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Few things have ever pulled Ken from his abode.
Conflict was a guarantee and boredom is a close second. Often, he prefers to drape himself in the comfort of his home and sleep among the petals.
Tonight, however, is a different reckoning.
It is not rumors of insurgence between beings of the night that pull him from his covers and neither is it the yearning to desire old friends—there was still the whole of eternity left for him to cater such musings but there is only one day in each human year that he was able to witness the moon boast.
How fair she was, though how cruel she could be to all those who sought only to use her and paid her no attention in the quiet.
The moon that shines tonight on the mortal realm is one that honors May flowers. And much like he has done for every year since his consciousness, Ken slips into the bridge of the worlds in-between and crosses.
It is easy to wander into the part of the forest where the moon is best admired: a clearing situated at its summit. The forest hums with familiarity as his feet touch its grounds.
Stubborn grass sprouts with each step taken, trees bending as he passes in greeting— and never one to be forgotten, the mighty breeze, invisible fingers tenderly caressing the strands making up his hair.
Every year, he has done this. Every year finds him witnessing the lady shine light on flowers. This year was not like every year before it.
There, beneath the moon, something stranger.
A mortal in his field. And within calloused hands, flowers which have broken off without restraint.
There is first the instinct so innately otherwordly: to bare his teeth and lay down protection to what he has long called home, to the place he carries as if it were his own.
But above him the moon was a beautiful white, and by its glow, Ken had no interest in seeing neither skirmish nor bloodshed.
Not if it could be helped, at least.
“Hello, wanderer.”
He lingers long enough for the grass to have curled against his toes, as if to keep him still in place, though he knows that they are hungry simply for the power his nature brings. There is little need to shake them off, and little time to, when his gaze has focused on the long-haired mortal that has now turned to face him in turn.
“… Good tidings,” their voice was like a bell. Wary, yet not fearful.
The flowers which lay in their lap seem to shift, bending at the sound of his voice, although no flower seems willing to be part with the mortal.
He watches as the breeze slips past him and onto the mortal, tussling their long hair from where they’d tied it into a ponytail, what dark strands swaying like vines to Western winds.
How quaint.
“You are not a face that I know,” he says, low. “Though it seems apparent that the flora hold familiarity with you.”
The words are not intended to be a threat but there is little he does to keep it from sounding that way. After all, a stranger in his forest was already a tale that had run old, so many times but one did it end in mortal bodies decaying to feed these hungry, earthen grounds.
He waits for fear, for offense. How easy did the mortal spirit react at the face of taunts and how flimsy the mortal body stood in front of power.
Though, just as this year had not played out the same, this mortal is also an outlier to their kind.
They have put down the incomplete flower crown on their lap, among the flowers they’d picked out, and made no attempt to flee nor bargain for life.
Instead, they slip their bracelet past their wrist— there, held together with twine from the Old Tree lies a lone fang. It is sharp enough to be of predatory origin and though none roam this place Ken knows that it to certainly be a wolf’s canine.
There is no beast with such great tendency for protection and this mortal, who was sat alone and untouched in his field, certainly appears to have been kept well-protected enough for it to impossibly be anything otherwise. Protectors of worlds, destructors of worlds: in the end there was good reasoning for both mythical origins.
“And what,” he drawls, “do you hand that out for, stranger?”
“I presume that it must be your flowers that I have woven together.” Their eyes are dark as rocks, they were well-suited to the night skies. “Or, perhaps it is not proper enough to offer in exchange? I understand it is not quite alive as flowers are, nor abundant.”
Pleasure ripples past Ken’s body and he takes another step closer. How long has it been since there was a visitor? He cannot remember now, though he knows where he had left them buried.
And, oh, how long it has been since there was someone so smart here last. How bold, this is, for one to face immortality and hold no fear.
“You are smart, stranger.”
“It is not so,” says the mortal, “considering that I have disturbed you into crossing into this world.”
“You are not in my circle,” he says. He, too, was bound by old laws. He shall tell no false phrase, he shall mirror all that which he has been given. “And no name is etched on those flowers. Keep your protection, I have neither claim nor interest to it.”
The mortal gauges him a moment longer before they slip the bracelet back on. “If you are certain, then I shall be glad to hold onto it.”
Ken takes another step forward, then another— and settles himself on the rock which stands a little distance away from the mortal. They have returned to their flowers, though their eyes still wander to him despite the fact that their hands remained in motion.
He turns his gaze to the moon.
For a while, it is quiet.
“It was a resident that requested I remain here,” says the mortal, breaking the silence. “Although should it prove to be a nuisance then I have no qualms in making myself scarce.”
Ken can taste his honesty on his own lips— sweet, velvet. As if honey gifted from the hive which has long inhabited this forest’s foliage. Certainly this is a delicacy that he has missed, where truth was a default it tasted so bland.
