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Once, a man fell in love with a forest spirit. And he was terrible and charming, and a better man than he believed. And she was wild and free, and she loved him too, but he was a man of walls and stone and iron, and she as the wind in the trees and leaves upon the ground and the hidden paths of wild beasts, and theirs was an ill-fitting love, but it was strong and true.
(He was smoke too, you see, winding free through the sky, and she was deep roots in the mountain, and they were not so different as you might believe.)
Their story began one crisp day in autumn, when the man rode through the woods that belonged to his family and his city. Grey boughs arched overhead and a thick carpet of golden-brown leaves lay upon the cool earth, and the wind cut into the man’s fine coat, and his horse was ill at ease among the silence and the wild.
In time the man found himself lost in the forest, and soon the evening arrived, and he knew he could not ride through the night. So he dismounted, and built a fire, and set to weather the wilds until morning in hopes that things would be clearer with the light of day. Yet when he struck together flint and steel and set a fire ablaze among the looming trees, he found himself not alone among the wilds, for seated across the fire was a woman.
She crouched in the dark, and her hair was long and thick and dark like the night, and her eyes watched him with animal cunning, and her fingers were long and clever. Her skin was sun-worn, and she wore a bow upon her back and a smile upon her face, and when he looked upon her he found her beautiful and strange, and though he thought he should be afraid only curiosity filled him, and affection struck his heart.
“You should not be alone,” she said to him, and her voice was smooth like honey and sharp like pine. “The woods are dangerous at night.”
“I am not alone,” said the man. “My horse is with me. And it seems, so too are you.”
“I could be a dangerous creature,” said the woman, and the man laughed to think it, and said, “I hardly think so.”
Faster then than he could blink she stood to her full height and drew her bow, and he found himself facing an arrow aimed with easy accuracy at his chest. And the man swallowed, and remained silent, for he knew the stories of fey and faerie and dare not insult her further.
“I am a dangerous creature,” she told him solemnly, and he nodded.
“I see. And, I apologize,” he said, and it appeased the woman, for she sat again, head tilted curiously.
“Why does a man walk among the woods in the night?” asked the woman.
“I am lost,” said the man, for he saw no reason to hide from her the truth.
The woman laughed.
“It is only men who think they know the woods who get lost among them,” she told him. “Those who know what they do not know pass freely.”
The man saw the truth in her words, and smiled, and said, “I’m afraid I’ve learned that the hard way.”
“Yes,” she agreed, and there was no malice within her voice. “It seems you have. Sleep, lost man. I will keep you safe tonight.”
“I have a name,” said the man, voice mild. The woman smiled like a predator.
“I know your name, lost man. I have seen you in my woods before. I have been watching.”
“Might I know your name?” asked the man, who felt a shiver along his spine at her words, and knew not if the feeling was of fear or excitement.
“I am the forest,” said the woman. “I need no name."
“Then thank you, spirit,” said the man, and no sooner did he speak than he found himself wondrously tired, and already he felt sleep taking him.
Yet, as he slipped into dreams, the wind itself seemed to whisper to him, and it said, “You’re welcome, darling.”
Upon waking there was no spirit nearby, only cold embers and his displeased steed, but the ground and his side were warm, as if a body had lain next to him through the night, and a sprig of pine lay at his head, and another a dozen paces away, and another a dozen paces beyond that, and he knew he had dreamed neither this woman nor their encounter. And even as he followed the path through the forest and came out of the woods not far from the road he knew he wanted desperately to see her again.
So time passed, as time is wont to do, and the man found himself often among the trees as the golden canopy fell with the changing season, and the trunks stood bare and grey, and when the first snow came he still had not found her.
But the time was not all wasted, for he began to learn the woods that had so long protected his family and his city. He discovered the paths of wild beasts and the sounds of birdsong and the hidden places where green still grew even among the changing weather. He found he could never truly know the forest, for it was too vast and varied, but he came to found solace among ancient oaks and pines, came to appreciate the chattering squirrels and the bright birds flitting through sleeping branches.
And, sometimes, rarely, he thought he saw the flash of a braid around a bend in the path, thought he heard the sound of laughter, but it was only his imagination, only the wind, and never did he see the spirit of the forest.
So the winter came, and it was a thick and heavy winter, a winter of sleet and snow and whistling winds cutting down the mountains. Trees cracked and fell, and animals curled up and froze still, and the townsfolk spoke in hushed whispers of starvation and sickness, and the man looked down from his castle and thought of his people, and his forest, and the woman who had saved him, and yearned to search for her again.
