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Something was beginning to feel off about this particular autumn day. Dan was restless, unsettled and in need of a distraction. He found himself in his pantry, cataloguing various herbs and plants, noting the amounts left and what needed restocking. As it turns out, he was fresh out of dried Hawthorn berries, and luckily for him there was quite an easy fix.
Dan steps out into the afternoon sun, feeling the warmth soaking into his chest. He heads decidedly down the hill, towards what he knows to be a small Hawthorn tree at the edge of the forest that borders the northside of his property. A couple minutes into the walk he begins to feel a strong sense of dread and his eyes dart towards the woods as he slows his pace.
A high pitched giggle echoes out from the trees and he pauses, holding his breath. Not again, he thinks.
He waits.
Another laugh rings out, and he heads toward it, into the forest. His eyes search the area, but sees nothing of concern. Carefully, he heads further down the hill, keeping to the edge of the woods.
He rounds a particularly old tree and does a double take, because there, slumped against the trunk is a rather sickly-looking man. Ruffled white-blonde hair sticks to his forehead, beaded with sweat. His skin is ghastly pale and his delicate cupid’s bow topped lips are parted as he draws raspy slow breaths.
Dan could tell this stranger laid out before him would be stunning if it wasn’t for his rather concerning state. And to top it all off, judging by the noises coming from the trees, the man seemed to have drawn the interest of the local pixies. He knew he had to get him to safety.
Somehow the man was the unluckiest and luckiest bastard in the country. Unlucky, because he passed out in a very dangerous part of rural England. Lucky, because Dan was just the fae who could help him.
“He’s mine!” Dan calls out into the woods. “I claim him. You can’t have him. He’s mine now.”
He doesn't know why he said that. The words had ostensibly fallen out of his mouth. He hopes it deters the malevolent spirits hiding in the foliage.
The laughs drop off until only a low murmuring can be heard. His brows knit together as he looks down at the man before him. His build is somewhat slim, but obviously quite tall, looking to be almost Dan’s size. Carrying him outright might be somewhat difficult. He leans down and shakes his shoulder gently, but the man does not stir.
“Wake up. Are you okay?" He shakes a little harder, but the man’s head just rolls disconcertingly. Dan grimaces. He wraps his arms around the man under his armpits and tries to pull him up but he can already tell they won’t get far that way. He has no other choice really. He can’t call for help here, his cellphone is back at his house, and he can’t leave him here with the pixies in the woods, even if they do believe the man is claimed by him. Never trust a pixie.
He sighs heavily and peers out of the trees in habit, ensuring no one else is around. The area is just as isolated and void of human activity as usual, save of course for the human unconscious at his feet now.
He shrugs his sweater off one shoulder and lets it fall behind him. Dan stretches out one shimmery purple wing and, with his opposite hand, rubs the edge gently. Glittering dust comes away onto his fingers and he bends to crouch over the man. He rubs his fingers together over the blonde head of hair, letting the dust fall. It's not much, not enough for flight or floating, just enough to lighten the load a bit.
Dan pulls his arm back through his sleeve and wipes his hand off in the pocket of his sweater. Again he slots his arms around the man's torso. He pulls him up easily now, with the weight offset by the faerie dust and lifts him casually into a bridal carry. He lets the man's head fall onto his shoulder and once more surveys the area for any visible encroaching danger. With the coast clear, he begins the short walk back to his home.
Dan pulls up a wooden chair next to his sofa, where the stranger is now laying. He considers whether to call for an ambulance or simply brew up a remedy and wait for the human to wake up. Leaning in, he takes a closer look.
The sweat is drying on the man's face and Dan can clearly see tear tracks that have done the same. His mouth is parted slightly and the corners of his lips are wet with saliva. It looks similar to the milder symptoms of poisoning from mushrooms containing muscarine and it is the perfect season for fool's funnel around these parts.
A pained groan escapes from the man's mouth, his arms coming up to clutch at his stomach.
Dan leans back, afraid of what might happen next, but the man settles again. He reaches out and lays a hand on the other’s forehead. It’s clammy but Dan isn’t too concerned.
Entering his small pantry, Dan begins grabbing ingredients for a remedy. Something to neutralise the toxin, and soothe the stomach. The smallest touch of magic for potency. He adds the plants to a small pot of water on the stove and boils it all down until it’s almost syrupy.
He steals glances toward the stranger on his couch, but the man’s face is peaceful; his chest rising and falling in a smooth pattern of sleep.
Finally he turns off the heat and adds honey. He adds two spoonfuls of the mixture into a mug and fills the kettle so he’ll be able to ready the medicine when the man wakes up. He wets a cloth, wringing it out and carrying it back into the next room.
It’s quiet in the lounge. The afternoon has quickly worn away into the early evening, with only a couple hours of daylight left. He lays the damp cloth across the man’s forehead and sits again beside the sofa to wait. Some colour has returned to the stranger’s face and he’s no longer sweating. Most of the side effects seemed to have cleared up on their own.
Dan feels relief flooding through him.
There’s something about the man that he feels quite protective about. He’s looking so much better now that Dan can’t help but sit and stare, admiring his almost ethereal beauty.
So lost in his reverie, he didn’t notice how close he had drifted towards his face. The man before him slowly blinks into awareness and Dan startles imperceptibly. He curses his proclivity towards wearing fondness on his face and braces for upset.
“Wow, you are very pretty.”
Dan’s eyebrows could fall off his face with the speed in which they rise. Is that a compliment? Perhaps it’s an insult and this stranger’s first instinct is to mock the colours permanently painted on his face. Dan is very familiar with that outcome in particular. He can’t be sure, so he panics. Oh he panics. And he starts spouting off nonsense in a feigned northern accent.
The trash Dan spits out to deny his interest makes him sound like a bigot. It's a nightmare. And suddenly, somehow he's admitting he’s a faerie, having shrugged off his sweater earlier in response to the heat from the stove.
Something about the man raises his hackles and disarms him all in the same breath.
Phil. His name is Phil. He has to know Phil. He wants Phil to know him. Dan drops any pretense and discloses his real name. Where he's from. It's baffling how unrestrained he feels all at once.
Dan has to hide how fucking soft he feels for this beautiful human. He insists on walking Phil home regardless.