Chapter Text
In Aaravi’s youth, it was said that the woods outside town were forbidden to enter. When any enterprising adventurous child’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a new playground, it was further said that the creatures inside would not permit passage— that the denizens of the forest would take a toll. In the form of a traveler’s clothing, something they were carrying, if they took a liking. If they didn’t, the traveler would pay the toll with their life.
When Aaravi was forced to flee, on accusations of witchcraft, they quickly became aware of additional rules— exactly how to pay the toll properly. This learning came in part from kind townsfolk’s warnings, in part from stories of particular people’s particular failures to pay, and in part from those accusations of witchcraft being true.
And in part from the natural experience of an extended and involuntary stay Under The Hill.
She avoids leaving her cottage when she can. Mostly due to necessity— they’ll be accosted if the townsfolk see her, and the merchants rarely even take her money, and That Spider is still out there— but the quiet life of cooking and study has become something she values. Their cottage has become their sanctuary on both a literal and emotional level. Away from the anxious life of making sure the townspeople don’t see the sparks coming from her hands, the way that spiderwebs and strewn carcasses still beckon her back to him. But, more practically, their doorway and the various corners of the cottage are bundled thickly with protection charms: rosemary, salt, red thread. Bundles of carefully chosen twigs and flowers hanging from the eaves, and pockets sewn into clothing full of salt and (dull) iron nails. Thresholds are sacred, and Aaravi’s is second only to church ground in its impregnable nature. When she wakes in the night, wracked by memories of blood and gold, tattooed skin, she paces her walls with a candle, checking and re-checking the carefully engraved sigils that hide and protect. She began the work of reinforcement in desperate self-defense when she first moved into this abandoned place, but now takes a degree of pride and comfort in the work.
But charms and spells require supplies, and their modest (thriving) vegetable garden can’t provide things like fruit, like pea blossoms, newt’s tails, or that one particular species of glowing mushroom that tastes excellent on top of rice and in basic conjuration.
Meticulously, Aaravi prepares. A long jacket with plenty of pockets, a leather satchel, and a small basket for more delicate work. A light bundle of gingham containing a sandwich and a small jar of apricot preserves. The staff she uses to channel magic as well as fend off attackers goes onto her back, and, finally, the small book (an extraordinarily dry essay on alchemy she’s pored over enough to hate) sitting in the bottom of the satchel is moved to the top. They run through a long-practiced mental list, slips a slice of stale bread into her pocket, touches her hand to a sigil carved into her doorframe, and ventures out.
Aaravi’s route through the woods is always different. For one, any maps she’s tried to make have inevitably gotten her turned around and lost, the sound of faint giggling and bells ringing in her ears. She relies on her clothes turned inside out, on the rosemary in her pockets and her shoes, on the red thread around her wrist to guide her home properly. Though it initially felt foolish and flimsy, it hasn’t failed her yet. And it marks her as a poor target for spiriting away— a fey hand around her wrist would burn.
This time, they wander vaguely north (by the sun’s path, because compasses don’t work), periodically making use of a sharp, black athame in order to harvest yarrow (for medicine), wild strawberry (for food), and nettle (for curses). Aaravi keeps their eyes on the ground, careful not to cross any circles, careful not to take more than a modest amount of any plant. A certain amount of leeway, she finds, is offered to a witch who walks lightly and harms none.
Lost in the rhythm of her own steps, she stumbles into a small clearing, and sees a grove of apple trees, leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Each fruit gives off a healthy gloss, reflecting the sunlight. Drawing closer, the fluffy grass brushes against Aaravi’s ankles. Before she really knows it, she’s reaching out to grab a juicy apple hanging temptingly low on a branch of the nearest tree.
With barely any struggle, it comes off the branch and into her hand, and she puts it in the basket.
A bright voice startles her out of her reverie. “And who exactly are you, to be in my clearing, taking my apples without my leave?”
Aaravi turns quickly, alarmed. Indeed, there’s a tall, thin, lavender-colored tiefling standing just inside the clearing, tracing one bare foot along the very clear border that Aaravi somehow missed. Its clothes are light, ethereal, weighed down by golden charms that jingle gently with each motion. A collar bearing a heavy black opal rests at the base of its neck, glinting menacingly. A symbol of the Stone Vessel’s court, notorious for its viciousness. Aaravi stays quiet, still calculating the odds of survival in their head, still silently and desperately relieved it bears no weblike symbols.
The fae— because, undoubtedly, Aaravi has trespassed on the property of a fae— steps closer, weightless and graceful. It leans down, bright red eyes lacking pupils and glinting inscrutably behind round glasses. The smile on its lips does not reach its eyes. “Territory must be respected. Now the question is what I’ll be taking, for your transgression.” It folds its hands behind their back, leaning further in.
