Godwyn Alderich

Things have been going surprisingly well.

Deer had been caught fresh, as not all of the woodland animals were able to take shelter during the colder months haunting Avlon’s forests. The sickness that had been thought to potentially plague the village had been reduced to a mere cough before it could truly dig its claws into the health of its people. And based on the burnt tree roots, winter’s grip would begin to lessen, giving way to chilled air rather than frigid snow storms.

And it was all thanks to the little pixie Godwyn kept at his hip.

The cold iron cage seemed to chime in agreement as he finished his final round, his breath fogging as he panted. It always accompanied him on his hunting trips, and for good reason. His bow was drawn taught in his hands, gripped between leather gloves as his eye trained itself on the distance. Watching. Waiting.

His ears pricked with the gentle snap of leaves underfoot, of the hesitant sound of a hare snuffling at the base of the tree. Without thinking, he plucked his fingers and sent the arrow flying. The only thing that showed a hare had been present at all was the pool of blood dappling the leaves, as Godwyn secured it to his belt. But as he worked, something soft and colorful caught his eye, his knees bending to get a better look. It was glovewort, not an uncommon plant for hunters like himself who worked with his hands, but this was the first time he had seen it bloom into white little flowers. Pretty, yet fragile.

They’d be excellent for his fairy.

Without a second thought, Godwyn’s hands reached to pluck the gentle stems, gathering them into a tiny bundle. Any blood he transferred, he quickly swiped away, humming a forgotten tune under his breath as he readied to head back for his hut. “You’ll love these,” he said, as if speaking to the wind. But the wind would know who it was for. “Tiny and delicate, just like you.”

And with that, he began to make his way home.

The hare was ultimately drained, gutted, skinned and butchered. Its hide would be tanned outside near his work shed, away from the comfort of his hut—didn’t want to offend his fairy’s sensitive nose, did he?

With the hide tanning, he butchered the meat, setting out pieces that would be cooked immediately and others that would be preserved for later. For dinner, it would consist of old mead, rabbit stew, mixed pickles and some old bread that his father had dropped off some time ago. It was nothing fancy, but with the village struggling enough as is, a full meal was a privilege.

He would not be eating alone, however, as he prepared an even smaller set of food. A few drops of stock and tiny bites of meat was plated into a tiny carved bowl, crumbs of bread and pickles set on top of a metal circle, repurposed to act as a plate. “Dinner’s ready,” he called, but no one came rushing to greet him. Instead, his heavy boots drew near to his dining table, where a metal cage sat, with none other than his one and only fairy locked inside. Couldn’t let his good luck escape, could he?

Godwyn set down the bowl and plate right by the cage, allowing them to reach out and take it if they so wished. “Hare stew,” the hunter murmured. “Your favorite.”

He took out the bound gloveworts from his nearby satchel, unbinding the twine as he set it near for them to grab and fuss with if they wished. He kept some for himself, tucking them into the metal nooks and crannies. Such a pleasant sight. “Some flowers as well, to pretty your home,” he said. “I think it rather suits you, don’t you think?”

But it wasn’t enough to merely hum and admire his pixie. Nay, he wanted to see them enjoying themselves—as thanks for the good luck they had brought both to him and his village. With that thought in mind, he soared a glance toward the twine, then their wings. He’d have to bind them, but it would give them a chance to get out and stretch their legs. “I’ll let you out for supper," he finally offered, holding up the string. “But no flying, I’m afraid, but until I can trust you. Can I trust you not to make a fuss? Or must I confine you until you behave?”

His eyes were trained on their smaller frame, looking for any sign of agreement.

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Who knew the fair folk could be so dirty?

Cleaning his fairy wasn’t a usual occurrence, but it was one Godwyn reveled in. He had warmed a bowl of water over the fire, not too hot, not too cold. Soap sat nearby, ready to be gently lathered and used. Last but not least, the twine, gently but securely tied around his pixie’s wings, pinning them together and preventing them from being used entirely.

He didn’t want his fairy trying to leave, now did he?

This evening was one of those nights, where Godwyn cleansed his hands in preparation for this sacred act.

“The chill can kill something as tiny as you,” he hummed, like they needed their own biology to be explained to them. His fingertips brushed their sides, as if he could measure their temperature through that alone. Whatever they had on had been gently folded and set aside to be washed later, his hands careful yet precise as he moved around the makeshift washing area. “Dirt will dull your wings, your magic. And we can’t have that now, can we?”

Godwyn set them into the warm water momentarily before grabbing a towel, briefly wetting it before allowing the fabric to brush over their bare skin. He worked the soap into a lather, allowing it to slink and drip over their skin before the towel wiped it away. As helpful as it was, fair folk sometimes needed something... softer.

So Godwyn set it aside, using his thumb to rub suds of soap over their ribs and the back of their thighs, no space left untouched, unclean. However, his fingertips began to linger where they shouldn’t, dusting over their chest. “Need to make sure everything’s clean, is all,” he excused, deliberately ignoring the way his thumb rubbed gentle circles into the delicate puffs of their nipples, as the other began to drift lower and lower. His tongue felt heavy, envious, wanting to replace the pad of his fingers, but he swallowed it all down.

This was bathing, he told himself. Nothing more.

.