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Two men approached on horses. One, young, armored, and light-haired (though dark-bearded), turned to his companion.
“Is this truly needful, Coron Dieithr?”
The other man, older, dark-haired with two distinguished grey streaks at his temples, sighed.
“Choróinix, if you hadn’t played at swords with King Pellinore this would not be needful. However, since you’ve broken your blade, you must have a new one. Is it not so?”
“Aye, but traveling all the way out here to a faerie-haunted lake? With no other knights?”
“If it comes to a contest of arms, then we are already lost. This is a sacred undertaking for a sacred king.”
“I’m sure any bandits lurking on our route will consider such before attacking.”
“As you said, this lake is faerie-haunted. The Lady ensures there are no bandits, nor woodwoses, nor any such being hidden in the trees. If you do not trust her power, trust to mine. We are concealed from the eyes of men.”
“And well it is, too. Any such desperate souls would value the gleam of my armor as much as the rich red of your cloak.”
“This cloak chooses its wearer. Anyone thinking to take it from me would be most surprised.” Coron Dieithr paused. “I think this is where I leave you, Choróinix.”
“Leave me?”
“Aye. What passes next will be between you and the Lady. I shall return once the ritual is complete and we may journey back to Camelot. Have no fear, my king. You are as safe here as you will ever be.”
“I should have less…trepidation…with a good blade by my side.”
“That is what you are here to remedy, Choróinix.”
“Aye. Fare you well, Coron Dieithr. I will see you anon.”
“And you shall fare most well, my king. Of that I have no doubt.” Coron Dieithr turned his mount and rode away at a gentle trot, his lack of urgency reassuring his companion.
“He told me not how to begin this ritual. Lady! It is I, Choróinix, and I must beg a boon!” Mists began to clear from the lake and the afternoon sun illuminated its crystal blue waters. The marge of the lake was covered in verdant grass, and perhaps ten paces away from the shore, an unbroken forest spread in all directions. In truth, Choróinix was hard pressed to locate the trail he and his companion had followed. Turning his attention back to the lake, he was rewarded by a ripple in the center of its still waters. As he continued to gaze, hoping for some less ambiguous sign of habitation, he saw the gentle curve of a large round shield break the surface of the lake. The shield was painted a deep blue, with three crowns in gold arranged vertically in its center. The arm holding it was pale, though not unnaturally so. This Lady, for it must be her, seemed not to spend much time in the sun.
Choróinix’s attention was drawn to the Lady. She was raven-haired, with eyes that reflected the blue of her lake. She was clad in a white samite gown that clung to her, though it did not appear to be affected by its passage through the water. Her beauty drew an ache from Choróinix’s heart. Though the moment he felt it, he tried to let it pass. The inhabitants of Faerie were beguiling to mere mortals, and Choróinix had a heavy destiny upon him. He could not be distracted, no matter how delightful the Lady’s appearance. She turned toward him, smiling, and he could see a slight gap in her upper front teeth. For reasons he could not adequately explain, this endeared her more to him, transfixed his gaze; once again, he felt a pang in his heart. She strode boldly to him, walking across the water as though it were dry land. Though he was High King of the Britons, still he knelt before her.
She laughed and, in a musical voice, said “Rise, my king. Though I appreciate the show of respect, you must needs kneel to no one.”
He rose to his feet. “My lady, it is no shame to show respect when respect is due.”
She cocked her head at him, considering. “You will do, I think, as king. But a king must have a weapon.” She presented the shield to him.
“I mean no disrespect, my lady, but this is no weapon. I must be able to strike in combat, not merely defend myself.”
She smiled again, and there was more than a hint of fond exasperation in her mien. Holding his gaze, she curled the arm holding the shield into her chest, then snapped it out again. The shield sailed through the air and buried itself in the bole of a mighty oak, as easily as Choróinix might have cut into an aspic at the feasting table.
“I think you will find, my king, that this shield is weapon enough. It is Cosantóir Crua, and it will serve to defend both you and the realm.”
“My lady, I…I apologize for doubting. This is a precious gift you have given me.”
“More precious than it might seem. There is a dweomer of healing upon it. As long as you possess it, no wound shall weaken you.”
Choróinix bowed. “I cannot thank you enough, my lady.” He walked over to the shield and, grunting with the effort, withdrew it from the oak.
The Lady giggled. “I apologize, my king. It seems everyone expects you to retrieve weapons that are stuck in something else.”
