The Potion

Pew Eponos was having a wonderful dream. Until he wasn’t. He was rudely plucked from his imaginings (of enjoying some goddamn peace and quiet), and thrust into the musty, dung-scented world of consciousness. His ears picked up on the trill of furious clucking around the same time as he felt a creature’s foul little beak peck him directly in the eye. He flailed his arms (damn they felt awfully heavy today), and waved them erratically, shooing the feathered vermin away.

He lay on his side in the fetal position, and finally opened his eyes properly (ick, they were crusty). He rubbed them with his sleeve, which was also a bit crusty. He surveyed his surroundings. This was certainly no lavish inn, the likes of which he was so used to finding himself unconscious in. In fact, this was not an inn at all. It appeared he had fallen asleep in the horse stables. Imagine that.

“Ah,” He mumbled to himself, resigned. “Explains the odour.”

He reluctantly pushed himself up into a sitting position, then regretted it immediately. He gritted his teeth through a round of throbbing pain. When it subsided, he moved his legs in an attempt to rise, sending an empty liquor bottle skittering across the dirt.

“Ah,” he mumbled again. “Explains the headache.”

Pew straightened his robe, checked his breath (bordering on repulsive), and sauntered towards the door, making sure to give a foul gesture to the infuriated brown chicken that chased him on his way out.

By the angry glare of the sun, it looked to be about noon. Pew could not remember the last time he had dragged himself to consciousness early enough to see the sun rise. Shielding his eyes, he stumbled his way through the palace grounds and stopped at the servant entrance to accost one of the bakers.

“Oy,” he gestured behind him to the empty gardens. “Where is everyone?”

The baker rolled her eyes and scoffed at him, winding up the towel she was holding and giving him a reprimanding whip.

“It’s the Prince’s funeral today, dimwit,” she bawked. “You were supposed to be there an hour ago!”

“Ahhhh,” he drawled, stepping away from the door, and from the risk of further towel-whipping. “I best be off then!”

He skipped down the lane, patting down his pockets, hoping that his past-self left some snacks in there. No luck.

He rounded a corner and came upon the royal cemetery. There was a large group of people huddled in a circle, all dressed in black. Each garment was tailored to perfection in the latest fashion, but still black. How drab.

Pew made it to the fringes of the circle and strained to peep over shoulders and ridiculous feathered hats to see what everyone was looking at. In the center of the gathering, a huge gilded coffin was being lowered into a deep hole in the ground. He elbowed the person standing next to him, a very short, very fat man in a much-too-heavy fur coat. There was a very obvious sheen of sweat coating his entire face.

“Did I miss anything?” Pew grinned, gesturing to the coffin.

The glistening man huffed, looking awfully offended. He shrugged and shifted on his feet, obviously uncomfortable in the summer heat.

“Miss anything? You practically missed the whole thing! The king would be ashamed.” The fat man made the sign of respect over his heart. “And not even wearing black! Some court wizard you are. Must be nice, coasting by on Daddy’s reputation.”

“Ah well, better late than never!” Pew clapped the man on the back (his hand coming away moist), unphased by the blatant insult, and made off to the other side of the gathering.

He pushed his way through the dark masses until he reached the only other person not wearing black.

Alba was, as usual, wearing her saffron robe. Since she was a monk, nobody seemed to mind the colour. Pew sidled up next to her and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially.

“I knew I couldn’t be the only trend-setter around here. I was starting to think I was the only one who knew how to mourn in style.” Alba barely looked at him. Her gaze was trained ahead, on the casket and the priest who was dutifully droning on about peace and the afterlife and some other nonsense. She emitted a long sigh before responding quietly.

“Monks do not mourn. We celebrate a life well lived, and look forward to the soul’s return to us in another body. Free from worry and sickness.” After a brief moment of silence between them, she finally met his eyes. A small smile played upon her lips before returning her attention to the proceedings.

“Well,” Pew chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to keep an eye out for the little bugger, then. Oop, I’m up!” He pushed his way towards the priest, who had finished his monologue and was looking around for Pew.

Everybody stood back a few paces, and Pew raised his hands. A few little sparks of magic crackled around his fingers, and when Pew whispered the spell (just quiet enough that nobody else could hear him), he sent a stream of lightning directly at the mound of fresh soil that had just been placed on top of the casket. In its place, a small magnolia sapling sprouted, growing taller and thicker by the minute. The longer he kept his hands pointed towards the dirt, the larger the tree grew.

The crowd watched in silence, not easily impressed. They shuffled and sniffled, someone cleared his throat. Pew lowered his hands once the tree was a mature size, just over 8 feet tall, and clustered with striking pink flowers.

He took a dramatic bow and headed back to Alba, only tripping once on the way.

