Chapter Text
When it came to all things magical, Arthur had learned there was a difference between dreamers and believers.
It came down to intent. Dreamers were the green-eared sort—those who sought answers to life’s questions, held faith in the darkest of times, fostered wishes for bottled spirits and yearned for the day magic might notice them back.
And then there were the believers. People who, like dreamers, accepted the existence of the supernatural, but without indulging in the fantasy that humans and magic were ever meant to cross paths in any meaningful way.
Arthur belonged in the latter category. Among the quiet sort of people. A careful sort. Whether he had joined them by choice or through the particular misfortunes of his life hardly mattered. Nothing good ever came from the collision of man and magic. Too quickly did potions grow into poison, charms turn into curses,
And healers become witches.
So no, Arthur didn’t need to pray upon a shooting star to know it could grant wishes. He didn’t need to exploit it to believe in its existence. Magic was, and ought always to have been, sacred.
Even if, at this very moment, he wouldn’t complain if his brush turned sentient and finished scrubbing the entrance hall for him.
Arthur winced as the soapy water seeped into his scraped fingertips. The sting was sharp enough to make him hesitate before dunking the brush back into the bucket of blackened water, already foul from a single corner of the small hallway. He could have sworn he had cleaned it only last week, which either said something about his lack of skill, or about his brothers’ pig-like habits.
He decided on the latter.
With a weary sigh, he sank back onto his knees and let his damp hands rest in his lap. He frowned at the brush, like it had personally decided to spite him by not moving all on its own. How pleasant it would be to let it work off his punishment while he settled into an armchair with a good book and a steaming cup of tea—
“Arthur!”
On second thought, the book and tea might have to wait. Arthur suspected that if he so much as twitched, his older brother would see to it that it was the last thing he ever did.
Alistair stormed through the front entrance, the door slamming so hard against the wall the hinges gave a terrified creak. Mud dripped from his boots in thick smears across the mopped floor. Yet somehow that wasn’t the worst part of his entrance. The expression he wore was even uglier, distorted with fury as he yanked sodden fabric from beneath his arm and flung it onto the floor with a wet slap.
“I told you to wash my shirt!”
“I did, dear brother.”
“Then why do I find it lying in the grass? Covered in leaves, dripping wet, and smelling like the bottom of a pond?”
Arthur glanced down at the crumpled heap that had once been his brother’s favorite piece of clothing. “It appears to have fallen off the washing line,” he observed with a detached nod. “Likely because I forgot to secure it. And, judging by the state of it, I also neglected to wring it out properly.”
He folded his arms, though unlike Alistair, he made no effort to hide the fists curling at his sides. “You know,” Arthur continued, sharper now, “I think this would be the perfect opportunity to suggest you wash your own clothes for once in your life.”
Alistair barked a humorless laugh. It was their mother’s laugh, though she had never once used it to mock either of her sons, nor let her voice twist with this much spite: “And if I washed my own clothes, what exactly would be your contribution to this household? Look at you.”
He gestured at Arthur, at the soot smeared across his sleeves, the cinders clinging to every fibre of his clothing, and the filthy brush abandoned beside his knees, more likely to spread the dirt than clean it.
“Not only don’t you earn a single copper, but you also can’t sew, you can’t clean, you can’t wash, you certainly can’t cook, and those daft rabbits of yours keep eating half the garden.”
Now Arthur leapt to his full height, which was still a few heads shorter than Alistair’s. He tipped his chin up with a taunting chuckle. “I assure you, they’re not. Nothing you grow in that garden is edible anyway.”
Alistair’s glare burned as he stepped closer. “I would stifle that attitude if I were you. Just because every suitor has turned you down doesn’t mean I’m giving up. I’m marrying you off to the next bloke who even shows the slightest interest, if that’s the last fucking thing I do.”
He turned back to the door and wrenched it open. “Now make yourself useful and get flour from the market. Dylan is making muffins.”
The door slammed shut behind him. Arthur waited just long enough to be certain his brother had cleared the gate and disappeared down the road before sticking his tongue out at the empty air.
