Part 9.

The time came nearly a fortnight later, when we camped at the outskirts of the city. It glittered prettily in the velvet night, candle-lit homes merrily glowing.

“We’ll need money if we’re to pass ourselves off as nobility.”

Berwyn nodded. “I know where to find it.”

 

Finding it proved quite difficult, revolving around a tree and its jealously guarded secret.

 

THE SECRETS OF TREES

———————–

Trees carry in their wooden hearts innumerable secrets. For instance, they bear the memories of seasons long past, of rain falling with none to hear it. They know the tales of those animals who seek shelter in their branches and boles. And they know those secrets given to their safekeeping by the faerie. They volunteer nothing without the proper key, and as such, our search was painstaking indeed. Berwyn very nearly interrogated each tree we came across, his crown engendering vague directions. We pressed onward, until we at long last located the tree who recalled one so crowned.

 

Berwyn came to a halt on a nondescript patch of snow before a tree. Kicking aside some of it with one foot, he cleared a brown patch of dirt.

 

“And?” I asked him.

“And there is a chest of gold underneath my feet.”

We both considered this.

“How do you propose we get it out?”

Berwyn sighed and ran a hand through his newly short-cropped hair. Then he crouched and began digging.

 

It was arduous work, and my fingernails quickly became a mess of mud and blood. We dug like dogs, grimly scrabbling at the frozen earth. It was rough going, and we tried all manner of make-shift digging implements - I managed a fair approximation of a spade using a strangely shaped branch, and managed to save my beleaguered hands some agony. Once we had dug elbow-deep, I jabbed my spade in for another scroop. Instead of the harsh scrape of ground, I was rewarded with the solid thump of wood. Even though Berwyn had said it would be there, I was still surprised.

 

We redoubled our efforts, and after another painstaking hour, managed to wrestle the chest out of the grasp of the earth. I pulled it from the hole and set it on the ground, it being extraordinarily heavy. It was a small, square affair, the size of a smallish trunk. A quaint lock held it fast, which Berwyn disdainfully shattered with one careless swipe of his abused hand. Flinging it open, we looked inside: the chest was packed to the brim with pure specie. I did not recognize the make of the coins - they were stamped with some rune lost to history, but they were heavy enough. I bit one, experimentally.

 

“Is there anything a human doesn’t eat?” Berwyn asked me.

I showed him the impression my teeth left. “It’s real gold.”

Berwyn was pleased. “Now what?”

“Now we drag this to the nearest town and outfit ourselves.”

 

And so we did this. By the end of the hellish journey, I was seriously considering leaving the small fortune behind - a large quantity of gold is abominably heavy, and the cold did not help matters. With aching joints and protesting hands, we laid down under our grass-cloaks and fell fast asleep. I did, in any event. My dreams were restless, an indication of the unpleasantness to follow in the morning.

 

I awoke to find Berwyn already so, sitting with his back to a tree and his knees drawn up, sketching spirals in the snow with a stick.

“The wings go today,” he said. I sat up, suddenly alert, and nodded. “You’ll have to do it,” he said, eyes fixed on the point of his stylus. I nodded again - however unsure I was of my abilities as a surgeon, it would do no good to panick him even further.

 

“Best get on with it, then.” His eyes rose to meet me, and they were hard as dented iron. I stood and Berwyn shrugged off his cloak, revealing his powerful shoulders. The shrivelled wings, by comparison, seemed frail and incongruous, erupting without warning from the otherwise smooth and thickly muscled expanse of his back. There they hung useless, and I examined them carefully.

 

“You’ll have to cut through, right between the bones,” he said, strangely disengaged. I prodded at the soft spot right at the base of the wings, and he nodded.

“Use this.” He drew the cossack’s sword, and tested the edge. Satisfactorily sharp for the coming butchery, he handed it to me. I received it uneasily, the deadly weight heavy in my hands.

 

“Stop standing there and get to it,” he growled. I started and did as he said, taking one dry wing in my hand, extending it to its fullest. Holding it open like that, the light spread through the gossamer material - they might once have been beautiful. At the moment, they only needed to disappear.

 

“Ready?” I asked him.

 

He nodded and took his stick and jammed it between his teeth, clenching down on it with his powerful jaw.

