Chapter VIII
CHAPTER VIII
Aisling reluctantly took the fae lord’s hand. After all, what choice did she have?
A knight, one Aisling had not yet met, stepped into the center of the field, before the great labyrinth, to announce each of his comrades. He raised their arms above their heads and the spectators clamored with increased fervor. Yevhen, Aedh, Tyr, Hagre, Einri, Rian, Galad, and Cathan were among the names Aisling remembered. All sported fae braids, shaved sides, or beading in their hair. Scars speckled their bare skin, a testament to centuries of warring and protecting their kind.
Next came Lir’s introduction to which the Snaidhm exploded with their chants. Already he’d guided her down the staircase of their private box and onto the arena’s pitch.
“ Damh Bán !” The crowds repeated, the sheer volume of their shouts vibrating through the box, the arena, the earth beneath them, surely waking every worm and rodent if any still slept down below.
“What are they saying?” Aisling asked the fae king. The rest of Lir’s knights formed a line to the right of the hedge, but the fae king led Aisling to the left where a single pillar stood.
“It means the ‘White Stag,’” he explained. “A moniker given to the king of Annwyn and the greenwood, protector of the feywilds.”
She stumbled clumsily after the fae king, her skirts absorbing the mud dampening the field.
“And what becomes of the male caera who fails to outdo all these competitors?”
“I don’t fail.” Lir flicked his eyes towards her, measuring her response. But Aisling was unamused, becoming increasingly suspicious of what was unraveling around her.
Lir brought her to an abrupt stop, halting before the wooden pillar nailed into the ground, staring down the rosy labyrinth towering before her.
“Do you trust me?” Lir asked, unable to wick away the devilry curling the corners of his lips. The question echoed in her mind as Aisling spotted a cage lifted above the fae crowd’s heads by four black boars approaching the arena steadily from the western entrance. Made of carved wood and dark metals, its door was bolted shut lest the mad creature within, shaking the bars of its prison, be set free.
Aisling’s tongue turned to ash as she beheld the—the thing . Her palms were wet with sweat as she backed into the pillar.
The fae king followed the mortal queen’s line of sight, landing on the approaching cage. A cage rattling with the fury of its captive.
“Is my trust contingent on anything to do with that?” Aisling asked, nodding her head in the cage’s direction.
“That, princess, is a trow .”
Aisling mouthed its name breathlessly, unable to look away from the nightmarish fiend floating nearer and nearer. The smell of it drowning out the freshness of the rain, the roses, replacing such perfume with a putrid stench. But the boars carrying the creature appeared unfazed by its attempts to break free from its prison, its grotesque appearance, or its unbearable smell. So, the bestial sentinels placed the enormous cage on the opposing side of the labyrinth where Aisling could no longer see. A few yards from where Lir’ s knights readied themselves.
“A species of Unseelie. Wicked creatures with insatiable appetites despite their short stature. Dull, square teeth that ensure their prey are all the more reluctant to be caught. Usually, rabbits or mice or even foxes, but today, I’m sure this trow is just ravenous enough for a princess.” Lir’s smile widened, boasting his pearly collection of teeth and fangs.
“You intend to feed me to it?!” Aisling managed to spit out, willing her teeth to stop their chattering. What was this—this thing ? This aberration of all that was good and right. Did Nemed know this creature existed? Did the mortals? Had Aisling forgotten some vital teaching she was intended to remember? No, no, no. She would’ve remembered tales of this.
There was nowhere to run, to hide, to escape. Not when she was surrounded by hordes of Aos Sí. Hordes who hollered around the arena, laughing, cheering, dancing, strumming their fiddles, and beating their drums.
“You wound me, princess.” Lir feigned offense. “So long as I’m near, the trow won’t manage a taste, much less a bite. I’m a jealous king,” he teased. But the fae king’s words did little to reassure her for as soon as Aisling spotted the tether in his hands, she staggered back. A rope to bind her.
Aisling knew her instinct to run was fruitless. Lir was quicker, stronger, imbued with a magic Aisling knew not the limits of.
“My knights tell me to tether you to this column lest you attempt an escape,” he said, unhooking a single axe from his back.
“And you? What does the Damh Bán say?”
Lir considered her for a moment, their audience growing more impatient by the moment.
“I believe trust a more formidable tether than a rope.” He threw the rope into the mud where it lay like a snake, pelted by the rain .
“I will not stand here as bait,” Aisling growled, balling her hands into fists.
“The choice is yours,” Lir said. “Run from what frightens you or challenge yourself to be a part of our world. Either way, no harm will befall you so long as I’m concerned.”
