Sleep Walk With Me

Rating: R
Category: Original Fiction
Warnings: Attempted murder
Summary: After being left in the woods, Mick meets someone unexpected.
Notes: This story has an accompanying illustration by the lovely Animama.

Mick Blamires walked quietly through the autumn wood, his powerful crossbow slung comfortably in his arm, savoring the smell of the woods. Deer hunting had long been a passion of his, one taught to him by his father and older sister. However, the point of the hunt as far as Mick was concerned, was never to actually bag a deer so much as it was to have an excuse to spend a few days tramping in the woods. He paused and breathed deep of the cool air, the sweet scent of Maple leaves in their fall colours. He felt a pang of loneliness as he thought of his father and sister, wishing they were still with him. But they had died three years ago, killed when their car was sideswiped on an icy road by a drunk. His mother had passed away twelve years earlier of a heart condition.

He was alone in the world, but somehow, when he was out among the trees, he did not feel alone. He thought he could feel their spirits, walking with him. Sometimes he even thought he could hear his sister laughing as their father once again misfired his medieval weapon. His father was a terrible shot with a bow, but it never stopped him from trying. The woods had been a very large and happy part of his childhood, and now, as an adult, they still gave him peace of mind and spirit. He breathed deeply once more, closing his eyes, savouring the autumnal forest.

“I could live here,” he said softly.

He heard a curse from behind him, and sighed. Turning, he looked at the man accompanying him. His business partner Thomas Richards was sliding down a slight embankment, his hunting rifle at a dangerous angle. The fool was going to blow his own head off.

“Careful, Tommy! Don’t do anything I don’t want to explain to the paramedics!”

Thomas swore. “I’m fine!” he snapped, and got up.

Mick watched Thomas get up and brush the forest debris off himself. He shook his head, and sighed, then noticed a brown rabbit calmly staring at him. He winked at the beast.

“And a very good day to you, Master Bunny. You’ll be pleased to know I’m only bothering the deer today.”

The rabbit watched him as he set down his crossbow, and removed his small pack. He placed this down on the forest floor, and opened it, taking out a blue ceramic dish. The plate was plainly of great age, and bore a design of Celtic origin, featuring running stags. He set it upon a stump, then reached into his bag again and took out a finger of hand-churned butter. Next he took out a glass bottle of cream, and set it beside the butter. He glanced up at the bunny once more, then pulled out a piece of apple and carefully tossed it to the furry brown animal. He straightened, hearing Thomas come to stand by him.

“What’s that for?” asked Thomas.

“For the Good Folk,” said Mick.

Thomas’ tone was questioning. “’Good Folk’?”

Mick repacked his bag, leaving the cream and butter on the plate. “You, I believe, would call them Elves. But never call them Faeries, they hate that.”

Thomas stared at his business partner of eight years with utter disbelief on his face. “You are joking me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Since when have you started believing in hippie-dippy new age bull?”

Mick sighed heavily. “Thomas, my mother was a proud Irishwoman, and she taught me a lot about the ways of the Good Folk and the Spirit Realm. And just because I am in Canada, I see no reason not to show respect and leave a traditional offering.”

“Nothing’s going to eat that but a fox.”

Mick shrugged. “Be that as it may.”

“And there’s no such things as Elves.”

“If it pleases you to think that.”

Thomas snorted, and Mick just shook his head. Thomas was very much rooted in what he liked to call reality. That was what made him so good at business and such a terrible pain in the arse. But Mick was not a man who judged. Besides, he rather liked the old crank. He glanced at the man beside him. Thomas was thin, harried and balding, with a blood pressure level that gave his doctor palpitations. He was basically a good soul, but had been born without a sense of humour and no idea of how to relax. So Mick had invited him deer hunting and, to his utter surprise, Thomas accepted.

“I can’t believe you think this is fun,” cranked Thomas.

“I can’t believe I thought it was a good idea to invite you.”

“So we’re even.” Thomas paused and drew breath. “Mick, I have to talk to you.”

Mick had been friends with Thomas long enough to recognize the tone of his voice. He nodded, and the two seated themselves on the ground. Thomas lit a cigarette, which Mick ignored. The brown bunny chewed the piece of apple and watched the men.

“What is it, Tommy?”

Thomas fixed Mick with a glare as he shook his match, dumping the now-cool stick of wood into his pocket. He did not appreciate being addressed as ‘Tommy’ by a thirty-year-old man, who looked like a twenty-year-old kid, and whose long, heavy mane of red hair was begging for a cut.

“It’s Cinnamon.”

