By the time Hector wakes, the warlock is gone—his presence has been replaced by a bowl of pumpkin soup that sits, steaming, at the knight’s feet.

Hector stretches his arms. It feels like he has run for miles without end, even though he never left the room. His stomach rumbles. The knight considers the food before him. Then, he looks away. No, he tells himself; his pride is something he plans on never throwing away—and certainly not in front of his enemy.

“I knew you were stubborn, but this is simply ridiculous.” The warlock scoffs.

“I don’t care.” Hector mutters, as he shoves the bowl away. “I refuse to eat anything made by those monstrous hands of yours.”

The room is quick to be filled by the warlock’s boyish laughter. “Monstrous hands?” He slaps his knee and tries to catch his breath. “Now, that’s a good one!” The warlock crosses his legs. He leans against the arch made of rock. “I’m feeding you, knight, and this is how you choose to reply?”

“You’re not,” Hector snaps. “You’re poisoning me.”

The warlock frowns. “It’s pumpkin soup.”

“That’s what you want me to think.”

“For the love of—” Yet again, the warlock sighs, and buries his head into his hands. “This is why I hate humans...”

“Ah!” Hector’s eyes widen. “So, you admit it then!”

“Admit what?” The warlock cringes. “That I’m not human? Wasn’t that obvious from the start, you oaf? For crying out loud, Sir Knight, I turned you into a ten-year-old child and turned you back!

Hector averts his gaze. He scratches at his cheek. “I thought that… perhaps, you were simply an apprentice,” he mumbles. “A human that had been… led astray.” He observes his captor, who groans into his palms once more.

“So, what you’re saying is—” The warlock’s brow twitches. “That I don’t look terrifying enough to be the witch?” He lets out an over-dramatic yelp, then shakes his head. “But I did everything I could think of!”

The warlock waves his arms. He whines in the way Hector’s brother did when he’d throw tantrums, back in the distant past. “I wore the robes! The hat!” The warlock points to the brown hat that rests atop his head, as he continues to list items that he counts atop his fingertips. “I even practised the laugh! The evil, witchy laugh! What else do you peasants want from a witch?” He coughs into his fist. “And don’t say I’m a terrible actor”—he huffs, then crosses his arms again before looking away, visibly upset at the current situation—“I’m great.”

Hector clears his throat. He had come prepared for everything—everything… but this. “Well, sir, uh… warlock… I, uh—”

“Finnian.”

“Finnian. Yes, Finnian.” He nods. “You see, I set out to find a witch, and you’re...” He eyes Finnian from the waist down, while carefully considering his words. “You’re, well… You’re not exactly—”

Finnian huffs again. He cocks his head to the side. A mesh of his ginger strands hang downward, in a way that partially cover his eye. “Not exactly what?” he asks the rather baffled knight.

Hector scratches his head. “Female?” he supplies, in a voice drained of all its strength. “And witches are, well, um… women, usually.”

“Gods.” Finnian sighs. He presses a palm to his forehead. “Your ignorance has gone from amusing to downright pitiful.” He stomps out of the room, leaving Hector to wait for not one, but two whole hours, until he returns in form that makes Hector’s jaw drop.

Hector gasps. “Finnian, you—”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, you old goon,” he mutters, “this is just a disguise, and I fooled you all. Surprise!”

“But…” Hector frowns. “I don’t understand. Why go so far as to—” He lowers his eyes. His attention wanders to the bottom of Finnian’s dress—past his now wrinkled face, and the long white strands of hair that fall over his shoulders, his breasts. The knight pauses upon reaching Finnian’s hips. He gulps.

Finnian’s laughter echoes throughout the cave. “No!” He waves Hector’s doubts away. “That was too much of a hassle to change—at least… right now.”

Hector’s throat makes a noise that is stuck between a petrified howl and a dying grunt, which leads Finnian to roll his eyes.

The warlock tells him not to worry. “Even though I can, I won’t cut your manhood off.” He steps forward to nudge Hector’s bowl of soup with his boot, until it slides forth, leaving a drizzle of orange marks in its tracks, as it comes to rest against the knight’s knuckles. “Just eat it,” Finnian says, “before I truly decide to skin you and give truth to the reputation you peasants have made for me.”

Hector remains silent. He turns his head away and refuses to face his nemesis.

“You don’t believe me?” Finnian snarls. “Fine!” He grabs the bowl. “Watch me then!” He downs part of the soup, wipes his mouth with the back of his palm, before handing it back to Hector. “See?” the warlock jumps on his feet. “It’s doing nothing to me! And”—he pulls out his tongue—“I swear I swallowed.”

“You might’ve swallowed,” Hector mutters, “but nothing tells me you don’t have an antidote lined up for yourself, or already in your blood.” His hand curls into a fist. “These are cheap tricks you use, witch. I won’t fall for it.”

Finnian smirks. “I thought you’d say that.” he snatches the bowl back from the sullied floor and takes another sip—a sip he keeps trapped behind his lips as he grabs Hector’s collar and presses his mouth to the knight’s.

