Gathering herbs deep in the forest, Y/n heard a child crying, her thoughts involuntarily turning to her own. But she knew her child slept soundly in its cradle after its activity.
The girl hurried towards the sound, sunlight filtering through the leaves, trying to light the young mother's path. Y/n thought that one of the village girls might have abandoned the child; it was an unwanted pregnancy. This was a common practice: when a girl became pregnant but no one would marry her, the child was left in the forest to preserve the family's reputation. Y/n herself had once been ordered to do the same. Her parents were furious, shouting and beating her. But the girl refused, and they took her to the forest, where a small house stood. Her parents didn't want to shame the entire family, so they left her there. In the end, her parents wanted to know the father's name, but by the grace of heaven, it was the king's knight. They were passing through their lands and decided to stay in the village. Y/n vaguely remembered the man's face, but he had whispered so seductively, promised love so tenderly, that the girl surrendered and lay on his bed. Soon after, the detachment left. That year, many innocent girls "suffered" at the hands of seductive knights, and many were shamefully cast out. Y/n was no exception.
The infant's cry grew louder, and the girl ran out into a clearing where a bundle lay. She hurried to it, and when she pulled back a corner of the blanket, she recoiled in fear. It was a dark elf child. Y/n looked around, listening to the forest sounds, but realized the child's parents were not there. The infant's head had darkened from crying, and the girl understood it was hungry. Y/n couldn't abandon the child, so she unlaced her bodice and gently brought the baby to her right breast. The child finally quieted, having received nourishment. But Y/n still scanned her surroundings, ready to place the child back and flee if she saw anyone of its kind.
Y/n realized the infant's parents were absent, unsure if the child was abandoned or if something had happened to them. But Y/n made a decision that would change her fate forever! She took the child and returned home.
Several days passed, and now two babies lay nestled together in a spacious crib, having bonded with each other. Y/n cooed over them, continuing to leave them alone at home after tending to them, and went to the forest to gather herbs. It was a hot summer, but autumn was approaching, and supplies were needed, especially medicinal herbs. In the evenings, from time to time, she also went into the forest with a bow on her shoulder to hunt rabbits, and if lucky, a larger animal. The girl wouldn't have had to hunt; if she hadn't been driven from home, her father would have done it, and then her husband. But fate decreed otherwise, and using the skills she observed in the settlement, she independently crafted a bow and arrows and trained herself. Y/n was quite good at it, considering the game she brought home. And she herself didn't need much. Just something to put in her mouth to avoid starving and to stay healthy for the children.
The worst began after the past week. Moon Day started with the dark elf's loud crying. Y/n realized the infant was ill. She gave him various tinctures; the raspberry tincture didn't help the fever, and the baby cried more, seeming to burn. Linden was needed, but it had run out, so the girl quickly gave a chamomile tincture, which helped the child calm down. Taking her basket, she ran to the other end of the forest. She probably fell a few times on the way, but nothing could stop her. She gathered a whole basket of linden flowers and, just as quickly, wanted to get home.
As she approached the cottage, she saw the open door, and fear pierced her entire body. Somewhere, she tried to calm herself, telling herself it was likely her parents, who rarely visited, but her gut told her it wasn't her parents.
Quietly and slowly, she approached the door and peeked inside. All was silent. No one. Only the cooing of her baby. She rushed to the cradle and saw only her child. But where was the second?
She swallowed loudly, carefully turning towards the door. The girl understood that she now needed to go out and survey the area.
Y/N wanted to grab a bow for protection, but to her horror, realized it was broken. Now, unarmed, she went outside. She stopped, trying to listen to the sounds, but the gusts of wind rustling the treetops made it difficult.
She understood that a dark elf had come here and taken his child, but had he left? Perhaps he would realize she hadn't done him any harm, only protected the child?
She looked around, spinning, and at the last moment noticed a man who had unexpectedly appeared among the trees. His dark skin and bright eyes frightened Y/N, causing her to involuntarily yelp. The man held a baby in his arms, who calmly rested his head against his father's chest, looking peaceful.
"I… I… I didn't hurt him…" Y/N decided to start her defense.
The elf smiled slyly, and then… disappeared. Y/N merely blinked, and the man was gone.
The following days passed peacefully, the only change being that Y/N began to notice baskets with various fruits and vegetables, and sometimes fish or game, on her doorstep.
She knew this wouldn't go unacknowledged; she would be obligated to give something in return. And on the other hand, she had cared for his child… And Y/N accepted the gifts, enjoying the peace.
The next morning, the woman noticed how the nature around her trembled nervously. Strong gusts of wind reached her cottage, leaden clouds hung over the forest, thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning even flashed.
Y/N closed the window shutters, pressing them tightly against the frame, and securing them with a latch. She moved the cradle further from the window, deeper into the house.
While the woman was busy preparing food and caring for the child, evening had already arrived, and there was a loud knock at the door. She heard a couple of male voices and Y/N thought of her family, who had decided to pay her a visit. She hurried to open the door to let her soaked family into the house. But to her horror, the ones at the door were two men, one a burly fellow with an eyepatch, and the other thin with an overbite.
"What do you need?" the woman asked, slightly closing the door.
"Oh, darling, are you alone?" the big man replied.
"What's it to you? I asked a question," Y/n frowned as the man placed his hand on the door, pushing it slightly.
"We got lost in the woods and stumbled upon this cabin. Let us in, we're soaked," his voice was deep but grating.
"I can't," Y/n relaxed a little.
The man didn't like the answer and shoved the door with all his might. Y/n unexpectedly fell to the floor. The men brazenly entered the house, looking around. They smelled unpleasantly of alcohol, sweat, and tobacco. Most likely, they were bandits or hunters. But their arrival made the woman nervous. She stood up, awaiting further actions.
"Oh, look, Bon, we were expected," the big man brazenly sat at the table where a bowl of stew was.
"I told you there'd be something to get here," the lanky guy finally spoke, he was thin, almost squeaking. He also brazenly started rummaging through the cupboards, collecting all the supplies.
"What are you doing!? Get out of my house!" Y/n screamed hysterically, and a second later dodged a sharp knife that Bon threw.