“Oh what about Cinnamon?” said Mick, his tone exasperated. Some days it seemed like all Thomas and Cinnamon did was snipe at each other.

Mick had met Cinnamon a year ago, and it had been love at first sight, or at the very least, lust. She had long, auburn hair, and full breasts, which pressed wantonly against the thin fabric of her black lace shirt. He was pretty sure she was not standing on that street corner in hopes that a bible reading would break out, but she seemed genuinely glad of his company. She was homeless, and living behind a dumpster, and Mick could not leave her to her fate. Certainly her tight little ass fighting against the confines of her short leather skirt had something to do with it, but Mick was, by nature, a man who could not leave people to their misery. Over time, he made friends with her, took her to a doctor, paid to have her teeth fixed after a john tried to knock them out, and finally gave her a job in one of his stores. He sold camping, hunting, and fishing equipment, which she knew nothing about. Yet somehow she was the best salesperson he had.

‘Plainly this was due to her enthusiasm for outdoor sports,’ thought Mick wryly.

She had moved in with him six months ago, and ever since they had been talking marriage and family. He bought her a little red sports car, a three-carat diamond engagement ring, and hired a contractor to add onto his house, to create rooms for the family that was to follow. She bought for him a huge band of platinum and diamonds, which he was currently wearing, as a promissory ring. It did not matter that she had used his money to do it, he was just pleased she thought of him.
Life was perfect and beautiful. Except for one slight detail. Thomas and Cinnamon could not stand each other, and never seemed to tire of biting pieces out of each other.

This time, however, Thomas did not bite. He reached into his own rucksack and pulled out a book, which Mick recognized as their accounts ledger. Thomas was deeply distrustful of computers.

“You took that thing hunting?” asked Mick with disbelief.

Thomas tossed the book into Mick’s lap. “Your little boy-toy is a thief.”

“Bull,” said Mick. “She’s not smart enough. And I say that with love.”

“Uh huh.”

Mick opened the book, and began looking through it. Slowly, he read through the ledger, noting the numbers that had been erased and re-written in another denomination in a poor impersonation of Thomas’ Head Master script.

“Pretty baby has been into the candy jar,” said Thomas dryly.

“How long have you known?”

“Few months, but I know how you feel about Cinnamon. Not that I approve, mind, but I don’t go meddling in anyone’s relationship without just cause.”

Mick shook his head, feeling his stomach churn as his heart broke and his eyes began to burn. Page after page after page it went on – a hundred dollars here, two hundred there. A slight change of a number, a little out of the till, and thousands upon thousands of dollars were being siphoned off. Finally he slammed the book shut.

“Damn! How could she do that to me, after everything I have done for her! She was living in a dumpster for fuck sakes! I take her in, give her a job, a home, my LOVE! And THIS is the thanks I get?!”

Thomas looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“So am I,” said Mick. He brought his hands up over his eyes, gritting his teeth, feeling his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. His life, his whole life, and all his dreams had just been destroyed. He felt himself beginning to shake, and he gasped once, fighting the need to cry out like an animal in pain. Anger began to creep in under the hurt, and he welcomed it. He lowered his hands, and found, to his astonishment, that the wild rabbit was now in his lap. He carefully stroked its soft fur, gently playing with the long, velvety ears. Then he looked at Thomas.

“Is this why you said you would go out hunting with me? To show me this?”

Thomas shrugged. “Oh, that, and one other reason.”

“What would that be?”

There came the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked off to his right, and Mick went cold. He slowly turned his head, and saw his beautiful lover of the last six months. Cinnamon was dressed in denim and leather; hardly proper attire for the woods, but the way the blue fabric clung to her thighs made Mick wish he was an inseam. Thomas sat back with a smug grin on his face, while Cinnamon stared at Mick with eyes utterly devoid of emotion.

“I’m afraid I’m also fucking your partner, dear,” said Cinnamon.

The explosion sent the wild rabbit fleeing for his life. Mick fell heavily to the ground, blood draining through the hole in his chest. The world went dark and silent. As Thomas and Cinnamon left him, a few gentle leaves fluttered down, as though expressing concern and sadness for the mortally injured man. The last thought Mick had was that he hoped they did not smash his mother’s blue dish.

***---***

‘Am I awake?’

Mick thought he smelled wood smoke, but he couldn’t be sure. He seemed to recall that severe head injuries could cause all sorts of bizarre side effects. But no, he had been shot in the chest, his head was fine.

‘Hospital,’ he thought. ‘Must get to a hospital, find help. How can I get out of the woods?’

