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Morning was approaching fast. It was still dark, but he was starting to be able to make out the shapes of stark jagged branches against the velvety sky. It would not be long now before the first rays of sunlight would hide the stars that were still clinging onto the firmament.
If he was lucky he might live just long enough to see it.
Lying on his back, half sunken into the wet, sleet covered moss, Nicolò could feel the cold seeping in. The blood sluggishly spilling from the wound in his gut had pooled around his midsection and melted some of the frost around him. It was his only source of warmth. He had already lost the feeling in his legs, and his heavy, tarnished mail armor felt freezing where it weighed on his chest.
Somewhere in the woods next to him laid the bodies of the bandits that had ambushed him. He had managed to kill all of them, but not before one of them had struck a killing blow in return. It was, he thought tiredly, a truly useless way to die.
Then again, perhaps it was fitting. He had, after all, lived a largely useless life. He had hoped that during these past few years after leaving the army, his attempts at repenting for his actions might have been able to rectify that somewhat. That perhaps he was finally on a path towards some kind of purpose.
Perhaps it was just as well, he thought. At least he would be able to face his final judgement soon.
The pain was all encompassing and his breath sounded loud in the quiet dark. He was starting to be able to make out the puff of his breath in the air above him. Strangely, as it grew lighter, he was beginning to also hear birdsong. It was too early in the year for them, he thought feverishly. It was as if he could hear a summer morning.
Belatedly, as the light increased it was starting to get harder and harder for him to focus his eyes. He could now make out the vibrant green leaves of the oak that he was lying next to. It was the middle of winter. His senses were beginning to dim, that much was clear.
There was a rustle and crunch on the frozen moss as something moved closer to him. He winced. The beasts could have him, but he hoped they might wait just a few moments longer till his consciousness would not be present anymore.
The sound was getting louder. The pain was somehow getting worse. Whatever it was, he could feel it walk on the moss, though he could not see anything but the upcoming dawn. The light was so blue now. It was so hard to keep his eyes open. '
“Oh,” a melodic male voice said somewhere behind his head. “Oh no,”
The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a riot of black curls and two dark, shining eyes.
The last thing he thought was that they were beautiful.
“Oh that’s no good at all.”
––––––
The feeling of weightlessness, of floating. Warmth all around.
A scent in the air, like grass after it has rained, like the curve of a shoulder after a full day in the sun.
“Ah, I might have known you had a taste for mortals”
Tittering laughter, chimes in a breeze.
“Oh hush. I could not just simply leave him to die”
A breeze of cool air, the touch of a warm hand.
“My, but he is very pretty for a mortal, no?
––––––
The wood on the ceiling was red. The tree must have had many branches, as the planks were dotted with endless circle patterns. They were forming eyes, noses and open mouths. Some of the faces looked like they were twisted in rage, others in pleasure. Some even looked like they were winking at him. Nicolò blinked hard.
A ceiling. A ceiling inside a house.
Instinctively, he tried to sit up. The moment he did everything started spinning so fast he was forced to lie back down on the bed again. A bed. He was in bed?
He spread his arms, trying to make sense of what was happening. A straw mattress, wrapped in a woollen blanket below him. On top of him, some kind of a fur pelt. He was indeed in bed.
Turning his head, he could see a small window with clear morning light pouring through it. And on his belly – he brought both hands to his stomach – no bandage. In fact, no wound at all.
The door clicked open and an unfamiliar woman poked her head through. Nicolò had no idea what his expression looked like, but upon seeing him, the woman smiled.
“Good morning!”
She pushed the door open more firmly and now Nicolò could see that she was carrying a tray with a steaming bowl and a large mug balanced on top of it.
“Did you sleep well?”
Nicolò tried to sit up again, this time slow. His head still felt light but thankfully he was able to ignore it. As he leaned against the headboard the woman placed the tray in his lap. The bowl was full of porridge.
“Where am I?” he asked, lifting his head to look at the woman. Her happy smile shifted into a confused frown.
“Oh you did say you were tired but you truly must have been very tired last night. You’re at the Ram’s Head dear,” she said. “The sign outside is a little weatherworn, but I thought it was still legible.”
Nicolò blinked hard again.
“Last night?”
“Yes, you’ve slept for eight hours or so,” she said. ”You told me you wanted to be woken up at dawn so here I am. I hope the porridge is to your liking.”
Nicolò stared at the bowl, trying to make sense of the events. The porridge was fragrant and spiced, finished with a glob of melting butter in the middle. It smelled incredible.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I’m sure it will be.”
“One more thing,” the woman said and Nicolò looked back up at her.
“It was only after you had retired to your room that I realised we had not exchanged names.” The woman smiled. “My name is Celeste, this tavern belongs to my family. What is your name?”
“My name is Nicolò Di-”
“Oh no,” she said, cutting him off. “The veil is thin in these parts. We do not go around telling people our full names, lest the fae happen to hear it. Plain ’Nicolò’ is just fine.”
