Bound to the Prince (20 page)

After two weeks of feasting, Fráech had still
not seen young Finnabair so he went to the river early in the
morning and found her there, washing her hands. She gave him a
golden thumb ring she had received from her father, as a token of
her love. Fráech kissed her three times before he let her return to
her father's house.

Elathan continued, telling Igraine about the
exorbitant bridal price King Ailill demanded of Fráech, who refused
to pay it; how the king stole the ring out of the young warrior’s
pocket and threw it into a pond in which he had asked Fráech to
swim, wanting to get rid of him. The ring was swallowed by a
salmon, which Fráech caught and hid at the water’s edge.

Then Ailill asked the young warrior to dive
in again and swim to the other side to fetch him a branch of a
service tree from the far side, knowing that a beast lurked in the
depths of the water. When it attacked Fráech, Finnabair followed
him into the pond, bringing him his sword.

“Having killed the beast, Fráech was heavily
wounded,” Elathan said at last. “One hundred and fifty elven
maidens came to take him to his people, and the Sidhe healed him
and brought him back the very next day. At a banquet, Ailill
demanded the ring from his daughter Finnabair, threatening to kill
her if she couldn’t find it. Fráech had ordered that the salmon
should be served at the king’s table, so the ring was eventually
found when Ailill cut it open. The king had promised that his
daughter might marry whomever she wanted if she found the ring. Now
he was obliged to agree to the marriage, but only as soon as Fráech
could bring his large herd of cows to Cruachan. And Fráech accepted
gladly, knowing that he had found his one true love.”

After he had finished his story, the prince
watched the flames for a while, holding the woman sleeping at his
chest as tightly as he could without waking her. Then he lay her
softly down on the pillows and went to one of the huge old willow
trees that stretched out their branches over the clearing. Closing
his eyes, he pressed his forehead and hands to the trunk and began
to whisper in his elven tongue, asking the father tree to give
shelter to him and his human mate, whom he did not wish to sleep on
the ground where too many dangers lurked.

The willow’s leaves trembled with excitement
as the age-old magic ran through them. After a while, the living
wood began to yield to the prince’s will, changing its form until a
chamber began to evolve from the tree, high up in its crown. The
chamber had an arched roof and a round door covered by a dense
branch that lowered itself before the opening, shielding the elven
dwelling from the cold night air. Short thick branches grew out of
the trunk, leading around it in circles up to the chamber. They
served as steps for the human, who couldn’t climb as well as her
elven lover.

Elathan worked his magic into the tree until
his deed was done, then he whispered a few thankful words. The
willow trembled one last time before it stood still again, as it
had for centuries. Quickly Elathan retrieved the silken pillows and
blankets from the forest floor and climbed up the tree to lay them
down in the chamber, not needing them himself but knowing that
Igraine would enjoy their comfort. He jumped down from the highest
branch, whirling through the air several times until he landed
softly on his feet like a cat, laughing with joy.

Before he picked up Igraine from the ground
and carried her to their new home, the prince stood in the middle
of the clearing, motionless like a statue. Deeply inhaling the
earthy scent of the forest, he listened to the sounds of little
animals rustling through the greenery, eager to take in all signs
of life his keen senses noticed.

Finally, he was home.

* * * * *

Igraine dreamt of days long gone.

She imagined herself standing on the
battlement of an ancient Irish castle and watching the impressive
wedding procession travelling along the muddy road leading to the
stronghold. They just had reached the plain of Cruachan. She
couldn’t believe that all this splendor was meant just for her,
that he had actually come to win her heart.

Igraine looked down at herself, wearing a
sumptuous gown of crimson velvet, embroidered with golden flowers.
Her hair was braided, the long plaits hanging down to her waist.
When she touched it, she felt the metal band over her brow, made of
heavy silver. It was obvious that she was dressed to show off her
beauty as befitted a royal bride.

