Connel swaggered down the middle of the street, people parting ways for him. Whispers followed, but Connel didn't bat an eyelid. There was certainly a lot of jealous people complaining a young man with little credentials like him shouldn't be assistant to the mayor. Now that he had earned his credentials and turned the port of McCaig into a flourishing seaside town, he was on a straight path to being promoted to mayor.

There was a chill in the air. Mist draped across the mountain summits in the distance. People bowed their heads, hurrying on their mundane daily jobs. Nobody dared to confront him.

Fishmongers shouted about their catches of the day, fresh salmon and trout lying on trays of ice. Behind them, the loch stretched across to the town on the other side. Ships bobbed along with the waves with the incoming tide.

There was a palpable tension in the air: King James was dying.

"Cockles! Fresh cockles!" yelled a child, swinging a bucket. Connel continued to head for the castle. Sure enough, the child tripped, and his bucket of cockles swung up and emptied all over the floor. Saltwater splashed onto Connel's boots. He wrinkled his nose.

"Disgusting rat," he spat. The thin child trembled, his face pale and hands grazed from the fall. The blossoming of markets had gotten many street rats into work, but they seemed as filthy as ever. "Get out of my way."

He scrambled away, snivelling. Connel marched on, wary of the time.

"Oban!" he called. His servant had knelt beside the child and helped him with the cockles. "What are you doing, man? We have to see the mayor and you're dirtying your hands with some stinking orphan?"

Oban leapt to his feet, gripping Connel's bags. He sprinted after him. When he caught up, he was emitting that irritating dry cough he'd had for the past few months. Connel sighed. If he were late due to his servant's incompetence he would have him whipped on the spot.

Before Connel could snap another word at him, Oban bowed his head and apologised. Huffing, Connel decided to let the issue drop. There were more important things at hand.

It was fortunate that the street rat's stumble and Oban's little mercy-showing didn't make Connel late – heads would have rolled. He ensured every hair on his head was pristine and his cloak fell in neat folds before entering the master study. The mayor stood there looking concerned.

Mayor Aspen was long past his peak, at least seventy years old now. There had been talk about his imminent retirement and speculation about his successor. If Connel fulfilled whatever request Aspen had for him today, he would be the frontrunner.

"Mayor Aspen," said Connel stiffly, ensuring his back was straight and his shoulders relaxed: the epitome of class and confidence.

"Ah, Connel. It is good of you to come." Aspen spoke in a slow, hoarse voice, as if reflecting an ageing mind. His hands shook as he stroked his beard. "I'm sure you've heard about King James's recent declining health. He has asked me for a favour that might change his life."

"Oh?"

"King James heard about the Moon Lake. He wishes for a sample of the lake's elixir during the cycle of Birch."

"For the alleged rebirth properties?" Connel's eyebrow rose. The cycle of Birch began in two days' time, if the old witches' tales were to be believed. "Does his highness realise most of it is hearsay with no proof?"

"Many have sworn by the lake's effectiveness," said Aspen. Connel fought not to sigh and roll his eyes. "The King is most adamant of he wishes and it is my greatest desire to grant it. I am too old for this. My joints and legs betray me. The climb up to Moon Lake up McCaig mountain is treacherous and I need a strong, reliable man, someone like—"

"—Like me." Connel fought back another sigh. The king was getting desperate in his ill-health and grasping at the last straws. Surely if the entire kingdom's doctors couldn't heal him, no fake magic water from some godforsaken mountain lake could. It was a waste of time and energy catering to that, but the king was still the king – for now. "It would be my honour."

Aspen sagged with relief. "I knew I could count on you, Connel! If we succeed, he's promised me a peaceful long retirement, and I'm sure I could secure mayorship for you..."

Connel knew it. It wasn't out of some goodwill to ensure the king gets his dying wish. It was because Aspen wanted a lazy life with too many too-young girls now that he'd sucked the life out of McCaig. But Aspen had Connel's arm twisted, and the old bastard knew that. So it was with a heavy heart and a grudging smile Connel accepted his doomed task.

Mist hung heavy and humid on McCaig mountain, making each breath devoid of oxygen. Connel was a fit man, but McCaig mountain was not an easy climb. Rocks sat loose in the soil and covered in moss like the trees, making every step slippery. Connel almost fell into the ground's soggy, foul-smelling embrace a few times.

