Faolan had barely finished saying hello before he bolted from the stable. Saoirse blinked and wondered if she should also flee from whatever invisible monster nipped at his heels.

Her horse boy was turning out to be quite the odd young man. He promised her to break her curse and then left without another word. Only a few days later, he sent her a scrawled note. Not particularly a note of love, but one asking for the biggest mirror she owned. And that he was thinking of her.

She had flushed with pleasure at those sloppily written words. He was odd and his penmanship was atrocious, but he was hers.

It was an easy enough task to get the mirror to Faolan's cottage before the afternoon light faded. His father had grunted to put it in the stable before shutting the door in her face. A cloud of stale liquor around him, he had barely stuck his head out the door to peer at the massive thing.

The rather rude reception had left Saoirse with little to do while she waited for Faolan. After dismissing her escort, promising she'd return with the healed Apple once she finished her business, Saoirse sighed and explored the entire stable before resorting to chores. She tempted the two horses back to their stalls with fresh hay. She filled their troughs with water. She curried their coats. She swept the floor.

The skin of her hands was red and burning. Saoirse would never have guessed that stable chores and simple sweeping would leave her feeling so blistered and raw. She was contemplating whether to plunge her sore hands into the chilly water of the trough when Faolan arrived.

He looked as tired as she felt. His clothes, again, were in disarray and the circles beneath his golden-brown eyes seemed more shadowy than his dark hair. Fatigue had turned to revelation as he dropped his bundle of food and vanished.

Just as irritation and doubt coiled in her chest, he returned. Breathless and rosy-cheeked, an ethereal blue glow illuminated his face.

Before she could ask what it was, he grinned and opened the jar.

The ball of light–bluer than the summer sky, bluer than the sea–floated toward the mirror as if caught in a lazy breeze. It seemed to hum as it circled first around Faolan, then the princess. She caught his eyes and wondered if she looked just as lovely as he did, wearing that intangible veil of sapphire light.

The little orb hovered before the glass before melting into it, the surface rippling like water.

"What is it?" Saoirse whispered. Faolan had promised to find Otherworld, to find the Dreamweaver, but she had assumed they were the promises of a boy in love. But this? This was new and real and something she had no words to describe.

"It's a wisp-charm," he breathed back, the exhaustion returning to his eyes in the orange light of the lantern. "I got it from the Dreamweaver's daughter. She's going to help us."

With an incredulous smile, Saoirse pulled him to sit beside her, begging to know the tale of how Faolan mac Domnall crossed through to the land of the faeries.

Faolan's story took far less time than she had hoped. Still, they ate through a few of the apples and a half loaf of old bread, and Faolan laughed at all the right parts of her days since she had seen him last.

When the morning light peered through the slats in the stable, illuminating the world with a soft glow, Saoirse woke languorously. Straw had tangled its way into her hair, and she was certain she looked more like a haystack than a person. Much less a princess. She sleepily shrugged off the thought and curled back into the pile of straw, pulling a worn cloak over her shoulder.

Just as she nestled back into comfort, Saoirse realized two important things. First, this was not her cloak. Second, Faolan mac Domnall was sleeping next to her.

Frantic as she dared, Saoirse quietly plucked the straw from her hair. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She exhaled into her hand to check the severity of her morning breath. To wake up in a haystack, covered in a fine layer of filth? It certainly had not been a part of her plan.

The night had crept up on them, as nights talking often do. Saoirse remembered murmuring something about resting her eyes for a moment, Faolan's sleepy voice promising to wake her.

The image of Faolan as the High King of Mide had idly crossed her mind as she drifted to sleep. Saoirse's dreams gave no simple answer. He was thoughtful and kind, but was that enough?

It's enough for me, she told herself firmly. A flicker of doubt lingered, a tiny ember she could not smother. Her mighty father bore the burden, so solemnly, with great dignity. His strength was not enough. It wore him away, little by little, piece by piece.

Saoirse remembered of the injustice of the unknown woman and the unfair standard her father was held to. She knew his sorrow like it was her own. The widow Aine demanded vengeance, not justice, he had told her in the stillness of midnight. Be sure you know the difference, he had added gently.

His eyes had been dry, but the faint break in his voice splintered her heart. The king was a mighty hero, sometimes more myth than man. Even he sometimes buckled under the heavy weight of the crown. Faolan was strong and hard-working, but could he bear treason? Could he stand as a judge and witness to great suffering without losing objectivity? Or empathy?

Only recently Saoirse realized that there was a cost in keeping that careful balance.

