A/N: Well, this is a rather satirical little thing.

In the mountains, where once the wolfsingers dwelt, there lived a young human girl named Biarna. She wanted nothing more than to farm, and to see the crops flourish under her hands and the animals grow sleek and fat and healthy. She was blessed with good land from her mother’s line, and a mother who had the sense to leave such things to her daughter. So she sang from noon to night, and then sang the sun up again, and went on singing until noon once more touched the sky.

One day, her singing attracted the attention of a fae named Alodas. He sat on a hill and listened to her, then walked out into the sunlight and took her hands.

"Will you come with me?" he asked.

Biarna, struck silent by the sight of a legendary fae, only stared at him, and Alodas grew bored and flew off.

The next day, as Biarna hoed the beans and sang, Alodas appeared again. This time, when he greeted her, Biarna did not fall silent, but only said, calmly, that she did not know what he meant.

"I have a palace in the sky," said Alodas. "There, the birds make the sweetest music, and the best harpers in Arion play on their instruments, laughing for sheer joy. You would find a place for the power of your voice there as you have never found in these mountains."

"Are there beans there?" asked Biarna. "Are there cows, or chickens, or corn to make grow?"

"Of course not," said Alodas. "My birds and harpers have no need for such things. They feed on the meat of their voices alone."

"Then I refuse," said Biarna proudly. "I would rather stay in the mountains and care for the things I love than go to such a place."

Alodas went away, but he came back in a year, when it was midsummer and Biarna, who was to be married, was singing more loudly and cheerfully than ever. She recognized Alodas at once, but did not feel compelled to pause and acknowledge him.

"I have the beans you asked for," said Alodas. "They are growing in long rows outside my palace, and filling the air with their sweet scent. Now will you come? You may care for the beans as often as you like, as long as you sing."

"Are there cows there?" Biarna asked. "Are there chickens, or corn to make grow?"

"I don’t like any of those things," said Alodas. "Cows low, and chickens cannot sing, and the corn makes a busy noise of its own."

"Then I refuse," said Biarna.

Alodas went away again, and Biarna turned back to her singing and her joy.

Alodas came back a year after that, when Biarna was teaching a lullaby to her daughter in the cradle. The babe laughed and clapped, and then shrieked when the fae appeared by the window.

"I have the cows you asked for," said Alodas. "They are lowing near the beans, and I must allow that their voices make quite a pleasant sound after all. Now will you come? The cows could use your tender hands."

"Are there chickens there?" Biarna asked, smiling now. "Is there corn to make grow?"

"The feathers of chickens are not as bright as the feathers of my birds," Alodas answered, "and corn is still too noisy."

"Then I refuse," said Biarna.

Alodas vanished, and the little girl went back to her cooing and crying and clapping.

Alodas appeared once again a year later, when Biarna was gathering in the linen to dry and singing for the thrill of the new life in her womb. The sheets flapped aside, and suddenly revealed the fae standing there, gazing at her with bright silver eyes.

"I have the chickens you asked for," he said. "Their voices are low and harsh under the songs of my birds, but they are not as discordant as I feared. And the cows seem to like their company, and even the beans are less inclined to sway distractingly than they were. Now will you come? The chickens could cluck around you, and make a pretty sight."

"Is there corn to make grow?" asked Biarna, fighting to keep from laughing.

"The corn will overwhelm all the other plants with the noise of its growing," said Alodas. "I do not want to add it."

"Then I refuse," said Biarna.

Alodas vanished, and Biarna went back to gathering in the wash, listening for the cry of her daughter in the house.

Alodas returned a year later, when Biarna was teaching her babe to walk and watching her daughter play with dolls in a corner. She sang, always, as had become her habit of a midsummer evening, and looked up when she saw Alodas standing near the door.

"I have the corn you asked for," he said. "And the sound of it is still busy, and annoying my harpers. You must come with me, now. I have paid all the prices you asked for, and you cannot add another to the list. By that toll, you are mine."

Biarna nodded and stood. "I will come."

Alodas frowned at her. "No protests? No complaints? I had expected some, on being told that you must leave your husband and children."

Biarna shrugged. "I have always loved beans," she said, "and cows, and chickens, and corn, and singing. I thought I would love being married and having a family. But I find that I do not love it. The children cannot help me about the farm, and my husband does not help, and none of them would know a note if it clanged in their ears. You made this inhuman palace of yours a human place. I will come."

Alodas bowed, and took her hand, and they vanished, leaving a pretty tale for the husband who came back late that night.

It is said that Biarna still lives with Alodas in his high palace in the sky, and sings as she hoes the beans, and milks the cows, and scatters grain for the chickens, and makes sure the corn does not grow too noisily. It is the best of both worlds for her, because she can leave off tending them and sing whenever she wants, and go back to tending them when singing bores her. So she dwells among bright birds and singing harpers, among the comforts of home, beside Alodas, and Alodas dwells beside her and amid his music, and both of them are content, knowing their own hearts and knowing each other’s, and loving music.