"Shut your mouth, whore! Boss, should we kill her!?" the man squeaked similarly.
"Come on, what are you waiting for? She'll warm our bed," the Boss chuckled, a few pieces of meat falling from his mouth.
The door was open, a downpour raging behind it, forming deep puddles. Y/n couldn't escape because of her baby, who began to stir, disliking the loud voices and the cold, so he started whimpering. The men noticed him.
The lanky guy approached the cradle inside the house, and Y/n's heart clenched and filled with fear.
"Yeah, she's mommy!" Bon exclaimed, and yanked the baby out by the leg, the child dangling, crying louder.
"Please! Put him back! You're hurting him!" Y/n lunged at the man, but he pushed her away, and the girl fell to the floor again.
"She's so loud! Boss! Why do we need her!?" The sniveler unceremoniously tossed the baby into the crib, and Y/n's head began to throb. Her child was only a few months old, too fragile!
"Hey! I don't care, you don't have to stick your junk in her. I'm going to stick it in her, I haven't had a woman in a year!" The boss, who had been eating meat the whole time, stood up, grabbed Y/n by the hair with his dirty hands, and dragged her across the floor.
To the sounds of the baby's crying, and her own, Y/n struggled, scratching her attacker's hands, but it was all useless.
"Ah, you slut! Well, nothing, I'll calm you down now! Why are you kicking, it's clearly not your first time! I'll give you another baby, for good measure! Did you hear that, Bon!?" The men laughed obscenely, the brute began to pull down his pants, but the belt wouldn't budge.
Y/n crawled towards the door. She somehow got up and ran outside. The woman ran a short distance and stopped halfway when she noticed a familiar figure among the trees. The rain continued to pour, she was getting wet and pathetic. She noticed her secret acquaintance holding a basket with something in it, he clearly wanted to visit her at such an hour.
"Where are you running!? Do you want me to kill your worm!?" roared the bandit, stepping outside, his pants already down, "I'll take care of this quickly! Or are you, such a dirty girl, that you decided to entertain me outside in the rain!?" he laughed obscenely again.
"Please…" Y/n wanted to beg the dark elf, but a thick black shadow flashed past her.
This magic began to form into hands with claws, it headed towards the bandit, who fearfully tried to escape, but failed. These hands grabbed him, sinking their claws into his flesh, they moved to his neck, squeezing it, and then, amidst the sound of the rain, a snap was heard. The magic snapped his neck. As the force was about to retreat, a displeased companion appeared in the doorway, picking his nose.
"Boss, what were you doing…?" he froze.
The claws went into a new battle, grabbed the skinny man, suspended him above the ground, and then flung him with all their might towards the trees.
The dark elf skillfully controlled this power, moving his hands through the air. And the claws obeyed him, finishing off the man.
Y/n remained standing, looking only at him. The elf also continued to look. A moment passed, and it became dark in her eyes, and Y/n fell onto the wet ground, not caring about anything.
The girl woke up to birdsong. She opened her eyes slightly and realized she was in her room, her baby cooing beside her. She got up carefully, wearing a nightgown, and a blush of embarrassment spread across her cheeks, realizing the mysterious elf had changed her clothes.
To her surprise, she noticed that besides her child, a dark elf's baby was also in the cradle, happily reaching out to her.
The girl shook her head and quickly went outside. Not far away, under a tree, sat an elf, his eyes closed, humming softly.
"Thank you," the girl said quietly but clearly as she approached the stranger.
"ɦ໐ຟ ໓໐ นู໐น ʄﻉﻉɭ?" a similarly quiet and deep voice asked. The girl faltered slightly.
"Sorry, I don't understand... I think I hear familiar words, but I can't put them together," Y/n smiled awkwardly, and the elf nodded.
"Y/n," the girl pointed to herself. The man did the same.
"Elowen."
The elf fell silent again and closed his eyes. Y/n understood that he would stay, and she wouldn't mind.
Synopsis: In which you flew a kite deep into the forest and everything changed..
Pairing: Yandere! Dark Elf x Human! Reader
Warnings/Reminders: Dark themes, harassment, reader is mentioned to be female, death, gore, mentions of blood, violence, language
“(name)! Don’t go too far! Supper will be ready soon!” A plump, elderly lady called out, watching you run out of the cottage with your kite.
“Yes, Gammy!”
Your little figure ran through the fields as you held onto the string of your kite, the hem of your dress now muddied with dirt. Soon, you reached the forest. The dark oak trees loomed over you, creating bits of shade from the sun. You carefully avoided any large rocks or logs, jumping through large puddles that formed on the grass. As you went deeper into the forest, the sky was barely visible and only bits of light were shining through the trees.
“Eek!”
You let out a squeak when you fell on your bottom, getting pulled back by the string. You looked up all teary and confused, only to realize that your kite was stuck on one of the branches that was too high up for you to reach. Your lips quivered as your eyes brimmed with tears, a sob coming out of your throat.
Then you heard a twig snap, causing you to turn around swiftly. The sun was already setting which meant it was about to get pitch dark. You slowly got up on your two trembling legs, taking two hesitant steps forward. You wiped away your tears and looked closely.
Suddenly, a young transcendental creature came into view. His dark–almost bluish– skin was a stark contrast to his light, silvery hair that cascaded down to his back. His pearly white orbs stared down onto your frightened ones. You staggered and fell down when he came closer, his nose and long sharp ears twitching. Tears started running down your plump cheeks again, frozen in your place. Your young mind was so scared and horrified at the situation that you couldn’t make yourself snap and run.
“..p-please don’t hurt me.” You cried, your voice cracking as you spoke.
The creature tilted his head at the sight of your tears and came closer, licking your cheek. You flinched and squirmed away.
“...Mate?” He frowned in disappointment, wondering why you were pulling away. As you tried to crawl away, he noticed a string hanging from one of the branches. He looked up and saw that it was a diamond-shaped..paper? Was it yours?