The audience began banging their fists and paws against the rafters, eager for the tournament to begin. Their animal faces, their fair folk expressions howling into the magic imbued winds of Annwyn. Fury coiled inside Aisling’s belly, a fire burning through her gut and rising with every chant.
“If there is a Forge, may you all burn in it,” Aisling hissed, planting her feet in the mud. She’d stand and wait for Lir to finish his fair folk games. For, a part of what Lir said was true: she’d been sent here to be a part of this world. Had sacrificed all she’d known––her clann, her brothers, Dagfin––to join a world she knew was bloodthirsty long before the union. Nevertheless, her bones burned with rage and terror alike.
Lir smiled triumphantly, sage eyes flashing beneath the overcast sky.
“And you allow it a head start?” Aisling’s voice cracked, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. For indeed, Aisling, judging by where the cage had disappeared behind the lofty labyrinth of hedge and rose and leaf, could assume they’d given the trow an advantage. An opportunity to race ahead of the knights.
“The trow is blind. Its only way of navigating the labyrinth is to sniff you out.”
Aisling beheld the trow across the field, paling at the sight of the beast.
“Fret not, princess,” Lir continued. “You’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”
The fae king watched Aisling, lingering, before at last, lengthening the distance between them. Aisling was left alone beside the column, facing down the trow now rattling the cage with increased fervor the longer it smelled the mortal queen. The trow knew she was just a maze away, helpless. Unable to run quickly enough or fight hard enough.
Aisling cringed at the memory of the fiend already burned into her mind’s eye: it was short in comparison to the Aos Sí, viciously ugly with two beady, pale eyes, a grossly wide, gummy smile shadowed by an even larger, drooping nose. Its legs were thin and boney, knobby knees knocking against one another as it thrust its fat body against the bars of the prison, reaching its rough, large, spidery fingers towards Aisling. Its sharpened, serrated nails clawing at the air.
This. This was the creature inspired by the mortal tales of the Aos Sí, this nightmare born in the flesh.
Unseelie .
“By the Forge,” Aisling whispered beneath her breath, low enough so only she could hear. She didn’t know why she said it. There were no gods and certainly the ones the fair folk believed in wouldn’t save her now. No, she was helpless. Not strong enough. Agile enough. Skilled enough to break loose or escape such fate. Sold first by her family then doomed by her captors. Forsaken to glare down this abomination as it made its way to devour her.
Her only salvation: he who she loathed the most.
Once the hollow horn was blown, Aedh was the first knight to spring forward, racing towards Aisling with the others on his heels. In the same moment, the trow was released, the cage breaking apart and the creature staggering forward on his slender legs, panting with insatiable lust for the princess. The trow and each knight following Aedh, sinking into the maze where Aisling could no longer see.
Aisling sucked in a breath and held it, the roar of every spectator thrumming through her and rendering her numb .
“Mine, mine, mine,” she heard the trow growl amidst the hedges.
The Aos Sí jeered, leaning over the banisters and shaking their fists as mud splattered across their ethereal faces. Badgers carved the railing with their claws, wolves standing on their hind legs as they howled into the air. Barbarians. Brutish savages. Excited at the prospect of Aisling alone at one end of the arena, staring down the hobbling trow as it emerged from the labyrinth first.
And with every painful, passing moment the beast hobbled closer and closer, her blood and flesh its only guide. The reality of the trow biting into Aisling becoming more real, chewing on her skin a more tangible future.
And although short in comparison to the Aos Sí, the trow was the same height as Aisling. Its bizarre proportions on full display: its head thrice as large, its abdomen short and wide, while its legs stood tall and thin on wobbly knees.
Aisling opened her mouth to scream but found the sound caught in her throat. Dread seeping into her bones. Had she been more skilled in combat, prepared to stare down her foes or defend herself, perhaps she wouldn’t feel as helpless as she did now. Aisling had never felt more pathetic. More furious .
The trow closed the final distance between itself and Aisling, sniffing both her sweat and terror with deep, exaggerated inhales. Aisling hiked up her shoulders, as she braced for what was to come next.
“Sweet, sweet, sweet,” the creature rasped, licking its teeth and laughing wickedly to itself. Inhaling so deeply Aisling believed it might fall backwards. So, the mortal queen allowed her rage to guide her. She reached for her dagger, lodged in her corset, and drew it the way she’d imagined Starn would, waving it before the trow. A gesture that inspired a slew of gasps from her audience.
“Naughty, naughty, naughty,” it said, stepping back and narrowing its eyes before it lunged for Aisling once more. Now Aisling did manage to scream, her voice rising above the roar of the spectators and perhaps all of Rinn Dúin.
