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The night was dark, and the moon was bright, leaving a shadow looming ahead of the lone traveller. His pace was relaxed, and though it was late at night, he did not fear the creatures which he may meet in the darkened woods. He knew the trails intimately, and had no chance of getting lost. It had been years since the dark had frightened him, and with his lantern and walking stick firmly in hand, what fear remained was diminished even further.
The moon cast lateral shadows from the trees, stretching out ahead, as if to point the way home. The air was chill, and it was one of those autumn nights on which he could taste the coming winter. He stopped momentarily, hearing the sounds of the night: an owl hooting somewhere in the distance, the groan of the trees as they rubbed against each other, singing a song as ancient as the night itself.
Soon, it would be too cold to enjoy a midnight walk in the woods. He wanted to make sure he savoured each moment, each sound and sensation: memories to keep him sustained through the cold, long dark of winter.
He continued, and the sound of both fresh-fallen and brittle leaves crackled underfoot, bringing his mind forward to the fire he would enjoy as soon as he got home. As much as he loved autumn, the warmth of the fire was just as welcome.
Suddenly, somewhere in the woods, he heard a scream.
He stopped dead in his tracks. It was no vixen call or the hauntingly beautiful howls of a wolf pack rallying for a hunt.
It had been a man’s scream.
Now fear set in. There was no one around for miles, that he was aware of, and there should be no cause for a human scream. Immediately, he thought about how long it would take to reach his cabin, every muscle in his body urging him towards the safety of home. He almost obeyed. But, whoever had screamed was obviously not hunting him. Whoever it was probably needed help. Against his creaturely instinct to head to safety, he stepped off the path and towards the spot where the scream had come from.
All was silent now. The sound had disrupted the other denizens of the night, and had made the woods cautious, as if they were holding their breath. He made his way closer slowly, crouching slightly in order to conceal himself in the underbrush, should someone be about that wished him ill.
It had happened before. As a tradesman, he made a point not to let deals go bad, but there had been a few where an unfavourable outcome had been unavoidable. Nothing that he thought might warrant his death, but one could never know with people. If at all possible, he tried to avoid them.
He followed his ears to a spot where there was an unusual amount of rustling in the fallen leaves, and the spot where he thought the scream had issued from. He peeked his head above the undergrowth, and from the little light his lantern gave, he discerned what the movement was.
A fox. Caught in a trap.
It was an iron leg hold trap, and the fox was trying desperately to free itself, to no avail. Taking a quick glance around, he decided to step forward, to see what could be done. He was a trapper himself, in part, and depending on the state of the animal, he would make a decision. A fox pelt in good condition was worth a fair amount, and would make a nice addition to his next haul when next he went into town.
As he approached, he saw that the hide of this fox would be next to worthless. As well as the savagery the trap had done to its leg, there was a number of wounds on its body. The most notable being a large gash in its hind leg, so deep that even in the wan light, he could see the bone beneath. He looked back to the part of the leg that was trapped. The rusty trap was unyielding, and there was no question the bones beneath were shattered.
This was why he hated leg-hold traps. The animal suffered unduly, and it diminished the quality of the pelts. He grimaced, and in that moment, decided to put the poor creature out of its misery. But as he approached to give it a swift knock to the head with his stick, the creature lunged, fangs bared, reaching further than he thought it could, forcing him to recoil. It spat and snarled, and he wondered that it had the strength and will left to put up such a fuss. Still, he supposed any creature faced with its own demise would bare fangs, from the smallest mouse to the biggest bear.
“I am sorry for what has befallen you. I only wish to ease your passing,” he explained to the creature in a low and soothing tone. It was the same tone he used on his own hounds. They had always responded favourably to it, becoming immediately compliant when he employed it. Oddly, the fox stopped snarling, and regarded him with its vivid green eyes. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the fox was considering his offer. Taking advantage of the cessation of its retaliation, he raised his stick once more, meaning to deliver the deathblow. As he did, the fox laid its head down on the ground, keeping one vertical pupil trained on him, as if to grant permission.
But something stopped him.
Something in those green eyes, quite unlike the eyes of any animal he’d encountered before, stopped him. He frowned, and lowered his stick. The fox flicked its ear towards him, and raised its head, fixing both eyes on him now. They were filled with pain, and yet also a silent question.
