Jennifer Shaw

This piece is a companion novelette to Elspeth and the Fairy. You can read a little about this story’s context here.

You can also find the previous chapters here: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, & Chapter Four

Part II: IN THE FOREST

Chapter Five

… Viginti.

When Ian reached twenty, the air over the monster’s carcass swirled. Like a terrible dark eddy it twisted, faster and tighter, sucking away at him. He stood up against it, pressing his heels back to ground himself. He mouthed another prayer as he lifted Saltire.

Just as the whirlpool sucked the air from his exhausted lungs, the eddy let go. It burst into an explosion of orange light, the brightness piercing his vision, stinging his wounded eye. Through frantic blinks, Ian saw the light crackle and shimmer. It softened into pale white, falling like lightning-snow, and when it had dissolved just above the dark ground, a figure stood in its place, illuminated. The monster’s remains had vanished. 

The figure’s brightness did not sear his vision, and Ian looked fully upon Aine, High Queen of the Fairies.

“Put that away, wretch,” she said, nodding at his sword, her pearlescent hands folded low in front of her. Unlike his encounter with her a decade ago, she did not tower over him. They stood now eye level with each other.

He sheathed his sword.

“Bow,” she said.

“I will not.” His voice was calm. “Where is Elspeth?”

“She is unharmed. I am many things, but I am not unprincipled. She has done nothing to incite my wrath.”

“Where is she?” An edge crept into his voice.

Though aged—and fairies were slow to show their ages, so Aine must be ancient—the fairy queen was resplendent as ever. A long, shadowy gown of moss and fern draped her frame, the bodice lined with leaves of deep reds and oranges, nestled between bundles of coneflower, columbine, bluebell, and butterfly weed. Woven into her gauzy, snow-white hair, piled high on her head, were iced holly and fir sprigs as well as spiral, fan, and conical seashells. A thin necklace of periwinkle shells graced her neck, and earbobs of small blossoms swung from her lobes. Behind her rose immense, sparkling wings.

A veritable personification of seasons and elements was she, exuding as much quiet strength as ever, despite the thin tendons from which her skin hung on her neck, forming a dark hollow beneath her chin. Her argent complexion brought Fiona’s own to mind, and Ian wondered, for an odd, fleeting moment, about the sisters’ maternal lineage.

Aine’s face belied much of her elderly beauty, however; it was sunken and skeletal, with hard, thin lines etched into her forehead and around her eyes and mouth.

Time itself must have wrought such wear. Ages of her own burdens and miseries.

Were it not for this evidence of strife, and her bitterness and cruelty, she might be judged an angel of the earth.    

The fae queen tilted her head just slightly, a corner of her solemn mouth lifting. “How awfully you would like to know where your fair maiden is.”

“Tell me!”

Head straightening, she said, “She is in another time. Or rather, you are.”

“Why do you keep me from her? Why summon these horrors to impede me?” His voice was a blade, and he struggled to control it. “Do you believe you add, somehow, to your victory, or do you merely spoil mine?”

“Need you ask, you prideful pathetic man?” She scowled at him. “Did I bother to ask your father or grandfather that same question when they sent their priests and soldiers against my own, butchering and driving out all the fae they could not capture or burn? Do you still not comprehend the agonies you all have caused?” Her livid eyes blackened. “Do not you know how it brings me the greatest pleasure to see you writhe in all your just deserts?”

“I forbade my people from harming yours. You know this.”

“Was it enough?” Her voice rose. “How could you not realize that, soon as you stepped foot beyond your lands in your ridiculous crusade,” she spat the last word, “your people, in all their insecurities, their terrible, frightful dogma, would begin again to harass mine? Did you care to stay and tend that fragile peace?”

His chest froze.

“No,” she continued, taunting. “You grew bored, and in your hubris you sought beyond your mandate. And in your great lust—” she snickered—”for that wily woman Sithia, you forgot even your idiotic mission. You are a terrible king. I only show you the truth.”

