fic: The Bluebird Boy
Wednesday, 14 April 2010 19:59![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
extemporallyI seem to be posting a lot of fic these days, you guys. Part of it is because I am writing more! But I wrote this last year, needed to edit one part, got blocked, discouraged, and then forgot about it. Without ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
egelantier's urging I might never have finished it. Added to my newly awakened love for Ryan Ross (ugh, new The Young Veins song, how so amazing) -- well, maybe it's time. ♥
Enough rambling!
The Bluebird Boy
Jon/Ryan
PG
6192 words
Fairytale AU. Jon's a woodcutter who goes around rescuing fae boys. He couldn't have been expected to know all the consequences of that, of course. Based heavily on Philippa Pearce's The Squirrel Wife.
This fic wouldn't be here withoutegelantier and her incessant nagging. Much love, bb. ♥
Once upon a time there was a boy-man who lived on the edges of a forest. His name was Jon, and had been trained as a carpenter. He lived in a house with many stepbrothers who were tradesmen. They sometimes jokingly called themselves the Academy, but it seemed to Jon the only art they were well-versed in was drinking and gambling the long nights away. Jon preferred a quiet life, and kept his distance from them even though they all lived in the same cramped cottage.
They weren't mean, exactly, but many was the night when he would be unable to drift off to sleep in his corner of the cottage, kept up by the others' loud noises and revelry.
One day in early fall, as Jon was dropping off to sleep, he heard the wind whistling amidst the trees in the forest and amidst the wind, a wild reedy cry. It was a strange thing, for his stepbrothers were being just as loud as ever - two of them were quarreling again - but it was a sound not drowned out, but underlined by the clamor.
"Mike," he cried, sitting up in bed and calling to the eldest, "I can hear something in the dark. It’s crying, for help."
He had to call to Mike several times before Mike would stop shouting at Tom and turn to Jon.
"I don’t hear anything," Mike said. "Go back to bed, brother Jon. The forest is dark and dangerous and not for men, especially in the night." Tom looked at him helplessly.
Jon tried, but it was hard. Even as the fight between Mike and Tom approached screaming-pitch, the sounds from the outside were not blocked out at all. The wind howled round the house alarmingly, as if it might just take the fancy to rip its roof off and fling them into the next country, and Jon was the only one who shook with the fright of it at all. More disturbingly, the cries that had assailed Jon’s ears wound down in pitch and strength but not at all in sound. It echoed in his eardrums - now the cries were soft whimpers, each slower and shorter than the last.
Finally Jon could bear it no longer and got up from his bed in his pyjamas, remembering to put on his slippers as he did so, and slipped out the door. None of his stepbrothers noticed - except the youngest, Adam, who was barely old enough to understand and stared at him with round eyes as he shut the door.
As soon as the door was closed behind him the wind let up, a little. Now, under the weak shivering moonlight, Jon could hear the whimpering more clearly than ever and headed to the spot he thought it came from. He did not have to walk far. Though the forest was dense he had a good sense of direction and walked quickly, taking care not to let the dried leaves underfoot crackle with any more noise than absolutely possible. It might be a cat, he thought, or some other animal. Surely it couldn't be a human.
By the time Jon neared the source, however, his eyes had adjusted enough to deal with the dark. A boy, his leg crushed under a fallen tree-trunk - but less boy than broken bird, surely. He had a slim figure - his ears were subtly pointed, his cheekbones too high, his hands just slightly too big, and the uppermost half of his face had been masterfully painted blue - but all this was not enough to account for the tug Jon felt in his stomach, certain and deep and true, that this boy was not human but of the forest people.
The boy looked at him, and did not speak. But Jon could tell that he was in a lot of pain. And he knew absolutely that if he left him there, this strange boy would certainly die.
Jon set to work, lifting the tree trunk the boy was trapped underneath - luckily it was only a huge young sapling - and the boy, catching the drift of Jon's plan wordlessly, squirmed and squirmed helplessly until he leg was facing away from the tree. Jon, with an almighty grunt, let go of the sapling. It thundered back down to the ground with an almighty thump.
The boy, Jon noticed, was breathing ever more shallowly now. Every so often a real cry would pass his lips, and then he would pinch his lips shut as though he were ashamed that such helpless sounds should escape his lips. It was not stated, but Jon knew that he would have to help the boy back to his home in order to allow his conscience to speak well of it. Knowing that the boy was too weak to move, he could do no better than lift him in his arms and tramp even further into the forest.
At last - having walked for a long time - Jon was quite sure that if it hadn't been so cold he would have been sweating quite profusely - they came into a clearing, where he saw more people not of his race on horseback, next to a tent. Their eyes glinted strangely in the dark, and Jon was not quite sure how he knew that they were utterly foreign to him. The lord of them all beckoned to him, and he approached. Two of the people set up a cry, and took the boy from him and brought him into their tent in order to nurse to him.
"Jon Walker," the leader said. His teeth, of which there were almost too many, gleamed in the moonlight.
"How do you know my name?" Jon said, trying not to tremble in his thin pyjamas.
"We are the clandestine people," the leader said, amused. "We know everything. Now," he added, "you appear to have saved one of our own. Ryan," for clearly that was the bird-boy's name.
"Will this ensure that I have safe passage out of the forest?" Jon asked, for he had heard the tales of the things the clandestine people of the forest would do to you.
"We will do no villainy to you," the lord said, clearly displeased, "We protect our own and will reward those who do the same."
"Oh," Jon said, wondering what this reward might be. He hoped it wouldn't be anything too cumbersome.
"Ryan ran away," the strange little lord - for he was little, shorter even than Jon, than the rest of the strange folk - said thoughtfully. "His punishment will be your reward. He shall come with you, and live with you as your husband for a year, but he shall not talk."
"I don't want a husband," Jon protested.
"Oh yes, you do," the leader said. Did Jon detect a hint of glee in his eyes? He couldn't be sure. "Lord Peter thinks you do. He is of the clandestines, and knows the secrets of the forests. Living with him will be more boon than bane."
Still, "I don't want to hold anyone against their will," Jon protested, once more.
This time the clandestine lord (Lord Peter, he’d said his name was) smiled, grimly. "He will not be held against his will," he said. "He injured himself running away."
True enough, as soon as the other clandestine fairies led the boy named Ryan out of the tent, his injury magically healed but for a slight hobble in his leg, he staggered as fast as he could to Jon's side and held on, refusing to let go.
"Ryan Ross," Lord Peter said, grimly but with perhaps just a touch of amusement in his voice, "Will you follow Jon Walker for a year and live with him and not speak as punishment for what you have done?"
Ryan nodded, and held on.
Lord Peter nodded, satisfied. "Well, all that's left is the contract. Patrick!"
The man standing on his right - red-haired and earnest - came forth with a sheaf of papers.
"Don't worry," Lord Pete said, smiling at Jon. "This is a mere formality."
Jon read the contract, squinting in the scarce moonlight the forest afforded them. Someone put a pen in his hand and he scrawled his name at the bottom of it - and so did Ryan. Then the papers burst into flame and curled into ash before their eyes.
Jon glanced at Ryan. His face, illuminated by fire, looked frightened.
"I don't understand," he said. "What's the point of signing the contract if you're just going to set it on fire?"
Lord Pete laughed delightedly. "Oh, I like this one!" he said. Jon didn't feel reassured.
