Chapter II
CHAPTER II
The fair folk drank and danced wildly. Aisling blushed at the sight of the females twirling barefoot in the fields, much of their skin exposed to the crisp evening air. Their hair hung loose, weaved through with satin ribbons, flowers, nuts, and pinecones. Flora that resembled jewels rather than scraps from the forest.
The fae males removed their armor and danced alongside them, singing, flirting, sparring playfully. They grabbed one another’s hands and formed a circle, twirling to the beat of the drum and the melody of the flute. They were the heathens Nemed had always described them to be, their flesh glimmering with sweat and the intricate tattoos said to describe their conquests, the countless human lives they’d stolen and left piled on battlefields.
The mortals, on the other hand, sat proudly at their tables, too afraid or too disgusted by the Aos Sí to participate in the revelry, Aisling was unsure.
Clann Neimedh were not the only mortals in attendance. So too had the nobles of the other northern mortal kingdoms—Kinbreggan, Aithirn, and Roktling—travelled to attend the union of the fae king and mortal princess. Kings, chieftains, their brides, and queens. The countries comprising the Northern Isles known as Rinn Dúin. Even Dagfin, the prince of Roktling, once intended to marry Aisling when she came of age, was here. But war had changed such negotiations. War had changed everything.
Nemed and Clodagh had stuck close to Aisling until now, shoulder to shoulder, soaking in their last moments with their daughter. Of course, neither said more than a few words. The silence was heavy and cruel. For her mother and father bereaved their daughter’s still-beating heart, a Tilrish heart of iron and stone traded into the hands of the fae. But such proximity was short-lived, for every mortal monarch of the isles wished to speak with their high king and queen. And so Nemed and Clodagh obliged. Aisling was accustomed to such duty; it was, after all, for all of the mortal sovereigns, all of the North, all of mankind, that Aisling had wed the fae king.
“I ensured a means for you to write while you’re…away,” Iarbonel said, taking their father’s place beside his sister at the dining tables. Annind settled into his mother’s seat. Both Starn and Fergus, on the other hand, stood a pace away from the circle of fae dancers, studying the fair folk, for Fergus had scarcely seen the enemy up close. Starn was the only one amongst her siblings who accompanied Nemed on all his expeditions, dangerous or otherwise.
Aisling didn’t blame her brothers’ fascination. As wild as the Aos Sí may be, they were undoubtedly lovely. Still, no mortals dared join in the revelry. They either sat or stood stiff-backed, fearing for their lives should they inhale too deeply.
“Thank you,” was all Aisling could think to respond, her words more clipped than she’d intended.
“It doesn’t need to be said but I’ll say it regardless: you’re doing a courageous thing, Ash. For Clann Neimedh and all the North. Perhaps beyond,” Iarbonel continued, his eyes flicking to Nemed. Iarbonel was the third eldest son and perhaps the kindest of the four. “Here. Consider this a wedding gift from Starn, Fergus, Annind, and myself. But don’t show Father,” he said, a familiar mischief lacing his words. Her brother pulled from a strap across his tunic an iron dagger with a twisted onyx hilt, embellished with a pommel in the shape of a fist gripping a single, large ruby.
Aisling gasped at the sight of it. Iarbonel had taught Aisling how to use a dagger when they were children. All weapons forged in Tilren and in the mortal kingdom were done so with undiluted iron, the only substance known to wound or kill a member of the fair folk.
“Where did you get that?” Aisling said, perhaps too loud, for Annind nervously shushed her, watching Nemed and Clodagh from the corner of his eye as he’d done a thousand times before, while they snuck coins from their father’s desk drawers, let the wolfhounds loose during Clodagh’s tea, or stayed up past their bedtimes reciting outlandish and inappropriate tavern songs beneath their covers.
“Fergus borrowed it from Father’s weapons chamber,” Iarbonel said.
Aisling took the dagger, inspecting it just below the table. Low enough that none could see but herself and her brothers.
“He’ll hardly notice it’s missing.”
At that Annind scoffed, crossing his arms. Hardly a mouse skittered through Castle Neimedh that Nemed wasn’t aware of.
Aisling admired the pommel, stroking the ruby enclosed in the fist. It was a symbol for mankind. The crest of the mortals. An image that described how man, in the beginning of all things, had been born of nothing, had made themselves from nothing, had carved themselves into the earth from nothing. The ruby was the fire with which they did so, a fire firmly clutched in the hands of mankind. There were no gods or religion. Only man and man alone had risen of their own strength and of their own power. This symbol was a rejection of the lies spewed by the Forbidden Lore. Of the beliefs of the Aos Sí. Even if some of their myths and legends still snuck their way into modern man’s fireside tales .