 

I hacked at the wing. It bit deep, but the cut wasn’t as clean as I would have liked. A gout of blood issued from the wound, obscuring my work, and so I sawed blindly at it, painfully aware of Berwyn’s muffled screams. I exerted still more force, and chopped away. The stubborn wing gave at last, and it came away from the body in my hand. Hurrying to finish the job, I seized the remaining wing and cleaved it. This cut was true, and the wing came away with little trouble. Berwyn was in excruciating agony, and once I removed the second wing he spat the splinters of the stick from his mouth and loosed a bestial roar, sending surprised birds to the wing. When his voice gave his body did the same, and Berwyn collapsed supine to the snow. The snow beneath him was colored pink, and he faintly told me to bandage him up.

 

I did so, and did it nearly as effectively as Morgana might - during my stint as his caretaker, I became adept at changing bandages. The task complete, I sat and watched his insensate form. His face was strangely peaceful, and I hoped his mind, wherever it was, was a great distance away from the pain of that ordeal.

 

When he woke I had a gourd filled with snow-melt prepared. He drank from it eagerly, voice raw from the exertions he had put upon it earlier. We said nothing for a time, and he periodically drank, eyes distant and unfocused.

 

“That took courage,” he said. “It was cleanly done.”

“Wait until you see the results before you proclaim it so, king. Is the pain too much?”

 

He shifted, wincing a bit. “Never. We may enter your lands on the morrow.”

“As you like.”

 

True to his word, Berwyn was on his feet the next morning. Shaking my head in wonderment, I collected what little I had, and we set off. We would approach a small town first, so as to appear in society well-heeled. The town, as we approached it, was a modest gathering of houses and low-slung buildings. With a thick blanket of snow atop all of them, they gave the impression of a loyal pack of dogs bedding down in a snowy field. Berwyn, moving gingerly, took it all in with sharp-eyed curiosity. We removed our grass-cloaks, opting to look ragged rather than truly bizarre, and limped into town; I with the great weight of the chest, and Berwyn with his injured back.

 

I arranged for lodgings at an inn, paying with the ancient gold coins. The innkeep’s eyes widened at this, and I was sure to speak in a particularly mangled mish-mash of languages, reducing our bartering to pantomime. It was easier to accept such strangeness if it came under the guise of the exotic, I reasoned. Berwyn eyed the room mistrustfully, and lavished especial scorn upon the rough-hewn ceiling. I ushered him upstairs and showed him to our room - the finest they had.

 

I passed the night in luxury, marvelling again at the feather matress. Berwyn spent the night on the floor, and was scowling mightily as I awoke. I splashed water on my face and turned to him as I dried myself. “Come now, don’t be so glum - we’ve a busy day ahead of us.”

“Doing what?”

“Playing our parts.”

 

And so Berwyn and I set about acquiring vestments befitting men of our supposed status, and a carriage as well. Suitably outfitted, we headed off for the city.

 

We spent the coming weeks insinuating ourselves into society. The city was large enough that two wealthy noblemen could arrive without too many questions being asked of their origins, and yet not so large as for two such to go unnoticed. We passed a period spending extravagantly, amusing ourselves in the pursuits of the aristocrats. We drank and gamed, losing a great deal of money in each pursuit - Berwyn discovered his stomach for ale to be bottomless, and his guile at the card table non-existent. For my part I drank myself into a stupor each night, to safeguard myself from idle dreams.

 

At last our entry to high society presented itself, in a tavern of the lowest sort. Berwyn and I were applying ourselves with abandon to our tankards when the door slammed open. We turned at the sound of many footsteps, and saw an aristocrat and his retinue enter. The aristocrat stumbled in, and his retainers followed at a solicitous distance. The aristocrat was large and well-built, face inflamed with drink. He roared out orders at the barkeep, who hastened to comply. I found little interest in the staggerings of one drunken rich man, and so turned back to my drink. Berwyn’s interest was piqued, however.

 

“Is this how your royalty comport themselves?” He asked of me, not taking any pains to lower his voice. I threw an alarmed glance at the aristocrat, who was certainly close enough to hear. The question was if he was sober enough to make any sense of it.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I answered Berwyn. “Now mind your voice, before he hears you.”

“I care not if he hears me - just look at him! He’s a drooling buffoon!”

 

The aristocrat fairly grunted, like some species of richly attired pig.

“What did you say to me, whoreson?” he said to Berwyn.

Berwyn’s French was not advanced enough to catch the specifics of the insult, which I was thankful for, but he certainly understood the thrust of it. Seeking to head off disaster, I leapt in front of Berwyn and interposed myself between the two men.

