Lover of Monsters

He did not enjoy the companionship of humans as they demanded too much, gave too little, and exploited whatever they could if it meant it would be advantageous. Yet, what he enjoyed less than humans was hearing their despair, as it moved him to undesirable emotions and to things like this. He sought you out through inquisitiveness and to ask you why, little human, did you weep so upon the earth?

You knelt by the water's edge with a shattered jar you'd thrown in rage before melting to the ground and dissolving into tears. Mounting expectations from your town to consent to being the next of your sort sent away, married off to some man of lesser noble status in exchange for meager allowances, had led to your frustrations consuming you.

The jar had been a family heirloom; precious, molded, smoothed, and repaired by the hands of your ancestors over time, yet when you looked at it, all you could manage to see behind your eyes was red and rage. It was through that upwelling of red and rage that you'd taken the jar and thrown it to the ground as hard as you could. It had shattered easily, remarkably dully, leaving you unsatisfied and filled with dread.

How could you return home with only fragments?

"Little human, your cries are absolutely averse to me, but I must know why you do so," the fine man announced himself, immediately ceasing your cries and startling you to your feet. "Now you stop, but why ever were you making such horrid sounds to begin with?"

The sight before you was so ethereal and exquisite that you could not bring yourself to answer him. Before you was a silver elk with sprawling antlers reaching high and far, nearly blending into oneness with the tree branches. It had a soft glow surrounding it, a sort of humming halo of light which made it simultaneously a sight you could not tear your gaze away from, yet still too bright as something standing apart from the darkness.

It wore no saddle or bridle like steeds you knew, but seemed to know, intuitively, what the rider wished for it to do without a spur in the gut or tug of fur.

Aboard the immense animal, the speaker was a ghost-pale man with long, icy hair the whitest you'd ever seen. Though his face was inexpressive, you saw a curious gleam in green eyes and a careful tilt of the head. Most fascinating to you about this man were the antlers mounted upon his own head, ones you could not discern whether they sprouted from his skull or were part of some extravagant ornamentation to his person.

"If you can cry so loudly, surely you are capable of speech, little human," pressed the fine man, growing impatient and bored of your stares. "Does something trouble you to be here at night? What is that there at your feet?"

It was embarrassment that broke your trance of the beauty before you. Your face felt like it was singed by the hearth at home.

"I—forgive me, sir, for being so impolite." You placed a hand across your chest and bowed sharply, a formality among your people reserved for those of important status. "It was discourteous of me to assume that I would not disturb others, even at night. Had I known that, I would—"

The fine man gave a suffering sigh, as though hearing you explain was truly a test of all of his goodness and patience, and said, "That is not what I asked. Answer my question."

"The crying, you mean?" Such a strange thing to insist upon demanding an answer for, but you would give it to him as you wanted the conversation to last. "Well, if you must know, I broke my family's most prized heirloom. That water jug." You pointed down at it. "It has belonged to my family for generations, and in my blind fury, I tossed it down, and it shattered. It is not as shattered as I am, however."

To this, the fine man inspected the dark shards of pottery on the grass from his great height. You were quick to notice the slight twist on his face, a downward tug on his lips as if disappointed. Perhaps he'd expected you to say something else.

"Things can be replaced," said the fine man coolly, looking now to you, "one thing your species will never seem to understand is that your things will be lost to time. Heirlooms and trinkets will tarnish and crumble to dust. They are merely things which you imprint importance upon, nothing more. They are no more than what they are."

You gazed down somberly at the fragments of the water jug and considered his words in silence for just a moment. "Maybe you're right. Maybe things have no inherent value beyond what we put into them. But, for one reason or another, they matter to us. They hold power. The hold memories. They tether us to the past and to family and to tradition."

"Does that make it a good thing?" He seemed to be seriously asking.

"I'm not sure," you told him. "Perhaps it's a bit of both. At some point, I started to resent that water jug because of what it represented in my family. Sameness. Embracing rigid, unchanging tradition. I am told that everyone in my family, at my age, is to go to the river to fetch water and bring it home until I am finally married. And then, if it were to happen, my own children were to take the jug and continue the tradition. It's heavy. It's heavy to carry around with me, and I didn't want to do it anymore. It's not what I want to do. So, in my anger, I broke it."

The fine man didn't seem to comprehend the complexity behind your words: your talk of sentimentality and tradition meant very little to a being such as him. This you were acutely aware of, but you had no other way of explaining your grief. Breaking the jar had given you a release, a great rush of relief through your lungs and soul, yet also a great loss. Something you would never get back.

"I don't want to get married away like everyone else I've ever known," you admitted. "I want to be able to choose whom I marry, but it is also a selfish wish. Not giving my consent to the marriage would mean that my family would not receive their allowance to survive. It's difficult."

"Why must their survival depend on you?"

"Because that's the way it's always been."

The fine man dismounted his steed and approached you. His height dwarfed you, yet under his gaze, you did not feel belittled or insignificant as you often did with men. It was something in the way he regarded you with that curious glimmer in his eyes, even though his face would not convey the same thing. He did not look at you as something to collect as part of many things, nor as something to hold ownership over with titles and contracts and rings and traditions.

He saw you simply as what you were: A human crying over a broken jar and an unknowable future.

"I will offer you this: Come away with me. Give me your name and take my hand. We will ride away to my realm, where you may choose to live however you please, forevermore." He extended a ghostly pale hand towards you, palm facing up. You thought that touching him would warm you. "I only ask that you be willing to keep me company, answer whatever questions I may have of this realm."

You smiled at him and didn't hesitate to slip your hand into his, fingers reaching towards his wrist. The contact was warm as you imagined. It pulsed through you like a heartbeat, like the gentle, glowing hum that encompassed the silver elk.

The fine man's softly pink lips rose into a kind smile, and he asked again for your name.