You’ve been working at the botanical garden for about a week when it dawns on you that you’re about to make a serious mistake.
You know it’s wrong. You know all the arguments against what you’re about to do: they’re good ones. They’re persuasive. But you can’t help yourself.
At some point in the next few months, you are absolutely, 100% going to fuck your boss. Your married boss.
His name is Hebryvyth, he’s five hundred and sixty eight years old, and he’s a sylvan elf. His hair is mossy green, his skin the crinkled brown of old-growth bark. His eyes shimmer like dewdrops left behind by the retreating night. What are you supposed to do about that? When he speaks to you, his voice is low and calm and patient, even when you’ve just badly mangled a cutting that was supposed to be grafted this week. Even when you’ve ripped a bag of fertilizer or tripped while carrying a tray of samples, scattering them across the floor. When he shakes his head at you, his huge crest of horns– velvety, like an elk’s, because it’s still barely midsummer– sways like a metronome, and you find yourself hypnotized by it.
You had graduated only a month ago, the ink was still practically wet on your diploma, and finding this job this soon had been a coup. You loved the city and didn’t want to leave it, but there were limited opportunities to use your degree in such a tightly-packed urban setting. There was hardly any greenery left here. But the botanical garden in the Commons had an opening, and your labwork had always been excellent, so two phone calls later you were sitting in front of Hebryvyth in your best (only) suit and trying not to stare.
“So, Y/N,” he’d said in a voice like the wind sighing through the branches, “what is it that draws you to nature? If you love the green, why live in a city that has so little of it?”
You’d stammered something out about preserving what little beauty remained, making sure everyone got to enjoy it, and some cliche about dirt under your nails. You could hardly hear yourself talk. Your pulse was pounding in your ears as you took in every detail: the smooth lacquer of his fingernails, the tiny leaves poking out from under his starched collar. Whatever you said must have impressed him, because a week later you were getting the full tour.
On those occasions when you reflect on your misfortune, you suppose the trouble started on your second week. You arrived at your workstation– a standing desk in the corner of the lab, next to the trash can– to find something resting there already. A flower crown, woven from wire-thin branches and covered in blooming lilac. The scent of it filled the air around your desk with heady sweetness. You picked it up in trembling hands and noted without surprise that the plants all looked alive and blooming. It fit your head perfectly. You walked around with your head in the clouds for the rest of the day, even when Rachel two desks over came back from her lunch and saw it. “Oh, that’s a pretty one,” she said without a trace of surprise. “He makes them for all the new employees. Kind of a ‘welcome aboard’ present.”
That may be so, but this one was special. You knew it. This one was yours. And someday, Hebryvyth would be too.
By the time you had met his wife, your crush was terminal. It was at a gala celebrating some important anniversary for the garden; you’d been assured that you didn’t have to show up, but you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to dress up for Hebryvyth. You squeezed into your sea-green dress and spent an hour looking at makeup tutorials on YouTube. The few sylvan videos you found were rather heavier on wood stain and varnish than blush and concealer, but you eventually settled on a look that seemed “foresty.” At the gala you’d clung to Rachel, one of the few people you recognized, until Hebryvyth came by to say hello. He wore a tuxedo tonight and his horns were hung with ribbons and little tinkly bells. Every movement was accompanied by a windchime carillion.
Behind him was another sylvan elf: tall, with high cheekbones and long, flowing locks like the branches of a willow tree. She wore a simple, sleeveless chiffon gown that clung to her like cobweb. Her bare arms looked like tree branches in midwinter. She smiled down at you– God, she’s tall, you remember thinking– but there was no warmth in it. It was as though in one look she had pierced your deep and secret desire and it amused her. Go ahead, try, her eyes said. I’d love to see it.
“This is my wife, Eliatiss,” Hebryvyth had said. “Elia, this is Y/N, our newest employee.”
“A pleasure, dear,” she’d said, and extended one hand. What could you do? You shook it with a big, fake grin on your face. Her touch was surprisingly warm and gentle, though it still felt like shaking hands with a scarecrow. “You look lovely,” she added, and turned to her husband. “Come, dear, there are some people here from the Academy that you have to meet.”
Meeting her, you realized now, had been the start of something new. Before that, it was a crush. Now, it was a competition. You had always been a bit shy at school, and your few attempts at flirting had been painfully awkward. Now you studied seduction the same way you’d crammed for an Organic Chem final. You went out and bought an array of new tops, some scandalously low-cut. Well, it was summer. There was nothing wrong with that.
At work, you found excuses to spend time with Hebryvyth. This, you realized quickly, was more exhausting than you’d expected. With a title like Director of Operations, you’d expect him to spend most of his time in the office pushing paper around. He leaves most of that to his secretary, a faun named Glorianth, and instead spends his days wandering the park. As often as you can, you join him on his rounds, sweating and toting your watering can and your pruning shears.
His technique is not like any you’ve studied. He’s touchy with the plants, getting down on his hands and knees and plunging his fingers into the wet soil. He presses his ear up against the bark of a tree and listens to it. He carefully plucks a single petal from a blooming rose and places it between his lips.
Then he tells you to cut here or trim there or take a sample from this bush. And you obey, but you’re careful to bend at the waist and hold the watering can two-handed in a way that pushes your breasts up and out. Is he looking at you? You don’t dare check. When he makes a joke– and he does, often, in the same soft deadpan that he always uses– you laugh and laugh. You find excuses to touch him, to draw his attention to areas of new growth or worrying patches of blight. When you find a small cluster of orchids growing wild in a rocky cleft, he actually compliments you, and for the rest of the day your feet barely touch the ground.
