Chapter Text
The month of June starts off perfect—warm, sunny weather that allows you to do most of your chores outside in comfortable clothes, tending to your goats and chickens with a gentle breeze that quickly dries the sweat on your face.
It’s the kind of fair weather you dream about, and that usually lasts for all of two months. You don’t mind the work, it’s what you moved out here for; a peaceful, secluded life with just you and your animals.
Your parents understood your decision to move, but your friends were confused at first.
“The country? By yourself?”
“Seriously, goats?”
You understood their reactions, considering the fast-paced job you thrived in and the life you’d built in the city. But in your soul, you yearned for the peace of the land you grew up in—flowering meadows, clear blue skies, tree-covered valleys under the shadows of a craggy, snow-topped mountain range.
You’d done everything expected of you when you became an adult; you went to college, got a degree, a Serious Boyfriend, and landed a great job that paid well.
You were happy until Serious Boyfriend cheated, and after a messy breakup and a lot of self-reflection, you recovered. When you took a much-needed break to visit home, you fell back in love with the land and bought a secluded five-acre plot with a fantastic view of the mountains.
Your friends continued to doubt you, and they said it in roundabout ways.
“You sure about the animals? It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“Do you really want to be alone up there?”
“What if something happens and you have no one to help you?”
You brushed aside their concerns as politely as you could. You’ve always been stubborn to a fault and dedicated to anything you set your mind to. You not only made it work, you made it work well, and you’re completely happy with your work from home job and self-sufficient life.
It’s your own slice of heaven.
************
The stretch of fair weather in June ends with a bad thunderstorm. You prepared the chicken coop and secured the goat shed, and now all you can do is wait until it blows over.
You put the kettle on and watch the rain lashing against your kitchen window as you wait. A lightning bolt splinters across the sky, followed by a boom of thunder that briefly drowns out the howling wind.
You enjoy watching the storm rage from the warmth of your house, bundled up in a thick robe while your cat Gizmo rubs against your legs, begging for attention.
Your first thunderstorm in this house wasn't as peaceful. Your friend's concerns echoed in your head as you wondered what you’d do if something terrible happened, like a tree falling through your roof, your power going out for days, or losing any of your animals.
You’d never had your own house before, and it was admittedly a lot of responsibility to manage that and a property. But then the thunderstorm moved on, and so did the fears it dredged up. You aren't helpless here, despite what your friends tried to avoid implying, and you have contingencies and plans in case something truly bad happens. Life always throws the unexpected at you, and you’ve adapted before and will do it again if needed.
The next time a storm rolled in, you watched it as calmly as you are now.
As you prepare the tea, the storm suddenly pauses. You don’t hear the rain or thunder anymore, only your quiet breaths and the steady ticking of your watch. A brilliant light floods your kitchen, and then it’s gone before you can even blink, the storm raging on as if nothing happened.
You look down at Gizmo to see if he noticed it, but he’s busy eating his food.
You’re not sure what to think. It was quick but felt so real, like time paused and the world held its breath for a single moment. The light was too bright for lightning, but you don’t have another explanation for what it could’ve been. Your logical mind assures you that nature does strange things sometimes, and you agree, filing away the experience as an interesting anomaly before finishing up your tea.
Gizmo follows you into the living room, and you spend the rest of the night reading on the couch, eventually falling asleep to the soothing sound of rain drumming on the roof.
***********
You survey the damage the next morning. The creek behind your house flooded, and a couple of small trees blew over, but other than that, it’s not too bad. All your animals are fine, and you complete your daily routine as usual.
After clearing out some of the debris in your front yard, you’re about to head back inside for lunch when you hear the loud snap of branches from something big moving through the trees.
A pained groan echoes out, and the sound immediately has you on high alert. You’ve never had anyone trespass on your land before; the area you live in is remote, and your closest neighbor is almost six miles away. There aren’t any marked hiking trails in the area either, and you intentionally picked this spot to avoid this exact scenario.
Now you’re irritated. You just want to eat and change into some clean clothes, but instead, you have to scare off some injured man. You quickly head inside, grab your shotgun, and walk closer to the trees.
“Who’s out there?” you call.
Another sound doesn’t come, but you can still sense you’re not alone.
A shape moves in the shadows between the trees, and you raise the shotgun as you take another step forward. You’re not one for confrontations, but as a single woman living alone, there are precautions you’re forced to take. “I’m armed, so whoever you are, I suggest you come out and show yourself. This is private property.”
