Page 4 of Wed to the Dark Elf

At last the High Priest finishes his incantations. Now the binding begins. An acolyte offers forward an ornate silver box. Iris’s breath catches as the High Priest lifts the lid, revealing two rings resting on purple velvet. They gleam rose gold, patterned with intricate knotwork. Her human eyes cannot discern the hidden runes etched into the metal, elven spells of love and fertility. For all her obvious fear, hope glints in her eyes as the priest lifts the smaller ring.

He motions for my hand and slides the ring onto my fourth finger. It glints against my dark skin. A perfect fit. Magic hums from it into my blood, subtle but inexorable. The runes flare golden as the binding takes hold. Iris clutches her skirts, watching raptly.

I extend my left hand and the priest places Iris’s ring in my upturned palm. Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and uncertain. I sense her silently pleading for some sign of mercy. But my heart is bound by duty.

I take her dainty hand in mine, feeling her tremble. Gently I slide the rose band onto her fourth finger. She gasps softly as the runes glow and the ring fuses to fit her. The metal warms subtly on my own finger, Iris’s heartbeat echoing through the link. My jaw tightens. The bond is sealed.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I start, the priest’s pronouncement snapping me from my daze. Iris looks similarly dismayed, clutching her marked hand to her breast. But we are compelled to complete the rite.

Curling a clawed hand behind her neck, I draw her in. She sucks in a frightened breath, lashes fluttering closed. Our lips meet, soft and chaste. Energy cascades through me at the contact, like lightning down my spine. Iris makes a small sound, her body swaying into mine for the briefest moment before I release her. The kiss lasts but a heartbeat, yet I feel its imprint lingering on my skin.

The guests break into polite applause. Iris looks near fainting. She bows her head to hide hot tears I can smell upon her cheeks. I stand rigid, shaken to my core. This girl, this human, has been seared into my spirit through eldritch forces beyond my grasp. We are bound now, forever.

The ceremony concludes swiftly. Iris and I bow to the priests and turn to make our egress. The runes on my ring pulse with her nearness. I offer my arm again out of instinct more than gallantry. Iris's fingers alight there as if drawn by magnets. We walk the aisle in stunned silence through echoing applause and curious stares.

Outside the sanctuary, Iris's composure finally breaks. She rips her hand from mine and backs against a pillar, choking down sobs. I pause, unsure how to react. Comforting a weeping human is as foreign to me as she herself is. But her distress tugs at me from that spot deep within where our souls now intertwine.

“Do not cry,” I rasp awkwardly. “You have a husband to provide for you. A home. You should be pleased.”

She dashes angry tears away, glaring up at me. "And what of love? I do not love you, monster. You've stolen my life."

Her defiance sparks my own temper. "You think I chose this? I act from duty, not desire. The priests decided our fate. Rage at them, not me." I expect she'll weep more at my harsh tone, but instead her expression hardens.

"Duty," she echoes bitterly. "Yes, we are both prisoners of duty now." Her eyes drop to her ringed hand, shimmering with contained magic. When she looks up at me again, the tears are gone, replaced by cold resignation.

"Forgive my outburst, husband. It seems we are stuck with each other." She holds out her arm in a grudging invitation. "Let us go."

I stare, surprised by the steel in her. Carefully I clasp her proffered hand to my arm. She presses close without fear now, bound to me in unbreakable ways. Together we walk out to the stables where my stallion awaits, oddly contented by the heat of her palm seeping through my tunic.

Perhaps this wife of mine is not so weak as she appears.

The grooms bring out IceStorm, saddled and provisioned for our journey home. He tosses his head impatiently, eager to be off. I stroke his neck, breathing his familiar scent. We have far to travel.

Iris eyes the stallion nervously. "He seems...formidable."

"He has carried me through deep snow and harsh terrain. He will not fail us now." I take her hand and pull her gently forward. "Come. He must bear both of us."

Her steps drag reluctantly, but she lets me guide her. I grab her about the hips and hoist her effortlessly astride IceStorm. She gasps, hiking up her skirts to keep her legs modestly together atop the broad steed. I swing up behind her, reaching around to take the reins. She sits rigid as stone between my arms.

I whistle, and IceStorm surges into an eager canter through the temple gates. Iris yelps, toppling back against my chest. I catch her easily, clicking my tongue at the horse to slow.

“All is well, mistress. Just hold to the saddle.”

Iris adjusts gingerly, clearly uncomfortable with the arrangement. But she has no choice but to settle in for the long ride ahead. I guide IceStorm north, toward home. Toward her new life. She does not look back.

The terrain turns rugged as we gain distance from the temple. The temperature drops by degrees. Iris huddles deeper into her cloak, shivering. Each time IceStorm leaps a boulder or stream crossing, she jolts backward into my chest with a muffled shriek. I keep one arm secured around her, absently noting her delicate frame.

As the sun lowers we crest a hill, and my mountain fortress comes into view far ahead. Iris stiffens. I know what she sees---cold, imposing walls of black rock seeming to rise from the craggy peaks themselves. A stark bastion hewn from the unforgiving mountains. My homeland.

“Is that...your castle, my lord?” Her voice wavers only slightly.

“Yes. But we will not reach it tonight.”

She nods, unspeaking. I glance sidelong at her pensive profile. “You are not what I expected, Iris Flemming.”

She turns sharply. “And what did you expect?”

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