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Fantasy Colder Winds [CLOSED]
- Thread starter peritwinkle
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- fantasy
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Lilith did not flinch when her sister's feet left the surface of the tabouret, nor as they wagged and stirred in the grip of the coarse noose. She could hear her mother's shouts in the distance, so close to her ears and yet the sound seemed to emerge from so far away. Victoria struggled to breathe, her stormy blue eyes searching for her mother's, as every inch of her face contorted in the effort to hold the life within her. Maery, the beautiful Maery, with her skin as pale as alabaster and her icy orbs once jocund like the ocean, faded as moments passed, breath by breath and inch by inch of rope throttling the life out of her.
So was the fate the Gods had willed for the two daughters of King Benjamin, as with their death, they shattered and stole two parts of Ylonne's soul. Lilith did not look away, fearful that she would start feeling again if she did, and if she woke up, her mother's screams would become more resonant, vivid, no longer like a distant dream. After the verdict had been given, her heart and mind had turned numb and she had watched as her mother's heart filled with agony as days passed. Lord Rogerus, on the other side, had kept his poise, such as his son, Victoria's betrothed, who had merely given them their respectable condolences and offered to be with his wife in her last moments, but the offer had been refused.
'Not from the man who passed the sentence, nor from his son,' the girl had muttered. She, as well, had turned numb and lifeless. Maery had cried, shouted, fainted and curled up in her sister's arms in the darkest corner of their dimly lit cell room, with one cold bed and a wooden pot. Even there, they would not allow the Moirnes, and even there, their mother sought them in fear, night and day, only leaving their side to go to sleep for a few turns of the clock.
Benjamin Varhart would never have allowed it, and Lilith knew he had not died by the will of the Gods. No, it had been Rogerus Moirne's doing, and yet how could anyone accuse him, the father of the King? With Victoria's death, and Lilith being the only daughter of Benjamin that was still breathing - barely - , Edonn was to inherit the throne, through perfectly concealed tyranny. Merely political games, one would say, and blessings from above that had brought them the victory they had not managed to achieve in twenty years since Benjamin had won the war.
Next to the two sisters, their cheeks as pale as snow, swung the two knights of Lord Rodvale, as lifeless as their presumed lovers, gaped at by Rodvale himself. In life and death, all men were the same: never beheaded, only hung or tortured until their souls left with their last breath, as they could not bend before the Gods without a head. Victoria had not spoken against it, nor had she atoned for her wrongfully claimed sin, as her spite had been greater than her pride, despite Lady Ylonne's prayers and cries. Even then, as they were all executed like commoners, Lilith could almost hear Maery begging for salvation and promising amendment, whilst Victoria no longer moved, tranquil and calculated, as though she were judging her younger sister for mourning, or perhaps thinking of better ways in which she could have paired her jewelry that morning.
"Drop them," Rogerus muttered, barely parting his lips. Ser Erik held Ylonne in his arms, gradually dragging her away from the platform covered in hoar. The executioner's assistant obeyed and moved to undo the noose, which he would have otherwise left tied until crows started eating away at the dead's flesh.
Lilith could feel pairs of eyes watching her, eagerly waiting for her to break. They would not get that satisfaction, she bitterly thought, not because her heart was filled with the same spite that had engulfed her sister's, but because she was still not there; no, she was secluded away from the moment, somewhere in the past, in her quarters waiting for that dark nightmare to come to an end. It seemed plausible - the air was just as thick, thinged with a scent of old sugared apples and saltwater. She felt warm covered in her incarnadine woven cape, a tradition for funerals and mourners, and a bleak breeze tinged the tips of her fingers and the soft flesh of her clavicle. Droplets of rain played on her face, here and there, as if careful not to smear away the poise, or perhaps the waves in the distance were crashing with such anger, that they had traveled through the wind and reached them all the way on the hill.
She could not recall the way down to the chapel, yet the perfume of death filled her nostrils and tormented her mind. It was all she could feel, like a dark shroud obstructing her vision. Perhaps Ylonne had even stopped crying, as she no longer heard her voice, but only the steps of the escorts who were carrying the dead away from the platform. The chapel, as the tradition urged, should have been on the peak of a cliff, overlooking the sea or fertile land, but old as it was, the best view one could see from its windows were the tall walls of the citadel and the grandiose towers of the stone castle. It all looked as if it were built before the cliffs emerged from the ground, like trees with roots clinging to the depths of the earth and drinking from the lip of the sea. Once, it had felt like home for all of them, even if others had built it hundreds of years before their lifetime.
Now, it felt like a dungeon with just a bit more fresh air than any other.
And nor could she recall the weeks that passed after her sister's deaths. Lilith had slept, whilst Vigdis had lain awake on the featherbed next to her only daughter, praying and counting lint. Every now and then, a servant came to bring refreshments and call them to bathe or pray in the chapel, or whenever Lord Rogerus Moirne demanded to see them. That was how they knew how time passed - remembering each servant's shift and the type of food they brought in. It was never someone else that wished to address neither of the two women, and Rogerus always made sure to send the same messenger each time, the only man whom he trusted.
Strange. It was as if he feared an untimely death.
Still, the pain was there, but she was simply unable to react to it. She wanted to shout and cry, give herself the satisfaction of pure relief when her mother was not around. When she was, however, she tried to maintain her poise, just as the older woman did. Her spells never worked - she burnt dried plants every evening and morning for good fortune and hummed to herself as she had used to hum to Maery when she was younger, until around the age of five. It was always ballads that she sung, those of love to nurture passion and empathy in her from a young age. It was perhaps why she had grown up to be a dreamer, singing to her mother as well sometimes, lyrics she had learnt with her teacher or songs they sung in the chapel every morning.
Ylonne spoke to her sometimes, when she felt like the silence was weighing too heavily on their hearts. They slept together to diminish the feeling of isolation, but the lack of conversation was difficult to bear. The servants did not dare to speak, not even the handmaidens that came to braid their hair every morning and help them don their dresses for the day.
"I want to pray like Maery tomorrow," Lilith had once told her mother as she stood in front of the hearth, watching the fire dance before her stormy grey eyes. Her mother's were as dark as ashes, but fire always seemed to dance more beautifully in hers.
The pain had immediately reflected in them like a mirror. "Nobody prays like Maery does," she sometimes spoke as if she were alive, then turned her head to give her a cordial smile in hopes of sweetening her critique. "We may pray together, but here. I do not wish to see..."
'Rogerus. No, nor do I, mother.' It was enough that they saw eachother for dinner and some councils. Lilith was not part of his group of advisors, but she knew most of what took place there, from discussions regarding the wedding to the increase in taxes that the Moirnes demanded to afford the expenses of the ceremony and feast, as if they were already sitting atop the Throne.
Everything then felt like a blur. Even as she stood in the dark garden, admiring the view she knew all too well for the last time, nothing felt truly palpable. She had memorised the entire layout of the castle yet it was all unknown to her. Somewhere, in a hall deep within the castle, Lady Ylonne and Lord Moirne were discussing her marriage to Edonn, which was to be held in a hurry, as the Kingdom still demanded a leader, and Rogerus's advisors did not deem Ylonne well enough to postpone the Crowning Ceremony by any longer.
A part of her was fearful when faced with the act of departure. It was the same part of her that was still tied to that place, that had kept her from crying when her sisters had been sentenced to death for adultery and treason: it was there, deep within her heart, nagging at it, yet not strong enough to overshadow Ser Erik's voice. It still rung in her ears vividly, as he encouraged - begged - her to leave.
"You ought to save yourself from them. You ought to find the Lord of Ashpyke," he had urged, and she, with a cold tremor on her lips, had initially doubted his words.
She had been taught never to doubt him, by her mother herself, and yet it seemed she was doing more than just one reckless thing that day. With her throat clenched and cold, and her eyes stinging red, she had tried to recollect herself for a brief moment and consider the options she had, wonder if she had any at all.
"I am the heir, Ser," she had muttered. "They would not harm me. They need me."
"So long as you live, your people will worship the name of Varhart, not Moirne. You are a threat to them as your father was to their former King."
And so she found herself away the next turn of the clock, wrapped up in a dark woven cape and with her face concealed beneath a thick veil. The air was damp but parky, and as winter was approaching, each night it threatened to rain; that day was no exception. The stables were mostly empty, yet still guarded by Lord Rogerus's men. In the labyrinth of trees and bushes, Lilith had made herself scarce, disappearing through a small fissure in the tall stone wall which the Serpents had not yet discovered.
Ser Erik had not informed Lady Ylonne of the heist. His heart, too, ached for the woman, and whether she agreed to it or not, there was no other way. Within the castle, there was hardly any man they could trust, not even the elderly and wise. After the small revolts of the commoners against the marriage, many had lost their lives in such petty ways, less than what they deserved after years of loyalty and valor. Erik, however, had remained steadfast, and in spite of his age, he was still as stalwart and strong as any other.
Standing tall on a cliff near the pearling sea, the castle overlooked a green valley speckled with rime and cut abruptly by dunes of sand. The pathway down was narrow and slippery, but hidden behind the mass of stone behind it. The girl made cautious steps down, her feet aching from the tension she put in her ankles; she found it far more difficult than skipping through the forest in search for arrows and prey when she hunted with Victoria and her father. Not even from her apartments could she hear the water so clearly, shattering against the rocky shoreline, murmuring and calling her away. She feared looking back, knowing that if she did, she might think twice about leaving her mother.
'One last glance...'
The castle was almost completely lost from her field of view when she reached the bottom of the hill. Tied against a wizened trunk was Erik's horse, an old, fly-blown stallion, dark as the night itself. It was alone there, just like her, with a blanket beneath the saddle to protect its skin and a bulky leather bag in which, the knight had informed her, were a flask of water, a knife, three balls of tinder to make fire and a pouch of gold and silver coins which he had given her from his own savings.
Not nearly enough to satisfy her needs, but it was then that she realised her life mattered more than her comfort. Her life as a political tool, as a heir, as another statue to worship, a hope.
Looking upon the scene, it looked nothing different from a dream, but then again, her life as a whole had changed into an interminable chimera. There was nobody to watch over her anymore, no mother to hum to her until she fell asleep, to protector to walk by her side. But that solitude was not to last for too long, for as soon as the council ended and her absence was noticed, it was only a matter of time until she was found. A convoy of sound stallions galloped faster than Erik's hoary mount.
Lilith held her breath, and before she glanced back to make sure she had not been followed, she jumped atop her horse and urged it forward into the moonlit darkness.
So was the fate the Gods had willed for the two daughters of King Benjamin, as with their death, they shattered and stole two parts of Ylonne's soul. Lilith did not look away, fearful that she would start feeling again if she did, and if she woke up, her mother's screams would become more resonant, vivid, no longer like a distant dream. After the verdict had been given, her heart and mind had turned numb and she had watched as her mother's heart filled with agony as days passed. Lord Rogerus, on the other side, had kept his poise, such as his son, Victoria's betrothed, who had merely given them their respectable condolences and offered to be with his wife in her last moments, but the offer had been refused.
'Not from the man who passed the sentence, nor from his son,' the girl had muttered. She, as well, had turned numb and lifeless. Maery had cried, shouted, fainted and curled up in her sister's arms in the darkest corner of their dimly lit cell room, with one cold bed and a wooden pot. Even there, they would not allow the Moirnes, and even there, their mother sought them in fear, night and day, only leaving their side to go to sleep for a few turns of the clock.
Benjamin Varhart would never have allowed it, and Lilith knew he had not died by the will of the Gods. No, it had been Rogerus Moirne's doing, and yet how could anyone accuse him, the father of the King? With Victoria's death, and Lilith being the only daughter of Benjamin that was still breathing - barely - , Edonn was to inherit the throne, through perfectly concealed tyranny. Merely political games, one would say, and blessings from above that had brought them the victory they had not managed to achieve in twenty years since Benjamin had won the war.
Next to the two sisters, their cheeks as pale as snow, swung the two knights of Lord Rodvale, as lifeless as their presumed lovers, gaped at by Rodvale himself. In life and death, all men were the same: never beheaded, only hung or tortured until their souls left with their last breath, as they could not bend before the Gods without a head. Victoria had not spoken against it, nor had she atoned for her wrongfully claimed sin, as her spite had been greater than her pride, despite Lady Ylonne's prayers and cries. Even then, as they were all executed like commoners, Lilith could almost hear Maery begging for salvation and promising amendment, whilst Victoria no longer moved, tranquil and calculated, as though she were judging her younger sister for mourning, or perhaps thinking of better ways in which she could have paired her jewelry that morning.
"Drop them," Rogerus muttered, barely parting his lips. Ser Erik held Ylonne in his arms, gradually dragging her away from the platform covered in hoar. The executioner's assistant obeyed and moved to undo the noose, which he would have otherwise left tied until crows started eating away at the dead's flesh.
Lilith could feel pairs of eyes watching her, eagerly waiting for her to break. They would not get that satisfaction, she bitterly thought, not because her heart was filled with the same spite that had engulfed her sister's, but because she was still not there; no, she was secluded away from the moment, somewhere in the past, in her quarters waiting for that dark nightmare to come to an end. It seemed plausible - the air was just as thick, thinged with a scent of old sugared apples and saltwater. She felt warm covered in her incarnadine woven cape, a tradition for funerals and mourners, and a bleak breeze tinged the tips of her fingers and the soft flesh of her clavicle. Droplets of rain played on her face, here and there, as if careful not to smear away the poise, or perhaps the waves in the distance were crashing with such anger, that they had traveled through the wind and reached them all the way on the hill.
She could not recall the way down to the chapel, yet the perfume of death filled her nostrils and tormented her mind. It was all she could feel, like a dark shroud obstructing her vision. Perhaps Ylonne had even stopped crying, as she no longer heard her voice, but only the steps of the escorts who were carrying the dead away from the platform. The chapel, as the tradition urged, should have been on the peak of a cliff, overlooking the sea or fertile land, but old as it was, the best view one could see from its windows were the tall walls of the citadel and the grandiose towers of the stone castle. It all looked as if it were built before the cliffs emerged from the ground, like trees with roots clinging to the depths of the earth and drinking from the lip of the sea. Once, it had felt like home for all of them, even if others had built it hundreds of years before their lifetime.
Now, it felt like a dungeon with just a bit more fresh air than any other.
And nor could she recall the weeks that passed after her sister's deaths. Lilith had slept, whilst Vigdis had lain awake on the featherbed next to her only daughter, praying and counting lint. Every now and then, a servant came to bring refreshments and call them to bathe or pray in the chapel, or whenever Lord Rogerus Moirne demanded to see them. That was how they knew how time passed - remembering each servant's shift and the type of food they brought in. It was never someone else that wished to address neither of the two women, and Rogerus always made sure to send the same messenger each time, the only man whom he trusted.
Strange. It was as if he feared an untimely death.
Still, the pain was there, but she was simply unable to react to it. She wanted to shout and cry, give herself the satisfaction of pure relief when her mother was not around. When she was, however, she tried to maintain her poise, just as the older woman did. Her spells never worked - she burnt dried plants every evening and morning for good fortune and hummed to herself as she had used to hum to Maery when she was younger, until around the age of five. It was always ballads that she sung, those of love to nurture passion and empathy in her from a young age. It was perhaps why she had grown up to be a dreamer, singing to her mother as well sometimes, lyrics she had learnt with her teacher or songs they sung in the chapel every morning.
Ylonne spoke to her sometimes, when she felt like the silence was weighing too heavily on their hearts. They slept together to diminish the feeling of isolation, but the lack of conversation was difficult to bear. The servants did not dare to speak, not even the handmaidens that came to braid their hair every morning and help them don their dresses for the day.
"I want to pray like Maery tomorrow," Lilith had once told her mother as she stood in front of the hearth, watching the fire dance before her stormy grey eyes. Her mother's were as dark as ashes, but fire always seemed to dance more beautifully in hers.
The pain had immediately reflected in them like a mirror. "Nobody prays like Maery does," she sometimes spoke as if she were alive, then turned her head to give her a cordial smile in hopes of sweetening her critique. "We may pray together, but here. I do not wish to see..."
'Rogerus. No, nor do I, mother.' It was enough that they saw eachother for dinner and some councils. Lilith was not part of his group of advisors, but she knew most of what took place there, from discussions regarding the wedding to the increase in taxes that the Moirnes demanded to afford the expenses of the ceremony and feast, as if they were already sitting atop the Throne.
Everything then felt like a blur. Even as she stood in the dark garden, admiring the view she knew all too well for the last time, nothing felt truly palpable. She had memorised the entire layout of the castle yet it was all unknown to her. Somewhere, in a hall deep within the castle, Lady Ylonne and Lord Moirne were discussing her marriage to Edonn, which was to be held in a hurry, as the Kingdom still demanded a leader, and Rogerus's advisors did not deem Ylonne well enough to postpone the Crowning Ceremony by any longer.
A part of her was fearful when faced with the act of departure. It was the same part of her that was still tied to that place, that had kept her from crying when her sisters had been sentenced to death for adultery and treason: it was there, deep within her heart, nagging at it, yet not strong enough to overshadow Ser Erik's voice. It still rung in her ears vividly, as he encouraged - begged - her to leave.
"You ought to save yourself from them. You ought to find the Lord of Ashpyke," he had urged, and she, with a cold tremor on her lips, had initially doubted his words.
She had been taught never to doubt him, by her mother herself, and yet it seemed she was doing more than just one reckless thing that day. With her throat clenched and cold, and her eyes stinging red, she had tried to recollect herself for a brief moment and consider the options she had, wonder if she had any at all.
"I am the heir, Ser," she had muttered. "They would not harm me. They need me."
"So long as you live, your people will worship the name of Varhart, not Moirne. You are a threat to them as your father was to their former King."
And so she found herself away the next turn of the clock, wrapped up in a dark woven cape and with her face concealed beneath a thick veil. The air was damp but parky, and as winter was approaching, each night it threatened to rain; that day was no exception. The stables were mostly empty, yet still guarded by Lord Rogerus's men. In the labyrinth of trees and bushes, Lilith had made herself scarce, disappearing through a small fissure in the tall stone wall which the Serpents had not yet discovered.
Ser Erik had not informed Lady Ylonne of the heist. His heart, too, ached for the woman, and whether she agreed to it or not, there was no other way. Within the castle, there was hardly any man they could trust, not even the elderly and wise. After the small revolts of the commoners against the marriage, many had lost their lives in such petty ways, less than what they deserved after years of loyalty and valor. Erik, however, had remained steadfast, and in spite of his age, he was still as stalwart and strong as any other.
Standing tall on a cliff near the pearling sea, the castle overlooked a green valley speckled with rime and cut abruptly by dunes of sand. The pathway down was narrow and slippery, but hidden behind the mass of stone behind it. The girl made cautious steps down, her feet aching from the tension she put in her ankles; she found it far more difficult than skipping through the forest in search for arrows and prey when she hunted with Victoria and her father. Not even from her apartments could she hear the water so clearly, shattering against the rocky shoreline, murmuring and calling her away. She feared looking back, knowing that if she did, she might think twice about leaving her mother.
'One last glance...'
The castle was almost completely lost from her field of view when she reached the bottom of the hill. Tied against a wizened trunk was Erik's horse, an old, fly-blown stallion, dark as the night itself. It was alone there, just like her, with a blanket beneath the saddle to protect its skin and a bulky leather bag in which, the knight had informed her, were a flask of water, a knife, three balls of tinder to make fire and a pouch of gold and silver coins which he had given her from his own savings.
Not nearly enough to satisfy her needs, but it was then that she realised her life mattered more than her comfort. Her life as a political tool, as a heir, as another statue to worship, a hope.
Looking upon the scene, it looked nothing different from a dream, but then again, her life as a whole had changed into an interminable chimera. There was nobody to watch over her anymore, no mother to hum to her until she fell asleep, to protector to walk by her side. But that solitude was not to last for too long, for as soon as the council ended and her absence was noticed, it was only a matter of time until she was found. A convoy of sound stallions galloped faster than Erik's hoary mount.
Lilith held her breath, and before she glanced back to make sure she had not been followed, she jumped atop her horse and urged it forward into the moonlit darkness.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
"All aboard!"
The voice of the First Mate rung through the tall pylons of the ship, followed by the wailing cry of an old horn that signaled it was high time they left. Lixander waited not too close to the nave, knowing it could save him the effort of pushing through the heaping crowd. It was a good day to sail: the no sun to scorch the tops of their heads and strong wind to give them proper soar. It all gave him a sense of safety. It was, in fact, the best it had been in ages; it seemed that the Gods were happy with the King, content with the oblation in their name that had cleansed that Godsforsaken island of the venomous snakes that had embittered it.
The scene was still vivid in his mind: he could taste the blood on his lips after it had sprayed from the snake's throat, he could smell the reek of death that had imbued the air for a long time afterwards; he could feel his spine crawl, wondering how King Rondulin had managed to hide such a beast inside of him. The answer had come to him easily enough. He knew what the death of someone dear could do to one's mind. He had driven himself insane many times with his own thoughts and took a good fight as a means of freeing his wrath. Bloodshed was what soothed him. Death was no longer followed by regret, but felt like a pure relief and solace.
Memories, however, still managed to shake him.
The knight straightened his back now in proper fashion: he had missed fighting and grown quite rusty over time. Tall and broad of shoulders as he was, it was only the freshly shaved beard that gave him a younger appearance that he liked. His cheeks, scourged by the wind, had caught a bright hue of red, florid like a maiden's as Yova liked to joke around. Yova always liked to tease him, and he teased back, saying she was robust enough to pass as a boy her age.
Still, he was as proud as he could be of his only child. He thought to himself that he had done a good job bringing her up, especially without a mother to guide him. Such times were rough, yet he had managed regardless, and after years, it had all come naturally. It was only when his duty called that he had to leave her, such as then, and the fear of losing her only family had pushed her limits and filled her heart with more determination to fight.
She had begged him many times to let her come along. "It is war," Lixander would always tell her, and Yova would shut her mouth for another turn of the clock. He would never allow her to fight at only the age of fifteen, not truly. It was his fault for giving her the taste of metal, and his wife's for not having opposed well enough. Following her death, the girl had only been more motivated to learn to fight, to match her father.
She never would. Lixander was one of the greatest warriors on that Island, and perhaps even in the mainlands. It was known.
He was second in command to King Rondulin's armies, but he had chosen to travel on the same ship as him. It was a matter of taste - warriors made for good company when it came to feasts and celebrating victories, but in the absence of alcohol, most of them were as bland as sweet wine. Lixander was a sociable man, he enjoyed company and had an eye for good beer and skilled women, but even he preferred a good talk to a senseless spree from time to time. Not that the King himself was too much of a merry-maker, either way.
"Aaall aboard!" the sailor shouted again over the crowd that was beginning to form in front of the wooden ramp. Some of them gave their last embraces to their wives and daughters, others climbing up without a second thought. They were all armoured to the teeth, but Lixander was a man of comfort, even if to him, comfort meant a sturdy leather coat and a pair of thick soled boots rimmed with ermine. "Go on, we ain't waitin' forever," he urged again, and it was only then that the burly knight moved, his hair falling in toasted locks around the frame of his face against the frigid wind.
"Your Grace," the man bent and gave the King a cordial smile as he passed by. Not even in his thoughts did he dare to call him by his name and his name only. He spotted Saela - the woman was not too far away from them, but she did keep her distance, as if the events of the previous night had scared her away. Of course, Lixander knew that could not have been possible - nothing scared Saela away, not even Death itself, and if it did, then she was far too good at not showing it. There were many situations in which the woman could easily beat any man in his army in a contest of moral resistance. Even then, with all of them roused by that gruesome death, there was a certain lucidity in her eyes which dumbfounded him even after so many years of having known her.
In many ways, Saela was much like Yova: they were both young and reckless, both skilled in battle and with an ardent passion and loyalty in their hearts.
Pressured by time, Lixander no longer desired to tarry around. He picked himself up and followed the path described by the wooden footbridge, rendered slippery by the hectic, restless sea, and waited for his chiefs to climb aboard first before he did. Even if he died on the mainlands, he did not wish to look back, lest he turned around and left for his sweet Yova. 'No, for the sake of my King. I shall fight and die, and Yova will live a good, perhaps better life without me to irk her every day.'
~*~
The stallion's hooves jarred against the ground, sputtering drips of dampened soil and dried leaves behind it. Thunders were booming above the forest in the black veil of clouds, here and then lightened by strikes of lightning. And as the sky pearled and roared its rage away, as if reflecting mankind's pain and suffering like a mirror, the ground shuddered with it, relentlessly disturbing the serenity of the night. Nature itself was urging her to move, to fight, to breathe, and yet she was too far away for the noise to reach her anymore, secluded behind a wall of glass, gradually cracking the deeper she delved into the woods.
One arrow slung past Lilith's ear, whistling as it did, but the tremor of the sound blended in with the murmur of the storm. The air was tepid, wet, and her fingers felt slippery around the leather reins. They had chafed the skin of her palms, the stinging sensation burning through her fingers as she tightened her grip around them. She could not allow herself to fall from the back of her mount, even as the blanket she had set beneath the saddle was beginning to glide off. No, she ought to keep herself steady, and so she pressed her calves against its sides and, giving the horse a slight kick in the ribs, she urged it to dash faster through the crackling trees.
When she turned her head to peek behind, a second arrow teased her hair, so close to her lips she could almost feel the taste of metal. She could no longer see the whole convoy of silver and crimson leather, but merely two riders who did not appear to have noticed the absence of the rest of the group. Each time another lightning struck through the clouds, it was bright enough to trace the contour of their faces. There was no banner on their chest, no banner on their capes, nor on the hilts of their weapons that she could distinguish in the night. One of them wielded a bow, whilst the other swung his long blade each time she took a turn to the side, her momentum shrinking the already narrow space between them.
The third arrow was the closest call; whirring past her face, it slashed her cheek open and arched down into the ground before her. Lilith shouted, scourged flesh tightening and dripping a thick, viscid liquid into her mouth. Her stallion whined and hampered, then hurled even faster through the dark silhouettes. She heard the echo of a flaccid laughter behind her, or perhaps another command urging her to stop which she would not listen. Their voices, even as they were slowly fading in the night, overshadowed by the turmoil of thunder and wind, were still vibrating through her, threatening to draw closer if she only tried to catch her breath. If her horse stumbled and broke its joints. If the clouds, encumbered with rain, unleashed their wrath upon her and the horse staggered, too frightened to go on.
When the storm started, raining down heavily upon her shoulders, the voices behind her vanished, leaving only the sound of hooves hitting the earth to ring in her ears and cover the rumbling skies. It was only then that her body recovered and she could once again feel, a tremor striking through her as if mimicking the lightings above her head. Her cheek was pulsating and she was almost certain that the arrow had cut through to the bone. 'It could have been worse,' she thought then, partly glad that she then knew how to do so; after all, she was only left with herself. 'One inch away, and it would have thrusted through my head.'
However, the stallion did not stop to brood, as it kept dashing forward through the bushes in a direction only known to itself. Over the rustling of the dried leaves beneath them, Lilith struggled to listen for any sign that her followers had not truly lost her trace. They might find the hooves printed into the ground in the morning, if the rain did not soften the soil, but she doubted they would make the effort to wait. Even if they could not have been running for long, it had felt like a lifetime.
Perhaps this was what death felt like: fear, dread, pain and turmoil tormenting one's thoughts until they went insane. The feeling of slowly slipping away and losing track of time. She could not imagine what her father must have felt as he lay gushing blood from between his lips, or as her sisters' last breaths melted into the noose around their neck and they counted the seconds until they passed to the Gods.
But, of course, she was alive. Still breathing, yet in pain and far away from the road she had been following for weeks then. She knew had to find the river that surged through the forest, although she could not wait and listen for its murmur. That night, unforgiving and ominous, demanded she stay within the shelter of the looming trees, whilst her rationality, whatever was left of it, fought to stop her tears from spilling and begged her to find the strength to keep going.
She only let go when she knew she was no longer being followed. It could have been a few minutes or two turns of the clock, but as soon as her horse, frail and hoary, deemed its ambit safe enough to slacken its pace, Lilith buried her face in its mane and let out a quieted whimper, and whispered a prayer from the tip of her tongue.
By the time the sun had come out through the sorrel leaves that morning, the sky had cleared out in patches, still stained with crimson but otherwise of a bright white that kissed the forest ground. The trees were scarce in that part of the forest, a sign that not too far away it would open into a wide field. Through that day, the memories of the last faded from Lilith's mind; she reconciled with the fact that it had been a terrible dream, and the path she was following atop her horse was her only salvation from the cage of her thoughts.
The pain did not leave her cheek completely, but only faded slightly as the brisk breeze dried the blood around it. She doused the burn every now and then with water, and whenever she found herself thirsty, she made a turn for the river bend and refilled her flask. It was only when the river hunched away from her path that she tried to ignore the pain and reused the warm cloth in favour of time.
The afternoon sky was even brighter, incarnadine like a wound, as if the red of the field speckled with poppy flowers reflected into its crimson pool. Lilith could almost hear her father's words - a sunset drowned in fire meant that somewhere that day, blood had been spilled. It did not take long for Lilith to realise where she was, as in the distance loomed the dark shape of a tavern, an inn at the crossroads, which Ser Erik had said was halfway to Ashpyke, give or take. She would have shaved off a day by circling the forest, and perhaps her head as well, so for a brief moment, she was thankful to the Gods for showing her the way.
She pulled the hood over her head and bent down. "On we go, boy," the girl purled near its ear and let go of the reins to wrap her arms around its neck. She was still too tired to walk, barely alive enough to speak, but the sound of her own voice was what kept her sane.
The voice of the First Mate rung through the tall pylons of the ship, followed by the wailing cry of an old horn that signaled it was high time they left. Lixander waited not too close to the nave, knowing it could save him the effort of pushing through the heaping crowd. It was a good day to sail: the no sun to scorch the tops of their heads and strong wind to give them proper soar. It all gave him a sense of safety. It was, in fact, the best it had been in ages; it seemed that the Gods were happy with the King, content with the oblation in their name that had cleansed that Godsforsaken island of the venomous snakes that had embittered it.
The scene was still vivid in his mind: he could taste the blood on his lips after it had sprayed from the snake's throat, he could smell the reek of death that had imbued the air for a long time afterwards; he could feel his spine crawl, wondering how King Rondulin had managed to hide such a beast inside of him. The answer had come to him easily enough. He knew what the death of someone dear could do to one's mind. He had driven himself insane many times with his own thoughts and took a good fight as a means of freeing his wrath. Bloodshed was what soothed him. Death was no longer followed by regret, but felt like a pure relief and solace.
Memories, however, still managed to shake him.
The knight straightened his back now in proper fashion: he had missed fighting and grown quite rusty over time. Tall and broad of shoulders as he was, it was only the freshly shaved beard that gave him a younger appearance that he liked. His cheeks, scourged by the wind, had caught a bright hue of red, florid like a maiden's as Yova liked to joke around. Yova always liked to tease him, and he teased back, saying she was robust enough to pass as a boy her age.
Still, he was as proud as he could be of his only child. He thought to himself that he had done a good job bringing her up, especially without a mother to guide him. Such times were rough, yet he had managed regardless, and after years, it had all come naturally. It was only when his duty called that he had to leave her, such as then, and the fear of losing her only family had pushed her limits and filled her heart with more determination to fight.
She had begged him many times to let her come along. "It is war," Lixander would always tell her, and Yova would shut her mouth for another turn of the clock. He would never allow her to fight at only the age of fifteen, not truly. It was his fault for giving her the taste of metal, and his wife's for not having opposed well enough. Following her death, the girl had only been more motivated to learn to fight, to match her father.
She never would. Lixander was one of the greatest warriors on that Island, and perhaps even in the mainlands. It was known.
