What
Title: Stanley and the Faun [1/2]
Rating: PG
Pairing: Stan/Kyle
Summary: Once upon a time there lived a faun who had been banished from the village. AU Germanic fairytale ... thing.
Note: I really seriously do not know what is up with this g.d. story except that negniahn makes beautiful faun art; see here and here. Kyle the half-goat thing is her idea and/or life's dream.
I'll be putting up the second half of this when I am less traumatized from formatting. It's not good enough to put on my legit credible stories page on FF.net, but maybe I can use this story to test out AO3, so if you vote yes on that idea, just say so!
Once upon a time there lived a faun named Kyle. He was a rusty-haired faun with two dainty hooves and a soft belly. He lived by a river in the mountains, deep in a shady pine forest. He lived there with his sheep. Kyle was not welcome to live in the village because the local elector, Prince Eric, did not like fauns. He had banished Kyle for being greedy, for hoarding his faun gold under a rock, for having more fur than Eric was comfortable with, and for having the gall not to wear pants - among other reasons. Kyle was extremely bitter about this. He loved living in town where he could chase boys around the well and borrow books from the local library. “Everyone knows fauns can't read, Kyle,” Prince Eric decreed.
“Fauns can so read!” was Kyle's sterling defense. His father had been the greatest faun lawyer of all time. Unfortunately Kyle was not a very good lawyer, even for a faun. As there were no other fauns around this was difficult for Kyle to substantiate. He had read part of a book, his favorite book, The Tale of the Snake and the Rabbit Hole, aloud during his trial.
“That's not really reading, Kyle,” Prince Eric had said. “You're just making it up.”
“You can look right here and see that I'm not,” said Kyle, holding the book up for everyone to see.
“Um, how do I know you didn't curse that book with some, like, faun magic?”
“Fauns don't have magic!”
“They do so.”
“No, I don't! If I had magic, why wouldn't I do something to remove myself from this humiliating situation?” It was true, it was a humiliating situation. Kyle's hooves hurt terribly, weighed down by the heavy iron chains around his ankles. His wrists were chafing.
“Duh, because if you did then you'd prove me right about fauns having magic.”
“So? Magic's not inherently evil.”
“Is so,” said Prince Eric.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.”
Unfortunately Prince Eric was the only member of the jury and he ruled that Kyle was guilty and banished him.
Now Kyle spent his days trying to herd his sheep. He wasn't so great at this. The sheep did not really listen to Kyle. He took them to the meadow to graze, and they lay down on the path through the forest and wouldn't budge. When Kyle managed to get them to the meadow they would wander to the edges and it would take Kyle hours to round them back up. Once he had all his sheep together, they’d lay down in the field and refuse to go back to the forest.
Kyle would plead with them, try to lure them with brightly colored flowers, try to get them to follow him with promises of treats back at the riverbank. The sheep were disobedient and refused to listen.
Kyle felt such shame about his inability to herd his sheep. They were his only companions. What's more, he was a faun! It was his life's purpose to communicate with nature. Well, Kyle despised nature. At night he was cold. He'd had to build his little cottage all by himself, from tall reeds he'd dried out in the sun, and a frame of sticks he'd gathered. He sheared his sheep with a sharp stone he'd found, and did a poor job spinning himself a bit of yarn, which he'd knitted into a quilt like his mother had taught him. He pulled it over his shivering body and tried to sleep, but the hooting of the owls and the rustling of the leaves kept him awake. On his bed of moss he shook as the winds jostled his little hut. Kyle was afraid to keep a fire over night, so he let his skin prick, from the hairline two inches below his navel to the tips of his fingers.
Kyle had dark dreams. It was his fondest wish for Prince Eric to die, and to have a new elector come into power and let Kyle return to the village. He missed his cozy cottage with a hot stove, where he heated water for his baths. Kyle missed scrubbing his fur with goosefat soap, which he bought from the soapmaker's daughter. She had the shiniest black hair in the village. She scented her soap with rosehips and lavender, and Kyle had loved it so much he'd taken a chunk and wrapped it in a kerchief, and tucked it into his sack when he was banished. But now his soap was all used up and Kyle's fur was knotted and tangled. All night long Kyle dreamed of taking a warm, soapy bath while Prince Eric choked to death on a chicken bone. When Kyle had these dreams he woke up smiling, with a sticky mess between his legs.
The gravest charge against Kyle when he was banished was that fauns were hyper-sexual. It was true that Kyle was hyper-sexual, but he hadn't done most of the things Prince Eric accused him of doing. He had never chased the soapmaker's daughter around the well, because Kyle only chased boys. Kyle suspected that Prince Eric was paranoid, because he wanted the soapmaker's daughter for himself. Of course, when Kyle explained that he didn't chase girls, Prince Eric had accused him of buggery. Now, Kyle was only 11 at the time and had never committed buggery, but he'd certainly thought about it - although he wasn’t entirely sure what buggery consisted of. And he didn't think the town boys much minded being chased around the well. Kyle was sure they understood that he couldn't help it. It was Kyle's nature. He was a normal, healthy young faun.
In the mornings, Kyle would make himself some treebark tea over a fire outside of his hut. He had brought a pan in his sack and would drink the tea straight from it. Sometimes he burned his lips, but he didn't mind. Afterward he would crack eggs over the pan, if he'd found some wild hen eggs that week, and would cook a bit of rabbit or pheasant, if he'd been lucky enough to catch one. This morning was no different. Kyle steeped his tea and drank it under the dappled light, using a dried leaf to comb the wetness from his fur. In the village Kyle had drunk his tea sweet, with four lumps of sugar. In the forest Kyle had no sugar, so he drank his tea bitter. He had always been proud of being a healthy, hearty faun, but as he sipped from his pan he mourned his skinny legs. Kyle did not know if he would ever catch a boy if his legs were too skinny to run around the well. He supposed there was no well in the forest and no boys to chase around it anyhow, but it made Kyle sad all the same.
After his burnt leg of pheasant, Kyle got his sheep in a row and led them to the meadow. The sheep were unusually cooperative that day, bleating along as they followed Kyle to the meadow. As they walked he hoped some silly old rabbit would fall into his clever trap and make a nice juicy dinner. Kyle licked his lips at the thought of dinner. He had just eaten breakfast but he was still so hungry. He dared not eat any of his beloved sheep. Some days he caught no rabbit and ate no dinner at all. Some days Kyle would pick mushrooms and dandelion greens and gnaw on this bitter salad until his eyes watered. There was fresh cool water in the stream, and in the summer months Kyle loved to float in the river and let the currents take him down to the road. He'd then climb up the bank and shake himself off, leaving wet splatters on the sand. As Kyle walked to the meadow with his sheep he thought about the water he'd cup in his hands and drink with his rabbit, if he caught one. He rubbed the light fur on his belly, hoping for a big fat rabbit that had run away from the village. Those were always the juiciest.
It was a sunny day, the meadow in full bloom. Kyle sneezed at the pollen in the air, wiping the snot from his nose. Sure enough, when he looked up, his sheep were all scattered, wandering off. “Come back!” Kyle demanded. He covered his mouth in shock. It was the first time he had spoken aloud in weeks. He was surprised to hear how high and small his voice sounded, as if it were shrinking away from disuse.
Just then, Kyle's sheep began to run, bleating madly. “Where are you going?” he asked. Then he smacked himself in the head for asking such a silly question. He tried to run to them, but they were too far spread. Kyle's skinny legs grew tired quickly, and he bent over, huffing and panting. His sheep were mad, running to and fro. In the distance, he saw what was driving them crazy: a great dog, barking and gnashing its teeth, running after the flock, its long hair flying in the wind as it chased them.
Kyle was livid. He chased after the dog as best he could, but he just wound up tripping on a root. He fell face-first to the ground, skinning his belly and his chin, and bruising his elbows and cheek. Kyle groaned into the mud and pushed himself up. He looked around. There was no sign of the dog, and no sign of the sheep. Those sheep were Kyle's only companions. Sadness set over him.
Just then, he heard a man's voice call out, “Sparky!” Kyle pushed himself up off the ground and turned.
There was indeed a man, and he had apparently caught sight of Kyle, as he was jogging over. Kyle froze, unable to move. Part of his banishment was that he could not interact with the villagers. If this man was coming to taunt him, it wouldn't be long before Prince Eric found out, and made good on his promise to hunt Kyle down and put a quiver of arrows in his gut.
As the man charged toward Kyle, something kicked in, some instinct. He knew, rationally, that he should turn and flee. As a faun, however, we knew what he had to do. He got into a crouching position and shouted, “I've got you!” Then Kyle charged toward the man.
The man stopped in his tracks. It was as if he had never gotten a good look at Kyle until just now. He saw the sharp horns on Kyle's head, and the untrimmed talons on Kyle's hands. A look of terror filled his eyes. The man gasped, turned, and bolted.
