Chapter XXXV
CHAPTER XXXV
Before the sun rose, thunder cracked across the sky, showering the world in sheets of silver. Aisling woke alone, startled awake by Gilrel’s magpies tugging her hair. She’d woken slowly that morning, weary after little sleep. Of late-night letters delivered to her childhood friend by the mouth of a serpent.
The magpies dressed her quickly, helping Gilrel slip another black gown over the mortal queen’s head and structure its bodice, shoulders, and forearms with plates of fae armor. Glittering chainmail that hugged her form, cinched at the waist before draping over her ivy skirts. Immaculately forged, cut, cast in fae style, void of the iron worn on mortal sentinels and soldiers alike.
Aisling caught her reflection before she exited the tent. Eyes rimmed with charcoal, lips dyed with crushed cherries. The sharp angles of the armor were a striking complement to her pale complexion. Her violet eyes captured the light glinting off its surface. And although it appeared heavy, thick, impenetrable, Aisling barely noticed a difference between this armor’s weight and the mortal corsets she once donned.
She was the image of a warrior. But not one of brawn nor skill with a blade or shield. One of rapacious, confounding sorcery rivalling the ferocity of the Sidhe themselves, how the Forbidden Lore described the fair folk: ancient, heroic warriors forged with the blood of the earth in their bones. A sentiment, a resemblance that pricked the back of Aisling’s eyes, for she too appeared of another age. An age of the Other where she was welcomed as one of its own.
“Come, mo Lúra ,” Gilrel called from between the canvas curtains, “the union is set to begin any moment now.”
Aisling approached the ring of humans and fair folk alike. They stood surrounded by torches like rubies, flickering despite the morning storm descending upon the isles. Parasols guarded the heads of most mortals while the fair folk braved the cloudburst, water drenching their richly colored locks, beading their skin, and soaking their dress.
Fae drums ricocheted off the bellies of the surrounding cliffs, booming into the mud, the grass, the wind, and through their bones. A rhythm joined by the charge of electricity webbing across the sky in flashes of white light.
As they parted the crowd, Gilrel followed Aisling a step behind. Four sentinels escorting their every step.
“ Skalla ,” the fair folk whispered beneath their breath like rustling trees, their voices growing louder the nearer she approached the center of the circle, a large clearing where both the trooping fae and mortal clanns stood at the periphery. Not a single pair of eyes failing to land on Aisling, studying her as though she were Unseelie, Seelie, mortal, something in between. A beast. And perhaps she was.
Nemed was the only member of her audience who grinned as the crowds peeled back to make way for the mortal queen. His eyes glazed with such genuine pride, love, that Aisling felt her knees weakening. Never had her father regarded her so. Her brothers, yes. Even Dagfin, who the fire hand considered a fifth son, but never Aisling. Clodagh, on the other hand, bit her bottom lip, eyes hollowing with horror as she beheld her daughter clad like a warrior. Like a fae knight. Her expression mirrored that of Ciar’s, who stood clutching her son’s arm so tightly Aisling believed Sim’s limb might snap in two.
But it was Dagfin who unnerved the mortal queen most. Dressed in Roktan blue, he sported more weapons than Aisling could count, crossing his arms over his chest. Eyes flickering with something Aisling couldn’t place but struggled to tear herself away from. Something like hope. Of unparalleled excitement. His brown hair curled around his ears as a result of the rain.
Lir caught Aisling’s eyes as she approached. And while his cold, steely expression didn’t change, Aisling could see the conflict harrowing his manic eyes the moment they shifted onto Aisling. The desire that dwelled there, unmet and unslaked.
Lir moved, lithely stepping towards Aisling; that same shivering of the heart each time his attention was fully fixed upon her was near overwhelming. And once he stood within reach, he extended his arm towards her and held out his hand. Those long slender fingers wrapped in fae interlace, symbols, knots. But she hesitated, the pounding of animal skins, mirroring the thumping in her chest.
