Excerpt from an Unwritten Story

My hand, trembling, reaches for my chalice. The jewels that encrust the wedding cup feel cold to my fingers, and I grasp the width of it with difficulty. Breathing in and out is a labored task, and the softness of my gown slides across my hungry stomach. I cannot let go of the chalice, but I press it into the table.


I know what my body is going to do, but I will fight it as long as I can. Unsmiling, I rise, holding the cup far out in front of me. Silent, I beg someone to stop me, but everyone is drunk on the wedding feast, and no one so much as glances at me. Every dragging step I take toward the door of the hall, I cry out in my thoughts, trying to turn my head and look back at my new husband.


I love him! I love my king! Let me go!


The night air is cold, and I try once again to resist my body as it edges toward the man that approaches me. With all my strength, I tip my hands sideways, and a little wine falls onto the snow, staining it with dark, evil drops. My arms right the chalice, and I continue. The man stops; bows before his new queen. I hold out the chalice.


Strike me. Walk past me.


He does not but looks into my eyes with his great dark ones, his beautiful face questioning.


“My Lord…”


Almost bleeding with effort, I stop talking, but my hands hold the wine out to him. His eyes still question.


“I lay a Geas upon you to take me away.”


NO!


Still watching my face, his eyes sadden. “I cannot betray my king like that, though it is clear you are indeed the most beautiful woman in the Green Isle.” He looks down.


Then do not! Walk to the hall.


He does not move.


“I have lain a Geas.” My mouth says, and my last effort of resistance gives my tone a hurt and broken air.


He falls silent, and I see his hand rise toward the chalice. I think of my husband, and his sweet eyes, and the way his hands held mine so gently this morning.


This is the wedding cup of the king. Do not take it. Break this Geas and die, but do not listen to me and cause such shame.


“Oh that the witch had not lain upon me women’s love,” he murmured, taking the cup. “For I cannot break a Geas, least of all to you.”


Then I understand, and I am angered beyond anything ever felt before. I welcome the anger, and let it fill my whole body as if I am standing on a pyre. This is not desire for a man – this is between women.


A scream bursts from my lips, and I bring the power of birth and of death, of marriage and of hate, from inside my bones, left there by my mother. I bring my virtue, still untouched, and my obedience to the mandates of the law and the seers.


With a hand made strong by my power, I strike the cup as it reaches his lips. He stumbles back, his lower lip bleeding.


“I release you,” I gasp, and turn toward the light that glows in the doorway of the feasting hall. I feel as if I stand on a battlefield; as if my heart is being eaten by ravens. I do not love the man – I do not even desire him; the witch had not fathomed that a woman might fight her, thinking his beauty to be enough.


I glance back once more and see that the man is dumbstruck. He must have had so many women.


The hall welcomes me with its shouts and its song, but my exhausted body has only enough power left to reach my husband. I collapse at the feet of the king, one hand on his wedding shoe, thankful.