The fire crackled gaily in the fireplace amidst the increasing gloom of a winter’s evening and the moans of exhaustion from the mass of muscle, grey fur, and fine clothing on the huge couch in front of the fire. King Fredrick lay on the luxuriously appointed piece of furniture. He stared out one of the large arched windows as the early Snowfall evening crept over the snowy countryside to the castle’s north. He was exhausted; putting a kingdom back together is tiring at the best of times, but today, the exhaustion had nothing to do with long lines of petitioners, mountains of paperwork, or rebuilding a bureaucracy from almost nothing. He had just endured another unpleasant meeting with a Duchess whose presence—and aggressive openness—he had come to dread.

He was on the verge of nodding off as the door creaked open. The soft swishing of many layers of dress and petticoat passed over the carpet, and the scent of lavender and honey lofted as the unseen one crept closer. Frederick closed his eyes for a moment only to feel someone lay on top of him the next moment, more like it fell onto him. Despite her light frame, the sudden impact still drove the breath from his lungs. He opened his eyes to see the smiling face and brown eyes of his wife, Aiobheann, staring into his.

“What is this?” she said with the same beaming face she always had, and her chestnut hair tickled his fur. “What I thought was a luxurious wolf skin blanket atop a pile of cushions turned out to be my darling husband.”

“Darling, please, I am not in the mood,” said Fredrick as he sat up. “That meeting with Duchess Muirín was simply too much.”

“Oh, poor baby, did mean old Duchess Muirín bully you around too much?” Aiobheann crooned, “How about I put on my fur coat, and we can cuddle? That will make it all better.” 

In an instant, Aiobheann’s elven form melted away, replaced by soft tan fur, a wolf-like head, and paws to match his own, her tail swishing playfully. Frederick smiled as she cuddled close to him. This transformation, putting on her fur coat, was her favorite trick, and he had to admit it did make cuddling with her all the better, and cuddling with her indeed made everything feel better.

“No, darling, it’s nothing like that,” said Fredrick as Aiobheann drew close to him. “It’s her relentless flirting with me every time we are within earshot; it is getting worse.”

“Flirting,” said Aiobheann as she threw her arms around him.” The great hero King Fredrick Von Mountainheart is hung up over one of his duchesses flirting with him?”

“If you were in the room, you would understand,” said Fredrick. “While you were off spoiling our daughters with another shopping trip, she spent the entire meeting flirting about. She does not even have the decency to be subtle anymore, and some of the offers were rather, uh, inappropriate for the occasion. She also made some pointed remarks about your… your supposed faithfulness and virginity.” Frederick put his head in his hands and muttered, “She’s probably going to take off her clothes the next time. Honestly, I think I liked her better when she hated me.”

At that, Aiobheann could not help but giggle. “Darling, this is to be expected. She has been in love with you since she was a little girl, when she knew you as the prince charming from her favorite bedtime stories. After hating you for supposedly rejecting her, you told her about what really happened, and then she witnessed you turn back into that charming prince from those stories. It would be strange if she didn’t feel the flame of desire for you to reignite.

“You make it sound like she had a crush since she was in diapers,” said Fredrick with a grin.

“That is not far from the truth,” said Aiobheann. “I should know; I always had a soft spot for the children of the realm’s nobility.”

The tale of Muirín Uisceanna

An ancient city is sunken beneath the waves in the briny depths of the sea just beyond islands that protected SIlberberg Harbor from the rough waves of the northern Feyglimer sea. Long since abandoned by its original inhabitants, this city had received new life as the capital of the Duchy of the Isles and Coasts. By day, merfolk swam gracefully through grand stone buildings, bustling marketplaces, and wide avenues. By night, magical crystals bathed the city in a soft, ethereal glow, tracing the palace’s elegant arches and soaring domes at its heart.

Within one of the smaller domes on the north side of the palace lay the treasured pearl of the house Uisceanna, little three-year-old princess Muirín. Her room was dim in the low light of a single crystal lamp. The lamp’s glow cast dancing shadows of her dolls and stuffed animals across the mother-of-pearl inlay walls. Muirín lay on a bed made from the shell of a giant clam, the mattress stuffed with goose-down and wrapped in sheets of the finest silk available in Silberberg; beside her sat her mother, fair Duchess Niamh, the shadows highlighting her pretty face and long red hair.  Niamh was reading from an illustrated book of fairytales, angling the book just so that she could read and Muririn could see the pictures. The current page displayed a fearsome red dragon breathing fire at a wolf-man in gleaming silver armor and wielding a longsword with a shield of the deepest blue and embossed with a silver wolf’s head.

“What happened next, Mama?” asked Muririn, her cute face beaming excitedly. At only three years old, Muririn was already the center of admiration for the entire peerage. Duchess  Niamh’s fellow noblewomen considered Muririn the cutest of the current crop of noble children, and there was talk that she might one day surpass her mother’s legendary beauty.

“Then mighty King Fredrick rushed the dragon with his mighty sword and slayed the beast with a single stab to the heart,” said Niamh as she turned the page. Muirín gasped as the watercolor picture on the page showed Fredrick stabbing the dragon in the chest, blood oozing from the wound. The page was turned, showing Fredrick cutting the chains on a little princess. And Fredrick scooped mounds of treasure into a bag. “King Fredrick freed the little princess, who gave him a big hug and a kiss. Together, they scooped up the dragon’s treasure and placed it into Fredrick’s bag.” 

Muririn clapped happily at the sight of the princess being saved and asked, “Then what, then what?”

