A Nymph Without Mercy
XVI

Garrick did not like to touch his face, and years of practice had made it typically unnecessary. A cloth served perfectly well to scrub away the sweat of the day, and even when peeling off the mask he was careful to avoid coming into contact with the misshapen tissues.

For it repulsed him.

And if it repulsed even him, how could he expect this lovely creature, his new wife to be subjected to it?

Except when he had removed his helm and her delicate fingertip had brushed against his flesh, he felt it.

One single brush of her hand against his cheek and his entire world had altered.

Burns were a curious thing. While the body worked admirably to ensure the intricate muscle and sinews were adequately covered by new flesh, the scars were rubbery and utterly devoid of sensation.

But he felt her.

Her eyes were wide and almost fearful, but she made no move to pull away from him. “What do you mean? I did nothing!”

He clutched at her, torn between kissing her in exaltation and recoiling from her—this unknown entity that he had just wedded.

“What are you?”

He had asked it of her before, and she had continued with her story about nymphs and people who lived amongst the trees.

And he had dismissed her.

She said she could not grant a wish.

And yet for as long as he could remember he had wept and begged healers and divine beings alike to cure him of this affliction.

The product of a mother’s scorn.

Tears were in her eyes, and he knew that he frightened her. She had expected a monster, for that was what he was—still would be. For until he could see his reflection, could see and touch for himself, he could not be certain it was real.

“You know what I am. You simply have not wanted to believe me.”

“You are a witch.” But even as he spoke the words, saw her flinch, he knew that he did not believe it. There was nothing evil in her, nothing that would cause him to believe she was some figment bent on his destruction.

“I am a nymph, as was my amé. My adar was a dryon. We are the people of the wood...”

She was crying, great painful sobs as she shook her head, imploring him to accept her.

Everything about this was wrong.

“Hush, little nymph, I am sorry. You... your magic startled me.”

An understatement if ever there was one. His mind reeled at the possibilities, that she had been the answer to every one of his prayers. He was not a greedy man. If she did indeed possess magic—and he palmed the smoothness of his ruined cheek once more to see if was still there—he would not abuse it. He would not require her to conquer lands or bestow him with riches.

For she had already performed the greatest of magicks.

And he would be forever in her debt.

He knelt before her, clutching at her skirt and legs. Not a half hour before he had sworn his love and devotion, but now he was prepared to take a vow of a different sort. One of fealty and honour, that he would do as she commanded. Never had he been willing take such oaths before a king, wretched monarchs as they were, but he would for her—to her, if she would have him.

“My lady...”

She lurched away from him. “No! You do not bow, you do not...” Mairi took a bracing breath before falling to her knees, mimicking his own position. “I have no magic to offer you, Garrick. I do not know what has happened to you. My tree should have healed me, yet it did not, for it perished upon our sealing. Perhaps you were not as horrid looking as we supposed.”

He scoffed, ill prepared for any of this. The joy and rapture at their sudden decision to marry had since waned, euphoria of a different nature washing over him even as dread and suspicion burned almost as poignantly.

“Nothing has changed.”

She was pleading with him, and he could not allow that—not when he only wished for her happiness. If it had seemed wrong before to call himself her husband, it was magnified exponentially now that she truly was the angel he had originally thought her.

“Of course it has changed. If I had thought myself unworthy before...”

Mairi rushed forward, tugging at his hair and pulling him down for a kiss.

It was so different without a mask.

His lips were free to nibble and discover, and he felt each aching caress as she learned the chiselled planes of his face—unexplored even by him.

Finally she pulled away, colour high in her cheeks and her lips slightly swollen. “No regrets. Not about this. You have married me, Garrick. You are my mate, chosen and sealed. You said that if I agreed you would never let me go, and I tell you now the same. I ask no other vow than what you have already taken, but please, be my mate. Care for me, love me, and let us be happy.”

How could he refuse?

His mind rebelled, wishing to analyse and pry until he could explain what and how she had come to be. There were others of her to be sure—now that he considered it, Raghnall must have been one of the dryons she mentioned, the male of their species.

