faeriesandfolklore

[faeriesandfolklore]

Artist: Olivier Ledroit

All rights to the original artist.

[faeriesandfolklore]

You are an attendant to the faerie princess- she is a petulant thing, neatly pressed curls and eyes like the river, shadowed with a spoiled nature.

The entire palace is modeled after the mortals- grand arches and pillars, a courtyard filled with shrill bird calls and drooping flower petals. But you have found peace in it- in the lemons that grow outside of your windowsill, fat with health.

But you are often called to attend to the princess’ many parties, inviting faerie nobility from all across the realm. Rusalka with still damp hair, their red eyes hidden behind hooded faces. Tree spirits with engorged branches for hands, the occasional mortal that has caught the eye of the princess.

You are in the kitchens preparing a poultice in case someone gets injured- which is inevitable, when you hear a strange sound coming from a wardrobe. They are scattered throughout the palace, filled with moths and gowns the princess has stashed away.

You hesitate before tugging it open, huffing as you see the figure tucked away in the bowels of the thing. “I told you to stop hiding away in these things. The princess will have your head.”

“She has already tried many a time,” Oleander says simply. He slips from the wardrobe and stumbles to the marble floor, dusting off his robes.

His brown skin is dimmed from a lack of sun, his dark hair swept back behind two pointed ears. His green eyes move over your face. He has been trapped in the palace grounds for gods know how long.

Cursed, he says. Like a poor ghoul, haunting.

“She always shrieks when she sees you.” You mutter as you crush some herbs, eyes watering at the tang. “I fear this time she will have your head.”

He shrugs, leaning into the table beside you. “And? I think that… I don’t even know if I can be killed.” His eyes flicker with sadness, then a huff. “You’ll find that no matter how I try, I cannot leave this place. Even through death.”

You can sense the sadness in his words, lined with tragedy. You wonder what happened to cause this, but he often says he cannot recall.

You pause for a moment before you reach out and hand him a ladle, narrowing your eyes. “If you are going to linger, then you can work.”

He shoots you a sly grin, going to the large pot of batter. He sticks a finger into it, tasting. You swat at him. “Don’t-

“I know, I know.” He huffs. “Stir.”

You work side by side for most of the night, him vanishing when you’re around others. The party is the same as always, flowing wine and the scent of magic in the air. The princess is surrounded by dozens of fair folk, horned and winged, desperate for her attention and ire both.

By the end you are exhausted, not to mention irked- the princess struck you, a welt growing on your cheekbone. You retire to your rooms, scrubbing weakly at the thing as you unbound your hair.

A wardrobe opens and Oleander steps out, carrying a bowl of what looks to be molten chocolate. His dark hair is pinned back, a sorrowful look on his face.

“I am sorry she struck you.”

“She is spoiled.”

“That does not make it right.” He sits beside you, bringing a slender hand to cup your cheek. He turns your head this way and that, observing the state of it. “Although, you look radiant as always. Even with the wound.”

You do not answer, instead ducking your fingertip into the well of chocolate. It is as rich as the princess herself, divinity. “Mm. You are making up for your misdeeds.”

He laughs, a soft sound. He leans in, his nose ever so slightly brushing yours.

You turn away, flushing a bit, before climbing your bed to the window. It overlooks the distant forest, the rolling hills, endless before you. Still, your hands trace the vines dangling from the top of the window, where you pluck a waiting lemon.

“For you.” You take it and press it warmly into his brown hands. “For helping me.”

He smiles. “I only come around for the lemons, you know.” He says softly.

The corner of your lips tilt up. This moment is a stolen one, a familiar one. Night after night, sharing a lemon under the stars, looking out this very window and dreaming of another world. “Yes, it is obvious.”

“…But even if the lemons run out, I will return.” His sharp face turns a deep shade of violet, so deep it is as if he is ill.

You know this, though. And you will not leave the palace, even if you are granted the chance.

How could you, ever?

[faeriesandfolklore]

A cloaked stranger approaching the inn you tend late one night, smelling of something exotic. Tendrils of inky hair spilling from the edges of the hood, the only sign of their face a sharp nose and piercing violet eyes. You take their order and they simply watch you with that alluring stare, as if drawing you in with a simple look. 

All around you people speak, yet all you can focus on is the sound of their breathing. Slightly rasped, as if they are not used to breathing this air. 

You pour them a drink and tend to the bar as you do each night, faeries and witches and humans coming in to drink their sorrows away. But you can only focus on this stranger, lurking in the darkest corner of the room. 

As the night ends and you count your coin, you slip into the alley to take a breath of fresh air. The night is quiet- deathly so, the only sound the singing wind and the rustling of animals at the treeline beyond the gate. A quiet night, one that fills you with peace. 

And then they speak, lurking right on the other side of the gate. “I have been waiting to get you alone.” 

