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There is always one memory Hob's mind returns to with certain stimuli. It is not a loud, sharp, searing one like shrapnel and detonations, like soot caked into his fur. It is not a clumsy, ungraceful one like when the other goblins play tricks on him, sticky and dirty under his claws.
It's a soft one, he thinks. He'd just been through with the duel when he returns to the Lady Boil and the Lord Blemish, dropping to his knees in front of them to ask of next steps, future plans, current orders. He is not met with them digging a hole, nor engaging in orgies– Lord Blemish is writing.
So Lady Boil sidles up to him, and they discuss the deceptive lady Gwyndolin Thistle-Hop, and his lady asks him to remember his place.
His brows must've furrowed long enough to be perceptible when Lady Boil comes to brush her claws through his fur, exceedingly gentle pressure for a woman so monstrous, so grotesque. And what is his place? He's fresh off the heels of the walk with the lady Gwyndolin, even fresher off the heels of his moment with the mistrex Delloso de la Rue, still feeling the wounds of the duel with Wuvvy.
Lady Boil tells him he's a blunt instrument, and that must be true. Lady Boil tells him he is a stick, and that must be true. And she does it so sweetly, with her petting, and her cooing, and he professes more than he thought he wanted to about Rue and the situation at hand.
"My sick, twisted little Hob," she says, and it must be true. "They'll never understand. It's what they do."
He is a soldier, a blunt instrument given legs and a brain. That's all it has to be.
-
"The quarterstaff is a truly remarkable weapon," Hob starts, tracing the wood grain of it with a claw– clearly intending to change topic with the Prince Andhera in the least jarring way possible– an almost-embarrassingly close lending of advice, of all things, as if the scion would go to him for anything of the sort.
And he likes weapons, the careful sculpting of them into tools, the craftsmanship that can go into even the smallest of blades, how each thing needs to be up to a certain standard before it can be used in battle. Sometimes, he wonders how the forgers feel– if they know what their creations enable him to do, if they're aware of the blood staining the dirt. He wonders if they're proud– wonders if he would be, if he had their position. But the quarterstaff– that hasn't killed anybody. It's a glorified stick, and yet, it's so formidable! Proving your worth with a quarterstaff, well, that's much more impressive than a sword or a bow!
Andhera looks enraptured.
…Oh, he said most of that out loud. Hob's ears flick back, then he looks downwards at the quarterstaff, taking it with one broad claw and giving it a few experimental swings, feeling the clicking of his wrist.
"...they're good, is what I mean." He says, after a few long moments of silence, and he's glad that his bugbear heritage means that the fierce blush across his cheeks is obscured by wiry fur.
"No, I–" the prince starts, eyebrows raised, smiling as he takes his own quarterstaff and places the end of it onto the palm of his hand, attempting to balance it as he looks skyward. "--it's all very impressive, I assure you. It's amazing that you know all this, really!"
The compliment makes something thrill in his bare chest– a deep breath taken in anew. The captain smiles, and his ears flick back again, and he has to– right, he's sparring. He moves so his stance is wide, claws digging into the sand, and takes up the quarterstaff with both hands, now– ready.
Andhera comes at him. It's clumsy, too well telegraphed– so Hob easily dodges and circles around, dropping low to jolt upwards and use his weight to knock the prince off-balance. With a dextrous set of claws, spinning the quarterstaff around is no trouble, the flourishes of his furry fingers cutting the very air in half as it comes to bonk squarely on Andhera's shoulder.
There's a sharp inhale of breath as the wood makes contact, but not enough to denote distress. The prince almost falls along with the impact before kicking his leg around in an arc to sweep out the quarterstaff, impacting Hob's ankle with a crack !
This continues for a while. Each blow is quick, momentum-oriented, more like a dance than real combat– and Hob supposes this is good enough for the young Prince. It's good enough, because he couldn't stand being that close to snuffing out the flame of their youth again after the Battle of Briar Falls. He's– not young, anymore. He couldn't do that.
