#hyrsam

"The Triumph of Bacchus" by Nicolas Poissin

"Faun einer Amsel zupfeifend" by Arnold Böcklin

"Faun, die Syrinx blasend" by Arnold Böcklin

"Pan im Schlif" by Arnold Böcklin

"Spring Evening" by Arnold Böcklin

"Bacchus and Ariadne #2" by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo

"Cupid and Pan" by Agostino Carracci

Bristlebud prods at the fire to watch the embers dance, and remind it to keep heating the skillet. Butter is very hard to come by without goats or sheep, and they want to enjoy it while it lasts. The onions and mushrooms that hiss and pop in it make their tail wag in anticipation.

They spear an onion with the tip of their dagger, and blow on it. It’s still too hot; they huff and hiss as they bounce it in their mouth to avoid scalding their tongue. Still, it’s delicious, though a tad bland. The caramelized sweetness, they hope, will help.

When the mushroom edges begin to curl and the onions go clear, they set the pan on the flat stone beside them. Waiting nearby are the last slices of crusty bread. They spoon the buttery mixture onto the slices, and sparingly sprinkle salt and pepper from their near empty seasoning pouch.

A rarity, cucumber, is laid out on the kerchief. This vegetable isn’t native to their land, and the lost humans had a great many of them in their wagon. Enough that the four or five slipped into their pocket wouldn’t be missed. Cutting into one, Bristlebud delights in the cool, watery odor. It crunches deliciously, and they find it’s even better with a bit of salt.

“Oh, to have soft cheese again,” they mutter to the pale green slivers. At least they can imagine how wonderful cucumbers must taste with cheese, salt, and pepper on fresh bread that still has a touch of hearth warmth.

While they pick at the food with greasy fingers, they admire the glint and glimmer of the metal disks and gems that are scattered across the dais. Treasures. Humans, elves, and the short folk all carry those metal disks. Some have a great many, others only a handful. Each are unique; with faces, beasts, or ships and castles stamped onto them.

They always forget to ask about them. The statue has heard the question of what their meaning could be, and isn’t expected to answer. Today they forgot again when they came upon the lost humans and their wagon. So distracted they were with the strange looking produce and pretty bolts of cloth, that the question got pushed so far back into their mind that it nearly became lost as well.

Like the cucumbers, they made off with two pieces of fabric. They must be special, Bristlebud thinks, for they doubt the humans would’ve pursued them so doggedly. It’d been a merry chase with a great deal of shouting.

It pained them to cut the big cloth. It was far too large to be wrapped around their waist and not trip them or drag in the dirt, and too small to make any use as a curtain. The scraps they saved to patch the lining of their gambeson and one of their bodices. The bronze velvet is beautiful in the moonlight, and more so when the sun catches it. As much as they long to rub it between their fingers now, they resist for fear of smearing butter and crumbs onto it.

With their belly full, they suck their fingers clean and get up to wash the skillet in the spring. While the pan soaks, they idly chew a dry twig to scrap their teeth and tickle their gums.

Only the occasional crack and pop of the fire accompanies their breathing and the babbling water. It’s too late for the song birds, and still too early for the hooters and howlers. The satyr hums for the sake of making noise, but it only serves to remind them of the emptiness of the grove. There are no others, no family or friends. No Nan to hug them and tell them things will be alright. Even the pissy stink of the old billy goat Nan kept around they’ve found themselves missing.

Once Eidhneán took his place among the Elders, Bristlebud had been chased away from the valley. Too strange. Too quiet. Tainted blood. Eidhneán and those who agreed with him weren’t satisfied with them remaining on the outskirts. It was still too close for their liking.

Though Nan too had been marked as an odd one, she was still among the Elders. The knowledge that comes with age allowed her to remain in their home near the forest’s edge.

