He lowered his lips to hers, pushing aside the torment which engulfed her, channeling it into the flames of passion. He carried her to his bed, where he lavished her entire body with all the love in his heart. When at last she lay quivering with pleasure, content in his arms, he prayed to the Goddess that she would listen.
****
Three days later, Ronan kissed Issylte goodbye and set sail for Bretagne to deliver the weapons and armor he had forged for King Hoël of Armorique.
Her eyes brimming, she kissed the amulet he wore—the pendant she had given him for protection during his travels—as she wished him a safe voyage and quick return. She watched his ship sail away, then went back inside Le Centre to care for her patients, unable to shake the premonition of dread which hovered above. An ominous, dark cloud, obscuring her path.
Two weeks after Ronan’s departure, news of the death of King Donnchadh of Ireland reached the island of Avalon.
Issylte was buried anew in grief. She—the forest fairy with verdant healing magic—had been unable to save her father. Visions of his frail, leech-covered body tormented her. Choked her. The evil queen and her vile viper forcing her bedridden father to drink the poisoned brew. His body convulsing in agony.
She hid in her room, unable to face anyone, drowning in sorrow. Her wicked stepmother had killed everyone Issylte loved. Impotent rage sickened her soul.
She kept to her room, visited frequently by Nyda, Cléo and Viviane. They tried to coax her to eat, to come sit by the fountain, to gallop across the plains or ride through the forest.Issylte couldn’t bear to leave her darkened room. Guilt and grief consumed her.
But, as the weeks passed, with more and more critically wounded soldiers and ravaged victims washing like waves upon the shores of the healing island of Avalon, Issylte forced herself back to work, caring for those who so desperately needed her. Every one of the twelve rooms in Le Centre now housed four patients instead of one. The conservatory had been converted into a hospital room where twelve more critically wounded soldiers writhed in agony. The acolytes’ residence had become a second hospital, and the young priestesses now shared two rooms that had been part of Viviane’s private quarters in the main building of Le Centre. Everywhere—in corridors, the library, the storage room of sacred stones—victims of the Black Knight languished in pain.
Some of the patients Issylte treated had come to Avalon from Ireland, escaping starvation and misery. She learned that her stepmother the queen had raised taxes repeatedly over the past few years in order to fund the construction of hundreds of drakkar warships for the Black Knight’s merciless slave raids. Issylte heard horrid tales of young women given as spoils of war to the Viking brutes who enjoyed their nubile bodies and reaped the rewards of additional slaves when the victims bore children as a result. Captured young men were forced to row the Viking warships as they pummeled the coast of Cornwall to weaken the Cornish king. Many slaves were forced to till fields and harvest crops to feed the voracious Viking soldiers while the people of Ireland starved, staggering under the weight of additional taxes to fund the Morholt’s insatiable army.
As a result of the continuous increase of victims of the ruthless Viking slave raids, Viviane ordered the construction of a Women’s Center and a Home for Orphans on the island of Avalon. Villagers from Briac and Rochefort banded togetherwith the Avalonian Elves and the Little Folk—proficient in woodworking and carpentry—to build the two shelters for victims ravaged and ruined by the vicious Viking assaults. Many of the women who had lost their families to the Morholt’s army now helped care for the poor children who had seen their parents slaughtered. On the island of healing, victims bonded together as they weathered the tumultuous storm of the relentless Viking tempest.
Ronan returned in autumn, as the apple trees were laden with ripe red fruit. Issylte rode with him to his cottage, feeding the horses the tart, delicious treats, sipping on mulled wine before the crackling hearth, deeply grateful to be reunited at last.
She found solace in his protective arms, unburdening the profound grief at the loss of her father. Ronan’s warm lips, skilled tongue and otherworldly Elven body helped her escape the horrors of war, her guilt and despair. Riding her beautiful blond stallion was more exhilarating than anything she’d ever experienced in the saddle, and Issylte cherished every precious day they spent together.
Sometimes, when she had a savory rabbit stew simmering on Ronan’s hearth, the familiar scents of garlic, rosemary, and sage filled Issylte with nostalgic memories of Maiwenn’s cozy kitchen. And, even as her heart was gripped in the tight vice of loss, Tatie’s love flowed into everything she did. In many ways, Issylte had become her Tatie.
Her verdant magic—wielding the curative essence of the forest—flowed through her veins, into the bodies of the severely wounded patients she healed at Le Centre. Her gentle touch, kind manner, and soothing voice comforted the desperate orphans, drowning in the same grief of loss that Issylte knew so well. On days when she and Ronan could be together, she baked fresh bread, harvested and cooked seafood delicacies, and made tarte aux mirabelles in his cottage, just as Tatie had always donein the beloved Hazelwood Forest. Pouring love into everything she did helped keep the guilt and grief at bay.
