Chapter 10 - La Chasse: Part 1
"The Hunt – Part 1"
Ailith paused in the clearing, taking just these few precious moments to catch her breath before she'd be off again. With a casual toss of her head, she also flung a few strands of hair from her eyes, letting the mess of twigs, leaves, and brambles caught up in it do the rest. Her face was already smeared with bits of dirt and clay and for an additional moment, she delighted in digging her bare toes into the cool earth and feeling the soles of her feet sinking into the mossy soil. Her linen dress was almost non-existent at this point but rather than strip the offending clothes off of herself and face the rest of the Hunt simply naked, she had spent several previous minutes tearing it into long strips which were now wrapped around her forearms, legs, and torso for better protection against the roughhewn bark of the trees. Save for that and a carousel necklace, she carried nothing else with her. The trees around her, for their part, followed along protectively, weaving their branches together into thickets to shield her from easy detection.
For some time now she had sensed him and her entire being thrummed with anticipation and excitement. Several times he had nearly come within sight of her but thus far, she had eluded him with unpredictable changes in direction, tricks of appearance, or through the irrational machinations of the woods. Nuada was an experienced hunter, no doubt, but tonight they were both caught up in the pulse of a primitive dance, powerless against the emotions that any hunter and hunted would feel in a desperate pursuit through a darkened forest.
Her heart thundered in her ears, both from running and from the primal desires pouring through her. The madness of the hunt had long since washed away any trepidation she had previously felt and now she knew only the instinctual imperative to evade him for as long as possible. Her ultimate defeat in this was inevitable, as she well knew, but it was essential to stave off his victory in this trial until she had proved to herself that the Geas had been earned. She would be no easy capture and neither would the Name she carried.
'Ard Rí' had been the first word to form, glowing brightly in the hasty scrawled 'A' on her pendant. The second, 'de Là-arn' had come shortly after; embedding itself in the 'L' as she felt the Name begin to sear itself into the reality of all things. All that awaited now was the 'M' and she would know the Name of the High King at last. One more and the power to rule absolutely would be delivered, blazing into the world once more.
But before then, he must prove himself worthy of it. And do to that, he would need to be worthy of her.
A great Hound bayed in the distance and Ailith smiled, despite herself. As was tradition, he had brought others into the Hunt and their talents had proved invaluable. A vampire who could see in near complete darkness and smell the passing of any living being at a league or more. A mage who could open their path and placate the wilder things of the world, even if only temporarily, so that they might continue the chase onto ever more dangerous or labyrinthine ground. A Hound of the Underworld who could leap great distances and run faster than Death itself. And a flock of Ravens who could fly on ahead, scout their positions, and report back with warnings on what might lay before them. It was a formidable company he had assembled but she was not yet done with him.
And she was also not alone. Glancing upward, she observed the taller oak trees beckoning her into the heights. With a laugh she began to climb, moving quickly and gracefully into the topmost boughs of ancient old growth. From there she jaunted across the largest limbs, sprinting easily from tree to tree as they reached out their branches to one another and passed her along through an ever-larger weald. In seconds, it was apparent that she had traveled quite some distance and that even the Ravens were now hard-pressed to keep up with her. Ailith paused once more, alert to any sound or movement that might indicate her hunter's approach but she heard nothing other than the creaking and thrashing of the dancing wood. She wondered then, however. Would she hear him coming or would he track her silently? The Hound was easy enough to follow as it crashed through the morass, stopping here and there to sniff the breeze. Would that not mean he would use it as a feint and try to come upon her unawares?
Regardless, Nuada was pursuing her; she could feel him. Ailith was almost sure she could feel his breathing and hear his heart beating, nearly in time with hers. Whenever she stopped to listen, he felt closer and closer. She knew he would find her eventually, but the capture was hardly the actual point of such a pursuit as this one. Rather, in the give and take of the Hunt, they were finally able to speak openly, if in a somewhat brazenly physical way, and present their demands of one another for the oncoming Geas. For his part, Nuada has been aggressive and obligate but had shown his willingness to bend to another's needs over his own will. To set aside the burden of anger, in the end, and take up the cause of hope. He had not truly offered his love though, not just yet, but he had shown that his heart was in the endeavor and that his affection would be freely given if asked of him. For Ailith, she had made it a point to tie her willingness to submit to him to her courage and faith in the Fae people; that while this submission came willingly it could also be just as willingly revoked if hatred ever came to rule him again. Her chicanery and trickery in the chase also let him know, somewhat to his surprise, that she saw him as more than a potential mate in the purely compulsory sense, as the Geas would require, but as a companion and perhaps even a lover as well. In that, there was much more than a political alliance at stake and he had not expected her to be quite so playful in their symbolic game of cat and mouse.
