On the Run

[Ion]

@Ion and @Scriven


When two households are united to ensure the continuation of their bloodline. Two people are thrusted into a marriage that neither of them want.


Amidst their own dislikes towards each other, another power is intent on revenge. The main goal is to wipe away the bloodline that has spited the evil witch in the past, with the help of her newest creations the castles of noble households are burned down and plundered.


The newly married couple are left for death, the only choice is to work together to survive and take back what is theirs or to bicker until their hearts give out.
​

 

[Ion]

The McKellan castle was a noble grey structure with jutting turrets and high walls. Sitting upon the Lilman Hills, it overlooked the valley of villages below over which it governed. In the early morning fog, mist swirled around the aged stones of the household of the Van Bale, the seventeenth generation of the noble McKellans that had once ruled over all the expanding valleys.


On this particular morning, the servants were in a hurry. There were endless tasks to be done before the arrival of the Lady today. For many it was a glorious day, but for one man in particular, the dread couldn’t be any worse.


Taren van Bale woke up to the soft sloshing of water as his servant prepared his morning bath. From amidst the animal furs that decorated his large bed, cerulean eyes opened to survey the woman who was pouring water into a wooden tub that stood by the window of his room. For a blissful moment - as it came with the first few moments of awaking - Taren had forgotten what this day would hold, but soon enough this small bliss of ignorance faded, and he turned his face back into his bed at the thought of the arrival of his soon to be wife.


He had heard stories about the Lady but he had never seen her before. He had refused to listen to the Maestro when he read out the letter that had come in response to his.


A moon or so ago, Taren had received full responsibility of the McKellan castle and was made the new ruler of the Balen Valleys. His father, Lord Mikail van Balen, had died during a hunting trip. When they had brought his Lord father back from the Moon Hunt, the man had a horn driven through his spine, a ghastly thing that emanated evil and reeked of death as it exposed Mikail’s insides for the world to see. The most disturbing fact was that, the horn seemed to contain poison for Mikail’s blood had not been red but black and viscous like tar.


The Mages had set out to find any suspicious links regarding his father’s death but they found nothing and thus Mikail van Bale had been laid to sleep after receiving the divine blessings from Priest Efgarad.


As his only remaining younger son, Taren had been put into the position of power as soon as his father had been lowered into the caves that spanned the sides of the valleys - the resting place for all those that had spent their last breath.


Taren had two elder brothers, Rowan and Keran, but they had already taken over the two others castles that were positioned around the valley. The McKellan castle was thus, under Taren’s responsibility.


‘My Lord,’ the servant murmured tentatively, her wide eyes looking at the naked man half concealed under the rich flurry of furs that decorated the four poster bed, ‘your morning bath is ready’.


Taren took in a deep breath, sighed, before sitting up. The muscles on his back rippled and then his arms bundled together as he rolled his neck and took a step out of the bed. Although he didn’t want to marry, his advisors had spurred him on, insisting that he take the last daughter of the still noble family that stood upon the lands. If he didn’t sire children, his father’s hard work would be for naught and thus under pressure and for the good of his future generations, Taren had penned a letter asking for one of the daughters’ hand.


The last thing he expected was for the man to agree so easily, and the preparations for the wedding ceremony had begun in a flurry of activity. No expense was spared although Taren had insisted this to be a quick and rapid affair without any unnecessary baubles.


He eased into the lukewarm water of his bath and leaned his head back as the servant rubbed the rough wash cloth over his broad shoulders.


And Taren tried very hard to block out his responsibilities in his mind.


The youngest of three brothers, Taren had to fight to prove his worth to his father. His mother had never been active, choosing to oil the workings of the household rather than to spend time with her sons. The Lady Arina had suffered from post-natal depression and every time she got pregnant, or miscarried, the depression became worse and she refused to spend time with any of her sons.


Without a mother’s loving touch, the boys of the Van Bale household grew up believing that swords and meetings were the one thing that kept them alive. None of them trusted women or had a particular liking to them. As Rowan and Keran inherited the other two castles, they had been forced into arranged marriages but had failed to sire any children.


It was Taren’s advisors that had urged him to be the first amongst the brothers to sire, for this would put him at the head of the Van Bale household. Rather than lineage, it were those that contributed to familial line of the household, that were to be revered as the true Lords.


Taren was a skilled fighter, and although all three brothers possessed the same broad shoulders, it was Taren whose body rippled every time he moved. Having no wife, gave him more time to train and since it was the only thing he had known growing up, there really had been no other way to go about passing his time.


As the servant left him, Taren wiped a hand over the foggy window of his room and stared out at the servants who milled around below. There were flowers, goats and sheep that had been given as presents from his brothers as well as the minor lords in the valley below. Lord Winsel, an old friend, had sent over thoroughbred horses for the bride and groom.


From his bath, Taren watched the magnificent beasts being led into the stables but his eyes trained upon the smaller mare. Its coat shone, even under the foggy morning, and it had elegant slender legs that packed quite a bit of power.


Momentarily, Taren wondered what his engaged looked like before realising that it wasn’t important. She would most likely be another stuck up daughter of a rich Lord, and he’d consummate their marriage, and that’d be the end of it.


She could pine away like his mother did for all he cared.


Brewing over his thoughts in his head for quite some time, Taren finally decided to get out of the bath.


As he pulled on his clothes, Taren pushed a hand through his wavy dark hair. Standing 6’ tall, with broad shoulders and a week of stubble on his squared jawline, his advisors had begged him to at least clean up a little for the upcoming wedding ceremony but Taren hard stubbornly refused, ‘She might as well see the person she’s actually marrying,’ he had said, and that was the end of that.


With silver grey eyes and the nickname of; Taren ‘the beast’ van Bale, the men bowed when he entered the courtyard, sword in hand.


He made his way to the training grounds, managing a small smile when his childhood friend and captain of the guard: Noran, stood up and bowed mockingly, ‘My Lord’.


‘Train with me,’ Taren muttered, throwing the blond haired man a polished sword.


‘Shouldn’t you be getting pretty for your Lady?’ Noran grimaced, the only one that could talk to Taren in such a way without getting his head severed from his shoulders.


Taren snorted, drawing his own sword from its sheath, ‘No’.


‘You’re not going to win any lady hearts this way,’ Noran teased, easing into his usual stance.


‘Unlike you Nor,’ Taren said, lifting a dark eyebrow, ‘I don’t go chasing for lady hearts under the skirts of the tavern wenches in Brisburn’.


Noran jumped forward, his sword slicing through air, ready to come onto Taren’s shirt. To no one’s surprise, Taren blocked the blow easily and jumped forward.


The training session had begun again.


‘My Lord!’


Taren ignored whoever was calling. The midday sun had come up and his body was dripping with sweat. Both Noran and his shirts had been discarded, and they had abandoned their swords for two handed daggers.


‘My Lord!’


‘Shut your bloody trap!’ Taren snarled back before he swept a foot under a distracted Noran. The man fell to the floor with a soft ‘oof’ and their daggers locked, faces inches away from each other.


Noran’s dark brown eyes flickered to the side once before looking up at Taren, ‘That’s the Maestro’.


Taren increased his weight on the daggers, until his crossed weapons locked on either side of Noran’s neck then he backed away with a frustrated growl.


‘What is it?’ he turned to the edge of the training grounds where the Maestro stood, his dark green robes tipped with gold.


‘The Lady is arriving’


Taren let out a string of curse words before storming from the training grounds.


Hastily, the servants changed him into a comfortable white cotton shirt that was tied together loosely with the strings over his chest. Dark pants were pulled on and they tried to scrub off the smell of the training ground from his arms.


Taren watched his image in the mirror as they pulled the fur cloak over his shoulders. The hide was a golden brown that shadowed at his heels when he walked.


Then his father’s pendant was settled around his neck. A chained heavy thing that represented the McKellan castle and their household.


It was a solid circular gold piece, a light blue diamond shaped sapphire in the middle, surrounded by sprays of white crystals. The emblem had been his father’s gift for his mother, who had often been revered to as the woman of the Evenstar.


Taren walked down the heavy grey staircases to the courtyard where he would pick up his soon to be wife and lead her into the castle as per custom.


‘My Lord,’ came the stable master’s voice as soon as Taren stepped onto the courtyard.


He sighed as he took hold of the reins of the white mare that was to be given to the woman. Its white mane had been brushed but unbraided, only its tail had been braided intricately.


From afar he spotted the carriage that was pulled up through the valleys, it was too far to see the sigil to known which house it was.


Quite horrible really, that he did not thoroughly think through this marriage but instead let matters proceed as the advisors wished.


May she be ugly or beautiful, Taren thought to himself, no love will be found.

 

[Scriven]

By the time she was seventeen, Mara Dubois had grown to be the picture of her late mother. The very sight of her caused Luk’s heart to clench painfully, ever the source of conflicting emotions. Of course, the girl lacked any of his late wife’s elegance and soft demeanor, but he had only himself to blame for that. Mara was coarse, her education sorely lacking, her manners appalling, and her appearance deplorable. Her wispy, white-blonde hair was constantly in tangles, there was always dirt under her fingernails, and the clothes she wore were poorly mended.


Seventeen years ago, when Mara had entered the world, her mother had left it. Luk Dubois had been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife, and though he knew that it wasn’t her fault, he couldn’t stand the sight of the healthy, squalling infant. He had asked his stable master to take the babe to a convent so she could be raised out of his sight. The man had surprised him though, asking if he could raise the child. Looking back, it was a mistake, but Luk had agreed. It had seemed a good way to keep his youngest daughter close but simultaneously out of his way. She had grown at the tit of a maid who was nursing her own child, but Mara had been raised by Renauld. The lifelong bachelor knew nothing of raising a child though, especially a little girl. Mara hadn’t lacked for love or attention, but Renauld had raised her like a boy, teaching her to ride and hunt, letting her play outside and climb trees.


Mara was as beautiful as her mother had been, with the same fairy-white hair, pale skin, and smattering of gold freckles across her cheeks. Her eyes were a deep sea green, fringed by dark lashes. Despite that, she was quite the embarrassment to her father. Her true father, at least. Renauld, it seemed, couldn’t be prouder of the mess he had raised.


The girl was headstrong and sassy, cocky as a lad, not to mention as rough as one. It was time for her to marry, though Luk had had a difficult time finding a man who was up to such a task. All of Mara’s potential suitors had promptly changed their minds upon meeting her, and the Lord of Galladhor couldn’t blame them. What man would want such a wife? Mara didn’t know how to behave herself! She acted like a commoner. But, again, that was his fault. Renauld had raised her in his little cabin in the woods on Luk’s property. Mara had played with her four adoring older sisters, but the interaction hadn’t been enough to turn her into a lady. Rather, Mara had been a bad influence on the older girls, persuading them to sneak out of the castle, to don men’s britches, and to attend town festivals without a chaperon.


Now that Mara was grown and becoming more and more like her mother each day, the pain in Luk’s still grieving heart intensified. For selfish reasons he needed her gone, but it would be good for her too. Mara needed to settle down and marry, and Luk had found just such a man that could help to tame her. The Beast, they called him. The rumors were deplorable, it was true, but surely a young woman like Mara could handle such a man. He didn’t turn her over to Taren van Bale out of cruelty, but rather out of desperation. The Lord of McKellan had agreed to take Mara’s hand sight unseen. The young man needed a wife after the tragic and unexpected loss of his father in a recent hunting accident. It was admittedly deceptive not to tell the formidable lord that his daughter had not been raised as a proper lady, but his options were growing limited. Van Bale was the best option left for himself, and for Mara as well. If the Lord of McKellan wouldn’t have her, she’d end up married to a penniless huntsman or worse, a spinster, ever a reminder to him of his mistakes.


Naturally, Mara knew nothing of the arrangements surrounding her upcoming marriage. If she had known, Luk had no doubt she would have already fled.


“Hold her down!” Renauld shouted to Margaret, the sturdy cook who had his daughter in a strong bear hug. Mara wiggled in the woman’s grasp, fire in her blue-green eyes.


“Let me go this instant! I will not go! I will not marry that man, or any other I haven’t chosen!”


Renauld grabbed his daughter’s wrists, letting Maggie release her. Mara was surprisingly strong for such a sprite, but she was still no match for his iron vice. He’d held back stallions intent on charging and helped pull foals from the womb; a seventeen year old girl was nothing in comparison, even if she was shrieking like a damned banshee.


“Dear heart, at least go and meet this man. You cannot judge a man you have never laid eyes upon.”


“I. Will. Not,” Mara told him emphatically. Renauld looked at her steadily, sighed, and shook his head.