But his heart knew that her words were true and sincere, and it would be foolishness itself to deny her most earnest desire—especially when it so perfectly coincided with his own.

“I have questions.”

She nodded. “As do I, but I have few answers to give. I doubt even the elders have knowledge of what has transpired.”

He rose, needing to return to the river and search for a pool still enough that he might see his reflection. But before he had even taken a step in retreat she reached forward and grasped his wrist, still seated on the soft grasses below. “What say you? You will be my mate? My husband? In all things?”

He sighed and helped her to her feet, unable to bear her beseeching eyes. “Allow me to look, Mairi. Please. I must see it for myself.”

She followed after him as he turned toward the heavily wooded path which led to the water. A small inlet did indeed form peaceful pool, and he peered into its depths, unsure of what he wished to see.

To have changed meant that his wife was not as he had assumed. It meant he had entered into a strange world previously unfathomable to his precise and exacting mind.

But to be proven wrong—to see the contorted flesh that spoke of hatred and sin would devastate him.

And so he looked.

And was reborn.

“How can this be?” His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the reflection, the perfectly formed features, the straight nose, the even skin without mark or blemish. He swallowed thickly, promising himself he would not release the sob that threatened to escape. “How?”

Mairi sank down beside him, a hint of wariness in the action. “I do not know. I heard that some humans were born with terrible plights. Were your scars a result of birth or of accident?”

He laughed wryly. “Neither. They were inflicted by my lady mother when she learned of my father’s infidelity.”

Her eyes widened. “What? How could a mother do such a thing?”

He stared at her incredulously. “Do your people not abuse one another? Did your father never hit you or punish you for something that another committed?”

She shook her head slowly. “My adar loves me. We do not... hit or... punish.” From her expression he could easily tell the concept of a punishment was something new.

He was grateful that she did not ask him to elaborate.

“Well, in my world children often suffer for the misdeeds of their parents.”

He did not wish to speak of it—relate the whole tragic tale in its entirety. He only knew of it from the whispers of the servants, who looked at him with both pity and suspicion.

Poor dear, not even his mother could love him.

Surely he deserved it.

Little devil. Better he had died than have a face like that.

She came a bit closer, wrapping her arm about his as she leaned her head against his shoulder. The voices of his past seemed to fade at her offering of comfort, and he sighed. “And you wonder why I wished for you to be able to return to your home. You are far too good, far too trusting to survive in mine.”

They sat in silence for a while, Garrick casting anxious glances into the water every so often, almost certain that the abused flesh would appear at any moment.

“I am glad of it.”

He grunted, not certain he was ready to delve into the curious processes of her thinking, but ultimately relenting. “Of what?”

She peered up at him, evidence of her tears still clinging to her lashes, and before he could stop himself he was brushing them away with his thumb. “That there is a reason. That if I should have to leave my people that it was for something so important. I did not know that being bound to me could provide you such healing on the outside, but I had hoped—still hope—that it can offer you some healing on the inside.”

How could he possibly deserve her?

But perhaps...

Perhaps he did not need to.

He was her husband, and she was his wife, in both the eyes of her kin and the mores of his kind.

And perhaps he was allowed to accept her gentle touches, her earnest words without fear of reproach.

“What do you wish for, little nymph?”

She hummed, allowing a delicate toe—now whole and perfect since he had taken to carrying her over every bit of foliage that might cause her harm—to skim across the surface of the pool, the ripples obscuring their reflections.

“I wish for a home. I wish for a man who loves me and will give me tiny little seedlings of my own.” He smiled softly that she said man instead of the male of her kind, although the idea of children left him feeling nervous and unsure.

She sighed wistfully. “I wish for you to be happy. With me.”

So simple, yet so full of meaning.

Many of the noblewomen he had observed longed for power and prestige. They draped themselves in jewels and brocade, their eyes following whatever man could elevate their position.

But not her.

