14. Peter
Peter
It’s an annoying habit, stemming from boyhood.
I thought I’d grown out of it, but as crimson puddles in the valley of my nailbed, I’m reminded of a childhood with copper in my mouth and jagged fingertips.
“Fuck,” I mutter, bringing my nerve-bitten fingers away from my mouth and wiping the evidence on the inside of my deep green vest. The pain brings me out of my head and into the startling realization that I’ve been watching them from my bedroom window for hours.
It’s nearly twilight, the greenhouse below poorly lit by the half-dipped sun in the distance.
The pixie sits amongst a patch of lilies, switching between reading her book and glancing at the festivities being set up beyond the greenhouse as she leans against a birch tree.
Rourke is only a few paces away, lying on his side, head propped up as he stares at her in wonder.
She’s been a prisoner of Hollowbrook for a few weeks already.
She should be dead by now, or at least bruised and beaten from her struggle to escape his brutality.
Yet she seems whole. It makes me want to commit violence—to what, I’m unsure.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, watching her smile, fucking smile—at him—as he gawks at her like he’s some love-stricken child. I ball my fists at my side, my gold Hollowbrook family crest ring, stamped with a rose, digs into my palm and gives me a semblance of reality.
“What is going on?” I ask myself. This isn’t a part of my plan, yet it could turn out better than I expected.
Perhaps they’ve grown fond of each other.
She’ll spread her legs for him, and Father will have no choice but to hand him the throne.
Father will be furious that his game didn’t give him the outcome he desired—me on the throne.
I’ll be free of the weight of the crown, and won’t feel the guilt of the bloodshed, neither of the pixie nor the kingdom of Neverhaven.
But even with this realization, I don’t feel the joy I ought to.
Something sour boils in my gut. Could this be jealousy? But of what?
It’s not a hidden secret to myself that I envied Rourke in various parts of our childhood. Not at first, when he was barely alive, a mutated monster with rot wafting from his pores, but when he healed, Father trotted him around like a freshly birthed pet.
Father would often take him into the meeting rooms with his generals.
I heard their laughter from outside the doors, wishing Father would laugh with me, even just once.
Rourke re-emerged hours later, blood coating his chest and eyes the size of saucers.
Looking back on it now, perhaps I should’ve felt pity instead of envy, but the jealousy was quickly squashed once I realized Father’s lack of attention led to far fewer beatings.
But by then, I stopped trying to feed the rabbits hiding beneath the bushes or building houses for the bugs in the gardens.
The slashes on my back were already grown over with a thick coating that, similarly, guarded my heart, hardening me to the gentle joys of life, just as Father had wanted.
Perhaps he’d be proud of me if he noticed me now.
With the fading envy came disinterest. Sometimes, I’d inspect the strong cut of his jaw, his massive build—unable to decide if the intrigue was due to jealousy or something else.
But I kept my distance from Rourke, terrified yet annoyed by his existence.
I thought of him rarely until Father’s challenge, when he became my own game piece, but now, watching him receive a smile and hold the spotlight of the blue, without disdain, the nostalgic green feeling crawls through the ventricles of my heart.
I shouldn’t care for the pixie’s attention.
The culprit must be my cock that drips every morning when I rise from my unsettling dreams with her at the center, even more so recently after I woke with the gash above my eye.
I was sure I imagined her like I did the nights before, yet I still feel her soft breath feathering my face, her fingertips on the wound, which heals horribly and will likely result in a nasty scar.
Just as the golden ball in the sky gives one last blink and the greenhouse darkens even more, the pixie stands, dusts off her skirt, and tucks the book under her arm.
Rourke approaches her cautiously, and she stares up at him as he looms over her, the tendrils of his dark hair dangling off his shoulder as he bends to meet her gaze.
She reaches for him, and he touches her finger with the tip of his ridiculous hook.
Rourke holds her small hand in his, bringing it to his lips.
I can practically see his body shiver, even from the distance of my room over the glass atrium.
He sucks her in. She allows it, her body relaxed and her knees bending as if she is doing all she can to keep herself from toppling over.
I’m pressed against the window, the pain of my balled fist against the glass and my ring digging into my flesh is nothing but a tickle.
“She’s giving him her blood?” I whisper to my empty room.
It would explain the sudden end to his violence, but how did he convince her to give it to him?
He could take it from her without much struggle, but this is much more intimate, reverent even.
My trousers tighten, and I shift my weight from foot to foot to ease the discomfort.
It doesn’t make sense, and I find myself more envious than I ever imagined possible.
He brings his lips away, straightens, probably the most unexplainable action I’ve witnessed. She pats his scaly arm and smiles. Smiles. Again. It hurts worse the second time.
The pixie waves goodbye to Rourke before venturing toward the estate, and he gives her space before following behind.
To clear my fury, I focus on the stream running through the greenhouse and into the courtyard, passing through the low-lying gardens and falling off the end of Neverhaven into an endless blue.
Torches and bobble-fish, glowing and floating from strings, light up the tents and tables littering the green, where the Starburn festivities will take place shortly.
“Nice wings.”
I turn to the willow-man standing in my doorway, covered in gold dust and a matching metallic shirt and trousers. My mind lightens.
I bow, the white feathers on my back caging me in. “Didn’t want to blend in.”
Deadrick laughs. “You could never blend in, dear Peter. You are but a ray of warmth upon this dull realm of existence."
I roll my eyes and swing my arm over his shoulder, kissing his bark-like cheek covered in gold. “This is why you’re my favorite, always knowing when to strum my ego.” I pull my hand back, finding it covered in the shiny powder. “Now what are you supposed to be?”
He spins on his heels, the thick cords growing from his head twirling with him. “I’m the second star! Is it not obvious?”