Mick pushed at the ground with one hand, trying to lift his maimed body. The leaves seemed to have been replaced with a smooth, yielding surface, one that gave pleasantly beneath his hand. He opened his eyes, and found he was lying on a bed. The surface was a mattress, covered by a sheet of rough-woven cotton.

He looked around the room, studying the walls of fragrant cedar wood, and the stone floor. There was a hearth in one wall, made of fieldstones, a small fire burning within. Over the fire hung an iron kettle, and its contents steamed, filling the room with a smell of tea. Before the hearth lay a rug of deer skin. In the corner to the left of the hearth was a rustic chair of wood and wicker, and on it sat a man.

He was tall and slender, his aristocratic face thin, with high, cutting cheekbones. His skin was white, and utterly flawless, the nose long and straight. His lips were red, unnaturally so, and the long black hair hung straight, falling past his narrow shoulders. His long, elegant hands were folded on his lap, and he wore a black robe that pooled on the floor around his feet, looking almost like the base of a tree, as though the garment somehow gave him a connection to the earth beneath him. The eyes were black as well, and depthless, like pits into another universe. They did not blink, but watched Mick with a cold, regal expression. Every millimeter of this man exuded power and nobility, strength untold, hidden within his placid countenance. And Mick knew, the same way he knew that the sun would rise and the sky was blue, that this was no man.

This was an Elf.

Not the cheerful little Santa’s helpers of childhood stories, not the golden and wise creatures of Tolkien’s renowned tales, but a creature of great age and power. This was the being that the Irish whispered tales about in their pubs, and refused to cross under any circumstances. This was a wild thing of a capricious nature, one who could either be kind and helpful, or very, very dangerous. Mick tried desperately to recall everything his mother had told him about Elves on those long ago nights when he would sit on her knee. His father had not believed, but was pleased his wife was passing on her myths and heritages to her children. Indeed, his father enjoyed the tales himself. But his mother had been dead these past fifteen years, and his knowledge of the Good Folk had grown thin.

He swallowed nervously, determined to show this creature every courtesy he was due. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Elf was no longer paying attention to him. He rose to his feet, moving with silent grace. Mick estimated his height at around seven feet, and, despite himself, let his eyes run down the being’s long, curved back, admiring the black silken hair. Then he shook his head, surprised at finding himself gazing at another male in such a way.

The Elf poured them each a cup of tea, then turned and walked to the bed, seating himself on the edge. He offered Mick a cup, and Mick took it, bowing his head.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and sipped it, remembering as he did so that one should not eat or drink the food of the Good Folk. ‘Screw it,’ he thought, ‘chances are I’m dead anyway.’ He cleared his throat. “Thank you for helping me.”

The Elf watched him coolly, likely still making up his mind about the mere mortal before him. Mick did not press. Elf and Man drank their tea in silence. When the last drops were drained from their cups, he happened to notice his clothes, folded neatly on a chest beside the bed. He was very certain that neither the chest nor clothes had been there a moment ago. Lying atop the clothes was the most stunningly beautiful longbow he had ever seen. It was crafted of yew, and filigreed with running stags and the repeating Celtic knot. He dared not guess at what it was strung with, but it did not look like anything with which he was familiar.

“Such a lovely bow,” he said. “Is it yours?”

The Elf spoke, his voice touched with an accent that could only be Irish. “Surely it is yours, sir.”

Mick broke into a sweat. Was it a gift? Or was this a test? A wrong answer could have some truly negative effects. “Mine?”

“Indeed it has lain here beside you all this time, so yours it must be. Do you not know your own things?”

Mick swallowed, trying desperately to recall the delicate word play required for speaking with mystical beings. His business college had been sadly lacking on the subject. He decided the bow must be a gift.

“Oh yes, I recognize it now. So very lovely it is, and so finely made. Only an artisan of great skill could have made such a bow.”

The Elf seemed pleased, although his expression did not change. Mick sensed he had made the proper response.

“I am Mick,” he said.

This time the Elf did seem to smile, though the expression was restrained, as though he was reminding himself not to get too familiar with strange humans.

“You may call me Llewellyn.”

Mick took careful note of the phrasing. Not ‘ I am Llewellyn’, but ‘You may call me Llewellyn’. After all, no self-respecting being of the Hidden World gave his true name to just anyone.

“I am most pleased and thankful to be given the hospitality of your home.”

“As well you should be. You know what I am, do you not?”

Mick nodded. “Indeed I do,” he swallowed, feeling odd as he uttered the next two words. “My lord.”

“I should have left you to your fate, but I was most intrigued to find one in this land who knows the traditional offerings to beg safe passage from us.”

“My mother hailed from Limerick. She did her best to teach me.”