Well, this didn't slow Kyle down one bit. With renewed vigor, he pumped his skinny legs, hopping over the tree roots and the mud patches in the dewy grass. He could feel his wounds bleeding, stinging in the wind as he ran, and Kyle didn't care. The quicker Kyle ran, the quicker the man sped, around and around the field. In the distance, Kyle was certain he could hear his sheep bleating, and Sparky barking, but Kyle barely heard. All he heard was the rushing of air between his legs as he bolted after his conquest, the pounding of his heart, and the blood thrumming in his ears. Around and around the clearing they ran, until Kyle saw the man stop in his tracks.
“Stop!” the man cried. “I surrender.”
Kyle barely heard the words. He kept running, and leapt into the man, throwing his arms around his neck. “I've got you!” Kyle shouted, and they both fell to the ground with a thud.
The man was the first to sit up, picking grass from his cheeks. He seemed dazed at first, till he narrowed his eyes at Kyle. “Oh,” he said. Then his voice became very soft and he said, “Oh. You're hurt.”
“Nah, I'm fine.” Kyle could not sit up.
“Oh no, did I hurt you?”
“How could you have hurt me?” Kyle asked. “I jumped on you.”
“Well, you're bleeding!” The man pulled his kerchief from his pocket and blotted it against Kyle's bleeding belly. “Aw, shh, it's okay.” The man looked up and locked eyes with Kyle. Immediately, Kyle noticed that his eyes were the rich blue of parchment ink. He had long dark lashes and thick dark hair. It fell into his eyes roguishly, and he swept it away. He blinked. “Oh, man,” he said. “You're that faun.”
“That's right.” Kyle was aware that he was still lying on the ground, while the man was kneeling above him.
“You're that faun who used to chase us around the well when we were boys.”
“I suppose,” said Kyle. “Do you remember me?”
“Of course,” said the man. His voice was deep, but so soft. “We banished you.”
“I suppose,” Kyle repeated. He waited for the man to say something else. “Well,” he spat. “Are you just going to sit there all day, or are you going to help me up?”
~
Six years had passed since Kyle's banishment, the man told him. He carried Kyle in his arms like a bride. “I'm fine, I'm fine,” Kyle kept saying, but when the man put him on the ground, he hobbled.
“Easy,” the man said, scooping Kyle back up. “You're hurt.”
“I'm fine,” Kyle repeated. “I make do all by myself, thanks, you can put me down now.”
“No,” said the man. “You're not fine, you're hurt. You twisted your, uh, hoof.” It was true, Kyle's left hoof was swelling up something awful.
“I'm fine,” Kyle repeated, though he was suddenly embarrassed by his skinny legs.
“Tell me where you live.”
“No.”
“Tell me where you live or I'll never let you go.”
Kyle thought about it. “No.”
“Then I'll just wander around the woods with you in my arms until I find your house.”
“What makes you think I have a house?”
“I thought fauns lived in houses.” The man tightened his grip. “Didn't you live in a house?”
Now Kyle was embarrassed by his tangled, matted fur. “I don't live anywhere,” he said.
“Then we'll just wander a bit.”
“What about my sheep?” Kyle demanded. “Your dog scared my sheep!”
“Your sheep will return. Sheep always do.”
“What could you possibly know about sheep?”
“My uncle has 10 flocks,” the man said.
“Oh, you're just bragging.”
“Hardly,” said the man. “Why would I brag about sheep? I help him herd sometimes. Didn't you notice my sheepdog?”
“I noticed that it spooked my sheep!”
“Oh, Kyle.”
Kyle froze in the man's arms. “How do you know my name?” he asked.
“Well, I'm pretty sure everyone's familiar with the banished faun,” said the man. “It was, you know, pretty big news.”
“I'm big news?”
“Well, no,” the man admitted. “Not, anymore. Now the big news is the school mistress who died. She just died one day! They said they found seeds in her stomach. To be honest, I'm kind of out here because they were my seeds. Well, me and my friends. We put them in her mead.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Kind of as a joke,” said the man.
“That's not funny!”
“Trust me,” said the man, “it was hilarious at the time.”
“Well, now that I've caught you, I'm going to put my seed in your belly,” said Kyle. “It won't be so funny then, will it?”
“What kind of seeds?” the man asked. “We put sunflower seeds in her flagon.”
“Oh, lord,” said Kyle. As they walked, Kyle grew anxious. He'd never caught a boy before and was very excited, and very scared, to do the raping. Of course, usually he would be responsible for carrying his victim back to his lair, but he just had so much on his mind, what with the missing sheep, and his horrible hunger, his bleeding wounds and twisted ankle. Still, he was growing hard, thinking about the raping. He remembered his father telling him as a little boy that just because he was a faun didn't mean he had to chase boys and rape them.
It was true that Kyle had many un-faunlike habits. He loved to read and knit, he hated playing the pipes and most especially, he preferred to chase boys, not girls. His instincts couldn't be overruled, though, he'd decided a long time ago. He'd never really understood why the villagers feared him so much. Yet this man was carrying him back to the river, ostensibly well aware of the raping he would subsequently be subjected to. Kyle found it unusually endearing. “Human,” he said, trying to be as faunish and intimidating as possible. “What's your name?”
“I'm Stan,” said the human. “Stan Marsh. My father is the stonemason.”
“And what are you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, what do you do, what's your vocation?”
“Well, I'm not sure that I have one.”
“Oh, you're a lazy human, eh?”
“No,” said Stan. “Of course not. I just don't know what I want to do yet.”
“What do you mean, what you want to do?”
“Well, I don't know what I want to be. My father is a stonemason and my uncle is a hunter. My mother is a seamstress and my sister is a seamstress. But I don't find any of these things interesting. I don't know what I want to do.”
“Your vocation should be instinctual,” said Kyle. “For example I am a faun.”
“Yes, I know,” said Stan.
“Well, then you can see that as a faun my vocation is chasing. I was born this way and I haven't got much choice in the matter. Of course, it's hard to chase boys around the well when I'm out here in this wood with no boys and no well, but I chase the sheep just fine, and in fact I chased you sufficiently as I caught you. And here we are.”
“Yes, here we are,” said Stan. “With me carrying you in my arms like a docile housecat.”
“Yes, like a - no! Not like that.” Kyle's penis became harder, if that were possible. The rushing of the stream was audible in the distance. Kyle's heart sank.
“I think we're close,” Stan mused.
“How do you know?”
Stan smirked. “Instinct.” They headed to the bank of the river, and Stan sniffed at the air.
“What?” Kyle asked. “What are you doing?”
“Well, I think the wind is blowing upriver today. So if I smell the slightest hint of ashes, it must be coming from...” Stan took another sniff, and turned to walk along the river bank. Sure enough, it was only another few minutes to Kyle's abode. “You live here?” Stan asked. He glanced at the smoldering file and the reed lean-to.
“Yes, this is my home, and I'll thank you not to make fun of it. Now put me down!”
Finally, Stan obliged. He set Kyle on the sandy riverbank and knelt at the water's edge, his knees licked with wetness. “Do you piss in this water?”
“What?” Kyle gasped. “No!”
This seemed to satisfy Stan, and he bent over the river to drink.
“Why would you ask such a thing? Who would piss in the river? That's disgusting.”
Stan wiped the water from his lips. “It's a stream. Who wouldn't piss into it?”
“This is where I drink from! It's where I bathe!”
“Suit yourself.”
“You're disgusting!” Kyle managed to hobble up on his hooves and limp to his lean-to. He collapsed onto his quilt and rubbed his eyes.
At the riverbank Stan gulped mouthfuls of clear water. Carrying Kyle to and fro had been hard work. When he was sated, Stan pulled his soiled kerchief from his pocket and washed the blood out in the stream. It left a brownish stain, but he didn't mind. He wrung the kerchief out over the water and walked back to the lean-to.
“How do you feel?” Stan asked, folding his kerchief in half, then quarters.
“Fine, fine,” Kyle said. “I am fine. Just let me catch my breath and I'll have my way with you.”
“Hm?” Stan knelt beside Kyle and took his chin in hand. “You're hurt.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Kyle. “Just wait until I catch my breath.”
“You've caught it already.” Stan pressed the cool cloth to Kyle's face. “Let's clean this up. A dirty wound can fester.”
“That's cold,” Kyle said, pushing Stan's hand away.
Stan was not deterred. “Shhh,” he said. “Just a sec. How does your head feel?”
“Fine!”
“I don't know much about fauns,” Stan said, trying to make small talk while he cleaned the dirt and drying blood from the scrape on Kyle's chin. “What's your favorite thing to do?”
“Chase boys around the well,” said Kyle, “and rape them if I catch them.”
“Oh? Have you caught and raped many boys?”
“Well, no,” Kyle huffed. “You'd be my first. But it's only because I was banished and haven't had any boys to chase!”
Stan sighed. “This thing you keep saying, about raping me?”
“Yeah?”
“I don't think I'm going to let you do that.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, Stan, but I chased you and caught you so now I get to rape you. It's just how it works.”
“I think the 'catching' aspect is subjective, seeing as you didn't really subdue me. See, I don't know much about fauns, but the thing with society is, we do things not because we follow some blindly instinctual set of rules, but because people have wants and needs and they determine which of those to indulge. And, frankly, this rape situation sounds rather unappealing, and I won't just go along with it because you say I must.”
