I wrote this short(?) one-shot long ago as a character exploration and sort of backstory. This special episode details Meya's meeting with the mysterious "Emerald-stone Boy" (*cough* He's obviously Coris *cough*), and leaves behind some more questions.

Meya and Coris have met twice before the current timeline. Why couldn't Meya remember Coris, and vice versa? We'll have to find out in the main story!

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The sky over Crosset was a clear blue of early Spring, unblemished by clouds. Music and laughter mingled in the wind blowing past the Town Square, where young maidens in white dresses, with flower crowns atop their hair, danced arm in arm with jolly young lads to the tune from blaring bagpipes.

The visiting Baron Hadrian wasn't out there enjoying the May Day celebrations. Neither was his counterpart, Lord Crosset. Both of them were in the castle on the hilltop, discussing their children's marriage.

A marriage which would end soon with his death.

Coris Hadrian clutched a white handkerchief to his mouth as he coughed repeatedly, his thin frame shuddering and rocking back and forth. A searing, burning pain, like a river of hot acid, sped up his throat all the way from his bowels, leaving him gagging and gasping for breath.

Coris downed the waterskin at his waist to soothe his blistered throat, slopping the last drops on his tunic. He raised the handkerchief gingerly to his eyes, sighing in relief at the absence of wet, dark red patches.

Still, this was nothing compared to what he had been through, to the fate he had saved Zier from, and he reminded himself every day he never regretted it.

Coris gazed over at Crosset Castle. The imposing stone structure looming over the town below belied its master's actual powerless state.

Father really didn't have to bother getting Simon to masquerade as him to make sure Arinel would marry him. News of his frail condition had probably reached Lord Crosset long since, but Lord Crosset would be too desperate to care about the prospect of his daughter being widowed in the near future.

At least for him, being widowed young by Lord Hadrian was probably a better future than staying here with Lord Crosset, a dying knight the king had forsaken.

Actually, Coris had no business whatsoever walking about in this little country town. But Mother had beseeched Father to allow Coris to tag along, so he could enjoy the crisp spring breeze and the delightful May Day celebrations for once.

Unbeknownst to Father, there was a hidden agenda to Mother's seemingly innocent plea. This might be the last chance Coris would ever have to fulfill his dearest mission.

It had only been four years. Yet it seemed like a lifetime away, when he was spoiled fat by Father like a pig for slaughter. When the prospect of marrying a Lady from a powerful family was the norm, and a future of ruling the seven manors in his father's demesne was nothing he felt thankful about. It was his to take from the moment of his birth.

Back then, he thought nothing of his people, his parents, his poor little brother, his servants, his dogs, or any soul apart from himself. He was a disgusting being who would never entertain the idea of drinking poison in place of his brother.

It was until that day, four years ago, during the closing days of the Crosset Famine. But of course, Coris had not known that when Bailiff Johnsy invited him to hunt game in the Lord's Forest of Crosset. It had never occurred to him that Johnsy was planning to kidnap and ransom him for food.

Coris would probably have been dead, or at least tortured, if not for a peasant girl who had helped him escape. All she asked in exchange was bread for her two starving little brothers and baby sister.

Coris inadvertently had a hand in exposing the hushed-up Famine, and Bailiff Johnsy was executed, Marquess Crosset was demoted to Lord and harshly rebuked by the King for neglecting his duties, and Crosset was added to Father's demesne as a result.

Coris had learned all this from Mother as he recovered, but he never knew what became of the peasant girl. By the time he had made sense of everything, the girl had disappeared without a trace, and Father was too busy feeding the whole of Crosset to spare men to search for one nameless, faceless little girl.

Coris squeezed his eyes shut, thinking hard as he paced the winding dirt roads of the deserted village. Somehow, try as he might, he couldn't remember the girl's face. He was sure his memory had been crystal clear that day, but then he woke up the next morning with blurry recollections and shattered, disconnected events.

The girl had not revealed her name, for fear she would be executed for trespassing in the Lord's Forest. Their parting had been brusque and abrupt, but his search for her had not been, and Coris feared he would never be able to thank her before he left this world forever.