The page turned again, showing a spread of Fredrick driving his chariot to a castle with the princess, the king, and the queen racing out to embrace their daughter and a page of a feast. Muirín’s face lit up with delight as Niamh continued,” Fedrick raced back to the castle in his chariot with the princess; when they got back to the castle, the king and queen rushed out to embrace their daughter.” She turned the page and Muirín joy turned to confusion at what she saw, “The king and queen offered Fredrick their daughter’s hand in marriage and all the riches he could want, but he declined, he was questing to find and queen, and he vowed he would stay chastise and pure until he found her. That night, he rode away on his golden chariot to the thankful goodbyes of the king, the queen, and the princess. The end.”

Muirín pouted; that was not how fairytales were supposed to end. “Why didn’t Fredrick marry the princess, Mama?” asked Muirín, the twist in the plot leaving her confused.

“Fredrick is searching for his queen, and he promised that he would not love another until he found her,” said Niamh, closing the book and placing it back on the shelf.

This statement confused Muirín even more. “Why is he searching? Where did she go?” she asked.

Niamh giggled, “No, my little pearl, his queen is not missing; he has not found the right woman,” she said. Muirín looked befuddled by this, and Niamh continued, “Our king Fredrick  is called the eternal prince because he is still looking for the one who will be his queen; over the years, many women have tried to capture his heart, but none succeeded so he waits in that  big castle atop the SLiber berg waiting alone for his queen to come.”

Niamh’s expression turned wistful. “I once hoped to win his heart before I met your father. But alas, he did not fancy me, so I chose your father instead,” she said. 

“When I grow up, Fredrick is going to marry me, and I am going to be the kingdom queen,” Muirín declared with a sleepy determination. “He’ll love me, and we’ll dance every night.”

Niamh smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Of course, dear.”

Muirín gave a big yawn, her eyelids drooping. “Good night, Mama.”

“Goodnight, my little pearl,” Niamh whispered as she covered the crystal lamp.

For a moment, all was still. Then, as Muirín drifted into sleep, I took form—a mist coalescing in the dim glow of the room. I lingered there, watching her. She would have been a wonderful friend to our daughters, I thought. I loved seeing her at this age, small and innocent, dreaming of being your queen, Fredrick.

I reached out—though my hands were not hands at all—and brushed a whisper of a touch over her hair. A ghost of a kiss.

So, all my years searching for you turned into bedtime stories? And now I’m just some fairytale prince?” said Fredrick as he held Aiobheann close on the oversized couch. I don’t recall rescuing a princess from a red dragon, though. And I am serving as a generic Prince Charming now that a.”

Aiobheann put one furred finger to his mouth. “Hush, darling,” she said softly, “I am telling the story, not you.” Fredrick gave a few mock annoyed grumbles as his queen continued her tale.

As I was saying, of the last crop of noble children, Muirín’s was my favorite, for a time at least. She was such a sweet little thing that I often wished I had returned sooner. I would have loved to be her godmother and have her play with Whimsy and Marigold. However, after that night, when Niamh first told her daughter about how you were waiting for your queen, she started to change. She had Niamh read only the stories about you every night. At night, she would dream out loud about being your queen. I lost count of how many pictures of the two of you together she drew with crayons on waterproof paper, and she spent endless hours roleplaying being queen with a stuffed version of you that was as big as she was. Niamh indulged her only child’s newfound obsession, brushing off any concerns about Muirín’s behavior as merely a phase she would grow out of. I, too, thought it was sweet that she was in a pretend romance with you and that she would grow out of it, too.

“Should I mention that Muirín had not finished potty training at that time?” said Aiobheann with a sweet but rye smile

“Really,” said Frederick, laughing, “So she did have a crush on me since she was in diapers.”

“Really,” said Aiobheann, giggling with her husband. The laughing continued for a while before Aiobheann continued the story.

However, as she grew older, her interest in becoming your queen became less adorable. I thought she would grow out of her obsession with you by the time she was six and maybe try winning your heart when she was older, but she kept obsessing over you as this perfect fairytale prince. Even from age four, she started to obsess over her looks, thinking that if she looked perfect, you would be instantly swept off your feet. She demanded that she would wear the finest dresses and the finest jewelry. She plastered her room with more and more drawings of the two of you together, and she staged ever more elaborate fantasies of you and her living together using her toys. Throughout her childhood, that stuffed doll of you became her constant companion. I thought that Niamh or the other adults in the palace might guide her away from such behavior, but instead, they enabled it. Niamh encouraged her to indulge in this fantasy of being the queen. At first, I thought Niamh was simply indulging a child’s fantasy, expecting it to fade. But as the years passed, it became clear—whether out of blind motherly devotion or cold ambition, she was preparing Muirín for a crown she had no claim to. However, I still fail to understand why Niamh’s entire court decided to reinforce the destined queen narrative that Muirín had formed.

It got even worse as she grew into her preteens and teens. What began as a little girl’s dream of fairytale romance twisted into something darker. Her love for you became entitlement, her admiration sharpened into obsession. Niamh and the court continued to reinforce the notion. They had reason to believe that Muirín had a chance at winning your heart; the predictions that she would grow up to outshine her beautiful mother were starting to come true. Every day, her beauty began to shine a little brighter, and by the time she was 14, she even outclassed her mother as the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. 

At that time, Niamh started to groom Muirín for the initial encounter with you, at her daughter’s direction, since Niamh was that sort of doting mother. She and Muirín would spend hours obsessing over Muirín’s hair, makeup, and clothing. Then there would be endless hours of education on courtly etiquette, charm, grace, and most importantly, seduction under the guise of sweet innocence. Muirín’s nights were spent in every social event in Sliberberg, using what she learned to charm the young noblemen of the kingdom, all while maintaining an air of grace and innocence. At every ball and gala, she was the center of attention, the subject of all the boys’ baser instincts and the girls’ envy, and she reveled in every moment of it.