Yet in the end, it was not he who found her but rather she who found him, for one day he awoke to a new snowfall, the world bright and blinding and utterly smooth, frozen solid into a thing of deadly beauty. And among this utter perfection he saw from his window a smudge of darkness in the courtyard below him, and curiosity filled him, and he descended to discover what lay at his door, and he found her.
She was ice cold, pale as the snow, and fear filled him, for she lay too still among the banks of snow. The man called for his servants, and she was brought inside, and his maids took her wet clothes and wrapped her in dried blankets, and set her before the fire, and for a day and a night the man sat at her side and feared for her, and although he was not a religious man, he prayed.
But luck was with him, or perhaps his prayer answered, for she awoke, and when he saw this he was filled with relief.
“Thank you,” she said, and her voice was weak and thin but still honey-smooth and sharp like pine, and his heart leapt to hear it.
“My home is always open to you,” said the man, and the woman coughed weakly and sat up, and the man looked away, for she was still clothed only in thick blankets and wore neither dress nor shirt.
“Do you not know the dangers of inviting spirits into your home?” she asked him lightly.
And the man looked to the ground and spoke solemn words, saying, “I know them, and I invite you willingly.”
The woman stayed silent upon hearing him, and reached forward to place two fingers beneath his chin, and moved his head so she might look him in the face.
“Thank you,” she said, and her voice was solemn and soft, and her face was honest and young, and the man yearned to hold her.
But he dare not reach out for fear of rejection, so he spoke instead, saying, “You’re welcome. And if there is anything you need...”
The woman smiled. “Perhaps,” she said, “you might find me some clothes?”
The man blushed, and left.
She did not stay, the spirit of the forest, but often she visited during the winter months, and soon she seemed a fixture of the castle, as if she had been there always. She brought the forest with her, the smell of pine sap and scattered leaves, and sometimes animals too––she favoured a bear companion, much to the dismay of the staff. And always she stayed a day and a night, and returned to her woods in the morn.
Some visits she sat by the fires and watched the man work, clever hands at the forge, projects of passion crafted lovingly. Some visits they sat with their heads close together, and those who saw them wondered what conversation engrossed them so.
Some visits they did not speak, and in the grey light that comes before the dawn the spirit slipped from the man’s chambers, and the maids who woke to tend the house knew better than to speak of it.
So the winter passed, slow and deep and cold, and the spirit of the forest sheltered within the castle of stone and iron, and she found she loved the man just as the man loved her, and in time they found familiarity in one another.
With the spring came newfound freedom, and just as the man opened his home and heart to the woman, she took him deep within the forest and showed him the secret places one knows when they make a home somewhere, and together they roamed the wilds. And always he stayed a day and a night, and returned to his castle in the morn.
But there came to pass a crystal spring morning when he did not return to his castle, but rather lingered with her in the forest, and when she woke and saw him still there, watching her in her sleep, his own face soft and youthful, she asked him, “What has changed?”
“Marry me?” he asked her, and she laughed and kissed him.
They were wed at the height of summer, and the world was warm, and the city and forest alike came to watch, men and beasts together, and such a peace there was upon the day that it seemed the whole world blessed their union. And a year and a day they were married, and lived together in peace and happiness within the man’s castle.
But she was a creature of freedom, changing winds and open skies, and he was a man of walls and stone and metal, and when a year and a day were over he woke to see his love standing at the window, staring out at the wilds that hemmed in this city he called his.
“I miss my forest,” she said when he awoke, and he sat in bed and looked at her framed against the window, still wild after all this time, and he loved her as much as he had when he first saw her. “The young cubs have left their dens, and I must go to them.”
“This home is yours as long as you will have it,” the man said, and he meant his heart too. “It will be waiting when you return.”
And so she left, and she was gone for a week and a day, and when she came back there were flowers in her hair and freckles upon her skin and she passed through the halls brimming with vitality. Yet as the man watched she faded again, a flower without sunlight. And one morning, he woke again to see her at the window, and he saw the yearning upon her face.
“I miss my forest,” she said. “The rivers swell with the summer rains and I must follow them.”
“This home is yours as long as you will have it,” replied the man. “It will be waiting when you return.”
