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, and Chapter Five.

Part III: ON THE HILLTOP

Chapter Six

Alone now, and hollowed out by everything that had transpired, Ian knelt once more at the running brook. His neck and shoulder throbbed like fire. He brought his hands together, cupped the icy water, and splashed his face and eye. Repeatedly, he splashed and scrubbed himself, trembling with cold. Gingerly, he tossed water over his wounded head, neck, and arms; movement hurt. Into his mouth he brought the liquid, where he swirled it, then spit. Then drank. He splashed the places where his tunic appeared stained and torn, rubbing with trembling fingers the best he could in the dark at all the dirt, mucus, and bits of bark that clung to his frame.

Could he ever get clean again?

The water tingled on his exposed skin. It almost felt like healing.

Standing, he sheathed Saltire.

Above him, directly overhead, God lit the sun. With it came warmth. The arbor was tranquil, the forest once more a mere collection of silent, majestic trees. He heard birds; above their many mingled chirps, there sounded the song of a spirited willow warbler.

It must be noon.

Everything was so insanely mixed up, time such a brew of confusion, Ian wasn’t sure how to feel, or how much he should shelter this little flame of hope, even as he heard a placid snort behind him. Turning, he saw Ruadh. The horse stood there, a back hoof cocked, tail swishing lazily. He looked as though he had made up his mind to return and be, simply, patient while his master collected himself.

“There, now. Fine boy,” Ian crooned, going to the horse and stroking his velvety muzzle. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

The horse gazed at him in question.

“No, I’m not sure I am,” the king replied. He chuckled. “Well, what shall we do?”

The horse leaned in, nudging Ian’s arm.

“I think you’re right. All we can do is go on.”

Ruadh licked his shoulder.

“I wish I had some oats for you.” He stroked the stallion between his eyes.

Elspeth often had treats for the livestock somewhere on her person.

“Perhaps your mistress has some hay tucked away in her dress. Let us go find out, shall we?”

Oh, my Elspeth. My great, good love.

On horseback, Ian moved up the hill.

Now, I can believe you might just love me, too.

He did not come again to the waterfall. The brook disappeared, curving away in another direction as its natural geography dictated. The beech carved with the cross did not reappear.

Like a warm hum beneath his skin, Ian felt Elspeth nearby, and his final thoughts, as he approached the woman he loved, were entirely of her. On all the ways he’d always put pressure on her.

First, when she was a child, and he’d begged her, as the condemned, wandering Muir, for food and water. She’d given them freely as she offered him shelter, risking her household’s security and her family’s confidence.

Next, over the years, when he’d looked to her—always wordlessly—for protection from the beatings and poisonings doled out by the other servants, who were always disgusted and fearful of him. He’d been shocked by how repugnant his differences and vulnerabilities were to others, and his own tolerance for such things had grown after he’d found himself in that lowly position, though he’d always been merciful.

Elspeth had learned to deal firmly yet fairly with such cruelty under her roof. She’d dismissed those who might never find work elsewhere, holding fast to the edict that no harshness would be tolerated where he, Muir, was concerned—no matter how terribly these brutes had wailed. She might grant them mercy once, but after a second offense, she did not hesitate to banish them. It had made the management of her father’s house harder, when she ought to have been reading, embroidering, or taking long walks to gather wildflowers or pinecones. She ought to have been allowed the freedom and gaiety of youth, the way her older sister had enjoyed it. But Muir had prevented that; the knowledge stung him.

Yet, she had also made him, Muir, happy. Truly content, though he’d been stripped of all power, imprisoned in a terrible bestial form, and reduced to awful labor. Reflecting on that stretch of experience now, as the horse moved steadily beneath him, and beneath that sting of guilt, Ian felt a quiet and undeniable fondness. It was already the past, and he was oddly nostalgic for it.   

