>>6034987>>6034989>>6034995>>6034999Your mind races as you weigh the value of these extraordinary gifts. But then, a realization dawns upon you. You look at her, your expression hardening.
"Such gifts I would surely accept," you say firmly, "if thou wert a Christian woman. However, thou art the worst mountain troll, the spawn of the Neck and the Devil."
Her face falls, and you see the light in her eyes dim. She turns abruptly and runs out the door, her form shaking with each step, wailing loudly into the morning air.
"If I had got the handsome young man," she cries, her voice echoing through the forest, "I would have got rid of my plight."
As her wails fade into the distance, you stand there, the mist curling around your ankles once more, wondering about the strange encounter and the gifts you have just refused.
[30 years later]
Years pass after you decide you chose well, refusing the pagan woman because christ is king. A good Christian man like you should resist material gain that would come with apostasy. You find solace in your decision, convinced that your faith will lead you to a righteous and fulfilling life.
Eventually, you marry a good Christian woman who is homely and stout but you believe you can build a good life together. She is virtuous and god-fearing, everything you think a wife should be. You hope for a future filled with blessings.
Reality, however, has other plans. You remain poor, scraping by with meager earnings. Your wife grows fatter and homelier with age. Each day, you watch her shuffle around the house, her piety matched only by her appetite.
Your sons and daughters, instead of bringing joy and fulfillment, become constant reminders of your failures. They whine and complain, their voices dripping with resentment. They curse their lot in life, blaming you for their lack of horses, mills, swords, and even a decent shirt. You wonder how such ungrateful creatures could spring from your loins, their every complaint a dagger to your heart.
You mumble to yourself each day, "christ is king," the words becoming a desperate attempt to cling to your faith. You repeat it as you trudge through your mundane tasks, trying to ignore the looks of disdain from your children and the silent judgment in your wife's eyes.
One evening, after another day of drudgery, you find yourself at the edge of the forest again. The mist curls around your ankles, just like it did all those years ago. You can't help but think of the gifts you refused. Twelve horses roaming free, twelve mills with golden stones, a gilded sword, a shirt of white silk—each one a reminder of what could have been.
As you stand there, muttering "christ is king" under your breath, you hear a rustle in the trees. For a brief, wild moment, you wonder if the mountain troll has returned, come to mock you with her gifts once more. You almost hope she does, if only to break the monotony of your miserable existence.
But the forest remains silent.
>[The End] 