“She was wise to do so, for it saved your life. Do all men treat each other thusly?”

Mick shook his head. “No,” he whispered, feeling his eyes burn as he thought of the depth of the betrayal he had suffered. “I for one would never do such a thing.”

The Elf tilted his head to one side, seeming to express sympathy. “Sleep,” whispered Llewellyn, and Mick did, lying back against the pillow and closing his eyes mere moments after the uttering of the word.

***---***

When next he opened his eyes, the sun was shining, and he could hear birds trilling. The door to the simple chamber was open, and he could hear feel a gentle autumn wind blowing through the little stone house.

He looked down at his chest, and saw a ghastly wound that made him sick to look at. The outer edges were burned and ragged, tattooed with speckles of unburned gunpowder, and small holes where shot had lodged in his flesh. The center was black, and oozing blood, but it did not seem to be much more than a flesh wound. Either Llewellyn had healing capabilities beyond that of any doctor, or the shot had somehow misfired, leaving him bleeding and abraded but alive.

Somehow, Mick did not think the shot had gone awry.

He slid out of bed and dressed in his clothes. They were dirty and bloody, and Mick did not think that was an accident either. No, he felt that the Elf knew he had to go back to confront those who had betrayed him, and he would need evidence.

He gathered up his few things, noting with a smile that his blue plate was in his bag. Lastly, he picked up the gorgeous longbow that Llewellyn had given him, and walked out of the little stone house. The yard surrounding it was of natural moss and small wildflowers, and, not far away, stood Llewellyn in his long black robe, gazing at him with serene, unblinking eyes.

Mick grinned like a fool at the Elf, unable to contain himself. He did not know why, but the very sight of him was like salve to his physical and emotional wounds. Llewellyn raised an eyebrow and looked away, pretending to be miffed with such an unseemly display. Mick walked up to him, and the pair began strolling through the woods.

“You must depart now,” said Llewellyn. It was not a question.

“I understand.” Mick glanced at the tall Elf. “Will I see you again? Or, should I say, may I see you again?”

“And why should I wish to be seen by so mere a creature as you?”

Mick didn’t have an answer to that. He only knew that a piece of himself found great comfort in the Elf’s presence, but he did not think the Elf would be impressed by this. He fell silent, walking alongside Llewellyn. After a few minutes, Llewellyn spoke.

“You may see me again, if you wish.”

Mick almost hopped with glee, but stopped himself. “Thank you.”

“But answer me this. Why should you wish to come see me? You know what I am, you know that I am no gentle children’s myth.”

“I do,” said Mick softly. “But you… you fascinate me. I long to hear you speak of your life, and I desire to sit at your feet and gaze upon you as you speak, and wonder what mystic things your ancient eyes have seen.”

Llewellyn seemed pleased, and a little flattered. “Then you must bring me a gift.”

Mick felt some part of himself bridle at the statement. Faery creatures were wont to request some pretty outrageous things, and he was having mental images of himself driving all over Vancouver, seeking the breath of a fish or some such thing.

“If it is within my power, I shall.”

Llewellyn smiled. “Ink.”

“Ink?”

“And quills. I am out.”

“Ink and quills I shall bring.” He smiled. “Perhaps a nice computer with Photoshop and a colour printer?”

Llewellyn smiled. “Ink. And quills. You distrust my magic, I distrust yours.” He looked at Mick with wise, serene, eternal eyes. “What shall you do with your faithless lover, and partner?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Mick softly. He smiled sadly, feeling the hurt once more catch hold of him like panther claws. “I loved them both so much. I had this… foolish idea about marrying Cinnamon and having some children. The perfect little family, with Uncle Thomas over for dinner on Sundays. I am such a fool.”

“You are not a fool,” said Llewellyn softly. “Even I have fallen prey to faithless love. It is not a trial only mortal men must endure. We who dwell in the Green Realm feel its sting also.”

“Then I name the one who hurt you a fool,” said Mick softly, “for only one lacking wit and heart, and sense of wonder would hurt a being as very, very wonderful and lovely as you.”

Llewellyn paused and looked at the man, as though surprised a mortal would dare say such a thing. Mick was a little surprised himself, wondering where the feelings welling up in his battered chest were coming from. Gratitude, he supposed, and a muddle of other emotions he had no words for. The pair stared at each other, then Llewellyn regained his Elven decorum.

“Your beast awaits you.”

Mick turned, and grinned at the sight of his red SUV, waiting like some faithful hound. Cinnamon must have followed in her own vehicle. He looked back towards Llewellyn, once more caught up in his black eyes. He was still astonished at himself, but he was getting used to the attraction he felt for this being. His male sensibilities comforted him by saying he did not want the Elf, he was simply curious about him.

