“I know,” the ancient replied as if reading her mind. She tapped a bent finger on a wrinkled cheek. “I may be one hundred and …”
“… three,” Lana offered.
“What?”
“You are one hundred and three summers.”
“I know how old I am,” the ancient grumbled. “Now, what did I want to say? Ah, I may be one hundred and three summers, but my fey sight remains strong. This gift be from our fey brethren.”
“I know.”
“It allows me to see shapes and movement; otherwise I would be walking into trees and tumbling into lochs.”
“I know,” Lana repeated patiently.
Empty eye sockets crinkled in merriment. “Now tell me, why does he interest you?”
Lana shrugged. “He is different, ancient.”
“Different how?”
She wished the druidess would keep her voice down. Taking a moment to stem the flow of her tumultuous thoughts, Lana found she could not describe what she felt and instead blurted, “He looks perfect.”
“You think so, do you?” The druidess laughed and Lana quickly motioned her to lower her tone.
The druidess nodded and then whispered, “I would not call him perfect, young Lana. His voice is too deep.”
“Nay, ‘tis not.”
“His hands and feet look a wee bit large, methinks.”
She shrugged. Mayhap. “His eyes are the pale gray color …
“… of rainstorms,” the ancient continued with hushed gaiety.
“Aye,” Lana answered in all seriousness. “And his ways are different than ours, too.”
“This be true, yet has he not earned honor among us?”
“Aye,” Lana acknowledged easily, having seen the quickness and strength of his battle skills.
“What else be bothering you about him, young Lana?”
She took a breath. “Derina, a warrior does not work on a farm.”
“That one does.”
The druidess made her answer sound so simple. Lana pointed over her shoulder. “He stands in the rain unclothed.”
“Mayhap he needs a bath.” Leaning heavily on the walking stick, the ancient looked around her, lips curving in what seemed to Lana a bold appreciation indeed.
“I have decided the shape of those hands and feet be perfect. Our fey brethren could not have crafted a finer male form.” The ancient laughed softly at a secret known only to her. “Do you wish to discuss another part of him then?”
Lana shook her head self-consciously. Thank the goddess the warrior could not hear their conversation.
“Then I be curious and ask, did you find my linseed, Lana?”
“Aye, I have it here in my basket.” Lana walked back to where she left the basket. “It is still early yet, but I have found a good patch.” The blue flowering herb soothed the coughs and problems of the chest several members of her tribe occasionally suffered.
“Good,” the ancient remarked, and followed. She tapped her walking stick against the tree trunk. “The spring shower has paused for us so you may walk back with me. Come, my robes be damp, my bones be aching, and my stomach pains me again.”
Lana could not help but smile. “Your stomach grumbles, does it now?” All in her tribe knew of the ancient’s complaints. She picked up the basket and settled it on her hip.
“Lana, has your father made more of his sweet mead?” the druidess asked nonchalantly.
“Aye,” she said and laughed softly, “I will bring some to you this eve.”
Keegan let a smile curve his lips as he listened to the ancient one’s inner thoughts.
“I have fetched her away,” Derina remarked in her mind so that he heard.
“I am in your debt, ancient.”
“You should be.” She gave her thought to him in a huff.
The druidess kept his secrets, an olden pledge always to serve the fey. She came as he bade. Being fey blooded herself, she responded to his mind call and claimed his inquisitive onlooker from the small grouping of trees beside the meadow. Lana was a lovely, sickly female of little worth. He valued strength and had little tolerance for fragility and weakness. Still, she was pleasant to look upon and he enjoyed the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled.
He turned away, his nostrils flaring in recognition of a familiar scent.
He did not want Lana to see the golden territorial goddess who also came to the rain drenched meadow and now stood in silent splendor, watching, waiting, her sweet fey scent filling the air.
Lana and Blodenwedd, though mortal and faery goddess respectively, were crafted of the same sunlit hues. Lana’s mortal shades were softer than Blodenwedd’s and he found her black eyes strangely alluring, certainly more so than the goddess’s piercing amber.
Keegan felt wisps of gold in the air touching his skin and heard the horses move away.
“RAIN,” the golden perfect one said.
He did not answer, did not move.
“RAIN,” she hissed at him in exasperation, using his faery name.
Keegan lowered his head and stared down into flashing amber eyes with silver tipped lashes.
“Blodenwedd,” he replied, bowing his head respectfully to the territorial goddess.
She pulled back the white webs of her robe’s hood and Keegan once more looked upon the excellence of her features.
“WHY DO YOU STAY AMONGST MORTALS AND NOT YOUR OWN KIN?”
Boredom, he thought and arched a brown brow at her reproachful tone. The fey born always believed themselves superior to mortals, though they themselves were not immortal, only extremely long lived.
