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leahnardo-da-veggie · 2 months

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The Fae Prince

The dark Fae live in your woods. Your mother and your mother's mother and her mother besides had warned you of them; of their eerie beauty, of the silver of their hair like strands of moonlight, of the girls and boys who were taken into their woods and never returned.

They told you it was a curse to be beautiful in your village, that a dimpled smile and broad hips were liable to get you whisked away to the land of the unspeakable. In the fashion of the young everywhere, you ignored them. You donned your linen skirts and put your flax-gold tresses up and skipped into the woods, Red Riding Hood with a wolf-fae on your tail.

You first caught sight of him in the branches, a pair of eyes greener than the autumn leaves. Without even noticing it, you sped up. Soon your skipping was more running, cloak fluttering behind you. The woods closed in around you, branches reaching out to snag your clothes, like it wanted to rip them off you.

Your feet carried you out of the forest and into your mother's arms. You wept and wept as she combed your hair, her warning hanging in the air between you. The two of you say nothing, dare not suggest what you suspect dogs you. That night, you took a sharp rock and sawed off your tresses, and slept fitfully, dreaming of green eyes and silver hair. You prayed that it would be enough.

It was not. That morning, you awoke to find a carcass on your doorstep. It was a rabbit, frozen expression wide with the terror of the hunt, blood staining its pure white fluff. A gift, from an unwanted admirer. You looked in its glassy eyes and saw yourself reflected in them.

When you ventured into the woods that day, it was with trembling footsteps. You hid under the shadow of your cloak as you plucked blackberries, their juices staining your fingers and mouth blood-red.

Every step you took made leaves crackle underfoot, made blood blossom from the thorns that suckled at your exposed flesh. The wind heckled you, grabbing at your clothes like an unwanted catcaller. But worst of all were the eyes.

Green, always green. Cat-slit pupils, with a predator's wildness. Whites like the first snow, eyelashes long as branches and silver as a guillotine. There was beauty in those eyes, beauty like organs spilling out of a man's guts on the battlefield, like two armies clashing against each other in a wave of death come to shore, like a nightmare stalking you. You did not like that beauty.

But it liked you. That much you worked out, when something grabbed your cloak and cupped its hand against your mouth until you swooned in its arms.

The darkness you felt was pleasant, eerily so. You lay in a warm, squishy bed, semi-aware of the world, wondering when the draft in your room had been blocked. Worse, far worse, was the realisation, the first pebble in an avalanche falling, that the bed you slept in was not your bed. Nor was it a bed at all.

You jolted awake, and in the dim lighting of a cave's entrance saw the thing you slept in for what it was. Purple-red, loamy and thick, ropes and mush, a butcher house too fresh to be real. You desperately wiped the flesh off yourself, against every surface you could find. It felt wrong against your skin, against the skin that had been bared in your sleep. Where were your clothes? Where were you?

The autumn air was too cold for you to run out into the woods, but you could not bear to stay in the room, to wait as the smell of guts grew stronger and rotten, or worse— for it to stay fresh, like all food did in Faerieland.

So you fled, naked as a babe, walking too slowly for comfort, each step an agony of thorn, stone and twig. It— no, you could not lie, the thing that haunted you was a he— must have noticed you the second you left the cave, but he let you hope.

He intervened only when you lost sight of your viscera-bed, appearing in a gust of the wind. Your wolf-fae was beautiful, just like the stories told, with hair that reached his calves. His neck was long and slender, thick as your forearm and twice the length. His smile was wide, splitting his face open like a badly sewn doll. His eyes were the same brilliant green you had come to recognise, and there was not a trace of humanity in them.

The breath from your lungs was stolen as he wound his arms around you, claws digging into arms, pricking little streams of red. His body was warm against you, chest unmoving, too close to you. He opened his mouth, baring teeth like needles.

You thought your body would be added to the contents of the bed. You feared he would not bother with that, and instead would gulp you down whole. You did not expect— did not even think to fear what he did say.

With a voice like honey on the darkest oak, the faerie whispered in your ear, “Be my bride, my love, my gleaming treasure in these woods.”

He dug his fingers deeper into you as he said it, making you squirm against him in pain. His tongue punctuated his words by tracing the curve of your throat, and his heat bled into you. You knew what husbands did to their brides on the night of their weddings. You knew what consummation meant. You knew, and all you could think was: I don't want it, I don't want it, I don't want it- Over and over again, like a broken recorder, while his hands creeped towards your thighs.

