A story dedicated to the VBers

"How did you get in here?!" she whispered, not quite believing her eyes.

"Through the door," he whispered back, an amused grin on his face.

"Are you crazy?!  If they find you . . ." she began, her eyes filling with frightened tears.

"I've come to take you away from here.  We can leave this place, just you and I, and we will never be apart again.  Tell me you believe it," he beseeched her, stepping forward so that his body was touching hers. The warmth in his clear, blue eyes dried the tears from her own, and she leaned in to gently caress his lips with hers.  Her touch fuelled the fire within him, and he pulled her closer, drinking in her love like sweet nectar.

"Enjoy it while you can, Lover Boy," a deep voice laughed maliciously. The warrior spun around and drew his sword, but ten of the King's soldiers were on him instantly.

"Michael!" the woman cried out in alarm as her love was disarmed and held defenceless.

"You were a fool to come back here, Flatley.  Now your head will roll at the feet of the court, come daybreak," a tall, burly man gloated.

"Dorcha, please!  I beg of you to spare his life, please,"  the young woman cried, falling to her knees at the feet of the Captain of the Guard.

"Your Highness, I know of your pain.  This will be difficult, but my orders come directly from the King.  You must trust that he knows what is best for you," the Captain soothed, his face softening as he helped the Princess to her feet. She opened her mouth to again plead for her beloved's life, but was silenced by one, gentle word.

"Saoirse."

She turned to Michael, who stared into her eyes, giving her strength.

"I love you," he said calmly, emphasizing the last words he would ever say to her. Don Dorcha snapped his fingers and Michael was dragged out of Saoirse's chamber.

"I'm sorry, Princess," Dorcha said, just before taking his leave of her. Saoirse stood staring at her doorway, totally stunned by the events of the past few minutes.

"You aren't going to let them kill him, are you?" a small, sprightly voice asked. Saoirse turned to see a small, golden, fairy-like creature sitting on her bed.

"There's nothing I can do for him," Saoirse sighed, mournfully hanging her head.

"Oh no?" the little sprite returned. She rose from her position on Saoirse's bed and reached into the little gold pouch that hung at her side.  With an exuberant wave, the little sprite flung gold dust outward, creating a shining cloud of magic before them. As Saoirse stared into the cloud, a scene from her past began to take shape.  Before her she saw a younger version of herself, a child of maybe twelve or thirteen, going through battle exercises with the King and Don Dorcha standing in the background, pleased smiles on their faces.

"What happened to that little warrior?"

"She became a woman - a woman too fragile and delicate to risk, even in simulations," Saoirse quoted the words spoken to her nearly four years ago.

"Ah, but her knowledge, her skill, they remain a part of you," the spirit said, walking up behind Saoirse, who had returned to the mirror. She placed one golden finger to the young woman's back.  The Princess gasped at the transformation that then took place. Her elegant, white gown became a form-fitting warrior's costume.  The golden curls that had hung loosely about her shoulders, were now tied back and braided with a leather cord. Slowly, Saoirse's gaze moved from herself to the object that floated in mid-air behind her.

"You know this weapon?" the little sprite asked as Saoirse turned to face her.

"My sword . . . but, it was melted down.  Dorcha told me himself!" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"Erin had the foresight to rescue it for you.  It remains the finest in the land - light as the wind and sharp as a needle."

Saoirse held out her hands as the spirit used her magic to slowly guide the weapon to the Princess's grasp.
The sprite spoke truthfully; the weapon Saoirse now held seemed to practically dance on her fingertips as she reacquainted herself with it.  She sheathed the sword and looked to the golden, elf-like creature, gratitude pouring forth from her cerulean eyes. With a wave of her hand, the little sprite said,

"No thanks are necessary.  Go now - dawn is but a few hours away."
Saoirse nodded and rushed to the window that looked out over the courtyard.  She pushed open the glass and climbed out onto the ledge. Though the rain had stopped, the sky remained covered by dense clouds that blocked out the light of the moon. The thick ivy that climbed the castle walls provided the perfect ladder for Saoirse's descent.  As her soft, leather boots touched the dusty floor of the pitch-black and nearly deserted courtyard, a gust of wind blew, sending chills coursing through Saoirse's thin body. She silently made her way to the outside entrance of the dungeon, careful not to alert any of the on-duty guards to her presence. Standing on either side of the heavy iron door that led down into the dark recesses below the castle, were two very large, muscular guards.  The regular dungeon guard, who could have been easily subdued, if taken by surprise, was no where in sight.