“May I touch you?” he asked softly.

Llewellyn’s expression hovered between amused and outraged. Fortunately, amusement won out.

“You may.”

Mick reached up one hand, and carefully, lightly, touched one fine cheekbone. His flesh was cold, but not in the way a dead animal was. He was cold like stone, and running water, and ice melting from a tree limb. It was a beautiful, natural cold, and somehow oddly fitting. He next touched the long hair, cold also, and slick, like strands of something more fair and fine than silk.

The two gazed at each other. Then Mick stepped back, suddenly feeling like a child who has overstepped his bounds. “Until we meet again,” he said softly.

Llewellyn inclined his head in agreement, then turned and walked back into the deep woods, still in his black robe, his passing disturbing no twig or leaf. Then he was gone.

***---***

Mick drove for hours in a strange state of suspended animation, his body working independent of his will and mind. He followed the long road like some sort of homing device, his actions automatic. He pulled into his driveway at long last, uncertain as to how many hours he had been driving, but not surprised at the presence of police cars. No doubt Cinnamon and Thomas were weeping out their tale about how deeply worried they were for their dear, dear friend.

Mick slowly got out of his vehicle, his movements shaky, his eyes glazed. He was feeling the severity of his injury as he walked slowly up the gravel drive, hearing the stones crunch beneath his feet, smelling the sweet fall air. It was close on to evening, and the world was becoming dark and cold as the sky faded to purple.

He quietly entered his house, closing the door behind himself, hearing muffled voices in the living room down the hall. He walked towards it, finding himself unusually interested in the three high windows that made up the far wall of the large room he staggered into. He continued into the room, still gazing at the windows, thinking of black eyes that had seen the dawn of time, and had looked upon things he could never hope to see.

The room became silent. The two police officers stood, silent and horrified at the state of him. Thomas made a small, frightened cry, and Cinnamon just stared, certain her eyes must be playing tricks on her. Mick slowly drew his gaze away from the windows, and looked towards the policemen. The ledger was in his hands, though he did not remember carrying it with him into the house.

I don’t know what they told you,” he said quietly, “but they tried to kill me. They’ve also been embezzling from my company.” He held up the ledger. “I have proof.”

Thomas looked at Cinnamon, who was staring cold daggers of hate at Mick. Listlessly, Mick passed the closest officer the book, then slumped down into a chair. He heard nothing more as Thomas and Cinnamon were arrested, and the ambulance summoned.

***---***

Mick was sick for a long time.

The wounds were dirty, and they had infected. From what he heard, however, through his fever and illness, he was lucky to even be alive; the injury caused by the shotgun should have killed him. Sometimes he could hear the doctors quietly arguing about what had kept him alive, and how on earth a man in his condition had driven the nine hours it took him to get home.

“Someone was watching over him, that’s for sure,” said one young doctor. The others felt compelled to agree. There was no reason for Mick to still be alive.

He languished in the hospital a long time, his body fighting the infection that ravaged it. The staff were kind to him, no doubt the doctors and nurses felt a great deal of sympathy for this man who had been horribly betrayed, and now had no one to sit with him as he fought for his life. Twice the policemen who had arrested Cinnamon and Thomas came to visit, sitting with him briefly, telling him what had become of the pair. Cinnamon, it seemed, had been wanted on warrants too numerous to recall, and the attempted murder of her lover was but one more foul deed. She would not be seeing daylight again.

Thomas had killed himself.

When Mick became stronger, he sold off his business, and most of his other assets. He could have comfortably lived off the proceeds for the rest of his life, but his old dreams now seemed faded and uninteresting. Especially since most of them had involved Cinnamon, and his offspring, and Sunday dinners with Uncle Thomas. Dreams that would haunt him and play over and over in his mind as he sat in his favorite chair in his beautiful house.

He went to visit her once, feeling small and sick as he entered the cold, imposing penitentiary, but she would not see him. She was still miffed over what he had done to her.

“What I did to her?” said Mick to the female guard, not knowing if he was amused or outraged. “What, you mean survive her attempt to blow a hole in me and steal everything I had?”

The guard shrugged, and gave him a tired sigh. “Yup. You’re a right bastard,” she said, and gave him a friendly slap on the back.

He watched her as she walked away, then looked down at the wide, expensive band of precious metal and glittering gems that Cinnamon had bought for him. Even the ring seemed faded and dull.

Mick left the prison, never to return. He cursed himself for wanting to see her. He was not even certain anymore that he had ever loved her. It was hard to sort through the maelstrom of emotions to know just what he had felt. Desire certainly, sympathy, and affection, but he did not think he had loved her.