Ailith closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel him so that she might assess again how near he was. He answered, reaching out along their growing bond to tug at her senses. She smiled; they were both getting better at this. She would press her thoughts out into the spiritual and emotional connection that had formed between them and he would respond with a direct, but good-natured, tap to her psyche. Thinking back, once again, to their conversations in the cellblock, Ailith imagined that this part must have come as something of a shock to Nuada; who, unlike his sister, had never previously had much talent in psychometry beyond their twin-sympathy.
A noise roused her from her reverie. The young vampire had managed to spot her and was stalking her from below the treeline. Aided by the Ravens, he was likely within minutes of revealing her position. With a huff, Ailith quickly descended, traversing lower as she leapt and swung from tree to tree until she eventually reached the ground. If the vampire was approaching from her right, she surmised that the mage would likely be approaching from her left. This gave Nuada open ground to pursue her into the hillside if she attempted to avoid the both of them using the most obvious route. She looked to the trees, who immediately parted to form a protected pathway further down into the mire. In the distance, she then saw what appeared to be a kind of bog nestled in a valley cut between two hills. Obscured in thick, low-hanging, mist and guarded by tussocks of grass and peat the height of a house, it was eerie and strangely foreboding. And yet, it called to her.
Ailith furrowed her brow in consternation. She did not recognize this place nor was she sure where it had suddenly come from. But the trees eagerly coaxed her forward and seemed intent on directing her into the swamp, carefully supporting her on their muddy roots so that she would be prevented from sinking and getting caught. At the center of the basin, near a shadowy rise, she saw something far off, glinting in the grey-green light. What was it? Why did it seem so familiar?
After nearly three hours, Nuada knew he was closing in on his quarry. His companions in the Hunt had done all that he had asked and through each of their unique capabilities he had managed to overcome every trick, escape, illusion, and double-back Ailith had attempted to throw him with. It had not been easy and the trees had countered and frustrated him several times; up to and including one such Elm tree having struck him outright and knocked him clear into the underbrush when he had distractedly trespassed off the Trod (He would have to apologize to Nuala about the cuts and bruises later). He had increased his speed, however, by alternating between moving through the trees on his own and astride the Hound but now, he sensed that she was trying to draw away from him entirely.
So, thought she might chance another escape, did she? Nuada laughed. An honest and natural affectation he had not had in a century or more. This Hunt was exhilarating, and he found himself breathless not only with exertion but with undeniable joy. His heart beat madly in his chest and he felt recklessly and fiercely disheveled, overcome at last with the fury of the Wild. He was almost overwhelmed with the very simple fact that, at this moment, he was happy.
Nuada was also used to this kind of activity and he knew he was likely far more athletic than Ailith was, though she had recently demonstrated that she might very well be more fleet of foot than the Prince. He could continue like this for hours more, but given what he had seen so far, it was actually possible that she could outrun him by distance alone if he did not maintain his focus. He would need to corner her soon. But even then, he knew well enough that she would not yield without a fight. The chase and the capture were not the end of the Hunt, but the beginning.
He halted suddenly. The Hound came up beside him and lowered its massive head with a distinctive whine, encouraging him to keep up the pace. But many of the trees had begun to move off, leaving only the largest and most imposing of the oaks, elms, and weeping willows standing watch around an expanse of open, forbidding, ground. One of the larger willows even feigned an advance upon him, whipping its long, lashing, branches about menacingly. Nuada stood his ground however, and the willow stayed at a comfortable, if strategic, distance. Gabriel and Nicholas followed and both stopped short once they realized that the Prince and the Hound were both waiting. The Ravens swooped angrily overhead, barely dodging the stinging blows of a provoked cedar.
"What is that place?" Nicholas panted and scrunched up his nose, still doing his best not to seem like the least suited of the three of them to the tasks of the Hunt.
"It is a place of death." Nuada responded gravely. "It is the defiled ground of the last Hunt."
"Yikes." Gabriel rejoined, chewing his lip with concern over the landscape ahead. "I take it that things…. didn't go so well?"
Nuada slowly knelt until he could rest the palm of his right hand onto the cold, spongey, ground.
"No." The Prince answered. "This is where the Wound was made. Where my predecessor, the Elf who last Hunted the Unicorn, was slaughtered by Men and left to the bog. Where the Unicorn was broken and the light of the Sun stolen from my people. We thought then, forever."
