It takes a second for Osmond to blink the spots out of his eyes.

Over a dozen templars surround them, dressed in heavy steel armor and armed with lances and spears, riding atop giant horses fitted with metal armor of their own. At the front of the group is a tall, rugged man with a nasty scar across his cheek, a heavy beard braided with silver chains, and a high ponytail of dirty blond hair. He is dressed in heavy silver armor adorned with red metals and silks, and a broch inlaid with gold and rubies ties a long scarlet cloak to his person: a templar commander.

Osmond glances nervously around at the Wild Hunt and is almost convinced he is still suffering under the Hel Madness because there is no Wild Hunt. All the other Unseelie are gone.

“What—?”

“Quiet, Dandelion.” the hand on the back of his neck tightens softly. Osmond glances up and nearly falls off the suddenly very horse-shaped stead they are now riding.

The fey prince, because it has to be the fairy prince, as he never took his hand off Osmond, looks… human, with rounded ears and long hair that is now tied loosely back into a rough ponytail of spilled ink. Hunting leathers of snow and ice are now a well-tailored, if a bit outdated, dress suit of yellow argyle. Fingers end in nails instead of claws and sharp teeth dulled, making his smile almost feel real. And the eyes that once glowed gold are now muted into a warm honey brown.

Osmond is sure he must look gobsmacked at the sudden change, but he’s even more startled by what the prince does next. Hauling Osmond up easily as if he were a doll, positioning him so he’s now sitting sidesaddle on the white horse they are now riding.

He fumbles from the new position, asleep muscles spasming in protest as he falls heavily onto the prince. He attempts to push himself away, but that damnable hand at the base of his neck holds him still, keeping him pinned to the fairy’s chest.

“Turn back travelers,” the templar commander orders, planting the lance in his hands into the ground. It’s supposed to be a sign of nonviolence, but it also rings heavily as a threat. “It is a foul night for a trip in the dark. Helbornes stir here on the best of eves, but tonight is worse. Return and take the longer road. This path won’t be safe for many more days.”

“We appreciate your kindness, good templar,” the fey prince wearing a human face says, morphing his expression into pitiful resignation, “but you see, we cannot delay our trip any longer…” and the hand on Osmond’s shoulder moves to its normal position, twining with the blond hair at the base of his neck. He leans over slightly, resting his chin on top of Osmond’s frazzled hair, giving the illusion of an embrace. “My dearest is sick, and we must make haste.”

“Dearest?!” Osmond protests in his head, tightening his fists as hard as he can in the gaudy yellow coat the prince has shifted his attire to. ‘Who is your dearest, you stupid fairy asshole?!’

As if sensing his darkening thoughts, the fairy shifts slightly, pushing Osmond tighter to himself, forcing his head even further into the fey’s shoulder, effectively muffling the protest about to spill from Osmond’s lips.

The prince sighs heavily, as if deeply pained. “I hope you can understand why we had to take such a risk.”

“I see.” Osmond can hear the thinly veiled distrust in the templar commander’s tone. He’s not buying it. “If your… partner,” the templar finally settles on, and Osmond wishes the gods would strike him down now, “needs any immediate medical attention, our monastery is not far.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, good sir, but I’m afraid he needs specialized care for what ails him.”

“And what does ail him?” another voice asks, probably one of the other dozen templars circling them. “You sure your dearest there is even human?”

“Captain Russell!” the templar commander scolds, tone sharp as steel. “It is our duty to protect these lands, not question every wayward citizen that crosses it.”

“But—!”

“Silence!”

The templar commander heaves a heavy sigh. “I apologize for my subordinate’s out-of-line behavior.” The man truly does sound apologetic. Templars might get all of the credit for defending Midgard, but they are still humans putting their lives on the line to protect their people. “We’ve had to deal with many disillusioned fools coming to steal the risen Helborne of their loved ones. So, I’m sorry to ask, but we will need to verify that your companion still breathes.”

The hand on his neck tightens, and Osmond can feel his heart thundering in his ears, breath caught in his throat.

‘This is it.’ Osmond thinks with a sinking dread. ‘The moment the fairy stops this ridiculous act and slaughters them all’. Fey hate demands; even if the request is reasonable, the prince would undoubtedly take it as an offense. ‘There is no saving this now—'

“Of course,” the Unseelie agrees with a pleasant tone, hand releasing the back of Osmond’s head.

Osmond snaps his attention up, more than bewildered by this sudden turn of events. He meets golden eyes, powerful and ancient, older than the castle he grew up in, older than the first feyer, and older than all of Midgard. Unseelie are not quick to anger, but he can see the start of a blizzard, the first specks of a chilling snowfall.

“Dandelion?” and there are a thousand hidden meanings in that one word, that one stupid endearment that rings in his ears. A stern command: “Do not say anything,” a threat: “You wouldn’t want them dead do you?” a quickly rising mischievousness: “Ready to play?”

Osmond knows what this is now: a game.

Of course, fairies love nothing more than their twisted games. Osmond is the player, and the templars both the unwilling opponents and the stakes. Should any of these men find out something is amiss, Osmond will lose and they will all die, their bodies left to rot and mutate into Helbornes, forced to rise once more and terrorize the land as the one thing they swore to destroy.