A slight blush stole over the king’s features. “Ah, it is of no moment, my lady—”
“Will you call me Dorchaidhe?”
“Dorchaidhe…meaning dark. As is your hair.” Without thinking, Choróinix brushed a lock of her hair behind her delicately pointed ear. After doing so, he froze. “I apologize, my lady—Dorchaidhe—I would take no liberties with you.”
She chuckled, then laughed fully. When she had finished, Choróinix stood there, bewildered, clutching the shield.
“Perhaps you can put that to the side for a moment, Choróinix. May I call you Choróinix?”
He nodded, laying the shield carefully on the ground.
“I did not see it as a liberty. There is a ritual to be performed that I see Coron Dieithr warned you not of.”
“He mentioned a ritual, though nothing else.”
“Choróinix, are you married?”
“No, though that is of great concern to my court. They insist I must produce an heir.”
A shadow crossed Dorchaidhe’s face, but it passed swiftly. “Some might say the primary responsibility of a king. But a king has other obligations that must not be forgotten.”
“What obligations?”
“Before you are bound in temporal marriage, you must wed the land in a sacred ceremony.”
Choróinix swallowed. “And in this case, wedding the land would mean—”
“Wedding me. I am no mere spirit, Choróinix. I am the soul of Britain, and I have chosen you as my champion.”
“I will strive to be worthy, my lady.”
She placed her hands gently on his face. “If you were not worthy, I would not have chosen you. Much less given you a weapon such as the one that lays at your feet. But I must insist you doff your armor. It will be difficult to wed you clad in such.” She pulled his face down for a kiss. He followed her lead, meeting her soft lips in a delicate, searching manner. “Armor off, Choróinix. I wish to embrace you, not cold steel. ‘Tis said your father wooed your mother in armor, but it is not an experience I care to have.”
Choróinix fumbled with the straps and clasps of his armor, managing his vambraces and greaves, but becoming stymied at his pauldrons. “Dorchaidhe, have you any experience with armor? I fear I cannot manage it myself.”
“You wish me to become your squire as well as your armorer? You presume much upon short acquaintance, my lord Choróinix.” She smiled at him to take the sting out of her words, and helped him to swiftly remove the rest of his plate. “Still, as we are to be wed, I suppose it is not so onerous a task.”
“Dorchaidhe, if my squire appeared as you do, I would never be fully equipped.”
“Then you like this form? I approve; it is my natural appearance. I find so many expect someone taller, more ethereal and, for some reason, blond.” She took him in as he stood in his gambeson. “Though I must admit that I find your hair most pleasing.” She put a hand on his cheek again. “And your eyes, so very blue. Most pleasing, my lord Choróinix. However, this gambeson, while certainly much softer than your plate, is, I fear, still in the way. But worry not, I would not ask you to disrobe without doing so myself. Perhaps you would care to help me with my gown.”
Choróinix undid his gambeson and stood there in his smallclothes. He reached for Dorchaidhe, placing his hands carefully on her hips, allowing himself a brief caress as he gathered the fabric of her gown in his hands and pulled it gently upward. Dorchaidhe raised her arms over her head, and he pulled the gown off of her, laying it gently upon his gambeson. He was stricken by her beauty, by her curves, and by the softness of her skin. She lay her own hands on him and tugged his smallclothes down.
Choróinix swallowed again, nervously. “Dorchaidhe, I…”
She put her finger on his lips. “This is a sacred rite. You and I shall join to ensure that your reign proves a boon to the people of Britain.” She grinned at him impishly. “You are more lucky than you know, Choróinix. The High Kings of Eire must consummate this rite with a white mare. Whereas…” Dorchaidhe spread her hands, indicating herself.
“There is no comparison, my lady Dorchaidhe.”
“I should think not! And I must say, Choróinix, I have difficulty understanding why you needed to come to me for a weapon when you are already so well equipped.”
“Ah. Thank you.”
“But we are now unclad before each other, no armor or cloth in our way. Allow me to embrace you as I wanted from the first.” She stepped forward and molded her body into his. Her softness meeting his muscles as their lips met in a passionate kiss. She opened her mouth to him and he met her with equal fervor. She wrapped her fingers around his length and stroked him, enjoying the feel of his hardness wrapped in sensitive skin. Dorchaidhe broke the kiss, then stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear “I look forward to our coupling, but first, as this is a sacred rite and I am a goddess, I would welcome an act of…worship.”