Your eyes narrow. You have had plenty of folk try to lure you away, or get you alone. But you are skilled in slipping past them. Yet something about this stranger makes you pause. “What for?”

They reach into their pocket and pull out a shining necklace, glittering with a sharply cut ruby in the center. A charm dangles off of the chain, a familiar crest, one from your mother’s line before her death years ago. Your brow furrows in confusion as you look to the stranger. 

“Where did you get this?” you whisper. 

“Your mother offered it as a dowry,” the voice says slowly. And then the cadence of that voice changes, lilting deeply and sending shivers down your spine. It sounds as if thousands of words are being spoken at once, something powerful lurking deep within his… person. “You are mine, and you will come with me. I have come to take you where you belong.”

“I do not even know who you are!” you say hoarsely. 

The cloak is pulled off, cast aside into the muck. And then you see the large antlers sprouting from a high head, pointed ears, eyes so sharp they could kill. Something inhuman, beyond even any fae. This being- though outrageously beautiful- is ancient, a spirit of the wood. 

His black curls fall down his back like a waterfall, those eyes piercing. “I am the god of this wood, and you are my bride.” A ghostly hand reaches out, running over your lower lip. And as it does you feel the power wafting from him, this old god. The centuries of life he has lived, all he has seen.

“Come.” A soft kiss is pressed to your hand, and the trees seem to bend to create a path. “You will want for nothing.” 

Slowly, you take his hand. You cannot refuse such an ancient being. And would you even want to? Something about him draws you in, and it makes you feel powerful. And he is looking at you as if you are the most sacred thing in this entire realm. 

His. 

[faeriesandfolklore]

A harpy, exiled from her flock, roaming the countryside looking for her meals. The people of your town complain of their crops being devoured, of chickens and sheep going missing or being found slaughtered. Rumors of hungry wolves and violent coyotes fill the town, and all are warned against being out after dark. 

When you hear your hen squawking late one night, though, you rush outside with an oil lamp to see the commotion. That is when you see her- the most beautiful woman you can imagine, all flowing dark hair and golden skin, eyes as wide as the moon itself. She looks like any other woman, except her arms are crowded with coarse fathers, dark as a raven’s. Her nose is long and curved, like a beak. 

She is hunched over the coop, hissing. A forked tongue escapes her lips. 

You are not sure what to do. She is a harpy, yes, but she is clearly scared. A young woman, your age. Her eyes shine with fear. Her ribs are protruding, her skin greying. She looks as if she has not had a good, true meal in weeks. 

Slowly, you hold out your hand. “Please do not eat my hen. She is very dear to me. My elder brother has venison stored, and I can make you a stew.”

She blinks, her owlish eyes widening. She clicks her tongue, and then slowly takes your hand. 

After that night, she does not leave your side. It takes some time for her to truly grow used to you. At first she is skittish, jumping away when you get too close, hissing when you bump into her. But she quickly grows comfortable, bringing you field mice and chasing foxes away from the henhouse. 

She cannot speak your language- hers seems to be one of grunts and strange keens, sounds that you cannot replicate. But you are slowly able to teach her to write. She learns the alphabet, then the words for the things around you. Hearth. Deer. Hen. 

You decide to name her Athena, finding her resemblance to hawks outrageously uncanny. She is funny, too, taking to writing jokes whenever something outlandish happens, or letting out a startling grunt. She takes to cuddling with you in the winters, her feathers bushing out to trap warmth in both of your bodies. 

One night, as you do a puzzle at her side, she is writing in her notebook. She seems to be working very hard to decide what to say, before she sticks out her tongue and scribbles again. Athena seems proud of herself, then, ripping off the sheet and placing it before you. 

I am your wife?

The words startle you at first, but are not very surprising. You two have found great companionship with one another, sleeping together during the cold winter nights and tending to the hens. You wrap your arm around your waist, where she fits her head into the crook of your neck. 

“Yes,” you say softly. “I suppose you are.”

[faeriesandfolklore]

A banshee who has come to tell of your fate. One of great tragedy and misfortune, her spirit having haunted your household for as long as you can recall. No one else in your family has ever seen her- yet her wails haunt the night, have chilled your dreams since you were a girl. 

Your household, once glorious, has slowly come to ruin. You have lost all of your fortune to your uncles, gambling it away in an effort to bring more glory upon their household. But they’ve lost it, and as such, your last resort is to marry an ancient ally. 

But the evening of your betrothal, the banshee begins to appear. It begins with her wailing, a shrill sound that echoes through the halls of the keep. Then comes the pounding and raking- on doors, windows, anywhere she can reach. It becomes so sharp that you can no longer sleep at night, your eyes growing dark bags and your limbs weak. 

Then, on the eve of your wedding, your older cousin reveals a plot by your betrothed’s house. To have your wine poisoned at the feast following your wedding, a chance to inherit the rolling hills and thick heather that make up the landscape of your inheritance. 

