Amaranthyne
gif by belladoes dividers by solitary-serendipity
viktorxfem!reader
Note: I’ve been chipping away at it since October and had a lot of ideas for how I wanted to end it. But I’m still not sure if I will, so I gathered everything and gave it a kind-of-but-also-not ending. If I don’t, please enjoy it as a one-shot with an open end.
If there is a second part, I don’t know when it’ll come out. It might be smutty. It might not. I’m not sure. I got an idea how I want it to end but...yeah. Moje růže = my rose.
Tags: Fairy-tale/horror vibe. Many quotes from different books and few songs, I hope you can spot them. There is little prince references ofc. Kidnapped by fae prince (kind of), it's not smutty but it may be if I ever continue?
Word Count: 7,8k
“You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
You came.
Stiff limbs pumped blood. It had been so long. He had to conserve his energy, his magic. He had to impress you when you came—when the day of the ceremony arrived. It would be better when you wed. You would fix it.
Another crack. Bark peeled off like bread crust. Keys clanked inside the lock. The plums rotted all around his tree in heaps. He gave so many—so many that the branch broke, and he...
He peeled his wings off. They left an indent in the soft meat of the tree inside, like a fossil. Pain had been his only steady companion, but this was different. It rippled through him, folding him over.
He fell forward, landing on his forearms. He looked down at his body. The leg... the branch. He had given so many fruits, and no one came.
But you are here, finally.
He won’t be lonely. His court won’t laugh and scurry away from him when his moods turn bitter.
He will have you.
You promised.
When you were a little kid, you used to sit in the back seat of your grandparents’ car, listening to the rain pattering on the windows. The wheels would run over tiny stones on the gravel road, and the whole thing would jump around while Enya played on the radio. You loved that bit—when their black cat climbed onto the front, looking out, ready to hunt.
Sometimes you would arrive in the evening, with only the reflectors guiding you forward to the little cottage, passing dark woods surrounding the place in the middle of the fields. It would spook you, passing an old abandoned house crowned by an apple tree, so you would try to sleep through it. Sometimes you would arrive when the sun was still up, and the wind moved golden wheat around in waves. It looked like a sea—and sounded like one too.
Shhhhhhh.
Just that and nothing more.
Red poppies and blue cornflowers bowing their heads your way. Welcome home, you imagined them saying. The queen has come.
Yes. Yes. They would whisper between each other and pass it onwards, as you imagined the main gate opening up by itself. It never did, of course—it was your grandma getting out of the car and letting your grandpa drive inside.
You would pass a small pond where you caught frogs, and a common lilac smelling sweet and heavy as you entered. The driveway was always overgrown, full of clovers and small daisies pinking at the tips. The doors would release with a click—your personal prison opened. And you would push the heavy doors, let the black cat go first—your scout, your knight—jumping forward before you stepped onto dew-covered grass. It was tall, so tall, wetting your thighs as you got out.
Wooden green doors, with a heart you carved. A conker tree on the left—your defense tower—dropping heavy, prickly nuts on intruders. On the right, a well, where you would scream your name and wait for it to bounce back and climb your way. A small pleasure. But those days were filled with them. A true queen of your own little world.
Your grandpa would rush to the garage to hide the moss-green Volvo inside. A dragon in its cave, protecting the treasure—little bolts and pieces of tree sap curled into small honey-colored pearls. If the car was asleep, you were allowed to go and have your pick. They bled eagerly from freshly cut wood. It smelled divine.
Your grandma would open up the musky-smelling cottage, open the wooden blinds on the windows to let the light in and the souls of whatever died inside during winter out. She would call you only after the old stove in the kitchen was fired up, asking if you wanted tea and a snack.
You would shout, “Later!” and make your rounds around the kingdom.
Each year taller, each year shrinking to fewer and fewer steps on the map. Behind the house, the roses slept—many roses planted by many hands over the years. You would crouch under the kitchen window so as not to be spotted and stuck inside. Then, around the corner, next to the well, stood an old plum tree that flowered in clusters and bore so much sweet fruit the branches bowed as though in prayer to the goddess of spring. There was so much it fed you through the whole summer—or that’s what it felt like—stuffing your belly full, juice slipping through your fingers.
It had perfect branches to climb—wide and sturdy, like a ladder—so you could reach the plums at the very top and haul them down into baskets. There was a swing that faced the hill, forest, and sunsets, creaking with each swing you took. There was a firepit where you cooked potatoes in tin foil till they were hot and charcoaled.
There was a hole in the fence, next to the swing, covered by a flat stone. Once, you saved a small mouse from the clutches of the cat’s maw. It was small and scrawny, with a broken tail; it was barely breathing as you got to it. Its tiny beady eyes looked at you, asking if you were going to be the one to steal its life. You laid it in the fence hole, giving it a choice. A small piece of cheese, a tumbler filled with water, and a flower to apologize for your knight. He behaved out of his line. Please forgive me, small one.