Against her own volition, her eyes wandered towards her mortal clann. Watching her, her brothers’ callous expressions hardening the moment the fae king neared her. Extended his arm towards her as if they were one and the same, she and the barbarian king of the greenwood. Intertwined like twin storms, destined to ravage all they touched. Nothing but sweet ruin lying in their wake.
Aisling inhaled sharply, placing her hand in Lir’s. And even from her periphery, Aisling witnessed Dagfin shift. It was all that kept her from focusing on the cord between her and the fae king; it knotted tightly as she felt his every scar, smelled the wet leaves, heard the purling creaks, felt the monk’s moss beneath her feet, tasted the wind weaving through the solemn forests, considering from afar. Woodlands that this morning were uncharacteristically quiet.
Lir smiled at his bride, a grin powerful enough to unbind the mortal queen lest she look too long. Mercifully, there was no time. The fae king guided Aisling towards their spot around the circle, positioning her beside him. The predatory glint flashed in his Connemara eyes. Aisling still wasn’t certain what Lir’s intentions with her were. Just last night he’d confessed to not knowing himself. Described how he’d considered spilling her blood to rid himself of the encumbrance he believed her to be, torn between a supernatural bond and the responsibility to his kin.
Startled from her stupor, the drums stopped their beating.
Like ivory ships, three stags emerged from between the folds of mortals and fair folk, giant beasts, whose soaked pelts shimmered amidst the stormy haze, carrying their riders forward. Riders Aisling immediately identified as Blaine, Deidre, and Peitho at the center. The fae princess donned a similar beaded, crimson gown to the one Aisling had worn to her own union. Panels of sparkling stones and meshed lace. But where Aisling’s hemline finished just below her slippers, Peitho’s carried on, draping her stag in a cloak of red, plastering both its rump and thighs. And her veil, steeped in northern rain, stuck to her face before hanging from her shoulders. A crimson goddess, gliding forth on her ghost.
Dagfin stepped into the circle. His eyes pinned to Peitho. But where Aisling believed she’d find terror dwelling amidst the contours of his handsome face, she only found resolve. Purpose and courage. The eyes of a hunter.
The Roktan prince bowed his head, falling to one knee before Peitho’s great stag, the fabric of his sapphire trousers now steeped with mud. It was then Aisling wondered why Nemed had chosen Dagfin and not one of his own sons, or even Sim, to be married off in the name of Rinn Dúin. Why Feradach had ever agreed to this trade—Dagfin was the sole heir to the Roktan crown. If anything happened to him, Roktling would be left without a successor. The mortals were risking more than a princess this time. They were risking a crown.
This couldn’t be happening, Aisling thought to herself. Her chest splintered with every passing moment.
Peitho, Deidre, and Blaine dismounted from their stags, splattering mud onto nearby gowns and trousers. One by one they drew their weapons and staked them into the earth. Blaine, a spear. Deidre, two shortswords. And Peitho, a bronze greatsword. Aisling knew which blade was Peitho’s; it was obvious enough by its autumn-hued splendor. But even if one was aware of which weapon belonged to the bride or groom, still they would be incapable of selecting it if they weren’t caera . A phenomenon Gilrel had explained to Aisling several weeks after her union with Lir. Otherwise, Aisling would’ve been tempted to shout the correct response. To save her once-intended from an untimely death. But magic was particular. Magic was strict. Magic claimed what it desired and refused to compromise.
So, all Aisling could do was watch. Watch as Dagfin approached the line of weapons and considered each blade, tilting his head to the side as he inspected each finely crafted hilt, each sharply spun edge, every immaculate detail the Sidhe hammered into everything their graceful hands could craft. But he wouldn’t touch a single haft until he’d made his choice. To touch was to choose.
Aisling grew numb to the rain showering from above, folding her hands into fists and digging her nails into her palms. She turned to Feradach, his expression as hard and cold as the Ashild, holding his breath as Aisling held hers. Ciar’s teeth chattered as she embraced Sim. Clodagh wrapped in Iarbonel’s jacket and shadowed by the parasol. But more than the anxiety of the royal clanns caught Aisling’s attention. So too did the mortal sentinels unlatching their chains from their belts and unsheathing their weapons.
