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He follows the sound of weeping in the wind.
He walks on a trail made of fallen stars and the ashes of ancient trees.
He moves in the shadows of the twilight, where the boundaries between worlds are at their weakest.
Thus, the Raven King crosses soundlessly into the world of Man.
Crossing over is always a deeply disconcerting experience. The light is strangely fixed here, the colors muted, the passing of the hours far too orderly. This is a realm of rationality and restraint. It's not a place where his kind can lightly thread, not without risking being forever lost.
As he walks forward, he feels the nature of the world rebel against him. His wings, already damaged, grow listless, their feathers dull. He's forced to land. Gravity weighs him down further, forcing his feet to leave a mark on the soft ground.
Domesticated animals bleat and bark and even the wild ones fall silent and flee in his wake. Only the foxes, the mortal beings closer to the Fair Folk, observe him as he walks the miles to his destination.
He hears the wailing first, then he sees the blazing light. Despite the red and brown leaves crowning the trees on this corner of Earth, the temperature is higher here, akin to a harsh summer day with no shade nor respite.
His little fire spirit lays curled up on the forest floor, on a perfect circle of burnt grass. He's barely recognizable now, more an igniting spark than a true conscious being. Two coils of flames like thin arms curl around a chest that looks like a small little sun, fallen to the ground.
All around them, the trees are shuddering and groaning under the strain. If the king had arrived any later than this, there wouldn't have been anything left to save. Only a raging wildfire, burning the forest to ash until it's energy is spent, leaving nothing but sorrow in its wake.
What an ugly, pointless way to die.
"I'm sorry…" the spirit is crying out, burning a little brighter with each scream, stoking the flame of self- destruction. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
"I'll accept that apology."
A burst of fire sparks, reaching high into the air. It caresses the top of the trees, yet not a single leaf burns.
The forest lays silent for a heartbeat. Even the wind stops.
Then, from within the fire he sees the impression of a man coming to his feet, two eyes shifting to look at him.
"… Your Majesty?"
He walks into the clearing, uncaring of the scorching heat. Black feathers fall from his damaged wing, fluttering gently to the ground. An unfamiliar feeling of exhaustion pulls his muscles down, but he finds he must press on.
"You were bound by my side, little spirit. There's nowhere I can't find you."
"But why...?" the spirit stands. Shock, or perhaps hope, is starting to stabilize his soul. The flames look now somewhat like flaming golden hair. The king can see his alabaster skin, his bright cerulean eyes appearing and disappearing as if mirages in the desert.
"Why are you here?! After what I did… I failed you! I hurt you," the spirit screams, madly gesturing at the mangled wing. "All I was made for is destruction. All I have ever accomplished is to watch others burn. Do you think I won't kill you?"
In response, he simply moves in. As he hoped the flames retreat the closer he gets, unwilling to harm him, until the being in front of him looks no different than any other subject.
" Why..." the spirit numbles again. Tears gather in his eyes, evaporating as soon as they form.
Truthfully, he doesn't have an answer. Except, perhaps, that he's lived too long, seen too much. There isn't a single spirit he can't soothe, nor a spell he can't learn, nor a wish he can't grant.
It all grows tedious, after a while.
And then, fate brought him here, to this jewel buried in the sand.
A lowly damaged elemental, born from such a mangled ritual it's a wonder he managed to survive at all. If the warlock who created him was still alive, the Raven king would hunt him down and eviscerate him. He'd pluck his soul out and unravel every thread until nothing but his memory remained as a cautionary tale imprinted on the stars.
Alas, such humans rarely live long enough to suffer a just punishment.
"You're so bright," he says instead. "You try your best. You change and you grow, even in the Unchanging Lands. "
"Even so, I can't return."
And that is unfortunately true. Their realm has its own laws that cannot be broken, older than both Man and Fae. They are not the kind even a ruler like him can bend. They are inscribed in the stones, carried on the water streams. A vassal that has harmed his master won't even be able to find his way back, nor live long if they persist in trying.
"I know." He extends his hand, cupping his little spirit's cheek. For a moment his flesh seems to boil and sizzle, but it's only a fleeting pain that cannot overcome his resolve.
"But I still would choose you over every dawn in those lands."
He bends down and captures his little spirit's mouth in a searing kiss. It's more than a physical impulse: it's a promise of his own, a plea made with his existence on the line. He kisses the spirit and pours it all into his caresses. All his love, all his gratitude, his reawakened curiosity for the world, his hope for a different future.
By his word, he's bound. He's taken a step that can't be easily retracted.
Fortunately, it isn't long before the spirit kisses him back.
The fire within shifts. The scorching heat vanishes, becoming a gentle sunbeam though a window pane, the warmth of a hot drink seeping through gloved fingers. Slender fingers thread though the king's hair, hesitant but filled with desire.
The king pushes him down until the spirit lies against the soft ground, bracketing him between his arms. His wing dims the sun's glare overhead as his hands dip under tattered clothes, tracing every inch of the body so sweetly being presented to him.
They make love in the forest floor, forgetting all but the taste of each other.
New flowers bloom among the ashes. As they come together, a beautiful bond of starlight is forged. Their souls get tangled as their bodies join, so that neither can go where the other can't, neither can live if the other dies.
"What will become of us now?" the spirit asks in the morning.
"There are other realms we can travel to. There are other people we can be."
The Raven King extends his hand, and the spirit takes it without question. Together, they walk until their figures blur into the mist, never to return as they were.
The king will be mourned. His life will be etched into a tale that will endure through the ages. The spirit will be cursed at, will be pitied, will be revered as the king's one and only.
But they will know none of this. They simply walk, hand in hand, and they feel content: for this isn't the end of their story.
Ahead of them, eternity awaits.
~~
In another universe, years later or perhaps right now, a powerful man with no purpose opens the case file in his hands and looks at the picture enclosed.
His heart lunches at the beautiful bright eyes staring back.