“FOOLISH,” she spat when he did not answer.
“Not foolish,” he said very slowly. The tedium of life had led him to their mortal brethren, an inner curiosity, an interest to be part of their responsiveness to the land.
“I SAY FOOLISH.”
She was in a foul temper, he mused, nothing new. He adjusted the cuff on his wrist. “Foolish is the territorial goddess who continues to desire the Dark Chieftain of the Tuatha Dé Danann for her own when the Faery King has pledged her to another.”
Her gaze slid away and he felt a twinge of regret for his harshness.
“I NO LONGER DESIRE HIM,” she murmured.
“Good.”
“I DOONA LIKE THE NEW ONE EITHER.”
“If you doona like the king’s choice for your mate, Blodenwedd, then you should tell him.”
“TELL? HE DOONA LISTEN TO ME,” she said with an impatient turn of her hand.
“Who did he choose for you?”
She looked back at him, a dark light in her eyes. “You.”
He smiled only slightly at her mischief. “Why are you really here, great goddess?”
“YOU DOONA BELIEVE ME, RAIN?” There was an open challenge in her voice, a menacing quality to her tone.
“Careful, Blodenwedd,” he warned silkily, his resentment aroused. He could detect the fragrance of her, the changing scent meant to dull his senses. “I am not like mortal men who bow to your every wish.”
“YOU ARE MALE BRED,” she said, her eyelids lowered, and he felt the inspection of his man-parts.
A flicker of annoyance gleamed in his eyes when he saw appreciation light her face. He waited for what he knew was coming.
“RAIN, I WISH YOU TO BE MY CONSORT.”
He placed a finger under her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “The king dinna pick me, did he, Blodenwedd?”
“NAY,” she grumbled, admitting to the devious lie, and whirled away.
“Blodenwedd.”
“I WANT YOU INSTEAD.” She tossed her silken mane.
“You doona want me.”
She turned back, her gaze hot and expectant, roaming boldly up and down his naked body.
“I CAN MAKE YOU WANT ME, Báisteach.”
He did not like it when she used his olden fey name. Báisteach meant Rain. Keegan locked his hands behind his back in rebuff and looked up at the clouds. He could feel her anger
and resentment brewing just below the surface. “Goddess,” he said with extreme patience, “you canna make me want or do anything I doona want to do.”
“BE YOU SURE OF THAT?” she murmured coyly.
He looked into her cold, lovely face. The game she played no longer amused him. “Be you sure, Blodenwedd?”
At his returned challenge, she pulled back in stunned silence. He guessed his defiance rankled her a wee bit. The look she bestowed on him was filled with such hatred he felt his only recourse was to … chuckle.
“HOW DARE YOU!” she spat in a full temper, the urge to kill shining in her eyes.
He peered at her with a strong conviction. “Why did you come here?”
She made a distasteful sound in her throat. “WANTS YOU NOW TO COME.”
“Who wants me?”
“THE HIGH KING. COME NOW.” She turned away, expecting him to follow like an obedient slave.
He did not move.
She stopped and looked over her shoulder, golden tresses glimmering with raindrops. “RAIN,” she said in irritation.
“Blodenwedd,” he cajoled.
He saw she struggled with his sweet and patient tone. “COME NOW!” She actually stomped her foot at him.
“I will come after the storm abates and twilight passes into night.”
“NOW, I SAY.”
“After.”
Her wraithlike body stiffened, her face turning cruel. “YOU NOT BE SPECIAL, NOT EVER, GUARDIAN OF THE WATERS. I DOONA KNOW WHY I WANT YOU.”
A passing fancy, he mused. Whenever Blodenwedd did not get her way, he knew from experience she could become malicious.
“After,” he said calmly, which only infuriated her more.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED AT BIRTH.”
“Then who, lovely goddess, would you dream about?”
Her slender chin jutted out and she hissed at him.
He arched a brow.
She shimmered then, dissolving into threads of golden light and nothingness, or as the piskies would say, winked out.
Spoiled, self-indulgent goddess used to having her own way. He knew her infatuation with him would pass in time, as it had passed when all she could talk about was the Dark Chieftain of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he closed his eyes and threw back his head.
“Drench me,” he called out to the clouds. Heavy rain fell from the sky. He could not command rainfall. Only when the clouds were full with moisture could he beseech them. Being a full guardian of the waters, he sensed all things having to do with water and always knew when rain was about to fall.
“More,” he whispered and fell to his knees, arms outstretched in entreaty, hands open. He glimmered in the way of his faery brethren, his body changing, eyes tilting at the ends, ears pointing. Gossamer wings unfolded from his back, forming into a webwork of shimmering silver, gray, and black filaments.
He stretched out his magnificent wings fully, relishing in the freedom of his true fey form.
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