You got up and dusted away the dirt on your dress, about to run when you heard a loud thud. The creature was crouching down, holding onto his bleeding arm. Your eyes widened when he held up the kite, giving you a very toothy grin..? It looked scary so you couldn’t tell. You bit your inner cheek as you hesitated before taking your kite.
“Thank you…” Your eyes landed on his wound, making you frown in concern.
“You’re bleeding.” The creature just stared at you when you pointed it out. It didn’t hurt for him but knowing you were concerned made him feel a bit warm.
You untied your ribbon and wrapped it around his arm, copying how you saw your grandma tend to an injured stable boy. It was tied rather wonky but it stopped the bleeding. Taking a closer look at the creature, you realized he looked young. Maybe a bit older than you.
Then, you panicked when you noticed how dark and late it was. You were starting to tear up again until the creature took your hand and began to lead you out of the forest.
It took twenty minutes for both of you to reach the cottage, the creature still holding onto your hand tightly. Your hair was all mussed over and your dress was decorated with mud with some specks of it on your face.
The creature gave you a pat on the cheek and before you could speak, he disappeared into the night. The door opens and your grandma lets out a sob of relief.
“Oh! You’re back, thank goodness! Where have you been? I was so worried! Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She ushered back inside. You looked back, as if expecting the creature was there. But there was no one.
You carried a bucket of water you fetched from the well. On the way to the cottage, you bumped into the chief’s son, Will. He sent you one of his charming smiles that would send half of the village’s maidens into a frenzy.
“Good morning, Will. What are you doing around these parts?” You smiled, greeting him politely.
“Good morning, (name). Is it a bad thing to take an early stroll? I expected you to be much more happy to see me. I’m a bit disappointed.” He teased, twirling a strand of your hair. Your smile became strained and you shifted away uncomfortably, making him frown for a moment.
“It was nice seeing you, Will. But I’m afraid I have to go. I still have chores to-”
“I’ll come with you. That bucket must be heavy. It won’t be nice of me to leave a pretty girl to carry all that, don’t you think?” He tried to grab the bucket but you shook your head, pulling away.
“No, It’s quite alright.”
“I insist.”
“Will, I assure you that it’s fi-”
You felt a pang of dread when he gripped your wrist tightly, his smile tight and twitching as he came closer.
“Come on, (name). Don’t you want someone to accompany you? I mean, you need all the help you could get now that your grandmother passed away. I can help you..” He caressed your cheek, his touch sending shivers of disgust down your spine.
“..That’s very nice of you, Will. But I’m fine on my own.”
“A lady like you shouldn’t be alone, especially when you live in that shabby cottage. And you work so much too. Don’t you want a husband that could provide for you? I can take care of you in more ways than one, you know.” His grip started to get suffocating, his breath coming into contact with your skin.
You tried not to puke or punch him in the face and ripped your wrist out of his hands, taking a step back.
“I’m really flattered but I’m not really looking to get married so soon.” You politely declined. Will scoffed and furrowed his brows in frustration.
“Don’t be naive, (name). What life plans do you have that are more important? You’re young and beautiful. No man will desire you if you keep on refusing proposals. You don’t want to grow up an old maid, do you? Marry me and I’ll give you a life better than this.” He persisted, grabbing onto your waist and making you drop the bucket. You placed your hands on his chest, trying to push him away but to no avail.
Suddenly, a strange force pulled him back and made him trip on the slippery rock. You staggered back, caught off guard. Did you do that? He grunted in pain and gave you a vicious glare, struggling to get back up.
“You bitch! You’ll fucking regret that-”
You didn’t listen to the rest of his words and ran back to the cottage, locking yourself in.
“My father’s the chief! I’ll fucking ruin your life for this, (name)! You hear me, you whore?!”
You panted as you ran through the woods, desperately trying to get away from the angry mob chasing after you with their torches and pitchforks. Who knew rejecting Will would get yourself into this situation? The bastard spread rumors around the village that you were a witch and the word eventually reached the church.
You cried in pain when you stepped on glass, the shard now protruding through your foot. A sob ripped through your throat but you kept going, limping away as fast as you could. Your muddied dress was now sticking onto your body and visible blood splatters were on it. You could hear the mob getting closer and you started to feel helpless, not knowing where to go. You were tired and in pain.
You stopped when you reached a small clearing, slumping against a large rock. All you could feel was the pain on your foot and the ringing in your head. Your heart was pounding on your chest while you tried to calm your breathing down. As the mob approached closer, your sight started to blur and your eyes were becoming too heavy.
“..huh?”
You opened your eyes and you were met with the same pearly white orbs you’ve seen when you were a child. He was huge and much more intimidating than he was when you first met. He held you close to his chest, offering warmth and security. The villagers let out a gasp, horrified at the sight of the creature. Many stepped back and the others made a run for it.
“It’s the devil!” One of the nuns exclaimed, falling down to her knees. The others fell in suit, crying as they begged for forgiveness to their god. The priest stood firm and took out his cross and started to throw holy water at the creature. But alas, it was no use.
“You dare lay your hands on my mate? Utterly unacceptable. Pay the consequences with your death, puny humans.” He buried your face into his chest and raised his hand.
All of it took a single minute and there was silence.
You slowly looked back and you gagged at the horrific sight of mangled and decapitated bodies. The clearing was bathed in blood and there was no spot left unstained.
“..shh.” He ran his long, sharp fingers through your hair, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead. He could see how terrified you are, realizing how fragile humans were when it came to violence. His lips formed a frown, feeling bad for letting you witness everything.
He made a vow to keep you out of harm’s way, even if it meant locking you inside his home. His parents always reminded him to care for his mate and prioritize your health and safety. Which is why he kept a close watch on you over the years ever since that day, witnessing you grow into a gorgeous young woman. He even fed that rotten boy to the wolves when he sent those humans after you.
Don’t worry now. You’ll be safe with him. You will love your new life. And once you’ve adjusted accordingly, he’ll lay his claim on you properly. Soon, there will be little ones running around and you’ll give him a family like the good little mate you are.