Her contemplation of the future King Faolan and the current sociopolitical difficulties of Mide paused at the sound of rustling straw. The object of her thoughts rubbed at his eyes, blinking as if he could not believe Saoirse had slept in the stable with him.

A slow smile followed the incredulity.

"You're like a dream."

It was barely more than a whisper, but Saoirse heard the words, clear as a bell. The thunder of her pleased heartbeat drowned out all the doubts.

Excitement too heavy to ignore, she allowed herself to bathe in the compliment for only a moment.

"Can we go to Otherworld?" she whispered, glancing at the gilded mirror as if it were the object of idle gossip.

At that, Faolan's smile faltered. That sheepish light seemed to fill his eyes again as he rubbed the back of his head. Saoirse was beginning to dislike that smile: it meant he would say something she did not want to hear.

"Well, we can, but–"

"Then let's go!" Saoirse interrupted. It was rude and unladylike–her mother's lady maid would have given her a look that soured milk–but she was tired of constraints and qualifiers. She would be queen if she married the right man. She could go riding, as long as she returned before dark. The rules trailed on and on and on.

She had no more patience for hands that held her.

"Saoirse, it's dangerous," Faolan explained, ignoring the stormy expression she wore.

"If you go, I go."

The words were not biting, but she spoke as a princess and not as 'just Saoirse.' She invited no room for discussion.

The command furrowed Faolan's eyebrows with a surprised hurt. Guilt churned in her stomach, burned up her throat.

"I'm sorry, Faolan. It's just that I'm so tired of everyone telling me what to do. Why do you get to make your choices and mine?"

The quiet between them only lasted a few shallow breaths.

"We go together, then."

The frustrated tears that were moments away from falling evaporated with her smile. Faolan grinned back, but that touch of worry remained.

"But we don't use our names, promise? And we listen to Siofra, the Dreamweaver's daughter."

Saoirse nodded, trying to smother her smile into the correct expression of gravity. It broke free. Was there any greater adventure, any greater freedom, than a day in the world of the faeries?

Her perfect, lovely stable boy made quick work of tending to the horses. He collected the bundle of foodstuffs they'd picked through. He tied up a small bit to take with them and stored the rest away for his father. Saoirse followed him like a puppy, full of smiles and excitement. It was contagious. Faolan was laughing too by the time he took her hand to lead her through the mirror.

He placed his callused hand to the edge and the silvery surface rippled. With one last smile over his shoulder, Faolan squeezed her hand tight and pulled them straight through.

The princess expected an uncanny chill or maybe a wave of uncomfortable prickling.

She sneezed. She did not expect the dust.

"I wondered when you'd get here."

The raspy voice came from the strangest looking woman Saoirse had ever seen. At first, Saoirse thought she was more spider than woman. She was tall and thin, with tangled hair that rustled like new autumn. She seemed to glitter with silvery light from her seat at an old loom. Her fingers pulled bright fibers in a practiced route, the weighted threads tinkling like chimes caught in the wind.

"Are you weaving sunlight?" Saoirse asked, entranced by the gleam of the growing bolt.

The weaver paused her work to consider the princess. The endless black of her pitch eyes was as disconcerting as the abruptness of her nature.

"No."

She stood, stretching her fingers wide and moving stiffly. The stilted gait reminded Saoirse of her arthritic grandmother, but surely this weaver was not so old? The princess leaned to get a better look at her shadow-shrouded face. As the light revealed it, Saoirse gasped. Like a horrible mask, it was covered with a rough, ashy bark. A stiff, wooden stain that spread in ugly blotches.

Saoirse tried to find the words to apologize, but the cursed changeling–this Siofra–flashed her uncanny eyes to Faolan.

"I assume you didn't warn her."

Would that have made it any easier? Saoirse wondered blithely, certain the shock was etched into her face. It was unlike her to be so lost for words.

Even more to her surprise, Faolan did not flinch under that inky condemnation. He smiled at Siofra with one of his chagrined looks.

"I didn't think it was my place," he said gently, with that quiet sincerity Saoirse so admired. Her heart warmed in appreciation for him.

The weaver softened and sighed, turning back toward Saoirse with the more human part of her face fixed in wryness.

"Not all curses are sunshine and rainbows, princess."

To break the awkward silence that followed, Faolan cleared his throat.

"We brought some provisions, for today," he began, holding up the bundle. "It was the princess' idea."

That stirred Saoirse from her speechlessness. She scoffed, annoyed with the lie. "That's not true. Fa–I mean–my betrothed is trying to salvage your impression of me."

The weaver's laughter sounded more like a wheezing cough than mirth.

