accidentally yours | claude de alger obelia

evienne eldore

twenty-four years ago, evienne eldore woke up in another world. she'd been bruised, confused, and convinced it was a fever dream. it wasn't. the fever came later—along with the dysentery, the murder geese, and the soul-deep exhaustion of being very alive and very out of place.

now she was twenty-four years into this not-so-chosen life, and she still felt like she was waiting to wake up.

today was no exception.

evie lay facedown on the porch of a remedy apothecary, half-dead from a bounty run gone wrong. she'd been dragged through mud, bit by something with too many teeth, and flung into a magical bramble bush that smelled suspiciously like wet dog and regret.

her back hurt. her arms ached. her legs weren't working quite right. she'd sneezed three times this morning and was now ninety percent sure she had some kind of monster flu.

but worse than all of that—worse than the probable fever and the bruise blooming across her ribcage—was the fact that her toast was gone.

and tofu was sitting suspiciously close, licking crumbs off his paws.

"traitor," she croaked.

tofu, the red panda born from a magical surge during one of evie's particularly awful sick days, chirped innocently and climbed onto her back like he hadn't just stolen the last edible thing in the house.

"i hope you get gluten bloat."

"you've gotten soft," came a voice far too chipper for this godforsaken hour.

elias hawthorne, age eight, stormcloud of chaos and grass stains, peered down at her from the porch railing like a judgmental gargoyle.

"you used to be cool," he added, nose wrinkling. "remember when you punched a wyvern?"

"i do," evie groaned. "i also remember when my spine worked. memories are fun."

"you didn't even dodge yesterday. the goblin threw a rock and it hit you."

"it was enchanted!"

"it was a rock."

evie rolled over slowly—mostly to stop tofu from kneading his tiny murder claws into her shoulder blade. the sunlight stabbed her in the eyes like a personal attack. "elias, i am five seconds from handing you over to the fae."

"they'd send me back."

"...you're not wrong."

he flopped beside her with all the energy of someone who hadn't just wrestled a living slime an hour ago. "you're really sick, huh?"

"congratulations, sherlock. yes. and i will be weaponizing the guilt of that toast theft for years."

tofu squeaked and immediately pretended to fall asleep.

"you're still scary, though," elias offered. "like, in a 'tired lion that might still eat you' way."

"...thanks?"

before evie could muster the strength to crawl inside and die quietly in a tea cupboard, old maerin stepped out with her usual morning scowl and a basket of dried herbs.

maerin hawthorne, age sixty-one, full-time apothecary, part-time chaos wrangler, looked like she could skin a bear with just her disapproval. she raised evie like a cat that wandered in and refused to leave—fed her, patched her up, smacked her with a broom when needed.

she took one look at evie and clicked her tongue. "you look like hell."

"thank you, i try," evie muttered.

"go drink some feverleaf. you're clammy."