One day in mid-July you call him over to your station to ask about an unusual pattern you’ve noticed on some of the elm bark you’ve recovered. You stand at his shoulder as he turns your samples over and then peers at them under the microscope. When you lean in to look, your boobs press against his side and you feel his breath in your hair. You don’t dare say anything. He doesn’t respond to your touch at all. He just waits until you straighten up, then nods at you and tells you you’re doing a great job. As he leaves, Rachel scurries over to your desk.
“What the hell are you doing, Y/N?” she hisses as soon as Hebryvyth is gone. You look around before answering. It’s just the two of you and Glorianth in today, and the faun is bopping her head with some poppy music video and playing Solitaire on her work computer.
“I’m just looking for elm-leaf beetle eggs,” you say, as nonchalantly as you can. “They’re a real pest, you-”
“Don’t play stupid!” she says. “I’ve seen the way you act around him. Jesus, everyone’s seen it. You’re not exactly being subtle.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, but your heart’s not in it. Damn! You thought you were being subtle.
“Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes. “One, he’s like… more than ten times your age. Two, he’s married. Three…” she bites her lip and trails off. “One and two should be enough. You gotta stop this, Y/N. This is a bad idea.”
“What’s three?” you retort. “You want him yourself? Are you actually jealous?” It’s just a clumsy misdirection, but to your surprise, she blushes and looks away. Is she really?
“No,” she snaps, then softens. “Look, I’m just trying to help you. This is really not a good idea. You have a good job here. You’re a smart girl. Don’t mess it up for yourself.”
“Oh, should I be thanking you for your wisdom?” you say. You don’t mean to bite her head off, but you’re suddenly so angry. Her jealousy is leading her to sabotage your burgeoning romance. And she’s only three years older than you! Maybe she tried what you’re trying herself, you reflect. It didn’t work for her, but it must be working for you. Otherwise, why would she warn you off?
“Thanks for the advice, Rachel,” you say as sweetly as you can. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.” You turn back to your bark samples and bend over to look in the microscope. With a last shake of her head, Rachel stalks back to her desk.
After that, she doesn’t come around nearly as much, and she must have spread the word because nobody else does either. That suits you just fine. Hebryvyth still seems to enjoy your company. In fact, he’s started to request you accompany him on his rounds of the park. You walk as close as you dare and breathe deeply, inhaling the woody scent of him. It’s like stepping into an old-growth forest. Once, when the two of you are walking through a little valley, a hidden grove at the center of the park, you take his hand. He starts slightly, but doesn’t pull away. All you can hear is the thudding of your heart. You stare straight ahead, back ramrod-straight, sweat beading on your forehead. When you reach the end of the valley he gently pulls his hand back, but his fingers caress your palm and you nearly faint.
The two of you exchange numbers, ostensibly to communicate when you’re at opposite ends of the park. You haven’t gotten any kind of official promotion– certainly not a raise– but you’re his deputy now, and he often sends you on little errands. Let the others grumble. This is love, now you’re sure of it, and love must be free to bloom. It would be wrong to hide your feelings. You haven’t discussed any of this with Hebryvyth. In truth, you’re not even sure how to bring it up. But in your moments together, you can feel it pouring off him, a desire as strong as yours. A yearning, like a seed’s yearning to grow and flower, to become a tree. The same primal force that pushes saplings up through six inches of soil.
You’re just as clumsy at flirting by text as you are in person, but you fill your messages to him with emojis, smiling and winking and occasionally blowing a kiss. You call him Hebry, and he never corrects you. You send ribald jokes and innuendos that would make a sailor blush. He’s more subdued, but sometimes he surprises you. You didn’t think people his age even knew about the eggplant emoji.
Finally, the moment you’ve been working towards arrives. You knew this was all building up to something, but it still shocks you when it arrives. Friday, you’re getting ready to go home and enjoy a solid weekend of Netflix bingeing, when you sense someone behind you. You sigh and ready yourself to politely tell Rachel to mind her own business.
It’s not Rachel. It’s Hebry. He’s standing there, tall and solemn, staring at you with his dewdrop eyes. His horns are magnificent. Most of the velvet has peeled away, leaving arcing spires of what looks like ivory. The tallest tines are wrapped in flowers and their petals rain down gently like confetti.
“Y/N,” he begins when he sees you looking at him. “Would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow?”
“I…” you begin. All of a sudden the reality of your situation crashes onto you. Is this what you want? Is it really? Last chance, an inner voice tells you, and to your annoyance it sounds like Rachel’s. You brush it aside. “That sounds lovely,” you say. “Where?”
He hands you a slip of paper with an address on it. It’s in the suburbs, but you figure you can catch an Uber. You accept it with shaking fingers. “My house,” he says. “Six pm.” His eyes linger on you for a moment and then he’s gone in a trail of falling petals and floral scent. You clutch the paper to your chest and sigh.
Your barely sleep at all that night. You toss and turn for hours, eventually reaching into your bottom drawer and retrieving the vibrator stashed under your socks. You buck and thrash on top of your sheets until they’re soaked with sweat and you’re breathing hard. Finally you drift off, but your dreams provide no relief; in them, you’re a forest nymph, a tiny creature draped in diaphanous silks. You skip through the forests until a looming, horned shape chases you down, pins you to the ground, and ravishes you slowly and thoroughly.