“A thousand apologies, sir.”

His eyes focused blearily upon me, and he waved a hand at me as if I were a fly. “I am an earl of France, and will not stand to be spoken to by some hired man. Your lord shall speak with me, and we shall have an accounting.”

 

Berwyn stood up, having long practice at this sort of proceeding, and intuiting it was his turn to make his presence known. The drunken earl took in the measure of him, and nodded, clearly impressed.

 

“A sizable bastard, to be sure. Where do you hail from?”

 

Berwyn said nothing. I said, “Sir, we come from a far distant land, and seek no dispute.”

“Unfortunately for you, my friend, you have found a dispute. Now let me demonstrate to your better how a French gentlemen answers such an insult.”

 

And then he raised his fists. I cast a nervous glance at Berwyn, who first drained his tankard and set it upon the table. Then he raised his own hands. I realized I was seeking to halt the inevitable, and so leaned close to Berwyn and hissed, “If you’re going to fight him, for god’s sake, don’t kill him.”

 

Berwyn nodded gravely. “I understand, Robert.”

 

And the two men fought. The earl’s boozy swings were dodged with ease by Berwyn, who seemed nearly bored with the whole proceeding. By the time the earl had exhausted himself, and his face was red not only with spirits but exertion, Berwyn made an end of it. His fist caught him squarely on the chin, sending the large man reeling backwards and onto a table. The earl lay there, stone still, and then groaned.

 

“By gods, that’s a good punch,” he said, not moving. His fat fingers seized an undisturbed flagon of ale, and he drained it. Then he ponderously gained his feet, waving off the assistance of his retinue. He leveled one finger at Berwyn, and I prayed that he would not make any more unwise comments.

 

“I can tell that you are a gentleman of fine breeding.” He took a swig of ale. “But not too fine - these girls,” he motioned to his retinue, ” can’t so much as throw a punch. You, though. You’re of good stock. And if that’s how you fight, I can only imagine how you ride and shoot.” He took another drink. “Yes, I can see - you’re the sort of man who needs to be known. What say you and your servant join us at my estate?”

 

Berwyn blinked a few times, and leaned to whisper in my ear. Speaking in the faerie tongue, he said, “You humans are a strange sort.”

 

I found it difficult to disagree. I turned to the earl, who panted slightly, his girth straining at his coat, and bowed. “We are honored by the invitation.”

 

There was to be a celebratory ball in our honor. We entered to great fanfare, with the earl, mildly sober, roaring introductions to anyone who passed by. The waltzing began shortly thereafter. We stood at the outskirts of the dance floor, and I recalled that early night among the faerie, with Morgana leading me into the fray. This was a dance of an entirely different character. Ordered, stately, and elegant, the dancers swept across the floor, holding each other without passion but precision.

 

“Do you remember what I taught you?” I asked him.

“No,” he breathed. His eyes were wide, fixed on a dancer in the middle of the floor. I followed his line of sight and found the object of his attention. It was a young lady. Her hair was the color of old gold, her skin the color of bronze. Her dress, in breathtaking contrast, was a rich emerald, clinging to and accentuating her figure.

 

Smiling, I leaned to whisper in Berwyn’s ear. “After this dance finishes, you might ask her for one yourself.”

Berwyn uttered a particularly foul oath in the Low Tongue, and made straight for her. He wove neatly between dancers, his physical grace evident. I watched, amazed, as Berwyn laid a hand on the shoulder of the lady’s partner, bringing him to a halt. I did not need a faerie’s ears to know that the man was demanding what the meaning of it was. Berwyn said something to him, but it was dismissive and hardly even directed at him. The entire weight of his focus was resting squarely on the pretty face of the lady, who smiled uncertainly. The affronted man sputtered something else, and Berwyn waved a hand, made a comment to him, and then returned his attention to the lady. She laughed at this, and the man was summarily dismissed.

