“Are you sure this is the only path?” Bartholomew peered into the tunnel dubiously, lantern swaying in his quivering hand. The unicorn hair and harpy eggshells felt heavy in his satchel. Beneath him, his small horse Edith nickered and backed away, ears pinned back.

They were heading for the grand kingdom of Drosengary, home of magic and of bustling trade. They were traders and adventurers. Though, to be frank, to Bartholomew it felt less like an adventure and more like a series of self-inflicted incidents. He was still picking harpy feathers off his robes, and his singed sleeves still vaguely smelt of dragon-flame, all combining unpleasantly into a thick, nauseating scent of charcoal, birds, and fish.

Or, Alaric’s favorite, as he quipped before.

“Well, do you see any that is better?” Alaric rolled his eyes, gesturing around to the densely wooded area around them, the area thick and thriving with greenery. His own horse, Philip, seemed to be at ease. “Hm?”

Despite the fact it was sarcasm, Bartholomew looked anyways. But his faith failed him, and revealed no other clear paths to Drosengary. He sighed. “No. But are we certain there are no other paths than… here? The last innkeeper we talked to— the one with the very long beard— Jamesy, said there’s a colony of Fae who prey on travellers around this area.”

“What,” laughed Alaric, “are you afraid of the Fae?”

“For good reason! Don’t speak their names,” Bartholomew hissed. “Because then, they’ll—“

“They’ll do what? Put us in a stew? Eat us?”

“They’ll steal our names.” When Bartholomew scowled, it only made Alaric laugh harder.

“They can’t do that, Mewmew,” said Alaric, reaching across the far distance to pat him on the shoulder. “Mm, well, they can gnaw on your fingers and toes, but that’s about it. Now, come on. Drosengary waits for no one”

Alaric’s mighty steed, Philip, carried on as though they never stopped, short tail swishing as he did.

“_Alaric,_” Bartholomew sighed as he always did before following him anyways. When Edith dug her hooves into the ground, he pet her head and murmured, “Easy, girl. Easy. We’ll make it through.”

Haltingly, Edith began to follow the two. Bartholomew almost wanted to tell her she was right for being afraid, and turn them both around. Longing, he turned to the light outside of the tunnel.

“What are you waiting for?” Alaric called, snapping him from his reverie. He sighed again, heavier.

Despite the fact Alaric usually took point on their excursions, Bartholomew always seemed to be the one hit first. Singed by dragon-flame, clawed by a harpy, nearly impaled by a very furious unicorn— the list went on, and it was becoming entirely too long.

Maybe he could convince Alaric to let them take a break in Drosengary, buy some new robes, and sink into the hot springs. He could almost feel the hot water seeping in, the tension leaving his bones.

“May we have your names?” A crowing pair of high voices called to them shortly before a pink-purple duo of Fae fluttered over to them, causing their horses to back away with a whinny. Edith backed away much further than Philip.

“No, I’m afraid you may not,” Bartholomew retorted before Alaric could get them both cursed and nameless, without memory of who they were or how they got there.

“Aww,” they cried. “You’re so rude to us! Rude, rude, rude!”

Alaric laughed, craning his head to look at him. “You’re pretty quick, M—“

“Do not,” Bartholomew cut him short, though it was really more for his own patience rather than saving their hides.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Alaric had the decency to look ashamed.

“We have delicious pies and cakes and teas, all for you, travelers,” the purple one cooed. “You must be starved! Come on, come with us—“

“We _are_ running low,” said Alaric. “Should we make a deal—?”

“Alaric! You don’t make—!” Bartholomew exclaimed, exasperated, before clamping a hand over his mouth in horror. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” the pink one grinned sharply. “I’m Alaric now.”

“Bar— ugh!” Alaric huffed, before looking around the tunnel in confusion. “Damn it, who am I?

“No, I wanna be Alaric! My name’s too old and boring,” argued Purple. “Let me be Alaric!”

Then, suddenly an idea struck him. Bartholomew said, “Well, what’s your name?”

“Ha!” Purple laughed. “Like I’d tell you.”

“Well, you’ll be getting my name soon anyways, so why not?”

“Wh— because it’s mine, that’s why. And besides, I don’t want yours! I like Alaric.”

“No, I’m taking Alaric,” Pink snorted.

“Who’s Alaric?” asked Alaric, and Bartholomew shushed him.

“But she says she’s taking Alaric,” Bartholomew frowned. “Are you just gonna let her walk over you like that?”

“She’s not walking over me!” Purple hissed. “I’m not giving it up to her.”

“Yes, you are,” Pink retorted, and Purple growled in frustration.

“Snapdragon, I have—!” Purple exclaimed, before shutting up because now he had _her_ friend’s name. “Oh, you sly dog.”

“Who am _I_?” Pink murmured, face scrunched into a deep confusion.

“Give us back his name and I’ll give back hers,” Bartholomew said firmly.

Purple sighed, and took Pink’s hand. “Fine. Give him back his name, Snapdragon.”

With Purple guiding her hand into the right sigils, Pink handed back what looked like thin air before Alaric straightened up and said, “I remember now. I’m—!”

“We’re not doing this again,” Bartholomew cut in. “Please, can we leave?”

Alaric laughed in disbelief. “Yeah.”

The faeries did not follow them out. And the hot springs in Drosengary proved to be just as healing as Bartholomew thought they would be.