Nicholas let out an anxious breath. "This is a very dangerous place. Why did the…" He gestured towards the still bright-green line of grass, moss, and flowers beneath their feet, "…Trod take us here?"
"This was always where we were going." Nuada explained as he stood. "Where I was going."
"This is the trial, then?" Nicholas queried. Gabriel looked at him askance. Clearly, the Hermetic knew far more about what was going on than he had really ever let on.
"It is." Nuada answered, still gazing out over the wreckage of the land.
The Prince of Bathmoora turned to the two companions. "You cannot accompany me past this point, I'm afraid. You've done what I have requested of you and for that I thank you and promise my faithfulness in the coming times. Without your help, it is possible I would not have been able to make it this far nor perhaps would the wood have allowed me to pursue. But the Deep Dreaming is no place for either of you. What I do now, I must do alone."
"Uhhhhh, ok." Gabriel looked about them with a significant measure of worry. "We just…sit here?"
"As soon as I have passed beyond the boundary of the Bog it will close to you. The Trod will lead you back safely to where you belong. You will pass through the mists as though you had hardly gone anywhere at all and it is likely you will simply find yourselves back in the park as you left it. But be mindful, the Witching Hour is now upon your city and there will be much in the way of chaos for you to deal with."
"Figures." Nicholas sniffed. "But…I still, I suppose, wish you luck. You've been honorable thus far and both Gabriel and I are in one piece. A little worse for wear, but in one piece. Hopefully, we'll meet again when this is done and we can start towards something a little more…. peaceable…. between our peoples."
Nuada smiled and dipped his chin once. "So be it. Let this be the beginning of a new accord."
With that, he whistled thrice and called the lead Raven to his side. With a great commotion of fluttering and flapping, the gigantic bird alighted onto a boulder near their path with altogether too much squawking and complaining. Nuada stepped forward, soothing the creature with gentle words in his native tongue. As he did so, the Raven produced a wrapped bundle from beneath its feathers, dropping it into his hand as he unwound the cords binding it to the bird's legs.
Roll of cloth in hand, he turned to Nicholas and Gabriel as he once again pulled himself astride the Hound, who was clearly eager to be off again and certainly well-suited to the terrain before them.
"On your way, then." The Prince admonished. "The time has come for me to leave behind the One Who Was and go now to meet the One Who Could Have Been."
As he vanished into the ground clouds, swirling threateningly through the grasslands, Gabriel chanced a discontented sigh.
"Ok, now I think it's about time you explain to me what, exactly, just happened."
Nicholas Cooper nodded, still watching the retreating silhouette on the horizon. "Yes. Yes, I think so."
Ailith stood at a precipice. Before her, a dead forest of skeletal white trees rose up out of the muck and behind her, the living, wild, wood which had refused to take even a single step forward into the twilight graveyard. There was no light in this place and from here, she would carry on alone.
But she did not hesitate and set out into the mire with a sense of determination. She had the distinct sense that she was searching for something but at the moment, she wasn't entirely sure what it was. The trees had told her the tale of the last Hunt and in that way, she understood what she was seeing. At least, in the way a storyteller might. The Dreaming had brought her to the place where everything had unraveled some six centuries before and here, it would be remade; on the Hill of Tara where once it had been Undone. But the sloping ground around her only held a series of dips and hollows and what she wanted was a kind of grassy hillock, without brambles or thorns. She instinctively knew that is what she was looking for; a place beneath a great, white, tree millennia old.
Ailith stopped next to a blackened puddle and tasted the air. Nuada was still behind her. He had crossed the threshold into the Bog only moments before but he had intentionally slowed his pace; allowing the Hound to pick its way carefully through the treacherous land (as only Hounds of the Underworld could do). The deepest places of the Dream were some of the most perilous fields the Fae could find themselves on and it would be easy to take a wrong step and end up in the Bog forever. From this point onward, she would be leading him to his test, not trying to escape him.
She followed the grey waters further into the gloom, hopping delicately from solid ground to slightly less solid ground in an attempt to avoid falling directly into any one of several deceptively deep expanses of freezing cold water. The glint in the distance grew nearer and she paused again to allow Nuada time to close some of the distance. When he reached out along their bond to reassure her of his presence, she smiled inwardly and continued forward.
The distance was also deceptive and within a few minutes, Ailith clamored up a relatively steep slope, over a tangle of decaying roots, and onto a wide hilltop crowned by a white tree taller than any she had seen previously. It was dead, of course. And looked as though it had been for a very long time. It was clean of bark, baring only its weathered heartwood to the chill wind sweeping up across the moors. Its spindly branches clawed mercilessly at the sky and where its roots twisted into the ground, a great slick of oil-black mud, loam, and peat gushed forth into a lagoon dotted with lily pads made from the corpses of fish, frogs, and turtles. Ailith swallowed and tried to calm her anxious hands. She felt vulnerable and exposed, as though something abominable waited for her here.