“I see,” Nicolò said blankly. Celeste’s smile took on a strained edge.
“Please come downstairs when you need anything else,” Celeste said, “The bath you paid for can be drawn any time you’d like.”
She left the room, shutting the door behind her.
Nicolò stared at his porridge for a long time.
––––––
The first two times he attempted to find the fairy tree were unsuccessful. The woods were old and vast, continuing on for miles in all directions. On the first day and the day after that he had only managed to get himself turned around somehow, as after hours of trekking he had found himself faced with his own boot prints, exactly where he had begun.
The frozen moss crunched under his boots, and his breath came out in foggy clouds as he walked. The boots were warm, comfortable, made out of luxurious well oiled leather.
They were not his.
Neither were the warm woollen hose on his legs, the moss green patterned tunic covering his torso or the heavy fur lined cape wrapped around his shoulders. They were, however, the clothes he had apparently been wearing when he had arrived at the Ram’s Head three days ago.
Gone was his old torn chainmail and whatever was left of his bloodied tunic. Gone was his sword.
He had no doubt he would have been received much less gladly had he been wearing his own rags that morning.
He had no doubt that whoever had dressed him in this finery had known as much.
This part of the forest floor was uneven, strewn with great big boulders. His progression was slow, and walking was laborious, but he was buoyed by excitement. This was a new path. There had been a small opening between an old spruce and a cliff face. He had walked past the spot many times before, but somehow never noticed it. It had to be a sign.
When he had asked Celeste about the forest she had visibly paled. “We do not go there,” she had said. “The fae live in those parts. They’re better left alone.”
Nicolò had nodded his agreement. Then he had developed a plan.
He did not remember what had happened to him after he had lost consciousness. There was something in his mind, but it was as if there was a veil over it. Every time he tried to prod the memories the veil would stretch and warp, never quite letting him through. He only had the barest hint of sensations, of light and warmth, nothing more.
It was a good thing he did not need to remember what had been done to him to know what he needed to do.
The boulders were beginning to peter out, and Nicolò found himself walking faster and more comfortably again. Everywhere was covered in moss and lichen. The thin sheet of snow was not enough to hide how they crawled up every tree and down every rock. This part of the woods was ancient, and the trees were huge and twisted, worn with age.
Then, from between the gap in an old rowan tree, he saw a flash of green.
He stopped.
A huge gnarled oak sat on a small hill. It was much the same as all of the other oaks around it, except for the fact that it was covered in vibrant, green leaves. The leaves were slowly waving in a phantom summer breeze despite the frozen stillness of the rest of the forest. At the foot of the oak, only slightly visible under the snow, was a ring made out of stones. In the middle of the ring was a sizable blood stain.
Nicolò took a deep breath.
He unfastened the cloak, slid it off his shoulders and folded it neatly. Then he placed the bundle at the edge of the fairy ring and stepped back. Immediately, he could feel the chill of the winter pass through him. He shivered.
“Thank you for your help,” he said to the oak. “As a token of my gratitude, please let me return this cloak you so generously borrowed.”
By the time he was back at the inn, he was nearly frozen to his core. Celeste gasped at the sight of him and immediately bundled him in blankets, making him sit next to the fire for the many hours it took for feeling to return to his limbs.
Nicolò’s steps were heavy when he finally dragged himself to his room, having been deemed warmed enough by Celeste. He wanted nothing more than to cocoon himself in his bed, but as he opened the door he froze in place. On his bed, folded just as neatly as he had left it, was the cloak. On top of it was a small folded note.
Nicolò took it with shaking hands. The note was short and written in beautiful curving cursive. It read:
It is rude to refuse gifts.
––––––
“Well, I do not know anyone who has been taken by the fae, personally,” Celeste said, stirring a pot of bubbling stew. “It’s not common to have any dealings with them in general, though a girl from a nearby village who goes to the same church as my cousin apparently has a tree that grows apples all year around. She claims that she got it after helping a black fox escape a trap one winter.”
Celeste cut off a large chunk of butter and stirred it in slowly. Nicolò watched, hands working on their own as he peeled potatoes and listened to her.
“It is still good to be cautious. There was a girl my grandma knew who disappeared. She was strange. There was a plague that had swept the village when grandma was young, and this girl’s family all died of it while she was left crippled. She couldn’t work or move on her own very well, and yet still she lived alone. At first, people pitied and worried for her, but whenever anyone visited they would find her clean, her clothes fine and mended and her pantry filled with food. She claimed she had found a fairy tree in the forest which was the source of all her wealth. People started avoiding her after that. It was too strange. One morning her neighbour came to visit her and ask her for sugar – her pantry was always filled with sugar, which is very rare here – but found the house empty. The faeries had finally taken her for good.”
Nicolò hummed and turned back to his potatoes. He had much to consider.
––––––
The second time, the path felt much easier. The boulders almost seemed smaller, and his steps were light the whole way. He was back at the oak in half the time it had taken him to get there two days ago. Everything, including the summer breeze rustling the leaves was exactly as he remembered.