He went home, opened a bottle of wine, and seated himself in his favorite chair, staring out the windows. He did not wish to think about Cinnamon anymore, but he held his little dream close to his breast, like an abused child he needed to protect. His little faded grey dream of a family and loving home. It became a nightly ritual, and it seemed he had ceased to live, and was waiting only to die.

Then, one night, as he was about to once again sit before the large window in his favorite chair, and drown out the grey dreams with a bottle of good wine, he spied something resting on his leather sofa. Something beautiful and delicate, crafted with other-worldly skill, and filigreed with stags and Celtic knots.

The bow had not been there earlier, but now it sat, warm and beautiful and very real, the only brightness in his dark world. And Mick recalled a promise made almost a year ago to the day. He set his glass of wine aside and picked up the bow, running his hands over it.

“Ink,” he whispered. “And quills.”

***---***

The next morning, Mick was up early, and feeling better. The trees once more seemed golden in their fall splendor, and there was a sweetness to the air he had missed. He breathed deeply, then loaded his pack into the cab of his red SUV. Next he placed in a carefully wrapped bow, and finally got in himself, closing the door and starting the engine.

He drove to Granville Island, a small peninsula of land, which held an array of shops that catered to artists. He found one that sold what he desired, and bought all the inks he could. Inks of gold, and silver, black and red, green and yellow. Inks of all colours, and the finest quills they had to offer. The sales person put his purchases into a box for him, and he left the shop.

He had just stepped out of the shop when movement caught his eye. He paused, and smiled faintly at the two young men he saw, not far away. They were rough-housing, the way young men do, pulling and pushing each other, getting one another in headlocks to administer noogies and other forms of torture. The pair shoved at each other, like Elk stags, battling for dominance. They could not have been older than twenty-three a piece, their hair long and wild, their jeans torn, their muscles strong and defined. They were both tanned, and he suspected they spent a great deal of time out doors.

They seemed so happy and alive, brighter than the tinted and tainted world they lived in. Mick watched them, noticing the play was slowing, and they were panting. The stags had battled themselves to a standstill, and now they circled each other, bodies close, their tanned flesh gleaming softly with a fine sheen of sweat. Then, to his surprise, they pressed close and kissed, holding each other gently.

Mick felt a strange sensation in his gut, a combination of fear and other, less tangible emotions. He thought about Llewellyn, and his black hair and eyes, his cold beauty. He had been telling himself he was simply fascinated by him. Indeed who would not be fascinated by Llewellyn? He was an ELF, for Christ’s sake! Only a card-carrying idiot would not be utterly captivated by him. But maybe it was not just what Llewellyn was that made Mick think of him. Maybe there was another reason as well.

Mick did not know he had approached the two men until the taller of the pair raised his head and looked at him. He had a gold name-tag around his tanned throat, reading ‘Nigel’, and a pair of high-top sneakers on his feet that were coming apart at the uppers. “Learning to talk,” as his mother would have said.

The slightly smaller man turned to see what had caught his lover’s attention, and now both watched him, expressions wary. Nigel stroked his broad hands over his lover’s shoulders, reassuring him. Mick was fairly certain they could both kick the crap out of him, but he was pretty sure Nigel would be the one to draw first blood.

Nigel stared at Mick with blue-grey eyes. When he spoke, his voice held an Australian accent.

“Can we help you?” he asked, his tone suggesting he had more than his fair share in his young life of gay-bashers.

Mick felt foolish, uncertain as to what had even brought him over to the pair. He heard himself speak without knowing he was about to.

“I need to ask you a question,” he said quietly, “and it’s probably none of my business, but, if you can tell me, I would appreciate it.”

They seemed to become a little less defensive. “What do you need to know?”

Mick shifted, feeling a bit odd. He thought he may have been blushing. “When did you know you liked men?”

They seemed a little surprised by the question. “Always,” said Nigel. “Always knew.” He looked at his companion. “What about you, Noel?”

“I didn’t,” said the other man. “I didn’t know until I met this big bruiser two years ago.” He gave Nigel a gentle nudge in the diaphragm with his elbow. Nigel nipped him.

“So, it would not be odd that maybe some guy didn’t figure it out until he was, oh, say, thirty.”

“No,” said Nigel, “I don’t think so. I know one guy who didn’t figure it out until he was forty-seven and twenty years into a miserable marriage.”

Mick flinched a bit. “Yeah, well, thankfully I didn’t have to go through that,” he muttered.

