Near the Cauldron Pool.

1011.

The Eleventh Year of the Golden Age.

May Day.

Lia.

Voices bubbled like the streams of the forest, for the markets were alight with laughter already, with women wearing fresh garlands and bright smiles. Flowers adorned windowsills and doorframes – the summer flowers like the colours of a rainbow, singing of the brightness that was to come. Neighbours and not-so-neighbours, together for another joyous May Day, to celebrate the coming farming season, to celebrate the coming summer. Most had already set up their wares as the dryad untethered Winterwhite from the cart, using the cart itself to display the jars and baskets and sweet treats.

Not far from the famous Cauldron Pool, their small village – whilst was on very few maps – was a hub for trading with the southern kingdoms. They were the last village before the dangerous south-western mountain pass that led into Archenland and beyond. And their May Day markets were grand.

Melia, known as Lia to her grove-sisters, turned her face towards the sun with a smile on her face, just as the leaves of her tree did. And though their grove was near, it was her first visit to the village without their tree-mother, for she'd only just reached her ten and eighth year. She would revel every moment of it.

She pursed her lips as her sisters strolled past, arms linked, with barely a glance her way. They had left her on the side of the road to get the cart out of the ditch by herself when Winterwhite had startled, trying to bolt at the appearance of a snake. And though the animal didn't talk, she'd spent near half of an hour whispering to the mare, calming her down. She had only gotten the cart out of the ditch with the help of a dark-eyed handsome stranger who had happened upon her.

But she would not let it ruin her day, not even when she realised they had never actually intended to spend the day by her side. She could not even say that she had been surprised when she had watched them walk away from her, bidding her a cheery good day; for selling the fruits and preserves was too tedious work for her elder sisters. Perhaps they were going to charm some cinnamon rolls off the miller, whose son was Lia's own age and very marriageable, or so her sisters told her incessantly.

It wasn't even shock that bubbled within her, not exactly. It was something akin to bafflement or maybe closer to annoyance – she had very much been looking forward to this May Day. But maybe, just maybe, without her sisters by her side, someone would look her way.

So, Lia smiled.

She would not let it bother her that her grove-sisters were annoyed at her. She really should have known what was going to happen – for her sister's ire had risen before they had left the grove that morn. Vela had wanted to ride in the cart, so mud did not splatter on the skirts of her favorite dress. But both Lia and their tree-mother had said no; for Winterwhite had enough to bear pulling the rickety cart piled with the things they were hoping to sell at the market.

She'd told them as they'd readied themselves that morn that they'd have to walk; but she did not doubt they'd even listened to her words as they had sat, braiding each other's hair in the style that was so very fashionable in Cair Paravel, made so by their new queen. Lini had nodded idly, but Lia had known her sister's thoughts were not on her words; for her grey-green eyes had been focused on those little braids at the front that would keep the rest of Vela's unbound locks off Vela's face.

At least they'd both had the sense to wear boots and not the delicate little slippers that they had been convinced to buy last May Day, when the visiting merchants had said they were all the ladies of Court wore. Their tree-mother had been furious when they had come back to the grove with those instead of the gold coins.

The dresses they wore had been chosen by their grove-mother. As had the dresses they'd brought with them for the night of feast and fire.

Velatina and Caroliniana would be most sought after that night, she knew.

Lia had not paid attention to their idle gossip on their way there, talking about this villager and that, exclamations followed by soft giggles and the occasional burst of laughter. She had resisted the urge to roll her eyes – she knew their words were harmless, they simply wished for more, to escape their dreary existence at the grove of dancing and frolicking and singing; and perhaps they would. For many a man would take a dryad for her beauty alone, and both her sisters had beauty aplenty with their luscious ash-brown curls and sparkling eyes. But more than ever, she had wished they would cease their babbling.

The wildflowers that Vela had picked from the side of the road, petals the careless colour of the sky, she had threaded into the small braids that framed her face. Their light hair uncommon to the south-western border, where dark locks were the norm; a colour betwixt the colour of the clouds and the softest of browns. Perhaps the only thing that all three sisters truly shared, even if Lia's own locks were a touch or two darker.

Her sisters drew smiles and waves from the villagers as they passed, chatting idly. A word here, a praise or soft exclamation there. They were adored by all.

Everyone loved the two of them.

With a huff Lia spread out the small jars; the little preserves that allowed her cart-space in the market. Though their tree-mother always accompanied her, it was she who bartered more often than the older dryad. She set about stacking them with grim determination.

And this year they had brought a selection of rose-flavoured sweets to share at the Feast.