“Perhaps...I might be able to heal you well enough for you to walk again. Your wounds appear grievous, but I’ve seen hounds with worse live to run another day,” he explained to the fox, encouraged by the fact that it seemed to understand him. “If I move to free you, will you keep still, and refrain from attacking me?” The fox looked towards its ensnared leg, and then back to him, giving him a slow blink that he took for consent. Slowly, respectfully, he knelt down, and set to work on the mechanism that would release the fox.
It didn’t take long, and the fox made no move to attack him the entire time. As soon as the trap sprung free, the fox moved its head towards the injured leg, unluckily the same one that bore the bone-deep wound, and began to whimper as it licked at it. Asking permission, the man ran one hand down the uninjured areas on the fox’s back, and moved his fingers to a position that would allow him to easily lift the small creature. Green eyes met his once more, and he could divine nothing in them but acceptance.
Slowly and gingerly, he hoisted the fox into his arms, causing it to cry out in pain. He winced in sympathy, and did his best to adjust his hold so it wouldn’t harm it further. He would have blood on his clothes, but it was nothing he couldn’t wash out.
At a slowed pace, he found his way back to the path, and once more set out towards home. As he walked away, he remembered the man’s scream belatedly. He had seen no trace of man save for the rusty trap, and it had looked as though it hadn’t been checked in a long time. Any human on a night like this would have made a fire, and his lantern had been the only light he’d seen in the trees, nor had he smelled smoke on the air. He dismissed the sound, instead focusing on taking the fox home to fix it up.
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He laid the fox on his empty table, after finding the cloth he used to put beneath animals as he was skinning them. It had seen its share of blood, and would keep his table clean as he worked on the fox.
The light in his cabin was significantly better than the light offered by his lantern, and as he reassessed the wounds, he felt somewhat intimidated. The wound on its hip was indeed deep, and the gashes on its torso were no laughing matter, either. And then there was the leg that had been trapped. Truly, it would be kinder to kill it, but there was a spark in this creature; something unnamable that he didn’t want to destroy. He may have been a trapper, but contrary to others who shared his profession, he paid all due respects to the animals he killed.
Other people called him a witch, and it was this annoyingly persistent perception that had driven him to live in the woods by himself in the first place. He was not a witch, but since he was a child, strange things happened around him. Animals trusted him. Misfortune befell those who angered or insulted him, almost unfailingly. He knew things about strangers that no one told him, and seemed, at times, to be able to see straight into the minds of others. He’d also never expressed any interest towards women, a trait other people found strange. This combined with everything else had placed him solidly on the fringes of “polite society”.
People feared and hated him. But he didn’t care. The sour sentiment was returned.
Mercifully, the fox had lost consciousness somewhere along the path. This allowed him to clean up the wounds, and begin stitching them up as best he could. The broken leg, however, was more wounded on the inside than the out. He set the bones by feel, hoping that it would heal correctly, and wrapped it in a thick piece of fabric, in order to keep it still. As he finished tying the last of the bandages, he did another check for any more wounds he may have missed. Finding none, he picked the fox up again, and deposited it on the floor next to the hearth, where the heat would keep it comfortable.
He washed his hands in the basin of water he kept on the counter where he prepared his food, and began stripping his clothes off, preparing for sleep.
As he blew out the candle next to his bed, he hoped that when it woke, the animal had enough sense not to move too much. Recovery would be a long process, but he was optimistic that the fox would make it.
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When he woke, there was no noise in the cabin. The fire had burned down to a bed of embers, and offered little in the way of heat. Ren was warm under his covers, but he worried that the fox might have caught a chill.
As he swung out from the protective warmth of his bed, he shivered, bracing himself for putting on the clothes that would doubtless also be cold. He’d set them by the fire, and so hopefully they still held a small amount of heat, but he wasn’t optimistic about it. He got up, moving towards the hearth, and when he saw what was there, he gave a shout of surprise and confusion, and staggered back, tripping over a chair and falling backwards.
There was a naked man in front of his fireplace. And now he was awake.