However, she had started showing signs that she was becoming the vain primadonna you dread encountering long before this point. At first, it was subtle, the sort of selfish self-centeredness that every rich little girl who was doted on by her parents experiences, but as her grooming for becoming your queen continued, it got worse. At age 11, she had bent her childhood friends into meek subservience. Every year, her court of fawning sycophants grew, feeding her vanity with endless praise. She took great pride in her budding beauty and took great offense to anyone who did not compliment her and, heaven forbid, any other girl who showed a passing interest in being your queen. By 14, she ruled the city’s social circles with an iron grip. If a girl whispered about being your queen, she would be humiliated at the next ball. Dresses ‘accidentally’ stained. Love letters mysteriously intercepted. And Muirín, always watching, always smiling, the perfect vision of grace.

The end of this fantasy started on one summer morning. 18 year old Muirín lay on her bed in her room. Like everything she did, her room was designed to portray a vision of idealized teenage innocent virginity; her princess canopy bed was made of pink gold. The curtains of silver mesh billow gently in the current coming through the open picture windows. Around her pillows was her collection of stuffed seals, dolphins, and whales, each arranged to enhance the image that Muirín was a sweet and slightly immature girl. The rest of her furniture, made of delicate metalwork and pristine white, was strategically arranged around the room to frame the picture of innocence that she had carefully reinforced over the years.  Anyone peering through the large picture windows would see the perfect image of a fairytale princess.

She lay on her stomach, her red locks drifting in the current, and her fairytale princess dress of the finest golden thread billowed in the current. She was talking to her beloved stuffed Prince Fredrick doll, the one she had since she was three, the one she had meticulously cared for all these years and sat in a place of honor among her stuffed animals on her pillow.

“Freddy, honey,” she said while holding up a pair of necklaces, one silver with rubies and a lobster-shaped pendant, the other gold with diamonds and a dolphin-shaped pendant, “which of these do you like better, the ruby or the diamond?’ “As always, Freddy was the perfect listener. “I know they both look super cute. The diamond goes better with my eyes, but the ruby goes better with my hair,” she said with a pout and a sigh. The stuffed Fredrick said nothing. “You always know just what to say, Freddy,” she said as she put the ruby necklace aside and put on the diamond. She then embraced the stuffed toy and kissed it. “I love you so much, and I wish we would never be apart,” she said in a dreamy voice.”

“My lady,” said a voice from the entrance to her room. Muirín froze, embarrassed to be caught indulging the part of herself that was still somewhat childish. She rolled over, dreading who might have walked in on her little secret. In the doorway was one of the maidservant selkies. “Your mother wishes to speak with you in the throne room,” said the servant.

Muirín quickly recovered; she had long since bullied the palace servants into indifference when she indulged her childish side. She put on her well-rehearsed, innocent act, “Oh my gosh, whatever is this about? Tell mummy that I will be down shortly; I need a moment to freshen up,” she said with well-practiced innocence. The maid bowed and swam away. She was not lying about needing a moment; at least, she thought she needed a moment. The maid interrupted her daily dressing ritual when she asked Freddy what he thought she should wear that day. She swam over to the vanity, ran a brush through her hair, and tied it back into a ponytail. A few choice accessories from her jewelry box followed. Finally, she put Freddy back in his place of honor on her pillow and kissed him before swimming out of the room.

Muirín swam demurely through the halls of the palace. As she swam, the courtiers and the servants gave her polite greetings and bows, addressing her as princess as they were trained to do since she was a little girl. The admiration made her feel warm inside as it always did. Eventually, she swam into the massive room at the center of the palace, which served as her mother’s throne room and the family treasury. The Uisceanna had always been rich and made every effort to display their wealth to their subjects. The throne room’s floor was piled high with gold coins, bars, gems, pearls, and valuables recovered from shipwrecks. At the center of it all were three large pillars upon which sat the thrones of the duchy. Duchess Niamh sat in the one in the center, a high-backed chair of pure gold that radiated light. Despite her mother’s long since growing past the glory days of her youth, she was still beautiful, and her ornate silver and gold thread dress and the massive throne made her seem all the more lovely.

“I am here, mummy,” said Muirín with genuine sweetness as she glided across the throne room to her own throne, a less radiant chair of silver and pearl, and sat down.

“Muirín, darling, you are slipping; remember what I told you about dressing the part of a princess? ” Niamh gently scolded. “You look like you dressed yourself in the dark.”

“The maidservant interrupted me as I was getting dressed,” said Muirín with genuine innocence. “The maids know not to interrupt me when I am preparing for the day, so I figured whatever you wanted to see about was important.”

“Fair enough, darling,” said Niamh with a half-hidden smile. Muirín had gotten so good at feigning innocence that she could not tell the difference, “and indeed, it is important, I will be leaving. A matter has come up with your father, Prince Rónán of Dunmór; I will need to travel to Dunmór to resolve the matter.”

Muirín nodded sedately; she barely knew the man who was her father. This was not surprising, given the family’s history. She had come from a very long line of duchesses. The women of the Uisceanna clan seemed unable, whether by fortune or magic, to bear a son. Granted, the daughters that each duchess bore were blessed with beauty and innate magical power, but this was cold comfort for any potential husband. Marriages never lasted for any of the ladies of the family. In recent centuries, most duchesses sought out affairs with their vassals and foreign merfolk princes to produce their heiresses.

“Will you be gone long, mother?” asked Muirín.

“I will leave in two weeks and be gone for at least a month,” Niamh said. “In that time, I wish you to rule in my stead.”

Muirín’s eyes went wide with surprise and glee. “You mean it?” she excitedly asks.

“Yes,” Niamh said with a sweet smile.

Muirín could not contain her joy; she leaped from her throne and started to swim excitedly, looping, twirling, and babbling about how this was her chance and what she would do as duchess for a month.