“Fine. But remember later that I did not want to do this.” He grabbed the girl by the waist, throwing her over his shoulder. “We’re both getting too old for this. I’m going to throw out my back carrying you around this way.” She was beating on his back with her fists, but it was half-hearted now.


“Where are you taking her?” Maggie asked, following him out of the stables where he had informed her of Lord Dubois’ decision.


“To the carriage. She’ll leave immediately. Dubois already has her things packed and waiting.”


“But- but she’s a mess!” Maggie sputtered. “She must have a bath before she leaves to meet her betrothed! She hasn’t brushed her hair or washed her face, and her skirt is all dirty along the hem. She can’t meet him this way! No man would take her!”


Renauld paused for a moment. “No girl is fairer than Mara. Any fool can see that," he said with great certainty.


“Not when she’s covered in mud! She’s got pine needles in her hair, for God’s sake! You’re being biased, Ren. Other men don’t see her as you do.”


“I am right here, you know,” Mara hissed from her position on Renauld’s shoulder.


“If I let her out of my sight, she’s going to run. I know my daughter, Maggie. We won’t see her again for a fortnight, and by then Lord van Bale will have changed his mind. It’s either like this, or not at all.”


Maggie hurried ahead of him to pull open the door to the carriage so he could unceremoniously drop Mara in. “My love, this is for your own good. It truly is. I have spoiled you beyond recognition and you’ve become wild. It’s time for you to learn to act like a lady, marry, and settle down.”


Mara looked at her adoptive father, pain in her eyes. She was truly hurt by his words and actions. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. I can’t believe you’re letting him send me away. When... When will I see you again?”


Renauld’s eyes softened and he reached out to stroke Mara’s fine, tangled white locks. “Soon, dear heart. Soon, I promise.” He pulled her to him, hugging her fiercely, then let go of her and shut the door of the carriage before he changed his mind. He had to believe this was truly in Mara’s best interest. Lord Dubois had assured him the Lord of McKellan was a kind and noble man. He would treat Mara well and she would finally have the life she deserved: the life of a true lady, not a poor stable master’s daughter.


The ride to McKellan took over a day and a half. By the time they reached the impressively vast castle, Mara was weary of her carriage, weary of traveling, but every bit as angry as she had been yesterday morning. Ever since her father- her true father, not the blasted Lord of Galladhor who had supposedly sired her- had thrown her in this damned carriage, she had been stewing in her emotions. It was entirely unfair and she wasn’t going to put up with it. No one had even told her about these plans, and she wouldn’t agree to them. No one could make her say yes. Wouldn’t Lord Dubois be sorry when she was returned? Wouldn’t he regret trying to force her hand? Perhaps it would teach him that he had no right to suddenly start acting as her father after seventeen years.


The castle grew larger and larger outside the little leaded glass window. The woman who had been sent with her as a serving maid was watching with eyes as big as saucers, clearly impressed by the spectacle. Perhaps Lord van Bale would be kind enough to keep the silly wench, Mara thought.


She had never had a maid before in her life and certainly didn’t know what to do with one now. The young woman, perhaps a few years older than she, had prattled on and on about how exciting it was going to be to get married. She had retrieved a brush and tried to coax Mara into letting her brush her hair, but Mara had refused.


“Let this man see me as I truly am,” she had sneered, crossing her arms tightly over her stomach.


Now the carriage was rolling to a stop. Mara looked out the window at the people gathered in the courtyard, wondering which one was Lord of McKellan. The wizened, grey haired man by the door? The blonde boy with a bit of peach fuzz on his upper lip? There was a man standing by a beautiful white mare, the expression on his face almost frighteningly serious.


Marion, who had been saying something, suddenly put her hands on top of Mara’s. “My lady, we’re here. Shall I help you down?”


“What?” It took a moment for her mind to catch up. “Oh. No, I can do it myself.”


She pushed past the other woman to the door of the carriage, pushing it open so she could clamber out. She instantly felt the weight of so many pairs of eyes, but none greater than the piercing gaze of the man by the horse.


Marion followed after her out of the carriage, sweeping into a curtsy as the driver of the carriage bowed and addressed the group, introducing Mara.


“Please allow me to introduce Lady Mara Dubois of Galladhor.”


Mara tilted her chin up. Her long, silvery white hair hung down to her waist in knots, pine needles tangled into the fine halo of hair by her face. There was dirt smudged on her chin, mud caking the bottom of her dress, and more dirt under her fingernails. The dress she wore had been torn and mended many times, but the repairs were evident. She had never had much patience for sewing, and so the stitches were puckered and uneven.


Despite all of that, any who saw her would have to agree that the glint in her eyes and the way she held herself was almost regal.

 

[Ion]

As the carriage pulled closer, Taren eyed the sigil carved upon the carriage door with apprehension. As his mind sifted through the obligated learning books of the Lords and their Houses, he came to the realisation that this particular sigil belonged to the Lord of Galladhor.


He remembered.


Lord Dubois had been a quite wealthy man with multiple children, daughter, who were wed off to suitable suitors. It came as a surprise to why the man had actually agreed to give him one of his daughters. Taren was definitely no noble, well formed Lord. He loved a good fight and felt the most alive when the day’s kill lay in front of his feet and the fatigue of his triumph settled into the thick coils of muscle in his arms.


A Galladhor woman under his roof.


As if the Maestro had saw the apprehension upon his face he leaned in to the Lord Van Bale, ‘My Lord, if I may, please find it in yourself to greet the girl with a smile. The advisors have not needed to remind me that your facial expressions can be rather… closed at times,’ the old man put lightly, his awkward smile slipping when Taren fixed him with a glare that could chill even the coldest of hearts.


‘I will not do anything of the sort,’ he spat, his long fingers tightening around the mare’s rein and the horse seemed to look at him, before dancing nervously on its feet as if it sensed the tension emanating from the man that was about to greet his bride.


‘You are to marry today, please do not forget,’ the Maestro whispered in an attempt to salvage the situation, ‘A happy woman will be more easily to consummate the marriage with, my Lord’.


Taren’s temper flared before he gritted his jaw and forced the calm state of mind back into his head; this was what the marriage was for. To sire children for his bloodline.


Focusing on this necessity made him feel less apprehensive towards the woman that was about to arrive.


The carriage pulled up in the courtyard, its wheels marking the hardened dark mud there and Taren wondered at how the woman had managed to make her mark already, and he hadn’t even seen her yet.


When the door was flung open and a woman stepped out, Taren had thought it was a servant at first though he doubted that Lord Dubois would even employ a servant that looked like she lived on the streets.


She had enchanting silver white hair that shone in the rays of the midday sun, between the unruly strands there were pine needles as if she had ran through the Forest of Laingborn. Dark marks decorated her small face and her clothes seemed to have been made by a blind hag.


Taren felt a loud rumble of a laugh climb up through his chest, the sound was interrupted when a woman dressed in the attire of a servant stepped out and swept into a practiced bow, ‘Please allow me to introduce Lady Mara Dubois of Galladhor’.


Taren remembered staring, conflict rising up in his hard skull. It was a mixture of bitter humour and simmering anger that slowly consumed his mind. Did the Lord Galladhor think that was a joke? He had required a wife, not a four legged mongrel taught to stand on two feet.


His breathing increased and the mare neighed, shying away from the tightened grip onto its reins.


On cue, Noran stepped towards his Lord and Master, a calming hand on Taren’s shoulder, ‘My Lord, not in front of the Lady Dubois’. The underlying meaning was evident: do not show your soon to be wife the beast during your first meeting.


The Maestro stepped forwards, casting a quick glance at Taren’s handsome face which had turned from serious to enraged. As if he wanted to shield the man’s face from his own bride, the old man stood in front of him and bowed, his hands disappearing into the emerald green of his large sleeves, ‘It is an honour to receive you, my Lady. We have been looking forward to your arrival for the duration of this moon. If you please,’ with a soft wave, he gestured forward the servants who held the gifts that had been bestowed to the couple for their upcoming wedding, ‘accept our gifts’.


The captain of the guard, Noran, let out a soft growl as the servants stayed unmoving. It seemed that they too had been shocked at the appearance of their newest Mistress. They had expected a beauty, someone with refined elegance as well as clothing to appear before them. They had prepared long and hard, their hands and feet worn. Eager to see who their Lord had chosen as his life partner. In their own privacy they had discussed, convinced that the woman would be a great beauty or a gentle soul who would tame their beast of a Lord, and bless the household with more than just blood and sweat.


At the soft growl of the guard they awoke from the realisation of their crushed daydreams and walked forward. The first that stepped forward were three female servants and they knelt before their new Lady, holding up the decoration of flowers. Each held a different colour.


‘White Sparrows, my Lady,’ the first announced as she knelt, holding up a bunch of flowers that were true to the Valley over which the McKellan generations had ruled. Unlike the simple white rose, the White Sparrows only bloomed one month every year, the centre sported a golden halo and the flowers opened up gently - a small magic from the Mages as their gift for their new Mistress - revealing soft white petals that ended in a tip upon which hung a small yellow flower that resembled a star, ‘for the first meeting of your other half’. The first now stood up, placing the bunch of flowers in the hands of the Lady’s servant before retreating.


‘Red Rain, my Lady,’ the second one announced as she repeated the same gestures as the first, though the roses she held were bloody red. And when they opened up they revealed a dusky dark blue core that seemed to cast soft purplish shadows over the inside of every thick heart shaped petal, ‘to bless the love that is ready to bloom’.


‘My Lady,’ the third announced as the second retreated, ‘the Indigo Icehorn,’ the rarest flower of all showed a star like yellow core with soft purple petals, a dark blue lining the edges and an extremely thorny stem that held pale blue thorns coated with light purple, ‘for the bond forever made’.


The flowers were a tradition of the McKellan bloodline. The rarest flowers found in the Valleys, they represented the rare finding of one’s other half in a world as cruel as theirs. The McKellan’s were fighters, and when they settled, their swords were lay to rest for the woman they had chosen.


Taren watched the presentations with soft eyes, this was a tradition that tugged at his heartstrings. He still remembered the day Lord father had tried to coax his wife out of her room. The only time he had ever seen her mother smile was when she held onto the three flowers. From the crack of the door he had watched his father place the three flowers into her hair and kneel before his wife, and when she kissed him upon the forehead and smiled it had been the first time he felt warmth spread over his heart.


The gifts went on, there were sheeps, goats and chests full of gowns and jewellery that the people of the Valley had considered their own welcoming to their new Mistress.


When the gifts were done, it was Noran who nudged Taren in the ribs and jerked his chin forcefully towards the woman that was still standing.


For the first time, Taren locked eyes with the woman that was going to be his. She looked like a child and though his advisors had assured him that she had already bled, he found himself doubting. How could he consummate marriage with a child that looked so small in comparison to his stature.


Maybe the advisors had been right when they told him to shave, no doubt the stubble made him seem even older than his years.


Nearly rigidly, he strode towards her, the mare pulled alongside him.


The courtyard seemed to hold in a breath as the two looked at each other up close for the first time. From behind him the Maestro’s voice sounded, ‘May I present, his Lordship van Bale, ruler of the Balen Valleys and keeper of McKellan Castle’.


For the first time, Taren noticed the shatter of freckles over the woman’s face and despite the anger he felt for Lord Dubois’ trap, he knelt slightly, taking the woman’s hand before bringing it up to his lips. He kissed the back of her hand fleetingly and dropped it as soon as he could, ‘A pleasure to finally lay eyes on, my Lady,’ he managed gruffly, his clear silver eyes obviously displaying the opposite.


‘This,’ he murmured, straightening up to his full height once more as he held out the reins of the mare towards her, ‘is a present for you,’ losing words he looked past his shoulders and caught the disapproving gaze of both the Maestro and Noran. With a soft frustrated growl he turned back to the woman, trying to ease his face into something kinder, ‘It is believed that the women of the Balen Valleys are brave maiden upon which the sun blesses when they ride towards victory. It is my wish that you, from now on henceforth, be the one to ride at my side till the sun sets in the East’.


For a moment, Taren’s eyes softened, suddenly he felt that this might be what he wanted but then his old self snapped back and he gritted his jaw, ‘Excuse me’.


Per McKellan custom he lifted her up, surprisingly easily into his muscled arms, letting her face rest against the fur that draped over his shoulders. His arms curled under her shoulders and her knees, the reins threaded between his fingers as he walked into the McKellan Castle, his eyes staring forward instead of at her.


Once they had managed to step into the building he let her go abruptly and thrusted the reins into her hands before adding a gruff, ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he turned on his heels.


As he walked back up the stairs towards his room, Taren heard the Maestro speak, ‘You must excuse Lord van Bale, he’s been very estranged from people. Come, we will lead you to your room, the wedding ceremony is tonight’.

