#2: The Way Out

A Fae man trapped in a dangerous situation makes his escape

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The Way Out

Source.

Barron had already done more than any other reasonable person would do when trying to disguise themself in a hurry. In fact, he had already done more than most human beings were even capable of, considering his Fae blood and shapeshifting abilities. It wasn't necessary, exactly--he probably could have just cast a glamor and walked out of the castle unnoticed. But glamors had an annoying tendency to wear off, even in memory. Guards might have not made much note of a random servant leaving the castle, but upon reflection, they'd realize it was Barron leaving, and be able to see what he was wearing and that he was carrying a bag and an instrument.

He couldn't have that memory living in anyone's head.

Because this wasn't one of his nightly jaunts. He wasn't going to be back in the morning to joke about visiting his favorite brothel (though usually he just went out to woods alone--usually).

No. Tonight, Barron was leaving for good.

The saddest part was covering up his tattoos. Getting them had been an odyssey of artistic creation and mind-numbing pain, and they were the only part of him that still looked like his 'before' picture. Before he'd been taken in by the Melinakova family; before he'd learned that behind their constant travel hid a thriving weapons business; before their patriarch had taken the crown with ruthless violence; before Barron himself had been crowned a prince. It had been so easy to go along with every next step the family had taken, starting as young as he had. It had been easy to accept the bad with the good when the bad was so far removed, when it had been hard to see, when he had been able to believably claim ignorance.

But no one would believe him if he tried to claim ignorance now. Not after the revolts in the city, not after their patriarch's attempt to force him to marry his own sister (adopted, sure, but still), not after the attack that had just barely saved him from that strange fate. He couldn't get away with ignorance.

Nor could he stay.

Barron ran a hand down his arms, the tattoos disappearing as the skin was revealed again. The last identifying marks of who he was, gone. He sighed and pulled on a stolen servant's uniform shirt and coat, squishing the standard grey hat low over his newly brown hair.

With a wave of his hand, he upended his room, making it look like a fight had broken out. With a knife he slashed through a painting, immensely enjoying viciously tearing his adopted father's face in two. He'd been collecting his own blood in a bowl in his closet for a week, tearing open his own skin and healing it again for just this moment. He dipped the knife in the blood and left it on the bed, pouring half the bowl of blood on top of it. He dripped the rest onto the ground as he backed out of the room, shutting his door on that bedroom forever. He knew that it wouldn't stand up to good scrutiny--the "stabbing" in the bed but the "fight" around the room spoke to two totally different crimes--but he had a feeling no one that was going to investigate his disappearance was smart enough to put all that together.

The easiest part finished, Barron stowed the bowl in his bag and adjusted his hat lower over his eyes. He slipped down the stairs, through an empty hallway, and out a side door as quietly as possible. The castle was never fully asleep though, even late into the night. He counted at least three people who had seen him and knew that several others had probably been hiding in shadowy corners, disguised for their own reasons. None of them seemed to have made much note of him though.

At the gate leading out, a guard glanced at him but didn't look too closely as Barron left. The guard was clearly a little drunk, a bad habit that had begun when the new king had realized it would be cheaper to provide cheap alcohol to each guard than to provide good coats to withstand the winter weather. Barron was sure that plan would backfire spectacularly, but at least he wouldn't be around to witness it.

He passed through the city, slinking through streets small enough to not be busy late at night, but public enough that he wouldn't look suspicious if someone happened to glance out of their window. Slowly he made his way to the edge of the city, crossing out through the east gate just as the sun rose. A few merchants arriving at the same time ensured that his exit was almost completely ignored, which was just as he wanted it.

For the first few days after his escape, Barron remained anxious about being caught. He stayed on the move constantly, sleeping in ditches and far off of the roads. He traveled mostly at dusk and dawn to avoid being seen by many people out on the streets. But he relaxed when he realized that no one was looking for him. It would have hurt his pride except that he knew that news of his disappearance would probably be hushed up for a while, at least until they could find a motive or a suspect. Or, most likely, someone convenient to blame.

On long stretches of empty road, Barron sometimes imagined how they might finally announce his disappearance. After a lot of consideration, he thought they might go with poisoning--it would be a convenient way to kill off some malcontents if they could accuse someone of poisoning him. Poisoning a crowned prince would be seen as terribly under-handed, as well, giving them the moral high ground. If they said he was attacked and lost, there would always be people who thought that if he was too weak to save his own life, he was too weak to rule the kingdom anyway, so good riddance. No, they would need something unassailable--poisoning would be their best bet, if they could think of it.

He felt happy knowing that there was probably no one looking for him at all.

