Archive of Our Own

—

Wilbur is out in the forest with a basket at his hip. The tall grass and flowers curl around his ankles as he takes off his shoes and rolls up his pants, wading into the moon pool below the leafy canopy. He leaves his basket of mushrooms on the shore just an arm’s reach away, and feels the cool water and sand under his toes. 

The light of the full moon is the only thing illuminating the woods, and he counts the stars in the sky as the water laps against his legs. He’s needed a break from the commotion of the town for a long time. 

He sits down, not worrying about soaking his pants, and sighs. The waterfall is the only sound other than his breathing as he sits quietly, enjoying the feeling of the silent forest, and the small ripples in the water under his hands. The brush around the pool seems to glow lightly with the magic of the forest, and it sets him at ease, watching the sparkles dance around the leaves, and surround the legs of crickets hopping through the growth, giving them just that bit of extra height. The forest is kind to its own. Wilbur is just a visitor, but each time he lays here, he feels more and more like a part of it all himself. 

There’s a small gust of wind, and a crunching of sticks on the forest-floor behind him, and he smiles, turning around.

He’s met with bright red eyes and short cotton candy hair. Scars litter the faerie’s face and arms, and Wilbur can trace the indications of a long scar from his shoulder all the way down to his waist from the little skin his outfit shows. He’s broad and tall, and if Wilbur were an idiot, he’d say the fae looked about his age, maybe even a bit younger– but the chances of a 20-year-old faerie out in the real world were slim to none. They tended to keep to themselves until at least 200– or at least, that’s what the emissaries told the humans, and the fair folk can’t lie. 

“Evening,” Wilbur says, and the faerie eyes him suspiciously.

“The trading day is still a week out,” the fae responds. His voice is deep and dark, and makes Wilbur feel a bit cold. He knows not to be afraid, though, and he nods. The town doesn’t generally trade with the faeries until the last Friday of each month, and that’s still a week away. 

“True. I’m not here for trading, though,” he says. The faerie grunts.

“What do you need, then?” he asks. Wilbur shrugs.

“Water, quiet, calm, and a little bit of magic,” he says cryptically. He turns back around to look at the waterfall and feels the fae’s presence closer behind him. 

“And mushrooms, apparently.” Wilbur smiles.

“Soup for later,” he confirms. The fae sits down beside him. Wilbur grabs his satchel from the shoreline, and digs through it for a moment, feeling the creature’s eyes on his back. He pulls out two jars– a larger one, filled to the top with milk, and a small jar of honey. He hands them over to the pink-haired faerie with an easy grin on his face, and the fae raises a brow. 

“What is this?” he asks, not taking the jars from his hands. Wilbur tilts his head, and presses them further towards him.

“Gifts,” he answers. “I figure if I’m going to intrude on your land tonight, I might as well.” The fae eyes them with a wary glint in his eye for a moment, before nodding slowly and taking the jars. He opens them up, and mixes the honey into the milk, with a soft smile forming on his face, but he hides it well. Wilbur runs his hands through the water, feeling out the current, while the fae silently drinks.

While the townspeople have been trading with the fair folk for decades, it’s still not common for one to willingly choose to spend their time with one, much less befriend them. The only people to really become friends with the faeries have ended up becoming fae themselves, and those cases are few, and far between. No doubt Wilbur would get a strange reputation if a villager found him out here socializing with the faeries freely without a deal to be heard of, but he didn’t care. The forest calls to him, and who would he be if he didn’t respond? He gathers most of his food from the wood, foraging for mushrooms and berries and herbs every other day, and always leaving an offering of honey behind in the plants’ place– he’s respectful to the faerie’s lands because they feel like his, too. Of course, the townspeople would never understand that. 

“Nice night,” he comments absently, and the fae stops drinking for a second to respond.

“Yes,” is all he says, and Wilbur smiles.

“How’s the weather back in the Faerie Realm?” he asks, and the fae pauses, considering.

“The same as it always is.” Wilbur nods. He’s found a fae of few words, it seems, but he doesn’t mind. The faerie goes back to drinking his milk, and Wilbur looks back up to the stars, picking out the north star, Polaris, and a few of his favorites. Sirius and Vega are especially bright tonight.

Wilbur often equated the fair folk with the stars. The humans were Polaris– they shined brightly and drew attention to themselves, and stand as the epitome of all things great, at least in their own eyes. They have the attention, but the fae are their Helios. Their very own star, keeping their world alive and thriving and casting light upon all things great and small. Sure, the humans could have the spotlight, but the faeries will always be the life-givers. 