 

Berwyn extended his hand and inclined his head ever so slightly, and she placed her hand in his like a gift, light and tentative. His fingers closed over hers, a strange smile crossing his face. I watched from afar as the two rejoined the flow of the dancers, Berwyn dancing clumsily and yet still winning her with his sheer physicality. I allowed them to be lost from my sight, and I took in the sweep of the dance at large. The wheeling restrained chaos of it all became too much, and I turned away from it. I left the house and stood in the chill air, watching the icy stars above. They were engaged in their own dance, performing in distant majesty. I was earthbound and heavy, my heart anchored to the barren ground. I missed Morgana, and her absence was a resonant ache at the center of me. Breathing deeply, feeling the gelid air fill and numb my nose, I fought the urge to scream. Or perhaps sing, or perhaps dance. Anything but stand rooted there like some loyal sentinel, charges long dead, nothing sustaining me but long habit and custom.

 

I realized then that no matter the world I inhabited, I would find it empty. I would always probe, always destroy everything I built, and prove it hollow. And if it were not hollow, I would tear its core out just to make it so. It was all for nothing, utterly worthless. Unless I could make it so…

 

I asked the stars their counsel, and received their customary disdain. They were too absorbed in their own dance.

 

I passed a period like this, exulting in acidic self-pity, wallowing in self-doubt.

 

Berwyn shoved open the doors, eyes wild, manner strange, as if he had been searching for me for some time.

 

“There you are, Robert. What happened?”

I laid my head against the rough masonry, and tilted it slightly to regard him from the corner of my eyes. “What is it your people say? ‘I had to hear the stars. The ceiling was too much for me.’”

He looked at me strangely, and I laughed bitterly. It was a fine thing indeed to be misunderstood - to speak from outside of another’s experience is simply uninteresting, I’ve discovered. And so I inquired instead after the young lady.

“Her name’s Sophie,” he said, breathless. I nodded, even as I fought to smother the sudden well of bitterness I discovered within myself. It doesn’t matter, I told myself. I nearly believed it.

 

Berwyn managed a private audience with the young lady, the eldest daughter of a wealthy landowner. We sat about a round table, drinking tea, the dusty shafts of sunlight slanting across our faces. Berwyn did his level best to intimate whatever it was that made him look at her so, and I translated when his language failed him. And in this way I facilitated the romance between the two. Berwyn’s courtship of Sophie continued in halting but inexorable fashion - the details of that romance are rather dull, especially to one at the periphery of it. Considering my rather black feelings on matters of the heart at that moment, I instead buried myself in the documenting of my journeys to that point.

 

I scribbled some of the early pages of this book late into the night, the heat of the single candle upon my brow. I scratched feverishly, seeking to recapture the events of those early days. I would pause at intervals, overcome with gilt-edged memories, shining in my mind. During one of these pauses, I was drawn from my reverie by a knocking. Looking to the door, I was surprised to hear the knocking from behind me. At the window.

 

I turned and saw Morgana peering in, just as she had so long ago. Stunned, I sat in my chair for a moment, no thoughts registering. I stood and went to the window, prying it open. She dangled from the sill, neatly resting on a branch, her golden forearms propped on the sill, chin resting atop it.

 

“Hello, Robert.”

 

No words came to me. I extended my hand, which she accepted, and I hauled her into the room. I’d forgotten how light she was, and she overbalanced slightly, falling against me. I set her aright after a moment of simple contact.

 

“Why did you come?”

 

She shrugged, a consciously human gesture. “I wanted to see you.”

I shook my head. “You shouldn’t have come, I meant.”

“And why not?” she asked me, running her fingers over the furniture, the desk, my papers.

“Because you have to let me go.”

“Let you go? I was never holding you, Robert. They were your chains, and you always held the key.”

I had nothing pat to say.

 

“What were you doing, here?” she asked me.

“Writing down some memories.”

She nodded, and picked up a piece of paper, squinting at the writing. “Why write them? Why not tell them?”

“Because I’ve no gift for story-telling. You can collect yourself, with the pen and paper.”

“Pen?”

“Ah, of course.” I picked up the pen and showed it to her. She took it from my hand, testing its balance. “What does one do with it?”

“You write, you see.”

“Show me.”

I nodded, and pulled out the chair. She sat down with the easy grace of an aristocrat and clutched the pen awkwardly. Laughing, I corrected her, rearranging delicate fingers.

“What would you like to write?”

She thought about it. “Robert Carlisle.”

I did nothing, only fought the sudden ache in my chest; then I stood behind her and leaned close enough to smell the wild scent of her, then enclosed her hand in my own. Slowly, gently, I wrote my signature through her, the scritch of the pen and our breathing the only sound in that close room. We dotted the “i”, and I hung there for a moment longer. She turned to look at me, her perfect face close enough to kiss, and I felt the soft hand of destiny pushing at my shoulders.