It was just like in Elathan’s story, but she
saw the scene in astonishing detail, more than he had told her; the
fifty young warriors, wearing white tunics and dark-blue hooded
cloaks, each one of them adorned with golden rings and brooches of
red gold, carrying gold-hilted swords, silver shields and royal
golden candles in their hands, tipped with precious gemstones that
shone like the rays of the sun. Even their gentle gray horses wore
plates of silver with little bells of gold around their necks,
whose melodic ringing filled the air.

Horn-blowers rode in front of the procession,
announcing the arrival of the noble suitor who had come to woo his
princess. Between the lines of riders, three druids clad in long
white robes went along, holding boughs of white-blooming holly,
moving it through the air as a sign of male energy and
protection.

A tall, burly man walked with seven
chase-hounds leashed with chains of silver. Three jesters followed
him, jumping around and joking with the awed villagers who stood
along the roadside, watching the spectacle. After them, three young
men caught her eye; the bronze wagon which followed them, bearing
their richly adorned instruments, indicated that they were the
harp-players, the river goddess’s sons. Their regal demeanor was
distinctive, and there was an otherworldly beauty in their
half-elvish faces. They wore their fair hair in thin braids as the
Sidhe did.

Igraine’s eyes searched the crowd for a sign
of her bridegroom, she had expected him to ride at the front. But
there was no one standing out from the others, and she wondered if
he would arrive separately. Lost in her thoughts, she simply stared
at the wondrous parade crossing the plain until it reached the
outskirts of the castle.

There the hounds were let loose, and they
darted off to hunt some game to bring to the king’s banqueting
table. All the riders but one dismounted. The last warrior raised
his head, looking straight up to the battlements where Igraine
stood. She gasped when she saw him and his unmistakable elven
features, the high cheekbones, pale skin and dark-rimmed eyes. When
he threw off his hood and cloak, his long, untamed mane fell freely
over his shoulders, shimmering like polished silver in the soft
evening sunlight.

They called him the Warrior of the Sun. But
as she watched him, the name didn't seem appropriate to her.

The moon, she thought. The stranger looked
like the glorious male offspring of the moon. His dark-golden eyes
caught hers in an instant, briefly resting on her face before a
smile spread across his sensuous lips. It wasn’t a gentle smile to
greet her. It was an expression of triumph and of a possessor’s
pride, telling her she already belonged to him. But at the same
time she saw open desire in his eyes, so raw and blatant she felt
her knees go weak. She took hold of the parapet with one hand and
tried to calm herself, while the beating of her own heart sounded
like thunder in her ears.

My Prince. In disbelief, Igraine watched as
he slowly raised his gloved hand and laid it on his broad chest,
right over his heart. To her astonishment, he bowed his head,
acknowledging her as his bride. A roguish smile softened his
hardened warrior’s face and his beauty was so overwhelming that she
forgot how to breathe for a moment. Right then she wanted him for
herself, desired him with an intensity that made her body tremble.
He will be mine, she thought.

The prince wore only chainmail under his
ivory tunic, having discarded the heavier armor for the long ride.
His eyes never left hers as he dismounted with predatory grace.
Doubtless he intended to head for the castle entrance to pay his
respect to the king and queen before he would claim the prize he
had come for.

She was so deeply lost in his eyes that she
didn’t notice at once how their expression changed, the golden
glance wavering for the first time. Bewildered, he lowered his head
and looked down to his chest, where a long arrow had penetrated his
mail and pierced his heart; his garnet-colored blood streaming out
of the wound and stained his tunic. He placed his hand there again,
the gesture a cruel imitation of his gallantry just a moment
before.

Igraine heard a woman’s agonized screams
echoing over the battlements. She didn't realize that they were her
own. Horrified, she saw that the prince began to stagger, slowly
losing his proud posture. She lifted the seam of her gown and ran,
faster and faster, down the endless steps of the watchtower, until
she finally reached the inner ward. Then she raced through the two
gates, already opened for the prince and his company. She did not
care at all if she behaved like a princess should.