"The paper's existence," Pete said, "is extraneous. What matters is you signed it. And once signed, fairy contracts cannot be revoked. Fairie." He tapped his nose delightedly.
Jon was feeling a little overwhelmed. He'd only set out to rescue someone.
"I'm ready to go, I think," he said shortly.
Patrick clapped his hands, and a pure white path, shimmering, appeared in front of Jon and Ryan. Ryan darted away, and hugged a fairy - tall, long-limbed, bearded - before returning to Jon's side. Meanwhile Jon stared at the path. He was rather sure that the path was floating above the forest floor, and even more certain that the path pointed in the opposite direction where he had come from.
"That is not where my homestead lies," he said, finally.
The forest lord cracked a smile. "Jon Walker, oh," he said. "You cannot go home any longer. You must put down roots with Ryan in a place you've never known, amongst people who do not know you. It is the clandestine law."
It didn't seem like much of a reward to Jon, and indeed he was half-tempted to say no thank you and go back home to slide into sleep. The next day he would be convinced it was all a dream. Yet the look on Ryan's face, urgent and excited and hopeful, prevented him. So he stepped onto the path, grabbing Ryan's hand along after him. They started walking.
"Goodbye," he said, turning around and waving.
And Lord Peter said, "Goodbye, Jon Walker. I hope you will have no call to visit on us anymore," and watched them go with a face half-grave, half-full of the spirit of fairy.
They walked for a good long while until they reached the edge of the forest, or so it seemed. Yet Jon did not feel tired, and despite the limp in his leg Ryan seemed to be keeping good time.
Not a word passed between them, as they walked and walked. Jon wasn’t quite sure which words he wanted to say.
Eventually they reached a village, and then an inn. Jon jerked his head towards it and together they stumbled in through the door, where a room was available and supper was being served.
As they ate Ryan looked down at the table, at the grate where a fire was burning, at his stew – anywhere but Jon. Jon couldn’t tell if it was because Ryan didn’t want to look at him, or if it was because everything was new and strange to him.
"What do you think of building a cabin near the woods in the village this side of the forest?" he said aloud, because after all Ryan might quite like to stay near the forest still.
Ryan's head jerked up and gave him a curious searching glance, as if he were surprised that that had been what Jon was thinking about.
Jon shrugged. "I just thought you'd like to live near the forest," he said, and was about to return to his stew when he felt the briefest touch on his sleeve, and turned again. Ryan stared into the fire, seemingly unconcerned, but gave Jon a sideways glance and nodded briefly. Jon took that to mean he was pleased.
When they retired to the room, however, Ryan was silent again; not just in the sense that he wasn’t saying anything but also in the sense that his movements were slow and still and deliberate, like he was trying not to disturb the air.
Jon had never been married before, not even conventionally, so he didn't quite know what he was supposed to do. Ryan stood before him expectantly, hands tucked under his armpits. Jon looked at him quizzically but didn't say a word. Two could play at this game.
Finally Ryan made an impatient noise, and leaned closer to Jon, finally surging upwards so he could slip a hand over the back of Jon's neck and kissed him.
Jon had kissed and been kissed before, and after the first two seconds thought that the way Ryan kissed was almost mechanical, and puzzled over it. When Jon opened his mouth automatically Ryan slipped his tongue in, and -- no, no, this was definitely wrong --
Jon broke off the kiss, and pulled back, looking at Ryan, who looked back at him with a question in his eyes. He seemed rather confused, and almost angry.
"No, wait," Jon said, panting despite himself. "We -- Ryan," Ryan had dropped his eyes, and Ryan couldn't speak, and Jon couldn't ask about why Ryan had seemed so desperate to come with Jon but so reluctant at being here, but he thought that Ryan should not do anything he felt he had been forced into doing.
"We don't have to do this," Jon said softly. "I'm sorry you don’t want to be here, I really am, and I can't help that, but we don't have to do this."
After a long ragged pause Ryan finally nodded, eyes still on Jon. Jon had no idea anyone could go so long without blinking.
Jon walked over to the bed and removed a pillow and put it on the floor, mumbling, "I'll sleep here for tonight."
He was just about to lie down when Ryan shook his head, fervently, and pointed at the bed. There was something like gratitude in his eyes, and more than anything Jon hated that. So he sighed, and picked up his pillow again, smacking it melodramatically and tutting at the dirt, before placing it on the bed and grinning at Ryan.
Ryan gave a little smile, and then it became a full-blown grin.
Aha, Jon thought, unexpectedly delighted, and then they unexpectedly spent a full five seconds trading smiles before finally lying down and going to sleep.
Soon they settled down in a house Jon built from logs on the edge of the forest. On Saturdays Jon would bring the furniture he had made to the market fair in the nearest village, and the people would pay him with coins he used to buy food with. Ryan was a pleasant house-mate, despite the fact that he never spoke. He kept the house clean as Jon would go out every day to cut new wood down, and would cook reasonably well, even though Jon never found as much entertainment in eating the food as he did in watching Ryan cook it. He would sniff and stir and sniff some more, his face strangely reminiscent of all the watching woodland creatures Jon had ever been able to observe up close.
The village folk, however, were quite another question. They seemed to like Jon well enough but seemed cold and suspicious towards Ryan. Strangely enough, they never questioned the way Jon had come into their village, merely accepted him as one of their own. Jon wondered, once or twice, if Lord Peter had had anything to do with it.
He wondered also if Lord Peter continued to have anything to do with it. Sometimes – not very often, but sometimes – he would be sitting in the cabin with Ryan, or they would be out in the forest. That was when he would glimpse a strange flutter from the corner of his eye, or hear a low-pitched giggle. And then Jon would turn around and see nothing else but the sight of a straight-backed Ryan with his eyes oddly wide.
For Ryan would often go out with Jon and lay his hand on tree trunks with an inexplicable look on his face - just waiting and watching. And then indicate, with a shake of his head or a tug on Jon's arm, whether or not it was fit to cut. The trees he chose inevitably had the best wood - aged and sharp. And since good wood made for good furniture, especially when one was as unshoddy a workman as Jon was, they soon came to make a comfortable living for themselves in the rough log cabin lurking around the edges of the forest. It was a comfortable life. Jon had never been one for talking himself, and he often talked to Ryan much as he would talk aloud to himself.
Ryan would answer not through words but through an affectionate nod or a weakly-enforced headbutt. In this way Jon soon came to understand Ryan's body language, much as one human being might understand another through the normal medium of speech - or stronger.
Once, however, they found themselves in a clearing they had never been. Ryan wandered around as he was so often wont to, eyes aglow. Jon had spotted a huge tree - bigger than anything else he had witnessed, if he and Ryan both had tried to hug the tree their fingertips would barely meet - and called, "Oh, Ryan," while drawing his axe, wandering how best to cut it.
Ryan appeared at his side almost at once, eyes angry and closed-off. He gave Jon's arm such a strong tug that Jon was been stunned into submission. Ryan gave him a long, searching look - then promptly turned on his back and stomped back to the cabin. Jon, bemused and defensive, simply followed. They cut no more trees that day, and Ryan only forgave him at dinner time, when Jon had apologised, aware of the deeply offensive nature of his actions without quite knowing why.