“Then I'll gore you with my horns.” Atop his head, like all fauns, Kyle had a pointy set of horns. They were straight and sharp, each five inches high, in sharp contrast to the gnarled mess of hair Kyle sported.
“Sure,” said Stan. He stuffed his damp, bloody kerchief back in his pocket. “Go ahead and try.”
“Gladly.” Kyle reared back and lunged forward.
Stan fell back and hopped to his feet, stepping back.
Kyle toppled onto his face.
“You're hurt,” said Stan. “You're in no shape to gore me, let alone rape me.”
“I caught you and I demand to rape you!” Kyle insisted, but even as he said this he felt his hardness receding. The premise of raping this man was wearying.
Stan crouched back down and helped Kyle up. “Let's get you some food,” he said. “What do you eat?”
“Mushrooms and dandelions,” said Kyle.
This didn't much appeal to Stan. “Do you have anything else?”
“Maybe a rabbit in the trap, if I'm lucky.”
Stan headed outside and hunted, but found no rabbit. Instead he found a stash of three wild hen eggs. He also found Kyle's pan where Kyle had left is that morning over the simmering embers of his breakfast fire. Stan tended to the fire, and filled the pan with stream water. He carefully laid the three eggs in the basin of the pan, and went back inside, if the lean-to was in or outside at all. Kyle was curled back up under his wool quilt. He sat up when Stan came in.
“Rabbit?” he asked.
“There's eggs.”
Pouting, Kyle rolled over. “I wanted rabbit.”
“I'm making some nice eggs,” said Stan. “So hush.”
Stan took the boiled eggs off the fire and peeled them, mashing the egg shells in his palm and leaving them on the ground. He brought the three peeled eggs to Kyle, who ate one, and Stan ate another. When there was one left, Kyle said, “Who's that one for?”
With his nails, Stan dug into the boiled egg and tore it apart. “We're sharing it,” he said.
That night, Kyle was not so cold as he had been, with Stan curled around him for warmth. They fell asleep to the sound of the rushing stream, and the rustling leaves did not bother Kyle so much. In the morning, he awoke just after dawn to the sound of bleating.
“My sheep!” Kyle cried, pushing himself up. As he jerked his skinned belly ached. He climbed over Stan and out of the lean-to, where he found his flock, and with them, Sparky. In Sparky's mouth was a rabbit.
“I told you.” Kyle turned to see Stan standing behind him, arms crossed. “I told you the sheep would come back. Sheep always do. Especially when you have a good herding dog. Isn't that right, boy?”
Sparky seemed to agree, bounding toward Stan, and dropping the rabbit at Stan's feet.
“And a good herding dog will bring you breakfast, to boot.”
Kyle sat down on the ground with his sharp flint and began to skin his rabbit. He turned when Stan cleared his throat.
“I have to head back now.”
“But!” Kyle was unsure of what his protest was. His hands were bloody with rabbit pelt. “But, I haven't raped you yet!”
Stan just laughed. He shook his head. “I have to be going if I want to be back by nightfall.”
With that, Stan turned and walked down the bank of the stream, retracing his steps from the day before. Kyle sat there with his half-skinned rabbit in his hands, stunned. It took a moment for Sparky to go; he crept up to Kyle, and sniffed the dead rabbit in his hands.
“That's mine,” Kyle said, lifting it over his head. The kill was fresh and warm blood dripped slowly onto Kyle's shoulders.
Sparky barked once, turned, and bounded after Stan.
~
The next morning, Kyle woke thinking he'd had the most marvelous dream. He had not had human company for the longest time. He woke hard, with his belly full, the dappled light shining through the pine forest in his eyes. It took Kyle little time to realize that it had not been a dream, it had been real, and beautiful. The very thought of Stan, with his hair the color of wet bark after a rain (1), made Kyle turn under his quilt and press his hips to the ground. Stan's hands were so big, his nails not jagged like Kyle's but trimmed short, with only the barest hint of dirt caked under them. Kyle thought about how he had been so close to raping Stan, so close, but Stan appeared to be ... unrapeable. Well, Kyle was just going to have to try harder, harder ... if he ever got another chance. Kyle could never go back to the village, so he'd very likely never see Stan again. The thought was enough to make Kyle mourn, and dampen his joy as he spilled against the pine needles he'd slept on.
Panting, Kyle got up and brushed himself off. He made his pan of hot water and steeped his tea, just like he did every morning. There were no eggs left, but Kyle ate some of the leftover burnt rabbit leg, gnawing the flesh off the bone. Afterward, he led his sheep to the meadow so they could graze. He would have to shear them, if possible, so he could continue crocheting himself a scarf. Winter was coming, and Kyle knew he would shiver through it.
In the meadow that day, Kyle's flock was most compliant. They didn’t stray far, and they came back when Kyle called for them. They followed Kyle back down the riverbank single-file, bleating happily, their breath stinking of clipped crab grass. Kyle hoped there would be a pheasant in his trap when he returned to his camp. He was sick of rabbit.
Sure enough, there was a surprise waiting for Kyle, but it wasn't pheasant.
It was Stan, sitting by the stream, playing a lute.
“What are you doing here!” Kyle exclaimed.
“I brought you a gift,” said Stan.
“The gift of song? Sorry, I think you'll find I'm not interested.”
Stan set the lute aside. “No.”
“Are ... you the gift? Because you know your rightful place is beneath me, since I caught you?”
“No,” said Stan. “Here I've walked willingly into your abode. You haven't caught me. I've brought myself to you.” Stan stood up, leaving his lute by the embers of Kyle's morning fire.
“What?” Kyle asked, following Stan up the hill. “I don't need your gifts, human, I need your body.”
At the base of the reed mat under which Kyle slept, there was a large stone brick, roughly hewn by larger than anything Stan could have carried himself. It was then that Kyle noticed the ass tied up on a distant tree, with a pack on his back.
“This,” said Stan, kicking the stone. “Your sleeping arrangements are pathetic. No offense. You cannot sleep under a reed mat through winter.”
“I have done through six winters.”
“That's foolish. My father is a stonemason. He has plenty to spare. Enough to build you a small cottage. A real cottage. And I've brought a pack, too, with more supplies.” Stan gestured to his burro.
“Thanks,” said Kyle. “I guess. ... But how am I supposed to build a cottage from one stone?”
“Tomorrow I'll bring a second stone,” said Stan.
“That's very generous of you. But how am I to build a cottage from two stones?”
“I'll bring stones enough for you to build your cottage, one a day.”
“That will take years!”
“Then you'll be patient,” said Stan, “and when you see the cottage I've built you you'll know that there are more important things in life than raping. And perhaps once Prince Eric sees this cottage, he'll know that there are people in his village who care for you, and that you're one of us, and we haven't forgotten you.”
“Well, fat chance, and I do mean fat, that'll he'll ever drag his cushy ass out here to see this cottage.”\
“He doesn't need to see it, and if he did, he might not believe his own eyes. But people will speak of this, Kyle, and that will be worth more to him than seeing 20 cottages.”
“Great,” said Kyle. He had glanced over at his trap and seen that there was no pheasant. He had no pheasant and one stone, lot of good it did him.
“Would you like to see what's in my pack?” Stan asked.
Kyle was intrigued. “Sure.”
Stan untied his pack and removed it from the ass, who heaved and gnawed at the bark of the tree he was tied to. Stan set the pack near the fire, and showed Kyle what he had brought: Clean linens, a pad for sleeping, a pillow, and a laundry line; five soft apples, a head of butter lettuce, a brick of hard cheese and a skein of salted elk meat; two hammered tin goblets, a ceramic plate and bowl; a sea sponge and goosefat soap. When Kyle counted, he saw that there were five bars.
“Where'd you get this?” Kyle asked. He had tears in his eyes.
“I told the soapmaker's daughter I was bringing you a pack of supplies, and she gave this to me,” said Stan. “She said you loved the kind with rosehips.”
“I do!” Kyle kissed a bar of soap as if it where a beloved pet. “But, wait. If you told the soapmaker's daughter-”
“She's my friend,” said Stan. “She's not cruel. She won't tell.”
“I hope you're right,” said Stan.
“I am,” he said.
For dinner Stan made a plate of lettuce with one wild hen egg, a hunk of the hard cheese and some of the salted elk meat. They ate it together by the fire, and Kyle was content until he remembered he had not sheared his sheep.
“Don't worry,” said Stan, “you can shear them tomorrow.”
“But I'm making a scarf!”
“Then I'll bring you a scarf,” said Stan.
When Stan got up to walk back to the village with his ass, Kyle followed him down the river. “Won't you camp here tonight?” he asked.
“That pad's not big enough for two,” said Stan.
“Yes it is!” Kyle protested, though he hadn't unrolled it and didn't know how large or small it was.
“I have to be going,” Stan said. “My place is in the village, with my mother and father, and my sister. But I'll return. I'll always return. Don't worry.” Then Stan leaned in, and he pressed a kiss to Kyle's cheek.
