I'm an Extra, so What?

The sun rose over the the Elven capital, its gentle golden light scattering through enchanted trees and glimmering wooden bridges.

Birds chirped in haunting harmony.

A cool breeze carried the scent of starroot and moonberries.

Arthur hated every second of it.

He sat cross-legged on the mossy stone path outside the Elven Transportation Registry Office.

His clothes were rumpled, his boots scuffed, and his hair—usually the pride of his battle-ready image—was now wild and sticking out like a disgruntled hedgehog.

He held a clipboard in his lap, filled with absurd checkboxes, official stamps, and a line titled "Affirmation of Humility."

"I am not signing that," he muttered to himself.

A passing elf gave him a polite bow. "Still not approved, Sir Arthur?"

Arthur shot him a glare. "Apparently I need a permit to apply for a travel permit."

The elf smiled with the same serene smugness all elves seemed to master by age five. "You'll get used to it."

"I will burn this place to the ground."

The elf walked away humming a lullaby.

Arthur stood up and stormed back into the office, where a bored-looking elven woman sat behind an impossibly tall desk. She didn't even look up from her scrollwork.

"Good morning, sir," she droned. "Have you filled out Form N-72-E for cross-kingdom exit requests?"

"Yes. Five times," Arthur snapped.

"And your temporary cultural assimilation pass?"

"Did that. Flunked it, apparently. Something about threatening a bard."

She blinked slowly. "Have you acquired a sponsor from within the kingdom who is willing to vouch for your stable mental health?"

Arthur inhaled. Exhaled. "I asked Vaelor."

She checked a list. "Ah, yes. He filed a counter-request that you be placed under supervision for your own safety."

Arthur made a strangled noise.

"Would you like to try Ahshala?" she offered, not unkindly.

"She challenged me to a riddle contest then ran away yelling I was cursed."

"Charming," the clerk said. "I'll mark that as a soft denial."

Arthur turned, dramatically flinging the door open as he stormed outside.

"Stupid forms. Stupid forest. Stupid elves. I'm the chosen one, dammit!"

A nearby elf child offered him a flower.

He took it. It exploded into glitter.

"I HATE THIS PLACE!"

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Arthur sat on a log beside a bubbling stream, holding a map that might as well have been drawn by a drunken satyr.

He traced the same winding trail for the twelfth time.

"If I follow this path south, then east, then turn at the Whispering Stone and ignore the Singing Mushrooms… I'll still end up back here, somehow!"

Behind him, an owl hooted.

"In daylight?!"

His travel pack had been repacked three times by helpful elves who thought they knew better.

His swords were now "reforged in harmony," which meant they no longer made satisfying shing sounds and instead emitted a gentle chime like wind-bells whenever drawn.

"Fear me," Arthur muttered sarcastically, pulling his blade.

Ding-ling-ling~

A squirrel dropped an acorn on his head.

"Ouch..."

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Arthur tried bribing a trader to smuggle him out.

The trader turned out to be a dryad.

She wrapped him in vines and lectured him for four hours on respecting borders, forest spirits, and internal growth.

He wept silently.

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Arthur built a raft out of hollowed tree bark and enchanted ropes.

He pushed off down a river, laughing triumphantly.

He woke up hours later floating in the exact same spot.

The river flowed in a loop.

He was not okay.

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Arthur found a portal tree.

A portal tree!

This was it—his salvation.

He offered a prayer, stepped in—

—and ended up in an elven daycare surrounded by toddlers who immediately attacked him.

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Arthur was found lying face-down in the grass.

"Arthur?" Vaelor asked, poking him with a staff.

Arthur didn't move. "I am one with the forest. Let me die."

"You've got leaves in your mouth."

"They taste like betrayal."

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"Why won't you let me leave?!" Arthur demanded, standing in front of the Elven Council.

One of the elders blinked. "Because you haven't yet passed the Emotional Harmony Evaluation."

"What does that even mean?!"

The elder read from a scroll. "A test of one's ability to forgive others, release internal anger, and achieve tranquil mental states."

Arthur's lip twitched. "What if I said I'd forgive you all for keeping me here?"

"Then you'd still fail the sincerity portion."

Arthur turned to Eledrin. "Please. Please get me out."

Eledrin sipped his wine. "Why would I ruin such a delightful comedy?"