Despite having been members of the village for three generations, they were still considered outsiders. Nan and Pawpaw had hailed from the highlands to the north of the fertile autumn hills, where the mountains were rocky and snow capped. A place where the satyr stood a few hairs taller, and had great curling horns. Nan’s had coiled so tightly that there was hardly room to wrap them in ribbons or decorate them with chains or bands.

They miss her. They miss being aggravated when she’d prod them awake with a swift hoof to the thigh, after they’d fallen asleep at the wall.

Prior to their exile, it’d been their task, as it had been Nan’s, to watch the hole in the wall. No green would grow where the cobblestone had crumbled, only dark twisted briars and muddy moss with vile smelling red flowers. Venom Scale’s breath had fouled the soil. The poisonous fumes she’d exhaled across the field caused everything green and sweet in it’s path to wither. On rainy days the acrid scent of it would still rise into the air. It was a funny sort of smell that made Bristlebud’s nose prickle and their eyes water.

It’d been Nan who convinced the dragon to leave the valley be. She could speak to her in her own tongue, a skill she’d taught Bristlebud. A monumental task that required a great deal of patience on her part, for Bristlebud’s mind often wandered. “You may need it, if she suspects we’re hiding treasures,” she’d warned. It was also a skill to be kept secret from the others. “We be odd enough already, my little bristlely blossom. We can’t be having anyone cast aspersions of being associated with dragons. Your Mam’s sin already has you marked as it is.”

They can no longer count the days it’s been since they last snuck to the border wall to visit Nan. Nóiníní had chased them off, slinging river stones and shouting names. Only when they climbed the cracked boulder Venom Scale had cleaved in two, did they manage to have a conversation that wasn’t answered with angry curses and spit. Nan had fallen while gathering wood. Though healed, she still suffered a limp, and remained home bound. Age had decided it could finally catch up with her.

The statue had listened to the story when it was fresh and raw. When it made their throat feel tight and their eyes sting. They’d curled up in the crooked arm, seeking a facsimile of comfort. The stone had been cool and hard, and the ground even harder when they tumbled out of the embrace, having fallen asleep.

A solitary satyr is a miserable creature. Only the mad and the cruel willingly seek out a life away from others. Or the strange, Bristlebud thinks, and spits out the splintered pieces of twig.

They stand at the base of the dais where the treasures lay scattered. Among them, a little figure made of knobby yarn lay near a crystal. A doll made from all the wool saved out of their comb. It resembles a satyr in that it has two legs, arms, and the vague gist of horns. Tufts of fuzzy wool stick out around the neck to resemble a mane. A gift intended for Nan. Something that looks and smells like them, so she could always carry a little piece of them.

Instead, it lays on the dais. A gift for no one. The clover blossom that was its heart is probably long shriveled.

They scoop up the doll and set it in the statue’s hand. “If Nan can’t have it, I’d like it to go to you.”

The stone never moves, and yet they look at the hand as if expecting it to close around the gift. To keep the little figure company, they leave three coins in the cupped palm alongside it. The unicorn queen, her golden dragon lover, and the handsome king who knew of his queen’s affair. All stories they’d made up while stretched out on the dais beneath the shadow of the statue.

They didn’t feel like continuing the tale of the scandalous affair tonight. Even with a few new coins to include, the mood that’d set upon them only makes them wish to sleep. With dawn they hope the sun would chase the dark thoughts and loneliness away.

Images and memories jumble together. Running in the forest while shouting chases them, closer on their heels than any man or elf should be. It garbles and warps, sounding more like rolling thunder, or a great boulder tumbling down the mountainside.

Bristlebud’s ears lift at the sound of stone scraping stone. It quickens their heart and tenses their muscles. Could the tower be toppling?

Before they could leap up to anticipate the danger, a voice tells them: “Keep your eyes closed, my funny little cleric.”

Cleric? As much as they long to twist their head around to seek out the voice, something compels them to obey. It’s no malicious sort of thing. No magic that twists their mind to heed the words. A gentle request from a lovely voice.

