It was the day of the wedding and a light spring breeze drifted through the meadows, whispering tales of a summer soon to come. Children played and screamed through the hilltops, dodging between the wild flowers and scurrying up sturdy trees. It was here on these rolling hills and plains, near the border of fairyland, that the ceremony would soon be taking place.

Poles had been raised and decorated with white ribbons; soft fabric draped between tree branches and over walkways. The hillside was littered with makeshift shacks and tent-like structures that had been raised in an afternoon for its inhabitants. Many people had travelled far for this ethereal occasion, some out of fearful curiosity, others out of unabashed relief to the end of the skirmishing between fae and man. Some had travelled for days with few supplies; over hills, through rivers and snowy plains, to send the Chief’s daughter off on her way.

Nobody envied her. So few had ever returned from fairyland; and those who had rarely returned home to their own time. Often when they got back years and years had passed, and even should they adjust to the new world they found themselves they always carried a glint of elfland in their eyes.

When she went, she would be unlikely to return, married off to those dangerous faefolk. There had been murmurings on those long, long journeys murmurings of how deep of a shame it was to lose the fine princess to those cruel heathen creatures. Few would send their daughters in her place.

Yet here she was.

“It’s your duty.” Declared her father, echoing his private thoughts as they travelled by simple carriage to the site of his goodbyes. They would be there soon, he knew, and his heart wrenched at what was to become at the end of this memorable day. No more smiles that painted the room in warmth and love. No more soft wafts of perfume through their home.

It was as if he was saying it more to prove it to himself then to remind her.

He looked toward his beloved only daughter. Draenir was a bulky man of few words, young for a Chief but feared for his tactical prowess. He was a mass of bronzed muscle and fading battle scars, now hidden under his ornate formal clothing. His long brown hair and beard were braided this day, his simple crown – a band of metal – sitting round his head as always. His face, though young, showed age beyond his years, but his bright eyes shone through at her as he leaned forward and took her hands in his.

“You have ended this needless suffering. Not your brothers or our warriors or any of our swords and bows. The outlying villages need never fear being raided or tricked or cursed again. No more people being taken in the night. He asked for your hand, I could not have said no.” He spoke slowly and with sincerity, a slither of pain hidden in his tone. If only there had been more he could have done; some other way to end this.



Her father had agonized over the decision for days. Their villages were right on the border of elfland; all the tactics in the world could not have protected all their territories from a war between man and elf if it had ever broken out. They had been suffering their mischief long and hard, and little in the way of earthly weapons had ever helped to quell it. A war with them would be beyond unwise, and that was well were the path had been leading before today.

And yet, even now, though his expression was stern and hard as always, his eyes almost pleaded with her. They pleaded her to just say no to this, and it will be done. Just give me a sign this is not the destiny of your choosing, and I will rip the sky assunder in your name. No need for her to wed and raise beastly children beyond our ken, no need to be lost in that fearful place forevermore. She could live here, she could marry a man of good blood and stature, she could raise bairns with pink cheeks and kindly eyes. She could dance and grow old in the lands of her forefathers, stretching back to time unknown, on the eathly fruits of man and beast. Not the magical food beyond the barrier beyond lands of man to the lands of fae.

She had thought the carriage looked like a jailcart. Plain and unassuming, the sort that militias used to round up dissenters and bring them to the gallows. Of course, it wasn't. There were no iron bars, no men walking along side and jeering at those within, no anguished screams from the captured. But Briallen couldn't help but feel there was a darkness that clung to the wood -- no, buried within it, a toxic grub corrupting an innocent object, the same way the iron of the jailcart perverted an otherwise normal, mundane thing.

She hated all of it, the noise and décor and tasteful debauchery. All the people, gathering to watch her life -- at least the one she always thought she'd live -- end. Their eyes glinted with tears, were they for her fate or their happiness? After all, the common folk were the one reaping the reward. Not her family, and certainly not her. Briallen looked at her father, a man she knew was formidable in battle but soft of heart for her.