 

[Scriven]

It was time to get this misunderstanding cleared up, Mara thought. She would find out which of these men was the Lord of McKinney so that she could explain to him that she had absolutely no intention of marrying him that day, nor any other. As her lips parted to speak, an old man in voluminous emerald robes stepped toward her. His smile was pleasant, his eyes kind. Surely though, surely this wasn’t her betrothed? No, the Lord Dubois wouldn’t do that to her, would he? The grey haired man was old enough to be her grandfather. Perhaps her great grandfather, she amended in her head.


But that was beside the point. Whether he was young or frail made no difference, she would not marry him. Before she could speak, the old man was waving forward a trio of servants. The three women presented her with the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen, though the explanations made bile rise in her throat. Other half? Blossoming love? Not likely, she thought.


It would have been rude to refuse the generosity presented to her though, so Mara bit her tongue, forcing a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. Later she would find some way to return these gifts and she would speak to Lord van Bale privately to explain that there would be no wedding.


All throughout the lavish procession of gifts, Mara felt the gaze of the man who held the reins of the beautiful white mare. His clear grey eyes were piercing, his face a storm of dark emotion. Why did he stare at her with so much loathing? She felt distracted and unnerved, her eyes constantly flitting back to the handsome but troubling man. He did not look like someone she wanted to cross paths with.


As if he felt her gaze, the man looked at her. Mara felt a cold shiver of dread when their eyes met, as if she was having some sort of premonition of impending doom. He stepped toward her, his broad shoulders stiff, his posture rigid, the mare’s reins held tightly in his grasp. He was tall and powerfully built, his hair a mass of thick, dark waves. His face had the beginnings of a beard, which made him look even more roguish. By gods, he glared at her intently! Who was this man?


And then Mara had her answer.


“May I present his Lordship van Bale, ruler of the Balen Valleys and keeper of McKellan Castle.”


It was the old man with the kind eyes who spoke. He was not the lord of McKellan, as she had assumed. He was Lord van Bale’s servant. Lord van Bale stood before her, formidable and demanding with his very presence. Mara kept her head held high. It made no difference, she reminded herself. She was not marrying anyone that day, but especially not this beast of a man.


He took her hand, laying a kiss upon it before dropping it quickly. The insult of the gesture burned and her cheeks flushed, sea green eyes flashing with anger. He’d let go of her hand like she disgusted him! Perhaps she wasn’t some beautiful, well groomed lady in a fancy gown, but all his money and station apparently hadn’t bought him any manners.


“It is my wish that you, from now on henceforth, be the one to ride at my side till the sun sets in the East," he told her, the words unexpectedly eloquent from someone so brusque. Mara was surprised to see a certain softness in his eyes, as if he were a jagged spear of ice that had begun to melt, but perhaps she had imagined it. The hard look in the man’s eyes was back as quickly as it had come. The sincerity in his gaze had been so fleeting, Mara was almost certain it was the work of her imagination.


She made a small ‘oof’ of surprise when the Lord of McKellan suddenly lifted her into his strong arms, carrying her across the courtyard. She tried to protest, the words tumbling from her lips.


“This is a misunderstanding. I need to speak to you. I-”


He set her back down, just inside the castle, forcing the mare’s reins into her hand.


“I’ll see you tonight,” he told her gruffly, turning sharply on his heel to leave. Mara’s protest died on her lips. He was already striding away, halfway across the courtyard now. Her jaw clenched, frustration and despair and feelings of betrayal all rising up and threatening to drown her.


“You must excuse Lord van Bale,” the old man told her. “He’s been very estranged from people. Come, we will lead you to your room, the wedding ceremony is tonight.”


“No it isn’t,” Mara told him very firmly as someone came forward to take the reins from her hand, leading the mare away. She wished she could go with the beautiful animal, not into the dark, confining walls of the castle. “There has been a misunderstanding. I’m not getting married.”


Marion appeared at her side, looping their arms together. “She’s tired and very nervous,” the maid interjected. “And a terribly funny jokester!”


Marion, her grip like iron, dragged her through the halls after the old man, speaking without end about the beauty of the gifts, the generosity of the people, how handsome Lord van Bale was, how excited everyone must be. Mara realized as they reached her room that the woman was doing it to cut off anything she might have said. Had Lord Dubois been wily enough to send Marion for just such a purpose? Well, it wasn’t enough.


The door shut behind them and Mara gave the woman a tired glare. “This won’t work, you know. What you’re doing? It won’t work. You can force me to that altar, but no one can make me say yes.”


Marion’s eyes softened, her congenial smile disappearing. “I would never try to force you to marry someone,” she said quietly. “Lord Dubois sent me with you to help prepare you, but if it isn’t your wish, there is nothing I can do.”


Mara suddenly felt as if the wind had been taken from her sails. She frowned, then nodded. “Ah. Well... good then. Now, I really need to speak to someone and explain. Everyone has gone to so much trouble already and I really don’t want to embarrass Lord van Bale, though he does look like he should take himself a little less seriously,” she added thoughtfully, a small smirk lifting one corner of her mouth, creating a devilish expression.


Marion sighed softly, nodding after a moment. “I... I suppose you’re right. I’ll go find someone and explain the situati-” she stopped, doubling over in a sudden fit of coughing. Mara watched for a moment, then spotted the wine and goblets that had been set out for them, hurrying to pour the maid a glass. She handed it to the young woman once she had caught her breath. Marion took a sip, sitting down at the little table, her face still a little red.


“Thank you,” she told Mara, pouring another glass and pushing it toward the fair haired seventeen year old. “Wait here and I’ll find someone, alright?”


Mara nodded hesitantly. “Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked, to which Marion smiled emphatically.


“I’m fine now. Just a bit of dust or something.”


The brown haired maid left the room and Mara sighed, sitting down heavily at the little table. The last two days had been so tumultuous. Her carefree life had been so suddenly ripped away, but in a few days she would be back home. One day, perhaps Lord Dubois would forgive her, but even if he didn’t, it wasn’t as if she owed him anything. She knew that he had tried to abandon her after her mother had died in childbirth. If not for Renauld, she would have been raised in a convent, never knowing her four elder sisters.


She took a sip of wine from the goblet Marion had filled for her. It was sweet but warm going down, staving off the chill she felt. The entire castle seemed too cold. There was a small fire burning in the hearth, so Mara crossed to it with her goblet in hand and knelt down, adding another log from the basket. She set the goblet down on the flagstones and warmed her cold hands, then took another sip of the sweet red liquid once the numbness in her fingers had receded. The fire was warming her from the outside and the wine warmed her from the inside. She could feel her stress beginning to melt away already and basked in the glow of sudden calm.


The calm disappeared for a moment and she froze, looking at the liquid in her cup. Had she been drugged? She tried to clear her mind of the deceptive calm, but she couldn’t quite shake it. Marion, she thought. Marion must have put something in her goblet when she wasn’t looking.


She felt so tired. The fire was so warm now, the room so cold. The bed on the other side of the room called to her. Mara rose, absentmindedly finishing the glass of wine and setting it down on the stone floor, then kicking off her shoes as she made her way to the big, four post bed. She pulled back the blankets and climbed in, pulling the covers up to her nose. She felt swallowed up by the soft goose down mattress below her and the velvet coverlets atop her. It was positively blissful. She had never laid in a bed so comfortable before.


She heard the door crack open, but her eyes drifted shut. It was just Marion coming back from... What had she been doing? Mara couldn’t remember anymore.


“Yes, please fill that tub,” she heard someone say, but she was no longer really listening. There were people moving about in the room, but they let her be. They let her enjoy the big, plush bed that swallowed her up.


Marion closed the door after the last servant. The bath had been filled, the water faintly steaming in the cool air. Mara had added more wood to the fire and her goblet lay empty and on its side near the hearth. The girl was sound asleep now, drugged and complacent.


“Mara,” Marion murmured, crossing to the bed to stroke the girl’s soft, silvery hair. “Mara, wake up. I’ve drawn a bath for you.”


The seventeen year old mumbled incoherently, burrowing deeper into her nest of pillows.


“Oh, come on now, lazy bones. You haven’t had a bath in days.”


It was difficult, but she pulled the girl out of the bed. It was a good thing Mara was small, or else she couldn’t have managed. The girl was practically dead weight. Somehow Marion managed to get her into the water though, which woke Mara up a little from her daze.


“Awake now?” Marion asked. Mara’s blue green eyes were glassy and unfocused. It was a terrible way to send her off to be married, she thought, guilt rising. It was for her own good though. One day Mara would realize that, just as Lord Dubois said. Even Renauld agreed it was time for Mara to settle down.


She scrubbed the dirt from Mara’s skin, washing her with fragrant soaps and oils till her skin was smooth and clean. She washed Mara’s long blonde hair, then helped her out of the tub and into a chair by the fire so she could work the tangles from the fine white locks. It took a long time to pick apart the rat’s nest of hair, but finally the seventeen year old’s hair hung like a silver waterfall down her back. Her eyes looked dark in the firelight, her golden freckles faint.


“Come, you must get dressed.”


“Why?” Mara asked, rising complacently from her chair.


“The man you love is out there, waiting to marry you.”


“The man I love?” Mara asked wondrously. “I love a man?”


“You do, dear heart. And he loves you too. You’re finally getting married, just as you wanted.”


Mara looked dazed. “My father calls me ‘dear heart’,” she said finally.


“I know,” Marion murmured. She pulled the gown over Mara’s head, adjusting it. The gown was made from crushed velvet, a pale champagne color, threaded with golden embroidery along the hem and the sleeves. The sleeves were long, coming to delicate points over Mara’s pale hands, which for the first time in ages were scrubbed clean. The neck of the gown scooped wide, highlighting her delicate collarbones. Delicate teardrop earrings were put in her ears and a small emerald pendant hung around her neck. Marion brushed the girl’s hair till it gleamed, letting it hang loose down her back. She put a delicate silver coronet on Mara’s head, then helped the seventeen year old step into her stockings and richly embroidered slippers.


“Are you ready?” Marion asked, squeezing Mara’s cold hand.


“I’m not sure,” Mara answered. “I feel... strange. As if... As if...”


“Shhh,” Marion murmured. “Just remember: the man out there is your beloved. You’ll know the words when it comes time.”


Mara nodded slowly. “My beloved,” she repeated. “Yes.”


Marion felt a flutter of nerves, but she led Mara out of the room and toward the place where the ceremony would soon happen. This would all workout.


Somehow.

 

[Ion]

‘I’m not going,’ Taren growled as soon as he heard the door of his room open and close. He was standing in front of the window, staring through the foggy glass and trying very hard not to smash it through with his fist.


The room stayed silent until Noran decided to speak first, ‘It’s too late to blow the wedding off now, the Lady Dubois has travelled near two days to be here especially for this occasion’.


‘The Lord of Galladhor did not tell me that his daughter was a walking disaster,’ Taren growled under his breath once more before turning halfway to face his guard, ‘Have you not seen her in the courtyard? When I kissed her hand she had manure coated under her nails!’ the silver eyes of the man flashed angrily and he sighed, trying to gather himself, ‘I said before that I did not mind having an ugly wife or even a stupid one but this one surely takes the cake’.


Noran suppressed the quirking of his lips, it was definitely not the time to laugh at this matter but somehow it was refreshing to see the Lord of McKellan emit some emotion despite the usual facade, ‘They are preparing her for the ceremony, I suggest you do the same’.


‘What is she going to appear in? Rags?’


‘My Lord,’ Noran managed, trying to rid the disapproving tone in his voice. Taren didn’t like being spoken to as a child but despite his attempt at objectivity, his words came out wrong, ‘to judge a woman so is incredibly harsh. She is to be your future wife’.


Taren’s temper bristled and he turned fully, facing his childhood friend with fury blazing from his eyes, ‘Incredibly harsh? The judgement she will receive from the people she is to rule will be much harsher than mine. Have you not seen the servants today? They had expected to rule someone worthy, not a child that looks like she crawled out of the bramble bush’.


Noran opened his mouth to speak but a knock on the door interrupted them and slowly the door opened.


Priest Efgarad had been with the McKellan generations for two already. The Priest had dark purple robes and a white beard so long, it could be tucked into his belt. Despite his old age, his eyes were a piercing blue that seemed to belong to a young man instead of an elder who was close to the end of his time. He had been there when Taren’s father had been born, been there when he fell in love the Lady Arina and been there to wed his parents as well as the rest of his brothers. Now, he was here to close the wedding of the youngest van Bale son to the youngest daughter of Lord Dubois. For the Priest, this would be the last thing he would do before he spent his last breath.


Noran, realising that it was time for him to leave, bowed to both men before retreating, closing the for behind him.


