There was an awkward quiet. Theodore and Oboe stared at one another, the dish of fruit and bread and cheese still untouched.

Ever since the dinner, and that kiss that ended so poorly, Theodore needed to talk to Oboe. Even after she came back, so much else had gone wrong that there was never a moment to speak. Now there was calm, and even privacy, but Theodore discovered he had forgotten his voice and stranded both of them in tense discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” Oboe said, bewildering him.

“What?” He had no idea what she was apologizing for.

She fussed with the dish of food, as if arranging the apple slices just so would fix some problem.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on the meal, away from him. Tears budded in the corner of her eyes, but she kept them back. “…I’ve been selfish. And angry. All those years, alone, and then you came and…  …And I didn’t care what happened. I just wanted to be with you.”

“Oboe,” he said, moving closer, needing to say something but struggling to find the words. He reached out a hand and she pulled away.

“I’m greedy,” she said. “You knew that wasn’t right. …There’s so many creatures. We’re all stupid, and lonely, and kind, and wicked, and wonderful. I didn’t have any right to kiss you or take you away. I’m awful. It wasn’t fair, not to you or anyone else.”

She always did this. She always turned her pain on herself, taking the blame and forgetting the credit she deserved. That’s what wasn’t fair. Theodore took his friend by the shoulder and pulled her to face him again.

“No,” he said, and kissed her. She fell into the kiss, like a raindrop running down the contours of a stony hill to join a stream, a river, and the sea. She held onto him like she was drowning, and the kiss was her one breath of air that she breathed in with aching, ready lungs. It woke something in Theodore. His careful, rational mind broke like a sky of dark storm clouds. It poured itself into her, emptying itself to reveal something bright and warm. A feeling that had been there, hidden, and he could not stop himself from admitting any longer.

Their lips parted. Oboe trembled, pressed against him, her breath shaky. She looked up at him, her face a desert in bloom.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Theodore said, and started to cry. “You deserve to be kissed, to be loved. …I’ve never had a friend like you. Not ever. I never would’ve let myself. I don’t know how. …But you do! You’re always honest and real, and you want so bad to do what’s right all the time, and… and it makes me want to do everything I can!” He was sputtering, choking on the tangled knot of thoughts that had haunted him since she’d run off. “You’re so strong, Oboe. So strong, and brave, when all I am is scared, and I don’t want you to be ashamed of that! Everyone needs me to be some sort of hero knight, but I’m not. You are. You’re the sort of hero I need to be! Don’t you know that…?”

She reached up, concerned, and wiped the tears from his cheek with a caress. Her mouth hung open, overwhelmed, with eyes overflowing.

“I love you,” he told her. The confession was a weight off his chest that sent him soaring. “You make me feel like more than I am. Like I can do this. Like I can do anything! Because I’ve watched you.” He laughed through his tears. “I know I can be a good knight because you bring that out of me. You showed me it isn’t anything to be ashamed of. …Thank  you.”

“Theo.” She held him, her hands squeezing him tighter, her breath held and her eyes aching to finally say: “I love you too.”

They kissed, pulling close, not wanting this moment to end. They clung to it. They kissed again, and again. Gasping for breath, they stumbled back across the room. Books and pieces of armor clattered to the floor as their hands ran across each other’s bodies, lips locked together. Her fingers gripped the folds of his clothes while he fumbled to undo the impossible array of buttons on his shirt.

No more time was made for study or preparation that evening. Instead, Theodore found himself entwined with Oboe. They held each other and explored the rapture of their bodies until they were so spent they fell into sleep more restful than either could remember.

This precious bliss was broken by the coming of the dawn. Theodore woke to the sound of trumpets, to crowds moving and shouts. He searched for his glasses and found Oboe fast asleep against him. Her smile was perfect, and she was so snug and warm. It pained him to wake her. She stirred.

He would do this for her. It didn’t matter if he was ready. Oboe needed him to do this and he wanted to be the knight she saw in him.

