The Elven King

Chapter 2: Prince Aranion

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.