat in his face, and in his chest? The fluttering of illusory butterflies in his stomach? The fierce, intense urge to march across the room, pull Salt down by his collar, and—!

And.

And…

“Elder Faerie?”

Elder Faerie Cookie snaps out of his trance, heart beating a furious tempo in his ears. Salt has moved even closer to him—so close he can smell the crisp aroma of salt coming off him in waves. It’s horribly intoxicating, and very distracting.

“A—ah, aha, I’m alright, just thinking—” Elder Faerie Cookie hurriedly moves to stand up, suddenly very conscious of his messy hair. “So, I suppose this is where we part for the night—?”

Salt blinks again. He seems to be doing that a lot today. “There’s only one bed in here.”

“A-ah. Right.”

He can feel Salt’s warmth even in proximity. He’s going to be feeling that warmth next to him, a fingertip’s width apart, for one whole night.

By the Witches, he is not going to survive to see the sunrise.

Chapter Text

Across the darkening sky, streaks of orange-gold and pink run free, trailing into the depths of the horizon as little stars blink awake blearily, one by one until they fill up the heavenly firmament above.

In the depths of the forests, birds call out to each other, warning all of the impending night. Soon, their melodic calls will be replaced with the dream-like stillness of night, calm and tranquil.

Sunset is a particularly wonderful time to visit the Faerie Kingdom, as the last rays of sunlight fall on the silver surfaces and roads, illuminating the kingdom in a fiery glow until the sun sets fully.

Aspiring poets and artists alike have used their craft to capture the transient beauty of sunset, writing ballads and creating masterpieces on canvas in an attempt to emulate nature’s handiwork. Elder Faerie Cookie has read and seen many of these works, and have long since desired to share this beauty with his dear friend, Salt of Solidarity, in hopes that he would enjoy it as much as he would.

Indeed, somewhere along the way, going on long strolls under the sunset has turned into something of a habit whenever Salt comes by to visit.

On the silver-paved path, glinting fiery gold in the sunset, Elder Faerie Cookie walks leisurely alongside Salt, their footsteps falling into a rhythmic tempo as they stroll in a companionable silence.

There is nothing accompanying them aside from the soft whistle of a passing breeze and the sweet scent of blooming flowers, their petals swaying in the wind, decorating the edges of the path.

By all accounts, it’s a beautiful day, perfect for admiring scenery in peaceful silence with a friend beside oneself.

However, whenever Elder Faerie tries to focus on the sky or the flowers or the road ahead, his mind keeps coming back to the fact that Salt’s hand is right next to his.

Is that a normal thing to keep focusing on? Elder Faerie has no idea. This hasn’t really happened before—the undying focus on the inch of space between Salt’s gauntleted hand and his own bare one, and the subsequent feeling he gets in his fingers that can only be described as an itch.

He keeps wondering what it would be like to grasp Salt’s hand in his own—to feel the cool metal that hides warm, calloused palms and gentle fingers. The thought makes his cheeks warm.

Elder Faerie glances sideways—Salt is, of course, as calm as always, gaze directed forward as he walks in tandem with Elder Faerie himself. His mind is probably preoccupied with actually admiring the scenery, or thinking about important matters like his knights, not something as inane as holding his friend’s hand.

Goodness, he sounds scarily like a child.

It isn’t like he and Salt haven’t touched before. Casual clasping of shoulders, one-armed hugs, formal handshakes…the list goes on. For Witches’ sake, they’ve held hands before! Neither of them are prudish enough to deny physical contact!

So, why the current conundrum?

Just as Elder Faerie is about to tell himself to stop thinking about it already, Salt interrupts his thoughts with a well-timed, “Is there something on your mind?”

The monarch silently jolts, eyes darting to meet Salt’s crystalline own. Granted, they’re covered by his visor, but the genuine concern in them is warmer than any campfire.

Realizing Salt is expecting an answer from him makes him freeze for a split second in panic. “I—was just thinking about current issues in the Faerie Kingdom, that’s all,” he quickly lies. “You know how it is. The duties never end—new problems seem to rise with the sun.”