“It’s time,” he said.

Oboe did not want to let him go. He pulled himself free of her, taking part of her with him. Harsh sunlight stole through the window, a thief come to steal Theo away. He gathered his equipment, moving quick but with the same precise care he handled paperwork.

“I need to hurry,” he said. “Can you help me?”

Squirming, Oboe made a feeble effort to get up. She fell out of bed onto the floor and hurried to his side. He fit a breast plate over his chainmail and pointed his back toward her.

“I can’t reach very well. Hook the clasps.”

She fastened the straps, wondering if she was doing it wrong, and worried. The reality of the tournament was sinking in, draining her of the ecstasy of the night before, leaving her sober and afraid. She had asked Theo to do this. That selfish part of her that wanted to run away pulsed, wanting to keep him safe, wanting him all to herself.

Theo turned around. His armor was simple, battered steel plates, greaves and leather gloves. For the first time he looked like the knight she always knew he was. It reminded her that he had a duty. There wasn’t any other choice. The Whirlwood needed him to fight.

“Don’t die,” Oboe said.

He slid his sword into a leather sheathe at his belt. He spoke with a firm confidence that made her believe. “I won’t.”

The horns sounded outside in the arena. There really was no more time. She hugged him tight. The iron in his armor stung, but she didn’t care. She kissed him one last time, gulping the last drop of water from the canteen, not knowing whether there would be anymore. He lingered, admiring her with his bright green eyes, before going to confront his fate.

Over the course of her life, Oboe learned to be nervous when good things happened. If she thought she made a friend it was never long before that creature, or that creature’s family, realized she was nameless. It was only ever a matter of time until something went wrong. Yet, she kept trying. Kept hoping.

The hallways of the palace were empty. All eyes and bodies would be drawn to the tournament arena. Oboe made her way to the seating, getting lost, trying to shake the looming sense of doom hanging over her.

“There you are!”

Oboe was startled to see her brother Fife marching up from behind. “Where have you been? Have you seen the Ranger Deputy? The tournament is starting soon!”

“He just left for the Challenger’s Paddock,” she said.

Fife relaxed, but only a little. “Good,” he said. “I was hoping we could do more to prepare the Deputy, but it looks like it’s too late now. What were you two even talking about for so long?”

“Um.” Oboe’s ears burned red hot. She didn’t know what to tell her brother, or if it would be a good idea to say anything at all.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” Fife said, much to her relief. “There’s nothing left to do but pray. Come along. That surly sylph friend of yours is holding our seats.”

It was strange seeing the arena filled like it was when she was a child. It felt smaller now, and there was a tense and eerie quiet throughout the crowd. Below on the field, the Hive Mother was delivering a speech with lots of important sounding words.

“How many Titled are fighting?” Oboe said.

“Countess Stormbreak is, but that’s hardly a surprise. High Lady Willow was more unexpected. She struck me as too cautious for this. Apart from the Deputy, the only other combatant is General Warsong”

“That’s all?” Oboe said.

Fife grimaced. “The cost of losing is too high. If you yield, you are made nameless. You bore that shame, but most would rather fight to the death.”

Oboe realized that Feather was taking a risk the Highest were not. If Theo lost, she would be made nameless, and the Greater Whirlwood would lose the Gardner.

They found Thistle snarling at creatures trying to take the seats beside him and munching on caramel apples.

“How can you eat at a time like this?” Fife said.

“It’s called stress eating,” Thistle snapped. “Don’t judge me. I bought you a bottle of applewine.”

“Oh, thank the Mother,” Fife said.

They sat, and horns sounded one more time. Oboe stiffened as she saw Theo striding out onto the field, tall and ready. General Warsong stood opposite to him, with her coal black feathers and her talons curled like scythes.

The gong rang, and Warsong flew like an arrow at Theo. Theo stepped out of the way and drove her back with a flurry of slashes that caught her legs and arms. She knocked him away with a kick, staggering him, and swung her halberd in a wide sharp arc.