So she left, and the man busied himself with the affairs of state and the projects he kept in the basements, inventions of curiosity, and sought to distract himself from the presence missing in the castle, and it seemed to him that the world grew dimmer when she was gone.
Yet she returned again, and it seemed as though life itself followed her, for wildflowers burst forth in the gardens and the dogs of the kennels and birds of the eerie trailed her footsteps, and she laughed with him and told him of the secret brooks and gullies upon the mountain face and kissed him like honey and pine.
But it was not to last, for as the summer passed into fall she faded again, and the man was not so surprised to see her standing against the window on the day the first leaves of fall fell.
“I miss my forest,” she said. “The birds leave soon for the south, and the bears will hibernate soon, and the trees go to sleep for the long cold months, and I must tend to my forest for the winter.”
“This home is yours as long as you will have it,” said the man with a heavy heart. “It will be waiting when you return.”
So she left, and the man yearned to see her again, but he knew her to be the wildness of the forest and would not refuse her the desires of her heart.
This time she was gone longer, days stretching into weeks stretching to months, and the man began to fear he would not see her, until one day he awoke to find her at his side, vibrant and electric, and a shadowed hole in his heart filled to hold her again.
“What is it, darling?” she asked when she awoke to find him staring at her in reverence.
“I had thought... I was not sure when you would return.”
“This home is mine as long as I will have it,” she told him, solemn and soft. “It will be waiting when I return.”
“Yes,” said the man. “And so will I.”
But even a loving heart cannot hold the entirety of the forest when the wilds call. So it came to pass that her departures came more frequently, and her returns fewer and far between, for she was a creature of the woods, and he was a man of the city, and their frontiers pressed close against each other but neither could long exist within the world of the other.
But she loved him dearly, and when the seasons changed she always returned to lie with her husband and tell him of her forests, and brought him honey and roots and spring-fresh water and the softest pelts, and he in return fashioned her jewelry for her neck and arrows for her bow and trinkets for her pockets, so she might always have a part of him with her. But always she left again, for she was the forest, and the forest cannot belong to any one man.
Even he whom the forest most loves.
For many years their dance continued, she returning to him, to the home where she was always welcome, and he seeking her in the woods she had taught him to travel, and for a day and a night they stayed together, and loved each other, and left each other. And the people of the town whispered that their lord loved a ghost, and the beasts of the forest murmured that their lady had been ensnared by a mortal, and they mourned for their masters, for such affairs cannot end with whole hearts unbroken by time.
So the years passed, and the man grew old, and wise, and weary, and the spirit was ever young, and vibrant, and free, and they met in the spaces between them, and lived their lives in joy and sorrow, as all lives are lived.
It came to pass one day that the spirit came home to her husband, for she had swum with the rivers and flown with the birds and run with the deer and danced with the bees and feasted with the great predators of her woods and she missed her love, and his four walls, and his stone and iron. But when she came to their home––for it always was and always would be their home––she found quiet and sickness, and learned the man had taken ill, and was not thought to live long.
She went to him, in the chamber they shared for a year and a day, and often after that, and saw him laid upon their bed, frail and weak, and did not know when he had grown old, for in her heart she knew him always as the young man lost in the woods.
“I am here,” she said to him, and the old man smiled, and took her hand.
“Our home has been waiting for you to return,” he said. “And so have I.”
“I have danced with the bees and flown with the birds,” she told him. “I have tasted the clear water of the mountain streams and felt the thrill of the hunt in the valley below. I have so much yet to share with you. You cannot go now.”
“I am sick,” he said. “I have waited to see you again. Now, I am at peace.”
"I do not want to lose you.”
"I’m sorry, dear, but I must go.”
“We have had so little time together.”
“I treasure it all the more for that.” The old man sighed, and sat forward to kiss her brow. “This old man has loved the pilgrim soul in you, and would not change it for the world.”
Then the old man lay down, and closed his eyes, and sighed, and his chest did not rise again.
For a day and a night the spirit sat by his bed, and mourned. And when she had mourned, she looked to the sky, and called to her brother, and asked him to put him among the stars, so that she might always look upon him from the trees she loved so.
And her brother took pity upon her, and sought to ease her sorrow, and so the man was placed among the stars where he might forever overlook his city and his forest alike, and she might see him through the turning seasons of the year. And that they say is why sometimes, when the night is clear and quiet, you might hear the forest sighing and stretching for the sky, for the spirit still loves the man, and the man still loves the spirit, and together they watch over their city, which is their home as long as they will have it.