This story is apocryphal and carries no canonical force.
No thresholds were crossed.
No names were given freely.
No cold iron was required.
There were no antlers directly observed.
No findings were entered into the record.
Howard was replacing a hopper’s hydraulic return line when Jake entered the shop carrying a manila envelope like it had whispered to him.
“Howard.”
“No.”
“They work in courts.”
Howard kept tightening the fitting.
“Yes.”
Jake leaned in.
“Fae have courts.”
Silence.
Trent wheeled his chair over, laptop glowing with an open browser tab titled:
SEELIE COURT EXPLAINED (THREAD ???)
Howard did not look.
Jake paced.
“They bind people with contracts. They obsess over the letter of the agreement. They exploit loopholes. They cannot lie but they can destroy you with precision.”
Trent nodded gravely.
“And lawyers say, ‘within the letter of the law.’”
Howard wiped his hands.
“That is called statutory interpretation.”
Jake slapped the envelope.
“That is called glamour.”
Howard inhaled slowly.
“This is something you saw on the internet, isn’t it.”
Jake hesitated.
“…It was a discussion.”
“With antlers in the profile pictures?”
“…Possibly.”
Howard nodded once.
“Of course.”
They attended a routine zoning hearing because Jake insisted they needed proof.
The courtroom was quiet. Polished wood. Raised dais. Flags. Seal.
The judge entered.
“All rise.”
Jake whispered, “Hierarchy ritual.”
Trent leaned close.
“Summoning phrase.”
Howard stared forward.
A lawyer stood.
“May it please the Court.”
Jake gripped the bench.
“Fealty language.”
Howard whispered, “Decorum.”
During recess, Jake walked the perimeter of the courtroom like an inspector of enchantments.
He tugged at a door handle.
Brass.
He checked another.
Silver-plated.
He crouched and tapped the rail.
Brass fittings.
He turned slowly.
“Howard.”
“No.”
“There’s no iron.”
Howard blinked.
Jake spread his arms triumphantly.
“No iron door handles. No iron rails. No iron fixtures. It’s all brass and silver.”
Trent whispered, “Cold iron repels Fae.”
Jake nodded.
“Exactly.”
Howard looked at the door.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Brass doesn’t rust.”
Jake froze.
Howard continued evenly.
“It doesn’t stain hands. It’s antimicrobial. It polishes well. It’s decorative. That is why it is used.”
Jake pointed dramatically.
“That is the cover story.”
Howard closed his eyes briefly.
“You think the county facilities budget is secretly structured around supernatural metallurgy.”
Trent considered this.
“…Line item: anti-ferrous concealment.”
Howard pinched the bridge of his nose.
Back in session, a lawyer calmly stated:
“The statute does not specify agricultural scale, only agricultural use.”
The hopper, through a chain of bureaucratic absurdity, qualified for a tax exemption.
Jake whispered, “Portal.”
Trent nodded.
“Loophole.”
Howard leaned over.
“That is what happens when humans draft language imperfectly.”
Jake tilted his head.
“Or when the Court delights in precision traps.”
The lawyer continued smoothly:
“We operate strictly within the letter of the law.”
Jake went still.
“The Letter.”
The fluorescent lights flickered.
Howard looked up at the ceiling.
“Ballast.”
Jake whispered, “Glamour.”
After adjournment, the lawyer passed them in the hallway.
Polite smile.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
For half a second, the lights hummed lower than they should have.
Jake squinted.
“Did you see that?”
Howard:
“No.”
Trent:
“He blinked sideways.”
Howard:
“He blinked normally.”
Jake stared at the brass handle again.
“No iron.”
Howard exhaled slowly.
“Gentlemen. Courthouses use brass because it is durable, corrosion-resistant, and inexpensive relative to constant repainting. Lawyers focus on wording because law is written language. Loopholes exist because humans are imperfect drafters.”
Jake folded his arms.
“And the Courts?”
Howard:
“Human institutions designed to resolve disputes.”
Trent leaned in.
“And the Seelie Appellate Division?”
Howard:
“No.”
Pause.
From somewhere deeper in the building, a gavel struck.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Howard stared directly ahead.
“That was a door.”
Jake nodded slowly.
“Doors are thresholds.”
Howard:
“I am going home.”
Late that evening, in an empty courtroom, moonlight slipped across the brass railings.
The air shimmered faintly.
For the briefest heartbeat, antlers.
A whisper:
“Clause seventeen remains unguarded.”
The brass handle did not rust.
Fade to black.
Howard’s official statement the next morning:
“There are no Fae in municipal government. There are only procurement policies.”
Jake, offscreen:
“That’s exactly what a procurement policy would say.”
Howard does not respond.
He simply replaces another hydraulic fitting.
And absolutely refuses to grow antlers. ????
can we give this a little more narrative please
Yes.