She had resented her father at first, to wed her to a monster, to sacrifice his only daughter to the thick, tangled unknown woods that whispered at night. She had wanted to scream at him, to fall into hysterics. He would've reacted. If she flung open the carriage door and ran, or simply gave him a pleading look, he'd bring it all to a halt at this moment.

But she couldn't do that. No. Every princess knows their duty: to marry well for their fathers, for the land. The last few years, though she was of age to wed, her father turned away suitors. He told her none of them were worthy of her hand, even suggested she should be the one to choose: the greatest and rarest of luxuries for a princess, to find her own love.

She had to nobly accept this task, the most basic of which she could complete: marry well for the sake of the people. She couldn't remember a time when the fae didn't torment this territory. In concept, her father's lands held the advantage of being against the fae's domain, leaving only one side for enemy armies to assault. She remembered, as a little girl, sitting on her father's lap in front of the fire, as he told her this. But the fae were unpredictable, and ultimately, there was always a battle front: guards nervously watching the mist enwreathed wilderness, shouting at shadows, and watching eerie lights that they never spoke of to one another. Weeks could go by without incident, and then overnight, disaster. Babies stolen, crops withered at the root, water poisoned, towns cursed to be forever mute.

This is for the people, she repeated, a mantra in her mind. She tried to avoid her father's misty eyes. She could not cry. So, instead, she examined the great Draenir and marveled at how small he seemed. Truly, she was his daughter: their noses had the same shape, their locks were the same shade, and their eyes always betrayed their emotions more than their words. She took after her mother in complexion -- pale, even after spending time in the sun -- and in the mottled brown and green of their eyes. She remembered her mother telling her that hazel eyes were lucky, that she was named Briallen because a single primrose was left in her crib when she was a newborn. They never knew who left it, but they took it as a blessing.

These days, Briallen wondered if that was just a story or if it was an omen.

She nodded her head to everything her father said along the way, mostly words of encouragement, reminding her this was the right thing.

He was right. She knew it was the right thing.

But why did it feel so wrong?

Draenir let his head hang for but a moment, his chin tilted down towards his chest, a pained look fleeting past his eyes as he felt the turmoil behind her stony resolve. There were worlds behind her silence, worlds that spoke of a lost life of laughter and joy and the duty that bound her decision.

He pained to think what life she would lead beyond the veil of twilight without him there to watch her blossom. Poets and minstrils spoke of colour and glory known to no man, of fabrics softer then a butterfly's wing, of great white spires that danced in sunlight and a palace beyond all the sweetest imaginations. The King of Elfland had given his word for all of these unworldly things for her and more. Never once would he raise an arm to harm her like some husbands did their wives. If such a life would bless her, perhaps only he and their family would be pained by Briallen's departure. Perhaps each breath she would take would be filled with wonderment and contentedness. Perhaps she would want for nothing. And yet, his eyes told tale of distant memories.

“You were so tiny, you know. When you were a babe. You decided to come say hello early.” He recalled sitting at his wife’s bedside as she rocked Briallen in her arms, fussing over her sleeping self, swaddling her warm. Barely enough energy to keep herself up, but she had made sure Briallen was well tended, not letting even the wetnurse take her. “A healthy, bubbly little child – but so tiny. You barely cried. You barely ate. Drove your mother sick with worry, that first year. But as you grew – such a curious little thing! – she saw. She saw you better than anyone. How strong you were at heart, how pure of purpose. Nothing could stop you when you put your mind to it!” he paused and a smile turned up the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of a distant time swimming in his eyes. “I remember how you’d sneak into the kitchens for sweet cakes. And wandering out into the fields! You came home muddy more than once. Hardly befitting of a lady, and yet you still captivated the court in all what that sweet face of yours.” He chuckled at that. He’d always given a stern eye at the time but it had filled him with pride to have a daughter with such a steady spirit, and his heart had melted many times to behold her and his late wife.

His joyous tone turned grave and he reached to take her hand. “A strong spirit…” he looked at her then, dead in the eyes, imploring her with his gaze. “Never lose that, Briallen. The faewilds are a dangerous place for anyone. Do not be deceived by their words or intoxicated by their ways. They're just as likely to lure you with sweetness as to trick you. Only a strong spirit can see through their dastardly nature and a level head can outthink their wickedness.”

