Chapter Text
Once upon a time there was a small village surrounded by vast woods. So small a town it was that it did not even have a name, and the woods were old and very dark and many forgotten secrets were sleeping within.
In this town there lived a man, a printer by trade, who had moved there after his wife and children died and he found he could no longer bear to live in the city. His name was Robert Gadling, but he much preferred to be called Hob. He was a comely man, long chestnut hair shining in the sun, his back and chest made strong by the hard work of turning the press. The quiet of his new life did him good, and he slowly started to remember the good things about life again. A warm, homecooked meal, a long walk, a good night of uninterrupted sleep.
He was considered odd by the village people, an outsider, for most of them couldn't read and those who could didn't care much for it. It was all the same to Hob, who loved his work, and he made do by selling some of his books on market days in the next town over. But he did not sell all of them. Of every story he printed he kept a copy for himself and displayed them in his home, reading away his grief and sorrow on long evenings. Every time he took a walk or rode his horse to the market he heard them whisper, isn't he strange, with his house full of books and his absent eyes? He did not mind. His books and their stories kept him company.
Only one of them never took part in the whispering, although he did his fair share of looking. Cornell, the best hunter in the village, a slim, tall blond, who never came back home with empty hands, and who could eat as much as three men his size. Hob could see the hunger in his eyes whenever he met him. He knew it was hunger for him, too, knowing well the look of wanting, but they never spoke and Hob intended to keep it that way.
The village children adored him, not caring much for the opinions of their parents, and they came to him for stories and ink to draw pictures. He always indulged them, telling them tales while he worked and letting them draw on the walls of his workshop, until they featured every creature and princess and knight he'd ever told them of. The others shook their heads at it, but Hob was proud of it and held his workshop in as high regard as any of his books. One girl, Rosie, had taken a particular liking to Hob and his stories and had asked him to teach her to read. Hob did so with much delight, for Rosie was bright and spirited and reminded him of his dear son Robyn. She was the oldest of five, and while her parents had their hands full with her four brothers and the bakery, she always found time to come by his workshop for a reading lesson or a tale about a brave knight, for those were her favourite.
But not this day, for today there was a wedding, and Rosie was celebrating at the town hall with all the others. It was not far from his house, and Hob could hear the music and laughter, and sometimes even the click of cups. He had thought of going, but when the music started he was painfully reminded of his own wedding. Had remembered how Eleanor had looked, happy and flushed, even with the hurried air of it all. His proposal had been as proper as it could be, but then they had grown impatient and half a year into their betrothal Eleanor was already with child. Hob smiled at the memory. He had never been able to deny her anything. No, he thought, it was better that he did not bring his past into the celebration today. It was not about him.
He was taking a break to eat and feed Matthew, his horse, when he heard shuffling behind him and turned around. It was Cornell, wearing his best clothes and holding out a cup, his hair almost white in the autumn sun. "Heard you didn't go and thought I'd bring you something," he said.
Hob accepted the drink with thanks and gestured to the bench in front of his workshop where his lunch was waiting for him. "It's your best friend that's getting married today, isn't he?" He asked, as they sat down.
"Yeah," Cornell said, smiling, and took a sip from his own cup. Something about that smile didn't feel right to Hob, but he couldn't exactly pin what it was. It made him uneasy. So he ate some of his stew, stretched his legs forward and listened to the music drifting over, waiting for Cornell to tell him what he really wanted.
"I'm sorry about your wife," he finally said. There it was. "That's why you didn't come, isn't it?" Hob did not like the expectant look on Cornell's face. This was none of his business. Hob drew his brows together and swept back his braid that had fallen over his shoulder.
"Yes, it is. Eleanor has been gone eight years come spring." He swallowed down the hurt that always came with saying her name. The pain had never gone away, not all these years, but breathing through it had somehow gotten easier. He'd much rather remember her life than her death.
Cornell took another sip and watched him with intense eyes. "Did you ever think about having another go at it? Marriage, I mean."
Hob took a sharp breath. "No." He stood abruptly and handed back the cup that still was almost full. "Please give your friend my best wishes. I have to prepare for the market tomorrow." And with that, he took his empty bowl into his workshop and closed the door behind him.
