The Elven King

by Lexi Johnson

  “Right…” Sade had no plans to shoot anyone, ever. Still, it was good to know her brother cared.

  After a couple more minutes of small talk, Sade finally managed to get her brother off the phone. Lying back against the cool sheet, she felt the dream of moonlight stir in her thoughts again.

  It must have been stress, she decided. A new environment. Any of these things could get a girl hot and bothered.

  The remnants of arousal lingered in Sade’s flesh. Languidly, she touched herself.

  Memories of moonlight and strong fingers guided her hands, and she ground her cheek into the pillow as with one hand she pinched her nipple, the sharp pain beating a tantalizing counterpoint to the work of her other hand rubbing her clit. Soon she lost herself only to sensation, rutting against her fingers as she grew wetter and wetter.

  The edge came, sweet and strong, cresting as the orgasm ripped through her body. She circled her clit with delicate touches, and came a second time.

  Then, spent, she sprawled, legs parted, the night air tickling against her juices as she drifted. As her eyes shut, blue suffused her vision. An inhuman blue, like the sky before a storm… like a memory or a dream.

  Chapter 2: Prince Aranion

  Aranion, the first son of the elven king, awoke, panting, his flesh on fire from within.

  He’d never had a dream like this before -- one that left him aching with want through every pore. His memory of it was disjointed but vibrant: a soft, mortal woman, pliable in his arms, moaning sweetly against his neck, him holding her in place, running his fingers over her smooth brown skin as he wrested pleasure from her…

  Blinking away the memory, if not the arousal, Aranion rolled his shoulders to bring feeling back to his hands. Wild trees were not made for comfort, and Aranion’s neck had a crick from where he had slept, his back propped against the rough trunk. At his right hand lay his bow, and at his left a silken sack that contained the supplies he’d stolen in his escape.

  The rangers would catch up with him eventually. Truthfully, he was surprised they hadn’t found him yet.

  Maybe the dream was a sign that Aranion had stayed here too long. Or —could it be a sign that there was some part of him that was looking forward to his wedding night with something other than terror?...

  No, he thought firmly. The woman in his dream had been hot and crackling; touching her was like an autumn festival of burning leaves. It was nothing like the alabaster shock that had passed through his body when his and Princess Lairelithoniel’s fingers had touched at the formal engagement, chilling Aranion to his bones.

  Aranion breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to bring his body back to order before he stood up. The dream, likely as not, had been born of fear and physical exhaustion.

  And he was exhausted. Though Aranion had explored the outer woods through his youth and knew them well, better than most who never ventured beyond the sculpted World-trees that housed the Elven court, he’d never before had to hide in the wilds from his own kind.

  Staying close to the tree, his back shielded by its mighty trunk, Aranion looked around for any sign he might be being watched. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Night in the outer woods wasn’t as dark or terrifying as most of his people believed. Yes, it was impossible to see the stars, or even the upper canopy of leaves, but here at the base of the trees, the ground was covered in soft, phosphorescent moss that made the dim outlines of things easy enough to pick out. And, unlike the songbirds that fluttered like jewels in the upper canopy where the elves made their court, the outer woods were filled with the chatter of insects. So long as they serenaded the air, and the tiny forest animals rustled about, then he could feel comfortable that larger predators were occupied elsewhere. At least, that had been true in Aranion’s experience so far.

  Without the light of the moon or stars, Aranion had no way to know how long he had slept or if it was yet close to dawn. From the moss on the trees, he was able to reckon a rough north -- which was where he was heading, towards the barren rock deserts where no elf would follow him.

  It was a lousy plan, really, but Aranion didn’t have a better one. He couldn’t stay in the woods forever. The rangers would find him eventually.

  And, given a choice between being chained by breath and bond to a Bane Sidhe monster, and dying desiccated and alone under an uncaring sun, the desert was fractionally better.