She longed for a place to call home since hers had been so cruelly taken from her.

And his thoughts drifted to the little cottage nestled in the woods, the only bit of land tied to his name, and he felt a moment’s fury.

For he was the firstborn son of a lord. And his inheritance had been taken from him by the deranged actions of the woman who had birthed him. And his wife deserved an estate, not a crudely built dwelling that felt confining even for a lone individual.

She deserved so much more.

“Will we be in trouble for being so late to see your king?”

Garrick groaned. “He is not my king. I am under no one’s rule.”

She huffed quietly, and while that might have once annoyed him as being rude or disrespectful, it now seemed endearing.

It meant she was comfortable with him—that she did not have to mind her emotions so carefully, wary of his every outburst.

And he liked thinking that she trusted him.

“The man then. I would not wish for you to be... punished.”

She said the word curiously, peering up at him to see if she used it properly. “Do not worry about such things now, Mairi. No one has punished me for a very long time. And no matter what you do, no one shall be allowed to lay a hand on you. You are safe.” He would gladly take any blows fettered out if it meant protecting her from the harsh realities of life amongst mankind.

She nestled closer to his side. “I do not know why you worry so about being my mate. You give me little reason to ever complain.”

Garrick smirked. “I shall remind you of that when we are old and grey and you find me tiresome.”

She rolled her eyes. “We will not be old-growths for a very long time, so I shall enjoy plenty of your care before then.”

He should question her about her kind as it was with some strange awareness that he realised that it was not strictly her kind any longer, not if the powers of her people had healed him.

Garrick swallowed, not sure if he was ready to consider that all of the unusual happenings since he had made her acquaintance were true. But if it could bring her comfort to know that some part of him was ready to accept it, perhaps it would be worth it to push back the remaining doubts as best he could.

“I had a dream. Two men, or perhaps your dryons, were before a shrivelled tree. The one spoke of a lost daughter and believed that her tree lived, while the other reminded him that she was still forbidden from returning.”

Mairi sat up, and he immediately missed her presence against him. “You saw Adar? Did he look well?”

The grief and sorrow had been plain upon his features, and Garrick did not need to know of his usual countenance to perceive it. “He was heavy hearted, but he still hoped that you lived.”

She blinked and stared at him with wonderment. “Thank you. To know that my tree is still with him—might someday heal...” She nearly knocked him backward with her enthusiasm. Her arms went about him, clutching at his neck as she buried her face in the crook. “Thank you.”

It was an odd thing that she cared so much for her parent. Garrick had no experience in that of his own, but he found that he did not begrudge her for it. On the contrary, he was glad that she was cared for, protected and loved. He had often wondered if perhaps the only person who could truly understand him would be some wretched soul who had suffered as he did—that they could commiserate and find comfort through shared wounds that they nursed together.

But such was not so.

For she knew of goodness in the world and saw those twisted bits in him and she determined to coax them back to the way they should have been before cruelty and pain had sent them into hiding.

He was still a brute. He would still travel to and fro performing whatever duty provided coin. But he could readily acknowledge that his motivation had changed—that he now wished to do so not from the distaste and apathy from before, but because he had to provide for his wife.

And he would do it well.

“Come along, little nymph, we have tarried long.”

She took his hand easily and he stored away in the recesses of his heart the soft and grateful smile that she gave him. And he revelled in her breathless giggle as he scooped her into his arms and walked determinedly back to Callum, depositing her gently and pulling her close as he bid the horse onward.

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She had shifted in the saddle, both legs over one side as a proper lady, though her torso was turned and she rested her cheek against his breastplate—over the very mark which struck fear in those who knew his sigil.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating how much he should disclose. “I have not found it to be so.” He hesitated, before determining to be brave. “Should I belong to a house any longer, my lands would have been a part of that kingdom.”

She nibbled her lip thoughtfully, and he was grateful that Callum was so adept at navigation as he was wholly distracted by the action. “You do not speak well of your home. Was it... Forgive me, I should not enquire.”

