“Better let me finish, Will, or we’ll both be for it,” a quiet whisper under his breath. A certain understanding had grown between the brothers, so different in their nature, but close in their hearts. Gil hid his shy smile beneath his ducked head and tousled mouse-brown hair. He knew his brother very well and still managed to love him.
Knowing he should feel at least guilty, Will called his thanks to Gil over his shoulder, fingers already wrapped around the secret poem in his pocket.
So Will escaped, but as always pondered how odd it was that father had banished him just when he needed to get away to see Sive. If it weren’t for the state of their finances, he might have suspected she had paid to have it that way. But then if the word ‘magic’ had not been so lacking in his life, he might have used it as well.
Pausing only to splash some water on himself and change clothes in an attempt to banish the smell of the whittawering, he dashed for the door. In his haste, Will collided with Anne as her hand was reaching for the door.
Ever since their ill-timed meeting on the riverside, they had become good friends. Her father had passed away only that past winter, and she was finding it hard to live with the shrill demands of her stepmother and younger siblings. Will admired her quiet strength in the face of her great responsibilities. He had often heard her father tell his own how he could not do without her. And for her part Anne seemed willing to talk with him even if she looked on him as the flighty young man he was. Perhaps it was the discovery that William was a poet at heart which had captured Anne’s imagination. Whenever their families met, the two had chatted and discussed poetry and the wider world. They knew little about it, but it was something that seemed easier to discuss than their current realities.
For a woman, Anne was well enough educated, and he certainly appreciated her opinion on things that the rest of his family knew little about. He sensed she found him attractive, and that their families would not be averse to a match—especially since it was becoming obvious Anne was on the far side of marriageable age. And she was a fine woman, but that was nothing to compare with the perfection of the other who even now waited for him by the river.
Anne made a mock-exasperated sound and fumbled with the bundle of herbs she was carrying. She made a tsking noise under her breath, and shook her head, lost for words.
Will spun her around by her elbows and grinned so that she couldn’t bear to frown. “Looking for me, Anne?”
She dusted off her skirts though she had not fallen, “Of course not, William—my mother had a message for yours.”
“Then what’s that? A present?” he teased, spotting a small book that she appeared to be hiding.
Will struck a nerve, and he saw in a flash that it was meant for him. They had never bought each other gifts, and for once she lost her composure.
“Nothing,” she murmured, pulling away a little, “something I was reading on the way over—nothing important.”
For a second Will paused. Anne’s face was closed, and she was hiding behind her straw blonde hair. If he had not been brimming with excitement to see Sive, he might well have stopped to put her at ease—instead he shrugged. “Mother’s in the kitchen, Anne. I’m on a bit of a mission myself. I’ll talk with you later.” With that he whirled around and left.
Anne stood there for a moment feeling foolish, her hand half raised to stop him, or call after him—she wasn’t quite sure which. Shutting her mouth with a snap, she turned to the house. “You’re acting like a silly girl,” she admonished herself.
Will noticed none of these things. Sitting by the river a short time after, he was sad about running off on Anne like that, but after all, she was a friend, and Sive, he dreamed, might be so much more.
Manhood had come creeping up on Will, a gradual stirring of alien passions and hopes that he had just learnt to give names too. He secretly hoped that Sive might help him learn the rest. After all, he had never seen her husband—he was most likely an old man with dying embers of passion and life. While he waited, Will scribbled on a piece of well-worn parchment an idea that had been buzzing in his head since the last time they met.
“Love doth not alter,” he wrote, and then leaned back to look at the green leafy canopy above. He thought of all the impediments to his love for Sive, and when despair washed over him, he rolled over and wrote, “I look on tempests and am not shaken.”
It was how he felt about her, sure as he had ever felt about anything. She was his star and his passion.
Will was so wrapped in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice her arrival—he looked up and she was simply there. He stuffed the scrap of paper into the back of his trousers.
No horse in sight this time. She stood, leaning breathlessly against the rough willow, her violet eyes huge, almost afraid. She looked terribly like a beautiful country maid who had run through the grass to meet him. Her cheeks were pink, and her pale skin rose and fell against the sharp outline of her dress. Blood surged in Will as well as a sense that he stood on the edge of something wonderful. Such powerful emotions made his fingers itch for pen and paper, almost as much as they itched for her.
She was so unlike any of the Stratford girls. No matter how sweet and attentive they were, how much they fluttered their eyes or called to him from quiet corners of village and field, his attentions had always been elsewhere. As he had grown, she seemed not to have aged at all, still the same beautiful face and figure. And she was wise too, initiated into acts he could only imagine. In Will’s mind there was no uncertainty, she was the woman of his dreams.
In the way of the young, he had built vast towers of imagination, wherein they could be together. She would teach him those things he longed to know, and he would write beautiful poetry to her beautiful eyes. In none of these plans did her husband figure.
Will had been so sure of himself before, so ready to lay this latest scrap of his imagination at her feet, but now that the time had come he found himself struck dumb. He had grown in the last two years, and when he drew up to her, with a start he saw that their eyes were level. In a flood, boyish uncertainty swept away. Now he was a man—and a bard.
