Reralt woke in the middle of the night.

  He had to pee. Fiercely.

  One of the great advantages of sleeping commando was the ease of peeing.

  Narro’s annoying rule—at least ten steps away from camp—meant he was going to get a bit cold.

  “Stupid Narro,” he muttered, but did it anyway.

  In the bushes, he spotted a grasshopper.

  A wicked grin spread across his face.

  Glorious, joyful revenge.

  He peed on it.

  “I should tell Narro tomorrow,” Reralt thought proudly. “So he can write a ballad.”

  Because nobody messes with Reralt and lives.

  Or—at the very least—escapes without being urinated on.

  Reralt jumped three times, grinned at the surprised-looking grasshopper, and turned around.

  By his second step back toward camp, he imagined a louder sound behind him—growing, shifting.

  He slapped himself on the head, trying to fasten his own mental screws.

  “A few screws loose in this one,” his physician had once said.

  Sometimes, Reralt saw and heard things that clearly weren’t there.

  The chamberlain stepping out of his mother’s bedroom was one of the most recurring ones that definitely never happened.

  Still, the sound grew louder.

  Reralt looked left, then right, searching for something to see.

  “If I can’t see it,” he muttered confidently, “nobody can.”

  He trusted his mythical eyesight.

  A man fell out of the sky.

  ***

  Narro woke.

  Saw the man in a white jumpsuit, a tutu two sizes too small, and one wing.

  “Nope,” he said, turned over, and went back to sleep.

  “Ahwww, my back,” the man groaned, crumpling upright from the dirt.

  Reralt peered at him in the flickering light of the dying fire.

  A middle-aged man—about the same age as Reralt—stood there, in a shape that defied definition.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  His belly and arm fat obscured any attempt at classification.

  “My dear angel,” Reralt whispered. “You need bigger wings.”

  The man looked at Reralt, insulted at first, then quickly swapped it for a more stable arrogance.

  “You got any teeth?” the man asked, still clutching his back in pain.

  Reralt grinned proudly, flashing a full set of pearly whites.

  “Nah, can’t use those,” the man said, waving him off. “They need to fall out naturally.”

  “Ah,” Reralt nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

  “I have some of those in my bag.”

  Then, after a beat:

  “…Define naturally?”

  “Not still in the mouth,” the man clarified.

  Reralt walked over to his horse and rummaged through the saddlebags.

  “Excuse me, sir?” the man asked, watching him. “Why are you naked?”

  Reralt looked over his shoulder, then down at himself.

  “Why are you in tights with a tutu?” he countered.

  “In short?” the man offered.

  “Yes, I am a bit cold,” Reralt replied seriously.

  The man sighed. His voice turned a little sour.

  “Well… apparently, modern times mean the tooth fairy title is no longer matriarchal.”

  Reralt finally found the small pouch he was looking for and threw it at the tooth fairy.

  It zipped past the man—who ducked just in time—and landed several dozen meters away in the grass.

  “Catch!” Reralt shouted, a full second after the pouch hit the ground.

  The man blinked. Then blinked again. Slowly.

  He turned, shuffled over, and picked up the pouch.

  “So, you’re nobility?” Reralt asked.

  “I am Gavin,” the man replied, performing an awkward ballerina-style bow—

  the only kind that didn’t reveal too much in tights and a tutu.

  “The tooth fairy.”

  “Well, Gavin,” Reralt said gravely,

  “I am… very sorry.”

  ***

  Gavin sat with Reralt by the fire.

  They shared a few shots of some liquor Gavin had brought along.

  He called it his going juice.

  “Sometimes,” Gavin said, swirling the bottle, “it’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

  Reralt nodded solemnly.

  “I too know the horror… of inheriting titles and responsibilities,” he said, offering a knowing, almost smart-looking glance.

  “They expect me to rule a few thousand people,” Reralt said sadly. “Even though it interferes with building my heroic grandeur.”

  Gavin nodded, understanding more than he liked.

  “Well… thank you for the teeth. I’ve got enough for the night.”

  He stood, dusted himself off, and shook Reralt’s hand.

  “Time to head back to the wife and kid.”

  He hesitated a moment, then added,

  “Pity he’ll have to endure this embarrassment when he grows up. Do you have any kids?”

  “Never met the right sturge,” Reralt said solemnly.

  Gavin nodded, assuming it was a slur.

  Then he did an awkward little run…

  and took off—wobbling through the night sky like a tutu-wearing bumblebee.

  Perhaps later.