The shape moves until you’re staring at a horned bipedal silhouette.
A shiver of fear trickles down your spine as you attempt to process what you’re seeing. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, the movement of shadows creating the illusion of horns. That’s the only explanation you’re willing to accept right now.
You tamp down the urge to bolt when the tip of a horn pierces the shadows, the sun gleaming over the smooth black surface as the figure moves closer.
It’s just a man, logic says.
But men don’t have horns, terror replies.
You know one of those things is about to be proven wrong.
“Come out slowly with your hands up,” you command. You’re relieved your voice is steady, betraying none of the simmering panic rattling your composure. When the figure finally moves out into the open, your shock and disbelief freeze you in place, and all you can do is stare, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
It’s a minotaur.
He’s standing on digitigrade legs covered in black fur, his hooves caked in dried blood, dirt, and leaves. There’s a long, bleeding cut on his right shin, and your eyes travel over the thick, well-defined muscles of his thighs, then to the loincloth covering his groin. His bare torso is as chiseled as his lower body, his skin a rich sienna color, his broad chest scattered with pale scars. He’s wearing a corded necklace with a red stone pendant, and around his bovine head is a mane of chestnut brown hair. The flared nostrils of his large muzzle are pierced by a silver septum ring, and above his gold eyes are heavy brows that furrow deeply as he regards you.
You have to crane your neck to look up at his face, watching his lips curl up in a silent snarl, one of the ears below his horns twitching as his eyes sweep over your body.
You’ve never been in the presence of something this large and threatening, and it’s the first time you’ve ever felt small or vulnerable, even with the reassuring weight of the shotgun in your hands.
He has his hands up, so he understands you, and that’s—well, you don’t know what’s weirder right now. Maybe that moment in the kitchen last night wasn’t an anomaly.
“What the hell?” is all you’re able to say.
The minotaur doesn’t move or react, clearly understanding the threat your weapon possesses. You, unarmed against him, would be a joke. But whatever he is, or wherever he’s from (maybe your neighbors have an enchanted wardrobe to Narnia?) he’s not stupid. He’s assessing you as intently as you’re assessing him.
You decide the only way forward is to address him like the threat that he is—a stranger on your property. Whatever other weirdness is happening, you’ll have to deal with later.
“What are you doing here? Like I said, this is private property.”
A swishing sound draws your attention to a tufted tail that disappears behind his legs, and he looks around, taking in your house, your truck parked down the driveway, the tool shed not far to the left of him.
You’re really hoping that since he can understand you, he can talk.
Thankfully, he does. “You can put the weapon down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
His gruff voice is so deep you’re sure you could feel it rumbling through your body if you were closer to him.
You keep your shotgun up. “I don’t know who you are. Now tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I’m…” he trails off, his lips drawing into a frown, the furrow in his brow deepening. “I don’t know where I am.”
He sounds like he means it, and judging by his…everything, you’re inclined to believe him.
“How did you get here?” you ask.
“Stop pointing that at me, and I’ll answer you,” he huffs.
You slowly lower your shotgun, and his hands mirror the movement until they’re held loosely at his side.
“You try to hurt me, and I’ll shoot you,” you warn.
He snorts at your threat but keeps still. “I was arguing with a foul witch, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in this forest.”
“A witch,” you repeat flatly.
“Yes,” he replies, irritation creeping into his tone, looking at you like you’re the strange one.
“Witches don’t exist,” you say. Even as the words come out, you realize the futility of that belief, considering a minotaur is standing in front of you, and they’re not supposed to exist, either. What’s next, a unicorn?
“Maybe not in this world,” he concedes.
You notice the nasty cut on his leg is steadily bleeding and curse your soft heart at what you’re about to suggest. “Look, I’ll help you treat that wound, and then you can leave and go back to wherever you came from.”
“You live alone?” he asks.
You nod.
“I understand your caution. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
You stare him down, and when he doesn’t blink, you shift your grip on the shotgun and motion for him to follow you onto the porch. “Stomp,” you say, pointing to your doormat.
He obeys with a few heavy steps that rattle the floorboards under your feet, leaving clumps of dirt and leaves on the mat. Now that you’re closer, you realize how big he is compared to you, at least seven feet tall. It’s an intimidating size that might make you cower if you didn’t have the advantage of a firearm.