"If you only speak one word to me and nothing more, my sweet daughter, promise me you will stay safe." His eyes begged.

Outside, a knock on the carriage. “If you please," came the muffled voice, "the ladies in waiting wish to see to the young Madam's preperations."

Briallen chewed her lip nervously as her father spoke once more, this time talking of memories long since tarnished by time. How funny, she thought, that as a baby she hardly cried, but now she was doing her best to not fall apart. If she did, she would never be able to piece herself back together. What would be more disrespectful to a king than for his bride to weep, for she did not want the life he had to offer?

She remained composed when her father first began, memories before she could remember anything at all with her fragile babe's mind. Her father, for the first time in days, sounded truly happy as he mused of her -- of their -- past. She didn't let a tear fall until he brought up her expeditions to the creek. Oh, he had seemed so furious! He chastised her for sullying her dress, for wandering too far, for dragging other children into the fields of tall grass and wild flowers to hold court for childish things. A single tear rolled down her face as Draenir lowered his tone, as he held her hands.

Draenir the Cunning, Bold, and True suddenly seemed his full size again, holding her hands within his and squeezing them with a father's reassurance. For the first time that morning, she purposefully looked her father in the eyes and made a solemn promise.
"I will, Daddy. I'll stay safe. And I'll find a way home or..." she trailed off, knowing how unlikely it would be to come back, trembling at the thought of what would happen to someone alone in the faewilds. "I -- I will find a way to be happy. But I will miss you and the family every day while I am gone," she amended, knowing the most likely truth, trying not to allow herself to sob. She quivered with sorrow, like a bowstring after releasing an arrow. Her bottom lip was seeping red from her nervous biting.

The knock on the carriage surprised her. She wanted to say "I love you" one last time, but she couldn't summon the strength to do so. Instead, she pulled her hands from her father's grasp, and indignantly wiped her face, as though angry with the saltwater tears. She hoped her eyes were not too red, lest they reflect her true emotions.

"I'm ready," she called to the coachman outside. He opened the carriage door, sunlight streaming in. Not a cloud in the sky. Good weather for a wedding, she thought bittersweetly to herself, looking over her shoulder one last time at her father before letting the eager staff lead her away from preparations.

The ladies in waiting got to work as soon as Briallen entered the room. Usually, there would be happy chatter, but they only whispered amongst themselves. The princess was bathed, her hair plaited back elegantly, her eyelids and lips painted with some vogue cosmetics that must've been exotic, for she did not recognize them. Finally: the dress. It was made of fabric so fine and soft that Briallen knew it wasn't of this world. A gift. The first gift from the King of Elfland. A white dress tinted pink for his new primrose.

It felt unnatural against her skin and it fit strangely, hugging her body. It was luxurious, with jewels encrusted in the top, and it looked as though a million tiny stars had been captured and but within the layers upon layers of the large, lacy skirt. She wanted to protest as the corset was cinched tighter, but she didn't have the breath with which to do it. Most days, she wore one only loosely, and even at past events, she'd never had worn one so tight.

They wouldn't allow her to look in the mirror. Perhaps they sensed her unease. Instead, they moved the mirror out of the room and spun her around as they situated the veil. This led to a small meeting, and they redid her hair, braiding it around her head like a crown, weaving flowers into it, and touched up her lips (the color of which Briallen wasn't sure, the cosmetic looked pink). They seemed to approve of this, and promptly placed the lacy veil back on.

As the ladies in waiting dispersed to make sure all arrangements for the next step were made, Briallen had nothing to do but glace at herself. The lace, she noticed, was not a traditional pattern. It weaved in and out and she swore she saw trees and spires, man and beast within the fabric. But if she focused too long, it was gone. Was it nerves? Was she wearing some fae enchanted dress? The former made Briallen more comfortable, so she chose it as her answer.

A lady of waiting ducked back inside the tent. "The carriage is here. Your father will meet you in the Glade when you step out of the carriage." She then helped Briallen into her shoes, which reminded her of riding boots, but with a more narrow heel and not nearly so tall.

