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A walk a-ways from the village of Honnleath, there was a river in the wood. Not a terribly wide river—three men lying head to heel could have the measure of it, and one-and-a-half men deep, once the rains came.
But the men wouldn’t.
None of them were quite foolish enough, for in the village of Honnleath there was a story passed from grandmothers to the girls who came after them, soft of foot and fair of cheek:
There are men who would harm you, who would take from you what you would not give. Do not think to fight these men.
Lure him to the river.
Run as fast as your pretty legs can carry you. Don’t mind the burn of it, or the fear seizing at your lungs, or any horror your mind can conjure— you run to the river.
-
The women of Honnleath are fairer, it is said, than any for leagues around. This may have been true, or false, or malicious rumors spread to urge young men to improve local trade, but they were happy, and well-fed. They did not want.
The soil was fertile, they said, thanks to the spirit.
And if a man turned a hand to them, they’d let the waters have him, too.
So the village girls were happy to make their way down to the waters on the festival night to ask the sweet waters for their blessing.
Generally, this was the only evening when the men, too, felt welcome. To pair off with their sweethearts. To watch their faces glimmer in the light of youth and fruitful futures.
The rest of the year, Cullen was really the only one fool enough to venture out there.
-
It wasn’t that Cullen was testing fate, or particularly in love with the idea of being eaten.
Only, the riverbed tended to be a quiet, peaceful place, and that was a balm to his head, which often ached. So he came to the waterside when his chores were done, and his siblings yelled and tumbled and clattered together.
And he sat.
Sometimes, he would squint at the water, attempting to make out some shape. But the river was just deep enough not to give up its secrets.
It did yield to his fingers when he dipped his palms to gather a drink of water, and no beast came shrieking from the depths to devour him.
“Well,” He said. “Bless you, spirit, if indeed you keep our sisters safe.”
But the river did not answer.
And the spirit did not particularly know how to answer that sentiment.
-
Cullen enjoys the time alone.
Truthfully, it helps.
But when little Rosalie asks to see his hiding place, he happily brings her to the riverside.
The place is beautiful, if little-traveled, and a magnificent place for a young girl to crawl over smooth stones and joust at invisible foes with stiff cat-tails.
And when she falls and cuts herself, Cullen carries her to the riverside and pours clean water over the wound.
“Hush, Rosie,” He says. “The river spirit will make it all better.”
And he genuinely believes it.
-
F o r the first time in a long time, D o r ian feels w a rm.
Feels the ripp le of fing ers in the wat er as if th ey l aid again st his o wn sk in.
And he sigh s.
-
And then the festival rolls ‘round again, and Cullen smiles as the girls all ready themselves for the romance of it all. Tonight, they’ll send crowns of flowers down the river, and eager boys will pluck them out.
There will be feasting and dancing and other such merriment, and though Cullen does not mean to participate himself, he likes the sweet excitement of it.
He likes the lights hung about the riverbed, where he stands with Rosalie and Mia.
Mia has a crown of her own, and thoughts about one young man in particular.
Rosalie, for her part, is far too young to think of suitors, but she demanded her brother’s help assembling a coronet of her own.
-
“You’re good at that, Cull!” Branson laughed, and despite how patently untrue that was of the rough approximation in his own hands, Cullen felt something lighten in his chest.
“Maybe I’ll send it off.” He chuckled, petting Rosalie’s curls.
“You should!” She said, completely serious. “I’ve no time for silly boys, but the river spirit made my knee feel better. Someone ought to give him a present!”
“A ‘he’ now, is it?”
“Mm-hmm. With skin like burnt wheat bread.”
And a crown for his troubles.
-
So Cullen smiles, and helps Rosalie send her crown into the river’s flow, and watches as the young women run off with their young men.
He smiles when Ma comes to fetch Rosalie, and urges Cullen to come join the festivities.
Among it all, the sound of bells tied to ankles—to let the spirit know they’re coming, perhaps. In the distance, the sound of musicians playing, the miller with his lute, the baker’s wife with her tambourine. Someone is having a grand time with a wind instrument.
So he doesn’t feel quite so alone when he makes his way to the river’s edge and places his own clumsy crown into the water.
And watches it sink straight to the bottom.
“Let’s hope that’s my clumsy hands and not an ill omen.” He laughs to himself, and sits down on the bank.
It’s just him, sitting by the waterside, listening to the night sounds. The soft slap of water on soil. The crickets fiddling.
There’s so much music in this village.
So much good.
“I hope you know that you are loved, and how you are loved, spirit.” He says.
And only nearly swallows his own heart when his crown floats back to the surface, followed by dark, sodden curls and—
And skin the color of burnt wheat bread.
And nothing in the way of clothing.
He stretches across the muddy bank, nails sharp and teeth pointed around a quick tongue. “Do you claim to love me, then?”
“Well,” Cullen rasps, “you’ve got my crown, so I suppose it’s fate, really.”
And he must be a fool. He has to be, because a sane man would be terrified of that sharp-toothed smile. Instead, he feels fangs pricking against his lips, and groans at the feeling of a warm, wet tongue—just the same as anyone’s, really—and damp flesh soaking his shirt to his skin.
My head was warm.
My skin was soaked.
I called your name 'til the fever broke.