Veritas Virumque/P2E4

"I realised that a man who had only lived for a single day could easily live a hundred years in prison. He would have enough memories to keep him from getting bored." “I know people. I know other things, and one is that Turnus is very, very smart, we all know this. He is also very, very diligent, which is what you should tell him.”

"I'm always worried about my son."

"And I know that. But in any environment, he'd flourish."

"Does he even feel supported?"

"I'll make sure of that. And I'll make sure he has a life where he can support himself."

“What are you thinking of?”

“Ever After High.”

There was a notable pause at the table. The sorceress sighed a little. Across from her, the wizard looked hopeful and nervous.

Sofia Wares knew that Brutus' family liked her a lot. She liked them a lot, and no amount of affirmation could dissolve her insecurity. Her life experience has taught her one lesson: be careful of changing times. Like a new sapling setting roots, she learnt to value one thing over all: stability.

A server placed food down on the table, then conversation resumed after.

“Sofia,” said Turnus’ mother. “One thing. Promise me this.”

“Alright.”

“Prestige means nothing to me if Turnus isn’t happy. In no universe will we ever accept a role in which Turnus does not end up happily ever after.”

“I can do that.”

Aged fourteen and midway through the last semester of middle school, Turnus Wyllt received a letter.

Dear Turnus Wyllt, You have been invited to attend Ever After High as the next King Merlin’s son in the fairytale by Madame D’Aulnoy, The Princess Mayblossom.

~*~

When the fairy security had pulled Turnus into the portal, the one thing they took from him was his keys. In preparation for the hexchange, Feiynman already had a MirrorBook and a MirrorPhone, identical to Turnus' in appearance prepared, had looked into the syllabi of his courses for the next few weeks, and purchased pre-loaded bank cards to make necessary purchases. It was a lot less to do than in most cases - when people had jobs and regular interactions with their family - and honestly, a little refreshing.

It does well to deteriorate the ties you had with close friends. Thankfully, Turnus had set that bridge on with spellfire, and any interaction with French King Squad started to feel tense.

Feiynman wasn't entirely sure why Turnus posed a threat. Certainly, people in the Authorities did not like him, did not like his perpetual questioning of the world, did not like how he would compile statistics and studies on his blog and summarise them in an accessible format. The boy was sixteen, and no way did most people even take him seriously.

Running Veritas was simple - all Feiynman did was announce a hiatus. No need for deletion, they reckoned. That would have been suspicious, and MirrorNet archives of the blog were already made.

Feiynman hated living as a child, but he couldn't deny that it was much simpler. No wonder why other changelings preferred to replace beautiful babies, for there was no intense amounts of preparation. The lack of control over their own lives meant the ability to more easily assume the appearance people wanted.

Why did he even replace Turnus? Higher-ups. He had been asked specifically to, and was told that the pay was good. Besides, Utility Feng's funding was about to run out, and Feiynman was getting sick of all the industry science work, as fun as being Utility was.

The pay had to be good. That was the thing that got Feiynman living as a teenager. But he was the one changeling who had interacted with Turnus the most, he was the best man for the job.

All and all, it was like sponsoring an Athenian play festival. Mere obligation.

~*~

“I am stepping in. I don’t care, I’m stepping in.”

Orleans’ words at bro-eakfast was met with skepticism from the table. Ramsey started to look rather engrossed at his yoghurt cup (with mixed berries - nothing less for the prince), and Gladiolus frowned disapprovingly.

“He is my roommate! He barely says ‘hi’ when he’s in the room with me! I never find him around on campus, and he’s so quiet in classes! I don’t know what happened! It’s disturbing me!”

“Maybe you should chill,” Ramsey said.

With a nod from Gladiolus, Orleans said no more at the table.

But Orleans was a true prince, he was a hextbook prince, and princes in fairytales do not listen to skeptics. Like any prince, he was out there to prove himself right. Like a true prince, he set out on a little adventure to locate Turnus.

With Turnus’ predictable schedule, it was easy enough. On a day when Turnus was leaving late from the lifairy, Orleans set his ‘confrontation’ in motion.

“Turnus!” Orleans said to catch his attention.

The future King of the Gold Mines often had his sword in his scabbard, but this time, instead of the scabbard on his belt, it was in his hand. With all the grace he knew, he used the scabbard to block who he thought was Turnus between the wall and from escape.

“I don’t care if you don’t talk to me ever again! At least, after this! But I want you to talk to me now! I miss you!”

“Uhhh,” said Feiynman, who was trying to find a reasonable way of getting past the scabbard held across his body.

