Fairytale Christmas

by Merrie Destefano

“Do it again, Ma!” Ambros pleaded when the light faded away.

  Benen stared down at the light that still clung to his fingertips. My heart skipped a beat and I quickly looked to make sure Faelan wasn’t watching us. Then I nudged my sister. Her eyes widened when she saw my son.

  “‘Tis rare for a boy-child to have the gift,” she whispered.

  I nodded, then I pulled Benen into the shelter of my cloak, hiding him. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to realize how strong this future king might be. Not when we were on our way out of our homeland, weary and wounded. Benen wouldn’t have the banshee voice—not like Caer and I did—but he might have something just as strong, something I’d only heard of in legends and myths.

  A child of light, born of a banshee, had been prophesied to one day rule all the Fair Folk in the world.

  Not long after that, we began the long, slow ascent of Sléibhte Chill Mhantáin upward and upward, as we headed toward our final destination.

  At this point in our journey, my horse had grown weary and her steps were slow. My boys grew fidgety, as if they had eaten a handful of bees, and they climbed down from their shared pony. Together, they frolicked beside our caravan.

  “Chase me!” Ambros called to his brother.

  “I’ll win,” Benen shouted back.

  They both laughed and I smiled.

  Benen, my pensive, introspective boy, looked so much like his father, with his black hair and dark eyes, it was as if Fethur had been brought back to life. You could almost see the gold crown perched upon Benen’s head—although he didn’t have it. Not yet. Ambros, on the other hand, was my headstrong, wild child. He looked like me, with fair hair and blue eyes. When he ran, a storm followed on his heels, strong winds and churning clouds.

  “They should stay away from the horses,” Faelan chided me. “One misstep, by child or beast, and your future kings will be dead.”

  “Let them play,” Caer, my sister said.

  He struck her, a blow across her face so hard it almost knocked her off her horse.

  “You will not do that again, my lord!” I warned him as I rode my horse between them.

  Three of my foot-soldiers were instantly at my side, their swords drawn and pointed at Faelan. It may have been a mistake on my part, to come between a husband and a wife, and with my crown so precarious.

  It may have been my own undoing.

  Though I think he had planned something for me all along, ever since my husband lost his head during our recent battle.

  But Faelan was mistaken if he thought I would allow the Old Ways to stand in this New Age. He may have stolen Caer to be his bride, years ago, but she was not his property. She belonged to my House and, since I was the last living elder, that meant she was technically mine.

  Caer and I had been the best of friends for thousands of years. No Leanan Sidhe upstart would come between us—not now, not ever. I didn’t care that our father had allowed this foul marriage.

  But there were others who would have disagreed with me. I could see it in their shadowed faces.

  A dangerous division was taking place in our Clan. I was losing followers with each passing day.

  Four

  We camped that night beside a deep corrie lake, with steep valley walls carved long ago when the Ice Giants changed the shape of the earth. I remembered the Ice Giants, that’s how long I’ve been here. The Tuatha de Danann moved out of their slow path and then returned to our island homeland when the frozen rivers melted. For centuries, there were massive blocks of ice left behind. One faery even chiseled himself a castle made out of ice. We laughed as it melted a little bit every year, growing smaller and smaller until finally, it disappeared one day, in a morning fog.

  Still, it had been beautiful, while it lasted. Glittering in the morning sun like something made in a different world.

  This was the faery way. Taking something tragic and turning it into something beautiful. This was where our magic drew its strength.

  When we used it to transform, it blossomed.

  When we used it to destroy, well, then that’s when we were destroyed ourselves.

  “I’m sorry, sister,” Caer said as she knelt beside me.

  The sun still graced us with yellow light, but the shadows would fall soon. My children and hers swam together in the lake, their laughter rising and echoing across the valley.

  I took Caer’s hand in mine.

  “The apology is mine,” I told her. “I shouldn’t have allowed you to marry him.”

