Fantasy Colder Winds [CLOSED]

[peritwinkle]

One could not say that Rondulin's words were those of derision, even as he claimed he had never been afraid of her stabbing him behind his back. It was not her nature of a woman that made him not fear her, but the thought that she came from an honourable and noble family which would not have taught her to break her own valor, even in moments where her life was more valuable than another defenseless man's.

Lilith knew she had made the right decision of saving him. Were she given the chance, she would have done it a thousand more times, knowing that Rondulin Eldskar would live. He had a good heart, even if his intentions did not match the brutality of his ways. Perhaps, given time, he would come to change, although the contrast she made against him was one of weakness against power, fragility against strength, which she still did not wish for a true King.

"We are children," she murmured, propping her chin on the rim of the tub. "Children that still have much to learn, and whilst I might not like the game you are playing, Lord of Heileanan, I cannot deny the fact that you are playing by the rules." No, she did not wish to follow him, nor to support him in his bloodied mindset, but deep in his heart, he knew the right way, and if that came to surface, she might eventually follow.

Her eyes lowered then, touching upon his tepid frame, from the looseness of his shirt to the tightness of his trousers. She was a virgin, still pristine and untouched by the filthy hands of a man, but it did not come as a surprise that his body would desire hers, even if his mind refused it. Even she felt a certain warmth build inside of her at the sight of him, making her long for another kiss, another brush of his lips against her own.

It was almost ungodly to think of such things, so much against her rationality, that she could not believe they were even crossing her mind. Victoria had often told her about such feelings of bodily desire. It was within human nature, but forbidden to be satisfied. If she dared to fall in love, if she dared to lay with another man, Lady Ylonne's hopes for her would be crushed in an instant, or rather, nine short months.

Sheaking her head, she leaned back in and let herself be absorbed by the steaming water. Diving in, she held her breath, listening to the sound of her own heartbeat reverberating through the waves and against the wooden walls of the tub. Then, she shot back up to the surface and stood up, chest just above the water, the small ripples tickling the tops of her breasts. It felt like a caress over her body, cradling her in warmth, as her heart pulsated in her bosom, threatening to break through her chest.

Her gaze shifted then, from the surface of the water to Rondulin, and the corners of her lips turned into a lambent simper. "I do feel like a child again," she whispered, droplets dripping over her forehead, grazing over her lips and resting at the base of her neck. Grabbing one of the viles and pouring its content into her palm, she slowly started brushing the essence through her hair, letting the excess stream down her bare shoulders and over the tender flesh of her chest.

"We used to bathe in the sea when we were young," the poppy murmured as she washed her hair. "Every summer morning, whenever the sun was warm enough and allowed us to bask in its heat... Much like this... It felt like this." She could remember it vividly, the sensation of waves hitting her back, the voices of her sisters playing with seashells and sand. It was there, etched in her mind like a dusty painting which she would remember as well as the first day she had looked upon its greatness.

~*~

Lixander could barely hold himself from rolling his eyes as Saela brought back the mention of his wounds. Even it she was right, even if they were still healing, he could not be bothered to worry over them as much as she did. Although, he could take it as a compliment, knowing that she at least cared. Knowing that there was another in that word who would think about him after his death.

Eventually, Razavia made her way out of the hall with Horace, leaving the two of them under the sole watch of the Gods. The silence that followed was only disturbed here and there by muffled laughter, rustling of leaves and light cracking of the arden fire. If he listened closely, he knew he could almost hear Saela breathe and, stangely enough, he found himself searching to listen for it more often than not.

Settling the tray down between the two of them, he lifted his eyes back to her and reached on either side of his midde to pull his shirt off. "It's nothing," he sighed, lowering his gaze to check for any signs of festering. "Mine were not as bad as yours, it seems. You truly should let me help you with that, before you rip your flesh apart."

He did not wait for a special invitation to do so. Even if he was famished, the thought of letting her rot in pain did not ease the worries of his cumbered mind. Slowly, he leaned behind her and ran his dark orbs over the reddened lines that crossed her back, all but marks left by swords that had missed their initial target.

Then, he propped himself back up and, ripping a piece of his own shirt with one strong tug, he dipped it into his glass of water and resumed his position behind her back. "It would help me more if you turned... It's not half bad, but I would rather you let me clean it as I should," even if he did not expect her to listen. She was as stubborn as she was strong. If there was one man that could hold her pinned to his feet, it was Rondulin, and right then he was occupied with other matters he could have simply left to the hands of Lilith alone.

He would not dare to touch her him, lest he came across as thirsty for her flesh as Horace was for the witch. If she did allow him to work, however, he trusted the swiftness of his hands when it came to tying bandages and mending wounds. Far too many had plagued him and Yova over the years, that he had learnt to treat even the most trivial of them with proper care.

"Had you let a healer tie it, the water would not have reached the wounds," he scolded her, although there was more regret in his tone than there was vexation. And as he looked upon them, it was getting harder and harder not to feel his own tighten, even if they had almost healed entirely. He could see them rising through the bandages that stuck to the glistening flesh of his abdomen. He could feel them tug, and the more he leaned in, the more they irked him.

'Perhaps the two of us are not that different, after all.'

 

[peritwinkle]

There was a certain pain in Rondulin's eyes that gleamed even through the thick curtain of steam that curled through the room. Listening to him speak, Lilith lowered herself into the tub, the foam in her hair dissipating around her form, rippling against her cheeks and staining her cheeks florid with the heat that radiated from within it. It was a peaceful sight, even if she could see that he missed home just as much as she did, even if he had almost nothing to go back to.

"Our father fought to teach us as much as he could," she whispered, her voice echoing softly in the room. "He taught us to sing, to play, to mend the wounds gained from our little games... There is not much sun in White Rock, perhaps even less than it is on the mountain crest of Ashpyke. We learned to enjoy it as much as we could. The water was cold, but at that time, none of us truly cared for such trivial things."

Nor would they have thought that, one day, they would lose that which they held so dear and close to their hearts.

She closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Such memories still stained her mind and were difficult to push away in moments like these. She felt her heart clench, longing for the warmth of another by her side. Longing to hold Rondulin again and to be held by him, as her only anchor to something that she could trust. She wanted not to worry for anything in the world, just as she had as a child, knowing that there was someone else to watch over her.

Pulling herself up from the pool of water, she gently drained the water out of her hair and stepped out of the tub, heated feet tingling against the cold, hard floor. With her back turned to him, she reached for one of the rags hung near her and wrapped it around her bare shoulders to dry her glistening skin before she dared to step back into her worn and stained dress.

"My mother would not be happy with me now," the poppy sighed, pulling her gown up from the ground. "She would say it is a sin to show oneself before a man... Just as much as it is a sin to desire him." She had no right to love before marriage. No right to want, even if her heart spoke against her rationality. She would only be harming herself with such thoughs.

Then, she let the cloth slip from around her, leaving her form nude once again, only so that she could reach to step back into her smallclothes and dress. She did not dare to look, but she could feel his gaze burning against her flesh, just as her heart burnt at the thought of him so close to her right then.

"Will you...?" Lilith shuddered, turning her head only to gesture to the laces behind her back. It would take some time to tie them, but she did not wish to leave the warmth of the room and the presence within in. She wished to bask in it for as long as she could, as if it were naught but a painting or a poem, making her heart throb and her ears ring with its dulcet verse.

~*~

The moment Saela pulled away, Lixander felt his heart tighten once again. Pushing himself back to reclaim his place, he wrapped the ripped rag around his wrist and turned his head back towards the fire. It was something beyond anger that boiled inside of him right, something that scourged the tip of his tongue, urging him to talk back to her, to fight the stubbornness that resided within her, even if it was to no avail.

"You matter, Saela," he growled under his breath, fixating the dancing flames to quench his own. "We all do. We all fucking matter. If it weren't for you, hundreds of others would have died that night. If it weren't for one man amongst them, perchance you would have fallen as well." It was nothing personal. Nothing more. She mattered for what she was worth, for Jaledar and Rondulin, for the war.

If she did not wish to matter to him, then he would not force her to swallow such weight.

There was much more that he wished to tell her. Much more that he wanted to reproach, yet he knew he could not change a being in one day, nor could he shout at her and risk frightening her more. The vexation that had accumulated within him at that moment, however, was almost nearing the edge of his string-thin patience.

"You are as much a waste of air as the rest of us are," he muttered between his teeth. "Unless you are a Queen or Lady with a title, your duty is to protect those who are. You're of no use dead. None of us is." Even if the Gods would not let her die from such artificial wounds. They were deeper than his, but not nearly enough to kill her. They both had suffered worse cuts and gashes than that.

They both had endured more, yet words seemed to be stronger than pain.

Eventually, Lixander forced his throat open with a bite of ham and bread, then dabbled it with a big gulp of water. He could not bear to look back at her, lest his rage came back boiling even louder through his insides. Instead, he pressed his lips together and fixated the fire counting the seconds until Rondulin returned and he was not required to watch over Saela until the next morning. Not required to listen to her degrade herself as much as she did him.

Because to him, Yova was just as important as Rondulin, if not more, but to the world, she was naught but a pebble in the pavement, naught but another drop of rain in the infinite skies. Yet opposed to Saela, she knew her worth, not only to him, but to herself. Knew that the Gods had sent her down for a reason, even if that was only to brighten the days of her late mother and pained father.

 

[peritwinkle]

The difference between their childhoods was astounding, yet Lilith could not help but find similarities in each of their stories that, somehow, tied them together. Whilst her mother had always been reserved and gentle, as a Lady should ever be in the South, Rondulin's had allowed herself more freedom to enjoy the pleasures of life, even those which were forbidden to women of her stake.

As gentle hands neared her middle to tie the laces of her corset, Lilith drew closer to him, basking in the warmth that still radiated from his body. She did not wish to leave his gentle touch, almost lulling her to sleep, in spite of her standing up right. It was not nearly as warm as the fire, but it was certainly better than that which awaited her as soon as she stepped out of the steaming bathroom. She knew that in spite of the hearth imbuing the air with its pleasant ardor, the cold still managed to seep through the cracks in the windows and doors.

As soon as he was finished, the poppy dared to turn around to face him, close as she was, and gave him a short frivolous nod of the head. "I might as well call for you every morning when I get dressed," she smiled softly, "although I should not be surprised. I assume this is not the first corset you have tied."

Certainly not, for a man as handsome as him, a King as handsome as him, would not have resisted the calling of a tender form, regardless of how honourable he might have wanted to appear. Even then, she knew that at least a part of him desired her, daring to rip through his clothes and devour her alive. It was there, reverberating into her, silently, almost politely, as if fearful for her running away.

She let out a soft sigh and, pressing her palm to his chest, gave herself a few more moments to enjoy the safety that his presence offered. "Thank you," she murmured. "For being kind to me, even if I have proven to be a burden. I have always been a burden, even to myself. To my mother, after the death of my father, and then my sisters, I..."

She had weighed her down, she knew, and hurt her even more by leaving, but at least the thought of her being alive might soothe her heart.

No more words escaped her lips then, as her eyes graced over his in hopes of finding a piece of advice to help her up. His forehead glistened in the dim light, keeping his strands of dark hair stuck against it, curling down over and around his temples. He was visibly bothered by the heat, but she knew that her voice was keeping him anchored to the frigid reality. It was the most she could do for him right then, the most she could offer for the help and kindness he was showing her.

Perhaps there was no other reason behind it than merely her title. Perhaps it was her hand in marriage that he sought, so he could taste power on the tip of his tongue as soon as the Moirnes fell. Regardless, in that very moment, she did not care for either, as he was her anchor, as a protector rather than a friend, and as a lover rather than an enemy, even if his affection towards her had likely meant nothing.

And even if it had, Lilith knew she could not allow herself to grow fond of someone whom only days before, she had tried to escape from. His claws held her tight, the sheep amongst wolves, and whilst her heart beat, he would never give up his dream to conquer, that, she knew. Yet, at least for the moment, her mind desired more than to fret and worry, for they were to spend their sundown under the roof of a common enemy.

~*~

It was on the edge of his mind for Lixander to call out after the girl. His heart tightened, knowing that he had still said too much, even if he had made an effort to soften his words. He was left empty, as if his voice had been naught but a sordid touch to her pristine soul which could no longer take the harsh reality that surrounded her, threatened her, ate at her.

It was, perhaps, how they all felt surrounded by such pressure. It ate them to the bone, like the chilling cold of winter. Even if they chose to live in their own heads, it was inevitable to feel the tendrils of fear and sorrow crawl up their legs and puncture their chests like the acumen of an arrow. And even if there was no blood, acknowledging it was just as painful, if not even more, than a wound.

Instead, he let her slip from his gaze and allowed her a moment to her own, even if he would have wanted to know her in the safety of the hall rather than outside, in the pouring rain. She was smart enough to protect herself. Strong enough to withstand the cold wind. She would return soon after and fall into the embrace of slumber, for even if the sky had not yet darkened, languor still played on their eyelids and urged them to rest.

He could not push himself to swallow the last piece of bread. Pushing himself up, he found a place farther away from the fire and let himself fall back down onto the silken pillows with a muffled thump. The slight chill allowed his mind to stay aware, rather than deepened in the warmth imbued air if the room and the thoughts of home which rung so loudly in his ears.

For the first time in a long while, he feared what Rondulin might say when he returned. Much time had passed after his leave with the Princess, which lead Lixander to think that they would not be returning to soon. It would not be a surprise if he fell for her, just like Horace had so easily and trippingly fallen into Razavia's arms.

Although Lilith Varhart would never have to rely on spells to entice any man in his right minds.

He could hear droplets of rain hitting the stained glass windows outside, and could not help but think of the sound they made cascading over Saela's tender skin, over her armour, her hair. It was almost impossible to resist the urge of hurtling out the door and into the rain to bring her back, even if he knew he was too stubborn to apologise. In his mind, he knew he had done nothing wrong, but rather spoken his mind, and for that, he was not sorry.

