Chapter Text
Come little one and I’ll tell you a tale
Of foolish those who traverse the veil
A man by his love who shall forever be blind
And his lover of the trees never shall he find
Oh little one she does call for him so
But bound to her kingdom doth her royal blood flow
So she watches as he wanders
Leaves tears for him to ponder
As the ring on his hand begs his heart not to fail.
He could hear something outside.
This alone was not unusual, there were many things in the woods beyond his decaying fence line. But he knew better than to look through the window.
His hand turned the page of his book. It was a rather good one, gifted to him by a dear friend, long ago. It was a good read, something of strategy from a distant land he'd had to translate. It had taken a long time to find a book of translation, and even longer to make it out into something he could actually read. But it was interesting, and a good thing to pass what little free time he had.
It had been a quiet night for once.
Steam rose in tender curls from the pot which bubbled over the fireplace. And the aroma of rosemary and thyme drifted through his small house.
Peaceful.
And yet still. There was something at the door. Something which drew his eyes away from the well worn pages. Something that called to him without words, nor voice. Something which urged him to stand, to answer, to run and dance and never look back.
Phil sighed and returned to his book. No, he would not answer that call, he knew better. Besides, it's rather rude to answer before a question has truly been asked.
Restless dreams followed him that night. Glimpses of a dark gown and a veil, echoes of laughter just beyond what his ears could truly hear. Then, a rushing noise, and cry’s of carrion birds coursed cold, bloodcurdling dread through his being.
He awoke the next morning already sitting up in bed, frozen with an arm outstretched, as if reaching for something. It took him a moment, for his heart to steady, before he realized the position he was in.
Then, as if burnt, Phil pulled his arm back against his chest. Releasing a breath he had not realized he was holding.
He sat there for a moment more, eyes closed, simply feeling the air slowly filling and emptying from his lungs.
Then, he stood. And began his day as if nothing had happened.
It would not do well , he thought as he adjusted his hat, to bring to the waking world my troubled dreams.
And yet. In the day as he chopped wood for his fire, there were eyes upon him. And yet, as he traveled the old path into town, there was something following behind. And yet, despite his careful tread, each night thereafter; there was something at his door.
*
He shifted the large wooden crate on his back for what had to be the millionth time.
“I should invest in a mule..” Phil wheezed to himself. A trip to the market was no easy feat. The crate he held would unfold into a small stand, selling dried herbs, dried fish, dried… well, everything. Travelers would frequent the town, and they were good customers to the man with a smile and hearty laugh. Better money than the residence at least.
Better than those who watched with weary eyes, who traded whispers whenever they thought he was out of earshot. And better certainly than those who would sell a fish for a copper and turn without a breath to demand two silver from him.
*
“Phil! Setting up early today are we?” A smile split wide across his face as he stepped into the town square.
“Niko! I could say the same to you! Does your father know you’re out before the loaves have even started to rise?” The girl with pink stained hair laughed at his remark. She was known to most as ‘the baker’s girl’, but Phil knew her as Niko, for that is her name.
She had fine fair hair, and it drew many to their table, but after far too many comments that had her father shaking out his fists- and customers shaking off concussions- she had soaked her hair in fresh berry juice, staining the lot of it a light rosy pink.
And oh, how that went over the town. Yet for all their whispering, she got nothing more than grumbles and disapproving stares. Everyone owed her father in some way, and none would dare say a word against his daughter.
She and her father knew Phil better than most, they were the ones to find him, half dead from the cold, in the old, decayed shack by the edge of the woods.
“Had to make sure you didn’t die of exposure on the way!” Niko replied with a grin.
And they would never let him forget it.
“Cheek!” He huffed as she laughed. Phil did his best to suppress his smile, before giving in and laughing as well. He returned to his stand, it would be a long day, but perhaps, he thought, a good one .
*
There was a knock on his door. The full force of the presence returned to him, knocking the wind from his lungs as faint, music-like laughter caught in his ears.
Phil's eyes were blown wide as he stood quickly. Fear and adrenaline pulsed through his blood.
And still, it beckoned him. Not that he had much of a choice anymore. After all, it would be quite rude to ignore someone standing in the cold on his porch.
So, as his being warred within itself, Phil calmly made his way to his door.
"Good evening." He spoke, half bowing with a hand over his heart, keeping his eyes respectfully down. "What brings you to my humble home?"
"You did not answer my call." A woman's voice answered. It was smooth and light as a clear stream in summer, as deep and cold as the winter sea. Yet still, it was warm. Warm as if shielding him from all the hurt and pain the world had to throw at him.
And within it, an undercurrent of hurt. And that hurt stabbed at him more brutally than any sword that had aimed to strike him down in the past. Though he knew, it was the magic talking.
And it was magic. For it was all she was, all she had to be. The feeling of it crept beneath his skin.
"My deepest regrets, my lady." He said, and he meant it. "I did not know if you truly meant for me to answer."”
“You wanted to.” She spoke, and it was true. “And you want to still. Tell me, son of man, why do you not answer my call?”
“My lady…” he began, “I am a son of man, to follow your call would be more than I’ve ever desired yet-“ he paused, “yet I am a son of man. I cannot see what I have done to earn the honor of your attention.”
"Perhaps," She smiled, "you must earn the answer to that question." And her words were as final as nails in the new wood of a coffin, yet still, she had offered an escape.
He recognized the phrasing, perhaps , it was an open door for cornered prey. But in that moment, they both knew he wouldn't take it.
After all, it was the prey that ran who triggered the hunt.
So he dipped his head further, deepened his bow in thanks,
"Perhaps." He said in turn.
And she was gone.
For a moment, he stood in his doorway, and the sound of crickets and birds began to sing once again.
And he realized they had fallen silent.
And as sound resumed to the world he gently closed the door.
And the second it clicked shut he was sliding down to his knees, terror hitting hard and fast. Cold as ice water in the spring, it ran through his veins.
Choked sobs slipped between his hands, and the scars on his back began to burn. And the itch beneath his skin began to burn.
She would be back. And he would have to tread carefully, lest he lose what little he had left.