He left the brush and bucket where they were. Not because he intended to head straight for the market. Far from it. Instead, he slipped out through the back of the small cottage the Kirkland brothers called home.
It was a modest place, half-swallowed by ivy that did little to hide the cracks and splintering wood beneath. The surrounding yard wasn’t much bigger, but large enough to birth corners where the Kirkland boys had once played hide-and-seek under their mother’s watchful eye. Now those same corners were cluttered with old pots and broken trinkets, anything that might be turned over, mended, and sold for a few coins. Any trees the boys had once wrestled beneath or napped under were gone now too, felled for charcoal and firewood. And the garden, once unruly but alive with their mother’s tending, had long since been reduced to weeds and scraped earth.
Well, Alistair’s garden, at least. Arthur had inherited a bit more of their mother’s green thumb. Not much, to be fair, but enough to coax a few roots and scraggly greens from the soil here and there. Enough for eating, when it grew. He still kept it a secret, tucked away behind a wild hedge, where Alistair was less likely to notice what refused to die.
Arthur smuggled half the yield into the week’s meals. The rest he kept for himself. And the reason for that hopped into view the moment he stepped toward the fence.
Or rather—several reasons. At least a dozen of them.
They watched Arthur’s every step, a soft rustling presence in the undergrowth as he approached the boundary. The fence was meant to keep pests out, but Alistair had done such a piss poor job of it that it had become less of a barrier and more of an invitation. One that every rabbit for miles seemed eager to accept. They gathered there now, as they always did, poking their little heads through gaps in the wood at the sight of him, as though he were the real attraction.
He knew he should never have fallen for their big, beady eyes and twitching noses. He should never have given the first of them a carrot. And the very last thing he should have done was give them names.
“Now, hold on, Alfred. Wait your turn. No, don’t take Matthew’s turnip. Victoria, would you stop pestering your brother? Lachlan, you can stand up for yourself, you know? Dear me, why are you so wet, Leon?”
Before long, Arthur was as covered in rabbit fur as he was in rabbits themselves, as they darted around his legs in a game of chase, clambered up his sleeves, and chewed at his hair and clothes.
But one rabbit stood apart, lonesome at the edge of the group. It was small—too small, barely a few weeks old—but it carried a certain stubborn confidence that made the limp in its hind leg stand out all the more.
“And who might you be?” Arthur reached out for the little creature to sniff his hand. “Are you hurt?”
He didn’t need it to answer. The harm was plain enough when the rabbit inched forward: a bite mark, ragged and stained red. Left by a hunting dog.
Gently and carefully, Arthur cradled the rabbit in his hands and carried it to his secret hedge. It wasn’t only his garden hidden there, but also a basket that would have cost him his head if either of his brothers ever discovered it existed. He eased it open, and a wave of mingled scents drifted out. He breathed in deep. He loved its fragrance as much as his mother had. And that was precisely why no one could know about it.
Arthur retrieved a small vial and tipped out its contents. “Chew this,” he said and pressed a strip of willow bark into the rabbit’s mouth.
The rabbit protested, wriggling in his grip. It even bit him a few times.
“I know,” Arthur tried to soothe, “It’s vile, but it’ll make you hurt a little less.”
The poor thing must have been starving, because it didn’t take long for it to gnaw through the bark. It gave Arthur enough time to work a salve of honey and crushed calendula into the wound. Its sweet scent rose into the air, faint as a doting whistle, drawing in all manner of small creatures, from bumblebees to sparrows to even the occasional mouse in search of shelter and a full stomach.
To finish his handiwork, Arthur wrapped the rabbit’s injured leg in a strip of linen. He then pressed an entire carrot into its paws as a reward. “You’re quite the fighter,” he mused, lifting the rabbit to his face. It didn’t acknowledge him much, too busy working its way through the carrot twice its size.
“I shall name you…” He paused for a beat, then decided: “Peter. Peter the Rabbit.”
Peter merely sniffed in response, already halfway through the carrot’s top.
A sound made Arthur pause, something between a mew and a purr. It wasn’t the noise itself that startled him, but the creature that made it. A cat had appeared at his side, amber eyes studying him. How had it gotten here? Cats usually mingled with the folk down in the village. Not here. Never here.