Mostly, though, they were happy. Even if Ryan could not speak (and though he had been reticent at first) he soon came to show his affection in other ways. On the many long evenings they would sit by the fire and Ryan would reach up to stroke the hair on Jon's forehead to curls with long slow fingers. Sometimes when Jon touched him he would let out a small, low sound that sounded like a chirp.
Even though they would sit together by the fire and Ryan would stroke Jon's hair and Jon would reach over and touch Ryan's hand, however, they did little else. They might have slept in the same bed - Jon had built only one - nothing more happened. Jon could not quite say why, although he could easily blame Ryan's inability to speak and the leader's invocation that Ryan had to stay with Jon. Ryan did nothing to encourage more, either.
"Is it true," Jon asked once, seemingly into the ether, "That you'll be able to speak after the year is over?"
It seemed he had said the right thing, for Ryan smiled brightly and leaned his head against Jon's collarbones. Jon watched the flicker of flame in Ryan's eyes - the same eyes that so often seemed so strange and otherworldly and covered Ryan's hand with his own, and willed his heart to stop racing or bursting out of his chest.
Spring came soon enough. As the weather warmed it would often be possible to walk through parts of the forest more than five steps away from the cabin, and they often did, rambling through the forests together for no reason other than for the pleasure it gave them. Over the past winter he had brought a small banjo home. He had traded it with the still-distrusting village folk for a huge chest of drawers, and Ryan learnt to play it, picking out the strings with his fingers, light and delicate. They whiled away a good many winter nights in the cabins, Jon teaching Ryan the hale and hearty songs his stepbrothers had taught him in his youth. He knew those times had been less than a year ago, but still so far away.
The songs that had seemed so rich in winter acquired a new lightness in spring, too. Ryan would not sing, but he would pluck at the instrument while Jon sang softly and clapped along, the blush of pleasure on his cheeks apparent. Often Jon would succeed in catching Ryan off his guard by ceasing to sing suddenly, and catch Ryan at the soft hum he gave while he played.
Spring passed into summer, and much as he tried, Jon could not ignore the combination of dread and excitement he felt when he remembered that it was only two months more to September, when Ryan would regain his ability to talk - and leave. This was because Ryan seemed happy enough with him, but it was summer, and the forest brought the both of them more joy than ever. Jon was happy that Ryan was happy too, but it was with a sinking feeling with his belly to think of how much happier Ryan would be roaming the forest in September and being able to speak, alone and free.
It didn’t help, also, that the whispers surrounding them had begun to spread. The village-folk knew that Ryan and Jon were a couple, but nothing else was known. Their reclusiveness bred suspicion, and whenever Ryan came to town they would throw long stares at him. As the season came on these sojourns became less often, as if he too had begun to sense the hostility and would occasionally gain a guarded look Jon knew better to interpret as frightened, and press up close next to Jon.
Ryan had never been of much ease amongst human company. Jon had not minded it, not even squashed into a small cottage with his five stepbrothers, but soon he came to loathe it too; loathe the inquisitive and resentful stares of the village people.
One night, as he was sleeping in the bed, curled close to Ryan, he awoke to find a voice he never thought he would hear again, and a muscle curled insistently around his bicep. Blinking, dazed, half-asleep --
"Jon? Jon. Wake up," and then, "Oh, hell's bells."
Unsure he was not dreaming still, and unsure that this was really Tom's voice, Jon deliberately stayed motionless under the hope that the voice would soon prove to be a fleeting illusion and pass away. When, however, he felt himself being lifted from the bed - Ryan stirred - he finally realised that this was no dream, someone was taking him away - but the person (people?) handling him proved to be too strong for him, and one of them thumped him on the head, and Jon had no time for barely a groan or shout before passing out again.
When he came to he was back in his old cottage, the faces of his stepbrothers surrounding him as he struggled to adjust and find his bearings. Already the log cabin seemed a dream. Jon thought of Ryan and caught his breath.
Very evenly, Jon said, "What have you done to me?"
Mike gave him an incredulous look. "What have we done, Jon? We've rescued you, that's all."
"I didn't need rescuing," he said, fighting down his anger. He wondered, desperate and unsure, what had happened to Ryan? And he also wondered if the log cabin itself was still standing across the wood, or if it too had disappeared with daylight.
"The village folk told us that you'd been bewitched, Jonathan," the second eldest said. William's eyes were sharp and earnest. "You went off without a warning - no explanation, we never knew what had happened of you."
Jon was silenced, and surprisingly touched. He had not expected this concern from his stepbrothers. He looked around – and saw that Sisky had grown tall and strong since that last autumn night.
"I wasn't bewitched," he said. "No, I wasn't."
"Then what happened to you?" Butcher asked.
"What happened to Ryan?" Jon asked. William and Mike shot each other looks, as if to say I told you so. Tom, his favourite stepbrother, hung around the edges of the cluster around Jon's bed, and bit his lip, looking unhappy and unsure.
"He left," said Mike. "We brought you out and we'd come back to look for him when we found he'd disappeared."
Jon couldn't speak a word. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, because Ryan had abandoned him, or perhaps abandoned wasn't the right word, since they had never truly been together in the first place. Perhaps he had run back to the fairy-folk once more.
Butcher threw him a kind look, and said, "We'll leave you to rest."
The door closed, and Jon, for lack of anything better to do, closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. After a minute, however, he could bear it no longer. He flung open the door and raced straight into the forest - here the cottage was further from the trees than their log cabin had ever been - and paused on its edge, waiting. Here his dulled senses were no sharper; nor did he experience the urge to explore it as he once had with Ryan. It was late afternoon, and though the summer sun filtered through the leaved canopy against the sky the forest seemed more threatening than it had for a long time.
Jon waited - for what he did not know - for a long while, then eventually turned around and walked back to the cottage he and his stepbrothers occupied, head bowed all the while.
"Jon."
Jon was half-awake, but put the whispery invocation of his name down to the leaves blowing in the wind. He turned on his side and tried to sleep again. The feeling in his chest was back, his heart dull and unhappy.
"Jon. Jon. Jon."
He couldn't ignore it any longer - for what had happened the last time he had refused to be awaken! - and sat up. There, framed against the fading light of the long summer night, was Tom, chewing his lip and looking conflicted.
"He told me to give you this," Tom said, shoving something small and stiff into Jon's uncomprehending hand.
Jon had to lift the object, whatever it was, up to the light to look at it. There, framed quietly as if in a still hush, was the wooden bird Jon had carved for Ryan the past spring, thinking it was quite the best thing he had ever made by himself, until he had given it to Ryan. Then Ryan had stood so still and broken into such a sudden beam (even though he had quite clearly also registered his disapproval - Jon, you ought not to cut down trees for this purpose - with a shake of his head) that Jon had stood still, tucking the image away in his mind for memory, forever.
"From Ryan," Tom said softly, as if Jon might not have known.
"Then," Tom said, talking softly and insistently, as if he could hope to tell Jon anything more about Ryan that Jon did not already know, "he turned into a bird, Jon! Turned into a bird and flew away before the rest of us could find him!" Although this was something, indeed, that Jon did not know, he did not deign to reply and instead held a finger to his lips, for the loudness and pitch of Tom's voice had risen. Beside them, Mike stirred, and Tom subsided uneasily. Jon stared at the bird - and he couldn't be quite sure, really, but he thought he could detect a trace of blue paint between the bird's eyes, above the beak.