You left for a moment—just to lock the cat so the mouse could escape. But when you came back, it was gone, cheese and flower gone with it. A wind breeze might have taken it, sure. But to you, you had just made an ally. Tamed a creature of your court.
Maybe if you’d read the book at the bottom of your backpack, you would remember that you become forever responsible for what you have tamed.
Silence was what you were looking for.
But the clock on the dresser didn’t grant you your wish.
Tik tok. Tik tik (??) Tok ?
The clock was broken.
You wanted silence, yes—but what you needed was rest. A refuge, a place devoid of new.
A place where you could sink into your memories like a soft mattress and, once more, feel like a kid.
Somewhere without deadlines, without the stresses of adulthood that just
keep
piling
up.
The summer cottage was tucked away in the middle of flowering potato and wheat fields. It stood in a sea of gold, framed by a thick wall of trees from the nearby forest. A perfect square. Perfect.
You were allowed to stay, as long as you tended to the garden and cleaned up the house. A fair trade, really. You liked those. Tit for tat. Eye for an eye. Clear rules of what you give and what you receive.
Your grandparents couldn’t visit every year anymore, and the house had been left overgrown with moss. It was dusty, muddy, and run by field mice. They, too, kept you awake. But the first night was always like this—little feet in the attic doing their rounds, the clock once working, now silent, and an owl outside hooting. It all made a rhythm that eventually lulled you to sleep.
Although this time, after years of living in the big city, the sounds of the village overwhelmed you.
The lack of chaos—the silence—sat heavy on your chest and didn’t let you breathe.
You turned to the other side. A deer pelt hung on the wall, coarser than it looked. You ran your hand over it, mindlessly. Looking out the windows wouldn’t help—you covered those at night with heavy wooden shutters, because the nights were pits of endless black. There was nothing to look at, unless you wanted it to peek back.
You sat up, slipped your feet into fur-lined slippers, and headed to the kitchen.
A floorboard in the corridor always creaked when you stepped on it.
An exit to your right.
Front was the tiny bathroom without warm water.
Left was the kitchen—but down was the basement. Ladder-deep, dry but webbed, filled to the brim with pickled fruits, vegetables, and things that had long lost any color or shape.
Hidden in the floor—but visible—a rectangle.
You always walked around it. Avoided the cracks.
Tea was easy.
Kettle clicked.
Water, bag, honey.
Wait. Wait, wait—and wait.
There was a small flower in the middle of the kitchen table.
White petals, pink at the tips.
A yellow, soft center.
A daisy.
Only—you didn’t put it there.
_
It was the first “gift” you found. At night it felt spooky, but during the day, when the air was hot and comforting, you thought nothing of it. It was an old cottage — grass, flowers, and stones could easily get inside.
The second one was on top of your old swing. Perfectly in the middle. A silly thing — a round shape with a tiny hole inside. Kids sometimes broke into the house when no one was around, threw rocks here and there, got drunk, climbed the roof. It wasn’t that strange.
The third was in the sleigh. An ugly red thing, large, and so offensively Christmassy you wanted to scream. It sat in the middle of the old firepit, taken after someone was cleaning their garage. It had been used for kolęda ages ago, and a few years back your granny took it to use as a decoration. Maybe to set flowerpots inside. But no one ever did anything with it, and now it looked like Santa had made a stop in their garden and forgot where he parked.
This time it was a tiny gold key. Did someone forget it? It looked different from the set you kept in your pocket. The hook held many keys — old and browned, wide-eyed, some still holding wax from the St. Andrew’s fortune-telling you once did with your friend as a kid.
That key was small. Like a dollhouse key. Gold, but not the kind of gold that looked plastic. It had tiny engravings on the top that resembled butterfly wings.
You thought it was pretty.
So you did something very stupid.
You took it.
You were pushing a wheelbarrow with tools you found in the shed toward the orchard. Yesterday, you only tackled the long grass in front of the house, cleaned the stones, and cut it nice and short. It still smelled fresh. The little pond would have to wait — the water had long stilled, so the pump probably needed fixing. The flowerbeds needed weeding, hammocks had to be set between four tall pine trees and the hazelnut bushes. Your old sandbox had long turned into yet another rose bush.
Your mental to-do list only grew, but it was what you needed — dirt under your fingernails, bruised knees, and grass cuts bleeding green and red.
A small stone rolled under the wheel, and the wheelbarrow lost its balance. It flung to the right, but you managed to catch it just in time, barely before it tipped. It was a flimsy old thing already, but you’d stuffed it heavy. You had no need to swear.
If you were only a tired body, you would have slept. But your head was heavy — tired in a way that couldn’t be slept through. It lodged itself in your skull, somewhere at the back, and made your reactions dull, slow, tinted. The embers inside were flickering, but there was no more fire.
