2021-06-11 - Run Away, Run Away, From the Pain

"If you don't keep quiet, I'll sell you to a circus."

A father might say something like that, and the child to which it was addressed might empty his plate in silence at the dinner table lest the threat comes true. He might be scared that maybe his parents don't actually want him, or that there's something wrong with him and a freak show is where he belongs. He might stop touching all the things because adults always keep all the interesting things to themselves. He might stop going to play by the lake and the moat, and dirty his clothes and talk to the gardener's boys who are bad children who'll never amount to anything.

Or he might sit quite still and think to himself, Actually, circus sounds cool.

And then he might steal some apples from the kitchen and tuck them in a sweater and nip out real quiet while no one's looking because no one ever does. He's eight years old and no one pays much notice to him -- in part because he's a quiet, weird kid who keeps imaginary friends, the kind of kid who wanders off to play in the park on his own for hours. An easy kid, except for an unfortunate penchant for picking up anything shiny -- from your pocket, if necessary.

He might even find the courage to slip down the narrow country road towards nowhere in particular because there's got to be a circus out there, somewhere, that will take a freak like him. It will be An Adventure.

The wind gently tugged at the young lad, encouraging him it seemed to continue down the country lane. The clouds so far away rumbled softly. Something to worry about later. Ahead the gate stood open.

Beyond it tood a lanky figure. Familiar to the young Ravn. This boy was rather effeminate with copper curls and splash of freckles. And ears that sloped into points and eyes an impossibly violet. His smile was warm and the 'imaginary friend', known to Ravn as Petre, beckoning him. Before slipping around the hedges and out onto the road.

Adult Ravn might have asked himself if anyone ever has eyes like that without contact lenses being involved. He might have drawn some conclusions about the questionable nature of archetypal Irish looking youths with impossible eyes that only children can see. He might have found those conclusions disturbing.

Eight year old Ravn, however, has no such knowledge to draw on. All he knows is that the world is full of people that other people can't see, and some of them look funny and dress weird. Most of these people don't notice him at all, but the ones who do are usually pretty friendly. And why not? He's just a kid, after all, and his mother keeps telling him that he's a very important child at that.

All the more reason to wander off with Petre, because the last thing Ravn wants is to be important. He just wants to be a kid and not have to wear a tie or worry about getting his school uniform dirty.

Out onto the country road and up ahead of Ravn is Petre walking. His hands in his pockets as he whistles a beautiful and haunting tune. As Ravn catches up to him, the elfin one turns his impossible eyes down on the younger and smaller child. Petre looked like other boys who were 10 or 11, beginning to get stringy or bulk out, depending their genetics.

"It's a beautiful day, perfect for an adventure am I wrong?" Petre spoke in perfectly cultured Danish, despite his homey appearance. Today he wore a stained, white, button-up shirt and a pair of pale blue overalls rolled up to the knees. Showing scrapes and bruises like any kid might.

"I have a question, before we go though," Petre said, stopping beside a gap in the hedge which hadn't been there before. "What's your favorite toy?"

This is a question that begs some rather serious consideration on the younger boy's behalf.

The right answer is probably one of the family antiques -- or one of those clever learning toys that stimulates a child's mind in all the right ways, encouraging the use of math and spatial awareness, toys that build important life skills. Or if he really wanted to score points with his father, he should perhaps mention a toy sabre, because everyone knows that a good boy goes to military school (only this one doesn't because he's got a frail constitution, and he really wishes he didn't because maybe then his father wouldn't seem so distant a lot of the time).

But this is Petre, and while Ravn is a smooth little liar for an eight year old, he's got no reason to lie to his friend. "My computer," he says thoughtfully. "I play Baldur's Gate and Railroad Tyccoon II," he confides as an afterthought because he's pretty sure that at least his mother has no real idea what you can do with a computer besides keep your cookie recipes on it -- and he'd like to keep it that way because she'd never approve of any game with real blood in.

The answer makes Petre smiles broadly, showing perfectly straight and white teeth. Purple eyes actually twinkling it seemed with little lights. "Haha, a fine answer. Though not quite the kind of toy I was thinking," He said in his warm voice, not yet to the point where it has started to break.

"Well, adventure awaits! I can't wait..." The gangly youth said as he ducked through the hedge and disappeared. Far more completely than perhaps a hedge should do. The leaves rustled along the hedge and the wind blustered to blow him towards the opening.