"Allow me to open your path, master," said Oban, hurrying forward, despite the big backpack Connel had required. A future mayor could not be caught out by accidents or appear dishevelled. Oban might be a short, spindly man, but he was determined. Connel followed Oban's exact footsteps and waited when his servant skidded and yelped, and sure enough, he never fell again. Puffing out his chest in determination, he marched forward, thinking of the ways he could succeed mayorship when the lake water's properties inevitably fail. It was an old witch's tale; Connel believed in science and proof, not fantasy.

Their trek lasted three days. Oban was surprisingly hardwearing despite his weak appearance: he had a gleam in his eyes and despite the obvious fatigue and trembling muscles, he remained optimistic. His hacking cough only got worse as they ascended, but his smile continued to glow. Connel found it irritating, but no amount of put-downs or crude remarks took away Oban's enthusiasm.

"Why the hell are you so excited about this damn trip, anyway?" he couldn't help but snap.

"You don't understand, master," Oban said over his shoulder, "my children -- they've been talking about this lake forever. All they ever hear is the stories from other folk, but nobody we know had been up and lived to tell the tale. The ash cycle of dreams and magic, the oak cycle of strength and protection, the hazel cycle of wisdom and knowledge... the Moon Lake is stuff of legends! I'm just chuffed I have the honour of climbing this with you and I can just imagine their faces when I tell him the stories! The thick fog! The mossy ground! The small animals that jump about and the forest full of fantastic sounds through day and night!"

Connel rolled his eyes. None of those were enticing except to some kid's imagination. The thick fog made seeing difficult. The moss only made his muscles ache further. The animals always made him jump and were nothing short of an irritation. All the special properties the lake promised were just fakes, to conjure false hope. He wanted to say all of those to Oban and to tell him to man up and stop being so excited like some child, but he didn't have the breath. By the time they made it to the summit, both of them were hunched over. Connel's chest was tight and his breath came in gasps. Perhaps it was the three days' cumulative exhaustion or maybe it was the altitude as well, but he felt lightheaded and no amount of heaving could relieve that breathless sensation.

The whole place was shrouded in thick fog. Connel could barely see his hands in front of him. He waded forward, cautious; he certainly didn't want to end up falling into the lake, whatever its fake properties. He could see perhaps five feet in front before everything was dense and white.

"Don't go too far, master!" yelled Oban. Connel snapped back; he didn't need telling like he was a child. Oban just needed to get him the damn container. Where was the wretched lake?

"You've come to seek the magic of Moon Lake?" came a voice from somewhere around Connel's knee. He jumped, startled. The voice didn't sound human.

"What the hell was that?" Connel said.

Oban approached Connel, frowning.

"There's a monkey talking to you, master."

"I'm a gibbon," said the orange-haired thing with beady black eyes, squinting up at the two of them. It sat on a rock with one knee up and the other dangling beneath. "I'm the guardian of Moon Lake."

Connel rubbed his eyes. A dream. It must be a dream.

"Everyone has the same reaction when they see me. It's all right. You aren't hallucinating."

"Monkeys can't talk," muttered Connel.

"I'm a gibbon," it said indignantly. "And you're about to ask for magic from Moon Lake and you're bothered that a gibbon can talk?"

"The lake's magic is a load of tosh," said Connel, raising an eyebrow. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for some desperate old fool."

"If you're talking about Mayor Aspen, he's been up here multiple times in his youth," retorted the gibbon. "I have to say, I haven't seen him in many cycles. Whenever it was the Birch cycle, I can guarantee I'll see his ugly face hoping to sacrifice another pretty girl so he could live another extra ten years. Maybe his age and bad habits finally got the better of him?"

Connel's mouth dropped. Aspen did what? He knew the old man was a pervert and craved power more than anything, but to actually use the lake's magic to further his career and power?

"You're not lying?"

The gibbon puffed up again, glaring up at him. "I'm the lake keeper. What do I have to gain by lying to you? Now are you here to sacrifice something to gain the lake's properties? Is it for yourself or for your sickly friend there?"