Not breaking eye contact, Aaravi steps back, blindly thrusting her free hand into her satchel until it brushes up against the bundle containing her lunch. Quickly, she extracts it, taking effort to disguise the way her hands shake. They take a breath and try to think quickly. “I did not intend to trespass,” they say, brain working overtime not to instinctively apologize, which would create a debt. “I hope that this offering of preserves can make us equals.” Aaravi holds the still half-wrapped sandwich in one hand, offering the jar of preserves out with the other.
Still leaning down, the tiefling examines the jar without touching it, cocking its head curiously. With manufactured leisure, they ask: “So would you say we’re currently unequal?”
Aaravi panics a bit. A “no” would be rude, and would deepen any debt already there. A “yes” would cement the dubious debt already created. Technically, Aaravi was initially in the wrong, but the negotiations have instated a position of quasi-hospitality, currently the only thing keeping Aaravi from a bloody death or deep debt. Aaravi stays silent.
The tiefling grins. “Clever.” It reaches out, wrapping graceful fingers around the jar to take it. “But I wouldn’t say four ounces of apricot preserves is equivalent to an entire apple. What else have you got, little trespasser?”
Aaravi reaches back into the bag, taking out the book containing the alchemy essay. “Do you accept compensation in knowledge?”
Their eyes widen. Crossing their arms, they put on a calculating expression. “And what would that consist of?”
Their rapidly wagging tail gives them away, just a bit.
“A treatise on alchemy. Highly dense in . . . erudition.” Aaravi makes an effort to talk up the book without revealing what a boring read it is. “On the arts of transmutation. You’re welcome to it, assuming this makes us even?”
“Hm.” The tiefling makes a little show out of thinking. “I’d say so.” They reach out to take it, very quickly.
Newly confident, Aaravi raises it high, and the tiefling semi-gracefully recovers from the grab. “In fact, I’d say it’s fair to ask that I’d have the rights to pick some apples in the time it takes you to read this?”
Drawing back, they make a snarling, hissing noise that initially makes Aaravi’s stomach drop in fear. However, when they draw a hand up to cover their mouth, Aaravi smiles. The fairy is laughing.
“That is very fair to ask! You’re a smart one. Erudite, you said? Could I have the name of the little scholar who’s found themself in my orchard?” They reach a hand out, expectation in their eyes.
If Aaravi fell for this one, she’d hardly be worth any of the salt in her pockets. “You may not have my name, but you can call me Sift.” She holds the book out. “I’ll just fill up my basket. Witch’s honor.”
“Clever witch.” They take the book. “As we discussed, to resolve your trespasses, I’ll be keeping this bit of the summer,” They gently shake the apricots. “And this volume of wisdom on transformation. You’ll have my permission to fill your basket with apples for the length of time I’m reading this. I’ll even be kind to the clever Sift, and actually tell you when I’ve started and finished.” They smile, and this time it seems more warm, genuine. Like a cat in the sun. Aaravi didn’t even think of that last bit.
“That is what we agreed on, yes.” Aaravi feels the small deal settle into place, and finally lets a breath out. “I hope you enjoy.”
Aaravi’s been doing a lot better since the wards on the cottage have been established. Before, she could barely leave her house and water the garden without thinking she’d spotted a tall, lanky figure, dressed in furs to drag her back to the other realm. As it stands, the forest and the ground their cottage stands on is a bit of a gray area in terms of supernatural boundaries. Even better— it gives her a natural boundary to leverage for the charms that discourage unwelcome guests. The milk and honey left out on Aaravi’s doorstep aren’t for any stray brownies that may arrive (she can clean house just fine on her own), but for the forest itself. And, after almost a year of this casual cohabitation, the grass she stands on doesn’t try to drag her underground anymore.
This is why Aaravi doesn’t panic in front of the purple fae they’ve started making semi-accidental regular visits to. Exposure. Practice and experience. Aaravi can’t go back to the town, and they can’t go back Underhill either, so they’ve got to get used to the life they have. Aaravi simply didn’t think this habituation would come in the form of an apple orchard and a tiefling with an inscrutable smile.
Lately, the forest has been more and more helpful in getting Aaravi back to the orchard. They hardly even have to wander. She goes in with a basket and book, walks in some direction or other for some time, and then the trees part, and there’s the tiefling, lying in the low branches of an apple tree like some wildcat, eyes softening when they see her.