Fauns were very sexual, perhaps even hyper-sexual as some claimed. But they were not overly romantic. As Stan left, Kyle stared at him, feeling deeply confused. He had not lived among humans for six years, and he had almost forgotten what a kiss meant. Kyle was not certain if it meant that Stan wanted to marry him, or rape him. All of the housewares he'd brought in his pack suggested he wanted to literally build a house with Kyle, to make a life. But if Stan wanted to marry him, why was he leaving? But if he wanted to rape Kyle, why hadn't he done it? Kyle went to sleep that night on his new bed roll, a clean white sheet between his quilt and his furry legs.
~
The next day brought Stan again. Kyle had taken his flock to the meadow early, and when he returned, Kyle was somewhat shocked to find a second brick beside the first one, and another large pack awaiting him. Stan sat at the river playing his lute, with his dog and, to Kyle's amazement, a sheep.
“What is this?” Kyle asked.
“I've brought you the second stone, as I promised, plus more dry goods: a quilted overcoat, rags to wipe the mud from your hooves-”
Kyle grabbed the lute from Stan's hands and almost smashed it on the ground. At the last minute he halted himself, and dropped it instead. “I like mud on my hooves!” Kyle barked.
“Of course. But this way you won't track mud on your sheets, and you won't have to wash them that often.”
“I already have a sheep!” Kyle roared. “A whole flock of sheep!” As Kyle yelled, Stan gazed up at his pointy horns.
“This isn't a sheep for shearing,” Stan explained. “Or, well, it would make sense to shear him. But he's for eating. You see, this sheep will make plenty of good meat.” Stan smacked the sheep on the rump, and he bleated. “You can shear him, too. You won't have to kill one of your own flock, and you can salt this meat and keep it all winter. You can also breed your flock and make more sheep, see? More sheep means more salt meat you can stock up, more milk to drink, more wool to shear. You can spin the wool into yarn and I can take it into town for you and trade it for things you need.”
“I don't need anything,” Kyle said. “I was doing fine on my own before you trotted out here to criticize my lifestyle, human.”
“You wanted to rape me,” said Stan, “but I'm giving you a much more valuable gift than that. If you make enough wool, I can get you a cart. If I get a cart, I can bring more bricks. The more bricks I bring, the sooner you will have a real cottage, with a real stove, and Prince Eric will see that you belong among us. Weren't you happy chasing us around the well?”
“I suppose.”
“And would you like me to bring you anything else from the village? A book, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Kyle picked up Stan's lute and handed it back to him.
Stan, it turned out, did not want to kill the sheep himself. He watched Kyle shear it, then helped him bag the wool up. He then sat by the stream and played with lute, Sparky at his feet, while Kyle led the sheep up to a clearing nearby and cut the sheep's throat with the new dagger Stan had brought in his pack that day. When the sheep was dead, Stan helped Kyle slice off the tastiest piece, the rump, for dinner that night. They let this simmer on the fire while together, they skinned the sheep and used the salt and parchment in Stan's pack to make small parcels of salt meat.
“There,” said Stan, when they were finished. It was night, and the sheep rump was hissing in Kyle's pan over the flames. “All done. Won't this be tasty in the middle of winter?”
Kyle was too captivated by the smell of the cooking flesh to answer.
They ate their dinner together, sheep rump with lettuce leaves and mashed rutabagas Stan had brought that day, by the fire.
“It's too late to head back,” Stan said, brushing his hands off when he was finished eating. “May I stay with you tonight?”
Kyle wanted that more than anything, but as a jaded, grumpy faun, he wanted to bark, “No!” and send Stan back to town so tired that tears stung his eyes. Unfortunately, a full belly made Kyle sleepy and unquarrelsome. With a yawn, he said, “Sure,” and let Stan carry him up to bed.
It was a clear night and through the branches of the pines, they could see the tiny stars above them. Kyle's hand rested on his belly, and he thought of his arousal between his legs, primed for raping. Unfortunately, he was too sleepy to roll on top of Stan and extract his price for having caught the foolish human.
“You know,” Stan said softly, brushing his thumb against Kyle's cheek. “When we were boys, and you'd chase us around the well, I always through you were the strangest and most beautiful creature.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes.”
Kyle cleared his throat. “Are you going to rape me?” he asked.
Stan sat up. “I am not entirely sure you know what raping is.”
“I’m a faun, Stan, duh. I know what raping is.”
“Because it’s when you, ah … take someone, against their will.”
“I know!”
“Well, if we did do … that, and you were, you know, receptive to it, it wouldn’t really be a rape.”
“Well,” said Kyle. “What would you call it, in that case?”
Stan shrugged. “Making love?”
Kyle burst out laughing. “You humans are so stupid! If you think I’m strange and beautiful, well, you don’t know the half of it. Here.” Kyle put his hands on Stan’s chest and kissed him on the lips, dryly. Stan’s arms were around him, clasped at Kyle’s back. “You’ve caught me, human. Do what you will.”
~
Day by day, Stan brought stone bricks, and Kyle spun skeins of wool into thick yarn. Some he kept for himself, to knit his scarves, and some he dyed with the end of the autumn wild berries, a rich royal color. Soon there were enough bricks to build the perimeter of the house.
“What will you do for the floor?” Kyle asked, standing back as Stan placed the stones in a square, leaving a gap in one size where the door could go.
“Oh? Is the self-sufficient faun too good for a dirt floor?”
“Well, it just seems that if you’ve promised me a proper cottage, I ought to have a proper floor.”
Dragging his last stone into place, Stan stood up, panting. “I can cut wood, if you like. You can have a floor of wooden slats. Perhaps if you trap an elk or a mountain goat you can skin the beast and put its pelt on the floor.”
“If I do it?” Kyle asked. “I’m a simple faun! How would I trap an elk or a mountain goat? They are fleeter than I, with longer horns, and bigger, too. To face such a creature would be folly.”
“If I brought you a bow and quiver full of arrows-”
“I’ve got a quiver full of something!” Kyle said. “It’s better than arrows! Want to know what?”
Stan smiled, as if he already knew. “Yes,” he said, wiping the dust and grime from his hands. “I’ll bet you do.”
It was growing colder, and Kyle had finished making his scarf. He also wore his quilt around his shoulders, and bundled up on a log by the stream as Stan played his lute. Stan had a lovely voice and he sang short verses about the rusty-haired faun who chased boys around the well, and one boy growing up and falling in love with the faun and the boy and the faun living happily ever after. Kyle thought these songs were obvious and banal but he didn’t say anything, because he had learned that it bothered him immensely when Stan sulked.
By the first snow, Kyle had made enough yarn for Stan to acquire a cart. One cold afternoon he wheeled it up, the ass tugging it along, leaving tracks behind them in the crisp layer of light snow. Stan brought a jar of mortar as well and he was able to build up the cottage to knee-height. When he was done placing the bricks, he was exhausted, and he lay under Kyle’s quilt by the fire while Kyle inspected the structure. “It seems short,” Kyle said, kicking the little wall with his hoof.
“It’ll grow,” said Stan. He could smell the stew of salted elk meat, leek, and potato that Kyle was cooking over the fire in his knew copper kettle, which Stan had brought him, explaining that his mother had grown tried of it and his father had recently bought her a new, larger kettle.
“I have bad news,” Stan said when Kyle sat next to him.
“What?”
“My sister needs my help.”
“With what?” As Kyle drew closer to Stan his little tail was wagging.
“Well,” said Stan, “a while back she was spending time with this wandering minstrel, and long story short minstrels kind of - well, they wander, I guess, so basically she's going to have a baby and I can't come see you for a while.”
Kyle's tail stopped wagging. “What?”
“I man, I'll come back,” said Stan. “I just need a month or two-”
“A month or two? You're going to leave me out in the cold in the middle of the forest with a half-built cottage so you can hang out with your sister?”
“Well, my family needs me,” said Stan.
“But I need you!” This was an unusual thing for Kyle to admit, and he covered his mouth and got up and went back to his lean-to, where he climbed under his quilt and buried his head under his pillow.
Stan got up to follow. “It's only for a while,” he said, kneeling at the side of Kyle's bed roll. “Until she's on her feet. Just a month or two. I'll take the cart back, and when I return, I'll bring lots of stones.”
“Just go,” said Kyle. “You belong in the village with your human family.”
“That's not true,” said Stan. “Well, no, it's true, but - someday I will bring you back with me and I'll never have to leave you all alone in the woods again.” Stan bent over to kiss Kyle's cheek. “I'll be back,” he said. “You just see. I'll be back.”
“Just go,” Kyle repeated. “I'll be fine here. I'm an independent adult faun, I'll be okay. I'm strong.”
“I promise I won't forget you.” Stan stooped in to give Kyle a second kiss.
“You're just making it worse!”
Stan sighed, and rose to his feet. He wanted to stay the night with Kyle, but he knew he had to get back. He untied the burro from the tree, and re-hitched the cart. They left through the darkness, the sound of their footsteps and the cartwheels crunching on the frost.
Kyle didn't need Stan, or his lousy bricks. He had root vegetables galore, hard cheese, a growing flock of sheep, a soft bed, and finely scented soap. He had lived alone in the woods for six years. Surely he could handle two months.