“I am cast out,” Sive whispered to him, her voice tinged with something akin to surprise. “I cannot return home, Will. I will be worse than dead if I do.” In her face he saw something that made him both sad and joyous—fear. Sive had always looked so strong, so powerful to him, and yet now she was as vulnerable as he.
If she had been cast out of whatever stately home she had lived in, then now was a chance to prove to her that he was grown—that he loved her, and that meant something.
Before Will knew it, his mouth had let out what his heart hoped for, “Stay with me then, Sive. I’ll protect you.”
Stray fingerlings of passion seeped from Sive and into his bones. “I know you would, William—but it is impossible,” and though her words denied him, she drew closer, fingers trailing on the bark of the willow she leant against.
Emboldened by her quietness, Will’s hands strayed to her shoulders, trying to communicate his faith, “It’s not, Sive. We could go to London, find a—”
“No, William,” Sive took a step forward, “There is so much more in you than that.” It was very odd, as if he were watching her through water; her movements slow, and her face somehow transformed.
His fingertips brushed her cheek, bringing her eyes to bear on him. He looked into the eyes of the Fey and saw her for the first time with his Bardic Art.
That part of him recognized her alien nature, but he had gone too far down the path of wanting her to turn back now. The failed desires she had bought with her broke his fears down.
His sense of himself dissolved at the touch of her soft lips though neither could have said who kissed whom. A low groan shuddered through his flesh, igniting needs and thoughts that drove him finally over the edge into manhood. He wanted to crush her against him and hold her as delicately as a flower. He wanted to consume her and yet hold her up for admiration.
&nbs
p; Sive was strong and fluid in his arms, a force of nature, primitive and demanding; that, the ribald conversations with his friends had not prepared him for. Desire had a rhythm and understanding all its own though. If he cried out in delight, would she think him less a man?
Around them, obedient to Sive’s passions, the thunder clouds raced. The dark goddess had never loved in this realm, and its happening signalled change.
Farmers who had moments before seen nothing but clear blue sky were deluged with stinging rain while milkmaids shouted at suddenly belligerent cows who kicked over their pails and ran bucking to the hilltops. In Stratford, an ill wind sprang up, knocking down market stalls, causing the citizens to hurry indoors. Anne Hathaway, trudging her melancholy way home, pulled her bonnet tight about her whipping hair and ran for the shelter of a nearby stand of trees. The Avon twisted like a skein of wool within its banks, waters shifting from grey to silver. Swans honked in fear, raising frightened white wings and scuttling for safety.
And in a tiny hovel in Arden wood, an infirm old woman raised her one sighted eye to the sky, hearing the song of power she had not heard since she was a babe. Old Bess smiled her gap-toothed smile, her thoughts turning to the boy-now-grown-to-a-man she had helped birth all those years ago. To her, the sound of thunder heralded renewed hope.
Sive’s Art sundered and shredded Will’s barriers, and while her flesh pressed white hot against his, her Art urged his to blossoming. Threaded within him was the Bardic gift that had only before shown itself in slips of poetry, and in that one terrible day in the wood. Beautiful William, the dark Fey whispered into his soul, Oh be free, Be powerful, Be mine.
The knowledge Sive thrust upon William was all that she could give; the taste of his Fey heritage, the realization of what he was, and what she needed from him. Sive was desperate, half-mad with fear and passion.
The knowledge poured down onto Will, a deluge of immortal longings and pain. His mere human soul buckled under the weight. Yet he could not tear himself from her, they seemed already fused.
She whispered into his wet hair, “Come away with me, Will, to the Fey where you belong. We will cast out the monsters and make it great again.”
He saw the unearthly beauty of the place; she opened his mind to the wonder of it. It seemed like somewhere Bridie, his nursemaid, had once told them about when he was a child. His feet longed to be there.
But then... Will pulled back a little from Sive, “Could I come back to England?”
Her white brow furrowed at the idea. “Why would you want to?”
Will thought of all those legends, people trapped in fairy realms, who returned to find time had moved on much too fast. He imagined all his brothers and sisters turned old and frail, and his parents dying before he could ever see them again; all that he had ever known fallen into decay. The woods and fields he loved seemed to brown and wither around them.
He could see it in her; Sive knew what would happen. Those violet eyes, too beautiful, too knowing for a human face, dropped away from his.
“They do not matter—nothing matters as much the Fey. We need you.” Thunder roared closer, and he could feel the weight of her power.
But another emotion was taking over within Will, anger. “They don’t matter? Really? Don’t they?”
“They are human, we are immortal. We must go on, they fall into dust.” Sive raised a gentle hand to his face. “I have watched you since your birth, William, waiting for the moment to take you back.”
That thought was more disturbing than anything else. She’d cared for him like a farmer does a crop, waiting for it to be ready, and now harvest time was here. He and his kin meant nothing to her. Will took a step back. “They matter to me, Sive. If I go with you, I will lose all that, and without them, without time, I am not human anymore.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” The rain had reached Sive, plastering her hair against her head—she was still too beautiful. Her thoughts reached out to him, trying to tell him that she loved him, and always would. They were wonderful and persuasive, but Will was no fool.