The hand that touches their arm is initially cold and hard, but softens and warms as it strokes down the length of it. Their ears strain backwards, only picking up the sound of deep, even breaths. It reminds them of those nights when they were a fawnling. Nan would sit by their bed, stroking their arm until they fell asleep.

“Who are you?” They asks. The question of “why are you here” came to mind first, but is pushed away when they remember the grove isn’t truly their’s.

The breath tickles the fine hairs on their ears, and lips lightly nip at the tip. “A friend.”

Bristlebud wrinkles their nose. “I never had any of those.”

“Oh, but you do. Think, cleric, of who it is you confide in and seek comfort.”

Nan doesn’t have a deep voice. There’re no critters or crawlers they speak with, not even the squirrels. It’s difficult to determine right off which ones can talk back, and if they can be trusted not to snitch on hiding spots to passerby’s. Over and over they comb through their memories, until one rams it’s way through: The doll, the coins. So mundane is their conversations that it had been slow to awaken and come to mind.

Bristlebud’s hands cover their face, nearly opening their eyes as the realization blooms in full. “Do you have a nose?”

The laughter is warm and deep. It bubbles against their back, and vibrates through them. “Of course. I’ve inhabited effigies in far worse conditions than that.” A nose then nuzzles into their mane, confirming that it is intact.

“We have until the second moon crosses beyond the grove. So, what would you wish of me, Tiodhla'cailleach?”

“You know my true name?”

“Of course. I’d make a poor father for not knowing the names of his children.”

Bristlebud’s ears droop. The request that’d been at the forefront suddenly shrivels, and conjuring another on such short notice would be hard. When asked what’s the matter, they explain: “If you’re my father, then my request is incestuous.”

The voice laughs, “oh, for juniper’s sake, no! It’s complicated business, but not incest. I did not sire you personally. That honor went to some lucky fellow within the Gloaming Court. I simply encouraged your kind to grow and flourish, like a farmer tends their crop or a shepherd their herd.”

Moving from their arm to their belly, the hand rakes through the line of fur that runs the length of their stomach. Calloused fingertips brush the underside of their breast. “If you want for my company, I will be happy to keep it as thanks for how sweetly you tend my altar.”

To be touched by someone other than themselves is something they’ve longed to try, and often fantasized about. Bristlebud nods, keeping their hands over their face for fear of temptation prying their lids apart. Even speaking frightens them. There is something about them bothers others. Whether it be their Mam’s sin, or something else, Bristlebud doesn’t understand what it is that makes them seem so strange and foul.

As much as their mind turns over the whats and what ifs, another thought wheedles its way to the surface: Why can’t they look upon the figure? Perhaps, they think, the magic that animates him will diminish if witnessed. They could ask, but before the idea takes root those fingertips have wormed their way down to the thick fur that hides their sheath.

A finger slips inside, teasing the head of their cock by flicking the gold hoop piercing it. Coaxing their cock out takes little effort. It’s such a familiar sensation, something they do themselves. Something they’ve done under the shadow of the statue. Of course he’d know what they like. He’s watched and listened for the years they’ve lived here. Perhaps not for all of it, but he certainly seemed to have taken notice of enough.

His cock, solid and hard presses against their lower back. Bristlebud sucks their lower lip between their teeth. The thought of that shaft spearing them curls hot in their belly, and sets their tail wagging. They’re both nervous and excited. Anticipation flutters in their breast, waiting and only slightly frightened when the pointed tip bumps beneath their tail.

It’s a slow and gentle sort of thing. A far cry from the sloppy explorations with their own hand and fingers. They screw their eyes shut and grab the ends of their horns when they’re rolled onto their belly. It’s a strange impossible fullness. They don’t understand how that cock can both be too much and not enough. Each thrust they try to meet, wanting to savor the entirety of it.

The voice encourages them to make sound, to speak, to say what they like and want. Its been so long since anyone has asked them what they’d like, and not shortly snipped at them to “shut your gob”. They’re glad for how tightly they’ve shut their eyes when their voices catches while telling him: “Plow me deep and fastly, as if the frost is coming.”

