The forest outside the castle is huge and magickal; a home to sprites and wood fairies of every kind. It has been a home to the Faun, as well. He had always been able to seek comfort in the gentle sway of the trees above him; the light wood-smelling breeze on his face. This was many years ago. It has not happened for a long time.

Nothing can comfort him now; even though the Princess is returned, which he know should bring him great joy, he is still mourning. The wind blows on his face but he feels no relief. He stares down at his gnarled, rutted fingers, poking out of his hands like tree branches. No wonder the Princess sees nothing in him to love. I am so ugly, he thinks.

Time has passed since the Princess' return, and she has grown into a lovely young woman. But the Faun is old, old and tired; why should she, who is as bright and young as a new star, want someone like him? He shrinks away from the rejection he is afraid she'll give him. He has retreated into the forest, hoping it will comfort him as it used to. It doesn't. He cannot stop thinking about her long, flowing, silky dark hair. Or her beautiful pale skin. She haunts his mind mercilessly. How long will this torment continue? the Faun thinks to himself, his face in his hands.

And, of course, she will marry one day. The Faun realizes this, and curses the day in the future when she becomes someone else's bride; someone who won't even need her as much as he. But he knows it will happen, and it will happen soon.

The faun wonders if she ever thinks of him, at least somewhat fondly. Of what sort of importance is he to her? Friend? Servant? Anything? He walks slowly over to a rock, and sits on it. He sighs longingly.

I am nothing to her, he thinks to himself. To her, I'm just the Faun, and nothing more.