#even without knowing a lot about the brehon laws of trees lmaooooo

[literalnobody]

Lord Hawthorne

When the elusive and absurdly rich Lord Hawthorne announces his unusual competition to seek a bride, you don’t think it would be any harm to enter. But perhaps there is a reason no one has ever seen Lord Hawthorne in person…

[part one] [part three] [part four]

PART TWO (SFW)

[Content: Regency era, male monsterxfemale reader, Forest god/Horned monster/Cernunnos, Advantageous marriage, Low self image]

Words: 4500~

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“Open it! Open it!” Your mother panted, half clawing at your hands to get the letter for herself. You tried to swat her away, but she was persistent, and no sooner had you turned to tell her to back off but Abigail and Isadora were grasping at the envelope from behind you.

“Enough!” You snapped. “It's my letter and mine alone to read!”

Your mother recoiled, exaggerating her hurt. “How ungrateful!” She sobbed performatively. “And after all I've done-”

“That won't work!” You held the letter against your chest, as nowhere else seemed to be safe. The poor messenger was still standing soggy in the door, blushing at the indecency of these squabbling women in their nightgowns.

“You can go, sir,” Your father tried to dismiss him.

“I'm afraid I can't,” He admitted. “I was told not to leave here without the lady's answer.”

“Answer?” Your mother gasped, and then the whole house was silent. They turned to look at you, the anticipation on their faces unmistakable. A terrible dread rose in your throat.

There must be some mistake, you thought miserably, looking down at the Lord's golden seal, unbroken on the envelope. Surely he isn't asking me...

“Dearest,” Your father's voice cut through the highly charged silence. “Go ahead into my study and read your letter.”

You almost didn't want to. The fear of getting your hopes up – of your whole family getting their hopes up – would make the reality of rejection only hurt so much more. But there was no other option available, you couldn't just not read it. Your mother and sisters did not dare harass you as you walked alone to the study, and closed the door behind you.

In the light of a single oil lamp, you slid your finger under the lip of the envelope, cracking the wax seal. You recognised the same beautiful penmanship from the riddle, this time spelling out your name. You held the parchment close to the light.

“Your response to my letter brought me such pleasure as you cannot imagine. I do believe our minds are most compatible, and knowing that you are a woman of such wit and wisdom, I think it is safe to assume that you know what I am going to ask.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, heart pounding, hands sweating, almost afraid to read on. But you do.

“This is no game to me, and I do not trifle with matters of the heart. You are the only lady to whom I am extending my hand. From this moment on, I intend to court you, if you are willing. Should you accept my courtship, I invite you and your family to a picnic on my estate this coming Sunday. Should you decline, simply inform my messenger, and I will bother you no more.

Yours,

Hawthorne.”

You blinked at the letter, both over and underwhelmed. In so many ways, you were relieved there was no proposal to address. And at the same time, a courtship was almost more intimidating – now there was ample time for him to meet and change his mind about you. Swallowing this feeling of inadequacy, you stood and left the study. After all, there was no way you could simply decline the offer of a Lord. The choice to end the courtship would be his, of course.

“Well?” Your father greeted you, seeming somewhat anxious. Your mother was hunched forward , crushing Elouise and Isadora's hands in her grasp, practically salivating like a hound dog.

“We've been invited to a picnic on the Lord's estate,” you explained as levelly as you were able.

Your mother seemed to deflate, “Is that all?! Let me read it!” She whipped the letter out of your hand and snatched the messenger's lantern. Even in the flickering light, you could see a wicked smile grow across her face. “He is courting you!” She whispered, grinning knowingly at your father, who seemed a little less pleased.

“Then we shall be obliged to attend this picnic, I suppose,” He grumbled, also stooping to read the letter. “As your chaperones.”

“Return at once to your master,” Mother turned to the messenger. “And tell him we will arrive no later than noon. Oh, this is wonderful!” She threw her arms around you, squeezing you close. “To see you marry so well above your station – we must write to your brother and tell him the news!”

“There has been no proposal, Mother,” You objected, but your sisters were already joining in the hug.

“My Lord will be very happy,” the messenger beamed, taking his lantern back from your mother, who scarcely noticed.

The next few days crawled by at an agonizing pace. Sunday was far too close, and yet couldn't arrive fast enough. You were sure that if the Lord met you and promptly changed his mind, then at least the ordeal would be over quickly. Perhaps your plain face or lack of dowry or unimpressive personality would be enough to convince him that his whole riddle shtick was an absurd mistake. It will be worse, you realised, if he sees lovely Elouise or Abigail and immediately falls in love. And I will try to be happy for them, but that will be the worst. You had half a mind to ask them not to attend the picnic, but explaining the reason would be humiliating, and wholly unfair. Besides, your mother would be thrilled to see the Lord marry any of her daughters – it didn't have to be you.

