21st day of the 3rd month 170th Year of the 8th era

Aife stormed out of the prophet’s room, tossing aside the vine coverings in anger. How can my life be already set? Don’t I get a say in my life? It is my life after all. I need to prove that the prophet is wrong. The words of the prophecy rattled around in her head. She sat on a bench not far from the prophet’s room.

A purple maiden born

To my cyclic star

That is a princess born on the day of the Maiden star.

A wanderer with a power not understood,

A wanderer there hasn’t been a wanderer in the dark elf’s territory since before the time the gods walked the earth. What does ‘a power not understood’ mean?

Married in ignorance,

Does that mean I will get married to a stranger? Or do I get married to the wanderer?

Taken from hearth and home,

I am to leave my home lands? When will this happen?

Her loins shall only,

Be fruitful for him.

That’s it. To prove that this prophecy is not about me I need to fall pregnant and give birth before I get married. Aife’s cheeks colored under her dark skin. Can I do that? Intentionally fall pregnant without my father’s permission? What would my father say if I put my desires ahead of him and the people? Could I put my desire to forge my own path ahead of the slim chance that my people may be able to break the curse?

Loud sobbing pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Where are you?” resonated across the grassy plaza.

Aife looked up. In the middle of the plaza. A man without any paint on his skin knelt in the centre of the plaza. Books lay scattered around him. Several people watched him, clustered in small groups.

“Ion?” she asked, standing up from her bench and crossing over to him.

Ion turned and looked at her. His face, wet with tears, lit up as he saw her.

“Aife!” he exclaimed. “I have found you?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I thought I had lost you,” he stammered. “I felt a jolt when we shook hands and I wanted to ask you about it.”

Great, I now know if he likes me, from this demonstration a little too much. He might be useful.

“You spoke of the prophecy that was placed on my birthday,” Aife said, “so I went and spoke to the only person that would know for sure.”

“You spoke to the Prophet of Din?” Ion gasped. He started gathering up his books, a look of fear on his face.

“Yeah,” Aife dismissed, “so what?”

“Not here,” Ion shushed. He stood with all his books in one hand. “Come with me.”

Ion grabbed Aife’s hand and half-dragged her out of the grassy plaza. The jolt ran up her arm once again. Great, even though he looked pathetic just now, I still want him.

Ion led her to the edges of the grassy plaza and then turned to face her, his eyes wide with fear. “I need to explain something to you about the Prophet of Din.”

Her whole arm was tingling from the constant contact with him. The jolts were now and shooting out into her torso and heading south with great frequency.

“Sure,” she agreed.

He turned and led her down a side alley then right down another where the light came from blue and yellow glowing mushrooms. Then he took her through a vine-covered portal that led into a corridor flanked with several other vine-covered portals. He kept moving rapidly up to the second portal on their left and then ducked inside. The room had a simple desk on one side covered with several open books and a small, moss-covered seat. A long bed braced the other wall. A small, glowing, green mushroom sat in the far corner near the ceiling. Once she was in he let go of her hand and then readjusted the vines behind her.

“This is my dorm,” he said. “We can talk privately here.”

He is not from the capital; otherwise he would have his own apartment. “Where are you from?” Aife asked.

Ion sat the books on the laden desk. “I am from a small colony near the mountains.”

She sat on the bed. The moss was thick and soft under her skin. “Ok you have me now in your room. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“You have to be careful with the Prophet of Din,” he began, looking right at her, their eyes meeting for the first time.

“Why?” she asked. I am alone in a room with a guy I just met and we both have no paint on. He is looking at me and I feel sad. Why do I feel sad?

“What the prophet says always comes true,” he rushed out.

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Well … yes.” He sat next to her, their legs touching. Another jolt ran up her legs and then settled in her secret place.

“Don’t worry about the prophet,” she murmured, placing her head on his shoulder.

“I am sorry I can’t do that.” He stood. “It’s not that I don’t like you it’s … your face.”

“I understand,” she said, casting her eyes into her lap. “What about from behind?”

“Your back is just as bad,” he admitted, “but you have nice legs.”

She looked up at him. His own face was marred with warts and his chest criss-crossed with white scars.

***

Aife strode out of the dormitory and wandered back to her room in the Mother Tree. She pushed aside the vine-covered door and entered her chambers. Small and poorly lit, it was comfortable with a purple grass floor covering and gentle moss lighting. Several branch bench seats were arrayed around the room. Aife moved to her inner chamber. In the centre of the room was a small table piled high with books; tucked under the table sat two cushions. On one side of the small room sat a bronze bathtub, on the opposite wall held a bench made from the root of the Mother Tree. The bench was covered with pots of paints and assorted objects, while a simple bed, covered in a thick bed of moss, lay against the far wall. Aife sat on the bench and started to apply paints to her body.

Aife painted herself in a common blue with a simple striped pattern, avoiding the embellishments that she would normally apply.

Aife stood and stepped through the portal. She turned down an alley way and then ducked around another corner. After walking for several minutes, she looked around. The moss and mushrooms were a gentle pink colour. The trees, while still large enough to hold several houses, were small when compared to the Mother Tree. In the centre of two paths was a tall burnt tree. As she watched a man stepped out from the bark of the tree and then turned down the road. A teleport tree; I have come far indeed. Now to find a place where there is drinking. Aife wandered along the path, listening for sounds of drunkenness.

