The Luck of Puck

June 20th 1948 – The Bermuda Coast

Luis stretched his feet out across the floor of his ships wheelhouse and altered the course of the Lady Dove by a few notches. It had been a long day, longer than he really wanted but it was not like he had much of a choice. The fishing business had been running dry as of late, with big corporations coming in and buying out the trawling territories, smaller vessels like Luis’s had no choice but to venture further afield to try and make ends meet.

“Damned long days” he said to no-one while helping himself to a strong dose of the nastiest coffee known to man. Most people like their coffee hot and made to specific standards that meant the act of drinking coffee was at least somewhat pleasurable. So did Luis, there was nothing more he enjoyed then a wonderful cup of coffee, but that was never how he took it while at work. The sewage he was drinking, while not pleasurable, was enough to keep his attention focused on his job.

“Good coffee for home, shit coffee to keep you awake!” he said to himself with a smile. It was an old phrase his father had taught him on the very same ship he now captained. When he was a boy, the pier of the fishing village he hailed from lined up with men ready to sail under his father. The rumour among the town’s old wives was his dad must have been born part merman in order to know where and when to fish at just the right times. Luis would have found it ludicrous were it not for his own abuela telling him the same thing, over and over, since he could crawl across the kitchen floor.

“Hey, hermano, you there?” the crackled voice from the ships intercom served as a truly unwelcome interruption to Luis’s daydreaming. This time of day was his absolute favourite, the sun was just now sinking beneath the oceans horizon, minutes away from turning day into night. There were few enough pleasures in Luis’s life; his wife had long ago left him, his children, now in their teens hated him and his father along with his abuela had long since passed, but the sunset was something he truly loved. It was a moment of absolute peace where everything melted away, the problems, the worries, the bills. Everything simply ceased to be and the ocean led the way, usually the way back home and to the life he hated.

“Luis, you picking up or what?” the voice crackled again. Raul, Luis's only shipmate, sounded panicked and the last thing he needed was more stress than he wanted at the end of a long day. Snatching the intercom microphone he reluctantly pressed down on the vocal switch.

“Hey Raul, what’s up?” he asked wearily, pushing his aggravation down.

“There’s some strange things going on down here” Raul sounded panicked, an unusual mind-set for his otherwise stalwart engineer “I mean really fucking strange!”

“How strange are we talking buddy?” Luis felt a jolt kick into the side of his ship, as though something rough and hard had just knocked it forcefully. The wind was starting to pick up in the most forceful and uncomfortable ways, if got any worse it would cause great difficulty in getting home. The instruments in front of him began to spin and bleep with fervent urgency. A loud groan hollered from the rear end of the ship, as though the rudder was caught and was dragging along some unknown surface.

“Did you feel that Raul?”

“Yeah I felt it…” he began.

"We’re in the middle of the ocean, there should be nothing out here for us to hit!"

“Hermano, you gotta come down here and see this, they should be heading your way right about… now!”

“What is?” he did not have to wait for a reply. It started with a wet slapping sound at first, a slippy and slimy noise that preceded the rushing noise that followed before he saw it. From the bowels of the ship, the entirety of the days catch, a full two tonnes of fish were now bouncing and jumping their way from the hold and back out to freedom.The wind was really picking up now and Luis was struggling to keep the ship under control as the ships wheel stubbornly refused to obey him.

“What the fuck Raul, what the hell’s happening?” Luis shouted down intercom. “That’s a day’s haul man, we lose that we don’t get paid man!”

“What do you want me to do huh? I ain’t no pied piper bro, I can’t convince them to get back into the nets!”

“Well do something!” Luis yelled desperately.

Even if Raul could do something, what happened next would put to bed any possibility of action. As the sun finally fell just below the ocean’s horizon a crack of thunder sounded out with such force and volume it knocked Luis over. Struggling to get himself back to his feet, he peered over the ships wheel and took a deep breath. The sky had turned blood red and a thousand foot tear had opened in the face of reality.

He was struggling to keep his wits about him but how could he deny what he saw. Purple streaks of lightning flashed out toward the tear and blue electricity lined either side of the opening but that was not all. He could make something out faint on the other side and reached for the binoculars he always kept close to hand. As he looked through them, he could see a black silhouette of a dark land on the other side; beaches, trees, mountains, plains and a coastline that seemed to stretch on forever. It simply was not possible.

“Raul, get your ass up here, you gotta see this!” he said through the intercom. Seconds later, he heard his friend running from the cargo bay and up the stairs into the wheelhouse. Without saying a word, he handed the binoculars to him and pointed to the tear.

“What the fuck is that?” he asked

"How the fuck am I supposed to know?" Luis snapped. Raul grunted and handed the binoculars back and pointed to the tear himself.

“No! That! There’s something coming out of it!”

“What!”

Looking through the binoculars one final time, he saw a thousand small ships sailing toward the opening.Most were only about the size of the Lady Dove, they approached the tear first and sailed through. As he watched more – and larger ships – sailed up to the tear and came through. Massive sailing vessels from long ago, their black sails torn yet still functioning reminded Luis of the pirate stories he read as a youngster, floated through the tear. Their hulls were decorated with the skulls of the dead and varnished with blood gave Luis a chill as they floated towards the Lady Dove. But that was not all, high in the sky he could make out the shapes of vast zeppelin like airships floating toward them, flanked by smaller creatures riding, what appeared to be, winged horses, griffins and lizard like creatures as long as a bus. There were thousands of them and it did not look like the migration, or whatever it was they were bearing witness to, was about to stop anytime soon.

“I think it’s time we got out of here!” Raul shouted over the wind and lightning. Luis did not need any further encouragement and pulled hard to starboard on the ships wheel, it did not budge. Throwing all his weight into pulling down on the wheel, he tried as hard as he possibly could but still it would not move.

“The rudder’s stuck, we need to get it free of whatever it’s caught on!” he yelled. They both knew what had to be done and immediately turned and headed out the door. The wind was even worse outside, the salt spray from the ocean rose high and drenched them both through to the bone. Darkness had fallen and in spite of the odd lighting coming from the tear, Luis found it hard to see anything. The Lady Dove was rocking hard now and they staggered unsteadily across the deck to the rear of the ship only to find a most unexpected sight.

Luis had never seen anything like the figure who sat on edge of the stern. Even in the dark light of the lightning flashes he could see he was a handsome man, a seemingly ageless fellow with pale skin and long bright red hair. He was clothed in a long black duster, like something from an old western, and a smart shirt, open at the neck of course. The skin tight leather trousers he wore made him look every bit the rock star he appeared to be. The contrast to all of this was twofold. Firstly, his feet, they were as bare as a babes; pale, white and wet from the sea and they showed no sign of discomfort at the harsh surroundings. The second was the large sword strapped to his side. Luis did not know much, if anything, about swords but he knew when to be afraid and if the last few minutes had not terrified him enough, the sword definitely did.

“Can you feel it, Hume?” his voice was like silk, even over the noise of the opening it carried such weight that Luis could feel something hot and wet trickling down his leg. The creature looked over at them casually with pale eyes, one blue the other green and gave a long languid smile. “Can you feel the change?”

The whole ship started to shake, vibrating violently with the bubbling of the sea. Luis and Raul hung on to each other and fell to their knees in abject terror. The creature threw back his head and began to laugh madly at the sight of them cowering before him.

“You are the first, but you will not be the last” he said and continued to laugh. This alone was enough to petrify them but the sight of their ship being surrounded by a sea of gigantic spikes that rose out of the water, cutting off any possibility of escape nearly struck them dead with fear. Luis forced himself to look at the red headed man still standing on deck, he watched as the man pulled a flute from his inside then played a happy little tune before vanishing into thin air.