He was suddenly aware of the weight of the platinum ring on his left hand, and it make him sick, like some disgusting thing that was sucking the life out of him. He pulled it off, and handed the thing to Noel.

“Here,” he said. “Pawn this and get your boyfriend a new pair of sneakers. His are learning to talk.”

“Gold-plated sneakers,” said Noel, studying the frightfully expensive trinket. Nigel peered at the ring.

“Here, are you sure you want to give this to a pair of total strangers?”

Mick looked at the pair, and smiled wearily, without humour. “It was supposed to be a promise of love, and a future together. Seems to me you two have more use for it than I do.” Then he turned and walked away, heading to his vehicle.

***---***

He drove the nine hours to the isolated location, parking his SUV. He unwrapped his bow, stringing it. He loaded the ink and quills into his pack, then, with the bow and pack, he headed into the dark forest. He walked long and far, but he did not feel himself become tired. He kept on through the night, his feet taking him along unseen paths. When dawn came, he stopped for breakfast and had a nap. Then he continued on his way.

It was just before sunset when his feet took him up a low hill that led him to a small stone cottage, surrounded by moss and small wildflowers. Mick could feel his whole spirit brighten and lift at the sight of the first mossy stone step, and by the time he reached the top of the little hill, it was as though the whole world had become bright and beautiful.

He stopped at the top of the little hill, and smiled. Standing before the cottage was a tall, regal figure, clad in a black robe. Holding onto his knees were two beautiful little children, a boy and a girl, both with long red hair and large green eyes. Mick paused and looked at them as they huddled against the Elf. He did not know why, but he somehow understood that the pretty babies, who could not be more than two or three, had been abandoned and forsaken. Much like himself, they had been left in the woods to die.

He lowered his pack, walking up to face the tall, regal Elf, smiling as he felt his heart do odd things in his chest, and the butterflies awakened with a flurry in his stomach. His smile turned to a stupid grin of happiness as he realized he now understood the nature of what he felt. Llewellyn stared down his fine nose at the mortal, feigning offense. Then the little girl made a nervous whine, and the Elf’s attention was drawn to the child. Mick looked down at the toddlers.

“Such lovely children,” he said softly. He raised his head to look once more into the black eyes. “Are they yours?” he asked softly.

Llewellyn smiled, very faintly, his black eyes glittering playfully. “Surely they are yours, sir.” His voice was equally soft.

Mick smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Mine?”

“Indeed. Do you not know your own babes?”

He stepped back and looked down at the children. “Oh yes, I recognize them now. So very lovely they are, and so very intelligent.” He knelt before the little boy and girl. “Hello.”

The little girl looked at him with frightened eyes, and sniffed. The little boy rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Mick smiled at them.

“I’m your daddy.”

They seemed unconvinced, but looked up at Llewellyn for guidance.

“Greet your father, children,” he said softly.

They did, stepping over to Mick. He picked them both up, smiling, then laughing as the little girl took an interest in his hair.

“And did you bring anything for me?” asked Llewellyn.

Mick laughed. “Beautiful ink, and the finest quills, the best I could find.”

“Then come in,” said Llewellyn softly, “for you have been gone long, and the forest grows dark and cold.”

***---***

They ate dinner together, then the children were put to bed, while Mick sat in a comfortable chair on the porch, both of which had not been there when he arrived. He sighed contentedly, and smiled as Llewellyn walked out of the cottage to stand beside Mick. He said nothing, but Mick could sense what he thought.

“I must leave again in the morning, mustn’t I?”

Llewellyn gazed out into the night with black eyes. “Yes. For you still have ties to your world. And you must decide what it is you desire.”

“I desire this,” said Mick softly.

“You must be sure,” said Llewellyn. “For you can only find this place three times, and you have already come twice. If you come again, you cannot leave.”

“I do not wish to leave,” said Mick softly.

Llewellyn seated himself in a chair, elegant white hands folded in his lap, staring at nothing. “You must be certain,” he whispered. “For though I can give you what your heart desires, it is not easy for a mortal to dwell in our world. There are many dangers, and not all Elves tolerate Men. Indeed I am strange among my kind, for…” He paused, debating as to whether he was revealing too much. Finally, he continued. “For I have loved a mortal before. But he shunned me. And my elder brother slew him.” Llewellyn turned his head to look at Mick, his black, silky hair falling loose and soft around his white face. “I saw you leaving the gift of butter and cream, and I saw your betrayal. I was the brown rabbit you greeted. This land you are now in is an extension of your dreams, and when we are together, you are as one sleeping. We sleepwalk together in this place, and I would have you sleepwalk with me always. But as long as you have ties to your world, I cannot love you, nor can I trust you.”