Lord Hawthorne did not attend mass with the rest of the village. He had a private chapel on his estate, and had never once been seen at weddings, funerals, or anything in between. So you had been feeling safe enough on Sunday morning, until you stepped out of the church and saw the Lord's messenger waiting in a carriage at the gates.

“Good heavens,” Your father muttered next to you. “Surely they don't mean to collect us from here.”

You met the messenger where he stood, at the threshhold of the Holy Ground. He smiled warmly at you. “So sorry to trouble you here, of all places, my lady,” he tipped his hat. You could see your neighbours staring from the church yard, hotly whispering their speculations. You tried to angle your head so that your bonnet would cover your face, which you knew must be flushed with embarrassment. The messenger went on, “My Lord asked to give you this before your meeting, and no one was at your house for me to leave it.” He handed you a letter with that same glittering golden seal.

“We will take our own carriage to your estate,” Mother informed the man loudly, wanting the neighbours to hear. “I'm sure you understand. We ladies have some getting ready to do.”

“Of course,” The messenger laughed. “I will attend you at the gatehouse when you arrive.” He climbed back onto his carriage – a most unusual vehicle, carved of jagged blackthorn, and pulled by four colossal horses.

You opened the letter when you arrived home. It was a short note.

“Indulge me this one;

Bring a Noble with you to my table,

who is greater than me in worth,

who sustained Condla in his crystal currach

when it made its berth.”

“Condla?” You repeated aloud. The name sounded so familiar. You could hear it in some faint corner of your memory, some story you had heard by the fire...

You had scarcely the time to think about it before you felt a painful tug on your hair. “Ow!”

“We must work quickly to make you beautiful,” Your mother was combing through your thick locks with her talons, braiding and unbraiding, fussing over the stray wisps of hair that weren't obeying her designs. While you were trapped at the mercy of your mother's hands, Abigail appeared with the rouge, smacking it into your cheeks while Elouise held two dresses up beside you.

“The white or the pink?” She asked frantically.

“I don't-”

“You're right,” she answered for you, “The white is too bridal, we don't want to seem desperate.”

“Mother,” You started, in between winces, “Do you remember the story of Condla?”

“You want a bedtime story at a time like this!?” Your mother scoffed, scraping back the curls that were already coming loose from her plait. “Focus on the task at hand, my love! We must ensnare the Lord quickly, before he loses interest!”

Ouch. You had shared her concern, of course, that the Lord may change his mind once he met you. But it stung to hear it said all the same. You tried to meditate on the note instead, on Condla, and what little you remembered of him. You were sure it was a love story, an old folk tale that your grandmother had told on Winter nights, just as she had spoken of the salmon and the hazelnut. Condla sailed on a crystal boat somewhere to be with his lover, but the details were foggy. And he must have been sailing with a nobleman, you thought, though the image in your mind – the imagined memory of Condla – was him alone in his currach, reaching a lush, magical shore, embracing a sparkling princess. And how would I bring this noble to the picnic with me, anyway? You asked yourself bitterly, frustrated by the riddle.

“There we are,” Mother cooed, pulling back your fringe to show you your face in the mirror. “Now you look as lovely as possible.”

“I'd like to wear my green dress-” you started to suggest, but both Elouise and your mother groaned loudly.

“You're not going to a village ball,” Mother chastised, “This is a Lord's home. The pink dress is much finer.”

By the time they were done poking and prodding you into an acceptable state, it was past noon. Your mother was howling about how this was going to make a bad impression on the Lord, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was responsible for the delay, not you. She was all but whipping you and your sisters into the carriage, when something flashed in your mind.

A noble. Greater than me in worth.

Not “greater than a Lord” in worth. Greater than Hawthorne.

“Just a minute!” You jumped back out of the carriage, just as it began to move.

You could hear your family shouting after you, halting the horses, demanding you return. Vaguely, you heard your father say, “I told you this was too much for her.”

You rushed through the house and out the back door, pulling up your skirts so as not to ruin them with the fresh mud of your garden. Your shoes were less fortunate. You stopped at the small grove of trees at the base of your land, and removed your shawl to use it as an improvised sack.