He was second in command to King Rondulin's armies, but he had chosen to travel on the same ship as him. It was a matter of taste - warriors made for good company when it came to feasts and celebrating victories, but in the absence of alcohol, most of them were as bland as sweet wine. Lixander was a sociable man, he enjoyed company and had an eye for good beer and skilled women, but even he preferred a good talk to a senseless spree from time to time. Not that the King himself was too much of a merry-maker, either way.
"Aaall aboard!" the sailor shouted again over the crowd that was beginning to form in front of the wooden ramp. Some of them gave their last embraces to their wives and daughters, others climbing up without a second thought. They were all armoured to the teeth, but Lixander was a man of comfort, even if to him, comfort meant a sturdy leather coat and a pair of thick soled boots rimmed with ermine. "Go on, we ain't waitin' forever," he urged again, and it was only then that the burly knight moved, his hair falling in toasted locks around the frame of his face against the frigid wind.
"Your Grace," the man bent and gave the King a cordial smile as he passed by. Not even in his thoughts did he dare to call him by his name and his name only. He spotted Saela - the woman was not too far away from them, but she did keep her distance, as if the events of the previous night had scared her away. Of course, Lixander knew that could not have been possible - nothing scared Saela away, not even Death itself, and if it did, then she was far too good at not showing it. There were many situations in which the woman could easily beat any man in his army in a contest of moral resistance. Even then, with all of them roused by that gruesome death, there was a certain lucidity in her eyes which dumbfounded him even after so many years of having known her.
In many ways, Saela was much like Yova: they were both young and reckless, both skilled in battle and with an ardent passion and loyalty in their hearts.
Pressured by time, Lixander no longer desired to tarry around. He picked himself up and followed the path described by the wooden footbridge, rendered slippery by the hectic, restless sea, and waited for his chiefs to climb aboard first before he did. Even if he died on the mainlands, he did not wish to look back, lest he turned around and left for his sweet Yova. 'No, for the sake of my King. I shall fight and die, and Yova will live a good, perhaps better life without me to irk her every day.'
~*~
The stallion's hooves jarred against the ground, sputtering drips of dampened soil and dried leaves behind it. Thunders were booming above the forest in the black veil of clouds, here and then lightened by strikes of lightning. And as the sky pearled and roared its rage away, as if reflecting mankind's pain and suffering like a mirror, the ground shuddered with it, relentlessly disturbing the serenity of the night. Nature itself was urging her to move, to fight, to breathe, and yet she was too far away for the noise to reach her anymore, secluded behind a wall of glass, gradually cracking the deeper she delved into the woods.
One arrow slung past Lilith's ear, whistling as it did, but the tremor of the sound blended in with the murmur of the storm. The air was tepid, wet, and her fingers felt slippery around the leather reins. They had chafed the skin of her palms, the stinging sensation burning through her fingers as she tightened her grip around them. She could not allow herself to fall from the back of her mount, even as the blanket she had set beneath the saddle was beginning to glide off. No, she ought to keep herself steady, and so she pressed her calves against its sides and, giving the horse a slight kick in the ribs, she urged it to dash faster through the crackling trees.
When she turned her head to peek behind, a second arrow teased her hair, so close to her lips she could almost feel the taste of metal. She could no longer see the whole convoy of silver and crimson leather, but merely two riders who did not appear to have noticed the absence of the rest of the group. Each time another lightning struck through the clouds, it was bright enough to trace the contour of their faces. There was no banner on their chest, no banner on their capes, nor on the hilts of their weapons that she could distinguish in the night. One of them wielded a bow, whilst the other swung his long blade each time she took a turn to the side, her momentum shrinking the already narrow space between them.
The third arrow was the closest call; whirring past her face, it slashed her cheek open and arched down into the ground before her. Lilith shouted, scourged flesh tightening and dripping a thick, viscid liquid into her mouth. Her stallion whined and hampered, then hurled even faster through the dark silhouettes. She heard the echo of a flaccid laughter behind her, or perhaps another command urging her to stop which she would not listen. Their voices, even as they were slowly fading in the night, overshadowed by the turmoil of thunder and wind, were still vibrating through her, threatening to draw closer if she only tried to catch her breath. If her horse stumbled and broke its joints. If the clouds, encumbered with rain, unleashed their wrath upon her and the horse staggered, too frightened to go on.
When the storm started, raining down heavily upon her shoulders, the voices behind her vanished, leaving only the sound of hooves hitting the earth to ring in her ears and cover the rumbling skies. It was only then that her body recovered and she could once again feel, a tremor striking through her as if mimicking the lightings above her head. Her cheek was pulsating and she was almost certain that the arrow had cut through to the bone. 'It could have been worse,' she thought then, partly glad that she then knew how to do so; after all, she was only left with herself. 'One inch away, and it would have thrusted through my head.'
However, the stallion did not stop to brood, as it kept dashing forward through the bushes in a direction only known to itself. Over the rustling of the dried leaves beneath them, Lilith struggled to listen for any sign that her followers had not truly lost her trace. They might find the hooves printed into the ground in the morning, if the rain did not soften the soil, but she doubted they would make the effort to wait. Even if they could not have been running for long, it had felt like a lifetime.
Perhaps this was what death felt like: fear, dread, pain and turmoil tormenting one's thoughts until they went insane. The feeling of slowly slipping away and losing track of time. She could not imagine what her father must have felt as he lay gushing blood from between his lips, or as her sisters' last breaths melted into the noose around their neck and they counted the seconds until they passed to the Gods.
But, of course, she was alive. Still breathing, yet in pain and far away from the road she had been following for weeks then. She knew had to find the river that surged through the forest, although she could not wait and listen for its murmur. That night, unforgiving and ominous, demanded she stay within the shelter of the looming trees, whilst her rationality, whatever was left of it, fought to stop her tears from spilling and begged her to find the strength to keep going.
She only let go when she knew she was no longer being followed. It could have been a few minutes or two turns of the clock, but as soon as her horse, frail and hoary, deemed its ambit safe enough to slacken its pace, Lilith buried her face in its mane and let out a quieted whimper, and whispered a prayer from the tip of her tongue.
By the time the sun had come out through the sorrel leaves that morning, the sky had cleared out in patches, still stained with crimson but otherwise of a bright white that kissed the forest ground. The trees were scarce in that part of the forest, a sign that not too far away it would open into a wide field. Through that day, the memories of the last faded from Lilith's mind; she reconciled with the fact that it had been a terrible dream, and the path she was following atop her horse was her only salvation from the cage of her thoughts.
The pain did not leave her cheek completely, but only faded slightly as the brisk breeze dried the blood around it. She doused the burn every now and then with water, and whenever she found herself thirsty, she made a turn for the river bend and refilled her flask. It was only when the river hunched away from her path that she tried to ignore the pain and reused the warm cloth in favour of time.
The afternoon sky was even brighter, incarnadine like a wound, as if the red of the field speckled with poppy flowers reflected into its crimson pool. Lilith could almost hear her father's words - a sunset drowned in fire meant that somewhere that day, blood had been spilled. It did not take long for Lilith to realise where she was, as in the distance loomed the dark shape of a tavern, an inn at the crossroads, which Ser Erik had said was halfway to Ashpyke, give or take. She would have shaved off a day by circling the forest, and perhaps her head as well, so for a brief moment, she was thankful to the Gods for showing her the way.
She pulled the hood over her head and bent down. "On we go, boy," the girl purled near its ear and let go of the reins to wrap her arms around its neck. She was still too tired to walk, barely alive enough to speak, but the sound of her own voice was what kept her sane.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The journey from the islands of Heileanan to the mainlands was not as leisurely as the weather had promised on the day of their departure. Lixander was not a sailor, and nor was he an adept of the seas, but frankly, he could not complain too much about the conditions they had faced on the old nave.
Traveling with the King himself, things were a tad better than on other ships, where he'd heard his comrades had slept in rooms of ten. He did not enjoy cramped spaces, yet the warmth of one had been greatly missed. The cozy crackling fire of a serried chamber, the smell of winter and bitter taste of smoke. The memory of his times with Yova were still vividly haunting his thoughts.
For a good while, he could still see the tall cliffs of his homeland looming in the distance, as if peeking over the clouds to bid their late farewells. It was only when they stuck their feet in dry soil that the dream of home vanished and he was awakened by the scourging reality. Lixander's heart ached, but he forced himself to fight the urge to think of home and regain his poise. Embrace the lighter aspects of their excursion - the winds were not as cold and humid as those back home, and there was something about the blood red sunsets that gave him a thrilling sense of disquietude.
The way South had not appeared as long on the maps as it felt. They passed long, dark forests and cut over pearling rivers, rested in low plains perfumed by vibrant poppies, until the Northern hillock appeared in the close distance. Every morning, they had a hearty breakfast for each consisting of salted jerky and a fist of baked potatoes; they did not eat again until the evening, when they finally got to rest after a day of swift pacing and an inebriating breath of sickeningly sweet flowers, before they recommenced their routine early in the morning of the following day.
Momentarily, their hearts were light and ill thoughts did not seem to have reached them. Even as they approached the inn at the Crossroads, none of them seemed phased by the fact that they had almost reached their first destination – only the Gods knew what was on King Rondulin's mind, save himself, and perhaps Lady Saela, with whom the man shared anything and everything under the sun.
A smirk of pleasured stretched his lips from one ear to the other at the noble's tease, which Lixander took with an open heart. He was not the only one to enjoy the company of women, nonetheless after weeks of traveling. It could have been a month for all he knew, and not even before that had he enjoyed the privilege of a comfortable bed and a pale flesh to grip on at night. "I shall not be the only one to feast upon flesh and meat tonight, my King," the man laughed out loud, his chest heaving as he took in the scent of food and alcohol even from so far away. "And certainly not the only one who desires it, if I may say. You are young, my King, but growing old just as fast as the rest of us are."
"The King will not happen upon his Queen in an inn, Ser." The comment of derision belonged to Milena Morge, a woman half his size but as sturdy as a trunk. One would lie if he said the woman had ever been seen in the company of a man. She was not particularly beautiful, and as robust as a fighter of her standards was, he feared for that who tried to slip underneath her sheets at night. "War is not a time for romance."
'Sleeping with a promiscuous woman ain't the same as loving one.' Lixander chuckled lightly but decided against voicing his thoughts. No, he would never love another woman again. He had Yla, dead as she was, in the arms of the Gods, and none alike her. He would die on his own, with Yova or in war, never of old age as his coward of a father had. He desired to live a fulfilling life and die fighting. If someone ever poisoned him, he thought, he'd draw his sword and fight him, and pull on his strings until he fell in battle not throttled by a drop of venom in his rum.
From the chimney of the inn rose up thick veil of black smoke, carrying away the scent of home. The inn itself was not nearly as small as one would see in a village, but thrice that size, plated with dark wood and small, stained glass that pictured the sigil of each House of the nearby lands. Old as it was, the window that depicted the emblem of House Varhart was still there, even if it was to be wiped from the face of their lands soon enough. 'Stupid Benjamin,' he had pushed Lixander away, and following his dismissal had come the King's death before he got the chance to bear other children.
Three girls. 'Yet two of them dead, and one of them thought to be so.' A curse and nothing less, for the Gods always made sure to kill one by the hands of their worst fear.
He did not seem to be the only one longing for rest then, even as the night was young. Days were shorter then, as they were approaching Winter, and so their appetite for sleep crawled deeper through their veins. At Lady Saela's silent bidding, the old knight allowed these thoughts to fade from his mind as he stepped into the modestly mighty hall warmed by fire.
~*~
The winds of Winter did not whisper through the halls of the inn at the Crossroads; after weeks spent under the freezing shroud of nature, Lilith was pleasantly surprised by the warmth engulfing her so easily. It pecked at the dainty skin of her cheeks and crawled beneath her clothes like tendrils of love. There was no lobby at the entrance; instead, the tired traveler was welcomed by the sight of a long and tall room, mostly lightened by a gleaming hearth and the light of the moon that managed to peek through the stained glass windows. From where she stood, she discerned the sigils of House Voltunn and Baering, whilst the others were covered by tall silhouettes moving around the place.
A large number of tables were scattered around the room, surrounding the stairway that lead to the private apartments, and the counter where a couple of ladies were receiving their payment for a round of foaming drinks. There were more chairs than one table could provide for, most of them not even matching the rest, as they must have been brought from above to meet the needs of the tumultuous travelers.
Still, Lilith was too exhausted to care for such details then. Barely breathing and having crawled her way inside, she hardly remembered whether she had given her horse away to groom or simply planted it outside the door. The voices of those around her, reverberating through the thick wood plated walls, mixed together in an ambiguous amalgam of laughter and chatter. She spotted one table set to the side, near some leather bags and bulky luggage, with a small tree trunk instead of a chair underneath it, which she targeted as she made her way through the room, absconding beneath the dark woven veil.
"A drink, dear?"
"Hmmm?
"A drink?"
Lilith's eyes shot up to the woman that had come next to her, leaning against the table and giving her a lambent sneer. She was wearing a low cut dress, clamped around the middle with a tight leather girdle; her fingers, slender and thin, curved subtly around the pouch the girl had set on her table, as if asking if she had the silver to pay for her drink. As soon as the stormy pools met the warm, chocolate orbs of the damsel, she retracted her hand and repeated the question, visibly startled by the appearance of the stranger before her. "A drink. Something to eat. I ain't waiting all day here for you, honey." She gave her a nervous smile, "Unless you have the lucre to pay for it, of course."
"A goblet o'wine," she nodded, forcing herself to mimic the common dialect, and she took out a fist of nickels. "And a plate of everything." She could not hunt, nor could she embitter herself enough to steal. Whatever was brought to her, she would accept it and take the remainder along with her to have for later.
"It'll take a while," the woman shrugged. "Got a lot of those to serve," she gestured towards the heaping tables, "but I ain't giving you any warm for that." Her eyes shot to the nickels, counting them, then she dusted them into her palm and left with the small treasure in the pocket of her dress.
And it did not take too long until she returned with the wooden tray, or at least to Lilith, time no longer felt like something palpable. It was the scent of fresh food that awakened her from her watchful slumber, and as it was set on the table, her cobwebbed eyes cleared themselves enough for her to engulf her modest feast: hard cheese, sour and salted plenteously, toasted garlic bread, lavishly covered in steaming butter, pieces of bear and beef jerky, dried and coated with basil and thyme, and a small jar filled to the rim with berry jam, sweetened even more with a spoonful of syrup. Cast aside was a goblet of mulled wine, spiced with cinnamon and clove, so heavily that her nostrils stung pleasantly as she took in the warm air imbued with its aroma.
Still, there was something about the crowd that set her heart on fire. She was uneasy. Outside, she could hear horses whine and whimper, whilst those tendrils of heat, not long before soothing, cumbered the air with a weight that barely allowed her to swallow. Lilith was starving, however, and she did force her attention upon the tray, yet to her side, she could feel a pair of vigilant orbs holding her down, crawling through the dark hood that covered her bruised flesh to seek a new face. A new name, or perchance one they had known all along. And they did not leave her, not as those lips passed a trill of laughter, not as his movements disturbed the vehement clamor with a graze of the varnished floor.
So far away from home, one would have thought their identity was well lost along their path forth.
Traveling with the King himself, things were a tad better than on other ships, where he'd heard his comrades had slept in rooms of ten. He did not enjoy cramped spaces, yet the warmth of one had been greatly missed. The cozy crackling fire of a serried chamber, the smell of winter and bitter taste of smoke. The memory of his times with Yova were still vividly haunting his thoughts.
For a good while, he could still see the tall cliffs of his homeland looming in the distance, as if peeking over the clouds to bid their late farewells. It was only when they stuck their feet in dry soil that the dream of home vanished and he was awakened by the scourging reality. Lixander's heart ached, but he forced himself to fight the urge to think of home and regain his poise. Embrace the lighter aspects of their excursion - the winds were not as cold and humid as those back home, and there was something about the blood red sunsets that gave him a thrilling sense of disquietude.
The way South had not appeared as long on the maps as it felt. They passed long, dark forests and cut over pearling rivers, rested in low plains perfumed by vibrant poppies, until the Northern hillock appeared in the close distance. Every morning, they had a hearty breakfast for each consisting of salted jerky and a fist of baked potatoes; they did not eat again until the evening, when they finally got to rest after a day of swift pacing and an inebriating breath of sickeningly sweet flowers, before they recommenced their routine early in the morning of the following day.
Momentarily, their hearts were light and ill thoughts did not seem to have reached them. Even as they approached the inn at the Crossroads, none of them seemed phased by the fact that they had almost reached their first destination – only the Gods knew what was on King Rondulin's mind, save himself, and perhaps Lady Saela, with whom the man shared anything and everything under the sun.
A smirk of pleasured stretched his lips from one ear to the other at the noble's tease, which Lixander took with an open heart. He was not the only one to enjoy the company of women, nonetheless after weeks of traveling. It could have been a month for all he knew, and not even before that had he enjoyed the privilege of a comfortable bed and a pale flesh to grip on at night. "I shall not be the only one to feast upon flesh and meat tonight, my King," the man laughed out loud, his chest heaving as he took in the scent of food and alcohol even from so far away. "And certainly not the only one who desires it, if I may say. You are young, my King, but growing old just as fast as the rest of us are."
"The King will not happen upon his Queen in an inn, Ser." The comment of derision belonged to Milena Morge, a woman half his size but as sturdy as a trunk. One would lie if he said the woman had ever been seen in the company of a man. She was not particularly beautiful, and as robust as a fighter of her standards was, he feared for that who tried to slip underneath her sheets at night. "War is not a time for romance."
'Sleeping with a promiscuous woman ain't the same as loving one.' Lixander chuckled lightly but decided against voicing his thoughts. No, he would never love another woman again. He had Yla, dead as she was, in the arms of the Gods, and none alike her. He would die on his own, with Yova or in war, never of old age as his coward of a father had. He desired to live a fulfilling life and die fighting. If someone ever poisoned him, he thought, he'd draw his sword and fight him, and pull on his strings until he fell in battle not throttled by a drop of venom in his rum.
From the chimney of the inn rose up thick veil of black smoke, carrying away the scent of home. The inn itself was not nearly as small as one would see in a village, but thrice that size, plated with dark wood and small, stained glass that pictured the sigil of each House of the nearby lands. Old as it was, the window that depicted the emblem of House Varhart was still there, even if it was to be wiped from the face of their lands soon enough. 'Stupid Benjamin,' he had pushed Lixander away, and following his dismissal had come the King's death before he got the chance to bear other children.
Three girls. 'Yet two of them dead, and one of them thought to be so.' A curse and nothing less, for the Gods always made sure to kill one by the hands of their worst fear.
He did not seem to be the only one longing for rest then, even as the night was young. Days were shorter then, as they were approaching Winter, and so their appetite for sleep crawled deeper through their veins. At Lady Saela's silent bidding, the old knight allowed these thoughts to fade from his mind as he stepped into the modestly mighty hall warmed by fire.
~*~
The winds of Winter did not whisper through the halls of the inn at the Crossroads; after weeks spent under the freezing shroud of nature, Lilith was pleasantly surprised by the warmth engulfing her so easily. It pecked at the dainty skin of her cheeks and crawled beneath her clothes like tendrils of love. There was no lobby at the entrance; instead, the tired traveler was welcomed by the sight of a long and tall room, mostly lightened by a gleaming hearth and the light of the moon that managed to peek through the stained glass windows. From where she stood, she discerned the sigils of House Voltunn and Baering, whilst the others were covered by tall silhouettes moving around the place.
A large number of tables were scattered around the room, surrounding the stairway that lead to the private apartments, and the counter where a couple of ladies were receiving their payment for a round of foaming drinks. There were more chairs than one table could provide for, most of them not even matching the rest, as they must have been brought from above to meet the needs of the tumultuous travelers.
Still, Lilith was too exhausted to care for such details then. Barely breathing and having crawled her way inside, she hardly remembered whether she had given her horse away to groom or simply planted it outside the door. The voices of those around her, reverberating through the thick wood plated walls, mixed together in an ambiguous amalgam of laughter and chatter. She spotted one table set to the side, near some leather bags and bulky luggage, with a small tree trunk instead of a chair underneath it, which she targeted as she made her way through the room, absconding beneath the dark woven veil.
"A drink, dear?"
"Hmmm?
"A drink?"
Lilith's eyes shot up to the woman that had come next to her, leaning against the table and giving her a lambent sneer. She was wearing a low cut dress, clamped around the middle with a tight leather girdle; her fingers, slender and thin, curved subtly around the pouch the girl had set on her table, as if asking if she had the silver to pay for her drink. As soon as the stormy pools met the warm, chocolate orbs of the damsel, she retracted her hand and repeated the question, visibly startled by the appearance of the stranger before her. "A drink. Something to eat. I ain't waiting all day here for you, honey." She gave her a nervous smile, "Unless you have the lucre to pay for it, of course."
"A goblet o'wine," she nodded, forcing herself to mimic the common dialect, and she took out a fist of nickels. "And a plate of everything." She could not hunt, nor could she embitter herself enough to steal. Whatever was brought to her, she would accept it and take the remainder along with her to have for later.
"It'll take a while," the woman shrugged. "Got a lot of those to serve," she gestured towards the heaping tables, "but I ain't giving you any warm for that." Her eyes shot to the nickels, counting them, then she dusted them into her palm and left with the small treasure in the pocket of her dress.
And it did not take too long until she returned with the wooden tray, or at least to Lilith, time no longer felt like something palpable. It was the scent of fresh food that awakened her from her watchful slumber, and as it was set on the table, her cobwebbed eyes cleared themselves enough for her to engulf her modest feast: hard cheese, sour and salted plenteously, toasted garlic bread, lavishly covered in steaming butter, pieces of bear and beef jerky, dried and coated with basil and thyme, and a small jar filled to the rim with berry jam, sweetened even more with a spoonful of syrup. Cast aside was a goblet of mulled wine, spiced with cinnamon and clove, so heavily that her nostrils stung pleasantly as she took in the warm air imbued with its aroma.
Still, there was something about the crowd that set her heart on fire. She was uneasy. Outside, she could hear horses whine and whimper, whilst those tendrils of heat, not long before soothing, cumbered the air with a weight that barely allowed her to swallow. Lilith was starving, however, and she did force her attention upon the tray, yet to her side, she could feel a pair of vigilant orbs holding her down, crawling through the dark hood that covered her bruised flesh to seek a new face. A new name, or perchance one they had known all along. And they did not leave her, not as those lips passed a trill of laughter, not as his movements disturbed the vehement clamor with a graze of the varnished floor.
So far away from home, one would have thought their identity was well lost along their path forth.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Lixander's eyes fixated the girl with a gleaming curiosity: there were many women in King Rondulin's party, some of them even enjoying the warmth of the inn then, but the stranger was nothing like her, partly because she looked far more like a woman than any of those present. Underneath the woven cape that draped in a cascade over her shoulders, she bore a small, narrow figure, even smaller than Yova's, with hands as pale as freshly fallen snow. From beneath the black veil cascaded tangled locks of umber brown hair, which almost flawlessly concealed a pair of stormy orbs of blue, keyed and frightened as they scoured the dimly lit hall.
Not even as the innkeeper skipped her way to them with a round of drinks did the knight look away. Near him, to his side, progressed a conversation regarding flesh and pleasures which, strangely enough, no longer interested him. He heart Milena scoff at his absence, blowing away some of the foam that had formed on the rim of her pint of beer and onto the table.
"You ain't just going to stare, are you, Xander?" the woman said, not even making an effort to hide the smirk that was pulling at her lips. Then, she turned to the innkeeper, patting her belly like an insatiable drunkard: "Sour cheese and meat of the freshest you've got, and a good goblet of wine for the King!"
"The King?" the lady purred from the tip of her tongue, as if she were blissfully oblivious to whom she was hosting that night. Not that she cared - foreigners could call whoever they wished by the title of 'King', for whoever's respect or fear they carried in their hearts, and the harlot would too, given proper payment pops into the pocket of her bountiful chest.
But Lixander did not linger around to listen more; he was hungry, yet that hunger was nothing compared to his curiosity. In weeks of riding and inane chatter, nothing had taken him by surprise. Of course, he could be wrong - he was tired and his mind could only be playing games. It had happened before, whenever he left Yova, he became paranoid and created foolish scenarios in his head that often made him return home to check on the young girl. 'But this is not Yova.' No, he had left the thought of her behind, dropped it into the foaming sea. It did him better than to worry mawkishly over such things.
It took him long more than just a moment to reach across the hall, partly because there were so many fluttering their arms and legs around that one could barely throw a needle onto the floor, nevertheless hope to salvage it. In the turmoil of smoke and haze, his eyes remained locked on the woven vestment that stood out from the deep blue shades of House Eldskar's capes. He drew close enough and, pulling a chair from beneath the bottom of another, took a seat across from the girl, planting his elbows on the table. For a moment, he could hear his own thoughts in the short blink of silence that followed at his daring, which amplified the screeching of the bruised chair against the hardwood floor. The girl lifted her eyes, partly in curiosity, partly in fear, and as the noise resumed its flow, the knight lifted a hand towards her.
"Forgive me. I have not come to hurt you," or, perhaps, he would. He had not had any drinks, and he sometimes acted far more peppery when he was sober. "You alone girl," he added, forcing himself not to look her straight in the eye as she fixated him. When she lowered her gaze, his lifted and fell on the round features she seemed to have stolen from a man he had known before. Certainly, sans the gash across her cheek. "You seem hungry. This what you're eating?"
No answer followed. She stretched out an arm from beneath the safety of her shrouds, picked up a piece of cheese and brought it to her lips. Lixander pursed his lips.
"How come you are alone, eh? No one takes this road alone. It's not for merchants, nor is it for children." She looked young. Hiding behind that layer of dirt, he saw sweet dewy flesh and eyes as bright as a babe's. "How old are you?"
Chewing the piece of cheese, the girl reached for something underneath the table. She was not shaking, nor wavering - there was a certain stoutness to her that surprised him: she had not fallen away at the sight of such a large group, which meant that she was either too tired to noticed the mountain lion hunting her in plain sight, or she was stupid enough to make Benjamin Varhart proud. Whichever one it was, she now regretted it. Lixander could smell and taste fear on his lips - it was there, pulsating, the warmer the air between them got, and as Milena urged him to come feast upon the freshly roasted rooster and cold beer, he pulled himself up and leaned over the table.
"I know who you are," he murmured, barely parting his lips. The little flower tensed and ceased her motion. "No need to stab me. I won't tell them shit. For now, however..." There was a knife underneath that table and it did not take too much wit to realise that. The knight canted his head to the side, watching her placidly. "You are a long way from home. Do you know who we are?"
Dread. It was there, in her eyes, as if she were looking at a rotting body, not a living man. A part of him was hopeful; if it was indeed the daughter of Benjamin Varhart, then he had no intention to scare her away, nor was it to cause a fuss about. Milena could never shut her mouth and King Rondulin was mistrustful most of the time. He could already feel their eyes locked on them, and perhaps the wheels in their minds were already beginning to turn. It was indeed something quaint when Lixander was not being straightforward with a woman. Especially when given the permission to be so.
The poppy blinked slowly and broke her eyes away from the tray of food. "You are not sworn to Lord Rogerus, that I know," she returned blankly. "You would not have wavered." No, he would have stricken like a snake, biting at her throat. She doubted Rogerus wanted her alive any longer. Following her death, not a soul would dare to oppose his enactment. "I know you have called one of yours a King... Many lands choose a leader. Many leaders are only that - leaders, not Kings. They name themselves and often fall with the name in their pockets, never etched in a golden crown." It was how Edonn had done - or, at least, what she had heard of him from the servants who did not care for the integrity of their bodies.
"Rondulin," Lixander asserted, loud enough to be heard from the King's table, moving his finger around the rim of the goblet. The name, bare of a title before it, rung queer in his ears. The girl's cheeks were florid, as she had been drinking, and for that he wanted her awake. "Lord Varhart's daughters were lettered and studied," as if he did not know who was before him. Lilith was a ghost of those girls. The middle child was often disregarded. He had been a middle child and suffered a similar fate to the poor girl's.
The name seemed to spark the hint of a flame in her eyes. She straightened her back and turned to look over to the table, where some eyes had already turned towards her. "Lord Eldskar was never an ally of my father. He remained idle during the war," but now that the good was over, they sought to replenish the slots of their interests, left hollow by the Moirnes.
Regardless, the mistake had been made: Lilith was no longer protected by solitude, but surrounded by wolves, and she was clever enough to understand that she could not slide out of their grip so easily. With her father's death, she had become but a tool, and a tool she was then, a treasure, moreso, as they all watched her with an inextinguishable appetency. She closed her eyes, blinked quickly and turned her head back in an effort to hide behind the veil once more. 'Stupid,' she thought to herself. 'Puerile.' But she was hurt and tired. Starving and covered in mud.
It was either that, or death, and she had a feeling the peregrine would not allow her a choice.
Not even as the innkeeper skipped her way to them with a round of drinks did the knight look away. Near him, to his side, progressed a conversation regarding flesh and pleasures which, strangely enough, no longer interested him. He heart Milena scoff at his absence, blowing away some of the foam that had formed on the rim of her pint of beer and onto the table.
"You ain't just going to stare, are you, Xander?" the woman said, not even making an effort to hide the smirk that was pulling at her lips. Then, she turned to the innkeeper, patting her belly like an insatiable drunkard: "Sour cheese and meat of the freshest you've got, and a good goblet of wine for the King!"
"The King?" the lady purred from the tip of her tongue, as if she were blissfully oblivious to whom she was hosting that night. Not that she cared - foreigners could call whoever they wished by the title of 'King', for whoever's respect or fear they carried in their hearts, and the harlot would too, given proper payment pops into the pocket of her bountiful chest.
But Lixander did not linger around to listen more; he was hungry, yet that hunger was nothing compared to his curiosity. In weeks of riding and inane chatter, nothing had taken him by surprise. Of course, he could be wrong - he was tired and his mind could only be playing games. It had happened before, whenever he left Yova, he became paranoid and created foolish scenarios in his head that often made him return home to check on the young girl. 'But this is not Yova.' No, he had left the thought of her behind, dropped it into the foaming sea. It did him better than to worry mawkishly over such things.
It took him long more than just a moment to reach across the hall, partly because there were so many fluttering their arms and legs around that one could barely throw a needle onto the floor, nevertheless hope to salvage it. In the turmoil of smoke and haze, his eyes remained locked on the woven vestment that stood out from the deep blue shades of House Eldskar's capes. He drew close enough and, pulling a chair from beneath the bottom of another, took a seat across from the girl, planting his elbows on the table. For a moment, he could hear his own thoughts in the short blink of silence that followed at his daring, which amplified the screeching of the bruised chair against the hardwood floor. The girl lifted her eyes, partly in curiosity, partly in fear, and as the noise resumed its flow, the knight lifted a hand towards her.
"Forgive me. I have not come to hurt you," or, perhaps, he would. He had not had any drinks, and he sometimes acted far more peppery when he was sober. "You alone girl," he added, forcing himself not to look her straight in the eye as she fixated him. When she lowered her gaze, his lifted and fell on the round features she seemed to have stolen from a man he had known before. Certainly, sans the gash across her cheek. "You seem hungry. This what you're eating?"
No answer followed. She stretched out an arm from beneath the safety of her shrouds, picked up a piece of cheese and brought it to her lips. Lixander pursed his lips.
"How come you are alone, eh? No one takes this road alone. It's not for merchants, nor is it for children." She looked young. Hiding behind that layer of dirt, he saw sweet dewy flesh and eyes as bright as a babe's. "How old are you?"
Chewing the piece of cheese, the girl reached for something underneath the table. She was not shaking, nor wavering - there was a certain stoutness to her that surprised him: she had not fallen away at the sight of such a large group, which meant that she was either too tired to noticed the mountain lion hunting her in plain sight, or she was stupid enough to make Benjamin Varhart proud. Whichever one it was, she now regretted it. Lixander could smell and taste fear on his lips - it was there, pulsating, the warmer the air between them got, and as Milena urged him to come feast upon the freshly roasted rooster and cold beer, he pulled himself up and leaned over the table.
