Chapter Text
“Marianne?”
“Don't look at me, I'm gross,” Marianne rubbed her cheek, trying to wipe away the grime and tears and salvage a little of her dignity. Not that there was much left to salvage, seeing as she was crouched on the dirty floor of a dark corridor, wings flopped in the dust, her face sticky from crying.
“I can guarantee I've seen worse, tough girl,” Bog said lightly from somewhere behind her.
“Huh. Let me know how I rate, then.”
“You haven't fallen into the bog so I really can't imagine making comparisons.”
“That does seem to be one thing I haven't done today. I've done just about everything else and have the bruises to prove it.”
“How have you survived so long?”
“Luck and a twenty-some year streak of not having my home invaded by tiny people. Also, wings are a huge handicap if you don't know how to use them.”
“Fair enough.”
A blanket dropped over Marianne's shoulders. It smelled like something from a spice cabinet and despite its soft flexibility she was pretty sure it was a leaf of some kind, her fingers tracing over the ridge of veins as she pulled the it closer. Whatever it was, she was grateful for something to cover the knotted and unraveling tears in the back of her shirt.
Still out of sight behind her, Bog shuffled his feet and Marianne could hear the unsettled movement of his armor and wings, “I . . . it's hard. To not be sure where you belong.”
“You talked to Dawn,” Marianne sighed.
“Hm. She talked at me, anyway.”
“Was she really upset?”
“A bit.”
“Ugh. I'm the worst. There had to be a better way to let the kid down easy . . .”
Marianne heard a sort of crunchy scraping when Bog sat down on the ground next to her. She shuffled around to face him, rubbing the edge of the blanket over her face, glad that the poor lighting probably hid the worst of the mess. Then again, Bog had navigated the dark easily enough that it wouldn't surprise Marianne to find out that goblins had night vision or something.
“Still think you're not a changeling?” Bog asked, folding his arms and leaning them on his bent knees.
“Yes? I don't know?” Marianne felt queasy with doubts, unsettled by facts that didn't line up in the pattern she wanted them to, “Isn't there any other possibility? You grow and shrink, turn from a tiny bug man to a huge stick man. Why can't I just be a human who got shrunk?”
“I've never heard of that happening. And Plum may be an irritation but she knows her business. She recognized you as a changeling at first glance and she has no reason to lie.”
“I see,” these new pieces of information settled like lumps of lead in the pit of her stomach, cold and undeniable. She diverted her energy from the issue of species and tried another tact, “Do you think I'm the princess?”
“Not sure,” Bog said frankly, “It's not impossible. That doesn't make it true, but it is possible. It's hard to see why they would make a changeling out of a princess. Or anyone, for that matter. Changelings are rare nowadays, they usually only happen during hard times.”
Bog's uncertainty was little comfort. It didn't matter if she was supposed to be a fairy queen or a fairy peasant, all that mattered was that she wasn't human. But there was still so much she didn't know about fairies, goblins, changelings . . . maybe there was a detail somewhere that would point her toward a conclusion that she wanted to hear. That she was human, that she belonged with her family, that she had nothing to do with this tiny, crazy world of magic.
“Tell me about changelings?”
Marianne leaned her shoulder on the wall of the corridor and tucked her feet up underneath herself. She trained her eyes and ears fully on Bog, trying to narrow the range of her senses to block out the singing coming from the dungeons. Bog fidgeted nervously under the weight of Marianne's undivided attention, but managed to answer after clearing his throat a few times.
“I don't know a lot. We—goblins—didn't do it very much. It's harder to pass off a goblin changeling as human than a fairy changeling. They're less . . . appealing to human eyes. Mostly the babies ended up being abandoned or killed outright. Mostly changelings were the children of fairies or elves, placed with a human family that could provide for them better than their fae kin. Sometimes they were switched with a human child--”
“Wait, then, you can shrink humans?” Marianne dragged herself up, hope propelling her.
“Ah,” black claws scratched the thorns on Bog's chin that seemed to serve as stubble, “only . . . only in certain cases. And only with the wee ones. It isn't something you could do to a full-grown human. Babies are more malleable and . . . it just doesn't work otherwise.”
“How do you know? I--”
“You've still got your wits,” Bog poked at Marianne's forehead, “Your stubborn beliefs. If you were truly human then bringing you into our world would have broken you. You wouldn't fit so you would have to be broken until you did fit and what would be left wouldn't be a pretty thing.”
“Oh,” Marianne deflated as another avenue of escape was blocked off.
“Princess or not, you are a changeling.”
“But . . . my family.” Marianne said, growing a little desperate, scrabbling around for proof of her humanity, “I—I have a social security number! A birth certificate! You can't just magic those up! I couldn't have just been stuck into my family and they never noticed . . .”
There had been papers.
She'd found them in Roland's things.
When she had found them it had just been creepy. She couldn't think of why Roland had been looking into her life as a newborn. Why he had not only copies of her birth certificate, but copies of letters her parents had written requesting a replacement for lost paperwork.
Paperwork riddled with little discrepancies.
Tiny things she had known about but never paid attention to. Nothing important, nothing that meant anything.