The Priest looked over the man that now stood before him, not anymore the small boy that had clung to his robes when his mother became sick. A man that looked absolutely furious - so much like his father.


‘I will not,’ Taren interrupted when Efgarad opened his mouth to reason.


Calmly, the Priest closed his mouth and smiled, his wrinkled face folding into pale flesh before he sighed, lowering his old bones onto the wooden chest of miscellaneous that Taren had at the foot of his bed, ‘It’s a good day,’ he managed, his voice low yet clear.


Taren bristled, and crossed his arms, a defensive mechanism against the man that had a special way with words, ‘It is a dreadful day… Lord Dubois has deceived me,’ he growled.


‘Deceived?’ Efgarad echoed, a small smile appearing on his thin lips as Taren’s temper flared once more. And the man strode up and down the room, mumbling threats and exclaiming that a false marriage was a false marriage and that this was deceit.


‘He will pay for this,’ Taren growled, pointing a finger at the Priest as if to prove a point, ‘How dare he deceive the McKellan’s, for generations we have been allies and now he has deceived me by giving me a daughter he did not tell me of!’


‘My Lord,’ Efgarad murmured, and calmly the old man pulled a scroll from the large sleeves of his purple robe. It was good parchment and the sigil of Galladhor was waxed upon its face, ‘Lord Dubois has told you of his daughter’.


Taren narrowed his eyes at the Priest as he calmly opened the scroll and cleared his throat. With a wrinkled finger he skimmed past the lines till he came upon the point he wished to make.


‘Though my daughter may seem unworthy and rough at first glance, her spirit is pure and her heart is strong. I am sure that you will come to be fond of her, as the people in my household have. I implore you to look deeper than the shallow surface of Mara’s figure, and see the woman that she is below’


The echoes of these last words seemed to hang in the room before Taren stormed over, grabbing the parchment before he rolled it out, his silver eyes scanning the letter with a frown.


‘The Lord Dubois has warned you for his daughter’s shortcomings, you were just too stubborn to read it,’ Priest Efgarard stood, threading his fingers behind his back, ‘I told the Maestro to tell you to read the letter but you dismissed him’.


Taren’s hands shook as his eyes moved through the letter, realising that he had been a fool to disregard the advice of his household before he crumpled up the letter and threw it across the room and into the small hearth that lit up momentarily as it was fed the piece of parchment, ‘You could’ve just told me’.


‘You would have dismissed it once more,’ Efgarad replied easily, ‘Now you must deal with the mistakes you have made’.


‘I am not running away from my duties,’ Taren replied, his eyes flashing dangerously, ‘What will I do with her? She is but a child. Her manners have been appalling up to date, I have seen her forced smile during the presentation of gifts. How can I take someone this ungrateful as my wife?’


The Priest sighed, realising that despite Taren’s maturing into the man he was now, there were still sides of him that clung to a childlike spirit, ‘You must do your duty and see her at the altar today, she is young and so are you. You have time to teach her the ways of a Lady, and with enough heart and sincerity she will one day understand’.


Taren breathed in through his nose before leaning his forehead against the brick wall of his room, conflict rising up in his head. The amount of conflicting emotions he had had to deal with today was enough to give him a splitting headache and he sighed, ‘Very well, I will see it through’.


‘I’d expected no less of you, my Lord,’ the Priest bowed, ‘I will see you at the altar’.


Taren squeezed his eyes shut, his hand moving in a languid flimsy way, dismissing the old man from his room to leave him in peace.


As the servants sat him onto the chair, Taren gave out a frustrated sigh. It was definitely not his idea of fun to be manhandled at the hands of women.


They cut a bit of his hair, shaved his jawline and rubbed the smell of the training grounds of his skin. They slid his clothes off; replacing them with attire that was fitting for a window.


The black shirt spanned over his broad shoulders and when he moved, his muscles bulged subtly. The silken material ran down his arms, loose to give him enough room for his biceps and forearms. The black shirt was closed by the base of his throat with a buttoned sapphire.


At the end of it, they draped upon his shoulders, a fur that was silvery white; something only to be used in such sacred events.


When Taren finally saw his reflection in the mirror he could hardly recognise the man that stood there. Though they had let him keep the unruly waves of his permanent bed hair, it looked less shaggy and the loss of the stubble made him look younger than before. He was twenty and three years to date and as he turned his face this way and that, he wondered how long he had lived with that gruff look. Perhaps when mother had died.


With a last look at the mirror and a narrowing of those silver grey eyes, Taren turned and made his way down the stairs.


The altar had been placed in the Great Hall of McKellan Castle. It was a large place which spanned long and wide with cathedral like windows, draped with the colours of his kin. Every curtain drape was a different colour and bore the sigil of the house which had sworn service to his Lord Father, and now, to him.


He had received their oaths the day he became Lord of McKellan and together with them he had watched the drapes of various houses rise again, offering some colour to the otherwise bleak hall.


The entire household had gathered here as well as some other Lords of the Houses that were important enough to be invited to witness the joining of two families.


Taren offered a stiff nod to anyone that greeted him as he made way for the altar with big strides.


Priest Efgarad was standing already, his eyes crinkling into a happy blue, ‘My Lord,’ he announced, bowing. He handed them the box and Taren opened it, staring at his mother’s ring.


A dark blue sapphire, ringed by beautiful diamonds upon a silver band. Taren sighed softly before closing the box then he turned and awaited the arrival of his bride to be.

 

[Scriven]

A quick peek through the door of the great hall revealed that people were assembled. Fortunately, included in the number was the groom-to-be, Lord van Bale. He was shaved and dressed splendidly for the occasion, though he didn’t look happy about it. Marion quietly closed the door and returned to Mara, who was standing there in a daze, looking out the window at the stars that were beginning to appear in the deep blue sky.


“It looks like everyone is ready,” Marion told her, taking the girl’s cold hand and leading her to the door.


“Where is my father?” Mara asked.


“You mean Lord Dubois? I’m afraid he couldn’t come.” The truth was, Lord Dubois hadn’t wanted to come. Mara was a daughter to him only by blood. Marion knew the matter was complicated and difficult for everyone involved, but it seemed that the Lord of Galladhor was going to have a tremendous weight lifted off his shoulders once Mara was gone. Of course, it would mean his household was empty of all his family. His four other daughters, lovingly raised, were married off and in their own households now. Regina and Meredith already had little ones of their own and May had one on the way.


“Lord Du-? No, my father. Renauld. Shouldn’t he be here to give me away?”


Marion squeezed Mara’s hand. “I’m sure he would like to be, but you know he can’t. People don’t recognize him as your father. You know that. It wouldn’t be fitting to have the stable master accompany you down the aisle.”


Mara’s mouth tightened into a frown at that and she looked ready to argue, but it seemed she couldn’t quite come up with the words. Good, the draught of Starfis was still working.


“Come. We can’t keep Lord van Bale waiting,” Marion urged.


“Who?” Mara asked, pale brows knitting together.


“Your husband to be, sweetling. Your beloved. Taren van Bale.”


“Taren van...” her voice drifted off.


“Van Bale,” Marion finished. “Come. I’m going to open the doors now, and you’re going to walk toward him and meet him at the altar. When you see him, give him a lovely smile, won’t you? He’s probably very nervous. Do you know what to say when the time comes?”


“I do,” Mara supplied and Marion nodded.


“Yes. Exactly.” She looked the young woman over one last time, checking to make sure everything was in place. Mara looked quite different. Marion and the other maids of Lord Dubois’ household were so used to seeing her running around in roughspun, her hair plaited and her face flushed from the cold or from running about. She always looked wild and unkempt and raw, but now she seemed so slight and soft, her presence almost ethereal. She was a beautiful bride. It was a shame that it was unlikely Mara would ever look so regal again. Marion had no doubt that once the Draught of Starfis wore off, the girl would be back to her wild ways. She just prayed it lasted through the wedding night. It would be a horrible shock for both Mara and Lord van Bale if her senses returned before the act was through.


Marion pushed the door open and gave Mara a little push in the right direction.


Who were all these people? Mara didn’t know any of them. Everyone was looking at her, which made her very uncomfortable. She so wished her father could be here, or her sisters. Regina’s presence had always been so calming. Regina would have known exactly what to do.


Her dark gaze drifted to the altar that had been placed at the other end of the long hall. The man standing up there seemed so far away. How many thousand steps would it take to reach him? She would never get there, she thought. She’d be walking forever and she’d never get to him.


Mara blinked and found that she was standing beside him. She looked back at the door which she had passed through. It was closed now and Marion was nowhere in sight. She focused her inquisitive gaze up at the man standing in front of her. She had to tilt her head back to look at him. He was quite handsome, but so deeply unhappy looking. Why did he look so cross? Didn’t he want to marry her? This was her beloved.


What was his name again?


“Taren,” she murmured, her lips moving to form the name but barely making a sound.


‘When you see him, give him a lovely smile,’ Marion had told her, so Mara complied, her lips pulling up into a soft, warm smile. His eyes were so clear, she thought. Clear as a stream, silver as a mirror, deep as the abyss, and so absolutely filled with some emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. She wished he would smile back at her, because suddenly she was feeling quite nervous too.


She barely heard the words the priest said, but finally it seemed to be her part. Her name drew her attention, but her eyes stayed locked on Taren van Bale, drawn hypnotically to him.


“Mara Eliane Dubois, do you take Taren van Bale, Lord of the Balen Valleys and keeper of McKellan castle to be your partner, loving what you know of him and trusting what you do not yet know?”


She said the words. They left her lips even though the world was a blur. She was anchored to it only by his steel-grey eyes.


“I do.”

 

[Ion]

Taren felt nervous, his hands felt sweaty, something that had never happened since he turned fifteen. Annoyed with himself, he rubbed his palms against his trousers and his eyes flitted towards the path down the Great Hall, and then, he stopped breathing.


The woman that appeared on the other side could not be the mongrel he had met in the courtyard. In fact, he felt the sudden need to slap himself.


The woman that appeared had starlit hair, silver blonde that glinted in the rising moonlight shone in through the cathedral like windows. Her eyes were bright yet hazed and as she came closer, Taren tried to calm his sudden excited heart.


When she finally stood next to him, he accidentally breathed in the clean washed scent that emanated from her now smooth skin and light hair. It smelled like pine and clean spring water, tinged with warmth. She smelled like home and with a pang he realised that that was what Mara Dubois would become; his home.


His father had once sat him down, coating one of his wounds he had sustained during his first hunting hunt personally. His father had looked at him, smiling despite his son’s wound. The hunting trip had lasted three days in pouring rain and Taren had taken after the first deer he had seen, determined to put an arrow through it and prove to his father that he was better than Roran or Keran. In his haste, he had managed to dig a dagger into the stag’s back and get dragged along with it until it threw him off, and charged him with its antlers.


His stupidity had slowed the animal down enough to be caught but it had also landed him a considerable wound by his ribcage and it had to be sewed.


They were to head home the day after, the Maestro would be able to check his wounds and the hunting trip was thus cut short.


‘I don’t want to go home,’ the twelve year old muttered darkly as he winced when his father tugged at the thread.


The Lord of McKellan laughed gruffly, ever the man of few words before generously applying the salve that had brought with them for such occasions. He applied it with rough fingers then bandaged his son, ‘Going home is no defeat, my boy. Your mother will be waiting’.


‘No, she won’t,’ Taren snapped back, ‘She won’t care even if I’d gotten a bloody antler stuck in my heart’.


His father stopped momentarily, shooting him a dark glare before sighing, ‘Your mother does care, my boy’.


Taren looked to the side, his jaw squared and locked. It was obvious he didn’t think anything of his mother’s concern.


‘Look at me, boy. Look at me,’ the Lord ordered and he shook his son’s face, making him face him with gruff hands, ‘Your mother is home, my boy’.


At the time, Taren had not understood but he could see the way his father’s eyes lit up when they spotted Lady Arina in the tower window, watching them come home. Though she was only there for a few heartbeats and disappeared soon after, the Lord of McKellan had galloped home faster than all the others.


As he looked at Mara now, he felt himself gulp and tried to ignore the twinkle in Priest Efgarad’s eyes.


He watched as she seemed to mouth his name, and then he wondered why he was staring at her lips in the first place. Surprise choked through his throat when Mara smiled, a smile that warmed his heart and he turned away from her.


What had happened to her?


She had been a forced underaged girl from the start, now she was a good scrubbed up, happy woman?


From the side of his eye, he glanced towards her again. She did look truly beautiful in that dress.


Now he understood what the Lord of Galladhor had talked of when he told him to ‘look beneath the surface’.


It was Priest Efgarad who drew him from his trance, ‘Taren Valen van Bale, do you take Mara Elaine Dubois, daughter of Lord Dubois of Galladhor to be your partner, loving what you known of her and trusting what you do not yet know?’


