Chapter 13: The Silence
It definitely felt good to sit by an open fire in the woods at night, leaning back against a warm male body. The elf had encircled her in the safety of his strong arms and held her tightly to him, feeding her pieces of roasted meat with his long, pale fingers. Now it seemed as if he was the slave serving her, not the other way around. Igraine sighed and closed her eyes while he cut another slice of the delicious meat into tiny morsels for her. It was so wonderful being cared for, just for once, when all her life she had been the one who sacrificed her own needs to help others, desperately wishing they would love her for it.
At first she had refused, having lost her appetite after her near-deadly encounter with the water nymphs completely. But Elathan had simply commanded her to eat. "You will need your strength later, believe me,” he had added with a wicked smile, although he didn’t manage to conceal the sorrow in his eyes every time he looked at her. Somehow, he still wasn't sure she was out of danger now.
Igraine was wearing only the thin chemise of the new clothes he had given her, but it was more than enough with an elven male’s heated skin warming her from behind and the fire in front of her. Once in a while his hand wandered under the light fabric, caressing softly over her thigh, the swell of her breasts. His warm breath grazed her ear, tickling the sensitive skin behind it until small shivers of pleasure ran down her spine.
He sat with his back against a tree, his head bowed slightly forward so his hair fell like a silver cascade over them both. She touched it very lightly at first, loved the feeling of the long tresses gliding over her hand. When she discovered that he didn’t mind, she began to entangle her fingers in it and played with the smooth strands, pulling at them for punishment whenever he said something to tease her. He did nothing to stop her; indeed he seemed to enjoy it, for he tilted his head to the side, towards her hand. She discovered some thin braids that tamed the heavy mass behind his pointed ears and decided she would plait them for him from now on. Surely an elven prince didn’t have to braid his hair by himself, so Igraine guessed that some helpful magic creatures were responsible for that. But she was his pleasure slave, after all, and wouldn’t ever let a little fairy near his hair again.
Her head was resting comfortably in the curve where his neck met his muscular chest. She breathed in the exciting scent of his skin which had become so familiar to her during the last days.
“Tell me a story,” she said, cuddling closer to him in front of the crackling fire.
The prince smiled sadly. “Those words. It has been a very long time since I heard them. My race is called Sidhe in my tongue, the fairy people. When I was a young lad at my father’s court, it was the throne heir’s duty as well as his prerogative to tell the stories of his people so they would never be lost. But it was only asked of me when my father held a great feast, for we also had bards and storytellers who preserved the old legends. A harper used to play while I told a tale. His music was so sad that all who listened began to cry … or laugh, when he chose to play a merry tune. I liked to think of him as one of Boand’s sons.”
When Igraine looked up at him questioningly, he explained, “Boand, the River Goddess. She bore her husband, the harpist, Uaithne, three sons. When Boand delivered her first child, it was a difficult birth and she cried out. To ease her pains, Uaithne played the harp at her bedside, and when his first son was born, he named him Goltrai after his mother’s cry. The birth of Boand’s second son was much easier and she laughed out loud for joy, and he was named Gentrai. The third time the River Goddess fell asleep to her husband’s song and gave birth to her last son, Suantrai. The sons all grew up to be great harpists like their father, and whoever heard their music cried, laughed or fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.” He smiled, staring into the fire. "When they played at the court of the king and queen of Connaught, twelve men died from crying and from sadness, the legend says.”
Igraine listened to his melodic voice weaving the old stories. It was like a beautiful medieval tapestry that came to life before her inner eye, making her able to see everything in rich detail. Perhaps this was part of his magic. She could easily imagine the young prince standing before the elven court, enchanting his listeners with the power of his voice alone.
“I’ll tell you the story of Fráech and Finnabair, sweet Igraine, for I am sure you will like it. Fraech was a handsome young man, the son of Idach, a human warrior, and Befinn, a Sidhe. Thus he belonged to both the human race and the fairy people. For years he lived without a wife, preferring the merry company of fifty sons of kings who lived in his household. But word spread that Finnabair, the golden-haired daughter of King Ailill and Queen Medb, had heard of his courage and beauty, so she was in love with the young warrior without ever having seen him. Fráech decided to seek her out and woo her. He went to his mother’s sister Boand, and the fairy people provided him with rich clothes for himself and his companions, and precious gifts to take to the stronghold Cruachan where fair Finnabair dwelled.
“He left for Cruachan with his amazing retinue of fifty warriors on horseback, seven horn-blowers, fifty hounds, three fools, three druids and three harpists of the highest rank, the same brothers I told you about, Boand’s sons. Fráech rode in front of them in his shimmering bronze wagon, repeatedly throwing up his spear high into the air and catching it before it fell down to the ground.”
Sighing, Igraine closed her eyes and listened to his captivating tale, playing with a strand of his hair while she relaxed against him. It seemed that she drifted in and out of sleep. Yet his voice seemed to reach her even in her dreams, for later she could remember everything he had said.
He told her how Fráech was received well by the king of Connaught, and that Queen Medb desired the young warrior for herself after having played chess with him on his golden board for three days and nights. When Fráech asked the harpist Goltrai to play, the queen cried like all others who heard his music, so she lost one game after the other until Fráech won twelve cows from her, but gallantly gave them back. But when Medb wanted to take him to her bed, he convinced her to listen to Suantrai's harping first, and the queen was lulled to sleep.
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.