Only removing the stone would help. And who would have thought — it wasn’t a stone, but a hazelnut. Still green, but hard enough to cause a ruckus. It was always the smallest things, huh?
You tossed it behind the fence, putting your heart into it. Let it fly.
Before the orchard, you stopped. There was no way to push the wheelbarrow through the grass, but no way to cut it with the lawnmower either. You had to use the scythe. It would take a while — but cleaning up all the rotten apples would take even longer.
The orchard was always your favorite. The walnut tree was the first to greet you — perfect for climbing, always swaying with the wind when you got high enough, letting you feel like you were flying. Sunflowers, now dried up, grew along the fence. A little patch of veggies lay barren in the corner. On the other side — apple trees, pears, three big bulging cherries. Their trunks were taken by some sort of disease that made them bubble and twist, but it never stopped them from flowering, so nothing was ever done about it.
The scythe took your whole body to work properly. You had to move with it, guide it as if it were your own limb. A rhythm could be found there — and it was.
Upper body twisting. Hips steady and wide. A machine, a tool. Your arm and scythe had to become one.
It was hypnotic.
Relaxing, even.
And it lulled you for hours.
_
Have you ever seen a fairy?
Probably not.
There was a whistling sound between the trees and leaves and grass — all of it blocking the air from pushing through the stalks. The tall grass reached your thighs, dry in patches but mostly fresh. Still bleeding when cut. You could pluck one and whistle back at the wind if you wished to — and you were doing just that, seeing if you could form a reply.
Have you ever seen a butterfly?
Plenty, I’m guessing.
There were many moths here at night, gathering around an old dirty lamp with metal ribs. Butterflies too, of course, but they preferred to fly when the wind was low and the sun was kind. The small yellow ones, or the white ones with little dots like eyeballs.
Other colors were rare: blue, green, black. So when you saw a flicker of orange, you knew you were in for a treat.
Between the tall grass and the rotting fruit there was a molehill. The soft dirt made a bed perfect for resting…and something was resting there.
But what was it?
The sweet, heavy smell of browning apples is something you will forever associate with that moment. The dirt was damp with blood — bright like freshly smashed raspberries — and the orange too. The wings, the size of your hand, one ripped like thin tissue paper. The small limbs, doll-like but missing joints. They looked easy to snap. He looked easy to snap. He... was snapped.
His right leg was broken in a way you wouldn’t know how to fix, unless he were made of sticks and held together by glue. His chest rose and fell slowly, heavy eyes lifting with great effort. And he — the little human with wings, the man, the creature of fairytales — raised his arm, his hand reaching toward the sun, toward you.
For something so small to trust something so big in its last moments... it must have been terrifying.
A beautiful creature you’d just discovered existing — dying?
You dropped to your knees, heart tightening. Tilting your sun hat to give him shade, to give him dignity in death. His face was pale — so very pale — but flushed with sunburn. He must have been lying here for a while, bleeding, crisping, hurting. His hand trembled. His breath hitched.
Your index finger extended and you… touched.
He closed his eyes.
Was he dying?
No — he couldn’t be.
A single tear made its way down his cheek, and he opened them again. Gold wasn’t right. Amber was. His pupils dilated as your shadow swallowed him up.
He moved his lips, but you couldn’t hear. You leaned closer. Then closer still — huffs of your breath moving his brown hair from his forehead. His hand brushed your bottom lip now. It was soft — a light tap, like a spider’s leg. So delicate.
“Moje růže, you came.”
How do you save someone so small?
He fit in your cupped hands, and you ran home, unsure what to do next.
Kitchen table. Half-eaten buttered bread.
Your dirty plate from breakfast sat right next to him, but there was no time. The first-aid kit under the sink was old and dusty, but still full enough. Your hands were trembling as you cleaned his wounds and wrapped them up in band-aids. He was too small for real bandages. Too fragile to keep moving around — but you had to.
A toothpick to support his leg. A careful check of his wings. It felt more like taxidermy than saving.
Panic fizzed in your gut like sparkling water. But there was no time. Eyes wide as saucers, you moved through the room as if wading through tar. You did what you could, pacing back and forth, biting your nails. What now? Your brain felt wrung dry. White. Stain-free. Nothing of substance left to conjure an answer.
He was breathing. His eyes were closed.
Was he still going to die?
You lifted him again, so carefully — so very careful not to hurt. You never liked hurting anything. Not smaller. Not bigger.
You carried him back to the living room where you slept. The bed was unmade, because what for? You laid him on your pillow and waited. His chest lifted and fell, slow but steady, and you counted. Way faster than yours — like a small animal’s.
You dared to touch his hair with one finger, brushing it off his face.