“Does it come with the crown?” Salt jokes.

“It does.” Elder Faerie sighs. “Though at the end of the day, it’s rewarding all the same. I suppose the same could be said with you and your,” he motions at the vibrant Soul Jam embedded in Salt’s chestplate. “Armour.”

“Hmm.” The knight hums noncommittally. “You speak truth, and yet—I sense you are withholding something from me.”

“You know I’d never withhold anything from you.”

“No? But it’s written all over your face.” Salt raises a finger and taps it against his helmet, a clear tap-tap ringing out in an accusatory manner.

Surprised, Elder Faerie instinctively reaches up to touch his own face, only to stop halfway through.

“Ha,” the monarch laughs dryly. “How clever.”

“So there is something you aren’t telling me,” Salt confirms upon seeing his friend’s reaction. “What is it?”

“Do not concern yourself with it. I assure you it is of little importance.”

“Ah, but this is you we are discussing. I’d argue that anything that concerns you is equally as important to me.”

“Oh,” Elder Faerie replies dumbly. Fumbling for a proper response, the only thing he can say in that moment is, “Well, you see—“

A jubilant peal of laughter cuts through the floral-scented air, only to be immediately cut short with a painful-sounding thwack and a cry of distress.

“Ow! Watch it! That’s my head you’re hitting!”

“I’m sorry! This thing is really heavy!”

“How did you even hit her head? It’s like super big!”

“What did you just say?!”

Wordlessly, the fairy king and the knight both look at each other. Then, at a grove not too far off the path.

“That sounds like children,” Salt observes.

“It’s getting dark. They should be home soon for dinner, lest their parents start to worry.” Elder Faerie notes. “I hope they won’t be out too late.”

“Perhaps we should see what they are doing…?”

“The children might not take kindly to adults interrupting their fun.” Even while saying this, Elder Faerie has already turned towards the direction of the noise. “Although, as their king and a responsible adult, I have a duty to…see what they’re doing.”

“Or maybe their king is just a particularly nosy Cookie.” Salt says in a deadpan voice.

Elder Faerie Cookie elects to ignore him.

As the duo make their way off the path and towards the grove where the children are, their voices grow louder and louder, past the silver trees with emerald leaves typical of the Faerie Kingdom until a small clearing comes into view.

Sure enough, inside the clearing is a small group of children. Each of them bears iridescent wings, half-transparent and fragile, like thinly spun glass. There are three of them—with one of them sitting on the ground, rubbing their head.

Upon closer inspection, they seem to be triplets—given their faces are identical to each other, even if their hair colours are wildly different. The girl holding a thick wooden sword has vibrant blueberry-blue hair, the girl on the ground nursing her head bears a head of bright strawberry-red hair, while the girl standing off to the side with an incredulous expression on her face has shocking lemon-yellow hair.

As the two adult Cookies watch, the strawberry-haired Faerie Cookie shouts at her sister, “You! You need to use your eyes when you swing that thing!”

“It’s not my fault!” The blueberry-haired Faerie Cookie hefts up the wooden sword with trembling arms, the sword tipping dangerously towards the ground. “You’re just in the way!”

“In the way! In the way, she says!” Throwing her arms up dramatically, the strawberry-haired Cookie rolls her eyes. “How are you going to be a knight with such shoddy swordsmanship?!”

“With loads and loads of training, duh!”

“Train with what?! My head is not your training dummy!”

“My dearest sisters,” the lemon-haired Cookie pinches the bridge of her nose, praying for patience. “The sun is setting as we speak. Can we please go home before mom freaks out?”

“Not until I’ve managed to swing this sword properly!”

“Oh great, that means we’re going to be stuck here for the rest of our lives! I sure can’t wait to—ACK!” With another painful thwack, the strawberry-haired Cookie gets smacked by the wooden sword again. “YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE!”

The blueberry-haired Cookie sticks her tongue out. “Yeah, and so what?”

“You piece of—!”

As the children start to bicker, the lemon-haired triplet sighs once more and turns her face to the heavens as if the stars could give her strength as well as patience. Just then, her blueberry-haired sister rears the sword back, and—

“May I suggest putting the sword down? I really do not wish to see your sister get a serious head injury.”

