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Issylte agreed eagerly, stroking Maeva’s soft brown muzzle as the Avalonian Elf mounted his black stallion Noz, promising to return the following Tuesday.

As he rode off, Viviane came up to greet her with a warm smile, and the two women headed towards the fountain to sit and chat while they waited for the bells to chime for the evening meal.

When Issylte rode to the south side of the island the following week with Ronan, she gasped in delight at the white, sandy beach at the base of the hill from where they now sat atop the forested ledge.

“Let’s water the horses here, in the stream,” he said, heading into the edge of the forest, where he dismounted, helping her do the same.

After the animals had quenched their thirst, Ronan tied them to nearby trees, where there was a grassy area for the horses to graze.

As she stood near him, Issylte breathed in his scent—the clean smell of sweat, a hint of leather, a touch of smoke from the fire of his forge—which stirred something deep inside her.

She gazed up into Ronan’s intense green eyes, sensing immense power radiating from him.

He is of the forest, like I am. I sense an otherworldly force in him. A verdant magic, like my own.

She tore her attention away from his magnetic eyes and watched as he took a sack out of his saddle bag, slung it over his shoulder, and turned to her with an exuberant smile.

When he took her hand in his, Issylte thrilled at his touch as she followed him down a long, winding path from the top of the cliff to the white shore below.

The beach was wide and flat, and from this perspective, at the base of the ledge, she could see the steep, rocky cliffs which protected the coast, with the forest high above them.

Still holding her hand, Ronan led her to a large rock, beckoning her to sit beside him as he removed first his boots, then her shoes.

“The sand feels delightful,” she exclaimed, reveling in the sensation, as she walked with him along the shoreline.

The ocean was gentle here, as if the force of the turbulent sea crashed upon the distant rocks, sending soft cascades to caress this white sandy shore.

Overhead, dozens of seabirds squawked in the sky, their white outstretched wings soaring through the clouds.

Her face was flushed from the warm afternoon sun, the sky a brilliant blue above the turquoise sea.

Pungent seaweed tickled her nose as the lulling waves lapped at their feet. Issylte raised the hem of her robe to keep it dry.

“Here, allow me,” Ronan offered, bending forward before her to tie the lower half of her dress in a knot.

With his head so close to her, Issylte took in his silvery blond hair and pointed ears, his enormous shoulders and back, the strength exuding from him like a shield to protect her.

He raised his head, an exuberant grin on his chiseled face, and said triumphantly, “Now your hands will be free to collect the many shells I want to show you.”

Indeed, the shoreline offered many treasures—rose-colored scallop shells nearly as large as her hand; snail shells that curved in a soft, gray spiral; and a large white shell that resembled a horn, with extraordinary shades of purple inside.

Ronan seemed delighted at her enchantment, placing the shells she collected in the sack on his shoulder as they strolled along the shore, the afternoon sun glimmering on the ripples of the sea.

“Next week, I will show you another of the many wonders of this island,” he said, barely containing his enthusiasm. “There’s an underground spring on the north shore which is breathtaking. You will love it, I am sure.”

Issylte, her heart content, beamed at Ronan. “I can’t wait!”

She approached him timidly, gazed up into his dark green eyes, and murmured softly, “Ronan, thank you so much for bringing me here. For taking me to Rochefort. For showing me the island. You have been a wonderful guide, and I am truly grateful.” She wanted to kiss his cheek, but didn’t dare, so she graced him with a genuine smile that she saw reflected in his twinkling eyes.

****

Ronan absorbed the marvel of her—the long blond hair, tossed by the salt air, the expressive emerald green eyes, so often filled with sadness but now glinting with joy.

The fragile heart, nearly broken by grief.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her, to protect her from the cruelty of life.

Instead, he took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and placed a tender kiss on the curve of her fingers.

He gazed at the setting sun and said softly, “We must return now. Next Tuesday, I will show you the sacred spring.” Taking her hand and carefully placing the sack over his shoulder, Ronan led Issylte back up the steep path to the horses and returned her to the white stone building of Le Centre .

