For once upon a time, there lived a man. In a time when all dreams still breathed and all facts were only beginning to take form, his little house dwelt on the borderline between these realms.

His was a forest, which kissed the shores of an ocean, and the wonders of the worlds they held were never-ending to him, whose soul was wide enough to cherish them all.

There was harmony between nature and him. With the power of his trust in the universe, the magical had begun incarnating again, as though the world had not started moving on, into an age of logic and reason.

And so, his was also the unicorn now roaming the forest paths and the nights, his was the siren whose song sweetens the waves of sea, his was the griffin descending from the mountain tops once in a full moon, surely in order to die and be reborn with all the other creatures of the Earth, who can only fantasize of flight in their dreams or in their nightmares.

His were they all, though he had never entertained the thought of claiming any of them, their company a blessing when it was there and its lack, no trouble. There was simple content that he had found in their mere existence.

But our man - whose name had been known by few and remembered by fewer, not even recalling it himself on some days - felt a kind of sadness which had no way of being identified, believed in, nor contained.

His were the mornings when the light glimpsed at his shore from between the clouds and returned to a comfortable sleep. His were the days when the rain washed over him like a great outcry, nearly let out. His were the nights in which the world ended at the edges of his bed, in darkness, and his was the nothingness that crept right beyond those borders.

His was also a sense of surprise with the arrival of an uncalled visitor. It might have been upsetting, were it not so obvious to the man that his visitor was guided over by the kindness of evening winds, soft and delicate at the setting of the sun, as well as a great pair of shiningly white wings. His visitor landed softly, feet reaching the ground as some may touch a dear cheek.

Our man nodded at the winged man and asked nothing. Turning to his small house and its entrance, he led his guest in, to where food, comfort and a warm fire would await them. Neither uttered a single word as they walked in, as dinner was served by one to the other, as they sat at the table and dined.

All means of communication came down to hand gestures, attracting the eye to the flow of feathers, their texture spread leisurely around the guest's body. They seemed so soft and rich, a longing materialized, as they were moving slightly back and forth, to their bearer's rhythm of respiration.

Beauty radiated from the winged, silently dining figure. Surely, thought the man, it's a power that be which has taken on the form of flesh.

It had surprised him when his guest began speaking, his tone as quiet as he must have been during the adventures he was now telling the man about, as low as the regions from which he ascended to get on his way, as serious as the dangers he had overcome to continue his destination-free journey. His tone was as quiet as he must have been during all this for lack of company, but playfulness twinkled in the dark eyes reflecting flickering fire.

Our man could not take his eyes off the winged beauty.

Holding his gaze, the guest rose to his feet, lithe body coming into full view. His wings swiped across the table, leaving it bare, and then holding his hand out.

"I'm here because this is where you wanted me," he said and the man knew instinctively this was true, though he knew not how it could be. A distant place, far below the regions of his world, in which men who craved the light were left with no choice but to spread wings beat in his head, some distant past he had no idea of, yet he was now meeting again.

Not a power that be, then, but another soul, struggling its way through existence.

His fingers reached out on their own to meet unfamiliar, darker of shade and warm of look ones. Only the senses in our skin can make real what the mind refuses to believe the eyes are seeing.

It was lightning. It was the flames from the fire place rising to engulf and consume them both. This was new and raw and had no word for it, none. This centered him around an odd, pleasant tingling, increasing and eating away at his core. It hurt and made breathing hard with urgency.

Frenzied, they sought each other out, lips meeting in the midst of a fumbling mess, in which they were trying to reach everywhere at the same time, when there was no organ which wasn't close and tempting.

When the man felt a tongue slipping into his mouth, though, something calmed down, as though a form of certainty was found and he concentrated on the delight of being explored, discovered in places he'd never felt before. He let himself be led, from this point on, come what may.

His own tongue responding, hands on the back of a head he was drawing deeper in, he felt fingers finding their way under his shirt, massaging a nipple and milking a moan out of him. A pinch followed and the soft moan he was emitting into the mouth covering his own sharply turned into a gasp, breaking the kiss, desperate want shooting through his body right down to his hips, that were grinding into the other pelvis in a compulsion which was no less demanding than any verbal command.

He leaned his head against the forehead of the stranger, panting humidly against the new skin of another. One thing stolen, another gained, he thought, clutching onto the torso of the winged man, dragging him blindly back onto the table, on top of him, mumbling nearly without breath, not begging, not ordering, stating, "Now. Take me, now."

The wings spread, wide, creating shade within shadow, their tips trailed up and down against his arms, as the talented tongue he'd come to know was tasting his chest, lower to his abdomen, following the thin line of hair even lower and then, disappearing only to be replaced with a mouth that sucked him in eagerly. He bucked and thrust up, the new sensation sating, but more so, draining him of any thought or capacity to act.

He discovered a sound within himself, a growl he wasn't sure he let out, intense enough to chase anything away, even nothingness.

His winged man – Orlando, as he suddenly knew – pulled his mouth away, added the swirl of a tongue under the cock he just let go off and when he sucked it back in, the man exploded with a cry, somewhat similar to the noise of rain.

Shivering, Orlando waited out the orgasm, caressing the man with his wings, with his forehead, letting his thick curls barely touch the heated skin beneath him. "Viggo," he whispered, as his lips crossed the ears of the man.

Legs parted and wrapped themselves around his waist, toes brushing lightly against feathers. Viggo was calling him in already.

Carefully, he used the movements of the body he was entering to guide his way. Slow and careful, he was taking his time until he was hurried by an anxious grip, pulling him further in.

Viggo was holding on and though the traces of his unforeseen pain were surely evident on his face, he wouldn't wait one more second before he could feel Orlando encased by him.

They were going faster, moving more, frantic, almost synchronized but gradually losing rhythm in favor of Orlando thrusting in, more, faster and deeper, Viggo moving less and less as a secret spot inside was discovered. His mouth was gapped and when burning liquid was shot into him, his body responded in much the same way. Orlando collapsed on him, just as they were, mouth wide against Viggo's and they were heaving into each other, almost an oral replay of the act that had connected them.

When it felt like breathing again, and not like a mad inhale of oxygen, Viggo asked, "When are you leaving?"

"Never," Orlando replied, taking his lover in his arms and hovering just a foot above ground, moved them both to the bedroom, where slumber would be sweet and wakefulness would be sweeter yet.

And the ghost whisperers, the tellers of tales that weave the world, say that was the night that gave birth to love.