You realize that the banshee has been warning you of this, and in doing so, she saved you. 

Once you return to your rooms, all is silent. In the quiet, you plead with the air for her to appear to you, so you may think the savior of your house and home, your life itself. Minutes pass before a blurry figure appears before you- long white hair, a torn ball gown, her face the loveliest you have ever seen. All you can do is stare at her for a long moment, in awe. 

“You have saved me,” you whisper, kneeling at her feet. She takes a hand and tangles it softly into your hair, expression fond. 

“Yes. I have.” Her voice is like ice melting into snow, solid and watery all at once, everything that ever was. “I would not let harm come to you.” 

A moment passes before she speaks again. “I have never seen such beauty, as I have in you.” 

The compliment warms your cheeks, sending a flush through your body. You have never been graced with such a compliment before. You laugh nervously, meeting her sharp eyes. “Perhaps I should put off marriage for a while longer,” you say absentmindedly. “After all, someone must guard the keep.”

Her expression revealed nothing, but there was the slightest tip of her mouth. “Yes. Perhaps that would be the intelligent thing to do.” The hand moved to the column of your throat. “After all… You cannot be left in the hands of another. Who will protect you as I do?”

[faeriesandfolklore]

A Sea God who lurks in the waters off of the cliffs of your home village. To appease his hunger, you each decade a maiden is tossed to the waves for him to feast. This year, it is you. You are dressed in ritual garb, your hair sprinkled with honey, lips painted red. You struggle as they carry you past the rice fields and to the coast. 

The water burns your skin as you sink to the bottom. You never knew how deep the water went, endless and blue. There are no fish, no whales. Just you, and the salt, and the sand drifting up from the bottom. Tears leak from your eyes. 

And then you see him. A flash of dark scales, sharp teeth. The brush of something against your foot, and then your back. You can see his eyes- pure black, his massive head the size of your entire body. You let out a low moan. He is truly a serpent, a beast, coming to devour you. 

Then you feel a hand on your waist, firm and calloused. A touch to your chin. When your eyes open, you are staring into those inky eyes- but on the face of the most handsome man you have ever seen, with endless green hair and a heavily freckled face, his lips drawn into a frown. Where his legs should be, an endless train of green fades into the sea. 

“You are the maiden,” he says simply. He moves around you, examining.

You do not speak. How can you? You would perish, the air slipping from your lungs. 

He touches his lips to yours, soft and unmoving. It is shocking at first, but then the warmth rushes through you. The sensation is like the faintest breath, and you inhale, taking in the water. And it is like the sweetest poison. But when you do not drown you know that you have worked some magic. 

“You are pretty,” he continues. He quirks his head. “Come.” Another hand on your waist, pulling you to his chest. You shiver a bit and he strokes your hair softly. “Relax, little one. You will not be harmed by my touch. Let us go.”

[faeriesandfolklore]

A ghost prince, lurking in an abandoned kingdom ruined by the plague. The entire city was evacuated, parts of it completely burned to stop the spread of the sickness. The prince and his entire family, once royal, were burned as a result of the growing disease. 

Now, he lingers in the darkness of the evening light, a flickering wisp of what he once was. He sees travellers occasionally dare to come to the kingdom, in search of lost riches left behind by the dead. He often chases them off, becoming a monstrosity. After all, he is all that is left. 

One evening, you decide to venture into the ruins hoping for a stroke of luck. Your village is poor, barely making enough coin to feed the wailing children or the oldest members. So you venture into the forest of burnt houses and trembling pillars, hoping for a golden bowl or even a lovely vase. 

You do not notice the prince following you, his silvery hair shimmering in the moonlight. His slender form, once broad with life, now phosphorus at the edges of his being. You slink through the wreckage, lifting up old cabinets or peeking into dressers. You find a few trinkets here and there, or photos that survived the fire. 

The prince’s first instinct is to scare you off. Make you pay for trespassing. But something about you is different from the others who come here. They are greedy, seeking riches to fill their already overflowing stores. But you are thin. He can see your cheekbones, and not in a good way. 

So he makes himself visible to you, a jagged outline against the black landscape. You screech and jump, falling back into the dark soil beneath you. He is eerily beautiful, with large blue eyes, pale hair, the sort of fairness only death can bring. He raises a long arm, pointing toward the ruins of the palace. 

You follow him, deciding that this apparition must be trying to show you something. And he does. He shows you a hidden room in the old castle, filled with overflowing coins and diamonds, riches beyond your wildest dreams. You stuff your satchel full, imagining all you can do with it. Rebuild the schoolhouse, give your mother a new dress. 

As you turn to leave, you see the prince lingering in the shadows. He looks almost sad to see you go. 

You step forward, holding out your hand. “I am Y/N.” 

He swallows, eyes vacant with memory. He looks as if he has seen the entire world end, time and time again. “I am-” A frown. “I cannot recall.”

