Changelings

The door to the library burst open, and the boy hiding in the stacks tensed. He'd been rocking back and forth, attempting to soothe his tangled emotions, but now he froze in place, not even breathing. The heavy footsteps that entered the building were his father's were instantly recognizable as his father's.

No doubt he'd heard that his son had barely lasted two hours as a squire before running off and was looking for him.

The boy prayed that the librarian hadn't seen him come in, or that if he did, he wouldn't rat him out. He didn't care that disobeying the King was treason or that by hiding, he was only putting off the inevitable. He'd rather die than let let his father see him cry.

"Can I help you, Sire?"

"Yes, I wanted to ask you about something. It's a… delicate matter. I trust you'll be discrete."

"Of course, Sire. What is it?"

"What do you know about… changelings?" The King's voice sounded off, almost afraid. But that was impossible; he was never afraid.

"Changelings are a myth, My Lord. A fairy tale. Nothing more."

"Are you certain?"

"One can never be entirely certain that something does not exist, but I've yet to see any evidence that they do. May I ask why you want to know?"

The King didn't answer but asked another question of his own. "What sort of evidence would one be looking for?"

"Perhaps seeing a child display abilities known only to be possessed by the fae would convince me, but even then it would be difficult to distinguish between their magic and that of a particularly powerful sorcerer. The fae are said to be immortal, but proving that would require harming the child, and I cannot advise that."

"But there are… signs, right? These creatures, they wouldn't behave like ordinary children, would they?"

There was a brief pause, during which time the young prince's mind landed on the worst possible reason his father would be asking this.

"Why can't you behave like the other children? What's wrong with you?"

"There are," The librarian admitted slowly. "But I don't believe there is any one thing a changeling would do that no human child would do. Plenty of children behave differently to their peers for all sorts of reasons. It doesn't necessarily mean they aren't human."

"What are they?"

"The children, Sire?"

"The signs. That a child has been replaced by a changeling. Surely, if one starts suddenly behaving in ways they didn't before, that must mean something."

"Perhaps, but as I understand it, the switch is meant to happen at a very young age, usually within the first year or so. I hardly think a change in behavior at such an early stage in development is notable, but there are people more qualified than I am about such matters."

"And if that was what I wanted to know, I would ask one of them. I'm here to ask what you know. You're meant to be an expert in stories, are you not? Tell me what the stories say."

"Of course, Sire." Another brief pause. "There are a lot of stories about changelings, and they don't always agree with each other, so while I do believe that every story has some truth to it, I must warn you not to take every one at face value, especially when it comes to a subject as elusive as the fae. The one thing they agree on is what a changeling is: a fae child that has taken the place of a human child, usually at a very young age. And yes, they do often behave different to the average human child, but the extent and nature of those differences vary. I will say, the naivety of children combined with the candor of the fae makes for someone who isn't very good at hiding such differences, so in theory, they shouldn't be too difficult to spot."

"Good. How do I do so? What are these creatures like?"

"Well, it's unclear how much of this is merely part of their culture versus some innate part of their being, so I don't know how much it would apply to a child raised by humans, but the fae obviously socialize very differently to humans. For one, they're supposedly incapable of telling a lie, and they don't like being lied to. They tend to take things very literally and don't understand why people will so often say one thing when they mean another."

His arm hurt where his father gripped it as he dragged him out of the throne room, hissing angrily, "What the Hell was that?"

"Am I not supposed to answer when someone asks a question?"

"You're not supposed to insult them! Especially not when they are a guest in our home!"

"I didn't mean it as an insult. I was just telling the truth."

"She didn't want the truth!"

"Then why'd she ask?"

"Because you're the Prince, and she's supposed to care what you think."

"But she doesn't care what I think."

"Of course not. You're a child. No one cares what you think."

"So what am I supposed to say then?"

"You're supposed to agree with them. And then you shut your mouth until someone speaks to you again."

"They are also very particular about certain things," The librarian continued, unaware of the crisis he was giving the boy just a few bookshelves away. "They don't like any chaos of which they themselves are not the cause. They have a lot of unspoken rules—which to them seem obvious—and they get upset when they're broken, sometimes to the point of aggression. To a human, they may come off as compulsive or superstitious—or in more minor cases, simply very organized."

He was on the verge of tears, tearing his room apart, searching frantically. Someone had come in and cleaned his room while he was out, and now nothing was where it was supposed to be. When he found out who did it, he was going to have them sacked.