Luis began, perhaps belatedly, to pray. He prayed for the strength to get through this, to be able to see his children one last time, to make amends to his ex-wife. He made a thousand different promises to the Lord and all of his saints and angels that if he could just live through this then he would go to church more, donate to charity and be a better man. But it was too late, he realised as the spikes towered above them that in reality, they were the teeth of some titanic beast and as they closed in around them, turning the world black, he knew that there was no salvation.

For any of them.

The Maltings Pub – York – Present Day

"Puck. Puck. Wake up" the voice said just at the edge of his hearing

Puck opened his weak and bleary eyes and tried as best he could to peer through his wild mane of blood red hair. His whole body throbbed and cracked with each tiny exertion he made. He was parched, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he wiped drool from his lips with the back of his hand. He noted, with detached and inebriated interest, that he recognized the floor he had come face to face with. The oak wooden panels of the Maltings pub were boon companions of the once great fairy warrior these last few decades when other friends had long since turned their backs on him. But there was more than just the cold hard surface of the floor. Pushing against the fair skin of his cheek was something soft and warm. Feeling beneath his face he pulled out a stuffed toy dragon and looked at it in confusion. It took him a moment to recall but he had seen the soft and scaly fellow before.

“Troilus?” he said hoarsely, his voice cracked and rough from a hard nights drinking. “What brings you to my bedside?”

The dragon gave no answer, not that it could, but instead just stared at him with a goofy lopsided grin in silence. Puck had no inclination to ask any further questions of the toy but instead decided to rid himself of the plague of the hangover currently storming his body. Yet the pain was secondary to the nightmare memory that haunted him through the haze of his senses.

The voice still echoed in his head, calling him onward to wake and move. He knew it's sound intimately and, shamefully, pushed it away from his thoughts as he tried to focus on moving.

In spite of his best efforts, Puck had not had a restful nights sleep; in fact, he had not had a restful nights sleep for seventy years. Ever since the war's end he had been unable to shake the memories of what had happened during the bloodshed. Seventy years ago the great migration had happened and the Mythic folk, long thought of as legend to the Humes, had returned, instantly declaring war on the primitive Humes in an effort to retake their homelands. Little did they know that humanity was not so primitive as it once was and that the fight would be far harder than the Mythic people could ever have thought.

He had been there at the breaching, he had witnessed the sacrifice it had taken to open the gateway between Elysium and Gaia, called Earth by the Humes and even more than that, he had seen the madness that consumed them all.

Last night's foray into his subconscious, by his standards, was far more pleasant. He had only dreamed of the moment he had first come to Gaia but he still felt the guilt of letting those two fishermen be swallowed by Charybdis, the great demon of the ocean. He had no idea who they were or what they were doing so far out in the ocean but it was clear that they were no threat to him or to any other Mythic. What harm would it have been to simply let them sail away?

It was questions like these that had plagued his conscience for decades and his only respite was in the periods of bleak drunkenness his Warriors Pension afforded him.

Even now, in the midst of one of his more painful hangovers the memory and the guilt ceased to plague him. He could still feel the spray of the ocean, taste the salt of the sea and hear the cries of the men as they preyed to a god who would never deliver them from the Hunt's evil.

He hated feeling like this and so decided he needed to move, more importantly, to slip out of the Maltings before the land lady found him here.

Deciding at first that getting upright was the first challenge to overcome he pushed himself into a seated position. This proved far more challenging than he had first anticipated as his hangover punched him square between the eyes with lightning precision. So terrible was the pain that it knocked him back to the floor. Puck felt his stomach begin to turn as the filthy kebab he ate last night began to demand immediate attention. With great pain and agony he rolled onto all fours and used all the willpower he had to stop his dinner from escaping.

“Hurl on that dragon and you can forget ever coming in here again!”

He recognised the voice immediately and knew he was in trouble. A pair of black leather cowboy boots appeared in front of him followed by a bright red plastic bucket. Cautiously, he glanced upwards and saw a young, platinum blonde Alfr staring down at him furiously. Her eyes were golden brown and her pointed ears twitched with anger, Puck was in trouble and he knew it.

“You do your business in that! You’ve lost your toilet privileges, you hear me?” she said, her voice ringing with venom and the faint lustre of her Elysium accent.

He nodded, only slightly but that was enough for the kebab to finally make its getaway. The vomit tasted foul and sweet in his mouth as it forced its way upwards and out into the bucket. A few minutes and half a bucket later he started to feel mildly better, he even managed to push himself to his feet and stay upright albeit on shaky legs that did nothing to aid his recovery. Taking a few tentative steps forward he planted himself at the bar and put his head in his hands. The relief he felt was fleeting as a moment later the Alfr pushed his elbows out from under him causing his face to smack off the bar. The cold wood hit him like concrete, causing yet more pain.

“Ow, for fucks sake Sirenia! I know I was pretty drunk last night but there’s no need for…”

“There’s every need for it you bastard! You have no clue what kind of anarchy follows you around do you?” she snapped.

Puck wanted to tell her she was wrong but the truth was that he, more than anyone, was so painfully aware of just what his life was like. Things had never been boring for Puck and to most that might have seemed like the ideal life but in his opinion he was cursed. In his time, both in Elysium and in Gaia, he had been many things most of them horrifying. For centuries Puck had been a sorcerer, an artist, a musician, a warrior, a general, a lover, a leader, a king and, most recently, a terrible gambler and worse yet a drunk. Most Humes knew him as the beast of Cuba, the Devil of Dallas, and the bearer of the wild horns. All the names sounded dramatic, and yet none of them summed up just how much the Humes hated him.

A cold hard slap across his right cheek brought him out of his self-pitying daydream and nearly sent him back to the floor.

“Shit! What did I do this time?” he whined.

“I don’t care if you fuck up your life Puck, you’ve had close on two hundred years to grow up but, I swear by the great tree, if you drag my son along with you then there’s no protection spell yet forged that can shield you from me!”

He knew in that moment that he had well and truly fucked up. Sirenia was nothing if not forgiving, a rarity among the Alfr or elves as they were known to Humes, but when it came to her adopted son she had the instincts of a rabid wild cat baring its claws. Even in his current state Puck was smart enough to take care with each word from now on and not let his tongue do too much of his thinking for him.

“Shit, what happened?” he asked.

“Errol bought you that Dreamstone for Solstice you ungrateful fuck! Worked at the Kelpie ranch by Skeldergate Bridge, literally scooping Kelpie shit out of the River Ouse just so he could buy that stone for you so you could sleep at night” she said, her voice flush with maternal fury.

Puck could not possibly feel worse. Not only was his hangover refusing dissipate but the nights events were beginning to return to him.

It had started out pleasant enough with a meal at the Golden Fleece and a few Dwergaz whiskeys. From there he worked his way steadily through every pub from the Shambles to the other side of the Ouse. By the time he got to the Maltings he was nearly out of Guineas. It was here where things began to get hazy. He recalled a Mah-jongg set and a few blurry faces but beyond that his memory had truly been wiped clean by the whiskey. Only one image poked through the fog in his brain and that was a look of pure heartache scrawled across Sirenia’s sons face. It was all Puck could do to stop himself from breaking down and crying.

“I’ll make it up to him. I swear it by the great tree” Puck said hurriedly. Sirenia crossed her arms and regarded him contemptibly.

“Really, what do you plan on doing to make it up? Because he’s upstairs refusing to come down because he’s so heartbroken!”