You wake up confused and tangled up in the sheets. A shower sets you partially to rights, and after a bowl of cereal you set to work. Makeup first: foundation, concealer, blush, highlights on your nose and cheekbones and forehead. Lipliner and lipstick and your stubby eyebrow pencil. You throw open your closet and try outfit after outfit. They’re all wrong for some reason or other: too dowdy, too gaudy, too slutty, not slutty enough. You wish you had prepared better. You finally settle for a dark blue cocktail dress long enough that you’d be ok with your mom seeing you wear it. You put your hair up in a bun and admire yourself in the mirror. Now that’s a good look. It’s still early afternoon, so you lounge around on the couch watching a Netflix comedy special. Your roommate comes home and gawks at you. “Damn, Y/N!” she says. “You look hot! Going out tonight?”
“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound indifferent about it. “You know. Might be fun.” You gently deflect any questions about “the guy.” “Just someone I met online,” you insist, and though you don’t think she buys it, she’s polite enough not to dig into your business. Finally, it’s late enough for you to call your car.
Your driver drops you off at five minutes of six, and you catch your first sight of the house. It’s impossible to mistake it now that you’re here. Most suburban houses don’t have a tree growing right up through the middle, its broad canopy spreading like an umbrella overhead. The neighborhood is pretty toney, and you wonder just how much the Director of Operations makes. A ripple of doubt twists your tummy. Is this a mistake after all? You get the feeling that you are terribly, hopelessly out of your depth. No, you tell yourself. This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve been aiming for the whole time.
Your heels click off the stone path that leads to the front door. You ring the doorbell and wait politely. The door is mahogany and carved with a bas-relief pattern of leaves and twisting vines. Just as you think you should maybe knock, it swings open. “Good evening, Heb–” you begin, and stop. There’s nobody there.
“Hello?” Your voice echoes in the anteroom. You step inside and peer around the door. Beyond the little entrance room, the center of the house is open, revealing the massive trunk of the tree at its core. It must be ten feet across. Smaller plants are everywhere, sitting in pots or in little hanging troughs. It’s warm and humid in here, almost like a rainforest. A spiral staircase leads upward, around the tree. You step further inside and close the door behind you. The house, as far as you can tell, is still and empty. The only sounds are your footsteps and the fading echoes of your voice.
“Hello?” you call again. You look left and right, and a horrible thought grips you. What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s gotten cold feet? You knew this was a mistake, you knew you shouldn’t–
Footsteps fill the air. Is it Hebry, come to tell you to go home, it was all a mistake? Or is he here to apologize and usher you inside for a magical evening? You look around frantically, then look up in time to see the figure descending the spiral staircase. Your heart sinks. It’s worse than either of those options.
Here’s Killian painted as close and realistic as I can see in my head. I’ve been working on his story for a while now and I have to say, it’s progressing slowly but steadily but I’m getting there! I’m really proud of this one and I hope you all like it, too. ✨
STORIES THAT WERE TOLD BY PEOPLE SPEAKING LANGUAGES WE NO LONGER KNOW
STORIES TOLD BY PEOPLE LOST TO THE VOID OF TIME
STORIES
GUYS LOOK AT THIS
OH MY GOD YOU GUYS
GUYYYYYSSSS
“Here’s how it worked: Fairy tales are transmitted through language, and the shoots and branches of the Indo-European language tree are well-defined, so the scientists could trace a tale’s history back up the tree—and thus back in time. If both Slavic languages and Celtic languages had a version of Jack and the Beanstalk (and the analysis revealed they might), for example, chances are the story can be traced back to the “last common ancestor.” That would be the Proto-Western-Indo-Europeans from whom both lineages split at least 6800 years ago. The approach mirrors how an evolutionary biologist might conclude that two species came from a common ancestor if their genes both contain the same mutation not found in other modern animals.”
finally putting some older stuff on here @ w@ so if it looks familiar it probably is i am sorryyyyy i just wanna keep things in one place so i can pretend i’m organized sigh first draft of mermaid rey from like 2 yrs ago!! i need to draw her more her colors are so pretty… ; ;
As always, you can find us (and information regarding our upcoming episodes) on Twitter! If you want to rate and review us on iTunes or donate to support the show, that would be great as well. Thanks again to @lunaplath for joining us! See the show notes below.
Hi, thank you so much for your recommendation!
Although The Shape of Water was probably the most anticipated film for teratophiliacs since forever many may not not know that there’s also a book. I think it’s more or less a novelization of the movie but as it’s written by Guillermo del Toro himself it clearly stands out among other novelizations.
It’s been on my to read list for some time but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. When I do I’ll report back. ☺️
A faerie introduces himself. Then, holding out a hand, asks, “And your name, please?”
And, like a fool, you give it to him.
I got asked for clarification on this (but can’t reblog that particular post cuz on mobile), which I’m more than happy to provide.
In this post, a faerie is asking for ‘your’ name. The way he is wording it, however, and the accompanying beckoning motion, makes it seem as though he is asking for you to physically hand your name over. Which, because of how some faeries operate, he is.
In this instance, saying your name aloud to the fae would be literally giving your name over to him, the exact consequences of which are left up to the imagination–usually, a fae even knowing your name gives it some measure of power over you, but giving something your name would likely let it completely take over your life.
In this instance, the wording you want to use is something like “I will not give you my name, but I will tell you that it’s [name].” Alternately, you can just lie to him.