“Who are you?!” he demanded, grasping for his walking stick that he knew was behind him somewhere.
The man had flame-red hair that was cut short, and pale freckles that dotted his skin from his shoulders down his back, stopping at…
He tore his eyes away to meet the man’s, and found them to be the same vivid green that the fox’s had been. Which was no longer there, apparently. Before the question could escape his lips, the strange man answered, “Do you not remember?” He didn’t seem unsettled at all, despite his nudity.
“Remember?” Ren staggered.
“You brought me here,” the man answered, a slight frown crossing his face.
“Brought...you…? No, what I found was a...uh, a fox. What did you do with it?” He feared to think what might have happened to his newest charge.
The man only looked further puzzled, and in a blink, disappeared, and the fox was back, regarding him steadily with the same eyes the stranger had just been appraising him with.
He gasped, and staggered backwards again, this time finding his stick, which he brought between himself and the fox...thing.
“Stay back!” he barked. His eyes flicked to the fox’s wounds, from which the bandages appeared to have fallen away from. The wounds appeared to look less angry now, and stitches had held. “You...what’s going on?!”
Again, the man appeared, and the fox vanished, like some trick of the light. But daylight was streaming into the windows, and there was no fault he could think to blame the illusion on. A guileless confusion manifested on the stranger’s face.
“You brought me here. You seem to have cleaned my wounds, and doctored them. Thank you. You also freed me from the jaws of that iron beast.” Ren’s fear lessened, and slowly, impossibly, the truth was made clear to him.
“You...you’re a shape-changer?” The stranger made a “tsk” noise, and appeared...offended?
“Nothing so crass. Do you not know a sidhe when you see one?” Pride shone in his green eyes, and the fear crept back in. He’d heard tales of the sidhe, and none of them had ended happily. Always, the humans involved in them ended up lost, dead, or driven mad. “You are afraid. So you do know of us,” the sidhe deduced.
“I...yes, little bits. Why...why did you allow me to touch you?” The other thing tales of the sidhe had in common was that those who were rude to them never fared well. You did not refuse them hospitality, and above all, you did not insult them. The price to pay for that was dear, by all accounts.
“I was in need of help. And you seem different from other humans. They are foolish, and dim.” The sidhe twisted himself so that he could sit up, grimacing as he did so, seeming to have forgotten his wounds. It was then that Ren noticed he was shivering as well.
“Uh...let me help with that. Here,” he said, offering the stranger the covers from his bed, as he got up. Suddenly, he realized he was only garbed in his underwear. He flushed, and hastened to pull on his pants, trying to ignore the gaze of the stranger. He retrieved some clean linens, and brought over a small basin of water as well, in case anything had started bleeding again. Kneeling in front of the now-shrouded stranger, but not too close, he asked, “May I see your wounds?”
No vocal response came, but the sidhe lay down where he had been before, and gently lifted the cover away from his injured leg. The wound on the fox had been on its - his - hip, and it wasn’t an awkward spot to examine on an animal. However, now…
“Is something wrong?” the sidhe asked, concern evident in his voice.
“No. Uh. Just. I’m unused to...company.”
“Company? But you did the same last night, what is the difference now?” The stranger seemed genuinely unaware that his nudity could possibly cause any kind of discomfort, but there was a chance that he was simply teasing. Whatever the case, Ren was undoubtedly uncomfortable.
“Well, you are sort of...naked?” he tried, trying to sound as non-confrontational as possible. The look on his face told Ren that he hadn’t been teasing after all. He was truly oblivious, and that served to minimize the awkwardness by a fraction.
“Apologies. It has been some time since I’ve had to contend with the formalities of the human world.” The sidhe was now facing the fireplace, but he could tell he was blushing by the tips of his ears.
“It’s alright. I imagine clothing would hurt, with these wounds. Let me cover them, then you can borrow some of my clothes, if that is satisfactory,” he offered. It was also unwise to impose on the sidhe anything that they might not want.
“Yes. Again, thank you. What is your name?” the sidhe asked, now pointing his emerald gaze at the man.
Names. Names were also unwise to give to any of the fae, as they held special power over the thing they belonged to. With the things he’d seen in his life, it was enough to make him cautious of any dealings with the magical world. Luckily, his name now was not his given name. He’d left that one behind a long time ago.