Aisling’s head spun, her stomach vaulting up her throat.
But before Aisling could think more of these armed mortal sentinels, a sudden burst of commotion erupted from the crowd. Aisling whipped her head back to Dagfin.
He’d chosen.
Aisling’s eyes grew wide as Dagfin’s fingers closed around the heavy haft of the spear.
He’d chosen wrongly.
Thunder clapped above. A boom that cloaked the maddened shrieks of Sidhe and mortals alike.
There were few seconds in Aisling’s life that felt longer than those that passed now. More agonizing than the ones that slipped from her hands, for she was powerless against what was to come. A beam swept Peitho’s expression, visible even beyond her veil, as she lifted her greatsword from the wet earth and raised it above her head. She was quick. Quicker than any mortal sentinel, guard, knight, or soldier Aisling had ever witnessed. As though she hurdled a gold star whose tail of fire could cut. Could joyously sever Dagfin’s head from his body.
Before Aisling could stop herself, she was stepping into the circle, reaching for Dagfin. But Lir caught her wrist and held her back. Just a step towards the Roktan prince and Aisling knew, even without Lir’s intervention, she hadn’t been fast enough to prevent any of this from happening.
Dread as black as an inky swamp flooded her. Drowned her and filled her lungs as tears flowed freely from her eyes.
But quicker than Peitho, quicker than even her blade, was Dagfin.
The Roktan prince fell to the earth the moment her sword was swung. She’d missed. Impossibly, she’d missed. And before Aisling could blink, Dagfin was on his feet, drawing three daggers from the bandolier strapped across his chest and tossing them towards the fae princess. One by one, like sparrows, they cleaved the rain, driving towards Peitho.
Aisling froze, paling as she processed what was unravelling. Desperately doing her best to move forward but Lir still held the mortal queen by the arms, preventing her from running towards the Roktan prince.
But the daggers didn’t find Peitho’s heart. They found another’s.
Galad stood before the fae princess, the knives stuck into his chest like a bloody star of undiluted iron.
Aisling fell to her knees. Lir still held her, pulling her away from the center of the circle.
Was he dead? Aisling thought to herself. For although such small amounts of undiluted iron could do little against a fae knight, how could one survive a dagger straight to the heart? A blade impeccably aimed and placed at the center of Galad’s core?
The mortal queen shook as Lir at last released her, Rian taking his place. But Aisling was already on her knees, wiping away her tears as she processed what was happening before her eyes. So, Rian knelt beside her, holding her close.
Lir approached Galad, pulling the daggers from his chest one by one. The way his expression warped with cold, silent rage, bidding his fae knights a silent, wordless command to stay still. To not unleash bedlam just yet. To not rip the mortals to shreds where they stood and leave their entrails for the Unseelie to scavenge. For those were the desires painted across Rian’s, Filverel’s, Hagre’s, Einri’s, Cathan’s, and Gilrel’s expressions. Every one of the fair folk simmering with white fury .
Peitho stood behind him, gawking, still clutching her blade in her hand. Galad had saved her life but her greatsword was still hungry. Still starved for the blood it felt it deserved. That the magic owed it. And once every shard of iron was removed from the fae knight’s chest, he bent his neck side to side, cracking his bones.
Galad was fine.
Aisling choked out of pure relief.
“I believed this was a duel to the death.” Nemed’s expression darkened, meeting the fae king’s eyes. “With no interference from either race.”
“Tricks,” Clodagh spat, rolling her pale hands into fists, “tricks are all they know and all they’ll ever be. You violated the sanctity of our agreement.”
“Sanctity,” Lir mocked, the surrounding woodland groaning as they tossed violently in the storm, at last coming alive. “Do not speak of sanctity to me, mortal. Your Faerak was never meant to win. No mortal is meant to survive a duel of magic. It goes against the law of your kind. Your blood.”
Lir had intended for Dagfin to die. Had wanted Dagfin to die.
Aisling shuffled through her emotions, desperately pushing them aside to see clearly through the veil of angry tears welling in her violet eyes.
