Bound to the Prince (37 page)

Igraine watched the nymph grow weaker,
astonished about the lack of remorse she felt. But this woman had
tried to kill Elathan, and Igraine's heart turned to ice when she
glanced at him, unconscious from the lack of blood. “Your son is
dead,” she said coldly, nodding to Ruadan’s lifeless form, lying
face-down on the ground a few steps away, “because of your
insatiable greed and hatred. I hope his soul will haunt yours
forever.” Breena’s eyes widened in shock and faded into a blank
expression before she toppled over, dead.

Turning to her prince, Igraine gasped when
she finally saw what Breena had done to him. All at once, she
wished she had turned the dagger around in the wound after stabbing
the nymph. She would have liked the chance to kill her once again,
but slowly, taking her time. Tears streamed down her face as she
knelt at his side and cradled his head in her lap. She closed her
eyes and sought his mind for some reaction to her presence, but
found nothing. “I won’t allow it,” she whispered to him. Suddenly,
she remembered the dream she once had, predicting his imminent fate
of death in battle. It seemed like a long time ago. How she wished
to go back to those days in the Enchanted Forest when he had been
hers alone. Without her realizing, it had been the happiest time of
her life. Now she would have to face eternity without him. “How
dare you die on me now, stupid elf? Not after all we went through!
Not after all the times you saved my life. The unicorn promised
that I could take your place and save you, for once.”

“I said that you could choose your own
destiny, human, and you did.” Igraine winced when she recognized
Aonadharcach’s deep voice. Aghast, she turned her head to see if
she had just imagined it, but there he was, standing in the circle
of stones right beside her. The deafening noise of battle had died
down to a strange silence, and when she looked up, there was no one
there apart from herself, the prince and the unicorn; not even the
wounded and dead were visible anymore. Another blink of an eye, and
Elathan was gone, too, vanished from her arms like a dream that had
never existed. She sobbed breathlessly, looking down at her empty,
blood-covered hands.

Aon smiled, baring his razor-sharp teeth.

“We are alone, Igraine,” he said. “You are
already gone from Elathan’s world. It seems that your prince has
made his own bargain with Boand, but you can’t take back your
decision to die for him. The gods were promised a sacrifice, and
they will have it, Igraine.”

She wiped away her tears and nodded wearily
before meeting the unicorn’s inscrutable gaze. “I understand. But
Elathan – will he live?”

“He will,” Aon answered, “and you will live
in his heart forever. Your name won’t be forgotten by the Fae.
Their storytellers will praise the Lady Igraine now when they tell
their children what has happened on this day. A human destined to
love a Fae prince, fighting bravely at his side until the end. They
have found another hero, just as you wished. It is you,
Igraine.”

Gracefully he bowed his reptile head and
touched her brow with his horn. Igraine’s last thought was that
dying was exactly as people who had been on the threshold and came
back described it. Your whole life flashes before your eyes, and
then there’s a blinding light. But it wasn’t her life in the human
world she saw. All she remembered was the time since she met her
prince. His lion eyes, ablaze with amber fire when he taught her
how to fight. The sound of his voice whispering sweet, forbidden
words into her ear while he loved her, his glorious body burning
hers with his passion. But just when she wanted to savor the
memories, wrap them around her whole being like a thick, warm coat,
the light came, and everything she had ever been or known was
gone.

The vast white marble room was bathed in warm
evening light, turned golden and copper by the reflecting stone of
the mountain outside. Elathan, awakening from a deep, healing
slumber enhanced by magic, rolled to his side under the black
silken sheets of the giant four-poster bed dominating the room. He
winced when he felt the pain. At first he couldn’t locate it, for
it raced through his body like a flood wave, strong enough to kill
a mortal. But he wasn’t dead, nor was he dying; and most
astoundingly, in his own palace chambers which he hadn’t occupied
for centuries.

When he moved his right arm, the pain
concentrated in his hand, and it was so intense he couldn’t even
open his eyes. Finally, it ebbed away to a dull throbbing
sensation, and the prince’s ragged breathing started to calm. As
soon as his head was clear enough to think, he remembered.

