The headless horseman had long since accepted that he was feared. It was part of the job, really. Gallop through the night, carry the scent of death on the wind, and make sure that any poor soul who crossed his path knew—knew—that their fate had already been sealed. There was no need for conversation, no need for theatrics beyond the grim spectacle of a rider with no head. That was enough. That had always been enough.
Until now.
Now, he was humiliated.
The Pixies shrieked with laughter as they tossed a worn down satchel—the one containing his very own head—high into the air, their tiny wings fluttering as they passed it between them like some cursed game of keep-away. One of them even spun in a little twirl before lobbing it halfway across the clearing, where another Pixie effortlessly caught it.
The Dullahan lunged, his body moving with all the deadly grace of an executioner—but his swipe missed entirely, and the fae cackled.
"Oh-ho! He almost got it!" One of them giggled, before tossing the bag over his nonexistent head.
The horseman froze mid-motion.
His head—his head—was in there. His skull, the thing that commanded fear, the thing that made mortals tremble and cower. And now it was being juggled between a bunch of tiny, fluttering goblins who thought this was all a joke.
Which, to be fair, it was—but not to him!
His hands clenched into fists, and though he had no face, his entire body radiated sheer existential despair. He turned slightly, his shoulders trembling, as if in the middle of an invisible scream.
His traitorous steed stood off to the side, munching on grass, thoroughly uninterested in assisting. It flicked an ear in mild annoyance, as though to say, You're on your own, buddy.
The Dullahan made a furious gesture toward it—one that very clearly screamed, DO SOMETHING!
The horse whinnied and continued munching.
Useless. Absolutely useless.
He was a horseman of death! A harbinger of the end! And yet, here he was, flailing helplessly while pixies played volleyball with his head.
And the worst part—the worst part—was her.
The mage sat leisurely on the old tree stem, her dark suit crisp despite the wild outdoors. Watching. Waiting. The same way she always did.
Oh, he had suspected she was behind this from the beginning. He'd been scared of her for years—not in the usual way, not in the run-away-screaming kind of way, but in the this-woman-is-dangerous-in-a-way-I-do-not-understand kind of way. She didn't fear him, which was already unnatural, but worse—she planned this.
He knew she planned this.
She had set this whole thing up, and now she was watching him suffer with some kind of silent, sadistic amusement.
For a long moment, the Dullahan stood frozen in place, hunched slightly like a man undergoing an existential crisis.
Then, very slowly, he raised his hands to the sky, as though questioning the gods themselves.
WHY.
One of the Pixies chucked his headbag extra high—so high that it almost reached the treetops.
The headless horseman panicked.
He lunged.
And missed.
The Pixies shrieked with laughter again, dodging effortlessly as he whirled around, his movements increasingly frantic.
He pointed at the mage. A sharp, accusing motion.
His invisible glare screamed, YOU. THIS IS YOUR FAULT.
She remained seated, utterly unbothered, watching as though this was nothing more than an evening's entertainment.
The Dullahan turned away, fists shaking. His entire body twitched.
He could be out there right now, delivering death omens to mortals. He could be scaring people. He could be doing literally anything else.
But no.
Instead, he was being bullied by a bunch of flying gremlins while his horse ate grass.
The Pixies whooped. One of them did a little mid-air somersault before spiking the satchel toward another group.
The horseman let out a full-body tremble of despair.
He hated this. He hated this so much.