Part two.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Stan/Kyle
Summary: Once upon a time there lived a faun who had been banished from the village. AU Germanic fairytale ... thing.
Note: I really seriously do not know what is up with this g.d. story except that negniahn makes beautiful faun art; see here and here. Kyle the half-goat thing is her idea and/or life's dream.
I'll be putting up the second half of this when I am less traumatized from formatting. It's not good enough to put on my legit credible stories page on FF.net, but maybe I can use this story to test out AO3, so if you vote yes on that idea, just say so!
Once upon a time there lived a faun named Kyle. He was a rusty-haired faun with two dainty hooves and a soft belly. He lived by a river in the mountains, deep in a shady pine forest. He lived there with his sheep. Kyle was not welcome to live in the village because the local elector, Prince Eric, did not like fauns. He had banished Kyle for being greedy, for hoarding his faun gold under a rock, for having more fur than Eric was comfortable with, and for having the gall not to wear pants - among other reasons. Kyle was extremely bitter about this. He loved living in town where he could chase boys around the well and borrow books from the local library. “Everyone knows fauns can't read, Kyle,” Prince Eric decreed.
“Fauns can so read!” was Kyle's sterling defense. His father had been the greatest faun lawyer of all time. Unfortunately Kyle was not a very good lawyer, even for a faun. As there were no other fauns around this was difficult for Kyle to substantiate. He had read part of a book, his favorite book, The Tale of the Snake and the Rabbit Hole, aloud during his trial.
“That's not really reading, Kyle,” Prince Eric had said. “You're just making it up.”
“You can look right here and see that I'm not,” said Kyle, holding the book up for everyone to see.
“Um, how do I know you didn't curse that book with some, like, faun magic?”
“Fauns don't have magic!”
“They do so.”
“No, I don't! If I had magic, why wouldn't I do something to remove myself from this humiliating situation?” It was true, it was a humiliating situation. Kyle's hooves hurt terribly, weighed down by the heavy iron chains around his ankles. His wrists were chafing.
“Duh, because if you did then you'd prove me right about fauns having magic.”
“So? Magic's not inherently evil.”
“Is so,” said Prince Eric.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.”
Unfortunately Prince Eric was the only member of the jury and he ruled that Kyle was guilty and banished him.
Now Kyle spent his days trying to herd his sheep. He wasn't so great at this. The sheep did not really listen to Kyle. He took them to the meadow to graze, and they lay down on the path through the forest and wouldn't budge. When Kyle managed to get them to the meadow they would wander to the edges and it would take Kyle hours to round them back up. Once he had all his sheep together, they’d lay down in the field and refuse to go back to the forest.
Kyle would plead with them, try to lure them with brightly colored flowers, try to get them to follow him with promises of treats back at the riverbank. The sheep were disobedient and refused to listen.
Kyle felt such shame about his inability to herd his sheep. They were his only companions. What's more, he was a faun! It was his life's purpose to communicate with nature. Well, Kyle despised nature. At night he was cold. He'd had to build his little cottage all by himself, from tall reeds he'd dried out in the sun, and a frame of sticks he'd gathered. He sheared his sheep with a sharp stone he'd found, and did a poor job spinning himself a bit of yarn, which he'd knitted into a quilt like his mother had taught him. He pulled it over his shivering body and tried to sleep, but the hooting of the owls and the rustling of the leaves kept him awake. On his bed of moss he shook as the winds jostled his little hut. Kyle was afraid to keep a fire over night, so he let his skin prick, from the hairline two inches below his navel to the tips of his fingers.
Kyle had dark dreams. It was his fondest wish for Prince Eric to die, and to have a new elector come into power and let Kyle return to the village. He missed his cozy cottage with a hot stove, where he heated water for his baths. Kyle missed scrubbing his fur with goosefat soap, which he bought from the soapmaker's daughter. She had the shiniest black hair in the village. She scented her soap with rosehips and lavender, and Kyle had loved it so much he'd taken a chunk and wrapped it in a kerchief, and tucked it into his sack when he was banished. But now his soap was all used up and Kyle's fur was knotted and tangled. All night long Kyle dreamed of taking a warm, soapy bath while Prince Eric choked to death on a chicken bone. When Kyle had these dreams he woke up smiling, with a sticky mess between his legs.
The gravest charge against Kyle when he was banished was that fauns were hyper-sexual. It was true that Kyle was hyper-sexual, but he hadn't done most of the things Prince Eric accused him of doing. He had never chased the soapmaker's daughter around the well, because Kyle only chased boys. Kyle suspected that Prince Eric was paranoid, because he wanted the soapmaker's daughter for himself. Of course, when Kyle explained that he didn't chase girls, Prince Eric had accused him of buggery. Now, Kyle was only 11 at the time and had never committed buggery, but he'd certainly thought about it - although he wasn’t entirely sure what buggery consisted of. And he didn't think the town boys much minded being chased around the well. Kyle was sure they understood that he couldn't help it. It was Kyle's nature. He was a normal, healthy young faun.
In the mornings, Kyle would make himself some treebark tea over a fire outside of his hut. He had brought a pan in his sack and would drink the tea straight from it. Sometimes he burned his lips, but he didn't mind. Afterward he would crack eggs over the pan, if he'd found some wild hen eggs that week, and would cook a bit of rabbit or pheasant, if he'd been lucky enough to catch one. This morning was no different. Kyle steeped his tea and drank it under the dappled light, using a dried leaf to comb the wetness from his fur. In the village Kyle had drunk his tea sweet, with four lumps of sugar. In the forest Kyle had no sugar, so he drank his tea bitter. He had always been proud of being a healthy, hearty faun, but as he sipped from his pan he mourned his skinny legs. Kyle did not know if he would ever catch a boy if his legs were too skinny to run around the well. He supposed there was no well in the forest and no boys to chase around it anyhow, but it made Kyle sad all the same.
After his burnt leg of pheasant, Kyle got his sheep in a row and led them to the meadow. The sheep were unusually cooperative that day, bleating along as they followed Kyle to the meadow. As they walked he hoped some silly old rabbit would fall into his clever trap and make a nice juicy dinner. Kyle licked his lips at the thought of dinner. He had just eaten breakfast but he was still so hungry. He dared not eat any of his beloved sheep. Some days he caught no rabbit and ate no dinner at all. Some days Kyle would pick mushrooms and dandelion greens and gnaw on this bitter salad until his eyes watered. There was fresh cool water in the stream, and in the summer months Kyle loved to float in the river and let the currents take him down to the road. He'd then climb up the bank and shake himself off, leaving wet splatters on the sand. As Kyle walked to the meadow with his sheep he thought about the water he'd cup in his hands and drink with his rabbit, if he caught one. He rubbed the light fur on his belly, hoping for a big fat rabbit that had run away from the village. Those were always the juiciest.
It was a sunny day, the meadow in full bloom. Kyle sneezed at the pollen in the air, wiping the snot from his nose. Sure enough, when he looked up, his sheep were all scattered, wandering off. “Come back!” Kyle demanded. He covered his mouth in shock. It was the first time he had spoken aloud in weeks. He was surprised to hear how high and small his voice sounded, as if it were shrinking away from disuse.
Just then, Kyle's sheep began to run, bleating madly. “Where are you going?” he asked. Then he smacked himself in the head for asking such a silly question. He tried to run to them, but they were too far spread. Kyle's skinny legs grew tired quickly, and he bent over, huffing and panting. His sheep were mad, running to and fro. In the distance, he saw what was driving them crazy: a great dog, barking and gnashing its teeth, running after the flock, its long hair flying in the wind as it chased them.
Kyle was livid. He chased after the dog as best he could, but he just wound up tripping on a root. He fell face-first to the ground, skinning his belly and his chin, and bruising his elbows and cheek. Kyle groaned into the mud and pushed himself up. He looked around. There was no sign of the dog, and no sign of the sheep. Those sheep were Kyle's only companions. Sadness set over him.
Just then, he heard a man's voice call out, “Sparky!” Kyle pushed himself up off the ground and turned.
There was indeed a man, and he had apparently caught sight of Kyle, as he was jogging over. Kyle froze, unable to move. Part of his banishment was that he could not interact with the villagers. If this man was coming to taunt him, it wouldn't be long before Prince Eric found out, and made good on his promise to hunt Kyle down and put a quiver of arrows in his gut.
As the man charged toward Kyle, something kicked in, some instinct. He knew, rationally, that he should turn and flee. As a faun, however, we knew what he had to do. He got into a crouching position and shouted, “I've got you!” Then Kyle charged toward the man.
The man stopped in his tracks. It was as if he had never gotten a good look at Kyle until just now. He saw the sharp horns on Kyle's head, and the untrimmed talons on Kyle's hands. A look of terror filled his eyes. The man gasped, turned, and bolted.
