There are others like him; the mountains have their Reynardine awaiting, and the ocean is chock full of Selkies just waiting to have their skin snatched up by a willing maid or innocent youth. And of course there are the goblins and the trolls, beckoning with promises of fruit and gold to lure the maidens to their doom. But his is the realm of Carterhaugh, his the woods and the path by the woods, his the lands and the gardens, and perhaps he lorded over so fair a realm when he was an earthly knight, but perhaps he did not. He recalled but dimly, the dust of the Fey Queene in his eyes night after day after night, even if he did not see her such times. Her way and her magics blinded and bound a man, no matter how far he be from her.
Six year awake he lay in the gardens of Carterhaugh, and by and by came merry maid and ripe woman alike, and by and by they loved him one and all beneath the boughs of his hame, with a pledge of a trinket or else with sweeter gift, under his hands and under his body, until he got but small joy of it, small joy indeed.
And then the beauty came, ah yea, not so fair as some, but bolder than most-- bold enough to break the roses all men and maids alike knew were the property of his good self, and the roses themselves objects of fear to those who knew well enough what they were and whose.
There are others like him, it is true, but those are monsters, fox and wolf, goblin and troll, and they kill and eat those they ought to love, that they might once have loved, had they ever been human or anything but creatures of the dark half of the Fey Queene, the black spawn of her Mab-face. And he is no monster. There is yet a glimmer of hope in his soul, rare and bright and human.
As he watched her tie her kirtle of green just a little above her knee, preparing to ride off back to the hall of her father, his heart did dare to name the glimmer 'Janet.'