The spar ends with them both out of breath, the beginnings of a drizzle over Andhera's head, and a small smile playing on their face.
It's a few minutes that pass before Andhera speaks, this time.
"Does this make you feel good?"
The young prince asks it so innocently, but it still gives Hob pause.
"Yes, of– course it does! The physicality, the– the movement, it's nice. Meditative, if I can say such a thing." (It's harder when there is blood. It's harder when there are stakes.)
"...Right," Andhera says after a little moment. "I can– yeah, the movement is nice, but… you're a captain! You fight for a job! Does it fulfill you?"
He blinks– once, twice, finally looking to meet Andhera's gaze, trying to get a read.
Andhera must notice this, because they stumble into another sentence.
"Like, for me, it feels nice to stand at the edge of cliffs… no, not like that! Uh. It's very… gender. All the hair and layers of clothing swaying."
Hob squints.
"Well, it must not be– the wind in fur might be a different feeli–"
"--gender?" And Hob tilts his head, more like a confused dog than a formidable soldier.
Andhera is the one who blinks, now, owlishly. "Um– yeah. Like, what you feel you are. Sometimes, I– I know I'm a boy, because– well, don't tell anyone else, but it's nice to be. I call myself a boy to amp myself up, in a sense? But I'm also something else that likes to just… feel the wind. I'm a boy and I'm not a boy, right?"
"...Captain Hob, you haven't blinked in a while."
"Right!" He finally speaks, too-booming in his volume. "Right, yes, ah." And he sniffles a little bit, taps his claws against the wood of the quarterstaff again. "Yes. An unseelie prince like yourself can contain multitudes."
That seems good enough for Andhera, the scion giving a quick nod before starting for their clothes in a pile on the sand.
A boy and not a boy, Hob mulls over as the tides push in and pull away.
Then he shakes his head. This gender thing must be more for nobles– there are more things to not have to worry about for them. Hob doesn't have to think about it more than anyone else does. He's a soldier.
He's a… man.
-
A war room is a beautiful thing.
Neat maps, corners squared and aligned with the table's edge. Figures so simple and yet so representative– a wooden peg painted yellow, with a sun-like crown, a clothespin a muted purple with a small headdress made of gems. Even battles as complex as the ones fought with words can make sense from a bird's eye view, spread out in neat little chunks and easily parsable.
It's beautiful, and the lady Binx is standing over it, idly playing with a ball-and-cup game, staring absently at a spot just above the doorframe of the abandoned tailor's shop.
"Hi," he says, quickly startling Binx into catching the ball one final time.
"Hi," they respond, eyes wide and blinking.
And he should probably compliment her– that's how interactions go.
"My word," he starts, as if he'd only just seen it. "This is incredible! What a display of…"
And Binx catches up, placing the toy into the patterns of their wings and beginning to point and gesture as they explain. "Well, I just figured it would be easier, right? Like, just having them in the physical space. You can move 'em around and then we can figure out where we should apply the sneakery and the… subterfuge and all of that."
Hob understands it. Hob understands it so deeply, a thrill within his chest as he moves closer to examine the figurines. There's a little him! With his little ears! It delights him more than it should.
"By jove– I've finally met another fairy who– honestly, works. Who just works."
"Yeah, I'm just really–"
"--It's incredible! It's amazing! You're amazing at this!"
"I was thinking that about you."
And he's too busy speaking to catch that when he exclaims, "I have so much respect for what you do!"
"What–?" She asks, the start of a nervous laugh. "Oh my god."
"And the Prince Andhera's suit? My goodness!"
There's a beat of confusion– reluctant, saving-face confusion.
"Oh– I don't know. What? Like, we're just like, cool and stuff, but–"
"--What are you saying?"
"I don't know," They admit, before being cut off by his speech again.
"You did make the suit, right?"