Mick nodded. “I understand. Then I shall leave in the morning, as you request. And I promise to return on the night of Samhain, and give myself to you.” He smiled.

Llewellyn smiled, and looked down at his hands. He almost blushed, if such a cold beauty could do so. “Then you must bring me a gift.”

Mick smiled, knowing now how this game was played.

“If it is within my power, I shall.”

Llewellyn smiled. “Cloth.”

“Cloth?”

“And lace. I am out.”

“Cloth and lace I shall bring.” He smiled. “Perhaps a nice sewing machine and surger?”

Llewellyn looked at Mick, his black eyes glittering with an affection he could not hide. “Cloth. And lace. You distrust my magic, I distrust yours.”

***---***

Mick left the beautiful stone cottage, with its little stone fence, and the chickens and pony that were not there when he went to sleep. It was agony for him to depart, but he knew that Llewellyn was right – he had to be sure that this was what he wanted, and he had to know in his heart he truly wished to leave all that was familiar.

He drove back to his house, entering it, and dragging his weary body over to his favorite chair. He sat, and thought. Before long, he fell asleep. And dreamed.

He dreamed of himself, in his beautiful warm house, building his new business, becoming wealthy. He saw himself meeting beautiful young women and men, loving them, disposing of them, moving on to the next. He saw himself growing old, bloated and sick on his own excess, selfish in his loneliness. He saw himself dragging his aged, broken form back to a beautiful stone cottage in the woods, and weeping before the broken door that hung off its rusted hinges, the moss and wildflowers all gone. The cottage stood empty and hollow, like his life, and now it was cold and lonely, as was the man who sobbed before it, grieving the loss of true love, traded away for mere materialism.

He awoke with a jolt, and reached for the phone. He knew what he had to do.

***---***

“You are certain you wish to do this?” asked Lisa.

“I am,” said Mick.

The dark haired woman sighed and shook her head. “You are a very kind man, we cannot possibly thank you for what you have done.”

He smiled. “I did what I had to.”

“But you are certain you wish for me to drop you off in the woods?”

“Yes.”

“And what will you do there? And how do you plan to get all this cloth to where you want it?”

Mick just smiled. “I’ll manage.”

Lisa just shook her head, and sighed again. “I wish you much happiness.”

He chuckled. “Me too.”

She drove the red SUV to where he directed, and stopped the vehicle. She helped him to unload the great vehicle, then stood and looked at the red-haired man before her. The man who had donated his home, vehicle and wealth to her organization that assisted street youth and runaways.

“Thank you,” she said again.

They hugged, and he watched as she got back into the vehicle and drove away. He turned, and grinned as he saw the pony standing patiently in its harness, hitched to a small cart. He patted the hairy little beast, and loaded the lace and cloth into the cart.

“Let’s go,” he said to it softly, and took the bridle, leading it into the woods.

***---***

It was just reaching nightfall on All Hallow’s Eve when he and the cart pulled up to the little stone cottage. It was alive with coloured lanterns and lights. He could smell venison roasting, and hear laughter. People he did not know stepped out of the shadows to unload the pony cart, and let the little beast out of her harness. Then he turned to face the cottage, and saw Llewellyn standing before him, clad in beautiful robes of forest colours, gold and red and green, a wreath of living oak ivy in his hair. Mick smiled, feeling his heart warm, and the image of his old life fading away. He sighed with utter contentment and peace, ready to play the game one last time.

“Such a lovely wedding party,” he said. “Is it yours?”

Llewellyn smiled, his black eyes soft and warm. “Surely it is yours, sir.”

Mick smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Mine?”

“Indeed. Do you not know your own guests?”

Mick looked around, breathing in the essence of the evening. He saw the two children skip by, no longer frightened and shy, but lively and happy, wearing outfits matching Llewellyn’s, with little wreaths of oak ivy in their hair.

“Oh yes, I recognize them now. Such wise and noble folk, gathering to celebrate my wedding the fairest and wisest beauty who ever walked the land.”

Llewellyn stepped closer, and Mick reached up to touch one cold, perfect white cheek. “And did you bring anything for me?” asked Llewellyn.

Mick laughed. “Beautiful cloth, and the finest lace, the best I could find.”

“Then come in,” said Llewellyn softly, “for you have been gone long, and the forest grows dark and cold.”

Disclaimer:

All original fiction and the characters, places and situations with them are copyright Alyx Shaw, and may not be published, copied, distributed or archived without the author's prior written consent.

The characters, places and situations described in these stories are fictional unless otherwise stated in the story headings.

(C) 2008 Alyx Shaw