“Let us head home, my mate.”
a/n: This was kind of rushed but i enjoyed writing it. This is my first take in monster romance and i hope you guys like it! Looking forward to writing similar stories in the future :DD
Your heart drops and your stomach lurches; you’re awake but you couldn’t be blamed for being unsure of it. Among the oppressive darkness, the only thing tethering you to reality is the jagged stone boring into your back and the faint sound of water trickling faintly in the distance. Cautiously, you prop yourself up onto your elbows and suck in thick and stagnant air. Strange soreness and disorientation freezes you in place as you try in vain to assess your surroundings. You try to blink away the night, and the night blinks back.
Red eyes, unmistakable, pierce through the short distance and straight into yours, from just a few inches past your feet. Realization seizes you, you’ve heard enough of the legends, and far worse than the unknown, you know exactly where you are and what’s in front of you. Whys and hows are rendered inconsequential. Your chest goes numb, as if your breath and blood have already surrendered to the inevitable, and with the fleeting air you have left you only manage to whimper out, “Drow.”
He doesn’t speak your language, he has no need to, but he’s all too familiar with that word. Something about your recognition excites him more. He’d like to teach you his own name, to hear it in that pathetic tone, but Drow will do. He can see your figure perfectly in his thermal vision, the way you tremble and quake, the way fear burns against your skin, but he’s missing the finer details in this blur of color. It would be simplest to keep you in the dark, but it’s not as if you have a fighting chance regardless. He hates to miss the intricacy of your expression, the only means of communication you have with someone so alien to your world under the sun.
Pink, fiery light slowly creeps along the ground around you and up the rock walls, spiraling a bit in either direction. His luminous magic unveils the cavernous landscape, and you both hold your breath as your eyes adjust.
You’ve never seen a Dark Elf yourself before, and any accounts you’ve heard have been retellings of retellings hundreds of times over, but he’s just as beautiful as any chronicler says. His black cloak obscures his crouched form, just as his long white hair hides the edges of his perfectly angular face, but even this mere glimpse is stunning. He has the awe inspiring allure of a sheer cliff shore among a churning, stormy sea. Eye contact isn’t broken as he slides closer to you, muscles primed waiting for you to so much as flinch away. You don’t.
------------------------------------
You watch him lose his composure, your own long abandoned, as he looms over your legs. Only now do his eyes lower from yours, lingering here and there as they lower further yet. You notice the quiet hesitation as he reaches out to touch your legs, and you realize this encounter holds a significance to him as well. You wonder if perhaps you’re the first human he’s ever captured, perhaps even seen, if you’re as rare to him as he is to you. While this is true, it goes beyond that. You’re the first female of any race he’s been close to like this before. In his matriarchal society, despite being a quite skilled warrior, he’s considered undesirable for being low born, and his broader than average build precludes him from reaching the high standard for finesse. His anxiety competes with his anticipation, but the latter handily wins.
Almost ceremoniously, he pries your legs apart, pinning them down under his weight as he leans in. He presses his nose against your inner thigh and you jump slightly, and the look on his face, that toothy grin, easily crosses the cultural barrier. He licks a stripe down towards your core, purposeful and deliberate, and shortly after he feels you start to relax, surrendering to his touch, be bites down. Your yelp reverberates off the walls, and it’s unsettling how unfazed he is by this. If it hadn’t fully sunk in before, it did now. No one is coming, you’re at his mercy, something his kind are not known for.
He looks up at you and his devilish smirk turns into a feigned look of despair as he mocks you, “Drow!”
He shakes his head and his smile is back as he dips his head back down, tearing away the already tattered remains of your bottoms with one hand as he pulls his mane over his shoulder with the other. You fall back flat and stare at the stalactite riddled ceiling. As you try to steady your own breathing you can hear his quicken almost into a pant. You sit together on the world’s edge for a few moments while he works up his courage.
An exploratory tongue darts out for a curious lick, followed by a long swipe up your slit, and then he’s lost control. His face pushes against you and his tongue is everywhere, ravenous but aimless. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, in fact he doesn’t know there’s something he should be looking for, but every time he passes against your clit your toes curl and you mewl. If he notices, he ignores it. Such things are not his goal, his only focus is the taste that is consuming him.
He continues to tease you in this way until you’ve all but forgotten the severity of your circumstances and your hips start instinctively bucking up towards him. He pins your legs down harder to stop you, but his chuckle betrays his amusement. He holds you there, watching as you whine and squirm, until you relent and you manage to steel yourself.
He lingers a few moments extra to savor your unspoken acquiescence before he begins again. Now, a finger joins his tongue, rubbing against your quivering hole. He gasps gently with you as he pushes it inside, and groans as he curls it against your walls. A few more feverish licks join in a frenzy, but this doesn’t last long, it can’t. What little patience he had has already eroded completely.
He rears back and quickly strips his cloak away, fumbling quite cutely to pull his pants down in a rush. There’s no dexterity in the way he positions himself above you, and although you can see the wild look in his eyes, he won’t meet your gaze, not now. The heat coming off of him is almost unbearable in this humid place, but you make no attempt to pull away. Even if escape were possible, you no longer seek it.
He tries to push into you a few times but grazes and misses your entrance, dragging his length against your pussy, acutely sensitive from his brutish teasing. His desperate growl sends a shiver down your spine as he catches just the edge again, and this time you angle your hips to aid him.
He sinks in deeply in one motion, caught off guard, and you both choke on the air between you. There is only a second of hesitation before he draws himself back and slams into you again, and then, as before, he is lost. There is no rhythm, no technique about the way he pumps into you, fast and deep with reckless abandon. One hand stays on your hips to keep you from running from the powerful strokes while the other reaches up and pulls your shirt up over your breasts. He watches them bounce in a trance, no attempt to hide the, perhaps embarrassing in a typical context, animalistic noises he’s making.
It doesn’t last long, it can’t. Your core is only starting to tighten with the promise of a climax when you feel him begin to swell inside you. When he pictured this, he imagined looking you deeply in the eyes as he finished, establishing total dominance as he bred the lowly likes of you. However, he couldn’t have predicted the sheer intensity of the real thing, and he resigns to burying his face in your chest as his hips jerk erratically, spilling himself with a pathetic whine against your plush skin.