“I’ll take him to see the Men-An- Tol, maybe see if we can spot the Dragon of the North Sea?” Sirenia looked unimpressed, if anything she looked even angrier than before.

“So that’s it is it? A couple of trips out to places he’s already going with his school as part of his Mythic’s History class. Well done genius, very inspired!” she said. She placed both hands flat on the bar, levelled her face with his own and stared deeply into his mismatched eyes of blue and green.

“Now you listen here Robin Goodfellow” she said. Puck knew this was serious, most folk did not know his real name and only those closest to him would dare speak it in the way Sirenia was right now. “You’re going to go out into the city and I don’t care what you have to do or how you do it but you’re going to get that Dreamstone back and you are going to bring it back here so Errol can see that his hero isn’t the worthless piece of shit we all know him to be!”

By the time Puck felt good enough to leave the Maltings it had started raining. Puck loved the rain and he especially loved how wonderful York looked gleamed in the wet sheen of rainfall. It was mid-morning now and many Humes were on their way to work. The Troll market on Lendal Bridge was open for business, with many of the large kindly trolls speaking softly in their baritone voices amongst each other as they sold their goods and wares to passers-by. Puck looked out to the river to where the troll community had taken up residence. Rows of cottages and houseboats lined the riverside as the large Mythic’s went about their daily business. Trolls were mostly river folk which was why they tended to set up communities near bridges; everything they got in life, all of it came from the river, to them, the river was life the river was god. It was this peaceable quality along with their soft and gentle nature that made them one of the few Mythic races to be widely accepted by humans when war of the Wild Hunt had ended.

Puck tried his best to keep a low profile as he strolled past the stalls, sidestepping the large and friendly beasts and keeping his hair as much in front of his face as much he could. Still, there were those among the local Troll community who were old enough to remember Puck for who he once was, who had seen him achieve many great feats of magic and heroism some had witnessed him unite their people to escape Elysium from the great shadow that hunted them in their homeland and had also watched as he doused himself in the blood of his enemies on the battlefields of Dallas,Cuba, Washington and Johannesburg. The ones who recognised him nodded or bowed as he walked past causing him to wince as much from shame as it was from embarrassment. Some even acknowledged him by his warrior name “Deag Mac Tir” or “The Red Wolf” as it was spoken in the common tongue. All of it was too much, he felt like he was suffocating right up until the moment he finally came out the other side of Lendal Bridge.

He gave a fleeting glance at the office of Jenny Nevermore, York’s most famed private detective and, for a moment, considered employing her services. He instantly rethought that consideration. Puck and Nevermore had a tumultuous history at best with neither one particularly taking to the other. While their paths would occasionally cross they would only ever help each other out of vested self-interest.

“It’d cost too fucking much anyway” Puck said to himself before turning his back on the unusual building that looked like a small castle stuck right at the end of Lendal Bridge. He wrapped his coat tightly about him and headed in the direction of the one place he could find someone who might know what happened to the Dreamstone.

The Golden Fleece was packed full of Humes ready for the local sporting derby by the time he arrived. A dozen or more people had filled the old pub in eager anticipation for the titanic clash that was to take place between York City and Hull. A sea of red t-shirts bearing the York City crest swamped the main bar area from wall to wood panelled wall, occupying every seat, every table and every bar stool. Humes were not the only ones coming out to share in the glory of their home city taking on their chief rivals. A Djinn couple sat at the bar, each nursing a coffee and occasionally turning away polite Humes who begged for them to bring their team victory. A contingent of Dwergans, drunk on hard ale and flush with the spirit of sport occupied a table, their faces painted with their teams colours. Each one carried a box so they could stand on their seats at Bootham Crescent so as to get a better look at the action.

Puck pushed his way through the crowd with as much courtesy as he could muster; which was to say none at all. He hated crowds and especially crowds of Humes on sporting days. While events such as this brought the camaraderie of most to Puck they brought back memories. Memories of a different kind of camaraderie and not the kind that lead to happy endings either. It was tribal and he could feel the energy surging in the room and he hurried through as best he could so as to avoid being hypnotised by it.

Puck pushed his way through the crowd toward a narrow and lengthy corridor which lead to a part at the rear of the pub usually reserved for diners. It was smaller and more compact than even the main room of the Golden Fleece but it was cosy and comforting in a homely way which only served to add to the dining experience. A secondary bar curved round the left hand side of the room toward a door that lead to an external courtyard which was used as a beer garden.

Sitting at the bar, alone with a cigarette in one hand and an empty glass of whiskey set down before him was just who Puck had been looking for. The skeleton known as Saul Goodfellow. Nobody knew who or what he was, they had no idea if he was human or Mythic, all was known about him was that one day he appeared in the Golden Fleece, asked for a whiskey and never left. Most folk who knew Puck's true name often assumed that the two were related; if there were such a connection Puck was certainly in the dark and most definitely preferred it that way.

“Now, who is that I spy at my door? Why it’s young master Puck. Please, pull up a stool and join me, I could use the company given the sporting event that’s on” Saul said, his cigarette hand gesturing towards stools next to his own.

Puck had seen many things in his life, most of them unpleasant. He had witnessed the titan Charybdis rising from the ocean, he had seen the skies of Elysium burning with iridescent fire in the shades of a hundred different colours, and he had seen the moment a star burned over Dallas, killing millions in its wake. Yet, something about Saul made Puck feel more nervous and on edge than any of that. It was as though he was separate from all things in this world, split from the Whole and walked out of the shade of the Great Tree. He was something different and the fact that no Mythic knew who or what he was made him even more dangerous than Puck felt comfortable with.

He pulled up a stool to Saul’s right and rang the bell for service. A moment later, a young barmaid appeared with a bright and cheery smile and politely asked what they wanted. He ordered an Elysium Lager for himself and Puck and a Firebrace whiskey for Saul. She returned with the drinks after a moment and set them down on the bar after he paid.

“A Firebrace whiskey, you’re breaking out the good shit. This stuff’s not cheap which means that you want something” Saul said, his voice haggered and dry yet still managing to sound impressed. Puck hated the way in which the skeleton had a habit of weighing down on each S as he spoke, elongating it into an unnatural hiss that made his skin crawl.

“Astute as ever Saul, tell me, do you have a crystal ball that gives you all this insight or is it simply… boneheaded intuition” Puck said with a cat grin.

“You think I haven’t heard that one before? If you want to do business, then let’s talk, you want to joke, then get down the other end of the pub!”

“I’m looking for something, a Dreamstone somebody won in a game of Mahjongg last night down at the Maltings. You’re well known to have connections to people who might be interested in such an item. Has anyone been in here to speak with you?” Puck asked.

Saul tilted his skull, light from the spot lamp above bearing down on the bone and reflecting towards Puck’s chest. His eyeless sockets regarded him with emotionless intensity. Puck shifted in his seat awkwardly and pulled at the lapel of his black duster. Saul was making him intentionally uncomfortable and they both knew it; either the skeleton knew something and didn’t want to fess up or he was going to exact a horrible price for the info.

“Say I knew of such an item and to whose hands it may have fallen. I would have to know of the personal value it possessed. Why does it mean so much to you?” Saul asked. Ash fell from his cigarette as it burned ever further down.

“It was a gift” Puck said sucking on his teeth.

“A gift of incredible value to you?”

“Yes”

“And you would see it returned as soon as possible?”

“Yes”

“Or else…?”

“Cut the bullshit! You wouldn’t be asking these questions if you didn’t already know just how much shit I’m in and who with!” Puck snapped. Saul gave a hissing laugh while his finger tapped the wood of the bar.

“Of course I do, the question is how much are you willing to pay in order to get it back?”