The sun was not yet high in the sky, and so it did not faze her that she'd had no one approach her. The villagers would not make their purchases until the evening, or perhaps even the next day. When coin was hard to come by, they would make sure they spent it wisely. They would continue to haggle prices until the day closed the following evening; those who had travelled would stay in the village-house, the great hall by the green. Like she, Vela and Lini would. Unless they found a nice warm bed elsewhere, she thought with a smile.

When the shadow fell over her, she glanced up into eyes of coal and her face broke into a grin. "My favourite blacksmith," she winked and jumped off the cart which she had perched atop. Winterwhite whinnied at the disturbance, but Larsyn chuckled, teeth stark white against his swarthy complexion.

"Lia, I'm the only blacksmith you know," he picked up on of the citrus preserves.

"And that makes you my favourite," she unstacked some more fruit preserves and jams as he looked over them; Vela was excellent at making them, at picking the sweetest fruits. Their orchards bore fruit year-round, so they were never in want of fruit-stuff to make the jams from; a process Lia found exceedingly boring. Much like needlework. "Four bronze pieces for the jam."

"Two."

"If you get a cold this winter, it will help heal you," she picked up a smaller one, near half the size of the one he held in his large hands. "Two pieces for this one."

Velvet coal eyes widened, almost comically and he pressed a hand to his heart. "I feel my heart growing ill already. Unlike you dryads, we menfolk have to look after our mortal flesh."

She held up two oranges, both fitting into her hand as she twirled them around each other. "Four pieces and I throw in some fresh oranges."

"Three and you have yourself a deal."

A small grin. She would have gone down to two if he had insisted. "Enjoy your jam, Master Blacksmith." He tossed her the small bronze coins, which she caught deftly, slipping them into the pouch she wore at her belt.

"Will you visit the smith later?"

A longing tugged at her heart, as her eyes sought out the smoke that drifted from where she knew his forge lay, beyond the village green. His blades were beautiful. Expertly crafted, more was the shame that they were display only, for none of the folk of their little village had the need for such weapons. They would be sold when he visited Archenland and Calormen the following spring. The farming-folk of the village would go to him for commissions: new horseshoes, for nails and tools for their gardens. But his blades... They were works of art that only knights and lords could afford. Her own little daggers, gifts from the tree-mother would never compare. "If I get some time," her voice was somewhat wistful, and she did not try to hide it.

"Then I hope I see you later, Mistress Dryad," he said with a laugh, tossing the recently-brought orange in the air and catching it deftly.

She cast her gaze about the small square, her lips pursed. The Merchant Caravan from Calormen had set up on the other side of the marketplace. They would sell baubles and trinkets; little things that none of the villagers would have made for themselves. Woollen coats and winter wares far more finely made than the village tanner could produce. She would visit them later.

"Well, well, what have we here?"

Each and every part of Lia's body froze, telling her to flee. To run. The same feeling that prickled along her spine occasionally when she entered the mountains alone.

She didn't need to look up to know it was Cyrus's shadow that had fallen across the array of jars. But she looked up anyway, to see the insufferable grin, and the longsword that was resting easily on his shoulder, the muscles beneath his fine woollen shirt conveniently flexed and straining against the linen.

"Expecting trouble?" She did not pause in her work, stacking the fruits with a few leaves to decorate the display. Her tree-mother had taught her early on that appearances were important in selling something. The leaves did not change the product, but they made it look far more appealing.

Just like Cyrus's shirt and how he wore it a cut slightly too small.

The hunter leaned closer, lips curling up into a twisted mockery of a smile, one she was sure looked absolutely charming to others. And as his breath fanned across her face, Lia froze, her hand dropping to her belt where the sheath hang. But her dagger was resting on the cart beside a lemon curd, lemon juice shimmering on the blade, the silver tip glinting up at her almost mockingly.

"It pays to be prepared, you know," he gave her a slow wink, a single eyelid covering eyes the colour of the rolling clouds overhead; and she felt the bile rise in her throat. He cast his glance around them quickly, as if they were discussing the forbidden secrets of the world. "Any one of these travelling folk, or even any one of these villagers could be a traitor and we would never know until their blood spilt on the ground." He laughed, standing upright once more.

Lia's breath left her, and she let a small, breathy laugh escape her. Though even to her own ears it sounded somewhat forced. As if the thought of seeing blood dripping across the ground did not make her stomach churn. No one would ever accuse her of being lily-livered, but fuck her, even she was not comfortable with the idea of walking side by side with a giant.

She rocked back on her heels, putting a little more distance between the two of them. Objectively, she could easily see why Vela was so drawn to the hunter; he was quite different from anyone else in the village, more so than even her sisters and herself. He stood well over six feet, dwarfing her own frame, and she was not short for a woman. In black cloth and dark leathers, he looked ominous, dark, and brooding: as if one of the hunters had stepped straight out of a child's storybook.