Bristlebud enjoy the rumble of his chuckle against their back, and the way they can feel his grin shift in their mane. Their hands move from their horns to clutch at the blankets and quilts that they’ve piled into a nest. They hide their face in the fabric, and bite a corner out of habit, to stifle the sounds that his cock drives out of them.

“You’ve always shined so bright, don’t quiet yourself.”

A sob rips out of them at those words. The urge to open their eyes is overwhelming, to look back at who so lovingly speaks to them and fucks them so thoroughly. “I want to see you.”

His hips still, pressing against their rump. “A peek then. I do hope you won’t be disappointed. None of the statues have ever depicted me properly. Seelie sensibilities deem my face too vulgar to include alongside their kings and queens.”

Without separating, Bristlebud carefully rolls onto their back, enjoying the tug and pull of that cock twisting within. They swallow, and for the first time feel hesitant.

Don’t be a silly fool, they think. Ugly or odd, it doesn’t change the experience or diminish the warmth and love offered. Still, they fear their own mind will betray them if he looks any different than the statue they’re so used to.

The face swims in their vision, blurred by how tightly their lids had been shut. Bit by bit, it comes into focus: Long, handsome, with a silky beard that blends into the mane around his neck. His face didn’t seem to want to stay in one shape. When they reached up to touch his cheek, the features shifted, they eyes tilting like a deer’s and the nose seeming more prominent. He isn’t anything close to the statue’s near elven face. His head is crowned with four branching, thorny horns that frame his features and catch in his dark mane.

Bristlebud leans up to kiss him as they did the statue. Instead of cold stone, the lips are soft and a bit chapped. The mustache tickles their nostrils, and the tongue is hot and fat. His beard smells of wine, clover blossoms, and the faint randy stink of a billy goat.

His hand covers their eyes when they part. It remains there as Bristlebud wraps their legs around his waist. His belly sandwiches their cock between their bodies. They rut up into the fine fur, in time with his hips, until they come with a shuddered gasp.

He slows for a moment, allowing them to regain their senses as the intense surge subsides to low rolling waves. They needn’t ask him to slow, nor quicken. All the years together, he seems to understand what they enjoy and how to prevent them from becoming overwhelmed while the river is high up the bank.

Though they never see his cock, they guess it must be similar to theirs. They feel the bump of the medial ring, much more pronounced now as it drags and tugs. They feel how the pointed head flares a bit, filling them more than they thought they could be. It’s so warm.

They’re locked together until he shoots his last.

He kisses them with a “sleep well, and dream sweet, my cleric.”

Bristlebud opens their eyes when the hand lifts from their face and blinks up at the patched ceiling of the ruins where roots twist over the stone. Cum is splattered across their belly, clinging to their fur. Loose and sated, they stretch their arms overhead and arch their back. Their tail and the quilt beneath them are sticky with what’d overflowed.

Rolling onto their side, they look to the dais and see the statue as it had been. Faint light catches on the pale stone as the second moon sinks beyond the grove’s walls. They smile at the unmoving figure that holds the little yarn doll in it’s cupped hand.

“Goodnight,” they say to it, too exhausted to get up and too reluctant to step into the cold spring. Fabric and fur can wait. It’ll be harder to clean, but that will be a problem for later. The pillow’s invitation is a hard one to turn down. It beckons them so nicely, and their lids are already too heavy to lift for much longer.

When dawn crests, Bristlebud weaves another figure after a bath. This one bearing four lopsided horns of wool and twigs. It joins the other doll in the smooth stone palm, set beside it so their hands tangled together.

They prop their chin on the slightly curled fingertips and gaze up at the face they know is false. “Thank you,” they say, leaving the request for meeting again unspoken. It’s not polite to be greedy. Even if he were never to step from the stone again, they’re glad he’s there to listen.