Chapter Text
The night was silent and still, empty and cold.
Miguel stood upon the perch of his castle, looming over the land, to watch the fresh snow fall upon the forest floor.
This was day 3091 since he signed his contract and fulfilled the role for which he sold his soul for.
The Keeper of the Forest.
He didn’t know what the occupation’s tasks were, but if he had the choice ten years ago, he wouldn’t have taken it.
The western winter wind blew, carrying the stench of creatures that he was all too familiar with. He scrunched his nose in distaste. The smell was so powerful and distinctive that anyone could tell that there were more than usual. With a whiff, he could tell it was more than ten—maybe twenty? But within the hint was the smell of a rare flower that only two people in this region knew about.
The Silent Princess.
With urgency that he had never practiced before, he leaped from his home and onto tree after tree. The forest of Andaines is thick and plentiful, a benefit for anyone who wants to swing around its heart with ease.
It only took him minutes to find the source of the commotion, and from the top of the highest pine, he used his brown eyes to scan the area.
In the middle of the trees was an opening—multiple goblins were circling around an individual with a large branch, swinging it wildly to push the creatures away.
"Stay back!" he heard, his ears red from the cold twitching to sort through the snarls and growls of the horde. A villager? At this time of night?
He had to move now.
With the reflection of the full moon against the white snow, O’Hara pounced upon the first goblin from the back, it crying out in pain like a wounded animal. One by one, they fell, and the only sound that the assassin made was the crunch under his boot from the snow.
Until he made it to the last one in front of the villager, he stomped on top of the head of the last goblin, with a crunch, crushing it in a mix of blood and skull. He exhaled, a white puff of air leaving his front bitten lips. The villagers should know by now that, during the full moon, the goblins move in hordes of twenty to thirty. This group of twenty five was easy to subdue, but it's the principle.
The human continued to swing the large branch, not seeing the events unfold.
"I swear I will knock all of you to the next country!" Warned the girl, her back against a tree. It was a rather large piece of wood she had in her hands, he observed it and grabbed it, not taking it but keeping her still.
"Alto," his deep Spanish accent coming through as he stood slowly, "You are now safe, Miss-"
His breath caught. In between the shine of the moonlight through the pine trees, a small glow revealed her face that he knew—beautiful dark skin, round cheeks and nose, eyes brown and deep like the unknown of the forest. It was you.
You. The woman who gave a starving orphan Miguel pieces of meat twenty years ago. The woman who he has seen every night in secret for ten years. The woman whose window sill he placed a silent princess on each and every fortnight.
The woman he loved.
You took him into your eyes—the moon granting the same permission as it did him—and you saw high cheekbones on a thinner face, a man with a strong jaw, brown eyes, and long, curled eyelashes. Hair longer than the night in a side braid. He was tall, absolutely stunningly beautiful. Your breath was taken away as the man loomed over you.
"Thank you," you choked out after a while of silence between the two of you, neither eye leaving contact. "You saved me."
You shivered as the wind blew again, the fur cloak your father gave you only doing so much with the traditional commoner’s dress you always wore. He caught wind of it and, with a flick of his wrist, used his sharp nails to slide against the wooden weapon and spark a fire. Your eyes went wide in awe, and a smile stretched across your lips. You nodded in gratitude and took the wood into your mitten covered hands.
"Princesa" he stopped himself, quickly correcting himself. "Señorita, you must not make unnecessary travels at night."
You sighed, nodding. "I understand, however," You waved her arm at the car that was next to you, filled with chopped wood piled upon it. "We need wood to survive, and the village picked me." A small chuckle of annoyance slipped from you. "I, sadly, lost track of time."
Miguel furrowed his furry brows, frowning at her quizzically. "But una doncella such as yourself?"
You chuckled earnestly, assuming he meant ‘mademoiselle’. "Well, someone who looks like me," pointing at your complection, " who is built like me," waving a free hand over your thicker, well-built frame, "gets that wonderful responsibility."
This enraged him, and his face didn’t hide it. He knew what it was like in that village—how disgustingly territorial they were toward people who didn’t resemble them as a whole.
To someone who looked, in their words, gâté.
He knew you had a place there, even if it wasn’t ideal or fair; he just had to keep you safe.
"May I at least escort you home?" He asked, almost pleading in your ears. You haven’t received this type of kindness in a very long time, if ever. However, he was a stranger, wondering the Western Woods with an accent foreign to your French. Did you truly think it was wise to trust him?