Might i suggest the less direct yet still name-preserving “you may call me…”? It dodges the request while still giving an answer of a name, which does not even have to be yours, but any name you feel like telling the fae they can use to refer to you. I would recommend “Ainsel”.
The first time he asks for your name is the first time you meet him. He appears as you walk by the færie ring, that you have not entered because your grandmother has repeated so many times not to do so, and, curious of your presence, watches as you jump when you notice him.
You recognize him instantly. It is the Fæ whose influence your village is under, the one the elders have told you and your friends to be wary about, for the people who have been seen walking away with him have never come back.
You don’t know what he does to them. The villagers have never dared to confront him about it, never dare to address to him at all. He is not evil: he sometimes speaks blessings upon the cattle, talks the horses to calm after a storm, ensures a good harvest for the farmers, makes the flower bloom in spring even when the weather is still too cold. He is, simply, a Fæ, whose ways humans cannot understand.
“Hello, little one,” he says as you stand very still, back straight, hands fidgeting with the fabric of your skirt.
You do not go away – you cannot. This, your grandmother has taught you, would be considered as an offense, and you could be cursed, or he could take out his wrath onto the village. You do not shy away from his stare, however, even not knowing if this will displease him or not. You are eight, have the courage and the recklessness of your childhood innocence, the boldness of those who have not yet learnt how to fear; but you have been warned against the Fæs, who like to toy with humans and play tricks upon them, so you do not defy him either.
He walks up to you. You pray he will stay in the færie ring, as it feels like a protection, and fortunately, he does. He isn’t too malicious to the youngest ones, you have been told once – just do not know if this is true or not. You knew a girl your age called Nimia, that has been caught a year ago, and she has never come back to the village, and her parents have cried all week cursing the Fæ.
You summon to your memory everything your grandmother has taught you to ward off Fæs, and protect yourself against their tricks. You do not want to be the next Nimia.
He introduces himself as Áed, although you suspect it is merely a nickname. Then, holding out a hand, he asks, “And your name, please?”
There is your grandmother’s warning at the back of your head: names give power over people. The Fæ is asking you to literally give him your name, and who knows what he’ll do with it – he might as well use it to take you away, like he surely did to Nimia. To all the people who have never been seen again. To your own mother, two years after you were born, even though she was too clever to be caught by a Fæ’s trick.
So you remain quiet, watching him with wide eyes, until his own stare darkens, and he shakes his hand under your nose.
“Your name, little one.”
You pull yourself together. He might curse you if you don’t answer. You gather your courage, and, with the spontaneity of children who have freedom in their veins and do not bend to rules, you stretch out your hand back without touching his.
“I am sorry, lord Fæ. I haven’t heard you very well. Can you give me your name, please?”
He looks at you with surprised amusement. “Oh, well played, little one. You’re clever. Just for this one, I will let you go.”
He retreats his hand, and you scramble back as quickly as you can, bowing to him clumsily before taking your leave.
You had passed by the færie ring to go the well to wishes, even though the elders forbid the youth its access, disobedient little child that you are. You just wanted to wish for your father to let you wear your mother’s necklace – ‘not yet’, he always says, ‘when you are thirteen’. You forget about going there, after this encounter. You go back home, and your grandmother scolds you for having been gone for so long.
You do not tell her about the Fæ. She has already lost her daughter to him. If she knew he had tried to lure you, you would not be able to leave the house again – and you value your freedom too much for that.
The second time he asks for your name, you are fifteen, and you have ran to the well to wishes again, forgetting the elders’ warnings. You have sworn to yourself you would not go back home anyway. You are not sure what you want to wish for, but at least for all this pain within you to fade; just to be more, or maybe less, like your mother, to accept the village’s rules better, to simply fit in and be happy that way.
Eyes full of tears, breath uneven, barefooted on the grass, your mother’s necklace beating against your chest as run, you have not made a detour to avoid passing by the færie ring. You trip and fall in front of it, and Áed finds you curled there, crying and cursing to the world.
“Those are not pretty words,” he says.
You freeze. You push yourself on your elbows, sees the færie ring, feels dread slip into your head. It is only the second time you see him, and you are not a child anymore. You have learnt to fear.
The Fæ, who has taken Nimia, then Lettie, on the day of her wedding, and even the old Mack, hovers over you curiously, at the edge of the færie ring. You remember to keep still, not to offend him. You feel the fear you should have felt when you were eight; and yet again, as tonight sadness and despair have already filled your heart, you do not manage to remain terrified.
“I don’t care,” you answer, sitting on your knees.
He finally sits down, too. He does not talk, so you do not feel compelled to talk either, and silence stretches between you for a while.
“Were you going to the well to wishes?” he asks eventually. You nod. “It does not work anymore. Whatever you wish for, it will not grant it.”
You feel your chest tightening.
“You might not say the truth.”
He smiles. “Indeed. I might not. But you can try yourself.”
It might have been his way to allow you to leave – but you do not find it in yourself to do so. You are tired. You have run as fast as you could from your home. Your grandmother must be worried about you, and she will probably never let you stray from the village again. Your father’s shouts still resonates in your ears, saying you are not a good daughter, that you will never be, asking why you feel such a need to always run free, just like your mother, then asking why you cannot be her.
You know you should listen to your elders, tame yourself, learn to properly take care of your household, and stop fleeing from your duties and your classes to explore the wild. You just cannot help it. You were already a disobedient child; but the teenager you are now cannot bear authority.
Freedom.
Is it too little to ask?
“Are you going to stay here?” Áed asks.