“What is it you want?” Puck asked. Saul gave another hissing laugh and tapped his finger on the bar again.

Saul stared at Puck for the longest time, neither moving to drink nor to ash his cigarette but simply sat and stared. After a lengthy period of silence the skeleton moved his hand and placed it ever so gently on top of Pucks own.

"You're haunted Robin, did you know that? A ghost sits on your shoulder, following you about the world, ever dogging your steps" Saul said quietly.

Puck swallowed awkwardly and felt a bead of sweat begin to tumble down the left side of his face. He knew of what Saul spoke and knew that it was true. Even now, sitting at the bar, he could see the small figure of a young girl of no more than ten years of age sat cross legged on one of the tables looking up at them. Her long dark blue hair fell across her face but her eyes still pierced through, one of green the other of blue.

"She's here, with us, in this very building isn't she?" Saul asked. "What is she to you Robin? Why does she haunt you so? Who is she?"

Puck took a shaky swig of his beer and shook his head. The alcohol was swimming faster through his blood now, he could feel it. Looking back to the table he saw that she had vanished and he breathed deep with relief at her absence.

"She's more than a memory" he explained, "And so much more than a ghost"

Saul laughed a low hissing chuckle, his eyes flashing white for a moment before settling back to their hollow black appearance. Removing his hand he tapped the bar with his finger three times, almost thoughtfully, then tilted his head once more.

"If I told you that my price would be the memory of your ghost, would you give me due payment?"

Puck regarded the skeletal figure cagily. There were fewer things in the universe with more potency than memories and such things could be used to cause irreparable harm if fallen into the wrong hands and it was no ordinary memory Saul was asking for. Memories with high emotional attachment often had the most raw potency and could be used in concoctions to cause powerful delusions and even madness in people. If Saul wanted one, and especially one from a former high ranking Fae such as Puck, then he was, potentially, up to no good.

It was also dangerous for Puck to deal in such matters. If the Mythic authorities caught him selling memories, even his own, to someone with the reputation that Saul had then a very stiff and incredibly hard sentence could be handed down to him. But Puck had precious few friends and those he did have meant everything to him, especially Sirenia, and he would move the shores of Albion itself to set things right with her again.

There were few things in the world that would test such loyalty and even fewer things he would sacrifice for it but this was one of them.

It had been hard for Puck after the war, he had been haunted by visions of who he was and what he had done and had struggled to reconcile those parts of his nature with who he was now. There was something inside of him that he did not like, a madness that, under the right circumstances, could be let out. It was this madness that lead to his other name, his alter ego as it were: The Red Wolf.

Sirenia had changed all of that. No-one had more reason to hate Humes than she did, most Alfr’s had that same reason but she had forgiven them and she had forgiven Puck, which was more than he could do for himself. It was this same reason that he had given her his true name, the name to call upon whenever needed and it was for this reason he had to do what needed to be done.

"I won't give you my ghost but I will give you any other memory you desire. Choose what you want and take it but be quick about it!" he said angrily.

“Then give me a memory of love; give me a memory of love and you will have your answer” he said. He finished his beer, slammed the glass down and leaned in close to Saul’s empty sockets.

“Will any memory do or do have particular one in mind?”

The tight knit alleyways and timber framed overhanging buildings, painted white and black, closed in tightly around Puck as he meandered through the heavy Mythic district. Magic had bled into the very salt and concrete of the Shambles long ago, almost seven hundred years ago in fact. Much of the old traditions that began back when York was called Jorvik had left an indelible imprint and Puck could smell it in the air. Power, not quite as potent as it had once been but still present, could be smelled in the air along with stale meat and the copper tinge of blood.

Since waking that morning he had been suffering from the most atrocious headache. He wrongfully assumed that Saul messing with his brain might, somehow, cure him of the thumping pain that echoed through his skull. Sadly, it was not to be. The dull thud continued to pulse through his head as he strolled across the cobbles.

It had been early evening when he had left the Golden Fleece, good on Saul’s information even if the price was high. As expected, Puck had no recollection of which memory the cagey Skeleton had asked for but the Fae had known the price and had been willing to part with it.

With the Shambles being a high Mythic district Puck was a known face to those he passed. Everyone, from Dwerganz to Alfrs, from Shifters to Trolls, all recognised him and most were none too happy with his presence. For the most part he was met with unwelcome glares and hushed whispers, others would spit at his feet as a mark of disrespect. Not all Mythic’s greeted him in such a hostile manner, occasionally Puck would be met with the nod of a head and the utterance of his battle name - Deag Mac Tire or Red wolf - as a mark of respect.

“Of all the fucking places in York to find myself, why the hell did it have to be the Shambles” Puck said. He could feel the tension in the air grow thicker the deeper he went, that coupled with the scent of centuries old blood stuck in the back of Puck’s throat as he pressed forward. Even the crowds of people, so closely pressed together by their claustrophobic surroundings, were not as bad as the level of sheer aggression pointed in his direction. This was Wild Hunt territory, the corner of the city where those who had shed blood in the name of the Mythic fight to reclaim their home soil resided, which meant that Puck was about as popular as crotch rot in a brothel.

“Maybe this will teach me to gamble against the Tuatha De Danan” he said to himself. The street had become disturbingly empty in the last few minutes, further evidence that his presence had not gone unnoticed by the local populace.

He heard the revere within Valhalla long before he saw its doors. It was an aptly named venue of the street called Patrick Pool as it attracted more than its fair share Mythic’s, most of them warriors of the Hunt and it was for that reason that Puck was especially nervous. The iron cast braziers that hung either side of the door burned brightly with iridescent blue fire. Loud music, a mixture of many nations, Norse and Celtic and Eastern blended in a beautiful melange which soothed and caressed every part of Puck, as well as instilling him with a burning fire that pounded and thumped until he felt the overpowering urge to run and fight and kill and fuck all at the same time. It was the power of the drum, the power of the Hunt, something he had not felt for a long time.

His hangover began to rear its ugly head and he braced himself, holding back the sudden urge to throw up as he opened the door. Unlike its namesake, the interior of Valhalla was small and compact. It possessed only three lengthy wooden tables that ran parallel to a wooden bench that was fitted to the window side of the room. Stools were strewn about here and there between the bar. The tables were mostly used as a means for Mythic’s to stand on so as to shout their orders to the bar before they got there. In the far corner sat a group of Mythic musicians; comprising of a Tuatha De Danan on Irish Pipes, a Varcolac hammering on a human skinned drum with his great paws and drooling with each beat. A Dodo Meki, each one of his hundred eyes taking in all around him as his strummed across his Koto with his overly long arms. No one stopped to take note of him but Puck knew that the room had actively paid attention to his entrance. He pushed his way to the bar and laid his hands out flat, palms facing upward and looked the barman straight in the eye.

“Puck!” shouted a hearty and welcoming voice from across the room distracting him from his purpose with friendly intent. A strange and altogether unique fellow pushed his way through the throng with a mug of golden ale in his hand and embraced Puck in a most welcoming and friendly way.

“Hi Jeff, long time” Puck said awkwardly. The man held him at arm’s length and took a good look at him. Immediately he felt as though he were being inspected by some kind of elderly relative which, in a sense, Jeff was.

“In the name of the great tree and of the sacred acorn, you look even younger than you did the last time I saw you…” he paused momentarily as he looked Puck in the face and pointed directly at his eyes “…except there. There, you look older!”

“I see you haven’t changed much, then again, since when does the Green Man ever really change” Puck said trying to seem cheery.