  On that cheerful thought, Aranion lifted his waterskin to take a drink. That was when he caught sight of something shimmering in the corner of his vision.

  A gate?

  Aranion’s heart quickened. Slinging his bow and bag over his back, he started toward the pool of light.

  The gate hung in midair, at about the height of Aranion’s chest, like a gong swinging on an invisible rope. If he had spread his arms and stretched a rope from fingertip to fingertip, the portal would have been half again as tall and wide. It wasn’t a perfect circle; natural gates never were. The edges were warped, like a moon cake that had been bitten at on the right-hand side.

  Aranion had only ever seen one other portal in his life, and that one hadn’t been wild. Like all bright elves, when his hair had turned from black to silver, marking his passage into adulthood, he’d been taken to the priests and told to look through the ancient gate they kept in their temple. He had been given a choice of weapons, and instructed to stand at attention and gaze into the portal for guidance.

  He’d done just that. For just a moment, he’d caught a glimpse of a mortal child, sitting in a clearing, watching him.

  The vision had been brief, and he hadn’t understood it at all. When he’d told the priest, the ancient elf had looked up at him with white, sightless eyes.

  “A mortal,” he had said, his expression tight. “That’s impossible.”

  Aranion hadn't known how to answer that. He’d shrugged.

  “You were wrong,” the priest declared. “You know not what you saw. Keep this to yourself.”

  Confused, Aranion had simply agreed, and had seldom, if ever, thought of it again.

  But now, he’d just happened to stumble across a wild gate. And on the same night he’d had that overwhelming dream… Another dream of a mortal? It seemed too much of a coincidence.

  The world on the other side of the gate was visible through an iridescent skin, like looking through a soap bubble. It was afternoon there. Aranion saw that the terrain was cultivated in uncomfortable angles, the way mortals did it, with patchworks of grass shorn at its head and flowers placed in rows along what looked like a gate of dead wood.

  In the distance -- obscuring half his view -- stood a square domicile. Whatever spirit the materials of the building had once possessed were long gone, leaving only a hollow emptiness, like a shed insect shell. Beside it hunched a metal chariot, crouching on a sheet of some kind of hardened, blackened earth, although, like the house and chariot, the earth also lacked any healthy shimmer of life.

  The entire thing made Aranion feel ill. But his curiosity was stronger than his disgust, so he kept watching.

  Time moved differently in the mortal world. He wasn’t a priest, so of course he’d never studied the intricacies of how it worked. But as the afternoon progressed into evening, time seemed to move a step and a half faster.

  Aranion felt more than half tempted to step through the gate. Whatever lay beyond had to be better than dying in the desert – or, worse, his intended marriage.

  But the punishment for an elf’s crossing into the mortal realm without permission was far more severe than even his current fate…

  No, he decided. He’d do better to keep moving. He started, reluctantly, to turn away.

  It was at that moment that Aranion caught glimpse of the mortal from his dream.

  She stepped out of the house carrying, of all things, a bucket -- though for what purpose, Aranion had no idea. In fact, he wasn’t even sure how he’d recognized her. In the dream, she’d been all in darkness, and he remembe
red her more as features and sensation than as a full woman. But this was her, he had no doubt at all. She possessed that fleeting, inimitable mortal beauty: wide dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face, lush curves, and warm, inviting skin….

  Wasn’t it elves that were supposed to bewitch mortals? Obviously, the legends had it wrong. Because as the woman stepped closer to the gate, in her ill-fitting mortal clothes, Aranion felt himself more and more strongly captive to his desire for her.

  He held his palm up as if to touch her through the portal. Then he caught his breath: she seemed to be watching the gate. Could she see him? It was rare, but not unheard-of, for a mortal to have fairie sight…

  The woman’s eyes widened. She said something, though Aranion couldn’t hear it – and, without a geis to make her words intelligible, he wouldn’t have understood her anyway.

