The moon was high, full in her fecund waxing across a sky scattered with storm clouds. In the foregate, blood ran still in rivulets, mixing with rain and mud to soak the land with the virility of the men who had lost their lives in another pointless battle. To fight and die for the favor of a woman ....a woman who cared little for them and their admiration, a woman who was a curse on her kin. A woman who should never have been.
Sidhe-touched, they called her; the faerie folk's warning to the house of Conall Corc for his mis-use of the gift they had given him in her birth. Orlaith, the rose of the county, only daughter of the king of Munster ....she who should have been left to die on the hilltop where she was left in the hours after her birth. No one knew who had saved her, and she had never told their names, protecting her protectors until the end of days.
Beauty she had, a beauty born of the elements that had made both mother and father. The fire of her hair, the cool depths of her eyes, these were her mother's gift to her; these were the marks that showed her to be the daughter of the queen when she, as a gangly youth of twelve, had been returned to the court at Cashel. But strength she had, too, an iron deep within that would not rust nor tarnish nor bend under influence, and this was the gift of her father. He could not deny that she was his, not when she spoke before him as a child and showed her fist, unrepentant within the softness of her flesh.
He had taken her to his home and hearth, showed her the respect due to a child who had not died at her appointed hour. But there was no love in the house of Conall Corc for the daughter he had never wanted, not even when she fulfilled the promise of her youth to become the star of the county, the maiden all his warriors wished for their wife. And knowing this lack-love of her kin made her hard, unfeeling toward those who wanted her for her beauty and kinship with the king. She had shed not one tear for the men who had died to show their devotion to her, and in sight of that coldness, the king had pushed into his madness once more.
She was to be gone from the lands of Munster as soon as might be, to travel alone along unknown paths and through territory he did not hold. Conall Corc wished her name struck from the annuls of his court, for her memory to be forgotten as swiftly as it had been restored in time before. She was a curse on her house and kin, a cold beauty sent by the Fair Folk to toy with the men of the land and weaken the king in his empty halls. She was not wanted.
In the shadows of the forest that bordered the king's encampment, she lingered still, folded into the darkness of her cloak, pale, sun-kissed hands clutching tight the bundle of her belongings to her chest as she stared through the moonlit trees to the little collection of huts and houses that had been her home for less years than she cared to recall. And all the anger of her heart was focused upon the single light still shining in the king's court, the flame of the candle kept alight to ward off any vengeance taken upon them for her banishment.
The wind howled through the encampment, rattling doors, tugging at oilcloth, ripping the iron of horseshoes and hastily erected crosses from their nails. The people huddled within their homes, stopping their ears, ignoring the fury of the storm without. They prayed to their God, to the God of Patrick, who promised them forgiveness and ever-lasting love. They forgot that in the times before that holy man had come, they had prayed to the Fair Folk, the Sidhe, the Tuatha de Danaan, the giants and faeries, the pooka and wee men ....the spirits of the land and sky which even now punished them as they were punishing the gift they had been given.
Unwanted and forgotten, Orlaith turned away from the hateful village and its kingly court. Wrapping her cloak more tightly about herself, she stepped forward, disappearing into the darkness beneath the trees. If this land wanted her not, cared not for her, then she would find another. A land that would understand that beauty and blood were nothing but the outward markings of a soul lived past her time. A land that would not punish her for what she refused to feel for those who did not feel for her. http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1048/527096804_d6762a7ab0.jpg
Sidhe-touched, they called her; the faerie folk's warning to the house of Conall Corc for his mis-use of the gift they had given him in her birth. Orlaith, the rose of the county, only daughter of the king of Munster ....she who should have been left to die on the hilltop where she was left in the hours after her birth. No one knew who had saved her, and she had never told their names, protecting her protectors until the end of days.
Beauty she had, a beauty born of the elements that had made both mother and father. The fire of her hair, the cool depths of her eyes, these were her mother's gift to her; these were the marks that showed her to be the daughter of the queen when she, as a gangly youth of twelve, had been returned to the court at Cashel. But strength she had, too, an iron deep within that would not rust nor tarnish nor bend under influence, and this was the gift of her father. He could not deny that she was his, not when she spoke before him as a child and showed her fist, unrepentant within the softness of her flesh.
He had taken her to his home and hearth, showed her the respect due to a child who had not died at her appointed hour. But there was no love in the house of Conall Corc for the daughter he had never wanted, not even when she fulfilled the promise of her youth to become the star of the county, the maiden all his warriors wished for their wife. And knowing this lack-love of her kin made her hard, unfeeling toward those who wanted her for her beauty and kinship with the king. She had shed not one tear for the men who had died to show their devotion to her, and in sight of that coldness, the king had pushed into his madness once more.
She was to be gone from the lands of Munster as soon as might be, to travel alone along unknown paths and through territory he did not hold. Conall Corc wished her name struck from the annuls of his court, for her memory to be forgotten as swiftly as it had been restored in time before. She was a curse on her house and kin, a cold beauty sent by the Fair Folk to toy with the men of the land and weaken the king in his empty halls. She was not wanted.
In the shadows of the forest that bordered the king's encampment, she lingered still, folded into the darkness of her cloak, pale, sun-kissed hands clutching tight the bundle of her belongings to her chest as she stared through the moonlit trees to the little collection of huts and houses that had been her home for less years than she cared to recall. And all the anger of her heart was focused upon the single light still shining in the king's court, the flame of the candle kept alight to ward off any vengeance taken upon them for her banishment.
The wind howled through the encampment, rattling doors, tugging at oilcloth, ripping the iron of horseshoes and hastily erected crosses from their nails. The people huddled within their homes, stopping their ears, ignoring the fury of the storm without. They prayed to their God, to the God of Patrick, who promised them forgiveness and ever-lasting love. They forgot that in the times before that holy man had come, they had prayed to the Fair Folk, the Sidhe, the Tuatha de Danaan, the giants and faeries, the pooka and wee men ....the spirits of the land and sky which even now punished them as they were punishing the gift they had been given.
Unwanted and forgotten, Orlaith turned away from the hateful village and its kingly court. Wrapping her cloak more tightly about herself, she stepped forward, disappearing into the darkness beneath the trees. If this land wanted her not, cared not for her, then she would find another. A land that would understand that beauty and blood were nothing but the outward markings of a soul lived past her time. A land that would not punish her for what she refused to feel for those who did not feel for her. http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1048/527096804_d6762a7ab0.jpg