“This was no duel then, was it? It was an execution of not only a mortal prince, but one I consider a son myself.” Nemed laughed, stepping into the circle. “I can’t say I don’t understand. I would’ve done the same for Aisling had it come to it. Prevented her from facing the wrath of your enchanted blades. And your ensuing rage would be worth every law broken.”
And at the mortal high king’s words, all eyes turned back to Lir. The fae king ground his teeth, his jaw flexing, as he spun Dagfin’s daggers between his fingers. Never once unleashing Nemed from his gaze. From his irate scrutiny. From the loathing oozing from every Sidhe who gathered their weapons in hand and prepared themselves to fight. It was a miracle in Aisling’s eyes they hadn’t already unleashed their otherworldly fury, dying this morning red.
“Your Faerak lost this duel the moment he accepted it.” Galad spoke, sword already drawn and poised to fight if it weren’t for Lir’s command to stand down. “It may be true that the fair folk assumed Peitho would defeat the mortal prince easily, but even if she didn’t, magic forbids a human victor.”
Peitho shifted, eyes lowering to the ground in shame. They’d all believed this was no duel but certain death for Dagfin. Hadn’t imagined the mortal prince was either Faerak or capable of matching the fae princess’s prowess in direct combat. But he had. The shy boy Aisling had once known was now something else entirely.
“The magic will reclaim what it believes it is owed,” Peitho said, eyes flitting towards Dagfin. “Your prince is cursed.”
Dagfin didn’t so much as flinch. Didn’t move or shrink from both the fair folk and mortals who regarded him with disbelief. With terror.
Nemed grinned but there was doubt inherent within every twitch of his expression. He was determined to not be outwitted, outsmarted, outplayed by his enemy. For this was how the mortals had dominated the fair folk for so long despite the Sidhe’s strength and draiocht and lifespans. Because the fire hand was cunning, clever, willing to make the choices no other king or man would to ensure the victory of his kind. To match the fair folk’s mischief and devilry with pranks of his own. And somehow, to Aisling’s surprise, Nemed had been outsmarted. Outmaneuvered by the most cunning of creatures to exist. For despite the mortal victory, Lir always knew magic would retaliate. When magic gives, it demands back
“What do you know of prophecies, fire hand?” Lir took several lethal steps towards Nemed, the air saturating with the fae king’s palpable bloodlust .
Nemed’s violet eyes glittered with amusement. “That they are self-fulfilled.”
Lir laughed, grinning like a wolf raising its head from carrion.
“There is a lady who wastes away in a cave, century after century weaving. Every thread a thread of fate.” The forest roared madly. “There are some who believe that once these threads are placed upon the spindle, woven and knotted together, there are none who can undo its tapestry. No mortal man nor Sidhe nor beast who can tear apart destiny and make of it that which pleases him. That we are all slaves to fate. Tell me, fire hand, do you agree?”
Aisling peered around the circle. Fair folk and mortals drenched in rain and hatred alike. And beyond their ring, were the mountains humming with energy, the fields flooding with rain, the forest thrashing from side to side. It was angry, echoing the wrath rippling off the fae king. For either intentionally or unintentionally, the forest was growing, its trees rising from the dirt, snapping their roots, and moving closer. Larger. The greenwood shadows moving and taking form. Hundreds of eyes peering back from the darkness, beyond the veil of rain and storm. The mortal destriers grew inconsolable. Aisling’s breath caught in her throat, choking on the words quickly becoming more than a nightmare.
The Unseelie. They were here. Lir had summoned them. Had already arranged for their arrival when she’d caught him the night prior amidst the pines. He’d planned for this. All of this. In the end, it hadn’t been the mortals who’d betrayed the alliance as Aisling had braced herself for. It was the Sidhe.
This was an ambush. A cornering of every mortal sovereign: tiarna, chieftain, king, and queen. The Unseelie were here to destroy all the mortal isles in one fell swoop. Their bipedal beasts—boars, bears, wolves, serpents—marching beside them, clad in complete armor and weaponry.