“Then…” You search your mind for something to call him. Everyone needs a name, after all. “I will call you Aether.” You take his hand and pull, surprised by the way his fingers curl around yours. So you can feel him. 

“Come with me,” you say quietly. “These ruins are just that. Ruins. Perhaps you could find a new purpose in death.” 

His eyes slide over you like water from a cloud, pale and endless. You are the first person to speak to him in years. To touch him. And your hand is warm, soft in his. He does not want to let go. The ghost- Aether, his name is- nods slowly, trailing you down the hillside back to your home.

[faeriesandfolklore]

A vampire lord whose entire clan was killed by humans, the rivers near his castle bathed in blood. Ever since that day, he has lurked in the darkness outside of the human kingdom, seeking revenge. He takes a mortal every year, during the Blood Moon- and they never return. 

But this time, it is you. The people of your village lock their doors, rub salt into the windowsills, place crosses over their doorways to ward off the beast. It is a terrifying notion, being taken by the vampire. Having your children whisked away into the night for him to feed. 

But while you are deep in slumber, your window twitches open. A long shadow, almost a tendril of darkness, fills the room aside from the pale moonlight. And then you see the eyes, white as the clouds above, peering down at you. Sharp teeth, long golden hair. He snarls, pinning you down. 

And then you are dragged away from your home, into the darkness of the woods. You beg and plead for your life- the slaughter happened centuries ago, so far back your ancestors do not even recall the dark night. But now you are in his grasp. 

He hisses under his breath as you squirm, his voice rich like wine. “Stop moving like that, human. It is driving me mad.”

You let out a tiny wail, unable to stop from fighting back as the lights of the town fade. You hear an agitated grunt, and then the prick of teeth on your neck. Then, darkness. 

When you wake, you are on a blush sofa, colored a deep red. You wear robes you have never felt the like of before, velvet and fur, soft against your skin. And the decor around you is haunting- black pillars holding up a marble ceiling, statues of maidens and gods lining the hall. And there, across from you, is him. 

“I would not try to run,” he comments a bit darkly. “It did not end well for the others.”

Your heart pounds so quickly you know he can hear it, can sense the blood rushing through your veins. “The others?”

“The others I took,” he says. “All tiny things, weak mortals. Barely worth the effort.” His piercing eyes linger on you, dark and sure. “Barely worth the vengeance I sought.” 

You sit back in your chair, throat dry. “You killed them?”

“I feasted on them,” he murmurs, as if it is common sense. You can picture it- the sweetness of the blood, his shining eyes illuminating the night. He stands, looming over you, as if waiting. “I would feast on you as well,” he whispers. “That was the plan.” He looks irritated, almost. 

You stammer for words. He should? So why has he not?

You feel his cold hand move to your neck, fingers brushing your throat. You are surprised by how calming the action is- this being is a predator, meant to bring a mortal like you to their knees. But you almost wish to turn your face into his palm. To inhale his scent. “Because you have captivated me,” he whispers. “And I seek to keep you.”

[faeriesandfolklore]

A war between your mortal kingdom and the faerie kingdom beyond the veil, having gone on for decades. When you were born, a mark was placed on your wrist to help identify your body if you were to be found in the faerie woods. For your entire life, you have lived in fear, looking from your cottage as the boys of your village go off to fight the fae. 

But still, life must go on. Each day you go to the apple orchard outside of town to work and gather fruits for your stores. It’s a long, quiet walk. It’s peaceful as well, when you do not think of the dangers lurking beyond the wall at the edge of the village. But they rarely come to the orchard. They rarely go beyond the wall. 

Until today, it seems. For as soon as you enter the copse of trees, a strong arm grabs you, the tingle of bells filling your ear as you fight exhaustion. Then, darkness. 

When you wake again you can see a tall, slender figure peering down at you. Dark brown skin, long hair that brushes his waist, eyes that shimmer a pale yellow in the moonlight. And when he smiles, it is almost canine, smooth and dangerous. 

“What do you want from me?” you protest, stumbling to your feet. You are not tied back at all- in fact, the room you are in is extravagant, with an ebony bedpost and marble floors, flames glinting in their sconces. And the man before you is well put together, his jacket made of an expensive fabric, fingers adorned with golden rings. 

The man sits at the edge of the bed, lounging out like a lazy cat. “You see, little mortal… With the war going on, we have not been able to partake in our most important tradition.” His eyes flash, then, a sharp shade of gold. “Do you know what I speak of?”

Of course you do. You have read the stories. The old books, pages worn and ripped. Maidens being whisked from their beds and carried off to the otherworld. Beautiful youths lured into the darkness of the forest, never to be seen again. The reason for the war was simple- the humans no longer wished to provide their daughters as brides for the faeries. 

But that did not stop them from being taken, now. 

