She swept her fingers swiftly about his face and at once the pain was gone. He could not hide the astonishment in his eyes.
“The small hurts can be healed, Ben,” she whispered. “The ones that can be seen.”
“Willow…” he began.
“I will not ask you to come away with me again — not until you are ready.” Her fingers lingered on his cheek, warm and gentle. “I know who you are now. I know you to be of another world and not yet at peace with ours. I will wait.”
He shook his head. “Willow…”
“Come, Ben!” She grasped his hand firmly and pulled him from the chair. “Come, hurry!” She led him from the porch and into the trees. “My mother will not wait!”
Ben no longer thought to resist. They ran into the forest, she a vision of something he had not believed could exist and he the shadow she drew after her. They darted through the trees, his hand in hers, and soon he was hopelessly lost and did not care. The heat of her touch burned through him, and the need for her began to grow anew within him.
They slowed after a time, deep in a woods become misted and shadowed far beyond that of Elderew. The sounds of the celebration still echoed through the trees, but distant and soft. Colored slivers of moonlight slipped downward from the forest roof and dappled the earth like paint spots. Willow held Ben’s hand tightly in her own, the warmth of her like a fire that drew him. The mane of hair from her forearm brushed against his wrist like corn silk. She crept now through the trees and brush, soundlessly skirting the giant sentinels and their offspring, a bit of fragmented night.
Then the hardwood trees gave way to pine, evergreens that were giant and aged. Willow and Ben pushed through their needled boughs, and a clearing opened before them.
There Willow’s mother danced in a prism of colored moonlight.
She was a tiny thing, barely larger than a child, her features delicate and fine. Silver hair hung below her waist, and the skin of her slender body and limbs was pale green, like her daughter’s. She was clothed all in white gauze, and a radiance emanated from her that seemed born of some self-generated inner light. Spinning and leaping as if she were driven by a madness peculiar to her alone, she danced through the moonlit clearing to the rhythm of the distant music.
“Mother!” Willow breathed softly, and there was excitement and happiness reflected in her eyes.
The wood nymph’s eyes met her own for just an instant, but she did not slow her dance. Willow knelt wordlessly at the clearing’s edge, pulling Ben down gently beside her. Together they sat in silence and watched the phantasm before them do magic.
How long she danced and how long they watched, Ben did not know. Time seemed to come to a standstill in that clearing. All that had troubled him on his return from the amphitheater lost significance and was forgotten. There was only Willow and he and the lady who danced. He felt them fade one by the grace and beauty of that dance. He felt them bond in a way he did not understand, but desperately needed. He fet the bonding take place, and he did not resist.
Then the dance was finished. There was a sudden stillness, a hush, and it seemed that the music had ceased to play. Willow’s mother turned for a fleeting moment to view them and was gone. Ben stared, hearing again the music of the celebration. But the wood nymph had disappeared as if she had never been.
“Oh, Mother!” Willow whispered, and she was crying. “She is so beautiful, Ben. Isn’t she beautiful?”
Ben nodded, feeling her small hand grasping his own. “She is very beautiful, Willow.”
The sylph rose, drawing him up with her. “Ben,” she spoke his name so softly he almost missed it. “I belong to you now. High Lord and the daughter of fairies, we shall be one. You must ask my father to allow me to go with you when you leave. You must tell him that I am needed — for I truly am, Ben — and when you have told him that, he will let me go.”