"I must go to him," Jon murmured. "I must, I must --"
Tom waved his hand awkwardly, and Jon stopped and looked at him. This hadn't changed, he thought, when he saw Tom go red again. "Nothing," Tom said loudly, then winced when Mike groaned and turned over. "I just meant," he said, speaking more softly now, "That you should go. Pretty soon, I mean."
Jon gave Tom a last long look, before pulling Tom into a hug. They didn't exchange any more words.
The cottage was still and silent for once as Jon left it, enlivened only by the sound of his stepbrothers' breathing.
It was a long walk into the forest, but Jon felt as if he was renewed by its pine scents and heavy cricket noises once more as he walked along, drowning awash in the darkness of cover only the forest could provide. Jon was not sure if this was the correct place to seek him out, and was still frightened of the threat of the clandestine people - what the threatening tales of them told of might yet come true - but continued along, anyway.
He didn’t have any other place to go.
Eventually he came to a clearing, the same one in spirit if not in location as the one he had come to before, and called, "Ryan! Ryan! Ryan!" He felt slightly foolish standing in a clearing where he could see nor hear no one, nothing, but still his tone grew in urgency, his voice in loudness.
"Who calls?" came a sleepy voice to his left. Jon spun around. It was one of the Clandestine.
"Might I speak to your lord, please," he said, quietly and firmly as he knew how, trying not to tremble from head to foot. The fairy-person disappeared, and Jon stood still trying not to shake from head to foot, for all was silent again except for the sounds the forest made, in the night.
"Jon Walker," the leader said, finally stepping out of the darkness for a good long while. Jon saw that today he wore a cloak of purple and had a female fairy on his right, red-haired and with a pointed nose. She was holding a baby to her hip so easily it seemed that one hand or one finger was all that she needed to hold the baby imp there.
The lord of the forest said, "I thought I bid you come back no longer."
"You did," Jon said, humbly. "But I have reason to suspect that Ryan Ross is with you once again. May I have him back, please?"
Finally Lord Peter could sustain it no longer and broke into a smile, both sly and grim. "You are a fine pair of lovers! One goes missing and the other flies home, before his time is up. Tell me, did you ever see such a pair." All around him - Jon noticed now that they were arranged in a circle around the clearing - the clandestine people broke into a murmur.
"However," the lord said, his smile fading, "Clandestine favours cannot be given twice."
Jon felt like shouting, but he didn’t. His eyes burning against his skull, he opened his mouth to protest and didn't - for strange as it sounded, even though Jon was still well aware of the fact that the leader was more diminutive than him - suddenly it felt as though Lord Peter and all his forest people were towering above him.
"What can be done?" Jon asked, shivering slightly. He didn't like the feeling of being surrounded.
"You must make a choice," the lord said. "Either you can have a pet bird, or you have a normal man who can give you no more secrets of the forest. Or you may go home, having made no choice, and return no longer." He lifted his cupped palms, and Jon saw - though he had never noticed it before - a tiny blue bird shimmering in them, and as the forest lord lifted he threw. And the bird sailed in a graceful arc through the air, its squawks possessing the same quality of plaintiveness in the cry Jon had heard in the forest so many nights ago, before halfway through the trajectory it began to find its wind again and flapped its wings frantically, causing a continuously deep laugh-rumble from amongst the forest people stationed around the edges, before coming down to rest on Jon's shoulder all the same. And Jon knew that the bird that was resting on his shoulder was Ryan.
"A man needs a man," Jon said respectfully, having thought it over during the brief seconds the bird had come tumbling through the air. Or perhaps he had made up his mind since Lord Peter had given him that ultimatum, or the first time he had carried Ryan through the forest. In any case, his mind had been made up by the time the bird was resting safely on his shoulder. "So if you don't mind, sir."
Lord Peter threw his head back and laughed, showing his teeth to the moonlight. It struck Jon for the second time how much he looked like a donkey, and he wandered if the clandestine forest people were not after all amongst the normal humans during daylight, as animals who then found their way to the forest when night fell.
"Good," the lord of the clandestines said, "You have made a good choice. And if you hadn't come for him - " here he bared his teeth and he resembled a donkey again, only this time Jon knew what it was to be frightened of him - "the contract would have worked its magic. But there is no point in talking about this now!"
Patrick, from his position beside Lord Peter, clapped his hands once more. This time, a trembling music-note glistened in the air before a shimmering white path appeared once more before Jon and the bird resting on his shoulder, this time leading back to his stepbrothers' cottage.
When Jon looked at him in confusion the lord said, "Now that you are to live like men, you must learn to live amongst men. Now, go."
Jon heeded him, and they set foot on the path once more. When their cottage came within sight he looked behind him and saw that the path behind them had vanished, like a silky carpet rolled up as soon as they had lifted their feet off it. All that was left behind them were their shadows.
For there they were, the shadows of two people. One possessed the broad shoulders and stumpy legs Jon had seen on himself every day of his life, while the other's silhouette told of skinny arms and wild hair. Jon looked beside him with delight, and Ryan was there once more, a little mussed for the walk but looking just as he always had before. Wordlessly Jon pulled him into a hug. Not quite wanting to return to the cottage where his stepbrothers slept just yet, he pulled Ryan to a large flat stone he knew was there, and the both of them sat down on it, looking all around them - at the cottage, at the forest - and then finally, finally, finally, at each other.
This time Ryan was the one who leaned over and dragged Jon into a kiss. Jon put his arms around Ryan, marveling at how bony he seemed, running his arms up and down Ryan's spine and his shoulder blades, and opened his mouth for a kiss that was hot and wet and utterly satisfying.
"Jon," Ryan said. This was the first time Jon had heard his voice, and it was flat and unused but happy and sounded wet, the way mouths always did after kissing with tongues did. Jon leant back on his elbows and stared at him. He did a lot of staring, even though he knew that he would have the rest of their lives to stare at him - and stared at his mouth and then the rest of him again.
"Ryan," Jon said, after it was quite clear by Ryan's cocked eyebrow and quizzical expression that he expected Jon to say something. "Will you -- come with me?"
"Yes," Ryan said, "But not in the forest, for the time being, I don't know, I liked living around the edges of the forest with you, Jon, but now I want to try something new, I want to go somewhere else, and spend some time with your family, if that's all right?" He said all this anxiously, as if he were afraid that Jon would suddenly demand they live in the forest and nowhere else, even though Jon was perfectly sure from the set of Ryan's shoulders that he would fight for this.
But Jon was an eminently reasonable person, and covered Ryan's hand with his, and agreed, pulling the both of them up and without taking a last look behind them led Ryan back to the cottage where they would stay a few nights, perhaps, before starting on with the rest of their lives.
coda.
egelantier's urging I might never have finished it. Added to my newly awakened love for Ryan Ross (ugh, new The Young Veins song, how so amazing) -- well, maybe it's time. ♥Enough rambling!
The Bluebird Boy
Jon/Ryan
PG
6192 words
Fairytale AU. Jon's a woodcutter who goes around rescuing fae boys. He couldn't have been expected to know all the consequences of that, of course. Based heavily on Philippa Pearce's The Squirrel Wife.