Hob leaned heavily against the wood, drawing a hand over his face. He had never given him any unintentional signs of interest, had he? At least not that he remembered. Thank God he'd been clear enough just now. This was a conversation he did not wish to repeat.
The next morning he got up early, dressed, ate, and set out for a day of riding and business. When he went out the door, he almost stepped on a small bouquet of asters and cornflowers. Puzzled, he picked it up and shifted the bag on his shoulder. Asters and cornflowers. Patience and a wish for things to be different, and hope for love. Surely they weren't - No, it must have been him. Who else would have -
Anger bubbled up inside him as he trudged to the small stable beside his house, his grip on the offending flowers so tight the knuckles of his hand were white. He'd said no. How could Cornell possibly have misunderstood that? He opened the door and went to bury his face in Matthew's mane. He did consider just throwing the damned thing away, but Matthew sniffed hopefully at his hand so Hob let him have them.
He saddled him, loaded the books for the market into the bags and rode off, determined to stop at Cornell's house and give him a piece of his mind. But when he knocked nobody answered, either Cornell was still sleeping or he'd already gone into the woods. Either way, Hob stewed in his anger all the way to the town, and a good portion into the market day.
His mood only bettered when the cook of the local tavern traded a few of Hob's favourite pasties for a small collection of recipes he had finished printing last week, with a promise for more the next two times he was at the market. There he sat, at his stall, the autumn sun warming his back. With a deep huff and a mouth full of flakey dough and hearty meat, he finally managed to push his bad mood away. He wouldn't let Cornell rattle him like that again, he promised himself.
On the way back he took his time, absorbing the rich browns and yellows and reds that came with the season, the rustling as he rode through the fallen leaves. The cold breeze told of the coming winter, but the sun still held a memory of summer days. He rode past the old, deserted castle that must have once belonged to a great lord. It marked the halfway point between the small town where he sold his books and the village he lived in. The walls were still intact and overgrown with ivy, the gardens on the castle grounds wild but still beautiful, the flowers having long since escaped their beds, growing everywhere. In the summer, the abandoned grounds were a riot of colour, poppies, cowslips, snapdragons and lavender suffusing the air with a sweet smell. Now, they showed the pale greens and purples and soft blues of asters, borage, the last cornflowers, and, closer to the castle, the deep red of late roses.
Hob stopped Matthew and dismounted for a moment to admire the view, when he noticed movement not far from him. Shielding his eyes with his hand against the low sun, he tried to make out what shape of creature it was. From the wild and lush gardens came a man with fair hair, and as he walked closer, Hob recognised Cornell. So this was where he'd gotten the flowers.
"Good day to you," Cornell greeted him when he came to the forest edge. He had two dead rabbits tied over his shoulder and in his hand yet another bouquet of asters and cornflower. "I wanted to deliver this in the same manner as the first, but I guess fate wants me to give them to you now." He smiled and held the flowers out to Hob, who frowned at him.
"And what about our last conversation convinced you this was welcome or even a good idea?"
Cornell looked unimpressed. "When you vanished that fast, I figured you were just shy. I mean, you're not exactly out and about much. Nobody knows anything about you, all there is are rumours."
The brazen assumption aggravated Hob. "Let me spell it out for you then: I am not shy, and I am very much not interested." He snatched the flowers from Cornell's hand. "Do you want to know where the first one went? Here!" And he held them out to Matthew, who happily munched on them.
Cornell watched him with a small smirk, clearly amused, and adjusted the rabbits and the bow slung over his shoulder. "Well, at least someone appreciates my gifts." Turning to leave, he looked back at Hob. "I won't give up. You'll change your mind, just give it a few months."
Hob watched him walk away, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Had Cornell heard any of what he'd said? He kicked the tree next to him in frustration. He wanted to yell, too, but didn't want Cornell to hear. Sinking his hands and face into Matthew's mane just like this morning, he took a moment to calm himself, petting Matthew's neck.