It yawned as though it had every right to be there, settling itself among the rabbits without a hint of hostility. No claws or fangs drawn. It only watched them and Arthur, curiosity shimmering in those strangely human-like eyes.
Arthur set Peter down and reached out to the ginger cat. Blinking slowly, it immediately leaned into his touch, answering with a deep, rumbling purr. Its fur was glossy, soft beneath his fingertips, almost too soft for it to be a stray.
Still, he asked, “Are you hungry too?”
The cat gave a pleased titter as Arthur rummaged through his satchel. “I’m afraid I only have vegetables. No fish or anything of the sort. Would you care for some salad—?” He abandoned the idea when the cat wrinkled its whiskers. “No, I suppose not. How about…” Arthur reached for the last item in his bag: an unfortunate-looking tomato. He doubted animals were especially particular about appearances, so he offered it to the feline regardless.
The cat’s eyes widened, its pupils dilating as it sniffed and sniffed again, its nose tracing the tomato’s surface as though it had never encountered such a marvel. It looked entranced.
Then, without warning, it sank its teeth into the red flesh, wrenched it from Arthur’s grasp, and bolted into the undergrowth.
After recovering from the shock, Arthur scrambled to his feet just in time to watch it vanish beneath a hedge and along the fence line, ivy catching at its fur as it went. It didn’t stop until it reached a small, sheltered hollow beneath an abandoned cart just beyond the Kirkland property.
There, curled in the shadow of the broken wheels, waited another cat.
This one was different. Dark-furred, almost black, its coat blending into the shade beneath the cart. Only its eyes stood out: an impossible, luminous blue, sharp as polished glass and calmly fixed on the other cat.
The ginger cat slowed, tomato still clenched in its mouth, then slipped inside the hollow. Were they mates? It was the only explanation Arthur could think of as the ginger cat presented the tomato with visible pride, as though it had brought home their latest meal. The darker cat, however, showed little interest in the offering. Instead, it leaned in, more intent on grooming the newcomer with tender licks that smoothed over the other’s cheek and forehead—
Both cats stopped. Suddenly, they went still.
In eerie unison, their heads snapped towards Arthur with a sharp, unnatural jerk. Two pairs of eyes locked onto him without blinking—the ginger cat’s wide and glassy, the darker one’s blue eyes gleaming like cold fire.
Arthur stumbled back before he realized he had moved at all. A chill crept up his spine. The undergrowth had gone silent. No rustling leaves. No birdsong. Even the rabbits behind him had frozen still.
Then Arthur blinked, and time rolled on again. The world continued around him.
But the cats were gone. They hadn’t fled, nor darted into hiding. They were simply… gone. The hollow beneath the cart stood empty, its shadows undisturbed.
The tomato had vanished as well. Arthur wondered if he had imagined the whole thing. Perhaps he had never handed the feline the tomato to begin with. His mother had always said his fantasies knew no bounds, after all.
A faint unease curled in his stomach. Slowly, Arthur checked his satchel.
No tomato.
Arthur left it at that. Someone else might not have let the matter rest, or worse, gone and told somebody about the encounter. But not Arthur. He simply returned inside, gathered what few coins he could find hidden about the cottage, donned his cloak, pocketed a loaf of self-baked bread for the journey, and stepped back outside.
Cheeky little Alfred must have thought Arthur hadn’t noticed him wriggling his way into the unattended satchel.
With a sigh, Arthur scooped the rabbit back out. “You can’t come with me, Alfred,” he told him. The rabbit thumped his hind legs in protest. “I’ll only be gone a short while.” With a snap of his fingers, Arthur drew the attention of the entire army of long ears gathered around his boots. “Everyone—” he pointed at Alfred, “—make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”
A chorus of noses twitched back at him.
After surrendering the rest of the vegetables to the animals and ordering Peter not to hop too far away, Arthur pulled up his hood, slung the satchel over his shoulder, and climbed past the fence.
The hollow beneath the abandoned cart remained empty.
Arthur paused beside it just long enough to tip his hood towards the shadows.
Whatever those two fae were searching for, he hoped they will find it.