This fic wouldn't be here without
egelantier and her incessant nagging. Much love, bb. ♥Once upon a time there was a boy-man who lived on the edges of a forest. His name was Jon, and had been trained as a carpenter. He lived in a house with many stepbrothers who were tradesmen. They sometimes jokingly called themselves the Academy, but it seemed to Jon the only art they were well-versed in was drinking and gambling the long nights away. Jon preferred a quiet life, and kept his distance from them even though they all lived in the same cramped cottage.
They weren't mean, exactly, but many was the night when he would be unable to drift off to sleep in his corner of the cottage, kept up by the others' loud noises and revelry.
One day in early fall, as Jon was dropping off to sleep, he heard the wind whistling amidst the trees in the forest and amidst the wind, a wild reedy cry. It was a strange thing, for his stepbrothers were being just as loud as ever - two of them were quarreling again - but it was a sound not drowned out, but underlined by the clamor.
"Mike," he cried, sitting up in bed and calling to the eldest, "I can hear something in the dark. It’s crying, for help."
He had to call to Mike several times before Mike would stop shouting at Tom and turn to Jon.
"I don’t hear anything," Mike said. "Go back to bed, brother Jon. The forest is dark and dangerous and not for men, especially in the night." Tom looked at him helplessly.
Jon tried, but it was hard. Even as the fight between Mike and Tom approached screaming-pitch, the sounds from the outside were not blocked out at all. The wind howled round the house alarmingly, as if it might just take the fancy to rip its roof off and fling them into the next country, and Jon was the only one who shook with the fright of it at all. More disturbingly, the cries that had assailed Jon’s ears wound down in pitch and strength but not at all in sound. It echoed in his eardrums - now the cries were soft whimpers, each slower and shorter than the last.
Finally Jon could bear it no longer and got up from his bed in his pyjamas, remembering to put on his slippers as he did so, and slipped out the door. None of his stepbrothers noticed - except the youngest, Adam, who was barely old enough to understand and stared at him with round eyes as he shut the door.
As soon as the door was closed behind him the wind let up, a little. Now, under the weak shivering moonlight, Jon could hear the whimpering more clearly than ever and headed to the spot he thought it came from. He did not have to walk far. Though the forest was dense he had a good sense of direction and walked quickly, taking care not to let the dried leaves underfoot crackle with any more noise than absolutely possible. It might be a cat, he thought, or some other animal. Surely it couldn't be a human.
By the time Jon neared the source, however, his eyes had adjusted enough to deal with the dark. A boy, his leg crushed under a fallen tree-trunk - but less boy than broken bird, surely. He had a slim figure - his ears were subtly pointed, his cheekbones too high, his hands just slightly too big, and the uppermost half of his face had been masterfully painted blue - but all this was not enough to account for the tug Jon felt in his stomach, certain and deep and true, that this boy was not human but of the forest people.
The boy looked at him, and did not speak. But Jon could tell that he was in a lot of pain. And he knew absolutely that if he left him there, this strange boy would certainly die.
Jon set to work, lifting the tree trunk the boy was trapped underneath - luckily it was only a huge young sapling - and the boy, catching the drift of Jon's plan wordlessly, squirmed and squirmed helplessly until he leg was facing away from the tree. Jon, with an almighty grunt, let go of the sapling. It thundered back down to the ground with an almighty thump.
The boy, Jon noticed, was breathing ever more shallowly now. Every so often a real cry would pass his lips, and then he would pinch his lips shut as though he were ashamed that such helpless sounds should escape his lips. It was not stated, but Jon knew that he would have to help the boy back to his home in order to allow his conscience to speak well of it. Knowing that the boy was too weak to move, he could do no better than lift him in his arms and tramp even further into the forest.
At last - having walked for a long time - Jon was quite sure that if it hadn't been so cold he would have been sweating quite profusely - they came into a clearing, where he saw more people not of his race on horseback, next to a tent. Their eyes glinted strangely in the dark, and Jon was not quite sure how he knew that they were utterly foreign to him. The lord of them all beckoned to him, and he approached. Two of the people set up a cry, and took the boy from him and brought him into their tent in order to nurse to him.
"Jon Walker," the leader said. His teeth, of which there were almost too many, gleamed in the moonlight.
"How do you know my name?" Jon said, trying not to tremble in his thin pyjamas.
"We are the clandestine people," the leader said, amused. "We know everything. Now," he added, "you appear to have saved one of our own. Ryan," for clearly that was the bird-boy's name.
"Will this ensure that I have safe passage out of the forest?" Jon asked, for he had heard the tales of the things the clandestine people of the forest would do to you.
"We will do no villainy to you," the lord said, clearly displeased, "We protect our own and will reward those who do the same."
"Oh," Jon said, wondering what this reward might be. He hoped it wouldn't be anything too cumbersome.
"Ryan ran away," the strange little lord - for he was little, shorter even than Jon, than the rest of the strange folk - said thoughtfully. "His punishment will be your reward. He shall come with you, and live with you as your husband for a year, but he shall not talk."
"I don't want a husband," Jon protested.
"Oh yes, you do," the leader said. Did Jon detect a hint of glee in his eyes? He couldn't be sure. "Lord Peter thinks you do. He is of the clandestines, and knows the secrets of the forests. Living with him will be more boon than bane."
Still, "I don't want to hold anyone against their will," Jon protested, once more.
This time the clandestine lord (Lord Peter, he’d said his name was) smiled, grimly. "He will not be held against his will," he said. "He injured himself running away."
True enough, as soon as the other clandestine fairies led the boy named Ryan out of the tent, his injury magically healed but for a slight hobble in his leg, he staggered as fast as he could to Jon's side and held on, refusing to let go.
"Ryan Ross," Lord Peter said, grimly but with perhaps just a touch of amusement in his voice, "Will you follow Jon Walker for a year and live with him and not speak as punishment for what you have done?"
Ryan nodded, and held on.
Lord Peter nodded, satisfied. "Well, all that's left is the contract. Patrick!"
The man standing on his right - red-haired and earnest - came forth with a sheaf of papers.
"Don't worry," Lord Pete said, smiling at Jon. "This is a mere formality."
Jon read the contract, squinting in the scarce moonlight the forest afforded them. Someone put a pen in his hand and he scrawled his name at the bottom of it - and so did Ryan. Then the papers burst into flame and curled into ash before their eyes.
Jon glanced at Ryan. His face, illuminated by fire, looked frightened.
"I don't understand," he said. "What's the point of signing the contract if you're just going to set it on fire?"
Lord Pete laughed delightedly. "Oh, I like this one!" he said. Jon didn't feel reassured.
"The paper's existence," Pete said, "is extraneous. What matters is you signed it. And once signed, fairy contracts cannot be revoked. Fairie." He tapped his nose delightedly.
Jon was feeling a little overwhelmed. He'd only set out to rescue someone.
"I'm ready to go, I think," he said shortly.
Patrick clapped his hands, and a pure white path, shimmering, appeared in front of Jon and Ryan. Ryan darted away, and hugged a fairy - tall, long-limbed, bearded - before returning to Jon's side. Meanwhile Jon stared at the path. He was rather sure that the path was floating above the forest floor, and even more certain that the path pointed in the opposite direction where he had come from.
"That is not where my homestead lies," he said, finally.
The forest lord cracked a smile. "Jon Walker, oh," he said. "You cannot go home any longer. You must put down roots with Ryan in a place you've never known, amongst people who do not know you. It is the clandestine law."
