She untied her ornate leather pieces and washed them off, to lay them to dry on the stones. Only clothed in her silken undergarment, she slowly waded into the dark water and felt her blood rush at the cold. She felt her heart beat strongly, and it was then that she realized she still had a strong will to live. This heart that beat at the touch of the icy cold water was hers, and it was still that of a fearless huntress, and one that had refused to let herself be held back from being free. And now, she was free at last. Her fear washed away with the clots of dried blood, and she stood in the cold pool, a smile slowly forming on her lips. She did not know who was playing the lyre so sweetly in the distance, but it did not matter, for she did not fear the unknown. As she reached the bank of the pool, she lay on the mossy stones and began humming the melody. Her voice was trembling at first, but she quickly gained courage and soon enough, verses came to her, and she started singing loudly. It was as if she knew how the melody would carry on, as if it was a road she had never trodden on but knew all its twists and turns. She gave herself to it so completely, that she did not realize when the lyre got increasingly closer.
When she finally saw the branches sway and a silhouette form near her coming out of the undergrowth by the river, it was too late to slip into her cave unseen. Her heart was pounded as she retreated into the darkness beyond the waterfall, as she knew that the feet of the singer were now treading the ground she had been standing on mere moments ago. The lyre stopped, and the sound of the waterfall seemed to swell up in the silence between them.
“I’ve heard you singing,” Orpheus cried.
“So have I,” replied Iphigenia at length, although the exchange felt odd to her. She had not seen the lyre player, but his voice sounded almost as pleasant as his lyre.
“Did you not like it?” the player asked.
“It was absolutely beautiful. It restored my spirits. You have my thanks,” she said, and feared that her kindness might sound to the stranger as a welcome, which she did not intend at all.
“Then why have you fled? Please show yourself. I caught but a glimpse of you. I will not do you harm.”
“Please be gone.”
“Gone? I am wounded. I thought you liked my song.” Orpheus smiled and waited, but no reply came. “Very well. I will leave you in peace,” he said and turned to leave.
Before going back to his mare, he took out a small leather pouch in which he had a few bites to eat and left it by her leather armor. He ran his fingers across the bracers and noticed the symbols of the cult of Artemis. He looked over towards the waterfall, but the girl did not shift from her nook, and he did not want to approach her and scare her away. He took his leave but could not get the fleeting image of the dryad out of his mind even as he entered the city. Her green eyes and wild copper locks as she disappeared before the stones, like a deer jolting from the river as the hunter snaps a twig under his boot.
He did not sing when he entered the city. He had put his lyre in his saddlebag, for he was deep in thought, trying to compose a song that could capture the dryad’s wild beauty he had so scarcely even seen as she hid from his sight. He smiled as he passed by the people, but looked straight through them, and floated back to his palace as if in a deep trance. His brother came to see him, and he half heard him say something or another but paid no attention to him, and hummed along quietly, as if speaking to himself in his own language of lyre strings and chords. Troilus left him to his reveries and marched angrily towards his quarters.
Night settled over his marble city. In his bed, all covered in fine silks and staring at the moon filtering through the clouds outside his balcony, the God of Music wondered whether the dryad girl was still there in the forest, sleeping softly in her cavern beyond the whispering waterfall.
The next morning, Orpheus awoke with a new and fresh purpose. While he dressed, he realized that he hadn’t even asked the dryad her name. Sure enough, she must have been one of the huntresses of Artemis, judging by the carved symbols on her leather armor. He decided to burn incense in the temple of Artemis, to let the mighty goddess know of his admiration for one of her loyal subjects.
As he ascended the great steps of the temple, he was greeted by three priestesses of Artemis, who were going down to the river to fill the ceremonial jugs with water, as one of their daily morning duties. They smiled and bowed with the heavy amphorae perched within their lush golden tresses. The high priestess was tending the large brazier in front of the altar as Orpheus stepped forward.
“You seldom come to pray to our Goddess Artemis, my king,” she said, “more often, I see your brother sacrificing game on this altar, while you spend your days in praise of your divine Father.”
“I have never been very much into hunting, honorable priestess. I do not mean it as an offense to our goddess.”
“I am sure she does not see it so, then.” The high priestess caressed the smooth marble altar and smiled.
“Yet today, I come to light incense and ask her to bless one of her beautiful subjects, a dryad huntress whom I met the other day in the forest.”
“Very well. Is she going on an important hunt?” she asked.
Orpheus paused for a while.
“She did not say, but I wish her fortune all the same,” he replied, and she began to ready the offering.
Just as the high priestess had finished preparing the incense and was sparking it on fire, the three young priestesses came into the temple with the water filled amphorae. They were silent as they got close to the altar, seeing their superior was performing a ritual.
The fire caught the fragrant bowl, but it immediately extinguished itself into a thin streak of white smoke that did not climb towards the heaven, but instead snaked through the air like a striking viper, towards the jugs brimming with water. The three amphorae cracked and snapped noisily, flooding the marble floors. The priestesses shrieked and fell to the ground, begging for mercy from their Goddess. Their knees and arms scraped against the ceramic shards that lay scattered around. The cries rose and reflected off the walls with ominous resonance.
