She dreamed vividly that night of a man. He was beautiful, a prince of autumn itself. His voice was sweet as flowers, his eyes were warm as amber, and his hair was like sunlight through the leaves of an october oak. He was a prince of the aes sídhe, she was certain. He dresses himself in robes of silver gossamar, with jewels, earrings, ribbons, circlets, and rings. On his back he carried a bundle of yew branches yet paid no mind to their noxious nature.

The prince sang to himself as he walked through a field of tall grass, speaking of a sweet maiden. With much detail Mavourneen recalled every stick and stone that crossed the prince's path to the point where she felt as though she was walking with him and she believed he was speaking of her.

The dream had ended far sooner than she had wished and though there were still hours until sunrise she found she couldn’t sleep. It plagued her thoughts, that beautiful face and throughout the day she wandered the castle, hall by hall in a whimsical state, seeing nothing but her faerie prince.

The next night she dreamed of him again, sitting by a fire and writing poetry. Muttering to himself and repeating phrases, then chuckling with a smile. Warm light flickered across his face with every crackle of the fire and with every moment words danced across his page. He paused briefly watching the embers float up into the air like pixies on a late summer evening. Reaching out he caught one in his hand and blew new life into it until it blazed in his hand like a beating heart. 

Again the next night she dreamt of her prince, sitting by a well and weaving a crown of wild roses. He pricked his finger on a thorn and muttered an ill phrase to the plant. Going still he opened his mouth to speak but chose to stay silent. This time the prince looked up from his work and smiled like he could see Mavourneen and continued his little task beginning to hum a friendly tune. She woke perplexed and continued her daily rounds with her head in the clouds. 

“And what is it that keeps Mavourneen’s spirits high this morning?” her father had teased, taking notice of her heightened mood. 

She nodded a shy ‘good morning’ and sat down with a sigh, “It’s a man,” she answered, resting her head in her hand, “For the past three days and the nights with them, he hasn’t let my thoughts rest.”

The king looked at his daughter curiously. “And do you love him?”

Mavourneen sat straight at the thought. “I . . .” She bit her lip. “I suppose in a way I do.” She shook her head, removing her gaze from her father. “Oh to love him is like being a butterfly in a jar, captivated and entranced. And if he were to let me go I’d simply flutter about his head and grace his nose with landing.” She smiled to herself. “He gives my heart wings.”

The princess stood and walked to the window to look out, “It feels wrong loving him, I’ve seen him in no place but a dream. It's the kind of love that hurts like a knife through the heart, but I scarcely believe he’s real.”

Her father nodded. "A man of your dreams?" He frowned, having had hopes that she'd chosen one to marry. He went silent a moment then spoke, "Then in four days time." He rose to stand next to his girl. "I shall gather all the great druids and magicians to interprit your dreams and they should give an answer as to why he plagues your thoughts."