“What's gotten into you?” Elouise's voice called out from behind. You turned to see her in the back door, with hands on her hips. “Are you really getting cold feet so soon?” “Not at all,” You smiled, feeling more excited than terrified for the first time since receiving the Lord's invitation. You cradled the sack-shawl to your chest. “It would simply be rude to arrive empty handed.”

____________________________________

As promised, the messenger was waiting at the gatehouse. He acted somewhat giddy as the wrought iron gates yawned open before your carriage. The horses seemed... Suspicious. They were not panicked, or even very stubborn, but they were not easily coaxed through the gate. The messenger had to take their reigns and lead them by hand, rewarding them with some wild carrots which he pulled from the Earth beside the road.

The estate was like another world entirely. The grounds seemed both wild and tame at once – both overgrown and carefully manicured. Wild flowers, berries and roots were growing everywhere, and yet the layout seemed curated, and designed to be beautiful. Even the air smelled sweeter and was full of merrier birdsong.

The iron gate closed behind you with a musical clang.

The messenger, who finally introduced himself as Dáire, led your carriage down the winding path to a huge manor house, which like the rest of the grounds appeared overtaken by nature in a very intentional way. Greenery and flowers had crept up the stone walls and spiralled around the large, bright windows. As your carriage came to a stop, a cloud of butterflies erupted from the purple flowers growing up the walls, bursting into the sky as though the very manor was alive and fluttering off into the sunlight.

“It's a fine house,” Your father nodded approvingly.

“It's a mansion!” Your mother squealed in delight.

“It's like a fairytale,” Isadora whispered, leaning against you to get a better look at the home. “It doesn't look like it should exist.”

“Why would you say that?” You asked her, a little troubled by what she might mean, but Dáire opened the carriage door before Isadora could explain. He helped you out one by one, eyeing your make-shift shawl-sack with curiosity, though he didn't ask any questions.

“My Lord thought you might be hungry,” he smiled in a somewhat dazzling, surreal way, which particularly seemed to effect Elouise. As Dáire stepped out towards a narrow foot path, your sister seemed to float after him, as if he were a magnet she had become attached to. “The banquet is all set up by the stream. Once you've eaten, my Lord will take you on a tour of the grounds.”

“Where is Lord Hawthorne?” You asked, uncharacteristically eager.

Dáire turned back to you, a devilish smile on his lips. “He's waiting for you all at the stream, of course.”

You travelled down a little grassy trail carpeted with daisies and dandelions, with Dáire in the lead, followed closely by Elouise. Your mother complained quietly about her shoes getting dirty, but you pretended not to hear her, and especially hoped she wouldn't notice that your own were already ruined with mud. The path descended into a mossy wood of ancient trees, their branches so long and heavy that they spiralled down towards the ground like silent, tentacled creatures. You could hear Dáire annotating quietly to Elouise the names he had given to each of the titan trees in the Lord's wood - “King oaks,” you heard him call them.

The farther you walked, the scarcer the sunlight that came scattering through the leaves and onto the path. Your father remarked on something on the ground beside you, and you looked down to see a large pawprint sunken into the soft mud.

“Surely your master doesn't keep wolves on his land,” Father said, astonished.

“Oh yes,” Dáire turned back, that enchanting smile on his face again. “Wolves, bear, and great elk.”

“That must make for excellent hunting,” Father marvelled.

“Not at all,” Dáire turned back to the path. “The Lord never hunts unless he is hungry.”

“How... Novel,” Your mother eyed the pawprint nervously, clinging to your father's arm. You thought the Lord was being quite sensible, actually. To treat his own land as if he were simply a part of the ecosystem – another animal in the food chain. But you thought it best not to describe the Lord as an “animal” in front of his messenger.

The deeper into the woods you walked, the darker the world seemed to become. And then suddenly, all at once, golden sunlight burst through the trees ahead of you. You thought you could hear the distant strings of a harp being softly plucked, but as you stepped into the sunlight, the music diffused into the sounds of nature. In front of you was a meadow, familiar and yet entirely foreign, dazzled by a crowd of wildflowers dancing in the light breeze. At the lowest point of the meadow was a bubbling stream of black water, cutting across the clearing like a shining silk ribbon, its depth and contents entirely unknowable.

Next to the stream was a swath of short, inviting grass, laid with large fur blankets, upon which was a low wicker table. You had never seen such a feast before – fresh fruit, salted meats, divine pastries and cakes that were precisely painted with frosting and cream and adorned with strawberries. Abigail and Mother both gave a little laugh of delight and trudged heartily towards the banquet.