"I did– oh my god, I don't know what I was–"
"Wait, what were you reacting to?" He questions with the beginnings of a grin.
Binx flounders. "No, I wasn't reacting to anything!"
"No, I know–" Hob insists.
"--I was just,"
"Hey, listen, I should know about falling in love at the Bloom last night."
(He could swear that the marionettes and the ventriloquist dummies make little sounds– but it's a trick of his ears, no doubt.)
"Soooooo, yeah..." Binx attempts to start again, beginning to move her hands for the map.
"What did you say?"
"I, uh–"
"--You said that."
"Well," they defend, "I didn't say falling in love."
Aha! He got her there! She just said it! "You said– you did say it!"
"I didn't say falling in love!" She defends. "What I'm saying was–"
And there's the moment to strike. "Who'd you fall in love with?" He asks, and there's a moment of inertia to the question– almost.
After a moment, Binx whispers low in their register as their face contorts.
"Andhera," they say.
Hob can't help himself. He gestures to his chest with his claws, expression near-uncontrollably pulling into a wince– as if the fact of the statement hurts to express.
"Rue," he admits, and the emotions that pull up from his chest clog his throat.
Binx repeats Andhera, and Hob repeats Rue, and for a minute they nearly collapse into their own feelings like the entirety of it was a house of cards, and the foundation was so shaky that all they had to do was repeat the names to lose it all.
He catches Binx as they knock into him, wrapping long arms around the (much smaller) fey, and he can't stop from blubbering about the masquerade, the beautiful night and the beautiful person that shared a dance with him. With him.
"They're so beautiful," he cries over Binx's own emotion-bearing sentences– "their gown, the black peonies they– put one behind my ears, and I felt pretty–!"
It all devolves into blatant sobbing after a while, before the lady Binx pulls away to look up, hands finding purchase on Hob's own wrists.
"...that's– oh, dude, that's great!" And they grin, face still wet with their own tears. "Wait– the pretty thing, are you– you're cool with feminine things?"
And again, Hob must look confused, because Binx starts again.
"What are your pronouns? I never asked, that's– weird, of me."
The captain (Major, he has to correct himself,) pulls his claws gently away to wipe at his face, fuzzing up the fur to his liking. "That's– no issue, Lady Binx. Lady Binx?"
"Yeah, lady," she half-corrects, before furrowing her brows. "You use, uh– he and him, right? That's cool?"
"If people see it fit!" He pulls away again, smoothing down his jacket and starting to turn his attention to the battle map.
"So you use any pronouns?"
"Well, ah. I don't know." Hob sniffs. "People usually refer to me by– my name, or my title. And 'captain' isn't really something that– holds connotations, yes? I mean, sometimes people refer to me with 'it', but that's not when they speak to me directly–"
"--Wait, wait. Hob." And the tenderness pulled into their voice is something that makes him look back, and the lady Binx's face is pulled into… anger? A questioning furrow of the eyebrows? "People call you 'it'?" And the way they walk quickly to the other side of the table, sparing one cursory glance at their wings to search for something.
"It's true, isn't it?" And it's just confusion that colors his question, not anything higher than that. Clear, fundamental confusion. "I am to be of use."
Hob isn't that perceptive, but he can very clearly pinpoint the second where he thinks Binx's heart breaks for him. And that makes him blunder more, fumbling and picking at his claws.
"I mean– nobody would say it if it wasn't true, right?" And he laughs, to try and– make sure that she knows it's alright. It's alright that this happens, because it's supposed to. What he gets, though, looks an awful lot like pity.
"Hob– Knickolas," and he likes it when she says it. It's different to Rue's tone, but almost adjacent in its kindness– more familial. "Buddy, only you can choose what you can be called. That's, like– people respecting that should be decency, right? If you're a 'he', awesome– then people should only call you that. Nobody should say anything that you don't want them to– pronouns-wise, at least. Right?"
"Why?" He thinks it's hopeful confusion, this time. Wishing to know more reasoning, to know truly why he's different.
