The Great Trout of Terror, Gret for short, absolutely hated the taste of magic. Similarly, he hated sharing his lake with that bizarre womanfish. Always talking. Always eating people. He didn’t mind the second part, but at the very least she could have the decency to share every now and then. How was he to be blamed if he could only breach the surface of the water at night? The witch who’d cursed him to be a fish in the first place was to blame.
That sort of brought him back to his first thought. The taste of magic. He could still feel it in his mouth, coating his tongue. New magic, too. Fresh. The Headless Horseman and obnoxious cat who’d stolen his meal from him could very well have the bloody thing. It would take weeks for the tingling spice to fade.
Pteri was talking to someone. Playing with her food, as usual, he supposed. Gret wouldn’t dignify his jealousy with so much as a first thought, let alone a second one. He swam below the surface of the water, his golden scales glistening under the odd patch of life unobscured by plants or Pteri’s massive sail rising and sinking above him.
Once upon a time, he’d have found the tail of hers repulsive. True, there were a lot of things he did now that he would have been disgusted by. Eating bugs and drowning fairies amongst an ever-growing list. He had been a prince once. A glorious prince, bedecked in jewels and the finest robes. There was no finer noble in the land.
He spat out a bit of errant grass his instincts had mistaken for a drifting bug. How annoying. She was probably telling her meal some sort of sob story now, about being ‘alone’. Poppycock. She had Gret, didn’t she? Yes, he might not be able to talk any more, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have any feelings. Countless people, merchants and lesser nobles alike used to trade their fortunes for the privilege alone of being in his presence.
Well, never mind. Longing for the past would only make his mood worse. Sooner or later Pteri would come back under the water and talk at him. ‘At’, because she never paid any mind to his responses. As far as she was concerned, he was just a large magical fish people mistakenly believed could grant wishes when the moon was full.
To anyone who didn’t see Gret for what and who he truly was, he would have looked like a large and very dumb fish staring up at the surface of the water. To the former prince of the lands, before the curse had taken his kingdom and human form from him, Gret was a tragic hero waiting for his bride to return to him. She didn’t know she was his bride, true, but he was a prince in spirit still. He’d already decided the siren would be his once he shook the curse, so she was in fact his bride. No one could tell him otherwise.
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Rachel rushed to the counter, snatching up the robe to wrap it about her, eyes wildly scanning the mirrored walls.
“Where are you?” She demanded, “I know kung fu!” She didn’t. She really didn’t.
“I’m right here,” the voice replied, growing slightly more feminine as it spoke, and much more familiar. Rachel stared at her own reflection, the very image of a terrified woman wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe. Any minute now, Norman Bates was going to show up and go full Psycho on her, she just knew it.
Then, her reflection’s face smoothed out, and instead of horror painted on its face - - it smiled.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you. A guest of Gertie’s, are we? Lovely.” Rachel’s reflection spoke, straightening up and running hands lovingly over the robe it wore.
“It’s been a while,” the reflection pressed on, “since I’ve had a body. Thanks for that. So, tell me, what brings you here?”
Rachel looked about, scanning the room for a jar, or a vase, or something heavy to crack the mirror with. She saw nothing but the bathtub, the sinks, the clothes, and various bars of soaps lining the edge of the tub.
“Cat got your tongue?” The reflection joked, “don’t mind me. I’ll just be here if you need anything.” It walked across the mirrored wall, eyeing her thoughtfully, arms crossed.
“I’m not taking a bath with you watching!” Rachel snapped, clutching the robe tighter.
The reflection tittered, “dear, I don’t bite. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll turn my back. It’s just nice to have company. Tell me about yourself. How do you know Gertie? How is she doing?”
Rachel backed towards the door slowly.
“No, wait!” The reflection uncrossed her arms, holding her hands up, “don’t leave. Listen, I’ll just go into the other room for a bit, and when you’re all washed up, knock on the wall, like this,” it wrapped on the mirror in front of it, shaking the glass. Rachel’s reflection grew more obscured, blurred by the motion.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Doubtfully, Rachel approached the wall where the reflection stood, “I don’t have the energy for this. I’ve been fighting things that shouldn’t talk all day. I just want some peace,” she informed her reflection firmly, “how do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t,” the reflection admitted, growing even blurrier and drifting back across the wall towards the reflection of the door, “but you can’t trust anything in a witch’s home, can you?” It asked, disappearing altogether.
Fair point. She really couldn’t trust anything. Maybe not even her eyes, What she did trust, however, was that she desperately needed her bath. Rachel was getting to the point of stress and anxiety that she would fight a dragon just for some hot water and a good glass of wine. For now she’d just have to settle for the wine.