What kid thinks twice? Not the kid who should be in his room doing his homework and then his chess practise. That kid is busy running off because he hates chess practise and he doesn't want to be doing his stupid homework that's never good enough anyway because nothing ever is. Ravn bolts through, right on Petre's heels, because somewhere out there, there is a better place, a place where --

-- where he's honestly not certain what there's supposed to be, because he's eight years old and his world is very small. But it's going to be more like on TV because families on TV always do all the things together, and daddies are goofy and mummies are wicked smart, and when you're a little boy there's always some wise old man around the neighbourhood who helps you learn how to do the thing and win the karate competition. He likes to picture himself like Remi out of Nobody's Boy -- an orphan who lives on the streets with grifters and carnies and suffers terribly until he finds his true, loving family.

Maybe that's why the idea of running away with a circus has such particular appeal.

He wants to ask so many questions, but it's rude to speak when you're not spoken to, and he doesn't. He just follows Petre the Violet-Eyed in through the hedge that goes on seemingly forever. An older Ravn might have paused to do the math and realise that at this pace, he'd have been climbing through several hundred metres' worth of hedge -- or he might not, because an older Ravn would know his fairytale tropes well enough for the folklorist to assume that in some capacity, this is not a hedge at all. Boundaries between one world and another, transitions between lives and realities, are clearly marked in stories; doors are significant, and a hole in a hedge is a door.

Some kids have to be abducted by faeries. Other kids run with them, willingly and eagerly.

Where is Petre? He was right in front of him. Occasionally Ravn can see a shadow moving ahead, a glimpse of copper curls, and an encouraging, "Come on, Ravn. We're almost there." And finally the hedge gives way. It is twilight now somehow. Had it really been that late previously? The sky is still lit, but in that purple-blue hue with only the brightest stars and planets shining. A crescent moon seems to smile broadly downwards on the scene.

Ravn has emerged into a very nice and simple backyard. Except for the giant wooden fort shaped like a real castle, not a manor house. With three stories, four slides, and a swing set. There's even a fake cannon looking thing. The grass is thick, soft, and green. Of the kind people love to lay down and roll about in. Safe to take your shoes off and let your toes feel the cool earth without worry of stepping in something gross.

A house is attached to the yard, which is surrounded by a ten foot hedge all around. If there were neighbors you can't see them. The property completely enclosed. Petre stands on the porch by a double French doors. Their glass is a colorful mosaic piece, one side with a stained-glass smiling sun, the other a sleepy smiling moon. "Come on. I want you to meet my...friends," The pause is only slight as he reaches for the handle to the door and pushes it open. Darkness inside but it looks like a hallway. Stretching away into the interior with what may be a door at the far end. Wouldn't that be the front door though? In a normal world probably...

Ravn had briefly felt a sense of deja vu when he entered the hedge. But the wonder of this place has sent that to the back of his mind. The yard is perfect for hours of adventure and fun, the house seems welcoming and cozy and not something you would get lost in. With the door open Ravn can smell cookies or brownies baking within.

Ravn reads books and he watches TV. He knows what a castle is supposed to look like. It's not supposed to look like his family's house -- no matter how much that's named Engelsholm Castle or not. This is what a castle looks like. Not an 18th century manor house that some past ancestor decided to put onion turrets on for some odd stylistic reason. A real castle. One where you wouldn't be surprised to see a real knight. One that looks like a real knight on TV, not one of those stupid, boring men on the portraits in the family gallery. Knights are supposed to be heroic and wear plate armour and save princesses. Not look like somebody's boring uncle who eats too well and wears jewellery.

Engelsholm doesn't even have cannons.

So everything is a little make-believe. Ravn doesn't mind. Petre is a hell of a lot more fun than whatever unfortunate nanny or tutor he's usually stuck with in the afternoon. Petre doesn't have to do much besides breathe to be more fun. Doors in hallways that go on too long, or hedges that take too long to crawl through? And somewhere someone is making cookies, and he's just sure it's going to be his fairy godmother. Fantastic!