Binx laughs, but she shakes her head at the same time. "You're a person, Hob. You have wants, needs, all of it– and everyone should respect that. 'Cause if they don't, they don't respect you. "
A person. Him? There's– not enough room in his brain to think of that, now. Because the Lady Binx must be truthful in their words, but something about…
"Tell me about this map," he asks, turning his attention away. Binx reluctantly obliges and begins talking about plans– the Prince Apollo and the Princess Suntar, plots that a 'little birdy' told them.
A person.
-
…It's strange how storybook everything feels when Hob is with Delloso de la Rue. The Bloom seems so far away, after everything– the clutter of multi-faced conversation, the coat of a harsh serving-your-own-means over every sentence– it all fell away with something easy.
Knickolas Pnackleless Hob no longer belongs to the Goblin Court. Delloso de la Rue no longer belongs to the Court of Wonder. At the end of it all, they've been welcomed– and, indeed, blatantly asked by the lady Binx Choppley to join the Court of Craft.
They have strange titles, Hob thinks. It makes apt-enough sense that Binx's title is the Weaver of Fate– because she is. But when Binx had brought them to the old house of the court, she had said–
–"Uh, don't mind all the ivy and overgrown stuff. Our gardener, Swallow, turned into the shed out back."
…Well, she had also said that their titles were positions of craft. Creation. Gardener, seamstress, weaver, sculpter, forger. When Andhera had asked for a title, Binx had said–
–"You're my knight, Andhera," and Hob smiles as he picks up the fondness in their tone. "but our titles are– well, barring me– we choose them ourselves, right?"
So of course Hob had to think of a title, now. And so did Rue. And the Lords of the Wing, if they ever fully took Binx up on their offer…
"Sweetheart," Rue's voice calls, spinning something thrilling in his chest again, drawing his attention. "You're awfully lost in thought. Was I not good?"
"No– Delloso de la Rue, you were amazing," Hob hurriedly explains, easing himself into the mattress beside them.
They click their tongue against the roof of their beak, lovingly chastising. "Knickolas, you do not have to say my full name. Just Rue is enough from your lips."
"You chose your name," he suddenly states, looking up at the wooden-slatted ceiling above, wondering if he could be a carver. "Is that right?"
A long, soft, luxuriously downy wing pulls over Hob's bare chest, bringing the blankets up higher. Their claw comes to rest over his heart, gentle.
"Yes. Did I ever tell you why?"
"I'd love to hear any story you'd tell."
Rue sighs fondly before wiggling their claws in somatic motions, a small bit of the fleece pulled from the blanket playing between their fingers. An image forms, almost as if projected across a waterfall or a fountain– dazzling enough that Hob begins to reach out and attempt to feel it with one of his own claws.
The projection consolidates into a painting in all grays– the darkest tone at the bottom, coloring an extremely straight road with the faintest texture of cobblestone. Along the path are higher, lighter walls, then along the walls are thick bushes of the lightest gray in the scene, pushing down the path until it forms a nearly-perfect arch at the dead-end.
In a sudden moment, a burst of muted green comes from the point of view of this illusioned scene, bounding down the road almost akin to a bear. They look behind themselves, once– and Hob realizes that this is Rue. Younger, but very much Rue. And that would mean…
"I come from the material plane," Rue says, all too casual for the revelation it gives Hob. "My name, that I chose, is Delloso de la Rue– you know this, Knickolas. Put together, it means– quite literally, 'bear of the street' in a pieced-together collection of human languages. But what I always think is important is that– well, these human languages decided to put genders to their words themselves."
And Rue pauses the illusioned screen to turn to Hob with the most earnest look ever.
"It's all very stupid."
The illusion resumes.
"But 'del oso', that part of it– is traditionally masculine. And 'de la Rue', that part, is traditionally feminine. It was important to me…"
And the muted green disappears into the hedges, painting everything in color before the illusion itself dissipates into a fine mist. Rue places their claw back over Hob's chest, gently combing through his fur in small repetitive motions.