“Why did you banish me from my own people, then?” he cried. “How did that help yours? No, you were out to make your own conquest!”

“Idiot man, you banished yourself! When you languished in that witch’s cottage, enjoying all your carnal pleasures, you allowed her to entrap you. It was her spell, not mine. I saved you. With those trials, I gave you a way out.” She stabbed a finger into her chest, crushing a blossom.

Her words pierced him. Hotter, sharper than anything that monster might have done. His spirit bled.

He could only say, after an agonized pause, “And, I was punished. An epic punishment worthy of Job, and I have been humbled; I have repented. Do you truly believe I am the same man now?”

The fairies had certain odd powers, among them a degree of prescience and even omniscience. It was said the most powerful among them could gaze within a man or woman, reading their deepest secret thoughts. Of course, Aine must know his mind. Yet, for her, his penitence was not enough.     

When she did not answer, Ian nodded. “Alright. I will ask you something simpler. What did Elspeth do to break the curse?”

“What if I lie to you?”

“I trust you will not.”

She tilted her head downward, studying him.

“Tell me,” he pressed. “What happened?”

“When she disturbed that daffodil, it brought her to a young guardian of mine,” Aine began. “This foolish fae believed she understood Elspeth perfectly. That she could tempt her into her own demise, thus breaking Elspeth’s progress in my test.

But that guardian, called Rowan, was arrogant and naïve; she could not see deeply enough into the girl’s truest desires.” The fae queen swallowed, her hollow throat quivering. “The wound of losing Alistair, though deep enough to bleed, did not prove fatal to Elspeth’s soul.”

“Yes, yes, I know most of this.” Anger stained his words. “You know I know it.” Even now, Aine obstructed him.

Yet, understanding, and fresh hope, shimmered before him. He needed it confirmed. “She suffered in her surrender of Alistair’s love, but what precisely came next?” he asked. “What was the third proof of her virtue?”

His heart fluttered.

“Rowan—stupid thing—made her another offer: to trade faces with her sister, Fiona, at the cost of nothing to her own kind even as it secured Alistair’s affection.” Aine spit, and it was almost amusing, it was so human. “That was not temptation enough.”

Ian’s chest rose and fell. His heart was a bird batting mad wings against the cage of his breast. “Why not?”

The fae queen sealed her lips.

“Tell me!” He lunged forward, going for his sword.

Aine looked away.

Something dawned on Ian.

“You didn’t foresee it either, did you?”

She pressed her lips together.

“You can read minds, but not hearts.”

She cast a wary eye at him.

“That power belongs to God alone, does it not?”

“To the gods,” Aine corrected him. “All of them.”

The bird’s wings beat harder.

“What could you surmise, then, when Elspeth refused this young fae’s final offer?”

Again, Aine was mute.

“SPEAK!”

“In her mind, she thought of you.”

He could hardly form the question. “How so?”

“She thought of your words. What you might say to her if she made the wrong choice. Your moral disapproval.” The fairy lifted her chin, as though to retain a certain pride. “You had become the voice of her conscience, and she did not want to lose you.”

The bird—a bluebird—burst forth from Ian’s chest.

“She chose me over him?”

A beat of silence. Heavy, grudging.

“She did.”

Losing all breath, he reeled yet again. Stepping back, he leaned forward. Rested his weight on his sword. His throat sealed, and he resisted the impulse to squeeze his burning eyes shut.

Let them fall.

His tears ran.

Let yourself be.

Sobs coursed through him. A catharsis now, of all the silent anguish that had churned, trapped, within him for too long. It was like being bled by a physician, only now a torrential hemorrhage of those darkest humors which, having never moved past his lips, had stayed in his body to sicken and torment him.

Torment.

A new image came into his mind, unbidden. It did not feel like the psychic manipulation of this bitter queen but rather a product of his own free thoughts. Or perhaps, his heart.