It didn't seem like much of a reward to Jon, and indeed he was half-tempted to say no thank you and go back home to slide into sleep. The next day he would be convinced it was all a dream. Yet the look on Ryan's face, urgent and excited and hopeful, prevented him. So he stepped onto the path, grabbing Ryan's hand along after him. They started walking.
"Goodbye," he said, turning around and waving.
And Lord Peter said, "Goodbye, Jon Walker. I hope you will have no call to visit on us anymore," and watched them go with a face half-grave, half-full of the spirit of fairy.
They walked for a good long while until they reached the edge of the forest, or so it seemed. Yet Jon did not feel tired, and despite the limp in his leg Ryan seemed to be keeping good time.
Not a word passed between them, as they walked and walked. Jon wasn’t quite sure which words he wanted to say.
Eventually they reached a village, and then an inn. Jon jerked his head towards it and together they stumbled in through the door, where a room was available and supper was being served.
As they ate Ryan looked down at the table, at the grate where a fire was burning, at his stew – anywhere but Jon. Jon couldn’t tell if it was because Ryan didn’t want to look at him, or if it was because everything was new and strange to him.
"What do you think of building a cabin near the woods in the village this side of the forest?" he said aloud, because after all Ryan might quite like to stay near the forest still.
Ryan's head jerked up and gave him a curious searching glance, as if he were surprised that that had been what Jon was thinking about.
Jon shrugged. "I just thought you'd like to live near the forest," he said, and was about to return to his stew when he felt the briefest touch on his sleeve, and turned again. Ryan stared into the fire, seemingly unconcerned, but gave Jon a sideways glance and nodded briefly. Jon took that to mean he was pleased.
When they retired to the room, however, Ryan was silent again; not just in the sense that he wasn’t saying anything but also in the sense that his movements were slow and still and deliberate, like he was trying not to disturb the air.
Jon had never been married before, not even conventionally, so he didn't quite know what he was supposed to do. Ryan stood before him expectantly, hands tucked under his armpits. Jon looked at him quizzically but didn't say a word. Two could play at this game.
Finally Ryan made an impatient noise, and leaned closer to Jon, finally surging upwards so he could slip a hand over the back of Jon's neck and kissed him.
Jon had kissed and been kissed before, and after the first two seconds thought that the way Ryan kissed was almost mechanical, and puzzled over it. When Jon opened his mouth automatically Ryan slipped his tongue in, and -- no, no, this was definitely wrong --
Jon broke off the kiss, and pulled back, looking at Ryan, who looked back at him with a question in his eyes. He seemed rather confused, and almost angry.
"No, wait," Jon said, panting despite himself. "We -- Ryan," Ryan had dropped his eyes, and Ryan couldn't speak, and Jon couldn't ask about why Ryan had seemed so desperate to come with Jon but so reluctant at being here, but he thought that Ryan should not do anything he felt he had been forced into doing.
"We don't have to do this," Jon said softly. "I'm sorry you don’t want to be here, I really am, and I can't help that, but we don't have to do this."
After a long ragged pause Ryan finally nodded, eyes still on Jon. Jon had no idea anyone could go so long without blinking.
Jon walked over to the bed and removed a pillow and put it on the floor, mumbling, "I'll sleep here for tonight."
He was just about to lie down when Ryan shook his head, fervently, and pointed at the bed. There was something like gratitude in his eyes, and more than anything Jon hated that. So he sighed, and picked up his pillow again, smacking it melodramatically and tutting at the dirt, before placing it on the bed and grinning at Ryan.
Ryan gave a little smile, and then it became a full-blown grin.
Aha, Jon thought, unexpectedly delighted, and then they unexpectedly spent a full five seconds trading smiles before finally lying down and going to sleep.
Soon they settled down in a house Jon built from logs on the edge of the forest. On Saturdays Jon would bring the furniture he had made to the market fair in the nearest village, and the people would pay him with coins he used to buy food with. Ryan was a pleasant house-mate, despite the fact that he never spoke. He kept the house clean as Jon would go out every day to cut new wood down, and would cook reasonably well, even though Jon never found as much entertainment in eating the food as he did in watching Ryan cook it. He would sniff and stir and sniff some more, his face strangely reminiscent of all the watching woodland creatures Jon had ever been able to observe up close.
The village folk, however, were quite another question. They seemed to like Jon well enough but seemed cold and suspicious towards Ryan. Strangely enough, they never questioned the way Jon had come into their village, merely accepted him as one of their own. Jon wondered, once or twice, if Lord Peter had had anything to do with it.
He wondered also if Lord Peter continued to have anything to do with it. Sometimes – not very often, but sometimes – he would be sitting in the cabin with Ryan, or they would be out in the forest. That was when he would glimpse a strange flutter from the corner of his eye, or hear a low-pitched giggle. And then Jon would turn around and see nothing else but the sight of a straight-backed Ryan with his eyes oddly wide.
For Ryan would often go out with Jon and lay his hand on tree trunks with an inexplicable look on his face - just waiting and watching. And then indicate, with a shake of his head or a tug on Jon's arm, whether or not it was fit to cut. The trees he chose inevitably had the best wood - aged and sharp. And since good wood made for good furniture, especially when one was as unshoddy a workman as Jon was, they soon came to make a comfortable living for themselves in the rough log cabin lurking around the edges of the forest. It was a comfortable life. Jon had never been one for talking himself, and he often talked to Ryan much as he would talk aloud to himself.
Ryan would answer not through words but through an affectionate nod or a weakly-enforced headbutt. In this way Jon soon came to understand Ryan's body language, much as one human being might understand another through the normal medium of speech - or stronger.
Once, however, they found themselves in a clearing they had never been. Ryan wandered around as he was so often wont to, eyes aglow. Jon had spotted a huge tree - bigger than anything else he had witnessed, if he and Ryan both had tried to hug the tree their fingertips would barely meet - and called, "Oh, Ryan," while drawing his axe, wandering how best to cut it.
Ryan appeared at his side almost at once, eyes angry and closed-off. He gave Jon's arm such a strong tug that Jon was been stunned into submission. Ryan gave him a long, searching look - then promptly turned on his back and stomped back to the cabin. Jon, bemused and defensive, simply followed. They cut no more trees that day, and Ryan only forgave him at dinner time, when Jon had apologised, aware of the deeply offensive nature of his actions without quite knowing why.
Mostly, though, they were happy. Even if Ryan could not speak (and though he had been reticent at first) he soon came to show his affection in other ways. On the many long evenings they would sit by the fire and Ryan would reach up to stroke the hair on Jon's forehead to curls with long slow fingers. Sometimes when Jon touched him he would let out a small, low sound that sounded like a chirp.
Even though they would sit together by the fire and Ryan would stroke Jon's hair and Jon would reach over and touch Ryan's hand, however, they did little else. They might have slept in the same bed - Jon had built only one - nothing more happened. Jon could not quite say why, although he could easily blame Ryan's inability to speak and the leader's invocation that Ryan had to stay with Jon. Ryan did nothing to encourage more, either.
"Is it true," Jon asked once, seemingly into the ether, "That you'll be able to speak after the year is over?"