 

[peritwinkle]

The touch of their lips was brief. She could feel the warmth of his skin radiate unto her own, the scent that tainted his hair tickling her nose as he neared her, and the kiss itself felt more as an impact than a peck. It was heavy, demanding, as if he had been craving her for years and only then was he allowed to have her. As if it carried a sort of strength within it that he wished to pass unto her, to embitter her and erase the words of sorrow and regret etched on her fragile mind.

Yet this once, she kissed back. With all of the strength that was left within her, Lilith let her fingertips graze over the tender flesh of his neck and dipped her head in, allowing her instincts to take over. It was like a dance where she did not know the steps, but it seemed rather easy to learn how to compliment his gentle movements with her own.

It was more than pain that she felt in her stomach. She felt it twist and turn as he moved, and she pressed herself against him, fearful that he would leave. However, he did break away, but remained close enough so that she could feel his soft, breath against her skin, the scent of winter radiating unto her, lulling her closer to him as though he were the only source of warmth in a land of ever winter.

His voice remained steadfast and strong as he spoke. It was clear that he meant to her more than he showed, and for that, she was grateful, not for his sincerity which may or may not have been genuine, but for his kindness to soothe her which such claims. For daring to breathe courage into her which she would not have otherwise kindled within her. For making her believe that she was wanted, and not merely for her physical value, but for what she was worth as a woman, as a human being, as yet another soul caught in the crossfire.

With gentle movements, Lilith neared him again and let her lips graze over his, not in a kiss, but in a slow caress, briefly touching him before moving away. A part of her desired more, but her rationality spoke against it, denying her feelings right then. She could only hope that those would fade, that it had been the fire of the moment and not love. The most she could do was to push herself away and try to regain her composure if she hoped to free herself of such burden.

"You are right," she sighed then, pressing her palms to her hips to straighten the dress over her form. "I am indeed a future Queen. Although I do not espect every man and woman to respect and love me for who I am. Such does not mean they lack judgement, but that they find me to be too rough a diamond." Which was what she could say about him, as well. He was rough. There was much he could do, much he would not do just because of who he was, but there were still adepts that looked up to him and cherished him.

With the dress adjusted around her frame and her hair swept to the side, she allowed him to step back into the main hall whenever he saw fit, if he saw fit. A part of her still desired him; it called for the sensation of his flesh brushing against her, of the taste of his lips on her own. She wanted to feel that all over again, but she knew that it was in another life that she might be allowed to have him.

That he might be allowed to have her, for she knew where his eyes lingered and where his heart longed to be.

~*~

It was almost impossible to fall asleep, even to the sound of pouring rain. The bear shifted in its nest, turning from one side to the other, patting down any pillow that caused discomfort. He knew he would get a better sleep if he stood leaning against a tree trunk five miles away from the cursed hamlet, yet whilst his King wished to stay there for the night, he could do naught but obey his orders and try to seek his peace, as small as a pebble in a dirtied lake.

No longer was he tempted to go search for Saela. He knew that she would return once the sun set completely, for she was not one to enjoy spending time in the dark. When it did, however, she was still missing, and her absence weighed heavily upon his chest, as he knew what kind of creatures, rational or not, lurked on the outskirts of the forest and within the village itself.

It took only a bit less than a turn of the clock for the door to open again, or at least it had felt as much, and Lixander knew that it had been Saela who stepped inside. He pressed his lips tightly and forced his eyes to lock on the dancing flames, knowing that if he looked at her, he would find yet another word to say to her. Yet another reason for her to leave.

And he did not want her to leave. He was a harsh man, as hard as a rock, and reaching his heart took some digging. With every bit of kindness and warmth that he had managed to reap from his body, he knew that Saela was far too complicated and brittle for him to understand. She was frail, yet at the same time of a strength that he often admired. Physical and mental strength, when it came to battle, to endurance, to sorrow.

He seemed to be a problem that even the best warrior he knew would never be able to solve.

Even Rondulin had learnt to overlook it. It took wit to understand a man as simple as him, he thought, and whilst she was a smart woman, it seemed that neither her nor Lilith were brave enough to face him. She had tried to hide as well, tried to find a way to escape from his claws, and even then, she had chosen to be protected by Rondulin himself, rather than him.

Then, the light sound of another breathing being reached his ears, and for a moment, the bear did not think much of it. It could have been the creatures of the night, it could have been Saela's steps against the creaking floor. Yet as she dropped to the ground and found herself a place farther away from him and closer to the fire, he could hear it louder, as if it were vibrating through the floor.

Slowly lifting his head up, Lixander propped himself on his elbows and let his brow lower into a frown. "What is that?" he mumbled, although quietly, so as to not bother the sound from reaching his ears. He knew he had heard it before, it was way too familiar, yet he could not push himself as far as to believe it was what he thought.

 

[peritwinkle]

Saela was not a bad liar. Lixander had known her for far too much time to give her such credit, and whilst he had not been lied to many times, he knew that after an argument, she was less likely to open up to him about the smallest things. Even then, there was something she hid from him that he could sense from a mile away, like a wolf smelling his prey, only that this once, it was a bear looking upon... a cat.

It was her movement and the sound of the small creature that gave it away. With gentility and patience, the girl wrapped the dark being in one of her shirts to dry it, ignorant to her own health as she had always been. The fire crackled lightly, sending sparks in the jasmine imbued air and shining light upon the fur that trembled in the soft currents of wind.

She had even taken off her own vestment to protect it, disregarding the winter knocking on their doors and windows. He did see the way her skin glistened in the light, the way it moved as her bosom spilled, and even if she was facing away from him, he had turned around so as to not disturb her grace.

Had it been a different circumstance, perhaps he would have enjoyed the peaceful picture that the sight before him painted, but right then, his chest felt all the more heavy, not with anger, nor with disappointment, but with a confusion that weighed him down more than any of the two, and he knew for a fact that Rondulin would he all the more displeased with the surprise.

"Saela," he grumbled, pushing himself up on his feet. He was unsure whether he wanted to approach her and the creature alike, lest Lord Rondulin thought less of himself for doing so. "Where did you find that thing?" He felt more like Jaledar right then than he thought he ever would, and the comparison did not please him in the least. He did not wish to become a beast such as him, and for that, he forced his lips to stay pursed, never allowing a word to escape them.

It was then that the door to the bathing room opened and, with the corner of his eyes, Lixander spotted the frames of Rondulin and Lilith making their way out. Their cheeks and temples were reddened, glistening in the heavy steam that pushed out of the room and into the much colder hall. It soon met the heat of the fire and dissipated, leaving behind only a trail of perfume and moisture which the knight could feel cooling down the tip of his nose and the tops of his cheekbones.


Lilith allowed herself to step around Rondulin without another word escaping her lips. She knew she had erred by letting lust and fervour take over her senses and rationality, and thought that the man by her side felt the same, for he had sinned only by looking at her, by desiring her, by kissing her not once, but twice, and allowing a third touch of their lips without hesitation or resentment builing inside of him.

She had been tempted to don her boots again, but the warmth of the bathing room had spilled into the main hall. It felt just as heated and comfortable as it had the moment they had all stepped inside, although there was a certain tension that seemed to make the fire burn weaker and the air feel heavier. Even between the two knights that stood by it, there were the tips of two blades of unease that seemed to keep them from speaking or touching one another.

Razavia was nowhere to be seen, although the light tapping and rustling coming from the apartment near them gave her enough reason not to question her absence. It did not take an intellectual to figure out what she and Ser Horace were doing; not that she should care, for it had even crossed her mind at one moment from those she had spent with the King of Heileanan, and she did not wish to think what the Seer had thought of during her own time in his presence.

However, the sight before her was something that managed to intrigue her more than sounds of love-making and heavy rain hitting the windows. It was the way Saela stood, curled over something that she seemed to be hiding away from the knight behind her, the way her dampened hair clung to her temples and spilled over her shoulders, too wet to dry in the reach of the fire. Lilith turned her head to Rondulin briefly, for an explanation, whilst her body remained turned towards the strange picture.

"Ser Barske?" the princess murmured, her brows turning into a frown. She did not think he could have done anything to the girl that would ever bring her disgrace, although even Edonn had seemed like a man of honour until his actions had proved otherwise.

The other knight, she would allow Rondulin himself to call for, if so he deemed. It was none of her business, in the end, whom he chose to question, although much like what wad reflected in Lixander's eyes, she found in her own - a gleaming curiosity that did not wish to leave, etched there and awaiting an answer.

 

[peritwinkle]

There had been many circumstances in which Lixander could have said he and Rondulin were hanging from the same string of thought, and that which lay before them was one. Whilst Saela had undoubtedly had good intentions, it was not the time nor the place for kindness. They were caught in the midst of war and trapped under the roof of a witch, who had only drudgingly allowed the two women within her lair, and that only after realising that there was no way of getting into the pants of one of them without welcoming, with more or less warmth, those who accompanied them inside.

Looking upon her then, it was almost imposibile to blame her; she looked too much like a child, trembling and cold, slowly drying in the light of the lambent flames as she held a toy too dear to her in her arms. And he did not wish to take it away from her, for he knew that if she did, she would be left with only herself, and one's body was cold when left alone.

She was far too naïve to think there was a chance for her to keep the cat, nevertheless help it live. It was on the tip of his tongue to scold her like a father would, but the scarce thought of his likeness to Jaledar was more than enough to bring a certain warmth back into his bosom. The last time he had tried to speak sense into her, she had ran away in the rain; if he did it again, perhaps they would find themselves with another animal by nightfall.

Instead, the knight straightened his back and turned his head to Rondulin, who seemed bothered in more ways than just one. It was understandable, for any man who had been close to the nude frame of a woman would have indecent thoughts, although he could not say for sure whether it had been only the work of thinking that he had done while spending time alone with the princess. For his own sake, he hoped it was so.

"Let her keep it for the night," Lixander then said almost bitterly. "We've got enough heart not to throw it back into the storm, but if Razavia wills so, then we shall. Our wellbeing is more important than a rat's," for that creature, weedy and dampened as it was, looked like nothing more than a rodent.

"It also means you've got to keep it quiet," he added, turning his head to the girl. A part of him knew he was being too harsh; she would not be going to sleep soon with the creature barely breathing so close to her. Likely, she would spend half of her night making sure it did not fall into the claws of Razavia before the woman even realised it was there. Thankfully, it was not loud enough to reverberate through the walls that separated the hall from her apartments.

"It is only a poor animal," Lilith murmured from where she stood, almost hidden behind Rondulin. She took a step forward and, leaning in towards Saela, let her hand drop to reach the kitten's head. "We are all caught in the crossfire. I am sure a knight of Lady Saela's status is aware it cannot be kept forever." She did expect it to flinch or run away, but the warmth that she radiated might prove to be enough to lure the creature closer.

"What is it that you dread about cats, Ser Barske?" she then thought to ask. The thought of him, a large man as he is, being afraid of cats, was as strange as it was amusing. It only took a swing of his arms to scare the poor being away if need be, and yet he was fretting over it like a lone damsel over a thief in a dark alley.

Lixander stiffened at the derisive inquiry, pulling his shoulders even father back. "I do not dread cats," he mumbled, although the gleam in his eyes spoke more than his words. He eyed it cautiously, like a dog would, although there was nothing but hesitance and disgust written in his eyes rather than thirst.

And she had seen thirst, of many kinds, even only moments before when she had looked upon Rondulin's face and understood what it was that he desired. When she had seen Rogerus swell with pride at the burial ceremony of King Benjamin, eager to dig his claws deeper into Varhart flesh. She had seen Edonn look upon the Throne and seen his gaze linger over the lavishing curves of his Lady sister.

It was not a look unknown to her, and nor was fear or displeasure, which she could both see etched there, before her.

Letting out a soft breath, the poppy allowed herself to fall by Salea's side, close enough to the fire so that the heat of the flames reached her tepid locks. She could smell food, and although she had managed to ignore it over the course of the day, hunger still stung and picked at her stomach, urging her to eat.

Then, she leaned in over and around Saela to reach for the tray, and slowly dragged it around the silken pillows closer to her lap. Then, breaking up a piece of ham, she scratched off the crust of greenery and extended it to the dark ball of fur. "Ser Barske does speak the truth. Our host might be unhappy with this, although I could not say she lives in the lap of luxury herself."

Likely, there were more fleas in the old house and around it than hidden in the fur of that poor being.

"Do you agree, Lord Eldskar?" she said softly, lifting her eyes only to catch this briefly. She was unsure whether the lust that had made him mold into her arms was still burning inside of him, but if it was, it ought to be enough to make him say yes. The flames of her own were still ardent in her chest, yet she knew there was naught she could do but to linger in the moments that had passed.

 

[peritwinkle]

The softness of the fur that brushed against her fingers seemed to seed the languor that she felt even deeper within her bones. Lilith let it hover above the small creature, allowing it to lick the remains off of it as it enjoyed its first meal in, perhaps, too long a time. It looked old enough to be able to feast upon such food, so she did not worry about giving it more. With gentle movements, she broke another piece, this time bigger, and extended it towards the kitten again, careful not to scare it away.

Rondulin's attitude seemed to change drastically, the closer Lilith got to the cat. She dropped her gaze so as to not bother him anymore, for she now knew what effect it had on him, and let it focus on the breathing being that needed more attention than the rest.

It was, after all, just as alone as she had felt when found by the Heileanan Lord.

Her heart, however, still longed for the warmth she had felt whilst in the man's embrace, and although her rationality had spoken against it, she could not yet brush away the feelings that had molded around her bosom and clenched it so tightly. They were there, still pounding against her chest with every word that left his lips, still shattering it with every step that he took closer to her, when she could still feel his scent tarrying in the air and the taste of his lips upon hers.

It was Saela's words that shook her back to reality, reminding her where she stood. Lilith forced a small smile to pop in the corners of her lips and nodded at the name. "Ilse," she repeated, canting her head. "I have never had a cat, although I have always loved them. My mother had many... Yet King Benjamin was a hunter, and hunters bred hounds. He had three, and all three of them would not have fallen on good terms with a feline."

Even then, she knew they would not be allowed to keep it, not because of Rondulin's whims, but because of the weight that would encumber their shoulders with yet another helpless soul to care for. It was enough that the princess herself could not fight, and a kitten was no less, despite its inability to speak like the rest of them.

