Though she had often been warned about the will-o’-the-wisps, as a child, her curiosity drove her to follow one deep into the woods.

She had been listening to the crows (anxious, as they were, to leave for the winter) when it caught her eye and lead her out of town, into the woods. She chased it—the soft blue light that kept just out of reach—her bare feet stumbling over gnarled roots. She was not afraid. Rather, her heart raced with the thrill of adventure.

The light eventually stopped in a quiet hollow, touching down over a stream. She slid down the side, tripping, reaching, her eyes filling with light—

It winked out.

The girl stopped. She wiggled her dirt-filled toes. She spun, finding herself encircled in a ring of bright red mushrooms. When she stopped spinning and finally looked up, she was no longer alone. A white stag stood just atop the hollow, silent, its eyes brighter than all the light of the forest, its large antlers like silver branches. It had been watching her twirl inside the fairy ring.

“Good morning,” the little girl called up to it.

The stag took a moment to respond. “You are talking to me, strange little thing?”

She nodded.

“Ah, so you can understand.” The deer’s eyes took on a curious gleam. “I did doubt the word of wandering crows. They come to me with remarkable tales of a human child that speaks to all manner of creature.”

She tilted her head to look at it sideways, her two braids brushing the leafy ground. “You are not really a stag.”

“No.” A sinister smile in its tone, it asked, “Could I have your name?”

The deer had not asked what the girl was called—it had asked for her name. All the stories of stolen children, and the power of a name came to the little girl’s mind, and she did not give it. She shook her head, knotting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. “Only if I may have yours.”

It laughed softly. “You are clever, little thing.”

Someone called for her. The girl glanced in the direction of the voice, and when she turned back, the deer had vanished.

The voice belonged to a maid, and the maid belonged to the wealthy woman whom the girl’s father had married for her title. “Foolish child! Don’t you know better than to follow the will-o’-the-wisp in the woods?”

“He seemed quite harmless,” the girl defended herself as the maid took her hand to lead her out of the woods.

“Harmless!” The maid stopped short, jerking her arm. “Oh, no girl!”

Years passed, but the girl was not done wandering. She was seen running off into the woods, she was heard speaking to the animals. Though she hadn’t seen the stag since, she told anyone who would listen about him, angry when the townsfolk didn’t believe her. As she grew older, gossiping children and their gossiping mothers muttered about fairies and witches. These rumours deeply troubled the girl’s father—though the townsfolk would never be so bold as to say them to his face, for her father had a title and they did not.

“Hello?” the girl called into the deep dark woods, having run away to the hollow one midsummer’s night, hoping beyond hope that she would find him. And sure enough, a white glow, brighter than the moon, made her spin. Seeing the stag, her heart soared. “I knew you were real.”

“You’ve grown much, in so few moons,” it said.

 “It’s been years.”

“Yes, so little time,” it sighed. “Tell me, what are mortal lives worth, little thing?”

“What is your life worth,” she replied with reckless wisdom, “you who live for ages but grow numb to life?”

The stag brightened—a glow forced the girl to squint—and transformed into a tall stranger in silver silk. His eyes gleamed like moons, and a silver crown sat atop his elegant head. Though the girl had never seen a fairy before, she knew that she was looking upon one now. Still, she couldn’t have guessed that this was the king of all fairies.

 “You are one of the fair folk,” she said. Another girl may have come to her senses and fled, but not this one. “You don’t scare me.”

With a slight smile, the fairy king swept down into the hollow. He offered her his hand, and though he was fearsome, she felt as if she had nothing to fear. He opened her eyes to his world, which, he told her, was made invisible to man, and she now saw that not a foot away, the forest plunged to a vast river valley where lay a city blanketed by mist and evergreens. It was a bowl of starlight.

“It is a good thing that you did not wander further than this, strange thing, or you would have suffered a terrible fall,” he warned her. She looked up at him, breaking into a smile. There must have been some strange magic in her smile, for it stole what was left of the fairy king’s weary heart. He laughed, his eyes brimming with mischief to rival the youngest of fairies. “Come.”

He showed her his kingdom—it was grander than any city she’d dreamt of. She greeted fairy knights and their horses. She met giggling fairy children who put flowers in her braids and fairy maidens who played the harp and flute. She listened to fairy tales and ate at the king’s banquet with the daughters of fairy lords and ladies. The fair folk shared in their king’s joy. Isn’t it wonderful, to see such love in him, again? They told one another.

The beautiful fairy king let the girl—no longer little—rest her head on his shoulder. Her eyelids grew heavy. “Strange thing, I name you Leofflæd,” he murmured, though he had already put her to sleep. “For you remind me of the wild one I lost.” He gave her gifts, whispering them, like secrets—that she would grow in grace and power, that his knights would watch over her always… and lastly, his name:

Cynefrið.

She woke up in her bed, blinking, praying that it had not been a dream.

On her eighteenth birthday, the girl’s father had had enough of the town’s reproach. He decided that her shrewish spirit must be controlled, and so she was betrothed to a man almost twice her age. She protested by screaming and breaking things. Her screams called the crows, who swooped, cawing through locked windows: Stay calm. Beloved, you are free. What man can harm you?

Her father locked her in her room to be stuffed in a white dress the morning of her wedding. Cattle began to misbehave, because she could not, and the birds were silent as gravestones. A messenger sent word that her husband-to-be had been struck down on the road—his entire caravan unable to recount what had happened. The rumours spread through the town like wildfire. Witchcraft! people cried. She has been dabbling in fairy magic—she is a changeling child.

The lord agreed to send his daughter to be treated at a convent, if only to appease the terrified townspeople clamoring that she was in league with spirits, with the devil. The girl could not go outside for fear of her life, but she would not be made a prisoner.

In the dead of night, she broke her window and climbed onto the roof, unaware that the town minister had told the town’s most pious to watch her window—to see if she danced, if she flew. She did neither. She pulled her hood low over her face and snuck out of town, into the woods. Branches snapped. Trees rustled. Men called her name softly, whistling a sour tune. She fled. They laughed. A dog was let off its chain, barking and snarling.

She ran adeptly over gnarled roots, hounded by snapping jaws, flaming torches. Blood roared in her ears. Tears streamed down her face as men shouted things she didn’t need to hear to understand. She passed the hollow, flinging herself beyond, where she knew the forest ended and she would fall, screaming, “Cynefrið—!”

She did not fall. Cynefrið was there, and he received her in an embrace as strong as stone, as light as wings. Leofflæd dared open her eyes. The men chasing her had frozen, their faces draining of colour. Even the dogs turned tail and ran, whimpering.

Behind Cynefrið waited an army of armored fairy knights, keen to strike at their king’s command.

In foolish rage, one of the men charged the king, bellowing about spirits. At Cynefrið’s soft whisper, roots ripped out of the dirt to grab the man, growing into his nose and mouth. A tree swallowed him hole, absorbing him into its great trunk.

The others dropped their torches and ran.

As for Leofflæd—beautiful, beloved—this world had never owned her.

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