Issylte often found herself watching Ronan when he was bent over his forge, his light golden skin glistening with sweat, his powerful arm hammering the Elven weapons for the king of Armorique. She watched him care for little Noisette, giving her foal an extra carrot as he lovingly groomed the magnificent horses in his stables. She often dreamed of the beautiful Elven children they would have. The silvery blond hair, pointed ears, and otherworldly power of their father. The verdant, healing magic of their forest fairy mother. She and Ronan would raise horses and children. She’d heal the sick; he’d craft inimitable Elven weapons. They’d make passionate love in the cozy stone cottage. Her Elf would protect their little family. And she’d be safe from the wicked queen with the icy grip of wolfsbane. The evil stepmother who still wanted her dead. And hunted her like a ravenous predator.
Yet, despite the love in Ronan’s arms, the bliss they shared in his enormous bed, the happiness he gave her every single day—her stepmother’s evil gnawed at her insides like the sharp, pointed teeth of hungry rodents. As she cared for the soldiers with missing limbs, the burn victims screaming in pain, the agony of warriors with bloody, infested sockets of a missing eye—the hot coals of impotent rage burned in her soul.
Her wicked stepmother had killed her beloved father, Gigi, Tatie, Bran, and Dee. And now, the merciless Black Knight was pummeling the coast of Cornwall, leaving countless victims in his wake. Capturing hundreds as slaves for his wretched Irish queen. Issylte’s own kingdom was at the mercy of the evil queen and her dreadful snake. Issylte felt compelled to stop her. But how?
As Ronan said, she had no army. She couldn’t simply sail to Ireland and naively demand the right to her father’s crown.The wicked queen had the full power of the Irish throne. And the might of the Morholt, the Scourge of the Celtic Sea. With his invincible, voracious Viking army. Devouring her impoverished country. Destroying the weakened kingdom of Cornwall.
It was killing her. There was absolutely nothing she could do. Her entire country was suffering—in misery, starvation, poverty. And the Morholt was planning a massive invasion of Cornwall. Which meant even more victims, suffering, and death. Frustration and anguish gnawed mercilessly at her grieving gut.
****
Another Yuletide season passed. She and Ronan decorated his cottage with holly and fragrant pine boughs. When Cléo and Nyda cared for her patients, allowing Issylte time to come to Ronan’s cottage, she often cooked delicious meals that they shared in the quaint kitchen. She and her Elf would ride across the grassy plains, through the dense forest, to the seashore where the crashing waves and lull of the ocean soothed her aching heart. They’d return to his hearth and make love before the roaring fire, nestled among furs on a pile of soft blankets.
This year, she had a cobbler in the village of Rochefort craft a fine pair of leather boots from the softest deerskin she’d ever touched. Large enough for his enormous Elven feet. And Ronan gave her dark green woolen gloves lined with rabbit fur, to match her lovely cloak. They sipped mulled wine before the fire and shared their Yuletide joy in his enormous bed. Yet the happiness she savored with Ronan sickened her with guilt amid the misery and suffering of her patients and the constant, nagging worry about the evil queen.
Issylte—who now wore the dark blue robes of a full-fledged Priestess of Avalon, having earned the distinction of guérisseue celtique—worked alongside Viviane, Nyda, and Cléo to decorate the newly completed Women’s Center and Home for Children with Yuletide cheer. The priestesses and women of the villageroasted duck and pheasant, celebrated with fruit pies and homemade toys for the children that many of the Little Folk had crafted from smooth wood or soft fabric. And, although the recovering patients grieved for the families they’d lost at this most joyous time of year, bonding with one another on Avalon was helping everyone heal.
Spring returned with a profusion of white flowers on the beautiful island of healing. The fragrance of jasmine, apple blossoms, and aubépines filled the crisp cool air as Issylte stood on the sandy shore, watching Ronan and his Elves load up the weapons and armor they’d been crafting for months for King Hoël of Armorique. Sea gulls cawed in the soft blue sky; the tangy salt spray of ocean waves filled her nose as her handsome Elf walked across the white sand to kiss her goodbye.
“I’ll be gone three months. Not long, my princess,” he crooned into her good ear as he wrapped his loving arms around her. He pulled her against his broad chest and bent her backwards to plant a luscious kiss upon her soft lips, parting them gently with the tip of his skilled tongue. A warm glow stirred in her loins as she remembered the delicious goodbye they’d shared just a few hours ago.
“We’ll sail to Armorique and deliver this order. Sell to a few other nobles in Bretagne who want to buy weapons and armor. There are rumors that the Morholt and his Viking army are eyeing the coasts of France, so many want to be prepared.” Ronan’s grin spread from ear to ear, lighting up his rugged face. “It will be a most profitable trip.”
Issylte stroked the dark blond stubble on his cheek, inhaling the familiar aroma of pine, leather, and smoke as she buried her nose into the tuft of hair at the base of his throat. She breathed deeply, bringing the scent of him down into her lungs, trapping his essence inside her. To tide her over until his return.
“Hurry back to me, my Elf. I will miss you desperately.” Her eyes glistened as she gazed up into his.
“I will, my princess. You hold my heart in your beautiful hands. I love you, Issylte.”