After years of personal rivalry, Michael had finally been captured; Don Dorcha was obviously taking no chances.

"How am I supposed to get past them?" Saoirse wondered. Even if she was able to overpower them both, the scuffle would alert the other soldiers on duty, and that would end her rescue attempt right there.  No one warrior could take on her father's army and win. Just then, a blood curdling scream shook the night.  Saoirse, along with the rest of those in the courtyard, looked to the source of the sound.  It had come from her own bedroom. Saoirse remembered the little spirit that had helped her and smiled.

"Thank you," she whispered as all guards left their posts to aid their beloved Princess.Saoirse, keeping her head down, softly bumped into one of the guards, relieving him of his keys.  He took no notice of her in the darkness, and continued on to the castle. She quickly unlocked the iron door, and slipped though to the torch-lit passageway that led to where the prisoners were kept.  Saoirse drew her sword, readying herself for a confrontation with the dungeon guards. Once in the main part of the dungeon, Michael's cell was easily spotted, it being the only one with six soldiers standing outside the door. With only one torch to light this room, Saoirse knew that she could easily gain an advantage over the sleepy and almost certainly drunk guards.  One swift swipe of her sword sent the dungeon into total blackness. The confusion that ensued allowed Saoirse to quickly make her way to the door of Michael's cell.  A large, calloused hand grabbed hold of her wrist as she fitted the key into the lock.  Before any sound could be made, she thrust her sword into the darkness, feeling it pierce tender flesh. A body fell heavily to the floor; as it did, Saoirse opened the large, wooden door, and slipped inside. The night sky had cleared somewhat, and the soft, silvery light of the moon shone through the barred window down on the man who lay upon a small cot by the wall.

"Michael," Saoirse whispered, kneeling beside him and running her fingers through his silky blond curls. Michael started and sat up, a look of total shock on his face.

"What . . . how did you get in here?!"

"Through the door," she replied, a loving grin spreading across her face.

"Saoirse, you can't . . ."

"Shhh, just follow me," Saoirse whispered, stepping up on the small cot and looking out the window. The small opening in the stone wall was at ground level with the courtyard.  With no guards in sight, Saoirse again drew her sword.

"What are you planning to do with that?!" Michael hissed, placing his hand on the hilt.

"I was once told that this blade can cut through anything; I'm going to see if that's true."

"Saoirse, those bars are over an inch thick!"

"Well, then I guess they're a worthy challenge to the legend, aren't they?  You'd best step back," she warned, strengthening her grip on the weapon. Michael backed up against the opposite wall.  When he was safely out of the way, Saoirse, with both hands gripping the hilt, sliced through the air, embedding her sword in the stone of the wall.  Thinking she'd missed, Saoirse freed her sword and tried again, this time aiming for the top of the window as to get a clearer shot. On her second slice, sparks flew from the window as the sword slid through the iron bars as if they were made of soft butter.  All four of the solid metal bars fell from the window in unison as Saoirse again freed her sword from the wall.

"I don't believe it," Michael whispered as he came up behind her.

"Neither do I."

They stood in silence for a moment, both awed at the power of the weapon Saoirse held.

"C'mon," she whispered, climbing through the small opening into the fresh night air. Michael reached out and Saoirse grabbed his hand to help him through the window.

"Michael," she cried softly, tears filling her eyes. Michael looked up to see one of the King's soldiers holding Saoirse.  The hand that had helped him belonged not to her, but to Don Dorcha.

"Let her go," Michael growled, abruptly freeing himself from the other man's grasp.

"No harm will come to her," Dorcha assured him.  "Even this betrayal can be forgiven of the King's daughter.  Take him away," he ordered, motioning to the guards.

"Dorcha wait!" Saoirse cried out.  "Allow him a chance to win his freedom."

"This man is a criminal; he deserves no such consideration."

"He is no criminal!  Love is not a crime, Dorcha!"

