Chapter Two
Martin was calling the intense feeling of anxiety and panic "first day jitters".
Idly he stood behind the counter, an apron tied tightly around his waist and neck. In front of his sat ingredients of all kinds. Sugars, flours, eggs, butter, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, vanilla, cinnamon sticks; everything that could make a delicious dessert.
Basira had been quite thorough in supply Martin's kitchen, or rather Martin's Cafe as the wooden sign outside suggested, courtesy of Tim's handiwork.
Flames crackled from the fire place, their brightness being the only source of light. Martin had taken to drawing the curtains and locking the doors, trying to salvage all the privacy he could.
Getting back into old habits, Martin thought bitterly. He was supposed to be getting away from the lonely, yet here he sat, trying to carve a space for himself where no one could see him.
Martin stared at the fire, trying to suck in all it's warmth. There was no warmth on Peter's ship. Just salt coated winter winds that never stopped or slowed. Peter's face flashed through Martin's mind; a firm jaw, a short and classy gray beard, an ear that had been cut, an innocent smile that lured Martin in for months.
Oh come now Martin, you know we Fey Folk cannot lie. Peter had said, smiling, his grey hair lined with silver and gold.
But the Fey Folk could bend the truth in impossible ways. They could mend words like weapons, making them into any shape and for any purpose.
The King of Nothing was good at that, so good he almost had Martin fooled. But there was one person better than even him.
The King of Monstera, a green eyed royal fey who could see all of Faerie. Parents told their kids of him, saying not to do anything bad, even in secret, for The King of Monstera watches everything.
Martin had grown up on those unholy lullabies, before his mortal father left and his mother became a grief stricken immortal. Before he would stick his hand in a cookie jar or ask a mortal for their name, Martin remembered those stories and stopped himself.
Martin never expected to meet the King of Monstera in person.
It was on a countless day aboard Peter's ship. Martin had been sitting on a bench on the front deck as he had taken to doing most days. His poetry journal hung limp in his hands, and his quill was dried at the tip, the ink long forgotten, along with any inspiration Martin had.
Suddenly, a bright green mist overtook the ship. Martin was numb to the point he did not care about what was happening. He simply let the fog faze around him.
It was not until a dull shadow fell across the wooden boards in front of him that Martin looked up.
Above him stood a tall, slender Fey. His black hair was slick to the side, and he wore black silk pants and royal green velvet robes. Adorning his head was a silver ringlet made of eye-like emerald gem stones.
Martin felt his heart rate increase for the first time in a long time. He felt present in his body again, now that he was in the presence of someone else.
"Hmph," The Fey Man said, "I am surprised, and that is not usual."
"I'm sorry?" Martin said, his mouth feeling filled with cotton.
"Why you?" The Fey man said as though Martin had not spoken, tilting his head to the side. "Why does The King of Nothing favor you above all others?"
"Others? I'm sorry, what are you talking about?" Martin's cognitive functions were beginning to come back. "He- there are no others- just the two of us." Martin looked around. "He'll be back soon- I think he's below deck-"
"He's not here." The man said, bored. "And there are others. Many others." The man smirk was sinister. "Just look." He reached a pale hand, as white as snow, and touched Martin's temple.
Martin wanted to lean into the touch, wanted it to leave a bruise so he could keep the feeling. Suddenly, Martin was above the ship, above the ocean, watching for miles. He could see brown dots of ships along the dark blue of the water, each one spaced out and bordered with heavy mist.
Martin blinked, not comprehending what he was seeing.
"You are seeing from one of my many vantage points. Alas, you are not the only one of The King of Nothing's court. He specializes in magic that makes one feel...lonely. He feeds off it like fruit and faerie wine." The man removed his hand, folding them across his chest lazily.
Martin was back on the ship, sitting on the same bench. He swayed back, his face beginning to fill with blood. "No- no that's not right, there is no one else but-"
"There is, I just showed you. Do you doubt me, the King of Monstera? I see all." The man asked, innocently tilting his head.
