Fae Roach and Human reader (can be platonic!)
Warning: Talk of stillborns, bullying, and incorrect fae facts. Angst with comfort?
This is less Roach x reader and more Roach as a changling. BUT HES A GOOD BOY In the future, I want to d the whole 'village bully ' reader thingy
Roach liked you, you were nice to him.
Roach was an oddball to the other fae. He rarely came to the woods, spending more time in the village. Yet they all knew why, and there was a silent respect for the hun in the air for the changeling. He was there to keep an eye on the village. Watch the change in language, culture, and religion. All the while, there to ensure there wasn't an attack in the making. That was where the respect lay. To risk one's neck for the sake of those he may not even like.
Over the years, he would appear as a traveler in different forms, wandering or selling. Staying long enough, normally a month, before reporting back. He would always trail back to the woods. Hands shoved in felt pockets as he walked to Price, or sometimes Ghost, to spread word. Their silent communications gave Roach deep comfort. Unlike the humans, who talked, talked, and talked. Roach may be the most human-looking and acting, but he hated the talking part. It had taken him years to learn the new human communication style. He much preferred the silly grunts or overly swirled language of the old days.
Things had changed, however, around the years you were born. He traded his traveling cloak for a pair of booties. As Roach, now Gary, took the place of a child of a young couple. He had reasoned it was time anyway to be retaught your silly math and writing system.
The couple would boast to the village about their baby, with hearts full of so much love, and Gary would see the wisp of pink coming from their chest.
He was the easiest baby, they told the village. Born without crying and always smiling. Yet their young son rarely spoke. They believed he struggled. In actuality, Roach's throat, tongue, and sections of the brain struggled to remold to better fit the current language; apparently, he was more out of touch with speaking than he thought. His delayed speech had reached the point where his little sister, two years his senior, started speaking before him. Many of his younger siblings spoke before or more than their oldest brother. Pulling on his arms, or riding his back as they babbled their way to school.
Gary, in nomadic terms, was picked on. He didnt speak to his peers or rarely did, instead preferring to use his hands to communicate. He could talk, strained a bit, but understandable. But why the hell would he? He hated those stupid years before you joined him in the schoolhouse. Humans were pestering, cruel little shits. If he didnt have a goal, a purpose for doing this, he likely would have scared those little brats away from him.
Then you joined. Shy-eyed, in a worn dress, and only with your grandmother. Your lunch pail is chipped and worn and clutched between your hands. You had a thin silver chain around your neck. Protection.
You were hesitant at first, whispering softly to him. He could see it in your eyes, how you had known something was off with him. He wasn’t sure how you knew; perhaps you had that feeling too buried in your bones. You were just as strange as he was. Talking about the sugar you'd leave out with your grandmother, and the dream catchers you'd weave. You were resilient in the face of the world that clawed at your skin.
But your Grandmother had known instantly. She has come down to walk back with you back to the house. But her eyes locked on his as you skipped to her. Grey, old eyes scanning Gary's many siblings hanging on his arms, chirping happily at their big brother. Those eyes. Full of such fierceness that he felt fear shoot through him. He - he needed to explain before she brought the iron out. What if she assumed his siblings were changelings too? What would happen to them? Humans could be brash, cruel things. Worse than the fae.
He snuck from bed that night, having to peel his little brother's arms from around him. His limbs carried him to the small house on the hill where you and your grandmother slept. Or, you just slept.
“What did you do with her child?” he hadn't even opened his mouth, just stood in the doorway. Golden eyes were watching the heavy silver ring that swung above the door. The naziatinb ripples that came from the iron hung in the door made his throat dry. “I had warded this town against your kind.” Grey, sharp, skeptical eyes bore into him. Venom tripping with every spiteful word. He had felt the ward for a long time, though he had never acted like a changeling. Never felt the whip of going against the warding.
“He passed away when moth- Mrs. Lauren had him.” He paused, allowing his heart to calm and his cracked voice to mend. He still thought of the small child. Barely a minute old but already too fragile for this cruel plane. “He was…so small,” he clicked, quickly clearing his throat. “We buried him…”He had nearly cried when holding the infant, forcing whatever magic Price had given him to strengthen the soul enough for its climb. He watched it wisps into the sky.
Her eyes had narrowed. “I wish to see him”
So he led the older lady, promising her a safe and timely return. She was smart, setting her expected demands, allowing for no loopholes. He had led her to a small clearing deeper into the forest. Where soon his human skin rippled and gave way to his true fae self.
Skin a dark brownish green. Two sets of large golden eyes, brushed with a wisp of golden red hair. Dragonflies like wing unfolding from the flats of his back as his body morphed to become slightly taller. Bones shifting, though he had a painless expression. Two slim antennas were poking through his hair as his ears seemed to shift and become pointy.
The grave sat there. A large, smooth grey stone is placed near the end of a rectangular patch of moss, with small sun-bleached pebbles surrounding it.
“I am not used to human customs…” he softly said, wings shifted deep to his side. “But we tried to make him comfortable…”
A white eyebrow raised as the woman peered closely. Small ‘gifts’ lay on the patch of moss, nearly covered by the fluffiness. Old dried flowers, smooth circular stones, shiny things of all sorts.
He felt a warm hand on his back.
Gary enjoyed your presence, even if you didn't speak. Flitting around your kitchen, muttering about bad spices and all. All while he sat at your counter. Helping to sew the hem of a shirt. Eyes leading out the window ever so often to ensure all was calm.