"I know who you are," he murmured, barely parting his lips. The little flower tensed and ceased her motion. "No need to stab me. I won't tell them shit. For now, however..." There was a knife underneath that table and it did not take too much wit to realise that. The knight canted his head to the side, watching her placidly. "You are a long way from home. Do you know who we are?"
Dread. It was there, in her eyes, as if she were looking at a rotting body, not a living man. A part of him was hopeful; if it was indeed the daughter of Benjamin Varhart, then he had no intention to scare her away, nor was it to cause a fuss about. Milena could never shut her mouth and King Rondulin was mistrustful most of the time. He could already feel their eyes locked on them, and perhaps the wheels in their minds were already beginning to turn. It was indeed something quaint when Lixander was not being straightforward with a woman. Especially when given the permission to be so.
The poppy blinked slowly and broke her eyes away from the tray of food. "You are not sworn to Lord Rogerus, that I know," she returned blankly. "You would not have wavered." No, he would have stricken like a snake, biting at her throat. She doubted Rogerus wanted her alive any longer. Following her death, not a soul would dare to oppose his enactment. "I know you have called one of yours a King... Many lands choose a leader. Many leaders are only that - leaders, not Kings. They name themselves and often fall with the name in their pockets, never etched in a golden crown." It was how Edonn had done - or, at least, what she had heard of him from the servants who did not care for the integrity of their bodies.
"Rondulin," Lixander asserted, loud enough to be heard from the King's table, moving his finger around the rim of the goblet. The name, bare of a title before it, rung queer in his ears. The girl's cheeks were florid, as she had been drinking, and for that he wanted her awake. "Lord Varhart's daughters were lettered and studied," as if he did not know who was before him. Lilith was a ghost of those girls. The middle child was often disregarded. He had been a middle child and suffered a similar fate to the poor girl's.
The name seemed to spark the hint of a flame in her eyes. She straightened her back and turned to look over to the table, where some eyes had already turned towards her. "Lord Eldskar was never an ally of my father. He remained idle during the war," but now that the good was over, they sought to replenish the slots of their interests, left hollow by the Moirnes.
Regardless, the mistake had been made: Lilith was no longer protected by solitude, but surrounded by wolves, and she was clever enough to understand that she could not slide out of their grip so easily. With her father's death, she had become but a tool, and a tool she was then, a treasure, moreso, as they all watched her with an inextinguishable appetency. She closed her eyes, blinked quickly and turned her head back in an effort to hide behind the veil once more. 'Stupid,' she thought to herself. 'Puerile.' But she was hurt and tired. Starving and covered in mud.
It was either that, or death, and she had a feeling the peregrine would not allow her a choice.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Lixander had not thought his conversation would have gone disregarded by the King; frankly, he wanted both him and Saela to notice his prey, rather than to break his promise of keeping their encounter a momentary secret. He could plainly see the panic etched in her blue pools, as if she could peek into the depths of his thoughts to read his intentions. There was no cowardice in her wavering, however, only caution, which at least told him that she was not as stupid as their circumstances made her appear.
How could one, followed and searched for by many, find the courage to step into such a place without the fear of being caught? Without the spare thought that their plan might find its dead end? Perhaps that was what she sought - an easy way to return to that hell of a place. If the tragedies had driven her mad enough...
As the Lord rose from his seat, his chair scraping the polished floor, the tavern went silent once more. His eyes darted to his right where he caught the sight of Milena tensing, tightening her grip around her pint of foaming beer, but he did not turn his head from the girl. No, he did not believe she would run - there were far too many armoured men in the room for her to escape so easily, be it with a slim figure - but his King's nerves were stretched, so Lixander would pretend he had not seen or heard him come their way.
It was his voice that broke the knight's composure and, letting go of the pleasant sight before him, he let his gaze fall on the chiseled marble statue that fixated him with an undisguised petulance. Lilith, with her pale cheek hidden behind his hair, lowered her head to analyse the scratched surface of the table, as if looking away made her vanish.
And, for a moment, she truly did. Lixander's attention was seized by his King then, as he parted his lips to anoint his worries. "Your Grace," he canted his head, "I do believe we've found ourselves a treasure, which does not lie in the arms of one of those damsels," not that it would disappoint him. He had not seemed the least intrigued by those harlots, not so long as Saela was around to keep his mind engaged. "I assume you do remember my past service to King Benjamin... Former, that is." None would forget it. He had been exiled by his hand, and allowed back with the dawn following his death, but he had not been in the Capital or the mainlands ever since.
Now, perhaps, it did not hurt to break the will of a dead man.
The poppy, cowered in her seat, lifted her stormy orbs to rain upon the pert knight. Then, finding the strength to impose herself, she turned her head to look at the presumed King. The face that met her, however, was nothing close to what his voice had heralded: the snow of the Northern Islands was imprinted in his skin, like pale limestone, frozen wherever it was not shadowed by his dark beard; the warmth in his voice reflected in his eyes, but burnt her, as if they scoured and dug through her flesh to find answers to the questions he had not yet voiced that rested on his lurid lips.
Behind him, Lilith could discern the dark features of a foreign woman who looked strangely much like her sweet Victoria, but darker of skin and as swift as a sprig. Beneath such bulky armour, perhaps all of those in Lord Eldskar's party were narrow of figure, but right then, their appearance was peremptory and threatening.
Eventually, Lixander rose from his chair across from Lilith's trunk and propped his palms against the table. He was too tall to lean straight, so he bent over the table, eyes darting from his leader to the prey he had circled and cornered. "She has been missing for over a month now," the man lowered his voice so that only those in his vicinity could hear it. His tone was lenient, like a priest to whom she had been confessing, even if her words had only been accusatory to his major. "All the way from White Rock to the roots of those old knolls... Frightened. Perhaps with a good motive, but frightened either way."
"I am not a child," Lilith's lips parted from behind the veil, "and nor am I frightened." She did not dare stand up, lest she was recognised by anyone else. 'Does it matter either way?' No. She was already a captive, given the Lord of Heileanan bid she was free to go her way, which she doubted. "I know my path."
"To death? Certainly." Lixander's eyes narrowed - he did not take pleasure in seeing others struggle, partly because he had struggled himself. But she was a woman, and not at all one like Saela, he saw it: frail and gentle, one to be either protected or lusted after. If anyone dared to eye the King's beloved in a filthy way, they'd be left without a couple of limbs.
The girl shuddered, but tried to keep her head up, fixating the insolent knight as if he were the most vile of creatures. Beneath those layers of clothes, her heart was beating rapidly, pounding against her chest like a drum. Without a doubt, he thought her insane and inapt, even if she had managed to survive all the way there. His King, however, had an expression she could not read. It was much like a closed book in that way, cold and untouched, but the ghost of his vivacity reflected in his dark pools, vibrated with her words, as if the thought of his freshly caught prey roused him.
How could one, followed and searched for by many, find the courage to step into such a place without the fear of being caught? Without the spare thought that their plan might find its dead end? Perhaps that was what she sought - an easy way to return to that hell of a place. If the tragedies had driven her mad enough...
As the Lord rose from his seat, his chair scraping the polished floor, the tavern went silent once more. His eyes darted to his right where he caught the sight of Milena tensing, tightening her grip around her pint of foaming beer, but he did not turn his head from the girl. No, he did not believe she would run - there were far too many armoured men in the room for her to escape so easily, be it with a slim figure - but his King's nerves were stretched, so Lixander would pretend he had not seen or heard him come their way.
It was his voice that broke the knight's composure and, letting go of the pleasant sight before him, he let his gaze fall on the chiseled marble statue that fixated him with an undisguised petulance. Lilith, with her pale cheek hidden behind his hair, lowered her head to analyse the scratched surface of the table, as if looking away made her vanish.
And, for a moment, she truly did. Lixander's attention was seized by his King then, as he parted his lips to anoint his worries. "Your Grace," he canted his head, "I do believe we've found ourselves a treasure, which does not lie in the arms of one of those damsels," not that it would disappoint him. He had not seemed the least intrigued by those harlots, not so long as Saela was around to keep his mind engaged. "I assume you do remember my past service to King Benjamin... Former, that is." None would forget it. He had been exiled by his hand, and allowed back with the dawn following his death, but he had not been in the Capital or the mainlands ever since.
Now, perhaps, it did not hurt to break the will of a dead man.
The poppy, cowered in her seat, lifted her stormy orbs to rain upon the pert knight. Then, finding the strength to impose herself, she turned her head to look at the presumed King. The face that met her, however, was nothing close to what his voice had heralded: the snow of the Northern Islands was imprinted in his skin, like pale limestone, frozen wherever it was not shadowed by his dark beard; the warmth in his voice reflected in his eyes, but burnt her, as if they scoured and dug through her flesh to find answers to the questions he had not yet voiced that rested on his lurid lips.
Behind him, Lilith could discern the dark features of a foreign woman who looked strangely much like her sweet Victoria, but darker of skin and as swift as a sprig. Beneath such bulky armour, perhaps all of those in Lord Eldskar's party were narrow of figure, but right then, their appearance was peremptory and threatening.
Eventually, Lixander rose from his chair across from Lilith's trunk and propped his palms against the table. He was too tall to lean straight, so he bent over the table, eyes darting from his leader to the prey he had circled and cornered. "She has been missing for over a month now," the man lowered his voice so that only those in his vicinity could hear it. His tone was lenient, like a priest to whom she had been confessing, even if her words had only been accusatory to his major. "All the way from White Rock to the roots of those old knolls... Frightened. Perhaps with a good motive, but frightened either way."
"I am not a child," Lilith's lips parted from behind the veil, "and nor am I frightened." She did not dare stand up, lest she was recognised by anyone else. 'Does it matter either way?' No. She was already a captive, given the Lord of Heileanan bid she was free to go her way, which she doubted. "I know my path."
"To death? Certainly." Lixander's eyes narrowed - he did not take pleasure in seeing others struggle, partly because he had struggled himself. But she was a woman, and not at all one like Saela, he saw it: frail and gentle, one to be either protected or lusted after. If anyone dared to eye the King's beloved in a filthy way, they'd be left without a couple of limbs.
The girl shuddered, but tried to keep her head up, fixating the insolent knight as if he were the most vile of creatures. Beneath those layers of clothes, her heart was beating rapidly, pounding against her chest like a drum. Without a doubt, he thought her insane and inapt, even if she had managed to survive all the way there. His King, however, had an expression she could not read. It was much like a closed book in that way, cold and untouched, but the ghost of his vivacity reflected in his dark pools, vibrated with her words, as if the thought of his freshly caught prey roused him.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Despite having just met him, Lilith felt utterly betrayed by the knight before her. Of course, one could only be loyal to their leader, and certainly so when he had made sure that said leader had heard him speak. Perhaps it was a strange sight to see him approaching a woman, a stranger as she was to him, or maybe his voice had not been as low as he would have imagined. Regardless, the wolf was now to share his treasure with his peers and the sheep could do naught but to protest, with obedience.
Once soothed by her poise, the burning gaze of the self proclaimed King scorched her blue orbs, delving deep into their pools as if searching to know if his knight's words were, indeed, as true as he claimed. The old man was tempted to answer his King's demands, yet upon realising that his curiosity was not aimed at him, he pressed his lips together into a line and straightened his back, waiting to hear if the poppy would be veridical or try to save the integrity of her mission and deem it all a mere misunderstanding. There was nothing he could do but hope, and that hope was founded on knowledge which Lilith knew was not flawed. For a man who only knew Benjamin Varhart, it would not be hard to spot the features any of his daughters bore. She had a feeling he had known her for a longer time that she did.
Blinking slowly, Lilith resumed her focus on the wolf ardent with anticipation. "Then the King himself does not trust his knights?" the girl almost whispered in the murmur of the tavern. "A sin. You would believe me but not him." Frankly, there was no reason for the man to lie to her; she was alone in an inn, surrounded by strangers whom he knew and, without a doubt, if he wished to have her there and then, she would not be able to put up too big of a fight. She had a knife and had been taught how to wield it, yet that would hardly prove efficient against a robust mound like himself.
Salient shivers ran down her spine as she spoke, as if the fire in the victor's eyes were as cold as ice. They rammed her feet into the ground beneath her; she knew that if she tried to stand up, she would only fall back down, too tired to contend it all. The food on the table in front of her, now turning cold, was still a perfume to her nostrils, even if she could no longer hear the butter sizzle against the toasted slices of fresh bread. She was starving, sprayed with mud and the flesh of her cheek was covered in a dry scab that irked her whenever she looked down. It was as if all the fortune the Gods had been merciful enough to give her, they had taken away, leaving behind only the dying hope of survival and the taste of old blood on the tips of her lips.
"You admit, then," Lixander muttered between his gritted teeth. "Not that it was needed," he added, shooting a quick glance at his King, as a reminder that out of the two, he was likely to be the most faithful. And how could he not be? He had been like an obedient wife to his King ever since the first days of his exile. He took it as an affront that the man would ever think if doubting his words when his head was in the game as well.
Exhausted after his theatrical vexation, he sat back down and wrapped his long fingers around the chalice of mulled wine planted in front of Lilith's plate. The girl hissed, stretching her arm over the table to reach for it, but Lixander simply retracted his hand with a relaxed gesture and leaned back in his chair. "Don't worry," he shook his head, leaning in to take a sip. "You'll get plenty of food soon enough. You're too great of a tool to be neglected and deprived from the pleasures of good alcohol."
"A tool." Her lips curled into a frown and she tensed in her seat. The tips of her fingers were pale and cold; how could they play her so easily? Was it such a pleasure to torment one who had nothing to defend themselves with? "What is it that you want? To know where I am headed? It would be of no use to you." Not that she would ever tell them. Insinuating that they might wish to keep her sounded like a dreadful idea, as well.
"The King shall be the judge of that. Y'want to throw her to the wolves, Your Majesty? So be it. Although her face is too pretty for that."
Lixander was not a cruel man, but nor was he gentle; his words, often slurred and stitched together made sense for him whenever he wanted to alleviate the gravity of a situation. He had not been slighted on the art of letters, as a man of his name. However, as he looked upon the daughter of his former King, he could feel an ache in his heart that would not drop, not even with the caress of his own pert dialect. She was terrified, not for her life, but for being denied the path she had taken by people whom she did not know. And she was right, the Eldskars had never supported Lord Varhart's rebellion. Seen from a different perspective - her perspective - they were as much an enemy as that snake of Rogerus Moirne.
With a bleak sigh leaving his lips, he dropped the chalice and stood back up in his full height, overshadowing the King himself. "Eat up," he bid, without even waiting for an order. He doubted Rondulin would forbid that. "And you can finish that up. You look old enough." What was she, seventeen? He remembered her older sister, of merely five when he'd first seen her, and for a brief moment, he thought that she looked peculiarly much like her.
Instead of being thankful to his kindness, Lilith pursed her lips at the untoward knight and left the chalice untouched. She did not dare look at the Lord that stood by her side, nor at the living threat that breathed in his ear. Beauty resided in her eyes, but she was watchful like a deer, dangerous like a wolf. 'Maybe this is what it had felt like for Maery. For Victoria. For mother.' Being sentenced to death on one side and to the life of a war tool on the other. They could kill her on the spot or take her with them. They could violate her and torment her for being betrothed to a snake.
'Or they could leave me be if the Gods will so. I still have my knife.'
Blinking slowly, the poppy, stained red just like the flower itself, patiently awaited her execution or pardon. In the distance, she could hear the piercing whimper of her horse and the rapping of rain droplets hitting the last round of fresh grass before Winter froze it for yet another year. Inside, she could hear her heart pounding and her thoughts, gathering on the tip of her tongue, threatened to spill into a turmoil of impatient curiosity.
Once soothed by her poise, the burning gaze of the self proclaimed King scorched her blue orbs, delving deep into their pools as if searching to know if his knight's words were, indeed, as true as he claimed. The old man was tempted to answer his King's demands, yet upon realising that his curiosity was not aimed at him, he pressed his lips together into a line and straightened his back, waiting to hear if the poppy would be veridical or try to save the integrity of her mission and deem it all a mere misunderstanding. There was nothing he could do but hope, and that hope was founded on knowledge which Lilith knew was not flawed. For a man who only knew Benjamin Varhart, it would not be hard to spot the features any of his daughters bore. She had a feeling he had known her for a longer time that she did.
Blinking slowly, Lilith resumed her focus on the wolf ardent with anticipation. "Then the King himself does not trust his knights?" the girl almost whispered in the murmur of the tavern. "A sin. You would believe me but not him." Frankly, there was no reason for the man to lie to her; she was alone in an inn, surrounded by strangers whom he knew and, without a doubt, if he wished to have her there and then, she would not be able to put up too big of a fight. She had a knife and had been taught how to wield it, yet that would hardly prove efficient against a robust mound like himself.
Salient shivers ran down her spine as she spoke, as if the fire in the victor's eyes were as cold as ice. They rammed her feet into the ground beneath her; she knew that if she tried to stand up, she would only fall back down, too tired to contend it all. The food on the table in front of her, now turning cold, was still a perfume to her nostrils, even if she could no longer hear the butter sizzle against the toasted slices of fresh bread. She was starving, sprayed with mud and the flesh of her cheek was covered in a dry scab that irked her whenever she looked down. It was as if all the fortune the Gods had been merciful enough to give her, they had taken away, leaving behind only the dying hope of survival and the taste of old blood on the tips of her lips.
"You admit, then," Lixander muttered between his gritted teeth. "Not that it was needed," he added, shooting a quick glance at his King, as a reminder that out of the two, he was likely to be the most faithful. And how could he not be? He had been like an obedient wife to his King ever since the first days of his exile. He took it as an affront that the man would ever think if doubting his words when his head was in the game as well.
Exhausted after his theatrical vexation, he sat back down and wrapped his long fingers around the chalice of mulled wine planted in front of Lilith's plate. The girl hissed, stretching her arm over the table to reach for it, but Lixander simply retracted his hand with a relaxed gesture and leaned back in his chair. "Don't worry," he shook his head, leaning in to take a sip. "You'll get plenty of food soon enough. You're too great of a tool to be neglected and deprived from the pleasures of good alcohol."
"A tool." Her lips curled into a frown and she tensed in her seat. The tips of her fingers were pale and cold; how could they play her so easily? Was it such a pleasure to torment one who had nothing to defend themselves with? "What is it that you want? To know where I am headed? It would be of no use to you." Not that she would ever tell them. Insinuating that they might wish to keep her sounded like a dreadful idea, as well.
"The King shall be the judge of that. Y'want to throw her to the wolves, Your Majesty? So be it. Although her face is too pretty for that."
Lixander was not a cruel man, but nor was he gentle; his words, often slurred and stitched together made sense for him whenever he wanted to alleviate the gravity of a situation. He had not been slighted on the art of letters, as a man of his name. However, as he looked upon the daughter of his former King, he could feel an ache in his heart that would not drop, not even with the caress of his own pert dialect. She was terrified, not for her life, but for being denied the path she had taken by people whom she did not know. And she was right, the Eldskars had never supported Lord Varhart's rebellion. Seen from a different perspective - her perspective - they were as much an enemy as that snake of Rogerus Moirne.
With a bleak sigh leaving his lips, he dropped the chalice and stood back up in his full height, overshadowing the King himself. "Eat up," he bid, without even waiting for an order. He doubted Rondulin would forbid that. "And you can finish that up. You look old enough." What was she, seventeen? He remembered her older sister, of merely five when he'd first seen her, and for a brief moment, he thought that she looked peculiarly much like her.
Instead of being thankful to his kindness, Lilith pursed her lips at the untoward knight and left the chalice untouched. She did not dare look at the Lord that stood by her side, nor at the living threat that breathed in his ear. Beauty resided in her eyes, but she was watchful like a deer, dangerous like a wolf. 'Maybe this is what it had felt like for Maery. For Victoria. For mother.' Being sentenced to death on one side and to the life of a war tool on the other. They could kill her on the spot or take her with them. They could violate her and torment her for being betrothed to a snake.
'Or they could leave me be if the Gods will so. I still have my knife.'
Blinking slowly, the poppy, stained red just like the flower itself, patiently awaited her execution or pardon. In the distance, she could hear the piercing whimper of her horse and the rapping of rain droplets hitting the last round of fresh grass before Winter froze it for yet another year. Inside, she could hear her heart pounding and her thoughts, gathering on the tip of her tongue, threatened to spill into a turmoil of impatient curiosity.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
It was as plain as day that the King of Heileanan was juggling with his words to mask his real intentions, voiced by the pert knight who had not seemed considerate enough to coat the truth in a sweeter lie. To Lilith, it did not matter whether she was presumably treated with gentility or thrown into a dungeon: both situations had her caged and unable to escape from those metal claws that held her rammed against the ground. Through her ignorance, she had crushed the memory of Erik beneath her sole and all the trust the old knight had seeded into her.
There was doubt on the face of his partner, the woman named Saela, as her eyes dripped gold on her own, fixating them with a fiery intrigue. Perhaps she did not believe that her noble would stay true to his mindless promises, or perhaps, repelled by the thought of having her so near, she was merely giving her a silent warning to stay away. Regardless, Lilith had no thought of allowing anyone into her bed that night, although she knew that she would not be closing her eyes if she was to stay.
'Not whilst I still breathe. Not whilst my hands are tied and my feet are too weary to fight back.'
"And if I refuse?" her thoughts finally dropped from her lips and rung through the floor. There was a certain reverb to them that even she found surprising. She had completely lost her bravery that night in the forest, and now as the wolves cornered her again, it seemed to be slipping back through the cracks.
"You can't," Lixander spluttered plainly, pulling his shoulders back. It was clear that he wanted to leave, but something kept him with his soles nailed in the hardwood. Pity. Fear. Pride. He was giving orders almost as much demureness as his King, and for a good reason: he had been the one to catch the prey; now, they could all so easily feast upon it, and he was rightfully demanding his piece.
The potent perfume of wine twisted her stomach, and as her heart shrunk tighter every moment, she could barely find the strength to fight back. Lilith eventually dashed up from the comfort of her makeshift chair and, straightening in all of her height before the King, she pulled the hood down to reveal the long locks of her umber curls and her wind prickled cheeks,
slashed across with a thick trail of incarnadine. Standing, she was still significantly shorter than him, but she let her own valor radiate taller through the dark pools that stormed upon him.
"Then if I am to be treated like a Princess, I demand to be allowed into my room," she spoke then, voice pounding against her heart. "The food, I will have brought there. I will not disrupt your feasting any longer." It was the most she could take advantage of, yet of course, she had no intention of staying, given the chance. She had not seen guards right outside the main doors, which meant that those inside were exposed to alcohol and cheap women to get them inebriated.
It was difficult to imagine that the man who hoped to fight Rogerus Moirne had barely enough men to fit in the chambers of an old inn. Perchance her languor had blinded her, or perchance it was all merely a trick to lure her into the trap by mendaciously mirroring her interests. As long as she was given the blink of a second to run, she would not wait for a proper occasion to be served on a silver tray. Maybe she was to die trying, but at least she knew she would die fighting for those who had not yet been kissed by Death.
Lixander, standing to Rondulin's side, curled his thick brows into a frown that darkened his eyes in suspicion. It was peculiar seeing the girl agree so easily, without protesting, but he knew she was not dumb. If Rondulin did not plant guards at the entrance to her chamber, then he would make sure of it personally. "And Lady Saela?" he offered then. The boy was willing to trust a stranger too easily, but he could not. "If she will be getting a room all for herself, 'which is a complete waste of space,' then the Lady should be near her, lest she find herself alone at night."
'Lest she try to jump out the window and we did not see her do so.'
He saw the way the poppy's face twitched, a sign she was not at all pleased with it, but nor did she protest. In the shadow of Rondulin's kindness, it would not have been proper of her to deny his wants, unless he denied them himself. "I am not a good to be weighed, Ser," the girl said quickly, shifting her position as a cold shiver shook her.
Nothing else parted her lips, but Lixander was smarter than to believe her. It was not their discussion that bothered her, but the thought of being surrounded that made her stomach twist and her heart tighten. He would have felt it as well. They all would have. In that little mind of hers, she was thoroughly planning a way to disappear through the smallest crack of the tavern, just as she had that night, in the Keep at White Rock. Despair often braided itself with hope, and that hope glimmered in her eyes like an ever ardent spark of fire.
The knight awaited the King's verdict, whether he wished to take her upstairs himself or enjoy the pleasures proper for a victor. The woman who had been eyeing him before had her gaze tickling the back of his neck yet again, although he doubted that Rondulin would touch the flesh of anything so vile that day, when his own pools reflected lust for something more noble than a piece of Eastern rag. His did too, but for the wine that steamed in the goblet before him and the food that lured his stomach away into a night of bliss.
There was doubt on the face of his partner, the woman named Saela, as her eyes dripped gold on her own, fixating them with a fiery intrigue. Perhaps she did not believe that her noble would stay true to his mindless promises, or perhaps, repelled by the thought of having her so near, she was merely giving her a silent warning to stay away. Regardless, Lilith had no thought of allowing anyone into her bed that night, although she knew that she would not be closing her eyes if she was to stay.
'Not whilst I still breathe. Not whilst my hands are tied and my feet are too weary to fight back.'
"And if I refuse?" her thoughts finally dropped from her lips and rung through the floor. There was a certain reverb to them that even she found surprising. She had completely lost her bravery that night in the forest, and now as the wolves cornered her again, it seemed to be slipping back through the cracks.
"You can't," Lixander spluttered plainly, pulling his shoulders back. It was clear that he wanted to leave, but something kept him with his soles nailed in the hardwood. Pity. Fear. Pride. He was giving orders almost as much demureness as his King, and for a good reason: he had been the one to catch the prey; now, they could all so easily feast upon it, and he was rightfully demanding his piece.
The potent perfume of wine twisted her stomach, and as her heart shrunk tighter every moment, she could barely find the strength to fight back. Lilith eventually dashed up from the comfort of her makeshift chair and, straightening in all of her height before the King, she pulled the hood down to reveal the long locks of her umber curls and her wind prickled cheeks,
slashed across with a thick trail of incarnadine. Standing, she was still significantly shorter than him, but she let her own valor radiate taller through the dark pools that stormed upon him.
"Then if I am to be treated like a Princess, I demand to be allowed into my room," she spoke then, voice pounding against her heart. "The food, I will have brought there. I will not disrupt your feasting any longer." It was the most she could take advantage of, yet of course, she had no intention of staying, given the chance. She had not seen guards right outside the main doors, which meant that those inside were exposed to alcohol and cheap women to get them inebriated.
It was difficult to imagine that the man who hoped to fight Rogerus Moirne had barely enough men to fit in the chambers of an old inn. Perchance her languor had blinded her, or perchance it was all merely a trick to lure her into the trap by mendaciously mirroring her interests. As long as she was given the blink of a second to run, she would not wait for a proper occasion to be served on a silver tray. Maybe she was to die trying, but at least she knew she would die fighting for those who had not yet been kissed by Death.
Lixander, standing to Rondulin's side, curled his thick brows into a frown that darkened his eyes in suspicion. It was peculiar seeing the girl agree so easily, without protesting, but he knew she was not dumb. If Rondulin did not plant guards at the entrance to her chamber, then he would make sure of it personally. "And Lady Saela?" he offered then. The boy was willing to trust a stranger too easily, but he could not. "If she will be getting a room all for herself, 'which is a complete waste of space,' then the Lady should be near her, lest she find herself alone at night."
'Lest she try to jump out the window and we did not see her do so.'
He saw the way the poppy's face twitched, a sign she was not at all pleased with it, but nor did she protest. In the shadow of Rondulin's kindness, it would not have been proper of her to deny his wants, unless he denied them himself. "I am not a good to be weighed, Ser," the girl said quickly, shifting her position as a cold shiver shook her.
Nothing else parted her lips, but Lixander was smarter than to believe her. It was not their discussion that bothered her, but the thought of being surrounded that made her stomach twist and her heart tighten. He would have felt it as well. They all would have. In that little mind of hers, she was thoroughly planning a way to disappear through the smallest crack of the tavern, just as she had that night, in the Keep at White Rock. Despair often braided itself with hope, and that hope glimmered in her eyes like an ever ardent spark of fire.
The knight awaited the King's verdict, whether he wished to take her upstairs himself or enjoy the pleasures proper for a victor. The woman who had been eyeing him before had her gaze tickling the back of his neck yet again, although he doubted that Rondulin would touch the flesh of anything so vile that day, when his own pools reflected lust for something more noble than a piece of Eastern rag. His did too, but for the wine that steamed in the goblet before him and the food that lured his stomach away into a night of bliss.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The King's courteousness was far from innate; Lilith could sense the tension in his bones even from so far away. Having spent time near Edonn Moirne, she knew very well what benefits such benevolent demeanor, spurious as it was, could bring one, yet to her it meant nothing more than if he had kept his mouth shut. He was mindlessly trying to win her trust by offering her what she desired and giving her a false sense of superiority. A feeling that she was free to do as she chose, even if her greatest wish would always be denied, not for the sake of her well being, but for the sake of their own.
That tension seemed to be extending over to the Lady at his side, as she clenched her fingers around the material of her tunic in a nervous tug. His orders, given lightly, were accepted half as easily, as though a part of her feared him. And for a moment, Lilith did pity the girl: she was likely just as tired as they all looked, and for the sake of a treasure's safekeeping, she was to guard her for the rest of the evening.
"I do not need to be guarded, my Lord," the treasure murmured, but likely to no avail. It was clear he distrusted her - he was not stupid. Nor was his knight, who eyed her carefully even there, as if she could merely dash away from before his sight and disappear into the misty darkness. "I hope you will enjoy the night without my presence," not that she would have added too much to it. Regardless, she had no intention to sit around knowing she would merely be losing time.
Lixander's eyes quickly darted to one of the damsels tending to the tavern, as if he had been stirred awake from his brooding, and lifted his hand in a gesture of demand. It did not take more than the short wave of a well dressed arm to lure her closer and, arching her back in an effort to accentuate her bust, she put on an expression of false grace. "Ser, the drinks..."
"No matter," the knight shook his head. "The lady here... She will be escorted to the warmest room of your inn. And run a steaming bath as well," for she did need to scrub off the grime and blood that stained her pallor.
"Yes! Yes... M'Lady, with me..."
"And one more thing," he thought to add, and leaned in to whisper something in her ear. The woman shuddered, a pleased simper spreading across her lips, and she gave the man a quick nod before prancing towards the staircase. Lixander stretched his arm towards her, urging the girl to follow, before her limbs turned numb and had her rammed onto the floor like a shaky mare.
The poppy wavered for a moment, her gaze moving from one face to the other. She did not know whether Lady Saela would be following her then, nor had she been bothered to listen carefully to the words of the stranger. All she knew was that she ought to entwine herself in the braid he was weaving, at least until she got the chance to slip away. Then, straightening her back with induced confidence, she made her way through the circle of Northerners and down the path that the damsel described with the tips of her toes.
The farther away they got from the bustling hall, the louder Lilith could hear the voices of her own thoughts. The first floor was considerably quiet, yet the walls still reverberated with smoldered songs and muffled chatter; higher from the ground, it did feel pleasantly warmer, even without a crowd surrounding her, or the steaming wine tickling her skin. The corridor, long and narrow, was imbued with a tepid scent of jasmine and cinnamon, the air enjoyably heavy and moist. There were no windows overlooking the poppy plains on its walls, but she could already count ten doors opening into snug bedrooms and tight bathing chambers, awaiting their languor-kissed travelers.
"Here," the dulcet voice of the damsel called, opening one of the doors for her to step inside. "'Tis small, but it'll do for ye'. The warmest we've got, as the King ordered!"
"You think he is your King?" Lilith murmured from where she stood. It was dark, but the innocence glimmering in her eyes was not difficult to discern.