Her eyes flickered to the form of Rondulin by her side, as he pulled the dampened shirt off of him to free himself of its weight before sleep. She had seen him wearing less before, and yet the impact was the same, all whilst wondering if the scars left on his abdomen still hurt as badly as they looked. She could not shake off the thought that they could have been avoided, had she not been forced to come along. Had the snakes not spotted the pallor of her flesh amongst the shimmering steel of the armoured knights that had surrounded her.

"We should all eat," she said quickly, taking in a deep breath to keep herself focused. She took a small cube of cheese between her fingers and popped it into her mouth, before gesturing for the others to do the same. She knew for a fact that Saela had not yet eaten, nor Rondulin, although for the girl, she carried more worry in her heart. She seemed to be one to neglect herself when it came to caring after others.

"I've eaten," Lixander mumbled, his eyes still fixated on the small creature in Saela's arms. "I seem to be the only one actually giving a sh-damn about my own health." He shook his head after correcting himself, averting his eyes from the Princess who could not be dirtied with the filthy words that ecaped his lips.

Then, turning away from them, he found his place closer to the fire this time, were the warmth of the flames could lull him to sleep faster, before he allowed himself to be disturbed by the constant mewling and purring that reverberated in his ears. For one reason or another, he felt the need to be closer to the rest, lest Razavia decided Horace was not worthy of her undivided attention throughout the night.

"Ilse," he mumbled, shaking his head. Lilith pursed her lips and pushed the tray towards Rondulin.

"Ilse," she nodded. "For tonight, at least." Because in the morning, she would be sent back into the hamlet, regardless of how much Saela or she grew to love her. No matter how displeased Lixander might prove to be with their decision. Saela was far more mature than she showed herself then, she knew.

If Rondulin accepted the tray, it would be up to him to convince Saela to try herself and eat. Until then, Lilith would find herself a place snug between the silken pillows and seek the peace she had used to find in the comfort of her own room, or the heat of the bath where she had basked only moments before. It was another type of warmth that she knew she would miss, but with a bit of luck, the young Lord would find himself a place by her side to spend the night.

 

[peritwinkle]

The fervour radiating from the gleaming hearth kissed the soft, pale flesh that struggled to fall asleep before it. For Lilith, it was not a place of safety, for the woman that resided beneath the roof of their nest was dirtied by dark magic. The only haven that she could lower herself into were the arms of the King who had promised to shield her from all that could endanger her. The promises that he had made to keep her from the claws of the seer and all evil that might befall her.

The way he had looked into her eyes and promised her she was worth living, not only because she was a princess, but because she simply was.

Even sleeping, he painted such a peaceful picture, but still threatening enough so that not a soul would dare to disturb it. He was a strong man for his age, well built and chiseled just in the right places. There was a certain softness to him which one could spot in his cheeks that let in on his age. His coarse palms, however, denied any hint of weakness, and although they had almost cut through her tender skin, it was that warmth which had kept her feeling protected and shielded between the walls of a witch's lair.

Opening her eyes only to look upon him and her surroundings, she let her gaze rest over the small frame of Saela, who was already beginning to fall prey to slumber, and over the larger one of Ser Barske, already puffing in exhaustion in the heat of the fire. "Sleep well," Lilith murmured, although she knew that, likely, it was only Rondulin that was awake enough to hear her. At least she knew she had done her bidding.

Then, with slow movements, she allowed her hand to brush the side of his own, as if to remind him - and herself - that they were still together. That even in the wrath of that battlefield, he had managed to protect her and then, endangered by a mere presence that purred in the arms of a knight in a close-by chamber, they would face no worse fate if they remained steady. If they held eachother close as they had then.

And even in spite of the visible tension between the bear and the golden-eyed woman, she knew they would find a square to share that night, if only to keep themselves from freezing, or to obey the orders their king had given them. It was enough that one had refused to leave the kitten where it belonged, or that another had answered his Lord's words with such fire. They could do naught but bend the knee and do as told.

And the night did go on without a sound to break their peace. Raindrops continued to shatter against the stained glass windows, a strong mountain wind kept blowing through the dying trees, and the fire in their hearth kept on crackling, as if it had been bewitched to kindle itself with the breaths of those that slept by it, never burning less or more, but blazing steady and radiating warmth.


It was when the first rays of sun hit the trodden floor that the first pair of eyes opened to the world. The break shook his head, running a hand through his hair to move it away from his dampened temples, and turned only to peek to see if anyone else had managed to awaken.

Lixander found himself far too close to the small frame of Saela in that morning, although not to his displeasure, but likely hers. In spite of the fire perpetually having burnt, the room had still remained cold, so they had been required to stay curled up around eachother. It had been a long night, he knew, in which they had likely had slept for over eight turns of the clock on end. He could not complain; he knew that after such a long road, they all could have used, perhaps, even more time to themselves, but Rogerus Moirne was not a man to wait.

It was on the tip of his fingers to jolt Rondulin awake, only because he knew he was the only one who could bring some sanity back into their men's minds and put them back on their feet. He was unsure whether the rain had stopped or was still pouring, although he knew for certain that whatever rustling came from outside, it was naught but the creatures of the forest or those that lived in the old hamlet that had parted their lids and started chirping with the early sunrise.

He was, as well, curious to see if the cat was still with them, or if it had found a small crack in the walls and ran back to its mother. Had Saela not been so clement, perhaps it would have spent the night with its brothers and sisters. Regardless, he could not be arsed to care, and not only because the mere thought of it disgusted him.

Or perhaps it was just that.

Regardless, he propped himself on his rear and waited for the rest to break their sleep and join him in dreading the day that followed. Without a doubt, Horace would be the last one to see them that morning, if only for the work that he had likely done he night before. Lixander was, as well, tempted to think that the witch would still ask for some sort of payment that did not reside in mere fucking. She had provided a shelter and a bath, whilst they had only provided pleasure, and pleasure did not keep one from starvation or illness.

 

[peritwinkle]

It had been a peaceful, dreamless sleep. Even when the sun had shined its first rays upon her flesh, Lilith's moment of tranquility had not been bothered in the least. Where she lay, then, she felt warm, safe and surrounded by a mass that radiated heat, which strangely enough reminded her of the times she had spent curling around her father's dogs with her sisters. She had used to feel their heartbeat just as she felt one then, pounding against her forehead, for she had it pressed tightly to the large form that kept her from shivering in the brisk morning chill.

Soon enough, when voiced started to arise, the poppy dared to open her eyes to the world. She only saw a pair of arms pulling away from her, and for a second, she was tempted to stretch hers and demand the source of heat to return. It was when she saw that it had been Rondulin who had kept her warm that she shook herself back to sanity, although not yet completely regretting falling prey to his scent and his warmth.

Thoughts of the night before now played in her mind, rung in her ears, danced on her lips; she remembered every moment vividly, as though it had been real and not merely a dream. Now, as she tried to build strength into herself to sit up, she felt her muscles tighten, almost sore from the tension he had stirred in her with his kiss. She could still taste him on the tip of her tongue, although it felt rather imaginary.

Scrutinizing her surroundings, she was not surprised to see the kitten had disappeared, although she could certainly not help but feel disheartened. Of course, Rondulin would never have allowed it to tag along; in times of war, it would be selfish and irrational to endanger the life of another being for one's personal demands for affection, or as a mere cure for loneliness. It was, perhaps, far away from them then, nursing at it's mother's bosom, purring in pure satisfaction.

It looked like Ser Barske had woken up before them, as he had already found himself a place closer to the source of breeze that filled the room with fresh air. Outside, the sun was shining brightly in hues of pink and scarlet, almost contrasting with the expression of perpetual discontent that etched itself on the knight's face.

Had she not known the man, perhaps she would have found it amusing.

The thought that her closeness with Rondulin might have not brought him joy did cross her mind, however it was quickly pushed away with the two pairs of steps that disturbed their serenity. The door to Razavia's apartments creaked, reminding them all of her existence, and Horace and herself stepped into the hall, looking far less exhausted and disheveled than they should have after a night of lovemaking.

It did sting to hear the knight only address Saela. It was not only Lilith who was royalty, but Rondulin as well, and the lack of respect did reach her bones, but she did not dare speak against his actions before the Seer. "Good morning to you as well, Ser," she said instead, standing up and straightening her back. Thankfully, her dress fell into place easily, framing her the way it should, decently enough not to attract any unwanted looks. "Razavia," she nodded, and then turned her eyes to Lixander to see if he would do the same.

There was war in his gaze. The same war that reflected in the dark pools of the witch, although Lixander knew he was not the only one seeing it. Instinctively, he felt the need to make a few steps forward and cover the nearest being within his reach, which happened to be Saela, yet even the thought of Lilith and Rondulin being so close to her was enough to bring unease into his heart. For one reason or another, he knew for sure that Razavia and Horace had done far more than to fuck that night; the smirk that spread the corners of his lips was a dead giveaway for such.

She desired something, and he had promised her she would have it, or, perhaps, the other way around.

It was clear that it was not a pleasure to see they had rested beneath her roof. She had demanded payment and had provided more than asked for without being given any, or at least not the kind of coin that she had desired. Lixander knew that if she needed gold, Rondulin would provide, if only for the sake of protecting the women and himself, but hidden away from the eyes of the world in a lost hamlet, money were worth less than a blade of grass. At least in times of famine, some grass was good enough to eat.

"Pleased?" the bear inquired, taking one step forward towards the couple. The question was more addressed to the witch than Horace; frankly, he did not particularly care for his pleasure. Not that he did for hers, but he wanted to delay to implosion that would be her words, her demands, her revenge.

And then, her wants would not affect them, but the women that they were sworn to protect, and Horace would not lift a finger in defense for Saela, no matter how brilliant a gold her orbs dripped or how her generous chest moved with every heaving breath. It was only the two of them, in the pit of wolves, only that one wolf was enough to corner the others.

At least he had his blade, and he stood ready.

 

[peritwinkle]

The tension formed between the Heileanan King and the witch was thick enough for one to cut it with a knife. Lixander sensed it, even if he was not directly involved; it was Saela who stood ready to protect Rondulin if the heathen dared to harm him. The bear knew he was too far away for his claws to reach her flesh in time. And there was Lilith, who stood far too close, and although separated from Razavia by Rondulin's own body, it did not take more than a dash to tackle her to the ground.

She was frail. It was obvious not only to the naked eye, but to the woman who had been allowed to read into her mind only the night before. Whilst she had lasted and stood straight in the blow of the brisk winter winds, it only took the smallest of blades to have her kiss the ground, or the softest of touches to melt her petals away.

Saela, on the other side, did not weigh her heart down as heavily as the princess. She fought better than any man he had met before her, but even she stood vulnerable near a pair of eyes which could cut right through her bronzed skin with the most brief of looks. Razavia knew too much, more, perhaps, than they knew themselves, and whilst Lixander had tried to build a wall inside of him, there were still cracks that allowed for assumptions and paranoia.

It seemed like he knew exactly what the woman desired. He spoke with ease, although there was fear inside of him, and Lixander could smell it from where he stood, just like a hound smelling its prey. He knew Razavia could, as well; it was written in her eyes, the thirst that had never left, no longer for the man's body, but for her own revenge, which would not befall him, but the women whom he had struggled and fought to protect.

The flash of anger in his eyes reflected in her own. It was then that she voiced her desires, after brooding and playing games of wits and threats. To take her with them. To allow her to come along and shatter their plans beneath her heel, by luring their men into her bed, wasting their food and endangering the lives of those who actively or passively opposed her.

It did not take more than the blink of a second for Saela's spear to touch her neck. The blade remained propped there, close enough to keep the witch at bay, a silent threat before the real havoc struck. Lixander tensed and took another step forward, this time finding his place next to the other knight, with a hand on his belt and another with its fingers spread, ready to strike if required. He could hear thenpoppy breathe behind him, heavily in fear, and although she stood calm, it was as clear as day that she dreaded the witch.

No, her request could not be accepted. One would have to be mad or dazed to agree, and none of them was either. He knew Rondulin would do all within his powers to stop her from harming Lilith, just as he would run unarmed across a battlefield for his Yova. Had he the certainty that the witch had not seen his daughter in her visions, perhaps he would have been more courageous and stern in his speech, yet then, she was only hammering him down with a scrutinizing glare.

He had seen curses before. He had seen them work and boil through men and women's blood, and for that he knew to fear such ungodly mischiefs. For Yova and Saela's sake, at least, he could not let it slip between his fingers, even as the snake hissed in his face, ready to dig her venomous fangs into his throat. A bear ought to stay taller than a snake. A King, under the gaze of the Gods, ought to stay taller than a snake. They all had to, before the vile creature was given the chance to rise.

However, no word left Rondulin's lips, which did cause him to worry over his eventual decision. He could not allow him to say yes, for he did not know whether his mind was clear or had been taken by the witch with her enticing gaze, which seemed to always get her what she desired.

"Not today," the bear murmured under his breath, "not tomorrow, nor the days after."

There was no longer room for hesitation. Horace, on the other side of the witch, had not dared to say a word; it breathed a wrath inside of him that he could barely fathom. He should have been loyal to Rondulin and fight the mindless threats. He should have done more than to look, and Ser Maxim would have thought the same. It was him who had to act, none else, and Lixander knew he would.

With a swift movement, he allowed his fingers to slip into a tight grip around the handle of his dagger and, before Saela could think to throw herself between them, he plunged forward and struck with all the power that he found within himself. And in that moment, time stood still, whilst he could feel the pounding of her heart through the shivering steel, gushing out blood through the thin cut that crossed her womb.

Behind him, the poppy froze. Her arms desperately grasped Rondulin's own, pulling him away from the two bodies clashing before him. Her gaze, softened in fear, landed on the tightened muscles of Ser Barske's arm and graced the scowling features of the bear, which hit not satisfaction, but a vengeful relief. A worry, that his strike had not been enough to bring her down. A joy, for if it had, her threatening words would only crumble into dust and wind.

