The Hopeless Romantic's Anthology of Enchantment

’Tis pity he’s an elf | Jen Williams

’TIS PITY HE’S AN ELF

By

JEN WILLIAMS

The two figures stood alone on the hilltop; graceful, lovely, hesitant.

A herd of unicorns grazed nearby, their silver horns pointed at the lush grass, while the three autumn moons hung in the sky above them, casting a soft golden light over everything.

The scent of roses was heavy on the breeze; red and pink rose petals had been scattered anywhere the prince and his potential bride might step.

It was breathtaking, even if Molly said so herself.

She was watching from a copse of stately oak trees with the rest of the staff, safely hidden from the figures on the hill.

Her mistress looked as beautiful as Molly had ever seen her, the dress they had chosen soaking up the moonlight and giving her an ethereal glow; her auburn hair, which Molly had washed and brushed herself that afternoon, was loose over her shoulders and slightly wavy.

Molly was proud of that wave. It had taken hours to achieve.

The elf prince, she reluctantly conceded, also looked a picture; his own hair was as silver as the unicorns’ horns, and he cut a fine figure in deep indigo velvet, a splash of yellow silk at his throat.

They came a step closer, the elf prince and the human maiden.

Molly couldn’t tell if they were speaking to each other, but she imagined the elf prince murmuring his appreciation of her mistress’ beauty.

Her mistress, being who she was, would toss her hair and give him a bold look, daring him to say more.

This was the first time they had laid eyes on each other, and first impressions counted.

One of the unicorns began to cough.

Molly glanced at the two figures on the hill.

It didn’t look like they had noticed. Belatedly, she realised they should have organised music of some kind, an orchestra hidden in the wood perhaps, and then the unicorns could cough all they liked and it wouldn’t matter.

Instead, there was just the pure silence of a warm autumn night.

The unicorn coughed again, louder this time, tossing its head and taking a few steps backwards. The elf prince looked up, and Molly’s mistress looked aggrieved; even at this distance, Molly recognised the little line of displeasure that had appeared on her forehead.

“Shit.”

The elf prince’s staff were standing a polite distance away, their eyes all trained on the hill. Molly peeled away from her colleagues – all of them rigid with horror – and approached the prince’s chief manservant.

“What is going on with your unicorns?” she hissed.

The troubled unicorn had started making a wheezing, gargling noise, its nostrils flaring. When they weren’t posing, it was remarkable how much unicorns looked like highly strung horses with a coat of paint on them.

“How should I know?” The manservant had pointed ears like his master, but that was where the resemblance ended; he had a mop of brown hair that fell untidily to one side, wide brown eyes, and increasingly pink cheeks. “They’ve never done this before.”

“Well, they’re doing it now.” Molly jabbed a finger at the hill, where her mistress was standing with her arms crossed over her chest while the elf prince’s attention was entirely taken by the choking unicorn.

“You were in charge of the wild animals, we were in charge of the ambiance – rose petals, glowing dress, and whatnot.”

“Wait, did you say rose petals?” The manservant looked pained. “We don’t have roses in our realm. The unicorns are probably allergic.”

“Allergic bloody unicorns?” Molly bit her lip, aware that her voice was getting louder. With effort, she reduced it to a whisper. “Do you have any idea how much is at stake here?”

The manservant scowled at her. “Of course, I do, mortal. More so than you, I expect.”

Instinctively, both of them looked up to the sky.

In the space between the three autumn moons, there was a shimmering fissure of green light: this was the Emerald Portal, a magical gate that had stood open between the realms of mortal and faerie for many hundreds of years.

It was through the Emerald Portal that all trade was conducted: countless gems, grain, magical items, legal agreements and people passed back and forth through it.

Fortunes and lives were built around the portal, and despite everyone’s best efforts, it was now gradually closing.

Such a thing would herald a new dark age for both realms; humans would have to make do without the elaborate magics of the fae, relinquish their love of elvish wines and all the eerie colours that could not exist without them; the elves would have to give up the robust meats and cheeses that humans crafted, the unique metals that obeyed the reliable rules of science rather than the unpredictable rules of magic; they would lose the passion and drive of human workers, farmers, lawyers and engineers.

