Let’s crack open another dusty tome and spin another tale of the fae.
Tonight’s legend? The Changeling Curse.
The Immortal Gazette: When the Fae Steal Your Child—The Changeling Curse
The candlelit studio of the Immortal Gazette was buzzing with an eerie excitement. Alice, draped over a velvet chaise, flipped through an ancient grimoire. Loki leaned against the mantle, smirking as he sharpened a dagger that most certainly wasn’t meant for mundane use. Rumplestiltskin, as always, perched on his chair like a mischievous gargoyle, fingers drumming on the table.
“Tonight,” Alice announced, “we discuss one of the most unsettling fae traditions—the Changeling Curse.”
Loki raised an eyebrow. “Ah, the old baby-switcheroo. A classic.”
Rumplestiltskin grinned. “And horrifying, if you happen to be a mortal parent.”
What is a Changeling?
In folklore across Ireland, Scotland, Germany, and beyond, there exists an unsettling belief—the fae steal human babies and leave behind one of their own in disguise. This fae child, called a changeling, could look exactly like the stolen infant, but something about it would always be wrong.
Maybe it had an unnatural stillness. Maybe its cries were too shrill, or its laughter too knowing. Some changelings grew sickly and thin, while others aged too fast, speaking words far beyond their years.
Loki twirled his dagger. “And the best part? The poor mortal parents had no way to prove their suspicions without risk.”
Alice smirked. “Unless, of course, they were willing to test the child.”
The Cruel Methods of Unmasking a Changeling
Rumplestiltskin leaned forward. “Now, this is where the stories get interesting. Mortal parents, desperate and terrified, turned to… less-than-kind methods.”
He tapped a finger on the table. “One test? Boiling eggshells.”
Loki’s brows lifted. “Oh, I love this one.”
Alice nodded. “A parent would boil eggshells over the fire. If the child laughed and said something like, ‘I have seen forests burn, rivers dry, and yet never have I seen eggs brewed for soup,’ they were a changeling.”
Rumplestiltskin grinned. “Because fae are ancient. A true human baby wouldn’t have the knowledge of centuries slipping from their lips.”
Loki chuckled darkly. “Of course, some mortals were less clever and more… brutal. They’d leave the child in the woods overnight, hoping the fae would take back their own. Some even exposed the poor thing to fire or iron—if the child screamed and vanished, it was fae. If not? Well…” He shrugged. “Too late.”
Alice sighed. “Humans. So predictable.”
Why Do the Fae Steal Humans?
“Now, the real question,” Alice mused, tapping the grimoire, “why would the fae steal a mortal child in the first place?”
Rumplestiltskin grinned, eyes glittering. “Many reasons. Some say the fae crave human vitality—immortality can be so dreadfully dull, after all. Others claim they seek fresh blood for their courts, raising human children as their own.”
Loki smirked. “And then, there’s the simplest reason—spite. Maybe the fae just like to watch mortals panic.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Typical trickster logic.”
The Tale of the Blacksmith’s Child
Once, there was a blacksmith—a proud, strong man who never feared anything in his life. But when his newborn son fell eerily silent, his wife whispered her fears.
“He does not move like a babe,” she said. “His eyes… they are too knowing.”
The blacksmith scoffed—until, one night, he returned home late to find the child sitting up in his crib, staring into the darkness. When he whispered his son’s name, the babe turned, tilted his head, and smiled.
Not a baby’s smile. But a trickster’s grin.
Desperate, the blacksmith sought an old woman’s help. She gave him a warning: “If it is not your child, the fire will show the truth.”
That night, the blacksmith stoked his forge. He did not wish to harm the child, but as he approached with iron tongs, the babe let out a shriek—an unnatural, earsplitting wail that shook the walls. Then, in a blur, the changeling leapt from the crib and scuttled up the chimney, vanishing into the night.
By dawn, the blacksmith’s true son lay in his crib once more, as if he had never been gone.
Alice smirked. “Moral of the story? If your baby suddenly starts reciting poetry about the fall of empires, maybe… maybe it’s not yours.”
Loki laughed. “And if you’re ever lost in the woods and hear a baby crying? Walk the other way.”
Rumplestiltskin grinned. “Or pick it up. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get a fae prince instead.”
So, dear mortals, what do you think? Would you dare test a child in your home? Or would you simply… accept the trick and raise a fae as your own?
