A brief kiss upon a hard white mouth. A warm caress on a cold cheek. A one-sided embrace that could never be returned.
A noise broke out in the quad and the young maiden was lost amid a shower of emerald leaves. A curious squirrel beheld the spectacle and wondered why nobody had bothered sweeping King Peter's grave that day. He quickly scampered off but the dryad remained a cluster of leaves and twigs atop of the marble effigy.
Of course, there was no body beneath the stone figure. No earthly remnants of the High King. Only air and echoes of things that once were. The Narnians had dutifully built their four great monarchs proper tombs once they realised they had left their kingdom for good. Future generations would often forget they were hollow.
Even Ilwyfen herself would sometimes be fooled. So alike was the marble figure to the live breathing model she'd loved. Lost in her caresses and half-uttered regrets, she'd forget that the king had not even left a corpse behind for her to mourn.
Dryads were complex beings, not very like humans. A species made out of females alone, they did not need males to carry on their line. A single tree could, by herself, rear up a single seed in her lifetime and then tend it till it became a grown maiden-tree. All dryads were the sisters of a single forest.
Yet, in every kind there are always those odd specimens that crave for something other than what their lifestyle can offer. There had always been dryads that hungered for attachments beyond their trees and those of their sisters. Dryads that had joined satyrs and fauns (even the odd centaur) and given birth to satyrs and fauns.
Even stranger were those that had attached themselves to the temperamental species known as men and bore their children. Ilwyfen's grandmother had been wife to the last of King Frank's line to sit on the throne, for instance. She'd seen tapestries with her resemblance on the great halls of Cair Paravel. She often passed them in a hurry, occupied as she was with Queen Lucy's affairs.
She'd loved the youngest Queen because she thought her the most Narnian of the Four. She alone seemed utterly unconstrained by the memories of the world they'd inhabited before and so she alone loved the land and creatures with fierce wild Narnian passion. Ilwyfen hardly regretted working at the great palace when her duties consisted entirely on waiting upon the golden-haired Queen.
She admired Queen Susan's looks and King Edmund's mind but her fealty lay entirely with merry Lucy, who had danced with her sisters on the Winter Solstice and sung praises to Aslan in a very dryad-like manner. King Peter was always a source of fascination for her.
A perfectly good incarnation of humankind, a weather-vane of tempers, emotions and words. She'd witnessed him be deathly in battle, merry (and even silly) amongst his siblings, commanding and thoughtful at court. Men were anything but the sources of reliable, long-lasting feelings or thoughts, so changeable as they were.
The dryad sighed a little as she regained her human-like form. Her green kirtle spread across the grave as she lay remembering her early days amongst the Kings and Queens.
-Do you remember?- She asked the silent sculpture.- Oh, do you remember?
King Peter had been four and twenty when he'd professed to love her. She was a very young tree, having barely reached the age where she could be considered old enough to rear up her own seed. It was the time when the royal siblings had set out on a trip beyond the Lantern Waste, to visit the small independent fiefdoms that would one day be the Telmarine Kingdom.
Ilwyfen had fell behind and lost track of the retinue and she was found by one of King Peter's huntsmen. Peter had dutifully waited for her and this resulted in the three of them getting lost. After almost a fortnight of trail and perils the huntsman somehow replaced Ilwyfen as the inconvenience to be borne.
She hardly had any experience with humans, let alone male ones. But she thought him the most sensible, clear-headed young man in existence with intellect to compare to a centaur's and a heart to make Aslan proud. After nights and days of lengthy conversations that made each grow in in the eyes of the other, King Peter took her aside one fateful night, while the huntsman dozed off.
-I think I love you, Ilwyfen- He'd told her bluntly getting hold of her hand.
She was a true admirer of beauty, and she saw pure beauty then in the shining eyes and golden countenance. She smiled a little.
-Why?
The King laughed nervously and lost his hold on her hand to lean on a tree.
-I don't think that is what a maiden is supposed to answer to such a declaration
Ilwyfen widened her large pupil-less grey eyes and asked meekly:
-What is, sire?
-That she loves me back, I assume.- King Peter said with a half annoyed, half self-conscious expression.
The dryad smiled tranquilly.
-You'd have to forgive me, your majesty. I know nothing of these matters. They are not usual for my kind. You express strong sentiments for me, I wonder the reasons for them?
-Why I love you?
-Why you love me and not another. Why love me and not everyone else.
Peter was appalled by the dryad's calm manner. His head and heart were fiercely intent upon his purpose, but a small part of him started to device ways for him to come out of the situation as less embarrassed as possible. The dryad clearly came nowhere near reciprocating his recent passion.
-I … I feel some kind of warm, excited anticipation when I'm around you. It's never been there before. I feel that I want to be near you, to protect you and call you mine. That is love, isn't it?
-I wouldn't know. I feel very different things.
Detecting a glimmer of hope Peter had brought his face closer to hers.
-What do you feel?
-I feel close to you. Like I feel close to my tree. - Ilwyfen said simply, but the full import of these words was not lost on Peter. He smiled and put his forehead against hers.
-I love you because you have a strong but gentle soul. I love you because of all these handsome feelings you've awoken inside of me - He said finding the words he'd struggled for.
-You have a great heart. - The Dryad said as he caressed the leaves out of her silver mane.
-It is your own if you will have it, might I have yours? - Peter asked drawing inspiration from the old chivalry poems that Susan loved to read out loud.
-I don't see how that could be. - Ilwyfen said with a perfectly straight face. Before the King could draw back in dismay, she continued:
-I doubt there is a heart here. - She was pointing to her chest, and to whit she vanished in a shower of leaves simply to re-materialize on the other side of him.
-You may have my tree for your keeping.-
With this she broke into a large smile which was immediately broken by Peter's urgent kiss. They'd been giddy that first cold night, unaccustomed to every kind of joy they experienced for the first time. They had very nearly gone too far.
As Ilwyfen now caressed the motionless face she recalled his words the following morning:
-Thanks be to Aslan. We did all that was right.
They were married to the great happiness of most of the Narnian population in a lovely ceremony at Cair Paravel's worship-house. Queen Lucy had taken great pride on putting fresh pink blossoms on her hair for the occasion.
But she'd not felt truly bonded for life until she'd taken Peter deep inside the woods. The Eldest Tree had joined his forehead with her elm as he took oaths in the ancient language of the forest. Then she willingly shared his life and bed.
They gave up hope of ever seeing them again she hardly knows how many months after they vanished. Soon all that mattered was the successor to the throne and the Narnians threw themselves to the task of protecting Queen Susan's daughter
Ilwyfen had wandered about, guilt-ridden. She'd borne the High King no children. She had brought his lineage to an abrupt end. She had nothing to remember him by and neither did anyone else.
Despair filled her thoughts and she gave up living in the citadel. She retreated deep into her tree and left only during the night, to shower her husband's false grave in emerald leaves.
Oh, for I love you still
Oh, my life, and you're dead
I'm nowhere near British but this traditional Irish song, "I am stretched on your grave" came to my atention recently I don't know how. I loved (Kate Rusby's version) so much I not only played it over and over until I was almost sick of it but it also inspired this little tale of heartbreak I hope you enjoyed.
I think the song is a poem from the 17th century but I'm not too sure, either way it's hauntingly beautiful and as a disclaimer the words in italics are direct quotes from it (minus the necessary change of Jesus for Aslan)
Do tell me why you hated/liked this story. It really helps! Cheers!