He stays there as his muscles spasm in the aftershock, loosening his grip on you and instead settling to lay his full weight on you to hold you there with him. Finally, he looks back up into your eyes and contemplates his next moves with his regained clarity. He wonders how he’s going to keep you.
He’s not letting you go, he’s not losing you. He can’t, and he won’t.
It's been a while since I've written anything, sorry if this is a bit rough!! I've just gotten so much love for my previous drow story that I thought I'd make something to offer up as a thanks!
The first true cold came not with the wind, but with silence.
Y/n noticed it in the morning, when she went out for water and discovered the forest had gone mute. No thrushes, no magpie chatter, not even the familiar creak of the old alder that grew by the well and had spent the entire summer complaining about the wind like a sickly old woman. October had settled upon the earth without a sound, repainting the maples overnight to that deep russet found in dried blood, and carpeting the path to the stream with slick, glossy leaves.
The little one was sleeping. Y/n stood on the threshold with an empty pail and listened to this silence, and the silence was not empty — it was inhabited. Somewhere beyond the hazel thicket, beyond the palisade of trunks, beyond that frontier where daylight lost its confidence, someone was present whose attention she felt as distinctly as the warmth of the stove at her back.
Elowen.
She had not seen him for four days. But on the third morning a hare lay by the door — skinned, clean, tied with bast rope so neatly it might have been a gift rather than quarry. And the evening before, when Y/n was feeding the baby and gazing out the window at the darkening tree line, one of the shadows had stirred in a way that shadows do not stir. Swayed against the wind. And froze.
She had not looked away then. Simply nodded — toward that direction, toward that clot of darkness between two spruces — and the shadow, after a moment's hesitation, retreated deeper.
This had become their language — before words, before gestures. The nod meant: I see you. The stillness of the shadow in reply meant: I am here.
He began splitting firewood in the second week.
Y/n was woken by a sound she could not identify — dull, rhythmic, too even for a woodpecker's knock and too heavy for falling branches. She threw on her shawl, cracked the door open a hand's width, and saw him.
Elowen stood at the chopping block with his back to her. He wore no shirt — she had never seen him in human clothing, for that matter. His skin in the predawn twilight appeared the colour of wet slate, and across it, flowing from shoulder blades down to the small of his back, ran thin lines resembling the veins of an autumn leaf, except they were neither drawn nor scarred but something else entirely, something for which the human tongue likely had no word. The horns — two long, slightly backward-curving points, smooth and dark as polished elm — she examined for the first time, and was surprised at how organically they grew from his head, how naturally they fit the contours of his skull. He raised the axe — her axe, blunt and loose in the handle — and brought it down on the log in a single precise stroke, without windup, without effort, as though the wood itself parted before the blade out of courtesy.
He knew she was watching. Y/n was certain of it. But he did not turn around.
She closed the door, sat on the bench, and found herself smiling. Not at reason, not at logic — at something inside her that required no explanation.
By the time the little one woke and demanded attention, a woodpile stood against the wall — even, dense, stacked with inhuman symmetry — and Elowen was gone. Only the axe remained, driven into the block. Its blade sharpened.
He spoke to her for the first time because of the goat.
Y/n had a goat. More precisely, it was her mother's goat, brought here on the first day of exile — her mother had called it "you'll stay here for a while, dear," but they had both known the real word. The goat was old, bearded, possessed the temperament of a quarrelsome gossip, and had a habit of chewing anything left unattended. That morning she had pulled free of her tether and wandered into the forest, and Y/n, the baby tied to her chest with a cloth, went after her and found the goat by the stream — but not alone.
Elowen stood beside it, holding the animal by a scrap of rope. The goat was behaving meekly — unheard of. Chewing. Not thrashing. He regarded the goat with an expression of something like patient bewilderment — the way, perhaps, a scholar regards a creature described in no known treatise.
Y/n stopped three paces away. Up close — and this was the first time she had seen him up close in daylight — Elowen looked different from what she had expected. Not more frightening and not more beautiful, but — other. His features were slightly elongated, the cheekbones high and sharply defined, like a bird of prey's, and there was nothing soft in them, nothing rounded, nothing familiarly human. The eyes — pupilless, yellowish, the colour of birch resin in sunlight — looked at her directly and calmly, and in that calm there was neither warmth nor cold. There was — attention. Undivided, unclouded, precise as a blade's edge.
"Beast," he said. His voice was low, with a rasp, and human words came to him with visible difficulty, like a man speaking with a pebble behind his cheek. "Yours."
"Yes," said Y/n. "Thank you."
He held out the rope. Their fingers did not touch — he had seen to that. But she noticed how he held his hand in the air a moment longer before letting go, as though weighing the distance between them.
"Why?" he asked, nodding toward the goat.
"Milk," Y/n answered, and pointed to the baby. "For the little one. When it's older."
Elowen looked at the bundle at her chest. Y/n instinctively turned slightly — not hiding, but rather shielding — and immediately felt ashamed of the gesture. He had saved her life. He guarded her home. He split her firewood.
"Child," he said. Not a question — a statement. And he tilted his head slightly, and in that birdlike gesture there was something resembling respect.
Then he turned and left. Soundlessly, as always. The forest took him back, and three seconds later there remained no trace, no sound — only the goat yanking the rope and trying to eat Y/n's sleeve.
After that, he began to come.
Not every day and not at the same hour. Sometimes at dawn — she would hear him doing something outside: mending the fence, trimming the branches that scraped against the roof. Sometimes at dusk — then he would sit on the stump by the woodpile and remain motionless, and his silhouette in the half-light would have been nearly indistinguishable from a shadow, were it not for the horns and the faint glimmer of his eyes, amber, inhuman.
Y/n brought him food. He took it. Ate in silence, neatly, with unfamiliar gestures — broke bread into even pieces, never touched meat (she understood this quickly), but ate mushrooms and turnips willingly. Once she brought him a mug of warm brew made with honey and guelder rose berries, and he held it in his palms for a long time without drinking, and she thought he was warming his hands, though his skin — she already knew — was neither cold nor warm but some other temperature altogether, one that lay outside the human scale.