Jeff’s appearance was not quite what he was used to. The last time he had seen him was the taking of Cuba back in the fifties. Jeff had been at his fullest power then, flush with energy from the earth itself and committing himself fully to the taking of the island. He had been a giant then, ripped and taut with green vines and sharp thorns covering his body. Armour of the thickest brown bark and a skin of green leaves had been his shield as the power of nature itself flew from his fingertips. That had been the last time Puck had seen him. The slaughter had been too much for one such as him; after Cuba was taken, Jeff had dedicated himself to the peace process, something it would take him another few years to achieve.

Retrospectively speaking, his current appearance was quite humble and much less exciting. He was nothing at all like the leafy sculptures that decorated the walls of homes and sacred places up and down the land of Albion as it was called among the Mythic’s. It could be understood why most, uninformed people, might view him as a bum. He wore ripped jeans, a grey cardigan that had too many holes in it, a Creedence Clearwater Revival t-shirt that had seen better days and a pair of crocks so battered and broken they looked as though they would fade into dust at the slightest step. If there were any indication as to who he might truly be then it was in the holly green of his shoulder length hair and beard. Yet, the true magic of his appearance was in his golden brown eyes that sparkled like clean and polished wood.

Jeff may have blended himself in with the Humes but it was here, amongst Mythic’s that Puck knew he felt at home.

“Let me buy you a drink my friend, do you still drink whiskey?” he asked. Puck shook his head and held up a polite hand towards his friend.

“No, really, I shouldn’t…” Puck said hesitantly

“Come now, it’s been at least fifty years, give or take the occasional decade, let me buy an old friend a drink” he said.

“I’m afraid I’m here on business tonight” Puck said quietly and Jeff looked all the more excited.

"Business! But it's Beltane!" Jeff said cheerily before slapping his hand on the bar and shouting triumphantly. "Today is a day for celebration, strong drink and loose morals. Business can resume tomorrow! Tonight we make merry!"

Puck gently pushed friend an arms length from him. Glancing away at first he regarded Jeff with soft eyes that peered upwards through his hair which now fell across his face.

"I'm sorry Jeff, but this is important" he said softly yet Jeff still heard him clearly.

“Oh really? Now what could possibly tempt Robin Goodfellow out from beneath his bar stool? Is it a matter of love or power?” Jeff asked excitedly. Puck winced at his real name being spoken but let it pass.

“A matter of stolen property” he said to Jeff and then turned back to the barman and asked in fluent Gaelic. “Where is he?”

The barman was a Tuatha De Danann, a full foot taller than Puck. His body built for action and covered in a web work of scars and tattoo’s. He regarded Puck contemptibly, looking him up and down as if uncertain who he was before pulling on a beer tap and filling a large mug with golden ale.

“That depends on which ‘He’ it is you’re looking for?” he replied in Gaelic.

“You know exactly who I’m looking for! Where’s Lámhleabhar ?”

“What makes you think I would take you to my king?” he asked in flawless ENGLISH.

“Because Longhand is a thief” Puck said, loud enough so that it could be heard above the music. The room fell silent at the accusation and the barman looked as though he were about to punch him, something Puck secretly wished for. He had been idle for too long and he craved a little good old fashioned bloodletting. Puck felt a hand pulling at the sleeve of his coat. Glancing sideways he could see Jeff trying insistently to get his attention.

“Erm, Puck, what are you doing?” he asked nervously. “You really shouldn’t do this, not today…”

“I know what I’m doing Jeff, this is personal, something was taken from me and I’m going to get it back”

“Yes but…” Jeff began.

“Care to say that again you fairy fuck!” the barman said cutting across Jeff, his own body language was intense and angry and all of his attention was focused on Puck, just as he had planned.

“Well, if your ears weren’t so clogged full of Irish shit then maybe you would have heard me the first time. But considering you’re too stupid to process a simple thought like this I’ll repeat myself. Your king is a fucking thief!” Puck said.

The Barman reached back as far as his weighty arm could go and let loose a swing so fast and violent that it would have decapitated whomever it hit. Luckily, even in a state of excruciating hangover, Puck was still faster than most in a fight and ducked cleanly. One swift punch to the testicles and an elbow to the nose later and the Barman was flat on his back.

Puck had fired the first shot now it was time for the king to emerge.

Stepping over the unconscious barman he reached behind the bar and grabbed the mug of ale previously poured. He took a healthy swig then poured the rest over his vanquished foe, staring each and every single warrior in the bar down, daring them all in turn to take a shot at him.

“To the health of the Wild Hunt, may your prey be forever fearful and…”

“…And your bow be forever strung!”

Puck knew that voice, it was the voice of the very person he had come to see. Lugh stood bare-chested in the doorway, his long flowing blonde mane of hair hung well below his shoulders and was held out of his face by a top knot braid that reached the small of his back. Across his chest was the symbol of the goddess Danu an interlinked spiral of three pools spread across both breasts and down to his stomach. He was a warrior’s warrior, well built for battle but not grotesquely so, he had enough practical muscle so as to be called handsome but not narcissistically so. While his tattoo may have stood out, so did the many scars that also decorated his torso. Everything from bullet holes to stabs to slashes to burns played out across his body, telling their own silently violent story. He wore only a pair of leather trousers with a large thick belt, a knife slung at his hip and big black boots on his feet. But what truly caught Puck’s eye was the swirling sapphire jewel that hung round Lugh’s neck on a simple chain of silver. The Dreamstone, his Dreamstone, and instantly his temper began to rise.

The full weight of Lugh’s heavily muscled body bore down on the concrete with each heavy step he took, yet Puck was unafraid of the intimidating figure walking toward him. He stopped just in front of him and the two squared off. Puck could feel Lugh’s breath on his skin as they stared intensely at one another.

“What’s this about Red Wolf?” the Tuatha De Dannan asked.

“You have something that belongs to me, Longhand” Puck replied pointing to the Dreamstone. “And I want it back!”

“You lost the game fair and square! I don’t have to give you fucking anything!” he said. “You think you can come in here, into my house, a king’s house and demand his rightful winnings from him? That fucking fairy brain of yours is smaller than I thought it would be!”

“You’re no king ,Lámhleabhar, you haven’t been for centuries. And don’t think that just because you cheat at Mah-jong when I’m drunk makes you any good at the fucking game. You’re a thief, plain and simple, and I’ll take back what’s rightfully mine before the consequences of your actions come to haunt you!” Puck said pointing a threatening finger at Lugh.

The Mythic’s immediately got defensive at Puck’s threat. The musicians dropped their instruments and walked slowly with their brethren to surround Puck, their bodies closing in tightly so as to make him feel claustrophobic. It was pointless, he had seen true battle, he knew the sights, sounds and more importantly, the smells of battle and how it felt. This was nothing, not even a skirmish in the making and Puck may have been out of practice but he still had enough skill to take anyone in the room down.

The only exception was Lugh, even Puck was not stupid enough to be so overtly arrogant as to believe he could take down Lugh, not easily anyway. He had been there during the war, he had seen the God King of the Tuatha De Dannan fight first hand with fist and with spear. He had run head first into oncoming machine gun fire, across minefields, under the barrage of heavy assault cannons and remained only superficially touched by bullet and dagger. His blessings were many and varied and he had the backing of old powers in the world.

“This is Beltane!”

The whole room stopped at the unexpectedly angry voice of Jeff and all turned to hear him speak. The Old One’s skin had become covered in a thick layer of moss and had hardened with a bark like consistency. His hair and beard had turned into a dazzling array of leaves, thorns and berries. His eyes flashed with green light, blinding the room.

“No blood is to be shed on the sacred day of Beltane! That is the law of old and must be adhered to!”