During his brief visit to the town square, he had scanned the happy, dancing, drinking crowd for a familiar face, strained his ears for a voice from his past, and failed yet again. Every girl in the town would be at the Fest, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Had he been too late? He didn't even know if she survived the famine, even with all the food he left for her in the forest.

Coris bit his lip at the worrying thought he had pushed to the back of his mind for four long years. He refused to give up hope. If it was the last thing he would do, he would find the girl and reward her.

The town was silent and deserted, apart from the occasional housewife bustling about doing chores in her absent daughter's stead, and the tired old farmer snoring away in his hammock hanging from the oak tree in his meager garden.

Then, once he neared the lasts of the mud cottages, in a completely empty part of the village, Coris heard something blowing in the wind, a sweet voice lending a lilt to the cool breeze, a voice as heavenly as the birds of Neverend Heights.

It was a voice so beautiful he could only imagine the beauty of its owner. It sent Coris sprinting as he had never done in three years.

He came to a halt in front of a small, crumbling cottage of wattle and daub. The house was empty and no smoke trickled out the chimney, but in the small cabbage patch within the low fence, beside a plump brown sow, sat a young girl of no more than thirteen.

Her plain, nondescript face was smudged with dirt, and her red-gold braid was coming loose. Her fading red woolen dress was patched in numerous places. Her eyes, he noticed, were an unnatural, glowing green. She was caressing the sow as it dug its snout in the ground, but her song was sent to a lone thrush which had alighted on the fence. Her beauty was no match to his first love, Agnesia Graye, but Coris swore he had never beheld a more beautiful sight in his life.

I'm here to sing a song I own.

I wish to hear the birds sing along.

I'll sing my heart, when none shall heed.

I've made my vow to the winds of Mays past.

I'm Meya, Meya. I'm born on May's Eve.

As my father grieve for my mother's song.

Oh Meya, they say what good is a lass

As unruly and poor as Meya Hild.

The song ended with a lengthy, ringing vibrato, and the girl dipped her head then sighed softly. Coris took a step forth, still captivated by the sight. His movement startled the thrush, which instantly shot away into the forest. The girl whipped around to him, her glowing green eyes wide with fear and horror.

"That's sad." Coris chose to speak up first, as he curiously approached the fence. Being a nobleman, he's used to people responding enthusiastically to him no matter when he called upon them. "Who's Meya Hild?"

Coris had forgotten he was now dressed like a peasant, and was alarmed when the girl sprang up as if she had sat on hot metal. She sped to the back door of her cottage then disappeared inside without a backwards glance. Coris scrambled after her.

"Wait!" He grabbed the slightly rocking fence, hollering desperately at the window-hole. "I'm sorry I eavesdropped on you. I just wanted to talk."

There was no response other than the twittering of faraway birds crossing the sky, and Coris despaired at the prospect of never hearing that voice again.

"Please." He begged, his voice cracking from the sour tang of acid in his throat. "Let me hear your Song."

He had barely finished when another bout of hacking cough overtook him. Coris clutched the fence tightly for support as he retched and gasped.

A small, rough hand landed on his shivering shoulder. He looked up and saw unearthly glowing green eyes. The girl handed him a large wooden mug.

"Mum always says honey pleases an angry gullet. And I added a dash of Grandma's secret spice powder, too."

Her normal speaking voice, heavily accented as to be expected of peasants, was brusque and snarky. At her last sentence, Coris froze, cup halfway to his mouth, silvery eyes staring warily up at the girl. In his panic, it had just occurred to him how a deadly ingredient might just make its way into his honey drink as well.

The girl blinked, her plain face twisting into a scowl.

"What? You think I have enough gold to buy poison then waste it killing some random lad passing by?" She spited. Coris shrugged, his expression deadpan, his voice hoarse from all that coughing.

"Well, I did peek on you singing."

The girl snorted, sounding very much like the pig she raised, then leaned closer to whisper deadly.

"Tell you what. If I wanted to kill you, I'd just thwack you on the head with my week-old bread-bowl then feed you to Lady here."

Coris glanced at Lady the Sow, grunting away as she sent dirt flying about, her snout burrowing furiously, and doubted if she really could eat him whole.

