#very nervous about sharing this pls be gentle with your mockery :')

[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...

(this is the first terato story I’m publicly sharing so like.. Be nice to me pls T_T)

[Part Two] [Part Three] [part Four]

PART ONE (SFW)

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

*****

When news came of Lord Hawthorne's unusual proposition, your mother was a flurry of excitement. “The Lord is lonely!” She howled, flitting around your modest estate, wildly waving the promulgating letter – a copy of which had been delivered to almost every home in the county – as though it were a battle flag. When you and your three sisters finally managed to wrangle her into the kitchen and seat her by the range, she slapped the paper down against the table. “The Lord is lonely!” She panted, breathless from her deranged spin around the house.

“Yes, so you've said,” You prompted, unsure of what could have spurred this episode.

“He is eager to choose a wife!”

“What?!” Elouise, your eldest sister, snatched the letter up and held it close to her face. “Who has he in mind?”

“He has no one in mind!” Your mother laughed, swinging her legs like a child. “He is soliciting for a suitable match!”

“By what means, soliciting?” Abigail was already pawing at Elouise, peering over her shoulder eagerly.

“A ball, I hope!” Isadora, your youngest sister, clung to Elouise's elbow.

You hung back, eager as any of them, but feeling a pit of reservation in your stomach. You were, in your own opinion, the least lovely of your sisters, and had already suffered one failed engagement years before. You had learned not to hope for too much – least of all the elusive Lord Hawthorne, who owned half the county and according to the gossip of your friends, made at least £10,000 a year.

“It's quite bizarre,” Elouise turned, her two flanking sisters whipping around with her. “He has written a riddle and invites eligible ladies to respond.”

“Sounds pretentious,” You sighed.

Your mother hissed your name and scoldingly kicked your shin, “He's allowed to be pretentious, he's rich! Have you any better prospects?”

Elouise met your eye, her brow furrowed, and of course you understood. You weren't exactly the heiresses of a stately home. You had a decent house, with a large farm, healthy livestock and a decent crop of vegetables, all of which would go to your brother, Reginald, who would kindly ensure you were looked after for the rest of your days. The urgency wasn't so much to find a husband and save yourself from destitution... It was to find a husband and save yourself from your mother's frivolous nagging. Elouise and yourself were already in your twenties, and Gods, mother wouldn't let you forget it. Every day she greeted you with a shocked gasp and a “Is that a crease under your eyes?!” (No, mother, I'm just tired) “Is that a grey hair?!” (No, mother, the sun lightens my colour).

And, you supposed, it may be novel, to write back to the Lord.

“Tell us the riddle, then,” You leaned in to your sisters, taking a peek at the lovely penmanship on the parchment.

“Inbound, a procession of my brothers:

The first to arrive at our wedding tells you

The meadow's wealth, he trades for gold,

And wisdom in his waters hold.

My second brother arrives at our wedding, he says

So be it! Though I am not high,

As I walk, my tailcoats sweep the sky.

Lastly, I stand at the alter. I tell you,

I fumble my words, and I deter when I'm seen,

But I'll gift you a crown fit for a queen.

Can you name us?”

“What a ridiculous way to choose a bride!” Isadora exhaled, frustrated. “I don't know what any of that is supposed to mean!”

“You're too young to be marrying, anyway,” Elouise muttered, though you could tell she too was confounded. “When he says he deters when he's seen –”

“That part's easy,” Abigail took the letter with some confidence. “He's saying he's ugly!”

“He must be ugly,” You agreed, thoughtful. “As rich as he is, I can't think of a reason he wouldn't be able to find a wife through normal face-to-face conversation, unless-”

“Lord Hawthorne is never seen in public,” your mother chastised you, getting up from her seat to set the kettle on the hook over the fire. “He is a very traditional gentleman, and very reserved.” “So he must be ugly,” Elouise agreed.

“Girls!” Your mother snapped, “Who cares if he's ugly? For his income, you could live in a mansion so large you'd never have to see each other!” “Is that all you think about?” You challenged her, swiping the letter from Abigail to re-read the riddle. “What of your daughter's happiness?”

“You'll be happy when you're rich!”

Elouise laughed, and reclaimed the letter from you, staring at it thoughtfully. “I will write back to him at once,” She finally said.

Abigail gasped, “You've cracked it already?” “Well I must give it my best shot, and quickly, before some other girl solves it!” And with that she disappeared out through the servant's hall and up the stairs, the stampede of Abigail and Isadora behind her vibrating through the house. Their giggles and shrieks faded away until they were decisively silenced with the closing of a bedroom door somewhere overhead.

You and your mother sat in silence for a few moments. Eventually, she asked, “Won't you even try, my love?” “I am trying,” You mumbled. Not so much for the prospect of a rich, lordly husband – you were maintaining your cautious pessimism on that front. But you liked solving riddles, and grew frustrated at the prospect of being outsmarted by one of your sisters, or your friends, or neighbours, or worst of all, some stranger from another town, and you having no access to the girl to ask what the hell the answer even was.