"How about we trample him on the way back?" Matthew snorted, chewed on the last bit of the asters, flicked his ear and clearly did not care. So Hob got into the saddle again and did not ride Cornell down on his way home, but it was a close thing. Picking up speed on purpose, Hob rushed past him, close enough that he must have felt Hob's leg brush against him. His startled shout made Hob laugh.
— — — —
Fall passed into winter, and when the harvest was done and the light grew dim, the children of the village spent more and more time in his workshop, drawing and listening. He still found flowers on his doorstep every morning, and even when the time for flowers passed, there was always something, a branch of winter berries, a handful of nuts, a ribbon for his hair. Hob kept none of it. What Matthew couldn't have he gave to the children or laid out for the birds, and the ribbon he gave to Rosie.
She came by more often now, for there was not much to do this time of year. Her reading was excellent by now and so Hob moved on to teaching her to write, and also how to set the type and operate the press. She was quick to catch on, and smart about it, too. He made arrangements to take her on as an assistant, so she could learn properly, and maybe, one day, take over. That's what Hob hoped for, anyway. Her father had no objections, for Rosie had never had any interest in the bakery, only her mother asked that she would not work late into the day so she could still help with her siblings. Hob had no intention of overworking the girl, and she was still only fourteen, so they took it easy.
As the winter progressed, Cornell grew bolder, showing up unannounced, first in the evenings, and when Hob simply did not answer his door, he sometimes came by his workshop at lunchtime. Hob hated it. He tried to be as curt as possible, but Cornell would not accept any kind of no, would not be deterred by anything Hob did. He even complimented Rosie on the new ribbon in her braid.
One evening, when the knocking at his door would not subside, Hob had reached his limit and decided that maybe a quick punch or three would help bring the point across that he had failed to make until now. He put his book down and went to open the door with a quick motion to take Cornell by surprise to better land the first blow when he suddenly stopped, fist drawn back. In front of his door stood Rosie's father, Eugene, eyes big, face turning a little pale as his gaze flicked between Hob's face and his fist.
"Ah, sorry," Hob took his hand down and shook it out, "I thought you were someone else."
Eugene swallowed. "Is Rose still here? She should have gone to collect some firewood because Odile's sick, just to tide us over for the next two days."
Hob felt his stomach swoop. "She isn't home yet? She told me about the wood, so I told her not to bother with work today. I wanted her out of the forest before dark. Are you saying she isn't back yet?"
Swearing, Eugene drew a hand through his hair. "No, she's not."
Hob's mouth was suddenly very dry. He couldn't. He could not do this again, he would break and not come back together. Not after Robyn. "Wait a moment, I'll get my coat and a lantern. I'll look for her."
Eugene nodded and then shrugged. "I'll knock at some doors on my way back, but I can't leave the little ones. I'm sorry."
"No," Hob reassured him, "You go and take care of your wife and children. I'll get the people on my way out to the forest, and you get the ones back to yours. We'll find her, you'll see."
By the time Hob rode into the forest, half the village was on their feet.
— — — — —
After three hours of shouting and riding about in the dark Hob felt dejected. Could Rosie really have wandered this far on foot? Surely not. He was halfway to the next town already. His eyes swam and he blinked to get them clear again. Then he blinked again, bewildered.
There was a light in the distance. Very faint, but a light nonetheless. Did he get turned around in the dark, was he lost himself and near the village again? No, he would recognise this part of the woods in his sleep, he rode here every week to -
A chill ran down Hob's spine. The castle. There was light in the castle.
He did not waste a second thought and rode down the road onto the path through the wild gardens and up to the towering shadow, even blacker than the night.The closer he got, the more notable the light became, flickering dimly through a window at the top of a tower. When Hob reached its base, he saw that there was a small door at its side. Thank heavens there would be no need to go into the castle and find his way through to the tower.