  She laughed, longer and louder than I’d heard in a long time. “No one could have stopped Faelan. Not Da, not one of our uncles, not even me. You know the Old Ways will always rule in our Clan. He kidnapped me during one of our festivals and not one of our menfolk would say it was wrong. A moon later, when we returned, we were married. There’s no ceremony needed.”

  “I will come when you call,” I said, remembering the simple oath my husband and I had made.

  “Yes.” She laid back with a sigh and stared up at the blue skies, this piece of heaven that belonged to the invaders now. “Haven’t you ever wished you were a Duine? I envy them their simple life. They marry for love, you know.”

  “Not always. Their kings marry the same way we do.”

  “But the peasants live as they please.” Caer gave me a sly look. “I remember how you favored Heremon before Fethur came along. Haven’t you ever imagined what it would have been like, night after night in his arms?”

  I tugged one of my sister’s long dark braids and she pretended that it hurt.

  “Heremon married well. I’m sure he was happy.” Then sorrow swept through me and I couldn’t stop the ache in my heart. He had fallen at our last battle, not long after my husband. I’d held Heremon in my arms and sang him into the everlasting sleep. ‘Twas the hardest part of the war.

  “Ah, I meant to cheer you, dear one, not stir up memories of sorrow.”

  I lifted my chin and forced a smile. Faelan was watching us from the other side of the camp, a suspicious look on his face, as if he thought we were plotting against him.

  “‘Tis time to gather our leanaí from the lake, before the Ice Giants return and freeze them in place,” I said.

  Caer laughed. She was younger than me and had grown up listening to my tales of how the frozen rivers had once covered the earth. Before I married Fethur and became queen, I was known as Seanchaí. I was the storyteller in our Clan. When we gathered around night fires, it was my voice that rose to tell the old lore. Others took my tales and crafted them into poems. These poems were then shared with other Clans and, eventually, even the Duine came to know them.

  That was why the mortals loved me.

  Not because I was their queen.

  It was because I was the one who told the stories of our beginning, of the Before Time. Back before the Duine learned how to write, they learned my tales.

  Seanchaí was what they called me most often. Not Eire or queen.

  My husband had always hated it when they called me by a common title, rather than acknowledging my royal blood. On the other hand, my sister’s husband, Faelan hated it when the mortals combined my titles, calling me Queen Seanchaí. Even deposed and exiled, I still had my loyal Duine followers. Enough to raise another army, if I wished it.

  After my children climbed out of the lake, they ran about, exploring the many caves in the surrounding hills. We still had time before the evening meal, so I called my favored manservant to my side.

  “Greagoir, spar with me, lest I grow weak in my exile,” I said, loud enough for all in the camp to hear.

  It was a warning to Faelan to never strike my sister again. He needed to remember that there was bite to my commands.

  A cheering crowd gathered around me, as I battled against Greagoir, sword to singing sword, blade striking blade, each clash ringing out like a bell. The sounds echoed throughout the valley and it sounded like a true battle. Wagers were put down, though few of them were against me.

  No b
lade had ever cut my skin.

  I was the only invincible warrior in my Clan.

  Five

  I shouldn’t have sparred with my servant. I regretted it when the bets were being paid and the entire camp chanted my name like a drunken ballad. Many campfires burned across the valley as we settled down for our evening meal. I could hear the laughter and enthusiasm as my recent joust was added to the nighttime lore, whispers, and songs, all with my name in them.

  “And then Eire, Queen of the Tuatha de Danann defeated one of her own men during their exile—”

  “Her sword matched his, blow for blow until her final strike made him kneel before her, where he swore her everlasting fealty—”

  “She’s known as Seanchaí and queen, and to her dear Duine, merely Eire, for she requires no titles from those who love her—”

  Faelan chewed on a piece of raw meat as the stories drifted around us. His gaze, golden and menacing, caught mine across our small campsite. But his expression shifted as soon I looked upon him. He raised a glass of wine and stood, a grin on his fearsome, black-furred face.