The blade of the dagger never left the nook between her ribs. Lixander took a step back, allowing her to fall if she did, and turned his eyes back to them, as if making sure that no drop of blood had touched their pristine flesh. "It was the will of the Gods," he almost hissed, his deep voice reverberating through the tall cold hall. Then, looking down, he addressed the witch. "You have no rights to grace this earth."

'And you had no right to take her life,' Lilith thought, even if she knew that the woman still breathed. Her heart trembled in her chest, and her hands did not drop from around Rondulin's. In spite of being unarmed and languished, there was a strength within her that she could not bear to lose to the sight of a dying being. Not yet again, after having seen too many souls fall prey to shivering fangs of Death.

 

[peritwinkle]

It was certain that the act itself could not have gone disregarded by Horace; after all, the man had spent the night with Razavia, basking in her warmth and in the air imbued with her scent. Whilst he likely had not fallen for the likes of her, one could not deny a certain bond formed between two beings who had committed to union before the Gods, be it not as meaningful as lovemaking.

And it seemed that it was not only Horace who pitied her, but Saela as well, who was almost begging to end her life of struggle. Even if he tried, Horace could not build the will within himself to feel any sort of remorse; in his eyes, she was naught but an abomination, a mistake walking the earth even before committing her crimes of dark magic. He saw the fear in the women's eyes, perhaps a hint even in Rondulin's, yet his were as empty as Razavia's.

Nothing but hatred. It was all he felt tainting the air, not jasmine, not perfume, no longer the sweet scent of warmth from the hearth.

His lips parted to say a word of derision to Saela, yet right before he moved to do so, a sharp pain struck him in his back, sharper than the glare of the witch, a pain which he knew very well yet that he had not tasted before in such manner. Blood rushed to his back then, boiling and pearling as he turned around to look at the woman who stood behind him lifeless, as a spear whistled past his ear and into her chest.

It was far too late. She knew.

In the next moment that passed, Lixander sought the strength within himself to still stand, in spite of having fallen on his knees. The pain was only ringing louder in his head, threatening to implode, whilst his eyes desperately sought an explanation to his ignorance. "Damn it!" he shouted from his core, hitting the ground with his pressed fist. "Damn it!" He was aware of his own mistake, yet in that second, it felt as though it had all been the witch.

Soon enough, warm arms wrapped around him, seeking the source of the blood that has spilled onto the floor. His eyes lifted and fell on the soft features of Saela, before he felt his vision darken and he allowed them to close, the only thing keeping him sane and moderately alert being the throbbing pain in his back, between his ribs, where his own dagger may or may not be still resting.

There was no time to think, no time to regret or curse the Gods and the heathen alike. The bear dropped his guard, knowing himself surrounded by those who trusted, soon by a healer, as the voice in his head had whispered, and allowed himself to fall onto the floor in his entire mass, ground shuddering beneath his weight. A breath escaped his lips as he slightly turned so that his wounded back was not pressed against the floor, but turned so that it could be seen and reached.

Trembling, Lilith pushed the shield that Rondulin's body provided to the side and dashed towards the body of the aching bear. "He should have known better," the poppy whispered, pressing a hand to the base of his neck to see if his heart was still beating. "She did not have the strength..." Otherwise, the blade would have been pushed deeper into the man's body. Otherwise, his soul would have left their world just as quickly as Razavia's own, and not even Saela's gentle touches would have brought warmth into his heart.

Then, her head turned to Rondulin, and her dark brows curled into a frown. "Do not shield me again," she said with a stern look etched in her eyes. "I am not a child. I did fear her, but I am not afraid of death." Indeed, she did dread it, but her heart was now empty of such worries. She would have to watch if she were to become Queen: learn the trade of life and its end through her own eyes.

"We need to leave this place, however," she then stated, pulling herself back up on her feet. "Even if we are to treat Ser Barske... This is unsafe. I fear that her time between the two realms must have given her enough a margin to cast a spell upon us." And she was not insane for believing. She knew that, likely, Rondulin did not, but Lixander did, for certain, as he had killed her not in anger, but in fear of what could befall them if he did not.

One could call it an act of bravery. She wanted to believe that he had done it to save them, and not only himself. Even so, she was glad that the Gods had chosen to give him a chance to live, even if it was uncertain. Any moment then, unless given proper care, he could easily fall to the hands of the God of Death, just as easily as he had allowed Him to take Razavia.

It was already late enough for the others to have woken up; the sun, although bashful, was treading its rays through the thinned out branches and kissing the tops of their heads through the dusty windows. None of them had eaten, which meant that soon enough, they would be brought warm food to prepare for their departure. Hopefully, the bear of a knight would awaken in time before it went cold, or at least before all of his energy was drained from his body.

It was no longer their will, but Lixander's alone, if he found himself brave enough to live.

 

[peritwinkle]

It did not take much peeking to see the fear in Saela's eyes. Lilith did not know the woman herself, but she did know the pain of losing another, or of seeing them suffering. She did know what if felt like to feel them slip between her fingers, to no longer be able to protect that whom one held so dear to their heart. In spite of the tension that had formed the night before between the two nights, it seemed to have vanished with the wind, or rather, with the flow of blood that gushed unto the floor, no longer promising for their future.

No longer strong enough to part his lips and swear he would fight for his King, for if he left their realm, then his vow would come to an end.

It was, indeed, a strange sight to see a man of Ser Barske's size dropped on the floor, chiseled chest barely strong enough to lift with his scarce breaths. Every moment then, she expected him to rise once again and brush it all off as a mere scratch, yet he did not, not even as Saela bent over and spoke to him.

It broke her heart to heat her whisper; the words were more meant to confort herself than the bear, she knew, but they brought a certain back into one's heart. "He will be," Lilith nodded. She couldn't help but feel responsible for what had happened. Perhaps, had she not been there, Razavia would not have carried such hatred in her heart for the two men.

She almost did not hear Rondulin address her, although she did feel the vibration of his words in her ears. She did not turned her head, only lifted her hand instead, as a gesture of dismissal, shrugging it off as something trivial. "It is your duty," she nodded. "I do not blame your for respecting it," even if she had not given him the order.

It was true that the Gods did not belong in the witch's lair. That, all of them knew, yet they could not push themselves as far as to do so. Not whilst they were still on the run. "Burning it would leave a trail of fire and smoke behind. Lord Rogerus's men would smell us from miles away. Let the rain wash away the filth, inside out. The skies know better."

As he pushed himself up, Lilith's eyes followed him into the room where Razavia and Horace had slept. Curiosity gleamed in her darkened pools, yet it was quickly quenched as the young Lord returned, clutching a large sheet to his chest. With swift movements, he tucked it around the lifeless body of the witch. The sight sent shivers down her spine as he lifted her which such ease, it seemed as though she weighed as much as the sheet itself.

Soon enough, a healer came trotting in, followed closely ny Horace, and drew to where the bear of a knight bled, already searching for the wound with her deft hands. In the doorway appeared three other men, and although all three of them large, none was quite as massive as Lixander himself.

One of them tipped the hood off of his head and dared to lean in, his toes never daring to pass over the threshold. "Yer Grace!" he called, then briefly cleared his throat. "We heard... Ser Barske... Ungodly work. We came to bring him back to the camp."

'Unless, of course, you'd like to bask in the darkness of the witch.'

Lilith pursed her lips and looked up to him, then to the healer, who was working on mending the bleeding whilst Saela stroked the patient's hair. "Would it harm him?" he muttered. "Moving him, I mean. Would it pull his wound open?" She knew it had likely not ripped through his vital organs, but it could have easily punctured one, and then whatever sudden movement could shatter his chances of ever waking up.

"He would rather die with his men, Lady Varhart, and not surrounded by whatever deities this witch bowed to."

"I say we do not speak of death until our own Gods say so," the Princess hissed back at him, barely containing her dread. "The healer shall say, not Ser Barske. As long as he is unable to speak, you shall not speak for him."

She knew he had a daughter waiting for him back home. Whatever he chose, it would never be death, for even she would never choose death so long as her Lady Mother still graced the earth. He would fight for his life, for her sake, just as she had fought for Ylonne's until then and for the rest of the days that followed. It would be a sin to give up, whilst another's frail hopes lay in his palms.

And he was a young man. His daughter could not be above Saela's age, for while most men had bastards from a young age, it was rare that they married the whores or disgraced women that had them.

 

[peritwinkle]

Many hours passed until the sky finally started shifting from the bright blue hue of the morning to the incarnadine paintstrokes of the late evening. And those hours seemed to have weighed too much for their shoulders to carry, for all the men and women within the camp stood uneasy, their minds troubled by the happenings of that day. There was still a certain tension within the camp that all of them could feel biting at their bones, barely allowing them to eat or rest.

Even farther away from the ungodly lair of the witch, Lilith did not feel safe. She could still feel Razavia's eyes scrutinizing her, could still hear the grunt that had escaped her lips with Saela's spear through her chest, and see the pool of blood gushing for Ser Barske's wound like an ever flowing river.

Through the gauzy flaps of their tent, she could see dark shapes shifting about the camp, either lighting fires or carrying game to roast it for dinner. She no longer wore the same dress then, but a thicker attire made of wool and cotton to keep her warm throughout the night. It embraced her hips and hug loosely over her legs, whilst still covering her bosom enough so that the cold wind did not kiss her tender skin.

On the other side, Lady Morge still wore the undergarments of her armour, likely uncomfortable by the looks of it, but a good provider of warmth. She held her hands around a cup of mulled wine which they had heated up hastily before a fire, if only to sate the cravings of the knight, or in hopes that the smell would awaken the bear.

In his bed of fur and hay, Lixander Barske was still as frail as a wounded dog. Lilith could count his breaths on her fingers, and although he had not moved ever since they had set him down, his cheeks were still touched by a floid hue that reassured them he was alive. His fingers did twitch from time to time, a sign that he might be dreaming.

"I wouldn't have thought," Milena then spoke, running her finger over the rim of her cup. "I wouldn't have thought... Yova... Yova would laugh in his face."

"Would you laugh in his face, Lady Morge?" Lilith canted her head in disbelief. "He is no less of a man for turning his back to a dying enemy." It had been his moment of ignorance, which, of course, could have brought his death, but hadn't. "At least we know that King Rondulin is not displeased with his sentence." He had brought death upon the witch, a decision which Rondulin would not have opposed had it been presented beforehand.

Milena leaned back in his chair, her dry locks brushing over her shoulders. She was thinking. It looked unusual, in spite of only having known the woman for a short while, she did not seem like one to indulge in activities of the mind, so long as they did not involve war strategy and fighting. She was as much a brute as Lixander himself, and for a moment, it did make her wonder if they were, somehow, related.

"I assume you do not have children," Lilith spoke. The knight chuckled.

"Look what children had brought upon the world of Ser Barske," she sighed. "Yla is dead, and Yova is alone in the world... Should a woman ever desire such things? To see her life fallen apart? You shall feel the same one day, as your husbands leaves for war and you are left caring for your children, and wondering if they will live to see the next morning sun."

Only moments later, there was a shift in the hay, and a grunt left Lixander's lips, as if to oppose the negativity of the woman beside him. Lilith pursed her lips and leaned in, but did not dare to touch him, already having forgotten Milena's words. "Water," she said quickly, but she shook her head.

"He ain't even awake. He would choke."

"Water," Lilith called again, and this time, Lixander moved again, his brows curving into a deep frown at the sound of it.


It had been a painful sleep. He had felt ever inch of it, and even then, as he moved, he felt the pain like a voice, ringing louder and louder in his ears. Whilst he was trying to move, all of his muscles opposed him, threatened to rip and shatter his bones if he pushed himself more.

All for a damn stab wound that might have as well been a cat's scratch.

He had been dumb enough to let Razavia struggle. Blinded by the hatred, he had not thought she would find the strength within himself to push the dagger into him too deeply. He did not know what the blade had touched or cut, but it had been enough to make him bleed and lose his consciousness for a good while.

He couldn't tell whether it was morning or evening. Everything was dark, but not enough so that he could find peace within it. There were other voices, soft and coarse, following him with every breath and movement that he took. "Sh-" he grunted, pressing his lids shut. He would have wanted to tell them to cease talking, but his lips would not listen, and nor would his chest.

'Water.' He did want water. His mouth felt try and sleek, as though he had been ill. With every breath that he took, it felt drier, and his chest felt heavier as it pressed against the surface where he lay. A bed. A roll. The floor of Razavia's lair. He could hear Milena Morge and none other, for she always spoke louder than everyone else.

And for a moment, as his eyes dared to break open, he thought he saw Yova hovering over him, with her dark hair and sparkling eyes grazing over him like a nymph, although none of the voices coming from around him fit hers. No, Yova's had always been loud but clear, feminine, strong. A voice belonging to a child rather than a woman.

A voice almost surreal, which in truth, he might never get to hear again.

 

[peritwinkle]

Everything felt like a dream. He had been sweating beneath the covers? In spite of the brisk air that scourged his cheeks. Outside, as the light of day was fading, he wondered whether he had been asleep for far more than a few turns of the clock. One did tend to lose track of time when dying, and although he was very much alive, it felt as though his life had hung from the thinnest of strings.

As Lixander found the strength to push himself up, he could barely hold in the pain that pounded in his back. Hands struggled to lift him up, yet he still could barely breathe through the moments of aching. It felt like a living hell, and as the memory of his last kill poured itself into his mind, anger built taller inside of him, setting his nerves and heart afire.

All for his ignorance and arrogance. All for his lack of rationality and awareness, for this once, he could no longer blame the gods, but himself.

It took a few blinks to finally realise who it was that surrounded him: Lilith stood straight and steady in her chair, watchful gaze hovering over him as she slowly breathed, Milena sat crouching, leaning in as if to address him, yet there was nothing on her face that said she wished to speak to him, for he had made a mistake not even she would dare to overlook.

Then, the hands that supported him belonged not to Yova, not to Yla, but to Saela, who he knew had been fretting and watching over him ever since he had fallen unconscious on the floor of the witch’s lair. She held him up easily, as if he were as much a burden as a feather, but he could still feel his mass weighing him down as he struggled to bring his mouth to the cup of water. His eyes shifted up briefly, touching upon the golden-eyed silhouette that floated above him in a gesture of gratitude.

