The night settles in slowly. I watch it from my bedroom, waking as the dark overtakes the sky. My blankets are warm, heavy and woven from thick threads made in a country I can’t pronounce. I’ve never been there, but my visitors are from all places.

I prepare myself for my night’s duty, listening to other voices filter through the halls. They are winding down to rest. Taut muscles and aching limbs going lax in the hot waters. They will fade and unspool into sleep safe in the knowledge that I will guard the temple in the dark. Alone.

There is nothing like the sight of the open halls at night. Bereft of its usual busy energy and joyful bustle. There is only a knowing void, an expectant air that takes up the space in the others absence.

Curved pale stone and wood pillars, carved by ancient hands. My people’s hands. Symbols of gifts and exchanges, all smiling faces and open palms. I’m glad of my ancestors’ forethought, as I know that the upper carvings give more explicit instruction for those of us who watch at night.

I tense my body and climb one such pillar, my favourite, though I do not tell the others that. My pale limbs find purchase easily, looping around the pillar and locking my ankles in place while my thin, pinkish fingers search the edges of the carvings.

A small sigh escapes me as I find the familiar, elegant shape of a unicorn. It’s strangeness making it distinct. No mere horse or brute centaur, but ethereal and impossible. It’s long limbs and tender eyes stare back at me as I admire it. How I have wished for a unicorn visitor. Night after night.

I have prepared myself in sacred robes, chaste and unforgiving in their drape. I am a bored triangle most nights. A little triangle ghost that pads around wistfully staring out into the dark for a glimpse of muscular flesh and pale horn.

Most find the robes very dull. They are fools. That is the point. I am a gift in exchange for nightly visitors and they will not be given it for free. I am to be slowly enjoyed. Savoured.

I would be wrapped up in my winter robes at all times of the year if I had my way. Ever so tightly bound, every inch of skin covered. They get such pleasure from the unbinding. It heats the blood.

The anticipation gives me time to prepare. I must accept every gift. I must decide what I give in return. I know my value, I feel it in my blood and bones. The softness of my thighs, the warmth of the mouth or the hard edge of my scorn.

I wish I had more weapons to me. Hard and hooked or tender and deadly. I only have my mind, my words and the authority that my position brings. I touch the curved, sloping lines of the unicorn’s horn with envy.

Oh to pierce them the way they wish to pierce me. To seem pure and malleable only to skewer them should they touch me without my word. To be beautiful like a blade is beautiful. I shake my head. But a blade is too hard and shines too brightly. Every man knows the sight of a scabbard on the hip means potential danger.

I don’t know of a creature or object more perfectly suited for purity and rejection like the unicorn beneath my fingertips. The urge to kiss it is pushed away. To put my lips to cool stone while the night air around me is still. I will not taint this poor thing.

My body tenses as I hear footsteps. Slow and heavy. Not far from the entranceway. I unhook my ankles and lower myself back down onto the ground. The layers of fabric rustle and adjust as I straighten myself.

The archway entrance to the open halls is slowly filled with round shouldered bulk. A towering mass of muscle and sinew. A flat, river rinsed smell reaches me first. Then a more obvious masculine warmth, rich and hot on my senses. Not a troll. I see his profile as he moves into the hall, head turning slowly to take in the space.

His face is man like, almost. A little stretched out and exaggerated in places. His voice carries, low and swinging through the air to knock at my ribs.

“I come bearing gifts.” He pauses, listening. I decide that I hate this man thing. To bring himself to me so quick and soon before I am prepared, to impose himself on my senses like that.

“I have come a long way…” I hear take a few steps behind a nearby pillar, hoping he will give up but I hear mirth drag his voice lower still, “…I will not hurt you little one. I have no ill will, only gifts.”

Something wet and heavy hits the floor. I don’t smell blood. Nor animals. Is it not a carcass? Trolls bring great stags sometimes. Hearty, fat beasts that are good for a few weeks of meat and bone.