“Darling, please settle down. I still have more to tell you,” said Niamh with a rye smile.

Muirín stopped her exuberant dancing and swam over to the throne. “What else is there to say, mummy?” she asked.

Niamh smiled sweetly, “There is a private meeting with King Fredrick that I must attend as a duchess of the kingdom at Castle SIlberberg scheduled for just after I leave for Dunmór. You must go to my place since I cannot attend the meeting.

Muirín stiffened, her hands flying to her mouth as a rush of realization washed over her. For a moment, she could hardly breathe—was this real? She had waited for a chance to meet Fredrick all her life. She had envisioned being invited to Castle SIlberberg during some event, and there she would charm Fredrick into loving her, but those invitations never came; no ball, gala, or feast was ever thrown at Castle Silberberg. She could imagine the all-consuming loneliness that Fredrick must feel in that castle, but now was her chance to prove she was the one for him. Once the shock of finally getting a chance to meet Fredrick subsided, she felt the warm, tingly feeling of excitement bubble up within. Once it reached her head, she squealed with delight and hugged her mother. “It’s finally coming true; my dreams are finally coming true,” she said as tears of joy ran down her cheek.

“Yes, my sweet little pearl, it is,” said Niamh as she hugged her daughter back.

The following two weeks were a swirl of activity in the palace. As Niamh prepared for her departure, Muirín prepared for her encounter with Fredrick. She practiced extra hard at being charming and spent hours obsessing over the outfit she would wear, the makeup she would wear, how she would style her hair, and the accessories to go with it. She started to test her charming routines and flirting lines on every boy of noble breeding in Sliberberg and Fasgadhmara. When the time came for Niamh to leave, Muirín was confident that Fredrick would fall head over heels for her.

On the day of Niamh’s departure, Muirín accompanied her mother to the Sliberberg city docks to see her off. It was an unpleasantly hot day up on the land with little shade. The two Uisceanna nobles stood on the wharf, resplendent in their gold and silver dresses, watching Niamh’s luggage loaded onto the sleek ship named The Dolphin while selkie maidservants held up parasols and fanned their leiges. Among the powers of the Uisceanna ladies, the ability to transform their tails into legs and back again was quite helpful when it came to attending balls in the big city; it did mean that Muirín had to spend agonizing minutes watching the men load the ship in the hot, dry air. She steeled herself; she would have to bear this constantly once Fredrick was in love with her, and she lived in Castle Sliberberg. But as the minutes dragged on, doubt started to creep into her mind. Was she really ready to go it alone?

The last gilded trunk was heaved up the gangplank, and a cry went out from the crew.

“It appears it is time for me to go, my sweet pearl,” said Niamh with a sweet smile.

“Do you really think that I am ready?” asked Muirín.

“Of course, darling,” said Niamh with a smile, “You will do fine. You have trained for this all your life, and I am sure you will sweep Fredrick off his feet.”

Conflicting emotions of love, sadness, and fear welled up inside Muirín. She felt an urge to be close to anyone. Without warning, she hugged her Niamh and said, “I love you, mummy.”

“I love you too, my sweet pearl,” said Niamh with a smile as she wrapped her arms around Muirín. The moment seemed to drag on forever before Niamh spoke. “Now, darling, there is one more thing I must tell you,” she said. “Fredrick has been much moodier recently and more depressed. It will be hard for you to overcome his ennui, but I am confident you will win his heart.”

“I will try my best, mummy,” said Muirín. 

The captain shouted again, “I must be off. Do your best, darling,” said Niamh as they turned to climb up the gangplank; at the top, she turned and blew a kiss. Muirín giggled sweetly as she waved at Mama as the ship pulled out. Once the ship was out of the harbor, she returned to the carriage for the trip to the Golden Sequioa Inn. As the carriage entered the city, she saw Castle Sliberberg’s fairytale spires glistening white in the sunlight. Tomorrow, Fredrick will finally see I am the one for him. She thought as the carriage rumbled through the street.

Muirín awoke enveloped in her hotel bed’s soft silk and cotton sheets the following day. She yawned once and, with a start, realized what day it was. She was overcome with giddiness as the thought of meeting Fredrick flowed through her mind. Without wasting time, she and her selkie maidservants got to work. First was a luxurious hour-long bath in the suite’s marble bathtub. It did not compare to being in the ocean, but she wanted to smell her best for her future beau. Once she was sure she smelled her best, the arduous task of getting dressed for her meeting came. First came the corset bodice, silk stockings, and petticoat; she didn’t like how the corset squeezed her insides, but the effect on the boys was worth the discomfort. Then came the dress; it was a masterpiece of mermaid dress design, a ball gown of golden thread with lots of layers, just like the pictures in the fairytale books. Her maids braided her hair and adorned the braids with golden pins in the shape of sea animals. They also adorned her body with necklaces and bracelets of gold dripping with gemstones and pearls. Makeup was applied, and as the finishing touch, a gold and pearl tiara was placed on her head and a pair of high-heeled sandals on her feet. She stood up and looked at herself in the suite’s large mirror. The ensemble was uncomfortable, but she looked like a fairytale princess; she gave herself an experimental twirl and struck a pose. “Well, Freddy, weddy, your queen has arrived,” she said and was immediately complimented by her maidservants.

Meanwhile, in Castle Sliberberg, you were having a very different morning. You spent the sleepless night before reliving our disastrous wedding night in your dreams. I know this to be true because you spent the entire night thrashing about in your bed, and I heard you calling out for me as I lay beside you in the form of an unseen mist. You slept in until 9 in the morning when Chancellor Gleamspark got the castle guards to drag you out of bed and down to the breakfast table. You spent almost an hour barely touching your breakfast in a sleep-deprived haze, and the guards carried you back to your room to be dressed. You were then unceremoniously deposited in your chair in the meeting room to await in sleepless ennui and depression for your first meeting.