The damsel shrugged and patted her girdle, where she kept her satchel of coins. "Anyone can be a King for a night here. And you could he a Queen... You need just ask." And, stepping away from the threshold, she silently urged her to make herself comfortable in her new quarters.
Indeed, the room did feel ever warm, reposeful like a sweet embrace. Candles had been set ablaze beforehand, dancing in the rhythm of the crackling flames of the fireplace which, painfully so, reminded her of home. The bed was low and thickened with layers of fur and wool, set close to the hearth, right beneath a closed window; to the right were a table and a trunk for clothes and belongings, although it was far too big for her half-empty bag. There were pillows on the floor, perhaps there for those who wished to sleep next to the fire, or for wilder nights when the bed was far too narrow.
It was regrettable that she would not be resting there for the night. A part of her, either her rationality or that which defied it, thought it could not hurt to sleep for a turn or two of the clock: she had not slept in two nights' time and her limbs felt weary, trembled with each movement that required more effort than usual. Still, over the past month or two, she had gotten used to sleeping under the moon or in small cabins, far tighter than what she was being offered then.
'It is this or life,' she tried to embitter herself. 'Think of your mother, your sisters, of poor Ser Erik whom they likely executed for treason...' She could not allow herself to relish in the comfort of an inn while those suffered silently back home, depending on solely her mission to reach Ashpyke.
Before she closed the door, the woman's eyes fixated Lilith, compassionate and pitiful. "I will have a dress brought for you to change, and you have not finished the food you paid for. A bath - after I am done tending the men downstairs." Then, she shut it behind her and found her way down the staircase, prancing loudly just as before, as if to announce her clients she was returning.
That tension seemed to be extending over to the Lady at his side, as she clenched her fingers around the material of her tunic in a nervous tug. His orders, given lightly, were accepted half as easily, as though a part of her feared him. And for a moment, Lilith did pity the girl: she was likely just as tired as they all looked, and for the sake of a treasure's safekeeping, she was to guard her for the rest of the evening.
"I do not need to be guarded, my Lord," the treasure murmured, but likely to no avail. It was clear he distrusted her - he was not stupid. Nor was his knight, who eyed her carefully even there, as if she could merely dash away from before his sight and disappear into the misty darkness. "I hope you will enjoy the night without my presence," not that she would have added too much to it. Regardless, she had no intention to sit around knowing she would merely be losing time.
Lixander's eyes quickly darted to one of the damsels tending to the tavern, as if he had been stirred awake from his brooding, and lifted his hand in a gesture of demand. It did not take more than the short wave of a well dressed arm to lure her closer and, arching her back in an effort to accentuate her bust, she put on an expression of false grace. "Ser, the drinks..."
"No matter," the knight shook his head. "The lady here... She will be escorted to the warmest room of your inn. And run a steaming bath as well," for she did need to scrub off the grime and blood that stained her pallor.
"Yes! Yes... M'Lady, with me..."
"And one more thing," he thought to add, and leaned in to whisper something in her ear. The woman shuddered, a pleased simper spreading across her lips, and she gave the man a quick nod before prancing towards the staircase. Lixander stretched his arm towards her, urging the girl to follow, before her limbs turned numb and had her rammed onto the floor like a shaky mare.
The poppy wavered for a moment, her gaze moving from one face to the other. She did not know whether Lady Saela would be following her then, nor had she been bothered to listen carefully to the words of the stranger. All she knew was that she ought to entwine herself in the braid he was weaving, at least until she got the chance to slip away. Then, straightening her back with induced confidence, she made her way through the circle of Northerners and down the path that the damsel described with the tips of her toes.
The farther away they got from the bustling hall, the louder Lilith could hear the voices of her own thoughts. The first floor was considerably quiet, yet the walls still reverberated with smoldered songs and muffled chatter; higher from the ground, it did feel pleasantly warmer, even without a crowd surrounding her, or the steaming wine tickling her skin. The corridor, long and narrow, was imbued with a tepid scent of jasmine and cinnamon, the air enjoyably heavy and moist. There were no windows overlooking the poppy plains on its walls, but she could already count ten doors opening into snug bedrooms and tight bathing chambers, awaiting their languor-kissed travelers.
"Here," the dulcet voice of the damsel called, opening one of the doors for her to step inside. "'Tis small, but it'll do for ye'. The warmest we've got, as the King ordered!"
"You think he is your King?" Lilith murmured from where she stood. It was dark, but the innocence glimmering in her eyes was not difficult to discern.
The damsel shrugged and patted her girdle, where she kept her satchel of coins. "Anyone can be a King for a night here. And you could he a Queen... You need just ask." And, stepping away from the threshold, she silently urged her to make herself comfortable in her new quarters.
Indeed, the room did feel ever warm, reposeful like a sweet embrace. Candles had been set ablaze beforehand, dancing in the rhythm of the crackling flames of the fireplace which, painfully so, reminded her of home. The bed was low and thickened with layers of fur and wool, set close to the hearth, right beneath a closed window; to the right were a table and a trunk for clothes and belongings, although it was far too big for her half-empty bag. There were pillows on the floor, perhaps there for those who wished to sleep next to the fire, or for wilder nights when the bed was far too narrow.
It was regrettable that she would not be resting there for the night. A part of her, either her rationality or that which defied it, thought it could not hurt to sleep for a turn or two of the clock: she had not slept in two nights' time and her limbs felt weary, trembled with each movement that required more effort than usual. Still, over the past month or two, she had gotten used to sleeping under the moon or in small cabins, far tighter than what she was being offered then.
'It is this or life,' she tried to embitter herself. 'Think of your mother, your sisters, of poor Ser Erik whom they likely executed for treason...' She could not allow herself to relish in the comfort of an inn while those suffered silently back home, depending on solely her mission to reach Ashpyke.
Before she closed the door, the woman's eyes fixated Lilith, compassionate and pitiful. "I will have a dress brought for you to change, and you have not finished the food you paid for. A bath - after I am done tending the men downstairs." Then, she shut it behind her and found her way down the staircase, prancing loudly just as before, as if to announce her clients she was returning.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
It would have been absurd to think the rest would not have lurked about, listening to the King's business. Out of all, Lixander knew Milena to be the most curious, yet he was not too astonished when it was Gregor who gave his interest first for the sudden shift in happenings. He would have been intrigued too, for sure, and he felt as though even if the rest had not come to them, the utter silence had still allowed them to overhear the conversation and make an impression for themselves. After all, some of them had even seen at least King Benjamin while he was alive. Most had. The man enjoyed to travel and dispute business matters in person.
The girl left eagerly, following the maiden who had been asked to lead her away. Judging by her sudden thrill of confidence, it did not take an intellectual to make her plans clear. He would not have put his trust into strangers either, especially considering the way Rondulin had put it. Gentility almost never passed as it was, but mostly as fabricated benevolence; it was merely human to doubt, even if he had come to trust his Lord almost blindly over the years.
It did not take long for the mirth of a newly found treasure to vanish. Gregor quickly found himself another bosom to fondle, another pretty face to admire while he sunk into the depths of intoxication, while Rondulin waited nervously on the edge without daring to fill his mind with anything other than the worries of the war to come. While others sought to empty it, he was merely kindling the fire that burnt within him, not allowing himself the dulcet pleasures of a good night after the roads they had walked all the way from their home and through the dry mainlands.
'Then again, are you?'
Lixander pressed his lips together and watched as the man vanished before him, following the steps of his Lady Saela. Milena lifted her hand in a gesture meant to call for him, and for a moment, he was tempted to refuse, but then remembered his own regret at the King's moroseness. "Eat up, woman," he chuckled then, shaking his head, "or I might come and get what you've got on your plate."
"What, old chicken and beer?" the old woman scoffed. "I know you, Barske. You like pork and deer better than this."
With his eyes still fixated on the King's back as he went up the stairwell, he found himself a place next to the bear, warm and safe, away from the fret that festered inside of him. "Tell me," she urged, "is it the Princess?" Her curiosity was greater than her stomach for alcohol, so her gaze broke away from the foaming pint to find him.
"Aye... The Gods placed their hands on our shoulders today," he grunted. "She was weak. Wounded, superficially, but she'll make it unless she lets it get to her," which he highly doubted. It was within her best interests to stay alive. He did not know her path as she claimed she did, yet regardless of the route she had thought to take, she was likely aware of her own importance.
"A pretty one," Milena smiled. "If it weren't for all this... I'd say she'd catch the eye of our King."
"Who, Lord Rondulin? Use yer damn brain, woman. All he has eyes for is Lady Saela, and not even that." He claimed they were merely comrades and Lixander believed him, after all those years. Still, her blood was not nearly as noble as Lilith Varhart's, and what was better than a noble rear?
Milena resumed her focus on her pint and took a sip, then proceeded to dig into her food. The knight followed, even if he was not too fond of such lightweight meat. The thought still reverberated in his mind for a while, even as the maidens circled the table and had their pockets filled with gold. Some left with their new prey, others lingered around to build the tension or, in some particular cases, gather more to feast upon. Neither of those around were bad to look at, which was perhaps a win for them. It was not often that they did not sit in the lap of an old, sunken hag, but even Lixander considered himself lucky then: the women were pretty and the alcohol was good enough to keep his guts busy for the night.
~*~
The perfume of jasmine had managed to slip through the cracks in the wooden walls and into Lilith's own chamber. With the fire peacefully crackling near her feet, she listened for the sound of steps in the hallway, trying to guess where each of their owners were headed. Every now and then, she heard short splashes of water coming from the bathing room next to hers, as she eagerly awaited to finally take the grime off and cleanse her wounds and chafed flesh. Her palms were painfully red, pulsating the closer she got to the fire, along with the ever tightening skin on her cheek.
A dress had been brought quickly by the maiden who had lead her to her bedroom: of a slate grey, made of thick cotton, with buttons that went up to the middle of her chest, where its rim described a rather decent decolletage. She was unsure if she ought to pay for it or not, but imagined that the Lord of Heileanan would, as he had barely enough coin left to cover the rest of her way up to Ashpyke.
The food she had ordered for herself had almost completely cooled down; with the butter now barely tepid, she had slipped it into her bag, wrapped up in a clean napkin next to her bunch of soaproot. The rest was laid before her on a tray, and as she dug into it, she forced herself not to eat too fast, lest it disappeared from before her eyes before she got the chance to properly enjoy it.
She had not eaten so well in far too long, more than she could remember. Over the past weeks, her fortune had only been spent on a safe place to sleep, only when she truly needed it and often farther away from her route, so she could not be easily tracked. Perhaps a jerk of distress had pushed her into entering a place where she could be recognised, yet a part of her was grateful for the breath of relief she had been given, even if it was not to last for long. Her window was, thankfully, not too far above the grassy earth.
A short knock on the door disturbed her tranquility, followed by a low voice which she recognised even through its frail murmur. Lilith's heart clenched for a moment, then, lifting herself up on her toes, she almost crawled over to the door and swung it open. It creaked loudly, as though upset with the sudden disturbance, and before it stood the face which the poppy wished to see the least.
Her eyes landed on his dark orbs, then quickly shifted to the wooden mug he held in his right hand, clutched to his chest and steaming the leather of his tunic. 'Caged,' she thought, realising that the guard he had assigned to watch over her was not yet there. No matter. He would leave once she went to take a bath, and she would find her moment to escape right after everyone else was either feasting or fast asleep in their featherbeds, with or without fervent company.
"And you have brought a peace offering along, I see," she frowned, gesturing to the mug. 'You are not the only one who has tried to sweeten their way to my heart,' she thought, but did not voice her anxieties; instead, she moved to the side to allow him in, even if she was still wearing her dirty attire and warm cape. Deep in her heart, she was lusting for a sip of that milk and too fatigued to protests it.
'After he leaves,' she kept embittering herself. 'Until then, play his game. Then, after he leaves...'
Lilith found herself a seat on the bed, next to her clean gown, now facing the fire with a fabricated pride. "You never said what you wished to do to me. You never said where you were going." She could leave with that information, aware where not to bump into them. "Are that Ser's intention the same as yours, Lord Eldskar? Am I a mere tool you wish to drag about?"
The girl left eagerly, following the maiden who had been asked to lead her away. Judging by her sudden thrill of confidence, it did not take an intellectual to make her plans clear. He would not have put his trust into strangers either, especially considering the way Rondulin had put it. Gentility almost never passed as it was, but mostly as fabricated benevolence; it was merely human to doubt, even if he had come to trust his Lord almost blindly over the years.
It did not take long for the mirth of a newly found treasure to vanish. Gregor quickly found himself another bosom to fondle, another pretty face to admire while he sunk into the depths of intoxication, while Rondulin waited nervously on the edge without daring to fill his mind with anything other than the worries of the war to come. While others sought to empty it, he was merely kindling the fire that burnt within him, not allowing himself the dulcet pleasures of a good night after the roads they had walked all the way from their home and through the dry mainlands.
'Then again, are you?'
Lixander pressed his lips together and watched as the man vanished before him, following the steps of his Lady Saela. Milena lifted her hand in a gesture meant to call for him, and for a moment, he was tempted to refuse, but then remembered his own regret at the King's moroseness. "Eat up, woman," he chuckled then, shaking his head, "or I might come and get what you've got on your plate."
"What, old chicken and beer?" the old woman scoffed. "I know you, Barske. You like pork and deer better than this."
With his eyes still fixated on the King's back as he went up the stairwell, he found himself a place next to the bear, warm and safe, away from the fret that festered inside of him. "Tell me," she urged, "is it the Princess?" Her curiosity was greater than her stomach for alcohol, so her gaze broke away from the foaming pint to find him.
"Aye... The Gods placed their hands on our shoulders today," he grunted. "She was weak. Wounded, superficially, but she'll make it unless she lets it get to her," which he highly doubted. It was within her best interests to stay alive. He did not know her path as she claimed she did, yet regardless of the route she had thought to take, she was likely aware of her own importance.
"A pretty one," Milena smiled. "If it weren't for all this... I'd say she'd catch the eye of our King."
"Who, Lord Rondulin? Use yer damn brain, woman. All he has eyes for is Lady Saela, and not even that." He claimed they were merely comrades and Lixander believed him, after all those years. Still, her blood was not nearly as noble as Lilith Varhart's, and what was better than a noble rear?
Milena resumed her focus on her pint and took a sip, then proceeded to dig into her food. The knight followed, even if he was not too fond of such lightweight meat. The thought still reverberated in his mind for a while, even as the maidens circled the table and had their pockets filled with gold. Some left with their new prey, others lingered around to build the tension or, in some particular cases, gather more to feast upon. Neither of those around were bad to look at, which was perhaps a win for them. It was not often that they did not sit in the lap of an old, sunken hag, but even Lixander considered himself lucky then: the women were pretty and the alcohol was good enough to keep his guts busy for the night.
~*~
The perfume of jasmine had managed to slip through the cracks in the wooden walls and into Lilith's own chamber. With the fire peacefully crackling near her feet, she listened for the sound of steps in the hallway, trying to guess where each of their owners were headed. Every now and then, she heard short splashes of water coming from the bathing room next to hers, as she eagerly awaited to finally take the grime off and cleanse her wounds and chafed flesh. Her palms were painfully red, pulsating the closer she got to the fire, along with the ever tightening skin on her cheek.
A dress had been brought quickly by the maiden who had lead her to her bedroom: of a slate grey, made of thick cotton, with buttons that went up to the middle of her chest, where its rim described a rather decent decolletage. She was unsure if she ought to pay for it or not, but imagined that the Lord of Heileanan would, as he had barely enough coin left to cover the rest of her way up to Ashpyke.
The food she had ordered for herself had almost completely cooled down; with the butter now barely tepid, she had slipped it into her bag, wrapped up in a clean napkin next to her bunch of soaproot. The rest was laid before her on a tray, and as she dug into it, she forced herself not to eat too fast, lest it disappeared from before her eyes before she got the chance to properly enjoy it.
She had not eaten so well in far too long, more than she could remember. Over the past weeks, her fortune had only been spent on a safe place to sleep, only when she truly needed it and often farther away from her route, so she could not be easily tracked. Perhaps a jerk of distress had pushed her into entering a place where she could be recognised, yet a part of her was grateful for the breath of relief she had been given, even if it was not to last for long. Her window was, thankfully, not too far above the grassy earth.
A short knock on the door disturbed her tranquility, followed by a low voice which she recognised even through its frail murmur. Lilith's heart clenched for a moment, then, lifting herself up on her toes, she almost crawled over to the door and swung it open. It creaked loudly, as though upset with the sudden disturbance, and before it stood the face which the poppy wished to see the least.
Her eyes landed on his dark orbs, then quickly shifted to the wooden mug he held in his right hand, clutched to his chest and steaming the leather of his tunic. 'Caged,' she thought, realising that the guard he had assigned to watch over her was not yet there. No matter. He would leave once she went to take a bath, and she would find her moment to escape right after everyone else was either feasting or fast asleep in their featherbeds, with or without fervent company.
"And you have brought a peace offering along, I see," she frowned, gesturing to the mug. 'You are not the only one who has tried to sweeten their way to my heart,' she thought, but did not voice her anxieties; instead, she moved to the side to allow him in, even if she was still wearing her dirty attire and warm cape. Deep in her heart, she was lusting for a sip of that milk and too fatigued to protests it.
'After he leaves,' she kept embittering herself. 'Until then, play his game. Then, after he leaves...'
Lilith found herself a seat on the bed, next to her clean gown, now facing the fire with a fabricated pride. "You never said what you wished to do to me. You never said where you were going." She could leave with that information, aware where not to bump into them. "Are that Ser's intention the same as yours, Lord Eldskar? Am I a mere tool you wish to drag about?"
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
As she listened to the words of the young Lord, Lilith's heart tightened painfully, torn between seeding her trust in them and sticking to her own beliefs. It was, perhaps, the exhaustion weighing down on her thoughts that kept her rationality from kicking in. The warmth of the room was slowly encircling her like a mother's embrace; combined with the scent of honeyed milk and ardent hearth, it felt more like home than her own quarters back in White Rock, after the passing of her father.
The gift of acceptance was not denied, but taken easily. She extended her hands and cupped it with her fingers, then brought it to her lips to take in its aroma. She had almost forgotten such pleasures, as if she had never felt them before, as if the month or two which had passed had been years, and she had grown old on her path up North. A stranger to those little delights that made one human. That made her human, no longer the shadow of a princess with her heart once full of love and compassion.
It all had drained, it seemed, and in its place, she now found merely arduous sorrow and dark solitude.
After a sip, however, at least a part of that solitude was once again filled with zeal, and she felt a jerk of heat tickle its way to her toes. She could once again feel the flesh around her wounds pulsate, as if she were once again near the burning fire. She wanted to believe it was the milk that was turning her cheeks florid and not the Lord's fervour; no, she could not allow herself to believe him. Not there. Not when she had set her trap for herself - she ought to find a way to escape her own snare.
"You have taken a fragment of your revenge, then," she nodded, not at all incriminating him for his judgement. The ever so gentle princess had contemplated medding with the fate of Lord Moirne's son many times, but she had never found the strength to do it in herself, nor would she have, if her thoughts had ever turned that dark. It was not within her power to decide whether one lived or died, as a mere noble, as a woman under the power of the almighty Gods, if there were any left watching over her anymore.
The thought of a viper's teeth in her throat sickened her. The girl shuddered, wrapping her fingers even tighter around the mug; if she was to die, then she did not wish to live her last moments breathing the same venom imbued air as a snake. 'I will not live my life in fear,' yet nor could she be brave in moments like these, when her only choice were the fangs of a menacing snake or the bloody claws of a wolf.
With another sip from the mug of milk, Lilith regained some of her energy, enough to reach around her shoulders and gently remove the cloak. It felt far heavier in her hand then, as her weakness was still overwhelming, yet for a moment, she did feel a fluke of strength strike her, at least enough to free herself from its weight.
She then continued in a low voice, "You keep calling me majesty... Yet you are calling yourself a King. Forgive me... But who do you recognise to be the true heir in that case?" For sure, not Rogerus and not Edonn. Or, perchance, he merely thought of himself as the King of his homelands, as a drunkard thought to be the ruler of his chamber, and saw the whore on his lap as the Queen of his modest Kingdom. "You are too young to have known my father well." His family had never etched themselves in the foundation of his writ, yet nor had they opposed him physically.
His knight, on the other hand, seemed to have known Lord Benjamin well enough to recognise his daughter from hundreds of other faces. Lilith listened carefully, a puerile sliver of hope slipping into her soul at the thought that the man at least respected her name, not merely her as a princess. Not her buxom hips or her pale features that so many other men had eyed before him, but merely her.
~*~
Deep within his heart, Lixander felt sorry for Saela.
As the sunkissed foreigner passed through the crowd of pale faces, she seemed to be radiating an aura of gloomy disquietude. It was not hard to pick her apart from everyone else, as the knight followed her with his gaze so easily from between dark capes and armoured figures. Every now and then, the voluptuous shape of another woman distracted him, yet never once did he lose the girl from his sight entirely; no, she always lurked there, like a scaredy rabbit surrounded by hunters.
Except that those hunters were whores, and to Lixander, it could not have gotten more amusing and endearing. 'Much like Yova,' although he would never have allowed his daughter near whores or anything such as that place. Happiness did not lie in bodily pleasures, or at least not wholly. It was serenity that he aimed for, which he could not find there, and Saela seemed to be sharing his feelings, cornered and flustering about like a young girl, taunted with a piece of cocoa candy.
In spite of the maiden's voice being as soft as a whisper, Lixander could discern some of what she was saying, whilst the other half, he managed to read from her lips. It appeared that she was trying to slip her delicate hand beneath Saela's skirt with dulcet words which would have so easily worked on a man like Ser Gregor; too bad that Saela was almost a twin to King Rondulin, as much a prude as the man had proven to be in the past month, unwilling to take their mind off thoughts of ongoing hostilities and nocturnal anxieties. Perhaps such charm would have worked even for him, given he was not as fatigued from a long day of interminable riding.
"Goin' already?" Milena smirked from behind the rim of her pint as she let her eyes follow Lixander away. "Go save the poor princess. I can't be bothered to."
At heart, Milena was kinder than most women he knew, but right then, inebriated partly with alcohol and partly with the joy of another small victory, he could not blame her for not willing to hinder her afterpiece for Saela. 'Too bad you've not had enough of that beer,' Lixander thought to himself. It was as bitter as gall and just as strong, if not more. At least it had brought some warmth back into his toes and flavoured his lips if any other damsel longed for a taste.
Closer to the two women, then, the last words of the harlot rung clear in his ears. "Want to bet you can do better than a man?" he scoffed. "You've made me wonder what kind of men you're fucking, maid," although it did not take too much wondering to come to a conclusion. Sure, the Inn at the Crossroads was big enough to allow for diversity, but it was just as cheap as any other and it rented for how many clients it was worth every week.
"Don't mind those," he sighed to Saela then, throwing his heavy arm over her small shoulders. "Just tell them you don't have the gold, and they won't even look at you." Not that she was not pretty - women often lusted, but not always for women as well. He had seen the way one had looked at Rondulin, as if he were a sugary piece of pie. Saela looked even sweeter, at least when she did not look ready to poke her spear through one's throat, which was not particularly often, that he could recall.
"Enjoy yourself a tad, though," he sighed. "Not necessaily like I should be, but... There are plenty of men and women here that you can talk to. You have a long night ahead. You don't want to be spending it guarding a dried poppy, do you?" He would not tell Rondulin, moreso if his plan worked. "I have a feelin' that your beloved King will not even be able to tell that you are gone," and nor would Lilith Varhart, if she was half as tired as she looked. Something told him that, regardless, she had no will to make small talk with Saela that evening.
The gift of acceptance was not denied, but taken easily. She extended her hands and cupped it with her fingers, then brought it to her lips to take in its aroma. She had almost forgotten such pleasures, as if she had never felt them before, as if the month or two which had passed had been years, and she had grown old on her path up North. A stranger to those little delights that made one human. That made her human, no longer the shadow of a princess with her heart once full of love and compassion.
It all had drained, it seemed, and in its place, she now found merely arduous sorrow and dark solitude.
After a sip, however, at least a part of that solitude was once again filled with zeal, and she felt a jerk of heat tickle its way to her toes. She could once again feel the flesh around her wounds pulsate, as if she were once again near the burning fire. She wanted to believe it was the milk that was turning her cheeks florid and not the Lord's fervour; no, she could not allow herself to believe him. Not there. Not when she had set her trap for herself - she ought to find a way to escape her own snare.
"You have taken a fragment of your revenge, then," she nodded, not at all incriminating him for his judgement. The ever so gentle princess had contemplated medding with the fate of Lord Moirne's son many times, but she had never found the strength to do it in herself, nor would she have, if her thoughts had ever turned that dark. It was not within her power to decide whether one lived or died, as a mere noble, as a woman under the power of the almighty Gods, if there were any left watching over her anymore.
The thought of a viper's teeth in her throat sickened her. The girl shuddered, wrapping her fingers even tighter around the mug; if she was to die, then she did not wish to live her last moments breathing the same venom imbued air as a snake. 'I will not live my life in fear,' yet nor could she be brave in moments like these, when her only choice were the fangs of a menacing snake or the bloody claws of a wolf.
With another sip from the mug of milk, Lilith regained some of her energy, enough to reach around her shoulders and gently remove the cloak. It felt far heavier in her hand then, as her weakness was still overwhelming, yet for a moment, she did feel a fluke of strength strike her, at least enough to free herself from its weight.
She then continued in a low voice, "You keep calling me majesty... Yet you are calling yourself a King. Forgive me... But who do you recognise to be the true heir in that case?" For sure, not Rogerus and not Edonn. Or, perchance, he merely thought of himself as the King of his homelands, as a drunkard thought to be the ruler of his chamber, and saw the whore on his lap as the Queen of his modest Kingdom. "You are too young to have known my father well." His family had never etched themselves in the foundation of his writ, yet nor had they opposed him physically.
His knight, on the other hand, seemed to have known Lord Benjamin well enough to recognise his daughter from hundreds of other faces. Lilith listened carefully, a puerile sliver of hope slipping into her soul at the thought that the man at least respected her name, not merely her as a princess. Not her buxom hips or her pale features that so many other men had eyed before him, but merely her.
~*~
Deep within his heart, Lixander felt sorry for Saela.
As the sunkissed foreigner passed through the crowd of pale faces, she seemed to be radiating an aura of gloomy disquietude. It was not hard to pick her apart from everyone else, as the knight followed her with his gaze so easily from between dark capes and armoured figures. Every now and then, the voluptuous shape of another woman distracted him, yet never once did he lose the girl from his sight entirely; no, she always lurked there, like a scaredy rabbit surrounded by hunters.
Except that those hunters were whores, and to Lixander, it could not have gotten more amusing and endearing. 'Much like Yova,' although he would never have allowed his daughter near whores or anything such as that place. Happiness did not lie in bodily pleasures, or at least not wholly. It was serenity that he aimed for, which he could not find there, and Saela seemed to be sharing his feelings, cornered and flustering about like a young girl, taunted with a piece of cocoa candy.
In spite of the maiden's voice being as soft as a whisper, Lixander could discern some of what she was saying, whilst the other half, he managed to read from her lips. It appeared that she was trying to slip her delicate hand beneath Saela's skirt with dulcet words which would have so easily worked on a man like Ser Gregor; too bad that Saela was almost a twin to King Rondulin, as much a prude as the man had proven to be in the past month, unwilling to take their mind off thoughts of ongoing hostilities and nocturnal anxieties. Perhaps such charm would have worked even for him, given he was not as fatigued from a long day of interminable riding.
"Goin' already?" Milena smirked from behind the rim of her pint as she let her eyes follow Lixander away. "Go save the poor princess. I can't be bothered to."
At heart, Milena was kinder than most women he knew, but right then, inebriated partly with alcohol and partly with the joy of another small victory, he could not blame her for not willing to hinder her afterpiece for Saela. 'Too bad you've not had enough of that beer,' Lixander thought to himself. It was as bitter as gall and just as strong, if not more. At least it had brought some warmth back into his toes and flavoured his lips if any other damsel longed for a taste.
Closer to the two women, then, the last words of the harlot rung clear in his ears. "Want to bet you can do better than a man?" he scoffed. "You've made me wonder what kind of men you're fucking, maid," although it did not take too much wondering to come to a conclusion. Sure, the Inn at the Crossroads was big enough to allow for diversity, but it was just as cheap as any other and it rented for how many clients it was worth every week.
"Don't mind those," he sighed to Saela then, throwing his heavy arm over her small shoulders. "Just tell them you don't have the gold, and they won't even look at you." Not that she was not pretty - women often lusted, but not always for women as well. He had seen the way one had looked at Rondulin, as if he were a sugary piece of pie. Saela looked even sweeter, at least when she did not look ready to poke her spear through one's throat, which was not particularly often, that he could recall.
"Enjoy yourself a tad, though," he sighed. "Not necessaily like I should be, but... There are plenty of men and women here that you can talk to. You have a long night ahead. You don't want to be spending it guarding a dried poppy, do you?" He would not tell Rondulin, moreso if his plan worked. "I have a feelin' that your beloved King will not even be able to tell that you are gone," and nor would Lilith Varhart, if she was half as tired as she looked. Something told him that, regardless, she had no will to make small talk with Saela that evening.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
It was strange to look upon a King so humble that he willed to bend his knee before another, more noble and more righteous than himself. Edonn Moirne was nothing near such description, yet it was perhaps the man's honour, be it fabricated or genuine, that forced him to respect his own beliefs. At least in front of a princess, he had the decency to keep to a certain set of mannerisms, a demeanor she would have found worthy, had she not known it was not his soul in all its purity spilling the words from his lips right then.
"By law," Lilith lifted her eyes to fixate him, "Lord Edonn is not yet King. By law, I am the true heir, so long as we are not united before the Gods." They had merely been betrothed to eachother, without any formalities to tie the vow, or at least not that she had been made aware of. "My mother fought to go against Lord Rogerus's will many times, in spite of her pain and suffering, but without her only daughter she is worth nothing in their eyes." That was why she had been required to leave and search for help from the only person she knew she could trust.
There was a flame burning in his heart, ardent with anger that radiated even through the distance she had built between them. Lilith could read his pain etched on his face and resonated with it. They had both lost loved ones, both suffered and struggled the same way, crawling in the darkness in search for light. She felt it reverberate into her but could not answer it. She could not allow herself to be vulnerable in the face of compassion and fall yet again.
A bleak smile graced her lips as he brought mention of his family. She took another sip from the honeyed milk, wiped her cupid's bow with the dirty sleeve of her dress, then placed the half empty mug on the bedside to her left. "I know enough," she reassured him, "I know of the death of your parents, I know of your brothers, but I know little of you. I have no certainty that you are who you claim to be, therefore I have no reason to trust you."
Outside, the skies were dripping over the dried autumn grass and splashing against the sides of her window. The sound, so familiar and heartwarming, seemed to blend seamlessly with the booming howl of the wolf King. Lilith's voice had remained low and contained at all times, just above a murmur, as she forced her bashful gaze not to turn away from the eyes that tried so desperately to hold hers. Dark as they were, there was a glint in them that reminded her of the innocence of her younger sister, of Victoria's subtle amativeness and of her father's unmoving conviction.
There was another knock on the door that startled the princess from her brooding, this once lighter, belonging to the delicate hands of a woman. One of the maidens peeked in, her eyes lowered so they did not rest on the figures within, as she made a quick gesture towards the corridor. "Your bath, m'Lady... 'Tis not too warm. You should hurry."
"I shall," Lilith nodded quickly, mimicking the woman's timidity. She took in a deep breath and found the strength to once again shoot up on her feet. Then, she moved over to take her bag along with the dress for change, eagerly shifting her attention for a brief moment to the door that maiden had made sure to close behind her. She felt rushed, yet she did wish to leave the room. Leave the Lord who was trying to sway her and the absurd thoughts of going to sleep.