Wilbur admires that about them. They’re tricky and love a challenge, but they’re never quite as full of themselves as humankind. The fae have near-infinite lives, and spend all their time drinking honey and playing games and lazing around the forest. The people think that makes them stupid; Wilbur thinks it sounds like the best way to live. 

If Wilbur could disappear into the forest and never return, he thinks he would. If he weren’t so attached to the nice woman at the bakery, or the little kitten that sometimes follows him around town, he’d have gone off to live in the wood already. 

Also, if he had any ounce of survival skills, which he didn’t. But that is neither here nor there. 

“How long will you be here?” the fae suddenly asks after a long silence, and Wilbur turns to look at him. The faerie doesn’t meet his eyes, staring straight down at his hands. Wilbur smiles. He’s never met a fae so… reticent. It almost makes him seem human, despite the too-bright eyes, and too-perfect skin and excellently styled short pink hair. 

“I’ll leave with the sunrise,” he answers, and the faerie nods. 

“I must go,” he says, and Wilbur is almost slightly saddened, “but I will grant you protection from the elements until morning comes. In appreciation for your respect,” he says, without looking Wilbur in the eyes. Wilbur smiles.

“That’s kind of you,” he says. He knows the fair folk find thanks rude. The fae stands, and hands the jars back to Wilbur, who grins and puts them back in his bag. “Until we meet again.” The fae averts his eyes with pink growing up the tips of his ears. 

“Upon our next meeting,” he says, and before Wilbur can blink, the faerie has disappeared. 

Wilbur can feel the presence of the fae long after he goes, courtesy of his promised protection. He looks at the stars a moment longer, before closing his eyes just the slightest bit. He nods off, and when he wakes, the sun is cresting the horizon, and the taste of sugar sits on his lips. Picking up his basket of mushrooms, he pulls on his satchel, and walks the familiar path back home to the town. He settles in to make breakfast with a warmth in his heart. 

–

Trading day comes and goes without incident. The fae come into the village with magical wares and silver and gold by the kilo, and the humans shower them with sugar, honey, cedar oil, and cinnamon. Wilbur goes with the baker girl, Niki, as always, and entices the faeries with brown sugar and pastries. Niki is an excellent baker, and Wilbur is her salesman; they make a great team. 

Wilbur is a bit disappointed by the lack of pink hair amongst the crowds. He expected to see the fae from the week before at the market, but he can’t win everything. After all, the faerie was incredibly timid and couldn’t look him in the eyes most of the night, so socializing and crowds must not be his thing. Still, Wilbur quite liked him.

“Lovely day out, mate,” a voice greets, and Wilbur shakes his thoughts away, glancing up to the new person. 

The fae is shorter than Wilbur, and has blond hair and striking blue eyes that put the sky above to shame. He wears a dorky hat on his head, and his green robe falls to the floor. None of that, however, is as pressing a matter as his giant black wings. They curl up towards his body so as not to impede passers-by in the market, but Wilbur can tell if they spread, he’d be blocking up the whole road. Wilbur smiles. 

“That it is,” he answers. “What can I get for you?” The fae looks around their array of baked goods for a moment.

“What’s a milk bread?” he asks. Wilbur grins and grabs a loaf. 

“Really sweet bread that’s incredibly fluffy. Very good for desserts, believe it or not. A bit of cream and some cinnamon on top makes it addictive.” The faerie laughs.

“How much for two loaves?” Wilbur looks to Niki. 

“Six silver,” she answers. 

“But for you, five,” Wilbur amends. Niki smiles, as does the fae. He reaches into his pocket, and to Wilbur’s surprise, pulls out two gold coins, and puts them on the table. 

“Keep the change,” he says. Niki blanches.

“I can’t take that,” she says, but the creature shakes his head.

“Nonsense. Unless of course you’re rejecting a gift?” he jokes, and Niki shuts her mouth, shaking her head rapidly.

“No, no! Never!” she exclaims, even though the faerie clearly means no harm. 

“Then keep the change!” he says once again, an airy lilt to his voice that draws Wilbur in. He almost wants to lean closer to hear better, but he holds himself back. He knows that even though the fair folk are their allies now, they still have an affinity for trickery. No matter how calming their voices like soft rains sound, they’re entrancing. 