You shrug, unable to answer properly. You feel too pitiful to try to talk with a Fæ – a tricky exercise, as Fæs like to twist words as they like and get human souls from a clumsy sentence.
“You can,” Áed then says. “I will watch over you.”
“This sounds too nice, lord Fæ.” You haven’t been able to prevent the dryness of your tone. “It might be another trick.”
And yet, you lay on your back, somewhat desperate, arms crossed behind your head, not knowing where else to go or what else to do. The Fæ, after all, is not evil, you remind yourself. He also does good things, occasionally. You might just be lucky.
“Aren’t you afraid, little one? I know you do not trust me.”
“I am too tired for that.”
He laughs. “Will you not give me your name, then?”
“I cannot give you my name,” you reply. You know what it would lead to. Giving your name to a Fæ is giving him the power to take over your life. “But I will tell you that it’s…”
You hesitate. The Fæ knowing your name would also give him some power – that is what has lost Lettie, you’ve been told.
“Elaine.”
You close your eyes, and Áed simply laughs. He does not speak afterwards; yet you remain wary, and heavy thoughts are on your mind, so you do not find sleep easily. You end up turning towards him, and opening your eyes again, wondering if he has left, too bored to stay watching over a sleeping human.
But he’s still there.
“Little liar,” he says, not smiling but not sounding angry either. “This is your mother’s name.”
You are somehow not surprised he has noticed. Your grandmother said your mother used to go the well to wishes often – she might have met him too, talked with him, before he took her away. Just like you, your mother didn’t fear the way to the well to wishes and the færie ring. The same recklessness, the same need for freedom runs into your veins. That might be why your family is so afraid to lose you.
“You remember her?”
“I do. I remember Nimia, also. That foolish girl, Lettie. The old Mack, who tried to cut the færie ring. And all the others.”
“Why do you take them away?”
He looks at you. “Humans are fascinating. You poor little things, so weak and powerless, your lives are so short, and you do not know half the wonders that exist. And yet. You manage to find happiness.”
You feel yourself drifting off to sleep, listening to the soothing velvet of his voice. Exhaustion has caught up to you. Your eyes are already closing off.
“It is no reason to take it away from us,” you murmur, tiredly.
He keeps on staring at you, but does not answer. After a while, you simply close your eyes again, and this time, sleep finds you after a few minutes.
When you wake up, Áed is gone. You go back home, and your grandmother cries when you arrive. She forbids you to leave ever again. Your father apologizes for his harsh words, and you apologize for your rebellious attitude.
“Where were you?” your grandmother asks, once the calm has returned to the household.
“I slept by the færie ring,” you say. “But the Fæ wasn’t there.”
You can hear it in your head, ‘little liar’ said with his voice, and it somehow makes you want to smile.
“You shouldn’t,” your grandmother admonishes. “Your mother used to do that too, and look where that led her. You were lucky.”
“Yes,” you reply, and this time you think it, too.
The third time he asks for your name, four years have passed ever since you have slept by the færie ring, and your grandmother has still not allowed you out of the village. She does not like the longing looks you throw to the forest and the valleys beyond either, says you are now of age to be married, and should do so before she picks you a husband herself. This annoys you. She has, however, loosened her strict watch, and you can come and go out of the house mostly as you please.
For a few months, now, Kevan has been courting you, and you enjoy having the freedom to spend time with him. He is the blacksmith’s son, has had several lovers before you; but he assures you he can only look at you now, that you are the special one, and he swears if you marry him, he will make you the happiest woman of all Qelt.
You always laugh at that. He is cute and charming, but freedom is still your keyword, and you do not see yourself speaking vows to anyone yet. He shrugs, whenever this is your answer, then takes you in his arms, and makes you laugh some more.
But tonight, he doesn’t shrug. He has drunk, you know, maybe too much, and you look at him in slight fear when he grabs your arm too tightly after you have refused him once again.
“Why?” he groans. “I’m nice to you.”
“I know, Kevan,” you reply, trying to keep your calm. He is simply drunk. You have talked to more drunk boys than one, nothing has ever happened to you. “Now let go of me, please. I told you, I simply do not want to marry yet–”
“You do more than that. You refuse yourself to me. I’m courting you, but it never goes further than an embrace.”
“I do not owe you more than an embrace. If this bores you, you’re free to woo another woman.”
He pulls you to him, and his grip hurts, this time. “I do not want another woman!”
“Kevan, you’re drunk!”
You put a firm hand on his chest to keep some distance between you, keeps your head away from his. You know what he wants, but you do not want it.
“Why don’t you love me?” he asks, accusatory.
Part of you feels guilty. Part of you feels angry.
“I don’t owe you feelings.”
“You’ve seduced me. You’ve let me court you.”
You thought you loved him. You simply wanted to take it slow, to grow a friendship with this charming boy, before doing anything. You enjoyed his attention. You enjoyed playing this little game of cat and mouse with him, thinking it would end well for the both of you once you would have decided your freedom could also be with him.
But not anymore.
Your freedom cannot be with a man who will not wait for you, yet will not move on to someone befitting him better.
“I just wanted time, Kevan,” you try, despite knowing the idea of a future with him is over. “Can you understand that?”
“No!” he roars. “I’ve waited enough. You’re mine, you hear me?!”
“You’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re saying, you-”
“YOU’RE MINE!”
He pulls you closer, and you break free. He screams your name, but you’re already running out of the inn, under the confused eyes of the other villagers who have always seen you two getting along so well, and do not understand what has happened.
