10. Yarrow

Surprise roots Yarrow to the earth. In most circumstances, this development would be very welcome. An attractive man kneeling before him—more attractive, now that Yarrow's getting used to his human features. Evening clings to Folly's shoulders like a silken cloak, and both eyes, bright and dark, are captivating. Yarrow would want this…

If Folly showed any sign of wanting it too. Folly's jaw tightens as he reaches for Yarrow's belt. Like this favor is unwillingly granted.

That isn't a game Yarrow plays.

Seizing Folly's wrist, Yarrow takes half a step back. "That won't do at all. My cock is delightful, and you can't have it if you're acting like this is a chore."

Folly jerks, but can't break free. The wiry muscles of his arm are tense in Yarrow's grasp. If anything, Folly looks more upset now. "Sorry, you'll have to work a lot harder to earn a performance from me."

Yarrow lets go as if burned.

Folly shoves to his feet and retreats as Yarrow's surprise shatters into anger. The sort that festers, because he can't chop it to pieces with his axe. He'd rather face another three arberos right now.

Anger, not guilt. At whoever whoever taught Folly to be a tool, reluctantly used. "You assume too much of me, or too little. I intended to ask for information. Not a performance."

"You said it was time to earn my keep," Folly accuses. "I don't have information worth that."

"Then take delight in swindling a fae, because information is what I want." Yarrow sits down in the soft grass. The day's heat still lingers in the earth. "Tell me how you got that golden eye."

"Does it matter?" Folly asks, still wary.

Yarrow shrugs. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

Folly rubs the side of his nose, right beneath his left eye. Like it itches. He's attractive like this, bedraggled and gilded with sweat and dust. A fantasy of brushing out his hair whispers through Yarrow's thoughts. Easing a comb through the tangles until Folly's hair is dark and soft and sleek again—the better to sink a hand into those lush waves.

If Yarrow was interested in humans, that is. Or if Folly was interested in easily distracted wild fae. Yarrow is still slightly dazed as Folly sits five feet away.

"It's not a very satisfying story." Folly hugs his knees. "I grew up in a little village, and every summer night, fireflies danced in the fields. I used to sneak out to watch them, after I was supposed to be asleep."

"I used to do the same." The memory tugs a smile from Yarrow's lips. "Except with pixies, not fireflies."

Folly glances up, a question clearly on his lips. But he doesn't ask. "I would crawl out through the window. I liked visiting the neighbor's pasture, because it was wide open to the stars. Their guard dogs knew me and never barked."

Yarrow leans back on his hands. "Sneaking out and trespassing. I wouldn't have pegged you for such a disobedient child."

"I was bolder back then. I didn't know how many things I should be afraid of." Folly's smile is a little wistful. Then it vanishes. "A few nights before midsummer, when I was seven years old, I snuck out like usual. I danced with the fireflies. I got home, and everything was just like normal. Except…" His hands twist together. "Except the neighbor's dogs barked. And my shoes were soaked through, even though I never crossed the creek. "

The story has a cadence. Like Folly has recited it again and again, even if only in his own head. Yarrow feels a pang in his heart. As if his own story echoes in the shadows between memories.

Folly's hands twist again. "I worried my shoes wouldn't dry out by morning, and Mother would be mad. But she never noticed my shoes. When I came into the kitchen the next morning, she took one look at me and dropped the porridge."

"You don't know who gave it to you?" Yarrow asks, frowning. He hadn't expected a name, but a description, at least.

Folly shakes his head. "Nobody gave it to me. It just happened."

Yarrow doesn't know much about humans, but he knows the fae well. Such powers aren't given out lightly. There's a chance Folly acquired the eye by accident, like the curse binding them together now. But even in that case, there would be a culprit.

"Some fae gave you that eye," Yarrow says, certain. "But it wasn't a gift."

"What do you mean?" Folly asks quietly. None of the angry bravado he showed on his knees. None of the storytelling cadence.

This mystery is worth Yarrow's guidance and shelter, but it isn't a happy discovery. "It was a trade. The fae took something of yours in exchange."

Folly touches beneath his eye. His gaze slides away, into the deepening darkness.

Everything has a price. Anything can be traded away. Some choices are a pebble in a pond. The water ripples, then stills. Other choices are an acorn thrown into a river. The water rushes on, ever-changing and unchanged, as the acorn tumbles into the mud.

Until the acorn surfaces. Takes root.

Summerstars wreath the surrounding trees, reflecting the moonlight onto the human's slim form. His face doesn't shimmer. It gleams instead with a subtlety Yarrow finds captivating.

If only Yarrow was a slightly worse person. He could have let Folly repay him on his knees, and learned whether Folly's lips are as soft as they look.

That would beggar the pleasure of wondering, though.

When Folly looks at him again, Yarrow expects a question. Or disbelief. Instead, Folly seems to see straight through him. "You talk like you aren't one of them. One of the fae."

Now it's Yarrow's turn to look away. Old rejections sting. The otherness used to bother him, though he revels in it now. "I'm fae. But I'm unfae too. That makes a difference."