Orpheus looked at them in amazement.
“There is something very wrong with that dryad, my king,” the high priestess managed to say in a fearful, trembling voice. “And I suggest you do not seek her out, lest you bring the wrath of Artemis upon you and upon us all.”
The incident sparked his interest in the furtive dryad who had sung so sweetly over his lyre playing. He wondered whether she was in trouble, whether she had sought sanctuary in the cavern by the river because she was running from some danger. His heart sank at the thought that someone might be hunting the beautiful huntress.
“That is very troubling,” he said at length, and left the temple without another word, ignoring the soft sobs of the three priestesses. The high priestess was silent as well, as she had not taken her eyes off the unburnt offering.
He hurried to the palace, where he got his servants to ready his horse, pack his saddlebags, as he got his precious lyre. Before he could ride out of the palace courtyard, Troilus came down the stairs to stop him.
“Brother, I didn’t know you were awake. I need to speak to you,” he said as he approached his mare.
“There is something I need to do, Troilus. Is it urgent? I must leave right away,” he replied.
His brother sighed. “No, we shall discuss it upon your return,” he replied, and slowly made his way back to the palace. As his brother left, he watched him ride out of the courtyard and down the road towards the city gate.
“What could the king of the city need to do more urgent than to talk with the captain of his army?” he wondered. “Of course, this king does not really think much of his captain, and would rather sing songs by the river than talk about the affairs of his people.”
Orpheus hurried towards the forest. He sang no songs, and the children looked on as he came down the cobbled street, with a stern look on his face that they had never seen before.
By
the time he was standing on the rocky bank of the water pool, he had forgotten the reason for his haste. He looked around for signs of the dryad’s presence and saw that she had taken her leather armor and had left the food pouch empty. He tried to peer beyond the waterfall, but could not see her.
“Are you still here?” Orpheus cried, and waited. He was half certain he had heard the sound of small pebbles shifting in the cavern at the sound of his voice, but no other reply came.
He considered his situation for a moment. He did not want to go over and scare her, so he decided to sit on one of the mossy rocks and play for her. He tuned his lyre and began playing a joyful song, filling the forest with the sound of celebration.
It made Iphigenia smile in the darkness. The more she listened, the more she felt the need to dance to the stranger’s tune. Her cavern was too tight to allow her to move freely, and yet she was still too fearful to show herself to the magnificent player who insisted on seeing her. Without her will, she began humming once again, and he heard her from beyond the waterfall. The lyre song faded away.
“So you are here!” Orpheus exclaimed, putting down his lyre. “Please tell me your name. I am Orpheus.”
“I do not have a name,” Iphigenia replied, afraid that he might find out about her curse. She liked the lyre, and the player seemed kind and warm, and she did not want him to shun her as well.
“Then how am I to call this song I wrote for you?” Orpheus sat down again and began playing. This time, the melody started softly, as a distant rumor spreading through the leaves, almost drowning in the sounds of the waterfall. A melancholy filled theme resounded out of the faint harmonies, and the song constantly evolved, ever mysterious, beautiful and wild. Iphigenia closed her eyes and lost herself in the divine music. Hours passed like minutes, and the evening came, casting dark blue reflections through the water streaming outside her stone alcove.
“I must return home,” Orpheus said at length. The dryad was silent. He thought she had fallen asleep and made a few steps to leave.
“Please return tomorrow,” he heard her whisper, and smiled.
Chapter 3
The pale moon turned, waxing and waning as the God of Music sang to his dryad every evening until the nightingales would drown his lyre. Every night, before leaving, he would ask her to come and join him on the bank of the pool, and every night she would fall silent. He would then leave her sweets and fruits as an offering and disappear into the undergrowth. She would sometimes silently climb down immediately afterward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the divine player as he walked away, but night would cloak him, and the leaves would close behind him, and she would only catch glimpses of his golden hair. Her heart would pound in her chest, and she would wish to run towards him, to put her soft hand on his shoulder and look upon his face. But come the next day, she would lose her courage and sit quietly in her alcove, as he played the lyre for her.
Iphigenia knew she was falling in love with the stranger. She prayed and prayed to Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, so that she may counsel her on what she should do. She had no offerings for her, no incense, and no sacrifice to lay on her altar, but she wept so sweetly invoking her name that the Goddess heard her prayers and decided to show herself to her.
One evening, as Orpheus played his enchanting lyre, he felt a deep haze of slumber cover his eyes and numb his senses. He could not fight it, and he put his lyre down beside him and lay on the bank of the pool. As he closed his eyes, he fell in a profound dreaming state from which nothing seemed to wake him.
Iphigenia immediately noticed the silence that had fallen between them and grew worried, but she did not leave her cavern.
“Orpheus?” she cried, remembering the stranger’s name.
No answer came, but instead, she heard a woman’s voice, as sweet as nectar, calling for her.
“You may come out, my sweet Iphigenia, for I have put Orpheus to sleep, and he will not wake until I want him to. Come out, you are safe now, child.”