“Well done,” She said to him as the crowd began to unceremoniously disperse. “You managed not to make a complete ass of yourself this time.” Then she leaned in closer to him and sniffed. “You reek! Drinking again?” She wrinkled her nose at him.

“As long as I get the job done, my dear!” He winked at her, and they set off back towards the castle.

___

Later that evening, Pew was summoned to the chambers of King Raeve. The sitting room was dark. It was luxuriously furnished with ornate armchairs and deep red velvet curtains over the windows. There were candles burning in the sconces, casting a dim but warm light upon the faces of the visitors.

“Pew! Come, my boy. Sit with us.” The king’s voice was deep and warm. He was seated on one of the large overstuffed armchairs near a grand fireplace, gesturing towards Pew.

Pew approached the group, he only recognized two of the four people there. The king, obviously, and Alba. Alba was the king’s most trusted spiritual advisor, so she was often present during important meetings.

Pew sat beside her, turning to face the two strangers across from them. It was a man and a woman, both appeared to be common people, judging from their pale rough spun clothing and weathered skin. Farmers, perhaps. When the king spoke to the visitors, his voice was clear and authoritative.

“Allow me to introduce to you, Percival Eponos. My eldest son.” Pew gave a dismissive shrug at use of his full name.

“Percival, this is Nora and Engle Yulestod, from the village of Endmont. They come bearing news of hope.” For once, the king’s face was lifted, bright. He hadn't looked anything but grim and somber since his youngest son’s death.

“What kind of hope?” Pew asked, failing to hide the suspicion from his voice. He narrowed his eyes at them. If these people thought they could con a grieving father, they’d have to go through Pew. Pew knew a thing or two about a con.

Engle Yulestod spoke, his voice tentative at first, but rose quickly with excitement as he continued. “A potion, sir! Imbued with a powerful healing magic.”

“Magic, you say?” Pew mumbled.

“Yes sir, a magic that is said to cure all ailments. “

“All ailments?” Pew asked, humouring the man with poorly disguised sarcasm. “Yes sir. It is rumoured to have been created by the gods themselves!”

At this, Pew stifled a laugh. Of course, another religious fanatic claiming their gods could produce miracles. The king leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gestured towards Pew.

“The potion could cure your sister. Vivienne has been ill for so long, we had nearly given up hope. But now that your brother has passed...” the king’s voice trailed off for a breath before he cleared his throat and continued. “She is next in line and we need her in full health.”

The king fixed his eyes intently on Pew. “Unless you’d care to reconsider your abdication?” He lifted a questioning eyebrow. An uncomfortable silence followed, Pew shifting in his seat. Pew, being the king’s oldest son, had abdicated his claim to the throne as soon as he could. His kiss-ass younger brother was more cut out for the role anyway.

“Please, father, you know politics doesn’t suit me. Besides,” he let his lips curve into a cheeky grin. “This place would go to shit if I was in charge.”

The light in the king’s eyes dulled, but with a resigned sigh, he leaned back in his chair. “Then it is decided. You will set out at first light tomorrow.”

“First light? I can barely wake by noon,” Pew complained.

The king continued, ignoring Pew’s protests. “The potion is said to be in the possession of a reclusive witch, deep in the Emerald Forest. Nobody can get close enough to her without falling victim to one of her wretched spells. But you, my son, are also gifted with rare magic. You can get to her. Go to her cabin and convince her to relinquish the potion by any means.”

Sure, having magic was rare, but Pew hadn’t found many constructive uses for it. His magic mostly involved flashy party tricks for the purpose of impressing potential mates. Pew had no idea how to convince a hostile witch to hand over her powerful healing potion.

“You’re sure this potion works? It’s worth the journey?” Pew asked the farmers.

A moment of hesitation, and a quick glance between the husband and wife. “Well, we can’t know for sure,” The wife spoke. “But the witch is very powerful, and she’s healed folks from our village before! For a price, that is.”

“Of course,” Pew mumbled under his breath.

The king slapped his hands on his knees and rose. “Well, it is settled then! Pew, my boy, you’re off in the morning. Best go pack.”

On their way out the door, the king pulled Alba aside. An attendant arrived to escort the farmers away, and Pew caught soft whispers between them, something about receiving a reward for their helpful tip. He rolled his eyes. Typical.

—

The next morning, Pew stood bleary-eyed at the castle gates, waiting for Alba. She had agreed to accompany him on this journey, probably knowing that his charismatic charm

would likely lead them into trouble if left unchecked. Alba appeared, her saffron robe flapping gently in the breeze, and gave Pew a stern look.

"You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backward," she commented. Pew yawned, waving a dismissive hand. "You know me, always fashionable."