“I'll give him this,” your father chuffed happily beside you, “He knows how to throw a picnic.”

You cradled your shawl-sack, feeling suddenly overcome with nervousness. Perhaps you misunderstood his letter entirely. Perhaps he didn't even want to court you and in your delusion you had completely misconstrued his intent. Perhaps he wouldn't even want to come and meet you. Perhaps you were trespassing...

“I don't know if we should eat that,” Isadora whispered, tugging at your sleeve. You looked down at your little sister, who was watching your father descend the meadow to the stream, where Dáire was giving Elouise a lesson on their fishing stock, and Abigail and mother were already at the table, dipping plum slices into a bowl of sugar.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“I don't know...” She admitted, “But doesn't this all feel just a bit... Impossible?”

You felt an ache in your chest. Of course, even Isadora could see the truth. Just as your mother had pointed out earlier, just as you had known from the start. Of course the Lord would change his mind, if he hadn't already. All of this wasn't meant for a woman like you. “It is impossible,” You agreed glumly. “I feel foolish for even hoping for it.”

Isadora frowned, like she was doing math in her head. “What are you talking about?” She asked, crossing her arms. “I meant this land, this banquet, the house – and the fact that nobody's even seen the Lord – I thought that's why you were asking about Condla earlier. I thought you must be thinking the same thing as me.”

Now it was your turn to be confused. “I don't know what you're thinking, Isadora-”

“My Lord!”

You both turned at the sound of Dáire's voice calling out. Your family were also standing to attention, staring downstream to a figure emerging from the woods. You felt your lungs ache and held your breath.

The man crossing the colourful meadow towards your family was impossibly large – taller than you thought any man could be, with broad shoulders cloaked in a thick shimmering fabric of a sort you had never seen before. At first glance, you thought he was floating down the hill, his movements seemed so glidingly effortless, but as he got closer you could clearly tell there was an immense gravity to every step, not unlike the slow stride of a great elk, gracefully carrying its considerable weight with ease. Most notably, he wore the widest brim hat you'd ever seen in your life. It would have been comical if you weren't so intimidated. You could only assume that the hat was some new aristocratic fashion, because its brim was nearly the width of his strong shoulders, and from the brim fell a black veil, completely shrouding his face. As he approached your parents, you understood more fully the scale of his height; your father was a reasonably tall man, and he seemed tiny next to the Lord, who was easily over seven feet.

And though you could not make out one single distinguishing feature outside of his sheer size, you felt a swelling in your chest – an unmistakable jolt of anticipation. You watched Lord Hawthorne reach your family and bow his head in greeting, the shimmering fabric of his cloak and shroud glittering in the sun. He reached a large, gloved hand out towards your mother, then Abigail, then Elouise, though he did not kiss their hands as you were expecting.

You could hear a low, rumbling voice, but you were too far away to hear the words, and then he straightened and began... Looking around. You could see the shroud and the hat swaying as his head turned left and right, and it occurred to you suddenly that he couldn't see you and Isadora from where you stood by the trees.

Wordlessly, your youngest sister and you made your way down towards the black stream. Dáire raised his hand, gesturing toward you, and Lord Hawthorne quickly turned, the many fabrics on his person twirling with the inertia. Though you could not see his eyes, you knew instantly he was looking at you, and that swelling in your chest felt as if it were expanding, preventing air from entering your lungs. Your heart was thumping so hard it was painful, you could feel the heat in your cheeks and on your neck, and you wished to God that you were the one with a shroud to hide behind.

As you drew close to one another, the Lord's massive figure blocked out the sun, and you stopped in his shadow, a few feet away. You could just about see that behind him, your mother and Abigail were frantically miming a curtsy to you. Both you and Isadora bowed as politely as you could, though you caught Isadora staring open-mouthed at the Lord as she did so. His gloved hand extended out towards you, and as the dark cloak shifted you caught sight of a beautiful suit underneath, embroidered with shining gold and purple.

You placed your hand in his, feeling almost embarrassed by how tiny yours seemed in his grasp. He ran his thumb along your knuckles, and raised your hand close to him. To your surprise, he slipped it under his shroud and you felt the soft, hot pressure of his lips against the back of your fingers.

“My lady,” his voice vibrated against your skin, a gentle rumbling voice that felt like the soft thunder of a distant summer storm.

“Lord Hawthorne,” You squeaked in response.

“And I'm Isadora,” Your sister interrupted, thrusting her hand in front of the Lord's face. He released your hand with a gentle chuckle and took Isadora's, though he did not kiss it.