“I hope you won’t need it but, just in case, we thought you might make use of it. If nothing other than to remind you of home,” Iarbonel said, closing Aisling’s hand over the hilt. His voice shook slightly. Aisling didn’t need to meet his eyes to know he was afraid for her. Who knew what would become of her now that she belonged to the fae? There wasn’t an aspect of this agreement that didn’t endanger Aisling, but it was a sacrifice all of the North, her clann, and her family were eager to make if it meant sparing their people from further conflict.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Aisling said, steadying her voice.
“It’s best you keep it a secret,” Iarbonel added, and Aisling understood. She couldn’t imagine solid iron was welcomed amongst the Aos Sí, especially when wielded by a mortal.
“Even from your”—Iarbonel tripped over his tongue, swallowing whatever twisted his tongue––“your husband.”
Husband . Aisling’s eyes drifted towards the fae king. Her stomach flipped at the sight of him, forcing herself to clench her fists around the hilt of the dagger lest they began to shake. And as if he had sensed her attention, their eyes met. His lips parted, those green irises glimmering in the starlight like Clodagh’s drawers of polished jade. He’d removed much of his armor, but his axes remained strapped against his back. Those primordial blades perhaps cast in the Forge of Creation itself if such a myth were anything more than that: a myth.
“What would’ve become of me?” Aisling blurted. Iarbonel and Annind shifted in their seats on either side of her. “What would’ve become of me if I’d selected the wrong weapon? During the ceremony?”
Annind followed her gaze and found the fae king across the way, his axes winking back.
“It’s an ancient fae tradition,” Annind began, his voice hesitant. “All unions of their kind participate in a similar test.” Yes, Aisling already assumed all of that.
“But what would’ve occurred had I failed?” Aisling insisted. Annind clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly as if convincing himself and failing to tell his sister no more.
“If you chose the wrong blade, you’d have been beheaded,” Annind said, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. “Normally, if the fair folk bride fails, they engage in combat to the death. In your case, considering you are mortal and bear no ability to duel, you would’ve been executed near instantly.”
“It never would’ve come to that,” Iarbonel spat, shooting daggers at his brother with his crow-like gaze. An onyx hue each of the brothers had stolen from Clodagh upon birth.
Annind ignored him, cursing beneath his breath.
“The Aos Sí believe their sword or weapon of choice is similar to a limb but not a corporeal one. A limb of the soul. True mates can identify their partner’s soul based on the weapons they wield, said to be inextricably tethered to their heart. For a king, the practice is taken more seriously,” Annind attempted to clarify. To justify.
“It’s nothing more than superstition. Even us mortals have traditions we follow out of habit rather than pure belief. Primitive really,” Iarbonel said, running his fingers through his dark hair. Hair as black as Aisling’s.
“Did Father know?” Aisling asked, turning to face Iarbonel. Her brother avoided her eyes, instead exchanging glances with Annind. But that was answer enough. Aisling knew Nemed and Clodagh would place the North above all else, even their children, but to experience such fealty first hand was more painful than she’d anticipated.
And as if prompted by her thoughts, Nemed stood from his seat and raised a goblet. The fae king, aware of the gesture, quieted his people without so much as a word, and the celebration dissolved into silence, all eyes pinned to the mortal high king of the Isles of Rinn Dúin, as well as the Sovereign of Tilren.
“I speak for each of the mortal northern lords when I say we are honored to have participated in the first union between the Aos Sí and our kind. May such a marriage lead to peace between our races in the north.” Nemed glared at the fae king, narrowing his eyes. “May we set an example to the rest of the world.”
Perhaps only Aisling, who noted her father’s strange intonation as he spoke those last words, recognized his toast as the threat that it was. She found the fae king in the crowd, a cool smile spread across his face, either unfazed or unaware of her father’s passive aggression. But she shouldn’t be surprised. The Aos Sí and mortals were natural enemies. Not even a political union could change that.
The kings and queens, chieftains and chiefesses, lords and ladies of Kinbreggan, Aithirn, and Roktling stood from their seats and raised their goblets. Some more capable of hiding their fear than others, steadying their hands and willing the wine not to leap over the brim.