Wilbur wants to thank the fae, but he knows the rules. “Have a nice day,” he says instead, and the faerie nods, looking at him with a soft smile. 

“You as well,” he says, then, he tilts his head to the side, and watches Wilbur for a moment, calculating. The gaze makes Wilbur a bit uncomfortable, but he knows to be polite. “My son was right about you,” the fae finally says, to Wilbur’s surprise. “I’ll tell him you say hello.” And the faerie walks away. 

Wilbur stands there in shock for a moment, considering the fae’s words, but he’s cut off by the sound of laughter like whistles and bells as a group of faerie girls approaches his stand, and he smiles at them. 

He’ll have to think about the fae’s cryptic message later.

–

Wilbur takes trips into the woods often. The forest calls to him day by day, and he can’t resist. He takes off his shoes each night and wades into the moon pool, and stares up at the stars, and wonders if this is where he truly belongs. The bustle of the town is comfortable– it’s familiar, in its own way, but every night Wilbur finds himself in the wood is in comfort spent, far more than if he’d simply fallen asleep back in his little cottage. 

Alone.

Ah, that’s the strange part, he thinks. The forest makes him feel alive, and above all else, feels like company. Each grasshopper on the dirt, and the sound of canary calls, and the tickling of flowers at his shins makes him feel more at home than his cosy cottage could. Strangely enough, he feels, often, as though he’s befriended the wood. It keeps him company and keeps him safe, and though he knows that the forest and wildlife only bend to the will of the fair folk, he can’t help but think that he’s earned himself a soft spot, too. 

He hasn’t seen the pink-haired timid faerie since that night months ago, but he doesn’t mind. He can feel the presence of fae magic around him in his pool each night, and maybe it’s because he’s simply intruding on faerie land– the shining moonbeams tell him as much– but he feels, inexplicably, that maybe he’s gotten himself a bit of favor. If not from the fae, then always from the earth.

As he takes off his socks and rolls up his pant legs, he dips his feet back into the water and feels its rejuvenating effects all over again. There’s something about the water in the moon pool that always sets him at ease– it’s not just any well-water that can make you feel so alive, or can calm the thoughts that trouble your mind, just for a moment. The pool in the forest makes Wilbur feel like just for a moment, maybe things will be fine.

He has to admit he lives a comfortable life. He’s seen children fending for themselves on the streets before, and felt the pang of sadness in his chest that comes with being helpless to do anything– he’s lucky, in a way, that his parents died when he was already financially stable enough of a teenager to live on his own. The current of the water sets him at ease, because despite his privilege to have what he does, the constant anxieties riddling his mind keep him up at night. He troubles his thoughts with the sickening possibility of ‘what-ifs’ every time he has a moment to himself. What if he’s not enough? What if the townspeople truly hate him, and simply hide it? 

What if he’s not where he’s meant to be? 

And each time he steps into the forest, beyond the boundaries of the village, out of the sight of the people, his stifling current of anxious considerations fades away. 

So though the fae doesn’t come back, he still thinks he feels the presence of fair magic. As if it follows him when he enters the wood either way.

A rabbit bounds up to him and looks at him cautiously, and he smiles, reaching out slowly, and letting it sniff his hand. He pets it, and it leans into his touch. More than he thinks should be normal, he feels his heart stutter at the contact, and a warmth grows in his stomach. The soft fur underneath his fingertips feels like an electric shock, and he can’t help but grin wider. He pulls the bunny in closer to him, and to his surprise, it doesn’t resist, sitting on his lap comfortably, and curling itself up into a little bun. He strokes its back, and it breathes steadily, and a strange feeling buries itself in his chest. 

As always, he has a jar of honey in his bag, but the fair folk don’t come around often. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t disappointed in not seeing them at each visit to the wood, but he can’t be selfish enough to think that they’d want to come see him every single time. Like humans, faeries have things to do with their lives that don’t involve other people. That don’t involve Wilbur. 

He sighs and picks his feet up out of the water, and crosses his legs, giving the bunny a bit more space to stretch itself out. It does, and looks up at him with little beady eyes resembling a thanks. He chuckles. 

“Having a rough night?” he jokes. The rabbit sneezes. “Me too, bud.” He hasn’t brought his basket, nor does he have any goal today. He’s mostly stocked up on mushrooms and berries, and he can get wild thyme and most other herbs from Niki if he wants. Granted, he doesn’t want to bother her, but he also doesn’t have anything to leave the forest in return for his takings. Without an objective, he feels a bit lost wandering the wood.