“I am honoured to have you here,” He stepped aside, gesturing to the banquet. “Please, you must all be hungry.”

Your family obediently sat on the fine furs by the table, while Dáire lingered nearby at the edge of the stream. Even Isadora sat, although she politely declined the plate that Lord Hawthorne offered her. You hesitated, unsure of where you ought to sit, first moving towards Elouise who made a show of spreading out her legs so there was no room for you. Nervously, you sat down next to Lord Hawthorne, who was pouring nettle tea from a porcelain pot into your parent's cups. Your father's expression was completely unreadable, your mother was doing her best to look anywhere except the Lord.

“What wonderful gardens you keep,” she was saying, her eyes darting to the flowers, the woods, the stream, the sky. “Your gardener is a credit to you.”

“Thank you,” Hawthorne answered, “All my staff live within the grounds, so this is as much their garden as it is mine.”

“Rather hot weather we're having,” Your father said, making an underhanded point about the Lord's attire. Abigail's elbow found its way to your father's ribs as she reached for the sugar.

“Yes, we are having a pleasant spell,” Hawthorne sounded as though he were smiling. “Perfect weather for a picnic, don't you agree?”

“Perfect weather for weddings, I should say,” Abigail nodded soundly, popping a raspberry into her mouth.

“Abigail,” You hissed, embarrassed.

“What?” She shrugged, “Isn't Lily Barns getting married? And Maisy MacDuff? And Josephine Clarke?” She turned then to Lord Hawthorne, “That's all I meant, my Lord. It is always best to marry before the good weather leaves us for the year.”

Hawthorne chuckled quietly beneath his shroud, “I will keep that in mind, Miss Abigail. Thank you.”

Abigail sat back, pleased with herself, and for a few moments there was only the musical sound of the stream and bird song, and the soft chewing of cakes. You felt increasingly pressured to say something, though you didn't know what exactly, and you were afraid to look directly at the Lord, lest he see something in your face that he wouldn't like. You fidgeted absently with the shawl in your lap, staring at the untouched food on your plate.

“Not hungry?” Hawthorne asked, and you realised he was speaking to you.

You looked down, wishing you were not so visible, envying him for his enigma. “It all looks very tasty,” you admitted timidly. “Thank you for inviting us.”

Hawthorne said nothing, but you could feel him watching you. What? You wondered, Is he disappointed? Is he bored of me already? Why must this whole ordeal be so painfully awkward! Trying to move the conversation on, you quickly added, “You aren't eating either.”

“Ah. Yes,” There was a smile in his voice, “I was wondering if you brought a Noble with you.”

That got your mother's attention. She looked up from devouring her lemon cakes, “My Lord,” she laughed daintily, “You flatter us. We are not so happily connected with the nobility-”

“I'm not sure if I got it right,” You interrupted, speaking directly to the Lord, unfurling your shawl to reveal a half dozen apples from your trees at home. “But I know that the apple is a Noble Tree, and the hawthorn...”

“Is a peasant tree, you are correct,” He was certainly smiling now. In fact, you could imagine a toothy grin on a handsome face under that shroud. He opened his hand, palm up to you, asking for an apple, and you placed it in his hand. “The apple tree is worth much more than the hawthorn, because it gives life and nourishment. I am deeply pleased you are familiar with the old laws,” he raised the apple under his shroud, and you heard the crisp crunch of him biting into its flesh. “Thank you for this gift, lovely Úlla.”

You felt yourself blushing. Úlla – meaning “apples” – was not a term of endearment you had ever been called before, but the way he had spoken it, slow and low and lingering, it echoed in your chest and raised a strange tension in your stomach. “Condla...” You started, your voice faint, “He was given a magic apple by his lover, isn't that right? I barely remember the story.”

“That's exactly right,” Hawthorne smiled, taking another bite. “That one apple sustained him for the rest of eternity.”

“And then he was enchanted by a fairy and stolen away from his family,” Isadora piped up, watching Hawthorne with intense suspicion. “Isn't that right.” 

It wasn't a question.

There was a lengthy, awkward pause at the table. Then, you heard the smile in Hawthorne's voice again. “Well remembered,” he placed the finished apple core on his otherwise empty place. “You are exactly right.”

#terato #terato fic #terato writing #monster story #monster love #monster bf #horned god #this one is about twice as long as part one so.............. be warned #also you've probs noticed by now but i lean very much into irish mythology for obvious reasons but hopefully this is still followable #even without knowing a lot about the brehon laws of trees lmaooooo #my writing #mine #úlla and hawthorne #long post