Inside they go chasing the smell of cookies and fun. It is dim inside, but not dark, and there is the sound of laughter and play coming from that door at the end of the hall. Young voices like his, their voices coming in a very back and forth manner. Laughter is cut off to be replaced by a different kind of laugh. Almost like one person was making all the voices. Petre puts a finger to his lips and says, "Now...beyond this door things will be a little different. Like nothing you've seen or experienced ever before. You sure you want to see it?" A silly question, but Petra seems to need that confirmation. "Then we can have cookies and milk!"

Somewhere in a town named Gray Harbor, adult Ravn is trashing in his sleep, trying to wake up and tell his eight year old self that hell no, don't give the bloody faeries your permission -- but eight year old Ravn is not listening. Eight year old Ravn beams because an adult is paying real attention to him and he feels like he actually matters. And he got asked his opinion! And it matters!

It'd be nice if somebody asked his opinion more often.

"I want to see everything!" he confirms with child-like innocence. "I'm not scared of anything!"

An approving grin, bright white and so even, comes from Petre. Never mind those might be a few too many teeth. "Wonderful!" He says, before pulling open the door. Beyond is a huge. sun-filled room. The windows against the wall are large with billowy and colorful curtains. The walls painted in fanciful murals or fantastical creatures. The ceiling is dotted with hanging mobiles and hobby planes while around where the crown molding might be, a track runs for a small electric train. Against one wall is a big plush bed piled high with pillows and fluffy stuffed animals.

The place is filled with toys and shelves with books and games. There's a large carpet with the design of a little town upon it. A huge doll-castle with toys and furniture inside to make anyone gape in awe. An honest to goodness swing chair hangs from the ceiling. But the laughter and talking seems to only be coming from one person. Their back to Ravn and Petre as they enter. The kid is, well, very large. Rolls of fat spilling out from the tank top they wear. Flaps of flesh hanging over the pair of jean shorts worn. No hair is on the perfectly smooth head that slowly turns to look at the open door.

And that seems like all it could do. For the chubby face is filled with eyes of various sizes, colors, and kinds. Not only that but they rearrange themselves constantly, moving independently to look at many things at once. But for the moment all of those eyes focus on Ravn and Petre, widening in excitement. A set of eight spider eyes shift around where a cheek should be while a yellow goats's eye with it's horizontal pupil slides around to the chin area next to a blue cat's eye. A voice seems to come from it though no mouth is evident, "Petre! You brought me a new friend???" Neither male nor female, the voice is excited and childish even as it reverberates in the spine.

Until now everything has been awesome. Now, though, Ravn hesitates.

It's not the fat kid's appearance. Oh, it's creepy, with all its eyes and its strange hands with too many fingers. Or the fact that all these eyes are mis-matched and seem to belong to many different species. All of this is freaky and fascinating, and Ravn is an eight year old boy: He likes freaky and fascinating, particularly if it upsets his mum.

It's the direct attention.

There's a proverb in Danish (and for that matter, in English too): Children should be seen and not heard. A tenet which is honestly quite dated these days in most places, but lives on quite splendidly in the strata of society that Ravn's parents belong to. He is a shy boy, because attention is something he is not accustomed to. He's okay with one or two people looking at him or talking to him -- more so if they are people he knows and trusts, like Petre or some of the dead people back home. There may only be one kid but there are way, way too many eyes.

He tries to kind of edge in behind Petre because things just moved a mile out of his comfort zone. "I think I want to go home now, please."

Those many eyes of many colors move from Ravn to Petre and they look sad. "He doesn't want to play," Whines the childish voice that reverberates from the air and not a throat. The toys in the Eye-Boy's five-fingered and two-thumbed hands are lowered to their plump lap. Though there are no lips to pout there is an air of sadness. It's shoulders drop and that eye-filled head drops. Almost all the eyes on the floor, but a few looking at the bean-bag toy it holds in one hand with it's little black cape and pointed felt nose. Two others, a cat eye that is blue and a big brown horse eye, rest on Petre.

"Oh, but it's okay, Ravn. This is my friend. You can call them Eye," Petre says, his voice softening into feminine tones as he turned slightly to follow the shy child. His hand comes to rest and ruffle the sandy-haired boy. "There's cookies and milk waiting, do we have to go so soon? You haven't even met the Toys!" The smell of the baking treats becomes stronger. And the beanbag doll lifts it's cute vampire face and waves at Ravn.

"Hi!" Says the bean Count in a small, high-pitched version of the voice heard on televisions.

