Note from Steph: I have never written about fae, so I went with this one for fun!
The ducks are swimming in perfect hexagons tonight, which is never a good sign. Geometric patterns mean they’re agitated, and agitated scout-ducks mean trouble at the border.
I adjust my grip on my staff — technically a walking stick to any mortals who might wander by, actually a badge of office older than this continent. The sunset paints the partly frozen lake in shades of amber and rose, but I’m more interested in the shadows between the colors. That’s where the tears between worlds usually start.
“Report,” I whisper, and the nearest duck angles towards me, its wake cutting through the golden light. In daylight, it looks like any other mallard. But in the last light of day, I can see the silver filigree patterns beneath its feathers, the way its eyes shift from black to starlight.
It opens its beak, and the sound that comes out isn’t a quack but a string of bell-like tones. The winter court grows restless. Three attempts to freeze the border in the last hour. Summer court responds with unseasonable warmth. Ice integrity compromised.
Great. Just great. The seasonal courts are at it again, and here I am, stuck in the middle, trying to maintain balance with nothing but an ancient stick and a fleet of interdimensional waterfowl.
Another duck’s pattern breaks formation. This one’s movements are jagged, urgent.
My lord, it chimes, something’s coming through.
And it’s not using any of the approved crossing points.
The ice splinters in a spiral pattern, because of course the fae can’t just break things normally. A small hand pushes through first, pale as moonlight and about the size of—
Oh no.
“Formation Delta!” I bark, and the ducks snap into a defensive circle, their magical camouflage rippling. To any random sunset walker, it’ll look like they’re just paddling around. In reality, they’re creating a containment field.
The child who emerges from the ice can’t be more than six. Her hair shifts colors like oil on water, and her clothes seem to be made of frozen leaves. Definitely Summer Court nobility, which means —
The temperature drops twenty degrees.
“Winter’s coming,” I mutter, then laugh because I really need to stop binge-watching TV during my off hours.
Three Winter Court hunters materialize on the far shore, all frost and fury. They’re after the child, obviously. Political leverage, knowing the fae.
But this is my border, my rules.
I click my tongue twice — the signal for the ducks to extend their protective barrier. Their wake patterns create symbols in the water that would make theoretical physicists weep.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I call out, letting my staff’s true form shimmer into view. “I don’t suppose you have crossing permits?”
The child shivers as she runs from the water and hides behind my legs, her tiny hands gripping my jeans.
“It seems we’ve had an illegal crossing,” one man shouts my way.
I roll my eyes. No shit. “We’ll see about that,” I shout back.
The ducks, bless their bureaucratic little hearts, are already pulling out the paperwork.
I stretch my neck from side to side. This is going to be a long shift.
Image made with Midjourney.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.
Listen to the story on YouTube at https://youtu.be/zNrcLGU_zGE
