Eliot’s Dream Job

As long as she was here and she was safe, he was glad to let her sleep against him.  He gathered her in carefully, as much for her sake as for his. They would be fine, he was sure. 

FInally, lulled by her quiet breathing and the stillness in the bedroom, he fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep…

The forest was growing dark, and a fog had settled as he walked home from the market carrying fresh vegetables. This solitary life on the edge of the village was fine with him; nobody bothered him. More importantly, he didn’t bother anyone.

He didn’t see the fairy before he nearly stepped on her, thinking her crumpled form a pile of leaves. It wasn’t until he saw her clean bare feet he realized the form was vaguely human. This could be a trap, he realized. Fairies were often tricky and devious; a wild shimmer could bring down the unwise and unwary traveler. But he sensed nothing in the woods around them, not even a suspicious silence he could attribute to lurking fairies. Carefully, and with a good distance between them, he knelt to put his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t move. She was barely even breathing. Almost holding his breath, ready to ward off an ambush of her tricky friends, he pulled her onto her side.

That was the problem: she wasn’t the one attacking. She had been attacked. On either side of her neck were burns, as if someone had sneaked up on her unawares and slipped a rope around her neck in an attempt to catch her. Any fool knew a fairy couldn’t be trapped by a common rope, but this often did not stop fools from trying. He sniffed carefully at her neck, sorting out the various scents until he found one that smelled malicious. If he ever came across this man, he would know.

The rest of her shimmer, then, must have chased him away and left her, thinking her dead. He wouldn’t be so careless as to leave her to her fate, even if she was a cunning stranger. He carefully lifted her from the forest floor, noting that her wings drooped limply, nearly brushing the ground. After ensuring nobody followed him, he carried her to his cottage near the brook. He situated her as comfortably as he could on his, the only bed, before sitting down with a candle, some soup, and all the books he had that might give him an idea of how to revive a fairy. Late that night, he tucked a quilt around her so she wouldn’t freeze. The cottage was cozy, but a fairy who didn’t move was a fairy who didn’t generate her own body heat. He also found some balm to put on the cuts around her neck, wondering what sort of monster would treat a creature so ruthlessly. Even if they were sly and full of mischief, fairies seldom lashed out unprovoked; the depth of the cuts suggested whoever had done this intended to destroy.

Two days before the full moon, he thought. Fate was a bastard.

She had neither moved nor improved when he checked on her the next morning, but neither had her situation degraded. Feeling this was a good omen, he brought water and some vegetable broth to feed her very carefully. Books on the eating habits of fairies were difficult to attain; his was hopelessly old but had indicated she might prefer vegetables to meat. He just hoped she didn’t prefer the blood of her enemies to vegetables. Or that he could convince her he was not an enemy.

The second day brought no changes for her, nor did anyone come looking for her. He would have gladly given her over to her people had they come to claim her. Untethered fairies were rare, mostly because other beings found them tasty or entertaining, and many of them weren’t picky about the order. But he had other concerns today. Before the night fell, he tidied the cottage and prepared himself. As the moon rose, the change began. He ran for the door as a human; he cleared the threshold a wolf. The part of his brain that remained his was glad she wasn’t awake to see this; he didn’t want her to act rashly out of fright. This wasn’t a kingdom where communities indulged in such practices as live and let live. He wasn’t sure a fairy, even at full strength, could take down a werewolf. He wasn’t in any mood to learn, either.

It was nearly dawn when he crept silently back into the cottage on four paws. He was fed and exhausted and not thinking clearly. Until he curled up next to her, he forgot there was a stranger in his bed. Too tired to move again, he lapsed into a nearly unconscious state. But not before he felt a gentle hand reach out to stroke his ears. With a contented sigh, he fell asleep.

When he awoke the next morning, human again, he was pleased to see she had curled towards him in her sleep. For now he was certain it was sleep and not something worse. He was having a simple meal of bread and cheese that night when she sat upright, gasping as she reached for her neck.

“Be careful,” he warned, coming to her side. “You still have burns.” He held a mug of water to her lips, to restore her voice. “Drink this. It’s just water, I promise.”

She gave him a wary look but sipped at the mug he held, one hand still at her throat. Her gown, which he first thought made of leaves, was made of whatever fairies used to clothe themselves. She wanted hers to resemble leaves, therefore it did. One had to be very close to see that they weren’t actually leaves painstakingly stitched together. Most rarely got so close. Hers were now a dull brown, although they had been many autumn colors when he first found her. And more gold-tinged, too, now that he considered it.