"Hello," the boy mumbles, a bit shy but also fascinated because no matter how you look at it, talking toys are cool. He can't help sneak a look around the room; there are a lot of toys in here, and maybe some of the others talk, too.

He edges closer. Because he's eight years old and curiosity combined with the safe and comforting smell of baked things overrule whatever small parts of his brain might be feeling cautious. "I like der Graf Zahl," the boy admits and looks at the felt toy. "My father says it's a pity the show isn't in its original English but I am allowed to watch it on German TV anyway because learning German is good for me."

The beanbag Count tilts his head as he gets to stand up in Eye's hand. The strange creature lowering him to the floor, before getting up to run to the door. "COOKIES!" And Petre turns to run after them.

"Eye, wait, some are still cooking," Petre can be heard to call after the being.

"So, you have come to play with us, ah ah ah?" The Count asks as he walks across the floor towards Ravn. The trunks and shelves all seem to be stirring to greater life as Ravn looks. The toys where Eye had been sitting, a dark skinned Barbie in an evening gown, a wooden steam engine with eyes, and a brontosaurus clamber to their feet and turn their attention on their gust.

The Barbie strides forward and says in the voice of a young girl with a Georgian accent, "Well hello! Welcome to Toyland," And Ravn realizes he is hearing English. And understanding it too. "We're all friendly here. Did you come here to escape too?" Above the hobby plane begins to fly in circles, eyes on the windshield tilting down to peer at him. A soft engine whirring in the background.

"I'm not supposed to play with Barbies. My father thinks you're a girl's toy," Little Ravn says a bit dejectedly because he wants to be friendly with the friendly people -- regardless of whether they're girls or boys. He really likes the brontosaurus. Dinosaurs are awesome.

Something stirs in the child's mind; an older presence, a dim awareness that something here is not just wrong but painful. And it's that older half-asleep awareness, perhaps, that adds, "Can I just be me here? I don't want to be a good boy."

"Oh yes! You totally can just be here and play with us," The Barbie says as The Count chuckles at Ravn's comment about the 'Girl Toy' bit.

"You should see her fight with a sword against the Nightmares. Then you would not call her a 'girl toy'. There is no such thing as a toy for one or the other. Nonsense! Trust The Count, no? Parents are so much trouble. No parents here! We all take care of each other," Explains The Count as he waddles over to climb up onto the Brontosaurus.

"Hi," Says the dinosaur in a low and slow voice. "I'm Fred. I like your shoes," The Dinosaur is speaking in German, but again Ravn just understands it.

Then Petre and Eye return, the former holding a platter high over their head. Behind them follows Eye and floating through the air is a large pitcher of milk and a stack of small glasses. As Petre enters a clamor of excitement arises in the rooms. "COOKIES!" Comes a chorus of many voices and many languages all saying the same word in essence. And more toys appear from the trunks and shelves. Some of the toys seem to be truly inert, many of the vehicles and doll castles appear to be that way. But even the airplane unlatches and comes to land down upon the ground nearby, rolling to a slow stop by a low table.

Here the platter of cookies is settled and the glasses land. Many of them dollhouse and tea party sized. The pitcher flies through the air, not spilling a drop, as it pours unerring into each glass. And on the platter a plethora of all kinds of cookies. Chocolate chip and sugar and frosted and snickerdoodles. There are even a few oatmeal cookies which a puppet in the shape of a dragon looks at hungrily. The toys begin to crowd around the table, talking excitedly.

"Now now everyone! We have a guest. Guests first! Everyone, please meet Ravn. He's visiting, but if he wants...he can stay and play with us as long as he wants!" And Petre looks at Ravn with a broad grin. "You get first choice of cookies as guest."

No parents here. If one line could ever sell a kid who's got everything he needs except the approval of his parents.

Everyone looking at him, though, that is not good at all. He watches the march of toys of all sizes and shapes advancing on the milk, the cookies -- and him, and somehow this is too reminiscent of everyone looking at him and expecting him to be a good boy, be a big boy, act your station, be quiet, answer when you're talked to, don't touch that, don't be in the way, make your mother proud. He likes the dragon puppet and he likes the Count, and he likes the Barbie and the brontosaurus, but they should all stop looking at him.

