The Houseguest

Not every adventure or quest requires a journey, just the decision to say yes. She knows this the way she knows which herbs to use to summon a gentle rain and which to encourage the most violent of storms.

She also knows that regardless of what the fairy tales would have her believe, precious few adventures have happy, non-fatal endings. Most stories of mortals welcoming vættir into their homes find themselves learning that such creatures are more curse than blessing.

Leaning against the doorframe, calmly watching her new houseguest as it investigates her living room, she knows she should say no to this particular adventure. Chase it from her home, violently if needs be, change the wards so the vættir can never return. It is the safer of her options, given that she can feel the brewing trouble within minutes of their meeting. Glinting red eyes stare at her curiously before turning, almost resolutely, away. She wonders if they know what she is thinking, feels a stab of guilt.

They (she does not know if this type of vættir even have a named, known, species, let alone defined genders, does not know how to politely ask such a question so she holds her tongue) settle in place upon her altar to Loki, gathering the crystals and gifts around themselves like a sparkly, uncomfortable nest before taking in the room almost absently. It has chosen the amethyst wand, sharpened to a brutal point by generations of aimless fidgeting, the tiger's eye polished to a high shine by years spent in pockets and pouches, black obsidian like the shards of a broken mirror in a darkened room- every protective stone it can lay claim to, but also, oddly, the rose quartz too, as though even scared, it hopes to draw love and peace towards itself. It tries to hide the way its gaze shifts nervously towards her and then away. The candlelight captures the translucence of its wings and sends red ripples of light dancing onto the walls, but her focus rests firmly on its barely hidden fear.

The creature is trouble, beautiful in a way equal parts innocence and danger. The creature is also, clearly, in trouble.

It wasn't what she had expected, not that she was particularly sure what she should have expected when the gift arrived late enough at night to be suspicious. A box, hand carved wood a pattern so complex and swirling it was easy to miss the air holes woven into the tree branch designs. Yggdrasil, if she had to guess, the tree of life offering its branches to shelter the little creature. It had taken significant effort - and magic - to cajole the box to even open. Clearly, Yggdrasil had declared the vættir kin.

Even without this, without being honour bound by her God to provide aide to those claimed by the world tree, she knows she could not cast the creature out into the night, no matter how suited to the darkness it seems to be. Its too-large eyes are innocent, too trusting for the monsters that creep through the forest around her home. Of course, she had hidden in the forest still deemed good and non-evil by the powers the be, so they are all of the human variety of monstrous. But she has been alive long enough to know that makes them the worst kind, and it makes for too many genuine threats for the creature to be expected to face alone.

It is a mercy, she supposes, that she had grown out of the childish habit of shaking presents to try and guess what rested inside, though even eyeing the small creature - mottled silver-grey skin, wings that seemed too delicate to carry such a being yet had proven themselves absolutely capable, furry, moth-like antenae that looked like cats ears from the right angle - she doesn't know quite what had rested inside the box.

Too human to be full moth, too moth to be like any fae she had seen before. Something coloured to blend into the darker forests, the ones being destroyed in the name of purging evil from the lands as though wickedness wasn't perfectly comfortable wearing the leadership robes and monologuing from the sun-lit city.

She is already hiding from the inevitable expansion of their crusade. After all, witches might help the people, but they certainly aren't liked by them overly much. Adding a potentially unpopular roommate was unlikely to be the reason dislike became death sentence. Still, the hastily scrawled note hadn't been helpful, and not just because she had no idea who had sent it to her. Protect them. From what? Homelessness or something more sinister? She doesn't know if their magic, whatever it may be, could be tracked, her sanctuary discovered and destroyed. And what of the more mundane dangers? She doesn't know what the creature ate, whether it was allergic to anything or prone to any kind of sickness. Her help could, inadvertantly, cause harm. Still, her grandmother had raised her to know the rules of the magic folk, and hospitality was an expectation she had been shaped by since she first left the cradle.

The creature has a proboscis, similar to a butterfly's, so she moves the flowers she had gathered that day - those to decorate the cottage, and those to dry for her workings - to the altar, hoping there will be something that the vættir could enjoy. It is a respectful guest, at least, flying around each type of flower, investigating carefully without damaging the delicate petals. Finally, it settles itself on the oleander flowers to begin its meal. Poisonous plants. She can work with that.

Her grandmother always said it was rude, practically a sin to watch another eat or sleep, so she spends the time gathering together all of the rose quartz she can find, and all of the protective crystals, setting up a table she pushes against the altar so the vættir can add to its nest as it wishes. She adds a pile of the softest scraps of fabric she can find, just in case. It offers her an odd, chirruping sound that drops to an almost purr, abandoning its meal to flutter over and investigate its new treasures, dragging and shifting each piece so that the creature can settle in place on a mound of fabric pressed against Loki's statue, surrounded by crystals and watching the candle's flame flicker and dance.

It doesn't take long for the vættir to settle into its nest to sleep, and she wishes it well before removing the unnecessary vases from the altar, dousing the candle, and wandering to her own bed.

She wakes to the sight of the vættir curled, sleeping calmly on the pillow, her hair pulled over its body in a makeshift blanket. The tales of old might call the vættir a curse, but for now, she names it blezun, blessing, and an adorable one at that, allows herself to rest a little longer. The day can wait.