A female figure, in a dark dungeon, her upper body obscured by shadow. He could see, however, bruises and dried blood marring her white legs, rusted chains cuffed to swollen ankles. Feel the trembles of her body and hear the low sound of her weeping. The silhouette of only one remaining wing.

“This is what undoes you?” Aine taunted.

Ian’s sobs had washed his spirit clean. Now, a deep, aching echo replaced them.

At last, he said, “Not undone.”

The outpouring had chafed his throat, but his voice was steady. He straightened his posture but did not swipe his sticky cheeks. While he held the image of Elspeth’s face ever dearer, it was now this young fae, Rowan, who took hold of his heart.

“What has become of that guardian?”

“Why do you care?”

“I need to know.”

“She is being punished.”

“She suffers?”

“Of course.”

In the cage of his chest, the wretched fairy tore at him.  

“Release her, Aine,” he said.

“Why?” She cut her eyes at him. “I do not understand this preoccupation. She is not one of yours. Your subjects have won.”

Ian could not revel in the concession.

“Because I can feel her,” he said. “I understand her remorse. I understand her suffering.”

It was a fresh, desperate bleed in him now, almost as desperate as his fight against the monster or his passion for Elspeth.

“I understand her frailty.”

The fairy queen’s eyes came alive. A light brightened her ancient face.

“Please, Queen Aine.” King Ian lowered himself onto one knee, letting go of his sword to lay a palm on his chest. “I beseech you to soften.

She tried again: “I don’t under—”

“You don’t need to,” he said, “I only ask you to listen. My pain for her is real. This… empathy is real.” He dropped his head. “I humble myself before you as I implore mercy for her.”

He could feel the fae queen staring hard at him. Assessing, scanning deep into his mind.

“This fae—Rowan?—she is God’s creature, too,” he said.

“Do you want her to convert her?” she asked. “Do you want her soul?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand me. She remains your subject, and a worshiper of her gods. I only want her suffering to end.”

A minute passed in silence.

“What will you give me?”

Ian laughed, a harsh sound; he could not help it. “An exchange. Always an exchange.” He lifted his head as he stood. “Perhaps that is the real difference now between you and me. Now, I am ready to give freely. But, I will play this game with you.”

“What will it be?” Her features grew impassive again.

“A renewed promise of peace. No molestations of any kind from my people. And—” his mind worked. “All the peripheries of my kingdom. This forest, the northern mountains, the eastern and southern moors. I will return them all to you. The fae folk need not hide below ground any longer.”

“What of the farmers and soldiers who reside there?”

“I will relocate and compensate them well. It will be my first act as king again, and I will be clear and honest in my justifications for it.”

She pursed her lips. “Will you swear an oath?”

“I will.”

“On what?”  

Soaring still on this new crest of hope, he did not need to think.

“On the strength of my love for Elspeth.”

He added, after only the briefest moment, “And her love for me.”

The fairy queen’s mouth trembled. She broke into a wide smirk, which erupted into a cackle.

“Done!” She clapped her liver-spotted hands. “So will it be! You will leave my subjects in peace as you give them back these territories. In return, I will heal and release the guardian Rowan and let your own people alone—on the condition that Elspeth loves you as deeply as you love her.” Aine’s brows stretched toward her wispy hairline. “That she loves you, Ian—not Muir. And it must be immediate.”

His stomach clenched. “Meaning…?”

“When I allow you to approach her at the top of this hill where she stands, reflecting, she must love you as soon as she knows who you are. You have only those first moments. If her feelings be any less than the deepest, most ardent love, I will slow Rowan’s torture, and our animosities will continue.” Ever the bitter old matriarch, she added, “Indefinitely.”

Oh, Deus. Carissime Deus…

Dearest God…

He had not foreseen this.

Queen Aine cackled again. Her shoulders shook; she buried her mouth under her wrinkled hands. Squeezed her eyes shut in the ecstasy of her mirth.

And vanished.

***

Thanks for reading!

XOXO,

Jenn