“Sift! Beloved guest.” Dappled sunlight plays over the tiefling’s face. The customary greeting— the formal exchange of goods has trickled to a stop after several visits, and now a more casual exchange stands. Food, literature, and company. Hospitality. Still, Aaravi never leaves off the salt in their pockets or any of the things they’ve become accustomed to sharing. A favorite stray is still a wild animal.
“It’s me.” Aaravi smiles helplessly, fishing today’s book from under the lid of the picnic basket, brandishing it as if to prove they’ve come prepared. “By the way, is there anything I can call you?”
Neither of them misses the conspicuous lack of entrapment in the phrasing. As always, the tiefling smiles. “You can call me AD.”
“Initials?” Aaravi tosses the book underhand to the fae. “Freely given.”
AD chuckles, catching the book. “No.” They open the book and settle in, with an air of finality. No elaboration today, it seems.
Shrugging, Aaravi sits between the sturdy roots of the apple tree and opens the basket, gently taking out a pair of warm egg tarts, yellow fillings matching the sunbeams darting through the orchard. She places one on top of the basket and starts eating the other. The light, flaky pastry remained sturdy enough in the oven to contain the creamy egg custard, and she’s really glad she’d managed to get it right for this picnic.
Speaking of the picnic. The sound of pages turning above Aaravi has mysteriously stopped.
Aaravi continues eating, pretending not to notice. She keeps a watchful eye on the apparently unguarded egg tart on the basket, and is rewarded for her vigilance when she spots a long, thin, tail, laden with rings and decorated with one dark fin, inching its way towards the pastry.
Aaravi turns their head up to confront the thief, and AD shamelessly takes the opportunity to wind their tail around the little tin and toss it gently towards their hand. It misses. The tart hits their chest and bounces away onto the grass and out of reach.
For a full second, they both freeze.
Aaravi cracks up, laughter ringing out of their mouth and through the clearing, and AD just listens for a second, before jumping in to defend their dignity. “Don’t laugh! Don’t you know I’m under the Stone Court? I’m several decades older than you, at least! Occultists these days need to respect their gods-damned elders.”
Aaravi grins, showing the faintest edge of teeth. Deadpan, she responds. “I sincerely apologize, honored gentry. I didn’t realize my baking was of such subpar quality as to necessitate launching it into the grass. I’m sure the pixies will find it up to muster.”
“Hey! Not like that!” Overdramatic, AD drapes their limbs over the branches of the tree and starts pouting. “You’re making me sound like a bad host! I’ve been very nice!”
“Of course.”
“Don’t look at me like that!”
Exhaling gently in amusement, Aaravi stands to retrieve the lost pastry and gently dust the grass off of it. They return to their place at the base of the tree and puts it back in the basket. Their gracious host speaks up once again.
“Oh, come on! You’re not even going to share?”
“What are you going to give me for it, blessed neighbor?” Aaravi continues looking away from AD. This is a common joke, and the answer is usually something stupid. A single blade of grass. An anecdote. The safe haven of a transaction, a trade.
AD stays silent for a long moment, longer than usual, Aaravi contemplates just giving it to them anyway, even reaching out for it, but AD apparently decides to answer.
“I’ll give you a kiss.”
“What?”
Aaravi looks back up, decidedly not flushing. AD is, characteristically and frustratingly, still, with an unreadable smile. “You’ve never heard of a kiss.”
“No- no, I-” The flush of embarrassment is equaled only by the sudden memory of the last living creature to kiss Aaravi.
“Not a tempting exchange, beloved guest?”
AD is giving Aaravi an out. Negotiations are always open both ways. But, somehow, Aaravi. Doesn’t find the offer to be unappealing. “. . .”
The tiefling spots that thought somehow. “Hm? What was that?”
Aaravi looks away, and speaks quietly. “It’s a deal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just a kiss, right?”
“Of course.” Uncharacteristically but still frustratingly, AD seems genuine. “No trickery between friends. Not where it matters.”
“And we’re friends?” And this matters?
In lieu of answering, AD closes the book, holding it closed between their knees, and swings gracefully to an upside-down position, hanging from their legs from the apple tree. Before Aaravi can quite process the inverted tiefling taking up their vision, she feels delicate, clawed hands cradling her head, and the warm press of lips to her own, at an extraordinarily awkward angle that nevertheless empties her skull of thoughts for a brief second.
The moment is long and sweet. Then AD’s reaching out for a fresh tart from the basket and swinging back up into the tree. Aaravi’s head meets the grass with disgraceful velocity, and, when the new angle does not protect her from seeing the pretty tiefling, she covers her face with her hands and makes an incoherent noise.
Where she can’t see it, AD is smiling into the untouched tart, book long fallen onto the grass, cheeks dusted with flushed violet.