The carriage she was ushered into was far more regal than the last, painted white with the royal insignia on the back. It was a lonely ride there, despite all the smiling faces she saw through the window. It was like a winter's day, white covering everything: white gossamer hanging on branches, temporary walkways, signs painted white. White was a hopeful color. She supposed it fit well enough. Women and children, even some men, wore flowers in their hair. They were symbolic of a beautiful new life. Which Briallen found ironic, since it was really just a temporary purpose: the flowers would wither and rot without their roots. Like a girl without a family.

She would have known they were close to the Glade even without the visual cues, the sounds of the river running over stone was slightly relaxing to her. Just a few miles downstream, however, it turned into rapids, crashing and violent. A metaphor for life, almost, she thought to herself.

The carriage came to a halt. It was silent.

And the door was opened.

Briallen's only thought as she saw the handle move was please let this end quickly.

Draenir's mouth thinned into a thin line as his jaws tightened in an effort to restrain his emotions. Her words echoed deep and curled themselves around his heart. He only wished for her to be safe and happy, to be here with her family. Teeth clenched and grinded as he witnessed her tears, his own eyes reddening but no water or words pouring forth. The echoes of a thousand things he wished to say rebounded in his mind and clattered together in a din of lost moments, of taken-for-granteds, of futures never to come.

And as he mulled over the perfect words to say, in a blast of sunlight and swirling skirts she was gone. His little girl was gone.

His eyes lingered on that accursed door, knowing the next time he saw her he would be giving her away forever. And now, beyond the gaze of any of his men, Draenir's head fell heavy into his hands as his shoulders silently shook.

---

The jewel of Elfland, the palace only told of in song, a castle of spires fashoined from moonlight with windows made of sky. In these hallowed halls of antiquity, among pillars of the most perfect ice and marble and spiderweave tapestries, The Elfking Alyuin prepared himself to finally meet his long-awaited bride.

---

It was curious how, in the most perfect days of days, a single small grey cloud decided to drift in the center of the sky. It was too tiny and lonely to be a forecast of rain, and yet it sat there vehemently, barely shifting in the light breeze. No matter: the vision of it dipped past the treeline as the onlookers took their places among the glade.

Draenir was the one who had opened the carriage, not exempt, it seemed, from braids and flowers. He presented his daughter with his bear paw of a hand, his ceremonial garb only adding to the stoic air about the clan leader. His countenance told only of strength, valor and duty. Gone from his face were those precious, sacred moments he had shared with her in the carriage.

The clan would never know how easily he would throw this whole thing aside if it would make his daughter happy.

"Your mother would be very proud if she were here." his voice was low, and perhaps the last words she would ever hear from him. Draenir offerred his daughter his arm, to walk her to the alter.

Briallen was glad it was her father who had opened the door; she needn't hide how she felt from him. His eyes were faintly reddened, and she imagined hers were the same. I always thought my eyes were mother's but it looks like they were father's in the end, she thought wryly, trying to force a smile from the bittersweet fault but only managing a slight twitch of the lips, the kind that locks away unspoken words. Draenir looked like her had also been groomed, and at another time and place, she would've giggled at the matching flowers in their hair.

Her breath was shaky with cries that she had internalized, but could not entirely suppress or prevent. Her father's words made her smile, just a little. She hoped it was enough for him to see. A flicker of strength and hope. He was right, Mother would be proud. She was the kind of woman Briallen always wanted to be: strong, unapologetic, caring, and entirely devoted to her people. Her smile could light up the same room her frown had darkened, she tempered her words with elegance and wit, and above all, though memories slipped away every day, she had been a good mother. Would Briallen be a good mother?

The train of thought made her stomach turn. She'd heard stories of Halflings her entire life, but she was never sure if they fact or fantasy. She didn't want to know. Oh Gods, she might have been sheltered, but she knew what usually awaited brides on their wedding night. Please let him be kind, please let him understand what this is like, she prayed, unsure of to whom. She tried to fix her gaze firmly ahead, but she was bleary eyed and the veil seemed more difficult to look through than before. She couldn't ascertain whether the King of Elfland stood at the alter yet. She knew he would be. He had to be.