‘I do,’ he replied gruffly, the words came out tight and when the question was repeated to his bride to be, her answer surprised him.


‘I do,’ she said and he felt himself staring, wondering what had gotten into her in such a short time period? Despite her improved outside appearance, he felt himself wishing she had something more. She seemed hazed, abnormally docile, and uneasiness stirred in his chest.


As the Priest cleared his throat politely, Taren was shocked out of his reverie and he slid the box from his pocket. As he opened it, he felt a soft gasp from the women in the Great Hall. After all, since Lady Arina’s death, the beautiful jewel had only become a legend that was told to be worth only the purest of bonds.


After a year of their marriage, the Lady Arina had become closed but the Lord of McKellan had never stopped loving the woman he had chosen.


And neither would he.


He slid the ring upon her finger and distinctly heard the Priest say, ‘You are now wife and husband, partners till the end of time’.


Taren turned towards his new wife, and despite the harshness in his heart, it softened slightly. He had gained a new responsibility, something he was tied to by the Gods as well as to his own honour and duty.


The festivities and buffet carried on till the moon rose upon the clouds and lit up the sky. The stars sprinkled the dark night canvas and shone down upon this new bond. Inside the Dining Hall, Taren only had his mind on one thing.


His duty.


He fought against the unusual protection he now felt over his new wife. No doubt it had come from their marriage, but yet as he glanced at her from the side he felt another surge of abnormal protection. Taren gripped his knife and fork harder before he stood up, abruptly the music, jesters and conversations stopped.


‘I would like to retire tonight, please carry on,’ he announced before leaning down to grab Mara’s wrist. With a gentle tug and a soft smile that took quite some work to muster up he said, ‘Come on’.


The wedding room was dark but the servants lit the candles hurriedly as they saw Taren coming. Tall candles that lit upon the windows and a soft fire crackled in the hearth.


This room had belonged to his parents, and now it was his. The large four poster bed with silken curtains was perfect for privacy. There were cupboards, a huge tub for two and even a desk with all the equipment needed for a letter.


The bed was ready with sheets, a variation of different furs to keep one warm during the colder seasons that tended to befall the Valleys.


The servants bowed hurriedly when the couple appeared and excused themselves.


And Taren led Mara into his room, then he closed the door.


In the candlelight he looked at his bride to be and took in a deep breath.


Taren was no virgin, he had lost his when he was a lad of sixteen, to a woman that governed the Linder Taverns, a beautiful black haired temptress that had been more than willing to teach the youngest boy of McKellan a thing or two.


Not that he had been that active afterwards, Taren liked his privacy and despite the incessant nagging he received from his brothers and Noran, he refused to take a tavern wench back to the castle and give her the hope that she could one day be the Lady of McKellan.


He stepped towards Mara, hoping to show her with his silver grey eyes that he truly meant her no harm.


‘I understand this might not be what you want,’ he whispered, unable to stop his fingers from touching the silver blond strands that framed her face. He then proceeded to pull down her bride gown, ‘but you have been given to me as a wife, and this is the way’.


He let the gown pool to her feet before leading her to the bed and settling her down upon it, leaving her in her bedroom linens as he lay her down onto the soft furs. At the foot of the bed he stopped and let the fur upon his shoulders fall to the floor, the next to go was his shirt.


His torso revealed a string of scars - large and small - littered over his ribcage, pectorial muscles and the bulge of his arms. His abs were clearly defined, running down in between downward formed hipbones that dipped into the fabric of his trousers.


Slowly, Taren untied the strings that held the fabric together and that too fell to the ground, revealing him in his bedroom linens as well. The next that were to go were his shoes and then he lifted himself onto the bed.


The curtains were drawn and he leaned over his new wife, his hands sudden trembling; this wasn’t exactly what he had had in mind.


‘Mara,’ he tried, tasting her name upon his tongue and finding that it came rather awkward.


Silver grey eyes bore into her blue green orbs and he tried to fish her back out of whatever haze she was in, not wanting to consummate a marriage with someone who seemed a bit too complacent for a newly wed bride.

 

[Scriven]

The world was a mesmerizing, confusing blur. The priest and the altar melted away and music filled her ears. She was being led along by someone. She wasn’t entirely sure who- he was so male, so vital, yet she couldn’t seem to focus on anything but those lustrous sterling eyes. She felt the warmth of his hand guiding her along and allowed it, feeling more mellow and at ease than she could recall ever feeling before. This calm bliss was strange yet intoxicating.


Music surrounded her, mixing with the sound of voices and laughter, the clink of dishes and the clamor of silverware. Who were all these people? She recognized none among their number, yet they all smiled and grinned at her familiarly.


Mara’s head was beginning to pound. She had little in her stomach besides wine, but a plate was placed in front of her. She ate, the food making her feel better, laughing and smiling with the others. The man beside her remained, his presence steady and comforting, and she recalled that this was her wedding.


Her wedding? How was that possible? Yet here she was, dressed in soft velvet, an unfamiliar ring now heavy on her finger. She looked at the gem, then at the man beside her. Her mind reached with clumsy fingers for his name, her pale brows knit together into a deep frown as she gazed at him.


If this was her husband, why did he have the face of a stranger? This wasn’t right. None of this was right! Something was horribly, horribly wrong, yet no one seemed to realize it. Mara felt trapped inside her own body, her own mind. She was tearing at the walls, trying to get free from the stupor, but she couldn’t seem to break through, and it was so hard to concentrate.


Oh, his hand was awfully warm, wasn’t it? The feeling was quite pleasant. His palm was calloused and rough, but he touched her so delicately. It was a nice sort of contrast, she couldn't help but think. No, concentrate! her mind screamed, but she was slipping, losing control again. It was easier just to smile and enjoy the uncomplicated calm she felt.


Suddenly the hall went quiet. She heard a chair scrape against the floor and looked up to see the man beside her standing. All eyes were on him. He grabbed hold of her wrist, gently pulling her up out of her chair. Mara didn’t resist, following him from the silent, cavernous room. The warmth of his smile ought to have been comforting, yet she felt a sense of impending doom.


Through the strange castle she followed him. His steps were heavy and his strides long. She had to hurry, practically jogging, just to keep up with him. The paintings and tapestries were a dim blur and she knew she’d never find her way back on her own. Into a dark room they went, but candles were soon lit and her eyes adjusted. She stared at the big bed in the center of the room, feeling a shiver of dread. Her voice was choked back deep in her throat, made mute by confusion. The man before her was taking off her gown, letting it fall into a heap on the floor. She felt cold and exposed in the thin linen chemise and stockings, even though it covered her almost as fully as the gown.


She was led to the four post bed and pressed back against the furs. She watched with wide eyes as the large, dark haired man removed the heavy cloak from his broad shoulders, then took off the dark shirt that spanned his chest. He removed his trousers and his shoes, leaving him in his drawers, and somehow he was more terrifying like that than when he was magnificently appointed in silks and furs. Her mind was fighting desperately for control, her sanity trying to find some foothold.


This wasn’t right! She didn’t even know this man! She had never seen this smooth, handsome face before. His grey eyes were piercing and alert, searching for something. It was the eyes that reminded her. She did know this face, but not well. Not at all. This was the man who had stared at her with such loathing and disgust as he held the reins of a magnificent white mare. He was the lord of this place, Taren van Bale. He had been different then, Mara thought, trying to piece together the fuzzy remnants of memory. He had seemed older, rougher, but those silver eyes were just the same. Only now they didn’t stare at her with absolute loathing.


Everything seemed close and dark, making Mara realize that during her stupor the curtains around the bed had been drawn. Still, there was just enough light for her to see him. He leaned over her, suddenly far too close. He said her name, the sound strange from his lips.


She was able to see, in one horrible moment of clarity, precisely what had happened. This was her wretched wedding night, this man her wretched husband. Someone must have drugged her in order to subdue her, because she never would have said the vows of marriage to this man. Had this bastard been the one to lace her beverage with some strange substance? Was this all his doing?


And now he meant to steal her maidenhood! Her hand shot out, making sharp contact with his cheek. The blow seemed entirely too loud in the quiet room. “Get off of me!” she screamed at him, pulling her knees up to her chest and kicking out at him to get him off of her. She scrambled to get away, clawing at the bed to get as far from this beast as she could. Mara became tangled in the curtains that encompassed the bed in a warm cocoon. She heard a sharp rip as the curtains tore. She felt to the floor with a heavy thud, wrapped in the burdensome curtain panel.


“Don’t you dare touch me!”


She hurled the words at him like poison arrows, struggling to get free of the curtains and up to her feet. Her mind was still clouded, but her thoughts and her eyes were wild. Her carefully brushed hair was a halo around her face, charged with static from the furs. She balled her hands into fists, ready to fight this man, even though he was so much larger than she.

 

[Ion]

For a moment Taren saw a flash of recognition appear in his wife's eyes and then the triumphant moment ended. For the wench slapped him. True and hard, the blow struck his cheek and his head turned to the side, the pain pulsing and drumming over the skin of his jawline.


Even though he did not see, Taren felt Mara kick him away but he was a skilled fighter and quite easily three times the size of her and all her kicking did was make him straighten up from his hovering position.


He heard her scramble away as he placed a musing thumb upon his raw cheek and contemplated over what exactly had happened.


A slap.


The memory seemed to bring up so much more than he had intended to think about on his wedding night.


His mother had slapped him, the Lady Arina, when he went to see her. She was sick, as it was quite often so, and had slapped him with surprising strength when he started shooting his mouth over something he did not quite remember.


It had been an unpleasant affair, with much raging when the swevants pulled him from his mother's room. A screaming child that told her that she wasn't his mother and that she never would be.


A loud rip made Taren look towards his wife, she had managed to roll herself into the curtains she had just ripped and despite his insensitivity towards his mother Taren felt a stab of anger. Lady Arina had loved those curtains.


She threatened him and despite the absurdity and utterly crushing thing this situation was exercising upon his pride, Taren felt like laughing triumphantly.


For all the feeling of protection had disappeared and he had been right.


He watched her settle into a fighting stance and despite it all his interest was prickled.


'I knew you weren't some docile maiden,' he begun slowly, his hand dropping from his face as he turned to face her.


'I knew you were a mongrel from the start,' he let out a soft bitter chuckle, 'Don't know why you said yes though. You could've run and I would've let you,' his silver eyes narrowed upon the woman whose hair now looked once more like a crows nest.


'My advisors counseled me to take a wife, I hadn't though of looking into it. That was a mistake. If I had, it would've spared us both some trouble. I'd still be a free man and you,' his face turned disdainful, 'would probably still be out there, acting like an inconsiderate animal'.


Taren took a step towards her, formidable even if he was only in his drawers. He made sure to stay out of the way of her fists for he had no doubt the anger of a woman could hurt quite considerably despite their body ratio.


'But now we're married,' he growled out, a sound that filled the large room, 'now I can't get rid of you,' he continued, 'I only got you in the first place for one thing'.


Taren wasn't a cruel man by nature. Yet Mara's slap had truly sent him into a dark tunnel of blocked out memories. With the failure of the marriage piling on his temper flared and for once his calmly collected reasoning - fragile to begin with - was broken.


Quicker than an eye could follow he ducked under her hands and charged, flipping her onto his shoulder before dumping her unceremoniously on the bed.


His weight leaned against her legs so she could not kick and his hands kept hers pinned on the bed.


Taren's silver eyes darkened considerably as he turned to look at the shredded curtains, 'Those were my mother's,' he growled and despite it all a wash of sadness appeared into his eyes.


Distancing himself from the woman he might but blood could never be cut.


When he was just about ready to tear her clothes off, a bugle sounded and he sprang off her in a heartbeat.


That was a distress call.


In two long strides, Taren was by the window and he cursed under his breath.


His silver eyes had always been sharp and now they made out the dark movement of a force swarming over the Valleys. From below his beloved home was burning. Red flames dancing up into the night.


As if on cue, the door to their room opened and Noran was too much in a hurry to look around the room. He knelt to his knees and reported, 'My Lord, it is the Drak'han'.


Taren snarled, his fist coming down upon the wood of the windowpane and it shattered under his knuckles, drawing blood, 'They do not move unless provoked. What has happened?'


'They're moving way too coordinated for their savage like behavior. Someone is behind this,' Noran peered up at Taren, 'You must leave immediately. If you ride to Roran's castle right now, there might still be hope. Your brothers have the forces you need'.


A loud scream made them both snap up but it was Taren who peered down the courtyard. The Drak'han had slayed one of his servants. The one who always brought him breakfast.


'I will kill them all,' he growled, watched the dark leather skinned monster make its way to the Castle doors.