She lay down atop her gown and his gambeson and opened her legs. She was gratified by the speed at which he took to his knees. Kings were proud, some too proud to accede to her request and the reigns of those kings were stormy and short. Choróinix, coming as he did from humble beginnings, knew when his pride was only a hindrance. He wrapped his hands around the tops of her thighs to steady himself and began to lick. He started slow, but increased his speed as he applied himself to her outer lips.
“My king, you have done this before. Don’t speak! Just–ah–continue!”
Choróinix delicately probed her inner lips with his tongue before pressing his mouth firmly against her and licking inside her. Dorchaidhe hands clenched, digging into the cloth she lay upon. Her moans were his reward.
“Oh gods! Choróinix–Choróinix, do you know where the center of my—ohhhhhhhhh—pleasure lies?”
Without saying a word, Choróinix repositioned his mouth so that he could suck and lick that spot just above her entrance.
“MMmmmmmmffffuuuuuuuccck! Forgive me, my king!” Dorchaidhe’s grasping hands fisted themselves in Choróinix’s hair. She used her new grip as a lever to rock her pelvis against his face and then there was nothing but her voice calling his name and the pressure of her soft thighs against his ears. Dorchaidhe’s laugh rang out and she clapped her hands together in delight. “It would have been my pleasure to instruct you on the proper way to worship a woman, but it seems you already know.”
Choróinix blushed and grinned a little sheepishly. “Many women are…interested in kings. Some take an especial delight in humbling them.”
Dorchaidhe arched an eyebrow. “And do you think it humbling to give me pleasure?”
“Not at all, my lady Dorchaidhe. It is an honor to be thus privileged.”
“You are already famous for the strength of your arm, but I think your silver tongue will soon be renowned.” She flashed him a wicked smile. “Though I am certain that it is already much praised and discussed in some quarters. But I see I have not been fair to you, my king. Your manhood is most inflamed. Perhaps I can offer some assistance?”
“We are to wed, are we not?”
She laughed again, a silvery sound that brought joy to his heart. “That we are. Now lay on your back, my king. This time I shall strive to please you.”
“Ah. I do not think you shall have to strive very hard.”
“You underestimate my skill, but I shall give you a demonstration.” When Choróinix rolled onto his back. Dorchaidhe straddled him, grasping him and guiding him into her molten core. “Ohhhhh, my king. Do you feel how ready I am for you? Do you feel what you have done to me? I feel well what I have done to you, and I cannot help but rejoice in it. We are joined now, my king. You and the land, forever.” She swiveled her hips and smiled to herself when she felt him throb inside her. “Would you touch my breasts? You have not yet done so.” Choróinix slid his hands up her hips, across her torso, and under her breasts. “Do you feel the weight of them? Do you see how they overspill your hands? Truly a bounty for you. MMmmmm. Yes. Caress them, stroke them.” She bent down. “Take them in your mouth, my king.” Choróinix did as instructed and wrapped his tongue around her nipple, biting it lightly. “You make me feel so good, my king. Do I please you?”
“My lady Dorchaidhe, as none have done so before.”
“Mmmmmm. I should hope not. Now, my king, I fear I must break you to the saddle.”
“Then ride away, my lady, and we shall see who breaks first.”
“Bold words, my king.” Dorchaidhe shifted her weight and rocked her hips back and forth. “Ohhhhhh. Bold, but not unfounded.” She raised herself up and lowered herself down. Slowly, so as to enjoy every inch of him. She clenched her inner muscles to make her hungry cunt grip him, to let him know how much she enjoyed their coupling. Then she made as though to truly break him to the saddle, bouncing on him as his skillful hands cupped and fondled her breasts. She was fully in control and she was still losing her mind. He fit perfectly inside her, the length of him was hitting spots in her she never knew she had. She felt the head of his cock rubbing against that special place inside her every time she lowered herself on him.
Choróinix was not inactive. When her hips moved down, he slammed his up, adding a ferocity to their lovemaking that Dorchaidhe treasured. She knew only one way to respond and lowered her head to his neck, sucking savagely at his skin. He would wear her mark and be proud of it. Seldom had her marriages given her pleasure such as she was receiving from him and she wanted him to know how much she appreciated it. Before she was fully aware of what was happening, her climax was upon her, and she writhed on his cock, calling his name once again. As she clamped down on him, she felt him throb and spend his seed inside her. Her name was on his lips as they both took joy from one another. Afterward, she collapsed beside him, and tucked herself under his arm and pillowed her head on his chest. His fingers idly traced patterns up and down her back.