Kevan screams your name again, chasing after you.
Fear takes over.
What is he going to do? He is drunk, simply, he surely himself does not understand his own acts. But what if he catches you? Will he just shout? Will he cry? Will he stop himself, being the charming boy he has always been?
Unless this charm of his was nothing but a way to get into your bed, and this friendship you wanted, he has never had any use of it?
And if he catches you, he will get his way with you, whether you want it or not?
No, he wouldn’t do that. He isn’t like that. He might not go that far.
But you can feel his need for bruising kisses, for his hands on your skin, at least, and you can see yourself crying as he holds you tight and calls you his, because it is not how it was supposed to be – and this, you do not want at all.
He calls you names. Yells insults. You run, never turning back, never slowing down. You cannot lead him to your home, you think. Your grandmother and your father are sleeping and you should not even be out, and he would get you before the door.
So, you keep on running.
Your legs carry you to the only place where you’ve found safety outside the village, and when you hear Kevan’s voice louder, his steps closer, you scream before diving into the færie ring.
“ÁED!”
He receives you in his arms. You fold against his chest, trembling and still unable to believe the man you thought could become your husband has gone as far as chasing you outside the village, to the færie ring all villagers avoid.
You do not even want to know how Kevan has reacted. You breathe in and out, slowly, letting Áed hold you and stroke your hair.
“Easy, little one,” he whispers to your ear. “Easy.”
“What are you doing?!” Kevan’s shout. He sounds afraid. “Get back here! It’s–”
“Hush, human.” You have never heard Áed speaking so coldly. Kevan falls silent – drunk or not, every villager knows to respect the Fæs. “This one is under my protection.”
There are no words exchanged for what seems to be a long, long time. You can hear Kevan’s ragged respiration behind you, just one meter away. The færie ring feels like a protection once again; yet you’re inside, this time, and that’s where you feel safe.
“Leave.” There is the hint of a threat in Áed’s voice. “Now.”
Kevan’s steps finally hurry away after a few seconds of hesitation, and you break. You cry. You cling on Áed’s tunic, and you shed your tears, resting your forehead on the crook of his neck.
“It’s okay, little one. He’s gone. You’re safe.”
You somewhat forget he has taken your mother, Nimia, Lettie, the old Mack, and all those other missing villagers from before you were born, during the centuries he has lived. You somehow forget of what you risk, being in a færie ring, in a Fæ’s embrace.
And Áed does not lie to you. You’re safe. He lets you cry in his arms, without asking anything of you, without taking you to Fæqelt, the holy land where his kind resides, without any tricks or malice.
“I do not want to go home,” you murmur.
“It is okay, little one. You can stay here. The færie ring is safe for you.”
You pull away to look at him. “Are you not going to trick me?”
“I won’t.” He is grinning. You believe him, even though you should not.
“Not even ask me for my name?” you try to joke, pathetically.
He raises a brow. “Would you give me your name?”
“No,” and this time you’re smiling, even just a little. “But you may call me Ainsel.”
He laughs and ruffles your hair, and keeps on calling you ‘little one’ – he’s a Fæ too old to be tricked back that way. You end up laying down side by side in the færie ring, and he talks with you until you fall asleep.
When morning comes, you’re in your bed. When you finally stop avoiding him, a few days later, Kevan apologizes to you, then never talks to you again.
You prefer it that way.
The fourth time he asks for your name is very soon after. You come to the færie ring at night, darkness being the only way to escape your grandmother’s watch to leave the village, though you do not enter it.
Last time seemed like an emergency situation. You are not sure you can be so lucky not to be tricked by the Fæ again.
You are not so sure why you have come here either. Maybe it is the fact that you have started appreciating Áed, despite all his evil deeds – that he yet does not see as evil, simply as a Fæ’s doings. Maybe it is because you are starting to understand that your parents’ wedding and your birth was, for your mother, more of a curse than a blessing; and that the same fate of having to bend yourself to what everyone is expecting you to do might be awaiting you as well.
But maybe, it is just the freedom of being able to run under the moon wherever you want, and feel the wind into your hair, away from a village you love but which has started to grow too small for you.
“Little one!” he calls when he appears. He seems surprised, but pleased. “I did not expect to see you so soon. Are you going to the well to wishes?”
You shrug. “No, I wanted to see you. Please do not ask me why.”
“Why?” he maliciously asks.
You shake your head, raise your eyes to the sky. That makes him laugh. He is infuriating, in a way; yet you cannot help but smile.
“How are things, with the ruffian?”
“He has apologized, but has stopped talking to me. He thought me going into the færie ring was a dream, though. I’m glad of it. Had he talked about it, it would have caused me troubles.” You grimace. “My grandmother would have locked me in the house, and married me off immediately.”
“And I could not see you again?” he exclaims. “Horrible. Why would she do such a thing?”
You look at him quietly, and his expression shifts to a less mischievous one.
“She has already lost her daughter to you,” you say, voice soft. “She does not want to lose her granddaughter.”
He opens his mouth to talk, closes it. You are convinced that years ago, he would not have reacted the same way. Would not have taken it so seriously.
“Do you miss her?” he asks.
“I was two, when you led her away. I did not know her well. But my grandmother and my father miss her, and I have always been able to feel there was something lacking in our home.”
He nods. You nod back. There is something strange, in the atmosphere, though you cannot say what. You are not sure he regrets what he has done – how could he? He remains a Fæ, after all -, but you know he has no intention to talk about it with any kind of pride anymore.
