Medson Kitha

Conanthum lies in bed, half-awake, the sun shining through the windows, heralding a promisingly cheery day. Medson lies next to him, sleepily facing Conanthum’s direction.

Conanthum’s mind wanders to a day many months ago, a day not long after Medson arrived with him at his home. How Medson dictated a letter to Conanthum, who dutifully copied it down. How he folded the letter in his hands and stamped the wax seal on the envelope before sending it off to Medson’s ex-circle of Wyrd-seers. He remembers the letter’s contents, as clearly as if he had just finished transcribing it.

To The Family,

It was many years ago that you told me my fate was to be hunted. It is today that I can announce that I have survived the hunt, and that I can begin a new chapter of my life.

The election is over. The palace has crumbled. Our Lady The Weaver shall have no successor, a decision a majority of the electors came to consensus on. I understand this piece of news may bring you some distress, and I send my deepest sympathies.

I wish you all the best, that you may be content with your lives as I am with mine. Do not worry for me – I have found someone else to stay with, and we are happy together.

May our paths diverge ever so fortunately,
Medson Kitha

Conanthum lets out a contented sigh – he is happy together as well. Soon, the day, will commence. Conanthum would read the latest draft of his murder mystery to Medson, who would offer feedback, and the process of revision would continue again. In the afternoon, Medson’s clients would come to Conanthum’s house, who would prepare some snacks for the therapy session before returning to his room to write. And in the evening, Conanthum and Medson would sit outside together, and Conanthum would gaze at the night skies and describe the stars above for fae to hear as the two swap stories over a warm campfire. But for now.

Five more minutes.

Hunting season was over.

Medson often wakes up first in the morning, a bleary ceiling above faer. He then scans the room, patchy glimpses of white papers scattered across most surfaces, or the colourful patterned wallpaper that he would never understand.

Pulling himself into a sitting position, Medson rubs his face, not as though that would make anything clearer. There was not much to think about nor see: no more rude thoughts, evil plans, reminders of the past, or hunters on her way. It was just him, this room, and Conanthum. It was nice and calm; it was sweet; it was all fae could ever ask for.

He hears some rustling behind him, turning to look at the blobs of colours beside him. Something purple amongst their bedsheets. That was Conanthum, the only purple blob fae knew. He calmed his eyes, relaxing himself.

It had been a long time since Medson saw those ink-stained hands properly, but fae tried faers best to remember, running his own fingers softly against them underneath the covers. He assumes that Conanthum sleepily smiled at him, and thus gives a small grin back.

Sometimes fae thinks of life before the election. Sometimes fae wakes up in a cold sweat, searching for the scalpel, believing Conanthum's work is faers own, moonlight illuminating an operating table, and the body beside his is ready for research.

Then, it all readjusts. Of course not. Lisa was dead. The palace crumbled. He cannot see, cannot operate anymore. That that thread of research was lost in the rubble alongside his sight. A blessing to no longer have vision in some ways. His antlers reduced to their normal, inconvenient size, of which he had gotten quite good at dodging doorframes in Conanthum's house now. Their house, both of theirs, at this point.

When did it reach this? Medson does not know. All fae knows is there is someone who needs properly waking up beside faer. Their novel was reaching completion. Fae was looking forward to hearing the first draft read aloud whilst knitting in the living room, Conanthum doubling over their mistakes, and faerself giving tips or suggestions.

Once upon a time, there was a hunter and a deer. This stag was afraid, afraid of the hunter because he feared he had done something wrong. And one day, the hunter found him, hurt him, took all there was to see. But that did not mean that the deer was finished, and the hunter paid sorely for taking it all away. For there was a journey to be had, a journey that was enshrined by calming moonlight, wandering stars, and purple, ink-blotted skies. The hunt had finally finished.

Medson stretches, and then knows better of himself. Maybe an extra five minutes would not hurt.

Written by Kris D.