But from mortal tongue?
Had Ken been a lesser fae, perhaps he would have found himself yielding to his own desires.
Wildflowers sprout at his feet, at his hands— they part from the soil in order to cling onto him, and he allows them such kindness.
He takes them into his arms and holds them, though he may not do with them as the mortal does and he will keep them as they are now, bare and as they have come. Merely flowers. Though he supposes his hold provides them grander view of the holy moon.
“Which among them?”
The mortal makes a sound of surprise, but they give a quick answer: “He who the universe loves and has greedily restrained here, the oracle with unseeing eyes. He resides with the starchild.”
Justin? Ken found himself with more questions than he had answers. Still, there is a taste that rivals sugar cubes on his tongue, and so there was little need for him to contest with the claim. After all, while he may not trust those who are part of this world, he did trust his friends.
While Justin did not see the world as they do, there was little clouding his judgement. Stell, whom the stars have made from their likeness, possessed the same clarity as they. They are friends Ken visits in spare.
Perhaps this was a reminder to drop by more often, lest he miss so much and they pull the same joke Josh had: showing up with a curse during the summer solstice.
How odd it was to be reminded of such old, yet not at all tired affections when faced with one you do not know.
He turns back to them, away from the moon.
“Then stay if you wish,” he says. Once more, there is surprise in dark eyes. Ken finds there was a glint in his irises that seem capable of rivaling the first light of dawn. “So long as you intend no harm to all that is mine, whatever freedom you have will remain yours.”
They watch carefully as he speaks. Silence is kept until three of a crow’s wing beats would have passed in full.
“I cannot give you my name,” says the mortal, “but while I remain here, should our paths be crossed again by fate, you may call me Pablo.”
Again, how sweet. If he were a god then the words would be precious as nectar to his lips.
And if he were a sinner then it would surely bring him the thrill ichor did.
Unfortunately, he concerns himself with neither. He does not shy away from licking his lips if only to savor it a moment longer, for his kind existed beyond saints and demons. Unaligned to external power, they simply are.
He does not dare repeat the Name out loud: though it rings only as any nickname would, there were such things as customs which he found himself forever bound to.
“Then I shall meet you fair,” he muses. For a mere moment he knows his entire form flickers, that he is the robed being with horns and eyes that swallow even suns, that he is the monster which lurks in every tale and the fable watered down on children’s stories. “If our strings cross, you may call me Ken.”
The mortal does not repeat his name out loud, either, although Ken can see the way that they shudder. It is not from the cold.
“I have crossed worlds to witness the flower moon,” he says. He turns back to her wonder. Bright beauty, reflection of the sun, amplifier which brought substance to the olden magic. “There is no sight fairer than her.”
What wildflowers in his hands seem to dance merely at the mention of her praise, even with little wind they preen as if they were nodding, wholly in agreement of the sentiment Ken has spoken out loud. Though theirs is not quite the voice that cuts through the loudest.
It surprises him, though Ken supposes that it shouldn’t by now, how the mortal replies.
“Indeed it is a sight,” comes the soft confession. “I’ve wandered here to bask in her glory too— though I was unable to resist the charm of the flowers in the end.”
He hums in turn, and they say no more.
He does not know when exactly it happened, though when he glances at the mortal as the moon lingers halfway in the sky, he finds the mortal focused on the celestial being as well. There, gazing at her as he was.
Ken was not familiar with most mortal emotions but serenity and contentment were universal.
And so he turns his gaze back to the moon, too, whose greatness makes wildflowers grow taller and the evening’s noise settles.
Few things have ever pulled Ken from his abode, though he has little regrets in having made the effort to do so today— for the mortal world has its own charm and carries its own taste of magic.
“Beautiful, is it not?”
The mortal startled, eyes flickering to his own.
Above them the moon watched and in each of their holds the flowers bore witness. To what, neither of them knew for certain yet.
There is a moment where the mortal takes a breath and, then: “Quite so.”
The flower moon sinks beneath the horizon, daylight beginning to break through. It was almost as if they were stood at the very edge which made this world.
“A gift,” says a mortal to a fae, passing to him a crown woven in wildflowers. “Surely you will be amenable to accepting it, when they seem to be greedy for a moment to be at your side.”
“I am bound to by law,” he muses. “What humor, for a mortal to present me with a gift and for it to be a crown of flora.”
He holds out the flowers which he had held onto, setting it on the empty palm.
“And now we are fair, Pablo,” he says.
Bright eyes. “It seems that we are, Ken.”
The next flower moon would be something to look forward to. Or, Ken supposes, there was always the choice to cross worlds earlier.
If only to taste such sweetness on his lips again.