Their conversations were brief. He spoke little and with visible effort, selecting each human word the way one feels for a step in darkness. She learned not to fill the pauses, not to rush, not to ask twice. Between a question and his answer a full minute might pass, and that minute was not empty — he was thinking, and he thought differently from humans: without haste, without the restlessness of thought, sifting through possible replies with a jeweller's care.
"Why alone?" he asked one evening.
Y/n was sitting on the doorstep then, wrapped in her mother's shawl, cleaning mushrooms. The little one slept inside. The sky beyond the forest was copper, and the air smelled of damp and fallen leaves — the sharp, almost peppery scent of dying greenery.
"I'm not married," she said. "Among us, among humans… you are punished for that."
He was silent for a long time.
"For a child?"
"For a child without a husband."
Another pause. His face remained motionless — she had grown accustomed to this, to the absence of those small muscular movements that make a human face legible: no frown, no pursed lips, no furrowed brow. But something shifted — in the air around him, in the quality of the shadow he cast. The shadow grew slightly thicker. Slightly blacker.
"Strange," he said at last.
And Y/n laughed. Quietly, unexpectedly — and saw him lean back slightly, the way an animal recoils from an unfamiliar sound. Not fear — wariness.
"That's laughter," she explained. "It's a good thing. It means — I find it strange too."
He repeated softly, almost soundlessly, as though tasting the word:
"Laughter."
Her mother arrived on the last day of October.
Y/n spotted the cart from a distance — her father's bay mare, the one with the white stocking on the left foreleg, dragging it along the rutted track, and the cart was listing, and her father drove in silence, and something in his silence — in the way he sat, hunched, head pressed between his shoulders — made Y/n set aside her washing and walk out beyond the gate.
Her mother sat beside her father. She was not looking around. Her hands rested on her knees, clenched — the knuckles white.
Y/n understood that something terrible had happened before the cart even stopped. Understood it from her mother's eyes — red, swollen, the whites shot through with burst vessels — and from her father's voice as he jumped down from the cart, tied the horse, and said:
"Let's go inside."
Not "hello." Not "how are you." Not "where's the grandchild." Let's go inside.
They sat at the table. Her mother reached for the baby, and Y/n gave it to her — and watched as her mother pressed the grandchild to her chest and closed her eyes, and her chin trembled, and she clenched her teeth so as not to cry, and cried anyway — silently, with tears alone.
"Elder Burmil," her father began, and stopped. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. Stared at the wall. "Elder Burmil announced yesterday, in front of everyone."
Y/n waited.
"He has a relative. A second cousin. On his mother's side." Her father spoke slowly, forcing the words out the way one draws a splinter. "A man by the name of Todor. He…"
Her mother made a sound — short, strangled, as though someone had stepped on her throat. Y/n looked at her — she was shaking her head, clutching the grandchild, and tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the swaddling cloth.
"He wants to marry you," her father finished.
A pause. Y/n heard the firewood crackling in the stove. The goat's bell clanking behind the wall. The wind stirring the shutters.
"Todor," she repeated. "The one who…"
"Yes."
She knew Todor. Everyone knew Todor. Short, doughy, with red wet lips he licked incessantly — not from thirst but from some inner, morbid compulsion — so that his mouth always glistened and seemed turned inside out, obscene. When he spoke — and he spoke at length, in detail, savouring the sound of his own voice — every word was accompanied by a moist smacking, and the pauses he filled with heavy, wheezing breath, as though existence itself were a physical exertion. On his head — sparse reddish strands combed to one side, covering bald patches that were pink and shiny as scalded skin. He was past fifty. His first wife had died. The second had fled. The third had been taken back by her parents when the sores appeared on her body — those sores people spoke of only in whispers, the foul affliction passed through the marriage bed, the one that rots the flesh first and the mind after.
"Burmil said," her father continued, "that if you refuse, they will drive all of us — you, us, the child — out of the village. We'll lose the house. The land. Everything."
Her mother tried to speak — opened her mouth, drew in air — and instead of words only a long, shaking exhalation came out, and she wept again, this time not silently but with that terrible, guttural sob that comes when grief no longer fits inside the body.
"We don't want this," her father said. His voice was level, but the levelness cost him — Y/n could see the muscles working in his jaw, the vein taut at his temple. "We won't give you to him. But I don't know… I don't know what to do."
Y/n sat motionless. She looked at her own hands — hands that had washed, cooked, nursed a baby, chopped thin kindling, hauled water. Hands that a year ago had embraced a knight with beautiful words and empty promises. Hands that three weeks ago had held another's infant — tiny, dark-skinned, with barely visible bumps budding on its forehead.
"How much time did they give us?" she asked.
"A month. Perhaps a bit longer. Burmil said — before the first snow."
Her mother finally spoke — and her voice was hoarse, worn raw, like the voice of someone who has been screaming all night:
"My darling… my darling, I can't…"
She did not finish.
Her father placed a hand on her mother's shoulder. Y/n stood, walked around the table, and embraced them both — pressed herself against them, and her mother pressed against her, and they stood like that, the three of them, the four of them with the baby, and said nothing, and the silence was so dense one could drown in it.
When her parents left — her mother kept looking back until the very bend in the road, her father did not look back once, and Y/n knew it was because if he turned around he would not be able to leave — when the cart vanished behind the trees and the clatter of hooves dissolved into the whisper of rain, Y/n sat down on the doorstep and remained there until dark.
She did not cry. She simply sat.
And when darkness fell, the shadow between the spruces stirred.
"I heard," said Elowen.
He stood at the edge of the clearing — farther away than usual, as though he sensed that today the distance between them mattered more than closeness.
Y/n raised her head.
"All of it?"
"Enough."
Another pause. The rain picked up — fine, slanting, smelling of fallen leaves and mushrooms.
"Go inside," he said. "It's damp."