Really. It doesn't bother him.

"I've never seen a fae with horns before." Folly sounds more confident now that he isn't talking about himself. "Is it rude to ask what you are?"

Yarrow chuckles. Rolls his head around, and touches the tip of his horn. "Being rude might do you some good, little human. My mother's name is Crocus. She's high fae. She used to live in Haelwen's court, but she lives in Spiritwood now. My father's a satyr she met one particularly exciting solstice."

"A satyr?" Folly repeats, eyes wide. "I've never seen a satyr before either."

Yarrow points. "Stop that."

Folly tucks his hands under his knees, as if Yarrow cares about him twisting his sleeves. "Stop what?"

Yarrow wags his finger. "You're doing the thing."

"What thing?" Folly asks. His eyes are so wide and innocent.

Yarrow knows better. This always happens. "The thing where you imagine my mother having sex with a goat-man."

Folly's mouth drops open. "I wouldn't!" But humans can lie, and his gaze goes shifty. "I mean, I don't even know what your mother looks like."

"She resembles me." Yarrow smirks. "Without the horns and incredible shoulders."

"Do you see them often?" Folly asks, wistful.

Yarrow's smirk fades. "I've never met my father. Satyrs aren't much for family life." The absence has never weighed on Yarrow. Crocus was present enough for three parents. Perhaps a father might have kept her occupied, allowing Yarrow more freedom to get into trouble. Though she wasn't without suitors either. "I see Crocus plenty. She's an herbalist, so I get all my magic spores with a family discount."

Yarrow taps the bag at his hip, though Folly likely can't see the gesture in the dark. The bag is nearly flat, which reminds Yarrow that he hasn't visited Crocus in months. Not since he decided to petition Queen Haelwen. He hopes to delay that conversation until the deed is done.

Crocus was banished from the summer court after she became pregnant with Yarrow. She's never admitted it, but she's dodged the question enough. It's Yarrow's fault she had to leave Elladar.

Folly's innocent fascination is much more pleasant. "I never thought of fae having jobs before. What do you do?"

"Ouch." Yarrow clutches his heart in mock pain. "I'm only seventy-seven. I don't need a job yet."

"Seventy-seven?" Folly exclaims, then covers his mouth. Adorable. "You don't look a day over thirty."

The reaction is charming. Nobody's ever been surprised by Yarrow's age. Of course he's under a hundred, with his wandering and philandering. He earns coin through odd jobs when he needs it, hunting a dangerous monster here, hunting a different dangerous monster there.

"Our seventy-seven is different from yours, though you're welcome to venerate me as an elder." Yarrow grins. "I work here and there, wherever the wind takes me. What about you? Are twenty-four-year-old humans old enough to work?"

The question is supposed to be easy, but Folly flinches. His curiosity dims, his shoulders hunching and defensive. "I'm a fortuneteller."

"Can you see the future?" Yarrow asks.

"I'm a fake fortuneteller," Folly clarifies. "A charlatan. It's just a performance. The golden eye helps make me look mysterious."

"So, you lie to people," Yarrow says, impressed.

The compliment doesn't help. Folly shrugs in on himself. "It's a living. I work for a traveling fair. Well, I used to, at least. Roland's probably left town already."

Somehow, it hadn't occurred to Yarrow that the human would have friends. Family. Companions. That Yarrow had wrenched him from an entire life and career.

In Yarrow's defense, the past two days have been rather chaotic.

"Who's Roland?" Yarrow asks, then stops himself. "You don't have to answer. You've already paid your dues in information."

Folly inhales. Holds his breath a moment. Then lies back as he releases his breath. Spread out on the ground, like he's surrendering to the stars. "Roland owns the traveling fair. He gave me a job even though I'm a freak, because I slept with him the night he hired me."

The word freak rolls so naturally off his tongue. No bitterness, just alarming acceptance. Folly's sadness and frustration weave together like a curse, heavy in the night air. Yarrow can't imagine meeting this little human without wanting to take care of him.

But clearly far too many people have neglected him, or worse. "Is that why you thought I wanted to fuck you?"

There's a long silence. Yarrow can't see Folly's face from this angle.

"I guess," Folly says eventually.

Perhaps Yarrow will get the chance to kill Roland someday. It will have to be an accident, since Haelwen has rules about murdering mortals and meddling between realms.

Yarrow sighs and shifts around until he can lie next to Folly. Just a few feet away. Soft grass tickles the back of his neck through his hair. He focuses on the stars winking through dark branches, instead of afflicting Folly with eye contact.

"I do want to fuck you," Yarrow says matter-of-factly. "I've never played with a human before, and you're fascinating. But the only thing I ever trade for sex is sex. I might trade a kiss as a favor, because that's all in good fun. But nothing more."

There's an even longer silence before Folly says, "You're very forthright."

"One of my innumerable charms."

Then they simply lie there, safe in the magic circle, as the night moves around them. Yarrow's mind clears with the subtle dance of clouds overhead. He's spent many a night in the woods, but he's usually alone.

And he's spent many a night with companions, but they usually don't get much talking done.

This is nice.