When her eyes returned to the King one last time, she straightened her back and clutched her belongings to her chest. "I will not willingly follow you, Lord Eldskar. Of those whom you wish to command in my father's lands, some of them have remained true to his memory. They will not condone to a man who holds me prisoner." For she was a prisoner, be it for her own good; in her mind, said good was not to be protected and used, but to protect herself and fulfill the promise she had made to Ser Erik the night of her departure.
~*~
The mystery of Saela's intrigued Lixander to the Gods and back, yet he knew there was no reason to make himself believe he would one day come to sway her and change her ways. The knight was not the most sensible of men, certainly not so around women her age; Yova was an exception, and even Yova was easier to work with, as she was a few years younger than her, therefore with a much more simple mind. Be it matured and tormented, she was still a little girl at heart.
Still, it phased him how, even around him, she still averted her eyes and tried to sneak her way into a corner away from the watchful gaze of the crowd around her. Tall as he was, his body was more or less a shield for her even there, in the middle of the room; not to mention not one man would dare to touch the King's beloved.
"Rondulin isn't a brute," he voiced his thoughts then, pushing a coin across the counter, then lifted two of his fingers in a gesture to order two goblets of wine. "You have come all the way with us, Saela. You deserve to rest as well," and that rest, at least in his mind, did not necessarily mean sleep. Perhaps the exhaustion had taken its toll on him and dug so deep into his bones that he could simply feel it anymore. It was good, at least, he thought. He got to enjoy more of the night that way.
"Have at it," he bid with a fatherly smile. "I will have two of my men stay outside her room for a while. Then you can return there if you so much wish. I'm telling you, two would do, although not as well as one of you." Flatter was not in his ways, but he did wish to see her relax a bit, and he had to admit it soothed one's mind knowing they were doing more than enough.
The two goblets he had ordered were pushed back to him and, as the coin disappeared, Lixander took one for himself and gave the other to Saela. "It's weak anyway," weaker than what they fasted upon back in the Northern islands, but plenty strong for the time being. Languor still prickled at their minds and hearts, and it did no good to intoxicate their bodies even more than they already were.
"Look," the knight gestured towards a group of men and women laughing aggressively at some joke about nobles. "Throw yourself in. You don't have to talk about anything, just pretend to be amused." 'Plus, that joke is shit anyway.' He had heard it one too many times and never once had he laughed, yet maybe those did not care for the effects of too much alcohol right then. He could not blame them for that.
A smirk spread across his lips then, as he canted his head to sip from his goblet. The wine was much more sour than expected, making him grimace briefly before regaining his composure. "If it helps, I made sure the King will be enjoying himself tonight as well," in other ways that Saela would even dare, given he did not come and throw the gift into his face before she even dared to take her clothes off.
"By law," Lilith lifted her eyes to fixate him, "Lord Edonn is not yet King. By law, I am the true heir, so long as we are not united before the Gods." They had merely been betrothed to eachother, without any formalities to tie the vow, or at least not that she had been made aware of. "My mother fought to go against Lord Rogerus's will many times, in spite of her pain and suffering, but without her only daughter she is worth nothing in their eyes." That was why she had been required to leave and search for help from the only person she knew she could trust.
There was a flame burning in his heart, ardent with anger that radiated even through the distance she had built between them. Lilith could read his pain etched on his face and resonated with it. They had both lost loved ones, both suffered and struggled the same way, crawling in the darkness in search for light. She felt it reverberate into her but could not answer it. She could not allow herself to be vulnerable in the face of compassion and fall yet again.
A bleak smile graced her lips as he brought mention of his family. She took another sip from the honeyed milk, wiped her cupid's bow with the dirty sleeve of her dress, then placed the half empty mug on the bedside to her left. "I know enough," she reassured him, "I know of the death of your parents, I know of your brothers, but I know little of you. I have no certainty that you are who you claim to be, therefore I have no reason to trust you."
Outside, the skies were dripping over the dried autumn grass and splashing against the sides of her window. The sound, so familiar and heartwarming, seemed to blend seamlessly with the booming howl of the wolf King. Lilith's voice had remained low and contained at all times, just above a murmur, as she forced her bashful gaze not to turn away from the eyes that tried so desperately to hold hers. Dark as they were, there was a glint in them that reminded her of the innocence of her younger sister, of Victoria's subtle amativeness and of her father's unmoving conviction.
There was another knock on the door that startled the princess from her brooding, this once lighter, belonging to the delicate hands of a woman. One of the maidens peeked in, her eyes lowered so they did not rest on the figures within, as she made a quick gesture towards the corridor. "Your bath, m'Lady... 'Tis not too warm. You should hurry."
"I shall," Lilith nodded quickly, mimicking the woman's timidity. She took in a deep breath and found the strength to once again shoot up on her feet. Then, she moved over to take her bag along with the dress for change, eagerly shifting her attention for a brief moment to the door that maiden had made sure to close behind her. She felt rushed, yet she did wish to leave the room. Leave the Lord who was trying to sway her and the absurd thoughts of going to sleep.
When her eyes returned to the King one last time, she straightened her back and clutched her belongings to her chest. "I will not willingly follow you, Lord Eldskar. Of those whom you wish to command in my father's lands, some of them have remained true to his memory. They will not condone to a man who holds me prisoner." For she was a prisoner, be it for her own good; in her mind, said good was not to be protected and used, but to protect herself and fulfill the promise she had made to Ser Erik the night of her departure.
~*~
The mystery of Saela's intrigued Lixander to the Gods and back, yet he knew there was no reason to make himself believe he would one day come to sway her and change her ways. The knight was not the most sensible of men, certainly not so around women her age; Yova was an exception, and even Yova was easier to work with, as she was a few years younger than her, therefore with a much more simple mind. Be it matured and tormented, she was still a little girl at heart.
Still, it phased him how, even around him, she still averted her eyes and tried to sneak her way into a corner away from the watchful gaze of the crowd around her. Tall as he was, his body was more or less a shield for her even there, in the middle of the room; not to mention not one man would dare to touch the King's beloved.
"Rondulin isn't a brute," he voiced his thoughts then, pushing a coin across the counter, then lifted two of his fingers in a gesture to order two goblets of wine. "You have come all the way with us, Saela. You deserve to rest as well," and that rest, at least in his mind, did not necessarily mean sleep. Perhaps the exhaustion had taken its toll on him and dug so deep into his bones that he could simply feel it anymore. It was good, at least, he thought. He got to enjoy more of the night that way.
"Have at it," he bid with a fatherly smile. "I will have two of my men stay outside her room for a while. Then you can return there if you so much wish. I'm telling you, two would do, although not as well as one of you." Flatter was not in his ways, but he did wish to see her relax a bit, and he had to admit it soothed one's mind knowing they were doing more than enough.
The two goblets he had ordered were pushed back to him and, as the coin disappeared, Lixander took one for himself and gave the other to Saela. "It's weak anyway," weaker than what they fasted upon back in the Northern islands, but plenty strong for the time being. Languor still prickled at their minds and hearts, and it did no good to intoxicate their bodies even more than they already were.
"Look," the knight gestured towards a group of men and women laughing aggressively at some joke about nobles. "Throw yourself in. You don't have to talk about anything, just pretend to be amused." 'Plus, that joke is shit anyway.' He had heard it one too many times and never once had he laughed, yet maybe those did not care for the effects of too much alcohol right then. He could not blame them for that.
A smirk spread across his lips then, as he canted his head to sip from his goblet. The wine was much more sour than expected, making him grimace briefly before regaining his composure. "If it helps, I made sure the King will be enjoying himself tonight as well," in other ways that Saela would even dare, given he did not come and throw the gift into his face before she even dared to take her clothes off.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Lilith felt a pang of guilt pierce her heart at the words of the man before her; perchance they were heartfelt, or at least a small fraction of them was genuine. Perchance he was truly just as concerned for her well being as he was for his journey ahead. Nothing had been said of the almost insignificant victory of House Eldskar against House Moirne, so she knew nothing of his true purpose and reason to fight them, yet a small part of her wanted to believe him.
It was the same fragment of her soul that had pushed her into finding shelter that night, for herself and her old stallion. The same fragment that had allowed her to cry the night before, when running away from the monsters of the unknown who were seeking to harm her. So what if she was being chased down, her heart had inquired, and her rationality, ardent and steadfast, had quickly kicked in to remind her of her true calling. She had not traveled miles and weeks up North merely in vain.
For the moment being, Lilith tried to distance herself from those thoughts and pursue her fabricated routine. With small steps, as if cautious not to shatter the floor beneath her, she found her way to the door and, opening it, she disappeared into the dimly lit corridor of the dark tavern. As soon as she was faced with the now familiar hallway, the warm scent of jasmine assailed her nostrils and invaded her heaving chest; the air was damp, imbued with a moist steam crawling from inside the bathing chamber, surprisingly close to her own apartment.
Prancing into the room with a sudden rush of mirth, Lilith hurled her bag onto the floor and folded her new dress over it. Then, she took a step back to press her back against the door and close it shut, before reaching behind to undo the laces of her own garments. The material was thicker - she was already sweating beneath the woven linings, as the room was growing hotter and hotter. There was no window to disturb the heat, so she allowed herself a moment to take in the air imbued with steam and thick perfume which painted such a soothing picture in the back of her mind.
For a moment, she thought that was, perhaps, what making love felt like: fervent and sweet, tingling across her skin and prickling at her toes. As nude as the day she was born, the poppy flower slipped out of her shoes and slid one pale foot into the warm water, followed closely by the other. Sore as it was, it burnt her flesh for a moment, but she did not mind the pain anymore; if anything, it was rather pleasant. She was curious to see the true nuance of her skin after so long without proper scrubbing.
Lilith dared to close her eyes as she submerged her body under the steaming water. It almost felt like home, safe and sound, away from any eyes that might follow her. She knew that, at least there, there was no wolf or snake to bite at her throat, no hunter to turn her into its prey. She allowed herself the blink of an eye to think that she could fall asleep there, without a worry in the world, and that she would wake up in the arms of her younger sister in the morning, as she eagerly stirred her awake to have breakfast.
Her hands sought the soap and let it slide over her flesh, like the touch of a mother's hand caressing down her shoulders. The princess rested with her eyes closed, her movements becoming slower and slower as she ran the bar of jasmine through her hair, over her bosom and down her hips; it felt like more than an eerie dream, vivid and fabled at once, even as her senses were roused to the edge.
She could no longer feel the scourging pain of her wounds pulsate against her incarnadine flesh, but merely the pounding of her heart in her chest and throat, muffled and amplified by a feeling of bitter joy. She opened her eyes yet again, as if to try and convince herself that she was truly there, before her lids slowly closed again, heavy and glistening, as the weariness and languor slowly seeped into the roots of her body. It felt as though she was no longer submerged in water then, but that she lay under the cover of an ermine blanket, secluded from the rest of the world, safe and sound.
'One moment,' the poppy purred to herself, taking in the scent of yet another flower, 'one moment, then I shall not slip away.'
Yet she did.
~*~
There was no more convincing Saela to take part in any mundane activities other than those of a guard. Lixander did pity her and her coyness, yet he knew there was nothing else he could do to brighten her mood; after all, he did not feel like fucking around that evening either, not even as the innkeeper's girls were prancing around the room and eyeing him with such immodesty. He was exhausted after the long road, moreso after having tasted the joy of a new victory, although there was no doubt Rondulin was far happier for the happenings of that day.
When she brought the goblet of wine to her lips, he felt as if a part of his task had been fulfilled. She was at least making an effort to enjoy herself, even if it consisted in merely a sip of sour wine. "It's bad, I know," he shook his head theatrically. "There's nothing I can do about it. The North has it better when it comes to alcohol, although I have to say the food back home is much more bland and tasteless."
A smile graced his lips at the mention of his gift to the King. To ease the tension, he gave her a shrug and brought his own chalice up to taste from. "Let us say he has not enjoyed a good woman in a while." 'It must be one hell of a rust down there.' Not that he had done much in terms of loving, mainly due to the long road and cheap whores that merely plagued the land, practically and figuratively. At least he knew those were clean and skilled enough. Far better than what a port town had to offer in exchange for so little.
"She ain't bad," he chuckled. "Golden hair and amber eyes... Thin like a stick but better than the rest I'd say. She's young." Not that the rest were old, but Rondulin was still a boy. "I can only hope her mouth will be doing something other than spilling words, as I don't think I can deal with a fiery King now as well." Rondulin was not to be disregarded when angry.
Eventually, he put his half empty goblet down and leaned back in his chair, without any intention to finish it. He wanted to be sober in the morning and able to ride without leaning to the side, something which he could not predict for his comrades whom he had pointed Saela to. It seemed it was only the two of them not truly relishing in the joys of a peaceful night as they should be, or perhaps they were the only ones smart enough to enjoy pleasures within a certain measure.
"I will tell you this, girl," he sighed then, his gaze rising to meet her dripping gold orbs, "you will one day be a Lady, and a Lady is confident not only in battle, but shows that confidence even around those who do not wield blades. I saw you near Lilith Varhart... Saw, because I could not hear you. Nor could she, when she should have known who she was looking up at. You are as much a Queen as Rondulin is King. Act like it, even when replaced. Extend your battles to each and every day, because some fights, you do not win with the spear."
The knight lifted his hand to point to his temple, before relaxing back in his wooden throne. Still, his gaze remained resting on her, as if shielding her from those around them. He did want her to feel good, did want her to understand she was more than just a protector, when Rondulin had done a bad job at emphasizing that for her over the years.
It was the same fragment of her soul that had pushed her into finding shelter that night, for herself and her old stallion. The same fragment that had allowed her to cry the night before, when running away from the monsters of the unknown who were seeking to harm her. So what if she was being chased down, her heart had inquired, and her rationality, ardent and steadfast, had quickly kicked in to remind her of her true calling. She had not traveled miles and weeks up North merely in vain.
For the moment being, Lilith tried to distance herself from those thoughts and pursue her fabricated routine. With small steps, as if cautious not to shatter the floor beneath her, she found her way to the door and, opening it, she disappeared into the dimly lit corridor of the dark tavern. As soon as she was faced with the now familiar hallway, the warm scent of jasmine assailed her nostrils and invaded her heaving chest; the air was damp, imbued with a moist steam crawling from inside the bathing chamber, surprisingly close to her own apartment.
Prancing into the room with a sudden rush of mirth, Lilith hurled her bag onto the floor and folded her new dress over it. Then, she took a step back to press her back against the door and close it shut, before reaching behind to undo the laces of her own garments. The material was thicker - she was already sweating beneath the woven linings, as the room was growing hotter and hotter. There was no window to disturb the heat, so she allowed herself a moment to take in the air imbued with steam and thick perfume which painted such a soothing picture in the back of her mind.
For a moment, she thought that was, perhaps, what making love felt like: fervent and sweet, tingling across her skin and prickling at her toes. As nude as the day she was born, the poppy flower slipped out of her shoes and slid one pale foot into the warm water, followed closely by the other. Sore as it was, it burnt her flesh for a moment, but she did not mind the pain anymore; if anything, it was rather pleasant. She was curious to see the true nuance of her skin after so long without proper scrubbing.
Lilith dared to close her eyes as she submerged her body under the steaming water. It almost felt like home, safe and sound, away from any eyes that might follow her. She knew that, at least there, there was no wolf or snake to bite at her throat, no hunter to turn her into its prey. She allowed herself the blink of an eye to think that she could fall asleep there, without a worry in the world, and that she would wake up in the arms of her younger sister in the morning, as she eagerly stirred her awake to have breakfast.
Her hands sought the soap and let it slide over her flesh, like the touch of a mother's hand caressing down her shoulders. The princess rested with her eyes closed, her movements becoming slower and slower as she ran the bar of jasmine through her hair, over her bosom and down her hips; it felt like more than an eerie dream, vivid and fabled at once, even as her senses were roused to the edge.
She could no longer feel the scourging pain of her wounds pulsate against her incarnadine flesh, but merely the pounding of her heart in her chest and throat, muffled and amplified by a feeling of bitter joy. She opened her eyes yet again, as if to try and convince herself that she was truly there, before her lids slowly closed again, heavy and glistening, as the weariness and languor slowly seeped into the roots of her body. It felt as though she was no longer submerged in water then, but that she lay under the cover of an ermine blanket, secluded from the rest of the world, safe and sound.
'One moment,' the poppy purred to herself, taking in the scent of yet another flower, 'one moment, then I shall not slip away.'
Yet she did.
~*~
There was no more convincing Saela to take part in any mundane activities other than those of a guard. Lixander did pity her and her coyness, yet he knew there was nothing else he could do to brighten her mood; after all, he did not feel like fucking around that evening either, not even as the innkeeper's girls were prancing around the room and eyeing him with such immodesty. He was exhausted after the long road, moreso after having tasted the joy of a new victory, although there was no doubt Rondulin was far happier for the happenings of that day.
When she brought the goblet of wine to her lips, he felt as if a part of his task had been fulfilled. She was at least making an effort to enjoy herself, even if it consisted in merely a sip of sour wine. "It's bad, I know," he shook his head theatrically. "There's nothing I can do about it. The North has it better when it comes to alcohol, although I have to say the food back home is much more bland and tasteless."
A smile graced his lips at the mention of his gift to the King. To ease the tension, he gave her a shrug and brought his own chalice up to taste from. "Let us say he has not enjoyed a good woman in a while." 'It must be one hell of a rust down there.' Not that he had done much in terms of loving, mainly due to the long road and cheap whores that merely plagued the land, practically and figuratively. At least he knew those were clean and skilled enough. Far better than what a port town had to offer in exchange for so little.
"She ain't bad," he chuckled. "Golden hair and amber eyes... Thin like a stick but better than the rest I'd say. She's young." Not that the rest were old, but Rondulin was still a boy. "I can only hope her mouth will be doing something other than spilling words, as I don't think I can deal with a fiery King now as well." Rondulin was not to be disregarded when angry.
Eventually, he put his half empty goblet down and leaned back in his chair, without any intention to finish it. He wanted to be sober in the morning and able to ride without leaning to the side, something which he could not predict for his comrades whom he had pointed Saela to. It seemed it was only the two of them not truly relishing in the joys of a peaceful night as they should be, or perhaps they were the only ones smart enough to enjoy pleasures within a certain measure.
"I will tell you this, girl," he sighed then, his gaze rising to meet her dripping gold orbs, "you will one day be a Lady, and a Lady is confident not only in battle, but shows that confidence even around those who do not wield blades. I saw you near Lilith Varhart... Saw, because I could not hear you. Nor could she, when she should have known who she was looking up at. You are as much a Queen as Rondulin is King. Act like it, even when replaced. Extend your battles to each and every day, because some fights, you do not win with the spear."
The knight lifted his hand to point to his temple, before relaxing back in his wooden throne. Still, his gaze remained resting on her, as if shielding her from those around them. He did want her to feel good, did want her to understand she was more than just a protector, when Rondulin had done a bad job at emphasizing that for her over the years.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
As he listened to Saela stutter and stir about, Lixander had nothing left in his heart but pity. He understood the pain of being inferior to someone beloved, yet he had learnt to swallow it whole without a protesting word. The girl before him, it seemed, once as glowing as a bar of gold, looked like nothing more than the metal of a dull blade. Even there, she could not find her words to express herself, as though the whole world were watching and listening to her speak.
Had she not stormed off from her seat, perhaps he would have found the words to tell her she was not as insignificant as she saw herself. He felt a pang of guilt strike him, while at the same time the light insult of being merely a knight scourged him across the cheek. 'He is not the peak of this mountain," he thought to himself, but did not dare voice his thoughts right then, lest someone presumably more loyal heard him doubt the importance of his King.
The knight allowed Saela a moment to dissipate through the crowd before following her trail upstairs. Even before he took the steps, his nostrils found the thick air imbued with jasmine that swirled from above like waves of fog. The potent scent, combined with Saela's absence, made him long for the presence of another by his side, but he knew he was to be sober in the morning, not intoxicated with the charming kisses of a heated piece of flesh.
As he found the way towards an empty room for one, he heard another pair of steps, bare against the trodden wood, and following the sound, his eyes landed on the familiar figure of a golden beauty with her figure blissfully covered by thick curls of light hair, adorned with jewelry from head to toe. Her lips curled into a smile as her eyes graced upon him, but Lixander was the first one to speak.
"He did not like you, did he?"
The young woman let out a chuckle and shook her bush of golden hair. "I was not to his liking, no..." She was not much older that Yova, but had the demeanor and posture of a mature woman. "Although, the gold..."
"Keep it," the knight said quickly, and before indulging himself in another longing look, he turned around the corner and slipped into the first empty apartment he found, where he no longer was prey to the pleasures that would have lured a man more sane than him.
~*~
The frigid morning light gleamed through the stained glass window of the cramped chamber, casting tall shadows on the walls and highlighting dancing particles of dust in the musky air. The sheets beneath Lilith had dried in the warmth of the room, but a certain moisture lingered long after the crackling fire died in its hearth, the same moisture that still curled her hair and dampened the back of her neck, that had seeped through the thin material of her undergarments and cooled the tender flesh beneath it.
When she opened one eye, at first, the princess saw herself in her room back home: even the curtains were similar, of a dark crimson hue, and the heat that radiated from the ermine that covered her body was as familiar as a mother's soothing whisper. She turned to her side, feeling the place next to her for Lady Ylonne; it was cold and empty, mirroring a piece of her soul that knew something was not right, not as it should be.
It was when she cracked the second that the reality dawned heavily on her chest, and she immediately shot up, trembling beneath the heated sheets, unclothed apart from the garments that covered her nudity. 'I fell asleep...' Someone had brought her back to her room, naked as in the day she was born, and for a moment she prayed it had been one of the innkeepers rather than her captors. Outside, she could hear the early rustling of armour and shoes against dried grass, flaccid chatter and weary laughter resonating from right underneath her window.
Clutching the ermine to her chest, she pranced to the other side of the room to grab the dress one of the maidens had left for her. With swift movements, she slipped it on and made sure to fit each and every button as it should be in its eyelet. She found her leather shoes rather easily, no longer covered in a thick layer of mud, next to the leather bag in which she had hidden remainders of food from the night before. The cape, hastily draped over her shoulders, trembled behind her as she found her way to the door and leaned to check if anyone was pacing through the corridor right outside, before making her way out with steps as light as a feather.
Even there, in the darkness of the hallway, the sun managed to peek through, and the closer she got to the top of the stairs, the louder the strangers' voices got, tugging at her heart and digging into her bones. Lilith kept her eyes opened wide, even as tears of terror streamed down her cheeks, burning the frail flesh and stinging the corners of her lips. As she moved to turn around the corner towards the stairwell that lead to the dining hall, another pair of steps mirrored hers and she dared to turn around only halfway, heart pounding in her chest like a symphony of a thousand drums.
"Leaving?" the knight murmured, as if afraid not to disturb the silence. "You have not paid for your room, Your Grace." His fingers worked to tie the laces of his dark leather coat, matching a pair of boots reinforced with engraved steel. He carried a sword, or at least the metal scabbard of one, tied to the girdle around his waist, and although there was no weapon that occupied it, he was still allowing space for her to gaze upon it and feel the unspoken threat.
No answer spilled from the girl's lips as he trembled where she stood, not daring to dive into the sea of steel that awaited her downstairs. Finishing the last tie, Lixander lowered his hands and showed her his bare palms with a pitiful sigh. "You could not have left either way. Saela is a woman of duty, and so were my men. It was... not a choice, my Lady. A prisoner or not, you are coming with us, not by my law, but by our-"
"Your King's?" Lilith sputtered. "A King, who dares use a young woman for his own needs and purposes... A King who dares say he respects my father when cannot even respect himself. How can I trust a man who has left my father's service and another whom he serves?" Her voice, frail as it was, resonated through the thin walls of the tavern as louds as a pearling thunder. She could feel the chill of hatred and despair seep underneath her skin and through her bones, like the striking acumen of an arrow through her ardent flesh.
The knight lowered his eyes with yet another heavy breath, and although Lilith could not read what was etched upon his face, she knew that at least a small part of him pitied her, for she pitied herself for being as pathetic as to beg for her own salvation. 'You have brought this upon yourself. Endure it.' There might be other ways to escape, other chances for her to vanish, even if she wished to disappear right then, away from the man that had her feet pinned to the floor. Yet still, she could not console herself with thoughts of the future, not when danger dawned upon her like a thick fog.
"Lady," he dared to speak again, taking a step foward, to which the poppy shivered and moved back. She was close to the edge of the stairs and knew she could not step farther away, lest she felts into the foaming jaws of the lions below. "I have a daughter," he continued, untouched by her defensiveness, "not too much younger than you, but whom I love more than the eyes in my head. Just as I would not wish for anyone to harm my own daughter, I know your father would not have wanted me to harm you."
The sincerity in his eyes, be it fabricated or genuine, gleamed as bright as the sun, yet Lilith forced herself to disregard it. Her heart twisted painfully, torn between listening to her instincts and letting go: she could not turn on her heels and leave, nor could she nod and bow before the ruler that the knight respected and held so dearly. To her, he was nothing more that a boy with a sword in his hand and a purpose in his heart, like merely any other. Like herself, despite her blade being significantly smaller.
"You may try to cut me open, but I assure you that you will not succeed," he followed, and Lilith realised that she had her hand slipped inside the leather bag and reaching for the dagger. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had acknowledged it, but fear had taken over the rest, shivering through her body like the waves of a wrathful sea.
"Perhaps I wished to cut myself open," the girl said quickly, pursing her lips.
"Do you? Because I would have to stop you, my Lady."
"No."
No, she could not allow herself to die. Not while her mother's life depended on her living, not when it was her calling to save the blood of her family, even if she had slipped into a slope and impeded her own plans. It was merely a play, although her mind, troubled as it was, refused to find it entertaining. The fear in the knight's eyes had been clear as daylight: he wanted her alive as well.
She let go of the bag and let her arms fall on either side of her body without another word. 'Maybe it is better this way. Another time...' If the Gods were truly merciful, they would give her the opportunity to fade as soon as the chance arised. So, with her eyes scouring the knight attentively, she straightened her back and moved to resume her light trot down the stairs. She heard him follow, even as he had not finished arranging his attire upon his body; his steps were heavy, echoing after hers, like a loud shadow that lurked over her, either to keep her safe or to hold her caged.
Had she not stormed off from her seat, perhaps he would have found the words to tell her she was not as insignificant as she saw herself. He felt a pang of guilt strike him, while at the same time the light insult of being merely a knight scourged him across the cheek. 'He is not the peak of this mountain," he thought to himself, but did not dare voice his thoughts right then, lest someone presumably more loyal heard him doubt the importance of his King.
The knight allowed Saela a moment to dissipate through the crowd before following her trail upstairs. Even before he took the steps, his nostrils found the thick air imbued with jasmine that swirled from above like waves of fog. The potent scent, combined with Saela's absence, made him long for the presence of another by his side, but he knew he was to be sober in the morning, not intoxicated with the charming kisses of a heated piece of flesh.
As he found the way towards an empty room for one, he heard another pair of steps, bare against the trodden wood, and following the sound, his eyes landed on the familiar figure of a golden beauty with her figure blissfully covered by thick curls of light hair, adorned with jewelry from head to toe. Her lips curled into a smile as her eyes graced upon him, but Lixander was the first one to speak.
"He did not like you, did he?"
The young woman let out a chuckle and shook her bush of golden hair. "I was not to his liking, no..." She was not much older that Yova, but had the demeanor and posture of a mature woman. "Although, the gold..."
"Keep it," the knight said quickly, and before indulging himself in another longing look, he turned around the corner and slipped into the first empty apartment he found, where he no longer was prey to the pleasures that would have lured a man more sane than him.
~*~
The frigid morning light gleamed through the stained glass window of the cramped chamber, casting tall shadows on the walls and highlighting dancing particles of dust in the musky air. The sheets beneath Lilith had dried in the warmth of the room, but a certain moisture lingered long after the crackling fire died in its hearth, the same moisture that still curled her hair and dampened the back of her neck, that had seeped through the thin material of her undergarments and cooled the tender flesh beneath it.
When she opened one eye, at first, the princess saw herself in her room back home: even the curtains were similar, of a dark crimson hue, and the heat that radiated from the ermine that covered her body was as familiar as a mother's soothing whisper. She turned to her side, feeling the place next to her for Lady Ylonne; it was cold and empty, mirroring a piece of her soul that knew something was not right, not as it should be.
It was when she cracked the second that the reality dawned heavily on her chest, and she immediately shot up, trembling beneath the heated sheets, unclothed apart from the garments that covered her nudity. 'I fell asleep...' Someone had brought her back to her room, naked as in the day she was born, and for a moment she prayed it had been one of the innkeepers rather than her captors. Outside, she could hear the early rustling of armour and shoes against dried grass, flaccid chatter and weary laughter resonating from right underneath her window.
Clutching the ermine to her chest, she pranced to the other side of the room to grab the dress one of the maidens had left for her. With swift movements, she slipped it on and made sure to fit each and every button as it should be in its eyelet. She found her leather shoes rather easily, no longer covered in a thick layer of mud, next to the leather bag in which she had hidden remainders of food from the night before. The cape, hastily draped over her shoulders, trembled behind her as she found her way to the door and leaned to check if anyone was pacing through the corridor right outside, before making her way out with steps as light as a feather.
Even there, in the darkness of the hallway, the sun managed to peek through, and the closer she got to the top of the stairs, the louder the strangers' voices got, tugging at her heart and digging into her bones. Lilith kept her eyes opened wide, even as tears of terror streamed down her cheeks, burning the frail flesh and stinging the corners of her lips. As she moved to turn around the corner towards the stairwell that lead to the dining hall, another pair of steps mirrored hers and she dared to turn around only halfway, heart pounding in her chest like a symphony of a thousand drums.
"Leaving?" the knight murmured, as if afraid not to disturb the silence. "You have not paid for your room, Your Grace." His fingers worked to tie the laces of his dark leather coat, matching a pair of boots reinforced with engraved steel. He carried a sword, or at least the metal scabbard of one, tied to the girdle around his waist, and although there was no weapon that occupied it, he was still allowing space for her to gaze upon it and feel the unspoken threat.
No answer spilled from the girl's lips as he trembled where she stood, not daring to dive into the sea of steel that awaited her downstairs. Finishing the last tie, Lixander lowered his hands and showed her his bare palms with a pitiful sigh. "You could not have left either way. Saela is a woman of duty, and so were my men. It was... not a choice, my Lady. A prisoner or not, you are coming with us, not by my law, but by our-"
"Your King's?" Lilith sputtered. "A King, who dares use a young woman for his own needs and purposes... A King who dares say he respects my father when cannot even respect himself. How can I trust a man who has left my father's service and another whom he serves?" Her voice, frail as it was, resonated through the thin walls of the tavern as louds as a pearling thunder. She could feel the chill of hatred and despair seep underneath her skin and through her bones, like the striking acumen of an arrow through her ardent flesh.
The knight lowered his eyes with yet another heavy breath, and although Lilith could not read what was etched upon his face, she knew that at least a small part of him pitied her, for she pitied herself for being as pathetic as to beg for her own salvation. 'You have brought this upon yourself. Endure it.' There might be other ways to escape, other chances for her to vanish, even if she wished to disappear right then, away from the man that had her feet pinned to the floor. Yet still, she could not console herself with thoughts of the future, not when danger dawned upon her like a thick fog.
"Lady," he dared to speak again, taking a step foward, to which the poppy shivered and moved back. She was close to the edge of the stairs and knew she could not step farther away, lest she felts into the foaming jaws of the lions below. "I have a daughter," he continued, untouched by her defensiveness, "not too much younger than you, but whom I love more than the eyes in my head. Just as I would not wish for anyone to harm my own daughter, I know your father would not have wanted me to harm you."