“To the end of bloodshed!” the Bregganite king shouted, tipping back his goblet and downing its contents. He was the eldest mortal sovereign, all his sons having died of a disease born from the lack of fresh food and the increasingly squalid state of the mortal world after centuries of ongoing war with the Aos Sí. Even the mortal kingdoms still standing strong feared venturing too far into the wilderness to hunt or gather lest they be set upon by fair folk. For this reason, Tilren struggled to bring in enough meat, grains, fruits, and vegetables for the entirety of the kingdom to eat their fill. That was why Nemed had begun spreading his walls, claiming more and more of the wilderness, burning trees, laying waste to the wilds. So that he could harbor more cattle and farmland within the protection of mortal walls. A gesture met with the fair folk’s fury.
The fae king and his warriors raised their goblets before he tipped his head to the mortal monarchs. Grinning, he drank. His feral subjects followed his lead, the music prompting their continued debauchery. After all, both the Aos Sí and mortals had thoroughly inspected all wines, meads, and foods present at the festivities for poison or mischief of any sort. Even the grounds were finely combed through for traps should either race choose to take back their word.
But Aisling’s mind drifted elsewhere.
For a warlord, the fae king was beloved by his subjects. Beloved and feared. Aisling had seen first hand the sort of power her father collected through a similar sort of fear, a merciless ruling hand. Ruthless yet effective. But Nemed wielded such authority through the instillment of obedience, cultivating a civilization of order, efficiency, and harmony. Nothing like these anarchic barbarians. Wild, ages-old beasts in the form of breathtaking men and women, Aisling now realized.
But the fae king’s knights also talked freely around and to him, addressing him like a friend. A comrade. One who had fought battles by his warriors’ sides, a strange fae practice Aisling was realizing, for in the mortal realm, kings strategized from their castles, their camps, dueling only when necessary to protect the crown and royal legacy. Especially those with iron legs.
The fae king matched his subjects’ energy, laughing and drinking alongside them. Indulging, far more than was proper of a nobleman, much less a king. And even from a distance, even over the roar of the drums and the music, Aisling could hear his laugh, drawing her back to him. She studied the fine lines of his jaw, his markings wrapped around his forearms like serpents, disappearing under the white of his shirt. By now, he’d stripped away his armor, revealing the tall, slender yet muscular form of himself. Every one of his movements, despite the countless bottles of wine he’d unstoppered, was performed with a grace-like elegance Aisling envied.
It went without saying, he was not the brute Aisling had anticipated physically. Not the monstrous abomination she’d heard in the tales before bed. But those were the most dangerous sort of creatures, the lovely ones.
Just as Aisling intended to turn away, she realized the fae king had caught her staring. The princess’s heart stuttered. His sage-green eyes watched her, a roguish grin sweeping his handsome features. There was something about the shadows in his eyes, the way he undressed her body and soul. Herself, the sole subject of his gaze. A feral devil intrigued by the perfume of her cold fear, her hot blood, the sweat pearling across her skin.
“Aisling,” a familiar voice sounded from behind, tearing her from her reverie. “I’ve caught you at last.” Dagfin, prince of Roktling, greeted the princess with a bow. Her heart twisted the moment their eyes met, a combination of guilt and relief washing over her. The mere sight of the prince disarming the spell the fae king had woven. A gesture for which Aisling was eternally grateful.
Iarbonel and Annind exchanged knowing glances before standing from their chairs and taking their leave, allowing Dagfin and Aisling some privacy. But Aisling knew this was also an excuse for them to join the rest of her brothers, observing the festivities more closely.
“For the moment,” Aisling said, gesturing for Dagfin to sit beside her. Already, Aisling noticed the prince had changed since they were children, sneaking from their rooms in the dead of night. For indeed it had been several years since she’d last seen the prince. Although, he still bore that boyish tousle of locks, thick dark brows, and a scar along his knuckles, a result of Aisling attempting to practice Iarbonel’s lessons on her only friend. He was taller now, his shoulders broader, his features more pronounced. No longer was he the boy that tugged at her braids when she’d fallen asleep during their lessons.
“How are you faring, Ash?” He hesitated, uncertainty clouding his expression. “I suppose I should address you differently now, Your Majesty ,” he said, tilting his head forward.
Aisling smiled. “Nonsense, I preferred it when you called me a spoilt child all those years ago.”
“That name suited you then as this new title suits you now.” He watched her closely. He’d always looked at her like that––as though she were an uncharted sea, waiting to be explored. That was Dagfin’s nature. Perpetually in pursuit of an adventure to whisk him away from his princely duties. To distract him from the crown that would inevitably sit on his head.