Well, this didn't slow Kyle down one bit. With renewed vigor, he pumped his skinny legs, hopping over the tree roots and the mud patches in the dewy grass. He could feel his wounds bleeding, stinging in the wind as he ran, and Kyle didn't care. The quicker Kyle ran, the quicker the man sped, around and around the field. In the distance, Kyle was certain he could hear his sheep bleating, and Sparky barking, but Kyle barely heard. All he heard was the rushing of air between his legs as he bolted after his conquest, the pounding of his heart, and the blood thrumming in his ears. Around and around the clearing they ran, until Kyle saw the man stop in his tracks.
“Stop!” the man cried. “I surrender.”
Kyle barely heard the words. He kept running, and leapt into the man, throwing his arms around his neck. “I've got you!” Kyle shouted, and they both fell to the ground with a thud.
The man was the first to sit up, picking grass from his cheeks. He seemed dazed at first, till he narrowed his eyes at Kyle. “Oh,” he said. Then his voice became very soft and he said, “Oh. You're hurt.”
“Nah, I'm fine.” Kyle could not sit up.
“Oh no, did I hurt you?”
“How could you have hurt me?” Kyle asked. “I jumped on you.”
“Well, you're bleeding!” The man pulled his kerchief from his pocket and blotted it against Kyle's bleeding belly. “Aw, shh, it's okay.” The man looked up and locked eyes with Kyle. Immediately, Kyle noticed that his eyes were the rich blue of parchment ink. He had long dark lashes and thick dark hair. It fell into his eyes roguishly, and he swept it away. He blinked. “Oh, man,” he said. “You're that faun.”
“That's right.” Kyle was aware that he was still lying on the ground, while the man was kneeling above him.
“You're that faun who used to chase us around the well when we were boys.”
“I suppose,” said Kyle. “Do you remember me?”
“Of course,” said the man. His voice was deep, but so soft. “We banished you.”
“I suppose,” Kyle repeated. He waited for the man to say something else. “Well,” he spat. “Are you just going to sit there all day, or are you going to help me up?”
~
Six years had passed since Kyle's banishment, the man told him. He carried Kyle in his arms like a bride. “I'm fine, I'm fine,” Kyle kept saying, but when the man put him on the ground, he hobbled.
“Easy,” the man said, scooping Kyle back up. “You're hurt.”
“I'm fine,” Kyle repeated. “I make do all by myself, thanks, you can put me down now.”
“No,” said the man. “You're not fine, you're hurt. You twisted your, uh, hoof.” It was true, Kyle's left hoof was swelling up something awful.
“I'm fine,” Kyle repeated, though he was suddenly embarrassed by his skinny legs.
“Tell me where you live.”
“No.”
“Tell me where you live or I'll never let you go.”
Kyle thought about it. “No.”
“Then I'll just wander around the woods with you in my arms until I find your house.”
“What makes you think I have a house?”
“I thought fauns lived in houses.” The man tightened his grip. “Didn't you live in a house?”
Now Kyle was embarrassed by his tangled, matted fur. “I don't live anywhere,” he said.
“Then we'll just wander a bit.”
“What about my sheep?” Kyle demanded. “Your dog scared my sheep!”
“Your sheep will return. Sheep always do.”
“What could you possibly know about sheep?”
“My uncle has 10 flocks,” the man said.
“Oh, you're just bragging.”
“Hardly,” said the man. “Why would I brag about sheep? I help him herd sometimes. Didn't you notice my sheepdog?”
“I noticed that it spooked my sheep!”
“Oh, Kyle.”
Kyle froze in the man's arms. “How do you know my name?” he asked.
“Well, I'm pretty sure everyone's familiar with the banished faun,” said the man. “It was, you know, pretty big news.”
“I'm big news?”
“Well, no,” the man admitted. “Not, anymore. Now the big news is the school mistress who died. She just died one day! They said they found seeds in her stomach. To be honest, I'm kind of out here because they were my seeds. Well, me and my friends. We put them in her mead.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Kind of as a joke,” said the man.
“That's not funny!”
“Trust me,” said the man, “it was hilarious at the time.”
“Well, now that I've caught you, I'm going to put my seed in your belly,” said Kyle. “It won't be so funny then, will it?”
“What kind of seeds?” the man asked. “We put sunflower seeds in her flagon.”
“Oh, lord,” said Kyle. As they walked, Kyle grew anxious. He'd never caught a boy before and was very excited, and very scared, to do the raping. Of course, usually he would be responsible for carrying his victim back to his lair, but he just had so much on his mind, what with the missing sheep, and his horrible hunger, his bleeding wounds and twisted ankle. Still, he was growing hard, thinking about the raping. He remembered his father telling him as a little boy that just because he was a faun didn't mean he had to chase boys and rape them.
It was true that Kyle had many un-faunlike habits. He loved to read and knit, he hated playing the pipes and most especially, he preferred to chase boys, not girls. His instincts couldn't be overruled, though, he'd decided a long time ago. He'd never really understood why the villagers feared him so much. Yet this man was carrying him back to the river, ostensibly well aware of the raping he would subsequently be subjected to. Kyle found it unusually endearing. “Human,” he said, trying to be as faunish and intimidating as possible. “What's your name?”
“I'm Stan,” said the human. “Stan Marsh. My father is the stonemason.”
“And what are you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, what do you do, what's your vocation?”
“Well, I'm not sure that I have one.”
“Oh, you're a lazy human, eh?”
“No,” said Stan. “Of course not. I just don't know what I want to do yet.”
“What do you mean, what you want to do?”
“Well, I don't know what I want to be. My father is a stonemason and my uncle is a hunter. My mother is a seamstress and my sister is a seamstress. But I don't find any of these things interesting. I don't know what I want to do.”
“Your vocation should be instinctual,” said Kyle. “For example I am a faun.”
“Yes, I know,” said Stan.
“Well, then you can see that as a faun my vocation is chasing. I was born this way and I haven't got much choice in the matter. Of course, it's hard to chase boys around the well when I'm out here in this wood with no boys and no well, but I chase the sheep just fine, and in fact I chased you sufficiently as I caught you. And here we are.”
“Yes, here we are,” said Stan. “With me carrying you in my arms like a docile housecat.”
“Yes, like a - no! Not like that.” Kyle's penis became harder, if that were possible. The rushing of the stream was audible in the distance. Kyle's heart sank.
“I think we're close,” Stan mused.
“How do you know?”
Stan smirked. “Instinct.” They headed to the bank of the river, and Stan sniffed at the air.
“What?” Kyle asked. “What are you doing?”
“Well, I think the wind is blowing upriver today. So if I smell the slightest hint of ashes, it must be coming from...” Stan took another sniff, and turned to walk along the river bank. Sure enough, it was only another few minutes to Kyle's abode. “You live here?” Stan asked. He glanced at the smoldering file and the reed lean-to.
“Yes, this is my home, and I'll thank you not to make fun of it. Now put me down!”
Finally, Stan obliged. He set Kyle on the sandy riverbank and knelt at the water's edge, his knees licked with wetness. “Do you piss in this water?”
“What?” Kyle gasped. “No!”
This seemed to satisfy Stan, and he bent over the river to drink.
“Why would you ask such a thing? Who would piss in the river? That's disgusting.”
Stan wiped the water from his lips. “It's a stream. Who wouldn't piss into it?”
“This is where I drink from! It's where I bathe!”
“Suit yourself.”
“You're disgusting!” Kyle managed to hobble up on his hooves and limp to his lean-to. He collapsed onto his quilt and rubbed his eyes.
At the riverbank Stan gulped mouthfuls of clear water. Carrying Kyle to and fro had been hard work. When he was sated, Stan pulled his soiled kerchief from his pocket and washed the blood out in the stream. It left a brownish stain, but he didn't mind. He wrung the kerchief out over the water and walked back to the lean-to.
“How do you feel?” Stan asked, folding his kerchief in half, then quarters.
“Fine, fine,” Kyle said. “I am fine. Just let me catch my breath and I'll have my way with you.”
“Hm?” Stan knelt beside Kyle and took his chin in hand. “You're hurt.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Kyle. “Just wait until I catch my breath.”
“You've caught it already.” Stan pressed the cool cloth to Kyle's face. “Let's clean this up. A dirty wound can fester.”
“That's cold,” Kyle said, pushing Stan's hand away.
Stan was not deterred. “Shhh,” he said. “Just a sec. How does your head feel?”
“Fine!”
“I don't know much about fauns,” Stan said, trying to make small talk while he cleaned the dirt and drying blood from the scrape on Kyle's chin. “What's your favorite thing to do?”
“Chase boys around the well,” said Kyle, “and rape them if I catch them.”
“Oh? Have you caught and raped many boys?”
“Well, no,” Kyle huffed. “You'd be my first. But it's only because I was banished and haven't had any boys to chase!”
Stan sighed. “This thing you keep saying, about raping me?”
“Yeah?”
“I don't think I'm going to let you do that.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, Stan, but I chased you and caught you so now I get to rape you. It's just how it works.”
“I think the 'catching' aspect is subjective, seeing as you didn't really subdue me. See, I don't know much about fauns, but the thing with society is, we do things not because we follow some blindly instinctual set of rules, but because people have wants and needs and they determine which of those to indulge. And, frankly, this rape situation sounds rather unappealing, and I won't just go along with it because you say I must.”
