War of the Seasons, book one: The Human

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Legends

What she couldn’t forgive herself for was not realizing that Morrigann and the Faerie Prince were one and the same.

And more importantly, that he was so obviously manipulating me. A five-year-old could have figured that out.

I should have known better!

They arrived back at their campsite and, after building the fire back up, sat down in their customary spots. As they stared at each other across the flames, Story raised an expectant eyebrow at him.

“Okay, elf-boy, start talking. Why does it seem that everyone here in Ailionora wants to kill me?”

“The only person who wants to kill you is the Faerie Prince. He believes your very presence puts his curse in jeopardy of being broken.” He raised a hand to forestall her inevitable questions. “Please, this will go a lot faster if you just let me talk. I promise I will answer all your questions when I’m done.”           

She nodded, so he continued. “I never lied to you—I just didn’t tell you the whole story. Though in hindsight…” He sighed and scrubbed his face in his hands.

“As I told you before, after the Faerie Prince cursed The Ailes, the silver blossoms fell from the tree, and the elves themselves fell down to the earth and Changed. Many wept, for they knew what had happened, as they felt cut off from the life-giving essence of Ailionora, from magic itself.

“One among them wept the most; she was the maiden who had fallen in love with the Faerie Prince and had been tricked by him into revealing the source of our power. In her grief, and with her last ounce of magic, she was unable to remove the curse, but to add a small loophole: with the sacrifice of blood from another world, willingly given, the tree would be restored.”

“So you do want to kill me!” Story was on her feet and moving away from him as quickly as she could, but she was too slow.

“Story, wait!” He grabbed her wrist, pulling her to a gentle stop. “No, it’s not like that at all. To begin with, the blood has to be willingly given, otherwise it’s pointless. It won’t work.”

“Well, I’m not willing, that’s for sure.” She tugged at her trapped wrist, but it was useless; his grip was like an iron vise.

“And the other thing is that it only takes one drop. No one wants to kill you.” He dropped her wrist. “Well, no one but the Faerie Prince, that is.” Eirnin moved back to the fire and sat down on his haunches, resting his chin against his knees. “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t even care about immortality. I hate how wrapped up about it my race has become. They’re so worried about living forever they’ve forgotten how to live.”

He looked up at her with worried, yellow eyes. “I’ll take you back to your cave and even help you climb out if that’s what you want. Just promise me you won’t go running off with any faeries again.”

She stared at him from the edge of the camp, completely torn. Logic dictated that he could be making all this up, just as Morrigann had. But something inside of her, that little voice in the back of her mind that had warned her away from Morrigann, believed the elf. Or maybe it was the simple fact that Eirnin had made her shoes.

“Why didn’t you just tell me all this in the first place?”

He snorted. “For starters, I really didn’t believe any of it myself. I still don’t know if I do.” He eyed her with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. “But it’s clear that you aren’t from Ailionora, and that the Faerie Prince believes you are the fulfillment of the prophecy.”