The bunny lets out a deep sigh, and Wilbur smiles.

It’s a strange feeling he’s noticed for a long time– he comes into the forest with baskets and satchels and goals to achieve, because each time he comes without, he wanders, lost and afraid, searching but never finding. 

He doesn’t fear the forest– he never has. He fears what it brings out in him. Each crunch of the leaves under his feet and sticks in the dirt drive a visceral instinct into his heart, like following a path to nowhere in particular; he longs for a place he’s never known, somewhere deep in the brush where his mind yearns to go, but his legs won’t carry him. 

With the small animal on his lap, he tilts his head in wonderment, as he feels a tiny piece of the puzzle click into place. He stares at the rabbit for a time, looking at its head, wondering if he could pick it up and look into its eyes long enough, and maybe it would reveal all the secrets he’s yet to discover. Maybe if he asked, the bunny would give him answers to all the little questions he has in his mind that he can’t for the life of him give a voice to. The yearning for a home he’s never had, and the way the feeling of the dirt under his toes feels like an electric shock, and why each Midsummer when the fair folk come around he can feel a surge of energy in the air.

He doesn’t ask. He’s not sure if he fears the answer, or the echo. That maybe if the forest turned out not to have his answers, that it would be worse than if he’d never known. 

He can hear a little song in his ear. A keening violin, far away in the distance, on the edges of his perception. He knows not to follow the sound. It sounds a bit too much like his very own thoughts. 

Shaking his head, he pulls the bunny off his lap and sets it down beside him. It looks up at him in confusion as he curls himself up on the dirt and closes his eyes. He feels the animal rub up beside him, nuzzling right into his neck and cuddling close. He smiles and raises a hand, and pets it with his eyes still closed.

The feeling of the presence of faerie magic grows, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He can feel eyes on his back, but he doesn’t stir. 

The sound of the waterfall lulls him to sleep as the crickets stop their chirping and settle down for the night. From time to time, a squirrel or mouse stops by to investigate the strange sleeping man and his little rabbit, but they bound away just as quickly as they arrive. 

And Wilbur wakes up in the morning when the sun is just about in position to high noon. He curses himself for sleeping so long, and laments internally that Niki will be backed up at the bakery with orders because of his absence. When he turns to gather his things, he’s a bit saddened to see the bunny from the night before has run away, but he didn’t expect to keep it forever. 

Left in its place, however, is a little wreath of flowers outlining a pile of trinkets. A thin gold chain, a little piece of quartz, and a pile of hazelnuts, using a large leaf as a bowl. 

Of course Wilbur won’t eat them– you never eat food from the fae– but he smiles all the same, and grabs up the gold and the crystal. He stuffs the hazelnuts into his pockets, and heads toward home, ready for a stern talking-to from Niki. 

If a little rabbit watches from the brush as he walks away, he doesn’t notice. 

–

Wilbur remains a lone wanderer for quite a time after. The feeling that he should be chasing a life he doesn’t know never leaves him– always in the background of his thoughts, negging at him to go after it. 

He continues his life as normal, stopping in the forest to forage, and baking with Niki, attending each trading day diligently and meeting new fae, but none strike him the same way as the timid pink-haired faerie and the cryptic blond with wide wings.

That is, until Beltane two years later.

Wilbur and Niki walk to the town square together with baskets of bread to give to the townspeople, and bags of honey candies to hand out to the fae emissaries and the humans alike. 

In the past year, inspired by the pink-haired faerie, Wilbur has coveted a cinnamon-honey stir stick. It’s a hit with the fair folk each time they come to trading day, but the villagers love it as well. Creamy honey candy with a low melting point mixed with nutmeg, cinnamon, and brown sugar. The humans tend to use it to sweeten up their tea, as it melts into the hot water quite efficiently, and can be used as a stirring instrument. Wilbur tells the fae to soak them in warm milk or freshwater, and each month, they come back to buy more and more. Wilbur’s been told he and Niki are something of a celebrity duo back in the Faerie Realm, and they laugh about it together. 

As they approach the festivities with their confections in hand, they spot the villagers beginning to light a large fire in the center. Wilbur can spot the fae among the crowd; they carry excesses of flower crowns to give to the townspeople, and adorn themselves with gold and gemstones. The humans make a point to compliment their attire– cultural touchstones of the fair folk– and they smile brightly with a lilting laugh each time. 