Arthur's eye twitched again. "One day I will be king, and you will regret this."

Ahshala wandered in, holding a bag of enchanted popcorn. "He said that yesterday. And the day before."

She offered him some.

Arthur took one kernel.

It turned into a butterfly and fluttered away.

He screamed into a pillow.

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Arthur awoke to find an official letter on his bedside table.

"Dear Sir Arthur,

Your departure paperwork has been approved. You are free to leave the Elven Kingdom at your earliest convenience. Please exit through Portal Tree Seven.

With warmest regards,The Department of Reluctantly Letting You Go"

He stared at the paper.

Then at the ceiling.

Then at the paper again.

And he cried.

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Hours Later

Arthur stepped through the portal tree in full armor, battered pride dragging behind him.

He stumbled into human lands.

Collapsed in a field.

Laughed. Sobbed.

"This… this is grass. Real grass! Not sentient moss whispering lessons about balance!"

He kissed the ground.

A farmer nearby blinked. "Are you okay?"

Arthur looked up, eyes bloodshot, cape in tatters.

"Take me to the nearest inn. I need meat. And beer. And a chair that doesn't sing when I sit down."

The farmer nodded. "You're one of those elf-cursed ones, huh?"

"I WASN'T CURSED!" Arthur snapped. "I WAS—"

He paused.

Actually. Maybe he was cursed.

Emotionally, at least.

But finally… finally… he was home.

Or close enough.

And he was never. Going. Back.

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The Broken Horn Inn wasn't even a halfway-decent watering hole by Arthur's standards. The floors creaked when you breathed too hard, and the ale tasted like someone had steeped old socks in vinegar.

But right now? It was his sanctuary.

He slumped in the corner booth, still wearing what remained of his armor—grimy, grass-stained, and undignified.

His usually majestic cape dragged limply on the floor like a wounded animal.

A small group of grizzled patrons and a bored bard sat around a nearby table, glancing his way. One of them—an older man with a scar down his cheek—finally spoke.

"You alright, lad? You look like you got spit out by a cow and slapped by a priest."

Arthur lifted his eyes, haunted. "Worse."

The men chuckled, but Arthur raised a single finger.

"Let me tell you… of the Elven Kingdom."

That shut them up.

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and serious like he was about to recount a war crime.

"I went in… a man of dignity. A champion. A warrior. They took everything."

The scarred man raised an eyebrow. "They rob you?"

"No," Arthur hissed. "They hugged me."

The bard's lute stopped mid-strum. Everyone stared.

Arthur gritted his teeth. "They gave me clothes that breathed with the wind. They braided my hair. They complimented my 'aura.' Do you know what that does to a man?"

The Elves were mean to every human but him!

A burly blacksmith with soot in his beard asked, "They hurt you… spiritually?"

"They served me leaf water. They said it was 'cleansing.' It tasted like grass depression."

The scarred man asked, "No meat?"

Arthur's eye twitched. "Salads. With flower petals. And names like 'Joyful Bloom' and 'Morning Reverie.' I once ate something called 'Whisper of the Wind.' It crunched like regret."

A drunken merchant snorted into his mug. "You're makin' this up."

Arthur slammed his mug down. "They meditate before they greet you. It took two minutes to say 'good morning!' I could've killed a wyvern in that time!"

The others stared, equal parts confused and horrified.

Arthur wasn't finished.

"I built a raft to escape. The river took me in circles. A squirrel laughed at me. Laughed."

The bard leaned forward. "What did you do?"

Arthur stared at nothing. "I wept."

The blacksmith blinked. "You… actually cried?"

"No. Worse. I wrote poetry."

The entire inn went silent. One man dropped his pipe.

Arthur stood, wobbling only slightly, his mug raised. "I was a hero once. A legend. Now? I hear wind chimes and flinch."

From the back, a voice whispered, "Gods preserve him…"

Arthur sat again, more dramatically than necessary. "The princess—Nuvian—told me I had a 'gentle heart beneath the thorns.' I don't even know what that means."

Someone handed him another drink.

He raised it like a martyr. "To surviving elven diplomacy."

The men clinked mugs.

"To surviving hugs!" one added.

Arthur whispered, "Never again."

Just then, a stray breeze blew through the inn's broken shutters, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender and dew.

Arthur paled.

"It's happening again," he muttered.

'I can't handle it anymore!'