“There is nothing more I can do, Myrina Traihune.” He began to fade from sight, taking the sparkle of sunlight with him, leaving her in an icy grey miasma. “Except to wish you peace.”
She awoke, sitting up, arms still outstretched, heart pounding in fear and sorrow. Around her, the farmhouse slumbered. Outside the wind moaned and sighed in perfect harmony with her soul.
It was just a dream—vivid, realistic and terrifying—she told herself, even as she was swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. She had not been visited by Kestor, the golden faery Ryllio spoke of, but had simply created him and his words from her own imagination. Yet, driven by a compulsion too strong to resist, she pulled on her stockings and tied them in place and dressed in a warm wool petticoat and overdress.
There was no room for thought, only action, although everything around her seemed suddenly bright and sharp despite the darkness. Instinct guided her to her mother’s bedside, where she placed a kiss on the paper-dry cheek before quietly going downstairs. Farmer Harbottle’s hound lifted its head as she passed through the kitchen, tail thumping on the wooden floor as it watched her lace her boots. Swinging her cloak over her shoulders, she bade the hound stay as she opened the door and slipped out into the night.
Cold connected with her face like a slap, stealing her breath. The snow lay in huge drifted heaps against the building, having blown off the clean-swept fields. For a moment she faltered, wondering if it were even possible to find her way to Ryllio without his call, but determination pushed the thought aside, and she began to trudge as fast as she could toward the trees.
Time lost all meaning as she fought her way through the forest, slipping and falling in the snow, coming back upon her own footprints and striking off in another direction. The cold was intense, made bearable only by the fire of her resolve. On and on she went, until the sky above her began to lighten with the dawn and, shivering, she began to despair.
“Please,” she whispered to the wind. “Please, help me find him.”
A golden glow lit the trees ahead of her, and Myrina stumbled toward it, but then came abruptly to a halt, a cry of distress breaking from her lips.
The glade was filled with snow, the thicket covered with mounds of white. Only by the thorny branches of bracken protruding from the drift could she tell where it was. Forging her way to it threatened to sap the last of her strength but, once there, she found the wherewithal to shake the snow from the brush.
“Oh, Ryllio.” Tears prickled behind her eyes as she looked at the statue. There was no sign of life, any spark or sensation to indicate his presence, and Myrina knew she was too late.
But although her mind said so, her heart would not be deterred. Without thought she pushed through the underbrush, hardly feeling the thorns tearing at her clothing and skin, until she stood before the statue and could touch it. With gentle care she brushed away the snow clinging to his hair and face and shoulders, traced the handsome lines of cheek and brow, nose and mouth. The tears she could no longer contain slid down her cheeks at the feel of the cold marble.
“Ryllio,” she whispered, “I would do anything to help you be free. Don’t give up, please. Give me more time.”
There was no response except from the wind, sobbing and sighing through the trees. Stepping nearer yet, Myrina straddled his snow-covered legs, opened her cloak and bent to envelop Ryllio in the sodden wool. The need to be close to him, even though nothing but frigid stone awaited her, was too strong to resist. Arms around his shoulders for balance, she lowered herself to his lap, ignoring the shivers racing through her blood as she came in full contact with his icy form.
Pressing her cheek to his, hands compulsively exploring his back, his nape, she fit her lips to the hollow beneath his ear and began to speak.
“Don’t leave me, Ryllio, for I will never give up trying to set you free. If I have to find a portal into the world of the Fey, seek out Mab herself and beg for your release, I will do it.”
Still all she heard was the evil wind shaking and creaking in the old forest—all she felt was the numbing cold surrounding her—but she would not be deterred, would not cease until she knew he listened.
“Kestor wished me peace in my dream tonight, but I will not know true peace or even seek it until the spell binding you here is broken. Hold on to that hope, my darling, until I come back to you again.”
She was shivering, almost turning to stone with him. Soon she would have to leave, find shelter and warmth, or forfeit to death her quest to find the key to unlock his prison. There was one more thing she had to tell him before the unrelenting cold forced her back to the village. Settling even closer, she cradled his cheeks in her hands and looked into his unseeing eyes.