'They are too many,' Noran growled, watching as Taren slipped on the clothes he had shed.


Unceremoniously, Taren opened his closet and threw two shirts and some of his undersized trousers at Mara, 'Put them on'.

 

[Scriven]

Her palm tingled from slapping Taren van Bale, pins and needles pricking at her fingers. In the firelight she saw the white mark of her fingers appear on his smooth cheek, but within seconds the mark turned an angry shade of faint red. Remorse was a feeling Mara rarely experienced, and she certainly felt none now. Even in her confused, foggy-headed state, she was completely convinced this man deserved anything she could hurl at him.


“I knew you weren’t some docile maiden,” he told her, triumph in his tone.


“Congratulations, Lord van Bale. You were right,” she hissed back.


“I knew you were a mongrel from the start,” he continued. Mara glowered, but she kept her head held high. “Don't know why you said yes though. You could've run and I would've let you. My advisors counseled me to take a wife, I hadn't thought of looking into it. That was a mistake.” The expression on his face was truly awful: hate mixed with disdain and it was all aimed at her. These feelings were things she had little experience with. She understood Lord Dubois’ complicated misery and the pain that was reflected in his eyes each and every time he looked at her. She understood Renauld’s occasional embarrassment when she did something entirely inappropriate. She had never been met with such utter disdain though- not from her father or from Lord Dubois. Not from her four older sisters, nor the servants in Lord Dubois’ household who made up a strange sort of eclectic family for her. This was entirely new. This man’s feelings were so strong they were almost palpable. “If I had, it would've spared us both some trouble. I'd still be a free man and you would probably still be out there, acting like an inconsiderate animal.”


“An animal!” Mara exclaimed, her own anger inciting, her disdain matching his. “How dare you. You don’t know the first thing about me, you spoiled, arrogant... pretty-boy!”


As Taren van Bale took a steady stride toward her, Mara took a careful step back. She didn’t like the look in his eyes, and she liked what came out of his mouth next even less.


“But now we're married,” he growled at her, making the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand up in dread. “I only got you in the first place for one thing.”


“I am not your property,” she told him, taking another step backward. “And I will not let you... use me!”


She couldn’t even say the words, though she knew well enough what his intent was. He meant to complete their marriage and hopefully leave a seed that might grow into his heir. Mara knew it was a highborn woman’s duty, and yet all her life she had felt exempted from it. She hadn’t been raised as a lady in her father’s castle, so why should she have to conform to such obligations? She had never even considered that one day Lord Dubois might try to marry her off to some high-born lord or knight. He had certainly never mentioned such plans to her. Mara had always imagined that perhaps one day she would marry, but when she did it would no doubt be to a man she loved.


Taren van Bale looked well and truly ferocious. Despite the way she held herself, her back straight and her chin held high, Mara felt a shiver of fear and dread. How could she stop such a man if it really was his intent to have his way? She certainly couldn’t physically stop him, and no court in the land would defend her. He was, by all accounts, taking what was his. Despite her protests, she was his property now.


He moved quicker than she would have believed a man of his stature could, charging at her and ducking under her balled fists, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Her father had done just the same two days ago, she remembered, and she had been infuriated by the gesture then as well.


“Let. Go. Of. Me!” she shouted, pummeling his back with her fists, oddly conscious of his bare skin beneath her. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see the strong expanse of his back or the power in his arms. She wanted nothing to do with this cruel, handsome stranger.


He threw her down onto the bed, covering her with his body. Her eyes opened again and she looked up at him, wide-eyed, as he pinned her hands down to the bed above her head. His sterling eyes were serious and full of intent, but she saw no joy there: indeed, it seemed he was dreading this as much as she.


She was saved by the piercing trumpet of a bugle being blown from one of the nearby towers. Taren sprung off of her as quick as if she had burned him. He strode to the window and Mara pulled herself up, clambering to get off of the bed. Her head felt clearer now, she realized. Either the drug was wearing off or her distress had cut through the fog clouding her mind. Taren’s body blocked the window, making it impossible for Mara to see what he was seeing down below, but she saw the look in his eyes. Whatever he saw filled his gaze with angry intensity.


On the other side of the room, the door suddenly opened. There was no knock to warn them of his presence, making Mara quite glad that he hadn’t entered at a time when she might have had considerably less clothes on. Or perhaps not, she thought inwardly. Perhaps this beast that was her husband would have only yanked her underclothes up enough to perform the deed. Perhaps she was overimagining the whole thing, and when it did happen it would be a forgettable event that was over quickly. One could hope.


“My Lord, it is the Drak'han.”


“They do not move unless provoked. What has happened?”


“They're moving way too coordinated for their savage like behavior. Someone is behind this. You must leave immediately. If you ride to Roran's castle right now, there might still be hope. Your brothers have the forces you need.”


From down below in the courtyard, Mara heard a man’s gut wrenching scream. She looked down at her feet, willing herself to be strong.


“I will kill them all,” Taren growled, and Mara hoped he would. She could hear the screams, and she saw now the fire enveloping the town through his leaded glass window.


“They are too many,” Taren’s servant told him as he redressed. He pulled on his trousers and the splendid black shirt he had worn during the ceremony, then strode to his closet and pulled some things out, throwing them at her. She barely caught them, looking down at the shirt and men’s pants questioningly.


“Put them on,” he ordered her. Mara bristled.


“I do not take orders from you,” she told him, but then reconsidered. She paused. “But considering my alternatives, I’ll do it.” The velvet gown, while fine and beautiful, was not fit for riding and fleeing a horde of invading monsters. She took the clothes and darted to the other side of the bed, where the curtains that hung from the tall posts would offer her privacy from the eyes of Taren van Bale and his advisor. She pulled the trousers up over her legs and fastened them, finding them to be loose but workable. She had to take off her long sleeved chemise, which she dropped to the floor and replaced with one of Lord van Bale’s shirts. It seemed much too small for him, yet was still much too large on her. Still, better than running around in a wedding gown, she thought.


She put her stocking covered feet experimentally into a pair of Taren’s shoes, but they were like boats on her feet. Instead, she emerged from behind the curtain and slipped her feet back into the slippers she had worn under her velvet gown.


“I’m ready,” she told him, and she thought of the young woman that had traveled with her from Galadhor. She hoped Marion had fled the castle already and gone somewhere safe.

 

[Ion]

‘I do not take orders from you,’ his wife’s voice cut through the tension already in the room and Taren felt his temper bristle once more when Noran lifted a brow.


There were few who dared defy Taren van Bale but it seemed that his new wife would be one of them.


Just as Taren was about to snap at her the stubborn woman amended herself and moved behind the silken curtains of the bed.


He growled once at Noran’s questioning look, ‘Do not ask’.


The guard snapped his jaw shut with an audible sound before giving a grim smile, ‘Wasn’t planning on it, my Lord. What are your plans?’


‘I’m going to burn those assholes to the ground,’ Taren answered, his face turning dark, ‘Tell the servants to ready Mara’s horse, make a packet of food and a first aid kit just in case’.


Noran frowned once more, ‘That’s hardly enough for the two of you-‘


‘I’m not going with her,’ Taren replied, his eyes darkening visibly as Noran opened his mouth again. Seeing the look in his Lord’s eyes, Noran snapped his mouth shut once more and bowed before disappearing.


Taren looked to the side, watching his wife get ready. Despite the situation he felt a smile tug at his lips when she attempted to wear his shoes. When it didn’t fit she wore hers and then emerged looking like a scarecrow in way too big clothing, ‘I’m ready’.


After Taren had stepped into his shoes he opened the cupboard and draped the black fur over his shoulders. Then he flung the door open and without sparing a single glance back at his wife, strode down the hallway.


Taren van Bale had never hurried as he did now. His long legs were trying their hardest not to break into a run as he descended the stairs and strode across the Great Hall. People were already waiting for him, men that had stayed for the feast up on their feet.


They were well fed, albeit slightly drunk as they teetered upon their feet, swords in hand.


The servants were huddled in the corner, cloths bundled up in their shaking arms as they looked to one another, scared yet confident in the men of the household. Turning for the first time he grabbed Mara by the wrist and pulled her close behind him, muttering words from the corner of his mouth so quickly he could only hope she understood. There was no time to sit her down and tell her calmly, ‘Ride to your father, to Galladhor. Tell them the Drak’han have come for the Valleys, go as fast as you can. The bridge that connects our lands should still be open now, go before the notice you’re gone,’ he peered at her face shortly, imprinting the way her sterling hair framed her face and knew that he would probably not see her for a long time.


The Drak’han were monsters, men fabricated from other pieces - a sickened brotherhood which lived by the grace of dark magic. They would not die easily, and the number he had seen swarming down the valley would take several days or even moons to completely exterminate. Not to mention, they had coordination on their side this time instead of the usual brainless raids. Aye, this would be hard to exterminate.


With a short push he sent the woman into the crowd of the servants, ‘I have told Noran to saddle her horse, send Beatrice with her, I want her back in her father’s land’.


With a last look at the woman that had come into his life but a few hours ago, Taren forced himself to turn around and walk towards the crowd of men.


‘MCKELLAN!’ they shouted once they saw Taren emerge and the black fur cloaked individual cut through them like a knife through butter as he headed towards the double wooden doors. They had bolted them, but the loud cried of the Drak’han sounded through them.


A silence ensued before Taren turned around, facing his kin, hardly making out his newly wed wife who stood behind all these large great man - a line of friends wrought of generations, ‘My brothers!’ he roared, his voice echoing in the Great Hall, ‘Today you take your first stand as men of the North! Show me that your oaths were not of naught, and I will lead you to the fields of victory!’


Resounding roars of approval sounded and as Noran knelt before him, ‘My Lord, the mare is set. Your wife can be off in a heartbeat,’ he held out a bejewelled sheath upon his upheld hands.


Taren nodded shortly then looked towards the servants and gestured with his hand and the women started ushering Mara away to the stables.


Taking in a deep breath, Taren slid out the sword that was now his. A powerful thing named Illrain.


Then the bolts were lifted and he led the charge towards the monsters that stood before his door.


The moment Beatrice saw the Lady Mara, she bowed quickly and pointed towards the white mare, ‘Tora, Sarah, put tie the packages to the saddle. Lady Mara,’ she nodded, ‘my name is Beatrice, I am to accompany you to the Bridge of Fangray, then we shall ride towards Galladhor. Please,’ she gestured towards the white mare, ‘we must hurry’.


As Tora and Sarah had secured the packaged Beatrice jumped onto the chestnut before gesturing for Lady Mara, ‘My Lady this way!’


By now the skies had started a faint drizzle and Beatrice galloped towards the gates, waving at the men who were struggling to take the gates for them to pass.


A furious roar sounded and Beatrice looked aside, noticing Taren. ‘the beast’ was truly a fitting title. The man’s dark hair had plastered to his forehead, rain splattering with blood as he hacked the Drak’han as if they were made of dough. They kneeled below him one by one, tainting his black cloak red.


It was with sudden shock that Beatrice saw a Drak’han sink its dagger into Taren’s abdomen, the Lord of McKellan let out a furious roar that was more anger than pain. In the following moment he had slid the dagger out of his now bloodied torso and thrusted it up the jaw of the monster responsible. The tip of the dagger emerged from the skull of the black skinned demon before it fell and Taren carried on, his eyes full with rage.


As the two women stormed out the gate upon their horses a loud shout alerted Beatrice. There were Drak’han following them, they were on foot, since no animal would bear to have them on their back. But the monsters made it up with their speed.


They stormed through a short stretch of the Forest of Laingborn which was exceptionally large and covered the mountains that stretched to the East. Now, they stormed through the trees and Beatrice turned on her saddle, trained to be the sword maiden of McKellan.


She drew her bow and shot, managing to kill one Drak’han who got it in the centre of his forehead.


‘Ride my Lady!’ she shouted, urging the woman to go on faster as she fell behind her, trying to get rid of their pursuers.


As the bridge came into view, Beatrice’s eyes widened in despair. The Drak’han were already there, at the one place that connected the lands. What was below was a deep abyss, a long fall before you reached a river with jutting rocks and a current so strong none could survive.


An exceptionally large Drak’han with red marks printed upon the sides of his head held up a torch then let it come down upon the wooden structure.


‘NO!’ Beatrice roared, drawing her bow once more but this time it was too late, a black arrow dug itself into her shoulder and barely holding on to her horse, she watched them ride towards the burning bridge. The middle part had already fallen into the water below.


She watched the Lady’s mare neigh loudly, rising onto its hindlegs as the fire licked out at it then it turned, straight into the Forest of Laingborn. Three of the Drak’han followed her and Beatrice crashed from her horse.


And when she looked up in the snarling face of the monster who had shot her, she knew she had failed.