And that’s where Wilbur spots him. 

The fae has barely changed since he last saw him those years ago at the moon pool– his face is marred with scars, his hair still short, but this time, tied up into braids around his head. He doesn’t wear flowers like the other fair folk, instead opting for a dulled palette of bronze and gold, and even still, he doesn’t wear as much as the rest of them. Wilbur assumes to avoid being eye-catching. 

The only real differences Wilbur can note are the heavy cloak with fur lining, and the sword held on his belt. He keeps his hand on the hilt of the weapon at all times, Wilbur notes, seemingly on guard at every second. Niki says she’s running off to meet some other friends, and Wilbur nods. When left alone, he approaches the faerie. He makes a careful effort to stay in his line of sight.

“Long time no see,” he greets, and the fae meets his eyes with palpable surprise on his face. Wilbur sees his grip on the hilt tighten just slightly before he relaxes again. He looks Wilbur up and down. 

“Hello again,” is all he says. Wilbur smiles, and digs into his bag for a moment, pulling out a honey stick. He presents it to the fae, who looks at it for a long moment as if staring at it long enough would will it out of his presence. “What’s this?” he asks, and Wilbur chuckles at the familiar words. 

“A gift,” he echoes from a night years ago. “In appreciation for finally coming to visit.” Even in the low light of the setting sun, he can see the faerie’s face redden, a pink hue reaching his nose. He pretends not to notice.

“My apologies for being late,” he mutters, taking the candy with a suspicious eye. Wilbur waves it away and grins.

“Nonsense. You’re just on time,” he says, and the fae raises a brow.

“It’s been years,” he points out, and Wilbur simply nods. 

“Ah, but we don’t really have time to wait to be on time when time won’t wait for us,” he says. Even though it’s fully nonsensical, it seems to strike a chord with the faerie, who opens his mouth very slightly, and nods, aghast. “You’ve come exactly when you needed to, and not a moment sooner,” he finishes. 

Just a little bit, he thinks he can see the corner of the fae’s mouth tilt upwards. It might resemble a smile if only Wilbur had better lighting than the steadily growing Beltane fire. It leaves as soon as it comes, but Wilbur can sense he’s made progress.

The fae tucks the honey stick into a satchel at his side, hidden under his heavy cloak, and he nods. 

A hand lands on the faerie’s shoulder, and a shorter man peeks out from behind him. Wilbur smiles wider– the blond man with black wings from the market. What are the chances he gets to meet both of them at once?

“You making friends?” he asks the taller fae, who presses his lips into a line and turns his head away. Wilbur can see the pink making it up to the tips of his ears. He holds back a laugh. The blond turns his attention to Wilbur, and he grins slightly. “I remember you. You work with the baker?” he asks, and Wilbur nods.

“That I do. It’s been a while.” 

“You know each other?” the taller fae asks quietly, and the blond claps him on the back and laughs. 

“I wouldn’t say we know each other, but I sure do know that spirit,” he responds. Wilbur laughs inwardly; he’s just as cryptic as before. 

“What a terrible fate to be known,” he jokes. “We can only know what we think we know, and the more we know the less we speak.” The winged faerie looks at him quizzically, with a grin cutting his face and something resembling fondness in his eyes. 

“Has anyone ever told you,” he starts, “you have the soul of a fae?” Wilbur stares blankly, and opens his mouth to speak, but finds no words. His heart leaps at the statement, and he tries to control the warmth growing up his chest as if to say ‘Yes, yes! It’s what I’ve wished for!’ 

“You’d be the first,” he says instead. The faerie looks him up and down a moment longer, with a strange glint in his eyes. After a moment, he looks back up to meet Wilbur’s gaze. The taller fae stays silent.

“It was good to see you again,” he says, and he and his companion walk away. 

Wilbur watches them go with a quizzical expression. He keeps them on the edge of his perception the whole rest of the festival, but they don’t speak to him again.

When Niki meets Wilbur again and tells her tales from the party, she’ll ask why he looks like he’s seen a ghost, and he won’t be able to answer without the strange urge to speak in rhyme.

–

Wilbur’s rabbit returns just the next week, and he smiles brightly and scoops it up into his arms. It nuzzles into his chest happily, sniffing him in greeting. 

“Hello, little one! How are you doing?” he asks, though he knows it can’t understand. “Why,  you’ve grown up quite a bit,” he says, though the bunny is still just about as small as before. 