 

“Can we leave this room?” she asked me.

 

I closed my eyes and nodded. “Of course.”

 

I donned my jacket and we went walking through the city, streetlamps casting amber pools of illumination on the cobblestones. We walked close, brought together by the cruel edge of the wind and an unspoken desire for nearness.

 

The hour was such that her strange attire drew no more than cursory glances from pedestrians on their way to unsavory pursuits or a warm bed. We walked between the buildings silently, Morgana regarding each passed window with curiosity, each empty alleyway with open-mouthed wonder. For my part, to see her amongst the buildings was a faint injustice. We continued walking, and at long last reached the park. As her footsteps were deadened by the snow-covered grass, Morgana became once again utterly in harmony with her surroundings. She cast longing looks over her shoulder towards the buildings behind us, but turned to regard me when I spoke.

 

“Tell me why you came tonight.”

“I already told you.”

“The true reason, Morgana. What do you want? I just want to understand.”

“Words, words, and more words, Robert. What good are they? If you want to understand, be silent a moment. Listen.”

I did. I listened to my heartbeat, strong in my chest; I listened to the soft susurrus of wings, above in the branches; I listened to the songs her body sang, before me. I listened, and I knew my answer. My hands moved with surety to her throat, and undid the clasp that held her cloak. It slipped from her shoulders and pooled about her feet, and I stepped closer and felt the warmth from her body. She laid her hands on my cheeks, and drew me close. I bent slightly and kissed her, and then entwined her in my embrace. We fell to the ground like leaves, stubbornly clinging to their trees, and releasing at long last to meet upon the earth below. One at last.

 

The world narrowed, sharpened in its focus, until it was only her - soft moans and parted lips and her long hair. In the soft time after, my arms and eyelids heavy, I blinked sleepily at the branches above. Morgana lay at my side, and I thought that at that moment, life was perfect. Such things never last, however, and she dressed and stood. I watched her standing above me, and ran a knuckle against her bare foot.

 

“I have to go,” she said.

I nodded lazily. She stayed a moment longer, watching me with eyes I once found impenetrable. I fancied that I could understand them, now. Then she left, and I sat up. The whole thing felt an illusion. As I dressed myself, I struggled to retain the memory, which slipped through my hand like dream or sand. I sighed, and allowed that warm haze to envelope me. Walking through the streets, I wondered briefly at what it meant. And then her admonishment reoccurred to me: no words. I resolved instead to quiet myself, and heard only the gentle sounds of unexamined thoughts coursing, unmolested, to their inevitable destination. It felt good to release them. I mounted the steps to my room two at a time, the thought of the mattress hastening my step.

 

When I pushed open the door, I found Berwyn sitting upon that matress. He sat perched at the edge, elbows planted firmly on his knees, hands clasped together like a penitent. I sighed, wondering at what fresh sin he had produced.

 

“Where have you been?” he asked me.

I made a noncommital noise. “Taking the air - what are you doing here?”

“I could not do it.”

“Do what?” I asked, rubbing my brow.

“Sophie. I could not do it to her. I was standing at the river with her, and I thought to myself that if I asked her to follow, she would. She’d follow me anywhere, Robert. And I couldn’t ask it of her.”

“And why not?”

“Because… she can’t leave this world. It’s all she knows - my world would be the death of her.”

“What do you care?”

Berwyn sprang from his seat, and looked ready to seize me by the throat. “I care because…”

“Why, young king?” I pressed, a dull anger rising in my belly. Berwyn could have any woman he wanted - his hand was free. And yet I had to suffer long silence and isolation to steal those golden moments with Morgana, with no guarantee of their return. And now he would throw her away? “Is it because you love this human?”

Berwyn shook his head, like a bull attempting to clear a gadfly. He thought about it, and then looked at me. In his eyes I found clarity - I found surprise, and I found certainty. “I do,” he said.

 

“And yet you’ll leave her? Can you call that love?”

“I must. To love someone means more than having that at your side - it means caring for the more than you do yourself.”

“Trite words, Berwyn.”

“Understand me. I have to go away so she won’t follow me. If she did… I couldn’t bear it.”

Something dawned upon me, and the great weight of infinite possibility and choice was lifted from my shoulders, replaced instead by the terrible burden of consequence and certainty. Berwyn had helped me see my path, one I had thought too difficult to traverse.

