Who Do I Have to Speak to About a Redo of the Prophecy?

Daphine flits amongst the moon-soaked blooms — as much as a nymph heavy with child can be said to flit. A gentle light dances across the blossoming violets and periwinkles, and lavender perfumes the warm, humid air. Shadows ebb and flow about her, casting the garden in shades of dusty mauve, akin to an ocean under a descending storm. But the beauty of the garden goes unnoticed by Daphine. She focuses only on stalking the moon-wisp before her, desirous of the message glowing within it.

She detects the tell-tale amethyst glimmer and waits for the right moment. Plucking a prophecy from a moonbeam is cumbersome in the best of circumstances; attempting to kidnap one in her state is downright foolish. Daphine adjusts her position, berry-silk stretching across her midsection. Her unborn daughter kicks in response, reminding her why she’s doing this.

The wisp pauses upon an orchid — its petals open like a courtesan’s invitation. Daphine extends her translucent wings and launches herself forward, capturing the moon-wisp within cupped hands. Landing with a soft thud, the orb of incandescent light hums in her palm.

Daphine lifts the moonbeam to her face, the magical words falling from fuchsia-stained lips like notes plucked from a harp: “Spill the tea, you little twat.”

The violet orb pulsates, waxing and swelling like an over-ripe plum until it bursts, revealing the twilight shimmer of a moon fairy. Whizzing around Daphine’s head, the fairy weaves through the air like a hornet drunk on mulberry wine.

“You petulant brat!” Daphine’s melodious voice echoes through the summer night air. “I caught you fair and square!”

Alighting upon a fig tree, the moon fairy examines her wings before leveling a look at Daphine. “You bent my wing, you ill-bred wench!”

“It’s not my fault you were so wriggly.” Daphine braces a hand on her lower back. “Can we get on with it? My back is killing me.”

The fairy rolls her eyes. “Goddess, grant me patience,” she mutters. Lifting her hands to the heavens, the fairy closes her eyes, a small wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows, as she prepares to bestow a divination upon her captor. “I see … your true love —”

“The King?” Daphine interjects, flapping her wings with glee. “I knew he’d come to his senses and return to me!”

The wrinkle between the fairy’s eyebrows deepens. “Is your King green by any chance?”

Daphine’s wings still. “No, of course not. Why?”

A becoming shade of hibiscus creeps up the fairy’s neck. “Are you sure you want to hear this prophecy?”

“Obviously.” Daphine places a hand on her belly. “My daughter deserves a father.”

“As you wish.” The fairy closes her eyes once more. “Your true love will be revealed before the next full moon, and he will be the babe’s father … but not by blood.” She squares her shoulders. “You cannot thwart the inevitable, merely delay it.”

Daphine’s heart stills. This was not going as she had planned. “Then who is it?” she breathes.

“Poor vapid nymph,” the fairy chuckles. “Your love is one whose beauty lies beneath the surface.”

Daphine bristles but swallows the retort on the tip of her tongue. “A name, please,” she says instead.

The moon fairy grimaces. “His name is Harold. And he’s … a bridge troll.” She opens one eye to gauge the reaction to his news.

Daphine’s mood darkens like an oncoming storm. “A bridge troll?” The baby gives an excited little kick, as though in alliance with this wretched fairy. “Who do I have to speak to about a redo on the prophecy?”

The fairy shakes her head. “The prophecy has been delivered, the deal is complete.” 

Her voice tinkles with laughter before she vanishes in a puff of purple mist, leaving Daphine and her babe behind at the dawn of their destiny.