“No,” Nemed confessed, aware or unaware of the trap Lir had orchestrated, Aisling was unsure. Her tongue caught in her throat. Unsure whether she wished to snap her mouth shut or yell at the top of her lungs. “Man is indentured to no one and no thing.”
The Unseelie would leave no man alive. All bones would be sucked clean. Still, there was a glimmer of hope: there were more mortal sentinels here than fair folk, each cloaked in undiluted iron—potentially among them, more Faerak. Hunters that Nemed claimed killed Unseelie for sport.
And despite the fragile bond between Unseelie and Seelie, Aisling knew their newfound support was founded on Lir’s betrayal of the mortals. His deception, a declaration of the end to the treaty that had proven disadvantageous to the Sidhe’s sister race. A promise to slaughter every mortal sovereign in the name of the Sidhe. To keep his kin from the brink of extinction and the Unseelie fed. A retaliation against Danu’s prophecy.
“ You will lose this war .”
Words that had shattered the fae king’s world. The belief he’d lost Aisling as he’d once lost Narisea drove him further into madness. Had rendered any alliance or treaty or attempts at peace null and void. For where was the worth in risking his bond to the Unseelie for an alliance that would, according to Danu’s prophecy, inevitably end in his loss regardless? And despite the boiling of Aisling’s blood for his trickery, the very nature her father had forewarned, and she’d ignored, Aisling understood. Knew this war wouldn’t end in coexistence but in dominion. The strongest to rule them all.
“For once we agree.” Lir bore his fangs, eyes fixing upon Aisling with unparalleled triumph. The cord between them snapped to attention and nearly knocked the wind from her lungs. For there was a part of Aisling that felt no betrayal at all. That felt equal measure victorious because the Sidhe bore the advantage. The Seelie part of her rejoiced alongside the barbarian king while the human part mourned, stretched between two loyalties.
But whatever the mortals could achieve in their attempts for retaliation were rendered obsolete once the hordes of Unseelie unmasked themselves from the forest’s shadows. As the trees stretched and rose into the heavens with feral need. fomorians mounted on Cú Scáth, dryads leaping from the trees, goblins hobbling from their caves, and stranger, more frightening creatures slipping into the rain and into the open. Creatures Aisling had never heard of or seen before. All imbued with the draiocht and prepared to bloody the emerald pastures in which they all stood.
And once Nemed realized what Lir had done, how he’d indeed employed both mischief and trickery to obtain his wants, it was too late. His violet eyes widened the same moment Clodagh shrieked. The Unseelie stalked towards them from every direction, the growing trees, the groaning cliffs. Every mortal instinctively gasping, clutching their chests, fainting, or reaching for their weapons, backing away as their enemies surrounded them.
“Take the clann leaders and every woman and child!” Starn bellowed to a group of twenty or so sentinels, already ushering the high king and his lady towards various destriers prepped and ready to ride. Immediately, Starn had shifted into the soldier his father had bred him to be.
Aisling caught her father’s eyes as he was rushed away, Nemed’s expression a combination of both horror and violence. Of shock and dread. His lips parted, still processing what was rapidly unspooling. He, the near victor of a war he’d surrendered in the name of peace, his daughter the pawn he’d deemed valuable enough to purchase such harmony. All for naught.
In a panic, many mortals ran. Aisling cursed their foolishness. Horses for the lower-ranking nobles were gathered and mounts haphazardly prepared amidst the discord. The circle, the union, was swiftly dissolving, every mortal counting their breaths until they were far from this place. Their mares stomping, whinnying, bucking.
And as the Unseelie trudged closer and closer, Lir said nothing, his lips curled at the edges.
Filverel laughed as the mortals trampled one another, Galad positioned himself beside his king, Peitho searched the crowd for Dagfin––every member of the Sidhe drawing their weapons and deciding on their victims.
The forest loomed over all their heads. It twisted its branches to break loose its roots and march onward. Among them, a beast so large, so ancient, Aisling knew its name. Could feel the draiocht move through every vein within its ghostly figure. Something birthed from the Forge, before the mountains, before the rivers, before the seas. A child the gods named themselves. Had breathed with sighs of northern winds, the reflection of deep pools, the jewels of the earth itself, and a brush of draiocht . A creature birthed and cast to protect the greenwood. To cure those who lived within its agrestal bastion.