"My goodness!" An older woman stood in the doorway with her hand over her heart as she took in the mess that had become of the prince's bedchambers. "What's happened in here?"

"I can't find it!" He choked out. He felt like a baby, and he hated it, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Find what?" She came in and knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers.

"The- my-" He stuttered, struggling to get the words out. He yanked his hands out of hers.

She smiled sadly and reached into her pocket. "Are you, by any chance, looking for this?" She held out a round, metal brooch imprinted with the image of a dove—the sigil for his mother's House.

His jaw dropped, and he stamped his foot in anger. "You stole it!"

"I was cleaning it. I apologize, my prince. I'd hoped to be done before you got back, but you were earlier than I expected." She placed it in his hand, and suddenly it was easier to breathe. She looked around. "And I apologize for your room as well. I sprained my ankle yesterday, so I asked another servant to help me, and I should have given her more clear instructions. I'll put everything back while you're at dinner with your father."

He frowned. The last thing he wanted right now was to have dinner with his father, and he told her so.

She gave him another sad smile. "Would you rather stay here and help me, then? That way you can make sure it's done properly. I can have some food brought up for you."

He just nodded.

In response to the memory, the prince unconsciously reached into his pocket, where that same brooch now sat. He rubbed his thumb over the metal in a soothing, repetitive motion. He'd never met his mother, but he knew he was her son, and so he had to be human. At least, that was what he told himself as he continued listening to the conversation he really shouldn't be listening to.

"The fae also have extraordinary abilities, even outside of their magic."

See? That couldn't be him. He didn't have any extraordinary abilities.

"Compared to a human, they would seem to be physically gifted: stronger, faster, more resilient, even more beautiful. And some say they have heightened senses. They can see in partial darkness and along much farther distances. They may even be able to see things we wouldn't be able to see at all. And the same is true for their other senses: hearing, smell, taste, touch. All of them would be more intense. Bright lights, loud noises, or certain smells, tastes, and physical sensations may even be overwhelming to them."

The prince pushed food around on his plate. The nauseating smell of fish had killed any appetite he'd had, not that there was anything else on the plate he'd like to eat anyway. Maybe the bread would be alright if it wasn't already touching everything else, but he couldn't stand when too many flavors mixed together, and there was nothing worse than the texture of wet bread.

His father's elbow jabbed into his side just a little too hard, and he jumped a bit before quickly correcting his posture. His face heated in embarrassment, and then more so when he heard his father's voice in his ear. "Eat your food." Little more than a whisper out of the corner of his mouth and drowned out by the dozens of conversations happening around them and the bards performing a few feet away, the sound nonetheless echoed in his ear and sent a shiver down his spine.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. You're being rude."

He stabbed his fork into a mushy vegetable he didn't recognize and took a bite. He immediately wanted to spit it out, but his father watched him until he swallowed it.

The ceaseless noise around him made his head feel like it was going to split open, and the fancy clothes he'd been forced to wear made his skin crawl. He held out for as long as he could, but he knew if he stayed any longer, he'd end up crying, and that would only make everything worse. Boys weren't allowed to cry, especially in front of other people. Especially in front of the King.

He asked to be excused.

His father agreed, but there was disappointment in his eyes—and maybe even disgust—as he did. He called over a servant to lead him to his room—with an order not to allow the prince any other food for the night.

"A fae child may also be gifted in one particular area, a prodigy compared to a human."

"Only one?"

"Well, the fae are generally gifted in a lot of areas, but I believe that is due mostly to their incredibly long lifespans. They likely focus most of their energy on whichever one interests them the most for the time being. Pretty much everything they do seems to be primarily for the purpose of having fun. Sometimes that involves messing with humans; other times it involves spending decades—or even centuries—mastering one specific craft."

"Like swordcraft?"

The prince frowned. The king never before indicated that he thought his son was anything close to a prodigy. Sure, his teachers had complimented his abilities, but given his status, it was often difficult to tell if people were being sincere. And training almost exclusively with private tutors rather than other boys his age meant he had no idea how he compared to others.

A brief pause followed by hesitant agreement. "Yes… If a fae child chose to pursue swordcraft, he would likely advance in the skill very quickly compared to his human peers."

"I see."