You felt guilty for thinking how beautiful he was. He was there in need of your help, not your judgment. But he was beautiful — high cheekbones, sculpted face, his ears tapering upward, half-hidden in a mess of wavy brown hair. Two moles on his face, and more scattered across the skin visible to your eye.
You placed your head next to him, your hand flat on the pillow by your cheek, and watched. You watched for so long you must have fallen asleep — because when you opened your eyes, he was gone.
There was no dent where he had lain.
Just a blot of burgundy blooming on the pillowcase patterned with little leaves.
A small, bloodied flower.
It was dark. The windows were uncovered, two pitch-black rectangles opening up like portals on both sides of the room. Head heavy, you pushed your hand into the soft feather pillow, the sound crinkling like a step in fresh snow. Only that — and the absolute silence outside.
The nothingness.
Your breaths, shallow. Still half-asleep, yet you weren’t. You sat up, looking. Listening.
He was nowhere to be found. Not on the floor. Not by the empty fireplace.
Something flickered at the edge of your sight — like a sparkler.
You turned, but nothing was there.
A twinkling sound. A step. You moved closer to the window. The floorboard creaked under your foot, and you found yourself standing in front of it. The chestnut tree outside bore fruits still small and unprickly — green balls, nothing ready yet.
“Come outside.”
A voice said. But should you listen to a voice without a face?
No.
But the voice was enchanted. Of course it was. A pull came from somewhere deep within you, and like a puppet on strings, you went to the door.
“Come to me.”
So soft. So sweet.
You never stepped outside when it was dark, because it wasn’t just dark — it was absence. A space devoid of color. The lights didn’t work on this side of the house. Not yet.
And the pull led you through the dark, past the well, as your breath hitched — then behind it, to the plum tree.
A faint glow covered it. Dust, shimmering like starlight, clung to branches, leaves, fruit. It floated, slow, as if you were underwater.
And then — movement.
A large moth fluttering its wings on a branch.
A few steps closer, and you saw him.
He stood on the branch, facing you. Not bigger than your head, smiling. Standing tall and alive, leaning on a twig to support his wrapped leg.
“There you are,” he cooed, as if you were the one lost.
As if he were not a tiny man on your grandfather’s plum tree, but your friend. Your… something.
He wasn’t yours. So you asked, your voice rough with sleep:
“Who are you?”
“Ah—” He extended his hand toward you, and you leaned in.
“—but you know me already, moje růže.”
“I’m afraid I don’t… remember meeting you before.” You sucked in air as his fingers grazed your cheek.
“Well, did you miss me?”
“You… how can I miss someone I’ve never met?”
“Memory sometimes makes merciful deletions.” He knocked on your forehead, as if it were a door. “But it’s there, if you dig deep enough.” Then he placed the same hand over his heart, tapping once with his finger.
“I was not granted such mercy.”
His wings fluttered, scattering more of that shimmering dust around — and onto you.
“I will collect you in the morning, my love. Be ready. We’ve much to prepare before the ceremony.”
Your eyes grew heavy. So, so heavy.
“What… ceremony?”
He smiled — not soft or sad as before, but a smirk. For a split second, it made his eyes look cruel.
“Our wedding, of course.”
And that was the last thing you heard before he blew the dust straight into your eyes,
and you saw nothing more.
Sometimes, days felt like they would never end. The sun took its time touring the sky, and Viktor watched the moon rise in the puddles after the rain subsided. He hid behind the tall leaves of his tree and ate one whole cherry, just like he used to when he was a kid. It was messy, but it made him think of you.
Days melted into a watercolor blur, his memories drifting in slow circles, as he stayed by the pond. His court knew better than to bother him then, because he took extra time to breathe— not to summon the rain again. It was bad for the roses.
You were both young when you met. After that day, he never left your side. He couldn’t. He wanted to learn everything about you. He was to be yours after all. You liked plums, so he made them bloom so heavily that the branches bowed under their weight. You climbed the trees, and he sent the wind to sway you gently until you giggled. You were afraid of the dark, so he asked the fireflies to light your window. The mice laughed. The hedgehog told him it was a waste of time—that you couldn’t even see him then. But it is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important. He knew you would love him too, if only he tried.
Each year, he waited for summer. For a few short weeks, when cornflowers scattered across the nearby fields, he would have you again. He would measure how your limbs had grown as his own bones twisted. He would watch you run through the garden while his flight faltered. But you had promised to have him, and he kept that promise close when the days felt sour. Through fall and winter he endured—and when spring returned, hope swelled in him once more.
But then you… stopped.
He chose to forgive you, because he knew he loved you, and he trusted his knowledge. His head told him you would come back. And even though fairies don’t live long, he vowed to hold you in his heart until he could hold you in his arms.
It’s easier this way. To just wake up in your bed and say it was only a dream.
But not all mornings bring a new day.
Bright.