The healer held it closer, eventually, and after a sip, he allowed himself to fall back down with a loud grunt. It had not been nearly enough, but it had at least dampened his lips once again, after far too many hours of thirst and pain. He could feel his heart pounding through the wound and ringing in his ears; it was almost pathetic, considering the size of it, yet it had been bad enough to put a bear to the ground.

Still, he found himself appreciating the presence of others around him. It was strange for a man who had pulled away from any form of affection for years, feel the need to stay, this once, feeling soft fingers run through his hair and gentle voices lulling him back to sleep. It reminded him of home, in spite of being so far away that, perhaps, he would never reach it again.

Footsteps joined the whispers that imbued the air, and Lixander forced his eyes to remain open as a tall, dark figure stepped into the tent. He saw Lilith fluster, arching her back and looking away from the source of the noise, a sign that it could have been none but Rondulin himself who had come to check upon him.

“Horace,” the knight muttered. He knew he was not required to say another word. It was enough for one to know he wanted to hear the details of the previous night.

Lilith pursed her lips and lifted her eyes, daring to touch upon Robdulin with a gleaming curiosity. In spite of her fear for Razavia’s words, she was aware that the woman was not dumb in the least, for she had given them fragments of their future to dissect as they saw fit. Perhaps, in return for the pleasure Horace had provided, she had given him more.

“It is unclean to speak of the witch and forsake the Gods,” Milena muttered through her teeth. “She has told you nothing but rubbish... And likely has convinced Ser Mikhail of it just as easily.” For she was a believer, not necessarily in the irrational power of the Gods, but in keeping oneself clean from the dark paths of magic and deceit. For that, Lilith admired her; she did not have the strength within herself to disregard it.

“You were not there, Lady Morge,” the girl said softly, although her gaze held a flame that even Lixander could feel scorching his skin. “Lady Saela and I were not welcome. I felt it. I felt it in my heart and I was afraid. Had Lord Rondulin not been there...” Perhaps she would have fallen prey to that fear, yet he had breathed a certain strength into her which she still felt radiating throughout her bosom.

Her gaze touched upon him once again, as if begging for the reassurance that she was not the only believer. He had been there, and he had feared her himself. Had it not been for the courage of Ser Barske, she doubted he would have found it within himself to bring the end to Razavia himself.

She could have still cursed them, and they would not know until nightfall.

That, if any of them managed to fall asleep that night. She knew at least Saela would struggle, for her heart lay with Ser Barske right then, just as his lay with hers. Even if left unspoken, it rested in the way his eyes grazed he flesh that his gaze was filled with gratitude and appreciation. Yet she, on the other side, doubted the night would be warm any longer, no matter if she nested herself near the safety that Rondulin offered.

 

[peritwinkle]

It was a breath of fresh air to not be treated as a dying elder, and Lixander had expected no less from a man like Rondulin. He was a King, after all, and a King ought to understand and overlook the deaths of his knights, which would come to be too many to count, with time. And even if he was in need of proper treatment and care, he was still eager to help with and hear whatever it was that Razavia had left behind, which might tell them what to avoid in the journey that awaited ahead.

Saela’s touch to his hand was sudden, but not unwelcome. She brought the large palm to her lips and, as Lixander turned his eyes to look, her lips pressed themselves to his knuckles, warming up the coarse flesh beneath them. A flush of blood cascaded through his face and he swallowed heavily, quickly lowering his eyes from the innocent pools that watched over him.

Had his back not ached like a bitch, perhaps it would have brought a smile to his lips.

However, when he started speaking, the corners of his lips twisted into a grimace. “And why would a witch... tell us to seek the Gods?” His breaths were heavy, his chest heaving with each one of them. It was an effort to speak, with his head turned to look at him and the weight of his body pressing him down against the hay bed.

He knew that Milena must have felt the same as he did. It was irrational. Razavia was as ungodly as her lair, and no women as far from the Gods as she was would have vouched for religion, unless she the trust that it would bring her some sort of payment or benefit in return.

“Perchance she does want us to win,” Lilith spoke, her eyes shifting from Rondulin to Lixander, then back. It was strange how she used the word us instead of I, “Or, maybe she wishes us to get sidetracked, to lose time.” One would not know what it was that her small head held, yet for certain, it had nothing to do with the pristinity of religious belief.

She pressed her lips together as Saela spoke, reminding them of her Ser Jaledar once again. She knew it was an useless memory, one that would only bring the pain of being unable to be with her beloved, just like the one she felt for her mother, her late sisters and father. Had he been there, perhaps he would have been able to change the waves of faith, yet it had all been done, and in everyone else’s eyes, it had been the right thing to do.

Strangely enough, Lord Benjamin did fall on her mind as she listened. It was a strange thought, like a scar, no longer hurting, but still there, too vivid for her to disregard. There had been many times in which she had avoided mentioning him, for the sake of her mother, Lady Ylonne, if not her own, yet then, if felt fitting to speak his name once again.

“When I was a child learning of the Gods and faith,” she started, “my father used to tell my sisters and I about a group of believers... Those whom the Gods themselves used to speak through to the world. They were also known to be Seers.” Not entirely priests. Not entirely witches. And whilst the people did not seem to actively oppose the thought of them, they were not particularly mentioned in churches or on the tongues of priests and Septons.

Lifting her eyes to Rondulin, she let out a breath and shook her head. “We cannot strive to reach the end of the world if we wish to bring an end to this war soon,” she muttered. “Lord Rogerus is not going to wait for the sake of our curiosity. This is not a child’s game. It is enough that Razavia herself has sown paranoia into our minds.”

She knew that, at least for Saela and Rondulin, it must have been that way. ‘Three more wades to cross’ had not been as much as a surprise, although perhaps a part of her heart would have wished to hear her struggle would soon come to an end. That they would be victors to that war, and return to their homes in peace within a turn of the moon.

Her heart tightened at the thought of it. It would not take long until Rogerus’s men found them again, with more strength to take them down, and maybe this once, she would not be able to cling to Rondulin’s arm for protection. She was a Queen. She should have been the one to protect the Lord, the knights, her people, and not the other way around.

The sky had darkened almost completely by the time Lixander pushed himself up for another sip, and although within that small tent breathed two men and four women, the air still felt brisk and unwelcoming, as though Razavia were still there, with them, somehow.

The knight pushed himself up on the edge of his makeshift bed and, as his muscles tensed and threatened to rip through the fabric of his blood stained shirt, he managed to finish the contents of the cup in a single breath. Then, he allowed himself to fall back down next to the small bronzed statue that seemed to be watching them attentively, still and unmoving.

“I believe we should all rest,” Lilith breathed out, running a hand through her dark locks. “Tomorrow, in the morning, when Ser Barske is awake, then it shall be the time to discuss such sensitive matters.” It was clear that he was not soft hearted when it came to Seers and those who wielded back magic.

“It is still early,” Milena shook her head. “If you do not wish to wait for dinner, Lady Varhart, then you do not have to, but I myself am as hungry as a wolf.”

“Then you shall eat,” she said, pushing herself up on her feet. “I will join you in the morning,” if she found her horse and bedroll by then, in the cluster of soldiers and mounts within that small hamlet. She wondered, briefly, if she was to sleep beneath a roof, yet something told her that Rondulin himself would be against it, be it Razavia’s lair or yet another old hut.

And she also knew that the night would not be as smooth as the one before, even if she did not sleep alone, parted from the rest of the world, for whether the witch had cursed her or not, it would be her own mind to bring dreams of blood and death to stain it until the break of dawn.

 

[peritwinkle]

In spite of Ser Barske’s apparent ailment, Lilith felt out of place in his tent. She knew for a fact that the healer and Saela would both take good care of him until morning, for his wound was not as bad as one might come to think after witnessing the knight’s struggle. For certain, he was being honest with the King and himself, yet she doubted that such scratch would lead to an infection. He would be kept out of harm’s way.

She did hope that Saela would eventually treat herself with some proper food. It took some convincing to get her to take care of herself, yet in the presence of Ser Barske and after the King’s mild threat, she knew that she would at least try to indulge in some of the food on offer that night.

And frankly, she was starting to grow a bit peckish herself, but sleep felt more important after such a strenuous day. The peace and silence of it was much desired right then, even if it would not befall her in an instant. It would take a while before her mind cleared itself of the dreadful thoughts of blood and death accumulated throughout the day.

A gentle arm was offered for her taking, and Lilith did not hesitate before extending her own and wrapping it around his. He felt warm, warmer that the dress that was now cupping her snuggly, and surprisingly soft for the wall of rock resiting beneath his attire. It only lulled her deeper into a desire for sleep, for heat, for the dulcet dampness that one felt in the early morning after a good night’s sleep. The last time she had felt it had been the one before, and she knew it would take days, perchance weeks, until she managed to feel safe or tired enough to fall prey to such pleasures.

Outside of the tent, the sun had already gone to sleep itself, dozing off beneath the line of the horizon. The camp was growing louder and louder as the soldiers grew either hungry or curious for answers for the day that followed. They should have left that day, but given the circumstances, they had indulged in yet another to spend in the safety of the hamlet before they began riding again.

“I wonder how Ser Barske will be riding tomorrow,” she murmured as she found a small path leading through between the patched buildings. “He might not be able to stir the horse himself... Perhaps Lady Saela would not oppose riding by his side,” although the horse might, for while the girl herself was not heavy, on its back would ride a bear, and their weights could easily combine and become overwhelming.

She spotted her horse, or rather, Ser Erik’s, tied outside a small hut at the edge of the small hamlet after merely a few steps worth of walking, yet three bedrolls had been set outside of it, empty, close to a big dancing fire. It was not certain whether those who had taken care of it had intended Lilith to sleep inside or not, not did she know whether she desired it. In spite of it being the safest and warmest option, she still did not wish to lay secluded from the rest, and it would be inappropriate to sleep alone, with only the King himself in her bed.

“Hmm,” the Princess murmured, canting her head to the side. It felt as though even her own body did not wish to let go of his. “Three. They must have thought Lady Saela would join us tonight.” She doubted it. The woman would be too busy making the old bear flush for the rest of the night. “Unless I am meant to sleep... inside.”

It was not unwelcoming, and certainly not unattractive. It was a tight place, but it had been cleaned the night before, and she was tempted by a proper bed after days of sleeping on the hard ground. “I assume you will not be joining me now, either,” even if there was room for him. “I... I would wait for you to finish eating, my Lord, but the sooner I go to sleep, the sooner I forget...”

The witch. The blood. The death. The pain. All of those, given the Gods had mercy and allowed her to fall into the arms of slumber.

~*~

With the Princess of White Rock gracefully out of the tent, followed Lady Morge and the healer soon enough. Lixander was an old man, mature as he would call himself after so many years in the presence of others he liked more or less, in the presence of Saela herself, whom he had known for a good while, yet whom he had grown to care for only shortly after their journey began. And even so, if felt strange being only in her presence and her presence alone, as though it were the first time.

The gentle caress through his hair reminded him of Yla. She almost smelled like her, like steel and freshly baked bread. Suddenly, he felt the need to grab her hands and stop her, if only as an excuse to feel them again, yet right then, there was no energy that resided within him which could allow him to do more than look, take in, bask in the warmth offered and blame himself for being unable to offer anything in return.

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” he muttered, pressing his forehead to the side of his linen pillow. It was not nearly as soft as the ones in Razavia’s home, yet frankly, he preffered those he knew for a fact were not charmed with some ungodly sleeping spell. “I always thought it would be you getting hurt, not me. Because you attract problems like a magnet... Because you are always there with him.”

She was loyal to Rondulin, and he respected that, but whilst he himself had always kept to his duties, it was she that would not back down from the hardest of orders.

And he felt. Weak. He no longer felt like a bear, but a mere dog, wounded and beated to the ground. It was pathetic. It had been nothing but a stab, and he should have steeled himself and swallowed his pain with pride. Instead, he was still grounded, weakened after bleeding like a maiden, pale and frail, but he knew he could find it within himself to fight if need be. If Saela did not have her spear. If, somehow, Razavia came back from the dead and he had to fight her to protect himself or the woman.

Slowly, Lixander made an effort to lift his eyes and look at her. In the dim light of the candle, she looked far too young and pretty to be a knight, and yet there she was, more of a knight than he was one right then. She was far better than Jaledar would have hoped; he had not managed to take the good out of her; instead, he must have taken all the bad and left pity for others, never for herself.

It certainly was not more than that. Pity. Mercy for a man who was struggling, that would be left to die on the battlefield, were she not there to oppose it. Once the commander fell, given he did not rise up himself, there was no reason to let him live.

Eventually, the flaps opened once again, allowing for a dark figure and a frail hand to place a tray on one of the chairs the others had sat on. Although he could not see what was in the bowls, Lixander smelled soup; it was better than meat, but it still required him to rise even higher so he could sip from it, so he steadied himself, builiding the courage to bear the pain without a sound, before lifting his eyes to Saela once again in a silent plea for one last gesture of mercy.

 

[peritwinkle]

Even from so far away, Lilith could feel the heat of the fire tingling her skin. It gave her a pleasant sense of safety which she did not know she could ever come to feel in a place like that. The sound of the rustling trees, the light chatter and laughter in the close distance, the footsteps that kept the camp alive, they allowed her to feel protected, surrounded by breathing beings who were sworn to keep her from the claws of harm.

Even the sky showed itself clear, stars adorning it like jewels upon a maiden’s nude form; she had seen women of dark skin before, and always thought of them as pretty as the night itself. She had always compared their bright smiles against their deep flesh to the ever glimmering moon upon the night veil.

And with Rondulin by her side, it did not take much more for her to wish to sleep beneath it. Fatigue was slowly sparking her languor and she felt it seep even deeper, to her bones. It was strange - something she never thought she would see as soothing, yet which she now came to see as her own little haven. If the tranquility and seclusion of her apartments had made her feel safe back home, it was the people that brought that feeling back right then.