He got on one knee in front of the fairy ring. Then, with swift movements, he unhooked the little silver hoops from his ears and placed them on the edge of the ring.
“I did not mean to refuse your gift,” he said, looking up at the tree. “It is a lovely warm cloak. I am sorry for causing offence. I only meant to pay you back for your generosity. Please consider these as payment instead. ”
Back at the inn, he opened the door to his room slowly. It creaked as it swung, revealing a little silver glimmer on top of the bedding. Next to his earrings was another note. It read:
They look too handsome on you for you to give them away.
On the bottom of the note was a small ink drawing of him sleeping with the little silver hoops glinting on his ears.
––––––
He was starting to remember some things, but it was still not very much. He still had no memory of arriving at the inn or talking to anyone there. No memory of getting dressed or coming to the village. He only had an impression of being lifted from the snow and being placed into a warm, sweet smelling bath. Flashes of soft touches, of sweet words murmured in his ear, of his gut being sown with shimmering thread, deft hands using a needle so fine he could not even feel it.
Only two images were clear. A pair of kind dark eyes and clever, jewel clad fingers that were slightly smudged with ink.
––––––
The third trek to the tree was the easiest still. The boulders were barely pebbles now, and it was as if the wind itself was pushing him along the path until the tree loomed large above him, the smell of sweet summer flowers wafting from it.
Nicolò frowned at it.
“You must let me pay for my debt,” he demanded.
There was a rustle from above him.
“Must I?” asked a melodic male voice.
Nicolò looked up.
Above him, on one of the twisting branches, sat a fae.
And what a sight that was.
The fae had long, slender legs that lead up to a tapered waist, followed by broad shoulders and well muscled chest. His hair was a waterfall of tight black curls that ran down his back and brushed his bronze tinted skin. His facial features were a compelling mix of delicate and handsome, complete with plush pink lips that were pulled into a crooked smile, nestled in a neat black beard.
And his eyes.
Nicolò could feel their gaze on his skin as the fae looked him up and down. His eyes were dark and sweet, glimmering in the winter sun. Even in the middle of the day they looked like a sky full of stars, containing all of the beauty and wonder of the deepest of nights.
Nicolò felt his knees grow weak
“Please, ” Nicolò said, looking deep into those eyes. “I want to.”
The fae lifted one dark eyebrow and crossed his arms. He was well dressed, clad in a green patterned tunic with long sleeves, bronze skin peeking through the collar. The impossible summer breeze made the fabric flow and dance against him.
“So you do,” said the fae, sounding amused. “You are very determined. But I do not understand. A gift from the fae is very rare to receive and most mortals count their blessings at the privilege. What kind of mortal would come back here to pay? Who would want to do such a thing?”
Nicolò took a deep breath.
“My name is Nicolò Di Genova,” he said, as clearly as he could, staring into the fae’s glimmering eyes, ”and I would like to pay my debt to whoever saved my life.”
Nicolò tried not to smile as the fae’s mouth dropped open in shock. A stunned silence filled the air. Then there was a rustle and the fae was standing in front of him, staring at him. He was tall, Nicolò noted, a little taller than Nicolò himself perhaps, though not by much. Nicolò stared right back.
“Nicolò…” the fae repeated, and the sound sent a pleasant shiver up Nicolò’s spine. “Are you aware of what you have just done?”
“Yes,” Nicolò said, unable to stop his smile any longer.
The fae looked at him for a long time.
“Why do you want to pay your debt to me so badly, Nicolò?”
“Because you did not trap me,” Nicolò said, searching the fae’s eyes. ”I am nobody. You could have let me die, or you could have kept me forever. And yet you healed me and let me go.” Because you are good, he thought. Because I think I have found my place in this world, he did not say, but felt, in every corner of his soul.
“And so you decided that since I did not bind you to me when I had the chance, you would do it yourself?”
“Yes”
The fae stared at him again, a smile slowly spreading on his beautiful lips.
“Well,” he said, holding out his hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Nicolò Di Genova.”
Nicolò took it. The fae’s palm was warm, and their hands fit perfectly, as if by design.
“My name is Yusuf Al-Kaysani,” the fae said, eyes crinkling.
Nicolò felt a rush of power where their skin touched and he could tell that the name was True.
“Wha-”
“You are not the only one who can make dramatic decisions, Nicolò” Yusuf said, and grinned toothily at him. His teeth were just slightly too sharp. Nicolò’s heart did a queer leap.
“I do not want to hold your binds Nicolò. I thought I had made it clear that I have no interest in trapping any knights,” he continued, and then paused before looking at Nicolò through his lashes. “…no matter how handsome they are.”
Nicolò felt his cheeks flush.
“I see,” he said, still holding Yusuf’s hand. No sense in turning back now.
“What of a sworn oath of servitude, given entirely from free will?”
Yusuf’s grin widened and sharpened, just a little. “Now that,” he said, squeezing Nicolò’s hand “is another matter entirely.”