Categories > Original > Fantasy > Amihan of the Mountain
I
I dreamt of him the night before the Fiesta of Our Lady. Well, that alone wasn't unusual. I'd dreamt of him plenty of times before. Silly, romantic fantasies where he would appear in a shower of golden light, claim me as his princess and take me away to his kingdom beyond the mountain. I say 'princess' because I'd always been unshakably convinced that he was none other than the prince of the /engkantos/, the prince of the elves. He was too kind and gentle and too ethereally beautiful to be anything less.
And that was why my dreams remained just so. Just cobwebs spun by my overactive imagination. But that was all right. His image in my mind kept me company, and I would have cheerfully walked barefoot over live coals before I revealed my fantasies to anyone.
Of course, there were many other reasons why my elf-prince remained mostly in my mind. The fact that nobody else knew he existed was one. That nobody would believe me even if I tried to convince them until I was blue in the face was another. There was no reason for anyone to believe me. Unlike my siblings, I had no power, no authority. The magic and strength that ran in my family appeared to have skipped a generation in me.
And that was all right, too, because it meant he was mine. My elf-prince. He appeared to no one but me, and nobody else dreamt of him but me. On the outside, I was a nobody, the unremarkable youngest daughter of the strongest warrior and most powerful priestess our town had ever produced. The one who walked unnoticed in the shadow of my brother and sister, who inherited all of my parents' gifts. Inside me, though, I was special. Inside all this unremarkable ordinariness that was Amihan, an elf-prince waited for me.
Sweet Lady, forgive my selfishness.
My dreams were different that night, however. I came awake three times. The third time I lay stiffly on the bamboo cot, staring up at the ceiling, listening to my sister's quiet snores. I had dreamt of him three times, of the three separate occasions I had met him. For some reason, a sense of foreboding lingered, and I shivered, wondering what my dreams could mean.
I dreamt of him the night before the Fiesta of Our Lady. Well, that alone wasn't unusual. I'd dreamt of him plenty of times before. Silly, romantic fantasies where he would appear in a shower of golden light, claim me as his princess and take me away to his kingdom beyond the mountain. I say 'princess' because I'd always been unshakably convinced that he was none other than the prince of the /engkantos/, the prince of the elves. He was too kind and gentle and too ethereally beautiful to be anything less.
And that was why my dreams remained just so. Just cobwebs spun by my overactive imagination. But that was all right. His image in my mind kept me company, and I would have cheerfully walked barefoot over live coals before I revealed my fantasies to anyone.
Of course, there were many other reasons why my elf-prince remained mostly in my mind. The fact that nobody else knew he existed was one. That nobody would believe me even if I tried to convince them until I was blue in the face was another. There was no reason for anyone to believe me. Unlike my siblings, I had no power, no authority. The magic and strength that ran in my family appeared to have skipped a generation in me.
And that was all right, too, because it meant he was mine. My elf-prince. He appeared to no one but me, and nobody else dreamt of him but me. On the outside, I was a nobody, the unremarkable youngest daughter of the strongest warrior and most powerful priestess our town had ever produced. The one who walked unnoticed in the shadow of my brother and sister, who inherited all of my parents' gifts. Inside me, though, I was special. Inside all this unremarkable ordinariness that was Amihan, an elf-prince waited for me.
Sweet Lady, forgive my selfishness.
My dreams were different that night, however. I came awake three times. The third time I lay stiffly on the bamboo cot, staring up at the ceiling, listening to my sister's quiet snores. I had dreamt of him three times, of the three separate occasions I had met him. For some reason, a sense of foreboding lingered, and I shivered, wondering what my dreams could mean.
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