Finally, when the kingdom was threatened with crime and invasion following the presumed heir Alistair’s affliction, he, as Muir, had put the ultimate burden on Elspeth. He had indirectly suggested she seek out the fairies to plead on Alistair’s behalf—and to continue combating his, Muir’s, own curse, though of course she could not know that. This had been by far the hardest choice for Ian. Though he’d believed Elspeth the likeliest to succeed unharmed against the fae, given her earnestness and purity, he had still quaked for her safety. It had been the moral agony of his life, and he had worried himself ill once she’d finally set out. The risk had paid off, of course. In the end, his faith in her had proven true. But oh, how it tested her. How it had pained her.

He remembered the hollow darkness under Elspeth’s eyes, in those days after Alistair regained proper function of his senses. The young man’s vision restored, he had looked upon both sisters for the first time. Whether by Elspeth’s bargain or, worse, his own natural inclination, he had fallen instantly in love with Fiona, forsaking Elspeth, the one who had cared for him in his affliction.

Ian remembered how he, Muir, had watched, from doorways, Elspeth push food around her plates. Wrap her arms around herself when she thought no one was looking.  

“I know you are lonely,” he had said, struggling to comfort her. “But you are not alone.”

In those days, she’d hardly looked at Muir. Once, when he’d remarked, in dull terms, on her exceptional selflessness—he’d run through all the permissible ways he could think of to tell her she was special—she’d sealed her lips. They were a pale, thin slash, like she was fighting to hold back all acerbic words. It underscored yet another of his sins where she was concerned: he’d placed her on a towering pedestal. But, she was human and, he sensed, achingly desperate for a love of her own. To have the freedom, perhaps, to be just a little bit selfish.

It was the closest Elspeth ever came to snapping at him, and he’d fretted over the distance it might put between them. He’d been the one, after all, to encourage her seemingly ill-fated quest.   

And now, once more, he was requiring too much of her.

But what other choice was there? Was this oath he had given Aine not the highest form of love and trust? Did Elspeth’s soul deserve any less?  

To love someone deeply yet resist that desire to shelter them. To act rather on courage and faith in them, to push them or let them go as needed—this lay at the marrow of life’s difficulty. These were the true trials given to him, to all, by God. The gods.   

All he could do now was hold onto his faith and believe that Elspeth would be alright. That he would be alright, too.   

If this did not work—if she did not truly love him as he loved her—well, Ian would rather endure the truth and let Elspeth live her life in the way it most suited her, no matter how it might hurt him. He would go on, do his best to rule conscientiously, resisting Aine and her legion as humanely as possible, holding on to all the lessons he’d learned. Knowing in his heart he was a better, truer servant of God—the gods—for all of it.  

That was still the great gift Elspeth would have given him.

He would not let it go to waste.

He could survive it.

Couldn’t he?

There at the top of that high, great hill, the trees thinned out. He spotted her, at last, and she was real to him, deep in his bones.

She stood with her back to him. Beyond her, above the panorama of tiered green mountains, floated the grey-blue line of a distant, undulating horizon.

It was one of the most magnificent views in all his realm. But now, he only saw Elspeth.

The reins were slippery in his hands. His body thinned, disappearing into itself. He wanted to pull the horse back, turn him around, thunder away. The desire was so powerful Ian believed he might completely disappear.

Instead, he let Ruadh carry him forward, solid and visible.  

Then he noticed Elspeth’s position, and his fear for himself vanished.

She was standing too close to the edge. Arms limp at her sides. She was looking down, at the great fall below.

Oh, God.

Had they all been wrong? Again?

Despite her choices, or in fact because of them, did she despair?

Is that why Aine had cackled so? Had she foreseen this?

Would Elspeth leap?

Her head tilted; she was looking up.

Still, too close, too close.

Ian wanted to raise his voice. Command her to step back.

But, he was not her father, or her God.

Around them, the spring birds sang a celestial chorus. Bright, vital sunshine warmed the earth from its azure dome.

“Elspeth.” His voice was calm.  