  Barely thinking what he did, Aranion smiled, keeping his hands open to show he meant no harm. Maybe he could convince her to cross to him?

  Even as he thought it, he knew the idea was unconscionably cruel. What did he have to offer her but an ugly death? And that was without even considering what her disappearance would mean to the people she’d leave behind. He had nothing at all to offer her, beyond a dream…

  Perhaps a pair of dreams, because as she came closer, he recognized something in the angles of her face -- the child he’d seen at his adulthood rite. Aranion stared, shocked. It should have been impossible -- he had no connection with her. This was why only priests had leave to toy around with the gates that connected worlds! The magic was much too large for him. Too dangerous.

  And yet…

  At that very moment, the woman turned away.

  Maybe she had rejected him, Aranion thought, feeling his heart sink. Or maybe she had never really seen him at all…

  But then he realized she had turned because another of the mortal chariots had pulled up beside her house.

  It was a large, ugly shell of glittering black and silver with big, bulbous wheels. A metal grill on the front looked like the lower teeth of a wild boar. A pair of glowing eyes sat on either side of the teeth.

  No animal was visibly pulling it, so it must have had some magic propelling it inside –clearly, mortals had advanced greatly since Aranion’s childhood lessons, he thought.

  The vehicle was driven without respect. It avoided the hard-packed earth clearly meant for its use, and instead drove straight up onto the grass.

  The woman took a step back. The chariot’s doors opened, and a man stepped out. He was short and burly, with loose clothing that did little to hide the thick muscles of his arms and neck.

  The man shouted something at the woman. Aranion wished he could hear it… although, from the mortal’s expression and the fact that the woman was inching backwards toward the gate, it was clear enough that it was some kind of threat.

  Heart beating rapidly, Aranion reached for the bow on his back, and nocked an arrow.

  It was clear that the other mortal had none of the Sight. All his attention was focused on the woman. His face was getting darker with rage as walked towards her, shouting.

  The woman shouted back, waving her hands in front of her. The man, when he was close enough, reached out and grabbed her by the wrist.

  The woman opened her mouth to scream. The man shoved a metal implement up against her chest, and whispered something. She stood in frozen terror.

  Aranion’s eyed were riveted on the pair. He didn’t have a clean shot. And now, as he watched the man began leading the woman towards the angry chariot.

  ‘Gods, forgive me,’ Aranion prayed. He was about to violate the most series rule he had ever broken in his life.

  He moved forward, and stepped through the gate.

  He was on the other side, a world with a suddenly different-feeling air, different smells and different moonlit shadows. Night was falling here – only his excellent elven vision made the figures in the drama as clear to him as if it had been day.

  The short, burly man was still pushing the women before him toward the chariot.

  Aranion shouted, “Unhand her.”

  The man stopped, turning his head and staring at Aranion in obvious confusion. Of course, he couldn’t understand Aranion’s words. But surprise must have loosened his grip, because the woman managed to pull back.

  With a fierce movement of her leg, she kneed the man firmly in his manly treasures.

  He grunted, and the woman pulled herself away. She came running – right toward Aranion. The man followed, pointing his metal stick at Aranion.

  Aranion now had a clear shot. He let his arrow fly.

  It landed cleanly in the man’s throat.

  The woman stared at her felled attacker, who had made a dreadful noise, flailed, then fallen to the ground. Then she looked at Aranion. Her entire body was shaking in terror.

  Aranion lowered his bow.

  “I have to get the arrow,” he said in a tone as low and comforting as he could. She wouldn’t understand his words, but hopefully she would understand from his voice, and the fact that he had lowered his weapon, that he had no intention of hurting her.

  Moving his hand slowly, he pointed at the arrow. The woman hugged herself, breathing rapidly through her teeth.

  He took a step toward the dead mortal. It wouldn’t do for other mortals to come into possession of an Elven-made arrow. He knelt beside the body. Its warm blood was still spilling slowly into the grass.