A mellow, serene voice sounds from the edge of the clearing, catching the attention of all three of the Faerie Cookies. Of all the Cookies they expected to see, their king is not one of them. They watch wide-eyed as he and another, much taller, Cookie walk leisurely towards them.

“Y-Your Majesty!” The lemon-haired Cookie jumps to attention while her sisters rush to stand up properly. “Uh—good, good afterno—uh, evening!”

“Yeah, uhm, hello, Your Majesty! What—uh—brings you here?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” The blueberry-haired Cookie hisses.

“I don’t know!” The strawberry-haired Cookie retorts. “What am I supposed to say?!”

“Be at ease,” Elder Faerie Cookie chuckles. “I am simply passing through. However, I must warn you that it is getting dark, and that it is unsafe for young children such as yourself to be out so late.” He motions at the rapidly darkening sky above. “I suggest returning home as soon as possible, before your parents start to worry.”

“We know, Your Majesty!” Eagerly, the lemon-haired Cookie responds. “But they won’t leave!”

“Your Majesty! I’m training to become a knight!” The blueberry-haired Cookie says proudly. “I’m gonna be the bestest knight there ever was!”

“A very noble goal,” Elder Faerie says, smile widening when he sees the young girl beaming with joy at the king’s compliment. “I’m sure you’ll be a great knight one day. Don’t you think so, Salt?”

Luckily, Salt manages to reply smoothly to Elder Faerie’s sudden question. He nods solemnly. “Yes, I can see that she has the potential.”

“Woah! Hey, are you the mysterious visitor every Cookie always talks about?” The strawberry-haired Cookie turns to her training sword-wielding sister in excitement. “Look!”

“He does seem familiar…”

“Sisters! Don’t be rude!” Despite scolding her sisters, the lemon-haired Cookie looks at Salt at Solidarity with curious eyes. Sure enough, the tall stature, the white armour with gleaming white gem in the breastplate and the stoic demeanour all fit the description of the mysterious visitor rumoured to be a friend of Elder Faerie Cookie himself.

Salt, with all his good grace, takes the children’s curiosity in stride.

“That I am.” He answers, with a slight incline of his head, the cloud of white hair behind him shifting with the action. “Is there something you wished to ask me?”

The three girls share an indecipherable look; then at the training sword, whose end is resting against the dirt.

“Well…there is something.”

“…see, like this, with your feet shoulder-width apart.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, that’s it. Now, move your hands upwards…”

In the end, Salt of Solidarity had ended up getting coerced by the girls to teach them—or, more specifically, the blueberry-haired Cookie, whose name is actually Blueberry Faerie Cookie—swordsmanship.

Which is why Elder Faerie Cookie is sitting off to the side with Lemon Faerie Cookie and Strawberry Faerie Cookie, who seems to have shrugged off the pain of getting smacked in the head twice with a wooden sword as easily as a duck does water. Elder Faerie is somewhat envious. Ah, youth.

“Do neither of you wish to learn swordsmanship as well?” Elder Faerie inquires curiously. “I was under the impression all three of you shared such a passion.”

“Being a knight’s just not for me.” Lemon Faerie Cookie shrugs.

“Swords are meh!” Strawberry Faerie Cookie interjects loudly. “I like books! Reading is fun.”

Her lemon-haired sister wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I seriously don’t get how you don’t fall asleep reading those dusty, boring old things. Music is way more fun.”

“They’re not dusty and they’re not boring, either!”

“Well, it certainly sounds like you’re all passionate about something,” Elder Faerie comments before another full-blown argument can commence. “Diversity is good.”

“Ohh,” both young Cookies chorus.

Silence falls once more as the three Faerie Cookies watch Blueberry Faerie Cookie eagerly soak up knowledge under Salt’s patient tutelage. Admittedly, the image of a towering commander clad in imposing armour coaching a child barely tall enough to reach his waist through the basics of swordsmanship is rather amusing, if not for the fact that it suits Salt himself perfectly.