She spun around, gaping at him.

Though thinner now, her hair sheened at the unwashed roots, her eyes bruised from lack of sleep, her face had a subtle golden hue that did not pale. She moved away from the ledge, a few steps toward him.

She had never looked more breath-taking.

He dismounted, giving his horse a discreet pat, and stood several feet from his beloved. He forced himself to breathe. 

His mouth filled with phrases, sentences, paragraphs—an entire exposition, or confession, of all the things he needed to utter. Who he was, who he’d been, what had happened, what it signified, and most of all what she meant to him. But she did not know him.

Even when she finally gasped, “Your Majesty!,” she did not know him.

He wasn’t just Ian, he was Muir, too. All of it. How could he convey that?

She had to love all of him.

The full, barbed truth filled his throat, and it was too great—he choked on it. He could not communicate it all. It was far too complicated, too much.   

Then, there entered his mind like a spell, the magic of a memory. Elspeth’s own words.  

I tried to remind Alistair… I stepped up to him and asked him to close his eyes… I stood so close he might sense the daffodils he once claimed were my perfume, and I sang…

Once more, she saved him.

The thought of Fiona’s own reaction to his unconscious repetition earlier that day—the same day?—strengthened Ian’s epiphany.

“Close your eyes,” he said, his voice clear yet gentle. “Please.”

When she did, he knew what to say.

“Beth. My Beth.”

What he’d always called her, of course. That simple endearment encapsulated everything.  

“Muir!”

It was enough.

That golden hue on her face blazed into a light of recognition. Into something deeper, more tender too.   

She let him come to her. She trusted him to place his hands on her precious face, to touch his forehead to hers, so warm. She brought her own delicate hands to his elbows. He’d never been so close to her, and a waft of daffodil stirred him.

He did not think his sleeves were torn now; his wounded eye did not sting or run; his shoulder did not throb. His words came easily, simply.

Relaying the story of his departure from his kingdom, of the witch’s curse, of the fairy queen’s conditional release based on a test of a subject’s three virtues, Ian ended with “… It was you, dearest Beth… You saved us all. In the meantime, you made me so wonderfully, unexpectedly happy.”

With the pads of his thumbs, he wiped away her tears, though they were precious to him as pearls. Blind as Aine was to the chambers of their hearts, the fae queen could not ask for better evidence.  

“Oh, my king! My Muir!” Elspeth ran her fingers through his hair, and lightning of the deepest, purest desire struck through him.

“I love you.”

Finally, he could say it, as solemnly as a vow. He could share that truth right there, on that highest hill overlooking their kingdom, among all the fresh, fragrant greenery of a new spring.    

He kissed her. Repeatedly, though he did his best to restrain the full extent of his passion. She returned his ardor, parting her lips for him, welcoming the brush of his tongue. Her mouth was soft and warm, her lips perfectly firm. She tasted just the tiniest bit like honey. He could not get enough of her. He would never get enough.

When his excitement grew so great he could not trust himself, he gently broke their kisses, stepping back to give his beloved a complete breath. He needed a moment, too, so everything might cease its spinning. But Elspeth stepped into his arms, squeezing him tightly, pressing her darling head against his broad chest. The fullness of her steadied him.

Here, like this, they could protect each other.

For the first time since he’d been restored, he felt natural again in this larger, stronger body. That phantom weight of his crown lifted, for he would not rule alone. He was never meant to.   

“I can feel your heart, my Muir,” Elspeth whispered. Then, more tentatively, “My Ian… It’s frantic as a bluebird.”

He clung to her. Under the sun’s full rays, desire and deepest devotion engulfed them both in a serene, holy flame.

Does this feel like God?

Hoc facit.

It does.

“That is all for you,” he said. “Only ever, entirely for you. God knows, you are the most precious jewel, my Beth, under Heaven.”

***

Thanks for reading! The seventh and final chapter–a short one!– drops tomorrow.

XOXO,

Jenn