Orla

Only she remembered what happened on her wedding day, and it meant the potion had worked. She’d thrown in a touch of vomit juice designed to cover her tracks, and so far, everything was going to plan.

Orla sat down on an ornate chaise off to the side of the large entrance to their suite and started lacing up her riding boots. She daren’t dirty it, and decided to sit awkwardly at an angle, dirty boot away from the pure white material covering the chaise and twisted her back awkwardly in order to accomplish her, what should have been easy but now wasn’t, task. She soon realised she’d chosen the worst pair possible. This pair were her largest with as many as twenty holes to thread the laces through. She’d laced these boots up innumerable times before, but now she was in a hurry and her fingers refused to work properly. They trembled uncontrollably.

She forced herself to take a moment, looked around the room, listened intently for any noise coming from anywhere outside the room which would denote her plan was discovered. When no noise was forthcoming, she continued to lace up her boots. She had time, she told herself. No one expected anything.

Yet.

Her plan was working. She believed in the plan and was now fully committed. Sixteen successful steps so far, just a few more to go. Panicking now would be disastrous, and she’d planned for several years. This was always going to be the most stressful stage of the plan and yet now that the moment had finally arrived, her body rebelled against her. She guessed that meant she wasn’t really a bad person.

Orla took three deep breaths, which allowed more oxygen into her body, lowered her blood pressure and reduced her stress levels. She envisioned her new home. Her family safely nestled inside the castle walls, living without the fear of attack, kidnapping or worse. She calmly continued lacing up her boot, threading each lace through its hole, and pulled the laces tight. Meticulously, she moved onto the next hole, and the next until finally she tied a double knot at the top.

A loud thump emanated from behind the bedroom door, causing Orla to jump. Her nerves threatened to overtake her body once again. She covered her riding boot with her long, flowing and completely impractical wedding dress and raced to hide the other boot with the rest of her belongings.

“Wife‽” her new husband shouted. “Are you alright‽”

Jarlath stumbled awkwardly into the large room, looking wretched. He fell onto his knees and began dry-wretching. A glob of bile slowly contorted out of his throat. He spat the viscous liquid into a pot he was holding onto and coughed loudly to clear his throat for speaking.

Orla felt a tinge of regret; perhaps she’d added too much vomit juice to her forgetting potion?

“Are you ok?” Jarlath asked again. “I’ve just now disgorged my wedding dinner into this pot. Was it the seafood or the chicken? Hard to tell, I ate them both. Did you have any?”

“Perhaps it was a bit of both milord,” Orla replied, as innocently as she could muster.

“There’s no need to call me that, my dear. We are now equals. You are now; Orlaith, you can call me by my first name; Jarlath.”

Orla couldn’t overcome the strange familiarity straight away. “Certainly, mi lor… Jarlath. But it will still take time to get used to it.”

“That’s alright, my love.” Jarlath smiled. “We have all the time in the world. You haven’t answered my question though, have you taken ill?”

“I haven’t, Orla replied. “Your mother felt unwell earlier, so I gave her a potion to ease the unease brewing in her stomach. I took some myself as a precaution and I haven’t felt a thing.”

“Do you have any left?”

“Certainly,” Orla said, turning to her bag. “Give me a moment.”

Orla quietly searched her bag for any leftover potion. She’d had to use all her vials to spread the potion around every guest earlier in the day. Not wanting to arouse suspicion due to the large number of empty bottles in the bag, Orla rummaged as quietly as she could. She began to panic when she couldn’t find anything until finally, she found one vial. Unfortunately, it was two-thirds empty.

“Here you go,” Orla smiled sweetly.

Jarlath gulped the potion down in one swift motion. “Thank you, I feel much better already.” He suddenly stepped forward and grabbed her tightly around the waist. “You have some other wifely responsibilities to attend to.”

Shocked into immobility, unsure what to do next, Orla freezes. She does nothing but stand in his embrace. “What do you mean?”

“This works best in the bedroom, methinks.” He pulled her even closer and planted a sloppy kiss on her neck.

“But aren’t you sick?”

“Some activities can still be accomplished while ill,” Jarlath replied with a wry smile. “Anyway, I’m feeling a lot better now, thanks to you.”

“Oh good,” Orla tried not to seem too disheartened. Her masterful plan was always focused on getting the benefits of marriage without having to attend to the responsibilities that came with it.

A visible change came over Jarlath’s face, it turned sour upon sensing Orla’s reticence. “Do you not want to retire to the bedchamber?”

“It’s not that…” Orla started to reply.

“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to be married…”

“I do…” she paused. “My love”

“This was all your idea,” Jarlath’s face began to contort with frustration, “you do want to be married to me, don’t you?”

Orla placed a finger on his lips to catch him before he spiralled out of control. “No, nothing like that, my darling. I was only thinking of you and your stomach.”

“That is very kind of you, but I’ll be the judge of my own stomach. Let us retire.”

Orla pulled away and in doing so, ripped her dress. Her solitary riding boot was now exposed.

Jarlath took a moment to register what he was seeing.

“Why are you wearing one riding boot?” he asked softly.

He paused and took a moment to look around the room. Somewhat puzzled he asked, “What is your name again?”

“Orlaith.”

“Orlaith, nice name,” Jarlath said vaguely. “Ah, yes, my new wife. Come to the bedchamber, wife.”