“So what is why I am here?” You laugh softly, almost disbelieving. It is almost comical, the thought of a farmer’s daughter being taken in as the bride for some faerie noble. “To be a bride?”

The man leans in, his voice low as he takes your chin into his hands. He tilts your head back, staring down at you with an intense look. “Tell me, what do you have waiting for you in that… Village? An orchard? Burlap dresses? The fear of being overtaken by our troops day after day?”

Your stomach churns. He is not wrong. Life in the village had been dim since childhood, filled with fear and hour after hour of work to keep everyone alive. Your eyes roam down to the mark on your wrist- there since birth. A constant reminder of what could be lost, day after day. It would be lovely to not have to worry. 

He runs his fingers down your collarbone, softly cradling your throat. His eyes look down at you again, almost pitying. “You would want for nothing here, with me. My lands are vast.” He guides you to the window, overlooking a grand garden, filled with bright flowers and winding paths. Beyond the gate lie miles and miles of meadowland, thick with heather and deer grazing. “My stores are full. You would wear the prettiest gowns, have maids to serve your every whim.”

It is dizzying, the thought of it. He loops an arm around your waist and pulls you closer, peering down at you with that slightly unsettling look. He is a faerie lord, based on his estate. You can taste the magic surrounding him, heavy in the air. But there is also a sharp, almost devastating sense of allure. It all sounds too good to be true. 

But gods, you want to say yes. The few faerie brides who made their way back to the village always spoke of full plates and lives of luxury, wanting for nothing. That could be yours, could it not?

So when he presses his lips to your hand, eyes hazy with desire, you know your answer.

[faeriesandfolklore]

A selkie maiden who lives in the cove by your estate. You have been raised to be a proper lady, to one day marry a wealthy man and move into the city. Your home, a grand mansion that is falling to ruin, is by a sparkling cove few visit. From childhood, you have been in awe of the rolling waves, the creatures you swear that you have seen. Horses of kelp galloping over the sand, damp heads of hair peering out from the waters. 

In particular, you have always been fond of the seal pod that lounges on the beach. Plump and grey, with speckled coats. One in particular has always been particularly cheeky, trailing you as you swim. As the days have passed, you have spent more and more time with this strange seal. 

And then, as you learn that the day has come for you to be betrothed, you go down to the beach to sit in the silence of the ocean. The sun is high and there is a tension to the air, a sharpness. You see your seal but she is almost angry, biting at your heels and letting out a sharp sound. You snap out of frustration and then she changes. 

She sheds her seal skin, the dappled pattern falling onto the sand as the woman stares at you. Her hair is long and tangled, dark as the rocks out in the waters. And her eyes are practically gleaming, large and wet with angry tears. “You are mine. How can you go and marry one of them?”

Shocked, you find your words. “One of them?”

“They steal us away to make us their wives! They steal our coats, lock us away in their estates and force us to leave the sea.” The selkie says desperately, clutching your hand. She smells fresh, like the summer sun. “You cannot go. You are mine. We belong to one another.”

After that, you know you cannot go. Not when the selkie are here, vulnerable to those who seek to take their coats. The cove is untouched, but you leaving might change that. And so, when your father tells you of your marriage, you refuse it. You grow angry and callous, wretched. You become the sort of woman no man would want to marry. 

Finally, your father gives in. He says that you can rot in the ruined manor for all he cares. But now you are free. You can lounge in the sand with the seal women, dive beneath the waves for shells. You can watch the moon with her, stroking her hair as she tells you of worlds far beyond your own. 

[faeriesandfolklore]

A faerie who makes himself known only through the glittering lights flashing from the depths of the forest. The townsfolk warn you against it. You live in a small village, barely even a town. Your father owns a dairy farm and you have always known the rolling hills, thick with heather. Have always seen the pale lights shining through the trees, beckoning you. 

“Do not go,” your father has always said. “The wisps are there to draw you in, but they do not let you out.”

But you have always been curious, and some tales whisper of grand riches hidden deep in the wilds, that only the wisps can lead you to. You are young, and you believe yourself to be right. So one night, during the Harvest Moon, while everyone else dances and sings- you slip away from the village. You make your way through the fields and wildflowers, slipping through the thick roots and vines that hide away the forest. 

It does not take long before you are surrounded by only the trees and the underbrush. You can see shining eyes glinting from every corner of your vision, ravens perching on the vast canopy above you. When you inhale, you can almost taste the sweetness of the air, like something out of  a fairytale. 

And then you see the lights. 

They shine a soft blue, drifting through the air. You can sense the magic wafting from them, as if they have come rippling through the veil between worlds. It is like a siren call, slowly drawing you deeper into the forest. And you cannot help but follow, tightening your bag to your chest as you climb over rogue stones and slip through thick walls of trees, following the alluring shining of the lights. 

You walk for minutes, or hours, or years. The wisps seem to be all you can think of, clouding your mind. And they whirl around you, trails of pure magic sparkling in the darkness of the moonlight. And the moon, it is fuller than anything you have ever seen. Like an omen, or a sign marking the start of something. 