For the first time in days, Orleans got a close look at the body he thought was Turnus. More specifically, one look at those gold, cambion eyes, and the perceived mental image Orleans had shifted. Much like how an iridescent surface changes colour depending on the angle you view it at, the face of “Turnus” changed as Orleans turned his head ever-so-slightly side to side. At some points, a handsome prince. At others, a fearsome fae.

“Who are you?” Orleans took a wide step back, and held sword and scabbard in front of it. “Where’s Turnus? Where’s my friend?”

Orleans le Nouveau would probably describe his ‘Magic Touch’ as ‘owning a monopoly’. But his actual destiny-given magic touch was a lot different. He could see through magical disguises.

“Don’t you recognise me?” Feiynman asked. “Orleans?”

The prince still had sword and scabbard in hand, but his face betrayed the fearless air he was trying to portray. So, Orleans le Nouveau turned heel, and ran.

He ran to where he knew where Ramsey was.

Where Ramsey was, was also where Gladiolus was. At the school gym, the mermaid was lifting, and Ramsey was spotting him. By spotting him, we mean that Ramsey had a smoothie in his hand, was drinking the smoothie, and absolutely not being a spot-on bro by looking out for Gladiolus properly.

“Guys,” Orleans announced. "There's something wrong with Turnus."

"Yeah, he's being an antisocial butt," said Ramsey.

"Yes, but like, no."

"I'm busy getting gains, Orleans," added Gladiolus.

"That's so not bro of you, Gladi. Wait, actually, that's very bro of you. But not the sort of bro that we exemplify!"

Orleans had half a mind to launch into a quick lecture about respecting other people and prioritising your time, but nothing more than his roommate weighed down his mind right now. In his own story, Orleans was destined to be kidnapped by a deceptive fairy who could shift shapes, which was exactly what was happening to Turnus! Oh, what a dastardly villain. If he could defeat this changeling - which he recognised instantly to be a changeling, then he would know in his heart that he would be an unparalleled King of the Gold Mines.

Much like his weapon of choice, Orleans got to the point.

“Turnus is a changeling and… I’m going to fight him.”

Out of his friends, and out of most people he knew, Orleans le Nouveau was the boy who best exemplified prince.

~*~

In the style of Utility Feng, Turnus was getting really good at sitting outside in Fairyland, eating crepes. Whatever this place was, even with other people, even with the ability to leave his house, it was still glorified prisonment. There were so many vices here that a human could lose themself to - the fairy wine, the weekly festivals, the charmingness of a small town existence far away from the rest of the world.

For Utility Feng, perhaps that was why they insisted on staying. Understandable, they were only human.

Even though he hoped to lose himself in his writing, Turnus Wyllt thought a lot about his old life. He clung to those memories. In his daydreams, he could remember more details and build up a reminder to himself. Give it two years, probably, and he’d return. That was how long Feiynman lived as each host, right?

In a way, both Ever After High and Fairyland were appealing, for different reasons. In another way, they were both displeasing, and this reason was the same. There were conditions put, things that you had to follow, in order to maximise your fulfillment in an existence here. Turnus extrapolated that idea to other settings - not just school, not just here, and decided that it was the case anywhere.

There was no absolute control anywhere. But to be as happy as possible, you should maximise what control you did have.

All of these were thoughts that he had while eating that crepe. He had about finished his food when a small truck had pulled up to the shop he was outside, and crates were being unloaded. A young fae rushed out of the door, and looked around for the delivery. While he did so, he caught Turnus in his line of sight.

Turnus caught a particular look in his eyes - perhaps a look of recognition, or acknowledgement. Perhaps it was concern. Either way, it was not the sort of look you would give a stranger.

“Are you looking for something?” Turnus asked. He thought of other phrases he could have responded with ‘Did you need something?’ ‘What’s wrong?’ and considered all the way fairy logic could twist his statements.

“No, not really. Though, I have some heavy things I need to lift.”

“A favour for your name?”

“Polyfaemus,” and he gestured to the crates outside.

While helping him lift the boxes into the woodwork shop, further information was gathered on the fairy. He was an apprentice, and had been for over a year already. One day, he hoped to move out of Fairyland. Polyfaemus said no more on himself, but plenty on his work. In the store, he gestured to several of his carvings and sculptures. With a neat ponytail, he kept his hair out of his face, and with a paint-stained apron, he kept himself clean. Polyfaemus walked with a sharp delicate stride, like a dragonfly dipping itself in the water.

Near the back of the shop was a sculpture about Turnus' height. It was always covered by tarp, as the woodworker said that he feared that it would be damaged.

"A commission," he said when Turnus asked about it. "Westerwood, this one is. I'm working on it for my apprenticeship."