  Aranion grabbed at the base of the arrow and with a twist, pulled.

  Thankfully, he managed to get it free on the first try.

  Above, the moon was full. It spilled cold light onto the tableau. Did the moon of this world have a spirit dreaming inside, as the moon of Underhill…? Aranion shook his head. This was hardly the time for abstract philosophies.

  A scream disturbed Aranion from his thoughts. He snapped his head up, startled.

  It wasn’t the woman. She was standing behind him. Turning towards the noise, he saw a young mortal girl backing away. She held something in her hand, touching it with her finger, and said something.

  The woman ran to his side. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she pointed toward the gate. Obviously, he was in some trouble for killing the other mortal.

  Aranion had no concept of how justice worked in the mortal world, but he couldn’t allow himself to be captured here. Once they realized his true nature, they would surely shackle him in cold iron -- and that would slowly kill the magic in him, leaving him a soulless monster that only lived to cause pain.

  No, he had already done too much damage. Aranion stood up swiftly.

  First, he had to erase all evidence of his crime. He reached through the gate for some connection to his magic, and pointed toward the fleeing mortal girl. Light arced from his hand towards her.

  He didn’t have the time to be subtle, so instead he simply ripped the entire day from the girl’s mind. She dropped to the ground, unconscious.

  Now for the body. The fastest thing would be to bring it through the gate. The man was bulky, but Aranion would be strong enough. He needed to get it moved before the girl’s earlier screams alerted other mortals.

  Squatting beside the body, he reached his arms around the mortal’s chest. The sick iron smell of mortal blood cloyed in the back of his throat as he started to drag the body backward.

  To Aranion’s utter shock, the woman walked around the body to the back and took up the legs.

  Together, they dragged the body through the gate.

  Chapter 3: Underhill

  Sade still was holding out hope that this was an insane lucid dream. Lucid nightmare. At least, that would be more believable than the idea that a drop-dead gorgeous figment of her childhood imagination had somehow walked out of a hole in the air and shot her crazy ex with an arrow.

  Maybe that was what had prompted Sade to help him with the body. Dreams had their own logic, after all. You just had to roll with it.


  Still, she really preferred the fun sex dream she’d had the night before to this madness.

  Well, she’d have to wake up eventually. Either that or the shock would wear off, and she’d totally fall apart.

  But first things first…

  Right now, Sade was standing in a thick, glowing forest holding onto Michael’s ankles. Her rescuer had lowered the upper half of Michael’s body to the ground, so Sade did the same.

  In the phosphorescent light, looking at Michael’s slack face, the bloody hole in his throat where his life-blood had spilled out, Sade wasn’t sure what to feel. She had loved him once. But that had been long ago. Long before he’d put a knife to her stomach, and told her he’d spill her guts if she screamed.

  If this man -- the figment of her childhood memory, or whatever he was -- hadn’t been there, what would Michael have done?

  Sade thought she was going to be ill. She took a step back from the body.

  The man said something.

  Sade shook her head. She had to pull herself together -- be polite; it was the least she could do – but it was unnerving not to understand him.

  Sade took a breath, and lifted her head to meet the man’s gaze. At least he had the grace to look uncomfortable, too.

  Sade pointed to her chest. “Sade,” she said. “I’m Sade."

  The man repeated her name. His voice was liquid silk caressing her ears.

  He had certainly filled out since she was a child. Still thin, yes, but now his thinness had substance, all whipcord muscle over bone. Now the sharpness of his features seemed dangerous instead of odd. And, like the fool Sade was, the danger drew her in, made her want him to touch her with power and control, as the moonlight in her dream. Had that been his magic? He had to be magic of some kind, looking the way he did, like a dream straight off the screen of an epic fantasy movie.

  He even had pointed ears. What would it be like to touch them?

  The thought of it warmed her face.

  She glanced down at Michael’s corpse, and felt ashamed. This was hardly the time.