“I think that we broke at the same time, Dorchaidhe.”
“Aye. I am more than willing to say that was a draw.”
“‘Tis a pity that we cannot try again.”
Dorchaidhe raised herself up on an elbow and looked Choróinix straight in the eye. “Think you that you are wed to me and will not give me a full wedding night?”
A slow smile spread across Choróinix’s face. “I would never be so ungracious as to leave you unsatisfied, my lady Dorchaidhe.”
Dorchaidhe nodded once, decisively, and then rested her head on his chest once more. “Further, my king, you must ensure that all is equal between us. After all, I have given you my mark and you have not given me any. And then there is the matter of mouths. While you have proved most cunning with yours, I have not yet shown you how clever my own tongue is. Would you deny me that?”
“It would be most uncouth to take my leave without giving you the opportunity.”
“I think you will be a most just king, Choróinix. And while justice is its own reward, I think such a quality is rare enough in kings as to deserve encouragement.”
“Hold, Dorchaidhe. While I do wish to receive all the encouragement you would give me, I find it passing pleasant to lay here with you against me. Perhaps a few more moments of this before we return to our sport.”
“Forbearance! A rare quality indeed in a king!”
“I am afraid there is a question I must ask before we continue.”
“Ask it then.”
“I have a duty to provide the land with an heir. Is there a chance that…?”
Dorchaidhe grew still and spoke in a tone Choróinix could not identify. “No, my king. No part-faerie child will be born of my womb to trouble the realm.”
Choróinix relaxed. “I apologize for the necessity of asking, my lady.”
“I understand, my king. But perhaps we can put such worries from our minds now, and simply enjoy one another.”
Choróinix tipped her head up and leaned down to kiss her as though they were lovers of long acquaintance. She brought her own hand up to caress his cheek. The rest of the night was not quite long enough for either of them.
Choróinix awoke with a start. He was still laying on his gambeson, but the shield had been moved to provide for his modesty. As he tried to come to grips with this development, he heard someone clear their throat, and looked up to see Coron Dieithr seated on his horse. His mentor looked more than a little amused.
“I shall turn my back for the sake of propriety, Choróinix, but do be quick. We have to return to Camelot by this evening.”
Choróinix swore and went about dressing himself. “Can you help me don my plate?”
“I am a wizard, not a squire.”
“Then magic it onto me. I care not, so long as it is on.”
Coron Dieithr twisted his hand in a curious manner and Choróinix’s armor assembled around him. Choróinix walked over to his own horse, who had been somehow curried and was cropping fresh grass on the lake shore.
“You knew this would happen.”
“I see. You thought the most powerful magician in your kingdom would be ignorant of a sacred rite?”
“You could have told me what to expect.”
“I thought it might be beneficial for you to find out for yourself. After all, expecting this kind of thing can lead to the kind of hubris the fair folk disdain. Tell me, are you disappointed?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Then mayhap I made the right decision. How do you find your new weapon?”
“It will take some getting used to, but I find it fits my arm as though it were crafted for me.”
“Good. It will be interesting to see a king with a shield as his weapon. I wager it might affect your thinking about the realm and how you govern.”
“Protection and not aggression, eh Coron Dieithr?”
“It would be a nice change.”
“It would.” Choróinix twisted in his saddle, but the mists had once again swallowed the lake. “Will I…will I ever see her again?”
“No. Your marriage to the land is consummated. The rite is over.”
“Ah.”
“Fear not, Choróinix. We will find you a wife soon enough.”
“No, I…thought that perhaps…”
“She is your kingdom, Choróinix. And it is ill for mortals and faeries to wed.”
“I understand, but my heart still longs for her.”
“A king’s heart should long for his kingdom.”
Choróinix shook himself. “Truer words have never been spoken. I shall clear my head. And, after all, I had a night with the soul of Britain. I think few can say that.”
Coron Dieithr nodded approvingly. “Few can. And you may always go back to this night in your memories.”
“I think I always will.”
In the middle of the lake, standing on its placid waters, Dorchaidhe looked at the departing form of her quondam lover. “Fair you well, Choróinix. You shall ever be the most esteemed of all Britain’s kings.” A tear dropped from her cheek into the water below. “Though doom will take you, as it does all men. When it is time, I will see you safe to Avalon.” With that, Dorchaidhe sank into the lake, never to see the living face of Choróinix again.