Let’s give it bones. Atmosphere. A slow simmer instead of a meme montage.
Howard stays granite.
Jake builds a cathedral of nonsense around him.
?? APOCRYPHA: The Court of Subsection
It began with a manila envelope.
Howard knew this because Jake never entered a room quietly when holding paperwork. He arrived like a prophet carrying prophecy.
“Howard.”
Howard was under Hopper Three, one arm elbow-deep in hydraulic fluid.
“No.”
“They work in courts.”
Howard did not move.
“Yes.”
Jake stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was revealing a classified file.
“Fae have courts.”
There was a long, patient silence beneath the hopper. Then:
“This is something you saw on the internet, isn’t it.”
Jake hesitated. Just slightly.
“It was… a discussion.”
“With antlers in the profile pictures?”
“…Possibly.”
Howard slid out from under the machine and sat up. His expression was not angry. It was worse. It was calm.
Jake paced while Trent rolled over in his chair, laptop glowing.
“They bind people with contracts. They obsess over the letter of agreements. They exploit loopholes. They can’t lie but they weaponize wording.”
Trent nodded solemnly.
“And they literally say ‘within the letter of the law.’”
Howard wiped his hands.
“That is because law is written language.”
Jake pointed triumphantly.
“Exactly.”
Howard stared at him.
“No.”
The zoning hearing was quiet and faintly dusty, like all municipal spaces that have absorbed decades of fluorescent lighting.
The judge entered.
“All rise.”
Jake whispered, “Hierarchy ritual.”
Howard stood.
“That is decorum.”
A lawyer stood next.
“May it please the Court.”
Jake’s eyes widened.
“Fealty language.”
Howard stared forward.
“It is politeness.”
Trent leaned in.
“You don’t kneel to politeness.”
Howard did not respond.
During recess, Jake began inspecting the room like a paranormal contractor.
He tugged at a door handle.
Brass.
He checked the railing.
Brass.
He crouched to inspect a fixture.
Silver plate.
He straightened slowly.
“Howard.”
“No.”
“There’s no iron.”
Howard closed his eyes briefly.
Jake gestured to the entire room.
“Cold iron repels Fae. This place is a no-iron zone.”
Howard walked to the door and tapped the handle.
“Brass resists corrosion. It doesn’t rust in humid public buildings. It’s antimicrobial. It doesn’t stain hands.”
Jake folded his arms.
“That’s what they’d put in the brochure.”
“You think the county facilities department is secretly enchanted.”
Trent considered.
“…Line item: anti-ferrous compliance.”
Howard inhaled slowly through his nose.
Back in session, the attorney spoke smoothly.
“The statute specifies agricultural use, not agricultural scale.”
Through a chain of absurd interpretation, Hopper Three was classified as temporary agricultural equipment.
Jake whispered, “Portal.”
Trent nodded.
“Loophole.”
Howard leaned slightly toward them.
“That is what happens when language is drafted by committees.”
Jake’s eyes never left the lawyer.
“That is what happens when the Court delights in precision.”
The attorney continued:
“We operate strictly within the letter of the law.”
The lights flickered faintly.
Jake froze.
“The Letter.”
Howard glanced at the ceiling.
“Ballast.”
After adjournment, they filed into the hallway.
The lawyer passed them.
Polite smile. Neutral tone.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
For just a fraction of a second, the fluorescent hum dipped lower than usual.
Jake stopped walking.
“Did you see that?”
Howard kept moving.
“No.”
“He blinked sideways.”
“He blinked normally.”
Jake turned back toward the courtroom doors.
The brass handle gleamed.
“No iron,” he murmured.
Howard stopped.
He turned.
His voice remained level.
“Courthouses use brass because it is durable and cost-effective. Lawyers focus on wording because imprecise wording destroys fairness. Loopholes are not portals. They are drafting errors.”
Jake looked almost disappointed.
“And the Courts?”
“Human institutions designed to prevent chaos.”
Trent tilted his head.
“And the Seelie Appellate Division?”
Howard met his gaze evenly.
“No.”
From somewhere deeper in the building, a gavel struck.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Jake’s eyes widened.
Howard waited one full second.
“That was a door.”
Late that night, moonlight pooled across the empty courtroom.
The brass railings gleamed faintly.
For a heartbeat, shadows stretched just a little too long.
If anyone had been watching, they might have thought they saw antlers reflected in polished wood.
A whisper drifted through the air:
“Clause seventeen remains unguarded.”
The lights hummed.
The brass did not rust.
The next morning, Howard addressed the matter in the maintenance bay.
“There are no Fae in municipal government. There are only procurement policies.”
Jake nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s exactly what a procurement policy would say.”
Howard returned to his wrench.
He did not grow antlers.
And he absolutely refused to check Clause Seventeen.