Muirín rode in her gilded chariot pulled by kelpies and escorted by a squad of selkie knights through the streets of Sliberberg. Despite the heat, she used the open-topped carriage today so everyone in the city could glimpse their queen-to-be. As she rolled through the upper wards of the town, every pedestrian would stop, stare, and murmur about how radiant she looked. She smiled; today was going as planned, better even from the sound of the praise lofting from the fawning masses. In front of her, the grand towers and pearl-white walls of Castle Sliberberg loomed ever larger, the castle that would soon be her seat of power, which caused her to giggle demurely at the thought of meeting her beau.

I watched unseen as the carriage rumbled into the castle grounds, and Muirín was awed at the flower arrangements created by Lyria Blossomshade. She barely waited for her footmen to help her down from the carriage, and she practically skipped into the castle entrance hall, excited to meet the object of her affections. I followed behind her in the form of a mist. I knew that this meeting was going to end poorly for all involved. Muirín was led through the castle halls, starry-eyed at seeing the castle she had often dreamed about in person for the first time. She marveled at the magical paintings and the stunning decor as a footman led her little party. I was never more than a foot behind her, as insubstantial as mist and as invisible as a breeze. While walking, she could not contain her eagerness and openly talked about her plans once Freddy fell in love with her. She was blind to the concerned glances of the servants as she made her way through the halls. 

The heavy oaken door to the meeting room creaked open, and Muirín was treated to her first glimpse of her beau in the flesh: a sad, disheveled heap of a prince in fine rumpled clothes and a crooked crown sitting limp and half asleep in a gilded high-back chair. I can only imagine that in the mass of self-centered delusion that was Muirín’s brain, something along the lines, “Oh my gods, look at my poor Freddy Weddy, he has been alone so long that he has gone to pieces, fear not my love for your true love has arrived.

The footman cleared his throat and announced, “Her grace, the lady Muirín Uisceanna of the Duchy of the Isles and Coasts.” 

Muirín curtsied with practiced grace as she was introduced. The introduction seemed to rouse you. You lifted your head, blinking at the unfamiliar noblewoman. “Muirín?” you asked. “This is a meeting with Duchess Niamh, so why would her UHHH.” Your face went blank, and you whispered into Chancellor Brânán’s ear for a moment, and he whispered back into your ear. You turned your bleary, sleep-deprived eyes back to Muirín. “This was supposed to be with Niamh, not her daughter. Explain,” you asked.

“There was a family emergency,” said Muirín cheerfully. My mother left yesterday to go to faraway Dunmór to see my father, Prince Rónán of Dunmór. She left me in charge of the duchy in her place, but do not worry, darling. She would not have left me in charge if she was not entirely confident in my abilities.”
You ignored the blatant breach of protocol and looked at Brânán. “She speaks the truth, sire; NIamh left for Dunmór yesterday at noon,” he said with all the precision of a well-made stopwatch.

“Well, right, very well, Lady Muirín,” you said, returning to the mess of paperwork before you. You scanned the documents and looked for the one for this meeting.

Meanwhile, the footman pulled out the chair beside you, and with practiced grace, Muirín gilded into it and batted her eyelashes at you. You were too busy looking through the large stack of folders and documents to notice. She pouted when you did not see that well-practiced cute gesture that usually made the boys weak in the knees. She decided to try a more direct approach. She touched you gently on the arm, with a voice filled with hopeful sweetness, and said, “ Your Majesty, I have long awaited this moment, the moment we would meet face to face.”

“Uhhuh,” you said as you fumbled with folders. “By chance, did your mother say what this meeting is about? I seem to have forgotten.”

Muirín was taken aback. Muirín’s smile faltered for half a second—just long enough for doubt to creep in. That line should have melted him. It always worked.  She rallied. Of course, he is a good king, so he puts the good of the kingdom first and foremost. She struck a cute pose of feigned concentration and said, “I think it has something to do with ship tolls, darling,” she said sweetly.

A light seemed to come on in your head, and you triumphantly fished out the folder with the words Duchy of the Isle and Coast Waterway Usage Tolls emblazoned upon it and scanned through it. Muirín was confused. Usually, all it took was a sweet smile there, a touch here, and maybe a flirting remark or two to get the boys eating out of her hands, yet Fredrick was utterly unmoved. 

Maybe a more direct approach would work, she thought

You finished reading the brief on the Waterway Usage Tolls and put the file aside. You cleared your throat and said, ” Regarding the current tolls for using the sea above which the duchy…”

“Darling, please,” said Muirín in a sweet tone, “the boring stuff with tolls and taxes can wait for at least a little while, and it was quite rude of you to ignore the stunningly beautiful young woman sitting beside you when she wanted to make a little small talk.”

You sat there stunned for a moment. You glanced over at Brânán, who shrugged and said, “The young lady does speak the truth, my lord, on both counts.” 

You glanced back at Muirín. Sensing that she now had your undivided attention, she scooted her chair closer to you and said sweetly, “See, your chancellor agrees that we have some time to kill, so let’s get to know each other, Freddy Weddy.”

That blunt and open display sent you reeling mentally. Your speech devolved into a slurry of single syllables and grunts as you sought any excuse to speed the meeting along. 

I could tell that Muirín was pleased with herself; she had you right where she wanted with that last remark; now, it was time to melt your heart. She pouted, put on big, cute, sad girl eyes, gently put her hands to your muzzle, and stared into your blue eyes. With a voice with all the sweetness of an angel, she said, “Please, darling, give me a chance. You will love me once you get to know me.”

