As he grew stronger, the mortal world held little danger. He sustained regular cuts and bruises as he trudged through the thorny patches on the edge of Briar's field. They always healed in an hour or two. As the months passed, his abilities returned, and new ones were acquired.
He watched her often and silently, her simple graces growing on him. He placed subtle gifts in her path, partly to entertain himself with her baffled looks, and partly for another reason. There was a basket of blackberries he placed beneath her window one morning, full to the brim, that caused her to check the door for visitors. When none could be located, she brought in the basket cautiously.
When she looked away, much to her dismay, it was transformed into a steaming apple and blackberry pie. He even included a tub of yellow rose custard, which he'd gathered from the trial and error was her favorite. She'd seemed to like the cumin vinegar chocolate biscuits as well, but made a sort of expression when she ate them for the first time that indicated they were of conflicting flavors.
Thus, began Faolan's flirtations with mankind.
He hid in the Moorland forests, quietly entertaining himself by causing simple mischief among passers-by. Most of his tricks were harmless. Perhaps slightly mean-spirited, but harmless. He no longer felt the desire to end all things with death and suffering. Of course, that didn't mean his desires were good-natured.
The first trick he played was on two young boys gathering firewood. They were perhaps eight or nine, one much hollower and thinly built than the other. They were boyish miscreants not unlike he was at that age. The sturdier one used a stick to whack the other on the back, howling insults about his fortitude as he beat him with birch.
Fondly remembering his own beatings, common at the hand of his distant and better-dead father, Faolan turned the offender's branch into a snake. It slithered gently up the back of the beaten child and slinked into his hands, turning into a flogging belt.
He hoped that the small one would take justice on the other, if only for his own vindication. They each dropped their loads in fear. The small one held on to the flogging belt and eyed it. Instead of delivering a lashing, he dropped it and ran with his brother in fear.
"Fear rules these creatures," he muttered. "Pitiful things can't even find the strength for their own vengeance."
Faolan simplified his tactics, lowering his expectations just enough so that he would be mildly amused by the trickery. When caravans passed through, he had fun rearranging the heads of the horses pulling the carts. Couples that walked close to his encampment soon found themselves speaking two dialects of gibberish. Travelers suffered the sights of birds with mouths instead of beaks and their companions with beaks instead of mouths.
Small glories like this almost made him feel as though he enjoyed this petty world. None made him feel as much satisfaction as the mischief he practiced with Briar.
On the eighth day of his third month, he noticed a group of armed men encroaching upon the homestead. He crept closer than usual – standing against the cottage wall, just out of Briar's view. He made himself as subtle as possible, translucent, you might say. The group of men came to the house on horseback, demanding entry into the home to look for valuables. Cal was away with the flock, making her encounter especially heated.
"Where is the man of the house?" The junior-captain eyed Briar, wandering up and down her figure, "...we'll need him anyway for his conscript forms."
"He's bedridden," Briar lied. "Inside and extremely contagious. I can't let you into the house."
"Too sick to sign a sheet of paper?" The militia leader jeered, his men pushing through the door anyway. "And what with, apothecary? Iron in his blood turning to gold?"
"That's an alchemist," she snapped back. "And if you please – it's blue boil fever. He seems to have gone hemorrhagic, so if you don't want to catch it from me or from him, I suggest you leave."
Some of the bunch that were rooting through Briar's pots and pans tensed up at the mention. Blue boil fever was prevalent in climates like this and easily took root in men unaccustomed to moisture or cold. These militia were almost certainly southerners. The captain was less convinced, but his men were of a less intelligent breed. They quickly emptied the cupboards of their larder and left.
All but the junior-captain, grimy and covered in sweat, disgusted and filled with vitriol for the people of this land. And, traveling to this wilderness, he hadn't seen or touched woman in weeks. The man, filled with the vilest intentions, crept into the darkest corner of the root cellar as the others left. They'd cleaned her family out of their rations for a long while. It wouldn't be long until she came searching for something to eat.
Faolan shadowed himself into the house as well. He could see through the walls and into the sickening mind of the other intruder. Briar walked past Faolan, unable to see or feel him. Her stomach grumbled. Faolan tried to grab her by the arm, but something hindered him. Was it his translucence? He tried to rematerialize, but even then, when he touched her arm she was senseless. She was blind and deaf to his presence, numb to his touch. Concern mounted in his soul, beyond the point of fearing an injured plaything.
"Don't leave," he begged, but she couldn't hear him.
She turned the knob and began her descent. He tailed her with great speed, but something quelled his power. Her voice erupted into a scream.
When he floated to the bottom of the stairs, they were fighting. She knocked the man over the head with an empty carafe, handling herself quite well. As many wounds as she'd healed, she'd also bumped and battered into existence. After a lifetime of shepherding on the moorland prairies, traversing peat bogs and scooping lambs from the tops of sharp crags, she had sure footing. She was not the most dexterous person, but she had also grown brawling with a brother who was the captain of her town's defense.
The glass broke, leaving fragments in his scalp, but he was still persistent. Now, he was bleeding and angry. She took a glass jar and smashed it, taking a shard into her bloodied hand and holding it out as a knife. The man seemed confused, perhaps knocked for breath, but was still conscious; and now, he was angry enough to kill.
As it unfolded, Faolan tried to leave his altered state. He hovered as a ghost, unable to intervene. He used all his power and energy to leave it, but it came slowly. He felt himself leaving the ghostly form, becoming real again. It strained his powers. He focused on the attacker, metamorphosing into a pseudo man. Lightning followed.
He was real for a moment, just long enough to do what must be done, and just long enough for Briar to see. Faolan came to her side as a flickering image, extending a hand and pushing the man back with a burst of air. He snapped his neck with a single flick of the wrist, throwing him onto the soil before disappearing.
All that was left of her attacker was a mound of ash.