"...to choose both."
Both? It's possible?
(A boy and not a boy.)
(He felt pretty.)
"Ah," Hob acknowledges in a soft near-whisper. "That is… inspiringly thoughtful, um. How would…" And somehow, he gets even quieter– fully a murmur, close to Rue's form, pulled in and so small in their feathers. "...how does one, choose, both? Or, ah. Any of it?"
When Hob turns his head to look towards Rue, eyes wide and mouth just slightly open– they meet him with the warmest smile a beak can make, somehow crinkling the corners of their eyes.
"Darling," and the space just under Rue's claw playing with the fur on his chest, petting so gently with claws so sharp, alights again almost like a ray of sun hit it– warm and beautiful. It's like love, adoration, but… deeper? It makes no sense, but it happens, and Hob doesn't want it to stop. "I'm so proud of you for– what made you think about this?"
"Back during, ah, the Bloom," and both of them nod in blank acknowledgement. "The lady Binx and the prince Andhera asked me… certain questions that, frankly, drew my attention to it. I was… well, I always regarded myself as–" Hob almost says an object, but that would break Rue's heart too, "–as a man. I must have thought there were no other… options? This is strange, and new to me, but."
Rue's claw moves to rest on Hob's cheek, comb fingers through the fur under his ear.
"But, I– I think I realized that… I'd like to be something else. I am… always regarded as strong and powerful, and–" He laughs, but it's more of a snort through the nose. "–big. And there are times I enjoy that, but times I enjoy feeling…"
When he cuts himself off, Rue smiles again after looking so attentive, nuzzling closer to pull more of Hob around in their wings. That beam of sunlight inside his chest glows brighter.
"...I think I'd like to be small, sometimes. Pretty, sometimes. Andhera, I believe, they said– they are both a 'boy' and not. And I like that. I'd– I'd like that." He stops with a nod, eyes landing in the space between Rue's face and chest, somewhere at their chin. "I would like that."
And suddenly, he can't see much of anything, because Rue has pulled him the closest he could be– fully into an embrace that makes him feel blanketed, enveloped by something nice and big, that can make him feel, truly, small. And it feels amazing.
"Baby," they say, reverberating deep in the space where Hob's been pulled into, comforting to be near. "I'm so proud of you. Truly. And you are so, so brave for telling me this." And they pull away, making sure Hob looks up to them, claws gently resting on either side of his face. "My love for you is and will always remain the same, Knickolas. Whether– whether you're Knickolas or not, whether you are a man or not. I will always love you."
He cries, and he is still held steadfast by Rue's arms. And here, in a rather stately warm house in a secluded meadow, the simple joy of realizing that no matter what, he will have somebody… that's enough.
It doesn't matter what Hob is. He is enough.
-
Hob has come to realize many things.
He likes being a he– that part is certain. 'He' is like a nicely-fitting jacket, a homely smell, expected pressure that makes everything less fuzzy.
He also likes being an it– in a strange, roundabout way. 'It' is like… well, it's a sort of agreement with the world, a 'so what'. It's like a reclamation, a 'what about it'. He likes it.
Sometimes– very sometimes, he likes being a they or a she. 'They' is comfortable neutrality, something that brings him closer to the rest of his Court of Craft. 'She' is… well, it's situational, his agreement with 'she'. He likes it when he does not look like someone who would use 'she', dressed in crisply ironed pants or a workman's shirt. Some part of the jarring shift from what is expected, he likes.
It likes to wear skirts. It likes to wear suits. It likes makeup, but it feels a little weird when it's worked into its fur. It likes being small and pretty, and big and strong.
They've found out what that warm, happy burst of emotions is– Rue and Andhera both described it as 'gender euphoria'. They like having words to things, the neat little boxes that make everything understandable.