“Come here, little one,” he finally says. “And I promise, nothing will happen to you. I will not bring you any more harm.”
You step into the færie ring, standing proud in front of him. Your heart is strangely beating hard in your chest, and he smiles at you, eyes gleaming with a light which is not mischief, but something much softer.
“Will you give me your name, little one?”
It is not a bargain. He already knows your answer.
“You will let me refuse, won’t you?”
He winks. “I will.”
“Then, I can’t give you my name,” you decide, amused. “You are still welcome to call me Ainsel, however.”
“Oh, ‘little one’ suits you better.”
You laugh, and you two sit in the færie ring to talk again, and you tell him things you cannot tell anyone else – you tell him about your dreams of freedom, your wish to explore the world, even Fæqelt, the fact that the village has started to be a prison for you, instead of a home, that your family is your anchor but not your guide, about your need to leave.
He listens. He gives you some answers. Tells you about Fæqelt, about how færie rings can be used to travel within all Qelt and beyond, about himself, also.
And you start thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, traveling with him.
You start coming back to the færie ring more and more often. You are curious about him. A strange bond has started developing between you two, and the more you know about him, the more you notice the constellation of golden freckles on his cheeks, the way his eyes glint with a reflect of starlight, how his laugh sounds when he’s particularly happy, the softness of his smiles which are not tainted with mischief.
Soon, you find yourself craving for those interactions.
There is no one else in the village able to understand you, to support your desire to wander around the world. No one else to talk about travels and adventures with. Even your childhood friends, who have shared all your ups and downs, cannot get why you do not want to become a fine housewife, and live the rest of your life surrounded by what you have always known.
You know, now, why your mother has walked with her hand in Áed’s, while she was too clever to be taken away.
It was the craving for freedom.
She should have known better than abandoning her family; but you can understand how trapped she must have felt in this little village, especially if a marriage and a baby was not what she had wanted. She must have looked longingly to the forests and valleys beyond the village, as you now do, and must have thought it would be better to be led astray by a Fæ than to remain chained down and become a shadow of herself, needing freedom as one needs oxygen.
You understand.
You would have done the same, had you married Kevan as you planned to, all those months ago.
But one night, you stay too late, and your grandmother is waiting for you when you come home at dawn. She notices the grass on your dress, asks for explanations, does not believe any of your lies.
So you tell her the truth, for she has always been one of your pillars, but she screams the moment she hears you have bonded with the Fæ – and her screams wake your father who cries and despairs when learning what you have done.
For the first time in years, he says again you will never be a good daughter. He cries that you are too much like your mother, with the same craving for freedom, the same desire to leave the village, that if he does not keep an eye on you, you will run away to Fæqelt and never come back. He accuses you not to love him, for your mother surely did not love him and the idea of a family with him – or not enough to stay.
Your grandmother locks you into the house, does not allow you out again except under her watch. She promises to marry you soon, as she did for her daughter when she understood her daughter would one day leave her if she did not. The world is too wild for humans, she tell you. Binding you here is the only way to protect you.
This is for your own good, they say, but it does not do you any good.
The village learns about it. Kevan understands what he had seen that night was not a dream, reveals you have stepped into the færie ring, into the Fæ’s arms. And then the villagers, those people who have raised you, seen you grow, watched you live, whisper that you are lost, and that you are a Witch. They say you will bring bad luck to the village, that you are a channel through which curses and tricks from Fæqelt will pass; but they cannot get rid of you and risk the wrath of Áed.
You are not even sure they know what a Witch is. You do not, not really. Witches are wanderers who have strange powers, people say, obtained through a pact with a Fæ. It is like making vows with mischief itself: Witches might be human, but like Fæs, they cannot be trusted.
You cannot go anywhere without hearing the whispers, or feeling the heavy stares in your back. One day, at the market, you receive a stone from Lettie’s former husband, who did not know better. Your grandmother, ashamed, as she cannot even marry you off to a villager anymore, does not defend you.
After that, you stop leaving the house at all.
And you understand your mother’s decision even better.
The fifth time he asks for your name, it’s Early Summer Night, the beginning of the warmer days, celebrated by the entire village around a banquet. Your grandmother and your father have left the house. They are convinced you will not. No one would want to see you at the banquet, after all.
But your need for freedom is still there.
You escape your home which has become your prison, and you only feel like living again once the wind is in your hair, the grass under your feet, and you can breathe in fresh oxygen. You run. Your legs welcome the dearly missed sensation blissfully, take you to the færie ring.
You do not know where else to go.
“Áed,” you whisper when you step into the færie ring, and he’s there, and you’re in his arms, and he’s holding you so tight you realize he must have missed you like you have missed him.
“Do you know how scared I was, little one?” he asks in a strangled voice. “I thought– I thought you would never come again.”
You break in tears. Everything is too much, feels too much, has been too much ever since your grandmother has discovered you had approached the færie ring. You feel like shattering – and in a way, you do, pressed against his chest, pouring your heart out and wishing this night would not end.
“I thought they had killed you,” Áed murmurs, caressing your hair.
“They wouldn’t,” you sob. “They scorn me, now, but they’re not murderers. And I have done nothing evil.”
“What’s inside you, what you are capable of, it scares them. And scared people lose their minds far too easily.”
You shake your head like a child. “They would not harm me.”
“Not physically. But they could have harmed you in other ways. Your beautiful mind, for example. They could have killed this spark in you.” He pauses. “Forced you to give up on your freedom.”
