A/N: As soon as I saw this ship I became a woman obsessed. I have so much work to do someone stop me.
Let me know what you think!
Be wary of the woods, my son, for they are dark and deep.
Otabek has always made sure to heed his mother's words - there's nothing like a mother's wisdom, after all, passed along generations after generations of ancestors until it reaches him. He remembers them, remembers the tales he's been told, and never forgets.
He does not forget when he's forced to leave home in search of a job to bring his family sustenance. He does not forget when his feet drag him across cities, across countries, across miles and miles of territory that becomes hazy and blurred together on his mind. He does not forget even when others do, even when he crosses borders into parts where they don't listen to their elders' superstitions and scoff at the thought of something else living in the woods.
He grows. He changes; becomes stronger, faster, more resilient. He takes up the sword, the bow, learns to mount a horse while drawing an arrow and not missing his target. He sends the money home, hoping that it'll be enough, and always leaves an offering on his doorstep for the small gods his ancestors warned him about.
He becomes the youngest knight in the ranks, on his own right.
But he never, never forgets.
Most other knights laugh at the sight of him running through his small rituals, stoic face forever in place, but he ignores them. He's used to this, used to feeling foreign when he's spent so much time away from home already, but he aches for the familiarity of it - for the reassurance of the knots of three against his fingers, of the bowl of milk left outside that always seems to empty before dawn arrives, of the red string he ties around his wrist like a promise. Hard work is always rewarded, in the tales, but so are those who respect that which they cannot see.
And so, when he's dispatched to the woods, he is not afraid.
There is another man with him - a tall, talkative thing on whose words Otabek can't seem to focus on, and who seems to take great pleasure in talking about himself. He doesn't bother to draw his horse to avoid branches, snapping them back as he goes as if the trees should be moving for him and not otherwise. Otabek wants to tell him to stop, but he does not: this is something they won't listen to him on.
He's still very much a foreigner, after all; he muses on this as he knots the mane of his horse in braids and triples, avoiding the other's mindless chatter. Otabek loses himself on his own thoughts, not bothering to swat at the small insects flying around both their faces.
It's a mistake.
He doesn't realize Jean-Jacques is gone until the buzzing in his ears stops.
Otabek turns around, and back, and back again, fingers never stopping their movement on his horse's mane. There's a chance that Jean-Jacques is simply playing a prank - a stupid and quite immature one, sure, but not above him - but there's a shiver crawling down his back, raising the thin hairs of the back of his neck where the hair is shaved close to the skin.
Does he want to risk it? Otabek isn't sure.
"Jean?" he calls out. "Jean-Jacques?"
No answer.
The woods are a little too quiet, a little too cold for the midday sun that should be warming them even in these colder parts of the country. Be wary of the woods, for they are dark and deep, he whispers to the bright air, to the loveliness of the green leaves waving at him along the path.
There's a scoff coming from behind him. "At least someone is aware of that."
He turns slowly - wary, as if dealing with a wild animal, but with an undeniable edge of curiosity itching at his skin. There's a flash of blonde, a glint of silver that is more like a water's reflection than metal, and there is someone standing there as if they had always been.
There's many names for these creatures, Otabek knows. They change from place to place, from culture to culture, but they're all fundamentally the same. "Did you take Jean?"
The fae grins, a nasty undertone showing in the set of his teeth, and blinks innocently at him. "Why ever would you think so?"
Otabek's hand lies over the pommel of his sword, but he's curious. Too curious. If the being decides to attack and the tales of their speed and ferocity are true, he won't be ready in time; it doesn't stop him from studying the other male intently.
"You have the eyes of a soldier," he says at last. It is not a lie.
He's entranced by the way a slow flush crawls its way across the bridge of the other's nose, tints the tips of his ears a light pink. Otabek know the tales, knows of how glib and silver-tongued the beings from the woods can be.
He never once imagined he might make one tongue-tied.
"Me?" It's almost a stutter, the way it's said - disbelieving, stunned, flattered. "A soldier?"
Otabek would be afraid of having offended him if the other didn't look so reluctantly pleased about it. "Did I say something I should not?"
The blond man seems to recover slightly, even if the pink tint hasn't left his features entirely. "I don't like humans," he says. "They always think pretty and soft and all those things when they see me."
And Otabek can see why - can see the fluttering tips of his hair that would no doubt be unfathomably soft to the touch, can guess at the lightness of his shape by the way he barely seems to disturb the grass below - but there's also strength there, hidden behind the silvery material of his clothes but betrayed by the way he holds himself as if ready to spring into a fight at any given moment, and the softness of his features is belied by a sharpness prickling beneath his skin. A delicate flower and the snake underneath it, all in one.
He wants to learn it, and that desire shakes him to the core.
"Eyes of a soldier," Otabek repeats, and the being seems to take it as a confirmation. Of what, he isn't sure, and his heart hammers at the thought of finding out.
"You may call me Yuri," he says. It's not his real name, but Otabek didn't expect it to be, either. To know a creature is to own it, and those of the woods know better. "And I'll allow you to leave the woods. Just this once."
There's a fluttering coming from his stomach region, and it's not entirely unpleasant. He nearly lets a smile slip out. "I'm afraid that is not possible," he says, and then the smile truly does come out - soft, gentle. The kind he should not be offering to the creatures in the woods, for surely they will eat his feelings whole. "I have been stationed here, you see."
"I see," Yuri repeats, and his hair flutters gently in the breeze. "Then - you know your rituals. Your traditions."
"Yes." It is the truth.
"Dedicate them to me," he says, and walks in his direction. A step, two, three, until he's standing in front of Otabek and he isn't sure what to do with himself but gaze at the dark depths of his eyes. "And I will keep you safe."
Be wary of the woods, my son, for they are dark and deep. Otabek knows what it means to dedicate oneself to one of them, to one of the small gods of the trees and the waters and the wind who love like a burning fire and hate like frostbite on one's skin, but it doesn't stop him from speaking his answer:
"Yes."
He knows the tales. He knows his fate.
He never, never forgets.