How she had been several years old when her parents had gotten a replacement for her inexplicably missing birth certificate.
The strange mix up with her social security number, that it was somehow the same as her brother's and there had been some difficulty getting it sorted out.
Just . . . little things.
Little things, piling up and slotting together in a way that made sense, puzzle pieces fitting together to form a picture she didn't want to see, forcing her to acknowledge that it was entirely possible that she was not her parent's daughter or her brothers' sister.
Roland's betrayal had been cruel. The possibility that she was not who she was supposed to be, that her parents had been actively lying to her for years, was devastating. Every memory of someone commenting how much she looked like, acted like her brothers, or her mom, or her dad, was like the stab of a knife now.
And Roland had known this. He had known who she wasn't so it was possible that he also knew who she was.
“He knew I wasn't human,” Marianne said, the words a stab at her heart because speaking them was admitting everyone was right, that she was a changeling, “Roland knew. That's why . . . that might be why . . . the only reason he ever looked at me twice.”
“He can't see past shine of his own teeth. That's not your fault,” Bog said, a strange gray anchor in a crumbling world, so certain of the facts and refusing to tiptoe around them.
“My parents. They've been lying to me--”
“No!” Bog said firmly, “As far as they know you are their daughter. It's part of being a changeling. You have to be accepted, thought of as their own.”
“Then they've been magicked into loving me? That's even worse!”
Marianne had barely begun to seriously consider this changeling business and already she wanted to reject it entirely, return to categorically denying every aspect of it. The idea was prying at the cracks in her life, ripping it away and leaving her floating in the darkness of the unknown
“No,” Bog said again, “There may be love potions, but none of them would make a parent love a child or a brother love a sister. It has a narrow range, a shallow effect. If a changeling is loved it is real. Otherwise there would not be so many tragic stories of changelings that are despised and rejected. It would not happen if the human parents could have been made to love their changeling children.”
Bog was being absurdly kind and it made Marianne feel worse. That didn't stop her from moving closer, her knee bumping his leg. She reached over and put her hand in the crook of his arm. She needed something to hang onto while her world was falling apart.
“I wonder where I'd be right now,” Marianne said, ignoring how still Bog had gone, “If I had never met Roland. I'd be home. Blissfully ignorant of all the tiny people living in the fields of our cottage.”
If only she could turn back time, change that one thing, never be caught between worlds, never have people trying to fit her into spaces meant for someone else.
“You'd never have caught a king,” Bog snorted, his ragged wings giving a nervous twitch.
“Oh,” Marianne's lips quivered at the memory of Bog dangling in the fly trap, gladly letting her thoughts veer away from the subject of changelings, “Now that would have been a shame. Never getting to meet you, crunchy.”
She let go of his arm so she could elbow him.
He jabbed back and got her blanket snagged on his spiky elbow.
Marianne laughed, a little wildly, but she did not cry.
“I can't imagine it will be hard for you, when you go back home,” Bog said, after they had separated him and the blanket, “It doesn't change anything. You'll have the same face, the one that they know. The one that fits. You get both worlds.”
Marianne had to credit Bog with hardly flinching when she put her hand back on his arm. Truthfully, she could really use a hug. But she also was repulsed by the idea of it. She wanted a hug from someone she trusted, someone who really cared, who understood. She wasn't sure if there was anyone like that in her life anymore. But just being near Bog was nice. He wasn't telling her she had to be this long lost princess. And he was listening.
“I don't get either world,” Marianne shook her head, “Not if this is all true. It doesn't matter if I still look the part, I would know now that it was never my part to begin with. They were all tricked into caring about me and I can't just go along with that if I'm . . . not even human.”
“Tough girl, you are so lucky to be able to look the part.”
There was a note of wistfulness in Bog's voice. A faint shadow of pain.
Looking at her pale fingers resting on Bog's dark armor Marianne ventured to ask, “Will you flip anymore tables if I ask about . . . whatever it was that made you flip the first table?”
Bog's sigh made his armor rise and settle.
“It isn't much of a story. I just don't . . . I don't look right. I don't look like a goblin. My mother says I look like my father, but . . . he must have looked very strange. I'm an unpleasant sight, to the eyes of fairies and goblins both, and there have always been stories. Stories to explain why I'm not . . . as I should be. For example, the slanderous rumor that my mother was unfaithful to her king and had dealings with a fairy lover.”
“Oooh,” Marianne winced, “Yeah, I put my foot in it. Sorry.”
“I'm sorry for losing my temper. You didn't know. I just . . . I wish you could understand that you have both worlds. You are wanted in both worlds. This is my kingdom, my world, and all my life I've been told that I don't belong in it. But you, you are wanted.”
“The person Dawn wants . . . isn't me. I don't want to be her. I want to be myself—or who I thought I was. But I can't. And even if I get magicked back to the right size of species I don't know if I can go back to my family and lie to them for the rest of my life.”
“Won't you even try? Won't you even fight for what you want? The fairy kingdom is yours by right of birth, the human yours by right of love. You are wanted and all you have to do is accept what is handed to you and protect it. Fight to keep it. I would fight. I have fought. The throne of the Dark Forest came to me from my mother, it's mine by right of blood and, freak or not, I won't give it up so easily as you would discard two worlds.”