The sincerity in his eyes, be it fabricated or genuine, gleamed as bright as the sun, yet Lilith forced herself to disregard it. Her heart twisted painfully, torn between listening to her instincts and letting go: she could not turn on her heels and leave, nor could she nod and bow before the ruler that the knight respected and held so dearly. To her, he was nothing more that a boy with a sword in his hand and a purpose in his heart, like merely any other. Like herself, despite her blade being significantly smaller.
"You may try to cut me open, but I assure you that you will not succeed," he followed, and Lilith realised that she had her hand slipped inside the leather bag and reaching for the dagger. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had acknowledged it, but fear had taken over the rest, shivering through her body like the waves of a wrathful sea.
"Perhaps I wished to cut myself open," the girl said quickly, pursing her lips.
"Do you? Because I would have to stop you, my Lady."
"No."
No, she could not allow herself to die. Not while her mother's life depended on her living, not when it was her calling to save the blood of her family, even if she had slipped into a slope and impeded her own plans. It was merely a play, although her mind, troubled as it was, refused to find it entertaining. The fear in the knight's eyes had been clear as daylight: he wanted her alive as well.
She let go of the bag and let her arms fall on either side of her body without another word. 'Maybe it is better this way. Another time...' If the Gods were truly merciful, they would give her the opportunity to fade as soon as the chance arised. So, with her eyes scouring the knight attentively, she straightened her back and moved to resume her light trot down the stairs. She heard him follow, even as he had not finished arranging his attire upon his body; his steps were heavy, echoing after hers, like a loud shadow that lurked over her, either to keep her safe or to hold her caged.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The morning had started off as dulcet as a maiden's kiss, yet the mirth of his small victory had vanished as quickly as dawn's fog. As he paced through the dimly lit corridor of the tavern, Lixander could not help but feel the sting of guilt at having to dig the dagger deeper into a poor child's heart.
From far away and turned around, she did bear the likeness of his Yova, with long dark hair flowing in a cascade to her small waist, her grey dress tightened around her robust hips. No girdle adorned her middle, nothing but the cape over her shoulders and the bag she clutched to her side, as if she held inside the meaning of her own existence. She was as pale as freshly fallen snow, light freckles darkening her skin around her nose, no longer dirt sprayed over her heated flesh; the picture was merely distorted by the slash against her cheek, one which did not belong to a woman of her age. It did not take much to assume the dangers she had been through to escape her cage, only to be once again caught and trapped away.
Lilith swung lightly from side to side as she trotted down the stairs, as straight and proud as a Queen meeting her peers. Over the sound of her small feet against the treaded wood, the knight could hear the voices of his King and Ser Maxim, and the echo of a woman's laughter. It was none but Saela; ever after a sleepless night of guarding, she still had the energy and will to put a mask of joy on, for the sake of her beloved Rondulin if not herself.
Yet the scenery that painted itself before them was not nearly something he would have expected to see: the King himself, holding Saela by the ankles up in the air and tickling her feet with such happiness glowing in his eyes, that it was almost impossible to claim for certain that it was Rondulin one was looking at. The girl, begging to be released and with her face grimacing either in pain or radiating joy, was shaking under his grip in an effort to grip the ground and free herself from the reckless boy.
Lilith's lips remained pursed as she watched them. Her stomach twisted painfully; perhaps, had the situation been different, she would have found amusement in the nobles' play, but now, she could not help but wonder what kind of King, troubled by thoughts of war and family, had the time and wish to fool around like a child. Sometimes, she was too much like her mother, even if Lady Ylonne had not given her nearly enough attention before her departure. The disturbance in her heart rung deeply, as if she were watching a gruesome execution and not a game of tickling and escaping.
"Your Grace," the knight cleared his throat, giving his chest a light pound. "If you will..." The expression etched on his face was nothing but the mirrored image of the princess next to him, although he forced himself to quickly regain his poise and composure. He straightened his back and took a step forward to draw himself closer to her, enough to feel the heat of her back radiate against his chest. It was how he knew, at least, that she could not escape his grip, even as he helped himself from touching her.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted the tall figure of a woman stepping into the hall through the wide doors of the inn, holding two swords in one hand and a large piece of luggage in the other, likely horse necessities, over which was draped a thick blue blanket. "I am glad you are enjoying yourselves this fine morning," Milena muttered from between her teeth, before turning her head to look at those who were not taking part in the inane foolery. "You, Ser Barske, do not look like you had a good night's sleep."
"Good or bad, we're here," the man nodded with a deep sigh, gesturing towards the princess. He forced himself to avert his eyes from the King and his knight, lest he make the situation feel more tense than it already did. He was eager to leave the questions for later. "And we are ready to leave, she-"
"Oh, I see 'er," the woman smiled sweetly. "Darcelle was gentle enough, as gentle as she is with the-"
"I know," Lixander sputtered quickly. "We have all been here before, although... The scene now is a bit different." His eyes lowered to fixate the girl, who was still as unmoving as a statue. Her gaze, darkened by fear, were as hostile as a storm threatening to erupt, yet the knight was not in the least impressed or concerned. At the very least, the feeling of pity was only seeding deeper in his heart, for her, and for the situation that she found herself in right then.
Milena chewed on her lower lip, looking at Lilith as if she were on the verge of shattering to pieces. Lixander had known her for too long to doubt whether she understood the situation - she did. She was a woman after all, old enough to be a mother as well, yet she had never found the sliver of time to raise a child. Even he wondered why he had made Yova, although at that time, during King Benjamin's time, the Kingdom was a far safer place, where a woman could walk as bare as the day she was born and not be touched by any man that she came across.
Lilith Varhart had grown in a globe of glass; it was no wonder why, after it crumbled, the pain of its shivers still rung through her flesh.
It was then that the girl finally awakened from her brooding and parted her lips to address not the woman before her, but the King himself, her voice as steadfast as a Queen's. "My horse," she said then. "I wish to be brought to my horse. If you have been waiting for me to come down, then I wish to leave at once."
The authority in her tone took Lixander by surprise; she was still fidgeting with her fingers against the trodden surface of her leather bag and her chest was heaving, either in fear or disgust at the entire situation: they were all a concoction of exhaustion and intoxication, not one that inspired respect and competence. He could not blame her for wanting to leave before Rondulin made it all worse for himself.
'She is probably already planning her escape,' he then thought to himself, but decided to remain silent in an effort not to stick out from the crowd of oddity.
From far away and turned around, she did bear the likeness of his Yova, with long dark hair flowing in a cascade to her small waist, her grey dress tightened around her robust hips. No girdle adorned her middle, nothing but the cape over her shoulders and the bag she clutched to her side, as if she held inside the meaning of her own existence. She was as pale as freshly fallen snow, light freckles darkening her skin around her nose, no longer dirt sprayed over her heated flesh; the picture was merely distorted by the slash against her cheek, one which did not belong to a woman of her age. It did not take much to assume the dangers she had been through to escape her cage, only to be once again caught and trapped away.
Lilith swung lightly from side to side as she trotted down the stairs, as straight and proud as a Queen meeting her peers. Over the sound of her small feet against the treaded wood, the knight could hear the voices of his King and Ser Maxim, and the echo of a woman's laughter. It was none but Saela; ever after a sleepless night of guarding, she still had the energy and will to put a mask of joy on, for the sake of her beloved Rondulin if not herself.
Yet the scenery that painted itself before them was not nearly something he would have expected to see: the King himself, holding Saela by the ankles up in the air and tickling her feet with such happiness glowing in his eyes, that it was almost impossible to claim for certain that it was Rondulin one was looking at. The girl, begging to be released and with her face grimacing either in pain or radiating joy, was shaking under his grip in an effort to grip the ground and free herself from the reckless boy.
Lilith's lips remained pursed as she watched them. Her stomach twisted painfully; perhaps, had the situation been different, she would have found amusement in the nobles' play, but now, she could not help but wonder what kind of King, troubled by thoughts of war and family, had the time and wish to fool around like a child. Sometimes, she was too much like her mother, even if Lady Ylonne had not given her nearly enough attention before her departure. The disturbance in her heart rung deeply, as if she were watching a gruesome execution and not a game of tickling and escaping.
"Your Grace," the knight cleared his throat, giving his chest a light pound. "If you will..." The expression etched on his face was nothing but the mirrored image of the princess next to him, although he forced himself to quickly regain his poise and composure. He straightened his back and took a step forward to draw himself closer to her, enough to feel the heat of her back radiate against his chest. It was how he knew, at least, that she could not escape his grip, even as he helped himself from touching her.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted the tall figure of a woman stepping into the hall through the wide doors of the inn, holding two swords in one hand and a large piece of luggage in the other, likely horse necessities, over which was draped a thick blue blanket. "I am glad you are enjoying yourselves this fine morning," Milena muttered from between her teeth, before turning her head to look at those who were not taking part in the inane foolery. "You, Ser Barske, do not look like you had a good night's sleep."
"Good or bad, we're here," the man nodded with a deep sigh, gesturing towards the princess. He forced himself to avert his eyes from the King and his knight, lest he make the situation feel more tense than it already did. He was eager to leave the questions for later. "And we are ready to leave, she-"
"Oh, I see 'er," the woman smiled sweetly. "Darcelle was gentle enough, as gentle as she is with the-"
"I know," Lixander sputtered quickly. "We have all been here before, although... The scene now is a bit different." His eyes lowered to fixate the girl, who was still as unmoving as a statue. Her gaze, darkened by fear, were as hostile as a storm threatening to erupt, yet the knight was not in the least impressed or concerned. At the very least, the feeling of pity was only seeding deeper in his heart, for her, and for the situation that she found herself in right then.
Milena chewed on her lower lip, looking at Lilith as if she were on the verge of shattering to pieces. Lixander had known her for too long to doubt whether she understood the situation - she did. She was a woman after all, old enough to be a mother as well, yet she had never found the sliver of time to raise a child. Even he wondered why he had made Yova, although at that time, during King Benjamin's time, the Kingdom was a far safer place, where a woman could walk as bare as the day she was born and not be touched by any man that she came across.
Lilith Varhart had grown in a globe of glass; it was no wonder why, after it crumbled, the pain of its shivers still rung through her flesh.
It was then that the girl finally awakened from her brooding and parted her lips to address not the woman before her, but the King himself, her voice as steadfast as a Queen's. "My horse," she said then. "I wish to be brought to my horse. If you have been waiting for me to come down, then I wish to leave at once."
The authority in her tone took Lixander by surprise; she was still fidgeting with her fingers against the trodden surface of her leather bag and her chest was heaving, either in fear or disgust at the entire situation: they were all a concoction of exhaustion and intoxication, not one that inspired respect and competence. He could not blame her for wanting to leave before Rondulin made it all worse for himself.
'She is probably already planning her escape,' he then thought to himself, but decided to remain silent in an effort not to stick out from the crowd of oddity.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
It was not often that King Rondulin felt joyous enough to display his affection so easily before the eyes of those who watched him, and while he might be regarded as drivelling and childish, he was still a youngling after all, one plagued by death and war who was merely struggling to swim to the surface of his inner battlefield. Lixander understood him, and so did Ser Maxim; the others had learnt not to mind it, yet to the princess, it was something entirely new and peculiar.
The moment his eyes fell on the girl and that who accompanied her, the King's cheeks, florid even before, turned a deep shade of crimson, mirroring that of Lady Saela who was desperately trying to cover her unveiled body from the eyes of the stranger. It did not take long until Rondulin regained his composure - something which Lixander admired in the man - , and immediately offered to fulfill the desires of the demanding princess.
The displeasure in her grey pools was as clear as day when he addressed her and, for a moment, she displayed nothing but a recalcitrant storm, obviously not overwhelmed by the thought of being guarded. She shifted her weight to the other leg and lowered her eyes obediently, without another word parting her lips for the moment.
"We have only spoken twice," Lixander voiced for her, hoping to break the arduous silence. "It will be my pleasure to get to know you, Princess. After... I was exiled, too many things happened that simply went past my ear. I am afraid I know almost nothing about you." Such details did not matter as much as keeping her busy and making sure she was within his line of sight at all times. Ser Maxim was old and Saela, weary as she was, could be easily distracted. He doubted that Rondulin would bother himself with giving the young girl any attention on the road unless it was strictly necessary.
"Perhaps it is better that you knew nothing," Lilith murmured, barely parting her lips to speak. Her gaze turned to the female knight whom the King had assigned to see to the men still curling up in their beds; she quietly found her way through the small group and went up the stairs to make sure that everyone was packed and ready to leave.
Lilith's ears perked at the mention of food; after allowing some on the tip of her tongue the night before, she had realised how hungry she had become, and that voracious appetite still rung in her stomach and reverberated in her ears. She did wish to break the fast, but not there; she could not eat whilst being watched and cornered by wolves. Not when threatened with words of fabricated kindness, too thick for her to swallow.
The offer to be escorted outside came more or less as a surprise; Lilith shut her eyes for a moment, calculating whether she should refuse being escorted or accept the arm given. 'Decency over pride.' Those words rung loudly in her ears; her mother had taught her well, but if she were to look upon her now, she would not have been happy to see she was so easily swayed and trapped after a month's time of riding alone and avoiding Rogerus's skirmishing parties.
Taking in a deep breath, she nodded and wrapped her arm around his, significantly smaller and paler, whilst her cheeks radiated such heat that it contrasted with the pallor of her flesh. She saw Lixander puff up at the mention of his superiority in strength potential, before the man pranced forward to lead them outside and into the tavern's front yard. It felt most unnatural being pressed to the young lord that way; she did not know whether she felt secure or threatened, close as she was to his body, yet just as close to the sword he held clutched to his middle. He had promised her safety, while in return, she ought to confine to the rules of her new state of captivity.
The older knight with hair as dark as umber cracked the tall doors open once again to allow them to step through, before making his way on the small trodden path that lead to the stables. The sight she had seen the night before was significantly different from what she saw now: thousands of men in glimmering silver paced around the inn, either tending to their horses or checking their leather bags for coins left over from a night spent on harlots and wine. Some were already mounting their steeds, eager to leave at once, yet all of those eyes, prying and inquiring, landed on the flesh of the woman before them who they knew to be the lost Princess of House Varhart - or what was left of it, for that matter.
With her eyes scouring the ground, Lilith eventually released her grip on the Lord as she drew close enough to her horse. Ser Barske followed her easily and took a grip of its reins before she found them herself, then took a step forward to grab a piece of rope and tied it to the thin leather of its bridle. "The moment this comes undone," he said in a warning tone, "I will shoot it, without a second of wavering. It's an old mount, so no loss for me here. There are others which you can ride, although I would be careful about trying to escape on one of those, as well."
The poppy breathed in as she found the strength to look up to him again. His words had left her sick in the stomach, but she did part her lips to speak. "No need for threats, Ser Barske. Had I been a fool, I would not have made it all the way here."
"Had you been smarter, perhaps you would have gone even further." He pulled at the bridle and started leading it towards his own horse, gaze as dark as the night sky. As soon as he reached his destination, he turned towards her and, beginning to tie the other end of the rope, allowed a touch of ruth to crack his glare. "I know what you're thinking. I do not want to hurt you and nor does he, as hard as it might be to believe that," considering the situation she had found him in that morning.
"I am not afraid," the girl said then, her heart swelling with a pride that she not often found in herself. 'I am not afraid, because I am too numb to feel something anymore.' She had cried, but could not allow herself to break anymore. Her lack of rationality had brought her there, the opposite would get her out, given the right chance. 'If the Gods are kind enough...'
She knew she would survive, one way or another. She only had to wait.
The moment his eyes fell on the girl and that who accompanied her, the King's cheeks, florid even before, turned a deep shade of crimson, mirroring that of Lady Saela who was desperately trying to cover her unveiled body from the eyes of the stranger. It did not take long until Rondulin regained his composure - something which Lixander admired in the man - , and immediately offered to fulfill the desires of the demanding princess.
The displeasure in her grey pools was as clear as day when he addressed her and, for a moment, she displayed nothing but a recalcitrant storm, obviously not overwhelmed by the thought of being guarded. She shifted her weight to the other leg and lowered her eyes obediently, without another word parting her lips for the moment.
"We have only spoken twice," Lixander voiced for her, hoping to break the arduous silence. "It will be my pleasure to get to know you, Princess. After... I was exiled, too many things happened that simply went past my ear. I am afraid I know almost nothing about you." Such details did not matter as much as keeping her busy and making sure she was within his line of sight at all times. Ser Maxim was old and Saela, weary as she was, could be easily distracted. He doubted that Rondulin would bother himself with giving the young girl any attention on the road unless it was strictly necessary.
"Perhaps it is better that you knew nothing," Lilith murmured, barely parting her lips to speak. Her gaze turned to the female knight whom the King had assigned to see to the men still curling up in their beds; she quietly found her way through the small group and went up the stairs to make sure that everyone was packed and ready to leave.
Lilith's ears perked at the mention of food; after allowing some on the tip of her tongue the night before, she had realised how hungry she had become, and that voracious appetite still rung in her stomach and reverberated in her ears. She did wish to break the fast, but not there; she could not eat whilst being watched and cornered by wolves. Not when threatened with words of fabricated kindness, too thick for her to swallow.
The offer to be escorted outside came more or less as a surprise; Lilith shut her eyes for a moment, calculating whether she should refuse being escorted or accept the arm given. 'Decency over pride.' Those words rung loudly in her ears; her mother had taught her well, but if she were to look upon her now, she would not have been happy to see she was so easily swayed and trapped after a month's time of riding alone and avoiding Rogerus's skirmishing parties.
Taking in a deep breath, she nodded and wrapped her arm around his, significantly smaller and paler, whilst her cheeks radiated such heat that it contrasted with the pallor of her flesh. She saw Lixander puff up at the mention of his superiority in strength potential, before the man pranced forward to lead them outside and into the tavern's front yard. It felt most unnatural being pressed to the young lord that way; she did not know whether she felt secure or threatened, close as she was to his body, yet just as close to the sword he held clutched to his middle. He had promised her safety, while in return, she ought to confine to the rules of her new state of captivity.
The older knight with hair as dark as umber cracked the tall doors open once again to allow them to step through, before making his way on the small trodden path that lead to the stables. The sight she had seen the night before was significantly different from what she saw now: thousands of men in glimmering silver paced around the inn, either tending to their horses or checking their leather bags for coins left over from a night spent on harlots and wine. Some were already mounting their steeds, eager to leave at once, yet all of those eyes, prying and inquiring, landed on the flesh of the woman before them who they knew to be the lost Princess of House Varhart - or what was left of it, for that matter.
With her eyes scouring the ground, Lilith eventually released her grip on the Lord as she drew close enough to her horse. Ser Barske followed her easily and took a grip of its reins before she found them herself, then took a step forward to grab a piece of rope and tied it to the thin leather of its bridle. "The moment this comes undone," he said in a warning tone, "I will shoot it, without a second of wavering. It's an old mount, so no loss for me here. There are others which you can ride, although I would be careful about trying to escape on one of those, as well."
The poppy breathed in as she found the strength to look up to him again. His words had left her sick in the stomach, but she did part her lips to speak. "No need for threats, Ser Barske. Had I been a fool, I would not have made it all the way here."
"Had you been smarter, perhaps you would have gone even further." He pulled at the bridle and started leading it towards his own horse, gaze as dark as the night sky. As soon as he reached his destination, he turned towards her and, beginning to tie the other end of the rope, allowed a touch of ruth to crack his glare. "I know what you're thinking. I do not want to hurt you and nor does he, as hard as it might be to believe that," considering the situation she had found him in that morning.
"I am not afraid," the girl said then, her heart swelling with a pride that she not often found in herself. 'I am not afraid, because I am too numb to feel something anymore.' She had cried, but could not allow herself to break anymore. Her lack of rationality had brought her there, the opposite would get her out, given the right chance. 'If the Gods are kind enough...'
She knew she would survive, one way or another. She only had to wait.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The halls of the castle were colder then, with fewer souls to thaw and breathe life into them. It felt as though Ylonne were standing alone at all times, even if she was surrounded by servants and seldom by Lord Rogerus and his children, although they were not at all particularly warm beings. The tips of her fingers almost always tingled, frozen whenever she was not close enough to the fire. She missed the heat of Lilith by her side when she slept, but now, she was left with nothing but a bittersweet dream.
The room where she stood was large enough to fit fifty men, yet the only ones whose hearts beat inside were she and Lord Moirne. It was circular, built inside the largest towers of the keep, with a massive wooden table propped in the middle that resembled the shape of the chamber. Ontop of it had been laid a map, old and dusted, stained with the and rust from the steel that had touched it. Ylonne could almost see Benjamin hovering above it, tracing paths with his fingers and humming to himself as he thought, deepened in his brooding and secluded from the rest of the world.
The chair she sat on, thick and covered in velvet, felt like a pile of bricks and nails beneath her bottom. She was forced to sit, lest she fell prey to her wishes to strangle the man that paced so relentlessly around the room. She was wearing naught but a satin dress to feel the brisk breeze of the morning, which seemed to be the only thing that kept her awake and thinking.
"A month," the silence was broken by the black snake, his eyes fixated on the horizon. The windows in front of him were tall enough for him to fall over if he bent and lost his balance. "A month, in which we have done nothing but stagnate, idle to the riots, idle to everything but our own pain." He turned towards then, a chalice of wine in his hand that had stained his lips violet. "I believe you have given it a thought as well, Lady Ylonne, otherwise you would not be fixating me with such beaming curiosity. You know, you are just merely waiting."
"I do know," she nodded, her voice barely above a murmur. "Although you have felt no pain, my Lord. Only disappointment. Your worries are lingering."
No sign of Lilith anywhere, and Ashpyke had not sent any ravens to White Rock in regards of the princess. The skirmishes Rogerus had sent had proven to be ineffective, yet he was still trying, while Ser Erik's head festered on a spike by the gates. 'I trust my men,' he had said, swelling with pride, while Ylonne struggled to hold her tears where they belonged before they dared pour and stain her pale cheeks. 'Edonn shares my pain, and so does Vivian. We are with you, Lady Varhart."
When he turned back to face the window, Ylonne relaxed her grip on the armrests and took in a deep breath. The red of his cape was making her anxious; it reminded her of blood, of Benjamin and of her daughters. She saw it in her nightmares as vividly as she did then, although it felt far more palpable. For yet another moment, she wished she could pull at his cape and hurl him down through the window, if merely to satisfy her curiosity as to how much that hue of crimson could darken upon his impact with the ground.
"And you summoned me here for-"
"Small talk," the man interrupted. "I wish to make a proposal... Take it more or less literally. I know Edonn might wish to join, that is why we are tarrying about. I have sent for him." There was a kind of dark rapture in his voice which Ylonne struggled to comprehend, to no avail. He was still as much a mystery to her as the reason her only daughter had left, without a note of confession to prove that she was at all alive.
The Lady turned her head away and nodded. She was willing to wait if it meant bringing all of that madness to an end. She wanted to see the riots extinguished and a crown upon one's head, who was worthy enough to bear it. She wanted to see the memory of her husband honoured as it ought to be, even if it was not by Lilith's hand or her own, yet she knew that whatever Rogerus's proposal consisted of, it was nothing she would find wholesome enough to give her mind rest and her soul peace.
Naught would, unless it was his own death.
~*~
It was impossible for Lilith not to feel the gaze of the young Lord upon her skin, burning with intrigue and curiosity. To many, she was nothing less than a legend; she and her sisters had often been compared to nymphs of the river, with their cold, pale flesh and deep blue eyes; gifts from Gods, which had earnt King Benjamin even the last men who opposed his reign. After their death, the bloodied poppy left was merely a phantom of the past, as small and frail as a human in the King's arms, no longer a spirit of nature, but a wildflower swaying in the wind.
Upon leaving his grip and hopping onto her horse, Lilith felt as though she regained her safety and allowed a quick glance at her escort: he did not look much older than Edonn, although his features were more prominent and masculine, with a jaw well chiseled, as sharp as a blade, softened with a bloom of dark beard which contrasted with the pallor of his skin. She could not deny the thought that his eyes seemed kind, partly because she knew they reflected his own pain, perhaps far worse than what she had had to endure.
'Still a captor,' she thought to herself, shaking those thoughts away in an effort to clear her mind and vision. 'He is my enemy, not my protector.'
The knight next to her shot up on his own steed and tugged at the reins, urging it forward towards Lady Saela's horse. His eyes were darkened with a sudden rush of hatred, as if her mere presence were insulting him; he did not give her another glance before giving his mount a gentle kick to pace onwards. "You might like Saela better," he shrugged. "She's one of the manliest men I've ever met besides Milena, and she is your age as well if I am not mistaken."
Not that it mattered; even with a feminine presence around her, Lilith did not feel in the least secure, but even more threatened, forcefully induced with thoughts of safety. However, she was hungry and she knew she would not deny food as long as it came from her. She appeared far too bashful to wish to seep some kind of sedative between her slices of bread or in her evening tea.
The woman whom Ser Barske called Milena returned quickly from her duty, prancing proudly ahead of two other men who were hastily trying to tie up the laces of their tunics. "We are ready to set off, I believe," she nodded then. "All's paid, we have naught to worry but for the road. Your Grace, if you may... With Lady Varhart's presence, it would be wise to decide whether to shift the course or remain steady. The South is not a safe place for the princess as it is, with-"
"I think eight thousand men can defend a child," Lixander straightened his back, one hand on the hilt of his sword. "It goes, however, against where the Princess was headed if I am not mistaken."
Lilith perked up and turned her head toward the source of the assumption. "How would you know, Ser? You hardly care for my intentions, otherwise you would have left me be."
"Not a choice, although I give you that." He breathed in and urged the two horses closer to the front line, hastening the movement of the others with him. It was long past sunrise, as they had delayed their departure to let her rest. "It will do us no good to head back North, nonetheless travel through lands we have not seen before. At our King's command, the South awaits. We have but six weeks until we reach White Rock. I trust you do remember the road back home."
The room where she stood was large enough to fit fifty men, yet the only ones whose hearts beat inside were she and Lord Moirne. It was circular, built inside the largest towers of the keep, with a massive wooden table propped in the middle that resembled the shape of the chamber. Ontop of it had been laid a map, old and dusted, stained with the and rust from the steel that had touched it. Ylonne could almost see Benjamin hovering above it, tracing paths with his fingers and humming to himself as he thought, deepened in his brooding and secluded from the rest of the world.
The chair she sat on, thick and covered in velvet, felt like a pile of bricks and nails beneath her bottom. She was forced to sit, lest she fell prey to her wishes to strangle the man that paced so relentlessly around the room. She was wearing naught but a satin dress to feel the brisk breeze of the morning, which seemed to be the only thing that kept her awake and thinking.
"A month," the silence was broken by the black snake, his eyes fixated on the horizon. The windows in front of him were tall enough for him to fall over if he bent and lost his balance. "A month, in which we have done nothing but stagnate, idle to the riots, idle to everything but our own pain." He turned towards then, a chalice of wine in his hand that had stained his lips violet. "I believe you have given it a thought as well, Lady Ylonne, otherwise you would not be fixating me with such beaming curiosity. You know, you are just merely waiting."
"I do know," she nodded, her voice barely above a murmur. "Although you have felt no pain, my Lord. Only disappointment. Your worries are lingering."
No sign of Lilith anywhere, and Ashpyke had not sent any ravens to White Rock in regards of the princess. The skirmishes Rogerus had sent had proven to be ineffective, yet he was still trying, while Ser Erik's head festered on a spike by the gates. 'I trust my men,' he had said, swelling with pride, while Ylonne struggled to hold her tears where they belonged before they dared pour and stain her pale cheeks. 'Edonn shares my pain, and so does Vivian. We are with you, Lady Varhart."
When he turned back to face the window, Ylonne relaxed her grip on the armrests and took in a deep breath. The red of his cape was making her anxious; it reminded her of blood, of Benjamin and of her daughters. She saw it in her nightmares as vividly as she did then, although it felt far more palpable. For yet another moment, she wished she could pull at his cape and hurl him down through the window, if merely to satisfy her curiosity as to how much that hue of crimson could darken upon his impact with the ground.
"And you summoned me here for-"
"Small talk," the man interrupted. "I wish to make a proposal... Take it more or less literally. I know Edonn might wish to join, that is why we are tarrying about. I have sent for him." There was a kind of dark rapture in his voice which Ylonne struggled to comprehend, to no avail. He was still as much a mystery to her as the reason her only daughter had left, without a note of confession to prove that she was at all alive.
The Lady turned her head away and nodded. She was willing to wait if it meant bringing all of that madness to an end. She wanted to see the riots extinguished and a crown upon one's head, who was worthy enough to bear it. She wanted to see the memory of her husband honoured as it ought to be, even if it was not by Lilith's hand or her own, yet she knew that whatever Rogerus's proposal consisted of, it was nothing she would find wholesome enough to give her mind rest and her soul peace.
Naught would, unless it was his own death.
~*~
It was impossible for Lilith not to feel the gaze of the young Lord upon her skin, burning with intrigue and curiosity. To many, she was nothing less than a legend; she and her sisters had often been compared to nymphs of the river, with their cold, pale flesh and deep blue eyes; gifts from Gods, which had earnt King Benjamin even the last men who opposed his reign. After their death, the bloodied poppy left was merely a phantom of the past, as small and frail as a human in the King's arms, no longer a spirit of nature, but a wildflower swaying in the wind.
Upon leaving his grip and hopping onto her horse, Lilith felt as though she regained her safety and allowed a quick glance at her escort: he did not look much older than Edonn, although his features were more prominent and masculine, with a jaw well chiseled, as sharp as a blade, softened with a bloom of dark beard which contrasted with the pallor of his skin. She could not deny the thought that his eyes seemed kind, partly because she knew they reflected his own pain, perhaps far worse than what she had had to endure.
'Still a captor,' she thought to herself, shaking those thoughts away in an effort to clear her mind and vision. 'He is my enemy, not my protector.'
The knight next to her shot up on his own steed and tugged at the reins, urging it forward towards Lady Saela's horse. His eyes were darkened with a sudden rush of hatred, as if her mere presence were insulting him; he did not give her another glance before giving his mount a gentle kick to pace onwards. "You might like Saela better," he shrugged. "She's one of the manliest men I've ever met besides Milena, and she is your age as well if I am not mistaken."
Not that it mattered; even with a feminine presence around her, Lilith did not feel in the least secure, but even more threatened, forcefully induced with thoughts of safety. However, she was hungry and she knew she would not deny food as long as it came from her. She appeared far too bashful to wish to seep some kind of sedative between her slices of bread or in her evening tea.
The woman whom Ser Barske called Milena returned quickly from her duty, prancing proudly ahead of two other men who were hastily trying to tie up the laces of their tunics. "We are ready to set off, I believe," she nodded then. "All's paid, we have naught to worry but for the road. Your Grace, if you may... With Lady Varhart's presence, it would be wise to decide whether to shift the course or remain steady. The South is not a safe place for the princess as it is, with-"
"I think eight thousand men can defend a child," Lixander straightened his back, one hand on the hilt of his sword. "It goes, however, against where the Princess was headed if I am not mistaken."
Lilith perked up and turned her head toward the source of the assumption. "How would you know, Ser? You hardly care for my intentions, otherwise you would have left me be."
"Not a choice, although I give you that." He breathed in and urged the two horses closer to the front line, hastening the movement of the others with him. It was long past sunrise, as they had delayed their departure to let her rest. "It will do us no good to head back North, nonetheless travel through lands we have not seen before. At our King's command, the South awaits. We have but six weeks until we reach White Rock. I trust you do remember the road back home."
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
In the silence that followed, the only thing that still rung in the Queen's ears were the voices of her own worries, cutting through to her bones like a sharp saw. A part, the part that was still living, allowed her to think even for the blink of a second that, perhaps, Rogerus's suggestion would suffice for the time being. That it was a temporary solution for the ongoing revolts and political gaps that plagued the capital and not only. It was the strongholds and cities in its vicinity that were joining the crowd of displeased denizens, more than half of which shared her beliefs and passion about overturning the Snakes' reign.
