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Phil has always been scolded before for his interests in the Fae.
He is a curious soul, always has been, even from when he was young, when adults would hit him harshly across the back of his palm and tell him to leave the forest be. He was warned of the dangers that come with Fae, was told that they would steal him away for a life of eternal servitude, or curse him and his blood so that his grandchildren would suffer with him for generations to come.
However, even with that, even now, as he stands taller, stronger, smarter , he isn’t deterred. And he is still fascinated by magic, and scolded like a child for it. The townspeople still talk. Phil doesn’t enjoy such company (he doesn’t think he ever did, honestly) so he takes his things, takes some tools, and builds a new home beside the forest trees.
He settles there, despite all the warnings he’s given for it. He builds a good home, a life. He finds happiness and love, and eventually- he has a son.
Wilbur is a beautiful baby boy, with curly brown hair and dark twinkling eyes that remind Phil so much of the starry night. He loves to mimic Phil’s sounds and likes to chew on the fabric of his shirt like some sort of tiny goat. His laughs are precious when Phil tickles him on his sides, and his smile is so adorably endearing that it could melt even the coldest heart.
Phil loves him, more than anything else in the world. Every day that he gets to hold his little boy in his arms-- it is a day worth living, in his opinion. It is a day worth moving out away from that suffocating town. Here, Wilbur, will grow up loved. Curious and knowing. Here, Wilbur will be happy. Safe.
But one morning, Phil makes a mistake.
He is working on the garden outside his house, with Wilbur resting nearby on a soft blanket over the dirt. It’s a warm day. The sun is not too bright, and the wind is just right, just enough to cool Phil off when he works up a sweat tearing out some weeds.
Wil is a quiet child, still not having said his first proper word, and so Phil doesn’t think anything off when only silence reaches his ears. He works, humming gently under his breath, and when he finishes with the plants underneath his knees, he turns to his son to check on him, only to find the blanket empty.
A good couple feet away, past his stone path with flowerpots scattered at the edge of it, his garden door hangs wide open. It provides a perfect view of forest trees sitting across, almost ominous. The dark shadows sticking to the branches and greenery give an obvious message, and Phil’s eyes go wide, his breath being torn from his lungs.
He knows exactly what happened the second he sees that open forest calling him in.
Phil swears under his breath, pushing himself off his knees and trampling the flowers underneath his feet. He doesn’t give a second glance to his ruined work, and instead he runs out of the garden with a frantic speed, heading straight into the territory of the Fae.
He knows this was always a risk. He knows this was always something that would’ve happened. Being so near to the forest, being so near to the Fae- it was inevitable, honestly. Nothing he would’ve done could have prevented this.
He’s annoyed that he’s still surprised, though.
As he runs past the treeline with the sun disappearing behind thick leaves, he randomly remembers how when he had started a family here, the townspeople had fallen into a habit of always blaming his misfortunes on the Fae. When his house first caught on fire, a stupid mishap with his stove- it was because he was too near the Fae. When he wounded himself by accident in doing repairs around the house- it was because the Fae were cursing him.
When his wife disappeared, gone without a trace-- it was because the Fae must’ve taken her.
When his son cried for weeks and weeks on end, Phil losing sleep and looking tired during his visit to the town-- that was because of the Fae. Because of how close he dared to get.
It was all the Fae’s fault, in their eyes. They tell him that whenever he comes by, trying to get supplies for the month. Phil is just the poor victim, the poor idiot who didn’t know better, no matter how many times he is warned. That is what they whisper behind his back when they think he’s not fucking listening.
Phil knows better. He knows plenty more than they ever could hope to learn. And he knows that even if his child is taken by the Fae, there are ways of getting him back. Fae are tricky creatures, he’s learnt that well.
But they are also reasonable if you play by their rules.
“Wil!” Phil screams, his voice reaching out into the forest with a desperate tone. “WIL!” A simple little nickname is all Phil is willing to call with. It’s dangerous to say a true name in the Fae’s home, and while Wilbur is not his son’s true name, Phil is hesitant to give any ammunition at all to whatever walks through these trees. Nicknames are safe, especially if they are double laced.
The ground crunches underneath his feet as he continues to run. The environment slowly becomes more and more twisted, more colorful, more strange. Mushrooms become common underneath his boots, bright and eye-catching, trying to get him to stop and look a little closer. Birds go silent, the flapping of their wings being the only thing heard from them, all of them fleeing away from what is now coming closer. Phil’s voice in his throat grows louder, reaches even farther, and soon enough, as he yells Wil’s name, it is echoing back all around him. Over and over, his own words being thrown back, wrapping around his head like a cruel taunt.
Phil grits his teeth, running even faster, stomping bright plants underneath his sole.
“GIVE ME BACK MY SON!” Phil demands, maybe a touch rude in a fae’s eyes, but he’s not currently a patient man. He has flowers that need his attention, back home. His son needs to eat, for it is nearly dinner time. Phil does not want to spend a single extra minute in this forest if he can.
Where is the damned fae?