And, well... Even if they were, they could stare him right in the face and would never recognize him.

Once he realized he was safe, his mind turned toward the future. It was a new experience, planning for himself. He’d rarely been allowed to. After deciding to leave the palace and his life behind, he had vaguely decided to go to the coast. But any other plan had eluded him because his focus had been on saving his own life.

In roadside towns, Barron played music for small coins, but only when the weather was good. Playing in bad weather would only ruin his instrument. He’d had it since his real father’s death fifteen years before, had protected it with his own body when he’d had to; he was hardly going to let it be harmed by snow now.

Finally, after weeks of traveling, Barron reached the easternmost coast of the continent. He had arrived in Floater's Point, a modest port town known for the floating boulders that hovered just off the coast. (It wasn't the most creative of names, he admitted.) While the ethereal beauty of the floating boulders in the moonlight had captured his eye on the first night he arrived, he found that they quickly faded into the background like a potted plant. He was more concerned with whether the town had just enough bars to remain interesting but not enough money to attract the family he wanted to escape.

In Floater's Point, the Fae mixed easily with the humans and elves, and every other being seemed welcome as well. And if not welcome at least ignored, which was more the speed that Barron was looking for anyway.

Within his first week there, he entered every bar, looking for work. In the seventeenth establishment he entered, Barron finally found a woman who might listen.

"Are you looking for help, by any chance?" He asked her after purchasing a beer. "I've just moved to Floater's Point and I'm looking for work. I can clean or bartend. I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid, but I could learn."

She had looked him up and down, her eyes probing. She had looked and smelled distinctly human to him, but the way her eyes seemed to see past his disguise made him wonder if she was actually Fae.

"We don't need a bartender," she’d said finally. "But we're in need of entertainment. All the other bars have house singers, but ours left after getting married. Can you sing?"

"Yes," he said breathlessly. "I can play a few instruments as well."

She shrugged. "We'll try you out tonight. Come back an hour after dark and if the customers like you, you're hired."

He nodded. He couldn't believe his luck. Music came naturally to the Fae, so even if he hadn't practiced devotedly every day of his life, this would be an easy swing for him.

Still, in his small room at the nearby inn, Barron picked out the songs he'd sing that night carefully. He tuned his instrument lovingly, tightening the strings until they sounded perfect. He even did vocal warm-ups, though having never bothered to do vocal warm-ups before he couldn't be sure he was doing them right.

Barron showed up at the bar less than an hour after dark. The proprietress, Alla, nodded approvingly at him, and he realized that just showing up on time had probably been half the battle. A few patrons were gathered around tables, speaking softly and enjoying their food. He noticed that they were mostly humans, but two elves had ensconced themselves at a table by a window, the points in their ears nearly disappearing in the low light of the bar. Barron stood awkwardly off to the side, trying not to fidget and betray too much discomfort.

Alla approached him and the stage, something else clearly on her mind. She paused just past him and turned around, looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name."

"Keth," Barron lied easily. He had begun using the name on the road, adapting it from the name of a city he'd passed through early into his escape.

She nodded and stepped up to the stage. She clapped to get everyone's attention--unnecessarily. They were all staring at her already. Barron guessed that it had been a long time since anyone had stood on that stage.

"It's been quiet here at night for a while now," Alla started, her voice ringing out in a pleasant tenor. "But tonight a new musician is auditioning. Please welcome Keth to the stage!"

A polite smattering of applause erupted and ended quickly as he stepped up on stage. He hadn't played for such a small crowd since he'd finished taking music lessons as a child, but he didn't mind. He cleared his throat and began.

It felt like the room stilled and the air shimmered as he sang. Every note sounded perfect to his ears, and he didn't miss a beat as he played. From the first lyric, he could see that they were entranced. He knew it was partly just the Fae magic weaving into every note, ensnaring their senses, but he also had good reason to believe it was more than that, that it was something about him they were responding to, even if this new look still didn't feel quite like him.

As he sang, people began to come in off the street. They ordered drinks quietly and sat down, watching him. Once he had finished playing an hour later, the room was full and people were standing in the back. When he set his instrument down, signaling that he was done, the room erupted into enthusiastic cheers.

When he stepped off the stage, Alla pressed a frothy beer into his hands, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "The stage is yours as long as you want it," she confirmed.

"Thank you," he accepted, tempted to give her a hug. He knew that later there would be details to work out and even later there would be worrying over running out of material to play. But for the night, he enjoyed it as the residents of his newly adopted town introduced themselves and welcomed him with joy.

It had worked. He would never go back.