Wreath

The overgrowth swallowed them, hungrily, embracing them as a willing lover.

He had to tame his loran, so the animal didn’t surrender to the call of nature and galloped through the leaves and branches, to an unknown destination, known only to him. Lorans were animals used as a transport, but only by most skilled elves. They easily were allowing their nature to take over their common sense.

They both were skilled enough. Lorans were kept on his fields, and he loved to just run on one of them, not caring for anything, his hair windswept and wild.

She looked at him, her eyes smiling.

“Well, my lord, it seems you again allowed yourself for your thoughts to drift off. What important things occupy that stubborn head of yours?”

Raithea shook his head. His features lighted by inner gleam. He stopped his loran, who wanted to prance, the summer overwhelmed him. He named him Gale. Very fitting name, as he was like a force of nature making the sky shake.

“I just thought how pleasant it would be to bathe our lorans in the stream. They surely would use a cool off.”

“I assume not only lorans need a cool bath,” she laughed lightly.

“As long as lorans bathe too, I can at least pretend that I don’t like the cold stream water” he replied and again tamed his animal. His hand slowly patted his head.

“We are getting married today, Lord Rhuitaure. How it would look if the ain scal appeared in the sacred grove with wet hair and tangled robes.”

“My robes always eventually get tangled one way or another. Especially when we spend time together” his expression indicated pure victory.

“You beautiful fool” she scoffed playfully. “If it depended on you, you would marry in a stream, with only a wreath on your head.”

“Tempting idea, but I doubt your mother would approve. She would throw her own robe on my back as soon as she would see me bare.”

“That is modesty, my pure lord. You should be born a loran. That way, you would not need to take care of any clothes and protocole. An only thing you would need to care about would be how fast to lose yourself in the wilderness.”

“Only if you were a loran too… who would scold me? Who would allow me to lay my head on her knees? Who would straighten up my misled pathaways?” he taunted.

These simple words, playful but honest, caught her heart in tangled vines and squeezed with delight. She felt almost touchable bond with her ain scal. Her spring bruthi, who kidnapped her into the kingdom of grass. She didn’t know how she deserved such happiness. Finding first love among everlasting elves was not an uncommon thing, but still clean and clear as a young sun.

“We are not made to be lorans” she only said, a light smile dancing in the corner of her lips.

“I wouldn’t be able to give you this, then” he retorted fast, pulling something he held close to his chest, all the time they rode. It was a wreath made of twisted birch roots, with silver leaves growing straight from its tangles. She looked at him with disbelief.

“But Raithea. It’s a symbol of your bruth-kin.”

“I want to offer you this,” he simply said and stopping his animal, he took the reins of her loran, who softly allowed it. He leaned over and put the wreath on her forehead. “You already won me thousands of times. Let others know, I am yours.”

She lost her breath. He was hers. Let the others know. But she was his, completely at his whim.

It was pure.

It was beautiful.

It was them. And no one should dare to break it.

*

Raithea looked at the wreath. He found it in the ruins of the place in which they kept her as a prisoner, broken like a solstice puppet and bloodstained like a sacrifice. She still was wearing it, when she went to the battle, still wore it when they captured her. Her feelings were so strong that she never parted with the symbol of their togetherness.

He found it next to her body, where she laid in her own blood, with gaze that held pure horror. And he hated himself for allowing this. For not being faster, more persistent. More cruel. He never thought he will resort to this kind of way, bloodthirsty way, but he also knew it was not enough. Desperately not enough. He was not enough cruel, coldblooded. And that’s why she died.

He won’t repeat that mistake again.

—-

ain scal – groom

bruth-kin – ruledom