Just as the trow’s teeth were to skim the naked flesh on Aisling’s neck, an arrow struck its enormous ear, the shaft of the reed protruding from either side. The trow screeched, a sound that nearly ripped Aisling’s eardrums in two. And from behind the beast, Rian emerged from the labyrinth, bow in hand.
Aisling’s heart leapt at the sight of him, of anyone. It mattered not that Lir was nowhere to be seen. But anger still pooled within her chest that she need wait upon anyone at all. That Lir had placed her here and requested her trust.
The trow tore the arrow from its ear, splattering Aisling’s face.
Rian raced forward, aiming the bow to strike again. He placed the arrow upon the hard edge of the bow’s rest, pulling back on the string till it could no longer budge. And just before his fingers released the reed, an axe spun through the air like a winding sparrow, slicing the string and destroying the bow. The arrow struck the trow’s shoulder instead of its heart.
Aisling’s stomach dropped the moment she saw Lir. The king raised his second axe and swung for Rian. The trow grinned, delighted that the king and his knight battled blade to blade behind him. For Rian’s two shots had merely deterred the beast, not killed it.
Tears ran down Aisling’s cheeks, interrupting the hot, smelly lines of Unseelie blood speckling her face. Watching the trow rip the second arrow from its shoulder. Why she did not run, she didn’t know.
“By the Forge,” Aisling cursed beneath her breath again, wrenching her eyes shut till darkness enveloped her. For the darkness would be what she encountered next. The nothing after death. Deepest shadow and nothing more. But where she thought, upon closing her violet eyes, she’d be alone in the darkest pits of her thoughts before death…she wasn’t .
There was something else. A creature that hadn’t been there before. Something hiding in the abyss of herself. In the chasm of her soul. A sentient being that looked back at Aisling with a curiosity that matched her own.
The trow shrieked once more, forcing Aisling out of her reverie. The mortal queen opened her eyes in time to witness ropes swinging around the thing’s arms, yanking it back and away from the mortal queen. Aisling gasped, her chest rising and falling violently as she beheld the trow squirming on the floor, tangled in those thick, dark, ropes. No—not ropes. Vines. Roots risen from the earth like serpents, snapping at the demon with sentient rage. The trow shrieked an unearthly bellow, biting at the ramblers, digging its nails into their thick flesh. But where one split, two more grew. The roots coiling around the trow, a great leaf-ridden squid pinning the monster to the mud.
The trow did its best to set itself free but it was futile. And now, what captured Aisling’s attention most of all was what stood behind the tangle of vine and trow.
Lir.
Painted in blood and mud, he watched the trow coolly, eyes as still and dark as the shadowed depths of the forest, where no man dared wander, lest he sing death to his door. A monstrous glint illuminating those orbs. And behind him, lay Rian, bloodied and defeated, falling in and out of consciousness atop the emerald grass.
The Snaidhm erupted with excitement. Lir lifted his eyes to Aisling. The only knight to defeat both their comrades and the trow alike in order to reach her. A competition, the mortal queen now realized, between monsters. For he who saved her from the trow was no better than this foul beast screeching for its breath and pinned to the earth. Perhaps worse. Much, much worse, Aisling recognized to her own dread. So now, after all was said and done, she realized she could indeed trust Lir, entrust the fae king to be the nightmarish legend for which he was renowned.
“ Damh Bán !” they chanted, their voices rising into the rain-heavy clouds above, the spidering of lightning illuminating Lir’s lovely, lethal expression.
Aisling believed the entire forest and all of Annwyn to tremble beneath the spectators’ cheers, their stomping, the shaking of the rafters, tents, and seats around them.
Then the Aos Sí’s voices melted from “ Damh Bán !” to “ Krie grae !” Their shouts grew louder, matching the beat of their fists against the railing.
Aisling bore little idea what the audience screamed, flicking her attention to Gilrel out of instinct. The one who answered her questions, gave her guidance. But she too beamed amongst the spectators, yelling alongside the rest and leaning her furry form over the banister.
Aisling bit her bottom lip, redirecting her attention back to Lir.
Not bothering to wipe the blood from his face, he approached steadily. That invisible cord between them snapping to attention and tugging at her chest.
But despite the mud and sweat and crimson that washed over his lean muscles, his fae markings shone beneath, wrapping around his corded arms and abdomen. Aisling did her best to keep his gaze; there was no reason for her to wilt as he shortened the distance between them. The smell of him, of the forest, enveloping her, drowning out the outside world like a sweet drug.
