She took a drink.

"Now, shall I tell story?"

She nodded.

"Once upon a time..."

Once upon a time, in the glorious underworld, a man lived by himself on the edges of an apple orchard. You may ask yourself – how can an apple orchard grow in the underworld? – But the underworld is a grand and wonderful place, full of mysteries and magic that would turn your head, and clear your skin of freckles.

This man lived alone, but not lonely. He was kept company by the animals that lived nearby, creatures unknown in the upside world, creatures of fantasy and legend – the griffin, the minotaur, the centaur, the pegasus. He spoke with them, and befriended them, and loved them.

At the time, the underworld was ruled by a witch of a queen, a woman who thrived in the far, icy reaches of the land, her grasp and control over the underworld stretching like a cold front, wind and snow and ice blowing across the land. She was alone amidst a castle full of underlings and toadying supporters, creatures who bowed before her will and continually disappointed her. She was lonely, though she’d put to death anyone who suggested such a thing.

Now it happened that next to the apple orchard, in one of the vagaries of weather which is so particular to the underworld, the man kept a grove of lemon trees. The trees produced lemons of such sourness, such perfect, lip puckering sourness – nothing you have in the upside world can begin to compare. The man cultivated these lemons, for he used them to make lemonade. Tart, perfect lemonade. With a secret recipe of sugar and water and lemons in symphony, this man’s lemonade was spoken of across the underworld, though he never asked for such a thing. Had never offered his drink for sale, or for profit, only to lost travelers who stopped at his house by the side of the road, on their way through the orchard, or on to one of the grand cities of the underworld. Over time – years, decades, centuries – the ice queen heard of this lemonade, and with an evil heart, determined to force the man to tell her the recipe, and then destroy him. There was nothing in her heart of warmth.

Though she could have sent any one of a thousand sycophantic warriors, she traveled herself to the man’s house on the edge of the apple orchard, in disguise. As she journeyed across the underworld from her seat of power and ice, to where the lemons grew in sunshine and warmth, freckles blossomed like kisses across her cheeks, brought out by the golden light that shone down upon her.

The man, meanwhile, knew nothing of his queen’s travels. He tended his lemons, and made lemonade, and set aside the pick of his crop for another beverage. He spoke with his animal friends, and thought, ever-so-fleetingly and never out loud, of someone to share his life.

On a warm summer’s day, as he laid beneath a lemon tree, a woman hailed him from the road, and the sun was in his eyes as he looked at her. Still he smiled, and greeted her warmly, for that was his nature, and offered her a glass of lemonade, for the sun was hot and she looked ready to melt.

She accepted with a smile, for the queen was nothing if not an expert in playing her subjects. And perhaps she saw some mirror of herself in the man’s smile, his simple house designed only for one, his eagerness to welcome strangers, to know them. She accepted his lemonade, and sure enough, it was as she had been told. Perfectly tart, with a sweetness that teased her tongue, and the light of a warm summer sun seemed to shine from within the glass. Her face blossomed in another spray of freckles, and the man laughed, but with no malice, merely joy.

His happiness was infectious, and as the ice queen, slowly melting, finished her glass, she spoke to the man, and they fell in love, though neither knew that was what was happening. The man told her of his secret recipe, and the queen forgot it, uncaring of her prior plans. What did it matter? This man, this soul – he knew the secret and that was enough for her. She would keep him, safe, and in her private reserve.

But though the queen now knew love, she knew not the right way to act on it, and when the man’s back was turned, she struck him, and in an unconscious state, she carried him from the room, bringing him back to her castle by means of magic, with a bag of freshly picked lemons.

When the man awoke, he shivered. This was not his home – this cold land, these icy stones. And then his love swept into his room, richly appointed, but still a prison cell. “My love,” she murmured, and her voice was as crystal, “You will make lemonade for only me, for ever.”

And he tried, for he loved her, and was it not better to be with the one you loved, than alone, in a place where you were happy?

And the first few batches were as ever, tart and sweet. And they drank it together, and in those moments, the sun was bright. And then she swept out again, and the door locked behind her, and the man was lonely. The lemons hardened in a frost, and he tried to compensate for their new flavor, experimenting with different combinations of sugar, and other ingredients. But it was not the same. And the queen came less frequently, and the sun shone less brightly, and the ice reached closed and closer to his cell.

With his last lemons, he mixed another batch, stirring carefully in the old proportions. A solitary tear fell into the pitcher, crystal and cold, and mixed with the juice. Acting on some impulse he couldn’t describe, he bottled it, in seven decanters of various shapes and sizes. Three he tucked away in the bundle of blankets he slept in, longing for the warmth of his old home, three he bound with golden ribbons to give to his queen, and one he opened, and poured into two glasses, for his love was coming.

The queen swept in, and the temperature dropped, as the man pulled a fur closer around him. But the sight of his love warmed him slightly, though the freckles on her face were diminished, and no longer read to him of their love. They toasted, then drank of the last of the lemonade.

But the taste was different, the color, the texture. It was… bittersweet, sad, speaking of regrets and loves lost, and the queen looked down at her glass with sadness, her freckles entirely melting away, for their was no more sun to shine on them.

“Go.” She whispered, tears in her throat. “Leave this place.”

The man nodded, and gathered his meager belongings, carefully wrapping his bottles in cloths, and walked out the open door behind her, as she swept the three unopened bottles to the floor, where they shattered, all while she slowly and methodically finished the last of the lemonade.

The man walked out of the castle and left the underworld, which was no longer home to him. Love lost, he wandered, and shared one bottle of the last lemonade with a novelist, whose pen ran with tears as he wrote his next novel. He shared another bottle with a broken musician, whose next symphony was hailed as a stunning work of inescapable sadness, and perfect loss.

And the last bottle he saved for himself.

"Come into my parlour," he said, and the timbre of his voice was just right. Maybe it'd work. Maybe she could keep him talking and just ride the waves of the sound. Of course, he was quoting the spider to the fly.

"Or fly away home?" she tried in part to jest.

"This," he said, and he pulled out a bottle from one of the canvas bags that were stashed near the window. The bottle looked green as he grasped it and blue as he carried it, but she saw in the light as he poured the contents into two cups that it was actually red, and the liquid gold. "This is last bottle of a vintage I cannot describe." There was no label on the bottle, just thin etched words, like Elvish, she thought, thinking of Bilbo's "spidery handwriting."

It smelled like the last days of summer, like pumpkins and playing in the leaves. She held it in her hands, and it warmed them or cooled them - she wasn't sure. The colours were that of gold, the real thing with hints of red and not the mustard that the crayon box gave it. It smelled sweet and poignant at the same time, spicy and nostalgic.

She took a drink.

"Now, shall I tell story?"

She nodded.

"Once upon a time..."

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