A Journey Unwanted-Chapter 445 - 434: The Witch’s Hospitality

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Quadling Country]

[Glinda’s Castle]

Puck’s expression shifted slightly as Glinda’s question settled—her eyes narrowing in confusion as she glanced toward Grimm.

("That wouldn’t really make sense.") Her thoughts moved quickly, trying to piece it together. ("It isn’t possible that they’ve met before, it shouldn’t be. Grimm’s not even from this realm. There’s no overlap and no shared history that should exist between them, but even then—") She paused. ("...that grinning cat knew Grimm, there was that porcelain guard as well.")

The thought lingered just long enough to unsettle her before Grimm spoke.

"We have not met before," he said, his tone neutral, as if the answer required no further consideration. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Not in any place and not in any time that I am aware of. If there is familiarity, it does not come from shared experience—at least, not one I possess."

Glinda’s brow lifted slightly.

"Oh? Really?" she replied, leaning back into her chair, her posture relaxing but her gaze sharpening. "That’s interesting. Because what I’m feeling isn’t vague or fleeting—it’s quite persistent, actually. You don’t simply remind me of someone, you feel as though you’ve already existed somewhere within my memory."

Her fingers tapped lightly against the armrest.

"And despite that," she continued, "I cannot recall where I would have seen you, or why that recognition lingers so strongly. It’s not often I forget something like that."

Grimm did not hesitate.

"A senior moment, then," he said bluntly, the words landing without tact. Then, more bluntly, "If your memory fails to produce an answer, it is more likely a fault of recollection than a hidden connection."

Puck nearly choked, she coughed, catching herself mid-reaction, eyes widening as she turned sharply toward Grimm. The Cowardly Lion didn’t fare much better—his shoulders jolted as a startled sound escaped him, somewhere between a gasp and a splutter.

Alexandria’s brows drew together, a clear crease forming as she looked toward Grimm with restrained disapproval—but she held her tongue.

Glinda, however, chuckled softly.

"Perhaps," she admitted, unbothered, though her eyes still held that same focus. "I have been collecting quite a few years, after all. It would be rather optimistic of me to assume my memory remains flawless."

Her gaze turned toward him again, just briefly.

"But," she added with a small smile, "it is considered impolite to bring up a lady’s age so directly. Even when one suspects it may be relevant."

Grimm inclined his head slightly.

"I see," he replied, neither apologetic nor dismissive—simply acknowledging the statement without altering his stance.

("He really just said that and moved on...") Puck exhaled quietly, lowering herself until her feet touched the table’s surface near Grimm, her posture settling as she shook her head slightly. ("Seriously, this guy should think before he speaks. Or at least pretend to.")

Her eyes turned toward Glinda again, more cautious now.

The witch let the moment pass.

Then, gently she spoke.

"But I suppose," she said, her tone shifting, "we should move toward the crux of the matter. As much as I enjoy these small curiosities, they’re not the reason I invited you here." Her smile returned, softer this time around. "As charming as you all are, I don’t make a habit of gathering little troublemakers without a reason."

Puck hesitated, then lifted a hand slightly.

"I’m guessing..." she started, her voice dipping just a little, "it’s about the Hammer-Heads? Because if it is, then—well... I can probably see why we’re here." There was a hint of sheepishness there—not quite guilt, just awareness of what they did.

"Partially," Glinda replied, reaching for the cup before her. Her movements were simple yet elegant, as she lifted it and took a small, dignified sip before continuing. "They are difficult, to put it lightly. Stubborn, territorial, and not particularly fond of outsiders who disrupt their way of life."

She lowered the cup carefully.

"But that does not change what they are to me," she added, her voice steady. "They are still my people. And whether they are pleasant or insufferable on any given day, that responsibility does not disappear simply because they make it inconvenient."

Her eyes met theirs again.

"I have an obligation to defend them. Not selectively and not conditionally. Entirely."

Grimm spoke again, just as evenly as before.

"I doubt you summoned us here for a mere apology," he said, his tone direct. "Not for something that carries that lack of weight."

Glinda smirked.

"It would be nice," she admitted, her voice softening just slightly. "There’s something to be said for acknowledgment. But no, I’m not particularly interested in prolonging conflict for the sake of it."

She set the cup down with care.

"Powerful as I may be," she continued, "I find very little value in unnecessary fights. They tend to cost more than they give—time, energy, and often things that can’t be so easily replaced." Her gaze steadied. "So, we let bygones be bygones."

A small pause.

"Your actions toward the Hammer-Heads," she went on, "can be understood as self-defense. They are not known for their restraint, after all. And I would be a poor leader if I refused to acknowledge that."

The tension eased slightly.

"Granted," she added, her tone unchanged—gentle, even warm, "were you to turn that same aggression toward the bunnies..." She smiled. "...I would slaughter you all."

The words were delivered so sweetly and effortlessly, that it took a moment for them to fully register.

Puck stiffened and the Cowardly Lion’s shoulders locked in place, his breath catching just slightly.

("...yeah. There it is.") Puck exhaled slowly, her thoughts drifting despite herself. ("The lion did say she cared about them... a lot.")