The two of you were all alone in the forest, and even if there were others, you knew the Fae would not care to rescue a mortal like you. Screaming was not going to save you. Squirming only made him growl in delight. So you did the only thing you could: you scratched him, clawing and spitting like a feral rabbit.

Those alien eyes of his narrowed, and his claws, already tipped with your blood, dug in, threatening to skewer you. His teeth grazed your horribly exposed throat, and you saw what remained your life flash before your eyes, brief and ugly and full of pain.

It was the spirit of the rabbit that must have saved you, that same creature that had arrived on your doorstep less than a day ago. Your blindly grasping fingers caught his hair, which hung loosely, and pulled. His head jerked back sharply, but it was not enough. Your groom-to-be was too strong, too old, too cruel to be stopped by a mere girl's struggle.

He let out a laugh that was more howl, and released you. “Run,” he crowed. “Run, my precious, and when I catch you, what fun we shall have!”

You set off immediately, not daring to turn around. Your feet screamed at you, a symphony of agony, but the screaming in your mind drowned it out. It was your mantra, the beat to which you ran, the words repeating in your head: I don't want it, I don't want it, I don't want it-

You tore your way through the brambles, skin shredding like paper, leaving a trail of blood. Behind you, you could hear the howling delight of your Fae prince, and you knew that you would run the night down if only you could escape him.

Scratches ran across your body, like a baptism of blood. You moved blindly, no better choice than to flee. There was nothing you could do, you knew. You would grow exhausted, eventually, and your prince would not. He would hunt you down and marry you with a ring of thorns and then he would consummate your marriage and consume you alive. But you could not give up, not while the little voice in your brain said I don't want it, I don't want it, I don't want it-

You ran until your legs gave out under you, foot caught in a root. As your nose smashed against the hard bark of a tree, you wondered how it had not happened earlier. Running in the woods in the dark was an impossible task, yet you succeeded for… You didn't know how long you had run. While your twisted ankle throbbed, you lay there, eyes closed, blood pooling around your body.

You didn't move when he found you, nor when he knelt beside you. Even as you felt a rasping tongue lap at your wounds, you did not flinch. It was over, you thought. You fought and ran and hid, but it was not enough. Nothing was enough.

He flipped you over, straddling your bare hips. You knew what came next, knew the nightmare that lay right past the point of no return.

“My love,” he crooned, stroking your chest, caressing your cheek. “How I will treasure your cries.”

All you could think was: I don't want it, I don't want it, I don't want it. Again and again and again, it looped in your head as your groom-to-be shed his finery, pulled off his tunic and undid his trousers. Again, and again and again, like you knew he would do to you. Again, and again, and again, until you had an idea.

“Wait,” you whispered, voice hoarse. You opened your eyes and met his green ones, which were unreadable. “You have not wedded me yet. You cannot consummate a marriage that has not occurred.” You said it sensibly as you could, praying that the shiver in your voice would not make him ignore you.

Your groom-to-be tilted his head to the side. “Very well.” With a flick of his wrist, a bramble twisted itself into a ring. “Here is your wedding ring.” He forced it onto your hand, ignoring your cry of pain. “Now we are wed.”

“No,” you insisted. “We aren't married yet. Not until we are wedded by a priest. Those are the rules!”

The Fae prince let out a growl of frustration. It was the first human noise you heard. “If we must,” he agreed, and snapped his fingers.

Old Father Jorge, the village chaplain, appeared before you. He let out a gasp of horror. “My dear girl, what hap-”

You cut him off, the wheels in your head turning. “I would love to marry you here and now,” you lied, “ but you can't marry me in a forest! It has to be in the bride's home.”

Your groom-to-be stared at you blankly, and you willed him to believe you. By some miracle, he shrugged. “This is the last request I grant you, my love. We will wed in your home, and then I will have you right in front of all your family, and they shall all know you to be mine.”

You nodded, and hoped against hope. He clapped his hands, and all three of you stood outside your home, on the edge of the woods. Your mother stood at the gate, holding up a lantern. “Mother,” you cried out, too weak to stand up.

She ran to you, and with the priest's help, hauled you into your home. You lay on the hard wood, grateful that it was not purple-red and fleshy.

The prince stepped up, leaning against the doorway. “Now, invite me in, and I shall keep you by my side for all eternity,” he commanded.

Your lips quirked into a smile, despite the pain. “Nuh-uh,” you told him, voice soft as the dead rabbit's fur. “A mason laid down these lines, and you're not invited inside. Should've thought it through before you let me go home.”

With an effort, you reached out and shut the door in the Fae prince's face.

(Inspired by this post)

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