home
How long has he been walking in this forest, now? It feels like… days. It feels like seconds. It feels like bells. The sky does not change, he cannot see it, hidden by the canopy as it is. The air smells… strange. Like fire and the unmistakable tang of magick, an undertone of honeyed sweetness and the gentle chime of laughter on a lazy Summer evening.
It’s too hot, he’s catching a chill. One minute he’s wiping sweat from his brow, moving to unfasten his cloak, and the next he’s pulling it around him, shivering from the icy touch of Winter, the first frost after an unseasonably warm Autumn.
He sits on a rock so smooth it seems polished; bands of deep blue and burnt orange peeking out from beneath moss so soft it springs beneath his fingers. They sink into that moss - it’s cool and pleasant to touch, and beneath he can feel the gentle curve of the rock, inviting him to rest a while. A scent on the air tells him it’s safe; the smouldering embers of a banked fire, popping and crackling in his ear. A comfort, after such a trying time in this place.
He stifles a yawn. After all, why shouldn’t he rest here, a time? He slips into it, calm and unworried, though there was… something he came here for, wasn’t there? Hm, perhaps not. It matters not. All that matters is the softness of this rock and moss, the gentle, soothing scent. The sweet breath of a whisper at his ear…
- - -
The Hyur slept. Sartauvoir, from his vantage point in the trees atop his fiery mount, gazed down upon him, curiosity writ clear through his entire body, from fingertip to wingtip. Why had he come here? He was lost, clearly, and must be weary or else he would not have succumbed to the moss’ spell. He did not look a man to be taken in by the charms of fae so easily, and yet there he was, curled up like a flutterling, his bearded face pillowed upon the moss that Sartauvoir knew so well. He’d enjoyed a nap or five on that selfsame rock over his many, many years.
He urged his mount further down, alighting on the edge of the rock with whisper-light pressure. He hopped down with a flutter of his wings, a flick of three fingers just so to dismiss the Fenex, which puffed into nothingness in a shower of sparks.
The moss was springy beneath his boots, and his wings were sent a’flutter by the breathing of the Hyur - it tickled, and he stifled a laugh behind one hand.
Bending over, he noticed that the Hyur was wearing a pair of spectacles - what funny creatures they were! Why wear something so restrictive when you could just enchant your vision back to rights? Or perhaps it was vanity, and they thought it made them look good. Hm, yes that was probably it. And… well, it did make him look good, even from this angle.
He leaned further in and rapped on the glass with his knuckles, then fluttered back in alarm as the man snorted. He did not wake, and Sartauvoir laughed out loud this time. What a fool he was, but this man was… interesting.
A wave of his hand and he drew back the sleeping spell like a pulling back the curtains to let in the dawn. The snort happened again, but this time it was followed by a bleary opening of eyes - oh! - they were green, as green as the moss upon which he’d slept…
- - -
His eyes open and as his vision clears, Basch realises what is in front of him. He huffs out a laugh, because of course. He’s spent how long in this damned forest, fallen asleep on a rock out of nowhere, why wouldn’t the first thing he sees be a blasted fairy.
“Let me guess,” he begins, voice burred from the enchanted sleep, “I’ve been kidnapped into the fae realm and you’re here to take me away to your dungeons for the crime of sleeping on this no doubt sacred mossy rock.”
The tiny creature laughs out loud, a tiny puff of smoke accenting the sound of its voice. It smells of embers, Basch realises - the source of the strange smell he’d noticed before sleeping? Perhaps. It’s hard to focus on that when the fairy is so entrancing, its burnt-orange wings like beautiful jewels glimmering in the sun.
“Are all mortals so strange?” The fairy alights on his rock, right next to Basch’s face, and peers down at him. “Nary even a word of greeting before you assume the worst of me!” A tiny hand goes to its face, and Basch sees a flash of mischief there.
He sits up, slow and careful, and crosses his legs atop the moss. “You are correct, where are my manners? I forget myself.” Basch holds out his hand, though it is many times the size of the fairy’s. “I am Basch van Gabranth, of the Hyur country Landis. Arnsbeirgs, to be precise.”
The fairy takes one of his fingers in its whole hand and shakes it, face solemn, though Basch can still glimpse the mischievous light in its eyes. “‘Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Sartauvoir quo Soranus, Lord Pyromancer of Isne Bilan."*
- - -
The day grows dark, but there is still the soft flush of sunlight on the horizon that gilds Sartauvoir’s wings and clothes with a golden glow. Basch looks up at him, perched on a large mushroom and laughing at the dancing of a dragonfly on the breeze. His heart swells with love - for he knows it is that - for the fae.
Next to Sartauvoir sits a basket of ripe nectarines and apples and deep red autumnwine, so rich that Basch can near smell it, though it is corked. The fruit is not for him to eat - he has his own little basket of food that he’d gathered on his last foray to the Hyur lands, settled next to the smaller one. In the name of safety, though he did not hunger here in Isne Bilan as he would do back home. Nor did he seem to age, for that matter… and, more importantly, nor did his decline creep any closer.
He’d not told Sartauvoir of his ailment, for fear of what the fae would do - but besides, it had not seemed… important, here in the faelands. Disease could not touch him here, nor could the inexorable passage of time.
“Are you not hungry, feo sigun?"**
You’ve barely touched your bread and cheese.” Sartauvoir’s wings flutter as he speaks, and he leans forward to peer into Basch’s eyes. “Tell me, what is in your thoughts? You have been pensive, this noon.”
Basch huffs out a laugh. “I am thinking of the Hyur lands,” he says, eyes crinkling with his smile, “my home, Landis. And how… strange it was, when last I visited. It did not feel like home, any more. I felt the passage of time most keenly, and the passage of other, less pleasant sensations too.”
“You did not say, when you returned, that it had been a bad trip.” A look of concern passes over Sartauvoir’s face. “I could come with you, the next time you need visit? As a balm against any unpleasantness.”
Basch snorts. “Aye, and a hair trigger away from setting anyone who looks at me askance on fire, I’ll bet.”
A tiny fireball springs into existence at that, and Sartauvoir smirks. “What good is being the paramour of fae royalty if not to use him to deal with pests and annoyances?”
“Beloved, you know I couldn’t let you set fire to anyone who merely annoyed me.”
“Not even a little charring about the edges?”
“No, not even a little of that. Of course, here I don’t make the rules, so you may char as many people as your heart desires.”
Basch looks past Sartauvoir at the smaller basket, heaped with ripe fae fruits, and finds that both heart and mind are made up. He takes a nectarine and it grows to fill his much larger hand, as though it had been waiting for him to make this decision.
It smells ripe and tart and juicy, like a perfect rondel of summer, and Basch takes a deep inhale of its scent. He’s vaguely aware of Sartauvoir leaning forward further, covering his mouth with a hand, and Basch settles his own hand against him, big fingers against tiny thighs and waist.
“Basch! You will never be able to return home!” His wings flutter, agitated.
Basch smiles and blinks slowly up at Sartauvoir, then takes a bite. It tastes as good as it smells, and he feels the fae magick wash through his body, taking him in and making him its own. He feels hale and hearty, healthier than he’s felt in many a moon.
“Beloved, I am home.”