I long suspected, but never confirmed, the faerie nature of my young Ageyli. One day at Azrak, my rest was disrupted by a quarrel in the courtyard below: not an uncommon occurence for Daud and Farraj, but normally conducted with at least one other of our party if not drawing the ire of the entire troop.
The two boys were wrestling at the edge of one of the limpid pools, Farraj attempting to pull something fashioned of a bright blue out of Daud's hands. Daud, meanwhile, kept hopping on a foot or attempting to take a seat in peace, before his companion lunged at him once again.
Not wanting to leave them to Ali's wise judgement, owing to my usual foolish wish to preserve the sanctity of their perpetually creased hides, I hurried out of my turret to see to the matter. There in the garden below did I discover they fought over a pair of slippers, of an intricate blue design over finest white.
When I asked what the source of the finery might be, Farraj spun me a wild tale of a tiny laughing Moroccan, who claimed to have won the shoes in Portugal off of a man "even smaller than... this tall, lord!" and held his hand at the level of my shoulder.
The shoes, they claimed, would grant the wearer the ability to dance more elegantly than any maiden, more surely than any dervish. Remembering from the Commentaries of Caesar that the Celtae had surely spread so far, I laughingly warned them not to risk trying the shoes on lest they never be possible to remove.
Farraj's liquid eyes grew wide, and he snatched them away from his love-fellow, scampering off to hide them more quickly than Daud could follow.
I am told Daud sought them all winter. I wonder, at times, if perhaps he may have found them.