At that, your features started to soften, and Muirín’s eyes began to glow joyfully. I knew what she was thinking; all it would take was one push, and Fredrick would be mine. She closed her eyes and started to wrap her arms around you. She did not notice a sudden shift in your emotions from softness to realization to guilt to anger or hear you whisper, “No, I need to stay faithful,” under your breath. Brânán ducked behind one of the chairs.

In an act that startled Muirín to the core, you pushed her away. She stumbled back into her chair, confused. “Darling, what’s the matter?” she croaked.

“Get out,” you snarled.

“Darling, please, tell me what the matter is?” she said in a sweet and soothing voice. Surely we can…”

You snarled and bared your fangs and claws. “GET OUT,” you screamed as your clawed fingers dug into the woodwork. Muirín retreated back into her chair, cowering at your rage. “GET OUT,” you screamed again, “DON’T MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF AGAIN.” 

At that, she bolted out of the room, alternating between sheer terror and crying.

You slumped back into your chair, the outburst exhausting your already sleep-deprived state. Slowly, realizing what you had done crept over you, and you started to cry. “I am sorry,” you sobbed, “but I must remain faithful to my vows.”

Muirín did not stop running until she was back in her carriage. In her panic, she barely noticed the shadow of my presence following close behind. Panicked, she told her coachman to take her home, fearing you were behind her. She kept looking back, fearing that you would be behind her or your guards would swoop down upon her. She saw nothing— no furious archfey chasing her, no guards, not even a single servant sparing her a second glance. As the fear drained from her body, it was replaced with something else: despair. She curled up in her seat and started to sob gently. The meeting was an absolute disaster; by now, King Fredrick should have been madly in love with her, but he did not just reject her; he drove her out. The notion that this perfect prince charming from her dreams could be so cruel and heartless was utterly discordant to her, and that internal discord played itself out on her face. 

Despondent at seeing her like this, I collected my presence. I stood behind her and whispered, “It was not your fault; he is in love with another and always has been.” She did not notice this; if she did, she thought it was her internal dialog. I tried several more times to break through as the carriage traveled at breakneck speeds down the mountain toward the harbor. Alas, it was useless, and she spent the entire journey sobbing.

She spent the rest of the day in her bedroom, curled up in a ball, crying. She had shed her golden dress for pajamas and legs for her mermaid tail and had her tail up under her chin in what I must assume was the merfolk equivalent of a fetal position. 

I watched unseen from beside her bed. Once or twice, I considered materializing and telling her everything, that I was Fredrick’s long-lost wife and the one he was still looking for. However, I would lose my nerve before I could appear and go back to watching.

She eventually cried herself into a fitful sleep. From the way she tossed and turned on her mattress, her dreams were not good ones. Several times, she woke up screaming about someone, I assume it was you, doing something. Every time, she would cry herself back to sleep after the maidservants rushed in to check on her, and every time, my heart ached for her.

The following day began much like the end of yesterday—steeped in sorrow and quiet despair. Muirín spent most of the morning crying; she did not eat her breakfast, barely moved from her bed, and curled up into a ball and cried. However, something changed internally. She started to cry less as the morning progressed, and I could see from her face that she was beginning to work through the events before the rejection in her head, her lips moving in unspoken words. She did this repeatedly, trying to explain what had set you off. I have to imagine that the things she ignored before, your unwashed body, the unkempt clothes, the lack of attention, and the general unpreparedness you displayed became more noticeable each iteration. The incongruities between her dreams and the reality she witnessed became more exaggerated and sinister with every pass. They started to combine with the circumstantial evidence of your lack of public persona or any interest in the social scene of the kingdom to create a caricature of you. With each pass through yesterday’s events, she increasingly felt like she had been a fool this entire time.

 Eventually, she stopped thinking, closed her eyes, and started to cry harder, the tears of a woman humiliated before her liege, scorned by her lover, and, more importantly, believing that she was a fool forever loving such a heartless slob in the first place. She cried for a long time before she opened her eyes and found herself face to face with her old Fredrick stuffed doll, the doll that had been the surrogate for Fredrick when she was growing up. There was a brief moment where nothing happened; she just stared into that idealized smiling replica of you. A smile that seemed to mock her now. Then she threw a tantrum. Screaming, she grabbed the little doll and threw it as hard as possible. It did not travel far, but the intent was clear. She entered the closest thing she could to a sitting position and glared at the doll. “I can’t believe I could have been so blind to the truth,” she told the doll. “You are no Prince Charming; You are an ugly, dirty, heartless beast.” Her face scrunched into a pout, and she turned her nose at the toy. “Mummy will have something to say about how you treated me when she returns,” she said grumpily. “Mark words, you ugly fleabag. You will regret turning me down.”

Muirín spent the next week getting rid of everything in her room that was even tangentially related to you. She did not bother with the petitioners who came to the palace or the other business of running the duchy. She discarded all the formerly cherished childhood drawings, beloved storybooks, and stuffed toys. She told her servant to remove the fairytale dresses and jewelry—pieces she once sought her stuffed Fredrick’s opinion on.  When she thought she was alone, she would rant angrily at the stuffed Fredrick from where it sat on the floor, talking about how Mummy would make you pay for being a heartless slob. 

She went on several day-long shopping trips to Silberberg. With her wardrobe cleaned out and the walls of her room as bare as the inside of an eggshell, she had the perfect excuse to indulge in what had always been her favorite things: fashion and being the center of the Silberberg social scene. I doubt there was a single store, boutique, or eatery on Zollstock that she did not visit. When she inevitably encountered her friends in the peerage, she told them whatever version of the events that occurred at the meeting between you and her that made her feel better in the moment, about how you were a heartless slob that chased her out of the palace. Her court of sycophants lapped every word of her sob story and the claims that she was moving on from her dream of being Fredrick’s queen.