She likes to work with wood and metal. Binx had set her up with a forge in a room strangely looking like it was fit for work of that nature, with cold concrete floors and large tool racks dominating the walls. Her intensive knowledge of weapons, the practical and beautiful applications of skills that could be used to make such a perfect balance of both– it served her well– well enough to net her the title of Forger. Forger Hob, of the Court of Craft.
He's figured out a lot of things.
What Hob has not figured out is why the Lords of the Wing are here.
At least they very reasonably block out the sun for only a minute, with only a reasonably sized flock of crows with them. Hob's out doing yard work with Binx when it happens, peering up from where she was just about to cut into a branch too far away from its roots.
Eventually, the crows part– revealing the lady Chirp Featherfowl delicately perched upon lord Squak Airavis's sunhat-topped head. Both wear strange, colorful button-up short-sleeved shirts, loud prints of flowers and feathers and trees in respective blue and pink– but Chirp wears beige shorts with pockets, and Squak has a very high-waisted flowy skirt.
The lady Chirp removes her sunglasses and parts her arms like a performer waiting for applause. "Forgive me," she starts, and Binx to the left of Hob stifles a laugh. "for the both of us dropping in unannounced. I hope you will take these crows– the craftiest of Grandfather's aviaries– as a humble gift."
The lord Squak points upwards, knowing he doesn't have to repeat the spiel, and begins to help his cousin down. Once both are settled on the ground, it's him that talks.
"How have you all been!" He begins, boisterously, and it's Hob who snorts. "Since your self-imposed exile from larger society– it's been so quiet! We wish only to see how you've been getting along out in the countryside." He clasps his hands together with a poised smile, keeping them up near his chest before pivoting them down under the waistline of his skirt, waiting for a response.
Hob makes sure that her shears are aligned, and wrenches them shut– the branch, already mostly dead, falls to the grass below.
"Doing– quite well, Lord Airavis!" She remarks in her regular booming voice, her head high and proud. "Lots of work to be done around the Court of Craft's home, right, weaver Binx?" (She hopes they get the thread she's pulling at.)
"Uh– yes, forger Hob!" They nod, thankfully picking it up instantly. Chirp and Squak both hum in surprise at the title. "We've all been– helping around the house. Andhera has quite a knack for interior design!"
They and she both laugh as Chirp and Squak smile politely.
"Oh," Hob blinks, straightening up even further in recollection. "Lady Chirp, Lord Squak– I am experimenting with using any pronouns. I hope you can allow me respect in that regard."
Binx radiates pride. Chirp and Squak hum in surprise again– then it's Chirp who speaks.
"Of course, miss Hob!" She pulls, tucking the arm of her sunglasses into her collar. "It would be our honor– after all, we've both had our fair share of, winging it in regards to presentation."
Squak smooths out his skirt to draw attention to it. "Anything we can do to make you feel at ease– forger Hob."
That's enough for her. She happily returns to pruning the bush, Binx walking forwards to likely talk about more things on the poilter side of society.
That went well.
-
The Lords of the Wing, invariably, get along swimmingly with the new Court of Craft. Hob supposes that the mixing of sky and sea creatures would offend the two, but they don't really seem to care much about that anymore.
Binx settles everyone down in the common room and moves to grab hot cocoa and blankets, even though none of them are that cold. Chirp and Squak sit on the couch in– if Hob will be honest, incredibly strange contortions of legs that cannot possibly be comfortable– while seamstress Rue and forger Hob pull together on the floor, designer-and-knight Andhera and weaver Binx taking up separate armchairs at either end.
The group all talk– and Hob is perfectly content to whittle pieces of the branches they cut from bushes earlier that day.
Hob, in a place that cares about it, decides that it is home. And that it is enough. And that it is not a blunt instrument, as Rue's claws delicately card through the coarse fur on its thigh. Its memory does not return to that day at the Bloom with a superior manipulating it.
A new memory is forged. A new Hob is forged.
This new Hob is having a pretty good time.