It was so bright inside the room, and you smelled… flowers. Roses?
There was a bouquet of field flowers on the table. Petals on your pillow, on your bedsheets—on you.
Your head was adorned with a sweet lilac crown, and on your finger there was that daisy again. You lifted your hand, letting the morning sun pass through your fingers. Dust motes spun and danced around where the daisy’s stem twisted into a ring.
“Good morning.”
He sat on the windowsill, head resting on his hand, looking at you like you hung the moon.
You blinked a few times. Looked at your hand, then at him.
He was still there. That tiny man, and he… he—
“What did you mean, our wedding?”
Your voice betrayed you; you cleared your throat. Coughed.
Something was stuck inside.
You coughed again. He just sat there and smiled.
Your fist hit your chest to get the thing out, and then—
a single red petal fell from your mouth. Wet. Mangled. Flesh-red.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, while you stared at what you’d just coughed up.
What?
He stood, supporting himself on the wall. His leg was still wrapped, but the bandage had been changed to something finer. He extended his hand.
“Come.”
Whether it was the surreal nature of the situation or the shock of it, you went.
Barefoot on the cold wooden floor, forgetting your slippers. The floor creaked. The light made your eyes hurt.
Pulled forward, you stepped over the rectangle that hid the basement.
He led you to the kitchen, where sounds came from—
clanking, metal on metal, chopping, shuffling, and the pitter-patter of many tiny feet.
Flowers adorned the corridor. Garlands of baby’s breath and periwinkle, forget-me-nots, tiny wild strawberries hanging from braided branches. And that powder—
the same from your dream. It was here too. With every step, it swirled up and around you like dry snow.
When you stepped into the kitchen, it felt like your axis flipped upside down. The world grew brighter—too bright—culminating somewhere behind your eyes, and suddenly you were only observing, not in your body. You felt hidden behind yourself.
The pitter-patter belonged to tiny pink feet—so many of them—scurrying through the kitchen with their preparations. Countless small, beady eyes and twitching noses, whiskers, and round ears turned toward you in alarm.
Mice.
They stood on their hind legs, hands busy chopping, stirring, decorating. Tiny-tiny dresses. Tiny-tiny aprons.
They all froze at once when you entered. A spoon clattered into a pot of stew. Someone squeaked.
He flew ahead.
Yes—he was flying. His orange wings fluttered, wind rippling through his hair, which never seemed able to stay neat.
“What—” you managed. The brightness wavered again, shaking your vision like water.
“They’re preparing the feast. Everyone. Go back to work,” he said, clapping his hands. The sound was quiet. His hands were small, after all.
“I cannot marry you.”
You heard your voice say it. Heard your breath leave your body. Smelled the lilacs in your hair. Saw him spin midair, his face flickering for a moment before the poised smile returned.
“Of course you can,” he said. His wings fluttered faster.
“I— we— I don’t know you. I don’t… I’m not who you think I am, I think?”
His expression softened.
“But you do. You saved me. Fed me. You propositioned me with the very flower you wear on your finger. We were well engaged before we even bloomed.”
“What? No.” You protested weakly, the pulsing in your head continuing.
“It’s okay. The magic weakens you now. But once we wed, it will be all right. You have to trust me.”
He flew close to your face again.
“I’ve never seen you before—” you looked around at the mice before your hand reached for the table for support. The wood was frosted with flour. You steadied yourself blindly, then glanced at the small mouse nearest you, who stared up wide-eyed, whiskers trembling.
Her pink nose twitched.
A memory surfaced—sharp and sweet, like fresh kompot.
A mouse in your cupped hands. The mouse you saw as a kid…
That wasn’t him.
Could it be?
You looked toward the tiny man. And he knew that you knew.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“But that was a mouse, not… not you.”
“Eh, technicality. We don’t show our true forms to just anyone. But by the fae law, you asked for my hand, and I accepted, didn’t I?”
Your hand trembled, smearing the flour. The other rose to your eyes, shielding them from the light drilling into your skull. Four mice hauled a small log into the fire.
“But I— didn’t…?” you protested, face burning. Exhaustion? Annoyance? You couldn’t tell. A line of beetles marched across the table, each carrying a cube of sugar.
Everything was spinning now. The room, your head, you…?
He dipped a spoon into the batter, tasted it, hummed approvingly.
“If you insist. But…”
The smell of flowers turned sour and dry in your mouth. You felt drunk.
He brought a spoonful to your lips, expectant. The metal brushed your lips; you had no choice but to obey.
Your face burned as you parted for him. He fed you.
“—When someone blushes,” he whispered, smiling,
“Doesn't that mean yes?”
Does it?
The batter was sweet, and raw and he waited for you to swallow. Time trickled.