“I am called Ren,” he introduced, not offering a last name. Not that he had one that he wanted to be known by.
“Ren. The King of all birds! It is a fine name,” the sidhe exclaimed, bemused. For a second, Ren was confused. Then he recalled an old song that the children in his hometown used to sing, and the allusion registered. It referred to the wren, a songbird that had tricked an eagle in a flying contest in an old story. The eagle had proclaimed itself to be the king of the birds, but the wren who had clung to its back in order to win the prize claimed the title for himself. It was a silly story, and he’d honestly never thought about the connection between his name and the diminutive little songbird.
“What do I call you?” Ren asked. Again, names were the currency of power, where the sidhe was from, and so he made sure to word the question so that he had something to call him by, but didn’t ask for any power he was unwilling to part with. Ren looked up at the green eyes that were now appraising him, as if to measure exactly what he could be trusted with. Ren wasn’t offended. He wasn’t exactly quick to trust either.
“Hux is what I am known by. Call me that.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Hux.” Hux’s eyebrows raised slightly.
“You have good manners, for a human. They’ve always been nothing but rude to me,” he sniffed. His expression twisted into a wince as Ren gently inspected the wound on his foot. In his human shape, the wound was located on the top of his foot, and it appeared painful. Unlike the other wounds, this one had taken on a worrying blueish-black tint. Ren frowned, and worried that the wound wouldn't heal correctly.
"Iron," Hux said. "My kind don't do well under its touch. See?" He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating his back. Ren changed position so he could see what he was pointing at, and audibly gasped at the sight that greeted him. He hadn't seen them in his surprise when he had woken up, but there were numerous gray scars that lined Hux's back, marring the slight glowing effect his skin had. Ren felt rage boil his insides.
"Who did this?" he asked, cautiously running a hand over the scars.
"It was a punishment," Hux said, doing little to explain the marks. Ren felt he should let the subject drop. Scars sometimes told very personal stories, and he didn't want to make his guest uncomfortable.
“Did the other humans you’ve dealt with know you were a sidhe?” Ren inquired, reverting back to their previous topic.
“They should have. Has so much time gone by that humans have truly forgotten us?” There was a note of sadness in his voice.
Ren shrugged, and shook his head slightly. “Many people know the stories, but I don’t think it’s all too common to come across one of your kind. Not since the churches came.” Ren couldn’t keep the disdain from his voice. He figured Hux would have no love for the Christian faith either. They’d never been charitable towards stories of his kind, much less his kind themselves.
Hux’s expression darkened. “Yes, we’ve...had to keep a low profile, you understand.”
“Oh, that, I understand.” He started wrapping a bandage around his foot, and in order to distract him, Ren decided to continue. “They’ve never liked me either. I’m too different. Strange things happen around me.”
“Mm, I’d expect so.” Ren was taken aback, stopping to stare at Hux.
“What do you mean, you’d expect so?” Hux tilted his head in a fox-like manner, which looked uncomfortably feral in his human guise.
“Well, there’s magic all around you. Do you not know that? It’s what makes me think I can trust you,” Hux said. Ren had to scoff.
“Magic? Come on, that’s just…” he trailed off as he caught the look in Hux’s eyes. Daring him to refute the existence of magic. “Really?” Hux nodded. “Well...that would explain some things. They always did call me a witch. I guess they were right.”
“Witch?”
“Yeah. Someone who uses magic to hurt people, or get what they want.” Again, a head-tilt.
“What’s bad about getting what you want?”
“If you hurt others to get it, then it’s generally frowned upon,” Ren explained.
“Even if they deserve it?”
“Unfortunately,” Ren confirmed, mouth curving into a wry smile. He finished putting the bandage on, then moved up to the wound on his hip. The stitches held, somehow, and the wound didn’t appear to have festered. He placed a clean strip of cloth on it, in case it should start bleeding, and gave Hux a longer strip of fabric. “Tie the covering on with that. It should hold no problem.”
Hux did so without warning, and Ren looked away just in time to preserve Hux’s modesty - or complete lack thereof. He had no desire to see Hux’s genitalia.
