Everyone laughs. I hold my head up high. I’ve never had any hangups about nudity. Probably thanks to my mother’s slightly hippy ways. I always figured that my body was a body. Everyone had one and if mine wasn’t the most beautiful in the world, then so what?
And now, thanks to fey food, my body is gorgeous and I’m extremely proud of it.
So fuck you, Iestyn. This hasn’t freaked me out or thrown me off balance at all.
Though, I have to admit that I’m grateful I asked Rhydian to put the cockbag back on me. Purely for my own kinky pleasure, because I adore my cock belonging to Rhydian. But, anyway, the point is. The cockbag is on. It survived the flames and even though my balls and ass are out, I don’t feel anywhere near as naked as I probably should.
Iestyn’s dull green eyes narrow. He can see how unbothered I am, and now he is pissed off. Good.
The gong sounds.
My turn.
I reach over to my table and pick up the silver, jewel encrusted goblet. I hand it to Iestyn. He takes it with a musical, mocking laugh.
“My personal wards can handle any poison, little pet,” he smirks.
“Look at it,” I say calmly.
He looks down. He freezes. His face drains of all colour.
My heart does a tentative little stucco of relief and hope. It is working. Iestyn is caught by the salt. So far, everything is going to plan.
The gong sounds.
Iestyn’s turn.
He doesn’t move. Not one single muscle. He is not even blinking. One small bead of sweat is forming on his forehead. The crowd is whispering and murmuring. I can hear shocked and alarmed gasps. Only Rhydian, Mabon and Dyfri know what is in the goblet.
The soft sound of the gong is the most beautiful noise I have ever heard. Iestyn missed his turn. Now it is my turn again. So far, so good.
I pick up my second and only remaining item. A plastic carrier bag. I pull the heavy cast iron frying pan out of it. Mint leaves fly out everywhere. The fey standing closest to the edge of the circle, step back in horror. Dyfri was right, the mint did hide the iron from their senses.
I snatch a quick breath and place the very large frying pan on the floor, right in front of Iestyn’s feet. The flipping thing weighs a ton.
I step back and watch. I can’t breathe, I can’t even blink. I’m gambling my life on an old folk song from the Hebrides. And I’m hoping the compulsion of the salt willnot cancel out the compulsion of the iron pan. As well as trusting that the cookware shop and manufacturers are truthful and the pan is pure cast iron and not an alloy.
Iestyn is fully sweating now. He makes a slight whimper and then steps jerkily into the pan. His green eyes widen. His breath hitches. His mouth twitches into a grimace.
The gong sounds.
Iestyn’s turn.
A wave of dizziness washes over me but my lungs are still refusing to work. I watch, utterly transfixed, as Iestyn fights the salt and the iron. He is making the tiniest of movements. Emitting the quietest of noises, but it is clear he is fighting with everything he has.
Time stretches and drags. The crowd is chattering with agitation. I swear it has been a thousand years since Iestyn’s turn began.
Suddenly, the gong rings out.
My lungs gasp in air, and my sight dims for a moment. I’m shaking now and giddy with glee. But it is not over yet.
I step up close to Iestyn and search for the pins holding his hair up. I’m so glad Mabon let me practise on him, down to one braid, or I’d mess this up completely. It was worth Rhydian’s badly contained strop about me undoing his brother’s hair, because otherwise I wouldn’t have a clue what I was doing.
As it is, I find the first pin quickly. I pull it out and some of Iestyn’s moss green hair tumbles down.
I walk slowly around him, anticlockwise. Pulling pins out as I go. More and more soft hair tumbles loose and free down to his waist. He whimpers and shudders but still can’t move.
I make it all the way around him, back to where I started, facing him. His hair is all unbound now, and it is annoying how good it looks. Soft, glossy, thick, and full of gentle waves. But his skin is deathly pale and his eyes nearly bulging.