Martin's focus and panic snapped back to the tall Fey in front of him. "Oh," He said. "Oh, that- I thought you were a myth."
"Take it from me, half mortal, there are no such things as myths. All those stories stem from something real. And this life you have been living, however, has not been real. You are just another piece of his court, another soul he feeds off of like a leech." The man looked so jovial sharing this news, much to Martin's horror.
"But- no Peter wouldn't-"
The King of Monstera jolted violently, staring at Martin in shock. "He- he told you his name?" The King said, his face somehow getting paler. Then his eye brows furrowed in what Martin could hardly assumed was anger? He looked closer. Jealousy?
The King of Monstera drew himself up, as though preparing to go to battle. He started toward Martin, "What makes you so special-" He growled.
"Elias." A voice rang out.
The King of Monstera whirled around, placing a hand on his chest as though he'd been struck by an arrow. "You dare say my name in front of a mortal?"
"Half mortal," Martin supplied weakly. At the end of the deck stood Peter, his long and dark cloak billowing in the wind. His white curls danced along the edges of his hat. His eyes were absolutely terrifying. For the first time since Martin had met him, Peter's eyes were not care-free or sympathetic. In that moment, he truly looked like an all powerful King of the Fey.
"Why are you here, Elias?" Peter said, his voice thunderous.
The King of Monstera- Elias apparently- drew himself back up in a languid manner, now show casing a sophisticated air. "I wanted to meet the newest member of your court." He said.
Martin peeked out carefully from behind Elias.
"Is that true, Peter?" He asked, trying to raise his voice against the strain in his throat. With a jolt of internal panic, Martin began to think of how long he truly has not spoken. "You- you have more courtiers? You are not alone?"
Peter looked to Martin. "We are all alone Martin. I have never lied to you, after all, we Fey cannot lie."
"Stop saying that!" Martin shouted, his words squeaking at the end. When was the last time he had something to drink? "When we met you were alone! Sitting in a ruination of a kingdom! You said there were no courtiers to be found!"
Peter raised a brow. "There were no courtiers to be found there," He said. "On land."
Martin staggered back. "Then- what has all this been? Some trick to- to what? Feed off my loneliness?"
Suddenly, Peter was in front of Martin. Martin's eyes widened up at the King of Nothing.
"Oh Martin don't talk like that. I saved you, Martin. We are all alone, we all end up alone. I just saved you the heartbreak and grief you would have had to go through to realize that." He grasped Martin's hand, his touch cooler than ice. He pressed his lips against Martin's knuckles. "Alone here, or alone there, you are as you always would have been." Peter said, his eyes tracing up to Martin's.
"You're wrong," Martin tried to say, but he could not lie. Peter's eyes twinkled in knowing.
Elias appeared next to them, his hand wrapping in Peter's hair. The King of Monstera flung the King of Nothing back into the wooden floor boards. By the sound of it, Peter went through two or three stories.
Elias turned slowly and wickedly to Martin, his dark green eyes alight with Power. His crown began to float above his head, like a halo of green aura. Martin scrambled back, a feeling of primal panic dwelling in his gut. The creature in front of him was immensely stronger. Martin's sad, pathetic, and lonely life flew behind his eyelids.
"I have met some annoying people in my eternal existence," Elias said, his voice smooth and dark, "but you, Martin, are becoming close to being number two-"
Suddenly he stopped, blinking at Martin. Then he whirled around, and his face scrunched up in fury. "Peter! Where are you hiding him!"
Martin looked down at himself, he would see himself, there and real. But Elias was searching the ship as though he could not see Martin at all. Martin realized it was Peter's mist, an effect of the King of Nothing's power.
Was Peter protecting him?
Suddenly, Peter shot up from the ruined floor boards and landed in a crouch in front of Elias. "What have you done with Martin-" Peter started, looking around before his eyes fell onto Martin himself. Surprise flew across his features, but a prideful smile lit his face. He turned to face Elias, smirking.
"You underestimate my court, my heart." Peter said.