  “To our beloved Eire,” he said, to which everyone near and far cheered. They all joined his toast, speaking blessings upon me—long life, many children, a safe journey, a prosperous rule.

  The entire camp began to sparkle and glow, for the faery blessings were that great. Even my sister dared to join in, raising her glass and speaking of her love for me. But my favorite of all was when my twin boys clamored to their feet, their hair wild from a day of adventure, their skin kissed by the sun. They each raised their copper cups, filled to the brim with goat milk, for they were much too young to drink wine.

  “To our Ma, who is more beautiful than the sun itself,” Benen declared.

  “To the one who bore me, may I ever serve her,” Ambros proclaimed.

  My cheeks were fresh with tears when Greagoir approached me with a new cup of wine, a shining copper goblet crafted with vines and roses—my signet. “A gift from the Duine, who lived in the last valley we passed through,” he told me. “I promised them I would save this wine and this cup for a special day.” Then he pulled out two smaller cups, not quite as elaborate as mine, but still beautiful. “And these are for the twins. May they ever reign at your side, when you return to reclaim your kingdom.”

  He poured wine into each vessel, but he knew my children had not yet been allowed that drink, so he waited for my approval.

  I nodded.

  “Thank you, Greagoir. Come. You may drink with me, my leanaí,” I told my boys, “and we will remember this day when we return, armies at our side.”

  Ambros and Benen stared at me for a heartbeat, their eyes widened in both surprise and joy. Then they raced one another to claim their cups. Laughter swept through our camp, then we all drank one last toast together.

  It was the first time my children drank the fruit of this vine.

  It would also be their last.

  By my own hand, I brought our destruction.

  No one else drank from my cup. For this, I will be eternally grateful. The vintage was only poured into my goblet and that of my sons’, something I didn’t notice until much later. We all toasted together, everyone in the camp; we drank our fill and more. One by one, my people began to fall asleep, most of them right where they sat. They merely pulled a blanket or a cloak over themselves, and soon the entire valley filled with the sounds of men and women snoring.

  I fell asleep too, my boys in my arms, one on each side of me. It was a strange and mysterious slumber. At first I thought it was only because I was weary from our long journey and the wine had been a different vintage, from a different vale. My dreams turned heavy and dark, unlike any I’d ever had before. I imagined I was lost in a midnight forest and every trail led to a dead end. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t escape.

  I wanted to wake up, but couldn’t.

  Then voices sounded nearby—hushed and urgent. A low panic threaded through my dreams as I tried to tell the difference between my nightmare and reality.

  “Be careful, don’t make a sound,” a man said.

  “Are you certain she’s asleep?”

  Low laughter made my unusual slumber even more terrifying.

  “Eire will not waken. Now, hurry.”

  Hands lifted me and I felt cold air surround me. The heat of the campfire bled away until it became a distant memory. I worried for my twins, but couldn’t ask where they were.

  I tried to scream, to wake up my servants and soldiers; I tried to cry out for help, but my mouth refused to open. Not a sound came from me, no matter how hard I fought. It felt like I wore thick bronze shackles on my arms and legs, for no part of me could move.

  “Quiet, now,” someone said beside me. The voice was none other than Greagoir, my trusted servant, the same man who had presented me with the new goblet and wine.

  “That way,” another familiar voice said—'twas Faelan.

  Release me! Let me go!

  But my words rang only out inside my head. My lips never moved.

  “Hurry!” ‘Twas another voice from yet another man, but I did not recognize him. His accent was strange, almost hard to understand. When I finally placed its foreign origin, I was being set on the rocky ground.

  Milesian. This last man was one of the invaders.

  “Your long boats are safe,” this stranger said.

  “This is all I needed to hear,” Faelan replied.

  A struggle ensued, a cry, a spray of something warm across my arm—blood probably—then came the sound of a blade being cleaned.