“I’m Sir Eliot,” he said. It was to save her from talking too soon. “I found you in the woods and brought you to my home, where you are welcome.” It never hurt to flatter the fairies just a little; letting her know she wasn’t captive was probably a good idea. “I’m a bard.”

She looked at him curiously. Most bards did not look like Sir Eliot, despite their popularity among tavern wenches. Generally, she found the affairs of humans funny; now she thought she saw what the tavern wenches did. But in any case, most bards did not become knights.

“I was a soldier,” he explained. “I’m not anymore.”

He offered her the mug again, and she drank deeply this time.

“May I have your name, mistress?” It was always polite to ask, even knowing some would never give their true names.

“Ophelia,” she answered softly. “You may call me Ophelia.”

It was fitting, he thought.

He gestured on his own throat where she still bore bruises.

“Do you know who did this to you?”

“The Relic Hunter,” she answered. “He stole my amulet.”

Magical beings didn’t go around just telling anyone their business unless they were resigned to being consumed when done with their tale. She must think herself already dead, else she was hopelessly naïve.

“Did that have your…your magic?”

“It was merely a focus. In the hands of a man, it has no power. But he has no doubt traded it for something to one who knows not of fairies or magic but wishes to possess something of either.” She sounded so sad. “It is but an object to anyone else.”

“Wait, please. I will refill your drink,” he offered. She nodded slightly. He hurried to the cold stream, holding the mug under the water for several moments. The cool water would soothe her, he hoped.

She reached tentatively for it when he came back.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “You’ve been asleep for a long time. I can help you.”

She drank again, with the appearance of gratitude.

“Do you know this Relic Hunter,” he asked.

“Only as a man who would have that which is not his,” she answered. “Why, Bard? Have you knowledge of a Relic Hunter recently acquiring that which he should not?”

“No,” Eliot shook his head. “But if you wish it, I will find him and cut out his heart and bring it back to you.”

“He has no heart,” she whispered bitterly. “Had he a heart, he would not be a brigand. He is probably gone to a far kingdom, where I hope he gets eaten by a giant.”

“Was it special? Your amulet. Was it a gift?”

“A gift from an admirer, many years ago,” she answered. “A fairy’s object must be special to her, otherwise it is just an ornament. I have many of those I would have traded had he asked.”

It was hard for him to tell what the fairy meant by “admirer”. They weren’t always straightforward when speaking, especially if they had no trust in the listener. “Gift” was a bit of a sketchy concept too, for it was well known fairies could charm a man out of anything he owned, including his life.

“Would you like some soup?” he offered. “I made it.”

“You cook too?”

In his sleep, Eliot frowned.

“Art thou a sorcerer as well? Perhaps an apprentice to the cook of the king of this land as well as a bard?”

That was better.

“I live here alone, Mistress Ophelia. A man must eat to live.”

“I would be most grateful, sir.”

Spoon-feeding a fairy homemade soup was not a particular fantasy of his, but Sir Eliot found he enjoyed it. With every drop of soup, Ophelia regained some of her original color. Her wings perked up a bit, and her clothes brightened from a near-dead brown to at least a glossier brown that didn’t look so easily crushed. After she had all she wanted, she tried to move off the bed.

“Please, stay there,” Sir Eliot said. “You’ve been ill.”

“I have trespassed on your company so long already,” she protested.

“No, mistress. It is mine honor. Please stay. Rest. You have not committed a trespass. You are welcome here. And I have plenty of room so you should not be disturbed.”

At that, she looked deeply uncertain. For one who was a trickster, the idea that a trick was being pulled on her was never far away. Being forced into sharing a bed with an unknown man, however kind, was not a thing she would repay with kindness. He watched these thoughts and several others flit across her face before he pulled the blanket up around her.

“Call if you need me, mistress,” he instructed. “I will hear you.”

Within moments, she was again in a deep slumber.

Whenever she awoke for the next several days, he was always there. Usually he offered a drink and some food, though never enough to overwhelm her. He never made any demands on her. After many days, he held his hands out to her.

“Can you walk?” he asked. “Or do you prefer to fly?”

“I am unsure whether I can do either,” she admitted. Her voice, while still soft, had returned to full strength.

“Let us try,” he offered. “Don’t worry.”

“What if I fall?”

“I’m here to catch you.”