Eyeing the part of the mirror where her own reflection had disappeared, leaving her with–no reflection at all, really, Rachel approached the bath. She didn’t doubt with the clawed feet it had, the thing could probably move on its own if it wanted. The laws of physics were a moot point in this place, apparently.
She ran a hand through her hair, finding a twig lodged in it with no small measure of discomfort. She’d been found in a lake being chomped on by some sort of fish, dragged out by Sir Fishbits and an unknown guy without a head, and they’d left her hair as gross and dirty as humanly possible. Lovely.
“It’s worth it,” she told herself, staring down at the frothing bath. The eight spouts kept running, but the water never seemed to rise or move. It was enticing. She quickly unwrapped her robe and lifted one foot. Whatever, if her own reflection popped up again and saw her, it wasn’t like it hadn’t before.
There was no greater feeling in the world than slipping into a perfect bath. She was certain her skin would be red by the time she was done, and she absolutely loved it. The water was just hot enough to burn away what she was certain was a layer of grime on her body. She tossed the robe and climbed in, luxuriating in the scents and feel of fresh water carrying away the last vestiges of her anxiety and perhaps modesty.
She grabbed a soap bar and found just beside it an unnoticed jar of what looked like shampoo. Rachel was certain it hadn’t been there before. Possibly the mirror’s doing, she thought. She was getting too used to this place already. Maybe there was something in the water.
No, there was definitely something in the water. In fact, there were half a dozen somethings, she realized, squinting into the froth and foam of her bubble bath.
“What on earth…?”
The rainbow water pouring from the spouts shimmered, and some of the bubbles separated themselves, thinning out, glistening in a thousand different colors under the light of the room. Light, by the way, which seemed to have no obvious source. She realized then, that some of the bubbles that were thinning out had begun to turn into something else altogether.
They were paper thin wings, sort of like dragonflies. Attached to the wings were tiny people made of water itself. Six of them. Coughing up a small bubble, one of the winged people flew to the top of one of the water spouts to shake itself off. It turned back to look at Rachel. She assumed it was looking, anyway. It didn’t seem to have a face. The little person sat down on the spout and crossed its legs, face turned upwards towards her.
Rachel blinked once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Five times. No, it was still there. The other tiny winged water people had climbed to the edge of the tub to perch on the opposite side from the one on the spout. Their leader, maybe?
“Hi?” Rachel asked, hesitantly.
“Hello, mistress!” The little person responded.
“Nope,” Rachel replied, “not doing this. Not a mistress. Not yours. I don’t do the slave thing, so you guys can just shove off.” She gestured at all of them, waving her hands and flicking water everywhere in the process. The other little creatures giggled.
“Not slaves!” The one on the spout responded, “servants. Water sprites. Fairies. You lead the forest, you lead us. So, you are mistress.”
She shook her head, “no, I am Rachel. I am also naked, and while I’m sure half the world of magic is enjoying this for whatever messed-up kink, I’m not. Go away.”
“Wash hair?” The spirit offered. To which the others jumped up into the air, giggling enthusiastically.
Rachel lowered her head, trying to get eye—or at the very least, face level with the sprite, “you are about the size of my finger. You’d get stuck up there, which really isn’t the point. I’m putting my foot down right here. If you live in this bathroom, that’s great. It’s weird, but you do you. I’m going to wash my own hair, take my bath alone, and get dressed,” she held up a hand before the sprite could speak again, “without help. If you guys are the ones who laid out my clothes and all that, I appreciate it. I don’t know where anything is here, so whatever.”
She shook her head, bewildered that she even had to explain this, “you can do that kind of thing if you really want to, but you aren’t my servants. I don’t lead this forest. I’m just an office worker. Do I like my job? No. I do, however, like privacy. I’m going to ask you now, one more time, please leave me alone.”
She waited for the sprite’s response, listening to the relaxing sound of the running water. Rachel was proud of herself, taking a stand. Setting boundaries. Self respect, even in a world of bizarre magic was important!
“Wash hair,” the sprite finally spoke, nodding, “wash hair, mistress.”
“No!” Rachel snapped back.
The sprite rose into the air, its water shape seeming to grow a little murkier, darker, “wash. Hair.”
It was only afterwards that she realized the little creature wasn’t actually asking. Her panicked screams echoed across the cottage, startling Book and Sir Fishbits. The cat slowly raised his head, narrowing his eyes into slits.
“The pests must have gotten back in,” he said with a long suffering sigh, turning back to look at the spellbook, “I wonder if they’ll give her a simple pigtail, or perhaps braids?”
If Book had a head, he’d have shaken it.
Poor girl. We’ll have to go over fairy repellants first thing after supper.