I want a story of a man deceived into marrying a troll (yes, I did just read someone's post about Merlin but moving on), but he can only see/feel/perceive her glamour. Eventually, finally, the enchantment is broken.
"You must be so relieved," one friend said, shoving a pint into his hands. "I can't believe it did that to you." The friend emphasized 'it' as if making a point; as if his wife was no longer a person.
"When we get back," another friend said, "we'll help you kill it."
He choked on his drink and swiped his hand across his lips. "Thanks," he said, knowing they expected him to say something and he should be grateful. Because that's what you did with trolls: kill them before they killed you. Humans were a delicacy to trolls. Everyone knew that.
His friends babbled plots and plans, but their words were just noise. In the corner of the room, a poor pianist struggled to be heard over the din.
He'd met Dythe in a bar like this one. She'd been one of the musicians: a harpist. Her hands reached chords few others could manage. It had been love at first sight, though, now he supposed, it hadn't been.
She hadn't wanted him to go on this hunting trip. Perhaps she'd known what his friends had schemed as soon as he'd mentioned where they'd be going. The falls removed enchantments.
His friends were jubilant that he was "back to normal" but he just felt...broken.
As the festivities quieted, he snuck out to the stables and saddled his horse. They were only a few hours from home. He needed to see her, to see the truth she'd denied him. Why had she enchanted him? Had everything been nothing more than lie after lie?
He rode hard, arriving as the morning dawned. Dythe was in their bedroom staring at a bag of clothing. He froze in fear: she was packing.
Unable to move, he watched her. Her skin was the gray-green of mossy stones. Her hair and lips were obsidian. Amethyst tusks curled over her lips. She was taller and stranger, but he still knew her.
He recognized how she twisted her hair around her fist in worry and the stuttering beat she tapped into her side.
"Dythe," he said, finally.
Her head snapped up, her cat-yellow eyes wide with fear. "You're early. I was leaving."
"No." He never wanted her to look at him with such fear again.
"Do you mean to kill me, then?"
"No." He stepped into the dim room.
Dythe glanced at the door behind him and the window near her.
"No," he said again. "Please. You're my wife." He wished he had better words, prettier words, but Dythe was the songwriter, not he.
She gaped at him. "But, you went to the falls."
"I did." He had. His friends had forced him under the rushing water. They'd rejoiced at breaking Dythe's enchantments. They'd expected him to be disgusted at how he had lain with and loved a troll. They'd thought his love to be just another enchantment to break and wash away.
But he loved her still.
Perhaps she had entranced him at first, made him love and wed her, but no magic had made her toss her pen at him when he'd teased her with terrible rhymes for a song. No magic had forced her to help rebuild their barn when a fire had taken it. No magic had forced them to rest against each other on a late summer night and watch the stars together in silence.
Maybe it had been a trick once, but--
"I love you."
Tears filled Dythe's eyes, and she collapsed to the floor. He was at her side in an eyeblink.
"I'm sorry I lied," she said, her tears soaking his shirt. Her shoulders were broader than he remembered, but her warmth had not changed.
"I love you," he repeated. He couldn't tell her it was all right, not yet. Some part of him did sting at her lies, but that wasn't worth losing her. "We'll figure it out," he promised.
His friends wouldn't understand. They might hurt her still. Or force them to leave. Or--he didn't want to conjure more possibilities.
"I love you, too," she said, her tears slowing. "I never wanted to leave."
A knot in his chest, one that had tied itself tight the moment he'd fallen under the falls, eased. He hadn't lost her. She was different, but she was still Dythe, still his wife.
"Come on," he said, helping her stand. "I'm awake at sun-up for once. I can finally help you make bread."
She laughed, a richer and deeper bell than the soft shimmer he remembered. "So you can."
He reached up--she was taller than him now, though not by much--and wiped away her tears. Then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. The teeth were a new and interesting sensation, but one he thought he could come to crave.
"No distractions," Dythe chided, but she stuttered over the words, awe shining in her gaze. Had she not believed him when he said he still loved her? Had she thought her form would disgust him despite that love?
He pulled her down into another deeper kiss, and then another. "On second thought, who needs bread?"
She laughed. "And what do you suggest instead?"
He stepped back, smoothing his hands over her shoulders down to her hands. Her eyes glowed in the morning light. He realized, with growing excitement, that he got to learn her body all over again.
He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "I've not seen you for over a week. I rode all night to get here."
"Your poor horse."
"No, poor me," he countered, tugging her toward their bed, stopping only when his legs hit the mattress. "Let me show you how much I missed you?"
A brilliant, helpless, loving smile dawned over Dythe's lips. "Who needs bread indeed?"
