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In the dark ages of northernmost Europe, in the slopes thick with forest and lakes of the South Man’s Land, man and spirit both walked the ground. Humans were wary of the spirit folk, knowing them to be beautiful and treacherous. Many a man, maiden and young child had walked into the woods, claiming a need to go answer to a voice that was sweet calling out in need. Scant few of those people were ever seen again, and their kin left behind to keep the stories of the creatures alive, to warn their children of the danger.
The human settlements were built with homes knit tightly in community, in recent years every village and town included a church of christian beliefs, enforcing their protection from fae, troll and other devilish creatures.
Those who would willingly live outside the bounds of such villages were often accused of laying with the witches who could reach their doors without the ever vigilant eye of god guarding their door, if not accused of being devil spawn themselves.
Hank Andersson was one such soul. Not that he made it his habit to invite fae into his bed or even interact should he hear a vixen cry. But the man lived in his hut a good two kilometers away from the nearest settlement, alone for his wife and son had both perished too early in their lives.
Once a respected and renowned knight, the man had turned to drink after the tragedies that claimed his family. He fought still when called, pushing his fourth decade on the earth he was strong still and therefor not shunned by the townspeople. He had a reputation for being fair of face, despite his surly personality, penchant for over indulging in drink and preference for isolation.
It was such circumstances that brought the creature of a particularly insistent spirit to his linger at his doorstep. Hank had felt the eyes staring upon him from the woods just outside. What the creature was he hadn’t discerned just yet, for it didn’t show itself to him beyond a movement in the trees when the wind was still and a whisper that didn’t speak in tongues he could understand yet put into his head the intent of taking down the crucifix made out of iron above his door and leaving it open.
He merely grumbled at the spirit to leave him alone for the devils’ sake, and raised his greyed eyebrows at the amused laughter he heard before the creature withdrew.
The moon entered it’s fourth phase since Hank had first noticed the stubborn thing lingering around his home and following his footsteps all the way to the town, even inside the bustling settlement he felt compelled to glance behind him.
He’d gathered that it wasn’t an ordinary fairy or troll that had turned its’ attention to him, but must be something strong and particularly clever to follow him even to the church’s doorstep.
And so it was that one day when Hank’s mood was particularly ill, he drank copious amounts of mead and honeyed wine which drove him into a bold but chancy move.
He removed the iron crucifix from above the entrance to his home, and called out with slurring words that if the trickster felt to compelled to shadow him, it could show its’ face for him as well.
The forest was still after his call rang out, only wind rustling leaves of trees.
A vixen cried somewhere nearby, but Hank felt no compulsion to pursue it.
Whatever the creature was, it had not taken the bait. He cursed and entered his home again, mindlessly throwing the cross to the side, grumbling all the way to the larder where he found even more drink to drown his ire.
It was the witching hour when a stir in the air caused the drunken knight to grumble as he awoke from drink induced sleep.
Laid out on the floor, drink spilled from where he’d overindulged and fallen to sleep. His stomach churned with the urge to be sick and his head still spun, not yet hungover but still drunk.
He groaned and scrubbed at his face with his hands, then pushed himself to sit up with the intent of getting to his bed or emptying his stomach.
He paused once his tired, dizzy eyes landed on a figure stood in front of him.
A fair young man, with eyes equally rich and dark as the hair on his head, stood in his home. His skin was dotted with the odd freckle, but smooth and milky. Wearing clothing of fine fabrics which ruffled when the young one put his hands on his hips and tilted his head at Hank.
Despite the well erected disguise, the young man’s skin gave off a mislaid glow and his eyes could not fully reflect the moonlight that streamed in through the windows. It was no young man at all.
“I find it rude you would greet me like this after finally inviting me into your home.” The voice was soft and dripped from that soft tongue like honey. Hank knew that tongue was wicked despite appearing harmless at face value.
“Rude to assume you could take your sweet time going inside and waking me in the middle of the night.” Hank retorted, not phased in the least by the spirit’s presence. The visage of the young man glowed with mirth as he giggled sweetly.
“You are a bold one, and a handsome one. That is why I chose to pursue you.”
Hank sized him up again, standing up and crossing his arms, looking down the bridge of his nose at the shapeshifter.