The offer of sleeping beneath a roof was tempting, but after a day like the one that had passed, she craved the pounding of another heart next to hers for the rest of the night. If Lady Saela would be spending it watching over Ser Barske, then she, herself, deserved to be watched over by the young Lord, for he had sworn to protect her for a reason.

With gentle movements, Lilith slipped from Rondulin’s grip and, taking a step forward towards the fire, ran her slender fingers through her hair and began to braid it. “I ask that you do not leave until I have fallen asleep,” she said, canting her head as she did. The wind was slowly blowing through her dark locks, brisk against the uncovered flesh of her chest and neck. “It will be a long night. This place... I cannot trust any longer.”

And frankly, she assumed that he would want to rest as well soon enough. After checking if his knights had eaten, she doubted he would waste time around the camp instead of consuming it in a good night’s sleep before they left the next morning.

Then, with her hair braided but left untied, she let herself fall down onto one of the rolls, the one in the middle, sinking in the thick layers of blankets and ermine. The fur tickled her chest as she deepened in, allowing it to eventually reach her jaw and brush against her cheek.

The two others were left cold, one against the wall of an old hut, another to the left, closer to the fire and the open field. Assuming he would want to lean against the wall, Lilith turned towards it and slipped one hand out to straighten the edge of the bedroll for him to sit on.

It was much more that she wished to do right then than just fall asleep with his voice on her mind, yet she knew that he could not allow for his affection for her to slip in public. Razavia’s bathing room had been a moment of weakness on their part, and for that moment, she hoped it would not be the last time she felt his lips against her own, even if it was her rationality that perpetually denied it.

“You will have to eat, as well,” she reminded, her stormy eyes locked on the dark pools that watched her. “Find your peace... I hope I will find mine, as well, if my minds allows me to rest,” which she deeply doubted, for the curse of the witch would stay with her for a while, or at least the thought of it, that would haunt her pristine mind.

It was, after all, a game, and she was merely a pawn hanging by her strings, just like those who had believed her words, more or less consciously done.

~*~

In all honesty, Lixander doubted Saela would have shown the same kindness to a man whom she did not know, be it of Rondulin’s own. It was, perchance, the guilt that still resided within her from the night before which breathed pity into her heart. Yet, in spite of it, he could not condemn her, for he knew he would have done the same, no matter how much it hurt his pride to let his softness protrude.

Her comparison to Jaledar kindled a certain flame within him that stirred him deeply for many reasons. The man was vile in his eyes, too brutal for his liking, far too violent for a girl who was just starting to learn the works of the harsh reality. Lixander had fought to keep Yova’s soul from being tainted with gore and violence for years on end; his methods had been mild, and perhaps he could have done more, yet he could not have allowed himself to do so at the time.

In his eyes, she was still a child, and so was Saela. Jaledar had struggled to take the pain out of her, but instead, he had only heightened the feelings in her heart.

Soon enough, though, such thoughts vanished from his mind, and were quickly replaced with worries of his pain as he began to eat. Yet as he forced himself up on his elbows, he was surprised by the moist touch of a pair of lips to his temples, which could belong to none but Saela herself. And if he had flushed only moments before, he felt himself growing more florid then, with her breath so close to his skin and the scent of her flesh so intense in that moment of closeness.

He could no longer push himself to blame her for comparing him to her father. It dawned on him that, perhaps, she had meant it as a good thing, otherwise he would never have been graced with a kiss. Somewhere, deep within himself, he found the craving for more, yet he could not demand it from her, lest she did not wish to provide any longer.

Instead, he made the effort to prop himself on his side, lifting himself higher against the pillow, as he lifted his hands to cup the steaming bowl of soup, even if the weight of it still resided in her palms. “I can manage,” he breathed, although his chest heaved in the effort to hold it. He then leaned in closer, pressed his lips to the rim of the bowl and took a few sips, grunting at the pain as he swallowed.

He would be a hypocrite to try and hide his pain. It was there, stinging and biting at him like a dog, and it hurt like a bitch, yet as much as he would have wanted to growl at it, he knew it wouldn’t scare it away. The most it would do, frankly, was to frighten Saela and make her call for Rondulin or the healer again, which was the last thing he wanted in that moment.

Her presence was enough to make him feel better. Enough to fill the blank space of silence that seemed to have engulfed the tent, even if outside, the world was still rolling.

“I... Might not be able to ride tomorrow,” he added as he leaned back, taking a break from the effort of eating. His eyes still stung from his long slumber, yet even if the dampness made it difficult for him to read her, he could sense her worry from where he stood, and in that moment, he almost found it endearing.

He did need someone to keep him from falling off a horse until he healed completely, or at least enough to stir his own mount, and he doubted she was willing to leave him on his own either way. So long as she honoured his trust as much as she had until them, the offer remained where it was, or rather, a request, for it would not be easy for her nor the horse to hold both their weight upon its back.

 

[peritwinkle]

It was warm beneath the covers of ermine and wool that embraced her. Basking in the warmth of the fire, Lilith watched and listened as Rondulin took a seat next to her, crossing his legs to make himself comfortable, and started talking about the family that he had left behind on the island of Heileanan. She did feel for him. It was a feeling that they shared, the longing for home, and the more she heard, the more it brought the craving back into her heart.

She saw the way his lip started to tremble, but only briefly, before he stilled it. He was still a King after all, and Kings could not allow their feelings to seep through. Not in moments of war and death, which required one to be stronger than ever. Weakness was the last enemy he would have to fight; she was still battling hers, and although the victor had not been chosen, she hoped that, eventually, it would not end up getting the best out of her.

Gently, she moved a hand out from beneath the covers and pressed it to his own. The air was colder, brisk against her forehead and the soft flesh of her hands, but it made her feel safe, knowing that another kind of warmth would soon join her. The warmth that he was feeling now, brushing against her skin, promising presence and protection.

“You will see your brothers after this war,” she reassured him, giving him a small nod. “Not soon... I could not promise that, but I know that if one of us is to make it, it will be you. You are much stronger than I am.”

Her words were soft, weakened by her languor, but they carried a weight that she wished he felt just as much as she did. It was the truth, after all; he was far stronger than she was, for what was a damsel compared to a warrior? Women were made to endure, not battles of the body, but those of the mind, and she lacked the strength to stop a blade from crossing her heart.

“Such are not the thoughts that one should have before sleep,” she thought to add then, her voice barely above a murmur. “Close your eyes.” He could not hope to sleep as he stood up, but he might as well try to relax his mind for a moment, strip himself of the thoughts that stirred him right then. So, she allowed her fingers to gently caress his, promising comfort as much as he did safety, for her.

And even if the guards might watch upon her as they did upon their own babes back home, she knew that Rondulin Eldskar would do it far better, for he had sworn to protect her with his life, not for the fear of another, but for the sake of his own mission, of his own family. She was a tool, a key, yet she was as significant as victory itself. Therefore, whether he liked it or not, whether he grew to care for her or not, it was his duty and his duty alone to make sure that, whilst Rogerus walked the earth, she still breathed.

No other words escaped her lips, and Lilith allowed herself to fall into the gentle embrace of slumber. She could still hear voices in the distance, although muffled, as if even her ears were tired of hearing. Steps made their way closer and farther away from her, but she did not care. Not as long as she had a King watching over her sleep; she wanted to imagine it was Benjamin, with his scent of cold and steel, with his rough hands holding her own whenever she couldn’t press her lids closed.

It would always be him that she cherished and trusted. Always him that she would look for in other men and, perhaps, in the man that she would come to marry, just the way she saw him in Rondulin. And if it was Aelric - he was a man of the North, just like her father, although it was much more than blood that tired one to him. Much more than the shell, looks or speech. It was what resided inside which counted, and she hoped to rejoice in the memory of him for the rest of her life.

~*~

“I ain’t a child,” Lixander shook his head slowly before resuming his gluping. Trying to keep himself sitting up was as hard as fighting five good men at once, and even if the strength resided within him, after every sip, he felt the need to let himself fall back down onto the bed and fall prey to slumber.

Yet he could not disregard Saela’s efforts as easily: the girl was still holding the bowl steady, never complaining in spite of the heat of the bowl that might be scorching the tender flesh of her palms. Lixander wished to take the burden from her and onto himself, but he knew it would be to no avail; so long as he was not finished, she would shake it off as something trivial.

Pain accumulated within him, alongside the one he felt pounding from his wound. It was a stab in his pride, one that he might never be able to wash it off. If something so small had made him bite the ground, he might as well not call himself a knight, for one would have shut his mouth and swallowed his struggles, or at least learnt to patch his wounds on his own.

Another kiss followed, this once carrying more pity for him to bask in, yet it was naught but irking him to see a child, a woman, another knight, take care of him as though he were a boy, not a man. As though he feared the cut of a blade and the Gods of war.

“You’re sorry?” the bear grunted, before placing his hands around the bowl once again, this time to set it on the soft ground. Then, he caught her own between his coarse fingers and brought them to his lips, not daring to touch her flesh just yet. They felt soft against his, almost frail, as if she were more a Lady than a Knight, more a woman than a warrior. Something of a pristinity he should not stain with his filth.

“I should be sorry. I am weighing you down. All of you.” Inbetween each word, his breaths felt heavier, but he managed to compose himself and his steel his speech. “If I let myself fall over a scratch... I am not worth this.” ‘I am not worth you.’

His ears rung with the pain in his back, and eventually, he found himself falling back on his chest, letting out a heavy breath of relief. He had not finished his bowl entirely; there was plenty of time for such, and Saela needed to eat. It was then, however, that he realised he was still holding her hand, and he hastily let go, turning his head towards the pillow.

He felt his muscles tense, then. They ached, almost as much as his wound, but at least he was reminded they were still there. That when he healed, he would be able to put them to good use. He hoped it would be soon, perchance even in the evening of the day that followed, as he ate and regained the strength he had lost with the swooning and medicine, although he doubted he would be allowed anywhere near a blade until he was strong enough to fight.

The fact that he no longer had his girdle and sword said enough.

“I shall be up in the morn’,” he muttered through a long sigh. “If I ain’t with the sun’s rise... Shake me alive.” He knew he wouldn’t die. It would be pathetic. No, he would rest and regain his powers after the effects of the opium, for it was those that still fed the languor within him and made him crave sleep. “We will ride on my own. It’s a strong steed.” Stronger than a mare, for certain, and Saela did not weigh much regardless.

With the night falling darker upon them, Lixander knew he would come to fret over her safety. He was there, still, yet he could no longer offer protection, whether she desired it or not. He knew that Rondulin would sleep by Lilith Varhart’s side, whilst his own, he would have to guard himself, as well as Saela’s. If the Gods were kind, they wouldn’t allow her to fall prey to the last breaths of Razavia.

 

[peritwinkle]

It did not take long for Lilith to fall asleep. Beneath the weight of the covers, she was naught but a child, no longer the Princess of House Varhart or the heir to White Rock. She had not been bothered by the loss of the heat from Rondulin’s hand, yet for a moment, she had felt the tendrils of cold crawl and wrap around her arm, before the softness of her flesh met the ermine once again, and she was lulled back to a pristine slumber.

No chatter disturbed her, not even as the King summoned his knight to watch over her while he was gone. It all vanished into a blur, for she was far too languished to comprehend what happened around her. It was, perhaps, for the better, as the moments of peace, even if frail, would be enough to allow her to rest as one should.

However, the tranquility that imbued her sleep did vanish; the voices and steps that had once surrounded her and offered comfort were no longer there, and were instead replaced by a heavy silence. The rustling of leaves and the soft breathing that had rung in her ear vanished with the wind, leaving her in the dark solitude of her languor-bitten mind, empty and obscure, yet too well known, as if it had been residing within her heart and thoughts for longer, beyond that moment.

Soon enough, it was no longer dark; the night had yielded, making room for the first rays of light of a grey morning. She remembered it all: the colour of the sky, the dampness of the air, the thick blanket of fog; it had been the same on the day of her sisters’ execution, but she no longer found herself on the steps below the cutting block.

Instead, she stood alone in a dimly lit hallway, murk and recondite, as though secluded from the rest of the world. The ceiling was high and rounded into a tall bolt with archways on either end. The clear glass windows, once glistening in the light of dawn, lay shattered on the stone floor, flashing beneath her bare feet.

Between the pieces of broken glass were arrows with rusty tips, bloodied feathers and rotten wood, too many for her to count, yet enough for her to know that day had not been free of sin and slaughter.

Lilith lifted her eyes from the ground then, and her gaze landed on four dark silhouettes that hung from the ceiling. Their flesh was livid and touched by the pallor of death, and their limbs swayed loosely on either side of their bodies. Although she could not see their faces, she knew whom they belonged to: the sweet Maery and Victoria, whose eyes she could no longer remember, King Benjamin, whose voice she had already forgotten long before, and the frail form of Lady Ylonne, cradling as though she were humming to a melody of her own.

As though lured by their swing, the lone poppy stepped forward; the pieces of shattered glass dug into the tender flesh of her feet, whilst the tips it the arrows cut through her toes. She could feel her heart and stomach sink, trembling with each step that she took. There were no tears stinging her eyes; instead, her throat clenched, as if preparing itself to let out a scream of pain and sorrow from its depths.

“Mother,” she whispered softly as she walked. The Seer had promised she lived, and yet there she was, hanging lifeless from the ceiling of an abandoned castle, one she had never set foot it, yet that she felt like she knew too well. “Mother,” she called again, hoping for an answer, but to no avail; Ylonne remained silent, just like her daughters and dear husband.

‘Lilith,’ a voice called, heavy and warm, the only warmth that she could feel in the hall of winter and death. She did not dare to turn, her eyes still locked on the lifeless bodies of her beloved. ‘Lilith!’

Then, as she let her eyes fall, Lilith saw the form of a man whom she knew by the name of Rondulin, or rather, the shadow of him, for her gaze could not focus on his features. His flesh, although pale like the others, held a faded florid tint, hinting at a droplet of life still flowing through his blood. The King, leaning in as if weighed down by a pair of chains, extended his arm to her, offering salvation from the sight that had bothered her to tears.