“When you told me not to come back, when you sent me away, I should never have listened. Come back to me, Ryllio, as I have come back to you. I love you too much to let you go now, or ever.”
Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his in one final, desperate gesture.
Pulling away, she gave him a last lingering look, committing every plane and curve of his face to memory before placing her hands on his shoulders and trying to rise.
And found she could not move.
Chapter Nine
A rush of warm, herb-scented air gusted through the hollow as dawn burst upon them, gilding Ryllio’s face with a golden, ruddy glow. Captivated by the suddenly life-like look of his skin, Myrina stilled, lifting one hand to touch her fingers to his cheek. When he blinked and Myrina found herself looking into the beautiful green eyes of her dreams, a little scream of mingled fear and happiness burst from her throat.
It was his arms wrapped tight around her, she now realised, stemming her ability to rise. And as she felt the supple heat of his skin beneath her hand, the shift of hard muscles under her legs, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, tears overcame her to flow freely down her cheeks.
There was no need for words. Ryllio lowered his head just as she raised her mouth to his and, as their lips touched, clung, parted, only to come together again, Myrina thought her heart would explode with joy.
Over and over they kissed, unable to get enough of each other. Where before she shivered with cold, now it was the fire of their passion warming her from within. Ryllio’s trembling hands swept beneath her cloak, stroking and exploring her back and arms and legs, fingers tangling into her hair, touching her cheeks. Myrina could only hold him close, closer, leaning into his broad, strong chest, wanting never to let him go.
Their kisses grew more frantic. Myrina opened her lips, welcoming the wicked sweep of his tongue, tangling hers with it, demanding even more intimacy. As he pulled back, she followed, catching his lower lip between her teeth, caressing it with gentle licks that drew him, sighing, back to her mouth.
Ryllio insinuated his hands between them, cupping her breasts, thumbs unerringly finding the straining tips through wool and linen. Suddenly unable to catch her breath, Myrina gasped, arched into the loving, sensuous touch.
His cock was hard against her stomach, and she slid her arms down his sides, across his rippling stomach, until she cupped the pulsating length of it in her palms. With a moan, Ryllio broke free from her mouth, pressing his lips to her eyes and cheeks, trailing a string of kisses to her ear, down to her neck. Between each touch of his mouth he whispered her name and confessed his love, in a chanted spell of binding and protection.
Ryllio was free, alive, in her arms.
The knowledge broke over Myrina with the force of a gale, heightening the already overwhelming need to merge herself with him in every way. Racked with passion, she pulled at her skirts, lifting them from around her legs. Ryllio gripped her hands, stopping her, and when she looked up into his intensely gleaming eyes, Myrina felt her heart lurch.
“Wait, love.” He was trembling, his voice rough with longing, but he held her still with gentle strength. “There is no need to rush. Let me make sure you are ready.”
Myrina felt a smile curve her
lips and a sweet tender place open in her heart. Holding his gaze, she replied, “I’ve been waiting for you, Ryllio, wanting you since the first time I heard your voice.”
Braced against his hands, she rose onto her toes, and Ryllio shuddered with her as the tip of his erection slipped between the lips of her quim. Tilting her hips so as to position them perfectly, Myrina felt her thighs tremble, the inexorable pull of ecstasy making her pulse deep inside. Ryllio’s face tightened, his eyes becoming feverish, the breath rasping from his throat, but he held completely still beneath her slow and unrelenting seduction. Myrina leaned forward, touching her lips to his as she whispered, “Will you make me wait longer, my love?”
“No,” he sighed. “No.”
But still he didn’t move, ceding the choice to her, letting her know his paramount desire was for her—her need, her pleasure. The beauty of it, the glorious sense of control, filled her to overflowing, made her love for him deepen even more.
Slowly she pressed down, her body flowering open to receive his cock, feeling him stretch and fill her until they clung together, so intrinsically joined she knew she would never again be whole without him.