Bog's hand had clenched into a fist and Marianne could feel the tension of it in his arm. She followed it with her fingers from the bend of his elbow, down to his wrist, then tentatively to the curl of his fingers. At her touch his fingers uncurled, his surprise distracting him from bad memories.
“It must be nice,” Marianne let her fingers play over the edge of his armor, where it gave way to skin, “to have something you know is yours. Have the right to it. The right to fight for it. I don't feel like I have that.”
“In my weaker moments I'd give it up just so I could look ordinary,” Bog laughed, “Not handsome. Just not wrong.”
“That'd be a shame. I'm kind of getting attached to how you look. Especially when I'm remembering how you looked stuck in a jar. It just wouldn't be the same with a different face glaring at me.”
“You're incorrigible,” Bog rumbled, looking away.
“You're cute.”
Marianne's horror was reflected in Bog's face. That comment had slipped out without her permission. It didn't matter that the Bog King's sharp profile was adorably expressive when he was flustered, she had not meant to actually say anything about it.
“Hardly,” Bog stood up, shaking himself free of Marianne's hand, “I know what I am, I know what I look like. I don't need pretty fairy lies.”
“Aw, do you really think I'm pretty?”
“Incorrigible,” Bog muttered.
The conversation lapsed and the singing of the lovesick prisoners quickly filled the gap, as about as soothing to Marianne's nerves as nails on a chalkboard. She tried to fill her head with something else, maybe speculations about this tiny world and its peoples, but a cloud of gray exhaustion blotted out everything but what was right in front of her.
So she watched Bog as he took a few paces back and forth along the corridor, muttering dark complaints about fairies and love. She supposed Bog did look odd, if you compared him to the other goblins. But she still would never classify him under the heading of hideous. Different, yes. Otherworldly, maybe. Yes, otherworldly. A cranky forest spirit from a fairy tale.
“You know,” Bog stopped pacing, standing far enough down the corridor so that Marianne didn't have to crane her head back to see his face, “You don't have to pick either world. Not right away, that is.”
“Oh?” Marianne prompted, studying the way Bog's pine cone shoulders attached to his torso. She wondered how he kept track of so many limbs, having to not only deal with the addition of wings, but with movable shoulders too.
“If you needed somewhere, neutral ground, to think and sort things out . . .” Bog turned slightly away, running a hand up and down his arm in a gesture of unease, “Officially, you've no ties to the fairy kingdom. There would be no objection—I would have no objection if you would like to . . . visit. Here. For a bit. While you cleared your head.”
“You're not going to let Dawn stick a crown on my head and whisk me off to the fairy kingdom?” Marianne laughed, shrugging the blanket higher.
“I certainly wouldn't let them take you against your choosing,” Bog's face darkened, “Especially not while that yellow-haired ninny is still rattling around. But, as I said, you could stay here if you wished.”
“While I'm getting my feet back under me?”
“Just so. I'm sure that Plum can find some temporary fix for your glamour, though, if you wished to return to the human world immediately.”
Marianne started a little when she realized Bog was waiting for an answer to his offer. She was probably being unforgivably rude by not acknowledging the generosity of the gesture. After all, Bog was a king, and his invitation must carry an impressive amount of weight.
“I . . .” Marianne tried to think of reasons either for or against staying. A conflicting tangle of reasons snarled up in her throat. She wanted to go home. But she didn't know if she could face it, “I think I'll wait. See how this whole love potion business goes over. I want to know where Roland is going to be before I make any plans.”
Bog gave a quick nod, “Probably best. I understand. The offer remains. No offense will be taken if you decline it.”
“Thanks. But aren't you afraid I might get into your wine cellar and go on a binge?”
“I will be sure to take every precaution, should you decide to grace us with your delightful personage for an extended period.”
“No fair, being all regal at me from up there. Give me a hand, I think my legs are asleep.”
Bog obliged.
Marianne wobbled on her feet and leaned against Bog for support, both physical and emotional. It helped that he understood, a little, what it was to be at odds with what was expected of you.
“I really do envy you,” Bog sighed, his hand on her shoulder to keep her balanced, “Though I do not envy the fairy court should you decide to go there. They are not used to disorder.”
“I am a force of chaos,” Marianne smiled, her hands resting in the crooks of Bog's arms. She leaned closer.
“Indeed,” Bog said, “You—you--”
Marianne slid her arms around Bog and hugged him.
He was rigid with surprise and the plates of his armor were unyielding. He was not a comfortable thing to hug, all points and edges. But Marianne hugged him a little tighter because . . . because he was kind. Because he wasn't pushing her into the role he thought she ought to take, but instead opened up space for her to breathe and think.
“Thank you,” she said, the ridge of Bog's chest plate was pressing into the soft flesh of her cheek, “Thank you for the invitation.”
“It . . .” Bog swallowed loudly, but kept his hand on her shoulder, even going so far as to give her a reassuring squeeze, “It's my pleasure, tough girl.”