Behind a mask of steely stoicism lies a gentle temperament ruled by justice and kindness, which tends to reveal itself more easily in the face of a child’s innocence.

Elder Faerie has once surmised that the children of the barrens must like their Lord Commander very much, seeing how the Faerie children tend to approach this wingless stranger more easily than their parents, though Salt has never confirmed nor denied it.

“—ty? Your Majesty?”

“Hm? Oh—” Elder Faerie Cookie snaps back to attention, the world instantly sharpening into focus around him. “My apologies, I was lost in thought. Would you mind repeating that?”

“Um, I was asking if you have any hobbies, Your Majesty.” Lemon Faerie Cookie repeats, a tad shyly.

“Me?” Hobbies? “That is an excellent question, Lemon Faerie Cookie. Does being a king count as a hobby?”

Strawberry Faerie Cookie giggles his reply. “No way! That doesn’t count!”

“Hmm, let me think...” Elder Faerie closes his eyes and pretends to be in deep thought, much to the amusement of the two children next to him.

Although, the more he thinks about it, the more obvious it becomes to him that in recent times, he has had to choose his kingly duties over his personal life many, many times. So, it’s with a bit of embarrassment that he has to admit thinking about what his hobbies are takes longer than one would expect.

“...Well, in my spare time, I like to sing or play music,” the king starts, fully aware of the twin pairs of expectant eyes upon him. “I find it quite soothing. Stargazing, if the night sky is clear. Reading and going on long walks are also things I like to do, when my schedule permits and the weather is nice. Hmm...”

As he continues to contemplate what his hobbies are, his wandering gaze lands on Salt once more, subconsciously noting the way he adjusts Blueberry Faerie Cookie’s stance.

“...letters.” The words start rolling off his tongue without any thought. “I pen letters, sometimes, when I find myself alone with no Cookie around to talk to. I collect trinkets of all kinds—usually I find them in the forest or in chests in my palace. Hmm...oh, and I also collect recipes...”

Elder Faerie trails off into silence.

He looks next to him, meeting the eyes of the young Cookies still watching him expectantly.

“...that’s about it, I think.”

Lemon Faerie Cookie blinks.

“Woah...so you like music too?

“That I do. Although, I suppose music is a rather popular hobby in our kingdom, no?”

“Wait, but who exactly do you write the letters to?” Strawberry Faerie Cookie asks, bemused. “Surely not to yourself?”

Elder Faerie balks slightly at that. “Er...about that...”

“Oh, I get it!” Strawberry Faerie Cookie suddenly perks up, face brightening in an aha! expression. “It’s for him, isn’t it? Same with the trinkets and the recipes and whatnot!”

“...uh.” The monarch clears his throat. “What—makes you say that, Strawberry Faerie Cookie?”

“You were looking at him the entire time you were talking, Your Majesty.” The strawberry-haired child points out.

Was I? I genuinely don’t remember! Elder Faerie thinks to himself. He was just lost in thought, alright! It’s not like he can’t help but stare at Salt whenever the opportunity presents itself!

“I think it’s sweet!” Lemon Faerie Cookie adds. “I write letters to my penpal, too! Her name is Pear Drizzle Cookie! She’s very nice!”

“Pear Drizzle Cookie is your classmate, you nitwit, you see her every day! She doesn’t count as a penpal!”

Lemon Faerie Cookie decidedly ignores her sister’s outburst, saying excitedly, “Pear Drizzle Cookie is a very good friend of mine. I suppose that’s what you and Mr. Salt over there are like, too!”

“Yes, Salt and I are very close friends.” The monarch nods. “Astute observation, Lemon Faerie Cookie.”

Friends. No sooner had the word left his mouth than a bitter aftertaste surfaced on his tongue—the unanticipated pang of resentment at the thought startled him. How odd—that is the truth, isn’t it? Salt is his dearest friend, no question about that.

And yet...and yet.

Letting silence fill the air once more, Elder Faerie gazes out towards the clearing, purposefully this time—to watch Salt, still fully absorbed in his task of teaching young Blueberry Faerie Cookie in the art of the blade.