Weak fairies fall a lot, and they do not find it amusing. Sir Eliot did, but was knowledgeable enough to realize he should not share that he found her growing frustration vastly entertaining, lest she turn all the plants in his garden into plants that bit or suddenly caught fire.

It took another two days to recover her strength enough to walk or fly for any period longer than seconds. Still, he refused to turn her out. She would be easy prey in this condition. He also found he enjoyed her company. While she was quiet, she seemed to find him interesting, and he often had her in tears of mirth with rude songs he played for her. Her smile was lovely to behold, especially since he didn’t feel she was trying to charm him with it. He cautiously acknowledged she genuinely enjoyed the things he shared with her.

Still days later, the bruises on her neck had faded and she floated easily around the cottage. She was a nosy thing, looking into the pots and pans, reading the titles of his books, exploring every nook and cranny and leaving a faint smear of fairy dust on everything she touched. He smiled watching her, for she thought she was sneaky. It was in her nature to snoop about, and so he made no move to stop her. He had nothing to hide here.

He returned from the market one morning to find her sitting at the kitchen table. In truth, she was on the kitchen table; a practice that caused him no small amount of consternation. He had tried to shoo her off it only for her to reply that she was merely above it, not seated on the surface. At that point, he knew he was losing the argument and let it go; he still grumbled whenever he thought she was listening.

“I brought you strawberries,” he offered. A ripple of red crossed her gown; this gesture pleased her.

“I thank you,” she said. “These are difficult to find and a great expense. I despair how I shall ever repay you.”

“I require no repayment, mistress.”

Faster than he could get the words out of his mouth, she was before him, her hands on his face. She looked him in the eyes, but he could not feel she was trying to bewitch or entrance him. In truth, she was reading him. She examined his face curiously for a long while, anchored from drifting away by her slim fingers on his jaw; her toes barely skimmed the hard-packed floor. As a soldier, he had faced inspections. As a man, he was sure he had never faced one more important.

“Art thou satisfied?” he asked softly.

“Tell me, my bard who was once a soldier, how did you become separated from your pack?”

She knew. He was relieved she hadn’t bolted out the open door, because she clearly had the ability. He had not seen her move from the chair ere she was before him.

Ere? Was that a word?

“I was in the pack of a man who was cruel,” he explained. He thought about it, then realized she hadn’t finagled his response. He was telling her of his own accord. Once, he had been bewitched by a fairy. The sensation was much like being drunk on a foundering ship in a storm-tossed sea, but far less pleasant. “I found I was losing more of myself to the beast and the ruthless man who commanded us. I wanted to remain a man with the soul of a man, not an animal who acted mindlessly on the orders of another. I escaped and vowed never to return. I am my own man.”

“Do you wish to return to a pack that is more kind?”

“I do not wish to be in a pack at all. I have a small life here, but it is mine. I can sleep at night knowing I have brought no harm to others.”

She nodded wistfully.

“Are you but one in a long line of werewolves? Or were you turned?”

“I was turned. I thought it my will at the time; it was not.”

“Who was this man that would use his will to overpower yours?”

“You will bring me his heart,” he chuckled.

“No.” Her dress flared a bright crimson. “His heart was not what I had in mind.”

He reached up to cover her hand with his, an intimate gesture he would have refrained from indulging in just yesterday.

“Let yourself not be worried. He no longer has the ability to harm anyone.”

“This man is dead?”

“He was unwise as a commander and took many chances with the lives of others. He is dead.”

Her dress finally calmed to a less-angry shade of red. It was clear that, if anything of this man remained on the mortal plane, she would have ensured it did not remain there for long.

“What of you, mistress? Your shimmer has not returned. Will you find another?” Fairies did not do well alone.

The leaves of her dress faded a dull brown again.

“I do not know,” she answered truthfully. “I do not know how to find them now. And fairies are territorial; I should have to be accepted into another group through the graciousness of their leader. I do not know if there is such a fairy in this part of the kingdom.”

The attacker must have been brutal for her to be left behind. He flexed his hands, aching to reach for the man who had done this. She drifted back to his chair at the table, falling into it with a dejected thump which brought him back to the present.

“Think not on that now, mistress,” he said. “I have a gift for you.”

In these times, in this kingdom, gifts were highly suspect. If they weren’t a way to bind someone, they were a way to kill someone. Her face reflected all of that.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed. She complied warily, tensing as she waited. He carefully looped a soft leather cord around her neck before he guided her hand to the pendant. “A gift of good faith, for you to wear in good health.”