He tied Matthew to a tree, took the lantern and then a deep breath to calm himself. This was Rosie, having found shelter after getting lost in the woods. Not some long dead lord's ghost. Thus scolded, he went in and climbed the stairs. It was even colder in here than outside, though Hob could not comprehend why. At the top was another door, which he carefully pushed open. "Rosie? It's me, Hob. Half the village is looking for - "
The last word got stuck in his throat. The top room of the tower, illuminated by a single torch, was divided by thick iron bars. Opposite him, on the other side, sat Rosie, hunched against the wall, her face pressed to her knees. The door to the cell was closed.
She lifted her head. "Hob?!" Tears streamed down her cheeks, but he could see no other sign of harm or injury on her, and he was glad for it.
"Rosie! Rosie, are you alright?" Hob crouched down as she crawled over to him. Her lower lip trembled, and now Hob saw that she had a thin scratch on her forehead, as if a branch had nicked her.
"I got lost," Rosie sniffled, more tears running down her face. Hob reached through the stanchions and held her by the shoulders in an attempt at comforting her.
"I figured. We're all looking for you, your father's half mad with worry. Rosie, what happened?"
Just as she opened her mouth to speak, they heard footsteps outside the door. "Oh no," whispered Rosie. Hob stood up again, the better to defend himself against whomever or whatever was coming. Then there was a voice.
"You dare intrude upon my castle?"
It was the most beautiful voice Hob had ever heard, soft as slumber and deep as the sea, pouring a bittersweet pain into his heart he could not explain. The door to the tower inched open.
Rosie shrieked and turned away, covering her face in fear. Hob could do nothing but stare, his mind screaming at him to run, but his feet stayed as if rooted to the spot. The creature in the door looked as if dredged up from the darkest of nightmares, towering taller than the tallest of men, its body as pale as a corpse, the white of its skeletal torso slowly bleeding into ink black on its gangly limbs, adorned with claws like knives. But the most dreadful thing was its face, hollow and shadowed by hair like a stormcloud, eyes black and flecked with tiny embers, like will-o'-wisps, to catch and devour the soul that dared to look upon them. Its mouth was opened in a snarl, revealing fangs sharp enough to bite a grown man's arm off.
A whimper from Rosie drew Hob out of his terrified trance. He was here to protect. He needed to be strong. "Why did you lock her up? She is a child, for God's sake, let her go!" The creature focused on him, the haunting eyes making him feel very small.
"She stole from me. Did you not, Rose, first child of Odile and Eugene?" The creature drew a long tongue over lips and fangs. "She stole a book. And she will pay for it with her freedom."
"I gave it back!" Rosie cried, and Hob's heart shattered at the small, trembling sound. "I said, I told you, I just wanted to read a bit! It, it was so dark, and cold, and I was lost, and I-"
"You stole, and you will pay." The creature took a step towards Hob, who swallowed and clenched his hands into fists so they would not shake. "You. Leave. This does not concern you. Do not return."
"What if," Hob's mind scrambled to think of something, anything, "what if I gave you my books? I am a printer, and I have lots and lots of them. I'll give them to you, if you let Rosie go." It would be a small price to pay for a life. He would have paid it a hundred times over, if it could have saved Eleanor or Robyn. He would have given more. He would have given himself. Now he would do it for Rosie, too.
The eyes of the creature glittered with interest, but it hesitated. "There is still the matter of punishment to be served."
"Fine!" Hob cried out, "fine, I'll stay in her stead! I'll go and bring my books here, and I'll stay, and you will let young Rosie go." He hoped it would be enough, for he had nothing else to give.
It inclined its head, flared its nostrils. "I accept your proposal. Be back before sundown." And to Hob's astonishment it melted into the shadow on the floor of the tower and was gone.
Shivering all over, he turned to Rosie, who had taken her hands from her face, and held onto the thick iron bars. "I will come back. I'll be fast, I promise," he said to her. It seemed he'd clawed his way back to life only to be stolen out of it again. At least this time he'd go willingly.
Rosie was crying again. "I'm not being very brave," she said, trembling from the cold, "all those knights in your stories would insist that you flee and don't come back, but all I want is to get home. Please? I know I wanted to be a knight, but I'm just so afraid…"
"That's alright, lambkin," Hob told her, unwrapping his scarf and handing it to Rosie through the bars. "You let me be the knight now so you can be one when you're a bit taller, so you can protect your brothers, yeah? Sit tight and don't worry, I'll be as quick as a bird."