He sets it down on the ground, and it looks a bit offended, until he sits down beside it and rummages through his bag. He’s long since stopped bringing his jars of honey, not expecting either of the fae to visit him, but he does bring little treats for the wildlife from time to time. And for himself, of course. 

“Here you go,” he says, pulling out a strawberry and holding it out to the animal. It sniffs the fruit tentatively, then bites it, and Wilbur can almost see the moment its eyes light up, and he realizes with a start, he might have accidentally gotten a rabbit addicted to strawberries. He is never going to get himself out of this. 

“Slow down, slow down,” he says as it munches away. It stops to look up at him for a moment, and Wilbur almost laughs out loud at how enraged it looks– as if a bunny could possibly be angered by him. “I have more,” he says, “just be patient.” The rabbit looks at him a moment longer, but ducks its head again, and goes back at the strawberry all the same. 

Wilbur spends the evening sitting in the brush with the bunny, telling it various stories from the town. He tells it about Niki’s bakery, and the kitten that follows him, and the farmer down on sixth who gave him a new set of silverware as thanks for some baking, and the rabbit listens intently. Or at least, pretends it’s listening. 

When Wilbur dozes off, he wakes up the next morning to find the bunny gone again, but the pang of sadness is set to the side when he sees the blond fae sitting on the rocks across the pool, his hand in the waterfall, feeling the current. 

Wilbur blinks in surprise, and the faerie almost seems to sense it. He turns his head, and smiles at Wilbur kindly. 

“Morning,” he says. Wilbur blinks.

“Morning.” 

“How did you sleep?” he asks, and Wilbur nods.

“Well. It was a nice night.” The faerie nods back, and looks back to the water.

“It was indeed,” he says, then; “I don’t believe I ever caught your name.” Wilbur stares for a second, then laughs heartily. 

“Not a chance,” he replies airily, and the fae smiles.

“I suppose I shouldn’t even have tried,” he says. It sounds enough like a joke, but Wilbur can sense a strange undertone beneath the words– disbelieving, or maybe fond in some way. Maybe just a bit disappointed. Wilbur wants to ask what he means, but he interrupts his train of thought. “What brings you here?” he asks. Wilbur considers.

“Peace and quiet. The water, and some calm,” he replies, much like the first day he met his pink-haired associate. The blond nods. 

“Nature is beautiful,” he agrees, and there’s that strange tone again that Wilbur can’t decipher. “You really do feel connected to the wood from time to time,” he says, and Wilbur nods.

“Yeah. It’s… almost like it calls to you,” he says. The faerie looks up, stares at him for a moment, scrutinizing every detail from his messy hair to his chocolate eyes down to the fabric of his shirt and the shoes on his feet, as if searching for something. And when he speaks again, there’s a darker meaning to it that Wilbur doesn’t understand.

“Almost,” he says. “You wish you could stay in this grass your whole life.” Despite the venom under his words, Wilbur nods and smiles, not wanting to be rude. 

“Exactly,” he agrees. “The forest feels a lot more like home than the village,” he admits. It feels cathartic in a way to finally tell somebody exactly how he’s been feeling for all these years. But no matter how relieved Wilbur feels, the faerie looks anything but, something like anger on his face and in his eyes. Somehow, Wilbur knows it’s not directed at him. 

“I bet it does,” is all he says. There’s silence for a moment as neither of the two dare to move. Wilbur messes with the grass under his palms, and musses up his hair with the other hand, breaking eye contact with the fae. The magical energy of the pool and the waterfall seem to fade into something more angered, and electric feeling. He knows for certain the blond fae is causing it. “Would you mind helping me?” he asks after a while, and Wilbur perks his head up.

“Sorry?” he asks, and the faerie repeats his question. Wilbur nods tentatively. “Depends on what you need.”

“I’m looking for someone,” the fae says, “I have been for a while. Someone lost, wandering. Someone waiting to come home.” A little warmth blooms in Wilbur’s chest that says I am lost, I need to go home. He pushes it aside. 

“What does this person look like?” he asks instead, and the fae’s eyes gloss over as he looks off into the distance at nothing in particular, spacing out. 

“Like a wanderer more than a traveler, and like a traveler more than an explorer,” he answers, not meeting Wilbur’s eyes. “Like someone searching more than sightseeing in an unfamiliar place.” The warmth grows at the faerie’s words. “Have you seen him?” he asks, still not looking at the human. 