By nightfall, all three of your sisters had come to their own unique conclusions about what the riddle meant, with your ever generous mother stopping in to provide hints and encouragements (and to harass you into participating in the contest as well). Elouise believed it was a trick, that all three must be “Lord Hawthorne”, as naturally brothers would share a name and title. Abigail, taking the literal route, had badgered father about the Lord's lineage and what his brothers may have been named – but according to father, no one had ever seen Lord Hawthorne in person. He had allegedly won his entire extensive estate in a game of cards (soul destroying to have been the loser of THAT wager) and no one knew of his parents, his brothers, or any family that had taken up with him. Abigail therefore guessed the names based on what sounded nice in front of “Hawthorne.” Isadora, on the other hand, cunning for her age, suspected that he was not speaking of blood brothers but more likely a bretherin of other rich aristocratic men in the area. She reasoned that the first brother, who traded the meadows wealth, had to be Lord Ardagh, for he owned the largest swath of agricultural land in the province. Meanwhile the brother who was “not high,” and therefore short, Isadora concluded had to be the paltry Lord Minnow, known for his extravagent expenditure and outrageous fashion (He had once worn to a funeral a glittering top hat adorned with a fountain of peacock feathers). You actually thought Isadora's guess was probably the soundest of the three, but you kept that to yourself, knowing your other sisters would be highly offended.

You couldn't help but feel that all three of their answers were wrong, though.

In spite of your mother's pressuring, you resisted the urge to pen your response to the Lord, and decided to sleep on it. You had colourful, restless dreams, of standing in a stream in a meadow, trying to make sense of this strange poem – this hurricane of words that the Lord had sent to challenge you. In the dream, a figure shrowded in black stood across the field, unmoving and staring straight at you, though you couldn't see his face.

When you woke, you followed an odd compulsion to your father's study, where he kept a modest library on mostly practical subjects. There was a book you remembered admiring as a child for its illustrations – on the medicinal properties and archaic beliefs pertaining to different types of wood. You sat and skimmed the pages until you found the passage you remembered – about the hazel tree. You recalled a story your grandmother used to tell by the fire on winter nights, about a salmon who ate hazel nuts and gained all the wisdom of the world. And there it was, in this book now:

“Traditionally, hazel trees were believed to offer insight and knowledge. If a hazel tree grew by a fresh water spring, drinking the water was thought to endow one with wisdom.”

You took up your parchment and wrote a response to Lord Hawthorne.

“My dear Lord,” You wrote, “Though I find your method of selecting a suitable bride to be unorthodox, and I suspect this riddle has already been solved, pride compels me to respond to your challenge. The meadows wealth, I assume you mean HAY, and to trade for gold, is to SELL, and the tree whose water holds wisdom is the HAZEL. This is your first brother.”

You paused, considering if you truly wanted to go on with this challenge. Perhaps solving the riddle for yourself was enough. Perhaps...

A strange feeling swelled in your stomach. Of wanting... To be challenged. Of wanting to be engaged with. You realised you were feeling excitement.

You wrote on, “This suggested to me how I might derive your second brother's name. So be it, you are stating your WILL, and to not be high is to be LOW, and the tree that sweeps the sky is the WILLOW. This must be your second brother.”

You had to contain the strange giddiness rising up inside of you, as it was starting to affect your handwriting. You were so eager to get the words down, you splotched the ink a little.

“I must then posit,” You continued, “That to fumble your words is to HAW, and to see a THORN would surely deter, and of course, traditionally, a bride wears a crown of hawthorne flowers. This was the easiest, for I already knew your name to be HAWTHORNE. I enjoyed this little challenge, and I wish you luck in your pursuit for a bride.”

You signed your name, putting in a little more effort than usual to make your signature look tidy and, if you were being truly honest with yourself, alluring. You sealed an envelope with your father's wax and went out to the gate. You were planning to give the letter to the post man in the nearest village, but you saw your neighbour walking down the old path and, upon hearing he would be passing the Hawthorne estate, asked him to deliver your letter.

“Trying to solve the riddle, eh?” Your neighbour chuckled, taking the envelope.

You tried not to seem overly confident. After all, it was best practice not to get your hopes up. “Just thought I'd try my hand.” “I heard it made a fuss in town last night, you're a bit late to the contest,” he teased. You tried not to let your disappointment show on your face as that familiar feeling of despair surfaced in your chest. Of course, you weren't expecting a proposal from the Lord. You weren't even expecting a reply. You only wrote to him because you had nothing better to do. And you refused to be disappointed by the inevitable lack of interest your letter received. And these were things you believed. These were things you believed.

It was late, hours after nightfall when an urgent banging on the heavy wooden door woke the household. You and Elouise were the first to the hall, your father and mother grumbling down the stairs behind you. Elouise opened the door, her candle illuminating the wet face of the messenger who stood on the step as rain poured down around him.

“My apologies for the late hour,” he wheezed holding up his own lantern to Elouise. “I was told it couldn't wait.” “For the sake of the Gods, man,” your father griped, moving between you and Elouise to confront the man. “What news could you possibly bring at this late hour?”

“A letter sir, an urgent letter,” The messenger patted down his pockets, slipping out an envelope with a liquid gold wax seal, bearing the emblem of a horned goat. “For your daughter.”

The letter bore your name.

----

Thank you for reading! A little edit as I still get compliments on the riddle in this chapter and the post explaining it's not my riddle is buried under years of other blog posts.

I didn't write the riddle in Hawthorne's letter, it's adapted from a riddle I remembered from a favourite childhood book: Catkin written by Antonia Barber and illustrated by P.J. Lynch. The riddle was actually the springboard around which this whole story was inspired, I used it as a writing prompt and altered it from being about trees in general to being about a wedding with tree-deities. The apple riddle in later chapters is mine though (which is why it's less clever than this one 😅) anyway I just wanted to clarify that. I hope you enjoy the story! ^_^

#terato #terato fic #terato writing #monster story #monster love #monster bf #horned god #very nervous about sharing this pls be gentle with your mockery :') #my writing #mine #úlla and hawthorne #(but in second person) #i am dipping my toes into the water of second person monster fucker writing