Well, Chapter 3 is here and ready! I'm really beginning to love the elves. They're so meddlesome, but they help fill the plot holes so well! Mrs. Vivian Vande Velde did well when she made them. I have to wonder why there aren't many stories about them... oh wait. There aren't any A Well-Timed Enchantment fanfictions in the first place! Well, besides this lonely little bugger drifting in a sea of Dragon's Bait and Companions of the Night fanfictions.

Well, here's the next installment! Forgive the Elves for meddling. They know not what they do.

Oh, and those who don't know what an OTP is... UrbanDictionary(dot)com is your place to be!

I Wish
Chapter 3
The Elves Bet on Starbucks

The first thing Deanna needed was a wheelbarrow. She had already tried heaving unconscious Oliver onto her back, and even tried leaning him against her, but she realized that movies made things a lot easier than real life, and she was too weak to carry Oliver at all. He weighed more than her, that was a safe estimate, and he was taller than her too. She always knew it, but she had never realized it—especially not in Medieval Europe. Now she was all too aware of the extra six inches he had on her. He was thin and wiry, and she couldn’t help but think that If I was the damsel, carrying me wouldn’t be a problem!

But, alas, the elves hated her. A lot.

So she was off to find a wheelbarrow, and then explain to her mother why she brought home an unconscious young man, and why that said man had cat ears. Oh, mom, it's the hot new craze in Paris! As if she'd believe that. There was a wheelbarrow out back behind her Aunt’s barn, and that was her destination. She propped Oliver up beside the well and muttered, “Don’t go anywhere, OK?”

Of course, he didn’t answer.

“Right.” She quickly hurried down the grassy knoll to the faded red barn in the distance, and fought her way past the brambles and weeds to the rusted wheelbarrow. Heaving the wheelbarrow upright, spiders and dirt tumbled from it. She yelped in fright. Then she realized how silly that was. There were far worse things in the wizard Algernon's tower. “OK, they’re just spiders. Nothing too horrible. Do it for Oliver. Remember him.”

When he didn’t remember you? Came her own discoursed reply.

She hit the side of her head to knock the thought away, grabbed the wheelbarrow without a second glance, and pushed it up the hill towards Oliver again. No need to doubt herself—or Oliver. He had remembered, after all. In the end he had remembered. At least she thought he did. You did the right thing, she told herself. He wanted you to.

Didn’t he?

When she rolled up to the well, Oliver wasn’t there.

“Oliver?” she squeaked, dropping the wheelbarrow. “Oliver?!”

Oliver, it seemed, was nowhere to be found.

“Oh God, I lost him already!” She flew down the hill again in a panic, calling his name again and again. The wheelbarrow was forgotten up beside the well, as were the two elves who just happened to have peaked their heads up from the murky water as she fled away. They prided themselves with perfect timing.

The first one put his hands on his cheek and sighed, “Oh, love is in the air!”

“Love? What love’s here?” his older brother—the one in the ancient robes—asked. “Love is running away.”

“Love is running after the one running away,” the young, hipper one pointed out.

“I don’t believe it.”

The hip one scoffed and flipped back his hair. “Then I’ll bet you. You will buy me a grande mocha latte from Starbucks if Deanna and Oliver are an OTP by the end of all this.”

His brother blinked, confused. Most of the words had sailed right over his head, and his younger brother knew it. He understood the words mocha latte and Starbucks because his brother raged about it like he did about Coca-Cola, but an OTP? Was that an acronym for an STD?

From the green meadow beyond, where a little white house sat beside a faded green barn, Deanna’s echoes of “OLIVER? OLIVER!” rang through the countryside. “OLIVER! WHERE ARE YOU?”
The elder thought it over, and finally outstretched a hand. “And if I win, then you will return to wearing the official ceremonial garb.”

His younger brother scowled. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

“OLIVER!” Deanna cried, almost to the brink of tears. “OLIVER! WHERE ARE YOU?” The little blob of blonde rushed across the field, looking every-which-way for the black-haired youth. He was no where to be seen. Finally, she stopped at the top of a neighboring hill where a single enormous tree stood, and plopped down on the soft grass.

It looked hopeless already. So the elder held out his hand to shake, and agreed. “The bet is on, brother.”

They shook.

“What are the rules?”

The younger grinned. “What rules? This is an all-you-can-eat buffet, my brother! Off we go!” He sunk back into the well before his brother could protest, and disappeared with a soft pop.

The elder sighed. “Alls fair in love and war,” he quoted to no one, and summoned up a smoked turkey leg, and proceeded to watch his deal being won.

Deanna shoved the palm of her hand into her eye. She told herself she wouldn’t cry. At first, she was angry with Oliver—but how could she be? How could she ever be so angry with Oliver that she wanted to castrate him? Unless, of course, he ran away from her. Like he just had. But she couldn't find the energy to be angry, and ended up in a huff of sadness under the neighbor's oak tree. She sniffed, and proceeded to tell herself not to cry. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t.

She most certainly was beginning to.

And then she heard a snap—a twig. Leaves reigned from the tree, and something shifted above her.

Slowly, she looked up.

“…Oliver?”

To her surprise, there he was, squatting on one of the lower tree limbs, perfectly hidden from view. The shade made his eyes gleam like a feral cat, and she couldn’t help but to shiver. It was a horrid look, like those big tigers give tourists at the zoo. A predator look—not unlike the look she had seen wild men in New York City wear with a gun in one pocket, a switchblade in the other, and bad intentions down below.

Oliver wouldn’t do that.

But she realized now that Oliver was a man. You’re silly, Deanna. You're being paranoid. Oliver isn't like other guys.

He won't let you down.

“Oliver,” she spoke hesitantly, “why didn’t you answer?”

He opened his mouth to answer, "There's—" then there was a snap. It echoed. He blinked, and looked around.

“Huh, Oliver?”

He tilted his head. “Oliver?” he murmured. “Who’s that?”

Somewhere on the next green knoll, the elf grinned, lowered his hand, and tore into his smoked turkey leg with satisfaction.

Deanna paled. “What?”

In the distance, a dog barked. The trampling of paws began coming closer, followed by howls and the grunts of canines. She slowly turned, and remembered the Rottweiler that lived at the next house, teeth bared. Behind him the little shit dogs fell into formation, and they were coming like the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Her eyes widened.

Above her, Oliver gave an inhuman growl that rumbled his chest like thunder.

The dogs were so close. They jumped.

She stumbled back, pressing her back against the trunk of the tree, and screamed.