Ah, so here we have yet another obligatory POTC fic wherein I am writing more about two men in London in 1720 than about POTC. There just happened to be shared names.
The fae. They are a fun lot to play with, though they do not make any sort of appearance in this short of a sly mentioning of them on the side. I figured that since the canon had undead skeleton armies and heartless walking seafood dishes, a little bit of old English folklore wouldn’t be too amiss. Or maybe it would, not fantastical enough, probably.
This is a product of two things, one being a line from ‘Smiley’s People’ which is “come on Connie, give us a once upon a time” and a 2×5 prompt of “how you remind me of the unknown”.

In other news, I want to write a Yes P/Minister fic but need some inspiration. Ideas?

Walk with me on the equinox. I had asked it with an outstretched hand and he had regarded me, unblinking. Fingers were tapping on unfinished letters, tapping on half replied words, ink drying on skin.

Yes m’lord.

And I smiled. I was a young man, little more than a boy, and so much the wiser for it, or so says Mercer. My lips had curved up in a too thin bow string, old stories lingering in the back of my mind. Stories weaved on long winter nights, my grandmother’s gypsy eyes sparkling, hands working in fire light. My sister and I captive on the floor before her. Whispers filling our ears, whispers tickling our senses, about others, about ageless creatures of the fair folk, fae folk, whose eyes are as dark as the history of the forest, silent as a summer’s eve, deadly as only nature could be.

And Mercer’s presence was suddenly too much. The quiet gaze, the watching eyes – oh those watching, watching eyes. I sped up, slowed down, paused, lingered, moved forward, stopped – at the edge of the forest. The path was shadowed and Mercer’s eyes were questioning, reminding me of how foolish I could be.

“Speak,” I found the silence oppressive. I’ve always hated what he relished. I took his arm, ignored his look, and crossed the threshold. The forest demanded silence, I could practically hear him hissing it into my hear. Breath warm on my neck, warm as the nights I spent with sheets kicked off and night shift pulled up. But humanity demanded noise. I had made sure to forget my roots long ago.

“No man is an island, entire of itself,” the northern accent was harsh. Reminding me that I sometimes forgot. Sometimes forgot just what Mercer was, who he was, and, and, made up child’s play instead.

“I said speak, not quote.”

A supple shrug. It was so much darker than I ever remembered it being.

“I’ve nothing to say.”

“Yes you have.”

“I assure you not, m’lord.”

He said it amiably but his eyes were suddenly black, blacker than the shadows around and I knew he was lying. His jaw clenched to that degree only when he was lying.

“Tell me a story, give me a once-upon-a-time.”

“I don’t know any stories.”

Oh were those dark eyes dark, and oh was that gaze stormy. A shiver worked its way down my spine. I only ever feel young around Mercer. His soul is older than mine. My grandmother had said it was because Mercer was old. Older than his supposed two and thirty years. That gaze was the first time I ever considered that my grandmother may have been right.

“Tell me about the fae.”

“The fae.”

Statement. So he did have stories. And I needed them that night, needed them as I needed air, as I needed that stormy gaze of his, as I needed his rough dock accent in my ear.

“Yes, the fae. What stories have you heard?” I tried so hard to be nonchalant, Mercer only snorted so I gave up.

“They were all much the same.”

“In that?”

“In that they wanted to be well left along,” he stopped. I could feel how warm his was, heat seeping through my body from out linked arms. “Some things, m’lord, are best left as they were.”

I played coy. “So she was right, my grandmother.”

Dark eyes met mine, eyebrow elegantly lifted in an air of tolerant amusement. But his jaw was still clenched and so I knew I was right.

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