However, I could see through the lie. I had watched Muirín since she fled the meeting, praying she would do the healthy thing and move on. However, my hopes were constantly dashed at every turn. I saw it in the way her eyes would occasionally drift towards Castle SIlberberg, the way she talked about the provocative new dresses she bought, the new, “more adult,” decor for her room, and the way she ranted at your surrogate. She was not moving on; she was hyper-fixated on you, and I recognized the behaviour for what it was. It was a tantrum. I saw this all the time before we transformed Whimsy and Marigold from villages to girls. She was acting out, hoping to gain your attention. I knew that in her heart, she still wanted you, even if she fooled everyone, including herself, into believing otherwise. She wanted you to fall on your knees and beg her to return to you and be your queen. She wanted the fantasy of the couple coming back together after a breakup more than anything. I prayed that when Niamh returned, she would finally stop this farce.

Niamh would never return from her journey. The news arrived about 10 days after the disastrous meeting. Muirín finally felt better about herself and decided to try running the duchy. I doubt it was out of desire to be the responsible daughter or any love of her subjects; she wanted to be seen as a better ruler than Fredrick. The fact that she sat on her mother’s high throne, head propped up by one hand, tail swishing back and forth pensively, and eyes drooping as she listened to the 50th petitioner in a row with some petty complaint made that evident. She was about to yawn when the merfolk guardsman burst into the throne room, white as a sheet and an expression of pure horror on his face. “My, my lady, bring terrible tidings,” said the guard as he panted and trembled with shock. “Your mother, Lady Niamh, is dead.”

That short statement hit Muirín like a troll’s punch, and her face twisted from boredom to horror. “Mummy’s dead, how?” was all she could bring herself to say.

“We are not entirely sure, my lady,” said the guardsman as he managed to get a grip on himself, “The crew of a merchantman based out of Silberberg found her floating on the sea one day, dead among a large field of flotsam apparently from The Dolphin about 4 days out From Sliberberg. Apparently, she had been skewered through the heart with a trident, so they believe it was the work of sahuagin raiders.”

Muirín did not say another word. In one rapid motion, she rose from her throne and swam down one of the side passages. Nobody stopped her, and nobody blamed her for abruptly taking the rest of the day off after the news got around. Muirín swam back to her room. I could see on her face that she was struggling to hold back the tears. Once she was back in the privacy of her bedroom, she broke down. She floated in the middle of the room, wailing and sobbing like a newborn. First, Fredrick’s rejection, now her beloved mother was gone forever, was too much for her to bear. 

Then, she spotted her stuffed Fredrick doll lying on the floor. It was lying in such a way that its smiling eyes were staring at her. Muirín was transfixed in the doll’s stare for a few moments, and then suddenly, she started to growl with anger. She had been through the worst few weeks of her life. Frederick had violently rejected her, the most deserving one in the kingdom to be his bride. She had just lost her mother, and now Fredrick was smiling at her. She snapped. She felt so angry that she wanted anything to make her feel better.

“What are you looking at, you flea ridden mongrel? “ she snapped at the stuffed toy. The toy did not reply, which only infuriated her more. “I bet you had something to do with Mama’s death, didn’t you?” she screamed, and the toy still did not reply. “Don’t deny it,” screamed Muirín, “You hated me since we met. Killing my mom would be right in character for you.” The stuffed doll did not say a single word, but it did not matter. Furious, she grabbed one of the new golden magical lamps she had bought for her room and started to beat the toy with it. “Mark my words, you stupid, no good flea ridden bastard. I will make you pay for everything you did to me. I will be queen of New Mountainheart,” she shouted as she bashed the stuffing out of her once-beloved doll. “You will be my obedient consort, and I will do whatever I want with you.” She beat the toy while shouting about how she would turn you into her pet fairytale prince until it was nothing more than wisps of fluff and scraps of cloth.

 With that one outburst, the sweet little Muirín I knew was gone, and the manipulative minx you know too well was born. She spent the decades since her day plotting her eventual revenge against you. She did everything she could to be uncooperative to the crown and make your life miserable. Her nights were spent flitting through the balls and galas of the kingdom, turning heads with her provocative golden dresses and breaking the hearts of men wherever she went. She became the uncrowned queen of the kingdom, ruling its cultural and social scenes. She told anyone who would listen how you had chased her out of the palace, hoping to rally at least a few supporters for her rebellion that would place her on the throne. No one cared. They preferred a monarch who left them to their own devices, which only fueled her frustration. 

All the while, I knew she still carried a flame for you, no matter how much she denied it. She did her best to deny that her obsession with Fredrick was that of a betrayed lover who still pined for her sweetheart, but it leaked out of her in tiny bits when she was away for the glamor of balls and galas. She devised elaborate plans to mold you into the perfect, submissive prince—the version of you she had fallen for as a child, to be carried out once she had won the throne. When Aeliana was little, Muirín told her they would live in Castle Sliberberg, with Fredrick as her father. She even dreamed of you. Many nights, I would pass by her room and hear her whisper sweet nothings to the Fredrick of her dreams. Despite all appearances, she was still that little girl deep down on the inside, fantasizing about being your queen even though she wanted you more as an obedient puppet than an actual romantic partner. So I wasn’t surprised when, after learning the truth and seeing you emerge from your depression following my return, those buried feelings roared back with renewed ferocity. That’s why she despises me and loses all composure around you.