It's like a birthday party. Dressed up in a suit and butterfly, told to stand quite still lest he gets anything dirty. Blow out the candles, and don't miss any because if you do, father will be disappointed. It's hard to breathe sometimes and you need that inhaler, but don't remind father, ever. If only he'd get mad. The quiet disappointment is far worse.

And at the bottom of his mind there's a vague memory of some other time and place, somewhen he was not a little boy. Somewhen he was the Count. Graf Zahl, only, in his original English speaking form, Count Elmo van Count.

He reaches, carefully, for an oatmeal cookie. Those look most familiar. "Thank you," the little boy says politely, because if there's one thing he's got aplenty, it's lessons on proper manners.

"Do you only want one? You can have as many as you want," Petre asks in surprise. He reaches out and picks up an chocolate chip and offers it out. "These are best when warm and melty," Suggests the copper-haired fae boy. His eyes turn to the toys who have almost as one turned to look at Petra. Waiting eagerly and Ravn sees a few of them sneak a cookie anyway.

Suddenly Petre lets out a loud and booming laugh. "Eat up, guys! Snack time!" And the toys begin reaching and shuffling to get to their favorite cookie. And as Ravn looks there are far more cookies than when first looked at. As if the platter had grown and sprouted new cookies simply by the thought of them. And the moment a kind of cookie comes into his head, it appears on the platter before him. "Try dunking it in the milk," Suggests Petre of the cookies.

The Barbie sits on the edge of the table near Ravn with a dark black-brown cookie sandwich. It is an Oreo(tm) to be exact and she is pulling it apart. "What's your favorite kind of cookie, Ravn?" Asks the Georgian Barbie girl. Her too-skinny legs kick lazily from where they drape over the table. Many of the toys take their milk and cookies off to other parts of the playroom. Leaving The Count, Petre, Barbie, Eye, and Ravn at the table with the cookie platter. And indeed it still seems as full as it was before.

If Ravn was curious how Eye eats the cookies it is a toss up whether he thinks it creepy or not. But a line forms, following the line of his jaw. Then the head simply tips back into a mouth filled with human teeth. Probably hundreds of them, placed into two rows within that being's hidden maw. The cookies and stuffed in and then the mouth seals away as if never there, though their jaw moves as if chewing, and a happy humming comes from them. Their eyes are mostly on the platter, but one goat eye watches Ravn while his bird eyes watch the toys about the room.

Don't eat anything the faerie give you.

It's a decidedly adult voice in a child's head. And it's the voice of someone who studies these tropes and stories for a living, recognising another transition archetype: Like going through doors to transition from one world or one state of being to another, accepting the gifts and food of faerie means accepting that you are in their service. If you accept their payment, you better be prepared to deliver the service.

How to explain that across the distance of sleep to one's own eight-year-old self?

Little Ravn doesn't want the cookie he is holding. He's a little uncomfortable around how many teeth Petre has, and how Eye eats without a mouth at all, and then there's all those other toys having no manners at all. He hates being crowded. It hurts, and when he tells people to please not touch him they call him a sissy or tell him to be a big boy and stop making up things to get attention.

Don't eat it.

The boy isn't sure why he doesn't want the cookie. It's a good cookie. But there's this feeling in his head that it's a very bad idea to eat it. Like his father disapproving. Not saying anything but -- do the thing wrong, and indeed, father will not say anything for a long time.

He hesitates. And then, demonstrating the beginnings of a skill he will excel at later in life, crumbles the cookie enough while pretending to eat it, that most of it ends in his sleeve and nothing at all in his mouth.

Petre smiles at Ravn and nods his head. "There ya go, enjoy it. You're free to be who you want to be here, Ravn. Don't let all those Don'ts and Can'ts worry you here. I'm the closest thing to an adult here now," He says with a chuckle that fades away into a softer smile. Those violet eyes inspecting Ravn thoughtfully as they all enjoy their cookies.

The Barbie gets up after she suddenly looks over at Petre. Then she smiles at Ravn and says, "I'm going to go eat my cookie in my hammock. Come play if you want." Then hops down, giant oreo in arms, to wander over to the doll castle. Meanwhile The Count sits and eats quietly, humming his enjoyment and muttering, "One, one chocolate chip. Two, two chocolate chip..." And so on to himself. The adult Ravn can tell the drone in the voice of someone who is going through the motions.