“To let her go is to love her, then,” I mused. “To not have her… it will hurt.”

Berwyn nodded. “I’d rather suffer with her in my heart than bear an emptiness. At least for these weeks, that emptiness has been filled.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “What next, then?”

“I leave on the morrow.”

“Only you?”

He blinked, not understanding. “Oh,” he said, voice small. “Yes. Your obligation - it will be fulfilled. Your life is again your own. What shall you do with it?”

“I shall return with you,” I said. “I should like to say goodbye.”

He nodded. “Fitting, Robert. Goodnight.”

Berwyn exited, and I lay upon the bed, thoughts agitated.

 

We stole away in the early dawn like fugitives. I idly wondered at what we fled - Berwyn was running away, and I was running toward. As we reached the faerie lands after featureless travel, I was shocked at my emotions. The lack thereof, in point of fact - it was surprising that being amongst the faerie triggered no bitter emotion, merely a generalized sense of home. I wavered in my choice, wondering if perhaps this life was the life meant for me.

 

When we came into the camp proper, the choice revealed itself as entirely out of my grasp. We entered the clearing together, and Berwyn quickly set off to seek his counselors. He would certainly desire to be apprised of what had occurred in his absence. I had only a mind to locate his regent, but found my search impeded by a small hand at my elbow. I turned to see the piper standing at my side. His features were delicate and expressive, and I was immediately alarmed at what I saw in them.

 

“You must run, human.”

“Run? Whatever for? And from what?”

“Here. This place. Him,” he hissed. His tone was staccato, and I asked him who he was. “Berwyn.”

“Why would I run from my great friend Berwyn?” I said, more bluffly than I was perhaps feeling.

“Because he knows. He knows what happened under the trees, don’t you see? Or he will, anyway. There was a bird.”

“Speak plainly, friend. I can’t decipher you.”

The piper cast glance over each shoulder, a motion known to paranoiacs everywhere. “You and Morgana. He is going to find out.”

I stared at him, thunderstruck. “Gods,” I whispered. He knew. My life, at that instant, was forfeit. I had to move quickly. Before I ran to find Morgana, I had to ask the piper. “Why did you tell me?”

 

“I’m still loyal to the old king. The true king. No more time for you - go.”

 

I heeded his advice and took off in search of Morgana and her bright hair.

 

I found her in idle conversation with a friend, smiling unconciously. Even in my haste, I drew to a halt for a moment and stood, watching her. Perhaps she sensed my presence, for her wondrous golden eyes lifted and found mine. We looked upon each other and the tremendous freight of a thousand years of emotion was compressed into a single glance. Every thought the other possessed we could find in ourselves, and she knew in an instant that something was deeply wrong. I went to her in a few long strides and took her by the arm, nearly dragging her away from her surprised companion. We went out of earshot, and stood underneath the mute trees.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

My voice was calm, diamond crisp in the sudden pressure of the moment. “Berwyn is going to find out what happened, if he hasn’t already. I have to go.”

 

Her mouth opened and closed. And then she said it. “I’ll come with you.”

“No. If you are with me when Berwyn overtakes me, you become more than a victim. You become an accomplice.” I reached into my pocket, and withdrew that artifact that had first so fascinated her. I looked upon its broken face, hands frozen at the instant I had fallen in love with her. Then I pressed it into her hand. “Remember me, but don’t follow me.” I kissed her, and told her I loved her. And then I ran.

 

Every disadvantage was marshalled against me. I ran through largely unfamiliar territory, weaving between hundreds and hundreds of Berwyn’s staunch allies. He had birds, he had scouts, he had runners. I was a single man, and the army of the forest stood in opposition. If I moved quickly enough, I might keep one step ahead of his eyes, I reasoned. Perhaps, if I could be clear of the forest, Berwyn would be content with my banishment instead of my head. I could only hope, and run.

 

For a time there was only the crunch of my feet through the hard snow, the frenzied beating of my heart, and my ragged panting. And then, all around me like a snare prepared to draw tight, I heard the wild warcry of faerie on the hunt. I pressed on, and the echoing cries neared and then faded. I was hopeless quarry, and the dread of my capture made my stomach heavy, even as it made my feet light.

 

But the result was inevitable. I heard to my left side the drum of great hoofbeats - directly after the sound registered, its owner barrelled from cover. It was the king of the deer, the elk I had ridden to Siberia, with the king of the faerie upon its back. He cut me off, drawing the impossible bulk of his mount before me, forcing me to hold.