The Princess shuddered; dug into his flesh were arrows stained with a glistening incarnadine, yet the young Lord did not flinch, nor did he bend in pain. He stood bravely before her, his tunic lined with gold and tied neatly up to his neck; his hair danced in the light breeze, caressing his beard he had allowed to grow perhaps too much. In that moment, she knew she had been too late. That, perchance, he had been waiting for her, and she had not come.

That they all had waited for her, until Death did them apart.

She wanted to shout. It reverberated in her chest as she parted her lips, calling his name, calling her father’s, her mother’s and her sister’s. Surrounding her, there was nothing but death and suffering, and deeply in her heart, she knew she had done it with her own hands. Yet no sound left the tip of her tongue, leaving her to scowl and curl in the deathly silence, alone, with naught but love turned to ashes and pain crawling up her calves.

Once again, silence surrounded her, abstruse and unforgiving, and it felt as though a pair if claws dug their tips into her flesh and pulled her away. Away from the memory of her family, away from the dying King whom she had not been able to reach and shield. Away from the death and pain that had filled the hallway, seeped through the cracks in the windows and slipped beneath the shattered glass and broken arrows.

Her awakening was sudden. Lilitg opened her eyes to a darkness only enlightened by the soft flames of an ardent fire. Around her, soldiers and knights had gone to sleep, filling the air with the gentle sounds of their careless breathing and the rustle of blankets against skin and clothes.

It had been a mere dream, yet it had felt so vivid, that at least a part of it should have been true. Indeed, tears stained her florid cheeks, and as she pushed herself up, her limbs were trembling, as if she had been running for too long and exhausted herself. Her hair, now damp, stuck to her forehead in curls of dark umber, tingled her lips and cascaded over her shoulders; in her moving and stirring, she had undone the braid. It mad eher wonder how long she had been gone from that world for.

“Rondulin,” she called out softly, just as his voice had called out hers. It was shuddering in her throat. As she managed to get herself back on her feet, she turned towards the path that lead to Ser Barske’s tent, ignoring the sound of steps behind her or the guards who might still be awake. “Rondulin,” she called again, this once louder, hoping for him to hear her.

To know that she had not abandoned him, for it pained her to think of him as he had shown himself in her dream: bent and helpless, weakened by his wounds, not as one would want to think of a King. Not as she wanted to think of him as a man, not a noble, whose life she had grown to value for more reasons that she could push herself to determine.

 

[peritwinkle]

The only thing she could hear was the racing beat of her heart pounding against her chest. With hastened steps, Lilith made her way towards the tent where she knew rested Lady Saela and the wounded Ser Barkse, where perchance she would find Rondulin, if nowhere else. Her mind was caught in a turmoil of fear and dread, unable to produce thoughts, yet instead only sent orders to her feet, an impulse every second, urging her to move.

Perhaps it had all been in her mind: she had convinced herself that Razavia had lain a curse over her dreams, when frankly, it was merely her thoughts that meddled with themselves. It was what she tried to tell herself to soothe the fear and breathe courage back into her heart.

‘A Queen should never be afraid,’ Ylonne often said. ‘She should only fear the Gods and the Gods alone, for if they are watchful of her, no harm will come her way.’

It was cold. She did not remember wrapping the woven blanket around herself, but nor did she mind the frail waves of warmth that radiated from it. It scratched the softness of her skin and irritated the base of her neck, yet she was too tired to mind. Too bothered to react, when she knew that she had no moments to lose.

Deep within her heart, she knew it had all been a dream. It had been far too vivid; she could almost feel the moisture of the fog tickle her skin and dampen her hair. She could smell death and pain in the small hamlet so far away from the castle of her dreams. She could see the livid flesh of her mother, the emptiness of her eyes, calling her home.

With every step, she could almost feel the pieces of broken glass dig into her feet. She feared looking up, for if she did, perhaps her dear sisters and noble parents would show themselves as they had in her dream, hanging from the arch of the sky and looking upon her with betrayal etched on their empty faces.

When the flaps of the tent parted, her vision blurred everything around it and her eyes fell on the face of the man whom she knew all too well. He had been a part of her dream, yet there he was, breathing, calling her name, living. It had all been a lie, and she had fallen into its trap like a puerile child.

“Rondulin,” she called back, a certain tranquility seeping back into her heart.

Lilith almost lunged towards him, throwing her arms over his chest and burying her nose in the crook of his pale neck. “She hadn’t lied,” she whispered softly, her voice muffled by his body. She let her hands run over him, over his shoulders and shirt, feeling his heart pulse against her touch. Subtly, she sought the arrows that had crossed through him in her dream, and felt relief as she found that he had not been harmed.

“Razavia had not lied,” she whispered again, shaking her head.

In the darkness of the night, words and steps melted together into an unified noise which awakened Lixander from his slumber. It had not been much since he had fallen asleep, he knew, for he could still feel Saela’s touch on his hand and feel the weight of the wound pounding against his back.

The bear opened his eyes. In the absence of light, he could only hear Lilith’s voice and feel Saela move near him, wrapped in a dark cape that rustled against her clothes. There was a tension that weighed all of them down which he could not yet comprehend, but instead could only guess it had been enough to shake them all awake.

“Saela,” he muttered, his voice shattered with languor. He no longer ached as badly, and found the strength to prop himself up on his elbows, enough to look through the small crack in the flaps of the tent. He could see nothing but a pair of figures under the night sky; inside, Saela’s eyes seemed to glow in the pitch black darkness, as though their gaze had never left him.

Lilith heard him. As her senses returned, slowly, like the pieces of a puzzle, she began to feel: the salted tears drying her lips, the sound of another voice tickling her ears, the fear of the future, which might as well had shown itself in her dream. It was, perchance, only the beginning of an end. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she lacked the energy to do much more.

Instead, she held Rondulin tight in her arms, refusing to let go regardless if he did. Her eyes sought the source of noise inside the tent, and she briefly wondered if Saela had dreamt the same, for she knew she stood awake with Ser Barske, although she was unsure whether they had gone to sleep at all.

Although just as easily as he had watched over her, he could have watched over his beloved knights. Saela was no younger than her, with the mind of a child and the fragility of a girl; in spite of being a warrior, she was still seventeen years of age, no more, no less, and while Rondulin was not much older himself, it seemed as though both of them found safety beneath his gaze.

 

[peritwinkle]

She thought there was nowhere safer in the world than Rondulin’s arms. In that moment, as he cradled her with gentle touches, she let her arms clutch him, grasping him around his shoulders and neck and pressing him to her chest. It was her way of reassuring herself that he was there. That even if Razavia had managed to kill him in her dream, she had not yet taken him away from her, and never would, so long as she refused to let go. So long as he stayed with her, and she stayed with him.

His kisses were warm, contrasting with the brisk wind that scourged her cheeks. The blanket, although thick, barely covered her exposed neck and chest without the support of her hands. Had she not have been bothered by the dream, perhaps she would have cared to notice that it was too cold, yet right then, her mind, her eyes, her movements, focused on the one thing that mattered. The one thing that she wanted to know safe, for the others, she could not reach.

Yet when his lips collapsed against hers, she felt her stomach turn and her heart tighten painfully, as though he had seized it himself. They fit together perfectly, as if they had been made for one another, as pieces of a puzzle that had not been made to fit together. It was a sin, she knew. It was a forbidden sweet, yet she could not find the strength to pull away, not after his words of reassurance and promises of safety.

Not while his kiss promised the warmth she needed to melt the cold away from her heart.

Then, as he pulled away himself, she let her forehead rest against his, although tensed, and shook her head at his words. “But for how long?” she whispered against his lips, shaking her head in disbelief. “I should not be feeling this,” yet there she was, aching for a mere dream, a moment in which she had seen him dead.

As much as she would have wished to stand there and bask in the heat of his body, she knew that they would have to leave early in the morning. Only the thought of it disturbed her and weighed down on her eyelids. She doubted the dreams would vanish until dawn, but so long as she had him near her, so long as she had a hand to hold and a pair of lips to whisper soothing words in her ear, there was nothing she feared any longer.

“Saela...” she muttered then. “Did she... dream?” It was only Ser Barske that could offer comfort, although in the condition which he found himself in, she doubted he could be of much help. “You were with her.” She could not blame him for that. She was his comrade, his friend, and after all, it was pathetic of her to fret over a mere dream. Lilith was a Princess, and a Queen by right. Queens did not fear anything but the Gods and the Gods alone.

A part of her wanted to already pull him away. The wind was only getting colder, and she found herself peeking at the fire near their beds every other moment, longing to find the heat and comfort of it once again. This time, however, Rondulin would be next to her. And even if her feelings for him were forbidden, she would allow them for one night, until her soul was soothed and her mind cleared, and filled with nothing but him.



Lixander was too tired to hear the conversation bothering the silence outside his tent. He had not dreamt, yet it quickly dawned on him that Saela had: sweat glimmered on her skin like droplets of silver in the murky moonlight, and her eyes darted around the room as she tried to shake herself awake from the moment of disturbance.

He had had nightmares before, every night after he his departure from home. It had rained for several days, and the pearling skies had muddled his mind as much as the memory of his fights with his brothers. He had tried not to blame himself for Trystan’s death, for it had been his brother who had swung the sword, yet he had remained on his mind until the skies had cleared of clouds and fog.

Years had changed him. He was another man, another heart, another body, yet his mind had remained the same. His nightmares had always been filled with blood, and even then, he feared the nights in which it showed itself before him, for sleep was the only moment in which he was not ready to kill.

With long movements, Lixander let a large, heavy hand fall on Saela’s shoulder, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping himself up. There was no reason for him to say another word; she knew them all, and likely was too bothered to care. Instead, he let out a sigh of understanding and found the edge of the cape, pulling it farther away from her and beneath the base of his raised bed, before shifting to lie on his side.

There was enough room for her to rest on the bed near him if she wished. He would not bothered her. He was a wide man, but on his side, he was narrow enough to allow for proper room for her to rest and space of decency between the two of them, if she longed for the cool air to touch her.

“It ain’t the best,” he muttered, “but it sure is better than the ground.” It was damp and cold. Even if her temples were tepid, it was only a bed that could bring her comfort.

If she refused, however, there was naught he could do but call for a bedroll to be brought in. Had he the strength, he would have offered to sleep on the floor, yet he doubted she would be able to support his weight as he climed down from the bed and rolled his way on the virgin ground. Nor did he think she would agree to it.

“It’s not her,” he tried to reassure her, pursing his lips. “It has been a rough day. It’s not her.” He was, however, not entirely convinced, yet he wanted - her - to believe that it was merely her mind that was fabricating such thoughts. Lixander could not know what her dream had consisted of, but he did have his own assumptions.

Just like he assumed it was Lilith that had stirred Rondulin in such manner. For even the strongers of bears had their weakness.

 

[peritwinkle]

After months of solitude and longing, Lilith no longer knew how to take affection. With every touch that caressed her tender skin, she felt as though she were offered the world. In Rondulin’s mind, perhaps, his touches were nothing but a way to bring her comfort, yet to her, it was far more than just that. It was a promise of safety. An oath to protection and care. An anchor, when the cold winds of winter blew harder and threatened to tear her apart.

Without hesitation, she allowed him to urge her forward towards the fire. His arm clenched around her, pulling the blanket over her chest as his own radiated a comforting heat. It was far more than she could ever ask for in such times, when even the mere act of sleeping with one another could bring more sorrow than peace. Yet, with the night having fallen upon them and fewer eyes to notice, she did not fear being known as less than she was.

After all, the King himself had given his love and affection to his knight, and yet, she had not been dishonoured and instead, left pristine. Such was her own case, for it was his protection that she longed for in moments of pain and fear. Even if it had been naught but a dark dream.

As she stepped upon the ground, it felt soft beneath her feet, no longer speckled with shards of broken glass or arrow tips. The thick fog that had been blurring her vision was gone, drowned in the tears Rondulin had wiped away. Her skin, although still cold, seemed to be warming up the closer they got to the fire. It all promised a soundless sleep, no longer plagued by the ill thoughts her mind had fabricated.

With slow movements, Lilith allowed herself to fall down onto her bedroll, once again sinking in the thick layers of ermine. The place next to her remained empty, although disturbed by his body where he had been sitting down only a turn of the clock before.

“Here,” she whispered softly, patting the place next to her as she made herself comfortable beneath the covers. Gently, she pushed down on his chest and pressed him to the ground where she wanted him to sit, closer to her and to the fire. A thread of grass separated their two rolls, yet she did not mind dirtying her blanket; pulling herself up, she let her head rest next to his and left her hand on his chest, as though urging him to stay.

And even then, after having walked and breathed in the cold night air, Lady Sleep came to dance on her eyelids, weighing them down and lulling him back into a dreamless slumber. In the dim moonlight, her skin was pale, as though the sun had never touched her, as though the skies had never seen her in daylight.

And so appeared his, although not as pale as the version of him she had seen in her dream. With that picture painted before her eyes and his kisses etched on her skin, her temples, her lips, she would fall asleep, she knew, away from the ever digging claws of the Seer who had laid a curse upon her virgin mind.

~*~

There was nothing left in Lixander’s eyes but compassion. It had been countless times he had watched over Yova in her years of childhood, whilst nightmares still affected her and brought her distress. It was only expected of a girl her age, of a child her age, one who was just learning the taste of blood and was forced to witness the brutality and harshness of the real world.

And then, as he found himself before Saela, he could not help but equip his fatherly self, even if a part of him refused to compare her to Yova. The part that basked in the soft light of her golden pools; the part that trembled and turned florid whenever she touched him, or pressed her lips to his skin.

With cautious movements, the young knight propped herself onto his bed and sat on the edge of it, still far away from his reach, yet close enough so that he could feel her warmth radiate against his own cold skin. She was boiling. Upon dropping her boots, he hoped that the brisk air of the early autumn would bring her a certain alleviation, if his own presence could not.

He frowned as he parted her lips to speak. ‘You did not wake me up,’ he was tempted to say, but he could not throw the blame upon Rondulin’s shoulders, for the man had only come with good intentions. Instead, he stretched out his arm towards her and let it rest next to hers on the bed in a silence wanting to hold it. To reassure her.

Or rather, to reassure himself.