“How sweet. You clearly don’t intend to hide your nature so why don’t you tell me what you are.” Hank demanded, the faux man smiling in delight.
“Curiosity is very dangerous, but you already knew that.” The creature avoided the question, slowly moving closer to the human. “I can be whatever you want me to be.” He was close enough that Hank noticed the lack of breath on his skin. He scoffed.
“Very cute. Tell me what you want or leave.” He didn’t move when the shapeshifter’s hand moved to brush his own.
“Sir Andersson, Will you be betrothed to me?” The fingers enclosed around his hand, but did not tug or grip tightly in place, just held him.
His eyebrows shot up into his hairline.
“Why the fuck would I ever do that?” A small voice that sounded like his mother scolded at him for asking a direct question to a trickster. But the other didn’t seem interested in stealing his words away, just tilted its’ head and smiled sweetly. He was abruptly painfully sober.
“Marry me, for which I will gladly give you many gifts.” The creature’s other hand rose to touch slender fingers to his coarse beard hairs. “You need only answer in a yes or no, if you wish it or not.”
“I wish to give you twelve strong horses in a grove full of roses, never ridden nor bridled.”
Hank said nothing.
“I will give you twelve towering mills, with stones of reddest gold and wheels covered in silver.”
The hand touching his beard moved to cup his cheek in a tender cradle.
“I want to gift you a gilded sword that chimes with fifteen golden rings. In battles you may fight however you wish, for you will surely be victorious with this blade in your hand.”
The human’s lips remained still, stormy blue eyes trained on the figure who moved even closer, pressing the lengths of their bodies together.
“I would give a shirt always so new, spun not with needle nor thread but out of the finest of whitest silk.” The hand that held his hand moved up to the back of his neck instead, arm wrapped around him in a careful embrace.
Hank placed his hands on the trickster’s chest and stepped back, breaking the hold. Something like sadness welled up in the brown eyes.
“Those are all well were you a human. But as you are you’re just a spawn of the nix and the devil. I will not accept your gifts.” Hank belied the part of him that believed the hurt on the young man’s face. The veil hiding the creature flickered in place, distorting the form.
Hank watched the shapeshifter’s eyes well with tears and spill over.
“I just want to be free.” He whimpered.
Then, with a rush of wind, he was gone.
Another moon phase passed and Hank’s home was left untroubled by the trickster. He had picked the crucifix up from where it lay cast aside on the floor. He wasn’t as particularly god fearing as his peers, loss rendering him bitter towards any being who would let such things happen to his innocent family. So the cross was laid aside, it’s place above the door holding its’ outline but none of the protective powers.
His home was left undisturbed for another night. His sleep, however, was filled would soulful brown eyes, and words that rang so earnest they were either said by a being so powerful it could entirely mimic and project the full spectrum of human emotion.
Or they were genuine.
Hank made up his mind, and went into town in search of further knowledge of the fae and other creatures of that nature.
He called in a few favors, nearly emptied his pockets of gold, and turned any place with hidden books of magick upside down in search of what the creature that had visited him and haunted his thoughts could be.
He was unable to uncover anything that matched a devil who disguised itself as a human, and offered gifts for marriage in return for freedom. Free from what?
Finally, Hank had enough and decided that if he were to have peace of mind, he would have to face the creature again. Shouting from his doorstep for the trickster to come inside, Hank should have known it to be a foolish move.
Whispers and movements that were not of him or nature inhabited his home, footsteps over the floorboards in the darkest hours of night when nightmares plagues his every dream. Invisible hands would grasp and push, nearly sending him face first into the burning hearth once. Things constantly moved of their own accord and went hopelessly missing in his small home.
He’d left an open invitation not knowing what to call, and so any who wanted to could walk right in and take what they want.
Often, it was the most gruesome creatures who took such offers up.
He woke up to a skeletal form leaning over hid bedside and he froze, terror caught in his throat. The maw of the deer skull moved closer, twisted antlers spiraling like the branches of a dead tree. The arms made out of twisting, gnarly wood ended in too long fingers that moved to plant over his chest, the pressure hindering his breathing. As the jawbones parted, a bloodless face of a young woman stared down at him.