“No!” Orla said loudly.

“What do you mean, no?” Jarlath asked, confused by his new wife’s defiance. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with you all of a sudden?”

“I need to change clothes,” Orla said in her most seductive voice. “Into something more comfortable.”

“Why are you wearing only one boot?” Jarlath asked defensively. “Is your Fire-Drake here?”

“No, my sweet.”

“I thought you were rid of that beast weeks ago!” Jarlath’s voice cracked. “You promised!”

“I-I did!” Orla stammered.

“Then why are you wearing one riding boot?”

“I was dressing up for you,” Orla said. She began to move seductively around Jarlath, hoping to distract him.

Jarlath is not convinced. “Your wedding dress is, was, beautiful enough. And anyway, is that really more comfortable?”

“I thought you fell in love with the old Orla,” Orla replied demurely.

“I did, but now I desire Orlaith.” Jarlath strode quickly towards her, giving her little chance to escape. “Together, we can achieve so much.” Orla evaded capture but only just. She remained playful, keeping the atmosphere as light-hearted as possible, giggling and smiling as he chased her around the room. Unfortunately, Orla tripped over her dress, ripping it further down the seam.

Jarlath was on top of her in an instant.

He pulled her dress up, ripping it further and attempted to gain access to her under garments. Orla struggled against him, but his superior strength won out. One of his hands held both of her wrists above her head while the other started to drop his trousers.

Orla screamed in fright. “No, please don’t,” she cried, tears emanating from both eyes.

Jarlath stopped. He slowly released his grip and stood up.

“Are you ok?”

“I just need to take it slowly.”

“I thought you wanted me,” Jarlath looked bewildered. “I thought you were different. You were supposed to give up your old life and begin anew, with me. But now you sit there, rejecting my advances while wearing riding boots?”

Orla glimpsed a shadow outside the window. It was flying towards her at great speed. It looked like Aodh, her Fire-Drake. He must have heard her scream in fright.

Jarlath moved towards the far wall. He pulled a crossbow off its hook and loaded a bolt into the barrel. Pointing the bolt directly at Orla, his voice menacing. “Call your Fire-Drake.”

“What?”

“Call him. Now!”

“But, he’s already coming.”

The air was suddenly sucked out of the room, as a red Fire-Drake, flapped his wings to gain purchase, landed on the balcony scrunching the stone like putty between his claws. Aodh’s long neck snaked into the room, looking for his mistress. His body followed, and soon, the entire Fire-Drake was inside, knocking over vases with his tail as well as scratching all manner of art on the walls with his claws.

Jarlath looked hard at Orla, “I’ll put a bolt in his hide if you don’t tell him to go!”

Desperate to resolve the situation, Orla softly approached Jarlath, palms faced towards him. “Please, my love. Put the crossbow down.”

Jarlath forlornly looked at Orla. “I really thought you wanted to be with me.”

“I do, I did, I wanted to,” Orla answered.

Jarlath’s face contorted with sadness. His shoulders slumped and his knees buckled until he knelt on the ground.

He cried for a moment then looked up bewildered. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m…” Orla started to reply. However, she was cut off by Jarlath’s hand over her mouth.

“Be quiet,” he whispered. “Don’t move.”

Orla’s eyes asked ‘why?’

“There’s a Fire-Drake behind us,” Jarlath stated. His eyes were ice cold. He moved his index finger to the crossbow trigger. “When I fire, you run.”

“No!” Orla cried.

Jarlath spun around and pulled the trigger, sending a bolt towards Aodh. Orla reacted quickly, but not quick enough. She managed to hit the crossbow just before it was fired, sending the bolt, not at the Fire-Drake’s eye, but at its armpit. The bolt struck with a dull thunk and Aodh reared up in pain.

“Why did you do that?” Jarlath demanded.

Orla saw Aodh breath in and acted on instinct. She flung herself in front of Jarlath just as Aodh breathed fire in retaliation for getting shot by a bolt.

The Fire-Drake, seeing his master throw herself in front of his fire, just managed to pull it back and altered the trajectory away from Orla and Jarlath.

Silence filled the void.

Orla slowly rose to her feet. The right side of her body had taken the brunt of the flame. Her dress was burning, her face swollen and blackened and half of her hair was missing.

Jarlath lay on the ground in fear. His back was burned where Orla hadn’t quite covered it.

Before she could say anything, an insistent knock pounded on the door.

“Mi lord,” shouted a guard. “Are you alright in there?”

Orla panicked. She ran over to Jarlath to check he was still alive then ran to her belongings. She scooped up everything she could find, including the marriage certificate, and bundled everything into a bag, flung it over her shoulder and jumped upon Aodh’s back. She quickly surveyed the room and saw nothing else of hers.

The pounding came harder, sharper, more metallic. The door started to splinter.

“We must go,” Orla said to Aodh. She gestured for him to leave via the window. He slowly manoeuvred himself to the balcony.

Orla failed to notice Aodh’s pain. The Fire-Drake’s complete trust in his master failed them both in that moment. As he tried to fly he realised he couldn’t, the bolt had struck a tendon, his wing wouldn’t beat.

As they plummeted towards the bottom of the canyon, Orla realised her fatal mistake. Her mind raced with possibilities that were no longer feasible. Her mother and siblings would have to find their way in life without her.