As Aiobheann’s final words faded into the warm glow of the fire, silence settled between them. Frederick stared at his wife, stunned by the tale. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke. ‘Damn. I knew she had a crush on me as a teenager, and I knew I could have handled that day better, but hearing everything that happened really puts it in perspective.” He wrapped his arms around Aiobheann, pressing her close, his muzzle resting against her hair. “To think she built her entire personality around the idea of being my queen,’ he mused wryly, “It would almost be funny—if  Muirín weren’t one of my own vassals. No wonder she hated me during my bad years and now cannot seem to resist the urge to have me for her own.”

Another long silence stretched between them before Fredrick’s ears shot up. ‘Why don’t you use your powers to fix this?  Make it so that you never disappear for 500 years? Or maybe turn her back into that sweet little three-year-old you adored, so you could be her favorite aunt?”

Aiobheann shook her head and stared up into Fredrick’s bright blue eyes. “We have already talked about this, darling; I don’t feel comfortable changing how people are,” she said. “If I start messing about with people’s pasts, memories, and lives, I would be no better than my mother.”

For a brief moment, an absurd image flashed through Fredrick’s mind—Aiobheann dressed in black, adorned with gothic makeup and spiky jewelry, cackling evilly like a storybook villainess. He shook his head, pushing the thought away, and nestled closer to his wife’s hair. “Still, we should do something. This is our fault,’ Fredrick muttered.

“‘Everything will work out in the end,’ Aiobheann assured him. ‘You just have to believe it.’”

The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and the castle’s elven majordomo, Thalron Mistwalker, hobbled in on his crutch. Both monarchs turned to face Fredrick’s long-time butler, who entered with a knowing smile. ‘I do hope I’m not interrupting something,’ he said slyly. The castle staff loved their leiges, and to encounter them playing the lovebirds was a secret delight they all indulged in.

Before Fredrick could speak, Aiobheann playfully said, “No, you did not, good sir Thalron.”

The elderly majordomo flashed another smile before straightening as best he could. With all the seriousness he could muster, he announced, ‘My lord and lady, dinner is served. I have already sent for the children, and they are awaiting your presence in the dining room.’

We mustn’t tarry, darling,’ Aiobheann said playfully as she unwrapped herself from her beloved husband. ‘You know how Marcel gets when the food gets cold.’”

“That I do, that I do,’ he said, matching her playful tone

The two of them rose from the couch in unison and, still arm in arm, followed Thalron through the door.

Unbeknownst to either monarch deep below the cold sea just beyond the mouth of Sliberberg harbor, Muirín was not having a pleasant evening. The city of Fasgadhmara was enchanted to maintain a pleasant water temperature of 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Still, the blood in Muirín’s veins was running hot with frustration as she paced the floor of her grand dining hall, her revealing golden dress and red hair fluttering behind her.

 “That manipulative, homely little princess has Fredrick wrapped around her little finger,” huffed Muirín as she pensively glided along the gilded dinner table. “She left him for 500 years ago and gave him no goodbye, no note, no nothing. And when she decides to return, she brings along not one but three bastard daughters, yet he still falls right into her arms. It’s sickening how he acts like a well-trained puppy to her but will not give me so much as a glance.” She turned to the only other person in the room and fumed, “It’s enough to make my blood boil, Aeliana.”

“Yes, mother,” said Aeliana, masking her begrudging tone. She disagreed with her mother’s sentiment but learned long ago that it was best not to interject too much when her mother worked herself up into one of her episodes.

“Sure, our first meeting went poorly. How was I supposed to know he was pining after some elven floozy who ran out on him? Sure, there were a few decades where we were not seeing eye to eye, but I was merely playing hard to get,” Muirín said bitterly as she slowly descended into a gilded giant clam shaped chair at the head of the table. Muirín sighed and slumped to the table depressed, “but I always loved him, from the very moment I learned about his lonely vigil waiting for his queen I fell head over heels in love. I molded myself into the perfect fairytale princess for him. And what did I get? A single fleeting moment of interest—while he dotes on that queen of his like a dog in heat. I swear I have been driving myself mad trying to rouse even a passing interest in me. What do you think, darling?”

Aeliana was frozen in that pitiful, sad girl stare her mother delivered. She knew her mother’s moods, the fake ones she put on for others in the kingdom and the real ones she showed to her. This pathetic display of moping in frustration was as real as it got. She had to say something, anything to fill the sucking silence created by those eyes. “Well, mother, have you considered that maybe you got it right in the initial encounter?” Muirín raised her head and looked at her as if to ask What do you mean? Hesitatingly, Aeliana continued, “From what I have been told, Queen Aiobheann is very much like you when you were a teenager: sweet, kind, and innocent, the perfect fairytale princess. I think it was because you were so similar that he let his guard down for you, and you were able to rouse his heart a little bit.” Aeliana immediately regretted saying that. Her mother immediately perked up, and from the look in her eyes, she knew she had a scheme in the works. Worse, dinner was strangely silent; the regular self-important rants of her mother and doting sweetness directed toward her were utterly absent as both ladies ate their dinner in silence.

Later that evening, Muirín returned to her bedchamber after a soak in the thermal baths. There was a fresh swish in her tail, a grand fantasy playing in her mind, and a victorious smile on her lips. Her smile vanished when she arrived in her bedchamber and saw all the sexy, seductive furniture in her room. “Ugh,” she thought in disgust, “What was I thinking when I commissioned this? Just one more thing to change.” She glided over to her bed, pulled back the covers, and snuggled beside Freddy. She had commissioned the life-sized replica of Fredrick shortly after Fredrick had transformed back into the handsome prince from the storybooks. It was a meager replacement for her love, but it sufficed for now. She wrapped her arms around Freddy’s cold, unmoving form, pressing close as the room dimmed. She murmured in a hushed, longing whisper, “At the Beltane Ball, you’ll see, Freddy Weddy. I’ll be your perfect princess, and she’ll be nothing but a forgotten shadow.”