"Ravn," Petre sits down and then stretches out on the floor, laying on his side with head propped up by one hand. It serves to make him shorter and, in human hind brain, more vulnerable. "You can stay here as long as you want. Many of the toys here will understand what you may be feeling. Many of them were like you once."

A war is fought in the mind of a little boy.

On one side, that little boy's adult mind knows that this is not real; he is not an eight year old who's run away from home, he's an adult who's trapped in a dream sent by entities that might very well not be in the least bit friendly. This is as good a suggestion as any when it comes to dreams that trap you inside, ways people get lost in the Veil. Are there people in assisted living facilities whose minds appear to be gone? Yes. Are some of them actually lost inside like this, leaving their body behind while their minds wander, trying to find their way back? He has no doubt of this. Ravn figures that some day, he'll wander in there and disappear, but he does not want now to be the time. And honestly, a dream of being a toy forever is not worth giving up everything else for, either.

On the other side, there is a little boy growing up with the privilege of money and the choking restrictions of a highly conservative family. A little boy to whom the idea of just hanging out with other kids -- toys or not -- and eating cookies forever sounds paradisical. Who cares if it's real? Who cares if he gets turned into a toy too? Here, no one talks to him like he's part of the furniture, if they talk to him at all.

Adult Ravn knows better. He reasons this is a very bad idea. Child Ravn does not, and Child Ravn feels that this is in fact a great idea.

And as so often before, passion trumps reason.

The boy reaches for another cookie. And then eats it.

The cookie is eaten and nothing seems to really happen to Ravn upon doing so. Beyond it being the best fucking cookie he has ever had in his life, bar none. The milk is creamy and cool and refreshing and at the same time soothing. And Petre smile approvingly at Ravn and nods. "Good! Have more! As many as you like. And if there's one you want, just think of it and it will appear. Like so!" Says Petre, turning his attention to the cookie-covered platter. Between one blink and another a dozen powdered sugar covered little balls appear. Which Petra picks up and pops into his toothy mouth. "Russian tea cakes, so good!"

Off in the corner a game of tag has broken out among a group of toys. They run hither and yon without a care or a worry it seems. Some are animals, some are action figures, and still others are stuffed critters of some variety or another. Only a few of the 'vehicle' toys seem to be alive. The plane and a yellow VW bug hiding behind a wall of wooden blocks. A pink pegasus with with blue hair and a blue lightening bolt on her flank flies around the block wall. "Aha!" And she goes to tag the yellow bug, but it transforms quickly into a robot. Bumblebee! And he begins running away from the small pink pony, laughing joyfully.

"Do you want to stay the night tonight, Ravn?" Asks the voice with no source, from the being known as Eye. They have been carefully watching him, only one or two of it's dozen eyes on him at a time. "You can sleep in the hammock bed," And they point, with one of its strange hands, to one corner of the room. Here the wall mural depicts a fantastical underwater scene. A hammock hangs in the corner and above it nets hang down with fake fish, starfish, and shells caught in it. There's already pillows and blankets inside and against the wall nearby is a whole shelf filled to brimming with comics. The Count turns to look at Eye thoughtfully and then back at Ravn. Is that concern on the small beanie's face?

Well, you just screwed yourself anyway, an adult voice murmurs in Ravn's mind, resigning itself to the fact that the boy is in the power of the faerie -- and that's who he's convinced these things are, regardless of how toy-like they look. Or rather, Veil creatures playing by the rule of Celtic faerie; adult Ravn has not forgotten that time he was the Sesame Street Count, sitting on a shelf in the bedroom of some Other Side child and its quite terrifying cat.

If there is a single creature in this room that is little Ravn's friend it's the Count beanie. It's symbolic, he reasons, of the boy's connection back to the waking world. Pay attention to the Count, he tells himself.

All the cookies I can eat, little Ravn thinks. And attention and fun and people who ask what I want.

Yeah, I know, adult Ravn thinks back. I've already lost this argument.

And he has, because the boy is in the driver's seat. Little Ravn stuffs more cookies into his mouth and doesn't care about his sugar intake at all. "I want to sleep in the hammock bed," he confirms. Because that too is far more exciting than his bed at home which stands on the floor and looks like a boring old bed.

The rest of the day is spent in play by toys, Eye, and Petre. And never is Ravn pushed to play if he doesn't want too, left to peruse the endless comics upon the shelf or quietly play with just a few chosen toys. There is no one who comes along to tell him he should do this, or that, or even to get ready for dinner.