And Wilbur wants to yell yes, it’s me, I’m searching and never finding, and wandering and never traveling. He doesn’t. He shakes his head.

“No, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he says. The fae finally looks back at him, and skepticism brews under his sky blue eyes. Wilbur feels he must reek the stench of a liar to anyone with more sense than a weed, but even still, the fae nods. 

“If you find him, let me know,” he says, and with that, disappears. 

Wilbur would be lying if he said he kept his eye out for longer than a day, because as the sun fell below the horizon that very same night, he tossed and turned in his bed, and couldn’t seem to get his mind right. 

Somewhere he knows he should be looking. A wanderer more than traveler, journeying without destination.

He tries to pretend he hasn’t seen him. 

–

Wilbur doesn’t report back to the fae. He doesn’t do much of anything with the fair folk for another long year. In his time away from the forest’s magic and the influence of the fae, he finds himself growing more and more uncomfortable with each passing day. Each night when the sun dips below the horizon and the town begins to sleep, he lay awake in bed, feeling the wood call for him, yearning to feel the soil beneath his feet and the moonlight on his cheeks. That’s without mentioning the overwhelming scent of hazelnut and vanilla that permeates his every moment. 

He dreams each day of returning to the wood, so much so that Niki often has to splash him with water and pinch his arms to break him out of his daydreaming, but he simply can’t help it. Each time he goes outside, he feels his legs trying to carry him away, back to the moon pool and the little rabbit in the woods, and the smell of flowers and leaves and the crunching of sticks beneath his feet. 

He deals with it for another year, until the Beltane comes around. 

And as he approaches the city square with his pockets full of silver and honey candies in his basket, he feels the overwhelming urge to eat them all up himself. He feels the craving for warm milk and berries and sweet nectar that he’s felt so very often before that he can’t continue to avoid. 

And he sees himself in the forest, his ears too pointed and eyes too shiny, and his laugh like church bells and a symphony orchestra playing over the current of waves. 

“Are you alright Wil?” He nods. He lies.

“Yeah. Perfect,” he replies. Niki smiles, and Wilbur can see she’s convinced, but the feeling of being out of place continues to overtake him. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, back towards his house on the edge of town. It would be so very easy to disappear. It would be so simple to run away back into the wood and never return. 

It would be so very simple to–

“Nice to see you again.” The deep voice with a monotone growl makes him look back ahead. He doesn’t know when Niki left his side, but she’s gone, melted into the crowds as she does each Beltane.

This time the fae has changed more noticeably. He wears more gold, and an emerald earring on his lobe. His hair has grown out the slightest bit, and he wears it down instead of in braids. His voice is less timid, and he doesn’t look at Wilbur as if he’d strike out and kill him at any moment, and Wilbur is almost surprised. He smiles, and digs out a honey stick, handing it over to the faerie– he thinks it tradition, at this point. 

“Welcome back,” he says. “Couldn’t stay apart from me?” he jokes. He doesn’t mean it to be sincere, but the fae’s response certainly is. 

“You can’t stay apart from me,” he replies, and Wilbur stares.

And he sees himself bounding around a meadow barefoot without a care in the world. He sees the fae by his side with a small smile on his face, and he sees his brown hair curled up too perfectly, and his eyes shining with joy, and he feels the soil beneath his skin and tries to savor the feeling as long as he can.

He doesn’t know when the blond faerie arrived. 

“Have you been looking all this time?” he asks, and Wilbur closes his eyes. 

He knows someone who’s always searching for something he can never find. He knows a traveler that looks like a wanderer without a destination in mind. He knows that he can’t waste time waiting to be on time, because no time is soon enough when he has something to find.

“Yes,” he says, though he doesn’t want to, because he’s looked for far too long. It feels like giving up a piece of himself he’s kept inside that he just can’t quite let go.

“What have you found?” the fae asks, but he doesn’t want to tell him. He doesn’t want to allow his heart to spew out his nonsense, but nature calls his true thoughts out of him and he rambles away.