"It is when the object of that lust is a king's daughter," Don Dorcha stated, again motioning to the guards.

"Are you afraid?!"  Saoirse challenged.

"Afraid of what?  Nothing here poses any threat."

"A duel then - one on one, just you and Michael.  Unless you're afraid he'd beat you," Saoirse suggested, adding a challenge that could not be refused.

"If he loses, he dies at dawn as originally planned."

"And if he wins, he goes free."

"Very . . ."

 "No!"  Michael interrupted.  "I choose my own prize."

"There is something you want more than your life?" Dorcha asked.

"If I win, I leave this place, and Saoirse comes with me."

"The King would have all our heads."

"Then I guess you'll just have to win, won't you,"  Saoirse said, her voice drenched in sarcasm.  "What do you say?"

"Agreed." As Don Dorcha drew his sword and stepped into his battle stance, Saoirse, now free of the soldier's grip, reclaimed her sword, and gave it to Michael.  She kissed him softly for luck, and them stepped back to a safe distance.

The two men stood facing each other, swords held delicately as if they were flowers.  Slowly, they began to circle each other readying themselves for the initial strike.  In an instant, the choice of who would begin the battle was made. Michael lunged forward, slashing the air with more force than intended. Dorcha swiftly shifted out of range, allowing Michael to step fully into the swing, inadvertently turning his back on his opponent. Michael spun around in time to intercept Dorcha's first strike, amazed by the lightness of his weapon.  As the battle ensued, Michael found it easier to wield Saoirse's sword with one hand, only occasionally using the other for enhanced control. The two blades clashed together, creating lightning and sparks with the fury of the duel and opposing passions behind them.
As the two men remained locked in combat, each dodging the other's expert swings, the night sky again clouded over, this time with heavy storm clouds that brought roaring thunder.

The strength of the weapon Michael held was suddenly remembered as he recalled how it had cut through solid iron as if it were air.  He lunged forward, catching Don Dorcha's sword and twisting around to a better position.  Raising the sword above his head, Michael struck with all the force of his initial attack. Metal rasped against metal at though one blade were sliding down the other. With the moon again blocked from the sky, savage lightning provided the only light in the otherwise black night. The rest of the battle, though only a few seconds, seemed to be taking place in slow motion.

Don Dorcha, his sword now in two pieces with the better part of the blade lying on the ground, was knocked down beside it as Michael kicked his feet out from under him.  Michael held the tip of Saoirse's sword to his adversary's throat, ending the battle.

"He's won!" Saoirse cried, unable to contain her joy.

"You will never leave this place alive, Flatley," Dorcha hissed, his eyes filled with venomous wrath.

Then, as if triggered by the Captain's words, the sword in Michael's hands began to glow.  A bright white aura surrounded it, and it freed itself from his grasp.

Michael stepped back to shield Saoirse as the sword moved toward the center of the circle formed by the King's guards. In the center of the circle, another light appeared, radiating from an unknown source.  The light grew and pulsated until in a single brilliant flash, it was replaced by the human form of the presence they all knew. The woman that stood before them commanded respect, if only by her appearance.  She reached out, and the sword that floated near her came to rest in her palm.  As she closed her hand around it, the brilliant aura flashed brightly and then disappeared, taking the weapon with it. The Goddess Erin turned to face Michael, who still shielded his love with his body.  She looked to Saoirse with a loving smile and held out her hand. Saoirse slowly stepped forward and took it.  As she touched the radiant flesh, her appearance again changed. The leather warrior's costume Saoirse wore faded into a white gown; one more beautiful than her own.  It shined in the night with an inner luminescence.  Her golden locks again fell freely about her shoulders, accentuating her delicate features. Erin, still holding Saoirse's hand, reached out to Michael. He gently took her hand as Saoirse had. The Goddess's smile widened to one of genuine delight, and she closed her eyes.  Her life light extended to encompass the lovers, and just like the sword, the three of them disappeared in a single, radiant flash of light. Saoirse and Michael felt the light surround and penetrate them, its brilliance blinding them to everything but each other. When the light faded, the couple found themselves encircled by dense forest, far from the castle that had for so long imprisoned their love.

"I can't believe it," Saoirse whispered, rushing to Michael's arms.

"Neither can I," he replied, hugging her close.