But before he could think any further, another round of coughs overcame him, and Coris found himself clinging to the fence, bent almost double as the girl looked on, a gratified smirk on her parched lips. He glanced up at her with reproachful eyes, and she merely grinned wider.

"Spew out all your fluff yet? I could stand here all day while you cough your innards out. I finished my chores."

Coris's common sense screamed shrilly in protest, but his gullet felt as though it would burst apart if he let it endure another cough. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he felt the bitter taste of blood and bile in his throat. He couldn't wait for warm milk in Crosset Castle.

He grabbed the cup then gulped down the drink. The soothing sensation trickling down his throat was like the purest, ice-cold stream of paradise, and he quickly took another gulp. Sighing in relief, he set the half-empty cup down on the fence. After taking a moment to calm his breath, he asked up once more.

"So, who's Meya Hild?"

"Nobody." The peasant girl rebuffed rudely. She glared at him, her nose inches from his as she threatened in a growling whisper. "Don't you breathe a word of this to anyone, hear me?"

Had he been his former self, Coris would have ordered the girl's tongue cut off. But now her nerve simply amused him. Besides, she didn't know she was talking to the Coris Hadrian. Not that he has any power to brag about, anyway.

"Why not? You've got a beautiful voice. And it's a nice song." He cajoled and pleaded with a little laugh, gazing straight at the girl's luminous green eyes with genuine attention. "I'd love to hear more of Meya. She seems interesting. Is there more?"

"No. That's all of it." The girl replied in that same brusque manner. She shrugged, then fussed about gathering up the wooden buckets and farming tools scattered about the small dirt garden.

"This whole manor don't know I could sing. It's my little secret. And I don't plan on letting them know anytime soon. So forget about everything you heard."

Coris didn't say anything. Considering his health, she wouldn't have to worry about him knowing her secret for long. And until that time comes, he wouldn't want to forget such a beautiful voice. Perhaps it would console him on his deathbed, make it easier to sail for Neverend Heights. Or sink in Fyre's Lake, if these past few years of repentance wasn't enough to atone for his sins.

"Who are you? You don't seem to be from around here."

The girl spoke up, shaking Coris from his gloomy thoughts. He looked up, blinking at her narrowed, suspicious eyes, then swiftly replied.

"I'm from Hadrian." No point lying about that. His accent would probably betray his hometown anyway. Besides, the people of Crosset loved all things Hadrian. They were their saviors, after all.

As to be expected, the girl's unfriendly expression melted away into delight. She leaned closer.

"Hadrian? That's six days away from here, isn't it?" Her eyes sparkling, she dragged over the small stool she had been sitting on, slumped down upon it, propped her elbows on her knees then rested her face on her fists.

"What are you doing all the way here on a May Day like this? Isn't there pretty lasses back in Hadrian?"

Coris smiled at her poke, lying smoothly as he was so good at.

"I've been to a lot of manors on May Days. My father's a merchant."

"Merchant?" His answer further interested the girl. She smiled wider. Her eyes drifted away, and a dreamy look overcame her muddy face.

"I've always wanted to be the merchant's daughter. Like my best friend Jezia." She sighed wistfully. "The adventurous life you could lead. What d'you trade?"

Coris thought fast, picking something he knows well enough about. Mother's favorite food in the world.

"Oils. Spices and herbs. We're importing white truffles."

The girl was beside herself with excitement. She sprang up and clung to the fence.

"Truffles! They say it's food from the Heights. You don't happen to have one in your pocket, do you?"

She bobbed about, looking him up and down for a lump in a pocket somewhere, and even as he had to stifle his laughter, Coris felt a little guilty that he must let her down.

"No, I'm sorry." The girl's face fell, and Coris fervently wished he had nicked some from back home, like he used to do when he was a gluttonous little brat. Yet all he could do was fire out a string of codswallop.

"My father never lets me near the shrooms. Never even ate one himself. He said if you eat what you sell, you're eating your own gold."

The girl looked as if the sun had baked the life out of her. She slumped back down on her dirty, rickety stool, kicking glumly at the dirt with her worn-out straw shoes.