It would have been easy to step across to her, to pass out of humanity’s reach, but her words chilled him more than the rain. “I’m sorry, Sive, I have to go back. Your Fey is not for me.”
Her resolve cracked then, and she attempted to use Art to persuade him otherwise. Her strength wrestled with his burgeoning Art. The storm bent around them, howling and roaring like a beast uncertain of its master. Lightning spat, smashing in an explosion of bright light into the willow nearest them.
Sive cried out to him once, but he would not be her pawn. The air itself seemed to fold around them as neither gave way. But the natural world would not hold such conflict for long; the centre blew out in a flash of light and sound. Will and Sive both found themselves thrown clear.
The spell was broken. For a long moment they stared at each other across the distance as if they had never met before. Will shook his head, his voice shaking with real anger. “Do not try that again, Sive; I would rather have you destroy me than manipulate me. I won’t let you use me.”
In the life of the Fey, there had never been one that contended with them before. Sive’s face was an odd mask of fear and rage, but she could see the determination in him.
Will got to his feet, “I don’t ever want to see you in Stratford again.” He caught himself against a tree. “If I do, then there will be a reckoning.”
He turned and walked as best as he could away from her. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t say her name—it was as if the woman he loved had died in that explosion. The creature behind him now was a calculating thing he didn’t want in his life. Will would mourn the love, but he thought he had made the right decision for his family.
It was Anne that found him first, walking along the road back to Stratford. His eyes were wide and dark, and his clothing torn. She took his trembling for fear, but he did not tell her it was anger that still burned in him.
“Sweet mercy—Will,” she rushed to him, lending a shoulder when he seemed ready to stumble, “Were you caught in that storm?”
“Take me home please, Anne,” he whispered into the ground, “Ask no questions—just take me home.”
When she took his hand, he clenched it hard to assure himself it was real. Cold and damp, it was like his own, reassuringly human.
* * *
It was too much. Auberon tried to ignore the dreary setting, but he was beginning to think that Mordant had left him out here deliberately.
The Hall was chill, and everything about it made the King of the Fey’s heart a little greyer, and a great deal more concerned. Brigit might have been standing at his elbow shaking her finger, lips already mouthing ‘I told you so’.
Auberon creased his brow. Perhaps if he had seen how Mordant lived, he might have chosen another way to deal with him. How could anyone live in such a drear and dreadful place? And yet, he reminded himself, this was where he had sent his sister.
The ironbound door swung open to his right, and Mordant emerged like a pale worm from its hiding hole.
“So sorry to keep you waiting,” his tone suggested otherwise. “Recently I have found myself,” a pause, “Without servants.”
Auberon grew even more uncomfortable, feeling hidden depths behind the other’s words. “Well, that’s as maybe,” he blustered, “But I am still King, and when I say I want to see my sister—I want to see my sister!”
Mordant was eerily still, even as Auberon’s words echoed down the deserted hallway. He cocked his head, and those cold eyes slid away from the King. Apparently he was not worthy of his attention.
Auberon wasn't used to being dismissed, and for once he paused. Moira, his light and his love, had been right; Mordant was still not fit for his sister. She’d whispered it into his ear the night before that handfasting, and he’d been too enamoured of power to heed her. He should have listened.
Drawing himself up, so that he stood toe to toe with the other Fey, he demanded attentio
n. “I have come to fetch her home to the Court, Mordant. She has been too long gone.” And once there, she will not come back here, he thought to himself. He had Mordant’s power, so there was no further need for Sive to remain.
Mordant’s eyes focused on Auberon, and the King immediately wished they had not; twin triangular pits of nothingness that were like no eyes on either side of the Veil. Auberon’s heart clenched, and he took half a step back.
“You are ill informed then, my liege,” Mordant’s words skewered him in place with their malice. “My wife is not at home presently—so she cannot do you the honour.”
All the power that he had begun to enjoy drained from him, and a cold fear settled in its place. “Our aunt has died,” he managed over chill lips, “We must tell her.”
Mordant drew closer, so that his stench wrapped the King of the Fey in its embrace, “Oh rest assured—she knows.”
Bile bubbled at the back of Auberon’s throat—this thing, whatever it was, could not be Fey. What had he done? Surely his sister could not have survived a long month with this creature which wore Mordant’s body like a cloak.
“Well, good then,” even he couldn’t believe that he could still speak, “As long as she knows.” His feet were scrambling to get away.
Pulling himself together, Auberon spun about, trying to make a dignified exit. His retinue waited outside, with wide eyes and questions on their lips. The tall, proud-shouldered Fey horses were snorting and jigging sideways, unhappy to be near the Hall.
Seeing his face, Moira handed him the reins, and with a collective relieved sigh, they rode away.
Auberon was silent, glad to be free of the place, but knowing he would be unable to escape what he had learnt there. Moira urged her mount closer to his, and even as shocked as he was he could only admire her dark red curls blowing in the wind, and her sweet look. She stilled his heart somehow.
“She was not there.” Even he could hear a note of guilt in his voice.
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