Instinctively she began to move, rock, undulate. Ryllio released her hands to cup her cheeks, kissing her over and over, his tongue keeping pace with the motion of their hips. The sensations swirled, built, climbed inside, demanding she move faster, harder, against him.
Ryllio responded to her unspoken need, thrusting up to meet each downward plunge, giving her all she wanted and more. Until, battered by a surfeit of pleasure, Myrina felt ecstasy explode within and, crying out his name, surrendered to the sweet unstoppable joy.
Still reeling from the force of her release, she felt Ryllio’s arms shift as he rose, lifting her unresisting body, still intimately joined with his. Wrapping her legs as securely as she could around his waist, Myrina let her cheek fall to his shoulder and forced her eyes open as he walked out of the bracken.
What she saw as he carried her into the glade should not really have been surprising, but nonetheless it was. The snow had disappeared, and the hollow was once more green with grass and ferns, paved with flowers of every type and hue.
Kneeling once more, Ryllio laid her gently down amongst the blooms and unclasped her cloak from around her neck. As his fingers found the first button of her overdress, he hesitated, bending closer to whisper, “I want to see you, touch you, kiss you everywhere, but we have company.”
Myrina turned her head to where he gestured, saw the red buck and white doe in the shadow of the trees, silently watching. And she knew where they were, most likely so would Kestor be, always waiting for a chance to spy upon them.
Looking up at Ryllio, feeling the still-urgent pulse of his flesh inside her, she felt a flush of renewed desire burn through her veins. There was no hint of fear or shame when she imagined the king and queen of the faeries, or Kestor, watching Ryllio and her together. In fact it made the moment sweeter, hotter—even more magical than it already was.
Brushing his hands aside, she unbuttoned her bodice herself and, shrugging it off, murmured, “It seems only fair, considering you spied upon them. Besides, I care not if the entire world of Faery wants to watch. All I need right now is you.”
Ryllio made a sound, half-laugh, half-groan. “What happened to the shy maid I once saw blushing as she touched herself before me?”
Myrina looked deep into his twinkling eyes and, smiling, replied, “You awoke her passion and changed her blushes of embarrassment to those of desire. Is that not a good thing?”
“A very, very good thing indeed,” he replied, kissing her lips and setting himself back to the task of undressing her.
There in the light of dawn, surrounded by the scent of flowers, she lay supine beneath Ryllio’s tender, thorough exploration of her body, absorbing each breath and sigh and sound of pleasure into her overly sensitive skin. Although she could no longer hear him in her mind, the connection between them was as strong and sure as ever before. Shifting, flowing beneath his hands and lips, Myrina knew instinctively his yearning to simply touch and kiss her, to bring her pleasure over and over again.
Fantasy became reality, and Myrina closed her eyes against the almost painful glory of his lips against her breasts and belly, the swirl of his tongue around her navel, sliding down, parting her quim. His groan of bliss rushed across and into her flesh, and she looked along her body, meeting his fever-bright gaze. The look in his eyes, the love and passion, unravelled the last of her control, and she reached for him, threading her fingers into the dark, silken hair, lifting her hips as she pulled him closer.
Open-mouthed, he kissed her slick flesh, the flicking and lashing of his tongue making her cry out his name as she strained and arched and quaked. Wider she spread herself for him, and wider yet, inviting, demanding, drowning in the fervent intimacy.
When she could no longer bear not to touch him a moment more, he came to her, surrendering his body even though the desperation of his desire sent tiny shivers of need through his muscles to ripple across his skin.
Later, she decided, would be soon enough to touch, tease and tantalize Ryllio the way he had so lovingly tormented her. But now he needed her, needed the release he seemed determined to deny. Urging him into the cradle of her thighs, she took him deep, lifting her head to press drugging kisses on his lips.
“Myrina,” he whispered, his strong arms trembling with the force of his passion. “Myrina, I am yours, now and forever.”
It was a pledge, a promise, a love-spell. The quiet vow of days and nights to come—an incantation to cling to, no matter what the future held.