Before his eyes, Salt decides to take the training wooden sword from the child’s hand, before motioning for her to take a few steps back. He shows her once more the proper stance, and reminds once more that her shoulders should be loose, not tensed up.

One strike, two strikes, duck, blow and parry—Salt cycles through the motions with practiced ease, and though the blade in his hands is one made of wood the strength that it carries is obvious even to an unexperienced Blueberry Faerie Cookie who watches with awe shimmering in her eyes.

The training sword is nothing compared to Salt’s own greatsword, a mighty thing of Witches-blessed metal and overwhelming power, with a blade as wide as a toddler is tall. Wood is hopelessly fragile next to Salt’s hulking behemoth of a sword—even a casual swing from the Virtue could break the wooden imitation in two.

That doesn’t happen, though. The training sword whistles through the air, each strike precise and utterly perfect, lancing fatal blows to an imaginary enemy. The way Salt fights is very different from how Elder Faerie wields his blade—he’s been told that his bladework is akin to dancing—yet Salt holds nothing but grace in his dough, trained for excellence.

Watching Salt fight is like watching a painter bring the universe to life on a canvas, or like watching a poet compose the literary equivalent of a human soul onto paper. It’s like watching a master honing his craft—and especially when it’s Salt, it takes his breath away.

Admiration, perhaps, or sheer awe. Whatever it is, it creates a thrill that thrums through his veins and his heart to start racing.

All the while, Salt has not stopped talking—his low, dulcet voice intones instructions no doubt his Kala Namak knights have heard a thousand times over, with such warmth you’d think he was talking to his own child.

Elder Faerie knows, however, that’s just the way Salt is. He is called Salt of Solidarity for a reason—he treats children especially with nothing less than absolute kindness and compassion.

Salt did once tell him that the children of the barrens had a tendency to swarm around him whenever he returned from a campaign, and that he was befuddled as to why. Back then, Elder Faerie had joked in response that Salt would make a good parent, then, seeing how children seem to love him so much once they realize he’s not a scary monster dressed up in scary metal armour.

Salt is getting along very well with Blueberry Faerie Cookie. Has he ever thought of starting a family of his own?

Somehow, the thought scares Elder Faerie more than anything else—starting a family means marriage, which means Salt will probably find a lover of his own, and that means—

—nothing. It means nothing. That’s just how the way things are, right? There’s a good chance Salt will want to have a life and family of his own, in the far future. Maybe he’ll find a wife—or, Elder Faerie thinks feverishly—maybe even a husband.

Just imagining Salt with his spouse, standing face to face and hand in hand in front of the wedding altar, causes Elder Faerie to break out in a cold sweat.

“...Absurd,” the monarch whispers to himself, fingers curling into the silky fabrics of his royal robes. “That’s simply...”

Absurd. Impossible. Out of the question. Has Elder Faerie finally gone insane?

Unbeknownst to the silently distressed king, Lemon Faerie Cookie and Strawberry Faerie Cookie exchange concerned glances.

In the clearing, then, the only sounds that could be heard are Salt’s and Blueberry Faerie Cookie’s voices, raised in eagerness, and the soft yet sharp whistling of the wooden sword as it cuts through air.

(Behind Elder Faerie’s back, Strawberry Faerie Cookie jabs a finger at Salt, then at Elder Faerie Cookie, then finally at her lemon-haired sister, who makes a noiseless “ohh” as realization hits her.)

“Um—Your Majesty, it looks like you and Mr. Salt are very close friends, right?” Lemon Faerie Cookie musters up some courage to point out. “But you looked a bit sad when I said so.”

It takes a few seconds for Elder Faerie to comprehend the question. “...I’m not sad, don’t worry. I’m merely...thinking, that’s all.”

“No offense, Your Majesty, it’s pretty obvious that you’re sad about something—and I, I—” Breathing in deep, the lemon-haired Cookie declares, “I don’t think it’s fair to Mr. Salt!”

Before Elder Faerie can question the logic behind her answer, Lemon Faerie Cookie swiftly follows up with, “My mom always says that friendships are a two-way street—if one Cookie has something they want to say, they should say it truthfully, because speaking truthfully builds trust! Hidden feelings can fester until they erupt into something bad!”