  “Leave him here. And put the boys beside her. ‘Tis fitting they should sleep together forever,” Faelan said. I could hear the grin in his words.

  Warmth returned to me then, for my leanaí were now nestled beside me, one in each arm.

  Then there came another cry. This time I recognized the voice. It was the sound of my betrayer being killed. Greagoir fell to the ground with a thump. For a few moments, there were two dead bodies here with me, but Faelan quickly dragged them away.

  He left me alone then, with only my children and the long, dark sleep. He returned before the rest of the camp awoke and his actions surprised me—this was his one and only act of mercy.

  I will be forever grateful for this.

  “Say your farewell here, woman,” he said, his voice gruff. “And if you touch her or if you cry out, your own leanaí will be laid to rest in this cave too.”

  “Eire!” my sister Caer gasped. “What have you done to her, Faelan? Has she been poisoned, is there no cure?”

  “‘Tis the long sleep. She and her children will never awaken. Say farewell, but remember what I said. I’ll put your own children in this cave if you tell anyone what I have done.”

  “My children? But they’re your children too—”

  He struck her and Caer fell, weeping.

  “You have until the moon sets behind the mountains. If you’re not back in our camp by then, your children will be drinking the Wine of a Thousand Years.”

  He turned and left us then, and his footsteps sounded like the stones being laid on my burial cairn.

  Six

  Quiet reigned. There was no sound of my heartbeat or my breathing. Cold seeped into my flesh and settled in my bones. It felt like the Ice Giants had returned and covered me in a river of frozen water.

  Then a sweet fragrance swept over me.

  Roses.

  My sister was preparing me for my death.

  Her tears fell as she covered me with rose petals. From time to time, she mumbled to herself, and I couldn’t distinguish her words. Not until she raised her voice, singing and praying.

  ‘Twas the banshee voice she was using and it trembled through my bones like fire.

  “Ye shall not die, my sweet Eire. Nor shall your sons, Benen and Ambros. There shall be sleep and rest, until you be safe. This cave will be sheltered and protected by my own spell and none will be able to break it.”

  A shower of
rose petals fell upon me and I heard her wince. Then something fell upon my lips, thick and rich, carrying a coppery scent.

  She had plucked herself with the rose thorns and her own blood had fallen upon my lips. She was using the Old Ways of the Leanan Sidhe. Even though we were not of that Clan, their blood magic was the strongest of all.

  “My blood shall feed you, dear Eire. It shall sustain you, Benen and Ambros. I will raise up loyal Duine from an honorable house to serve you, for a millennium and more. As long as you sleep, they shall tend and feed you, and you will know them by the roses they bring as an offering. Their blood shall sustain you. You will not see their faces or know their names, but they will serve the great Queen Eire until that day when her strength returns. Kingdoms will rise and fall, but the kingdom of Eire will prevail. The moon may grow weary of her journey across the heavens, but the Duine house that serves you will never tire of their service to you. And on that final blessed day, dear sister, you and your sons shall awake. Your destiny shall continue. You will prevail against your enemies, my sister. You will survive.”

  My heart was lifted.

  “You will recognize your Guardians by the crest on their tunics, for they shall proudly wear a wreath of roses in your memory.”

  But my sister had one more thing to add to her spell. Something that surprised me as much as her husband’s betrayal.

  “You shall not awaken until the time of your true love has come.”

  She had kept her oath to her husband. She never touched me and she left before the moon set over the mountains. I know because Faelan never returned to the cave, carrying his own children in his arms.

  My sister protected both my House and hers.

  I will miss her until the stars fall and the great and horrible Faery Cavalcade carries me away.

  Seven

  The winter frost came, bringing a dusting of snow that covered us. The skin of my sons grew as cold as ice and I worried that I would lose them, that even if I survived this curse, they would not. I couldn’t open my eyes or speak, but I could feel the swift passing of the sun as it spilled long beams into the cavern each day.