Nevertheless, Dagfin had matured since she’d last laid eyes on him. Last held his hand and cried when he’d left for Roktling once more. He’d been nothing more than a boy then. Not the man that sat beside her now. A man whose eyes had darkened, something strange skewing the curve of his smile.
“I’m not your queen,” Aisling said, her smile fading as she shifted her attention to the throng of fair folk celebrating with renewed energy, stomping their feet, singing wildly, hollering, cheering, dancing like animals. Their bodies pressed so near together. Aisling’s hands grew slick around her dagger, folded away in her skirts. “I’m theirs,” she said, meeting the prince’s eyes.
A muscle flickered across Dagfin’s jaw. That unfamiliar, untapped anger swimming in the oceans of his eyes. Eyes that never strayed from Aisling’s own, searching her with an intensity she’d never grow accustomed to.
“You shouldn’t be.” And, although he hadn’t fully expressed it, Aisling knew what he meant: she should be his queen. A queen of Roktling, ruling over the coastal kingdom when the day came for Dagfin to inherit his own father’s throne. Their marriage would’ve been prompted by politics, just as the one she’d now undergone had been. Nevertheless, there’d been a comfort in knowing she’d one day marry an old friend and now guilt that they hadn’t. That she’d wed another before his very eyes. Perhaps Dagfin felt similarly.
“Your father is wrong for this.” He’d said it so abruptly, Aisling straightened, startled.
“You shouldn’t speak that way about Nemed. Not here. Not anywhere. It doesn’t matter if you’ve sailed the eleven seas, he’d punish you for such a tongue.”
“I’m not worried about Nemed. Because of this”—Dagfin gestured towards the celebration spinning around them—“he can burn in the Forge for all I care.”
Out of habit, Aisling’s eyes darted towards her father, afraid he might overhear their conversation. Thankfully he was far enough away, their voices cloaked by the revelry and music. Still, Aisling was well aware Nemed bore eyes and ears in all corners. Even if one believed themselves to be entirely alone.
“And you, Aisling,” Dagfin continued, “the days of running from your father’s scoldings are done and gone. He’ll pale in comparison to your enemies going forward. You mustn’t hesitate to defend yourself, protect yourself, find ways to survive amongst them.”
“The peace contract ensures my safety?—”
“Enough of contracts, of peace treaties, of political alliances. Your journey from here on out cannot rely on the words of kings written in the name of power.” Dagfin moved closer to her, anger carving out every inflection. “I’ve spent this last year searching for a way out of this for you, and in this effort I’ve failed you.”
“Fin—”
“If you ever feel you’re in danger, if ever you need an escape, Ash, write to me. I’ll find a way. I offered to run away with you once and you denied me; that offer still stands, will always stand.”
Aisling stared at her friend, searching—despite not knowing quite what she was searching for. These words were blasphemous to Tilren, to Nemed, to all of the North, and any effort to spare Aisling from committing this sacrifice was an effort in vain.
And despite all the thoughts, feelings—rage, regret she’d never consciously acknowledged—drowning Aisling’s lungs, all she managed was, “This is my duty, Fin.”
And indeed, it was her duty, her purpose, to ensure the union between fair folk and mankind remained intact until the day she died. The marriage hadn’t been her choice, but this was the circumstance she’d been dealt. She could—she would––make her tuath proud and all of Rinn Dúin.
Dagfin’s expression twisted as if Aisling had cursed his name. As though she’d rebuked him and all their experiences lived together thus far. An urge to reach out to him tugged at her heart. She wanted to cradle his cheek with the palm of her hand, but she sat still. Arms suddenly as heavy as the monoliths that surrounded them.
“So be it,” Dagfin said, his voice frosted over like the Roktan shores come winter. Cold enough to send a shiver down Aisling’s spine.
Before she could respond, Dagfin looked past the princess. His eyes narrowed, expression darkening as he considered a figure approaching from behind. Somehow angrier than it had been moments before. The fae king was nearing, pacing forward like a wolf pads across the forest floor. He ignored the prince, his knowing eyes searching Aisling’s own then dropping to the little space left between herself and Dagfin.
Instinctively, Aisling leaned away from the Roktan prince. Was such nearness just as inappropriate amongst the Aos Sí as it was amongst the mortals? Dagfin and Aisling were only friends, childhood playmates. They’d even held hands since they were toddlers, but the fae king wasn’t aware of such history.