Phil slows in his futile chase as hears a faint sound. He stops, panting heavily to catch his breath, the air feeling cold within his chest. Turning his head to where he thinks the sound is coming from, he follows it, being mindful of the plants quickly growing out of the dirt, seeming to be trying to reach for his ankles.
The sound is a baby’s cry, Phil realizes, after a too long moment. He picks up his pace, walking faster, his heart racing and beating loudly in his ears. As he gets closer, Wil’s cry grows louder and louder, like with Phil’s own voice from before. The cries echo, overlapping and shifting and moving in circles around Phil. Phil stops in his pursuit, holding a hand to his head as a headache almost forms behind his eyes. He tries his best to pick out where the crying is coming from, but it keeps moving, keeps teasing Phil.
“Wil.” Phil calls, much softer than before, and the crying stops very suddenly. Phil’s heart drops with fear, and he goes to break out into a run, ready to lose his breath all over again, only to pause when he hears Wil crying again, with something new. Or someone.
Phil hears two babies crying now. They both sound like his Wil.
He moves forward, the noise no longer traveling away. He steps past a thick bush, pushing branches gently out of his way, finding that he’s come into a small clearing. He checks the ground immediately for signs of a faerie ring, but there is nothing but soft green grass, the occasional flower, and a baby cradle.
Streaks of sun shine down onto it, and Phil recognizes it to be rather similar to the one he has for Wil back home. Except, for this one, there are vines creeping up on the edge of it, flowers blooming underneath, mushrooms peeking through the cracks in the wood. This cradle is not the same as the one Phil crafted with his own hands. This one holds something a little more magical.
“Wil? Sweetheart?” Phil carefully calls, the sound of his baby’s crying striking into his heart and leaving a jagged wound. He quickly walks forward, looking into the cradle with an outstretched hand. “Wil-?”
Phil freezes.
Two identical babies are laying inside.
Two children, both of which are perfect in every way that Phil knows and loves. With curly brown hair and dark twinkling eyes. With chubby little cheeks and tiny little noses. With matching homemade outfits. With familiar wailing sobs.
They sob, they cry for their dad, and reach out towards Phil.
“Oh.” Phil breathes out, and he reaches out towards them. He takes one of their tiny little hands in each palm and squeezes softly. “Shh. Shh, little ones.” Phil whispers, leaning closer. Their crying lessens with his kind voice, and Phil sighs with an overwhelming fondness. He cherishes the matching looks that are being given his way.
Something then shifts in the corner of his eye. As he snaps his attention to it, he finds bright twinkling eyes staring back, a new figure hidden away behind the trunk of a tree. The shadows around the fae are warping and shifting, hiding her away from complete view. All Phil sees is that twinkling gaze.
“One is of your blood.” She says, her voice soft, echoey. “The other is a changeling. Choose wisely.” Then she laughs, eyes crinkling in amusement as she gives this little game into Phil’s hands. What will he pick? How will he choose? Can he choose, knowing that he may lose his precious little boy in return for a monster?
Phil frowns, looking back at the babies in the cradle. Their hands are still held within his palms, and they feel so real. So warm, so alive. They’re so identical in every manner, right down to the way they both begin to gnaw on the knuckles of their other hand, looking content with Phil watching over them.
For a second, Phil is given a delightful vision. A picture of a more busy future, with two little twins driving him crazy. Wilbur on his own is wonderful, Phil won’t ever be thankful enough for him. But this, this is a chance for more.
He wonders why a fae would outright give him this apparent dilemma rather than have him try and argue for his child back, have him accidentally give a favor or his name in return. He supposes it might have something to do with his curiosity, his familiar face being so near the treeline.
Or maybe…
He looks back at the fae. She laughs again with Phil’s serious look, and Phil shifts his expression into a smile. Something loving, something he used to give to a woman he adores.
“I’m taking both my children home.” Phil defiantly responds, his tone leaving no room for argument. The fae’s eyes go wide. Phil’s smile turns smug, nearly teasing.
The forest goes still. Frozen, like the ice that sticks to his roof in the winters. Everything is still, even his sons within their cradle. But then it resumes, and the fae surprisingly does not laugh. Phil thinks she might be smiling.
“Good choice.” She praises, her words dancing in Phil’s ears. Then she blinks, and she’s gone, falling back into the shadows and out of Phil’s sight. Phil watches her go with near grief, but he overcomes it rather quickly with the twins still in the cradle, now demanding his attention with loud tears.
He picks them up from their bed, and holds them carefully within his arms, letting their heads rest against his shoulders. He can feel their tiny little hands grip onto the fabric of his shirt. One is chewing on the fabric in a particularly familiar manner.
“Wil.” Phil scolds, cradling the other child a little closer now, knowing that this one has become his through good luck and perhaps fate. “I’ll feed you both when we get home, wait till then.”
He walks back home through the forest. The path back is much shorter than the path in. When he arrives at his garden, the door is still wide open, and he walks in with a short huff. He places both his sons down on the blanket that Wil was resting on beforehand, and he closes the garden door, making sure that the lock clicks.
Phil returns to his children, carrying them in his arms again, and taking them inside. The door shuts behind him, and he pretends that there are not twinkling eyes watching him from the forest trees, fond and full of pride.