And in those moments of false peace, Rogerus did not look at Ylonne once; instead, he kept his eyes on the horizons, as if hoping to spot Lilith from even so far away. If she was gone with the wind, he might see her through the clouds; otherwise, in a month's time, she doubted that the winding roads and hills around White Rock allowed for clear vision of its surroundings and farther.
Eventually, following a pair of steps trotting up the stairs, the door slowly swung open to allow for the entrance of Edonn, gleaming as ever, a mirrored image of his father, with a few decades shaved off of his shoulder. While they looked almost identical, there was a certain weight which Ylonne could sense in the older man's speech, and it was to be expected: his son had not yet gotten the chance to taste the struggle of war and the effort of moving forward. He and Vivienne were both pristine; no worries bothered them other than the fear of being caught swimming in their arcanums.
Ironically, they would have otherwise suffered the same fate of Victoria and Maery, yet for an act which they had genuinely committed.
Rogerus was not bothered to look at the door when it opened. As soon as Edonn's voice rung through the room, however, he turned on his heels and gave the boy a nod, cutting his smile with merely a sharp glare. "Sit," he bid, before he pulled up a chair to do so himself. There was no need for him to address Ylonne, which extended the woman's momentary break from having to answer or obey his bidding.
Taking in the lavender imbued air with a long breath, he parted his lips yet again, eyes averted from his son and fixated on the map that lay on the table before him. "It has been weeks, and all of this time we have done nothing. You, have done nothing, Edonn. If you were to marry Lilith Varhart, you would have been the heir to the throne. You would have been looked up to." And yet many believed she was dead. His right was slowly slipping through the cracks and farther away from him every day.
"Perhaps this will come to an end, somehow," he continued "A favourable end, for all of us, in which the Princess is found and brought back," his eyes shooting to Ylonne," but if the Gods bid she stay hidden, then we ought to satisfy the needs of our people. After all, this is why we have chosen to unite ourselves with Lord Benjamin's family."
"He is not Benjamin to you," Ylonne hissed, straightening her back in her seat. "You have spit on his name, my Lord. Numerous times."
"If so, then the situation calls for a solution all the more." He turned his head back to his son, no longer allowing for interruption. "Rumour has it that it is not only the commoners that are plaguing us. The Northern lands from Frozen Harbour to Kilead have been trodden by the feet of Rondulin Eldskar and his men. Their disrespect had not urged them to write a formal threat, but we all know what he is aiming for."
It was what everyone desired, in truth: they wanted power, and whatever was given they would not comply, so long as they were not in charge of their own portion. Still, it baffled him how the Northerners had agreed to attacking without a proper army to watch their backs. What they lacked in terms of force, however, they made up for with their prestige and honour, which was more than Rogerus could say he had himself.
Before he could allow Edonn to protest the posibility of a rebellion, he continued, clenching his jaw to stop himself from gritting his teeth: "The people are demanding Lady Lilith, and whilst we cannot offer them what we do not yet have, the next best thing is a Kingly pair. Another marriage, another union to strengthten ours."
There was a break, in which Ylonne tried to process Rogerus's words without delving too deep into its possible meanings. She had heard of the army with cold hands marching towards them and she could already feel swords poking against her skin, yet the thought of what he could be implying sent shivers of fear and disgust down her spine. 'Another union', which had the potention to make up for the absence of a true heir, so beloved and respected by her people.
Nothing would replenish the Kingdom's need for Benjamin, as much as they had detested or doubted him in the beginning. His wife, sitting as straight and unmoving as a marble statue, was the embodiment of the dezastruous loss. She was nothing without her daughters, and Lilith was nothing without her. Not as a sheep surrounded by wolves.
"And if I refuse?" she murmured, chest heaving with the weight of her fear.
The umber lord pressed his lips together, jaw clenching beneath the thin layer of pale flesh. "I believe it is best, for the people." His voice vibrated like the rattle of a threatening snake, although its tone reflected a certain displeasure with the situation. "I do not ask you to marry me, Lady Ylonne, for it is not an old man that is desired. My son, on the other side... I am sure he is willing to comply."
And in those moments of false peace, Rogerus did not look at Ylonne once; instead, he kept his eyes on the horizons, as if hoping to spot Lilith from even so far away. If she was gone with the wind, he might see her through the clouds; otherwise, in a month's time, she doubted that the winding roads and hills around White Rock allowed for clear vision of its surroundings and farther.
Eventually, following a pair of steps trotting up the stairs, the door slowly swung open to allow for the entrance of Edonn, gleaming as ever, a mirrored image of his father, with a few decades shaved off of his shoulder. While they looked almost identical, there was a certain weight which Ylonne could sense in the older man's speech, and it was to be expected: his son had not yet gotten the chance to taste the struggle of war and the effort of moving forward. He and Vivienne were both pristine; no worries bothered them other than the fear of being caught swimming in their arcanums.
Ironically, they would have otherwise suffered the same fate of Victoria and Maery, yet for an act which they had genuinely committed.
Rogerus was not bothered to look at the door when it opened. As soon as Edonn's voice rung through the room, however, he turned on his heels and gave the boy a nod, cutting his smile with merely a sharp glare. "Sit," he bid, before he pulled up a chair to do so himself. There was no need for him to address Ylonne, which extended the woman's momentary break from having to answer or obey his bidding.
Taking in the lavender imbued air with a long breath, he parted his lips yet again, eyes averted from his son and fixated on the map that lay on the table before him. "It has been weeks, and all of this time we have done nothing. You, have done nothing, Edonn. If you were to marry Lilith Varhart, you would have been the heir to the throne. You would have been looked up to." And yet many believed she was dead. His right was slowly slipping through the cracks and farther away from him every day.
"Perhaps this will come to an end, somehow," he continued "A favourable end, for all of us, in which the Princess is found and brought back," his eyes shooting to Ylonne," but if the Gods bid she stay hidden, then we ought to satisfy the needs of our people. After all, this is why we have chosen to unite ourselves with Lord Benjamin's family."
"He is not Benjamin to you," Ylonne hissed, straightening her back in her seat. "You have spit on his name, my Lord. Numerous times."
"If so, then the situation calls for a solution all the more." He turned his head back to his son, no longer allowing for interruption. "Rumour has it that it is not only the commoners that are plaguing us. The Northern lands from Frozen Harbour to Kilead have been trodden by the feet of Rondulin Eldskar and his men. Their disrespect had not urged them to write a formal threat, but we all know what he is aiming for."
It was what everyone desired, in truth: they wanted power, and whatever was given they would not comply, so long as they were not in charge of their own portion. Still, it baffled him how the Northerners had agreed to attacking without a proper army to watch their backs. What they lacked in terms of force, however, they made up for with their prestige and honour, which was more than Rogerus could say he had himself.
Before he could allow Edonn to protest the posibility of a rebellion, he continued, clenching his jaw to stop himself from gritting his teeth: "The people are demanding Lady Lilith, and whilst we cannot offer them what we do not yet have, the next best thing is a Kingly pair. Another marriage, another union to strengthten ours."
There was a break, in which Ylonne tried to process Rogerus's words without delving too deep into its possible meanings. She had heard of the army with cold hands marching towards them and she could already feel swords poking against her skin, yet the thought of what he could be implying sent shivers of fear and disgust down her spine. 'Another union', which had the potention to make up for the absence of a true heir, so beloved and respected by her people.
Nothing would replenish the Kingdom's need for Benjamin, as much as they had detested or doubted him in the beginning. His wife, sitting as straight and unmoving as a marble statue, was the embodiment of the dezastruous loss. She was nothing without her daughters, and Lilith was nothing without her. Not as a sheep surrounded by wolves.
"And if I refuse?" she murmured, chest heaving with the weight of her fear.
The umber lord pressed his lips together, jaw clenching beneath the thin layer of pale flesh. "I believe it is best, for the people." His voice vibrated like the rattle of a threatening snake, although its tone reflected a certain displeasure with the situation. "I do not ask you to marry me, Lady Ylonne, for it is not an old man that is desired. My son, on the other side... I am sure he is willing to comply."
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Edonn Moirne was as much a menacing snake as his father, yet above all, he was still nothing more than a boy. Lady Ylonne had never had any boys, but instead, she had been blessed with three beautiful girls, as graceful as nymphs and as beautiful as the Moon itself. The thought of tying herself to a child was nonetheless loathsome, even more considering he had been thought to marry her daughter. She was not an old woman, barely over the age of forty; however, Rogerus's hopes of quenching the rioters' thirst for blood would only be crushed by such an unnatural union.
She bit her lower lip in her brooding, tightening her grip over the armchair. The older Lord read her fret in her eyes, and before he would allow it to fade, he parted his lips once more. "The people desire you, Edonn... At least those that know what is for the best. It would not be prudent to make such decisions in your absence. Such fashions are obsolete. I knew, however, that you would not refuse your father."
Ylonne closed her eyes, not giving a nod of agreement, nor shaking her head in disapprovement. Rogerus knew she was mad enough to kill herself if she deemed it to be a better fate than having to live under his shoe, moreso Edonn's. In her mind, she was still the wife of the late Benjamin Varhart, the Conqueror, the King who had raised with such honour and fallen so disgracefully, yet all of that disgrace was nothing to his beloved.
"If Lady Lilith is found," he added, eschewing the mention of her state, "there are plenty of alliances which we could tie. I am sure Ashpyke will be more than interested in a betrothal to a heir." Even if she was not direct. If Edonn were to die, then indeed, she and her presumed husband would follow. Then, the power would slip into their hands, and he would find himself in the same vile fen he had pulled himself out of in the beginning. It was why he feared bringing her back alive.
"Lord Aelric would never kneel before you," the Lady ejaculated, teeth barely parting to allow for the quick breath of words to escape her lips. "He is as swollen with pride as his father, and his father before him. And nor would his brother."
"You believe so?" Rogerus frowned theatrically as he brought his chalice back to his lips.
"This is all I need, Lady Ylonne," he continued dismissively, as soon as he finished the crimson liquid inside. "Your will. I will not force you, for you do not belong to me to do as I please. However," he turned his head to Edonn, still addressing the woman next to him. "If the Princess is found alive within a week's time, I will excuse you of this worry. Be she dead or gone for longer, as soon as she finds herself in our arms again, I will make sure to take your benevolence or lack thereof in consideration."
He could almost see the shiver go down the woman's spine as he spoke, and hear her thoughts shrivel and jolt in her mind. To him, it was nothing more than a game: a game which he knew how to play better than an old Queen, with much more dexterity than a young groom-to-be. And it was not suffering that he was after, but his own growth and the guarantee of safety for his family, his life.
It was, perhaps, what empowered Ylonne to push him away and fight to overthrow him with all of her being. It was the reason Ser Erik had helped Lilith escape. It was why the Heileanan army was marching South, and all of those thoughts, all of those enemies weighed him down. If suffering was the way to ease him of their burden, then he was more than willing to comply.
Without another word to strengthed the previous, Rogerus pushed his chair back and, straightening his back, started to make his way towards the door. "During this time of tension, I believe it is best you get acquainted." His tone remained as heavy and grave as always; it did not allow for questions or doubts, coming neither from his son, nor his future Queen. "I will give you your time to think, Lady Varhart. Your decision will be respected, although I do hope you will choose wisely."
Then, turning on his heels, he opened the tall wooden door and disappeared into the dismal corridor, leaving behind a thick scent of steel and wine.
She bit her lower lip in her brooding, tightening her grip over the armchair. The older Lord read her fret in her eyes, and before he would allow it to fade, he parted his lips once more. "The people desire you, Edonn... At least those that know what is for the best. It would not be prudent to make such decisions in your absence. Such fashions are obsolete. I knew, however, that you would not refuse your father."
Ylonne closed her eyes, not giving a nod of agreement, nor shaking her head in disapprovement. Rogerus knew she was mad enough to kill herself if she deemed it to be a better fate than having to live under his shoe, moreso Edonn's. In her mind, she was still the wife of the late Benjamin Varhart, the Conqueror, the King who had raised with such honour and fallen so disgracefully, yet all of that disgrace was nothing to his beloved.
"If Lady Lilith is found," he added, eschewing the mention of her state, "there are plenty of alliances which we could tie. I am sure Ashpyke will be more than interested in a betrothal to a heir." Even if she was not direct. If Edonn were to die, then indeed, she and her presumed husband would follow. Then, the power would slip into their hands, and he would find himself in the same vile fen he had pulled himself out of in the beginning. It was why he feared bringing her back alive.
"Lord Aelric would never kneel before you," the Lady ejaculated, teeth barely parting to allow for the quick breath of words to escape her lips. "He is as swollen with pride as his father, and his father before him. And nor would his brother."
"You believe so?" Rogerus frowned theatrically as he brought his chalice back to his lips.
"This is all I need, Lady Ylonne," he continued dismissively, as soon as he finished the crimson liquid inside. "Your will. I will not force you, for you do not belong to me to do as I please. However," he turned his head to Edonn, still addressing the woman next to him. "If the Princess is found alive within a week's time, I will excuse you of this worry. Be she dead or gone for longer, as soon as she finds herself in our arms again, I will make sure to take your benevolence or lack thereof in consideration."
He could almost see the shiver go down the woman's spine as he spoke, and hear her thoughts shrivel and jolt in her mind. To him, it was nothing more than a game: a game which he knew how to play better than an old Queen, with much more dexterity than a young groom-to-be. And it was not suffering that he was after, but his own growth and the guarantee of safety for his family, his life.
It was, perhaps, what empowered Ylonne to push him away and fight to overthrow him with all of her being. It was the reason Ser Erik had helped Lilith escape. It was why the Heileanan army was marching South, and all of those thoughts, all of those enemies weighed him down. If suffering was the way to ease him of their burden, then he was more than willing to comply.
Without another word to strengthed the previous, Rogerus pushed his chair back and, straightening his back, started to make his way towards the door. "During this time of tension, I believe it is best you get acquainted." His tone remained as heavy and grave as always; it did not allow for questions or doubts, coming neither from his son, nor his future Queen. "I will give you your time to think, Lady Varhart. Your decision will be respected, although I do hope you will choose wisely."
Then, turning on his heels, he opened the tall wooden door and disappeared into the dismal corridor, leaving behind a thick scent of steel and wine.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Lilith could already feel the tendrils of cold crawl around her ankles and up her spine. As the sun vanished behind vast clouds of green and red, the plain before them, surrounded by forests, was falling prey to the long night. They had been riding for long enough that even the horses were growing tired, heaving loudly and shaking their manes whenever their reins were pulled to stir them. The exhaustion was apparent not only in the animals, but in the eyes and stances of their riders as well, as they leaned over or struggled to keep their capes from blowing in the brisk breeze and away from their cold bodies.
The dress that Lilith wore was considerably thinner than the one she had been used to for the past weeks. It fell tightly around her form, clinging to every wave and winding of her shape. Her sweat, now dried beneath the soft material, made her feel even colder than she should; from time to time, she found herself tugging at her cape, eyes scouring her surroundings to make sure that nobody was paying attention to the provocative parts that peeked through.
She had not eaten since their leave and was already feeing weary. Her head was throbbing, but she knew there was no point in asking for food right then, as it was announced that they would be stopping soon. So close to Lixander Barske, it felt strange doing anything other than looking ahead, but his attention did not belong to her: he often turned his head to watch over Saela, as if making sure she was still breathing after two days without sleep or proper rest. Even she felt for her, as she would not have been able to manage if she had not slept for a few turns of the clock the night before.
Yet, perhaps she would have been miles away from those that held her hostage then.
The silence, both peaceful and heavy, was cut short with the sound of rustling leaves and crackling bark in small gathering of woods near them. Saela voiced over it and managed to stir the attention of Ser Maxim. There was an urgency in her tone that cut through to her bones; she was no longer afraid of wolves or bears, not with an army of thousands surrounding her, but be it something else, they ought to be prepared.
It did not take long for the truth to kiss the surface: hooves trotted against the beaten ground, barely above the wind, and Lixander found himself on his feet in an instant. The knight pulled his longsword out and, without a moment to waver, wrapped one arm around Lilith's middle to pull her down. Her mount whimpered and shook its head, disturbed by the sudden weight slipping off of it, covering the sounds that had caught their attention in the first place.
Through the thick trunks and bushes, the darkness was disturbed by the faint glimmer of steel.
"Your Grace!" Lixander called out, stepping back enough so that he was shielding Saela. He grabbed Lilith by her wrist and pushed her behind him, cramping the poppy between him and the two knights in charge of her protection. "Weapons! Out!" A number of men called out the order, repeating after him over the large crowd that surrounded them.
It was, perhaps, too late. They had spread out too much, and Lixander knew they were the closest to the forest. One dash and he could find the princess with a sword through her heart if their defenses were not tightened, which barely seemed to be the case then. Exhausted and still affected by alcohol, some of the soldiers had not even heard or noticed a stir, nevertheless had they started to group up to circle the princess.
One arrow gleamed in the sunkissed sky before whistling past his ear. It stuck into the ground down to its half, whilst a couple of others cut the air over their heads. Whatever was charging them, they were hesitant, but nonetheless prepared. He held the longsword in front of him, his other arm extended to reach around Lilith and over to Saela's side, whilst he desperately scoured his surroundings in search for Rondulin.
"Snakes!" he heard a man called as the first touches of colour peeked through the leaves. Another fled back with his horse to gain momentum, but his peer stopped him, awaiting an order from Lixander.
Lilith, trembling between the three knights, lifted herself on the tips of her toes as much as her boots allowed to look over their shoulders. 'Not here...' She had been convinced of her safety so far up North, yet it seemed that Lord Rogerus's men, if they were truly those, had not given up so easily. He did want her back, dead or alive; she could read it on the body of the arrow that had menacingly scourged the air so close to her face.
Once again, those tendrils of cold were replaced by fear as she weighed whether she should stay put or cut through the cricle and run. In those seconds as she thought, a party of a thousand shadows dashed through the bushes and made it into the plains, all without any reaction from the army that had sworn to protect her. She could not see Rondulin Eldskar, nor could she see anything other than one sword threatening those that tried to come near. Instinctively, she slipped her hand into her bag and pulled out the dagger Ser Erik had given her, its hilt stained with sweat and dried blood.
"They are here for her," Lixander gulped quietly, before turning his head to the woman next to him. "You know what to do Saela. We're closer, but they're fewer." It was, perchance, his way of encouraging her when there was almost no hope for them to make it without a scratch. If they tried to flee then, they would only get separated in the sea of steel that surrounded them, cramped and agitated, as dazed as if they had never found themselves in a fight before.
The dress that Lilith wore was considerably thinner than the one she had been used to for the past weeks. It fell tightly around her form, clinging to every wave and winding of her shape. Her sweat, now dried beneath the soft material, made her feel even colder than she should; from time to time, she found herself tugging at her cape, eyes scouring her surroundings to make sure that nobody was paying attention to the provocative parts that peeked through.
She had not eaten since their leave and was already feeing weary. Her head was throbbing, but she knew there was no point in asking for food right then, as it was announced that they would be stopping soon. So close to Lixander Barske, it felt strange doing anything other than looking ahead, but his attention did not belong to her: he often turned his head to watch over Saela, as if making sure she was still breathing after two days without sleep or proper rest. Even she felt for her, as she would not have been able to manage if she had not slept for a few turns of the clock the night before.
Yet, perhaps she would have been miles away from those that held her hostage then.
The silence, both peaceful and heavy, was cut short with the sound of rustling leaves and crackling bark in small gathering of woods near them. Saela voiced over it and managed to stir the attention of Ser Maxim. There was an urgency in her tone that cut through to her bones; she was no longer afraid of wolves or bears, not with an army of thousands surrounding her, but be it something else, they ought to be prepared.
It did not take long for the truth to kiss the surface: hooves trotted against the beaten ground, barely above the wind, and Lixander found himself on his feet in an instant. The knight pulled his longsword out and, without a moment to waver, wrapped one arm around Lilith's middle to pull her down. Her mount whimpered and shook its head, disturbed by the sudden weight slipping off of it, covering the sounds that had caught their attention in the first place.
Through the thick trunks and bushes, the darkness was disturbed by the faint glimmer of steel.
"Your Grace!" Lixander called out, stepping back enough so that he was shielding Saela. He grabbed Lilith by her wrist and pushed her behind him, cramping the poppy between him and the two knights in charge of her protection. "Weapons! Out!" A number of men called out the order, repeating after him over the large crowd that surrounded them.
It was, perhaps, too late. They had spread out too much, and Lixander knew they were the closest to the forest. One dash and he could find the princess with a sword through her heart if their defenses were not tightened, which barely seemed to be the case then. Exhausted and still affected by alcohol, some of the soldiers had not even heard or noticed a stir, nevertheless had they started to group up to circle the princess.
One arrow gleamed in the sunkissed sky before whistling past his ear. It stuck into the ground down to its half, whilst a couple of others cut the air over their heads. Whatever was charging them, they were hesitant, but nonetheless prepared. He held the longsword in front of him, his other arm extended to reach around Lilith and over to Saela's side, whilst he desperately scoured his surroundings in search for Rondulin.
"Snakes!" he heard a man called as the first touches of colour peeked through the leaves. Another fled back with his horse to gain momentum, but his peer stopped him, awaiting an order from Lixander.
Lilith, trembling between the three knights, lifted herself on the tips of her toes as much as her boots allowed to look over their shoulders. 'Not here...' She had been convinced of her safety so far up North, yet it seemed that Lord Rogerus's men, if they were truly those, had not given up so easily. He did want her back, dead or alive; she could read it on the body of the arrow that had menacingly scourged the air so close to her face.
Once again, those tendrils of cold were replaced by fear as she weighed whether she should stay put or cut through the cricle and run. In those seconds as she thought, a party of a thousand shadows dashed through the bushes and made it into the plains, all without any reaction from the army that had sworn to protect her. She could not see Rondulin Eldskar, nor could she see anything other than one sword threatening those that tried to come near. Instinctively, she slipped her hand into her bag and pulled out the dagger Ser Erik had given her, its hilt stained with sweat and dried blood.
"They are here for her," Lixander gulped quietly, before turning his head to the woman next to him. "You know what to do Saela. We're closer, but they're fewer." It was, perchance, his way of encouraging her when there was almost no hope for them to make it without a scratch. If they tried to flee then, they would only get separated in the sea of steel that surrounded them, cramped and agitated, as dazed as if they had never found themselves in a fight before.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
In the turmoil of steel and blood, Lixander struggled to keep himself from staggering over the princess that stood trembling behind him. It did not take long before Saela herself descended from her horse and landed swiftly on her feet, pulling out her spear without a hint of wavering in her movements. The knight felt as though part of his task was already completed: she was safe on the ground, getting lost in the sea of people, small and safe away from the reach of the arrows that still scarcely scrutinized the sky.
The other, however, was far from coming to an end.
By the looks of it, the army of snakes which was slowly emerging from the woods was nowhere near as large as their own, yet it was the element of surprise which had the potential to tear them down. Numerous as they were, they had allowed themselves to spread out. If they became cramped, they would run into one another and only create more chaos; which some already seemed to be realizing, as they tried to flee the core of the fight and find a way around it.
Lixander, on the other side, could not run away. Although his longsword was made for two hands, one of his was still extended to his side to protect the Princess, as the King himself had commanded. He did spot Rondulin from the corner of his eyes a few times, struggling to bear the soldiers that swarmed around him like mad bees. As some gathered around him, trying to reach Lilith, he found the strength to throw his longsword into the air and slash across, clearing the ground before another wave came bubbling towards them.
Saela did seem luckier, as she cut through the enemy like bread, her eyes darkened by anger and focused on her targets. She moved almost as if she were dancing, her toes barely touching the ground, careening just enough to create some momentum. Lixander was heavy and could not move nearly as fast, not while weighed down by armour, but he was thankful for such protection right then. It was the only shield that stood between him and the soft flesh of the poppy behind him.
He would have thought three men were enough to keep her secure, yet with Saela slowly straying away from them in the effort of keeping the enemy at a distance and Ser Maxim too far to have his back, he was more or less on his own. "Protect the girl!" he shouted as loudly as he could, pushing his blade through the guts of a young snake. "PROTECT THE GIRL!" His voice was desperate, as he jumped from one side to the other, parrying each hit or arrow that came hurtling towards him.
And the poppy did stay put, mirroring the movements of the man who was willing to give his life for hers. Lilith's ears rung with the screams of dying men and women who fought alongside their King; there was nothing else she could to to help them, not even with a dagger in her hand. Her stallion had blasted away in fear, no longer offering her the shield of its body, and for a moment, she prayed that it would make it out of the battlefield alive. Then, she prayed that by the end of that day, she herself would be at the very least breathing.
With each droplet of blood that sparkled in the incarnadine sky and fell on her cheek, she felt the tendrils of death crawl up around her ankles and throat. She was afraid, afraid like she had never been before, and as alone as the night she had been chased down in a dark forest. She found herself being afraid for Saela, who looked like nothing else than a phantom zooming in the air and raining death from above; she was afraid for the knight that shielded her then, his arm desperately keeping her pressed against him. She knew that, if they died, she would fall prey to the venomous fangs of the enemy; her captors seemed, in essence, her only escape.
Not too far away from where she stood, she could hear the grunts of the young Lord who called himself King, resonating through the plains as he fought with all of his daring. He was young, not older than twenty years of age, or perhaps even less, and yet bearing men twice his years and size with as much skill as a fearsome warrior. She could see his jaw clench in pain whenever the tip of a blade touched his flesh, his muscles tense when he struggled to parry, and his eyes seek her whenever he found a moment to catch his breath.
The break from reality should not have lasted as long: it allowed him to get wounded by the blade of a Snake, deep enough to distract him from those that swarmed around behind his back. His sword slashed through all that surrounded him, and while some fell for good, others found the strength to rise again and seize their weapons for another turn, while the King could only carry so much on his shoulders alone.
If she stayed rooted, Lilith knew they would find a way past Lixander one way or another. Breathing all the courage she could induce herself into her, she tightened her grip around the dagger and slipped from the superficial hold of the knight by her side, before eloping through the bloodied sea towards the young Lord who fought alone.
It had been, perhaps, her instinct to strike before she thought. As an armoured beast bursted menacingly towards Rondulin, blood spilling from an open wound in his leg, Lilith eloped into the air and, as she fell down, stuck her dagger into his nape right as his sword hovered above the King's head. The man staggered and fell to his side, losing his balance, and crashed against the ground with a loud clink of steel against hard rocks. Lilith breathed out in fear and hurled the dagger down next to the gushing corpse, her eyes unable to glance away.
"Lilith!" the voice of Lixander called, barely loud enough to make it over the sound of death. From the corner of her eyes, she could see him being surrounded, see the silhouette of Saela twist and turn in his vicinity, but her gaze was locked perpetually on the man she had slaughtered without a second thought.
'One life for another,' she tried to shake the thought of him away, but the voice in her mind could not bear over the shock. Death surrounded her, and she could do naught but watch in dread and disgust as every sliver of life escaped the man's lips with each drop of blood he spilled. She did not register the knight shout her name again; in the emerging night, she was nothing else than prey, too vulnerable to fight, too frozen to run.
The other, however, was far from coming to an end.
By the looks of it, the army of snakes which was slowly emerging from the woods was nowhere near as large as their own, yet it was the element of surprise which had the potential to tear them down. Numerous as they were, they had allowed themselves to spread out. If they became cramped, they would run into one another and only create more chaos; which some already seemed to be realizing, as they tried to flee the core of the fight and find a way around it.
Lixander, on the other side, could not run away. Although his longsword was made for two hands, one of his was still extended to his side to protect the Princess, as the King himself had commanded. He did spot Rondulin from the corner of his eyes a few times, struggling to bear the soldiers that swarmed around him like mad bees. As some gathered around him, trying to reach Lilith, he found the strength to throw his longsword into the air and slash across, clearing the ground before another wave came bubbling towards them.
Saela did seem luckier, as she cut through the enemy like bread, her eyes darkened by anger and focused on her targets. She moved almost as if she were dancing, her toes barely touching the ground, careening just enough to create some momentum. Lixander was heavy and could not move nearly as fast, not while weighed down by armour, but he was thankful for such protection right then. It was the only shield that stood between him and the soft flesh of the poppy behind him.
He would have thought three men were enough to keep her secure, yet with Saela slowly straying away from them in the effort of keeping the enemy at a distance and Ser Maxim too far to have his back, he was more or less on his own. "Protect the girl!" he shouted as loudly as he could, pushing his blade through the guts of a young snake. "PROTECT THE GIRL!" His voice was desperate, as he jumped from one side to the other, parrying each hit or arrow that came hurtling towards him.
And the poppy did stay put, mirroring the movements of the man who was willing to give his life for hers. Lilith's ears rung with the screams of dying men and women who fought alongside their King; there was nothing else she could to to help them, not even with a dagger in her hand. Her stallion had blasted away in fear, no longer offering her the shield of its body, and for a moment, she prayed that it would make it out of the battlefield alive. Then, she prayed that by the end of that day, she herself would be at the very least breathing.
With each droplet of blood that sparkled in the incarnadine sky and fell on her cheek, she felt the tendrils of death crawl up around her ankles and throat. She was afraid, afraid like she had never been before, and as alone as the night she had been chased down in a dark forest. She found herself being afraid for Saela, who looked like nothing else than a phantom zooming in the air and raining death from above; she was afraid for the knight that shielded her then, his arm desperately keeping her pressed against him. She knew that, if they died, she would fall prey to the venomous fangs of the enemy; her captors seemed, in essence, her only escape.
Not too far away from where she stood, she could hear the grunts of the young Lord who called himself King, resonating through the plains as he fought with all of his daring. He was young, not older than twenty years of age, or perhaps even less, and yet bearing men twice his years and size with as much skill as a fearsome warrior. She could see his jaw clench in pain whenever the tip of a blade touched his flesh, his muscles tense when he struggled to parry, and his eyes seek her whenever he found a moment to catch his breath.
The break from reality should not have lasted as long: it allowed him to get wounded by the blade of a Snake, deep enough to distract him from those that swarmed around behind his back. His sword slashed through all that surrounded him, and while some fell for good, others found the strength to rise again and seize their weapons for another turn, while the King could only carry so much on his shoulders alone.
If she stayed rooted, Lilith knew they would find a way past Lixander one way or another. Breathing all the courage she could induce herself into her, she tightened her grip around the dagger and slipped from the superficial hold of the knight by her side, before eloping through the bloodied sea towards the young Lord who fought alone.
It had been, perhaps, her instinct to strike before she thought. As an armoured beast bursted menacingly towards Rondulin, blood spilling from an open wound in his leg, Lilith eloped into the air and, as she fell down, stuck her dagger into his nape right as his sword hovered above the King's head. The man staggered and fell to his side, losing his balance, and crashed against the ground with a loud clink of steel against hard rocks. Lilith breathed out in fear and hurled the dagger down next to the gushing corpse, her eyes unable to glance away.
"Lilith!" the voice of Lixander called, barely loud enough to make it over the sound of death. From the corner of her eyes, she could see him being surrounded, see the silhouette of Saela twist and turn in his vicinity, but her gaze was locked perpetually on the man she had slaughtered without a second thought.
'One life for another,' she tried to shake the thought of him away, but the voice in her mind could not bear over the shock. Death surrounded her, and she could do naught but watch in dread and disgust as every sliver of life escaped the man's lips with each drop of blood he spilled. She did not register the knight shout her name again; in the emerging night, she was nothing else than prey, too vulnerable to fight, too frozen to run.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Too many seconds passed as Lilith's eyes remained locked on the bleeding body of the man she had killed to save Rondulin, seconds in which her life hung from a string as thin as paper. She heard the young Lord shout behind her, shielding her with his form, parrying each blow that threatened to end her life. He was desperate, and she was unmoving, not because she wanted to, but because the ground had her rooted deep and refused to let go.