And with that, he hurried down the stairs of the tower, unbound Matthew, and rode as fast as he could. When he came back to the village he spoke to no one, just took the cover off of his old cart and set to work loading each and every one of his books into it, carefully bundled so they wouldn't get damaged. He went into his workshop one last time, to retrieve a copy of his latest print, and stopped on his way out, eyes wandering over the scribbled pictures the children had drawn. He would miss them. He would miss this, even if the adults didn't care much about him, even if his heart hurt often still for his dead family. No matter. After putting the last of his books on the cart he locked up his workshop, harnessed Matthew and drove off.
Everyone stood and watched silently as he went, for they all had known he was the first to go out and look for Rosie in the woods and now he had come back without her, throwing the whole of his possessions into his cart in a hurry. Nobody spoke. At the exit of the village, Cornell stepped into his way, his arms outstretched, a lantern in his hand. Hob stopped the cart.
"No," Cornell said, voice low but sharp. "Where are you going?"
"Get out of my way," Hob said calmly. At least he wasn't going to see him again. Small mercies.
"Where is Rosie?" Cornell challenged him.
"I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to you. If you don't move, I'll drive you over." With that, Hob flicked the reins sharply, startling Matthew, who jerked into a gallop. Cornell held his arms in front of him for a moment as if to stop the horse and the cart with his bare hands, but then thought better of it and leapt out of the way. Matthew barreled past him and the last houses and into the direction of the forest. Visible over the treeline was the faintest sliver of pre-dusk bluish grey.
When he passed the first trees, Hob released the breath he'd been holding and forced his body to relax. It was not even morning. There was no reason he would arrive late. But then again, there was no reason the creature should honour its promise either. They pushed through the woods, as fast as Hob dared to go without losing his freight. It was mid-morning when he pulled up in front of the castle.
Nobody came to greet him, and so he unharnessed Matthew to let him graze and nap and went up the tower where Rosie was held. When he was halfway up, he heard footsteps coming down and prepared himself to face the strange creature again, but it was Rosie, almost crashing into him.
"Hob, oh Hob, the door just opened and I -"
"It's alright, Rosie," he pulled her into his arms. "Matthew is outside. You're gonna take him and ride back." They went down the stairs together.
"Will you really stay here?" Rosie held onto his hand and did not seem inclined to let him go. Now that she wasn't locked up anymore some of her confidence had returned.
"I don't think I have a choice. Don't worry about me, I'll be alright." He reached into his pocket, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill. "Take the keys to the workshop, too. You know how everything works, have fun with it, will you? Let the children draw. And you can sell the rest of the last print, should get you started on paper and ink." Hob took an unsteady breath and swallowed. This, this was the real goodbye, not loading his books into the wagon, not leaving his workshop or the village.
Rosie took the keys and nodded solemnly. She was only fourteen, but Hob had been younger when he'd started. She'd be alright. He said goodbye to Matthew one last time, pet his soft nose and told him to keep Rosie safe. "Stay with her, hear me? She needs you." Matthew mouthed at Hob's braid, who chuckled wetly and addressed Rosie again. "Let him sleep when you get home. He's been up all night, too." And he gave Matthew a pat, and they trotted off.
Rosie turned and waved every other moment, a sad expression on her face. Hob stood beside his cart in front of the entrance to the castle, watching and waving back, finally allowing his tears to roll down his face. He stayed there until the very last glimpse of them was long gone and he was shivering in the cold and only then he walked up the steps to the big wooden doors to knock.
There was no need to, for one of the panels was slightly ajar and he cautiously stepped inside. The only things to greet him were the dim light of the hall and the smell of old stones. Hob looked around, drying his eyes with his sleeve. The middle of the hall was flanked by huge stone pillars, leading to a grand double-winged staircase that no doubt went to the west and east wing of the castle. Dust rose from the carpet where Hob stepped on it. There was no sound, no lit candles, the fireplace empty except a clock on the mantel, no sign that anyone lived here at all.