By the time you reach the forest’s edge, you are exhausted. All you know is the woods, the mud on your boots, your cloak torn and clinging to your shoulders. As the wisps slowly fade away, you blink in understanding. The wisps had drawn you in. They have led you here. And here is the most beautiful place you have ever been, a winding meadow not unlike the one you live beside. Tall grasses colored in violet and gold sway softly in a nonexistent breeze, the endless black sky dusted with shining stars as bright as the sun. Birds fly high above, with wings as wide as buildings and iridescent feathers. 

And then you see him, lounging in his throne in the center of the meadow, all long legs and sharp eyes. His hair is bound at the nape of his neck, a dark blue that cannot be natural. His eyes match the shade, lined with dark lashes, his lips aching with a gentle pout. And he looks at you, a dark brow raised as he crooks a finger. Calling you. 

You are drawn into his lap in an instant, unable to do anything but listen to his outrageous beauty. A gloved hand runs over your chin, his fingers brushing your lips. He tilts his head, narrowing those eyes as he takes you in. “You are as beautiful as they have said. The wisps.”

You blink, drawn out of your stupor by his words. “What?”

He looks at you as if you are a fool. “The wisps. They have drawn you here, told me of you. The child of a dairy farmer, living in a small, poor village. What a waste. A beauty like you in a place like that.” The faerie pressed his lips to the column of your throat and you let out a tiny moan. “A creature like you deserves to be a princess. A queen. Showered in gems and magic.”

As he guides your lips to his, it is as if the world stops. He holds the back of your head firmly, drawing you closer and devouring your mouth until you cannot feel anything but him. He pulls away for a moment, trailing his fingers down your collarbone. “My pretty mortal to spoil as I wish.”

[faeriesandfolklore]

the wicked king… that was really out of the frying pan and into the fire

Beware… many of the fair folk are tricksters, hiding their true nature. But some are quite blatant about it, such as our cruel little king.

[faeriesandfolklore]

A wicked king, magical in power, who is known for his magical conquering. He goes throughout the magical realm, burning cities and taking prisoners. He is wicked in every way, his golden sneer haunting the stories of the villages by the Wild Wood.

Eventually, the elven elders manage to banish him and drain his magic. But to lock away such a creature takes ancient magic, riddles that only the fair folk can provide. So he is chained to a solid oak, white in color, bound by magical chains. To drain his magic, they spread rumors that he can grant any wish given. One wish per traveler.

You are the most beautiful youth in your village, ruler over by a cruel lord who wishes for your hand in marriage. You would rather die than marry him, but he is powerful. He is cruel. You know there is one way to stop him, so you go into the wood.

When you find the chained king, he is slumped over. Mushrooms grow up in muscular arms, flowers blooming from his eyelashes. His hair is a brilliant gold, lit up like the sun. And his eyes are such a warm shade of green, outrageously lovely to peer upon.

“And what does the mortal wish for?” He says slowly, sharp teeth flashing.

“I want you to dethrone the lord of my village.”

It is a surprising move on your part. Few ever wish for such a thing, vengeance, freedom. But you have made the wish and he must grant it. But he is even more shocked as you bring up an enchanted blade- stolen from the elves themselves- and bring it down upon the chains.

They *snap* with a bitter sound, clanging as they hit the dusty ground. He looks at you in disbelief, this ancient king. And then he rises, towering high above you. He grasps your chin, slender fingers curling around your delicate skin.

“You have a death wish; it seems.”

“Not for me.”

He does as you have wished- slays your baron and sets you free. Afterwards, he looks at you, his sword flecked with blood. He looks radiant like this, as if he were meant to hold a blade. He suppose he could kill you now, but he will not.

He has already decided you are his. His to marry, his to pamper; his to conquer.

[faeriesandfolklore]

Oh to be taken away to the forest by a mythical prince. To not be sure entirely of what he is, just to know he is Other. To stare into his glittering eyes and see the silence of a winter forest, the fluttering of a raven’s wing. To hear his voice and hear the entire world stop just to listen to the beauty of it.

[faeriesandfolklore]

A water maiden that has lurked in the stream beside your garden for as long as you can remember. You are not entirely sure when she arrived, but as soon as she did, your garden became a haven for wildlife. Does and their fawns graze on the flowers you grow. Honeybees flitter from blossom to blossom, spreading pollen over your fruits. 

You often sit by the muddy bank of the stream, trying to catch a glimpse of her. You have been lucky enough before- her flowing green hair appearing like algae, her large brown eyes like stones at the bottom of the water. You are not entirely sure what to make of it, this being in your garden. But you have heard enough tales to know that earning the ire of any of the fair folk is a terrible idea. 