You took a once over of the man in a black cloak, trimmed with darkish gray fur—a rabbit? Rare, white fox, maybe? - He must be from royalty or at least the upper class.
Yet, for a man with a deeper skin tone than many—technically all the town's people—in your village, becoming successful in wealth was unspoken of. It was interesting.
What did it was those eyes—light brown and wide, resembling those of a little puppy.
"Oui," you licked your chapped lips, "I would like that."
His heart swelled with excitement, but he kept it calm. He motioned a bare hand to town, a silent After you.
You turned to get the cart, but he stopped you. He gathered the cart with his two hands and started to pull, the snow crunching underneath both pairs of shoes and the wheels.
Such a gentleman, you thought as you picked up your knees, and he’s strong too.
It took no effort for him to pull the wagon of supplies, but it was surprising for him to see you with no steed to assist you—at least a mule or anything.
A polite silence fell between the two of you, as if there was no need to talk. The snowfall stopped, but the wind relaxed for a few minutes.
"So," you started, holding the torch in front of both of you to illuminate just a few steps before your own. "Where are you from?"
"Irlanda." He took only a second to answer, but he was careful with his answers, but they were honest. He didn’t know if you remembered him, but he didn’t want to take that chance. At least not yet.
"Is it far from here?"
"Far enough." A small shadow of a smile emerged on his lips as he remembered the life that he had with his mother, Conchata, his father, George, and his brother Gabriel. How happy they were for only a few years—learning Spanish from his immigrant mother and French and English from his father, the traveler. Until the land became poisoned, causing his family to flee to a place that did not like them. His eyes became hard at the memories.
You silently understood—he had a past that he didn’t want to talk about. A past that everyone shares—some more tragic than others. You, as well, had a past that you didn’t want to get into with a stranger.
You nodded, and the conversation stopped there. Some time had passed before a lump of snow fell from a branch and landed on Miguel’s head with a soft thud.
A boisterous laugh left your lips. You were quick to cover your mouth to suppress the sound of snorts, while Miguel’s cheeks, nose, and ears turned red in embarrassment. Seeing his face, you stepped on your tippy toes and reached over to his head, brushing as much of the white frost out of his lucious braided curls as possible. He turned his head to you to assist; however, it didn’t help at all.
You froze. He was so close to you—his larger, pointed nose, his full lips, and his long lashes were just centimeters apart from yours that when he blinked, they brushed against yours. You swallowed hard and finished quickly, then leaning back to the safe distance you were before the snow.
"This way." You cleared your throat, moving a little bit ahead of him. He licked his lips, a little bit embarrassed that they were chapped. Maybe he should drink more water, he wondered, catching up quickly with his long strides.
The small flames of oil lanterns came into focus.
It was the town.
You gave instructions to Miguel that it was the last house at the edge of town, where the villagers kept people—the outsiders—at.
He nodded and continued to follow silently. The town was just like he remembered it: well-developed houses and businesses with bricks and wood, large glass windows showing something different in each store—a painting of pastries, beautiful and expensive gowns, even knives and dishes. They went past building after building until they reached the butcher’s shop, which had a sign with un cerdo with x’s over its eyes. Such a beautiful sign, he cringed, the face leaving as you turned to him, the oil lamp burning brightly.
"You can leave the wagon here." You smiled, heading to the door of the shop. "I’m sure the town's people are very capable of picking up their own wood tomorrow, no?"
He nodded, lowering the wagon’s handles to the ground.
"I cannot thank you enough, Monsieur?"
"My name is Miguel." His accent was so thick that it made your heart skip a beat. He was so mysterious yet so kind—so manly and cute at the same time. He bowed his head as he talked to you, his uncovered ears redder than the blood of the meat you chop every day.
"Well, Miguel," the way you spoke his name shook him to his core. "My name is Y/N."
You took off your earmuffs and your short, pixie cut curls, flattened by the pressure, and walked over to him, reaching over as he knelt to you and placing them upon his head.
"I am grateful for you, mon héros." You smiled and gave a small wave as you entered your home, closing your door with only one final look over your shoulder. He returned a small wave, his body no longer cold.
You said "mon." You called him yours.
His heart swelled as he stood, placing a hand over his chest before turning away from your home. He had to clean up the mess that he created while saving you in the woods; however, he would do it with a toothy smile until dawn.