Igraine’s silver eyes – they made her even
more beautiful, yet he missed the vivid green that had reminded him
of his beloved forest - widening in fear when she shoved him aside,
saving him from being killed by his own dagger. The river goddess.
Pain, blood. So much blood. But he had been relieved that it was
his, not Igraine’s. Her captivating, expressive face over him,
tears streaming down her cheeks while she had cradled his head in
her lap and forbidden him to die, calling him “stupid elf” again.
How he loved the bold way she talked to him. Just as he lost
consciousness, she was suddenly gone, and he fell back on the
blood-stained grass, instantly knowing the gods had taken her from
him after all.

His soul cried out silently when he searched
for her with his mind and found that their connection had been
severed. Igraine, his human slave of pleasure. Mate. Blood of his
blood. He couldn’t feel her presence anymore. Even imprisoned in
the dungeons under the castle he had always sensed her, felt her
desperation and fear when she had sought out the gargoyles for
their help. When they had attacked her, tore her flesh, her pain
had been his own, but nothing compared to the agony he experienced
now. Incomplete without her, he shattered into a million fragments,
and loneliness spread like a disease in the dark, bleeding place
that had once had been his soul. The loss of a hand didn’t even
come close to the torment that ripped him apart now and made him
roar to the heavens like a wounded beast. Opening his eyes, he
raised his right arm to look at it. When his blurred eyesight
cleared up, he couldn’t believe what he saw.

He had expected a bloody stump, bandaged with
linens, but instead there was a hand. Although it looked exactly
like it, this wasn’t his hand, but a new one – and it was made of
liquid silver that felt and moved like living skin. Amazed, he
turned the thing from one side to the other, moved his fingers, one
by one, and it felt like a part of his body, sensitive, flexible
flesh, sinew, bone and skin. When he watched the hand closely, he
saw his own blood pulsating in the veins. When he gently blew at
it, the sensation made the fine hair on his wrist stand up, and he
shivered with delight. “How can this be possible?” he whispered,
unbelieving.

The prince had been so deep in thought that
Calatin had managed to enter the room through a side door without
Elathan noticing him. He cleared his throat and grinned when his
friend’s startled gaze fell upon him. “I made it,” he simply said.
“You like it?”

“You made this hand? But how –“

Calatin shrugged. “Magic, of course, with
some additional help from a very talented goblin blacksmith. I’m
still working on it. In time, I will find a spell to change the
color so it will look like real skin again."

“It feels real,” Elathan murmured.

“It is in a way. It is closely connected to
your own flesh and blood; no one will be able to claim that you are
not whole.”

“I’m not … whole. And I'll never be again,”
the prince answered.

Seeing the pain in his friend’s eyes, he
bowed his head. “Forgive me, my Prince. My regret is beyond words.
We all grieve for the loss of Lady Igraine. She fought like a
warrior queen, Sire. But she would have wished you to claim your
rightful place as our king. Your people need you.” He knelt down
before Elathan, unsheathing his sword and raising it in his open
palms to honor his new sovereign. “My King.” With that, he stood up
and left the bedchamber, silently closing the door behind him.

Queen, Elathan thought bitterly. Calatin
spoke the truth. Igraine was no slave. She had always been destined
to become his true mate, standing by his side brave and strong,
flooding the darkest places of his soul with the light of her love.
Surprisingly, he doubted not for a moment that he would have made
her his queen, despite the fact that, throughout the ages, never
had a king of the realms offered his hand in marriage to a human
woman. “What a queen you would have made, sweet Igraine,” he said,
rising from the bed and stepping over to one of the high, arched
windows. As he looked out, a blood-red sun went down over his
kingdom. It was vast and beautiful, with mountains so high they
nearly touched the stars already visible on the night sky, lakes so
clear and deep the Sidhé called them “Mirrors of the Gods”,
reflecting their faces when they looked down from the heavens. Far
away, a landscape of soft hills gave way to a green sea of forests,
a sight that filled him with a sudden longing to go home.

Home. But there was no place he could call
his home anymore. Home had been wherever she was.