Breathlessly, she crossed the bridge and
reached the lawn. The warriors had assembled around their dying
prince who knelt on the soft green grass, head bowed and eyes
closed as if he was in deep prayer. His pale mass of hair covered
most of his face, and there couldn't be much life left in him. Yet
he stubbornly refused to fall down and held himself upright while
his blood was running along the arrow shaft, slowly dripping down
like a sacrifice to the gods of the earth.

Furiously screaming at the tall warriors who
hardly noticed her, she elbowed her way through to the prince.
After one of his guards had broken off the arrow, she knelt down
before her betrothed, looking into his handsome face. When he
raised his amber eyes to hers, she stretched out her hand and
carefully touched his chest, wishing that her fingertips had the
power to heal him. Desperately she wished that she could rip this
deadly arrow out of his heart and pierce her own with it, if she
could only save his life. But it was too late.

“My Prince,” she whispered, surprised that he
had heard her, for he tilted his head to the side ever so slightly.
“Don’t leave me. I need you.” Her words sounded strange in her own
ears. It was as if she had heard them before, spoken by another
voice, in another time, but she couldn't bring herself to
remember.

His only answer was a regretful smile, and
the color of his eyes deepened with emotion. Then he began to slump
forward, his dying heart winning over his iron will at last.
Quickly she opened her arms and caught him, supporting him with her
body so he stayed on his knees. She wouldn’t allow him to lie down
now. Crying, she held him close to her, ignoring the growing pain,
the burden of his heavy weight that crushed her down.

“You will not fall, my Lord. I am with you,”
she whispered in his ear, not even knowing if he heard her.

The dying prince and his bride were a sight
to behold. Cheated of their wedding night, they knelt under the
fading light of the sinking sun, enclosed in each other’s arms. The
princess held him upright, unyielding, while his heart’s blood
spread over her lovely wedding gown, coloring the red velvet to a
deeper crimson. She held him tightly, again and again telling him
that he would not fall, while she sensed every single shiver
running through his body. Knowing she couldn’t cause him any more
pain now, she pressed herself closer to him. She felt the beating
of his heart as if it was her own, slower, slower, then one last
time until it finally stood still.

When she heard a woman’s breathless sobbing,
again she wondered where it came from, for silence had fallen over
the field like a thick black cloud, suffocating every other
sound.

Chapter 14:
Bound

Darkness surrounded her. It was a comforting,
merciful darkness, making her blind so she couldn’t see his empty
eyes, staring lifelessly over her shoulder while she held him.
Still entangled in her dream, she realized that his weight was gone
now, and she didn’t feel him leaning heavily on her body anymore.
She had lost him.

Igraine sensed that she was lying on a soft
surface, but when she tried to sit up something hindered her,
forcing her to stay down. She began to struggle against the unknown
presence that held her imprisoned, crying helplessly like a child
while the pain washed over her like a wave. But then she felt the
warmth of the strong arms that were holding her pinned to the
ground, pulling her backwards until she lay molded to a large male
body. A deep low voice murmured soothing words into her ear.
Although she didn’t understand their meaning, they calmed her, and
she lay still at least, sobbing.

“Wake up, Igraine,” Elathan said. Hugging her
close, he turned her gently in his arms until she faced him. “I am
here. Look at me.” He felt her unbearable pain, her fear, but
didn’t know the reason. A simple nightmare would never cause this
amount of distress.

Reluctantly she opened her eyes, unable to
say if she was still dreaming. It was impossible. He had just died
in her arms, she had been with him until the end. But it was his
voice, his scent, his body, so warm and alive. “Come back to me,
mo ghrá
.”

My love
. He had used the endearment
without thinking about it. But why? She was only a human slave,
even if they had shared their blood. They were as close as elf and
human could ever get. Usually a royal prince chose a female amongst
his elven peers. He should not even think about her unless he
needed her body to satisfy his carnal needs. Suddenly he remembered
his words when he had found her half-dead in the pond, murmuring
that he loved her.