“My dear, you look lost,” a gentle female voice called.

Aife turned and saw an ancient elf sitting in a chair coming out from the tree root; the chair was heavy set and was endowed with a thick moss.

“I am looking for a place to drink,” replied Aife, smiling at the old elf.

“Now why would a young elf like yourself want to go to a place like that?” she replied.

“I …” hesitated Aife.

The elder chuckled. “Fear not, child, I was young and hot-blooded myself. Turn left at the next intersection and you will be at the Drunk Dragon.”

“Thank you, Elder,” Aife said and took off. She followed the elder’s instructions and came upon a thick tree with a shingle nailed to the trunk. It featured a dragon on its hind legs, breathing ice over a vine-covered door. She stepped through the door and she entered a steep corridor that ran straight down into the earth. At the bottom of the corridor, a large-set elf stood leaning against the door. He was painted completely in black except for a thin white stripe that ran across his eyes.

As she approached, he reached out and opened the vine hanging to let her pass.

“Get into too much trouble and I will toss you out,” he said gruffly as she passed into the tavern.

Aife tossed him a thin smile over her shoulder as the vine hanging fell back into place.

In the tavern was an array of small round tables with several stools around them. On one side of the room was a long bench with shelves full of bottles of different types of ales. The room bustled with many elves either moving around the room or sitting on the stools around the table. In a far corner, on a small stage, a small thin elf sat strumming a guitar; she was painted yellow with an orange pattern worked into it.

A barmaid approached Aife; only her legs were painted green; the rest of her torso was left bare, her chest covered in a small number of white scars.

“Grab a seat and I will bring you a mug of ale,” she instructed.

Aife nodded and sat down on a chair in front of the musician.

After a couple of minutes of listening to the quiet strumming, the barmaid handed her a mug of thick amber liquid.

Aife took it and sipped. I was hoping to find a place with lively music; this has the people but not the atmosphere. How do I get her to play something we can dance to? At least the drink is heady enough.

A man collapsed into the chair next to her, placing an arm around her shoulders.

“What are you doing in a place like this?” he asked, sloshing his drink across her legs.

“Nuadu,” called another man. “Leave the pretty lady alone.”

Nuadu turned to face the other man who sat at a near table. “She is not a pretty lady,” he called.

“Nuadu, you are drunk,” replied the man, getting up and walking across the intervening space and clasping Nuadu on the shoulder.

Nuadu stood and then collapsed into the other man’s arms.

“Do you think I am pretty?” Aife asked.

The man glanced at her face and shook his head, then turned with Nuadu and helped him away.

Moisture glistened in her eyes. She wiped it away quickly. Foolish girl, this is not going to work. You don’t know enough about this to get a man drunk enough to sleep with you and still be able to perform the deed. I must try. I don’t want my life to be written out for me. I want to take control of my life. Aife took a gulp of the ale in her mug and wiped the split ale off her leg, smudging her paint. Look at me worrying about split ale.

The musician struck a new tune and a cheer went up from the people in the room. Several people jumped up and started dancing, in pairs.

A man stood in front of Aife and offered her his hand. She drained the mug and took his hand. He lifted her off the stool and pressed his body against hers.

She dropped the mug and let herself be swept away in the music, and the steady rhythm of his blood running through his body.

He leaned back and looked at her again. After the song ended he sat her back down and walked away from her without a look back.

Aife hung her head. Tears formed at the edge of her eyes.

“Do you want another one?” the barmaid asked.

Aife looked up at her as a tear streaked down her face smearing her paint.

The barmaid squatted beside her and considered her face.

“What’s the matter, darling?”

“I am hideous,” Aife stated, another tear streaking her face.

“Come with me,” the barmaid instructed.

She led Aife through the crowd and through a small vine-covered portal beside the bar. The room had a single bench that wrapped around the room on all sides except for the one entrance. They both sat on the bench.

“What did they say?”

“Nothing,” Aife declared. “He took one look at my face and I could feel his ardour leave him.”

The barmaid laughed. “For a princess, you are quite funny.”

“You know I am the princess?” she asked.

“Your face is well known. No one wants to risk their life messing with the princess.”

“What am I to do?” Aife dropped her face into her hands, crying.

“Why did you come here today?” the waitress asked.

“I have a prophecy over my life,” Aife explained. “It says that I can only have children with a wanderer.”

“So, you wanted to try and test it?” the barmaid asked.

“Mairead,” called a voice from outside the vine hanging. “You are needed on the floor.”

“Give me a couple of minutes,” Mairead called back. “Let me tell you something. Many people struggle every day trying to find purpose in their life. They would be glad to know what they are meant to do.”

“But I don’t get a choice in the matter,” Aife complained.

“True,” said Mairead, “but that I think is a small price to pay; you have your purpose so work with it.”

Mairead then bustled out of the room leaving Aife alone.

She is right. I shouldn’t fight my destiny. I don’t know when this wanderer will come for me. Let me prepare myself to be the best wife ever. How can I find an outsider to marry if there hasn’t been one in the forest for thousands of years and not even my own kind can stomach my looks? Tears began to slide down her face and rolled down her wart-covered face. She buried her face into her hands and cried.