That's the only reason it would be so quiet. Weddings were usually full of cheering and merriness, even as the bride was led down the aisle. Were they looking at her or the faerie?

She was chewing her lip again, reopening the gash she had created earlier. She felt the salty blood dribble off her bottom lip and slide down her chin. She could almost smell the metallic scent...

No. That was a different smell. Like the air before a storm. Hadn't the sky been cleared?

Were the Gods answering her prayer? Would the wedding be rained out? Would she get one more day with her father?

She crossed her fingers for luck.

That small non-descript cloud that had once seemed so innocent was now bruising the sky with it's inky black brothers. Wind rustled the treetops, a gentle playful tussle that began tugging and joustling leaves and branches alike. Ribbons were caught in it's grasp, ripped from their carefully placed perches. It had came out of near nothing, and was growing in strength fast.

Draenir's grip on his daughter tightened. "I was not expecting him to pull an entrance like this." he mumbled under his breath as the restless gale clawed at his hair and buffetted the pair of them. It was outrageous, the terms of marriage had be brokered peacefully and there was no reason to scare his people with such unnecessary antics.

The thunder that rolled across the cloudcover was no ordinary buisness. It growled. It roared, piercing the ears of those below with such a thunderous cry. There was screaming at the suddeness of it all, as chairs and tables and small foliage began flying up into the sky.



"By the gods..." Draenir's eyes grew wide at the sight of it.

The huge blackened wall of cloud stretched across the sky in forms of beasts and monsters unnamable. They rolled forward and slunk back over themselves, tossling for their position at the frontline to bear down on the humans below with hungry eyes.

Panic, everwhere. Trees uprooted. Tribesmen with the winds to their backs ran for cover, some plucked into the sky on their journey. The weathered invisible hands of the wanton tempest clutched at the princess and Draenir, as if trying to rip them apart.

"Briallen!" Draenir cried, his head snapping round in an instant as the wind threatened to rip her from his grasp. He felt the cylone pressing in on all sides, clawing at his clothes, pinpointing in on the pair of them. No! He could not allow this!

His grip on her tightened protectively, but even his bulky form could not weather a storm so hellbent on their seperation.

Words from the past came flooding back in as quiet murmurs about the creeping storm began, as Briallen remembered her tutor's words when she was young, after she'd dramatically said she wished she could die instead of eat any Brussel sprouts with dinner."Briallen, you must be careful what you wish for. You never know who's listening. Especially this close to the Faewilds, child.

Briallen felt as though she might be sick. She regretted her earlier thoughts, she just wanted this ordeal over with, smoothly, as planned. The winds only seemed to pick up after her father made his quiet comment, as though angered. Was this some Faerie trick because of her hopes for a rain-out? Was Alyuin doing this for her wicked and selfish thought? Or just to scare her? To scare everyone? Her veil was ripped from her hair, and she reached for it with her free hand reflexively. It moved unnatural in the air, floating upwards instead of being blown one direction or another. Before she could process the strangeness, the sky roared

Her ears rang, the world unclear from the force of the thunderclap. Had she screamed? She wasn't sure, but she did once she saw people being lifted into the wind, tossed about like ragdolls, joining silken decorations and wooden furniture being whisked about. She clung to her father, desperately, wanting to close her eyes, but unable to stop watching the carnage. The new future she had almost made peace with seemed as tattered and torn as the banners, ripped from their posts. The massive creaking cry of trees being uprooted joined the cacophony.

Briallen looked towards the sky, sentient and living with beasts for which she had no name. Their cunning eyes all seemed focused on one thing: her.

Please let this stop, she thought, as the wind pulled at her. It felt as though a rope had been tied around her ankles, being pulled skywards while it pushed Draenir away. She wanted to scream at him to not let go, please, please, do not let go. She heard the desperation in his voice as he called her name, as her fingers began to slip. She could find no words to speak as she met her father's eyes. She wanted to apologize, to tell him she loved him, to say goodbye. But she knew what she needed to do.