 

“Robert!” he cried out. The last time I had heard his voice contain such terrifying emotion, he had stood over the body of a fallen foe. I wondered if I would be joining the cossack soon. Berwyn leapt from the back of the elk, landing lightly in the snow. His big hands were curled into fists, and his face was distorted by an unimaginable rage. The sabre was gripped tighly in one hand.

 

“Don’t make me chase you, human.”

I obliged, breath hoarse and face flushed with exertion. He approached like a storm, and I met his amber eyes.

 

“We shall have an accounting, then.”

I nodded.

“You must know that you will not walk away with your life, human. Do you know why?”

I said nothing.

“Because you shamed me, human. You sullied my sister, and you claimed that which could never be yours to claim. This is rank betrayal. The act of a man. A treacherous, deceitful man. And now you flee in cowardice.” Words failed him for a moment, and then he found the one he needed. “Like a human.” He spat it out like a curse, and I flinched before the venom of it.

 

“I ran because I love her.”

“Do not confuse love with conquest!” he roared. “You only wanted to claim her, to take her with your filthy human hands.”

 

I knelt, knees pressing against the cold snow. “I would never seek to claim her. I love her. But you disdain my words. If my blood alone will convince you, then I tell you now to take it.” And so I bared my throat and stared at him with defiant eyes. For a long moment, all was still. Then Berwyn leveled the sword against my throat, the steel cold against my flesh. And then he pressed. I felt hot blood welling, and he drew back the steel, gazing at the vivid red edge of it. I knew I stood upon a precipe sharp as the edge of that blade - should a single wayward impulse occur to him, I was dead. Berwyn’s eyes narrowed as he held the blade in his hand, face unreadable. Then he nodded, and sheathed the sword. I took to my feet, my legs water. He walked away from me. “I can misdirect them for a few hours, perhaps. Should they come across you, however, I cannot help you. Farewell, Robert.”

 

I shook my head bitterly as he passed away from me, unable to even meet my eyes, so great was his ire. “Farewell, Berwyn.”

 

Then he was gone, and the mighty elk stood before me. I approached it, palms up. It eyed me suspiciously, but I was familiar. And so as I neared, my salvation bowed its head and allowed me to grab hold of one of the profusion of antlers. Dignified, it hauled me up. I swung a leg over, and sat atop it. There, high above the ground, I looked to where Berwyn had gone. I thought that I could see his dark formed fading between the distant trees. “Thank you,” I said.

 

Using a desperate combination of tugs and commands, I managed to point the elk in the direction I needed to go. And then I held tight as the great beast ramapaged through the woods. Trees whipped by in a dark brown blur, and I was subjected to another bone-rattling journey. The forest passed into night, and still I was upon the creature’s back. I was not clear of the trees, yet. As it barreled onward, I found myself in the darkest night of my life. Above, the stars were gone, the moon absent. The darkness was palpable, a force as potent as fear, drowning me in its depths. True darkness is a fearful thing, indeed - I could not so much as make out my mount beneath me, or my hands twined tightly in the coat of its neck. Struck blind, my only assurance that I was still numbered among the living was the sensation of rising and falling, and the breathtaking impact as the elk pounded along. But even that was robbed for me, as the impacts grew less and less intense, and the sensation of motion evaporated. I felt myself failing, some essential part of me shattering in response to the utter nothingness surrounding me. What was happening to me? I could not know - with no sense of sight, nor touch, nor smell, nor hearing, I was as good as dead.

 

And perhaps I was.

 

I have no concious memory of the intervening period, but I awoke to find a morning sky above me. Light had been restored to the world, and I took it for the miracle it was, blinking like a newborn on all the things that surrounded me. The snow, cold upon my cheek. The treeline, some distance away. The window, directly above me.

 

I knew my location then. I lay precisely where Morgana had once stood at the window at Ms. Hardwicke’s estate. I got to my feet, and looked inside. Ms. Hardwicke, tucking into a hearty breakfast, caught sight of me. The fork, laden with food and travelling towards her mouth, promptly dropped. I waved foolishly.

 

Ms. Hardwicke took me into her home, and restored me to respectability. I had a shave and was provided with fine clothes, which fit me strangely. That first day, as I was domesticated again, she asked nothing of me. It was as if, in fact, I had never left. James, however, had, and so it was just myself, the lady, and her team of servants. That night, as we sat at the same dinner table, both in our same places, she finally mustered the courage to ask me.