“Mom also says that it’s important to not only be honest with other Cookies, but also to yourself,” Strawberry Faerie Cookie resumes, oddly quite calm compared to her usual behaviour. “Mom always says that being forthcoming to yourself can help a lot in life.”

“So, Your Majesty, are you being truthful with yourself?”

“...”

Elder Faerie Cookie finally tears his eyes away from Salt’s graceful figure and properly looks at the near-identical faces of Lemon Faerie Cookie and Strawberry Faerie Cookie, looking at him with early-grown wisdom in their eyes, and finds himself properly tongue-tied.

Now, he genuinely has no idea what to say. The words have all dried up in his throat—the well now provides nothing but dry desert air.

The question rings in his mind, echoing over and over, overlapping with all his memories of Salt—his voice, his smile, his grace, his warmth. The innocently yet seriously asked question meets the memory of Salt’s crystalline, shimmering eyes, brighter than a million galaxies.

Before the monarch can even begin to formulate a reply, Blueberry Faerie Cookie’s voice carries over the evening air and across the undisturbed clearing, “Lemon Faerie Cookie! Strawberry Faerie Cookie! We gotta go—it’s dinnertime!”

Night is here—the moon hangs high in the sky, pure silver moonlight reflecting softly off every mirror-like surface in the Faerie Kingdom.

After seeing off the triplets at their home, Salt of Solidarity and Elder Faerie Cookie continue their leisurely stroll—though, this time with a destination in mind, said destination being the castle so they can retire for the night before Salt leaves in the morning back to the Great Barrens.

“...and I really do think Blueberry Faerie Cookie really has potential as a future knight,” Salt comments. “She has that spark in her eyes—I recognize it when I see it. Old friend, are you sure you aren’t feeling unwell?”

“Hm? Oh, I—I’m fine, please don’t—” Elder Faerie pauses.

“So, Your Majesty, are you being truthful with yourself?”

“...Actually,” the fair monarch begins slowly, each syllable dripping hesitantly from his lips like drops of honey. “There has been something on my mind lately...”

“What is it?” Salt immediately asks. “What is the matter? I swear, Elder Faerie, whatever it is, I will do my utmost to assist—you have my word.”

Elder Faerie continues to hesitate, which seems to only worry Salt more. “...It’s rather complicated, you see.”

“Dear friend, nothing is too complicated for the both of us.” Salt comes to a stop on the moonlit path, and as casually as they come, takes Elder Faerie’s hands in his own, holding them firmly. “Whatever it is, I will stand by you.”

“...Salt.” Elder Faerie can only whisper.

“Yes? What is it, Elder Faerie?”

The Virtue, clad in pure moonlight and filled with warmth, so eager to defend Elder Faerie against this unseen threat that may or may not be troubling him, cradling his hands in his own like Elder Faerie is the most priceless treasure Salt’s ever owned.

Salt’s hands, around his. The metal of his gauntlets is cool, but Elder Faerie swears that in that moment, he feels warmer than a raging bonfire.

Before he can stop himself, he raises Salt’s hands to his lips and presses a tender kiss over the knuckles.

Well, to be completely and entirely honest, it isn’t a kiss insomuch that Elder Faerie simply ghosted his lips over the metal gauntlets. But for that single, electric moment, Elder Faerie could feel the cool kiss of the metal on his lips—the barest of brushes—and he knows Salt knows it too.

“I assure you, dear, I’m perfectly alright.” Elder Faerie Cookie smiles fondly and says, a bit breathlessly. “It’s getting dark, now—shall we go back to my castle and turn in for the night?”

“Er—what? I—um—alright,” Stunned and hopelessly lost, Salt stammers out something resembling a reply and lets himself be dragged along by the hand, up the moonlit path and towards the warm, cozy halls of Elder Faerie’s castle.

“So, Your Majesty, are you being truthful with yourself?”

Maybe; maybe not. But in this moment when two hearts beat in tandem, illuminated by the all-seeing moonlight as they walk hand in hand and heart to heart, does it really matter?