He wasn’t certain surprise had a color; neither was her clothing. After flickering through several different shades, it settled on a curious yellow. He found the idea amazing; she barely seemed to notice how clearly her clothing conveyed her emotions. Or perhaps she did and thus considered anyone near her warned should they choose to heed it. If they did not, it was hardly her fault. She examined the pendant closely. It was a hand-carved silver wolf, so detailed she could see the fine hairs of his muzzle and the fluffiness of his tail, although she would not have expressed it thus. He might be a werewolf too, but a man had his pride.

“I shall,” she said reverently. “For it is beautiful and a most fine gift.”

He noticed after that day her wings had a silver tinge to them. After contemplating why this might be, he decided her focus must lend itself to her aspect. Which meant she liked his gift and perhaps it did not seem to her a mere trinket to be traded away should the whim strike her. This pleased him.

They had been together a month. He knew, because it was nearly time for the full moon again. As she was much more conscious this time, Sir Eliot pondered his options. None of them were good. After the first hour past dinner, when he failed to turn a page in his book, she approached the subject herself.

“What troubles thee, my bard? For thou hast acquired a thousand-yard stare that is most worrisome. If it is within my power to do so, I will eliminate the source of thine trouble and let you roast it with wine.”

He grinned at that, for she was still at about half-fairy strength. A completely healthy fairy would have a fair to difficult time against any of his enemies. She might be a good distraction, but a short-lived one at best. On the other hand, she had made a sincere offer while complimenting his cooking.

“Tomorrow is the full moon, mistress,” he answered simply.

“For this thou art troubled?” she seemed confused.

“I can neither delay nor stop the change. I must.”

“This seems a predictable curse,” she observed. “And while inconvenient, not a source of sorrow.”

She watched him carefully, disconcertingly hovering above her perch on the table. That this was her chosen place would have troubled Eliot, except her feet were always clean. Only under those circumstances did he find this behavior tolerable.

“You wish I should leave?”

“I wish you should not see,” he mumbled. “But stay. I do not wish you gone.”

“I wonder why you should seek to hide that which is a part of you, although a part you did not necessarily choose.”

He ran a hand over his face, suddenly haggard in the firelight.

“Ophelia, I—”

“Thinkest thou that I have no knowledge of beasts who roam in the moonlight? Or that I hold only pity or scorn for them? You art much mistaken, my bard who was a soldier.”

“Some of thine closest associates, no doubt,” he answered bitterly.

“No. However, this thing is a part of you; it must be acknowledged. I am not troubled on your behalf. Or on mine.”

“I should dismiss this curse? I should not be troubled by it?”

He heard the light stir of air around her, the only sign he had that she moved. Suddenly she was before him, one hand under his chin, gently urging him to look at her.

“I feel assured, my wolf who is a bard, that thou might find a way to use this curse as a gift.”

“This is not possible, mistress.”

She placed a light kiss on his forehead.

“Anything is, sir.”

He left her after dinner, over her protests, to go out alone under the full moon.

“Go thou to bed,” he instructed. “The fire is banked, you will not be cold.”

“I have no need of sleep,” she objected.

He sighed heavily. For a being that would sleep all of the night and a good deal of the day if given the opportunity, to dig her heels in on this was a bit rich.

“Ophelia,” he said softly. “I expect to return to find you in bed, asleep. You would not wish to disappoint a werewolf in this, his one wish.”

“His one wish mayhap requires more thought.”

“My sincerest wish is that thou wilt stay here and make no attempt to follow me,” he amended.

“That was all thou had to say,” she grinned impudently.

He kissed her hand then departed, no idea how he might find her later.

He returned before dawn, exhausted, wishing for rest, wishing for water. Wishing, were he honest, for Ophelia.

She was at the kitchen table, seated before it reading one of his books. In truth, he did not know whether she could read or whether she just like the pictures. Both prospects were disturbing.

He stumbled to her side and sat, because he was still a knight.

“You are home, and safe,” she observed. “I have water for you, if you wish it.” She held the mug out at his level. After he drank all he wished, he placed his muzzle gently on her lap. She petted his ears gently; he could feel the light magic in her stroke. It was a healing energy, offered freely should he have need it. “I am glad,” she said. “For I am tired and would go to sleep. I fear it will be cold, wouldst thou join me? Two are less cold than one.”

