Springtime is always beautiful in Aegis Township. Surrounding orchards erupt with blossoms, spreading their sweet scent through the countryside. Fields of young grain wave their dainty shoots in the gentle breezes that play along the rolling hills.

And at the height of the season, the township crowns their king and queen from amongst the eligible young adults of the peasantry. Today is that day, and Derek is once again among those whose lot the judges could choose for the crown. At 23, he’s feeling far too old for the honor. But the technicality of his eligibility persists.

As does that of the sheriff’s young deputy, possibly the most desirable bachelor in the entire surrounding region. Derek cannot measure up in so many ways. Height being the least of them.

Folk tradition dictates much of this annual celebration. There is no escaping it except with great wealth or greater political status. Which are, paradoxically, also ways in which one might end up celebrated by the community.

At just over 25 himself, the deputy is unlikely to be in the running for many more years either. If for no other reason, Derek assumes, then that if he wins, that will be one more point in the man’s favor toward finding a bride. He does not recall any instance of one being crowned as the royalty of spring and being neither wed nor dead by winter.

The fair is a humble thing. Most of the locals are too busy with spring planting to have time to set up a grand festival. The old and decaying monastery on the high hill hosts the event in its courtyard.

None would know the somber monks for their ability to decorate the near-ruin fashionably, but nature does what man does not.

Derek plods up the hill. He has on his best straw hat for the occasion, and it shades his eyes comfortably. The undyed lightweight cardigan his mother knit him has a bright robin’s egg blue trim around the collar that matches the imported silk ribbon on the hat. It is his very best clothing indeed. He carries a basket of his mother’s dyed eggshells on one arm, and his mother herself on the other.

They dressed monastery in her very best as well. An ancient crabapple blooms violently in the courtyard, vomiting pink petals across the open space. Narcissus bow their golden crowned blooms to the guests from their beds of brilliant green leaves. The monks have even scrubbed clean the stones of the low abbey walls that have already given up and fallen to decay.

Musicians sit tuning their instruments in the courtyard where vendors erected booths for the occasion. A man hawks meat pies near the musicians’ stage and a woman tempts the gluttonous with tiny berry tarts barely larger than one’s palm.

The dancing pole stands proudly at the center and several people are milling around, just waiting for the permission to dance.

“Go on,” Derek’s mother offers, “you go have your fun.”

He hesitates. He recognizes several of these people.

“Mom, I-” he begins, but his mother cuts him off.

“No buts,” she chides, patting his arm before releasing it playfully. “I am free from your captivity, Master Guardsman. Now go rescue some other fine lad or damsel from distressful loneliness.” Derek’s mother takes her basket of colored eggs.

He plucks one from their number.

“My payment?” He winks at her.

“A protection racket indeed.” She winks back.

The two part ways for several hours as Derek tries to avoid several of his peers. The crowning of the king and queen is supposed to be the cue to begin the festival dancing.

At the appointed time, Derek joins his fellow youths in the little chapel off the courtyard. A terrible storm knocked the chapel’s roof off several years ago and the monks could not restore it. The little room still has immaculately swept mosaic tile floors and a sacrificial altar that is clean of any debris that the opening to the elements may otherwise permit to fall through.

Three people stand before the magistrate in front of the altar. Even if their faces were not imprinted on every coin that passed his fingers, Derek would know them as the prince and princess of this minor kingdom. They are the hereditary feudal lords that still somehow persist into these more enlightened modern times. And they dress in a faux-peasant style. The prince is in fine woolens that are cut to mimic a hunter’s leather garb. The princess wears a loose gown of delicate undyed linen with an informal gathered waist. To ward off the chill breeze, she keeps a blue silk veil about her shoulders.

With the abolishment of the absolute monarchy, perhaps the civil magistrate holds the power in this room. He is a commanding presence, with curly red hair and a full beard.

And Derek has dealt with him very recently.

The three appraise the assembled youths.

“This winter, I killed three bears!” the annual bragging begins, “I present their teeth as my token.” The young man who speaks approaches and offers a string of bear teeth to the magistrate.

“This winter, I completed my bridal veil.” A young woman displays a fine work of black knitted lace for the prince’s inspection.