Taren only looked up when the white of Mara’s mare disappeared down to the Valleys. He caught but a glimpse of the silver white tail of the mare before it became naught.


His eyes trained upon the group of Drak’han chattering to each other before they started pursuing the women.


Unexplainable rage consumed his heart and in a spurt of anger he beheaded three Drak’han in one go before digging his hand into the opened gut of another, spilling its organs before spitting on its face when it fell.


‘My Lord,’ Noran panted from beside him, his childhood friend grinning though covered in blood, ‘you should go after her. Those Drak’han are no match for two women’.


Taren stared at his friend for a moment before Noran patted him on the shoulder and his grin widened, ‘We’ll handle it here’.


With a short nod, Taren stormed towards the stables and the black horse he had been given for his wedding neighed at him. The beast was large and strong, its hooves powerful as it kicked against the stable door - sensitive to the sounds of killing outside.


‘Let’s go,’ Taren muttered, saddling his mount before galloping after the woman that now belonged to him.


The first Drak’han that he had come across gave him hope, they had died, their eyes and skulls buried in the arrows that bore Beatrice’s colours.


It was when he saw the bridge burning in the distance that his heart stilled and stopped cold for a deadly moment. Upon a stake that had been set out in front of the burning bridge, Beatrice’s head was mounted. The redhead’s eyes were soulless and Taren’s fists balled in anger.


He forced himself to scan the rest of the area and when it came to nothing he came to the conclusion that Mara had probably fled the scene.


The bridge was blackening by now, surely it had to be burnt before they even arrived.


With a tug at his stallion, he charged into the Forest of Laingborn, hoping that his wife hadn’t been taken away from him on the first day of their marriage.

 

[Scriven]

He was a brave man, Mara would give him that, but fools were often brave.


Beatrice pointed her toward the white mare that Taren had presented to her earlier that day. It seemed a lifetime ago, she thought, striding toward the frightened animal. The mare shied away from her, prancing back with high knees.


“Shhh, it’s alright,” she soothed, approaching the horse with her hands held low. “It’s alright, sweetling. We’re going to get away from all this fighting.”


She laid her hand on the mare’s strong neck, stroking the soft white mane. The animal radiated warmth, reminding her of her own chill. Clad only in a pair of trousers and a tunic, she would freeze on her way to Galadhor, which was nestled in the mountains. It snowed half the year there, and for the other half it rained. She needed a cloak and gloves. A pair of boots would have been nice, but at least her silly, dainty wedding slippers would keep out some of the cold, and they were sturdily constructed.


Hanging from a hook in the stable was a man’s satchel and cloak. “I’m sorry,” she murmured even though the owner was nowhere around. “But I really need these right now.”


She threw the cloak on over her shoulders and fastened it at her throat, pulling the hood up over her head to shield her from the rain she saw beginning to fall beyond the sheltering roof of the stable. Inside the satchel she found a pair of much needed gloves, a small coin purse and a roll of parchment. She pulled the satchel over her head, letting the strap cross her chest so the bag could rest against her hip.


And there, resting against one of the stalls, was a sword and scabbard. She looked at it, feeling unsure, then grabbed it. She did not want to be unarmed when monsters were running amok. She had never handled a sword before, but she took it anyway.


Beatrice was hurrying her, so Mara slid her foot into the stirrup of the saddled mare and pulled herself up. The two women bolted toward the rising gate. She saw Beatrice’s gaze divert toward a group of men fighting, and there amongst the fray was Lord van Bale. He fought like an animal, she thought, slashing through the monsters with chaotic abandon. When he took a dagger in the stomach, Mara sucked in an audible gasp, sure she was about to witness the man fall. To her disbelief, he wrenched the blade from his own abdomen and used it to slay the monster who had dared to draw his blood. It fell at his feet, but Taran didn’t pause to enjoy his victory, nor to nurse his wound. He was moving forward, back in the fight.


Wrenching her eyes away from the bloody scene, Mara followed Beatrice through the gates and toward the forest. The mare below her galloped and she leaned into the wind, reins held tightly in her gloved hands. Several Drak’han were following them, moving with unbelievable speed in their direction. A few paces in front of her, Beatrice turned in the saddle to expertly shoot off an arrow, felling one of their ghastly pursuers.


The bridge was ahead of them, a deep chasm separating the surrounding lands of McKellan from the rest of the realm, including her home. A Drak’han had beat them there though, and he had a torch in his hands, which he used to set the wooden bridge ablaze. It burned to life, perhaps already prepared with pitch or oil to make the flames burn hotter. Mara’s horse gave a screaming neigh of terror, rearing. Mara clutched at the reins, holding onto the saddle tightly with her thighs so she wouldn’t be thrown. The horse pivoted, darting off toward the forest, ignoring its screaming rider.


“Beatrice!” she yelled, seeing the woman shot through with an arrow. “No, Beatrice!”


She pulled on the reins, trying to make the horse stop. She had to go back for the other woman, but the mare was terrified and no longer obeying her commands. The trees blocked her view, but she heard a gurgling scream, then a horrible, bone-splitting whack. A warm tear slid down her cold cheek, but she brushed it away with the back of her glove. There would be time for mourning later. She had to find another way to Galadhor now that the bridge was in flames.


One of the large, black monsters appeared before her. Its leathery skin was rough, and though shaped like a man, there was no doubt it was not. Great fangs protruded from its snout-like mouth, yellow eyes focused on her. The monster crouched, powerful legs preparing it to spring right at her. Her mare reared again, and though she clung on, the monster grabbed hold of her by the back of her cloak and wrenched her to the muddy ground. Mara rolled, jarred from the fall, her head ringing with an instant headache. She was hanging onto the sheathed sword with all her might, and she pulled it now from her scabbard, backing away from the monster. The sword was too heavy, her grip on it awkward, but she held it determinedly in front of her.


The Drak’han made a deep, buckling sound that seemed almost like a laugh as it moved toward her. It lowered down onto all fours for a moment, then charged at her. It seemed it was going to charge right into her sword, but at the last moment it darted left, leaping up to attack her from her unprotected side. Mara screamed, turning with the sword clutched desperately in her hands. The tip of her sword sliced into the chest of the monster, but it was a shallow wound that seemed to do nothing but amuse it. It made that horrible deep chuckling again, then said something in a tongue she didn’t understand. It reached toward her, picking her up by her throat. It lifted her up off the ground, her legs dangling helplessly, her grip on the sword becoming lax as the monster squeezed. She couldn’t breath and the world was turning black around the edges.


“S-stop,” she choked out, and with the very last of her strength she drew the sword high up over her head. She didn’t have the strength to swing it back down though, because it felt like her windpipe was being crushed. The sword fell from her fingers. The blade cut the monster’s cheek and the heavy hilt hit him in the face. The impact was enough to jar him and he dropped Mara back into the mud. She scrambled for the sword, jamming it upward as the beast fell on her. It became impaled, its tar-like blood dripping down the length of the sword and coating her pale, shaking hands. It fell sideways, twitching futilely as a dark pool formed around it. Finally the twitching stopped.


Mara coughed, rubbing her throat where her windpipe had almost been crushed. When she caught her breath, she turned to the monster and pulled the sword from its belly. It was luck and luck alone that had saved her, but by the gods, if she lived through this she was going to learn to defend herself .


Her horse was nowhere in sight, she realized with growing despair. On her horse had been her supplies. Now she had only the satchel hanging across her chest, the clothes on her shivering figure, and the heavy sword in her hands. Galladhor was two days ride on horseback. She prayed she could find the mare her husband had given to her.


Her husband, she thought with an odd sensation. What had become of the man? Did he still live, or had he fallen to one of the wretched Drak'han? I don't care what becomes of him, she thought, but it wasn't entirely true. She did not like him and she certainly didn't love him, but part of her hoped he was alive and that he would make it through this night.

 

[Ion]

Taren was riding, ignoring the drops of ice that seemed to scar his face like spears. He had to find her. By the Gods, why did he have to receive a responsibility like her today? Out of all the days the Gods could have chosen.


Yet she was his responsibility and he was to be blamed if harm befell her.


Determined not to let another death fall upon his hands today, Taren set his heels into the stallion who neighed in response but continued galloping, faster this time.


It was the sight of the white mare that caught it's attention. It's coat was shining but damp and Taren leapt off his horse, blocking the mare's way so that it reared at the sudden man that appeared before her.


'Shhhh,' Taren tried, slowly wrapping his fingers around the reins, 'It's ok beauty, it's ok,' he rubbed his hands over her neck and let the mare calm down before reaching a hand over to touch upon the saddle - warm.


With a soft groan, he hoisted himself back onto the stallion and wrapping the mare's reins around his hand, continued upon his search.


When he saw a body amongst the sheet of rain Taren leapt from his horse once again, this time with desperation.


Drak'han.


Examining it closer Taren noticed it had a deep wound, opening up its belly and he touched his fingers to it, 'Sword,' he whispered.


The Drak'han didn't use swords so that would mean...


In the pouring rain his silver grey eyes peered, not daring to call out for Mara if there were still Drak'han around. Leading the horses with him, Taren decided to use his scouting skills.


He had never been a good scout. Keran and Roran had made sure their youngest brother knew that. They had once convinced him there was a large bear up ahead. A deadly thing that would surely make father proud if he caught it. So Taren had gotten to work.


What he found was far from a bear. It had been Brent, one of his father's best friends as well as the largest man he had ever seen. His brothers had roared with laughter after and he had been enraged and humiliated. Afterwards though, he had laughed too.


Now he put the skills to test.


What Taren found was not Mara but the two stray Drak'han that had been following the Lady of McKellan from a distance. They were waiting for her to grow tired and cold, then they would move in.


At the sight of the monsters, Taren felt himself lose all sense.


He had just seen the death of Beatrice - a woman that had once played an active part in his life - at the hands of their kinds. They were raiding his people and looking for his wife.


Illrain was drawn and the Drak'han charged when they saw the Lord of McKellan.


Taren roared in the Forest of Laingborn, before he swung.


The Drak'han jumped up, using teamwork - a tactic Taren had never observed before from the brainless creatures - and Taren was taken at a disadvantage.


They were fast, strong and there were two of them so Taren let his fur cloak fall to the ground and moved his arms.


The first creature growled before attacking him, ready to dig it's talons into his forearm but Taren pulled away at the right time - neatly cutting off a piece of creatures ear.


It howled in pain and the second charged. It managed to attach itself onto Taren's shoulders and quickly Taren let go of his sword. Both hands reaching backwards to grab the creatures dark stringy hair. He pulled with an angry snarl and the creature was yanked off, scraping it's nail up Taren's back and ripping his shirt.


Taren was about to stamp on the creatures face when the first one appeared once more and charged him.


Taren fell to the wet forest ground and scrambled for his sword but found to his dismay that Illrain was out of reach.


He got up instead and waited.


The fight had been ended quickly when the creatures moved away and Taren got back his sword.


He beheaded both of them before retrieving his cloak from the forest ground.


Despite his best efforts, he had not come away unscathed and the Drak'han were poisonous by nature.


His wounds hurt and he remembered the first aid kit that the servants were to give to Mara. He was just about to reach for the mare's saddle when he was reminded that his wife was still out there and maybe she needed more than he did.


She had killed a Drak'han though and despite his general discontent towards her he felt slight pride. A woman of McKellan indeed.


It was when he led the horses across the corpses of the monsters when he noticed something.


Both had a green symbol tattooed to their arm. Something he had seen somewhere before.


It was then that he heard rustling and he turned, sword drawn until he saw Mara.


The first thing he did was check her over.


‘Are you okay?’ he growled, shaking her before he noticed the sword in her hands. Taren shook his head, not even wanting to ask her where she'd gotten that from. Besides, it was not the time.


He checked her again before a loud rumble above them sounded and noting her cold skin he slid off the fur cloak and bundled it around her before lifting her into the mare's saddle. A kindness that went undetected by the man himself.


He rode them out to the spot of a cave he thought he had seen in the area a few years ago on another hunting trip. True to memory, there it was.


It was cavernous and as they led the horses in, Taren sprang off the stallion before hissing in pain.


The stupid monster had managed to open his back up. The wounds already looked blackish. The wound on his abdomen and slices on his cheek were also painful.


He helped Mara from her saddle before tying the horses up somewhere near.


‘We can't build a fire,’ he muttered darkly, peering out at the pouring rain, ‘All the wood is bloody wet’.


Though the impending stress was piling on as to how his men were doing back at the McKellan Castle. His wounds were starting to fester. Another reasons why he loathed the Drak’han.


As Taren reached for the pouch attached to the mare he turned to look at Mara, ‘Will you be alright with just the cloak?’


