LOVE STORY FOR A FAERY PRINCESS AND A PIRATE DUKE

For those who believe in one true love, no matter how odd...

Her eyes were black and deep like a subterranean pool, her skin olive, her nose aquiline; she said she was Irish. "The black Irish" my mother would have said, and with that came the kiss of the blarney stone, for she was double-tongued and manipulative.

I was forward, dark too, honest and blunt. Persephone loved me for I came from a secret place in the underground, cursed by Hades. 

In 1974 she broke the hell hound's spell when she saw me. Since then she fled, fearing the goblins and fiends unleashed as I ran wild over the heather in northern Scotland and the shamrocks in County Cork, wild to the pubs of Canada, the Druid and Kelly's Bar, unable to imbibe because the whiskey had got the best of me by then. That scared her too, no doubt, I have no means of knowing because I didn't see her again until 1991.

By that time I was tamed but splashing holy water on the walls of the psychiatric hospital to still the flames that roared from Hades in every crack of the old building. It worked, too, especially when the staff murdered me with a lethal injection.

That didn't really kill me, of course, any more than they killed the love I had for her and she for me. I was a violent pirate and she was a faery princess who believed in violence.

By 2012 I loved her enough to go to jail for her and say I was guilty of her own offense, her offense of lying and control and holding grudges.

The offense was really love and hope, though, and I pleaded love and hope.

Somewhere over the desire of the mountain to the east, rose a pink blush of moon. Not the sun yet, though that would come after the long silver night had shivered and worn its way down the horizon. 

A thousand suns would rise on the morning she awakened, blasting the feeble goblins in Hell to sing anthems, and Hades himself to smile at the triumph of something he could not control, the triumph of her love over mine, and my love over the weakness of my body and mind.

She never liked the pirate or the Duke but bits of them remain to tease and torment her.

They may explain my triumph now, in the 39^th year, and the desire of the mountain is gold dust in my hand. I won't forge a chain with it, or a ring. I'll blow the dust onto the stamens of her orchids and ask for forgiveness and compassion, which once she offered but I did not accept.

If there is a ring it speaks of hope, compassion, forgiveness, forbearance, patience, laughter, and love.

Don't take yourself too seriously, Duke, the faery princess will not always love you then. You'll be a Pirate till the day you die, and the ladies love Pirates too.

It's not easy to be a lady's duke and love a lady who loves violence, but that, too, can change. 

red garland of roses for the winner

As the dove came back to Noah and the thrush sang Aura Lee, the white bird entwined with roses came back to her and me.

Image by Ponsuan/FreeDigitalPhotos.net