Theo’s sword came down, chopping the wood of the halberd and snapping it in half. Warsong dropped the pieces and lunged to tear with her claws, only for Theo to grab and twist her by the arms. He forced her down, beak in the dirt, pinning her. She wrestled, scraping and grazing him, fighting to get free, but he wore her down. It was not exciting to watch. There was no decisiveness, only a long struggle that ended with an exhausted General admitting defeat with a wail.

Warsong was stripped of her armor and forced out. Theo disappeared into the underground. Oboe felt some hope return, that this would all work out.

Then Beira arrived, naked without her caparison, scarred but proud. Standing opposite to her was High Lady Willow. She was tall and broad like a tree draped in silken robes. Whatever tactic she had in mind was a mystery and would stay that way. Before the starting bell finished ringing, Beira pinned her opponent to the ground with a javelin of ice.

The difference between Theo and Beira was night and day. Beira tore into Lady Willow, freezing her to the ground with ice, and goring her with her horn. Her hooves came down on the face of her opponent, crushing it, spilling the leshy’s amber blood. The victory bell sounded, but she did not stop, beating what was left of her opponent to a pulpy smear.

Oboe held her breath.

Theodore watched in silence as the body was removed from the arena field by a team of spriggan. A ruddy stain was left in dirt, an imprint of a life snuffed out. He balled a fist. Gardner Feather leaned closer to him, a gentle hand at his back.

“Can you do this?” She said. “If you cannot do this, you must forfeit.”

“They’ll take your name if I do that,” he said.

“Better that I give up my name than you surrender your life for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Theodore said. “I won’t let Beira become Fair Lady.”

Feather bowed her head. “I do not know what the Mother intends in all of this. I never presumed to want the throne, and, I think, you never thought to fight for us. I just pray we are reaching for the Fate we were meant for.”

It wasn’t a matter of prayer for Theodore. Beira was dangerous. Her grievances, valid as they were, could tear Laien apart. Her vision of the future was bloody: A great and terrible liberty. Theodore told himself faith didn’t enter the equation, but it did. There had to be another way. He needed to believe, in spite of all the strife between humans and creatures, that the grand experiment of this alliance could still work.

“When I make you Fair Lady, I need you to do everything in your power to fix the Circle,” he said. “Uphold the treaties, and make sure the sort of thing that happened to Oboe never happens again.”

“I…” It took her a moment to adjust to his certainty. “Yes. Of course.”

The gong rang. Theodore marched out onto the field, where Beira Stormbreak was waiting for him. She scraped the ground with her hoof, snorting, her body speckled by gore. The white hair on her brow was stained with Oboe’s blood from the battle before, and the wounds ripped across her flank had blackened into scabs. The composure seen at the council was gone, stripped away, revealing a hatred and anger beneath that resembled the monsters in storybooks.

Theodore held a hand to his chest to show respect. It didn’t matter what Beira looked like, and it didn’t matter that they meant to kill one another. They were both creatures, and they were both fighting for what they believed.

Snowflakes whirled around the unicorn. She eyed him, sizing him up with a crazed look. “Weak,” she said, with hungry delight.

The air turned dry and hot around them as moisture was pulled towards Beira. A flash. Spears of ice materialized, floating in front of her. Before the starting gong rang, she launched them and they sang, whistling through the air one after another. Ready, Theodore whipped out of the way of the first two and drew his sword. He knocked the last from the air and sent it cartwheeling across the arena until it burst.

Theodore allowed himself the tiniest smirk and paid for it when Beira breathed out a freezing gale of wind that lashed at him, pushing his boots back along the loose dirt and roaring through his ears. The spectators screamed as the wind blasted through the stadium and knocked them from their seats.