Hector tries to push him off as Finnian’s skin muffles his cries, however, eventually, the knight is forced to swallow it all.

As Finnian rises in a manner ever so casual, the warmth of anger rises to Hector’s ears. “Have you no respect for anyone?” The knight shouts. “You can’t just go around kissing—”

“Kissing?” Finnian tilts his head and raises a brow. “What do you mean? I just fed you. I see birds doing it all the time when their young don’t want to eat.”

There is a moment of silence, where Hector blinks twice and looks at the warlock, dumbfounded, as he wonders what he ever did to deserve this.

“But whatever!” Finnian chimes with a chuckle. “You might as well eat the rest while you still can. If I did poison you—which I didn’t, thank you very much—it would already be too late now since you already got a mouthful of the best soup in the land!”

It’s mediocre compared to Anne-Marie’s cooking though, Hector thinks the words very loudly in his mind, as he stares the warlock down. “Why do you want me to eat this?”

“Uh, because you’ll starve if you don’t?” Finnian says this in a tone which implies the statement: Isn’t it obvious? “Also, since you’re dead set on believing you’re not going to leave this cave anyway, wouldn’t you rather die on a full stomach than an empty one?”

The knight frowns. “You… say very strange things.”

Finnian sighs. He groans, then presses a palm to his forehead. “Just eat my soup already! Seriously—transforming takes a toll on your body, you need to eat so you don’t pass out again. It would be troublesome if I had to heal you again.”

I’m doomed, Hector thinks as he glances down to the orange soup, grabs the spoon and parts his lips, I’m completely doomed. His hands hovers over the wooden spoon. He hesitates. “Isn’t—” He takes a deep breath, and looks up, to finally face the warlock. “Isn’t it odd?”

“What is?” Finnian asks.

“Being… in such a body, if it truly doesn’t belong to you.”

The warlock huffs. He swats the question away, as if it were a fly. “Ah, well, whatever body I may find myself doesn’t change who I am.”

“But—” Hector raises a fist to his lips. He clears his throat. “Doesn’t it… disturb you to turn into a woman? Let alone an elderly one at that?”

Finnian shakes his head. “Look, I don’t know how you were raised, but I don’t really think it works that way, buddy.”

Finnian leans in.

Hector tenses. The beats of his heart turn rampant with apprehension. The lone fear that the warlock may try to kiss him again floats in the back of his mind. “Don’t,” he blurts, all the while pushing his enemy away on instinct.

Finnian lands on his back with a dull thud. He glances up to the ceiling. “You really hate me, don’t you?”

“You terrorize my village.”

The warlock sighs. He rises. Slow—steady—he walks over to Hector, then squats.

Hector shuts his eyes tight as Finnian reaches for him once more. The knight braces himself for the worst, though, he flinches upon receiving a poke to the forehead, from the warlock’s index finger.

He blinks again. His body feels lighter, and when he looks down, he realizes he isn’t stuck in the ground anymore. Surprise lingers in Hector’s mind. In fact, the knight is so troubled by this sudden turn of events that he tries to step back and, as a result, accidentally trips over his own two feet, knocking over the stool that Finnian had used earlier on.

The seat rolls across their figures. It bumps into Finnian’s boot. Finnian smiles. The grin is one Hector knows he isn’t likely to see on him again, because it’s genuine, and his enemy is more a liar than not.

“Your question,” Finnian starts. “I wanted to say, that a body isn’t you. What you are”— he slides a single digit down to Hector’s chest, his heart—“is what you make of yourself. What you are,” he pulls away, then taps the side of his skull, “is in here. This”—Finnian motions to the elderly woman’s body, which he currently inhibits—“is just for show. Always.”

Hector goes mute as the words sink into his skin.

“Now eat,” Finnian finally says, as he turns around and starts to walk out of the room. “Your aura is weakening, and I’d rather not find a dead man when I get back—they’re a terrible pain to get rid of, I swear.”

“Where are you going?” Hector blurts, while he steps forth, which almost knocks the soup aside.

Finnian rolls his eyes. “It’s very late.” He yawns, then gives his mouth a pat. “I usually babysit prisoners—right now, you’re free. So, if you’ll excuse me, Sir Knight, I’m going to bed. My duty is done here.”

Hector’s only response is silence as he watches the warlock leave. As Finnian’s fading cackles reverberate against stone.

The knight still does not know what to make of all this, yet, his stomach growls, and it is true, that he is quite tired, too.

Eventually, he decides to grab the bowl before downing it in one go. It isn’t that he wants to stay, however the warlock wasn’t lying when he stated that whatever he’d done to the knight had taken the biggest of tolls on his body, and Hector doubts he would get far with how weak he currently feels.

The knight lays against the ground after finishing his dinner, then uses his elbow as a pillow. The night will be long, and the day even longer, he thinks—should I survive.