Elias sneered. "I see everything, and there is nothing here of worth." He flung a blazing ball of green magic at Peter, who was expecting it this time. The two most powerful Kings of Faerie began to fight, causing the ship to rock violently back and forth. Martin was thrown to the side, his back hitting the railing.
Martin cried out as agony shot down his back. But despite all the pain, Martin relished in feeling. For the first time since his Mum died and meeting Peter, Martin felt alive. His senses were slowly coming back. Which meant his fight or flight instincts were kicking him. He had to get off this ship. He had to stay alive.
Martin hauled himself up the railing. He looked one last time behind him.
Peter was radiating power, the sea and the wind responding to him. Rain began to come down in pelts, lightning flashing in the distance. Peter reached for Elias, his hands ablaze with electricity. Elias easily dodged, jumping high into the air as though he were a winged creature. His black hair was wind swept, but the rain did not dampen his locks at all. The emeralds that adorned his head were bright green with magic, a blazing halo.
Well fuck this, Martin thought and flung himself off the side of the ship.
And now, Martin owned a cafe.
Martin inwardly sighed. What was he doing? He supposes he's always been good at rolling with the punches. Martin began to mix the basic ingredients for any dessert: flour, sugar, milk, and eggs.
As Martin thought of what to make, the door flung open. "It's six am." Jon the witch said accusingly. "You open at six am."
Martin fumbled with the sugar bag he'd been holding, spilling it behind the counter. A cloud of white dust erupted. The witch stared at the mess and sighed.
"You- you surprised me." Martin said, his cheeks aflame.
Jon stood with his black and silver locks tied messily behind his head. He wore a long brown leather jacket, black velvet trousers, and a dark green linen shirt that somewhat matched the color of his woodland eyes. You could not blame Martin for staring and absolutely embarrassing himself.
Jon rolled his eyes and sat down at one the chairs by the fireplace, plopping a heavy book onto the small side table.
He watched Martin.
"Um," Martin said awkwardly, rubbing his sugar-coated hands on his apron. "I-um didn't know I would be opening so early."
Jon arched a brow. "You didn't? You've been standing there for two hours."
"You've been watching me?" Martin asked in shock, suddenly becoming, impossibly, more self conscious.
Jon shrugged. "I was awake."
"You were watching me." Martin repeated. "You really don't trust me, do you?"
Jon's face contorted into anger. "You slipped right through my wards without me even noticing." He spat. "That doesn't just happen."
"I-I'm sorry." Martin said, "I didn't know what I was doing-"
"That makes it worse!" Jon sat back in a huff, crossing his arms. "It's an insult to me as a witch." He added quietly.
"I didn't mean to-" Martin started to apologize but stopped short at Jon's glare.
Martin sighed. They sat in silence for a while, the crackling of the fire the only sound around. Martin fiddled with the straps of his apron as Jon stared unflinchingly at Martin.
Martin forced himself to look away, his eyes landing onto his counter and the ingredients and-
"What would you like?" Martin choked out.
Jon's eyes flicked away briefly to the chalk board menu Basira had hung. For no reason apparently, because he said, "Nothing."
"So you're just going to sit there, then?" Martin asked, starting to feel pricks of irritation. Couldn't he kick someone out for loitering? Martin, though, didn't know if he should try that with the village witch.
Jon arched a brow defiantly. He waved a finger and the book opened and settled itself on his lap. Jon did this display of magic without breaking eye contact with Martin.
Martin turned away quickly, so his face wouldn't show how impressed he fucking was.
It went on like that for a while. Martin, trying to cook the day's entrees, which was a blueberry pie, golden leaf tea, chocolate coffee, and blueberry muffins. (He would have to extend his palette if he wanted to stay in business.)
Jon kept on watching Martin, which caused Martin to make several mistakes. Dropped a batch of berries, made the milk overflow out of the measuring cup, and had burned his first pie. Martin scrambled out the burning pie onto the counter, barley burning his hands in the process and looked up at Jon, who just looked at him as though he were stupid.
Martin turned away, grumbling.
Finally, by the grace of Merlin, other people began to come in.