She obeyed. Not because he had commanded it, but because her legs were numb, and the little one inside had begun to stir, and because his voice — flat, stripped of all inflection, yet somehow warm, like a heated stone — told her: *I am here. I am not going anywhere. Go inside.*
November crept in slowly. The days grew shorter, and darkness arrived early — thick, damp, smelling of rot and moss. The forest had changed: it had shed its crimson finery and stood naked, and in that nakedness there was something indecent, like a person stripped of clothing.
Elowen began coming more often. Sometimes during the day, which was new: before, he had avoided open light, but now he sat on the porch and watched Y/n busying herself in the yard, and said nothing, and in his silence there was more substance than in many a conversation.
She told him things. Simply because — not because he asked, but because she needed to speak, and he knew how to listen in a way no one she had ever known could: without interrupting, without offering advice, without measuring her words against his own experience. She told him about the knight — briefly, without details, without a name. Said only: "He lied beautifully. And I knew he was lying. But I wanted the lie to turn out to be true. Even if only for one night."
Elowen listened. Was silent for a long time. Then asked:
"Why do you need lies?"
"We?"
"Humans."
Y/n considered this.
"Sometimes the truth is too heavy. And a lie is light."
He turned this over. Shook his head — slowly, with that birdlike precision that made his every gesture resemble a sentence.
"We have no lies," he said. "No word for it. No concept."
"None at all?"
"Why say what is not?"
And Y/n laughed again — and this time he did not recoil. He watched her — closely, intently, and in his still amber eyes something shifted. Not warmed — that would have been too simple, too human a word. But — shifted. As though he had seen something in her he had not noticed before. Or had noticed, but had not known where to place.
The touching began with the little one.
One evening the baby began to cry and could not be consoled — not the breast, not rocking, not a quiet lullaby, not pacing the room. Y/n swayed with the child in her arms, and her arms were going numb, and the exhaustion was such that she could no longer tell whether the baby was crying or she was dreaming it.
Elowen entered the house.
For the first time. Before, he had always remained outside — beyond the threshold, on the porch, by the woodpile. He had never come in, and Y/n had never invited him, and both of them had observed this boundary without discussing it.
But he entered. Ducked his head — the ceiling was low — and stood in the doorway, and his presence altered the room: the shadows in the corners deepened, and the candle on the table flickered, and for a moment Y/n caught a scent — not his scent, but the scent of where he came from: pine needles, stone, something subterranean, mineral, like water from a deep well.
He reached out his hand. Not toward the baby — toward her. Touched her elbow. His fingers were long, dry, and his skin — she felt this acutely, as though every nerve in her body had suddenly awakened — his skin was neither cold nor warm but vibrating, like the trunk of a tree through which sap is rising.
The little one fell silent.
Did not fall asleep — simply stopped crying. Opened its eyes and looked upward, to where two amber points glimmered in the half-dark, and wrinkled its nose, and sneezed, and went quiet.
"How did you do that?" Y/n whispered.
"I did nothing." He withdrew his hand. "Children sense stillness. I am stillness."
He said this without boasting, without metaphor. As fact. The way he might say: "I am tall" or "I have horns."
Y/n looked up at him — from below, because he stood a head taller even when stooping — and in that look there was something she herself could not name. Not gratitude. Not attachment. Not desire — at least, not the desire she had felt for the knight, that scorching, blinding, senseless thing. This was different. This was — recognition. As though all her life she had heard a distant sound and could not understand what it was, and suddenly understood.
He left.
And she stood with the sleeping child in her arms and felt on her elbow the ghost of a touch — warm. No. Vibrating.
Todor arrived in the middle of November.
Y/n was making porridge when she heard the crunch of wheels and an alien, unfamiliar breathing — before she even saw him. Heavy, whistling, with a wheeze on the inhale and a rattle on the exhale, like a broken-winded horse.
He walked into the yard without invitation. Stopped. Looked around — proprietorially, appraisingly, the way one surveys purchased livestock.
"So this is where you are," he said, and every syllable was accompanied by that same smacking, wet, soft, the kind that made you want to wash out your ears. "Not bad. Not ba-ad. The house is small, but we're not picky, are we?"
He laughed. The laugh sounded like water gurgling in a clogged pipe.
Y/n came out onto the porch. Stood straight, arms at her sides.
Todor climbed the bottom step, and Y/n caught his smell — sour, stale, like a rag left forgotten in a corner. He licked his lips — a long, unhurried motion, his tongue tracing first the lower, then the upper — and looked at her, and in his look there was something like appetite.
"Well, aren't you pretty," he said. "Burmil didn't lie. Pretty. A bit rough around the edges, but we'll fix that." He giggled and smacked his lips. "The main thing is — young. Young is good. That's very, very good."
He took another step.
"And where's the little one? Show me the little one. Come now, don't hide it. I love children. Not my own, mind you, never managed my own, but — other people's, I love them. We'll feed it. Raise it. It'll be a help to me in my old age." He licked his lips again, and a streak of saliva remained on his lower lip, glistening in the dull light. "And maybe we'll make one of our own, eh? You're a fertile one, I can see that."
Y/n said nothing. Stood and looked at him — at the bald patches, pink as scalded skin, at the red-rimmed eyelids, at the short thick fingers scratching his belly — and wanted to close the door and never open it again.
"Well, all right," said Todor, stepping back. "I won't rush you. I'm a patient man." He smacked his lips and winked. "I'll come back in three days. With the cart. Pack your things, don't take too much — I've got everything at home. Everything you need. You'll live at my place, maybe we'll sell this house later."
He turned, heaved himself heavily into his cart, and urged the horse forward, and Y/n stood watching him go, feeling something like a greasy film on her skin, though he had not touched her.
Y/n went inside, bolted the door, and sat on the floor with her back against the wall, and remained there until dark.
He came that same night.
Not from outside — within. Entered as he had that time when the baby cried: ducking his head, soundlessly, and the shadows in the room leaned toward him the way plants lean toward light, only in reverse — toward darkness, toward stillness, toward that absolute quiet he carried with him.
Y/n sat at the table. The candle was guttering.
"I heard," he said.
"I know."
A pause. He stood three paces from her and did not move, and his face was as still as ever, but the shadow he cast behaved strangely — it was too black, too dense, and it stirred though he stood motionless, and Y/n understood: he was feeling something. Something for which his language might have a word, or might not.
