Sir Heretofore was at a loss. He had no idea what to get his lady for Christmas.

Really, he wasn't supposed to have a lady-friend. But he and Lady Gratchett abided by the rules of Courtly Love. They'd signed the Official Documents, which stated that he was allowed to fight for her honor, protect her name, give her small favors and only take walks with her when supervised, such as on the grounds of the mansion, at Tourney, or to court, and only when her husband wasn't able to go. She in turn must give him her favor, let him escort her to the aforementioned places and events, and always let him kiss her hand and write her poetry, which she must listen to attentively.

Those were the rules, and he abided by them, though he loved her.

She was beautiful, he thought for the millionth time as he sat beside her in the stands at the games. The flaxen hair, those brilliant gem-green eyes, that tiny pointed chin and the delicate ears all spoke of her Faerie heritage. How could one not be infatuated? But she found him odious, he knew; she told him often that he smelled. He was just too --

--human.

He sighed again, inwardly. He had been the highest bidder for her Courtly Love hand, because of that last dragon he’d slayed. She'd had to accept; the rules said so, and so he had been her private champion since she was nineteen. He'd been the first to deflower her -- also by the rules -- and he had enjoyed it far more than she, he knew.

Sadly, the rules also stipulated that he only get to do so once, and one time only. Lady Gratchett loved her husband, or at least tolerated him. It had been an arranged marriage, ten years ago now. She was always very proper when in public and Sir Heretofore was never sure what was what. He, her Champion, remained with her, as such only. He wished he was like Lord Kewan, who'd somehow managed to find a loophole in which he and his own lady, Lady Youngastra, could be wed. They were nigh on old age. She'd even aged herself for his sake. They were constantly making eyes at one another, very obviously still in love. He had no such luck with Lady Gratchett, nee Silversloth. She was just his Courtly Love, and he didn't know what to get her for the holidays. Silk? No, she had many hundreds of dresses and cloaks, one for each occasion and mood, one for each thought, and she was always getting the silk-workers to spin her new ones.

Brooches?

Necklaces?

Silver?

Horses? She had a stable full.

And he couldn't write poetry.

"You know," said Erril, a tiny faerie who occasionally hung out with him, as she popped up on his shoulder, "you could get her a soul."

He blinked.

"Huh?"

Erril rolled her violet eyes. "A soul would be something she doesn't have, after all. It's the one major thing that separates us all."

A soul for Christmas?

Heretofore thought about it, as snow began to fall in the arena. It being Faerie, the snow sparkled and glistened, and he saw faces in the flakes. Lady Gratchett put up her fur hood, and the small mink who lived in it clasped its paws around her neck, froze in position.

If he gave her a soul, she'd be human. He bet she wouldn't hate his smell then.

After the game, which was called on account of the snow getting too frisky, he went to chapel. Every decent manse or castle had them now, in deference to the humans' religion. The great King's Castle at Rufted Rose supposedly had a chapel for every single religion humans had, even the heathen ones, he'd heard.

However, in Faerie, when you prayed, you actually talked to God. The Folk never quite understood, he supposed; the idea of God or Jesus being unreachable. So at the chapel, he wasn't at all surprised to see Saint Thomas Moore comforting a young woman and Jesus cleaning the pews.

Jesus looked up when Heretofore came in. "You have a poser, Boy."

By now, Heretofore was used to it, sort of. "Yeah," he said to Jesus. "I really wish Erril hadn't put the idea into my head."

Jesus only beamed, like always. "But you've always lusted after her. You loved her from afar, coveted her. It's why you bid for her Courtly Love Contract in the first place."

That was Jesus: short and to the point. Heretofore winced.

"You think I should do it?"

Jesus shrugged.

"You aren't going to answer, are You? Dammit, give me some guidance!"

"M'boy," Jesus said, "that's exactly what you don't need right now." He got up from the pew where they'd been sitting, and went back to sweeping without another word.

Heretofore went home and gave himself thirty Hail Mary's and tried to think. Perhaps yet another dragon scale; no, she had too many of them. He could build her a magic snowman if he knew how to make them. . . . Trouble was, Sir Heretofore had never known anything that a well-bred noble Knight should know. He'd been knighted because of a fluke; he'd saved his village from a giant by pitching it in the eye with a magic stone that turned it to dust. The stone was only an alloy of iron and thallium, which had dropped on the floor of his smithy thanks to his worthless apprentice, and it had welded together. But really, what had a simple blacksmith to show for fourteen years out here in Faerie? He knew how to read at last, but he couldn't do the fancy dances of this land for which he'd thrown his old life away. Sometimes he wished he hadn't been so impulsive, that he'd stayed in his own lands and just used his title to build a castle and fight the occasional tourney and dance at the local fair, with plump, rosy-cheeked maidens whose fathers angled for his approval.

He gave himself another twenty Hail Mary's for being ungrateful.