Leshy.
A colossal, phantom of a giant made in the image of man. His beard and hair tufts of glittering clouds, braided through with the spirit form of flowers and thorns and leafy ferns. Every step, vibrating through the earth, unbalancing the mortals.
But it was hardly Leshy Starn cared for as he raced towards where Galad stood, his blade in hand. Iarbonel, Fergus, Dagfin, and Annind scattered throughout the bedlam either defending themselves or attacking. Iron against magic. Mortal blood against fae breath .
Aisling swiveled, doing her best to make sense of the chaos, the clash of blades and shields, shrieks of the injured or dying, the stomp of Lir’s legions rising from the woodland, the tearing of the earth as his forest moved nearer. Mortals raced for their lives on horseback only to be trailed and tackled by packs of purple-skinned trolls.
Aisling inhaled a breath, the draiocht pushing at her throat to be released. But she couldn’t. Not here, not now. Her family battled around her and so did the Sidhe, a bloody mixing of her two worlds. To harm either would be to harm herself. For before her very eyes, Starn leapt into the air, lunging for Galad as the fae knight parried swiftly, the two of them locked blade to blade with violence in their eyes.
And if that weren’t enough to tear Aisling’s heart in two, Gilrel swept the feet of mortal sentinels with her small axe and brought them to their knees; Fergus jabbed at an armored bear who’d ridden with Aisling to the Snaidhm ; Iarbonel tangled with Tyr, and Annind dodged Filverel’s attempts, lifting his shield at the precise moment. But worst of all, Peitho held Dagfin pinned to the ground, her sword tracing a line of blood along the angles of his throat, both her boots nailing Dagfin’s hands to the ground.
Aisling shook her head, witnessing the tragedy and unable to act. Helplessly caught between two worlds, for to harm the Sidhe would make her new world more an enemy than it already was, and to harm the mortals would be to betray her own blood. Her childhood. One half of her heart.
Peitho lifted her sword above her head, beaming from ear to ear. She was seconds away from beheading the Roktan prince, at last, delivering to the magic what it demanded.
“No,” Aisling whispered breathlessly, picking up her feet and racing through the labyrinth of metal and mud and bodies and blood.
The fae princess whipped her head in Aisling’s direction the moment she emerged from the folds of battle, her temper flaring the moment their eyes met, and Peitho knew. Knew what Aisling had come to prevent. So Peitho drew a dagger with her free hand and flicked it in Aisling’s direction.
Dagfin screamed something unintelligible, but it mattered not, for the orchestra of battle muffled as the draiocht burst open its door and tore at Aisling until at last it was free.
Violet flames wrapped around Peitho’s dagger. It fell to the earth, no more than dust. Peitho glared at Aisling with both loathing and alarm. But it was too late for the fae princess. Aisling was already guiding the draiocht towards her, its flames enveloping her hands and crawling up her arms.
Peitho screamed as she staggered back, swatting at the fire uselessly. Her sword was a forgotten memory atop the red-soaked fields.
Immediately, Dagfin leapt to his feet. Their eyes met briefly, sparking, before reality struck once more. The Roktan prince knelt to the ground, retrieving whatever weapons he could from the bodies of the deceased piling around them, reaching for Aisling’s hand and racing through the madness with her a step behind.
“There are destriers just within that crevice of the crags as well as three sentinels. I had horses saddled last night and bid our men wait till this evening unknowing…” his words trailed off. Unknowing the Sidhe had prepared an ambush. Unknowing the Sidhe would fool them all into complacency.
But before Aisling could respond, a mortal man leapt for her. Dark eyes of abhorrence, wielder of a sword of undiluted iron. He cursed her as mortals cursed the Sidhe, spitting on her gown as he made to deliver her soul to the Other. A Tilrish soldier forge-bent on eliminating the once princess of his tuath. In his mind, such a woman was dead and gone. Nothing but a sorceress left in her wake.