You think of all those days spent the same way, cleaning, cooking, sewing, all nice tasks as long as they’re not the only ones in your life, looking by the window and desperately wishing to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin again, to walk around without fearing to be called names or to receive stones.
You think of how, had you not known him so well, you would have already escaped and given him your name, for getting lost forever in Fæqelt will always be better than the life you now have.
“They almost did.”
You realize, belatedly, how terrified you sound. Áed takes your face between his hands, looking so worried you think he might cry too.
“Little one, you do not have to remain here. You can leave. That is what you have always wanted.”
“But,” you weep, “they are my family.”
“Family should push you forward, and not hold you back. They might warn you, but they should not bind you. Leave, little one. Take your freedom. They do not own you. Come back to this village a fine traveler and a proper Witch, and show them they were wrong to outcast you.”
You manage to smile weakly. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Because it can be. Witches are travelers who venture into Fæqelt and explore it, little one. That, you can be easily. You have the wit and the courage for it.”
You take a breathe, in and out, the despair in your stomach slowly turning into a glint of hope.
“Aren’t humans supposed to lose themselves in Fæqelt?”
“Not with the blessing of a Fæ,” Áed replies softly, and your heartbeat fastens.
The future, all of a sudden, seems open with a thousand possibilities. You see the roads, the travels through færie rings, the foreign people in the inns, the new towns, the vast, vast world you have always dreamt of seeing, the holy land of the Fæ, mysterious and enthralling, only ever told in myths – and Áed by your side, being his usual self, smiling at you so brightly.
“Yes,” you say to this future, to this everything. “I would want that.”
There is relief on Áed’s face, relief and fondness – as if he had wanted you to say that, for your sake and because that was something he wished for, but was not sure you would bring yourself to do so.
“I will come for you during Midsummer Night, when Fæs can leave the færie rings, and blend in with humans. Be strong until then, little one. Do not let them bind you.”
“Thank you, Áed. Thank you.”
“Just give me your name in exchange,” he jokes to cheer you up.
It makes your chest so warm the tears pour out again. Áed smiles, kisses your humid cheeks gently.
“Next time”, you promise, crying. “Next time.”
You still want to give your village a chance.
Or at least a goodbye.
The last time he asks for your name, you are ready to leave. You are but the shadow of yourself, now. The days until Midsummer Night have been endless. Your grandmother has suspected you had gone out during Early Summer Night, but has not been able to prove it – she now barely talks to you at all. Your father has managed to marry you to a farmer in the next village, who hasn’t heard of you.
You have long wondered why their worry has turned into anger and resentment, why they have caged you, when they simply wanted to protect you. No matter your apologies, your explanations, they won’t listen to you at all.
Now, you suppose it is easier to hate than to forgive, especially when there is finally someone to blame for your mother’s disappearance – for all those disappearances. But they have not realized what they are doing is what drew your mother away from them, what is also drawing you away.
They cannot understand. And what they cannot understand, they fear; and what they fear, they try to keep it locked somewhere until it dies.
“Gather your belongings,” your father tells you when the night is falling. “Tonight, you will meet your future husband. We will celebrate the wedding when the dances end.”
They are taking you to celebrate Midsummer Night in the next village, and are getting rid of you the same day, so that no villager will have to bear your presence ever again. You tell them all goodbye in your head, sat in your father’s cart, the bag containing your few belongings on your lap as you watch the little houses and the streets where you have grown up fade away into the night.
Your future husband is introduced to you as soon as you arrive. He is nice, and his family welcomes you warmly; but you can see they are just like the people of your own village, thinking everyone should be content doing what they’re expected to do, and they would frighten of your need for freedom. You already suffocate when they say everything is ready for the wedding, insist on celebrating Midsummer Night first – and fortunately, they all agree.
You embrace your father and your grandmother before joining in the dances. They do not quite understand when you already bid them farewell.
You share a few dances with your future husband, a charming man who would never be able to understand you, and would fear you if he really knew you. He feels guilty leaving you to go dance with his sister, but you laugh and encourage him to do so.
You do not tell him you will dance again anyway.
That would be a lie.
You watch as he nods and hurries to his family, then change partners yourself, taking the hand of the first man who approaches you–
“Hello, little one.”
–and you nearly cry when your eyes meet his. He is so beautiful, in the light of the high flames lit in the middle of the village, you almost think he is a dream – but he is not, oh, he is not, and you have never been so happy.
“You are of exquisite, tonight,” Áed says.
You are wearing the wedding dress you have sewn yourself, all those days spent in your house, and your mother’s necklace resting on your chest, that necklace you longed for so much when you were just a child, which is the only thing from her your father has allowed you to keep.
“Thank you,” you tell Áed, for calling you exquisite, and for everything else.
He laughs and makes you twirl, and for the first time in what feels like centuries now, you laugh too. He does not let go of you. You do not want him to.
“Will you give me your name, little one?” he asks; but this time, you know what he will do with your name, with your life.
He will set you free.
So you stand on tiptoes, and you give him your name, finally, and he wraps his arms around your waist to whisper his own, real name into your ear – then, when the dance comes to an end, you run hand in hand to your father’s cart to pick up your bag, laughing like children, before disappearing into the night.
No one sees you leave.
It means you might come back one day.
This is the most beautiful thing i have ever read and i hope everyone it comes across reads it and feels the same intensity that i felt beacause it is truly a work of art
Monsters and Villains 