He looked up to find Erril lounging on the sill of his room. "The trouble is, you never have fun with it," said the faerie. "Humans came here expecting to 'blend in', and some of you have managed it, but really what has it gained you?"

How true. The Faerie Folk did much of the work here; for the human invaders' sake, they'd made chapels and seasons they might or might not have ever had. They'd created the Courtly Love contracts, and had allowed the term "marriage" to be used (it was something else in their tongue). In return, the Knights had gone after every dangerous beast and creature bothering the Folk.

Heretofore could count the monsters he'd killed: thirty, the required number to be allowed to compete for a Courtly Love contract in the first place.

"What do you like doing?" asked Erril.

He shrugged. "Smithing. Sex. Uh. . . I kind of like beating things with sticks."

Erril wrinkled her tiny nose. "I did ask," she sighed. "So nothing else?"

Heretofore just shrugged. "If it makes any difference, I think you've a good idea," he said. "She definitely has no soul."

That sent the little faerie into peals of laughter. "Oh, you do have a sense of humor! What a statement!" she howled, rolling around in the air, like a little twinkling glass ball. Her gossamer wings flittered around and around with her like little pinwheels. "Priceless!"

Heretofore frowned and slammed the door on her. He was in no mood for faerie humor. Worse. he'd just crucified himself … again.

Erril appeared in front of him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I am."

"Fairies never apologize," he said, glowering. He was concentrating on getting down the slippery stairs without breaking his un-noble neck.

Not that the Lady would care.

"No, really, I am," said Erril quietly from somewhere further up. He turned and found her sitting on a step, looking up at him as she twirled a little foot around. "I want to help you. So I'm going to give you the address of a witch I know."

He blinked. Humans didn't go to see witches or wizards here; there were strict laws about that kind of thing, not like back in the human lands where you could get hold of a wandering sorcerer for a price. Here, humans were strictly forbidden: not by the elves, but by the Church.

"That's -- we're not supposed to do that!"

"I know," said Erril, "but it isn't like it doesn't happen. How do you think Lord Kewan got his wife?"

And so it was, on a stormy night, two travelers -- one large, one small -- headed to a place that could only be found on such a night, at least according to Erril. She’d swallowed a potion allowing her to be human sized, a small human, but a human. Two humans, she explained to him with panting breaths, would be inconspicuous.

"Are you all right?" he asked. He wasn't used to her being beside him like this. She looked pale; didn't twinkle at all, and her face was drawn.

"Hm? Oh - ugh - sure. . . It's a - side-effect of the - ugh - potion. . . I'll - be fine."

He guided her over puddles and held tree-branches for her. Whatever else, she was still a woman.

A dog with three heads guarded the house in the woods, but when it saw the faerie, it quickly changed and became an old crone. She'd clearly been working on her figure. "You want an apple?" she cackled at him. "Oh, yes, I know your human stories! Strange people. And you!" She turned and eyed Erril. "You should know better -- but ah there's no sense trying to talk sense to fairies!" She pulled up a chair, but Erril said she'd rather stand. "Huh. So, why are you here?"

Heretofore explained their mission. "Can you help us?"

"Oh, yes, now why would you want this?" asked the old crone. "Not like I keep souls in a bottle! And I suppose you figure after you've given her this soul, she'll fall madly in love with you and leave her fae husband for you?"

He blinked. It hadn't occurred to him.

The old woman cackled. "Not the brightest, are you?"

"I just want to give her something she doesn't have!" he cried. "And well, that's the only thing I haven't thought of myself, but it's a good idea. We came here to save the heathen faerie folk, after all -- begging your pardon, Ma'am."

The crone smirked at him. "There's only one soul that could do that for her, now," she said. "Yours."

He stared. That thought hadn't occurred to him either. He had never thought on just where he'd get the soul, he'd -- he had no idea.

"You love her?"

"Yes," he whispered. "I'd go through hell for her."

"You have not gone through hell yet -- not with any of the creatures you've killed or the fevers you've suffered. You'll go through hell now though, if you do this!"

He nodded. He was in a real bind; he had no idea what to do. "I have nothing else to give," he whispered.

All of a sudden, he felt different. At least, he didn't feel different and yet he did. "That's all?"

"You expect wine and roses? A clap of thunder?" The crone howled. "Get! You're of no use to me now."

They trudged back to the castle, in the pouring rain. He walked silently beside Erril, who walked as if she were stepping on glass.

Lady Gratchett watched for him. She flung her arms about him in the hall. "There you are!" she cried. She dragged him into a corner and smothered him with kisses. "Oh, such a sacrifice! A true Knight, a good and valiant man!"

"Do you like your present, then, Milady?" he asked, bowing.

"I love it, you silly!"

Another human destroyed, thought Erril, grinning as she limped away. With the transfer of Lady Gratchett's soul, Erril was now fully an elf. Humans were so useful here, she thought. Someday, they'll all be on the bottom rung of faerie society, as Heretofore was now. Only then would the faerie lands would be back to normal.

The King would be pleased this holiday!