And then she heard an odd noise. A light, tinny, kind of sound that an old music box might make when wound too tightly. The pendant at her neck felt like it was burning; the Name contained within it bursting against the chains and bars of cheap nickel and pewter. The sudden pain of it caused her to look down reflexively. It was then that she realized precisely where she was standing, and that this unholy place was none other than the grounds of the Dead. Beneath her feet were not just lumpy rises of dirt clods and root balls, but skulls and spines. Ailith gasped and nearly jumped away. If it had not been for the precarious proximity of the mudslide down into the water below, she might have scrambled off the hill entirely in a panic to escape them. But when she dared to look further, she beheld something out of her nightmares. Scattered below her were horses and knights, jousting poles and armor, gaping angry faces and the moldering remains of courtly dress. Bodies. Bodies fallen as if from the bedlam of a great battle, arranged in a kind of hedgerow around the tall white tree. It was a veritable carousel of butchery.
It was a horrible place, a Wound, weeping despair and darkness into everything around it. Poisoning the water and blotting out the sun, infecting the air with melancholy and sorrow. The tree had grown as deeply as it could; attempting to knit the Wound together with roots like stitches but the festering bile that had welled up from below and flowed here had choked it out. Strangled everything with grief. Anxiously, she rolled the necklace in her hand but instead of simply picking at it, as was her habit, Ailith took a deep breath and willed herself to concentrate. Called by memories just beyond her comprehension, she let her senses distill to a point, focusing on the letters shining beneath the tarnish. She then called to it, to the Name, and willed it to speak itself into life. It was nearly there now.
It resisted her at first. Pressing, as though painfully, against the fabric of consciousness. Then, the first part of it came to her, the one she had heard twice now. 'Ard Rí.' The ancient word of the Celts, inherited from the Aos Sí, meaning High King. And then, 'de Là-arn.' But that was only part of the second word. She refocused and called to it again as the last syllables bled into reality. 'ALM' it seemed to speak; fitting, as it was alms it seemed to beg. 'a-Mhàireach.' Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the sudden breath there. The True Name of the Could Have Been King. Ard Rí de Là-arn-a-Mhàireach. The High King of the Morrow.
The fiery letters sizzled against the cooler metal and, as Ailith watched, the necklace began to melt in her hand even though she felt no pain or heat. The tiny horse first lost its legs, molding them to the roundboard along the base. Then the pole fell and the head and face disintegrated, dripping over the remnants of the canopy that had held the tiny figure upright. Within moments, it was nothing more than a lump of ore, with no discernable features other than a few ropy strands of brittle pewter where the worn music notes once had been. Ailith stared down at it, still resting in her palm, thinking it looked more like an odd little stone than a destroyed pendant. How curious. Where had the stone come from? What did it have to do with the so many Honored and Dishonored Dead who long dwelled in this place?
Ailith felt terribly sad in that moment and did not attempt to wipe away the few tears dropping down her cheeks. This Name had been hidden here, in this sickened niche; buried with the bodies and the hopes and dreams of anyone and everyone who had ever tried to seek it since. These were the heroes who had come to defend it; whose bones were now mixed with the blackguards and the rogues who had killed them to prevent it. To more heroes who had come to reclaim it and the devils and wretches who had murdered them for no other reason than to see their people suffer ever more. And around and around and around the carousel had gone.
But this time was different. She was here.
A strange feeling crept over her, prickling her skin. She was here.
She…was here.
Ailith chose her footsteps carefully and walked the grassy path that led through the Fallen and around the tree to the wall of roots and stones at its base. Something glinted again in the deep and she drew forward to where it seemed the brightest. Nested in the brier, she could see something smooth and white, almost polished. She took another step forward and felt a shiver move down her body unbidden. This was a face she hadn't wanted to see, and was likely never meant to. There were empty sockets where eyes had been, a long forehead washed clean with years of rain and exposure, a flat snout buried in the soil. It was a skull. And at its center, a splintered stump, jutting sharp fibrous shards into the light; the blighted remains where a horn should have been found.
Ailith was caught unprepared when the flood of memories returned. She gasped. It was too much, too quickly. She was drowning in them. She tried to retreat but to no avail. The world began to fade, and so she did all she could to cry out to the only one who could save her and loosed a primal scream that finally shattered the crackle-wear girl.