Wetness welled up in his eyes, ran over his
face in dark crimson rivulets and stained the marble floor.
Suddenly, there was not a sound to be heard from the woods far
below, and not a single night bird sang to call his mate. The
mighty river on the other side of the mountain stopped flowing to
the sea and went still. Nothing disturbed the silence that had
fallen over the lands as an elven king wept tears of blood for his
love.

The next full moon shone brightly from a
black, starless sky when Elathan stood on the highest battlement of
the palace, watching the darkened horizon in the north. It was the
night before his coronation, an occasion that had been on his mind
for ages. Now, he didn’t even care.

Silently, Calatin stepped up beside him. He
saw the prince’s hollow stare and sighed.

“You are thinking about her.”

Barely visible, Elathan nodded. “More than
that. I will leave at dawn. If I do not return, you will be king,
Calatin. Maybe it always was meant to be you.”

Calatin’s eyes widened. “So you really intend
to search for her. You’ll try to bring her back from the lands of
the dead. Why am I not surprised?”

Elathan shrugged. “My life has become
worthless without her, Calatin. I feel … broken. I wouldn’t be a
good king for our people, not much more than an empty shell.”

“But how will you find her?”

“I have an idea where to start looking. The
druids once told me about an island, far up in the north. It’s
hidden amidst a lake, lost in the mist. Only those with a strong
will and pure intentions are meant to find it.”

“I heard the stories, too. But Sire, this
island is like a portal to the eternal lands. It’s a place for
souls who are tied to this world by such strong bonds that they
aren’t able to move on, kept in place by love, hate or the hunger
for revenge. But are you aware that even if you find Igraine, if
she’s still there, she won’t even recognize you? How can you
convince her to return to the elven realms with you? I heard that
once you’re there, you forget everything, even your own name. And
what’s even more dangerous…”

“I could forget everything, too, and never
find my way back. I know. It’s a risk that I’m willing to take. At
least I would be joined with her in this other world, even if we
didn’t recognize each other. Thank you, Calatin,” the prince said,
smiling sadly and placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But I
will return with Igraine by my side or not at all.”

Sorrow flashed up in the magician’s eyes, yet
he nodded, quickly hiding his pain behind a reckless grin. “At
least I will get all the women now. The king can take as many
concubines as pleases him, am I right?”

“Aye, my friend, but only one queen. Pray
that the gods will help me find mine, wherever she might be right
now.”

Thick fog clouds my head when I finally open
my eyes, awakened from a long, deep slumber. I find myself resting
on a comfortable wooden bed with soft linen sheets. My eyesight is
still blurred, and I feel nauseated for a moment as I move to the
edge of the mattress. I grab a bedpost to steady myself, then I
roll to my side and stand up, very slowly. The blanket slips from
my body and falls down to the floor. Gasping, I notice the
miserable state I’m in – I wear something that surely was a lovely
black dress once. Now it’s not much more than rags, dirty and
stained with dried blood. I know because I recognize the smell –
sickeningly sweet, metallic. My arms and legs are covered with cuts
and bruises, and my right shoulder bears a scar from a recently
healed wound. But apart from that, my body seems to be healthy,
sculpted with lean muscles, yet femininely curved. Even if I don't
know why, it surprises me. Did I always look this way? I decide
that I like to feel strong.

I wonder what has happened to me, where and,
most importantly, who I am. But as hard as I try, I can’t remember
my own name. It’s right there, at the corner of my mind, but I just
can’t reach it. I don’t know anything at all. When I try to think
harder, a searing pain shoots through my head. It feels like nails
driven into my skull, and I press my hands to my temples, moaning.
After a while I feel better, so I can concentrate on my
surroundings.

I seem to be in some kind of hut, consisting
of a single large but sparsely furnished room. The bed I slept in,
a large wooden trunk – I decide to find out next what’s in it -
nothing more. The walls are whitewashed, clean. A glassless window,
a thatched roof. I’ve never seen this place before, I think, but
I’m not sure. When I open the heavy lid of the trunk, I’m relieved
to find new clothes in it. Quickly I remove my blood-stained gown
and dress in a soft white chemise, followed by a long turquoise
dress. The cut is simple, tight around the waist, but with a long,
flowing skirt. There are no shoes, so I pad over to the door in my
bare feet and press down the handle, opening it.