Connel turned around. Oban appeared pale.

"What do you mean 'sickly'?" Connel demanded of the gibbon.

It sniggered. "Don't you know? Haven't you told him?"

Oban's panicked expression only confirmed the gibbon's words.

"That's mighty noble of you to come up with your friend for this quest when you hadn't planned to use the lake's properties for yourself! Are you one of those selfless idiots?" The gibbon peered at him with curiosity.

"Eh, monkey!" said Connel, an idea occurring to him.

"Gibbon!"

"Whatever. There are two of us, right? There's a limit how many times you can use the lake, right?"

"One person per cycle."

"Why can't I get mine and I'll get the old fool happy, and Oban here can use his on himself?"

The gibbon surveyed him with those odd, depthless black eyes.

"If you two are willing to sacrifice enough of equal value."

The way he phrased it made Connel uneasy.

"What's of equal value to extending good health?"

Those eyes bore a hole into his soul.

"For you, a selfish man with little remorse, all the positive memories people have of you." He turned to stare at Oban. "For him, a disease-ridden, loving father, the price will be his family's love."

Connel's throat went dry.

"Is there any other way?"

"With no sacrifice, the lake water's just regular water. And the exit's that way." The gibbon pointed to over his shoulder. "Magic is non-negotiable. This isn't some soup kitchen."

Connel stared at Oban, who managed a weak smile.

"Don't worry about me, master. I'm only your servant, here to accompany your journey for the king's good health."

"Or you could just use it on yourself," the gibbon said in a sly voice to Connel. "Save the good health for yourself."

Connel hesitated. It certainly seemed appealing. But the question was, who would be doing the sacrificing?

Oban seemed to sense his conflict.

"I'll go, master. You've been so good to me. I wouldn't be here, with a wife and children, if it weren't for you."

"You have a wife and kids," Connel said brusquely. Oban's gratitude made him uncomfortable. "Why are you sacrificing that for the king?"

"Not for the king," said Oban with a wan smile. "For my good master. If it weren't for you back when I was homeless fourteen years ago, I would be dead by now. You clothed me and bathed me, and gave me a life. Now it's time for me to give that back. You, who have fought for so hard to climb so high -- you deserve this more than anyone."

Connel's chest tightened. Perhaps he was getting reflux.

"This lake..." He turned to the gibbon. "The magic works, you said."

"If it doesn't, the price wouldn't work, either," said the gibbon with a snort. "Come on. Don't have all day. Sacrifice first, reward second."

Oban passed the glass bottle for the lake water to Connel, who took it with a sour taste in his mouth. Oban's chattering about his sons and how he'd looked forward to telling them about his journey up McCaig Mountain rang in Connel's mind.Oban gave him a small smile, his eyes bright with no hint of regret.

"I hope in this way, I can continue to serve you, master," he said with earnest. He covered his mouth as another wave of coughing overtook him. He recovered and steadied his voice. "I cannot--"

Connel threw the bottle aside. It shattered with a tinker. Oban's eyes widened. Without another word, Connel strode past the gibbon and found himself waist-deep in the surprisingly warm lake water.

Nothing happened.

Connel turned, expecting the gibbon to mock, but its black eyes merely shone like stars as it nodded in approval, stroking the hairs on its chin. Connel climbed out again, his trousers dry. The ground sunk beneath his feet but he didn't slip. Oban stood there, stunned. Connel grabbed the front of Oban's shirt and threw him into the lake; the man barely weighed more than two sacks of potatoes. There was a yelp and a splash.

"You sure about this?" said the gibbon. Connel scowled.

"The little git deserves it more than any of those bastards out there."

"Guess the rumours about you aren't so true after all, vice-mayor Connel."

Connel snorted. Behind the gibbon, Oban emerged, looking thoroughly bemused. His eyes settled on Connel and he smiled. His cheeks had more colour and already his breathing seemed improved.

"I'm sorry, good sir. I'm sure it must be strange to see a man emerge from the lake, but I have to say I've no idea how I got here. I think..." Oban frowned. "I think I'm supposed to be with my family right now. Might you point a stranger in the right direction, good sir?"

Word count: 2500

Winner of Fantasy_Community's "A Transforming Lake and a Need" prompt.