 Fighting to keep from being thrown from his feet, Theodore pushed against the typhoon. Before he could get close enough to attack, the wind stopped without warning and he was thrown off balance. Beira charged, horn aimed at his heart. He tumbled out of the way, losing his glasses in the act but spotting an opportunity. She passed him, her flank exposed just for moment. The old screams filled his mind as he swung to carve her flesh. He faltered. His sword cut air. She escaped.

The air was now thick with fog, and his vision was a blur. Her silhouette flitted through the mist and vanished. The stadium was loud with shouts and confusion. Theodore spun, trying to spot his invisible foe by some hoofprint in the snow. It was too late. The icicle lances came singing out from the haze and forced Theodore to dodge and weave as they came from every direction. He heard each one coming, but just barely. His focus wavered, deafened by the memory of every death he had ever seen or caused. All he could do was evade, helpless, while each of Beira’s attacks came closer and closer to ending him.

This wasn’t good enough. He needed to be on the attack, but his glasses were gone and his mind was distracted. He couldn’t afford to be merciful; Beira was relentless. There was only one way to win. A knight was needed, with everything that entailed. He needed to be the bigger monster.

The mist parted. Theodore heard the gallop of hooves. Beira was invisible, but she was coming. He reminded himself that Oboe wouldn’t hesitate. Oboe would do what had to be done to protect what she cared about. He readied his sword, and before the unicorn could drive her horn into his heart he moved to one side and sliced a red streak down the length of thin air as she passed.

 Beira slowed to a halt but made no sound or taunt to reward him for his cut. All he could make out was a silhouette before she disappeared back into the mist.

Theodore felt his heart race. A familiar, dark excitement lit up within him again. A thrill to fight and conquer. It frightened him as it always had, but he did not suppress it this time. If there was an evil inside him, it was needed right now. Oboe’s magic was called wicked, but she had put it to righteous purpose. If she could transform into a beast, so could he.

Peering through the fog and the roar of the crowd, Theodore caught the coppery scent of blood. He chased it, dashing across webbing frost. A new gust of wind blew to stop him, and Theodore hurled himself against it, using all his might to force a route straight to his target. He brought his sword down before he could see her, chopping gashes across her face and legs in a frenzy and driving her back.

She reared, shrieking, and pushing past his slashes she dove to plunge her horn deep into his waist. Theodore fell. His sword was knocked from his hand. Beira bore down on top of him, stomping with all her weight on his chest to crush him. The breastplate bent, squeezing the air from his lungs. Theodore’s hand found the sword. The ring on his finger clicked against the hilt. He rolled before Beira could crush him. The words of the Tall Man rang in his ears, and he pushed himself back onto his feet, feeling his life dripping down his legs. There was no pain, no old screams, just adrenaline and a need to draw more blood. He lunged to strike her, and she disappeared again.

Dazed, Theodore knew he would not survive another attack like that. He realized his mistake. There was no discipline in his attacks, no technique. Lance had taught him better than that. A knight harnessed rage and shaped it, driving it like a chariot to its purpose. Theodore took the plow stance and limped forward. The scent of her blood was masked by his own, but now the ghosts of his past were silent. He heard her hoof beats and followed.

Spears of ice whizzed out from the edges of his vision, and he batted each away and readied himself for the next. She tried to escape, growing more frantic, but he had crippled her forelegs. With each step he closed the distance between them. She caused icicles to rain down on him, stabbing his skin like needles, but he pushed through. Right when he was almost upon her, she turned invisible.

He lunged, driving his sword deep into an opponent he could not see. Beira screamed, appearing in front of him. Twisting the sword, he pulled it free. She fired a spell at his feet, sending ice creeping up his legs. Theodore hacked at her horn, it splintered and the spell wavered. With one more strike he chopped the horn off and the spell fizzled out.

His anger tensed like a taut drawn bow, aimed to kill. He loosed it. He ripped his legs free of the half-formed ice and tore into the unicorn, stabbing and hacking and ripping fast and vicious until the unicorn buckled, aimless, panicked, as he did not stop, his stances forgotten as he tore deep gashes across her flesh with fierce abandon, all sense replaced with a searing hatred for what Beira had done and meant to do.

