Taric reached his own door weary and worn, his stump bruised and his spirits buried. He collapsed onto the stone stoop of the smithy, stretching out his prosthetic leg. He simply sat there and breathed for a long few moments, letting the illusion of sanctuary, of home wrap around him. Even if only for a moment.

Taric looked up at the stars, serene and distant and cold. Underhill didn’t have stars; not like the human lands. Human stars were steadfast in their celestial dance, unchanging. Guiding. The skies of Underhill were as changeable and whimsical and dangerous as its inhabitants.

The hairs on his arms prickled. Something Other had joined him on the stoop. 

Taric looked down, and the puca looked up with large eyes that gleamed gold in the starlight. Tonight, it wore the round face of a boy and shaggy dark hair laced with moss green instead of its more regular shape: that of a big black dog that played with the village children. 

With a sigh, Taric pulled out the paper-wrapped package he’d bought at the Bacon Arms. His intention had been to save it for morning, but evidently his plans had changed.

Taric unwrapped the sandwich, careful to save the brown paper wrapping. Such a casual use of paper would have been unthinkable when he was a child. Paper was expensive; rare and precious. He tore off half of his sandwich, laid it on the paper and deposited both on the stoop, then turned away. The puca would be gone by the time he turned back, as always.

 Taking up his half of the sandwich, Taric took a large bite. He closed his eyes, savoring the flavorful meat, creamy cheese, and rich bread. In this, the years had certainly been kind. Ovens had come a long way from being brick boxes. Mills could grind flour so fine it could have come from faery kitchens, and ice boxes were nothing short of miraculous.

But when Taric opened his eyes, the bit of sandwich and the paper had gone but the puca remained, looking up at Taric with eyes too old for its face.

“You’re thinking about it,” the puca chirped in a voice that was neither male nor female.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Taric said. He was in no mood for games tonight.

It tilted its head, birdlike, its shaggy hair falling into its eyes. “Underhill.”

Taric snorted. As if he could avoid it. Underhill dogged his steps. He ran a hand over his face. Over the tactile evidence of his scars.

“You’re thinking about going back,” the puca said.

Back? His stomach twisted. Never. Taric shook his head. “Do I look like one of the madmen that pine away for the place that nearly destroyed them?” There were men and women for whom Underhill and its poisoned wonders became an addiction. Even when Taric was a child he knew the stories of those who wasted away to dust because the gates were closed to them.

The puca merely stared at him with those glowing, knowing eyes. Taric felt a small weight on his flesh and bone knee. He glanced down. His breath stopped.

To any other soul in a hundred, or even a thousand miles, the little straw poppet on his knee would have meant nothing. It was a cheap, rough little thing, with a scrap of red fabric for a “dress.” Nothing about it distinguished it from any other poor child’s doll. But he knew. He knew whose clever fingers made that doll.

“Where did you find that?” Taric demanded raggedly. And how long had the puca had it?

“You’re going to go back,” the puca said. “Because she’s still lost.”

Taric glared sharply at the puca. 

“Don’t drink the wine.” The puca smiled sweetly and faded into the night.