Lugh and Puck instantly backed away and the rest of the Mythic’s, all of them, quivered in fear and moved as far away from Jeff as they possibly could. Puck regarded his friend as his features returned to normal. It was a curious thing he often forgot but Jeff was also one of the last of his kind. He was not merely some spirit of nature, he was nature itself made manifest. His was the beating heart of Oak and thorn, of leaf and life; his blood was sap and oil and his bones were root and stem. His voice was one of the last of the Old Ones, the higher beings whom all Mythic’s revered and obeyed. Jeff had been there at the forging of Gaia itself, had heard the words spoken that brought them all into creation and he stood as one of the four primary pillars of elemental nature. When he said his word was law that was exactly what it was.

“Now, clearly we have a dispute and since blood must not be shed on Beltane we need to find another way” Jeff said as his features returned to normal.

“How about a game of skill?”

“You’ve got to be fucking joking!” Puck replied and waved an accusatory finger in Lugh’s direction. “You know as well as I that Longhand has been blessed by that whore Dannu with the gift of luck. How else do you think he could have beaten a Fae at Mah-jongg?”

Lugh immediately stepped forward and squared off with Puck once more.

“Call her a whore again and I don’t care what day it is… You die!” Lugh said.

Puck knew just how seriously the Tuatha De Dannan took their loyalties to their patron gods and Lugh was no exception. He was blessed by Dannu herself with luck, skill at arms, Smithing, poetry and even some sorcery. Everything he was he owed to Dannu but Puck also knew the simplest truth which all Tuatha De Dannan refused to accept – Their patron had betrayed them to save herself.

“If we’re going to do this, and we most certainly are, then I want an even contest. One that involves an advantage for neither side” Puck demanded.

“Best of luck finding something I don’t excel in for I have been blessed many times over” Lugh said with a smile.

“Which makes you every bit a whore as your patron!” Puck said. Lugh lunged for Puck but was stopped by a wall of bark and thorns which had grown with lightning speed between the two of them.

“That’s enough!” Jeff said, his patience clearly wearing down to its final thread. “There will be no games of chance or trickery. What Puck says is true, Lugh’s gifts are many and varied. Therefore it shall be settled in the fairest way possible…” Jeff said. Pucks stomach sank a little as he was certain just what his friend had in mind.

Night had fallen and it was every bit as warm in the courtyard of Valhalla as it would be in front of a roaring fire in winter. The patrons had all emptied the bar area to witness the contest to take place, most of them drunk and cheering on their beloved hero and leader Lugh. The smell of roasting meat wafted across the cobbles from Valhalla’s kitchens. Plates of varying sizes – each one piled high with dead animal carcass and cuts of the finest meats – were passed around by one of Lugh’s many staff.

As he stood in the center of the courtyard, bare footed and bare-chested, Puck was beginning to wonder if this entire exploit was worth the risk of it all. He was sober enough now to realise what an unbelievable moron he had been last night as his recollection of the previous night’s events, finally, began to return to him.

He had hit the Maltings around ten thirty by which time the bottle of Ambrosia whiskey he consumed in the Lamb & Lion had well and truly taken effect. He was down to his last few shillings and was in no mood to allow such a thing as abject poverty to prevent his bender from continuing. The Maltings, like most Friday nights, was full. Students from the local university occupied most of the tables, drunk, and making fools of themselves. The Maltings, like most Friday nights, was full. Students from the local university occupied most of the tables, drunk, and making fools of themselves. Sirenia usually tolerated it for the sake of profits but when Puck had offered to help her rid her establishment of a potentially rowdy nuisance, she gleefully accepted. Making more of his inebriation then was necessarily true, he challenged any man or Mythic, who had the skill, to best him in a game of Mah-jongg. The ringleader had gleefully accepted, demanding that the stakes had to be as high as possible and everything must be put into a single game, winner takes all. It took Puck fifteen minutes and a wriggling snake hand to take the lads money but he had done so with skill and expertise. Once the students had left he resumed his drinking until he had finished another bottle of ambrosia, this was when Lugh chose to strike.

Puck didn’t even know the Tuatha De Dannan was in the pub, if he had he would have been less cocksure about making an open challenge such as that. By Mythic Law, an Open Challenge can be answered by any and all before sunrise and Lugh was sure to call him on it. Lugh had spied the Dreamstone hanging round his neck and his challenge had been instantaneous, he wanted the Dreamstone and Puck was drunk and stupid enough to offer it up as a stake against Lugh’s spear. He should have remembered that the Tuathan King had been blessed with luck, not that he needed it to beat Puck at that point.

If he had felt a fool the day before, he felt double the fool right now. With each fresh ale consumed the crowd became overcome with bloodlust. Cries of inebriation and a desperate bid for the fight to begin only served to stir them into further depths of bloodthirsty savagery. They called out for violence, their eyes watching and waiting hungrily for Puck and Lugh to do harm to one another. Clearly they had forgotten Jeff’s decree that this was to be a bout of unarmed skill with no death to occur.

For Lugh’s part he seemed unconcerned by the calls for violence as he stretched himself out. Puck swallowed hard as he looked his opponent over. Age had certainly not dulled the King’s physical qualities. He looked every bit as sharp and taut as he had in the War of Fire nearly two millennia ago. Puck was going to have to use his speed if he was going to win. The traditional rules of Mythic wrestling had been the same since the time of Achilles: Three rounds to every bout with each bout being decided via submission or incapacitation.

Jeff stepped into the centre of the yard, his hand summoning a long tree root from the black soil beneath the concrete. Snapping it off, he brandished it like a staff, a conch of authority which every Mythic respected as a symbol of his authority. He slammed the butt against the concrete three times calling for silence which was instantly delivered.

“All here bear witness to a matter of honour which is to be settled without the shedding of blood. Those who stand here, who witness what is to be done shall carry with them the truth of what occurs. There shall be no hand raised in assistance to either Fae or Tuathan, nor shall any hand be raised in conjuring. Those who do shall answer for it!” he said. Gesturing to Puck and Lugh, Jeff called for them to step forward which they did. “You both know the rules, I have no need to explain them to you. Once the third fall is decided you shall abide by the conditions of the combat. Should Puck be victorious he shall have his Dreamstone returned to him. Should Lugh emerge victorious then Puck shall forsake his tenancy of York and be forever banished, leaving behind his home and all his possessions. Agreed?”

Puck knew he was taking a risk. Leaving York was not something he would normally entertain but it was the only condition Lugh would agree to as a stake when offering terms for the bout.

Both of them nodded but neither held out their fists as acknowledgement of the wager which was called for by the traditions of Mythic combat. It was considered a mark of respect and as neither one had respect for the other it was pointless to do so. They stepped away from one another, eagerly awaiting Jeff’s call for the match to begin, as did the crowd who looked on. Standing between them, Jeff raised his staff and held it in the air for a moment, eyeing both with a crude and cautious eye before slamming the staff down to call for the fight to begin.

Neither man moved. Instead they stood motionless in a stand-off to see who would be first to attack. The crowd however chose to erupt in a furious roar of cheers and vulgarity. Puck was the recipient of much derision from the Wild Hunters, who spat on him, called him traitor and threw meat and mead over his pale skin. Lugh was the first to break the stare down by choosing to circle the makeshift ring area like a shark, his eyes never leaving Puck even as the Hunters clapped him on the back and began to chant his name of Longhand. Puck matched his pace and after a few moments they met in the center once more.