“This winter, I -” each one goes. And the prince and princess accept each of the brags as truth based on the magistrate’s brief nods and frowns. Everyone has so many accomplishments.

When there are only a few left, Derek takes his shot.

“This winter, I apprehended a thief,” he boasts, “but I returned the lamp oil he stole to his victim. Here is an egg she painted by its light.” He hands his mother’s painted egg to the princess. She delicately accepts the delicately dyed empty egg with pale fingers that have never had to work the long hours necessary to create this sort of art.

The magistrate nods. The princess smiles at him with sparkling eyes. There is a chance.

From the back of the chapel, a deep voice takes up the challenge.

“This winter, I recovered stolen goods,” Sigismund Burrows states in his loud baritone. “I have uncovered several thefts in our town, and delivered the thieves to justice. I present the evidence of justice done.”

The sheriff’s deputy, who Derek is ever so jealous of on most days of the week, hands a box to the magistrate.

The magistrate opens it carefully and then closes it before the princess can see inside.

The prince looks curiously between the deputy and the magistrate before looking inside the box with its lid angled so that all but his sister can see.

Inside the box are several severed hands.

It is very effective proof that the deed he claims cannot be false. There is no other way to collect those and be free to literally hand them to the magistrate.

And the magistrate looks a little green to be holding the grisly trophies. He nods, but he also shudders and passes the box to the prince to hold. Derek notes one hand still has the owner’s wedding ring on its finger.

Derek knows whose hand that was. Sigismund didn’t take that one alive. Trey Burrows died in the cold while hiding from pursuit. Sure, they restored the stolen goods to their owner, but the cost was much more than just one man’s hand. Derek is unsure that this is an honest boast, but tradition allows for exaggerations and blatant falsehoods.

The princess still holds the delicate egg, turning it over in her fingers carefully.

But when the boasting completes, it is the bold and unconventional Sigismund who has garnered the floral crown this afternoon.

His dancing partner is a dark-eyed beauty who boasted that she walked alone through the woods unarmed and brought back a single red feather from a magical bird. The feather appears plain enough until it gives off golden sparks when waved. Derek thinks it much more impressive than any other thing presented.

After the dancing begins, Derek approaches the magistrate with utmost caution.

“Sir?” Derek asks, “Is that really what justice is to you?” He delicately shows the box of hands. It does not feel like an act of justice to him.

“No,” the magistrate agrees, “it is just punishment.”

“Then why let him keep them?” Derek is trying not to let his feelings on the matter show too plainly on his face. “Isn’t that a bit morbid? One of those belonged to his dead cousin.”

The magistrate turns Derek away from where the prince and princess can hear.

“Master Clarkson,” the magistrate says, while holding Derek’s arm, “It is very good for you to know the difference. People are very easily impressed by flashy displays of power, but they will remember those who wield it by the way it reflects upon others.”

Both look from the box to the handsome young man, dancing with a beautiful young woman, both adorned in flowers and both chosen to represent a full and productive new year. They, and those around them, glow with joy and hope for the future. Derek is the first to look back at the box.

“You do good work,” the magistrate continues, “and I think you will continue to do good work if you keep at it. I hope that someday we have a sheriff who knows justice from punishment.”

“But forgive him his ignorance,” the magistrate shakes his head at this, “he is far from the only one to make this mistake.”

“How can I?” Derek’s fingernails bite deep into his palm as he clenches his fist. “It’s not like he feels sorry for the hurt he causes.”

“Someday he might.” The magistrate nods thoughtfully. “And he might not. Remember, we can always grant mercy.”

The magistrate looks at the grisly box of hands.

“And I think this town could use a lot more of that.”

“What’s the difference?” Derek hasn’t been able to have a talk like this with anyone since his father departed for the war effort.

“Forgiveness you request and can work toward,” the magistrate answers with a sad smile, “but it is not possible to earn mercy.”

Derek finds it hard to join in the dancing this year. But the music is infectious, and he has friends who aren’t holding a grudge over the death of a family member in the deep snows of winter. He tries not to resent the man who has the job he wants. And he tries not to get in anyone’s way.

But the princess still holds his mother’s painted egg. And while that was not enough to earn him a crown of flowers, he hopes that just maybe, he will not be forgotten easily.