The mortal queen gasped in horror, summoning the draiocht in a panic just as Dagfin turned to block the onslaught. None of their attempts mattered, however, for the mortal guard was brought to the earth by great serpents for roots, coiling around his iron-clad body and crushing his bones one by one.
Aisling lifted her eyes only to meet Lir’s from across the field.
His marvelous features were riddled with sweat, dirt, and the ichor of others. None of which rivalled the fury in his sage eyes that bid the grass below him to transform, to grow into a forest of its own. Giant yews sprouting between unassuming mortals and fair folk alike. This was impossible. Lir himself had deemed growing trees like this, growing a new forest, a dream but never reality. So how now, did he manage the strength to conjure so potently. To summon such wrath and vengeance, breathing it into the titan pines that burst from the earth. This was a new power. Something ancient. Something raw. Something Aisling and none of the Isles of Rinn Dúin had seen before.
“ Stay with me ,” the fae king whispered across the expanse, yet Aisling heard it as if it were spoken directly in her ear.
“Aisling,” Dagfin pulled her, his voice ragged with urgency as more trees burst from the earth, impaling mortal and Unseelie alike. But his voice was lost as he was tossed away from her, a new elm severing their hands and tearing she and Dagfin apart. For it was quickly becoming apparent Lir was forming a path. A path for her to walk towards him, undeterred by the mayhem around them. Rows of trees leading her towards the fae lord.
So, Aisling followed, defeating the distance that lay between them. Listening to the pull of the string beckoning her closer with every beat of their hearts.
The forest knelt around her, arching their great backs, like a counsel of trees, eclipsing the only light able to percolate through the dense layer of canopy. Encouraging her onward.
And once she was near enough, Lir held his hand out to her. A hand she accepted, despite her fury, every hair on her skin standing at attention.
“Some say the fair folk play tricks, spill mischief with a heavy hand.” Aisling spoke first, searching his eyes. Glittering, red-rimmed orbs of feral, lethal intent. The sort of violent madness that only death can stifle. Madness and longing. An insatiable desire stirred within him the moment their eyes met. The moment they touched. For indeed, Lir had not only retained fountains of information but deceived his bride alongside all others. Enough to harden Aisling’s heart and rue her naivety she’d so desperately believed no longer plagued her as it once had in Tilren.
“Those tales are all true,” he confessed, his voice thick, warming her flesh. He pulled her nearer. Together they both stood in a realm of their own. Away from the pandemonium hovering just outside their periphery. Inching nearer.
He leaned towards her, the threat of a smile on his lips. “Return with me, Aisling.”
“Our union was sworn in the spirit of an alliance, an alliance you’ve now betrayed.”
“Your kind traded you to the enemy like a prize mare, unable to wield a dagger, unable to speak our tongue, and uneducated in the true Lore, helpless, defenseless, and ignorant. But it was the Sidhe and their draiocht that made you powerful. Opened your eyes to that which your clann kept hidden from you. Taught you to be predator and not prey.” He wrapped his arms around her. “You belong amongst the Sidhe, Aisling. For you are no longer a princess of Tilren. You are something far more deadly.”
Aisling glanced over her shoulder. Dagfin fought his way in her direction, cutting down goblin after goblin like a violent star hurtling towards her.
Lir tightened his grip at the sight of him, a muscle flaring in his jaw.
Aisling shook her head. “I don’t belong anywhere. Not amongst mortals and not amongst the Sidhe.” She paused, considering before continuing. “There’s someone or something that has mentioned the coming of sorcerers, of mages, of witches and wizards. Words I’d never heard spoken till they fell from Danu’s lips. I must find this someone or something, discover what it is I’ve become or have always been.”
Lir’s expression hollowed, eyes glazing over, devoid of the sanity that tempered his rage. Danu’s prophecy and believing Aisling dead had killed the half of the fae king that embodied the stag. And now, Lir’s wolf was all that remained.
“I must go.”