"Whoever you are, please, stop!" she screamed, as loudly as she could over the shrieking wind. "If it's me you want, just... just take me, you bastard," she declared, voice somewhere between a war cry and a sob.

Even if she had wanted to, she couldn't hold on any longer. The moment she lost her grip on her father felt like an eternity, like she would forever feel her fingers relinquishing control to the storm.

She squeezed her eyes shut, frightened, and not wanting to see her father's face as the wind picked her up with a unnatural sense of direction and purpose.

Please, let this stop, and with that thought the clinging of the wild winds became insistant, clawing at her delicate otherworldly dress and daring to steal the flowers from her hair. The veins in Draenir's arms popped and he squatted to help keep his weight and balance, but no effort he exerted could save his daughter's lithe fingers slipping from his hand.

"No," he muttered, his voice whipped away by the wind in an instant. "No, don't-"

He could see his girl's lips moving, crying out in agony perhaps, cursing the gods otherwise. It pained him, it pained him so much to see her in such dire straits, to not even be able to hear her cries for help, but only to watch the expression on her face in slow motions as her fingers finally slipped.

"Whoever you are, please, stop! If it's me you want, just... just take me, you bastard, He did not hear her cries, could not hear them, and he certainly didn't hear the smooth cocky voice beside her ear, safe in the knowledge his words were for her and for her only.



and for a moment Draenir heard only silence, as he watched his daughter's eyes close, her fingers slip from his.

"Briallen!!" he screamed, and nobody heard him.


Swoosh. the air carried her onwards, upwards and upwards, but never letting her spiral or spin out of control. Two strong arms curled around her chest from behind her, his chest to her back, a man with effervestent green eyes and short, windswept auburn hair resting his jaw on her shoulder as if they were old friends. His grin was beyond arrogant, it was almost sickening.

"A friendly word of advice: It's terribly unwise to insult your kidnapper, yaknow." he snickered. Suddenly, his legs shot out either side of her perfectly straight. His arms held her firmly, latching onto each other like a straightjacket, though blessedly not as tight.



They were surrounded by inky blacks and greys as if diving into a breathable deep sea. Around them the wind continued to scream, lightning flashes being their only illumination that cast their world into harsh shadows and frightening detail. It was just them falling through an endless abyss, the rising knowlege that one day it would soon end in crunching bones and splattered bosts. Around them the faces of beasts and monsters watched their great spectacle as if attending a macabre circus.

Briallen screamed -- she would tell herself later it was in rage and not fear -- at the honeyed voice in her ear. "Don't mind if I do," it taunted, detached yet terribly close at the same time. She could hear the grin behind the words, imagine the unseen face of her husband-to-be and she found herself wondering what color the Elfking would bleed. Rage and utter shock clouded her mind, but as her ears popped with the changing altitude, the same way they did when visiting the mountains, she regained her senses.

Someone was touching her.

She tried to twist, to grab and claw at whoever had their chest pressed against her back. But he was too strong, arms restraining her masterfully, the way the royal guards would detain someone, pinioning their arms without breaking their ribs. Her legs were free, but she despite how wildly she kicked, she never felt her foot connect with any part of fae behind her. His chin rested on her shoulder, and from the corner of her eye she could see a self-satisfied grin and auburn hair blown in the wind.

"A friendly word of advice: It's terribly unwise to insult your kidnapper, yaknow."

The words of advice made her blood boil, and she didn't notice the sudden lack of force exerted against the back of her legs.

"Kidnapped?" she sputtered, "Why the hell would to kidnap your bride, you traitorous silver-tongued whoreson --" her string of insults was cut short as she -- they -- were suddenly falling, barreling earthwards at an alarming rate. Her hair began to unravel itself, flowers shredded into individual petals as the wind mercilessly pulled them apart.

She struggled harder, trying to elbow and contort herself out of the fae's grasp. "Damn you Alyuin," she snarled, for she had never seen the King of Elfland to know this was not him, and her sense of logic dictated he was the only one who could've possibly done this. "My father will wage war, I will make you regret ever wanting to wed!" She lost a single shoe as she tried, once more, to kick her captor in the shin. "I hope we both die on impact," voice fading to a hoarse whisper.