Sasha poked her head in, smiling. "Good Morrow Martin!"
Martin smiled widely, happy at the existence of someone fucking else. "Hello Sasha, what- what would you like?"
Sasha walked up to the counter, his lengthy brown hair braided along her brow and down her back. Her pointed ears were tipped with gold hoops. "I'll have chef's choice." She winked.
"Hello Jon!" Sasha said. Jon, who was suddenly interested in reading his book, grumbled out a hello without looking up.
Sasha rolled her eyes. "Has he been like this all morning?" She asked Martin.
"Yes," Martin said. The words 'please help me' were not said aloud, but they were there. Sasha caught the meaning but only smiled bemusedly.
Martin slid over a slice of blueberry pie and a cup of tea. Sasha dropped a few silver coins into a clear jar and winked at Martin before walking over to the empty seat in front of the fire place next to Jon.
She slapped his knee, forcing the witch to talk to her. They bent their heads together, whispering. Martin didn't know what to do with himself. He decided to clean around the kitchen, open the blinds, and inspect the coins Sasha had given him.
As the sun became a higher figure in the sky, more townsfolk began to come in. Martin sighed in relief, and began to make another pie and re-fill the kettle.
Martin let the sound of idle chatter and laughter slow around him. When Martin closed his eyes he was back on Peter's ship, surrounded by cold mist, but the warmth of his actual surroundings pushed those memories aside.
Daisy and Basira came in, though they didn't talk much. Basira didn't even look at the menu to tell Martin what she wanted, she also gave him her order for tomorrow, so he'd have it ready. Daisy walked over to Jon, taking the chair Sasha had vacated earlier.
For Daisy, Jon looked up and made eye contact with the blonde Fey woman. They seemed to share a nod before Daisy sat down and pulled out a book of her own. To Martin's absolute surprise, it was a romance. Martin tried not to stare.
"They are good friends." Tim said, startling Martin. Martin spilled some of the kettle onto his hand, hissing. He sat it down hurriedly.
"Ow, shit, what would you like?" Martin asked, trying to calm his heart rate.
Tim leaned an elbow against the counter and smiled at Martin, his teeth stained with blueberry. "You've been staring for a while, mate."
"Have I?" Martin asked, his face flushing.
Tim chuckled. He turned to look at Jon and Daisy. "They are both hardasses, but they have hearts of gold, I assure you."
Martin poured a cup of tea for Tim, frowning. "Jon still hates me though."
"He doesn't hate you; he just doesn't trust you. There's a difference, so stop pouting."
Martin scowled. "I am not pouting."
"Just," Tim started, becoming serious. "don't take it personally. Jon...we all have been through a lot. His paranoia of newcomers doesn't stem from nothing."
Martin flicked his eyes up to Tim. "Will you ever stop beating around the bush and tell me why this village is secret?"
"Will you ever tell us how you got through the wards? Or where you came from?" Tim retorted. Martin looked away, ashamed.
Tim sighed, running a hand through his black hair. "We used to be part of a wicked court." He said simply. "And we aren't anymore. That's all there is to it."
Martin knew that wasn't all there was to it, but he didn't push. As much as he wanted to know the truth about this place, he was nowhere near ready to reveal his own truth.
"I don't...I don't blame Jon for being suspicious." Martin said, casting a look to the witch. "I just...wish he didn't blatantly...do whatever that is."
Tim laughed, causing Jon to look up from his book to the two of them. His dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Martin immediately looked away, but Tim smiled at the village witch coyly and waved.
"Stop it." Martin whispered. "He'll think we're talking about him."
"But we are." Tim cackled.
Martin walked away, to deal with customers who don't find him amusing.
The sun began to set, casting orange and red hues into the cafe. Most of the customers had gone now, and it left Martin and Jon alone, once again.
Martin took off his apron, and for the first time in hours, looked at Jon. Jon was still as he had been, sitting in that chair, his legs crossed, eyes scanning the book on his lap. He hadn't eaten or drank anything, Martin noticed.