"Did I disappoint you? Am I not what you would wish for in a husband?" His eyes crinkled in a sad smile. "I know there is not much of me, but what is there is yours." only now you saw that it took an effort for him to stay afloat. His wing was chipped, and so he lean onto his side as he flew, a wounded butterfly.
"I'm not disappointed, I am just–" not ready to get married to a man that can fit in the palm of my hand? "–it's so sudden" left your mouth instead.
His left ear twitched like a cat.
"Do you need time to process this, my love?"
My love
“Yes, please, I..yes” a sharp pain between your eyes, like a pick being shoved into the cracks of your skull. In that moment you just wanted to get out of there, it…the magic. It was too much.
You ran through the threshold, dropping your lilac crown with a hollow thud.
It felt like going through a portal when you slid through the front doors. The hinges squeaked, and they banged against the crumbly bricks.
The contents of your stomach were pink and red. You held yourself upright, one hand on the conker tree, vision twisting, spinning.
Petals. You retched more petals.
Standing in front of your grandparents’ cottage—after being proposed to by a fairy—and your body could not take it.
It rejected the magic. That’s how it felt; it physically rejected the impossible.
Maybe if you turned yourself upside down, it would subside.
“Breathe, my darling. Breathe.”
But it didn’t help. You were heaving.
Mouthfulls of petals at the roots and him—whispering in your ear to breathe. That lilted voice cooed, “It’s just a little bit of magic.”
He petted the shell of your ear, his wings fluttering as he steadied himself on your shoulder. It tickled the side of your neck, where goosebumps rose.
You retched again.
“There, there.”
Your eyes teary, your nose snotty, your forehead fell to the harsh bark of the tree trunk and pressed. There will be marks.
“Do you want the pain to go away?” he asked softly. He asked sweetly.
You wanted everything to go away. Let you be.
Another wave folded you in half, pushing you to your knees, and —leaves now. Whole flowers.
Then... then the thorns came, and with them, blood. Bile tinted pink, like cheap rose jam.
You spit, cleaning your mouth.
“Why is this happening to me?” you managed very quietly. When the voice pushed out you could feel where the thorns scratched your throat.
“Because, moje růže, your body makes space for magic.
“It hurts,” you rasped.
“It hurts now because you’re resisting. The magic wants to root, but you keep tearing it out.”
“I don’t want it,” you said, breath shaking. “Take it back.”
He only smiled, patient, pitying. “I can’t. It’s part of you now. It has been for very long time”
He whispered in your ear, and you felt it — below, where you sat, where your legs turned into heavy logs. You could feel yourself growing roots. You could feel the wave rising, the rose taking a permanent spot in your stomach.
“It’s easier if you let it,” he murmured. “Say yes, and the thorns will stop. The wounds will heal. You’ll sleep, and when you wake, you’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours. As it was promised.”
You wanted to say no.
You wanted to scream.
But your mouth was full of flowers again.
You nodded instead
To explain magic is the same as explaining to an idiot that he is stupid.
There are no words that can speak that feeling into life.
It was as simple as he said it would be. Once you accepted, the pain subsided. The roots took your insides and caged them. Your heart fluttered around a brace of thorns, their spikes lodging themselves into the meat. Something clicked, and you felt buttoned up. Zipped shut. Held. Contained. A package in the shape of your body.
A coffin for what was human — and a door in your chest to let the ethereal in.
It felt like there was a tiny keyhole there, and if you found the right key, you could let yourself out. That was the closest you could come to explaining what magic felt like.
The daisy on your finger grew into your skin, slipping beneath the epidermis. It glowed magenta-pink — not bloody, but sickly in the way it parted flesh. It became part of you, and when you pressed the pad of your finger to the petals, your nerve endings responded.
You flinched, startled — and so did the flower.
How?
Words felt insufficient, so you asked with your eyes.
The tiny man smiled, eyes tearing up. He made a soft noise in the back of his throat before speaking.
“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched. They are felt with the heart.”
His voice was wet with emotion as he pointed upward. You followed his gesture to the chestnut tree.
The wind had a color you had no name for — a glister, pulsing like veins through branches and leaves, pooling inside the spiky fruit. The wind had a taste too: breathy, slightly smoky, yet fresh.
With a deeper inhale, you understood that the lindens wished to snow again. You understood the wheats’ weary sighs as the breeze pushed them back and forth. You knew that the acorns were eager to grow heavy and taste the soil.
The leaves clapped.
The grass stalks squeaked when they brushed each other.
“How do you feel?” the prince asked.
You knew he was a prince by his shine alone. He held himself like a puzzle piece that knew exactly where it belonged — and he looked at you like you were the place he fit.
You knew a great deal more now, even if your language lacked the words for it. To know and to express were two different things. To express it properly, you'd have to flutter, breathe out through your skin, hum your answer with your tymbal.
But what kind of prince wears no crown?
The wind mussed the petals of the daisy, and you felt it — as if it were your own hair.