The dryad carefully descended from her hiding place to behold the most beautiful silhouette of a woman she had never seen. Aphrodite’s skin shone with the enchanting pallor of the full moon, and her tresses fell like wispy clouds over her breasts and down to her heels. She smiled pleasantly towards Iphigenia and gestured her to come forward.
“I have heard your prayers, my child, and have come to lend you my hand. The stranger with which you have fallen in love is none other than the son of Apollo, Orpheus, God of Music and ruler of the city of Epidaurus, which lies just beyond this forest. While he is slumbering so sweetly at my feet, you may approach him and look upon his face, so that you may know the man who has stolen your heart.”
Iphigenia approached carefully. She knelt beside the sleeping young king, and gently touched his golden hair to reveal his face.
“He’s handsome. He looks so gentle and kind,” she whispered to the goddess.
“He is. And he wishes to take you away to his city and make you his wife.”
Iphigenia drew back, startled.
“He does?” she asked, fearfully.
“Yes. I have seen him, heard his thoughts as he came here every evening to play to you, in the hopes that he may catch a glimpse of his beloved dryad. You have asked for my advice, and I shall give it to you: take him as your husband, for you will not find any creature so dearly enamored with you as he is. Go to Epidaurus and live a happy life, away from this place, for every moment you spend in the forest, Artemis plots and schemes to bring forth your demise.”
“But what of my curse?” Iphigenia asked. “Apollo will ever allow his son to marry a creature such as me.”
“It is not for Apollo to concern himself with your past sins, nor is it the affair of Orpheus, who is not himself a hunter. You must never tell him of what you have done. Never speak of your past, and it shall not come back to haunt you once you are no longer under the eyes of Artemis. You must go to Epidaurus and never return, for the forest is her domain, and you shall forever be shunned and hunted here. Beware of her temples, and priestesses, for you shall never find forgiveness with Her. Be fearless and fierce, as I have known you to be. I have spoken. ”
The goddess caressed Iphigenia’s hair and disappeared into the twilight haze of the forest. The dryad smiled and looked down towards Orpheus, who was beginning to shake off the heavy chains of Aphrodite’s trance. She started humming to him, remembering the song he had composed for her. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, she whispered softly, “Iphigenia is the name of this song.”
Orpheus did not return to his city as night settled over the hills overlooking the forest. The gates of Epidaurus closed at midnight, and the horn sounded to call him forth from the forest, but no answer came back. Troilus visited his chamber many times, asking his servants whether they had seen the king returning. None could answer.
“Should we send a search party, captain?” one of them suggested, as Troilus paced nervously through the empty chambers.
He sat on the king’s balcony, hands crossed over his broad chest and a stern look plastered on his face. He frowned.
“No,” he replied, after taking some time to consider the matter. “I am sure my brother will return safely, wherever he has gone. The light of Apollo guards him.”
The servant bowed and exited the chamber, leaving Troilus deep in thought, with his gaze lost over the forest looming outside the city walls. As he sat on the soft velvet cushions of the seat his brother usually played his lyre from, he imagined for a moment he was king over the sleeping city. If it had been him – he who was more powerful, he who had the superior strategic mind and will to rule, he who valued perseverance, who worked endlessly to train his senses and turn his body into that of a fearless warrior – if it had been him in his brother’s place, the multitude endless realms beyond the city walls would know his name and bear the symbols of his empire on their breastplates. But Apollo had no eyes to see anything beyond his beloved sing
er with golden hair.
He sighed and retreated to his quarters. As his paces echoed down the empty halls, a faint whisper came to his ears. It rang so softly; he was almost sure he had only thought he heard it.
“Troilus…” the whisper came again, in a low humming voice, akin to the roar of a bees’ nest.
“Troilus!” it grew coarser and closer to his ears, more urgent in its tone.
He was in his chamber’s doorway when it came again, and being certain he had heard it this time, he turned back and shouted, “Who goes there? Show yourself!” but the halls were silent, and no more whispers came as he climbed into bed and closed his eyes.
Dark dreams plagued his mind that night. Turbulent, heavy dreams, like fever trances that torture the spirit as the ill flesh slumbers. At first, he could not make anything of the whirling torment that plagued his senses. But before he knew it, he was walking through the halls of the palace, the white marble of the floors spewing forth fantastic reflections before his feet. In his mind’s eye, the building he had called home for so long had morphed into a tenebrous labyrinth. The stairs to the palace cellars came to him again and again, ever descending into the humid darkness, beckoning to him to come forth.
“Troilus…” the whispers raged around him, like waves smashing over the shore during the unbridled tempest.
“Troilus…” they called, and his whole being seemed to draw closer to the source, descending, descending, in an ever downward spiral towards the pitch below. “It is your birthright!” they screamed, and this time they seemed like furies whirling around him, biting into his flesh and tearing at his eyes with a merciless vengeance. He screamed, but no sound came forth from his lungs – it was as if they had turned to ash. He could not go back, he thought, he was lost if he as much as looked behind him. Before him, the stairs become the gaping mouth of a terrible beast. He opened his eyes and woke in his bed, clutching the silken sheets and drenched in sweat.
Daylights Affliction (Faded light Book 1) Page 2