"I'm so glad one of you isn't an idiot."

Her dry words scraped like a cat's tongue, sharp with teasing.

"And thank you, Siofra, for helping me. I just wanted to say that before anything else." The princess did not know what possessed her to say it, but it seemed important that she did.

Bark cracked and splintered as the weaver's mouth twitched into a sad smile.

"I hope your curse is easier to break than mine."

The rueful tilt of her mouth disappeared in a heartbeat as Siofra bent to retrieve a basket of long spindles. Faolan was eager to help, as always, and retrieved it for her. He patted her mottled hand with no trace of disgust or fear. The weaver snatched the hand away, her wild tresses crackling with the quickness of it.

"I didn't ask for help, idiot boy."

Quick to defend, Saoirse snapped, "He's being kind. He does it for everyone. Even for all the villagers who spew gossip and spite about him."

Siofra paused, staring at Faolan with an unreadable expression.

"Why?" she asked.

If Faolan was embarrassed by the scrutiny of that bottomless stare, he did not show it. He shrugged, as if he did not know the answer.

"I suppose it doesn't make much sense to punish wickedness with wickedness."

"I suppose it doesn't," Siofra said in return. She contemplated for another moment. "Let's gather your sunshine then, princess."

As the trio stepped in the brilliant daylight, Saoirse drank in the world. Everything around her seemed to hum with a golden energy. This place was alight with life and silent singing.

"How do we do it?" she asked, her sharp mood forgotten. Her smile glowed with that same wildness that filled every inch of this world.

"This part is easy. Take a spindle."

Saoirse raised a fine eyebrow, plucking a spindle from the worn basket. To her surprise, the dark, polished wood was as heavy as marble, as smooth as glass.

"Hold it towards the sun. Yes, like that," the weaver rasped. "And now think about what makes you happy."

For a moment, the instructions seemed so insipid that Saoirse hesitated. What makes me happy?

She started small and shallow: the cook's honeycakes after a long ride. She thought of the warm sweetness, the affectionate teasing of the old man as the princess snuck a second cake into her hand.

In a thin thread, a tendril of sunlight, the faintest wisp, trickled from the sky towards the tip of the spindle.

"Oh!" Saoirse whispered in wonder. As the surprise overcame her memory, the sliver of golden light faded into mist.

"Again," the weaver said, stooping to pick up a spindle. Before she could bend too far, Faolan was there to hand it to her. She grunted in what Saoirse assumed was a 'thank you.'

Siofra continued, "Concentrate, and once the light finds the tip, twist it around the spindle. Happy thoughts, strong ones, again."

Saoirse thought of riding Apple, of the wind in her hair, the ground flying beneath his sure feet, the pounding exhilaration of freedom.

Another ray glittered towards her, solidifying. It touched to the tip of the spindle and held fast, filling Saoirse's hands with warmth. She moved to twist the spindle, eager, but the light frayed and broke. The gleaming thread disappeared.

"You'll need something stronger than that, princess."

"Show me," Saoirse demanded.

For a moment, she thought Siofra might refuse. The look on the un-cursed half of her face seemed unsure, reluctant. It became soft and sad and faraway. She closed her black eyes and, at first, nothing happened.

Then the sunbeam condensed before her, twisting into a soft ribbon. It was tenuous, but it held fast to her spindle, vibrating like a lute string. There was no music, no sound, but there was a melody in watching the dreamweaver's daughter. In her creaky steps, her left leg stiff and unyielding, she walked a small circle, pulling the little spindle. Twisting, twisting, twisting, until the thread glowed bright and sure. Siofra opened her eyes and sighed at the sight of it.

Determined to do it herself, Saoirse burrowed into her memories for the happiest moment of her life. She pushed away delight and contentment, gaiety and glee. Deeper and deeper for unwavering joy.

"Can I ride, too, papa?" Saoirse could hear the hopeful plea, she could almost see the memory in the swath of sunlight streaming toward her.

Her father smiled, lifting the tiny Saoirse into the saddle with him.

"My fearless little heart!" he crooned, alight with pride as he guided the stallion in lumbering circles.

Saoirse bubbled with laughter, and the sheer happiness of it coaxed a rumble of mirth from her father.

The princess twisted her spindle as shimmering sunbeams reached toward her. The clearing around the weaver's cottage filled with a heady golden glow. Dancing in circles, pulling the streams of light around her, she laughed brightly. As each spindle filled with sunshine, Saoirse's smile rivaled them in warmth.

Memories and memories to fill a basket with gleaming laughter.

Wattpad word count: 14,862