Medieval 03 - Enchanted

anyone
had crossed the snowy ground since before the storm. He scrambled
to the top and looked around with a wildness he barely could
contain.
    He saw nothing but wind stirring mist into ghostly
shapes that faded as soon as he looked at them.
    “Ariane! Are you here?”
    Not one sound came back from the mist.
    “Ariane! Where are you?”
    “Inside the second ring of stones,”
Erik called from beyond the mist.
    “Where is the second ring?”
    “The mound is its center.”
    “I am there. Where is
Ariane ?”
    “Inside the second ring.”
    “Show her to me!” Simon yelled
savagely.
    “Even if Stone Ring permitted me inside, I
could no more show you Ariane than I could show a rainbow to a man
with no eyes!”
    Simon’s answer was a raw sound of rage.
    “You are what you have chosen to be,”
Erik shouted, “a man bounded by logic. You have held on to
yourblindness too long. Now you are paying the
cost of seeing truth too late. Ariane is beyond your
reach!”
    Simon gave an anguished cry that was also
Ariane’s name. The echo came back in ghostly whispers.
    You are what you have chosen
to be .
    Ariane is beyond your
reach .
    But Simon could not accept losing Ariane.
    “I will see her!” Simon shouted to
Stone Ring itself. “Do you hear me? I will see
her!”
    Spectral whispers became the sound of wind stirring
through nearby branches, branches that were laden with
blossoms.
    But no tree grew on top of the mound.
    No flowers bloomed in winter.
    And the wind did not move.
    Yet the sound came again, a murmuring, rustling,
mourning sigh; wind that could not be blowing through a tree that
didn’t exist; wind ruffling impossible blossoms until they
spoke with a thousand soft tongues.
    Hurry, warrior. She is dying.
Then you will be one with me, ever living, always dying, forever
grieving for a truth learned too late .
    Chills coursed over Simon. The part of him that
weighed and measured and touched fought back fiercely, denying that
he had heard anything more meaningful than wind over rock and
ice.
    And a part of Simon was driven to his knees by a
whispering, measureless torrent of grief that was not his. Not
quite.
    Not yet.
    Hurry, warrior .
    See .
    He looked around with black, wild eyes. He saw
nothing that he hadn’t seen before.
    “How can I see?” Simon cried.
“Help me!”
    Nothing came back to Simon except the certainty
that Ariane was nearby, and her life was slipping away, taking her
forever beyond the reach of any living man.
    Love? What a pail of slops
that is !
    A ragged sound was torn from Simon’s throat
as he heard Ariane’s sardonic words spoken by a thousand
petal-soft tongues. But the whispering did not cease at his cry. It
continued, telling him more than he thought he could bear,
recalling a conversation only he and Ariane had shared…her
courage and his cold response.
    As soon as I am well once
more, I will endure the marriage embrace. For you, my loyal knight.
Only for you .
    I want more than clenched
teeth and duty .
    I will give you all that I
have .
    And she had.
    “Ariane!” Simon cried.
    No answer came, not even the thousand whispers that
could not exist.
    Simon closed his eyes and fought the emotions that
threatened to squeeze breath from his throat. His hands formed
fists on his knees and he shook with the power of his longing.
    “Nightingale,” he said in an anguished
whisper, “I would give the heart from my body to see you
again.”
    Wind threaded through the branches of a nearby
tree, set petals to stirring until they sighed.
    Open your eyes,
Simon .
    See .
    Yet even before Simon opened his eyes, he knew that
Ariane was within reach, knew it in a way that couldn’t be
weighed or measured or touched.
    She was at his feet, lying huddled on her side,
wrapped in her mantle. Where the wind had blown her mantle aside,
an oddly muted amethyst cloth was revealed. The silver laces and
embroidered lightning were only darkly gleaming, almost tarnished.
Her skin was pale and cold as snow.
    If Ariane breathed, Simon could neither see nor
hear it. Nor did she awaken when he lifted her, called to her,
tried to shake her from the grasp of cold.
    Her body was slack, unresisting, as cold as he had
once accused her of being.
    “Nightingale…”
    Loss turned like a dagger in Simon’s heart.
As he lifted her gently into his arms, packets of spices and
gemstones tumbled from her mantle.
    Union with the right man can
enhance a woman’s powers .
    “Curse the dowry,” Simon said