For Aisling found she no longer cared for forgiveness. Forgiveness for either her family or the Sidhe. Whether they’d lied to her, traded her, used her as bait, insulted her, none of it mattered so long as she was powerful. So naturally, she couldn’t find it in herself to relent what little power she’d been given nor discard an opportunity to embolden such might. For power, magic, the draiocht could give her everything and anything she’d ever wanted.
Aisling now knew such desires came at a cost whether it be cruelty, pain, or suffering, and to pay them, to inflict them, was inevitable if she were to reign supreme. Ideals of goodness were as naive as she was once herself. For there was no such thing as good or bad. Only those who are powerful and those who are weak. Only those who eat and those who are eaten.
“Is this what you want?” His voice was calm, as ice-ridden as the highland woodlands.
Roots ruptured from the earth with greater zeal, showered them in mud, dirt, and grass. Darting towards the clouds with unmet rage.
“Aye, it is.” Aisling nodded, witnessing his jadeite orbs morph into the beast she’d seen a handful of times. That vacant, wicked glint transforming him. “In time, we’ll find one another once more. And perhaps then, we’ll be equally matched.”
For all that stood in the way of Aisling honing her newfound abilities, was knowledge of herself and her belonging. The legacy the Unseelie—the creature Dagfin claimed he’d encountered—had intimated she’d begin. She was on the cusp of power, and it drove her to such boldness. For once a taste was had, the appetite was insatiable.
“I swore an oath to you and such bargains amongst the Sidhe cannot be broken: a heart for a heart.”
“ By the Forge, I vow to you the first cut of my heart, the first taste of my blood, and the last words from my lips .” Aisling remembered the words, lighting the cord between them till it branded their souls. Knotting, groaning, straining painfully.
Lir hesitated for a moment, searching her expression. What he found, Aisling was unsure. But it mattered little.
He brought his lips to her own.
His kiss was hungry. The taste of a single drop on the forest’s tongue after years of drought. The cord between them unraveled, at last loosening, disentangling, slackening, as he wrapped his blood-stained arms around her and she him. The heat within her daring to flood the Isles of Rinn Dúin in waves of violet flame if she didn’t pull away, yet all the while forge-bent on one more moment of this dark indulgence. For she felt his fangs against her tongue and knew he tasted her blood. Knew he wanted more but couldn’t have it. Perhaps ever. A thought that maddened the fae king. Made the draiocht coursing through him, spark her in return. Flow through her. A sensation she indulged. Relished. That overwhelming magic: primeval, old, all-knowing, and all-wanting. But the pocket of time they’d forged for themselves could no longer withstand the chaos that surrounded them.
So, Aisling at last tore herself away, summoning the draiocht as mightily as she was capable. Caring little for the guilt that would’ve once eaten her alive at the notion of embracing he who wished to slaughter her kind. Lir had been right. Had always been right. The strong rose on the failures of the weak. A fair game of strength, victory, and loss.
A wall of fire formed just as Lir reached out for her, unwilling or unable to release her.
“A heart for a heart,” she repeated, through the veil of the torchlit wall. But Lir’s expression spoke for itself, one that forced the rock-faced cliffs to their knees, re-energized the Unseelie, maddened the fair folk and their bipedal beasts. For he may have outwitted the mortals, ensnared much of her kind’s most prominent leaders, but he hadn’t won everything. And Aisling had. Relishing in the taste of her freedom, her agency apart from the ownership of others. Either Tilren’s or Annwyn’s.
“Stay,” he whispered one last time.
In answer, Aisling stepped back, every step away from him fraying the cord between them.
She ran. Turned her back on her husband and sprinted towards her freedom. One day, they’d meet again, and she anticipated the day near as much as the day she learned of herself and her newfound fate. Her heart was bound to the fae king either by magic spells, cords of destiny, or something else. Something greater, that much she knew. For Aisling and Lir’s future were woven by the lady. Intricate tapestries whose tales were knit tightly together. Needlework already sewn into the fabric of the stars.
So, she’d dream of him till once more they met.
And as though it were nothing more than a whisper. As though it were a voice in her own mind, Aisling heard him. Heard his voice slither through her as she ran farther into the bedlam.
“ Very well. Then I’ll hunt you down .”