Lir ran his blood-soaked fingers through his hair, tipping his chin down to meet her violet orbs.
“You see?” Lir unlatched one of his axes from his back, swinging it by the haft artfully. “Nothing to fear.”
“Your arrogance precedes your success. The creature still lives,” Aisling snarled, her fear of the fae king only rivalled by her rage, a rage that could set fire to this arena. Take back what had been taken from her. For indeed, the trow still struggled to free itself from his magic.
“ Krie grae !” the Aos Sí called, lifting the fae king’s attention to the pit of demons surrounding them. Watching their king’s and Aisling’s every interaction.
Lir flashed his fangs, amused. “They want you to kiss me.”
Aisling blinked. She searched for the words that caught in her throat. Heat rising to her blood-soaked cheeks. Rage, horror, embarrassment mixing in the pit of her stomach till she believed she might be rendered ill there and then.
“But don’t get too excited just yet, princess,” Lir said, flipping the axe between his fingers, having understood the horror on her expression. “You’re right; the game isn’t yet finished.” He released Aisling’s arm, handing her the hilt of his axe.
Aisling considered the weapon. That knotted haft slick with blood and rain and mud, his tattooed fingers still coiled around it. She’d touched this axe before. The night of her wedding. Hadn’t been able to lift it on her own. Not without his help.
Lir tilted his head towards the trow, still squealing like an angry pig in the mud.
“Kill it,” he commanded. His voice was cold. Steeped in shadows of blackest tar. Sending shivers down her spine as shock rippled through her.
“I—” Aisling managed, her mind racing quicker than she could speak. “I can’t.”
“You can,” he commanded, his grin fading from his lips but remaining in his jadeite eyes. “And you will. Its intention was to tear you limb from limb,” Lir interjected, his voice the only coherent sound amidst the discord. “That’s what it means to survive outside your iron walls.”
Aisling took a cautious step back.
“Or do you prefer when someone else kills for you?” He stepped towards her.
Aisling’s eyes darted towards the trow. Its pale, slimy skin now painted purple, it strained against the roots holding it in place. The trow squealed more loudly and the audience grew impatient.
Aisling couldn’t deny she wanted the thing dead. A dark creature within herself delighted at the sight of the beast in pain. Had looked forward to Lir slaying the blight. But Aisling didn’t have it in her. She was no warrior. No soldier. No king.
Aisling tightened her fists at her sides, grinding her jaw harder.
“You’re wicked,” Aisling spat but Lir only exhaled a laugh.
“Do you claim to stand against such beastly sins when practiced by your own kind then?” Lir challenged, his expression darkening the longer he spoke, “or did you defend the Sidhe when your father slaughtered our villages? You see there are none who are fully wicked nor fully pure. Only those hungry enough to be powerful.”
“You describe the world as if they are nothing more than beasts.”
“Most of us are.”
Aisling shook her head, balling her hands into fists, a rejection of the blade Lir still held before her, eager for her to take.
Lir’s expression grew smugger, narrowing his eyes. “We are all slaves to desire. And right now, princess, all that separates you from that trow’s desire is me.” He grinned like a wolf, deadly and handsome all at once. “You can change that,” he continued. “You can take what he wished to take from you. Take and not be taken from.”
Aisling’s eyes flicked towards the axe before her, glinting marvelously. Encouraging her to come closer. To touch its haft. Wrap her fingers around the wooden hilt, the braided designs. To paint her hands in red.
“The choice is yours: predator or prey,” the fae king purred.
Aisling met Lir’s eyes, careful not to lose herself in their Connemara glean. Holding onto the edge of reality as she looked deeply into those murderous depths, her mind spun faster with each passing moment. Her stomach twisting more tightly. Her knees wobbling, about to buckle beneath the pressure. The screams of the surrounding audience vibrated through her bones.
“You wish to corrupt me,” Aisling surmised in barely a whisper.
His smile widened then, those fangs winking back at Aisling. An expression that seized her heart, dared her to look away. The cord between them groaning, nearly snapping.
“No,” he said, “I wish to show you, you already are.”
Aisling couldn’t halt the shivering of her shoulders in the cold. Couldn’t help but to swallow the stone lodged in her throat. For by now, she could no longer feel her legs. Her hands. She was numb, adrenaline coursing through her veins. And perhaps it was adrenaline that unfolded her fists. Perhaps it was adrenaline that raised her arm and gripped the haft of the axe, raising it with both hands with all her might. Perhaps it was adrenaline that turned her towards the helpless trow and raised the axe above her head. Perhaps it was adrenaline that made her enjoy what she was to do next.