A ring on your finger you could never take off.
Unsteady feet tasting grass and soil beneath.
One shaky step after another, he led you, and you followed dutifully. After all, someone born into arcane would know what’s best when you couldn’t trust your own eyes.
The rays around him bled rainbow in soft ebbs and flows, and he seemed larger and smaller at the same time. His size felt like a suggestion, not a constant — like everything around you now.
“Is this how you see the world?”
“Yes,” he chuckled, and the orchard shimmered in the distance.
“Why is it like that?”
You looked at yourself longer as he answered. You could see your veins — all of them.
You could see the strange spotted pattern on your skin, storm clouds faintly glowing.
“Why?”
The pause stretched long enough that you almost forgot he was speaking, until:
“Well… because everything matters. Magic lets you see what’s under the eiderdown.”
“I’m part of the morning,” you murmured. When you moved your hand too fast, it slipped out of material form, half-there.
“You are part of many things, moje růže. Now haste. Let me show you my world.”
“Is this not it?”
The tall orchard grass kissed your ankles, and the clouds above wheeled and spun like marbles.
“Not quite.”
A circle of flowers waited deeper in the orchard, spared from the scythe.
A perfect ring of poppies.
“Come with me… if you wish to, that is.”
He hovered at the edge like a margin note on a page where the main text had wandered off.
A footnote.
He was a footnote, and you were the reader choosing whether to flip the page.
A finger over the rim of the glass — he dipped the pad in, and you followed.
Never step into the fairy ring. Never eat from a fairy hand. Never do this, never do that. All those rules for humans to follow so they stay safe from the fae folk.
But you were human no longer.
The magic wove you, knitted you into a neat scarf—long, forever growing.
Your body had no form. It was not your body anymore, not your mind. You were there, and you watched as the hollow shell you left behind shrank and shrank. More thick, honeyed spells dripped down your throat.
When you were a bigger being the air was thin and faintly smelled of chimneys. As a small being it was lush and moist and rich with the scents of bugs and rotting things.
Did it hurt? The shrinking?
It did.
Bones crackling, teeth popping off the gums, eyes sucked inside and then pushed out again. A nasty thing, collapsing in on oneself. Wet, bloody, bodily.
And he wasn’t there when you were ready. Nowhere to be found, seen, or heard. Just a forest made of long stalks of grass—thick as trees, tall as them too. The sun went pink and bloody, bruising dark then darker, faster than the sky ever should. Beside the moon—full and ripe like a wheel of cheese—spread a spill of gasoline.
The moon was bleeding, but the spillage looked like wings. Iridescent.
A beetle awaited you. Black and blue, shiny and smooth to the touch as you climbed onto his back. Reins were attached and a saddle made from an old garden glove. The insect twitched his antenna and cleaned one with a fuzzy limb. Then he scrambled ahead, tossing you left and right.
To your fae prince.
He always made you find him, chase him. You didn’t know it yet, but that was part of the process. Steps had to be followed. Rules were set, agreements made, magic sought and hearts opened. Blood spilled and humanity forsaken.
Click and clack of many legs, sharp like tiny hooves. They left indents in dirt that crumbled like gravel with each step—soil seemed terribly big from this perspective. Everything did. You felt steadier than when you were taller; this size fit you more. There was no need to grow so much, you realized—humans like to overdo things.
Your back itched, but you couldn’t scratch it. Hands on the reins, you were moving fast. Galloping forward, leaping over moldy apples and twisted twigs.
It was dark. So dark—until the moon’s wings shook, spilling stars. Then finally, finally, brightness. From above—yes. But also ahead.
A clearing in the tall grass, and you arrived somewhere. Not the same world as your cottage—no. The beetle slowed into a ballroom, his wet clacking becoming wooden taps. The room had no ceiling—only sky and fruits strung on threads, lighting everything up. Red currants glowing red, gooseberries green. Then white and blue and yellow—fairy lights.
Floors were covered with chessboards, wooden, lacquered, polished to immaculate shine. Toadstools held all sorts of foods, sparkling wildly like things not meant to be eaten.
They were dancing—all of them. Mice in pretty ball gowns, toads in tuxedos, even a mole spinning around, all holding hands. Jumping to the rhythm of music played by cicadas. It sounded like music now, in your new body with your new ears.
In the center stood a giant heart-shaped cake, decorated with red fruit and cream. Ten dancers could circle it easily—enough cake for an army. Someone passed you a cup made from an acorn, dark liquid inside, but you had no time to drink. They pushed you forward, toward the throne.
A throne made of sticks and leaves. Plum.
He was there, your prince—wearing a crown this time. A golden, dainty thing. Almost as pretty as his eyes. He slouched, eyes tear-bright, cup empty, looking straight at you.