His thoughts and the beat of his heart rang louder than his pain. He was exhausted, and as any man touched by langor, it was only sleep that he desired, and naturally, the warmth of a woman next to him, yet it was not more than Saela that he needed to find peace. Not more than the presence of another to keep him company and watch over him through the night.

He made a promise to himself to return the favour as soon as he was able to hold himself on his feet. Until then, he could do naught but show his gratitude through small things. Things that she might not care for, bothered as she was, but which carried a weight upon his heart, at least, if not hers.

And so, in the silence of the night, whether the maiden chose to fill the the emptiness of her hand or disregarded it, the bear would fall asleep in his nest, forgetting the ailment of his wound and closing his eyes under the weight of the languor and exhaustion that had accumulated in his mind and limbs over the days he had so desperately fought it.

 

[peritwinkle]

The first rays of sunlight had barely kissed the ground as Lilith’s eyes slowly fluttered open. She felt numb after the long sleep she had enjoyed, and although the first moments had been a living Hell, Lady Sleep had allowed her to forget it all and lulled her into a peaceful, dreamless slumber by the side of an ever watchful King.

Even when sleeping, he was just as handsome as he was when awake. His skin, although pale, burnt with heat in his cheeks and hid beneath a blanket of hair that had grown longer and thicker over time. He seemed peaceful; he was no longer the fearsome warrior that had kept her safe on the battlefield weeks before, but a mere lamb, basking in the dim light of the morning, without any worries to weigh down on his shoulders.

It was almost painful for her to think to shake him awake. She knew that, likely, he would want to see to the matters of travel, as well as to see to her, for she had risen before him. But she could not push herself to eat without him, even if she was growing more and more peckish as her senses returned, for she had not had the time to eat the night before.

Had they not been in the middle of a field, had they not been running away from the venom dripping fangs of the snakes, perchance she could have allowed herself to take that moment for granted. It was how it should have been: a Queen, resting beneath the protective wing of her King. A girl, basking in the warmth and peace her lover offered.

It was a painting only a master artist could have fashioned, in the way the light dripped and touched upon their cheeks, the way it danced through the curled locks of dark hair, the way it rested and caressed their flesh, still cold from the night before. A painting she wished to picture in her mind forever, beyond the present moment, as Rondulin’s words still rung in her ears, reminding her that, one day, she would have to return to White Rock and claim her right to rule upon the Kingdom.

Yet she knew that could never become reality. Her feelings had been a sin as they were, for longing and desiring the love of a man she could never have. She had, however, allowed it for a few short moments that night, but she knew that she could not allow it to tarry over the time that followed, lest they were thought as more than virtuous for such.

It was almost impossible for her to think that only weeks before, she had not wished to be seen around him, or have anything to do with his person. Engulfed in the arrogance of her mission, although failed, she had vigorously refused the help given, and had been unable to see the light in the darkness. Even if the Eldskars were not friends of the crown, nor were they enemies; one day, perhaps, that would change. Their protection would be enough to assure that, even if it was done through one representative.

As she looked around, her eyes landed on the hand in which she held his own. She had been resting with her head on chest and her right leg braided with his, as though begging for warmth in the cold night. And she could not blame herself for craving it; the nights were only getting colder, and the skies blew winds which were no longer forgiving. As Winter approached, storms would only get angrier and their rain would turn to snow.

With gentle movements, Lilith slid from his side, careful not to drop the blanket that kept her warm. The camp was slowly beginning to rise as well, although quietly, but she knew that the noise would come to touch the sensitive ears of the wolf that slept so peacefully near the withered fire. Thoughts of Ser Barske and Lady Saela also plagued her mind then, and for certain, they would come to plague his as soon as his eyes fluttered open to touch upon the bright sky.

“Rondulin,” his name danced on her lips again, as it so often seemed to do. “We ought to go,” she reminded him, despite her own desire to stay.

It was simply not the place, nor the time. It was a long way to Ashpyke, especially now that they had to ride within boundaries of speed until Ser Barske healed. They could not risk the life of a commander as easily as they did one of a simple soldier, even if under the eyes of the Gods, they all weighed the same.

Not even the knight himself would agree, for no matter how much his wound ached, they could not stand another night near the breathless witch.

 

[peritwinkle]

The moment his eyes shot open, Lilith knew that she could no longer feed herself thoughts of love and affection as she had indulged in the night before, for in front of her stood a Lord of the North, a man whom she should have learnt to respect and fear, regardless of his promises of protection and care. It mystified her how she had convincer herself that falling for him would be easily forgiven in the eyes of the Gods. If she erred, she might have to pay with her life, as her sisters had, yet in their case, they had been as innocent and pristine as one could ever be.

Fortunately, she did not have to swallow the urge to gaze into his eyes, as he rose onto his feet and bid her a good morning. Her cheeks, once pale, adopted the delicate hues of the morning, florid as the sky tainted with the first rays of sunlight that lingered lazily amongst the clouds.

“It became better,” she nodded simply, quickly turning her head to look to the ground. She did not have the strength to rise just yet, and it impressed her how Rondulin had found the energy within himsef to do so. “Perhaps I just needed to not know myself alone,” she added with a soft smile touching her lips.

And indeed, it had been him that had cleared her mind of the darkness of nightmares until morning. She did not remember having dreamt anything else afterwards, which was far better than another dream of her family. She did not feel the need to be reminded that almost all of them were dead. It was only Ylonne that lived, and even in her dreams, she had shown herself as fallen, clutched in the cold claws of death.

And Rondulin had done his best to keep her from harm. It was something to appreciate, when he could have taken advantage of her frivolity so easily. Or, perchance he had, and she was only giving in, regarding it as affection and warmth rather than what it truly was.

One hand, which had uncounciously landed on his leg, was quickly retreated and brought about her shoulders, keeping the blanket tight around her flesh. Even if the light brought a certain heat back into her bones, she still felt the chill of night, the tendrils that ever tied and wrapped around her legs and chest, threatening to never leave.

Eventually, she found it within herself to stand up and, with a short move of her foot, she pushed the ermine over the bedroll in an effort to tidy up the mess. She was too hungry to even think of rolling up the bedroll and attaching it to her horse’s saddle.

“We should eat before we set to move,” Lilith said then, with more authority resonating in her voice than she had intended. The warmth that had once danced on her lips was now almost entirely gone, and she knew he would sense it. Feared he would sense it, whilst at the same time desired it, as perhaps a reminder that they were not to fall for one another.

~*~

The feeling of Saela’s hand against his had indeed brought alleviation during the night. The knight, although still plagued by the weight of sleep, opened his eyes with the continuous shifting in his near vicinity and tried to turn his head to look where the source of noise that had disturbed his sleep was emerging from.

At first, he only saw a silhouette dance in the dim morning light, its steps and the sound of splashing water clashing into a melody which he had not heard in a long time. The filth of the road would never go away with a quick morning wash; he needed a bath, at least for his wounds if not to ease himself of the burden of the wilderness.

It was then that he dared to move, only to see if his wound still plagued him. Propping his palms against the bed, he pushed himself to sit up, his feet slamming against the cold ground with a loud thump. His back tightened, the flesh around the cut itching, yet the only pain that followed was an echo of what it had been. Still, it was enough to keep him from turning and moving about, but the Gods had been forgiving enough.

They would keep him, for he was worth more alive rather than dead. For Yova. For the memory of his wife. For the service to his Lord, and the honour of the one before him.

He almost laughed at the thought that Saela had feared his end. Almost laughed at the idea of a dying witch managing to bring it to him. He knew he was stronger than that, stronger than a dagger, than a pair of dying arms pushing a blade into his back. It had not touched his heart or lungs; he would bear it.

“Thank you,” he found himself saying to the dark silhouette. He did not need to see her face, for the dark locks that cascaded over her bronzed shoulders were enough of a hint. And nor did he have to say what he expressed his gratitude for; his soundless sleep had been enough of a clue. He doubted he had moved much during the night, unconciously keeping her hand in his, if only to feel the comforting warmth all throughout.

He wished he had had the power to banish her own worries from her mind, yet he knew a knight like him stood as tall as an ant before the powers of dark magic. Lixander was a man of good faith, and good faith only rarely won. Sometimes, he blamed himself for it, for not being enough. For not being able to ward off such evil with a dark stare and a long sword.

He was a child compared to Razavia. Horace himself had only been teased by her powers, and only gotten a small taste of her flesh. They had been favoured for merely being men, and blamed for the same reason, yet the one who had done her bidding, less than the other.

And for a moment, he did wonder whether Princess Lilith had managed to rest throughout the night without being plagued by Razavia’s curse, whether it was a curse at all or simply a game of self-induction. He doubted they would set to leave without paying them a visit, if only for Rondulin’s wish to check on his limping knight and bothered comrade, even if if appeared that, if once Saela had taken all of the place in his heart, a part of it had been claimed by the likes of Lilith Varhart herself.

 

[peritwinkle]

As the camp began to rise and shine, there was nothing left on Lilith’s mind but the thought of departure. She wanted to know herself and the rest of those affected by Razavia’s words and ill gaze as far away from the cursed hamlet as possible. She would not have been surprised, had they found a couple of lost souls amongst those who had passed, in the dark cottages with tight rooms that made up the secluded village.

She had not doubted Rondulin would want to check on the well being of his two nights. It was only natural, for a wounded commander was not the smallest of deals, and nor was a Lady who did not know how to tend to her own needs when others’ were neglected. And she would have to follow and act like a Queen, no longer like a lost young girl longing for protection in a distressing night.

And it did not take long before one of the maidens brought them a platter of food for eachother, nothing more than grits and sausage, a sight which Lilith found rather disappointing, but she would not deny it. Perhaps, with the forest so close to them, they would find time to hunt and bring fresh game on their table as they found their way North. Any sort of meat was better than grits.

Perhaps it was her fault, for being used to a hearty breakfast each morning, followed by tea time almost every day, when the Ladies of the castle felt like it. It was Victoria that enjoyed tea the most; in her words, it made her feel like a woman, a ‘respectable damsel’. And Maery never opposed, nor did Lilith, for the two girls were younger than their sister, and so they would comply to whichever wish came to her lips to order.

Most of the time, however, it was better than nothing. Their days were not always full of joy and activities. King Benjamin had always been a busy man, troubled with his Kingly business and often, travel stopped him from enjoying his leisure time with his daughters and wife. It was then that days, although sunny, felt as dark and gloomy as a late Autumn morning, and each blow of the wind felt rather scourging than tingling. Their rooms would then become save havens for them to wait in, praying that their father would return safely from his journeys, and planning more adventures to come.

With the bowl of grits in her hand, Lilith could not be bothered to take Rondulin’s arm. Or so she thought to herself, throwing the blame off of her own longing. “I know the way,” she said, almost coldly, although she forced a certain warmth into her gaze to reassure him that he had done nothing wrong. That she was the one to blame, and not him.

The path back to Ser Barske’s tent felt strange as the light of day shone upon it. There were no bits of shattered glass on the ground, no stains of blood or trails of death. It had all felt so real, yet had so easily vanished into a dream, as though it had never been there in the first place. The sun have her a sense of strength and certitude in her own powers. It almost seemed puerile that she had dared cry from a vision, even if, at the time, it had felt so real.

She wanted to laugh, not at herself, but at the loss of power that she knew Razavia has suffered. That she would not be able to touch her, nor Saela, while the sun still shone in the sky and the brids trilled with life. They would not allow for death and suffering. She would not allow for it, either, just as she knew Rondulin would not.

They were, more or less, safe.

~*~

Lixander had been able to hear the rustling of the camp even from the safety of his own tent, and so he could feel the tension of other men’s longing to leave that damned place. It was certain that his heart held more of a passion for Razavia’s death than the rest, for he knew there were men within the camp that would have wanted to see her exposed chest and play with her long siren locks, those that had the mind of a chicken, or rather, a Horse.

The touch of a smile came to his lips as he eventually heard Saela’s voice again, taking his mind away from the worries of the day. It appeared that, even if she had allowed for a few moments of closeness between the two of them, she still feared talking to him, as though her mere words would anger him enough to harm her. He doubted it, especially in the state that he found himself in. He did wish to have been able to do more.

“You did do more than anyone else bothered to do,” he nodded in appreciation, pressing his lips together to suppress a grunt. Pain was difficult to quell, as he still felt it in his bones, but he did feel as though the opium had completely worn off, leaving him soaked, but completely conscious and sane.

The bear shook his head at the mention of pain, as though he had never heard such term before. Frankly, he could not pretend that it was not there, and he knew that as soon as he started to move and hold his back straight, he would start feeling the pang of the stab as deep within him as the blade had gone, and beyond. It was the curse of valor, he often tried to tell himself, and it did pass and turn to scars. Of those, he had plenty.

“Your dream,” he thought then, his dark eyes lifting once again to meet hers. “I know you dreamt. What was it about?”

For it had bothered him, knowing that she had been struggling with her own demons in silence, never accepting his help. Not that he would have been able to provide her with any; he had been weak, and he still was, although then he knew that the two of them were strong enough to speak and listen, if so she agreed. It was difficult for him to quench his curiosity when it was on the tip of his tongue to ask.

“You did shiver when I touched you,” he thought to add, in case she dared to deny her suffering, “yet you did not flinch when I held your hand, or when you held mine.” A part of him felt as though Jaledar had been in her dream, for he knew that if the feareless girl feared anything, it was her own father, and what he had breathed into her, even if she did not yet realise it.

And Lixander blamed him, for what Saela had become and could have easily stripped herself of. She was unmoved, and as steady as the strongest of knights, yet her heart was as pure and pristine as none other he had seen. And he pitied her, for the real world was not prepared to care for such fragility without shattering it in the blink of a second.

It was, he felt, what the two of them had in common, whilst at the same time contrasted. He had felt pain, he had seen his family break into pieces under his own foot, but war had made him tough. Perhaps far too tough for his own being, and she had managed to strip him of the wall he had built around himself over the years after Yla’s death with only a kiss to his knuckles, a peck on his temple, a promise that someone was still watching over the old bear, and that he was enough.

For that, he did not know whether to blame her, or thank her.