The Gilded Teafling carries little on their person. A few cups and a thermos, of course, for when the day feels far too long or far too short, a map, a satchel, a leatherbound journal. What more could they need?
A book. It sits in their pocket, small, slim. It has seen many years, and still the pages are crisp and the binding well tended.
Their favorite, they say, should anyone see.
Listen. Sit down. Have a cup of tea. Let me tell you a story.
Knights Errant
Not so long ago, there was a Knight. And if there was a Knight, there must have been a Kingdom.
The Kingdom was called Toriann. It spanned the lands between two mountains, from peak to peak, and stretched to the banks of a winding river on one side, the rocky shores of the sea on the other.
The people tilled their fields and fished the streams, the mountains stood tall and snowcapped, but the luster of the land was missing.
For there was no wild magic here. This was a time where flesh and might ruled and thrived.
The Kingdom was ruled by the fearsome trio of the Toriann brothers. They despised any power they could not understand and clung to their own physical prowess. Anything not of them was monstrous, so the magical and fantastical were abhorred by the people.
Their kingdom was protected by steel and bow, by fighters and rangers, and, most honored of all, the Knights.
At the thrill of their power, the leader of these Knights was Ser Theloria.
He stood tall and wide, a force to be reckoned with, and his dark hair grew curled and long around his head like a lion’s mane. Under his command, the Knights grew strong, and their shields never bent nor broke.
And duty called even on the joyous nights.
Autumn Solstice means a Harvest Feast, and as rich folk dined on rich food, and the air filled with steam and spices savory and sweet, the quiet Knight Theloria kept careful watch.
He noted this Duke and That, the child of the sister of the Aunt of the Queen, the guest accompanying the brother of the countess. He stood tall and watched friends of friends settle amongst each other to laugh and eat. The room grew warm as fires flickered and fell into the comfort of their embers.
Everything was as it should be, except…
Theloria saw someone new. A stranger, dressed in a coat made of misty silk, far too thin for the cold that creeps in from the open door. She slipped in with the breeze and wound her way around the crowd, taking a morsel here and a treat there, and smiling happily with every bite.
Theloria couldn’t help but smile, privately, in return. He watched the outsider as she selected a mug of mulled wine from the end table and found her way to the terrace gardens, and then, she vanished behind a new closed door.
The Knight Theloria remembered his duty.
He sat a hand on the hilt of his sword and took off after the stranger. He did not slip through the crowd like that stranger could, but parted it like the sea.
He stepped out into the cold.
The stranger stood beneath the Elderflower tree and sipped her spiced wine. The steam that rose from it hid her face like a veil.
What are you doing here, duty told him to demand, you are not allowed here, he knew he should say.
“What is your name?” he asked instead.
The stranger’s features turned soft at the sound of his voice, low and calm.
“What is yours?”
“Theloria.”
“That is a lovely name.”
And so, they talked. The Knight abandoned his post, and the feast inside was too joyously loud and bright for anyone to notice that their guardian was outside and smiling with an ease unfamiliar to them all.
“Let me show you the rest of the garden,” Theloria said, and the stranger nodded as she took his offered hand - and as they fell, clumsy and starry eyed, over the rise of an elderflower sapling, she laughed, and he laughed, and the flowers burst suddenly around them in bright, moonlit white.
It was beautiful, and it was forbidden. Nothing but magic could cause the blossoms to bloom so sweetly and swiftly.
The Stranger stared up at Theloria with wide eyes, and Theloria froze as understanding darkened his face. The pommel of his sword glinted in the moonlight.
And is that where the tale ends?
No.
Theloria shook his head and offered to help her stand. A tradition of hate and scorn seemed to end as the Fae looked at the outstretched hand before her. In its place, understanding and love flourished between them. Their hands touched as the love between them held fast.
But not all hearts were changed that night. As the two basked in the marvel of their union, a voice called out.
“Theloria!” It called. The newly bloomed flowers trampled underfoot as the Guard ran through the garden, a sharp blade drawn by trembling hands, “it is magic! Kill it!”
Theloria, brave and strong and ever dutiful, turned to the Fey with gentle eyes. He gently pushed her out of harm’s way.
“Run,” came his quiet command, his tone unwavering and sure.
The Fey ran.
She ran as only the magic-touched can, sure and light over the stoney path until a yell of death and pain halted her. Theloria’s cry was wordless, but the meaning was clear. The blow he faced was a fatal one.
The curtain of trees and shadows waited for the Fey to run into their arms, but she turned back.
The Guard looked in horror at what she had done, but what choice did she have? By allowing the creature to flee back to the forest, Theloria was proving himself a traitor of the highest order. But why had he not fought? He allowed himself to be taken so easily. The uncertainty in the guard’s heart grew to frightening heights.
That moment of pause, of deathly, dark silence, was all the Fey needed.
Before the Guard could strike again, before she could even look up and see the return of The Fey, she was there, kneeling beside her lost Knight.
Magic is life, she whispered, and you have given me yours. Let us share it.
Resolve and tradition coordinated the guard’s actions. Upon seeing a fae there is only one thing to do. Kill it. But the Guard’s blade finally fell, it bounced harmlessly into the base of a great tree. The Guard stumbled back, and then ran.
You see, a life that is shared must be changed, and so, changed they were. A new tree stretched up towards the moon, and as the open flowers caught moonlight in each petal, the garden glowed with a new light.
And how could the people fear something so beautiful? How could they hate a Knight so brave? The shadow of the Kings’ hate could do nothing against the bright glow of elderflowers and the people who enjoyed their scent and their taste.
They opened their doors to magic, and life flowed in bright and beautiful. The Fey’s name is lost, but the beloved Knight will live long in the memory of their people.
That Elderflower Tree still grows within the central garden of the Queendom of Theloria. Its trunk is strong and hearty while the blossoms are delicate and breathtaking. Stand beneath it, and you will hear the birds singing from the branches, and the wind sighing contentedly through the leaves. They say the berries that grow there are as sweet as love itself.