Faced with such a dark prospect, a prophecy had been extracted from a great elven oracle: it told of a love between the noblest elf of all the fae, and a mortal woman of faultless ambition and peerless intelligence.

It would be a love so powerful it could shake the stars from the sky.

Only this, the truest love that had ever existed, would be powerful enough to hold the Emerald Portal open.

Naturally, such a thing couldn’t be left up to chance.

“We should have brought musicians,” said Molly, dragging her eyes away from the shimmering lights in the sky. “What about you lot? Can any of you play the fiddle?”

“It’s too late,” said the manservant. He nodded towards the hill. “The ambiance has been lost.”

The elf prince was walking away from Molly’s mistress, heading down the hill.

The other animals had moved away from the wheezing creature, leaving it in a lonely circle.

As they watched, the unicorn lowered its head and made a series of odd, shuddering motions, pausing periodically to bare its teeth.

The prince lifted his head and seemed to catch their eye. He waved at them, raising his voice.

“Tristaine? Tristaine!” He pointed at the creature with his free hand. “I think this unicorn is being sick! Is that meant to happen?”

The manservant wearily raised a hand in reply. “No, Your Highness! It really isn’t!” He turned back to Molly. “I hope you’ve got some good ideas for the second date.”

* * *

“What about gifts? Everyone likes gifts.”

Tristaine picked up the silver coffee pot and poured two fresh cups.

He and Molly had taken over one of the palace’s many kitchens for their planning session, gradually covering the battered kitchen table with pieces of parchment; many of them now sported coffee rings.

This was the sugar tart kitchen, the kitchen only used when Prince Eianor had a fancy for such treats, and since the prince generally preferred hot desserts in autumn it was currently a cool, quiet space that smelled faintly of caramel.

“Sure. She’s picky though, I should warn you.” Molly paused and yawned hugely. Her dark curly hair was falling in her eyes.

“We’ll start with something simple, then.

” Tristaine took a sip of his coffee, which was as black as night.

“Your classic romantic gifts. For example, flowers. We can arrange for a thousand bouquets to be placed in her room, blooms selected from across the entire faerie realm. We might not have roses here, Molly, but we have so many other spectacular flowers, secret blossoms from the heart of the Lavendar Wood that have magical properties.” He smiled, warming to his subject.

“There’s the spiderweb foxglove that summons music to your dreams, or the forgive-me-not, which produces a scent that conjures your most treasured memory, whatever that might happen to be.

We could gather all of them together and cover every inch of the guest wing in flowers. ”

“Flowers won’t work,” said Molly. She was sat forward, her hands wrapped around the coffee cup. She was wearing her simple grey serving dress, a pin of orange glass at the breast indicating that she was a member of Lady Amber Ironheart’s staff.

“Why not?”

Molly sighed. “Amber grew up in an orphanage. They had the children doing all sorts of jobs to earn pennies. One of them was flower-arranging.”

Tristaine raised his eyebrows. “Truly?”

“She’s very twitchy about flowers now,” Molly continued.

“If she has a bouquet of flowers in her rooms, she’ll either try to rearrange it, or become very broody about her past, staring gloomily out of windows and so on.

To be honest with you, even the rose petals were a risk.

” She shivered, and rubbed her arms briskly.

The dress had short sleeves; Tristaine could see the scattering of freckles over the tops of her forearms. “What about the prince?” asked Molly.

“We could forge him an exquisite sword. A legendary blade. We have a man in our smithy who has travelled all over the mortal realm, has learned every kind of sword-making there is. He can fold the metal so many times it creates this beautiful silver shimmer within it, like the grain in a piece of wood.” She smiled faintly.

“His swords are so sharp, so finely balanced, warriors travel across the world just to see them, let alone wield them. For Prince Eianor, we will have him craft his masterwork.”

Tristaine winced. “The prince cannot be trusted around sharp objects.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You have to understand, he’s a dreamer.

Easily distracted. There was an incident in the armoury a few years ago while the prince was trying to impress a visiting dignitary from one of our neighbouring kingdoms…

And, uh, well, a war was only narrowly avoided.

” He took another sip of his coffee. “Eianor gave away all his weapons after that. We’re forbidden to speak about it, or even mention swords in his presence. ”