"You will not go," he said. Not a request. Not a suggestion. A statement — the way one states facts.
"I have nowhere else," she answered.
Another pause. Long. The candle hissed, guttering low.
Elowen took a step forward. Then another. Stopped so close that she could see the texture of his skin — tiny, nearly invisible scales, like a serpent's, only soft — and those lines on his neck and collarbones, alive, pulsing.
He lowered himself to one knee. Not the way humans do it — not in a gesture of worship or supplication. But so that she could see his eyes, honest, concealing no falsehood.
Then he extended his hand — palm upward — and froze.
Y/n looked at his palm. It was empty.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Among us…" He fell silent. Began again. The words came harder than usual — not because he did not know them, but because he was trying to translate something for which no translation existed. "When one of ours wishes to share their shadow with another… they show their hand. Empty. It means — there is nothing in the hand. No weapon. No cunning. Everything I have… is not here."
With his free hand he touched his own chest — on the left, where humans keep what they consider the seat of feeling.
"Here."
The shadow on the floor stirred. Separated from him — slowly, viscously — and reached toward Y/n. Not threatening. Not grasping. It reached the way one extends a palm. Like his hand — open, empty, defenceless. The shadow touched Y/n's shadow, cast by the candle, and where they met, the darkness grew softer, warmer, denser — and Y/n felt this not with her eyes but with her skin, and her bones, and that place behind her ribs for which she, too, could find no name.
It was unlike anything she had known. Not like the knight's words — beautiful, hollow, melted by morning. Not like a mother's love — warm, familiar, native. It was — like entering a dark room and discovering that the darkness is not hostile. That it is home.
"I do not know your words for this," said Elowen. "But my shadow recognised you. Long ago. When you held my child."
Y/n raised her hand and placed her palm on his.
His fingers — long, dry, vibrating — closed.
She did not say yes. She said nothing. But he inclined his head — that same birdlike gesture — and closed his eyes, and for the first time in all the time she had known him, his face changed. Not a smile — nothing of the sort. Something internal, subcutaneous, like light passing through alabaster. The shadows around him settled. Became even. Calm.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Home."
She packed in a day. There was not much — baby's swaddling cloths, a shawl, a knife, a fire steel, a small wooden horse her father had carved for his grandchild. She led the goat to the nearest farmstead and left it with a kind old woman who asked no questions.
She wrote a message to her parents on a scrap of canvas in charcoal — wrote slowly, carefully, choosing her words the way Elowen chose human phrases:
"I am leaving. Do not search for me. I am in no danger. I have found a place where we will not be harmed. I will come to see you. I promise. Yours."
She rolled it, sealed it with wax, and entrusted it to travellers who happened to be passing by. For warm clothing and food, they agreed at once.
On the morning of the third day — the day Todor had promised to return — Y/n stood on the threshold with the baby in her arms and a bundle on her back. The house was tidy. The stove was cold. The door was not locked.
Elowen waited at the edge of the clearing. Beside him — she saw this and stopped — stood two others. Tall, dark-skinned, with horns and amber eyes, resembling him and not resembling him, the way trees of the same species resemble one another but differ in age. Elders — she understood this not from their appearance but from the way the air around them was motionless, as though even the wind did not dare touch them.
One of them — older, with long horns covered in patterns resembling lichen — looked at her. The gaze was long and attentive, and in it there was no warmth, but neither was there threat. There was — weighing. Assessment. Decision.
He nodded.
Elowen held out his hand to her.
Y/n took a step. Looked back — once, the last time — at the little house that had been her prison and her refuge, at the woodpile stacked by hands not her own, at the soot stain above the chimney, at the closed shutters. All of it was already the past. All of it was already the story she would someday tell her child — about how their mother had lived at the edge of the forest, and the forest had come for her.
She placed her palm in his.
The forest parted. A path that had not existed before laid itself out before them — narrow, carpeted with moss, leading into that part of the deep wood where daylight did not reach. But the darkness there was not hostile; it was lived-in, like the darkness of a room where you know every corner. From the depths came the scent of pine needles, stone, and clean underground water.
Y/n stepped onto the path. The baby slept.
Todor pulled up to the house past midday. Tied his horse. Climbed the porch steps, grunting. Pushed the door.
Empty.
The stove cold. The table clean. No belongings, no traces, no note. Only on the windowsill — a handful of rowan berries, scattered as though dropped by accident. He stood there, licked his lips, looked around. Stood a while longer. Understood nothing.
Swore. Climbed into his cart. Left.
In the village Burmil shouted at Y/n's father until he was hoarse — where is the girl, where have you hidden her, we'll find her, we'll drive you out, we'll ruin you. Her father stood in silence, looking off to the side, and his face was like clay — grey, immobile, impenetrable.
The crowd gathered as it always did — to listen, to yawn, to shake their heads. But when Burmil declared that the family must be driven out, someone in the back rows said, not loudly, but clearly:
"Enough."
And someone else:
"Leave them be."
And another. And another.
The voices gathered force — not through shouting, but through number — and Burmil, looking around, saw that the crowd was regarding him differently from before. Not with fear. Not with submission. With that heavy, immovable stubbornness that comes over people when they have finally grown tired of being afraid.
He spat. Waved his hand. Left.
Y/n's mother sat on the bench, holding the scrap of canvas with its charcoal letters, and read it again and again: "I will come to see you. I promise."
She believed.
Far from the village, far from roads and human voices, in that part of the forest where the trees were older than any human lineage, the path led to a cleft in the rock, and the cleft led to a light that was not sunlight but something else — greenish, steady, like light in the depths of water. Y/n walked behind Elowen and held his hand, and his hand vibrated, and the vibration passed into her, and she was not afraid.
The baby woke. Looked up. Reached a small palm toward the shimmering shadows on the stone vaults and laughed.
Y/n drew a breath — deep, filling her lungs — of air that smelled unlike any air she had ever breathed: moss, minerals, tree resin, and something else for which she had no name and for which, perhaps, one would need to live here an entire lifetime to find the word.