They set off towards the Emerald Forest, Pew grumbling about early mornings and Alba occasionally smacking him to keep him awake. The forest was dense and vibrant, alive with the sounds of chirping birds and rustling leaves. Pew and Alba walked in silence, the weight of their mission hanging in the air.

As they delved deeper into the forest, the atmosphere grew thick with magic. Alba's steps grew lighter, her senses attuned to the natural energies around her. Pew, on the other hand, stumbled over roots and nearly walked into a few trees.

"You'd think with your magical prowess, you'd have an easier time navigating through some trees," Alba quipped. Pew could do nothing but shrug off her remarks and swig from the flask he’d smuggled under his cloak.

After hours of travelling, they encountered a dishevelled cabin nestled beneath a massive decomposing redwood tree. It looked so old that Pew was surprised it had not disintegrated by now.

As they approached the slanted door, Alba grabbed Pew’s shoulder and began to shake off his robe. “Gods, Pew. At least make an effort to look like you don’t live in a gutter.” She continued to straighten his clothes and push back his hair. “Let me do the talking, yes?”

Pew flashed her his most charming grin, attempting to conceal his unease. “But Alba, darling, you know I’m the more charming of the two of us.”

Alba said nothing, but glared at him pointedly as she knocked politely on the door.

They stood there for an awkward amount of time, before a brash voice yelled from within. “Piss off!”

Alba and Pew exchanged equally surprised and confused glances, before Alba spoke in a formal, raised voice. “Greetings ma’am. We come on behalf of the King, we seek your healing potion.”

“I said piss off or I’ll turn you into a pigeon!”

Pew raised his eyebrows with offence, then yelled back through the door, “I’ll have you know that I believe pigeons to be majestic creatures!” Alba let out a resigned sigh and placed her hand over her face in embarrassment.

The door creaked open a crack, and Pew took that as an invitation to let himself in. “You stay here, monk, keep watch. I won’t be a moment.” He flashed her another grin and sauntered through the doorway, tripping over the threshold and nearly ending up on his ass.

Pew was inside long enough for Alba to grow concerned that she would be returning to the king with a pet pigeon instead of a magician, when he finally emerged with a strange look on his face. Alba glanced at him with eyebrows raised, a question in her eyes. Pew simply patted the pocket of his cloak and began walking, gesturing for Alba to follow him.

By the time they reached the castle, it was almost midnight and the moon cast an eerie silver glow across the city. Pew had been suspiciously silent for the entire journey back, and did not stumble or trip even once.

They passed by the king’s chambers and went straight to Vivienne’s room. A single candle was flickering on her nightstand, shadows danced across her sickly pale face. Pew crouched next to her bed and removed a small glass vial from his cloak. Alba stood near him, readying herself for prayer. There was a pop of the cork dislodging from the vial, followed abruptly by an unmistakable, foul odour.

As realization dawned on him, Pew's face twisted in disgust. "This isn't a healing potion. It's... it's just a bottle of piss! She’s tricked us!"

Alba's eyes widened in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me." Though she had to be honest, the smell was undoubtedly piss.

Pew hurled the vial across the room, causing its acrid contents to splash onto Vivienne’s sleeping form, her bedding, and the rest of the furniture, and stormed away.

Alba found him on the balcony, leaning on the railing, sobbing. “I gave her what she wanted,” he blubbered. “We had a deal!” Alba’s hand traced reassuring circles on his back as she made shushing sounds.

“What deal?”

Pew wiped his nose with his sleeve. “My magic,” he sniffed again, his bright eyes reflecting the coming dawn on the horizon. “I gave her my magic. All of it.”

Alba felt her jaw drop. Pew’s magic was the only thing he took pride in. It was his entire personality. How else was he supposed to impress the bar patrons, or entertain visiting nobility?

“Oh Pew, I’m so sorry.” They stood there quietly, Pew’s loss hanging heavily in the air between them as the sky grew pink with the coming sun.

“Pew?” A soft, feminine voice echoed from the chamber behind them. Pew turned his head from the horizon, confusion evident on his face. “Vivienne?”

Vivienne emerged from the doorway, walking toward them on shaky legs. She collapsed in Pew’s arms as he welcomed her into a deep hug, sobbing into her hair.

After a while of hugging and crying, they pulled apart. Vivienne asked what happened, and it took Pew a moment to think about it before he burst into laughter. Vivienne and Alba exchanged questioning glances before Pew spoke.

“The witch didn’t lie to me after all. She said she would distill the essence of my magic into the healing potion, to make it as potent as I required it to be.” he had to stop speaking to grip his sides from laughing so hard. “I suppose my essence smells like piss.”

The three of them laughed together and embraced once more. The sky evolved into a glorious sunrise, teeming with pinks, purples, and dusty blues. As the warm golden rays washed over Pew, he sighed.

“I suppose sunrises aren’t so bad.”