With one wave of his hand your body glowed, and a dress made of daisy petals covered you. They looked like feathers—white, long, and soft. A coat of dandelion puffs rested on your shoulders.
You looked like a bride.
You were his bride.
“How do you feel…” The man extended his wings and stood as tall as he could. A cane decorated with tree sap reflected the lights above. “…being uprooted from your garden?”
A squirrel passed him a saber. Freshly sharpened. He stepped toward you.
You realized he awaited your reply. They all were—shuffling feet, twitching tails, watching.
Made new. Freshly grown. Spun from spiderweb.
“Lightheaded.”
He nodded, lifted the weapon, and passed it to you.
Bones boiled off in a stew. Teeth after being burnt to crisp. A set of eyes on a stick.
Raw. Raw. Raw.
“What’s your name? How do I call you?” A question for a question. Fair exchange. Always fair exchange.
A grin spread across his face. A mole above his lip lifted with it. Up it went, wings unfurling.
“Soon? A husband, I hope.”
“That’s not a name.”
“That’s not a no.”
Because it wasn’t. You came here, you followed, you accepted the magic that grew in your gut, split you open, bloomed. You gave something to receive something. Yet it wasn’t fair, was it? What you wanted to give you’d give for free, and what he gave you wasn’t what you wanted in the first place. But you took his heart first, tamed it—without knowing. And he gave you the arcane. He opened your eyes and you couldn’t close them. Wouldn’t— even if you could.
Your shoulders ached. You craved the viscous drink in your cup. He was still watching you, waiting. Always waiting, taunting, guiding. You understood now, saw what he saw—the memory, clear at last. When you helped him. Saved him twice.
You felt what he felt.
Fear. Awe. Devotion. A promise. Hope.
You held the spell to his heart and he waited to be bewitched. And you could… he was there, wasn’t he? When you fell and scraped your knee—he was there. When you were scared at night—he was there. When you sought refuge from your life—he was there. He offered a way out.
“Do I still… have a choice?”
“There is always a choice.” He opened one arm, the other on his cane. Spread his wings. “Eat the cake and be mine forever…” A few steps closer. He raised the saber to his heart. “Or stab me and be free of this curse. Free of me.”
He looked brave—trembling like that.
A beautiful creature, trusting you with his life. Again.
A silent friend, ever-present without you knowing.
A lover waiting to be taken.
You could imagine loving him. Holding him. Fucking him.
The saber moved. Gained momentum. Decision made by your mind, your body answered.
A quick slice.
Red dripped down.
Red on white.
Red on checkered.
Red on you, as you pushed it deeper. Then—your hand plunged into the soft, squelching insides and yanked fistfuls out. Brought them to your mouth. Ate them.
You’d expect it to taste sweet.
Instead your teeth sank into something like frosting-covered meat.
You had to force it down. A disgusting taste, heavy, weighing your stomach—then your whole body shook. From toes to skull. Your spine shifted, shuffled, accommodated. The saber stuck in the cake, your cup dropped, rolling through the red sauce.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked, breaking the silence. He looked relieved.
Eyeing his bad leg, you hesitated, but his reassuring smile made you take his hand. Hands still covered in meat-cake. No longer liquid. Your body touched his, then leaned closer. Closer.
You made your choice. Your stomach full, your heart tied.
It felt like good pressure. The reassuring kind.
Closer.
A hesitant step. The mice followed suit. You spun slowly, and with a few steps your feet no longer touched the chessboard. His fluttering wings blew your hair around, moved your fuzzy coat, tickled your nose. His eyes hypnotized you—hopeful, glowing with every color of the lights above, like the tree sap on his cane.
“I feel responsible,” he said.
A name. Give me your name. Let me in.
“For?” You let your legs dangle; no point in moving them. Higher and higher you rose. His chipped wing pushed you gently to the side.
“For not being with you all these years.”
“How could you be?”
You are not for the human world.
He leaned closer, his breath warm on your neck. Next to your ear:
“I think of loss… and then I can only think of you.”
Your heart thrashed once, then again—waking up. It hurt, but the way pity hurts: sharp and low under the ribs.
“What is your name?” you asked again. You needed to know it.
“It’s the most precious thing I have.” Closer, please.
“You know mine.”
He hummed, then whispered it into your ear. His name—melodic, strange on his tongue, like he wasn’t used to saying it aloud. Then louder, he called your name into the wind. It felt like vows. A confession.
A tug, at the base of your spine. A tingling. It traveled up, up your scalp, along the curve of your nose, through your nostril and down into your mouth. Your tongue felt heavy as you spoke:
“Viktor.”
With the word came the knowing. That was it. The ceremony complete. The contract fulfilled.
Your eyes watered. Your chin dropped. He pressed you closer. So close now.
“Don’t look down.”
You looked.
There was nothing under you anymore.
Only light.
And then, he dropped you.