“I know a traveler that wanders,” he says, his instincts taking over. “I know that I’ve searched for years at a time never knowing what to look for.” The faeries both grin, and he doesn’t pay attention, closing his eyes. He doesn’t know where the rant comes from, but it feels right, as if it’s ripped out of him by the very spirit of the Wild that’s called his name for as long as he can remember, and he just can’t hold it in anymore. “I know that I don’t explore to find out the secrets of this world as much as I journey to find the only secret it keeps from me. I know that there’s only one thing I’ve never been allowed to know– I know I can’t know what I don’t know, and I know that the more I know, the less I can speak, and I know that one of these days I’ll have spoken too much.” He takes in a deep breath, and opens his eyes, and he stares at the fae before him. Suddenly, the final puzzle piece clicks into place, and a tear runs down his cheek. “And I know that I am lost, and I need to go home, and wherever that is, I’ve never known.” 

The fair folk smile at him, and it’s the first time he recognizes a real smile from the pink-haired fae, who he’s watched gradually open up and become less scared, the reticence he once took note of drained out of him.

The blond faerie approaches him, and cups his cheek with a hand. He wipes away his tear and smiles brightly, before whispering so no one else can hear. “My name is Philza,” and the name holds power like Wilbur has never known. “It’s time for you to come home.” 

Something clicks inside of him, and Wilbur collapses into Phil’s arms, hugging him tightly, making up for all the years they’ve been apart. He knows he’s meant to be here in his arms, and he knows, suddenly, that he was never human from the start.

He knows when the Wild calls him towards mushroom rings and moon pools it’s waiting for its child to return home, and he knows that the emptiness he’s felt in the forest is the gaping hole he’s left in his absence. 

He doesn’t know how he got here, and he can’t imagine why, but he knows that the Faerie Realm has been missing something for too many years since he left it behind. 

“You’re coming home, son,” Phil says again, and he nods, still trapping the fae in a hug.

“Wilbur,” he says immediately, without a second thought. He can’t stand to not give the same power to the faerie who finally found him again. His years wandering and searching these lands aimlessly without cause have all been worth something, he finally understands, because he’s finally going home. 

“Wilbur,” Phil repeats with a knowing smile. Wilbur can’t shake the feeling that he’s known for a long time– he’s always known Wilbur’s name, he’s just needed to wait for him to say it. “They’ll never get you again,” he says. “The humans will never take my children again.” 

Wilbur nods, and he understands quickly what he means. The Beltane fire rises higher in the sky and the villagers shriek, backing away, and Wilbur doesn’t look up, staying trapped in the faerie’s embrace as he hears bodies drop to the cobbled streets. 

“The short blonde girl,” he mutters quickly to Phil, “Bring her no harm.” The faerie nods, and Wilbur is assured, because the fair folk can never lie. 

The pink-haired fae takes his hand and starts to pull him away.

He learns his name is Technoblade, and he’s been waiting for him too. 

Wilbur knows Niki is safe when he goes back into the wood. He can still hear the screaming of the townspeople as Phil exacts his revenge, but his thoughts are clouded by the smell of flowers and the feeling of the grass at his ankles. Techno smiles at him as he pulls off his shoes and feels the power of nature fully for the first time, and it feels like a part of his soul has been returned to him– something gone that once was forgotten, finally found. Something lost finally reclaimed. 

–

The return of the stolen Prince is a grander event than Beltane ever could have been. Wilbur settles into the fae court just as if he’d never left– and he never wants to again.

It goes without saying that trade relations are cut. Young children are warned never to venture into the forest, and to never be out after dark. Each First of May the villagers shut their windows and blow out their candles and pay respects in the form of milk and honey left on their doorstep, and promise never to do wrong by the fair folk again. But promises that don’t come from the fae can easily be broken. 

The fair folk keep a watchful eye on humankind from that day forward. When they enter the forest, nature goes silent and waits for them to strike. The Wild still bends to their will, as they have no quarrel with the Fair, but the humans cast the wood wary glances and resolve to never go near. 

The Beltane goes down in history books as the Bloody Beltane and the Quickening. 

A young baker swears that when she leaves the wood from gathering spices that she hears laughter like bells follow her out, and on one instance, she sees the Prince again.

“Tell them,” she claims he said to her, “that I am happy, and that I am finally where I belong.” And she’ll pause in telling the story to take a deep breath in earnest, and tears will drip down her face. Of joy, she claims, but the villagers will never believe her. “And tell them that we do not have time to wait to be on time. After all, it won’t wait for us.” 

The baker, the villagers decide, is probably just gone mad with grief. She’s regarded as the community heralder of tall tales, though she promises to be honest. 

But after all, only a promise from the fae can truly be unbreakable.

All other oaths, the humans know, are simple fault and fable.