Of all the exasperating creatures in this or any other kingdom, fairies in general and specifically this obstinate fairy were quickly rising to the top of his list. Nevertheless, she had waited to provide him comfort, and her invitation was sincerely meant. As she had made clear earlier in her stay that, were she tricked into sharing a bed when it was not her desire, retribution would be swift and brutal (but probably more annoying than anything, he thought), to ask him now was to show that she had no fear of him.

Which was how they started sharing the bed.

Finally, the day came where she felt compelled to leave. She was no longer ill, having received excellent care from a man who was not obligated to provide it. She felt she could put off the inevitable no longer.

“Must you leave?” he asked again. She was flitting rather dismally around the garden while he pulled weeds. The tops of the plants bent towards her when she passed. He sympathized.

“I have consumed your hospitality far longer than I had any right,” she answered. Which he felt was not an answer at all. “I must go find my own life again, my wolf who was a soldier. But as you have been so exceedingly kind, I will grant you a favor before I go.”

Hope stirred in his chest. He had to be careful, though. There was a trick to tricking a fairy, although he recognized that the real trick was not making her so wrathful that she turned one’s arm into a trout. He did not want to inadvertently anger her. She had not finished talking.

“I cannot lift this curse from you,” she warned. “Please do not ask. Would that I were able, but I am not. The most powerful fairy of all of us would find this an impossible task. And I do not wish to give you hope when I can offer no relief and only harm were I to make the attempt.”

“I would not ask you to lift this curse,” he promised. “It is mine to bear. Have you another warning I should heed?”

“I also cannot change the heart of someone who does not love you.” He nodded; she seemed to think this of life-altering importance to have mentioned it in nearly the same breath with attempting to lift a curse. This was, of course, the subject he most wished to pursue.

“I do not wish you to force someone to love me. However, if I loved a woman, could I ask you to persuade her to examine her heart, and see if she might not return my love after all?”

He bit back a grin as a distinct wave of green rippled through her dress. Jealousy was the same color for every being.

“If she did not,” Ophelia warned, “I could not bid her change her mind.”

“I understand,” he said. “But you could ask. Thus asked, she could consider.”

“If this is what you wish,” she said helplessly, clearly not understanding why a man, any man, but really especially this man, would waste a favor from a fairy on a woman who might not return his affections. Of all the things he could ask for, many of which she could easily provide, she could not use her power to convince him otherwise, either. “Please give me the name of this woman who has unwittingly captured your heart.” Again with the green, this time in a fast-spreading circle that started near her heart.

He dropped to one knee before her, his head bowed.

“’Tis you, Mistress Ophelia.”

She had no response. He reached carefully for her hands, still without looking up.

“Could you find in your heart love for me?”

“Why should that be what you wish?” she asked, breathless.

“Because you are what I desire most,” he said. She tugged his hands to pull him up. Fairies did not, as a rule, get down in the dirt unless there was a pub fight. “I desire for you to stay with me, to make your life here. You need not seek out others of your own kind, for I can protect you from any harm. I can provide for you, and should you want for anything, you have but to ask.”

“You have not yet said you wish this,” she stammered, her wings quivering.

“It is not a wish, for I have no wish to bind you,” he explained. “I desire for you to want to stay with me, but ‘twould be ungracious to wish for you to remain if you truly want to go.”

She flung herself at him, throwing her arms around him, her heart and her wings beating in time. He held her close as he dared.

“My bard who is a wolf, you do not have the power to bind me with a wish, for I am not a genie. Had I not the will to stay, I would not.”

He held her barely away from him so as to be able to look into her eyes for a long minute.

“You wish to stay? With me?” he asked, just to be certain. “Of your own will, and not mine?”

She captured his face in her hands, leaning in to brush her lips across his. He turned her feather-soft stroke into a long kiss, holding her tighter as her body relaxed to fit against his.

“Of my will,” she said. “If it should also be yours.”

“Come home, Ophelia,” he murmured as he carried her over the threshold. The door closed behind them.

He woke up, startled. His dreams were never that vivid. It had been an odd dream, but not unwelcome. Beside him, he felt Ophelia wake up, although she didn’t betray that by even the flicker of an eyelash, staying still and breathing deeply. Maybe they still had time before the day intruded and they had to face whatever came next; because he was certain something was coming next.

She had put bottled water and some Gatorade on the nightstand between when he last woke and whenever it was now; anything else could surely wait. They were here, in his space, without the instruction of the outside world and the definite problems it held.

But no. She turned in his arms, her eyes wide and her face pale.

“Eliot,” she said softly, but with barely concealed panic. “What did you do?”