Snippet #2192061

Day was beginning to feel sick himself as Mortimus took a lifetime to empty his dragon-size stomach. He looked away, closed his eyes, but even the noise made his stomach turn.

Captain Tipst, also, was disturbed by the violence of Mortimus’ nausea. The mess in this hall made his head spin. He hated mess. But his little exchange with Bettina, at least, had taken his mind off of his filthy surroundings for a bit. Her upbringing--at least, only her first five years--was very interesting to hear about. Rumplestiltskin was a Fey hero in Tipst’s mind, he had been talked up a great deal in Eswern, the island of political prisoners. Of all fey, the Great Rumplestiltskin had exacted the most revenge on the human race.

“What a shame, lady human, that you could not have known him longer,” Tipst voiced, and his tone came out more earnest than the earlier things he had said to her. He chewed his lip, thinking of the fey blood splattered on her human girl face. And then Mortimus was asking him about the owner of said blood...

“That poor creature’s name was Tinholm,” Tipst answered soberly. “He had a small family, yes... a wife and two daughters... you can be certain I will tell everyone he will be avenged.” A new emotion took hold of Tipst... humiliation. He dreaded when news of this would disseminate, and everyone would wonder why Captain Tipst had done nothing to save Tinholm, his friend. To tell them that Vrael had been too fast and caught them all by surprise would just not be good enough, he feared.

When Mortimus left with Day, Tipst cast an eye about the hall and almost had a heart attack. Mess was not the word for it... it was a disaster.

“Time to assemble a clean-up crew,” Tipst sighed. Eth his pixie took a cue from that and zoomed away to start recruiting. He turned to follow, but stopped to speak again to Bettina and ‘Enry. “Tell me, human and Sir Feline, you both seem to know Mortimus. Does this sort of thing happen on a regular basis with him?”

---

Day followed Mortimus, stumbling a bit over his own feet. He still felt in control of his faculties, except for the whole walking thing. But he made it to the secluded spot where Mortimus led him.


“The pixie, of course, of course,” Day echoed. His tongue felt thick, his throat dry. He lifted the little creature up. It was a fuzzy glowing shape in his vision, swimming, distorted. “Stop dancing ‘round, okay, li’ pixie...? Stay put so we can hear your message...”

The pixie, tired of waiting clutched in the prince’s hands, launched into the message. It was in the voice of his mother, Briarose... speaking shakily and softly.

“My dearest son,
I send you wishes from Spindewas. The Emperor has, in his compassion allowed me to send a message to you my son to tell you I am well. I find myself surrounded by new ladies in waiting, graciously provided by the Emperor. I have been allowed to remain in my rooms and the Emperor has brought his family and servants to live here with me. I do not lack for company.”

Pause.

“I hope this message finds you and your sister well. My heart is lightened at the thought of you both safe.”

Pause.

“Best wishes to you my son and please, let your sister know that I think of you both daily. Take care of each other.

Your mother,
Rose.”

The pixie flitted away, her message complete. Dayerin took a faulty step backwards and crashed into a side table, the resulting clang of a candelabra matching the calamity he felt inside him.

“How does she know!? I’m not with Morn! How does Mom know? Oh, Morn!” he despaired incoherently, holding his head.