Her mind was pulled back to Bunnybury. She couldn’t help but think of it now that the witch had brought it up.

("They were fine. More than fine, actually. Everything there worked, everything ran smoothly, no one seemed to be struggling.") She frowned, just slightly. ("They looked content. They were even safe and stable.")

But—

("...were they actually happy?") The thought lingered longer than she would have liked, she remembered the smiles. ("They smiled, sure, but how many of those were real? How many of them actually felt anything beyond that routine?")

Her heel tapped lightly against the table.

("Is that enough? Just being content?")

She didn’t have an answer.

She’d never been content—not really. Even when things were calm, even when nothing was wrong, there was always something else pulling at her. Something more to see, more to understand, more to chase.

("Curiosity doesn’t let you sit still, it pushes you, whether it’s good for you or not.") Her gaze lowered slightly. ("Did they have that? Anything like that? Something to chase, something to question, something that made them step outside of that perfect little rhythm? Or were they just living?")

Simple, predictable, and safe lives.

She exhaled again, it was much quieter than before.

("Maybe in a place like this, that’s enough for them.") But even as the thought formed, she couldn’t agree with it. ("If that’s all there is... is that really living?")

Grimm’s gaze shifted briefly toward Puck.

It wasn’t an obvious movement, not something anyone else in the room would easily catch, but it lingered long enough to register. She had gone quiet. Not outwardly tense, not distracted in the usual way—just still, her thoughts clearly somewhere else.

("So she’s still thinking about it...") He studied her for that fraction of a moment. ("I wonder what conclusion you came to when seeing that city...")

It wasn’t idle curiosity. To Grimm, conclusions mattered. Not the surface reaction, not the immediate emotion—but what a person settled on after thinking. That was where intent lived. Where belief took shape.

("People reveal themselves in what they accept and in what they reject.")

And Puck, she wasn’t simple. Not in the way she spoke or in the way she acted. And certainly not in the way she observed things when she thought no one noticed.

("You’re harder to read than you let on...")

The thought lingered a second longer then passed, his attention returned to Glinda.

"Bygones be bygones... hm," Grimm echoed, the words rolling out slowly as he folded his armored arms across his chest. "For something you’ve already deemed ’understandable,’ this entire exchange feels unnecessarily elaborate." A slight pause followed, then, more directly he continued.

"Something this insignificant could have been addressed in a letter," he added, his tone carrying enough bluntness to make the dismissal clear. "A message or a warning. Even a demand, if you preferred simple clarity over courtesy. Summoning us here suggests there is more at play than simple forgiveness."

That was enough.

Alexandria stepped forward, the movement firm, placing herself just slightly more between Glinda and Grimm.

"My lady’s mercy is not something to be reduced to convenience," she said, her voice sharp. "So I would advise you to watch your tone when you speak of it." Her eyes locked onto him. "You sit here after acting against her people, and yet she chooses not to retaliate, not to escalate and not to punish. That is not something owed to you. It is extended despite your actions."

A breath followed.

"You should be grateful for that, whether you understand its value or not."

"Gratitude," Grimm replied, calm as ever, "is not a necessity when one possesses the strength to stand without it."

Alexandria’s jaw tightened slightly, her lips parting as she prepared to respond, but Puck cut in.

"Don’t mind him," she said quickly, her tone lighter with a clear intent to diffuse before things sharpened further. She lifted her small armored hand, gesturing toward Grimm with a small unimpressed look. "He’s just like that. A big idiot with a talent for saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible time."

She glanced at Glinda, her expression softening just slightly.

"We are grateful," she added, more sincerely now. "Even if he’s terrible at showing it. Letting this go—especially after what happened—that’s not something everyone would do. So yeah, it matters."

Her eyes turned sideways, shooting Grimm a small glare.

He shrugged.

Glinda smiled.

"You’re too sweet," she said, her tone warm, though there was something observant behind it—as if she were noting the balance Puck was trying to maintain.

Her gaze shifted back to Grimm, settling there.

"But yes," she continued, her voice smoothing out, "there is another matter I would like to discuss with you." A brief pause followed. "But at present," she added, rising slightly from the back of her chair before settling again, "I have something else that requires my attention. Something that cannot be delayed without consequence."

Her fingers rested lightly against the table.

"So," Glinda said, looking between them all now, "I would like to invite you to stay here. In my castle."

Puck blinked.

"Wait—just like that?" she asked, the question coming out more openly than she intended. "You’re inviting us to stay?"

Even Alexandria turned her head slightly toward Glinda, a hint of confusion breaking through her otherwise composed demeanor.

("My lady...?")

Glinda didn’t waver.

"Indeed," she replied simply. "Hospitality, offered without complication. You are my guests, whether the circumstances of your arrival were ideal or not."

Her tone remained gentle, but firm in its decision.

"There is more to discuss between us," she continued, her gaze briefly returning to Grimm before softening again. "Matters that require time, not rushed conclusions or half-spoken conversations."

A small pause.

"And time," she added quietly, "is not something I intend to waste by sending you away only to call you back again." Her hand rested near her teacup. "So you will stay," she finished, it was not a command—but not entirely as a suggestion either. "Rest and observe, think if you must. When I return, we’ll continue this properly."