He grits his teeth hard enough that he catches his lip, splitting open the soft flesh and coating his mouth with the heavy burn of iron.

‘Fine’. Osmond can do this. He just…has to pretend a little. ‘No big deal’.

“Hello,” he greets stiffly, glancing briefly at the templar riding closer. The woman pauses, the same templar who had yelled out at them, questioning if Osmond was alive. Her eyebrows furrow as she pointedly scans him up and down.

‘Oh fuck,’ Osmond thinks turning back around to hide his embarrassed face. ‘I’m supposed to be sick! The one time my illness would actually be useful—’

“He does look rather red,” the woman, Captain Russell, says, pulling her horse next to theirs with a worried frown, reaching out to check Osmond’s temperature. “Are you sure?”

The fairy prince snatches her outstretched hand with a tight smile. “Sorry miss,” he soothes quickly at her affronted glare. “I wouldn’t want whatever he has to spread to such a lovely lady,” and he flashes her a blinding smile.

Captain Russell flushes a bright scarlet of her own. Eyes fixed on the prince’s face, she nods dumbly, thoughts clearly not on anyone’s safety. “Right. Of course,” she agrees, finally tearing her eyes away.

The fey lets go of her hand and it takes her a second before she pulls it back to her side. “Perfectly understandable,” she continues, straightening herself out a little more, casting a forlorn glance to the hand still tangled with the blond hair at the base of Osmond’s neck.

‘If you want him, you can have him, lady,’ Osmond thinks bitterly, trying to keep the sour expression off his face. He really hopes he’s not stuck having to witness this sickening scene for too long.

“Everything looks fine, Commander,” Captain Russell reports, doing a poor job of not being obvious with her staring. “He’s flushed with fever, but definitely alive. Answered when prompted, so not a Helborne.”

Osmond can feel the judging eyes of the templar commander boring into them, as if trying to pick apart the obvious secret they are hiding.

“And your name, traveler?”

“Oh,” the fairy says, smile wide and charm still turned up to eleven. “You can call me—”

“Not you,” the commander says, and Osmond realizes the eyes are only looking at him. “The one who is sick. Who are you?”

Osmond can feel the Unseelie tense, and he would be amused, but he tenses as well, some buried warning bells starting to ring faintly in his head—this is a dangerous question.

The prince laughs, joy only sounding a tad forced, “He’s a bit shy—”

“I will only ask you once more,” the templar commander demands, and Osmond can hear the lance being pulled roughly from the ground. “Who are you?”

He needs to say something. ‘Now.’

For a fleeting moment the thought of telling the truth passes his thoughts, but the price of that would be at least half of these templars, if not all of them. The Wild Hunt is still ongoing, and just because Osmond can’t see the other fairies, it does not mean they are not still here somewhere, beyond Osmond’s sight, lurking in the dark just as the templars had been.

Osmond pushes lightly on the prince’s chest. The hand tightens for a second before falling away, allowing Osmond to move as he sees fit. He only lifts himself up a little, just enough to turn around so he can look at the rugged commander.

There are a thousand things he could say, at least a hundred that would be sweet and caring, and another hundred more that would be polite enough to not cause a scene, but Osmond isn’t any of those things. So, he lets his annoyance show, pouring every ounce of his frustration at this stupid scenario into a biting glare. “I don’t see how who I am fucking matters to you. And for templars so concerned about me being a Helborne, you don’t seem to be doing very much to actually contain the danger. So—” he starts, sharpening his glare, “piss off.”

There’s a long breath of silence, and then the fairy prince snorts, turning his head sharply from Osmond’s glare to snicker into his hand, trying to pass it off as a cough.

A few of the other templars awkwardly chuckle to themselves as the templar commander sighs. The man casts one last lingering look over at him, brow furrowed as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle stuck to Osmond’s face.

“Apologies once more, gentlemen,” he says, finally lowering his spear, though the wariness does not leave his gaze, even as his men relax. “I just had to be sure.”

Neither Osmond nor the fairy responds to that. The sooner they leave, the better for everyone involved—and Osmond is getting fed up with all of this “dearest” nonsense.

“Still,” the templar commander continues, and Osmond can hear the “but” in his tone, “it is unsafe to travel these lands at this time of night.” He repeats, causally twirling the lance in his hands, testing the balance for a moment before tossing it into the dark.

There’s a sickening crunch, followed by a garbled scream.

A single shot in pitch dark against an enemy Osmond didn’t even sense. Another shiver works its way down his spine. Even against a Wild Hunt, this man might stand a chance.

A young boy, even younger than Molle, hops off the back of one of the horses, dashing off into the dark. Osmond makes a knee-jerk reaction to stop the kid, but the fairy pulls him closer, keeping him pressed against his chest and effectively trapped on top of his horse.

Thankfully, a moment later the boy returns, handing over the lance, freshly stained with a black powder.

“As you can see, the Helborne are everywhere here.”

The fairy forces another tight smile. “Then we will take a different path—”

“No,” and Osmond feels his body tense at the firm, commanding tone, eerily reminding him of the same tone in his own father’s voice. With a quick hand motion, the entire squadron falls into position, boxing Osmond and the Unseelie prince in the middle of their formation.

“We shall escort you across the Plague Fields to ensure your safe arrival.”