“Brilliant!” I laugh, checking my appearance in the mirror by the door, attempting to wipe off the sparkles on my lips. I try to ignore the intrusive thought of transferring the dust to the pixie’s lips.
“And you?” he asks.
I turn to him, displaying my feathers. “Why, I’m the Great Dove that brought our ancestors’ sorry souls to this cursed island in the sky.”
He pats my chin. “You’re missing your beak.”
“I’ve been told my nose is rather beak-like already.”
“Was that the last words that person spoke?”
“Ah, of course not.” I adjust my white-collar shirt, plunging into a V under my vest. “I don’t bother with vanity. I care much more about the contents of the soul.”
Deadrick sputters into laughter. “No one can say you lack humor.”
“And if they did, perhaps those might be their last words.”
Deadrick’s chuckles fade as he examines me closer. “What happened to you?” He points at my injury.
I roll my eyes. “A few too many without a friend like you to catch me.”
“Well, don’t make plans for me to be your tree to lean on tonight. I’m prepared to lose all inhibitions and wake up with my roots around a beautiful maiden.” He leans in. “But seriously, you should have the healer look at that, it looks like shite.”
I push him back. “Whatever you say, Mother.”
Deadrick waves away my words and strolls to the corner of the room, picking up an empty bottle from a table. “We should start drinking. The revelry is about to begin.”
“Are the other boys here?” I ask, rummaging around in a drawer.
“Haven’t seen them, but they should be at any moment.”
“Good.” I pull out a silver canister, revealing a mound of yellow dust under the lid.
“Pixie dust?” The name is a gimmick, a nod to the power that keeps the island afloat.
Really, it’s just dried and crushed mushrooms found in the depths of the Neverhaven forest. Just a small amount will have you feeling like you truly are the Great Dove, or perhaps the Second Star itself.
Shite comedown, though, and of limited supply since the magical mushrooms hide themselves in deep caverns.
I’m sure I’m the biggest buyer in all of Neverhaven, or perhaps Trago.
“I’ll never say no to a good time.”
I use a tiny spoon to splay out two lines. Deadrick leans down and inhales the dust through his nose. “Fine stuff.”
I follow suit, the magic of the powder electrifying my blood in mere moments.
I feel as if I could fly. I jump on the balls of my feet, not even remembering what it was that spoiled my mood earlier, even if I can’t get the damned blue out of my mind, no matter how fucked up I get, and I’ve tried, like the night I got this gash.
“I’ve got bucketloads for Starburn. I want it to be the largest celebration Neverhaven has ever seen. ”
Deadrick wipes his nose with the back of his glittery hand. “It’s the first one at Hollowbrook. That in itself makes it groundbreaking.”
He’s right. We were never allowed to participate in the festivities.
Starburn is celebrated all throughout Neverhaven, an annual holiday to commemorate harvest and the Second Star’s effect on the crops.
Costumes are present as homage to our ancestors, who disguised themselves to be carried by the Great Dove to Neverhaven.
As a man, I went into town to celebrate, but as a boy, I dreamed of dressing up and running the streets, knocking on doors and having neighbors fill my basket with baked goods.
Now I fill the longing with pixie dust and liquor. It does the job well enough.
A tremor runs up my spine. I didn’t plan for Starburn to get this big, but the news kept spreading.
I hope Father doesn’t hear of the festivities and decide it’s time to return.
Rumors of riots reach even me in my gilded prison.
The common man is in no mood to celebrate legends.
Father must be too busy meeting with his generals and preparing to squash anarchy.
My nerves lighten at the thought. He won’t have time to worry about my silly parties.
It could be my own reasoning, or more likely, the pixie dust streaming through my veins and making everything fucking grand.
“You started without us?” Colly enters the room, wearing a brown cap resembling a pot with green roses growing out from the top.
“You’re the fucking Hollowbrook roses?” I ask with a laugh.
“I know you hate the things, thought I’d make you enjoy them more with my ugly mug underneath.”
Trago enters after him, swinging an arm over his shoulder. “What a kind lad you are.” He flicks a stem on his head. “I decided on a costume far less cheery.”
It takes only a moment to register who he’s portraying. “My Father?” The crown, the gold and green embroidered vest. He’s even added color to his hair to give it a golden hue.
Trago approaches me, arms outstretched. “I figured it might be healing to see him rip-roaring drunk and balls deep in a lady of the night.”
The room is silent. Ronald enters, slamming into Colly’s back, covered in green fur, obviously portraying a Hummel goat. He joins in on the awkward tension, searching the other’s eyes for an answer.
I roar into laughter, nearly falling to my arse but catching myself on a nearby chair.
It’s like someone pierced the room with a needle, letting out the stuffy air.
“That’s rich,” I get out between my hysteria, wiping my eyes.
The boys join in, cheering and laughing, their faces morphing together.
Deadrick offers a line of pixie dust to the latecomers.
Just when I forget what we’re laughing about, I catch my reflection, not recognizing myself.
I touch my sparkly lips, now melting into the peach skin on my cheeks.
My eyes are as wide as the stars, and my nose truly does resemble a beak.
My laughing fit starts again, and I’m delighted to find a full drink in my hand.
I swallow it until the last drop, at least I think I do, because before I can blink, the goblet is empty.
But no worries, because a Hummel goat refills my cup to the brim.
No, that's not right. Hummel goats have hooves, not hands. Perhaps it was Ronald? I can’t remember.
But who cares? Because as I take another long chug, I’m carried out of my room, out to the laughter and music swelling through the hallways, with one arm wrapped around the Second Star and the other around Father. How strange, yet so delightful.
Nothing but happy thoughts dance around the grooves of my brain and once my boys let me go, I’m sure I will fly.