It seemed he had said the right thing, for Ryan smiled brightly and leaned his head against Jon's collarbones. Jon watched the flicker of flame in Ryan's eyes - the same eyes that so often seemed so strange and otherworldly and covered Ryan's hand with his own, and willed his heart to stop racing or bursting out of his chest.
Spring came soon enough. As the weather warmed it would often be possible to walk through parts of the forest more than five steps away from the cabin, and they often did, rambling through the forests together for no reason other than for the pleasure it gave them. Over the past winter he had brought a small banjo home. He had traded it with the still-distrusting village folk for a huge chest of drawers, and Ryan learnt to play it, picking out the strings with his fingers, light and delicate. They whiled away a good many winter nights in the cabins, Jon teaching Ryan the hale and hearty songs his stepbrothers had taught him in his youth. He knew those times had been less than a year ago, but still so far away.
The songs that had seemed so rich in winter acquired a new lightness in spring, too. Ryan would not sing, but he would pluck at the instrument while Jon sang softly and clapped along, the blush of pleasure on his cheeks apparent. Often Jon would succeed in catching Ryan off his guard by ceasing to sing suddenly, and catch Ryan at the soft hum he gave while he played.
Spring passed into summer, and much as he tried, Jon could not ignore the combination of dread and excitement he felt when he remembered that it was only two months more to September, when Ryan would regain his ability to talk - and leave. This was because Ryan seemed happy enough with him, but it was summer, and the forest brought the both of them more joy than ever. Jon was happy that Ryan was happy too, but it was with a sinking feeling with his belly to think of how much happier Ryan would be roaming the forest in September and being able to speak, alone and free.
It didn’t help, also, that the whispers surrounding them had begun to spread. The village-folk knew that Ryan and Jon were a couple, but nothing else was known. Their reclusiveness bred suspicion, and whenever Ryan came to town they would throw long stares at him. As the season came on these sojourns became less often, as if he too had begun to sense the hostility and would occasionally gain a guarded look Jon knew better to interpret as frightened, and press up close next to Jon.
Ryan had never been of much ease amongst human company. Jon had not minded it, not even squashed into a small cottage with his five stepbrothers, but soon he came to loathe it too; loathe the inquisitive and resentful stares of the village people.
One night, as he was sleeping in the bed, curled close to Ryan, he awoke to find a voice he never thought he would hear again, and a muscle curled insistently around his bicep. Blinking, dazed, half-asleep --
"Jon? Jon. Wake up," and then, "Oh, hell's bells."
Unsure he was not dreaming still, and unsure that this was really Tom's voice, Jon deliberately stayed motionless under the hope that the voice would soon prove to be a fleeting illusion and pass away. When, however, he felt himself being lifted from the bed - Ryan stirred - he finally realised that this was no dream, someone was taking him away - but the person (people?) handling him proved to be too strong for him, and one of them thumped him on the head, and Jon had no time for barely a groan or shout before passing out again.
When he came to he was back in his old cottage, the faces of his stepbrothers surrounding him as he struggled to adjust and find his bearings. Already the log cabin seemed a dream. Jon thought of Ryan and caught his breath.
Very evenly, Jon said, "What have you done to me?"
Mike gave him an incredulous look. "What have we done, Jon? We've rescued you, that's all."
"I didn't need rescuing," he said, fighting down his anger. He wondered, desperate and unsure, what had happened to Ryan? And he also wondered if the log cabin itself was still standing across the wood, or if it too had disappeared with daylight.
"The village folk told us that you'd been bewitched, Jonathan," the second eldest said. William's eyes were sharp and earnest. "You went off without a warning - no explanation, we never knew what had happened of you."
Jon was silenced, and surprisingly touched. He had not expected this concern from his stepbrothers. He looked around – and saw that Sisky had grown tall and strong since that last autumn night.
"I wasn't bewitched," he said. "No, I wasn't."
"Then what happened to you?" Butcher asked.
"What happened to Ryan?" Jon asked. William and Mike shot each other looks, as if to say I told you so. Tom, his favourite stepbrother, hung around the edges of the cluster around Jon's bed, and bit his lip, looking unhappy and unsure.
"He left," said Mike. "We brought you out and we'd come back to look for him when we found he'd disappeared."
Jon couldn't speak a word. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, because Ryan had abandoned him, or perhaps abandoned wasn't the right word, since they had never truly been together in the first place. Perhaps he had run back to the fairy-folk once more.
Butcher threw him a kind look, and said, "We'll leave you to rest."
The door closed, and Jon, for lack of anything better to do, closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. After a minute, however, he could bear it no longer. He flung open the door and raced straight into the forest - here the cottage was further from the trees than their log cabin had ever been - and paused on its edge, waiting. Here his dulled senses were no sharper; nor did he experience the urge to explore it as he once had with Ryan. It was late afternoon, and though the summer sun filtered through the leaved canopy against the sky the forest seemed more threatening than it had for a long time.
Jon waited - for what he did not know - for a long while, then eventually turned around and walked back to the cottage he and his stepbrothers occupied, head bowed all the while.
"Jon."
Jon was half-awake, but put the whispery invocation of his name down to the leaves blowing in the wind. He turned on his side and tried to sleep again. The feeling in his chest was back, his heart dull and unhappy.
"Jon. Jon. Jon."
He couldn't ignore it any longer - for what had happened the last time he had refused to be awaken! - and sat up. There, framed against the fading light of the long summer night, was Tom, chewing his lip and looking conflicted.
"He told me to give you this," Tom said, shoving something small and stiff into Jon's uncomprehending hand.
Jon had to lift the object, whatever it was, up to the light to look at it. There, framed quietly as if in a still hush, was the wooden bird Jon had carved for Ryan the past spring, thinking it was quite the best thing he had ever made by himself, until he had given it to Ryan. Then Ryan had stood so still and broken into such a sudden beam (even though he had quite clearly also registered his disapproval - Jon, you ought not to cut down trees for this purpose - with a shake of his head) that Jon had stood still, tucking the image away in his mind for memory, forever.
"From Ryan," Tom said softly, as if Jon might not have known.
"Then," Tom said, talking softly and insistently, as if he could hope to tell Jon anything more about Ryan that Jon did not already know, "he turned into a bird, Jon! Turned into a bird and flew away before the rest of us could find him!" Although this was something, indeed, that Jon did not know, he did not deign to reply and instead held a finger to his lips, for the loudness and pitch of Tom's voice had risen. Beside them, Mike stirred, and Tom subsided uneasily. Jon stared at the bird - and he couldn't be quite sure, really, but he thought he could detect a trace of blue paint between the bird's eyes, above the beak.
"I must go to him," Jon murmured. "I must, I must --"
Tom waved his hand awkwardly, and Jon stopped and looked at him. This hadn't changed, he thought, when he saw Tom go red again. "Nothing," Tom said loudly, then winced when Mike groaned and turned over. "I just meant," he said, speaking more softly now, "That you should go. Pretty soon, I mean."
Jon gave Tom a last long look, before pulling Tom into a hug. They didn't exchange any more words.
The cottage was still and silent for once as Jon left it, enlivened only by the sound of his stepbrothers' breathing.
It was a long walk into the forest, but Jon felt as if he was renewed by its pine scents and heavy cricket noises once more as he walked along, drowning awash in the darkness of cover only the forest could provide. Jon was not sure if this was the correct place to seek him out, and was still frightened of the threat of the clandestine people - what the threatening tales of them told of might yet come true - but continued along, anyway.