She collapsed, thrashing against the ground. Theodore realized the grim reality of what he had done, and he found himself standing over his opponent, drenched in her blood, panting, wounded. His sword was primed to slit her throat.

Beira looked up, bathed in blood and wheezing. She was still trying. Bucking impotently, the frost melting beneath the pooling red. Pity sprang up in Theodore.

“Yield,” he said, panting, knowing that wasn’t the answer, knowing she was still too dangerous to allow to live, knowing it was already too late to save her but wanting to offer the same hand he used to pull Conrad onto his feet. “Please.”

The unicorn growled, foaming at the mouth. She spoke, a lifetime of hate dripping off two syllables.

“End this.”

Theodore took his sword in both hands and whispered an apology. He drove the sword across her throat and wept as he watched the last of her struggle end.

The body was taken. The spriggan hurried to smuggle the heavy corpse out of sight and out of mind. Theodore did not move. All round him, the stadium hollered and whooped and hissed. The last of the mist faded. As the heat of the battle left, the pain in Theodore’s side sharpened. He could hear Gardner Feather, now Fair Lady, delivering a speech, but it was just more noise.

There was no way to describe how he felt. Relief, joy, disgust, anger, and the uncertainty over what he had done left him numb to everything but the hole in in his waist.

Oboe appeared out of the blur of his vision. She had something in her hands.

“You did it.” She was holding his glasses. The frame was twisted, but she bent it back in place and set the pair of lenses back on Theodore’s face. The arena came into focus, filled to bursting with creatures cheering and weeping. It was done. Whatever the cost had been, the crisis was over.

“Thank you,” Oboe said.

Theodore tried to walk and almost collapsed from the pain. She caught him before he could fall, and carried him from the battlefield. His fingers found hers and they locked together.

The fairy healers fussed over him to speed the healing and dull the pain. Bedrest was prescribed, but the Titled nagged and pestered for the Fair Lady’s Champion to attend every ceremony and be seen. It was something Theodore tolerated but was only truly present for if Oboe was beside him. It was strange to be called a champion, like his father, but it did not bother him the way he thought it would.

Perceval arrived with his retinue when word spread. He had the smile of an anxious gambler, someone who won big and knew he needed to cash out before luck took its turn. He hugged Oboe but hovered near Theodore as if he might shatter.

“I knew I could count on you guys,” he said.

“What’s the situation outside?” Theodore said.

Captain Redriver saluted. “We’re in the process of vacating, per royal order.” Myra’s tone and posture were more proper than usual. “There’s been some disturbance among Red Cap supporters, but nothing major. We’ve offered to leave support behind to assist as needed, but I expect the spriggan will prefer to handle it on their own.”

A gnome scuttled into the foyer, adorned in fanciful robes that dragged behind him.

“The Fair Lady is ready to receive you, your grace,” he said. “Please follow me.”

 The group proceeded to the throne room, with Theodore lagging from his injury. The long ordeal had emptied him and left him with little besides a desire to sleep for months on end. He soldiered on knowing this would be the last of the ceremony. Oboe helped him along and together they arrived to find proceedings starting without them.

“…It does sadden me to say goodbye to my religious service.” Fair Lady Feather stood at the foot of her massive throne, her brow adorned with three almond shaped leaves. Her white mantle was replaced with finer brocade silks. “But I must believe that this is where I will serve the greater good.”

The room was packed with Titled of all species, and a few human nobles behind the prince.

“I know how you feel,” Perceval said, growing thoughtful. “This wasn’t the future I saw for myself. But now that I understand the mess we’ve been left with, I see it’s too big to ignore. …Ignoring problems is how things got this bad in the first place.” He looked around the room and smiled when he noticed Theodore and Oboe. “I want to make things right again between our people. If we can work together to do that, I think we’ve a shot of making this a real alliance again.”