Overcome by too much emotion to reply, she held the echo of his words dear, knowing them to be part of the strongest magic here or beyond the veil—and needing nothing more.
And What Happened Next?
All faery tales end with “And They Lived Happily Ever After”, but that is because the Fey, whispering into authors’ ears, usually grow bored once the magic ceases being part of the story. Never much given to mundane considerations, they care not what happens after the spell is lifted. If asked, “How did Red Riding Hood explain the talking wolf?” or “How come Cinderella wasn’t accused of stealing the dress and shoes?” they tend to shrug and disappear. Or threaten the questioner with gruesome retribution for being, well, so nosy.
So usually there is no answer to the eternal cry, “And what happened next?” except what we find in our own imagination. However, in the case of Myrina and her prince, it could be said the lingering enchantment was strong enough to hold the interest of one particular faery. This is what I heard, under the light of a red harvest moon, of their life thereafter.
By the time Myrina and Ryllio returned to the Harbottle farm, they found the place in an uproar. Elawen was weeping, the goodwife in a temper, and Farmer Harbottle just about to mount his fat little pony and ride to the village for help in searching for the missing Myrina. When the farm residents saw the two cold, damp figures emerge from the woods, their joy was indescribable, and to everyone’s eternal shock Goodwife Harbottle burst into tears.
After a massive hug from the goodwife, and a sound scolding, Myrina told them the story. It was, however, the abridged version—leaving out the fact Ryllio had once been a prince, along with all the touching and swiving, and the exhibitionist tendencies she’d discovered in herself. There were some things, she reasoned, they really didn’t need to know.
In light of the Harbottles’ no-nonsense attitude, she wasn’t sure the story would be believed, but Myrina was again surprised, this time by their calm acceptance. There were, the farmer told her, many strange things in the woods—unheard of because no one spoke of them for fear of being called crazed. The goodwife simply nodded and offered Ryllio another bowl of porridge, beaming with pleasure when he complimented her on how delicious it was.
Myrina took Ryllio to meet her mother, and he showed the elder lady such tender and courtly concern she was thoroughly charmed
. Afterwards she told the goodwife she was of a mind not to die just yet, being loath to leave her daughter to manage a man so handsome and winning on her own. Every woman in the village, she opined, and many from the lands around would be panting as soon as they saw him. Myrina needed someone with a stout stick to beat them away.
Ryllio, taking the surname Trennek, which was one of his father’s many names, was introduced in the village as one of Farmer Harbottle’s far-flung relatives come for a visit, and no one seemed to think anything of it. He did indeed attract much feminine attention, but had eyes only for Myrina. Although Mrs. Traihune was true to her word and rallied, living long enough to see her first grandchildren, she never had need of the ironwood cudgel she kept behind the kitchen door.
Ryllio, with Farmer Harbottle’s guidance, learned to till and sow and reap the land, and thought himself the luckiest man alive. On occasion he remarked the life of Farmer Trennek was far more satisfying than the one he lived as Prince Ryllio, such comments usually being made after he and his wife had indulged in one of their frequent naughty trysts in the woods. Or their bedroom. Or the hayloft. Or, on one memorable occasion, under the kitchen table, with his hands tied firmly to the massive oak legs.
Myrina hadn’t trusted the strength of their bed frame.
“And they did, indeed, live happily ever after,” Kestor whispers to me, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight, that whimsical smile tilting the corners of his mouth. I have no reason not to believe him, for Kestor and I understand each other and have struck a mutually beneficial bargain.
“Tell me another tale,” I ask, but he lays a finger across my lips and gestures across the moonlit glade.
As my human lover comes through the trees, softly calling my name, Kestor places a lingering kiss on my shoulder, and whispers in reply as I step into the flower-strewn hollow: “Later.”
About the Author
After living a checkered past, and despite an avowed disinterest in domestication, Anya has settled in Ontario, Canada, with a husband, the youngest of their three children and two increasingly fat cats. All her living companions know to leave her alone when they see her hunched over the keyboard—with the exception of the cats, who couldn’t care less, especially if the food bowl is empty.
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