The hood of his deep blue cloak had been thrown back, to reveal hair the silver-blonde of starlight and his strong profile, sharp jaw and straight nose. But his eyes, those silvery, stormy eyes, drew her gaze. Every inch of him bespoke a classical Narnian beauty, even with the rings of dark tattoos she knew he had around his arms – for not a summers day went by when he didn't shed his shirt to show them off.

Handsome indeed, and didn't he know it.

She found she did not care so much for exterior, for she knew exactly why she disliked him so much. Of course, she could appreciate he was skilled, for one had to be an excellent fighter to be a recognised hunter – and that he was, for the pin that fastened his cloak was evidence. A pin of silver and sapphire.

"And someone needs to protect the uncommonly beautiful women of our village from the creatures that prowl the forest." And he winked again, reaching out as if to touch her face.

Lia flinched, unable to move any further back.

She closed her eyes, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. And wanting, more than anything, for the courage to say her thoughts aloud.

When she had wished for attention that May Day, she had not wanted his.

Anyone's but his.

And then she realised that he'd not made contact with her skin.

She cracked an eye open to see his arm captured by a gloved hand, bafflement upon his face.

"I do believe the young lady has her cart to attend to," the woman spoke, not too loud, but Lia could do naught but stare. For she could not have been much older than Lia herself, but something about her voice made her want to listen.

Cyrus's gaze could have cut steel, glaring at the woman who had intervened as if she were an insect. But despite the sun that shone, the woman wore her hood up, and Lia could see nothing but a golden-brown chin and lips that were turned down in a frown.

"Who are you, stranger, to interfere with a couple on May Day?"

A couple?

Lia could only imagine how comical her own face was, as her eyes widened, and her mouth popped open into an 'O'.

"I believe those celebrations are to come later, and if the lady chooses you, I will not interfere." Her tone was cutting, as if she had measured the hunter up for size and had found him quite lacking.

"Then I guess we will wait for later," he shrugged her hand off and offered Lia a lazy wink before he strode off.

Lia turned to her saviour, a smile upon her face. "Thank you so much."

The stranger, the woman, turned to her and though Lia could still not see her face she felt her gaze. "Perhaps next time you should use your blade, then he might listen."

"It is mainly for show, I can do flashy tricks, but I don't think I could hurt someone if I tried."

The woman cocked her head to the side. "Show me how you hold it."

…

Edmund.

Arianna was late.

Of course she was.

"Excuse me, my lord, will you be joining us for the Feast tonight?"

Fuck. He had been recognised. He should have kept his hood up, but it had been stifling. He'd not thought he would be recognised so far from the Cair. He turned slightly to see the woman who had spoken – a dryad, a pretty vision clothed in a gown of pale green, her hair an unbound river of ash down her back, held back from her face by two braids. Exactly how Arianna wore her hair when they attended Court in the Cair.

"If time permits, my lady."

A smile curled upon full lips. She was clearly the village beauty. So strikingly similar to the young woman he had helped with a cart on the road into the village. But different – older.

Another stood behind her, a little shorter, her hands held demurely before her. Her gaze was ever-shifting; from himself to the other dryad and back again. What her thoughts were, he could not tell. But though they were guarded well, he could see them tumbling over each other in eyes the colour of fresh spring leaves.

"Please do," her voice was like music, an ethereal voice that came from the dryad. "I would very much like to see you there, or by one of the bonfires later."

Edmund blinked.

He'd heard of those sorts of celebrations, that some backwater villages still performed.

Had she just propositioned him?

Did the dryad wish to lay with him?

Edmund bowed his head to the duo, an acknowledgement of her words, no more.

A laugh, soft and twinkling emerged from the dryad. "I do hope so, my lord. My sister and I must depart, our presence is required elsewhere."

And then the two of them were gone, as quickly as they had arrived.

By Aslan, where was Arianna.

Perhaps they had made a miscalculation in their timing. Perhaps it had not been a smart idea to spend May Day in the village. But Arianna had told him that her dagger would find purchase in his heart if she had to needlessly spend another night sleeping on the ground instead of in a comfortable bed.

Edmund grinned to himself, unaware but also uncaring if he looked like a simple-minded fool.

The feasts and fires that the dryad mentioned did indeed sound interesting though. Perhaps it would allow Arianna to let her hair down, both literally and not. A break for the both of them, before they continued further south.

His grinned widened.

He could fend off amorous dryads if it meant she enjoyed herself.

He pulled his hood back up.

He needed to find his wife.