 

“What happened?”

 

I considered this for a moment. And then I told her.

 

I would say that the most irrational period of my life was not my sojourn with the faerie, but rather my return to the humans. Once I was back in England, I was roundly disbelieved at every turn, even though I passionately protested the truth of my claims, I was met with scorn and disbelief. Eventually I gave up on the telling in society at large. This gave them license to speculate rampantly at what I had been up to for half of a year. Some thought I had travelled with the gypsies, others thought I had simply gone stark raving mad and taken up hermitage in the deep woods. Still others approached me and asked, empathetically and frankly, what truly had transpired. I grew so exasperated that I will concede that I went slightly mad. To return home and find yourself a stranger, mocked and ridiculed, was supremely frustrating and distressing. In the estranged comforts of my home, I continued to swear by every god I could name the truth of my story. My mother and father bore it with growing concern, and one day I sat in the drawing room, morosely looking out the window, day-dreaming of Morgana, when my mother entered the room. She was flanked by two solidly built men in doctor’s attire.

 

“What is this, mother?”

“These men are here to help you get better, Robert.” I could see it broke her heart to say it.

 

I lunged from my chair. “You’re sending me to the asylum?” I demanded of her.

 

She nodded, eyes overflowing with tears. The two orderlies had hard eyes, and no time for what augured to turn ugly quickly. And so they seized me by the arm and hustled me from my home. I was installed at one of the better asylums in Britain, and found myself in a room comfortable in all respects, save the lack of an open door.

 

I went well and truly mad here, I believe, and paced about half the day, reliving moments shared with Morgana and Berwyn. I ate irregularly and then not at all, and underwent some unpleasantness as the orderlies insisted I resume the habit.

 

One day I was struck by the idea to put all of these words to paper, and so I requested writing implements from my orderly. He complied, and I have spent some time recording all that I can remember. I hope this might prove useful, but I fear it will not. The ramblings of a madman are quickly discounted - but I must exhort of you, my dear reader, whoever you are: the faerie are real. I walked among them, and even loved one of their kind. And while I know it is outside the realm of all probability and reason, I ask you only entertain the possibility. If for no other reason than to give hope to those of you who were once like me. Know that there is something beyond our ken, and it might be within ourselves it if we but had the courage to make it so.

 

I have nothing more to say on the matter, and long years ahead of me. I think I shall take up drawing, and I have requested a mirror in order to practice portraiture. It is with great regret that I lay down this pen.

 

-Robert Carlisle, 1853

 

Robert set down his pen. He sat in his comfortable chair and regarded the stack of papers he had accumulated, a gentle frown on his features. The door opened, and he turned to see his orderly sidling into the room, a tall mirror gripped in both hands.

 

“Excellent. If you’d put it over there,” Robert said, leaning back in his chair. The orderly, puffing with exertion, waddled to the indicated wall, and set down the heavy mirror. He stood, relieved, and wiped the sweat from his reddened face.

 

“Dinner shortly, Master Carlisle. Will you eat it, or shall I have to feed it to you?”

Robert’s eyes were fixed on the mirror, as if it might hold an answer. “The former, Andrew. I’m famished.”

Andrew’s thick eyebrows came together over his nose. He grunted. “Very well, then,” he said, and left. As the door closed softly, so as not to disturb the other madmen, Robert crossed his legs and regarded the mirror. Andrew reappeared shortly with a tray of food, and set it before him. Robert ate without tasting, swallowing mechanically and distractedly. His eyes remained on the mirror. Setting aside his spoon, he picked up his pen and went to stand before it. Then he reached up and made a mark upon the glass, the metal nib shrieking. He let the pen fall from his hand to the carpeted floor, and stared for a moment longer into the mirror. Then he went to the barred window. Night was falling at long last over a beautiful summer day, and a soft breeze came to him, caressing his face. He closed his eyes and remembered that night when his life had changed. He wondered it if had happened at all. As the last of the sun dipped, and the fire upon the horizon was quenched by night, Robert turned and blew out the candles. He stood in darkness for a moment, and then went to his hard bed. He lay upon his side, eyes wide open, mind empty.

 

In the darkness, he saw the mirror, and watched as a sudden darkness spread over it. And then a voice came to him.

 

“Robert.”