So you start to leave gifts. Shiny shells from the beach, wooden horses the village children have carved. And as the weeks go by, strange things begin to happen. You start to find golden coins under your pillow. You find a strange flower blooming in your garden, made entirely of silver. You swear you can see those luminous eyes watching from the water. 

Eventually, the maiden stops hiding herself. You go out to your garden to see her watching, her entire upper half out of the water, a serpentine tail flicking over the grass. Her hair is long and vibrant, her skin a warm brown, her scales glinting like a fire. You cannot understand her language, but it sounds like the stirring of bubbles in the deepest depths. She likes to speak, though, and you get the distinct idea that she is telling you stories from the otherworld. 

In the end, it does not matter that you cannot understand one another. You like her companionship. You like being able to visit the maiden in the water, tucked away behind  your garden. 

[faeriesandfolklore]

'The Stolen Child' by William Butler Yeats

[faeriesandfolklore]

Faeries and the Ones Who Hunt Them

(1): The Not-Wolf

A/N: Hello! I've decided to start a series following a reader who finds themselves meeting cursed creatures/faeries and trying to deter them from their wicked deeds. Think of each story as an individual universe, as the reader will interact with and become romantically involved with all sorts of fair folk.

Extra Note: Please do your own research on wolves! They are amazing creatures and should be protected! This is a fantasy story so the behavior of wolves is greatly exaggerated and based on far outdated fears. Links on the actual behaviors of wolves will be at the very bottom.

Warnings: Gore, Mentions of death, Light smut (groping, kissing, marking), wolves not depicted in the best light (please do research on actual wolves! They are not monsters as many stories depict!) Word count of 1.7k

A wolf beast has terrorized a riverside village for years. Whenever he is seen, the townspeople flinch away in fear and hide in their farmhouses. They say he is wicked, a vile thing. That he is coming to take their daughters and eat their livestock. But you, a recent transplant to the village, grew up in the far off lands that know these creatures. Men cursed to shift on the full moon. Village girls who angered the wrong faerie, cursed with transformation. 

One night, on the eve of the full moon, you pack a bag with salt and rowan. You bring a silver cross- just in case it does happen to be a simple werewolf, and not a faerie beast. After all that you have seen- creatures rising from murky swamps, pixies tying knots into hair- a werewolf is not a far-fetched idea. You turn your stockings inside out, pick up your cross in one hand, and head toward the forest. 

This village relies heavily on the nearby river for their trade. It turns the wheels of their mills, provides fish for export. You’re a bit surprised it isn’t some vengeful water spirit instead, but the heavy wood nearby offers plenty of hiding spots for any kind of beast. 

As you walk, the mud stains your boots and the fabric of your pants/skirt. You huff a bit, taking a careful step over a particularly rotten log, sinking into the muck. The pale light from the moon fades more and more the further into the canopy you venture, seeking something. Seeking him. 

It takes a while, as you’d assume such a beast would retreat from the village when it is not at its strongest. You clutch the silver cross firmly in your palm, so hard it will leave a mark. You know that you should have brought iron, but you can’t be picky. The stench of something wrong grows thicker and thicker the further you walk. You can smell death, who at this point, seems like an old friend of yours. Not every beast can be saved, after all. 

You notice the claw marks first, stretching across the bark of a looming pine. You run your fingers over it- the marks are as long as your forearm. You feel a bit of trepidation stirring in your gut, but you continue on. 

It really doesn’t take long to find the den. Dug out of an abandoned cave, drenched in moss. You can make out a few mushroom rings on the forest floor surrounding it, the fungi plump and nearly glimmering in the moonlight. And by the entrance to the cave there is so much blood, so dark it is nearly black. The carcass of something- perhaps another faerie beast- lies limp in the green grass, eyes staring dully at the stars. 

Time to get to work. You begin to sprinkle the salt you brought in a circle around you. This could be anything, truly. Salt works well to deter the faeries, but it’s also supposed to keep out demons. Anything is possible at this point. Once you sprinkle it, you turn your cloak inside out as well. You reach for your dagger, an old one gifted by your mother, and hold it up to the moonlight. Clutching the silver cross in your other hand, you drag the dagger over your palm, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. 

It lands with a drip right inside of the mushroom circle. The entire forest goes still, even the faint breeze grinding to a sharp halt. You lift your chin, facing the cave. 

The creature appears in a mass of flesh and fur. It is tall, nearly twice your size on four paws, stalking low to the ground. The fur is black like ink dripping from a quill, the eyes a muted yellow. You can see those claws from before, elongated as they dig into the loose soil of the ground. The wolf-being snarls, revealing razor-sharp teeth, stained with golden blood. 

You hold up the cross immediately, eyes narrowed. “Halt,” you say in the ancient tongue, a language lost to time. One only the forest knows. 

The beast hesitates for a moment, running a red tongue over the teeth. It lets out a tiny snarl. 