The Nightmare opened her pitch black eyes and screamed with a mouthful of spiraling, sharp teeth.
She fed off his terror as she rode his chest, cutting off his air supply little by little. Hank started to feel his doom creeping up on him, cold creeping up his veins starting from his limbs and climbing inwards as he grew more and more dizzy. The Nightmare’s ghastly face started disappearing from his view as darkness crept over the edges of his vision.
There was a screech that pierced the air, different from the Nightmare. She reacted, silencing her scream and dashing down from her crushing perch on Hank’s chest to crouch on the floor, attention rapt towards the outside.
Hank gasped desperately for breath, lungs heaving and constricting in coughs that made his throat constrict tight enough he felt sick. As he regained blood flow to his brain and ample air pumping in his lungs.
There was another vixen’s cry. Hank noticed the hut had gone freezing cold despite the summer climate. The Nightmare tore off, out of his home and into the woods. He was safe again for the moment.
He realized he hadn’t heard a vixen since before his intriguing visitor.
Against better judgment, Hank pulled on clothing hastily and ran out into the night.
He followed the few cries he heard into the woods, not having to go far before he came to a small circular clearing and the trees around him were all of a sudden grown so tightly he couldn’t pass through them. He heard a thump and growl to his left, whipping around to see the Nightmare from before looking worse for wear, visibly limping on all fours as she hissed in his direction and scampered off, the trees parting for her.
“What are you doing here?” Rang a familiar voice, Hank found not far behind him the same young man he’d been trying to call standing. His brow was furrowed, a frown on his lips and eyes alight.
“How could you be so stupid to leave your home open and invite things in like that!” The shapeshifter scolded, apparently not so interested in hearing his answer to the first question.
“If you heard me, why did you not come?” Hank asked instead. The young man closed his arms around himself, looking down dejected.
“You rejected me. It hurts.” He explained, sending more question marks than answers into Hank’s mind.
“Why would it hurt? And what you said before you left that time, about wanting to be free. What was that about?”
“You think you humans have a monopoly on being cursed?” The trickster spat bitterly. “A witch cursed me to fall in love with humans who come too close. I’m compelled to ask them to marry me, and when they reject me, it hurts and I get weaker.”
Hank blinked.
“So you’re literally pining yourself to death?” He tilted his head, scrunching his nose up in confusion. What kind of curse-
“I wouldn’t put it as if it was such a light deal. But I believe that is right.” The creature nodded.
“You know, humans have a tendency to distrust those who skulk around their homes like goblins and show up in the middle of the night to propose without even introducing themselves. Try changing that, maybe.” Hank threw his hands in the air. This was getting more bizarre than he had accounted for.
“My name is Connor.” A spark of power went trough the air. Names were dangerous. Yet Connor had given his to Hank. “Is that better?”
Hank snorted.
“Yeah, sure. Now, the other part.”
Connor looked taken aback, eyes squinting in confusion. Hank waited.
“You want to-?” Connor trailed off. Hank waved a hand dismissively.
“I haven’t been married in years and I hadn’t exactly planned on finding myself a new spouse within the foreseeable future, why not.”
He would pride himself for a long time on rendering a magical creature speechless. Connor opened and closed his mouth a few times.
“There’s no taking this back, you realize that?” Connor assured with a serious look, Hank only felt calmer for his reassurance.
“Go on.” He beckoned.
Connor came close again, until he could reach out and touch him. He took a grounding breath, before starting the spell. Magic laced his voice when his lips moved.
“Sir Andersson, will you be betrothed to me? Marry me, for which I will gladly offer you many gifts. You need only answer in a yes or a no, if you will it or not.” Connor finished, with one hand cupping Hank’s cheek, the other behind his neck as he stood on tippy toes to embrace him.
Those big brown doe eyes flickered between his hopefully.
“Yes.”
A wood nymph had never cried so joyfully before. Connor tugged him down into a kiss, his entire body glowing with warmth and relief as his long worn pain faded away.
Hank hadn’t known what to expect from a sprite husband. But, his life with Connor in his home was a great improvement from drowning in drink and mourning for his lost loved ones. They bickered often about small things, and kissed even more often to make up for those.
Connor remained by Hank’s side, both thoroughly infatuated with each other.