It was only when Rondulin himself moved her that she awakened from her trance and jolted alive. Fear took over her again, wrapping around her throat and forcing it to clench shut. It felt as though the air were throttling her as snakes swarmed like bees around them, yet their vicinity remained considerably clear in comparison to what Ser Lixander and Lady Saela had to endure.
As more and more Northern warriors gathered around them, she could see the enemy fall one by one. Death surrounded them, engulfed them, and whilst she herself was not producing it, she was the reason behind it all. No commander in his right mind would order his men to attack an army of eight thousand if he were unaware of the treasure that awaited them if they found themselves victors after leaving the battlefield. She was, perhaps, the most valuable soul Lord Rogerus's money could buy, more valuable than himself, and for that, his soldiers were willing to give their lives so easily.
Men of honour, they circled the Princess and their King in an effort to keep the enemy away by steel or fire. The smoke burnt into the evening sky, tainting the pristine crimson and saturating the air with a disturbing scent of burning flesh and winter. From where she stood, she could count at least ten who had gathered around them, and more were trotting through the sea of steel, either pushing the enemy back or leading them farther away.
Her legs had gone numb, trembling as if the ground beneath her were shaking itself. With all the strength that she had left, she seized Rondulin's free arm and pressed herself to him, desperate for safety. Tears stung her eyes as the shouts of the dying men around her mirrored those of her sisters, in her mind, and of her mother's, whom she could then picture running towards the platform covered in hoar and shout for mercy. She could hear herself beg right then, not for her life, but for it all to end, as she could not take any more death, any more pain, any more terror draining her heart.
The poppy could feel the soft skin of her palms stick to the material of the King's tunic, stained with a red, viscous liquid which she did not know whom it belonged to. She found the strength to lift her eyes, now safe in a sphere of glass, and although she could not embitter herself to watch the massacre that was finding its tail around them, she moved her gaze to the sky and started to count to ease her tremor. Her hands remained clutching Rondulin's arm as tight as her weariness allowed, refusing to let go lest the carnage threatened to extend and flow to where they stood.
For one man that a Northerner slaughtered, Saela ended three. She moved as swiftly as air around Lixander, who was still desperately trying to hold his ground, knowing that if he moved back, he would bring the crowd of death with him closer to his King and the Princess. It seemed that they were not ending, in spite of their number being smaller than theirs. He was growing exhausted and that exhaustion was already taking its toll on him.
He did hear Saela call his name when she was finished, although he could spot ochre capes and dark sigils stained with blood roaming through his own men. "I'm alive," he called out in return to reassure her; it was the only thing he was sure of, in the end, for he did not know whether the blood sprayed over him was his or the enemy's. Every inch of his body hurt, throbbed in the rhythm of his heart, and he could not push himself to move closer to her even if he wanted to.
"Back!" a snake hissed from far away, struggling to take a good grip of his whimpering stallion. "Move back! Retreat, I said!"
"Retreat!" another called, just as a glimmering blade sliced through his middle and cut him open right in front of their feet. Some followed, and although not many were left alive, the sudden withdrawal had been a better choice than continuing to fight.
For a moment, Lixander was tempted to resume, although a part of him then told him that Rondulin might want some of them alive. He was a good man, but pride resided in all of them, deeper or closer to the surface. Rogerus Moirne would have to be informed from the mouth of a survivor that the army of the King of Heileanan was to be expected and feared. That they had Lilith Varhart and were not intending to let her slip away.
"Wait for the King's orders," he shouted over to Saela before dashing towards the spot where the young man stood. His gaze immediately found the poppy, trembling against his arm, still surrounded by soldiers who had raised their shields expectantly. "Her Grace..." he started, but stopped when he saw the blood on her fingertips and the pallor of Rondulin's skin, the way his locks of umber stuck to his dampened flesh and the heat that radiated from his body in the brisk night air.
Lixander turned his head towards Saela in a silent demand for her to come. Warriors poured around them, taking the last lives that remained hanging and pushing those that remained back into the woods. The lines and columns had now spread and scattered over the plains, horses mixed with men and bodies smoked by wildly burning fire. The carnage, all for the sake of a treasure they mutually desired, was at last coming to an end, and with every second that passed, Lixander could feel his body tense and ache, not only for the fear of his wounded King, but for his own blood that still gushed from beneath his pierced armour.
It was only when Rondulin himself moved her that she awakened from her trance and jolted alive. Fear took over her again, wrapping around her throat and forcing it to clench shut. It felt as though the air were throttling her as snakes swarmed like bees around them, yet their vicinity remained considerably clear in comparison to what Ser Lixander and Lady Saela had to endure.
As more and more Northern warriors gathered around them, she could see the enemy fall one by one. Death surrounded them, engulfed them, and whilst she herself was not producing it, she was the reason behind it all. No commander in his right mind would order his men to attack an army of eight thousand if he were unaware of the treasure that awaited them if they found themselves victors after leaving the battlefield. She was, perhaps, the most valuable soul Lord Rogerus's money could buy, more valuable than himself, and for that, his soldiers were willing to give their lives so easily.
Men of honour, they circled the Princess and their King in an effort to keep the enemy away by steel or fire. The smoke burnt into the evening sky, tainting the pristine crimson and saturating the air with a disturbing scent of burning flesh and winter. From where she stood, she could count at least ten who had gathered around them, and more were trotting through the sea of steel, either pushing the enemy back or leading them farther away.
Her legs had gone numb, trembling as if the ground beneath her were shaking itself. With all the strength that she had left, she seized Rondulin's free arm and pressed herself to him, desperate for safety. Tears stung her eyes as the shouts of the dying men around her mirrored those of her sisters, in her mind, and of her mother's, whom she could then picture running towards the platform covered in hoar and shout for mercy. She could hear herself beg right then, not for her life, but for it all to end, as she could not take any more death, any more pain, any more terror draining her heart.
The poppy could feel the soft skin of her palms stick to the material of the King's tunic, stained with a red, viscous liquid which she did not know whom it belonged to. She found the strength to lift her eyes, now safe in a sphere of glass, and although she could not embitter herself to watch the massacre that was finding its tail around them, she moved her gaze to the sky and started to count to ease her tremor. Her hands remained clutching Rondulin's arm as tight as her weariness allowed, refusing to let go lest the carnage threatened to extend and flow to where they stood.
For one man that a Northerner slaughtered, Saela ended three. She moved as swiftly as air around Lixander, who was still desperately trying to hold his ground, knowing that if he moved back, he would bring the crowd of death with him closer to his King and the Princess. It seemed that they were not ending, in spite of their number being smaller than theirs. He was growing exhausted and that exhaustion was already taking its toll on him.
He did hear Saela call his name when she was finished, although he could spot ochre capes and dark sigils stained with blood roaming through his own men. "I'm alive," he called out in return to reassure her; it was the only thing he was sure of, in the end, for he did not know whether the blood sprayed over him was his or the enemy's. Every inch of his body hurt, throbbed in the rhythm of his heart, and he could not push himself to move closer to her even if he wanted to.
"Back!" a snake hissed from far away, struggling to take a good grip of his whimpering stallion. "Move back! Retreat, I said!"
"Retreat!" another called, just as a glimmering blade sliced through his middle and cut him open right in front of their feet. Some followed, and although not many were left alive, the sudden withdrawal had been a better choice than continuing to fight.
For a moment, Lixander was tempted to resume, although a part of him then told him that Rondulin might want some of them alive. He was a good man, but pride resided in all of them, deeper or closer to the surface. Rogerus Moirne would have to be informed from the mouth of a survivor that the army of the King of Heileanan was to be expected and feared. That they had Lilith Varhart and were not intending to let her slip away.
"Wait for the King's orders," he shouted over to Saela before dashing towards the spot where the young man stood. His gaze immediately found the poppy, trembling against his arm, still surrounded by soldiers who had raised their shields expectantly. "Her Grace..." he started, but stopped when he saw the blood on her fingertips and the pallor of Rondulin's skin, the way his locks of umber stuck to his dampened flesh and the heat that radiated from his body in the brisk night air.
Lixander turned his head towards Saela in a silent demand for her to come. Warriors poured around them, taking the last lives that remained hanging and pushing those that remained back into the woods. The lines and columns had now spread and scattered over the plains, horses mixed with men and bodies smoked by wildly burning fire. The carnage, all for the sake of a treasure they mutually desired, was at last coming to an end, and with every second that passed, Lixander could feel his body tense and ache, not only for the fear of his wounded King, but for his own blood that still gushed from beneath his pierced armour.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The skies seemed to rain ashes and blood, dripping over their cheeks and shoulders, veiling them in a shroud of dread and death. Even if the fight was over and they counted themselves amongst the victors, Lilith could not brush away the picture of her sin, gushing out blood over the earth; she knew that if she looked down right then, she would freshen her memory with the gruesome painting of war once again, and how could she, when the violet stained sky offered such a soothing view to contrast it?
The voice of Lord Rondulin rung in her ear, and despite being barely over a whisper, it was all she could embitter herself enough to hear. Still plagued by an almost painful shudder, she slowly slipped her hands from around his arm and attempted to straighten herself to regain at least a sliver of her composure. "You have my gratitude," she whispered back to him. The wind, now blowing through her hair and tickling her cheeks, slowly dried the tears that glimmered under her eyes and down her jaw.
It was when she finally found the strength to look around that she noticed Rondulin was hurt. As swift as subtle as a ghost, Saela had made her way to them, weariness starting to seep into her eyes and movements as well as she let the man's bloodied shirt drop back into place. By the good will of the Gods, she had been left unharmed, although there was a certain hole in her chest which she knew she would not be able to mend for a long time starting then.
She did not need a healer, but Rondulin did, and for that, Lilith blamed herself. It was for the sake of her life that men had given theirs that night, and for the sake of her value that the young Lord had gone as far as to hurl himself between her and bloodied blades. She owed him far more than her acknowledgement.
When asked to take a seat and rest, she was tempted to agree. She no longer felt hungry after her stomach had twisted so painfully at the sight of the bloody carnage, but she knew that she had to take a moment to breathe. They all did, some more than the others. She could say for certain that Ser Barske was one of those who desperately needed to catch his breath for the rest of the evening.
Lixander's steps made the ground shake as he stepped towards them, unable to hold his stance, dragging his longsword behind as if it were a sack and not a weapon. "We cannot stop here," he called out to his leader, chest heaving as he breathed against the cold air. "There are beasts in the forest, and our dead are just next to their lair." They could not risk another attack, not even one of a bear or an angry wolf.
"Some are dying, Barske," another called from behind him as he struggled to tighten a knot around a man's arm. "We cannot travel any longer. Not now."
"We can move them a few feet away. I ain't sleeping over dead bodies."
With that, he resumed his pacing towards the small group that surrounded Lilith and placed a hand over Saela's shoulder. "I owe you my life, girl," he whispered quietly enough that only she could hear him over the groans and moans of the wounded. "But until my debt is paid, you need to rest as well. Go find your mare in this mess, I will take care of the rest." His was young and strong enough to have fought and stayed by his side, and he had it in his eyesight, not too far from where he stood.
A part of him knew that Saela would not go anywhere near a bed until she knew for sure that Rondulin was safe and sound. His wounds were superficial, yet the woman fussed like an old maiden over the smallest of things. Lixander could not blame her for it. He loved Yova with all of his heart and would have done the same. He would have fussed over Saela's life, had he not known she was as strong as a mountain, perhaps even stronger than himself.
He saw the princess bend over to take her dagger from the ground, then wiped it off with a stained scrap of golden velvet. There was an emptiness in her eyes which worried him; he would not have expected the daughter of Benjamin to show fear, and yet her lack of presence of mind was rather concerning. Before his own thoughts could fabricate any more worries, he lifted his hand to his mouth and whistled as loudly as he could over the sound of death. Karun whined and trotted to his side as quickly as it could, and although restless, he allowed the man to mount it without protesting.
"Let me take the Princess with me," he said. She had no horse, he might as well let her ride his. He had seen it bite the dust with the slash of an axe through its chest, but could not find the heart within him to tell her right then. 'Not that she is not smart enough to realise it herself.' No, it was all there, reflected in the blade of her dagger as she looked down upon it, barely able to bear the weight of it between her fragile fingers.
The poppy wavered, locking his eyes on him so she did not have to look at the pool of blood around her. "I wish to help with the caring for the wounded," she said instead, words which took Lixander by surprise. He did not doubt that she was skilled, being a noble lady with far more studies than a field soldier, yet he knew that, likely, Rondulin himself would deny her going anywhere near blades and blood so long as her mind was turbid and cloudy.
The knight abstained himself from answering and instead extended his hand towards her, longsword now back in its sheath to allow her to mount his horse safe and sound. He had not been able to offer the protection Rondulin had given, but he would take it upon himself to carry her to safety and ensure it for the rest of the night to pass.
The voice of Lord Rondulin rung in her ear, and despite being barely over a whisper, it was all she could embitter herself enough to hear. Still plagued by an almost painful shudder, she slowly slipped her hands from around his arm and attempted to straighten herself to regain at least a sliver of her composure. "You have my gratitude," she whispered back to him. The wind, now blowing through her hair and tickling her cheeks, slowly dried the tears that glimmered under her eyes and down her jaw.
It was when she finally found the strength to look around that she noticed Rondulin was hurt. As swift as subtle as a ghost, Saela had made her way to them, weariness starting to seep into her eyes and movements as well as she let the man's bloodied shirt drop back into place. By the good will of the Gods, she had been left unharmed, although there was a certain hole in her chest which she knew she would not be able to mend for a long time starting then.
She did not need a healer, but Rondulin did, and for that, Lilith blamed herself. It was for the sake of her life that men had given theirs that night, and for the sake of her value that the young Lord had gone as far as to hurl himself between her and bloodied blades. She owed him far more than her acknowledgement.
When asked to take a seat and rest, she was tempted to agree. She no longer felt hungry after her stomach had twisted so painfully at the sight of the bloody carnage, but she knew that she had to take a moment to breathe. They all did, some more than the others. She could say for certain that Ser Barske was one of those who desperately needed to catch his breath for the rest of the evening.
Lixander's steps made the ground shake as he stepped towards them, unable to hold his stance, dragging his longsword behind as if it were a sack and not a weapon. "We cannot stop here," he called out to his leader, chest heaving as he breathed against the cold air. "There are beasts in the forest, and our dead are just next to their lair." They could not risk another attack, not even one of a bear or an angry wolf.
"Some are dying, Barske," another called from behind him as he struggled to tighten a knot around a man's arm. "We cannot travel any longer. Not now."
"We can move them a few feet away. I ain't sleeping over dead bodies."
With that, he resumed his pacing towards the small group that surrounded Lilith and placed a hand over Saela's shoulder. "I owe you my life, girl," he whispered quietly enough that only she could hear him over the groans and moans of the wounded. "But until my debt is paid, you need to rest as well. Go find your mare in this mess, I will take care of the rest." His was young and strong enough to have fought and stayed by his side, and he had it in his eyesight, not too far from where he stood.
A part of him knew that Saela would not go anywhere near a bed until she knew for sure that Rondulin was safe and sound. His wounds were superficial, yet the woman fussed like an old maiden over the smallest of things. Lixander could not blame her for it. He loved Yova with all of his heart and would have done the same. He would have fussed over Saela's life, had he not known she was as strong as a mountain, perhaps even stronger than himself.
He saw the princess bend over to take her dagger from the ground, then wiped it off with a stained scrap of golden velvet. There was an emptiness in her eyes which worried him; he would not have expected the daughter of Benjamin to show fear, and yet her lack of presence of mind was rather concerning. Before his own thoughts could fabricate any more worries, he lifted his hand to his mouth and whistled as loudly as he could over the sound of death. Karun whined and trotted to his side as quickly as it could, and although restless, he allowed the man to mount it without protesting.
"Let me take the Princess with me," he said. She had no horse, he might as well let her ride his. He had seen it bite the dust with the slash of an axe through its chest, but could not find the heart within him to tell her right then. 'Not that she is not smart enough to realise it herself.' No, it was all there, reflected in the blade of her dagger as she looked down upon it, barely able to bear the weight of it between her fragile fingers.
The poppy wavered, locking his eyes on him so she did not have to look at the pool of blood around her. "I wish to help with the caring for the wounded," she said instead, words which took Lixander by surprise. He did not doubt that she was skilled, being a noble lady with far more studies than a field soldier, yet he knew that, likely, Rondulin himself would deny her going anywhere near blades and blood so long as her mind was turbid and cloudy.
The knight abstained himself from answering and instead extended his hand towards her, longsword now back in its sheath to allow her to mount his horse safe and sound. He had not been able to offer the protection Rondulin had given, but he would take it upon himself to carry her to safety and ensure it for the rest of the night to pass.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
It did not take a genius mind to tell how thick the bond of loyalty between Rondulin and Saela was. For a second, Lilith felt a pang of malice at the thought that she had lost all that she had to the man who had torn her family apart. She could only trust herself and, in that moment, she was unsure of that as well. Standing with the bloodied dagger in her hand, she had been pushed to the edge to take a life herself; only the Gods know for how long her mind would retain its pristinity.
She remained fairly hesitant at Ser Lixander's offer to ride with him farther away from the massacre. Bodies were gushing around her and she could not bear the thought of walking on her own feet, yet at the same time, she knew she would not be able to rest that night if she tried. Rondulin's body had allowed for a momentary haven, but once parted from the warmth he had confered, reality struck her in all its brute force once again.
Taking in a deep breath, Lilith found the strength to part herself from the young Lord and lifted her hand to reach Lixander's. The knight bent over to pick her up and almost tossed her onto the saddle in front of him. "Let us leave, then," she murmured against the brisk everning air. She knew she was to have no peace for a long while then; at the very least, she could try to distance herself from the thoughts she so much dreaded right then.
Separated from the King, a part of him still lingered in her, as if he had delivered more than mere protection and kindness. Lilith should not have allowed herself to soften so easily, yet her heart and mind were filled with a turmoil of feelings which she could barely control. They buzzed and hurled around in her head, aching, and in spite of her efforts to smother them, they were burning louder and louder the more vivid the memory of the fight painted itself before her eyes.
"The Princess will stay with you, m'Lord," Lixander said before gently kicking the sides of his steed. It was wounded as well, although superficially, and apart from a good scare, it was still steadfast and strong enough to carry both of them for perhaps well over a mile. "I would not trust her safety with anyone tonight. Half of them are wounded, and the rest are most likely still suffering from the night before." Alcohol was seldom merciful to the greedy, especially not the kind one would buy for so cheap.
And she would have protested, were she not touched by languor and terror. Lilith did move in her seat, taking in a deep breath of frustration, but within a second she was once again flush against him, as if suddenly realising it was better than being violated in her sleep.
He was then briefly reminded of Milena, and wondered where the woman was, if she was any longer. However, he knew he had a duty to fulfill, especially after failing at it the first time around. In the end, it had almost been Rondulin giving his life for the victory he so much treasured, not himself, and he would have blamed himself to the Gods and back if they had taken his life in favour of the Princess that damned night.
It would have almost been embarrassing. A King and his fearsome army, slaughtered in cold blood by a handful of snakes.
He left Lilith Varhart's skin flush at his touch as he wrapped his arm around her middle. Lixander did not think for a moment that she was in some way turning florid for him; he knew she was afraid, even if he had never harmed her and never would. She was still a sheep surrounded by wolves, a woman encircled by strangers, and her best guess was to remain reticent and quiet.
Some had heard his bidding and were already beginning to embitter themselves and gather their horses. There was enough time in the morning to mourn the dead. Until then, if creatures of the night did not come to feast upon the bodies of the fallen, they could only tend to the wounds of those who had survived and rest for the day to come, if not another. Refresh their plans and reorganize the troops. If such a small skirmish had hit them as hard, he did not wish to think what awaited them down South.
The path was opened soon enough by another pair of armoured silhouettes and Lixander followed, clutching the poppy to his chest. He could see her breath vanish in the moonlit darkness and feel her trembling heart against his shoulder. He was still tempted to tell Saela to follow, but Rondulin's remark had made him think twice. It was not a moment to act like a father; that could wait until the morning. All he hoped was that they were not as idiotic as to linger about and forget themselves amongst the dead.
Shortly after, fires were glimmering against the shrouded forest, and tents were being built to veil the wounded. If the Gods were kind to him at least then, he would fall asleep over the sounds of death and agony, given Rondulin did not wish to care for the young girl until dawn.
She remained fairly hesitant at Ser Lixander's offer to ride with him farther away from the massacre. Bodies were gushing around her and she could not bear the thought of walking on her own feet, yet at the same time, she knew she would not be able to rest that night if she tried. Rondulin's body had allowed for a momentary haven, but once parted from the warmth he had confered, reality struck her in all its brute force once again.
Taking in a deep breath, Lilith found the strength to part herself from the young Lord and lifted her hand to reach Lixander's. The knight bent over to pick her up and almost tossed her onto the saddle in front of him. "Let us leave, then," she murmured against the brisk everning air. She knew she was to have no peace for a long while then; at the very least, she could try to distance herself from the thoughts she so much dreaded right then.
Separated from the King, a part of him still lingered in her, as if he had delivered more than mere protection and kindness. Lilith should not have allowed herself to soften so easily, yet her heart and mind were filled with a turmoil of feelings which she could barely control. They buzzed and hurled around in her head, aching, and in spite of her efforts to smother them, they were burning louder and louder the more vivid the memory of the fight painted itself before her eyes.
"The Princess will stay with you, m'Lord," Lixander said before gently kicking the sides of his steed. It was wounded as well, although superficially, and apart from a good scare, it was still steadfast and strong enough to carry both of them for perhaps well over a mile. "I would not trust her safety with anyone tonight. Half of them are wounded, and the rest are most likely still suffering from the night before." Alcohol was seldom merciful to the greedy, especially not the kind one would buy for so cheap.
And she would have protested, were she not touched by languor and terror. Lilith did move in her seat, taking in a deep breath of frustration, but within a second she was once again flush against him, as if suddenly realising it was better than being violated in her sleep.
He was then briefly reminded of Milena, and wondered where the woman was, if she was any longer. However, he knew he had a duty to fulfill, especially after failing at it the first time around. In the end, it had almost been Rondulin giving his life for the victory he so much treasured, not himself, and he would have blamed himself to the Gods and back if they had taken his life in favour of the Princess that damned night.
It would have almost been embarrassing. A King and his fearsome army, slaughtered in cold blood by a handful of snakes.
He left Lilith Varhart's skin flush at his touch as he wrapped his arm around her middle. Lixander did not think for a moment that she was in some way turning florid for him; he knew she was afraid, even if he had never harmed her and never would. She was still a sheep surrounded by wolves, a woman encircled by strangers, and her best guess was to remain reticent and quiet.
Some had heard his bidding and were already beginning to embitter themselves and gather their horses. There was enough time in the morning to mourn the dead. Until then, if creatures of the night did not come to feast upon the bodies of the fallen, they could only tend to the wounds of those who had survived and rest for the day to come, if not another. Refresh their plans and reorganize the troops. If such a small skirmish had hit them as hard, he did not wish to think what awaited them down South.
The path was opened soon enough by another pair of armoured silhouettes and Lixander followed, clutching the poppy to his chest. He could see her breath vanish in the moonlit darkness and feel her trembling heart against his shoulder. He was still tempted to tell Saela to follow, but Rondulin's remark had made him think twice. It was not a moment to act like a father; that could wait until the morning. All he hoped was that they were not as idiotic as to linger about and forget themselves amongst the dead.
Shortly after, fires were glimmering against the shrouded forest, and tents were being built to veil the wounded. If the Gods were kind to him at least then, he would fall asleep over the sounds of death and agony, given Rondulin did not wish to care for the young girl until dawn.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The scent of wildflowers and moist wood imbued the air far away from the bloodied battlefield. It was a pleasant escape from the reek of death, and although she could still feel tendrils of cold crawl up her skirt, Lilith felt safer closer to the fire, moreso that she was now surrounded by breathing and living men. She almost felt hungry once again, tickled by the weariness and fatigue which had accumulated during the day.
In spite of his own exhaustion, Lixander helped her off the horse with ease, wrapping merely one arm around her middle and pulling her down unto her feet. "We are safe here," he bid with a grimace of pain. He then leaned in and dismounted himself, patting the nape of his stallion to thank it for its service. "Do not be afraid of what I said. King Rondulin would not allow anyone to touch you, although I doubt they have the energy to even hold themselves standing," he gave a quick gesture with his head to the soldiers gathering around fires, before turning to tie the reins in a knot around a small stump.
"There is food, isn't there?" Lilith murmured, peeking over her shoulder.
"All that fighting gave you an appetite, eh?"
She shook her head. "Not for myself. You are wounded. You have told Lady Saela to rest, yet you-"
"She's no lady," Lixander let out a sigh and placed a wide palm on the curve of her back to urge her forward towards the emerging tents. "Call her whatever, a knight, a warrior, a soldier... I dared to say she was as much as a Queen for Lord Rondulin and I almost earned myself a good smackin'."
"Are they..."
"No." He almost found himself laughing, but pressed his lips together instead and shook his head. There was a glimmer in his eyes which Lilith could not read, but she did see it spark at the mention of her name, and it now lingered kindled by the fire near them, making it look as though he had teared up. She could not see a man like him crying, twice as tall and as wide as a mountain. Even she had perchance looked pathetic in the eyes of Lord Rondulin, clinging so desperately to his arm in the midst of battle.
Closer to the makeshift hearth, the girl could already smell the perfume of food; her stomach started growling, in spite of her efforts to keep herself contained. She was more hungry that she thought, even if the sight of cadavres had made her sick. Lixander lead her with gentility towards it and gestured for her to sit. In the distance, groups and groups of people were gathering from the graveyard to the safe haven where they were to spend the night.
It did not take long for a healer to arrive. The woman was wearing the adequate clothing which allowed Lilith to recognise her: a slate grey dress similar to hers, tinged with old blood near the sleeves, and a long and wide apron, stained by whatever she had meddled with. Perhaps word had spread that the princess had been put in danger, otherwise she could not imagine why a proper medic would not be taking care of any other who was seriously injured.
"Is she... Her majesty..."
"No, no need to bother yourself," the knight shook his head, before briefly turning it to her. "Unless you are hurt, which I highly doubt." No, she just wished to sleep, and that was more than apparent in her eyes. They were empty. He expected her to burst out crying or shouting any moment then and was still surprised that she had managed to keep herself pushing for so long. He had not been able to bear the thought of his first kill so easily.
"And you, Ser?" she then asked urgently, pointing to the blood stain on his tunic.
Lixander shook his head once again. "It's nothing. I will take care of it myself. Leave some supplies and... Oh... You might want to take care of that."
He stretched his arm to point to the couple of silhouettes emerging from the darkness of the night, circled by guards on horses who looked just as drained as they did. Saela was hurt, that he knew, but she was, for whatever reason, too stubborn and idiotic to accept treatment. Perhaps she thought suffering made her look weak, in spite of Rondulin having told her otherwise way too many times. A part of him felt for her, but the other still refused to agree to her obduracy.
The healer bowed quickly before him, extended her bag to him, and made her way towards the small group. Lixander eventually turned back to Lilith and, taking a seat on the log next to the fire, he pulled the bag on his lap and picked out a cloth and a flask to dampen it. "You can't sleep now," he thought to add before she could close her eyes and doze off where she stood. "There's food, and there's Lord Rondulin. You wouldn't-"
"Forgive me, but I do not care for your Lord, Ser Barske," she said bitterly, eyes locked on the fire. "I will sleep when I need to sleep. I am not a child, and nor am I a fool." The irritation was apparent, etched in her eyes, although it did baffle him as to how her words were spilling with such ease when only moments before she had been clinging to Rondulin with such fervour.
Regardless, he chose not to speak against her, not when her feelings were as frail and brittle as glass. He gave her a gentle nod of the head and shifted his gaze to Rondulin himself, as if waiting for his own opinion on the matter. In truth, he only wanted to get her off of his hands. 'And the sooner, the better. So long as he doesn't linger about lecturing Saela again.'
In spite of his own exhaustion, Lixander helped her off the horse with ease, wrapping merely one arm around her middle and pulling her down unto her feet. "We are safe here," he bid with a grimace of pain. He then leaned in and dismounted himself, patting the nape of his stallion to thank it for its service. "Do not be afraid of what I said. King Rondulin would not allow anyone to touch you, although I doubt they have the energy to even hold themselves standing," he gave a quick gesture with his head to the soldiers gathering around fires, before turning to tie the reins in a knot around a small stump.
"There is food, isn't there?" Lilith murmured, peeking over her shoulder.
"All that fighting gave you an appetite, eh?"
She shook her head. "Not for myself. You are wounded. You have told Lady Saela to rest, yet you-"
"She's no lady," Lixander let out a sigh and placed a wide palm on the curve of her back to urge her forward towards the emerging tents. "Call her whatever, a knight, a warrior, a soldier... I dared to say she was as much as a Queen for Lord Rondulin and I almost earned myself a good smackin'."
"Are they..."
"No." He almost found himself laughing, but pressed his lips together instead and shook his head. There was a glimmer in his eyes which Lilith could not read, but she did see it spark at the mention of her name, and it now lingered kindled by the fire near them, making it look as though he had teared up. She could not see a man like him crying, twice as tall and as wide as a mountain. Even she had perchance looked pathetic in the eyes of Lord Rondulin, clinging so desperately to his arm in the midst of battle.
Closer to the makeshift hearth, the girl could already smell the perfume of food; her stomach started growling, in spite of her efforts to keep herself contained. She was more hungry that she thought, even if the sight of cadavres had made her sick. Lixander lead her with gentility towards it and gestured for her to sit. In the distance, groups and groups of people were gathering from the graveyard to the safe haven where they were to spend the night.
It did not take long for a healer to arrive. The woman was wearing the adequate clothing which allowed Lilith to recognise her: a slate grey dress similar to hers, tinged with old blood near the sleeves, and a long and wide apron, stained by whatever she had meddled with. Perhaps word had spread that the princess had been put in danger, otherwise she could not imagine why a proper medic would not be taking care of any other who was seriously injured.
"Is she... Her majesty..."
"No, no need to bother yourself," the knight shook his head, before briefly turning it to her. "Unless you are hurt, which I highly doubt." No, she just wished to sleep, and that was more than apparent in her eyes. They were empty. He expected her to burst out crying or shouting any moment then and was still surprised that she had managed to keep herself pushing for so long. He had not been able to bear the thought of his first kill so easily.
"And you, Ser?" she then asked urgently, pointing to the blood stain on his tunic.
Lixander shook his head once again. "It's nothing. I will take care of it myself. Leave some supplies and... Oh... You might want to take care of that."
He stretched his arm to point to the couple of silhouettes emerging from the darkness of the night, circled by guards on horses who looked just as drained as they did. Saela was hurt, that he knew, but she was, for whatever reason, too stubborn and idiotic to accept treatment. Perhaps she thought suffering made her look weak, in spite of Rondulin having told her otherwise way too many times. A part of him felt for her, but the other still refused to agree to her obduracy.
The healer bowed quickly before him, extended her bag to him, and made her way towards the small group. Lixander eventually turned back to Lilith and, taking a seat on the log next to the fire, he pulled the bag on his lap and picked out a cloth and a flask to dampen it. "You can't sleep now," he thought to add before she could close her eyes and doze off where she stood. "There's food, and there's Lord Rondulin. You wouldn't-"
"Forgive me, but I do not care for your Lord, Ser Barske," she said bitterly, eyes locked on the fire. "I will sleep when I need to sleep. I am not a child, and nor am I a fool." The irritation was apparent, etched in her eyes, although it did baffle him as to how her words were spilling with such ease when only moments before she had been clinging to Rondulin with such fervour.
Regardless, he chose not to speak against her, not when her feelings were as frail and brittle as glass. He gave her a gentle nod of the head and shifted his gaze to Rondulin himself, as if waiting for his own opinion on the matter. In truth, he only wanted to get her off of his hands. 'And the sooner, the better. So long as he doesn't linger about lecturing Saela again.'
