Andrew Buckley - Stiltskin

Despite the limp and his age, the Historian had no problem taking long strides ahead of them. Robert could now see that his grey hair was shabby and hung just beneath his shoulders. He wore a red robe, dark pants, and black boots.

When they reached the doorway, the cold feeling of the castle changed considerably. The room was large and warm and looked like it belonged in a stately home. A hearth burned brightly in the centre of the far wall. The furniture looked like it was covered with velvet, and all the tables and chairs were carved from wood and featured clawed feet. Bookshelves surrounded the rooms from floor to ceiling. Papers and scrolls spread across numerous tables. Another large door was set into the wall to the far right and Robert could see that the hallway beyond was lit by wall-mounted candles that stretched far into the distance, out of sight.

The Historian motioned to the chairs by the fire.

“Please, have a seat.” He sat down in a large chair covered with red velvet. As he did so, he pulled a tiny silver bell from the pocket of his robe and rang it once.

Lily didn’t move to sit down or let go of Robert’s hand, so he stood awkwardly, not really sure what to do.

A Pixie flew into the room and hovered by the Historian.

“Fetch me the file on Rumpelstiltskin. It’ll be in the Eastern wing on one of the upper levels.”

“Yez zir,” said the Pixie and flew off down the candlelit hallway.

“They’re not the smartest or most articulate creatures but they make good servants. Really, why don’t you both sit down, it’s perfectly safe.”

Lily pulled Robert with her to a loveseat and they both sat down, facing the old man.

The Historian eyed them both and sniffed the air.

“It’ll take him a few minutes to find the right section. You probably both need the rest; you smell like you’ve been doing a lot of walking. You smell like dead rabbits, goats, and fire, and…”

He sniffed the air again and looked directly at Robert. His eyes grew wide. He moved from his chair so fast that Robert barely had chance to notice the movement until the old man was inches from his face and sniffing him.

Lily had completely tensed and paled a little but she made no move to help.

“Uh, look, I know I don’t smell that good, it’s been a while since I’ve had a bath, but would you mind not doing that?” asked Robert.

The Historian stopped and looked him in the eyes. “There’s something special about you, isn’t there, boy?”

“Well, I suppose so.”

“You have a very strange smell.”

“I’m sorry about that. I haven’t had any access to deodorant for the last twenty-four hours.”

“I’m surprised you can’t smell it, Lillian.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time with him. I’m sure whatever it is, I’ve become immune,” said Lily.

The Historian barked a short laugh again and retook his seat.

“So what’s this all about?” said the Historian.

“Rumpelstiltskin escaped the Tower yesterday morning. We’re searching for him.”

The Historian smiled.

“You mean you’re hunting him,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No, we’re searching for him, and when we catch him we’ll arrest him.”

“You still try so hard to hide your true nature, Lillian; it must be exhausting.”

“And you wear your true nature so openly, that must be irritating to everyone around you.”

There followed the kind of pregnant pause which wasn’t just pregnant but had quickly ventured through the third trimester and was imminently about to give birth to triplets.

“So,” said Robert, “you’re a werewolf?” It was all he could think of to say.

The Historian fixed his old eye, the good one, on Robert in much the same way that a lion fixes its gaze on a three-legged, blind, deaf gazelle with a bell around its neck.

“Well,” continued Robert, “it’s just that I’ve never met a werewolf before today, you see. And, uhh…” The Historian’s stare was getting to him. “Are you going to blink anytime soon?”

“Probably best not to provoke the creature responsible for a great many deaths,” said the voice in Robert’s head.

“Right,” said Robert.

The Historian looked from Robert to Lily and his face broke in a whimsical smile.

“He doesn’t know, does he, Lily?” growled the Historian.

“Know what?” asked Robert.

Lily turned to Robert and there were actually tears in those amber eyes. Although he didn’t know why she was so upset, Robert felt a rush of anger that something had dared upset her like this.

“Amber eyes,” said the voice in Robert’s head.

“Amber eyes,” said Robert out loud.

Lily closed her eyes, and then opened them again.

“I don’t underst―”

“They both have amber eyes,” said the voice.

“Oh,” said Robert. “Oh shit, you’re a werewolf too.”

As if it was the simplest statement in the world. He turned to the Historian. “Bloody hell, you’re not her dad, are you?”

The Historian laughed and the sound of it bounced around the chamber. The firelight flickered, casting his shadow against the far wall and for a moment, Robert thought he saw his true shape silhouetted there.

Lily took both of Robert’s hands in hers.

“This isn’t easy for me to talk about.” Lily’s eyes were moist as she looked past Robert into the fire.

He felt a pang of sadness override the anger. Then he realized he was holding hands with a werewolf. Then he realized that he was currently sitting in a room with two werewolves.

“You’re over-thinking this,” said the voice in Robert’s head.

Lily seemed to collect herself, and shifted her gaze to Robert.

“I was born to a family of Lords over three hundred years ago. My father’s name was Randolph Redcloak. He owned a great amount of farmland along the Southern edge of the Enchanted Forest. When I was twenty years old, I spent the summer at my grandmother’s estate not far north of here. I spent the summer hunting and fishing, learning how to run the family business, and enjoying the time with my grandmother. At the end of summer, I set out with two friends to hunt for Jingraz, a sort of deer, but the day drew to an end far too quickly. It was a horrible day of hunting, we didn’t catch anything, and it wasn’t until we were a couple of miles from home that we realized why we hadn’t caught anything. We came across a field filled with half-eaten Jingraz. And at the centre of the field sat a giant, wolf-like creature.”

Lily glanced at the Historian, whose face was unreadable. “The creature attacked us, violently, and killed my two companions before we even had a chance to run. I was carrying my father’s hunting blade and it was pure luck that saved my life that night.”

The Historian snorted.

“The creature stood over me while I sobbed and struggled. Blood dripped from its jaws and its amber eyes shone in the moonlight. It sank its teeth into my shoulder and it felt like it would tear me in two, so I lashed out with the blade, a silver blade, giving him the scar he now wears so proudly. I ran like I’d never run before but the change was already upon me. It hurt like nothing I’d ever felt before and I stood and screamed. But all I heard was a howl.”

“Lily, I don’t know what to say.”

“I change with the moon, and at will, if I so choose. I can heal from any injury but silver, and you’ve seen how strong this curse has made me.”

“It’s not a damn curse, you ungrateful whelp,” growled the Historian. “What I gave you was a gift.”

“You would’ve murdered me!”

“That’s why you joined the hunting party to cross over to Othaside to catch the Beast of Gévaudan,” said Robert.