You open the door for him, and he has to duck down to step inside. He walks in slowly, looking around your living room with a confused expression. Your home is not only your sanctuary; it’s where you express yourself, your walls painted in different shades of blue, a potted plant in every corner, your bookcases full, your shelves lined with souvenirs, collectibles, and all the kitsch knick-knacks you’ve never been able to get rid of.
“You can sit,” you tell him, pointing to your couch.
He lowers himself carefully like he’s afraid of breaking it, and once he’s settled, you pause to take him in, this beast who inexplicably appeared and looks more at home in a fantasy movie than in your living room.
You shake your head. This is crazy. You feel even crazier for inviting him in, but he’s here now, and you already offered to help him.
“I’ll be back,” you say, carrying your shotgun over your shoulder as you get your first aid kit. When you return, Gizmo is sitting at the other end of the couch, engaged in a staring contest with the minotaur. Gizmo isn’t hissing, and his boldness surprises you; usually he runs from strangers, and here’s the weirdest, biggest stranger he’s ever seen.
“Get out of here,” you say, shooing him away.
The minotaur has a throw pillow in one hand as if he was prepared to defend himself from your cat with it. With Gizmo at a safe distance, he places it back down. He reads the stencil on it (Sometimes I wet my plants) and raises a brow. “Charming,” he drawls.
It’s already unsettling enough to have a minotaur in your house, let alone a stranger, and you keep from snapping at him by focusing on opening the first aid kit and preparing everything you’re going to use.
You sit down on the coffee table in front of him and tap on his right leg to get him to stretch it out next to you. This close, you realize his skin isn’t as bare as you initially thought; he’s covered in short, flat hair that reminds you of a horse's coat. You kind of want to touch it to see if it’s as smooth and soft as it looks.
When he stretches his leg out and rests it on the table, you’re suddenly aware you’re now sitting between his very long, very muscular legs. It's been a while since you've been in this position, and now you're even more unsettled. There’s an appropriate distance between you, but you can feel the heat rolling off of him, and his scent surrounds you—musky, part animal, part forest, part something you can’t name. It’s all uncomfortably distracting.
“So…what’s your name?” you ask after giving him yours.
When he doesn’t answer, you glance up at him. You have to tilt your head back because even sitting, he’s much taller than you.
He rubs the back of his neck as he glances down at your hands hovering by his leg. “Einar.”
“Einar,” you repeat, leaning forward to inspect his wound. It’s not as deep as you initially thought, but it definitely needs to be cleaned. “How did you get this?”
His tail is resting against his thigh, and the tip briefly flicks up and down, the motion reminding you of a cat. You try not to laugh as you imagine his reaction to the comparison.
“I’m not sure,” he replies. “I woke up with it.”
He doesn’t move or speak while you work, and when you check to make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep, you see him staring at one of your mother’s paintings. It’s a forest scene with fairies flittering around their little toadstool homes, and Einar is looking at it with a wistful expression that tugs at the sympathetic chord in your heart. You imagine yourself in his position—confused, injured, and alone in a different world.
“Where are you from?” you ask.
His ears fold down, and the hand he has resting on his thigh tightens into a fist. “A place much different than here.”
You wait for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, you’re not sure if you should press him further. His face has slipped into a neutral expression, but there's tension in his broad shoulders, an unfocused look in his gold eyes. Your instinct is to comfort him, but you sense Einar isn’t one for platitudes. You keep silent, and when you finish wrapping the bandage around his leg, you stand up. There’s a moment where you simply stare at each other, and you look away first, gathering the dirty towels and cleaning up the mess.
“Are you hungry?” you ask when you come back from washing your hands.
“I could eat.”
He limps after you as you head into your kitchen, his hooves clacking loudly on the tiles. Gizmo, who’s been watching Einar this whole time, startles at the sound and finally runs away.
When Einar continues to stand, you tilt your head at him. “Aren’t you going to sit?”
“What’s all this?” he asks, waving his hand around.
“It’s a kitchen.”
He gives you an unamused look and leans over your stove. “What does this do?”
“It uses gas to—no, put that back,” you say when he lifts a burner grate.
He sets it down and moves on to your coffee pot, flicking a finger against the glass, and proceeds to inspect every appliance in your kitchen.
You do your best to keep up with all his questions.
“Why is all your food cold?” when he looks into your freezer.
“What does this box do?” when he sees your microwave.