Very swiftly, Polyfaemus moved onto other items in the shop. "Look at this," he held up a slab of amber in line with Turnus' eyes. "Gorgeous colour, isn't it? When the light shines through, I feel like it glows like gold."

No matter when Turnus visited, taking notes for his writing, ready to gather all the material he could, Polyfaemus would talk without stopping. The majority of his words were rambles about new equipment or new products that came in: "And I finally got this magical torque wrench -”, “these paints--”, and he would hold it up to the light, in line with Turnus’ face, like a moon eclipsing the sun.

Turnus was forbidden from taking photos, according to the shop's protocol, and he wasn't prepared to upset this labourer. In his notebook, he kept a pen sketch of the tarp-covered work.

~*~

Lucidity of dreams is increased by keeping a dream journal. Turnus did just that.

He did dream of Bastion Fanfarinet with frequency. In these dreams, it had changed from merely staring at the boy, to talking to him directly. In real life, that had never once happened. But in his dreams, they would sit down, exchange words and phrases. Turnus remembered none of what he said.

Those dreams often prompted him the next morning to think about what he knew. Very little, it turned out.

Sometimes, he dreamt of his love. Montreal, in the winter, with the snowfall. Montreal, in the summer, in the labyrinth of the Underground City. Montreal, where his parents promised him he could always return to.

Eventually, he got a hold of lucidity enough to recognise himself dreaming. Right now, he was standing on a nondescript flat plane, where he found Bastion Fanfarinet.

"Bastion," Turnus said in the dream. "I want to know you, Bastion."

"How can you know me? I'm in your dream, and your brain can only dream what you already know."

"Please."

"Can't you do better things?"

He was right. Turnus decided that dream him should be taking advantage of this lucidity. So, he chose to fly in his dream. Across the landscape, he flew, and stopped to land on a chapel's roof. He turned to his left, and saw Bastion was right next to him.

"Nice of you to join me," said Turnus.

"Nice? I'm in your dream. I'm you, joining you, Turnus."

"I would like to talk to you.".

"You can't."

"So I'm guess I'm just talking to myself."

"That's not a thing you do enough," spoke dream Bastion. "If I can help you now--"

"No! I don't want you to help me now! I don't want to talk to myself! I want to talk to you, Bastion! I want answers! And truth!"

"This version of me is in your head! You can't escape it!"

"Yes I can! And I will! Goodbye!" and he ran off the roof.

Turnus woke up as soon as his dream self hit the concrete dream floor. He turned his head to look at the clock on the wall. 10am.

~*~

A hundred and fifty steps in a set of seven-league boots away, a cambion in Montreal woke up, shaking. Near his stomach, he felt a stitch, a sharp acidic pain, and started to cry softly.

It was 4am in the morning there.

He reached for the hand of his wife who was sleeping by his side.

"Love," he said softly. "I dreamt again."

"Hmm?" she said, pulling herself awake, and pulling him into her arms. "Do we need to go downstairs? Get the pancakes out?"

He brought his fingers up to his forehead to press on it. "No… I'm fine. The dream…"

"Say it."

"I'm walking along a river. A body is floating in it, I pull it out, wrap it up in warm clothes and try to speak to it. The moment I turn it around to see its face, it's cold, icy and wooden. I'm petrified."

She was silent.

"I can't make sense of it yet."

"Does it affect them?"

The house always felt empty without the boys. Holidays were the best times for the Wyllts - noise and laughter would ring in the household, there would be life among the study and work and magic.

And as if to reassure no one but herself, the mother said, "If Turnus wasn't okay, he would let us know."

~*~

After breakfast, Turnus debated on taking a nap. He eventually decided against that, and instead worked more on the campaign he was writing for Utility, until it was the time that corresponded to their lunch break.

He went out into Fairyland to find them. The fertility witch was done with their food, and was reading a newspaper outside their workplace. He went up to them, and stated very clearly:

"I need a favour."

"Be careful with that word in the faerie realm," they said. "You need an act of friendship."

"I need an act of friendship."

"Shoot."

"Nightmare Fog."

There was a pause. "I don't think we have that in stock. We might have the raw ingredients for it, though. Just got a batch of sandman sand in."

"Great. I want it."

"Can you even use Nightmare Fog?"

"It acts passively, doesn't it?"

"Hmm. Alright, I'll see what I can do."

~*~

The wizard Merlin is known best in the old literature for his prophecy. For telling you which dragons fought which dragons, which successations of kings followed.

Brutus Wyllt's job was in magical mathematical modelling. His main selling skills was in prophecy, though they were most poignant and concrete and easily understood to him when they came to him through dreams. Needless to say, he took a lot of naps on the job.

He was not working right now. He was on his honeymoon.

It was on his honeymoon in which he received a concerning message.