****

Ronan worked most afternoons in his blacksmith shop, crafting tools to barter in the villages of Briac and Rochefort, forging Elven weapons and armor to sell in nearby kingdoms. Issylte kept busy with her lessons, learning to diagnose various ailments among the local inhabitants, studying with her mentors, trying to learn as much as possible.

Yet, despite her dedication to her craft, she often found herself thinking of Ronan and the tender care he showed his horses, the quiet strength he exuded which calmed her troubled spirit.

She found herself longing for Tuesdays, when he would take her exploring—revealing the secret delights of Avalon, so appropriately named the Island of Healing.

When her class finished and she’d shared the midday meal with the other priestesses and acolytes, Issylte was thrilled to see the familiar rugged face and pale blond hair when Ronan arrived with Maeva for this week’s excursion to the north shore of the island.

With a quick goodbye to Viviane, Cléo and Nyda, she rode off with her handsome Elf to discover another of the sacred springs of Avalon.

Once again, they tied the horses to trees at the edge of the forest, where Issylte observed more of the same rocky cliffs she’d seen on the south side of the island.

She followed Ronan’s lead down an equally steep path to reach the shore of the sandy beach, partially enclosed by a curve in the high rocky cliff behind them.

Beckoning her to sit on a stone, Ronan said with a grin, “I will start a fire now, and while it burns, I will take you to the spring.” He gathered driftwood for kindling and started a small fire, which he encircled with smooth, round stones that he collected at the base of the cliff.

He took a large sack off his shoulder, placed it on the sand and approached her with an extended hand. “Come, the spring is this way.”

She placed her hand in his, a tingle shivering up her arm and through her body at his touch.

She saw the dark blond hair that peeked out of his green tunic at the base of his throat.

His strong jaw was covered in stubble, and his scent wafted to her, drawing her in, as she followed him away from the campfire, around the curve of the stone wall.

To her amazement, they came to a hidden sea cave at the base of the cliff, and Ronan’s eager grin thrilled her as he led her inside.

Her body awakened, and her senses heightened, as the roar of an underground spring reverberated off the limestone walls of the cave into her very bones.

A turquoise green pool bubbled from the center of the floor of the cave, with a wide stone path on either side of the gushing spring.

The sides and back of the grotto were walls of pearlized gray stone which glimmered in the light from the entrance behind them.

Issylte’s magic came alive. There is otherworldly power in this cave , her instincts whispered.

Ronan’s eyes were lit with excitement as he shared his delightful secret with her.

He went farther into the cave, knelt down and said, his deep voice sonorous, “The water bubbles from an underground spring. Taste how sweet it is.” He cupped his calloused hand and drank deeply, the cool water spilling down his square chin.

Issylte knelt beside him and placed her hand into the chilly turquoise water which glowed from within. The water from the underground spring tasted fresh and clean, the hint of minerals lingering on her tongue. The roar of the jet spray thundered in her ear.

“This is la Grotte de l’ étoile —the Cave of the Fallen Star,” Ronan explained in a reverent hush. He motioned to the light glimmering in the water. “See how the bubbles burst forth? They form a pattern which resembles a star.”

As she examined more closely, Issylte noticed how the water from the base of the spring separated into five jet sprays under the surface, forming a star.

Sunlight from the entrance to the cave reflected off a bed of crystals beneath the bubbling waters, as if starlight were radiating from the bottom of the spring.

“It is magical!” she exclaimed with a sigh, “as if the Goddess herself illuminates the water.” She cupped her hand and drank again from the sacred spring.

Magic hummed with the song of the spring.

The walls of the cave were dewy with moisture, echoing and amplifying the music of the gurgling water into a thrilling roar. She shivered with delight.

“Some say this is a portal to the Otherworld ,” Ronan whispered into her left ear. “One of the most sacred sites among the islands in this realm.” His breath caressed her cheek.

Issylte absorbed every detail of the treasure he had offered. The musty scent of the limestone walls, the turquoise brilliance of the icy water, the radiant starlight beneath the turbulent bubbles. Her magic sang within her, like the music of the sacred spring.