“Then I'll gore you with my horns.” Atop his head, like all fauns, Kyle had a pointy set of horns. They were straight and sharp, each five inches high, in sharp contrast to the gnarled mess of hair Kyle sported.
“Sure,” said Stan. He stuffed his damp, bloody kerchief back in his pocket. “Go ahead and try.”
“Gladly.” Kyle reared back and lunged forward.
Stan fell back and hopped to his feet, stepping back.
Kyle toppled onto his face.
“You're hurt,” said Stan. “You're in no shape to gore me, let alone rape me.”
“I caught you and I demand to rape you!” Kyle insisted, but even as he said this he felt his hardness receding. The premise of raping this man was wearying.
Stan crouched back down and helped Kyle up. “Let's get you some food,” he said. “What do you eat?”
“Mushrooms and dandelions,” said Kyle.
This didn't much appeal to Stan. “Do you have anything else?”
“Maybe a rabbit in the trap, if I'm lucky.”
Stan headed outside and hunted, but found no rabbit. Instead he found a stash of three wild hen eggs. He also found Kyle's pan where Kyle had left is that morning over the simmering embers of his breakfast fire. Stan tended to the fire, and filled the pan with stream water. He carefully laid the three eggs in the basin of the pan, and went back inside, if the lean-to was in or outside at all. Kyle was curled back up under his wool quilt. He sat up when Stan came in.
“Rabbit?” he asked.
“There's eggs.”
Pouting, Kyle rolled over. “I wanted rabbit.”
“I'm making some nice eggs,” said Stan. “So hush.”
Stan took the boiled eggs off the fire and peeled them, mashing the egg shells in his palm and leaving them on the ground. He brought the three peeled eggs to Kyle, who ate one, and Stan ate another. When there was one left, Kyle said, “Who's that one for?”
With his nails, Stan dug into the boiled egg and tore it apart. “We're sharing it,” he said.
That night, Kyle was not so cold as he had been, with Stan curled around him for warmth. They fell asleep to the sound of the rushing stream, and the rustling leaves did not bother Kyle so much. In the morning, he awoke just after dawn to the sound of bleating.
“My sheep!” Kyle cried, pushing himself up. As he jerked his skinned belly ached. He climbed over Stan and out of the lean-to, where he found his flock, and with them, Sparky. In Sparky's mouth was a rabbit.
“I told you.” Kyle turned to see Stan standing behind him, arms crossed. “I told you the sheep would come back. Sheep always do. Especially when you have a good herding dog. Isn't that right, boy?”
Sparky seemed to agree, bounding toward Stan, and dropping the rabbit at Stan's feet.
“And a good herding dog will bring you breakfast, to boot.”
Kyle sat down on the ground with his sharp flint and began to skin his rabbit. He turned when Stan cleared his throat.
“I have to head back now.”
“But!” Kyle was unsure of what his protest was. His hands were bloody with rabbit pelt. “But, I haven't raped you yet!”
Stan just laughed. He shook his head. “I have to be going if I want to be back by nightfall.”
With that, Stan turned and walked down the bank of the stream, retracing his steps from the day before. Kyle sat there with his half-skinned rabbit in his hands, stunned. It took a moment for Sparky to go; he crept up to Kyle, and sniffed the dead rabbit in his hands.
“That's mine,” Kyle said, lifting it over his head. The kill was fresh and warm blood dripped slowly onto Kyle's shoulders.
Sparky barked once, turned, and bounded after Stan.
~
The next morning, Kyle woke thinking he'd had the most marvelous dream. He had not had human company for the longest time. He woke hard, with his belly full, the dappled light shining through the pine forest in his eyes. It took Kyle little time to realize that it had not been a dream, it had been real, and beautiful. The very thought of Stan, with his hair the color of wet bark after a rain (1), made Kyle turn under his quilt and press his hips to the ground. Stan's hands were so big, his nails not jagged like Kyle's but trimmed short, with only the barest hint of dirt caked under them. Kyle thought about how he had been so close to raping Stan, so close, but Stan appeared to be ... unrapeable. Well, Kyle was just going to have to try harder, harder ... if he ever got another chance. Kyle could never go back to the village, so he'd very likely never see Stan again. The thought was enough to make Kyle mourn, and dampen his joy as he spilled against the pine needles he'd slept on.
Panting, Kyle got up and brushed himself off. He made his pan of hot water and steeped his tea, just like he did every morning. There were no eggs left, but Kyle ate some of the leftover burnt rabbit leg, gnawing the flesh off the bone. Afterward, he led his sheep to the meadow so they could graze. He would have to shear them, if possible, so he could continue crocheting himself a scarf. Winter was coming, and Kyle knew he would shiver through it.
In the meadow that day, Kyle's flock was most compliant. They didn’t stray far, and they came back when Kyle called for them. They followed Kyle back down the riverbank single-file, bleating happily, their breath stinking of clipped crab grass. Kyle hoped there would be a pheasant in his trap when he returned to his camp. He was sick of rabbit.
Sure enough, there was a surprise waiting for Kyle, but it wasn't pheasant.
It was Stan, sitting by the stream, playing a lute.
“What are you doing here!” Kyle exclaimed.
“I brought you a gift,” said Stan.
“The gift of song? Sorry, I think you'll find I'm not interested.”
Stan set the lute aside. “No.”
“Are ... you the gift? Because you know your rightful place is beneath me, since I caught you?”
“No,” said Stan. “Here I've walked willingly into your abode. You haven't caught me. I've brought myself to you.” Stan stood up, leaving his lute by the embers of Kyle's morning fire.
“What?” Kyle asked, following Stan up the hill. “I don't need your gifts, human, I need your body.”
At the base of the reed mat under which Kyle slept, there was a large stone brick, roughly hewn by larger than anything Stan could have carried himself. It was then that Kyle noticed the ass tied up on a distant tree, with a pack on his back.
“This,” said Stan, kicking the stone. “Your sleeping arrangements are pathetic. No offense. You cannot sleep under a reed mat through winter.”
“I have done through six winters.”
“That's foolish. My father is a stonemason. He has plenty to spare. Enough to build you a small cottage. A real cottage. And I've brought a pack, too, with more supplies.” Stan gestured to his burro.
“Thanks,” said Kyle. “I guess. ... But how am I supposed to build a cottage from one stone?”
“Tomorrow I'll bring a second stone,” said Stan.
“That's very generous of you. But how am I to build a cottage from two stones?”
“I'll bring stones enough for you to build your cottage, one a day.”
“That will take years!”
“Then you'll be patient,” said Stan, “and when you see the cottage I've built you you'll know that there are more important things in life than raping. And perhaps once Prince Eric sees this cottage, he'll know that there are people in his village who care for you, and that you're one of us, and we haven't forgotten you.”
“Well, fat chance, and I do mean fat, that'll he'll ever drag his cushy ass out here to see this cottage.”\
“He doesn't need to see it, and if he did, he might not believe his own eyes. But people will speak of this, Kyle, and that will be worth more to him than seeing 20 cottages.”
“Great,” said Kyle. He had glanced over at his trap and seen that there was no pheasant. He had no pheasant and one stone, lot of good it did him.
“Would you like to see what's in my pack?” Stan asked.
Kyle was intrigued. “Sure.”
Stan untied his pack and removed it from the ass, who heaved and gnawed at the bark of the tree he was tied to. Stan set the pack near the fire, and showed Kyle what he had brought: Clean linens, a pad for sleeping, a pillow, and a laundry line; five soft apples, a head of butter lettuce, a brick of hard cheese and a skein of salted elk meat; two hammered tin goblets, a ceramic plate and bowl; a sea sponge and goosefat soap. When Kyle counted, he saw that there were five bars.
“Where'd you get this?” Kyle asked. He had tears in his eyes.
“I told the soapmaker's daughter I was bringing you a pack of supplies, and she gave this to me,” said Stan. “She said you loved the kind with rosehips.”
“I do!” Kyle kissed a bar of soap as if it where a beloved pet. “But, wait. If you told the soapmaker's daughter-”
“She's my friend,” said Stan. “She's not cruel. She won't tell.”
“I hope you're right,” said Stan.
“I am,” he said.
For dinner Stan made a plate of lettuce with one wild hen egg, a hunk of the hard cheese and some of the salted elk meat. They ate it together by the fire, and Kyle was content until he remembered he had not sheared his sheep.
“Don't worry,” said Stan, “you can shear them tomorrow.”
“But I'm making a scarf!”
“Then I'll bring you a scarf,” said Stan.
When Stan got up to walk back to the village with his ass, Kyle followed him down the river. “Won't you camp here tonight?” he asked.
“That pad's not big enough for two,” said Stan.
“Yes it is!” Kyle protested, though he hadn't unrolled it and didn't know how large or small it was.
“I have to be going,” Stan said. “My place is in the village, with my mother and father, and my sister. But I'll return. I'll always return. Don't worry.” Then Stan leaned in, and he pressed a kiss to Kyle's cheek.
