You hear the collector announce itself with a subtle rustle and sing-song chitter from above, and so you turn your gaze to the branches overhead. The fey has formed itself from a knot of wood and moss, wreathed with leaves as any respected courtier would, and in its facsimile of presence it regards you through hollow, expectant eyes. This is not a surprise. A token for passage, the Six had said, and the High Prince might let you on your way. The collector raises its tendrilous fronds toward you. What do you offer?
> _
it’s just a rock and it’s not just a rock. you picked it up in passing, with barely a thought, on the day the two of you first met. when work or circumstance took you from home for days, or months, you kept it with you, and every morning and every night you spent a while turning it over, and thinking of who you’d left behind, and turning it over. you found it jagged, sharp, volcanic; now it’s smooth as a mirror, smooth as the cold lake was on the day you came home and found no one left there to wait for you. you turn the rock over, and turn it once more, but the time’s past: you’re stalling. you raise your open palm to the canopy. it’s just a rock.
A token given, a token taken.
A piece held dear, a piece now parted.
The High Prince does not ask much, yet the High Prince knows value. His collector takes the rock from your grasp, its green fronds stronger yet gentler than what lingering memories remain.
You may pass.
You may go.