Dinner, as it turns out to be, is pizza and Chinese food. And much like the platter of cookie, these too seem endless and keyed to the tastes of the person making a selection. There are strange square pizzas cut into small squares, and thick sourdough crust pizzas gooey with cheese, and still others with stuffed crusts, or even calzone and pizza bites. And the Chinese food was even more expansive, it seemed. But that is only fitting when one considers how big the place was and the various regions all having their own specialties.

Petre sits next to Ravn at dinner, balancing his large dinner plate, of pizza and crab puffs and a variety of dim sums, in his lap as he eats. "Have you ever had the chance to try har gow?" He asked as he picked up one of the steamed treats, with it's translucent dough and succulent shrimp bits inside. It quickly disappears into the fae's mouth and they chews and hum happily to themselves the while.

"We don't eat ethnic food," Ravn says seriously and sounds exactly like his mother -- while reaching for whatever's nearest because yep, he actually will try anything and all these new things are way more interesting than the French stuff his mother considers posh. "My father likes Indian food but we only have it when my mother is not home."

He pauses, realising that 'at home we don't' no longer applies.

He smiles.

Adult Ravn shakes his head in his sleep because honestly, he never had any doubt the Veil would find a way to screw him over some day. He didn't see this way coming, but now that it's here? It's not surprising at all. There's nothing he would have wanted more than just going away, and living somewhere he could play like he wanted, eat what he wanted, and say what he wanted. Eight year old Ravn has found paradise. Adult Ravn -- is severely tempted to let him keep it.

Petre snorts in derision and rolls his eyes at the idea of not eating ethnic. "If you like, I can make sure there is new thing to try every night for you," Petre offers before picking up what looks like a small egg pie with flaky light dough and devours it in two bites. "If you decide to stay, after tonight, you will get to choose what you want to be. It can be anything."

Eye and Barbie sit nearby with the former feeding the toy, but not actually eating anything themselves. Perhaps they were full from cookies or only ate cookies? Either way it was quite a sight to see the fleshy child-like creature spoon-feeding a Barbie. And had she grown by about a foot? Yes, she had. This was the same cocoa-skinned Barbie, but she was two feet tall. Much easier to be fed food by Eye. And she seemed to be enjoying herself. Sitting on a little stool as bite-sized portions of pizza were carved up and fed. Or the small fork-fulls of lo mein and bbq pork.

"If you get scared tonight, it is okay. The Toys will protect you like they protect Eye. And when you join us, you will have to power to protect them too. And the world." Petre said almost absently between bites of his rice ball.

This is a good dream. A warm, comfortable dream. The first dream Ravn has had in Gray Harbor that he was genuinely tempted to stay in. Usually, dreams are pretty horrible -- or surreal. A substantial number of them involve literally fighting for your life, or somebody else's life. Most of them are quite terrifying.

So why does he wake up panting? Why is he drenched in sweat and feeling like he just ran for his life and very narrowly escaped disaster?

Ravn sits up and runs a slender hand across his face. He sleeps with his gloves on -- not out of some bizarre fetish but because rummaging around sleepily for the phone to turn off an alarm or reaching for a cigarette while not yet quite awake sometimes means bumping your fingers into something unexpected, and doing so hurts. He peels the gloves off. His hands are clammy with sweat and there are marks on his palms where his fingernails pressed into the skin, through the black kidskin of the gloves.

That child -- the heavy one with the eyes -- was creepy as all hell, but it was not threatening. The Irish looking faerie boy -- probably the more dangerous of the two, but not hostile either. He runs his hand through hair that's damp from sweat. Neither of those two meant his child self harm, of that he is certain. And by the rules of the Celtic folklore that Petre seemed to originate from -- he could have forced the boy to stay, he would have been entirely within his rights to do so. A gift of food was given and accepted; little Ravn was his.

So why did the faerie let him go after all, and why is he terrified?

The folklorist lights a cigarette, and to hell with all sound advice about not smoking in bed. His hands are trembling.

Were they trying to protect him?

From what?

And why is he so certain that this was not a now-dream, not something inflicted on him by the Veil now? This was -- real. Remembered in a dream, yes. But real. He was there.

Faeries took me when I was eight, and I don't remember how I escaped.