Before Aisling could utter a word, Dagfin was standing. Aisling’s stomach plummeted. He placed his body between the fae king and Aisling, sheltering her from the barbarian stepping any nearer.
The fae king dragged his eyes from Aisling’s to Dagfin’s, the corners of his lips curling in amusement. And as they stood face to face, the attention of the surrounding fair folk, as well as Starn, Iarbonel, Annind, and Fergus, slowly gravitated towards the Roktan prince and fae king.
“Step aside, princeling.” The fae king’s voice was deep, every word dripping with his fae accent. Aisling considered this demon more closely. She had assumed the Aos Sí knew little if not nothing of her language. A barrier she’d dreaded until now. But she’d been wrong. The fae king spoke her tongue confidently, even more beautifully than herself.
Dagfin didn’t waver. Rather held the fae king’s gaze as he spoke. “Save your commands. You’re no king in these parts and certainly no king of mine.”
The fae king’s emerald eyes glittered with mischief, his mouth tearing into a sardonic grin. The sight of which unnerved Aisling, the image of a wolf baring its fangs.
“It wouldn’t take a title to bring you to your knees, princeling,” the fae king replied, the axes crossed behind his back glinting with promise.
The surrounding fae knights as well as Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, and Annind inched closer, hands drifting towards the hafts of their weapons. Their rising anxiety was palpable in the evening wind. As for Dagfin, he may have outwardly appeared unfazed, but Aisling knew the signs of his cleverly masked fury, the slow closing and opening of his hands at his sides. A gesture followed by many a fight with the boys who’d teased Aisling as a child for her height, her lack of strength, her temper.
“M’ Lord,” Aisling interjected, rising to her feet and stepping forward. She now stood a shoulder before Dagfin, her friend’s reluctance to allow her to do so thick in the silence that lingered after she’d spoken.
Immediately, all eyes shifted towards the mortal queen. The fae knights. Aisling’s brothers. She’d addressed the fae king, bowing her head so her crown of braids glittered in the firelight overhead. The demon considered her with those gleaming eyes.
Aisling’s pulse quickened, hands slick despite the cool evening breeze. For without another glance at the Roktan prince, the fae king closed the distance between himself and her. Every step nearer, testing Dagfin’s impulsive will to fight. But he couldn’t stop this union from occurring nor proceeding. No one could. Their marriage sealed in the blood they’d shared from a single goblet.
“ Rá an t-amt ragtha done lúra a raoire a thógáil! ” A member of the fair folk shouted across the celebration, gesturing towards the fae king and Aisling, now positioned at the head of the dining table.
“It’s time for our king and queen to take their leave,” Annind translated for the mortal guests. The bitterness in his voice matched the expressions of her brothers. But nothing compared to the intemperate storm gathering behind the glint in Dagfin’s eyes.
At the very least, both her brothers’ hands and those of the nearby fair folk had lowered from their weapons, now hanging at their sides, bottled anger curling their fingers into fists.
Aisling willed herself steady, for her knees not to quiver, accepting the fae king’s outstretched hand. She winced as their flesh made contact, nevertheless, allowing him to guide her from the tent, spilling with fair folk and mortals alike. Tucking the dagger Iarbonel had gifted her into her sleeve and stifling her fear.
Aisling dared not glance back at her old friend, but she could feel the pressure of Dagfin’s regard as she lengthened the distance between them. Had he expected her to say goodbye? To match his fury and provoke the savage lord she’d been traded to? Aisling knew this wasn’t wise, yet her heart stretched and cleaved in two the moment she stepped away from Dagfin and didn’t look back.
The rest of the Aos Sí cheered, banging their fists atop the tables. Stomping their feet and shaking the foundation of the tent in which they all stood.
“ Rabhair aoidhre dúinn! ” The Aos Sí shouted, growing louder the longer they sang. A musicality to their tongue Aisling’s mortal language couldn’t boast.
Against her own volition, Aisling sought out Annind for a translation, but he shied away from her glance. If that was the case, perhaps she was better off not knowing.
The fae king led his new queen towards the cluster of smaller tents and away from the hordes of people. He laughed and waved at his subjects, but Aisling wanted nothing less than to meet either Nemed or Clodagh’s gaze for fear of what she might find. Not even her brothers’ gaze. Grief, sorrow, fury would do little to save the Northern Isles. So, she turned her back to the festivities and allowed the king to tear her away from the rest of the world, from the life she’d lived thus far. For even if he hadn’t devoured her physical body, he’d gutted her, heart and soul.