"My Lord-"

"The fae have weaknesses, do they not? Things that wouldn't necessarily harm a human child?"

"Some have been mentioned, yes. Iron and salt are the ones that come up the most."

Oh. Well, he encountered both of those every day. There were things made of iron all over the castle, and nearly everything that came out of the palace kitchens had salt in it. In fact, it was probably the only seasoning that he wasn't ever bothered by.

"However," The librarian continued, before either the King or the Prince could get his hopes up, "many accounts differ in the extent to which these are portrayed as weaknesses. Some say iron burns their skin; others say it prevents them from using magic. Some say all iron harms them; others say it can't have any impurities or have been melted down at all."

"And salt?"

"I've only seen one account of it harming the fae directly. Most agree it serves more as a distraction. Upon coming across a pile of salt, or any similar substance, one of the fae will be compelled to stop and count every individual grain, unable to move again until he's finished."

Okay, the prince had definitely never stopped to count individual grains of salt. Sure, he knew the exact number of stairs in each staircase in the castle, and he'd more than once found himself staring at a wall counting bricks, but that wasn't the same thing. Right?

"I see. Is there anything else?"

"Not that comes to me at the moment."

The air felt thick with the tense silence that followed.

"You see it, too. Don't you?" The King's voice was uncharacteristically quiet, almost like he was hoping he was wrong.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, My Lord."

"Don't lie to me. I know you spend time with him, even outside his lessons. Surely, you've noticed as much as I have. Nearly everything you just listed…"

"Isn't unique to the fae. Plenty of humans behave similarly."

"But how many do all of those things apply to? And you can't tell me they wouldn't have reason to put one of their own in place of my heir. The second I die, my entire kingdom would be theirs."

"From what I've read, the fae have very little interest in taking control of any human kingdom."

"I don't believe that."

"My Lord-"

"The boy isn't normal."

It wasn't a surprise to hear his father say something like that about him, but it still felt like a punch in the gut.

"He is your son."

"How certain are you of that? Even if he's not a fucking fairy-" He sighed, and his next words were quieter but still pierced the air. "His mother…"

"Wasn't one of the fae either. Nor did she ever lie with any man she wasn't married to."

It was quiet again, and the prince imagined his father glaring at the librarian. He didn't understand though. He'd never heard anyone imply anything like that about his mother before. He'd heard rumors of his father lying with other women, even having bastard children hidden away somewhere, but his mother? No one ever seemed to have anything bad to say about the Queen, least of all the King.

"My Lord…" The librarian spoke gently, like he was talking to a child on the verge of a tantrum. "I am certain that your son is completely human. And even if he isn't, even if he doesn't share a drop of your blood, you are still his father. It was you who raised him, was it not?"

No. He'd been raised by the castle staff—servants, nurses, guards, knights, tutors, anyone his father could palm him off to. The King only ever lifted a finger to punish his son.

"As I said before, I don't believe changelings exist. In my experience, they are nothing more than a story parents tell themselves when their children don't turn out exactly as they expect them to." His voice was unnaturally cold. "And regardless, a child has no reason to be loyal to those who abandoned him over those who raised him. If you're worried your son may one day betray you, I suggest you make an effort to avoid giving him a reason to. My Lord."

This time, the tension in the air was so thick, it was hard to breathe. And it didn't dissipate when the King turned on his heel, left, and slammed the door behind him.

It was another moment before the sound of a chair scraping against the stone floor echoed through the room. Footsteps moved through the library, from the front desk all the way to the dark corner in the back where a young boy was still hugging his knees tightly to his chest, every muscle in his body tensed, his breaths shallow and uneven.

His eyes flicked briefly to the face of the kind, old librarian as it entered his field of vision from behind a bookshelf. He didn't look surprised; he looked sad. His knees creaked as he lowered himself to sit on the floor, but he didn't complain. He place a hand gently on the prince's knee. "I'm sorry, my boy."

"Do you think he's right?" His voice came out in barely more than a whisper, and he worried the older man wouldn't be able to hear him, but he didn't think he could do any better.

Fortunately, the answer came quickly and confidently. "No."

Tears welled up in the boy's eyes, and his throat hurt. "But what if he is?"

A wrinkled hand came up to wipe away a tear as it fell, and the boy looked up at him, not quite meeting his eyes. "I don't care what he says. I don't care where you come from. I don't even care if you're human. You always have been and always will be you, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, Arthur."