Then it moves, darting forward in a way that only something inhuman can. It charges, maw gaping, as if to devour you whole. But as soon as the paws- each as large as your head- hit the salt circle, it screeches as if burned. It scrambles back, growling raggedly at you. 

You stand your ground. “This does not have to be difficult. I am going to assume that you are cursed. I am here to break said curse. I could kill you, but you kill one faerie and then they all tend to hold grudges,” you mutter. You run your eye over the beast, observing. The thickness of the fur is almost like a cloak of sorts, hiding something far beneath. That is what the faeries are, after all. Observers, creatures living life as a constant masquerade. 

You’ve been able to break curses in easier ways before. Fetch a lost item dear to the creature. Splash it with the water of a pure stream. Outsmart it in a game of chess, once- that was a particularly fun evening. But here, you will have to get your hands dirty. 

You take a step out of the circle. 

The beast lunges again, claws outstretched as if to devour you (again.) You dive under it, hitting the grass hard. It whirls around, as if to dig its teeth into your leg. Taking a chance, you drag your dagger down the underbelly, splitting the thing open. You pray that you are right, that you aren’t about to ruin your favorite cloak-

It’s almost comical, really. The way the fur and mess sheds away, hitting the ground with a thump. It’s almost instantaneous, the transformation from wolf to… not wolf. 

In the place of the beast you just (killed?) is a devastatingly handsome man. Not a man, a faerie. You can tell by the luminescent quality of the eyes, shimmering yellow beneath heavy brows. The faerie is still massive, looming over you, his dark skin shining in the moonlight. His hair is long and wild, reaching his waist, his skin marked with scars. He looks down at you in a particularly predatory way, very similar to the way the wolf did. 

He runs a tongue over his teeth, as if lost in thought. “You broke the curse, it seems.”

You sigh, running a hand over your jaw. “Yes, yes. Please… Tell me how this happened.”

The faerie blinks. “I am part of an ancient people who live with the wolves of the forest. We protect them from mortals like you who wish to harm them.” He snarled again. “I was doing my job with the wolf when he ate the favorite rabbit of some high noble. He cursed us, made us take the same form.”

He points to the mess of fur on the ground. There’s a moment of movement, and then a wolf rises from the mass. It is the most wild looking thing you have ever seen, all ruffled fur and pointed teeth. But it does not seem aggressive at all. It lets out a tiny sound before padding off into the forest, peering back occasionally before it vanishes into the trees. 

“And how long ago was that?” you ask, raising a brow. 

The faerie bares his teeth. “You are asking too many questions, mortal.” He says sharply. “No more.”

An eye roll escapes you. “Right, right. Well, if that is all-”

He places his hands onto your hips, then, his pale eyes flickering over your form. He looks hungry. “Not so fast, little mortal. You did save me after all. Surely you deserve a reward?”

You narrow your eyes a bit. You could count the number of faeries you’ve kissed on five hands, really. The creatures truly seem to think that the best way to thank a mortal is with physical affection. Not that you’ve ever complained. So you do not stop him as his massive hands roam over your body, squeezing your rear. He grins a bit. 

When he kisses you, it is like fire. He is something wild, and you can tell from the way his tongue delves against yours, viciously tearing into your mouth. He holds the back of your head like a vice, his nose bumping against yours. He walks you back until you hit a tree, his hands cradling the back of your thighs. 

He lets out a tiny pant. “Soft.”

You cannot help but chuckle a bit at that, but it is quickly cut off as he bites down on your shoulder. You curse a bit, tangling your fingers into the wildness of his hair. “Shit-”

He runs his tongue over the bite, soothing it. “Your blood tastes sweet.”

You pull away slightly, holding his chin firmly. “No. Do not get a taste for my blood.” You have had too many faeries desire your blood, and it always ends quite badly. 

He licks his lips, smiling in that unsettling way. He continues to hold you in his hands, observing your face. You glance up at the moon, observing it as he kisses at your neck. You scratch the back of his head and motion for him to put you down. 

“Human-”

“My name is Y/N, and I do not appreciate being called human. What if I just called you ‘Beast?’” Of course, you gave him a fake name. The number one rule is to never give the fair folk your true name. 

He wrinkled his nose, his hulking form looking quite offended at the idea. He looked down at you again. He said your name, the sound rolling off of his tongue as if it were made to sit there. “My name is Alrik.”

“You-” He truly does not seem to be that intelligent. You suppose it cannot be helped. You sigh. “Faeries are not meant to give their true names away. Don’t you know that? You never give your true name to anyone.”

He grins again, all of those teeth showing. “Then I suppose we are bound now.” The massive faerie offers his massive arm, as if mimicking a true gentleman. “We shall return to the village, then.” He looked down at your neck, where he had left red marks, the still-bleeding wound on your shoulder. “And perhaps clean you up.”

A heavy sigh escapes you. It seems like you have a new travel companion. 

LINKS ON WOLVES: