Bound To The Fae Prince

The Weight of A Year

Consciousness returned to me in fragments. First, the dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes. Second, the coarse familiarity of my own pillowcase against my cheek. Third, the realization that my dreams had been far too vivid to be mere imagination.

"Ohhh, my head," I groaned, pressing my palms against my temples as I sat up slowly. The room spun for a moment before settling into its usual configuration: the crooked shelf of grandmother's spell books, the faded tapestry depicting the Wheel of the Year, the single window overlooking the rain-soaked clearing. Everything was in its place. Everything was normal.

"What happened?" I muttered to myself, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. Then the memory crashed over me like a wave—the smoking crater, the silver blood, those impossible winter-sky eyes. "Ohhh, I had a dream that I saved a fae. Ridiculous."

But then I caught it. A scent drifting from beyond my closed door. Something warm and unfamiliar. Something that smelled suspiciously like cooking.

My bare feet hit the cold wooden floor. I crept toward the door, my heart beginning its slow, steady ascent into my throat. I grabbed the heavy iron candlestick from my nightstand—the one grandmother had enchanted to never run out of tallow—and hefted it like a weapon. It was a poor substitute for a blade, but it would have to do.

I moved with the practiced silence of a woman who had spent years living alone in the woods. Step. Pause. Listen. Step. The floorboards, treacherous as ever, gave only the faintest whisper beneath my weight. I reached the kitchen doorway and peered around the corner.

And there he was.

The fae from my nightmare—or was it real?—stood at my hearth, his back to me. He had found clothing somewhere, a simple linen shirt and dark trousers that must have belonged to my father, long since abandoned in the trunk. They strained across his shoulders, the fabric pulling taut against that impossibly athletic frame. His white hair, now clean of blood and grime, cascaded down his back like a waterfall of moonlight. The wound on his chest was gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished skin visible at the collar of his shirt.

So it wasn't a dream.

I tightened my grip on the candlestick until my knuckles went white. My life depended on this. I was certain of it. I took another step forward, raising the weapon high—

And then something impossible happened.

The candlestick tore itself from my grasp with such force that my fingers burned. It flew across the room in a graceful arc, landing soundlessly on the counter as if placed there by an invisible servant.

I stared at my empty hand, my mind struggling to process what had just occurred.

"Good morning, master," said a voice like wind chimes and distant thunder.

He turned to face me.

Fionn. That was what he had called himself. Prince of the Seelie Court. Up close, in the warm light of the fire, he was even more breathtaking than I remembered. His face was a study in sharp angles and elegant curves, cheekbones that could cut glass, a jaw that belonged on ancient coins. Those winter-sky eyes studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. But his expression was calm, almost gentle, and his lips curved into a small, tentative smile.

"What do you want?" I demanded, my voice coming out far steadier than I felt.

"I already told you." He stepped away from the hearth, and I saw he had been preparing something—a simple stew, the ingredients from my own stores. "I am Fionn, prince of the Seelie Court. By the laws of the Old Magic, I must serve you for 365 days."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was a sharp, brittle sound, born of hysteria and disbelief. "Serve me? Like a husband? Let me guess, you'll do my laundry and cook my meals and then eat me in my sleep."

Something flickered in his eyes. A shadow. A warning.

"Yes," he said softly, taking my hand before I could pull away. His skin was cool, almost cold, but not unpleasant. "I am going to marry you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I wrenched my hand from his grasp, stumbling backward. "Get out. Go back to where you came from." I pushed against his chest, shoving him toward the door. He was solid as stone beneath my palms, unmoving. "I don't want a fae husband. You're going to eat me!"

"You can't send me away," he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. "The debt is sworn. The magic is bound."

"Watch me!"

"You can try." A strange smile played at the corners of his mouth. "But I think you might want to reconsider."

He clicked his fingers—a casual, almost lazy gesture—and the world exploded into color.

Flowers burst from the garden outside my window. Not just a few scattered blooms, but an eruption of petals and vines that climbed the walls of my hut, that spilled through the open window, that draped themselves across every surface. Roses in shades of crimson and gold, night-blooming jasmine that filled the air with intoxicating perfume, lilies with petals like spun silver, flowers I had never seen before and could not name. They grew in patterns, weaving intricate designs that seemed almost intentional, as if the garden itself had been transformed into a living tapestry.

I stood there, frozen, my mouth agape. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed.

"I haven't seen flowers for years," I breathed, the words escaping before I could stop them. The blight had taken everything. My grandmother's garden, the wild meadows beyond the forest, the small plots that had once fed the village. All dead, all gone, all replaced by gray, withered stalks that crumbled at the touch.

Now, here was life. Here was color. Here was beauty.

Fionn moved behind me, close enough that I could feel the cool radiance of his body. His lips brushed against my ear, his breath a whisper of frost and wild honey.

"By your human custom," he murmured, "I believe this is called courting."

A shiver ran down my spine. I should have been terrified. I should have been furious. Instead, I was... something else. Something I didn't have a name for.

I pulled myself together, stepping away from his intoxicating presence. "Why me?" I demanded, my voice cracking slightly. "Why here? There must be a thousand other witches who would be happy to take you in. Why drag me into whatever mess you've found yourself in?"

His expression shifted. The playful mask slipped, revealing something older beneath. Something tired. Something hunted.

"Because," he said simply, "you were the only one who didn't let me die."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning I didn't fully understand, whats your name he said

Eloria

And then I heard it.

A voice. Low and rasping, like stones grinding together in the depths of the earth. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, from the walls of my hut, from the roots beneath my feet, from the very air I breathed.

He turned to look at me, and in his eyes I saw something that made my breath catch in my throat. Fear. Raw and genuine and utterly unexpected.

"This is going to be a long year, little witch," he said.