"Wish I could eat a truffle 'fore I die." She mumbled.

"You could get yourself some truffles in the woods with Lady, you know." Coris gestured at the oinking pig beside her. The girl spared it a glance, then shook her head, patting it lovingly.

"No. I tried. There's none this part of the country." The girl sighed, gazing down at the pig, she went on miserably. "I'm afraid this one's for the slaughterhouse as usual. We only keep 'em for the year."

The girl lugged the sow closer to her, then leaned down and hugged it, caring nothing of the dirt and the mud caked on its wiggly body. It was still a piglet, just the right size to fit in her slim embrace.

"You're so like me, Lady. But at least your meat would help us through the winter—though I swear I'd never touch a sliver of you."

She cooed as it squealed and thrashed about in her arms. Then she glanced up at the blue sky above her, sighing in wonder.

"If only I could be just as useful as you."

There was bitterness in her voice he could easily feel. It must have been hard, plumping up your pet only to have it become the family dinner, year after year. The pointless, endless task probably left her wondering how she was any different, except for being born as a human.

Even as she smiled absently, her strangely glowing eyes were etched with loneliness and long suffering, and Coris's heart pained at the sight. He glanced around, noticing once again the loud silence and heavy air of emptiness around them, then turned back and tried to strike up conversation.

"What are you doing here all alone? It's awfully quiet here. They're all at the Fest."

"They are. My three sisters as well." The girl smiled as she released the pig back to its feeding frenzy, gesturing vaguely towards the house. "They usually do the chores around here, so with them gone, someone has to do it."

"Then why you? Why not your brothers? Or your parents?" Coris was still puzzled. The girl began to look disgruntled. Her lively voice returned to snarky and biting.

"They gotta be at the Fest, that's why. 'Cause Marin will get the May Queen Crown again this year. And next year. And the year after that. And every year 'til she's married off to some rich, handsome landlord's boy. And after that it'll be Morel and Mistral's turn."

Those three names are probably her three sisters. Come to think of it, back at the town square Coris recalled seeing three pretty young women who somewhat resembled each other and their mother. The eldest and prettiest sister was laden with twice more flowers than any other lady, surrounded by admiring men. Perhaps that was Marin.

Glancing back at the forgotten sister fuming silently, he suggested the obvious.

"You should go, too, you know. It's May Day. The boys would want to dance with you."

The girl went back to tending to her pig, hand-feeding it acorns from her bulging apron pocket. Her voice, however, had lost its venom and had become surprisingly soft.

"Marin. Morel. Mistral. They're all so beautiful. And they're good at something. Just like Mum." She muttered, then her face scrunched up, as if she was holding back tears. Her voice trembled.

"Who would ever look at me? Ugly, dirty, reeking pig, weird orange hair full of leaves and bugs, and these stupid glowing monster eyes."

"They would no longer fear you, once they have seen past your eyes." Coris consoled gently.

"I hate festivals." The girl veered off, her voice harsh and final. "And someone's gotta feed Lady. She likes acorns from the forest."

Coris cocked his head in question at that, but the girl fell silent, wiping her hands shining with pig drool on her apron, and Coris had a feeling she wasn't telling the whole truth. Sighing, he decided to go for honesty first.

"I'm Simon." Well, almost honest, at the very least.

The girl seemed to brighten up at the change of subject. She grinned then stuck out her grubby hand.

"Nice to meet you, Simon. I'm Maelaith. But just call me Meya."

Coris blinked at those glowing, mischievous green eyes, then surfaced with a hearty laugh.

"So you're Meya Hild!" He exclaimed laughingly, swallowing his disgust and briefly shaking her pig-drool-smelling hand. He loved dogs, raised an army of them, and yet he still rushed to wash their drool off his hands. Nevertheless, he unwittingly leaned against the fence, closer to her.

"Maelaith means May Queen in Glennian, right?"

"No idea." Meya shrugged, her glowing green eyes straying away as she went on reluctantly, her face falling once again. She crossed her arms on the fence, propping her chin upon it. "I guess it's probably just because today's my birthday."