They rode in silence for a while, the landscape shifting to the open plains that would eventually reveal a looming fortress. Garrick held no affection for his native lands. He supposed there was a comfort in their familiarity but too well he knew the suspicion and cruelty that dwelled in the hearts of these people, and he only accepted employment here on the rarest of occasions.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself firmly that Mairi did not pry. She did not seek out his secrets as a tool to do him harm, but instead harboured only the natural curiosity of one seeking to know and understand another person.

“My father was a lord, one held in high regard. I was his firstborn and stood to inherit, but my mother...” He clenched the hand holding the reins into a fist, never able to consider the woman who had birthed him without an outpouring of rage. But soon gentle fingers were covering it, soothing and caressing, and he was able to continue.

“She thought him unfaithful. He was not a kind man, and it might have been true that he had hidden away a mistress on the grounds. But my mother thought by birthing him a son—an heir—that he would be satisfied. He was pleased, but considered much of his duty to her accomplished and returned to his... other pursuits.”

Mairi shook her head. “But they were bonded...”

Garrick leaned forward and opened his faceplate so he could place a kiss upon her temple, surprised at how easily he had come to do so. “Our people do not bond. They marry, and not usually for love. They take vows that they do not mean and hurt the ones they have sworn to protect.” He waited until she looked up at him. “I will not do that to you, Mairi. You must believe that.”

She rested her head against him so sweetly, and it made his heart swell. “I do.”

This next part was the worst of it, and he wondered if he should even burden her with such knowledge—that someone, a mother, could be capable of such wickedness. “So she tried to dispose of the babe. She threw her infant into the fire until his face melted and the screams and cries sent a maid in to help.”

Mairi gasped, shock and horror gracing her features as tears pooled in her eyes.

“She claimed I was possessed, that the devil had hold of me and I had to be cleansed. Some believed her. Others thought she was a bitter woman but they were in her service so they said nothing.” He said the words weakly, trying not to remember his unhappy childhood. He roamed the halls and learned whatever he could, not understanding how the pitied and hateful glances could be directed at him. Clerics had been called to assess his condition, and though they could find nothing wrong with him, the suspicions had remained.

Until finally he left.

He left the people who should have sheltered and loved him, left the land and the ancestral home that he should willing sacrifice his life to protect.

“Do you understand?”

She was crying softly, and she wrapped her arms about his neck and he rather thought that if his helm was removed she would be pressing kisses to whatever bits of flesh she could. “My poor, poor, Garrick. You shall know only loving gestures from me. Our seedlings will be healthy and strong and I would never, ever hurt them!”

It was the second time she had mentioned children, and the dull shroud of nervousness gave way to outright dread. It was not as though he was repulsed by the notion—certainly not at the idea of creating them. And he knew, with the deepest fibres of his being that Mairi was nothing like his own spiteful mother.

He could not even begin to imagine himself as a father, but he knew that he was capable of love—that as she had just proclaimed, he would never hurt them.

But if he allowed himself to accept that they were of wholly different species, and that her happiness was contingent on the idea of children, what if he could not provide her a baby?

He supposed there were no guarantees for any couple. They both prayed and tried, some more desperately than others, and they accepted what babes eventually came of their union.

“I promise you the same, little nymph. Should we ever have a babe of our own, no harm shall come to it. Not while I yet live.”

But soon talk of babies and past horrors came to an end for they passed through the iron gates and made way toward the great stone stronghold before them.

Mairi’s eyes were wide and she peered about furiously, evidently trying to absorb everything at once. “Garrick, what is this place?”

He grimaced as the guards and townsfolk gawked and stared as the dark knight and his lady approached —some with wonderment, others with fear, and his arm tightened about her as he noticed a few with lust obviously in their hearts and minds.

“This, Mairi, is the Castle of Calidore.”

And when the gates closed behind them with a deep and resounding clang, Garrick knew a moment’s foreboding that perhaps this transaction would not proceed as smoothly as he had originally hoped.

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