Fauns were very sexual, perhaps even hyper-sexual as some claimed. But they were not overly romantic. As Stan left, Kyle stared at him, feeling deeply confused. He had not lived among humans for six years, and he had almost forgotten what a kiss meant. Kyle was not certain if it meant that Stan wanted to marry him, or rape him. All of the housewares he'd brought in his pack suggested he wanted to literally build a house with Kyle, to make a life. But if Stan wanted to marry him, why was he leaving? But if he wanted to rape Kyle, why hadn't he done it? Kyle went to sleep that night on his new bed roll, a clean white sheet between his quilt and his furry legs.
~
The next day brought Stan again. Kyle had taken his flock to the meadow early, and when he returned, Kyle was somewhat shocked to find a second brick beside the first one, and another large pack awaiting him. Stan sat at the river playing his lute, with his dog and, to Kyle's amazement, a sheep.
“What is this?” Kyle asked.
“I've brought you the second stone, as I promised, plus more dry goods: a quilted overcoat, rags to wipe the mud from your hooves-”
Kyle grabbed the lute from Stan's hands and almost smashed it on the ground. At the last minute he halted himself, and dropped it instead. “I like mud on my hooves!” Kyle barked.
“Of course. But this way you won't track mud on your sheets, and you won't have to wash them that often.”
“I already have a sheep!” Kyle roared. “A whole flock of sheep!” As Kyle yelled, Stan gazed up at his pointy horns.
“This isn't a sheep for shearing,” Stan explained. “Or, well, it would make sense to shear him. But he's for eating. You see, this sheep will make plenty of good meat.” Stan smacked the sheep on the rump, and he bleated. “You can shear him, too. You won't have to kill one of your own flock, and you can salt this meat and keep it all winter. You can also breed your flock and make more sheep, see? More sheep means more salt meat you can stock up, more milk to drink, more wool to shear. You can spin the wool into yarn and I can take it into town for you and trade it for things you need.”
“I don't need anything,” Kyle said. “I was doing fine on my own before you trotted out here to criticize my lifestyle, human.”
“You wanted to rape me,” said Stan, “but I'm giving you a much more valuable gift than that. If you make enough wool, I can get you a cart. If I get a cart, I can bring more bricks. The more bricks I bring, the sooner you will have a real cottage, with a real stove, and Prince Eric will see that you belong among us. Weren't you happy chasing us around the well?”
“I suppose.”
“And would you like me to bring you anything else from the village? A book, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Kyle picked up Stan's lute and handed it back to him.
Stan, it turned out, did not want to kill the sheep himself. He watched Kyle shear it, then helped him bag the wool up. He then sat by the stream and played with lute, Sparky at his feet, while Kyle led the sheep up to a clearing nearby and cut the sheep's throat with the new dagger Stan had brought in his pack that day. When the sheep was dead, Stan helped Kyle slice off the tastiest piece, the rump, for dinner that night. They let this simmer on the fire while together, they skinned the sheep and used the salt and parchment in Stan's pack to make small parcels of salt meat.
“There,” said Stan, when they were finished. It was night, and the sheep rump was hissing in Kyle's pan over the flames. “All done. Won't this be tasty in the middle of winter?”
Kyle was too captivated by the smell of the cooking flesh to answer.
They ate their dinner together, sheep rump with lettuce leaves and mashed rutabagas Stan had brought that day, by the fire.
“It's too late to head back,” Stan said, brushing his hands off when he was finished eating. “May I stay with you tonight?”
Kyle wanted that more than anything, but as a jaded, grumpy faun, he wanted to bark, “No!” and send Stan back to town so tired that tears stung his eyes. Unfortunately, a full belly made Kyle sleepy and unquarrelsome. With a yawn, he said, “Sure,” and let Stan carry him up to bed.
It was a clear night and through the branches of the pines, they could see the tiny stars above them. Kyle's hand rested on his belly, and he thought of his arousal between his legs, primed for raping. Unfortunately, he was too sleepy to roll on top of Stan and extract his price for having caught the foolish human.
“You know,” Stan said softly, brushing his thumb against Kyle's cheek. “When we were boys, and you'd chase us around the well, I always through you were the strangest and most beautiful creature.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes.”
Kyle cleared his throat. “Are you going to rape me?” he asked.
Stan sat up. “I am not entirely sure you know what raping is.”
“I’m a faun, Stan, duh. I know what raping is.”
“Because it’s when you, ah … take someone, against their will.”
“I know!”
“Well, if we did do … that, and you were, you know, receptive to it, it wouldn’t really be a rape.”
“Well,” said Kyle. “What would you call it, in that case?”
Stan shrugged. “Making love?”
Kyle burst out laughing. “You humans are so stupid! If you think I’m strange and beautiful, well, you don’t know the half of it. Here.” Kyle put his hands on Stan’s chest and kissed him on the lips, dryly. Stan’s arms were around him, clasped at Kyle’s back. “You’ve caught me, human. Do what you will.”
~
Day by day, Stan brought stone bricks, and Kyle spun skeins of wool into thick yarn. Some he kept for himself, to knit his scarves, and some he dyed with the end of the autumn wild berries, a rich royal color. Soon there were enough bricks to build the perimeter of the house.
“What will you do for the floor?” Kyle asked, standing back as Stan placed the stones in a square, leaving a gap in one size where the door could go.
“Oh? Is the self-sufficient faun too good for a dirt floor?”
“Well, it just seems that if you’ve promised me a proper cottage, I ought to have a proper floor.”
Dragging his last stone into place, Stan stood up, panting. “I can cut wood, if you like. You can have a floor of wooden slats. Perhaps if you trap an elk or a mountain goat you can skin the beast and put its pelt on the floor.”
“If I do it?” Kyle asked. “I’m a simple faun! How would I trap an elk or a mountain goat? They are fleeter than I, with longer horns, and bigger, too. To face such a creature would be folly.”
“If I brought you a bow and quiver full of arrows-”
“I’ve got a quiver full of something!” Kyle said. “It’s better than arrows! Want to know what?”
Stan smiled, as if he already knew. “Yes,” he said, wiping the dust and grime from his hands. “I’ll bet you do.”
It was growing colder, and Kyle had finished making his scarf. He also wore his quilt around his shoulders, and bundled up on a log by the stream as Stan played his lute. Stan had a lovely voice and he sang short verses about the rusty-haired faun who chased boys around the well, and one boy growing up and falling in love with the faun and the boy and the faun living happily ever after. Kyle thought these songs were obvious and banal but he didn’t say anything, because he had learned that it bothered him immensely when Stan sulked.
By the first snow, Kyle had made enough yarn for Stan to acquire a cart. One cold afternoon he wheeled it up, the ass tugging it along, leaving tracks behind them in the crisp layer of light snow. Stan brought a jar of mortar as well and he was able to build up the cottage to knee-height. When he was done placing the bricks, he was exhausted, and he lay under Kyle’s quilt by the fire while Kyle inspected the structure. “It seems short,” Kyle said, kicking the little wall with his hoof.
“It’ll grow,” said Stan. He could smell the stew of salted elk meat, leek, and potato that Kyle was cooking over the fire in his knew copper kettle, which Stan had brought him, explaining that his mother had grown tried of it and his father had recently bought her a new, larger kettle.
“I have bad news,” Stan said when Kyle sat next to him.
“What?”
“My sister needs my help.”
“With what?” As Kyle drew closer to Stan his little tail was wagging.
“Well,” said Stan, “a while back she was spending time with this wandering minstrel, and long story short minstrels kind of - well, they wander, I guess, so basically she's going to have a baby and I can't come see you for a while.”
Kyle's tail stopped wagging. “What?”
“I man, I'll come back,” said Stan. “I just need a month or two-”
“A month or two? You're going to leave me out in the cold in the middle of the forest with a half-built cottage so you can hang out with your sister?”
“Well, my family needs me,” said Stan.
“But I need you!” This was an unusual thing for Kyle to admit, and he covered his mouth and got up and went back to his lean-to, where he climbed under his quilt and buried his head under his pillow.
Stan got up to follow. “It's only for a while,” he said, kneeling at the side of Kyle's bed roll. “Until she's on her feet. Just a month or two. I'll take the cart back, and when I return, I'll bring lots of stones.”
“Just go,” said Kyle. “You belong in the village with your human family.”
“That's not true,” said Stan. “Well, no, it's true, but - someday I will bring you back with me and I'll never have to leave you all alone in the woods again.” Stan bent over to kiss Kyle's cheek. “I'll be back,” he said. “You just see. I'll be back.”
“Just go,” Kyle repeated. “I'll be fine here. I'm an independent adult faun, I'll be okay. I'm strong.”
“I promise I won't forget you.” Stan stooped in to give Kyle a second kiss.
“You're just making it worse!”
Stan sighed, and rose to his feet. He wanted to stay the night with Kyle, but he knew he had to get back. He untied the burro from the tree, and re-hitched the cart. They left through the darkness, the sound of their footsteps and the cartwheels crunching on the frost.
Kyle didn't need Stan, or his lousy bricks. He had root vegetables galore, hard cheese, a growing flock of sheep, a soft bed, and finely scented soap. He had lived alone in the woods for six years. Surely he could handle two months.
Part two.