“Why do you have so many little lids?” when he opens your Tupperware drawer.
His last question leaves you speechless. “Why don’t you just use magic to do all this for you?”
You blink at him. “Magic?”
Einar crosses his arms, and you can’t help but admire how it flexes his biceps. It feels almost obscene for him to walk around wearing only a loincloth with a body like that.
He drops his arms to wiggle his fingers. “Magic. You know, fancy spells and all that. Most humans know them.”
“We don’t have magic here.”
He seems disappointed like that’s a failure on your part. “Doesn’t it take a lot of time to do everything?”
That startles a laugh from you. “It sure does. Magic would be very helpful.”
He mutters something under his breath and pulls out a chair to sit. He’s too big for it and makes an effort to fold himself in, but the chair might as well be made for a child compared to his bulk.
“Careful with that leg,” you say when he accidentally knocks it against the table as he adjusts.
He shoots you an irritated glare that you ignore and begin making him a sandwich.
“You can eat this, right?” you ask as you set the plate in front of him.
He responds by picking it up with one hand and taking a huge bite. He chews loudly with an open mouth, heedless of the crumbs falling onto his lap.
“Where are your manners?” you scold, shoving a napkin at him.
“Minotaurs don’t need manners,” he says around a bite. You have a feeling he’s enjoying riling you up.
You frown at him. “In my house, you do.”
He swallows his bite and looks you straight in the eye. This time, you don’t back down, and he looks away first, finishing the sandwich with a lot less crumbs than before.
When he’s finished, his defiant attitude disappears, and he sighs heavily, rubbing one hand over his face before straightening up in the chair. “I appreciate your help, but I need to look for a way back.”
“Okay,” you say, slightly disappointed. Even with the absurdity of the situation, he’s fascinating, and there are still more questions you want to ask. You’re debating if you should try your luck and see if he'll answer any of them, but Einar is already heading back to your front door.
When you both step out onto your porch, a menacing dark cloud looms above.
“It’s probably going to storm again. You can stay until it’s over,” you offer. The words come out before you even consider them, but Einar shakes his head.
“I’ll be fine.”
You observe him more as he steps in front of you—the striking curve of those onyx horns, the shadows rippling over his beautiful sienna skin, the slow swish of his tail, the bright gleam of his septum ring as he shifts his head to catch you watching him.
He observes you in turn, and you wonder what he’s thinking as he takes in your smaller figure. You must seem plain compared to all the wonders of his world. Magic, witches, and mythical creatures, and here you are in your stained work overalls, probably still smelling of sweat and animals from your morning chores.
“Good luck, Einar,” you say sincerely.
He responds with a nod and the slightest tilt of his lips, the closest thing to a smile he’s given you.
He moves slowly and carefully with his injured leg as he makes his way back into the forest. A crack of thunder follows his departure, and you linger on the porch, questioning whether the entire experience was even real until the downpour of rain forces you back inside.
***********
You go into the kitchen and look at the crumbs on the table, then open the trash and stare at the bloody tissues to confirm that Einar was actually here and it wasn’t all a dream.
Gizmo slinks into the kitchen after you and rubs against your legs.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” you tell him.
He looks up at you and meows.
“Alright, I hear you,” you say, picking him up and carrying him into the living room. You sit down on the opposite side of the couch where Einar was and look over at the indentation left from his bulk. He’s gone, but you still feel unsettled.
Gizmo curls onto your lap, and you absentmindedly stroke his fur. How are you supposed to focus on anything when somewhere out there is a world with magic and mythical creatures? And how did he even get here? You’re kicking yourself for not asking him everything you wanted to know. Now you’re lost in thought, unable to relax as you replay the sequence of events. You’re convinced that the odd moment in the kitchen is connected with Einar’s appearance, but like the beast himself, it’ll remain unexplainable.
A loud knock on the front door startles you, and Gizmo immediately jumps off your lap.
You’ve never gotten any unannounced visitors before, and your first thought is that Einar is back.
When you get up and peek out of the window, your suspicion is confirmed, and your stomach jolts with excitement when you see his large body hunched in front of the door.
Einar doesn’t look at you when you open it, his shoulders slumped forward in defeat, soaked to the bone and looking absolutely miserable.
You could turn him away now. You probably should.
If he can't find a way back home, then you’ll be stuck with him, and the peaceful life you worked so hard for will never be the same.
“I’ll get you some towels,” you say quietly.