Once upon a time, there was a small village on the outskirts of the dark faery wood. 

In this village, the children were warned (as children are) to stay away from the dark wood, to stay away from faery circles, and to never, ever, make a bargain with a fae.

In this village lived a girl whose hair glowed with the gold of the sun. She was called Sunshine, because in those days children were not called by their own Names, so the faery could not change them for one of their own. She was not afraid of the wood.

In this village lived a boy whose father shaped iron. The boy was called Horseshoe, and he was afraid of the wood.

He followed the rules, and turned out the points of his shoes at night. He followed the rules and slept with cold iron under his pillow. He followed the rules - except when he was with Sunshine. 

She was as wild a thing as the hidden ones in the dark roots. She was as wild a thing as the small things in the high branches. In her company, the boy called Horseshoe was not afraid of anything.

He wasn’t afraid of the dark faery wood. He wasn’t afraid of the dark roots or high branches. He wasn’t afraid of the faery circles - except when she was not with him. 

In this village by the dark faery wood, the girl called Sunshine and the boy called Horseshoe adventured together in the dark and gloomy faery wood, amid root and branch and glade. 

But time passes, as it does, and children grow older.

“Bake your bread,” the village said to Sunshine, “to feed husband and your babies. Sew their smocks and weave their cloth. Bend back to hearth, do woman’s work, and leave the woods behind.”

She burned her bread, warped her cloth. She sewed her seams as crooked as the river. Her back was straight, her head held high, and her hair shone bright beneath the forest’s branches. 

But then, one day, her mother died, and then the world was broken. The river rose with her flood of tears, and all the skies fell darkened. 

“I’ll take you as wife,” said the boy whose father shaped iron; the boy who grew into a man whose hands shaped iron. “I don’t care if bread is burned or seams are crooked as a river. Come to my hearth; we will leave the woods together.”

But Sunshine sadly shook her head. Her tears, they shone like diamonds.

She went into the faery woods, and took a faery’s bargain.

The villagers were angry; the faery stole their unwanted daughter. 

They broke the rules that kept them safe, demanding necks for slaughter. They breached the gates of faeryland. Forgot about their mission. 

For they had never truly cared - merely gave themselves permission. For they were jealous of faery lands; their fruits, their skills, their satins. 

Why should we be so denied, when you have all this magic?

Only one remembered her. The girl who loved the little things, who did not fear the darkness. 

The boy who shared his life with her, still hopes to bring her home.

“So…” Pip’s chin trembled. “You’re leaving.”

“I’m leaving,” Taric affirmed solemnly.  “The forest belonged to the fae. We were told never to go into it without permission and protection. But I did.” Taric sighed, then corrected. “We did.”

He could see her, so clearly, so easily, even after burying her so deeply. Climbing the trees, wading through the stream barefoot, bright head bent to search for minnows in the dappled shallows. 

Taric’s throat thickened, choking off his words. He opened his eyes, cutting the memories short. “She’s in Underhill somewhere. Alone. I’m the only one who remembers her.” 

“How do you know it was the faeries who took her?” Pip asked in hushed tones. “Maybe she just ran away?”

Taric shook his head, and for the first time confided in another human being. “I saw her. That night. I… followed her into the woods. Chased her.” The memories bubbled up, clear as if it were yesterday, not centuries ago. Following Sunshine’s fleeing figure, half by the sound, half by the barefoot tracks she left behind in the snow. Breaking into the clearing, with the fresh snow flurrying down from the grey sky, and a haze of grey fog enveloping the trees. The flash of fear on Sunshine’s face that haunted his waking and sleeping. “It was a white elk with silver antlers draped with diamonds that carried her away. No natural beast would look like that. It was a faery mount.” He only wished he could have found out whose.

But in all of his years in Underhill, and all of his searching, he found worse than nothing. Searching for a white elk mount among the fae was to search for a specific snowflake in a blizzard. 

“You’ll find her,” Pip said with the hushed reverence only a child could feel. “I know it. And then you’ll come back, and tell me the rest of the story. Promise me.” She held out her pinky across the table.

Taric paused, not wanting to discourage the child, but not wanting her to keep false hope. “I may not come back at all,” he hedged, but Pip insistently held out her pinky. 

Taric gave in. How could he not? He wrapped his pinky around the child’s. “If I return, I will find you to tell you the tale.”

Pip grinned. “Don’t forget, we still have to finish the last pair of shoes first.”

“Yes,” Taric said slowly, gears turning. “Very true.” Absently, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “Did you know that you can tell quite a bit from someone’s footprint?”