He busied himself with finding some clothes he could spare, and that might fit Hux’s decidedly leaner frame. He found something suitable, and took it out of his drawer, and turned back to Hux, assuming he would be done with the bandage by now.
He was. And Ren nearly walked into him. He stumbled backwards, for the third time that day, and he hadn’t even left his house yet.
“You’re so quiet,” Ren remarked, willing his pulse to slow. He could stand, which was a good sign, but he had no weight on his injured leg. Ren resolved to find him his own walking stick so that he could move around.
“Apologies. One gets used to moving silently when they spend so long in an animal’s shape," Hux smirked.
“If I may...how long have you had to hide, exactly? And what drove you to do so?” Ren asked, getting off the floor to hand Hux the clothes he had found. Hux seemed guarded, but not unwilling to answer. After a heavy pause, he spoke.
“I am...no longer welcome among my own kind. I have been hiding from them as well as I could, even at the risk of being exposed to the human world. Humans may be foolish, and dangerous when they catch you,” - he gestured to his foot - “but the fae are downright dangerous. And they do not forgive so easily as humans...nor look past blatant differences so easily.” He looked steadily into Ren’s eyes, causing him to flush and look away. He’d never had problems with making eye contact before, and he wondered why Hux had such an effect on him. Perhaps he really was just unused to communication outside of business interactions.
“So you are different from your kind as well?” he asked, moving past Hux to collect the discarded bandages from where he had slept. Mostly, it was to avoid having to look into those bewitching eyes.
“Yes. I practice a form of magic that is not exactly regarded warmly,” Hux explained.
“Why not?”
“Well, it has to do with the control of another’s mind, mostly. The fae prize free will very highly, and so of course, my particular brand of magic is not so popular.” Ren felt ice form in his blood. He said it so nonchalantly.
Then Hux seemed to realize the implications of his revelation. “I haven’t used it on you, however. If you attempt to harm me, then I may have cause to do so, but as it is, I find your company pleasant. I prefer not to use it on those I consider to be allies,” Hux reasoned.
“How do I know you haven’t used it on me?” Ren asked, suddenly extremely suspicious of the (admittedly charming) sidhe.
“The fact that you’re asking that question. And the fact that I told you. Ren, look at me,” Hux requested. Ren complied, after gathering the bandages and disposing of them. Hux’s face was earnest and open, and in all Ren’s dealings as a tradesman, he’d become accustomed to knowing when people were lying. He saw no lie in Hux’s eyes. “I have not used any mind tricks on you, nor will I ever. I feel that I can trust you, and I do not want to betray that. Besides, I am also of the fae. I too value free will.”
Ren remained incredulous. “You value the thing you rob others of?”
“I am asking for your trust when I say yes.”
“Damn right,” Ren affirmed, turning away once more. He had dogs to feed, and even the idea of being forced to do something against his will was enough to put him on the defensive. Fae or no, he would allow no one to control him ever again.
“Allow me to prove it to you,” Hux suggested. Ren turned around at that.
“You think you’ll be staying that long, do you?” He didn't mean it as a threat, but allowed it to come across as one.
“If you’ll have me.” His green eyes were steady, and yet behind them lurked a hint of anxiety. It was hard to mask fear, and while Ren couldn’t understand why it might be there, it seemed Hux was afraid to be on his own once more.
It didn’t take long to decide. He couldn’t very well throw a wounded man - sidhe - out with winter closing in.
“Very well. I’ll grant you my trust, if you can grant me some of yours.” The tension left Hux’s shoulders.
“Fair is fair.”
“I will shelter you and keep you away from prying eyes, until you are ready to go your own way. I will not harm you, or allow harm to befall you. You are welcome in my home, Hux,” Ren stated. The last part was a formality he wasn’t accustomed to, but Ren thought he might appreciate it being laid out so plainly. The disarming smile he received confirmed that suspicion, and Ren felt a spark ignite somewhere within him at the sight of it.
Curious. He hadn’t felt such a warmth for a long time.
“You have my gratitude, Ren. In return, perhaps I could teach you more about your abilities, if you’re willing?”
“That would be much appreciated,” he answered.
It was so nice not to have to hide anymore.