Suddenly, Martin's hands moved on their own and he tied the apron back on. He warmed up the kettle once again and slid out a pie he was saving for tomorrow, green apple pie.
Martin took a deep breath and walked over to the witch, a plate of pie and tea in his hands.
"Here you go." Martin said, trying to sound cheery.
Jon looked up, frowning. "I didn't order this."
"I know," Martin said. "But you-you've been sitting here for hours. You should eat something."
Jon glared at Martin, eyeing the tea and pie like they were poison.
"If I was poisoning people you would have noticed already." Martin said, trying not to feel awkward and offended.
The corner of Jon's mouth dipped angrily, but he relented and took the plate. "It would take a lot more than poison to kill me." He mumbled.
Martin didn't doubt that. Jon's skin was littered with scars of all kinds. So many that surely a mortal would be dead by now. He remembered what Tim had said; wicked court. Martin felt a rush of anger for whatever had hurt Jon, but didn't say a word. He felt a rush of anger for himself too, because he knew wicked courts.
Martin sat down in the velvet chair next to Jon. It felt nice, after being on his feet all day. He sighed, shutting his eyes momentarily. Peter's ship flashed in his mind and he opened his eyes, staring into the fire. When would the mist wear off? Something told Martin his problem was rooted deeper than that, and that the mist had already left him, but Martin ignored that part of his mind.
Martin could feel himself being watched. He turned to see Jon staring at him, chewing on a piece of pie. Jon's profile was beautiful when lit up with firelight, Martin noted. His skin was dark gold in the flame flare, the silver strands of his momentarily sunlight-like.
For the first time in a long time, Martin was inspired to write poetry.
Jon swallowed, and said: "Why are you here, Martin?"
Martin blinked, words like ambrosial and holy winking from his mind. "What?"
Jon set the now empty plate onto the table. "Why are you here? In this village?"
"I don't know."
"No, you do. You don't know how you got here, but you know why you're here. Why you want to stay."
Martin looked back to the fire. "Not to be found?" He said, thinking of his conversation with Tim yesterday.
"Who are you running from?" Jon asked, eagerly.
"Who are you running from?" Martin shot back.
Jon scowled and leaned back, but he did not say another word for a while.
"I'm under the impression everyone here has secrets, so why are you scrutinizing me?" Martin asked, as he couldn't hold the words back.
"Our secrets stem from the same source." Jon said, purposely vague.
"The Wicked Court?" Martin asked.
Jon jolted in surprised, and then frowned. "What has Tim told you?" He snarled.
"Just that you all used to be part of a bad court, but you aren't anymore. That's all there is to it." Martin said, holding up his hands.
Jon scowled and turned toward the fire. "Tim talks too much."
Martin fiddled with his fingers, before boldly saying, "I was part of a bad court, before." He said, immediately wondering if he had made a mistake.
Jon's eyes went to him. He studied Martin again.
"Let's hope ours are not the same." Jon said at last.
"It wouldn't be." Martin laughed humorlessly. "You wouldn't have each other if it were." He said, remembering how he thought himself to be alone. Well, to be part of a court with only one other person.
Jon's eyebrows drew together in confusion, but before he could ask he yawned. Like a cat.
He yawned like a cat, Martin almost died of the witch's cuteness. Martin wanted to pinch his cheeks, which was a weird thought for him to have he realized, since Jon has tried to kill him in the last twenty four hours.
Jon scowled into nothing, as though angry with himself.
"Thats what you get for not sleeping and stalking your neighbors." Martin joked.
Jon's scowled turned to Martin. "I do not stalk."
Martin raised a brow. "Oh so this morning was what-"
Jon stood up suddenly, sliding his book off the table and under his arm. He glared at Martin. "See you tomorrow." He said, sounding very unhappy about it.
Martin had a ridiculous urge to smile at him. "Goodnight Jon."
Jon's scowl deepened but he left, slamming the door on his way out. The lock locked itself after the exit, in a swirl of green sparks. Martin raised a brow and sighed.
But some part of him rejoiced in tomorrow. What he would make, who he would meet, and if a certain witch would come back again.