“We are of one mind,” Feather said. She looked at the ranks of the Titled on either side of her, some with faces more inscrutable than others. “But I fear that there will be opposition among both of our peoples. The road ahead is long and difficult. Let us start down it.”

Over the course of the next few days, a new treaty was written. It did not contain any controversial decrees or new bylaws. It was more symbolic than anything: a reaffirming of the old vows with living witnesses and young new leaders. There was tense applause from the officials on both sides. A promise was made that would take a great deal of work to keep.

Theodore unpacked his uniform from the suitcase. A heavy khaki shirt and olive breeches, tailored to endure the outdoors. He fastened the buttons in front of the dressing mirror, fixed his tie, and stared at himself. It was a strange comfort to see himself in the outfit again. Like he was back in his own skin.

He saw Oboe sidle up beside him in the reflection. She pressed a gentle hand against his back, her face pensive.

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

Theodore pawed at his waist. The pain was there, but dull. Fairy magic worked fast when Fates were spent. “I’m sure,” he said. There would be aches, but aches he could deal with.

“Well.” Her smile was sly. “I don’t think anyone would blame you for taking a few more days for yourself.” She traced a finger down his back, sending a shiver up his spine.

“We’ve been gone long enough.” Theodore gathered up his long hair and pinned it behind his head. “There’s work to do.”

“You’re no fun!” Oboe flopped onto the bed and squirmed in mock upset. “Ugggh!!”

Theodore chuckled and checked himself in the mirror one last time. There was one piece missing. He picked the Ranger Deputy badge up off the dresser.

“Theo?”

He turned. Oboe was lying in a tangle of sheets. She was staring up at the ceiling, her face serious.

“I’m sorry I made you fight,” she said. “You didn’t want to.”

Theodore weighed the badge in his hand: A heavy eight-pointed star. Silver and iron, cold against his palm.

“I had to,” he said.

“I know.” She sat up. “That’s why it wasn’t fair. This isn’t the life you wanted. You didn’t want to be a knight. …Like your dad.”

Theodore fixed the badge to his chest. “My father was just a man,” Theodore said. “A creature like you or me. He made mistakes, but he did what he thought was right. That’s what made him a knight.” He turned to look at her. “I fought because it was the best way to help everyone. If that’s what being a knight means, I suppose I don’t mind so much now.”

He snapped his suitcase shut and fastened the clasps. “Let’s go home.”

They left the Circle, and saw that Autumn had come to the Whirlwood. The trees were burned with golden yellows, vivid reds, and steadfast evergreens. A gentle wind breathed through the valley and sent leaves drifting around them. A warm sun shined through the thinning, tangled branches of the live oaks.

Oboe held his hand tight. There was something on her mind, so he asked her what it was.

“Do you think,” she said. “That they’d let me be a knight too? A good one I mean. Like you?”

Theodore gave it careful thought. “I think it would be hard.” He did not want to lie. “There’d be a lot of humans who wouldn’t treat you right.” He studied her. In her he saw the knight he wanted to be. “But I’m not sure that matters. I think you’d be good at it.”

Something in her eyes solidified. Calcified like magic into shining stone. She nodded at him, resolute.

The trail passed through a copse of trees and arrived at the cottage. There was a big crowd of creatures waiting for them. Pookas, and birds, and shadow children, and trolls, and gnomes, and furies, and imps, and peskies, and sylph, and skeletons, and foxes, and goblins, and terrors, and trolls, and werewolves, and one big bear in the middle. They were neighbors and friends, the people of the Whirlwood. Every one of them had been waiting since the start of the crisis with some problem or another that needed the attention of the Ranger Deputy. They cheered and shoved and bickered and shouted all in excitement to see him.

Theodore and Oboe shared a weary but happy look with one another. The Ranger Deputy rolled up his sleeves.