He didn’t have any other place to go.
Eventually he came to a clearing, the same one in spirit if not in location as the one he had come to before, and called, "Ryan! Ryan! Ryan!" He felt slightly foolish standing in a clearing where he could see nor hear no one, nothing, but still his tone grew in urgency, his voice in loudness.
"Who calls?" came a sleepy voice to his left. Jon spun around. It was one of the Clandestine.
"Might I speak to your lord, please," he said, quietly and firmly as he knew how, trying not to tremble from head to foot. The fairy-person disappeared, and Jon stood still trying not to shake from head to foot, for all was silent again except for the sounds the forest made, in the night.
"Jon Walker," the leader said, finally stepping out of the darkness for a good long while. Jon saw that today he wore a cloak of purple and had a female fairy on his right, red-haired and with a pointed nose. She was holding a baby to her hip so easily it seemed that one hand or one finger was all that she needed to hold the baby imp there.
The lord of the forest said, "I thought I bid you come back no longer."
"You did," Jon said, humbly. "But I have reason to suspect that Ryan Ross is with you once again. May I have him back, please?"
Finally Lord Peter could sustain it no longer and broke into a smile, both sly and grim. "You are a fine pair of lovers! One goes missing and the other flies home, before his time is up. Tell me, did you ever see such a pair." All around him - Jon noticed now that they were arranged in a circle around the clearing - the clandestine people broke into a murmur.
"However," the lord said, his smile fading, "Clandestine favours cannot be given twice."
Jon felt like shouting, but he didn’t. His eyes burning against his skull, he opened his mouth to protest and didn't - for strange as it sounded, even though Jon was still well aware of the fact that the leader was more diminutive than him - suddenly it felt as though Lord Peter and all his forest people were towering above him.
"What can be done?" Jon asked, shivering slightly. He didn't like the feeling of being surrounded.
"You must make a choice," the lord said. "Either you can have a pet bird, or you have a normal man who can give you no more secrets of the forest. Or you may go home, having made no choice, and return no longer." He lifted his cupped palms, and Jon saw - though he had never noticed it before - a tiny blue bird shimmering in them, and as the forest lord lifted he threw. And the bird sailed in a graceful arc through the air, its squawks possessing the same quality of plaintiveness in the cry Jon had heard in the forest so many nights ago, before halfway through the trajectory it began to find its wind again and flapped its wings frantically, causing a continuously deep laugh-rumble from amongst the forest people stationed around the edges, before coming down to rest on Jon's shoulder all the same. And Jon knew that the bird that was resting on his shoulder was Ryan.
"A man needs a man," Jon said respectfully, having thought it over during the brief seconds the bird had come tumbling through the air. Or perhaps he had made up his mind since Lord Peter had given him that ultimatum, or the first time he had carried Ryan through the forest. In any case, his mind had been made up by the time the bird was resting safely on his shoulder. "So if you don't mind, sir."
Lord Peter threw his head back and laughed, showing his teeth to the moonlight. It struck Jon for the second time how much he looked like a donkey, and he wandered if the clandestine forest people were not after all amongst the normal humans during daylight, as animals who then found their way to the forest when night fell.
"Good," the lord of the clandestines said, "You have made a good choice. And if you hadn't come for him - " here he bared his teeth and he resembled a donkey again, only this time Jon knew what it was to be frightened of him - "the contract would have worked its magic. But there is no point in talking about this now!"
Patrick, from his position beside Lord Peter, clapped his hands once more. This time, a trembling music-note glistened in the air before a shimmering white path appeared once more before Jon and the bird resting on his shoulder, this time leading back to his stepbrothers' cottage.
When Jon looked at him in confusion the lord said, "Now that you are to live like men, you must learn to live amongst men. Now, go."
Jon heeded him, and they set foot on the path once more. When their cottage came within sight he looked behind him and saw that the path behind them had vanished, like a silky carpet rolled up as soon as they had lifted their feet off it. All that was left behind them were their shadows.
For there they were, the shadows of two people. One possessed the broad shoulders and stumpy legs Jon had seen on himself every day of his life, while the other's silhouette told of skinny arms and wild hair. Jon looked beside him with delight, and Ryan was there once more, a little mussed for the walk but looking just as he always had before. Wordlessly Jon pulled him into a hug. Not quite wanting to return to the cottage where his stepbrothers slept just yet, he pulled Ryan to a large flat stone he knew was there, and the both of them sat down on it, looking all around them - at the cottage, at the forest - and then finally, finally, finally, at each other.
This time Ryan was the one who leaned over and dragged Jon into a kiss. Jon put his arms around Ryan, marveling at how bony he seemed, running his arms up and down Ryan's spine and his shoulder blades, and opened his mouth for a kiss that was hot and wet and utterly satisfying.
"Jon," Ryan said. This was the first time Jon had heard his voice, and it was flat and unused but happy and sounded wet, the way mouths always did after kissing with tongues did. Jon leant back on his elbows and stared at him. He did a lot of staring, even though he knew that he would have the rest of their lives to stare at him - and stared at his mouth and then the rest of him again.
"Ryan," Jon said, after it was quite clear by Ryan's cocked eyebrow and quizzical expression that he expected Jon to say something. "Will you -- come with me?"
"Yes," Ryan said, "But not in the forest, for the time being, I don't know, I liked living around the edges of the forest with you, Jon, but now I want to try something new, I want to go somewhere else, and spend some time with your family, if that's all right?" He said all this anxiously, as if he were afraid that Jon would suddenly demand they live in the forest and nowhere else, even though Jon was perfectly sure from the set of Ryan's shoulders that he would fight for this.
But Jon was an eminently reasonable person, and covered Ryan's hand with his, and agreed, pulling the both of them up and without taking a last look behind them led Ryan back to the cottage where they would stay a few nights, perhaps, before starting on with the rest of their lives.
coda.
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Date: Wednesday, 14 April 2010 14:32 (UTC)no subject
Date: Wednesday, 14 April 2010 14:53 (UTC)no subject
Date: Wednesday, 14 April 2010 16:44 (UTC)i love how soft and magical this feels. and oh god, the academy. and pete!
stars in my eyes ♥
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Date: Wednesday, 14 April 2010 23:42 (UTC)no subject
Date: Wednesday, 14 April 2010 19:13 (UTC)"Is it true," Jon asked once, seemingly into the ether, "That you'll be able to speak after the year is over?"
It seemed he had said the right thing, for Ryan smiled brightly and leaned his head against Jon's collarbones. Jon watched the flicker of flame in Ryan's eyes - the same eyes that so often seemed so strange and otherworldly and covered Ryan's hand with his own, and willed his heart to stop racing or bursting out of his chest.
no subject
Date: Wednesday, 14 April 2010 23:42 (UTC)no subject
Date: Wednesday, 14 April 2010 21:42 (UTC)no subject
Date: Wednesday, 14 April 2010 23:42 (UTC)no subject
Date: Thursday, 15 April 2010 01:12 (UTC)no subject
Date: Thursday, 15 April 2010 03:48 (UTC)no subject
Date: Thursday, 15 April 2010 12:38 (UTC)no subject
Date: Thursday, 15 April 2010 12:39 (UTC)