Andrew Faye was mostly unknown to you- he was quiet and polite, hardly ever venturing into the village. People whispered behind his back dreadfully, saying he was the son of a witch (which, admittedly, was true) and he had become kind of an urban legend. Small children were warned that if they strayed too far in the woods, he would take them, which couldn't be farther from the truth. He liked children, of course, but he didn't really like the idea of babysitting.

You had seen him a few times, talked to him once. He had given you a flower, a small delicate blossom, gently putting it in your hand before disappearing back into the forest.

One night, you had gotten lost while taking a walk, and had an unfortunate slip into the freezing creek. The night was cold, and you were shaking. He had found you, barely conscious, and had carried you back to his cottage.

You woke up, a blanket folded around you, laying by a hearth. It was quite an interesting room, ivy growing freely along the walls and a cozy kitchen to the side of the room. Small, golden flowers growing in the ivy gave off an ethereal light, and the room smelled soothing, like evergreen trees.

“You're awake,” came a soft voice with a faint Irish lilt.

“I was worried for a moment.” You saw him walk down the hall, looking at you curiously. His long brown curls were piled on top of his head, a few rogue locks escaping and hanging in his eyes.