The tradition of Mythic wrestling dated back millennia and while punches and kicks may have been allowed it was through the art of grappling where the competition was truly supposed to take place. Their heads connected gently, each one pressing up against the other pushing with their foreheads while their hands fumbled for any kind of hold on the other. Lugh was the first one to grab a hold, slinging his right arm around Puck’s neck in an effort to lock in a headlock but the fairy was too quick for him and dropped to one knee before whipping around behind the king. He slammed a forearm into the back of Lugh’s left leg and forced him to the ground then jumped on his back and went to grab his own headlock. The old warrior was smarter than that and wrapped both hands around his neck so Puck could not sync the lock in.

Seeing he was getting nowhere, Puck sank all his weight into the small of Lugh’s back and laid in a vicious forearm to the back of his head. This would turn out to be a mistake as it woke the Tuathan king up and really pissed him off. Using his considerable size and strength, Lugh pushed himself up from the concrete and seemingly shrugged Puck off. As Puck lay dazed on the floor Lugh spun round and mounted himself on the Fae’s chest but made no move to follow up his attack. Puck swung wildly at his opponent but Lugh had the upper hand and while his punches connected with Longhand’s chest, he swatted them away as if they meant nothing. Looking down at him, Lugh raised his right hand and curled it into a fist, the crowd screaming for him to make a move but instead he simply smiled down at Puck. Rising to his feet he leaned down and pinched Puck’s cheek before giving it a gentle pat.

“If you think this ends quick you’re wrong boy” he whispered hoarsely. He stepped backwards and gestured for him to get to his feet. Puck rolled backwards onto his knees and rose, stretching out taut and tired muscles that hadn’t been used in a long time.

They came into the center again only this time Lugh would not allow Puck any kind of vantage point. He charged at the Fae looking to grab a hold and take him completely by surprise but Puck skipped backwards until he was pressed against the crowd. The Hunters all laughed and those behind Puck pushed him forcibly back into the ring. They locked up again except this time Lugh managed to get the headlock applied onto Puck and sunk all of his weight down on the back of his neck and forced him to the ground, his belly rubbing against the cold concrete. The crowd went insane as they chanted for Puck to tap.

As the weight of Lugh’s body bore down on the back of his neck, he glanced through the gap in the King’s arm and saw a ghost. The pressure continued to squeeze around his neck and head and through the pain he saw a pale white figure standing in front of the crowd. Pale skin, white robes and dark blue hair, she looked at Puck with sad blue eyes and a sad smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

“Breathe Puck, just breathe and let go” she whispered.

He blinked as the pressure continued to mount on his senses and within an instant, she was gone. With the air cut off from his body and no meaningful way to mount any kind of offense, Puck was forced to surrender the first fall to Lugh.

As he tapped, the Hunters cheered wildly for their king. Puck heard the wrapping of wood against stone, Jeff had declared the fall in Lugh’s favour. The king let go of his neck and he felt the sudden rush of air flooding back into his body but that did not help him feel any better about his fortune. He was going to have his work cut out for him. Puck was going to need to win two straight victories if he was going to win this contest at all.

He looked to where the girl had stood but she was nowhere to be found. He should have known that drinking as much as he did would lead him to seeing ghosts, specifically, ghosts from his own past. Puck breathed deeply and sighed as he got to his feet, making sure to check that she was truly gone before continuing the fight.

He got back into position and the crowd began to hurl yet more insults at him. Puck did not care, he was focused entirely on winning back his Dreamstone and now was not the time to let things like Turn Coat, Traitor and Wannabe Hume get into his head. Jeff raised his staff brought it down against the concrete with a sharp thwack.

Puck had expected Lugh to go for the same tactic as before and charge but the Tuathan went for something else entirely. He lay down on the ground, his knees huddled up high and his arms in a defensive position. It was a traditional Greco-Roman position of wrestling; he wanted to give away an advantage to Puck because he was so confident of his own abilities to win. The Hunters laughed as their leader gestured for Puck to take the fight to him. Puck was going to make him regret his arrogance.

It would have been foolish of the Fae to rush in headlong and make the same attack Lugh had done, after all that was what the challenge was for. Puck could see the trap and was not going to fall for it. Instead he leant down and began to feel his opponent out, looking for a weak spot. After a few minutes of gentle tussling he saw it, Lugh had left his side exposed and an opportunity presented itself. Puck snuck in behind Lugh’s waistline made a grab for the Tuathan’s left arm, trying to force it out in an arm bar submission. Lugh clasped both hands together, refusing to allow Puck the ability to force out a submission. The Fae yanked back on Longhand’s arm, pulling at his elbow so as to hyper extend it outward but the King refused to allow it to happen. Puck knew something had to change and so he wrapped his right leg beneath Lugh’s chin and pushed with all of his lower body strength and forced the Tuathan’s hands apart and pulled hard. He could feel Lugh’s shoulder about to pop out when Longhand made the smart move to cede the bout to Puck and tapped furiously against his leg.

Again, Jeff brought his staff down against the concrete signalling Puck’s victory only this time the crowd was less pleased about it. Disgruntled shouts and jeers sang across the yard, most of them directed at Puck but he did not care. They had drawn level with one another and now it would all be decided in the third and final bout.

Puck let go of the hold and immediately went back to his place on the other side of the yard. His hair was so soaked with sweat it was running down his back. He had not realised just how desperately out of shape he was or how hot and close the air would be. He rolled his shoulders out and flexed muscles he had not used in a lifetime. He could feel his joints aching from the strain but did his best to put it out of his mind.

Looking over at Lugh he could tell the next bout would be the hardest fought; Longhand was not used to losing, it was one of the many reasons they hated each other. Ever since the signing of the peace treaty after the war, Lugh and others like him had blamed Puck for not leading them better and Jeff for bending to human will, the only difference was they showed a modicum of respect for Jeff and none for Puck. Lugh was angry, beside himself with rage even as he stretched out his arm, ready to knock Puck’s teeth out just for the sheer hell of it.

Puck crouched low in anticipation of Lugh’s oncoming attack and held his breath waiting for Jeff’s signal. The Fae barely had time to take a deep breath before Jeff called for the last bout to begin. With the sound of oak against stone, it began. Lugh wasted no time feeling out Puck this time, he was mad and wanted vengeance for the loss. Sprinting across the yard in seconds he swung at Puck with a vicious forearm that barely missed his skull. Puck ducked and rolled, spinning across the cobbles into a defensive position, ready for Lugh to begin again. He did not have to wait long as Longhand turned and charged again, this time going for a low grapple attack which Puck avoided by jumping over him and landing on his feet squarely behind. He would have followed it up with an attack of his own but Lugh threw a wild spinning elbow. Puck kept himself as light on his feet as he could, his old familiar speed seemed to be returning to him and he felt good. Lugh began to stalk around the edges of the yard, the crowd cheering for him and chanting his name but this only seemed to increase his anger.

Longhand charged again, but Puck was ready and fell to the floor sweeping his leg out to take the king down. However, the Tuathan had guessed what Puck might do and instead neatly dodged the sweep by diving and planting his elbow in the small of Puck’s back. The pain was agonising as old injuries resurfaced and Puck could do nothing except lay there and fight through the pain. He felt a forearm smash into the back of his skull and instantly, through the pain, wrapped his arms round his head for protection. Strong hands lifted Puck by the shoulders and flipped him onto his back. Through the blurry fog of his vision he could make out Lugh’s fuming gaze bearing down on him, closed fist at the ready to maul his face into powder. Instinctively, he reached out and felt for Lugh’s belt. Grabbing a tight hold he pulled his opponent forward and swept his feet out from under him causing him to fall flat on his face. Now was the time to strike.

Smashing his elbow as hard as he could into the back of Lugh’s head, by way of payback, Puck followed it up by wrapping his left arm around his throat and locked it in by grabbing his right forearm and squeezed. He sunk all of his body weight down on Lugh’s back and wrapped his legs round his waist. Jeff came over and checked Lugh’s breathing. He tapped Puck on the shoulder and leaned in.

“Lámhleabhar's out like a light. You’ve won” he said. Puck let go and got to his feet but the crowd fell silent as Jeff raised his hand.

“Let all here bear witness to the victor. Puck, former general of the Wild Hunt, Conqueror of Cuba and the Destroyer of Dallas!” Jeff declared. Puck paid his friend no heed as he called him by his titles but simply brushed past the Hunters to find one Lugh’s employees carrying a tray of beer mugs and grabbed two. He drained them both dry in three gulps each and thanked the woman before placing them back on the tray. Returning to where he had left Lugh prone and unconscious he pulled the Dreamstone from his neck and placed it around his own.

“Blessings be upon you and your people this happy Beltane’s day” he said loud enough so all could hear it.

Puck went and grabbed his belongings which had been kept by a wooden table by the kitchen doors and dressed quickly. As he pulled his coat on and gestured to Jeff that now was the time for him to leave, he found himself face to face with the Hunters who stood silently blocking his way. The tension in the air was palpable and thick enough so as to be choking. He glanced at both sides to see just how fucked he was and the answer was totally.

“Is this what’s become of the hunt then?” Puck asked loudly. “You’re going to ignore the law and just take what you like, even from me…”

“What are you to us Puck?” said a nearby Alfr. “Just another turncoat traitor who sold us out when it suited your needs.”

Puck was not in the mood to get into an ideological debate, his body was too damned tired and all the wanted was a bed. Unfortunately, he still had some business to take care of before that could happen. He eyed the barman who was serving as the ringleader for the crowd’s current mood. Evidently his little trip to dreamland had not given him a renewed sense of camaraderie with his fellow Mythic. Puck stepped backwards into the center of the yard, only a few paces from the unconscious Lugh who was being attended to by several Hunters. He spread his arms out and set his eyes to work, scanning them all for signs of those who would break from the pack to strike first.

“If you want me, I’m here!” he shouted, daring them to come at him. No-one moved, they all stayed staring and willing to kill but none of them moved and Puck knew he had won. “That’s right, get permission from Lámhleabhar before you come for me and when you do, you better bring fucking everyone!”

The hour was turning close to midnight by the time Puck returned to the Maltings. The regulars were beginning to pile out and only a few stragglers remained to finish off their drinks. Puck remarked to himself on just how quiet the old pub was when it was close to closing; how peaceful and serene it felt and he remembered just why he had begun drinking here in the first place. Sirenia was nowhere to be found so he decided to grab a stool and place himself at the bar. He was still tired from his day of hunting down the damned Dreamstone, his head was throbbing violently as the consequences of the fight reasserted itself. His jaw was sore as was just about every muscle in his body, all of them taut and thick with an overexertion he had not done in so long.

The door to the kitchen slammed shut and Puck looked up to see Sirenia carrying a tray of clean glasses which she then began to place behind the bar.

“If you're sitting at my bar then it means you managed to hunt it down then?” she said casually. It was clear that she was still mad at Puck but not enough to cause him physical bodily harm.

“It wasn’t easy but it got done” he said continuing to stare at the stone trying to focus on who or what had given it to him. Sirenia looked up from stacking glasses and began to stare at Puck hard; sensing the intensity that was being aimed in his direction he looked up at his friend who then grabbed him by the chin and puckered his lips out.

“You’re different” she said sternly, “Something’s different about you?”

“What are you talking about, nothing’s different” he said brushing her hand away. She grabbed his face again and stared deep into his eyes, giving them a long hard look, burying herself deep within him, searchingly.

Something’s wrong, something’s missing” she said as she let him go. “When did we meet Robin?”

Puck was a little taken aback by the question and the shock was such that he got up from his chair and backed away from her. He knew it within himself, something was wrong, something was missing but he did not want to tell her that. He could feel her eyes on him locked and loaded with white hot fury and he did not wish to meet them for fear of what she may say.

“Who am I Robin?” she asked. Puck laughed trying to appear casual and flippant at her question, as if it did not mean anything. He let his crimson hair fall in front of his face, hiding his expression from her in an effort to deflect her questioning.

“Who am I!” she asked again, more insistently this time.

“You’re Sirenia of the Alfr, a Dawn child, Path Weaver and a Name Giver. You are the custodian of the Maltings, the house of many doors. Your father was Virimis, First Staff of the Order of Earth on the Island of Jupiter’s Eye, your mother was Etenia, Mistress of the Third Star and Tamer of the Whirlwind. Your son is called Errol and you adopted him from a human refugee train. Anything else?” he said frustrated.

“Yes, how did we meet?” she asked, still staring at him. “Tell me right now Robin Goodfellow, how did you and I meet?”

“It was back in Elysium, you know that” he said dismissively.

“Where in Elysium? Was it Jupiter’s Eye, was it the City of Worms or the Black Shores? Where?” she asked. Puck’s mouth fell open, he could not answer her and she knew it. “What day was it? What was the weather like? Was it in a Bar or a Garden or a party? Where did we meet Robin?”

“I don’t know!” he confessed at last, “I can’t remember!”

Puck could feel a hard swell of guilt building up inside of him, his guts threatened to turn inside out at the thought of what he had done. His friends eyes told him a story of heartbreak; he had lost a Dreamstone, something precious to them both but more importantly than that had been the precious memory of their first meeting.

“There’s a hole in your heart Puck” she said more sad then angry. “No amount of whiskey or women or smoke will ever let you forget it. You’ve seen atrocity and walked away from it, there’s no cure for that. There’s no cure for being Soul Scarred. But there’s no shame in it either just as there’s no hiding from it as well.”

Sirenia backed slowly her eyes never leaving his as she reached the door to the kitchen. She placed a hand on the door and put one foot inside.

“Find a way to forgive yourself Robin, for who you were and who you are. Learn to accept the Red Wolf and stop trying to kill him, it’s a pointless battle and one you’re unlikely to win.”

She stepped into the kitchen and let the door sway back and forth lazily. The sound of the door brought an odd sort of comfort as it thudded open and shut, one way then another before finally stopping. Left alone in the cold light of the bar and the harsh reality of all that she had said, Puck felt an emptiness crashing though him like an ocean wave.

She did not know what it meant for him to carry on living. After all this time together she could not fathom the hurt of all that he had seen and what the hurt of having someone care for him felt like. He had washed himself in the blood of humans and revelled in it, the memory of it disgusted him but even more than that was the shame of having someone care and love him when he could not love himself. He was unworthy of it, this he felt right down to the tips of his toes and the fact that Sirenia could not see it, could not know it and could only love him and care for him as his friend made Puck feel the deepest shame. A shame he could not live with.

The truth of all of this made living one day to the next excruciating and any sense of foresight was restricted to the next glass. His waking hours were better off being drunk, that way he had the ability, for a fraction of a moment, of forgetting who he was and the sins he had committed. The sleeping hours however were a different matter altogether for while he did not dream of battles and of slaughter he did speak to the Red Wolf and he would never let Puck forget who he truly was.

Taking the Dreamstone from his pocket he gave it one last look, feeling the weight of it in his hand before placing it on the bar.

“Thanks for everything” he said quietly, “But you should be used by someone who deserves a good night’s sleep.”

Slipping from his barstool, he wrapped his coat around him and walked out into the cold night and headed for home.