He pulled out the first aid supplies and took his wet shirt off. Leaning against the wall of the cave he started treating himself, sewing and bandaging when it seemed fit.


The cuts on his face and back were ignored since he couldn't get to them yet they hurt and Taren was far too stubborn to ask for help.

 

[Scriven]

She hadn’t known that more Drak’han stalked her. Looking back now from the relative safety in the dim cavern, Mara knew that Taren van Bale had saved her life. He really was a brave man, and a selfless one too. He had come after her and saved her, even though she had given him no reason to. By all accounts, Taren would have been better off without her. Who could blame him if during a Drak’han raid on McKellan his wife fled and was never seen again? She would have been presumed dead and the marriage annulled. He could have taken another wife- one who wasn’t a mongrel. One who wasn’t an animal, as he’d called her.


So perhaps she still did not like the man. He was anything but charming and she hadn’t wanted this marriage in the first place. Still. Maybe he wasn’t quite as awful as she had originally believed.


As she had searched for her horse, more Drak’han had followed. They hadn’t attacked, which was unusual for the monsters. Few Drak’han wandered so far into the mountains as to reach her home in Galadhor, but every once in a while one of the horrible beasts appeared. They were ferocious and quick, but they lacked any cunning. The Drak’han weren’t even considered to be as clever as wolves, for they rarely worked together. They lived to eat and any flesh was fair game, even the flesh of man. The Drak’han didn’t plan though. They didn’t lie in wait for their prey. If they had the urge for meat, they acted on it instantly.


The ones following her hadn’t. They had stalked her, watching from a distance as the rain poured down, soaking through her cloak and making her blonde hair stick to her pale cheeks. They had waited for her to tire and lose hope. They would have soon won if Teran hadn’t appeared.


The sound of his sword had alerted Mara to his presence. She had watched through the rain as he fought two of them at once. His voice had pierced the forest, his savage roar sending birds to wing. She watched, paralyzed, as one assaulted him, knocking his sword from his hand. She had run toward him, moving out of instinct. She had no great plan in mind, and gods knew she probably couldn’t save him, but she also couldn’t stand by and watch as he was killed and devoured by monsters.


He hadn’t needed her though. By the time she made it to him the battle was through, the Drak’han slain at his feet. He was bleeding and injured, yet his concern was for her. Her heart had lodged itself in her throat, making it impossible to speak when he lightly picked her up and set her on her horse. She hadn’t even said thank you, she thought, watching him now on the other side of the cavern as he bandaged himself up.


When he turned a little, Mara saw the thin black threads of poison spreading from the wound along his back. “Taren!” she exclaimed in shock, crossing to him. “Your back! Turn around so I can see it.”


She reached up, her hands firmly on his shoulders, and turned him around so that the faint moonlight could illuminate the broad expanse of his strong back. The man was covered in scars, she realized, running her finger along a jagged trail across one of his shoulder blades. It was long since healed though; the open wound from the Drak’han was her immediate concern. The monster’s poison was infecting him. Though the mark of it’s claw was long, it wasn’t incredibly deep. That wasn’t the troubling part though. What really troubled Mara was the black wisps of poison that emanated out from the wound.


“You need a healer,” she breathed. His injuries were so far beyond what she could handle with basic first aid. “The monster’s poison is spreading already. If the poison gets to your heart, you’ll...” her words drifted off and she shook her head, unable to finish. There was no need. “Let me clean the wound for you,” she told him solemnly. “I’ll be right back.”


She took one of the clean rags from the first aid kit and walked toward the mouth of the cavern. She had no water flask to wet her rag, but she didn’t need it. The rain was pure and clean, and it came down heavily now. She held her hand out, letting the rag soak up the falling moisture, then went back into the cave.


“Sit down,” she told him firmly. “I can barely reach you if you’re standing.” When Taren complied, Mara carefully began to wash his wound. Perhaps this was doing no good, she thought. The injury was already festering, but she couldn’t stand there and do nothing.


“Thank you,” she told him after a moment, carefully dabbing at his back. “You’re a sodding fool for taking so many of them on, but... Well, I’d be dead now if it weren’t for you, so you have my gratitude.”

 

[Ion]

At Mara’s sudden shout, Taren’s muscles flexed and he turned around. Ready to fight off any creature that dared to approach them now. He was already in a foul mood and if they came he would kill them.


Yet instead it was his name that Mara shouted out and suddenly he felt her small hands upon his skin. His muscles did not relax, instead, they coiled harder under his wife’s touch. When she traced a finger along a particular scar he had received on one of his duels he shivered, it had been a deep horrible cut that had managed to paralyse his shoulder for a week. Now it was healed, and the man that had delivered the blow to him was laying somewhere under the Bridge of Fanglorn with a cracked skull.


‘I know,’ he growled, wincing as his wounds hurt him again but despite her protests a bitter laugh erupted from him, ‘We have no healer. In this weather and with Drak’han swarming around, it would be suicide trying to get back to the Castle’.


She was worried, it seemed and Taren pondered whether this was what it felt like to be cared for. The Lady Arina had not displayed any form of worry for her youngest son and now, Taren felt, this was a woman’s touch. A different perspective and much more different compared to the rough male caring that came with pats upon the back and the gripping of the back of his neck.


Her fingers were soft and when she announced to be right back his head snapped up in horror, ready to protest against the horrid idea of her leaving under these circumstances.


It was then that he saw she was going for the saddle of the mare. In moments he saw her retrieve a cloth and proceeded to drench it in rainwater.


When she came back she instructed him to sit down and Taren stood still for a moment, ready to debate that she was in no position to tell him what to do but as if his body protested, the wound on his back made him hiss in pain and reluctantly, Taren sat onto a low jutting rock on the cave floor.


‘Thank you,’ she said suddenly, ‘You’re a sodding fool for taking so many of them on, but... Well, I’d be dead now if it weren’t for you, so you have my gratitude’.


Stunned silence ensued before Taren growled out in pain when she accidentally pressed too hard. Flashing silver eyes peered over his shoulder and Taren tried his best not to snap at the woman who was trying to help him. Instead of a simple ‘you’re welcome’ he muttered under his breath, ‘You’re my responsibility now, what kind of husband would I be if I let my wife be slaughtered by Drak’han?’


Taren watched the rain pour outside, thin sheets of glassy beads that bounced off the floor of the cave and wetness it until the coldness swept in, the night was proceeding - the sky inky black.


The Forest of Laingborn was silent and Taren turned to his wife who had managed to bandage his back up, the white fabric running over his muscled torso and back around his wounds. In slow movements he sat up straight and stood up, ignoring the dull ache that still resonated from his back, ‘We’ll have to sleep here for tonight, the rain doesn't look like it’ll stop soon’.


Taren untied the horses and led them deeper into the cave, away from the downpour that was happening just outside. Lightning and thunder rumbled, angry at each other once more and Taren methodically started unsaddling their mounts. There was a thin blanket upon the mare’s saddle and he slid it out, grimacing when it seemed far too small for the both of them.


He turned to look at Mara, his eyes softening a fraction in the darkness of the cave before walking towards her.


With an unknown gentleness, he led her deeper into the caves, by the horses and took his fur cloak from her.


With a soft chuckle he grinned at her, a boyish one that let one see the sliver of the childlike spirit that had been hidden too deep within him, ‘You look like a drowned rat’.


Before she could protest - as he knew she would - he draped the blanket over her, covering her wet hair before he bundled the fur cloak back around her so she looked like a walking pillar of fur. With quick movements, Taren tied her in, making sure she would be warm for the night before he walked back towards the entrance to retrieve the shirt he had slid off when Mara cleaned his wounds more thoroughly. Though it was wet and ripped by the talons of the creatures he wrung the rain water out, which was mixed with a tinge of tar and blood. Then he slid it back over his head and walked back towards his wife.


He clucked his tongue at the horses, making them neigh in soft response before they knelt, a trick he had learnt from Keran. With a gesture of his finger Taren jerked his chin at Mara, ‘Sleep in between them, it’ll be warmer’.


Then Taren turned and walked back towards the entrance of the cave, sitting down upon the same stone he had sat on before and pulled Illrain back out.


The sword gleamed in the pearl sheet of the rain, even though it was coated with the tar-like blood of the Drak’han. Taren set to cleaning it, his silver eyes peering out at the horrendous weather outside - daring any Drak’han to come into this place. He was to stand guard tonight, despite the heaviness that fell upon his eyelids.


He had fought Drak’han before but he had underestimated them - never thinking they would work together.


And as he fought against the drowsiness that his wounds were forcing him to feel, Taren remembered.


It had been a hot summer night and the young Taren aged but five could not sleep.


He had kicked all the furs to the ground and his window was wide open, but he could still not fall into the arms of sleep. So he crawled up, rolling from the bed and towards the window, silver eyes peering out at the courtyard before.


It was already too late for the servants to be up but from a distance he made out an approaching horseman. They were cloaked, and the horse was a chestnut that shone nearly red in the dark. It came through to the courtyard, the guards didn’t even turn to look and Taren frowned.


An infiltrator.


Having his first sense of adventure the five year old tip toed down the stairs, eager to catch this figure unseen and show everyone that he wasn’t just a child.


He was hiding behind the banister of the staircase when he saw his Lord father, nightgown on but a sword to his side and a face of storm. He opened the doors and in stepped the cloaked figure yet when the hood was pulled back it was a woman.


A woman with red hair and eyes so sparkling green, they resembled the purest of Lakes. Yet she looked cruel and she stepped towards his father, her eyes roaming over the Great Hall, ‘Valen’.


‘Do not call my name so casually,’ his father bristled, a hand setting upon the hilt of his sword; Banegul.


The woman tsked, ‘I’ve come to make sure you’re enjoying your married life’.


‘Don’t ever come here again,’ Lord Valen interrupted, taking a step towards the redheaded woman, ‘You’re a witch Xera, I won’t have you within ten feet of any of my kin’.


‘I thought you loved me,’ the woman named Xera exclaimed, her face mocking before it turned so dark and so cold.


Taren wrapped his small arms around himself as he watched the Great Hall cloud over with dark, as if shadows were covering the walls then as quickly as it had come it was gone again and Xera flipped her hair, ‘I shall have my revenge, Valen. You will pay for what you did to me’.


‘I did not do anything,’ Valen exclaimed, gesturing towards the door, ‘You will not touch any of mine as long as I live’.


Leaning forward to watch the strange woman leave, Taren slipped and he bounded off the stairs until he came to a painful stop on the flagstones of the Great Hall.


With rough hands he was pulled against his father and he clung to his thigh, widened silver eyes looking up at the snarling face of the woman. From his height he saw a green mark on her wrist but within moments it was hid under her sleeve and her green eyes burned into his forehead.


‘Your kin will suffer the day you are not of this world,’ Xera sneered, her green eyes focusing on Valen.


‘Off with you,’ the Lord snarled, hiding his youngest son behind him and from her view.


The green mark…


Taren blinked, surely… it could not be.

 

[Scriven]

Taren tensed rigidly when she touched him, making Mara pause. His revulsion of her was evident, but she found herself glad of it. In the comfort of his castle, he had been about to embark upon the task of consummating their marriage, which he clearly hadn’t relished. The horde of Drak’han had disrupted them, and it seemed that out here at least, with the death of his people and the attack of his home heavy on his shoulders, Taren would make no attempt that night to finish what he had started.


Mara was glad. Though he had saved her life, Taren van Bale was little more than a stranger to her. He was a terrifying stranger; one who detested her and had called her a host of horrible things.


“I know,” he growled menacingly at her. “We have no healer. In this weather and with Drak’han swarming around, it would be suicide trying to get back to the Castle.”


Behind him Mara scowled. “I just meant this is beyond my abilities. But it makes no matter. I don’t care if you die,” she told him hotly. “I never wanted any part of you.”


It was a terrible, cruel thing to say, but it had come out of her lips, poisonous as his wound. The bandaging was done and she stepped away from him, her arms crossed under her chest. She strode away, over to her coward of a horse. She saw from the corner of her eye that her beast of a husband had taken sentinel at the mouth of the cavern, watching the sheets of rain pour. A white bolt of lightning split the black, starless sky, momentarily making it bright as day. She saw clearly the strain on his face, the troubled look in his deep grey eyes, but then the cave was black again and Taren was only a shadow- a black form against a black backing.


His fur cloak hung from her shoulders, swallowing her up in damp warmth. She felt so confused by his cruelty and kindness, which seemed to come in dizzying turns. At their first meeting he had stared at her so wrathfully. It had been clear to all that he wanted as little to do with her as she did with him. Yet even through her hazy memory, she could recall the expression on his face as he had said his marriage vows to her. He hadn’t seemed angry or resentful of her then. Then again, she had been made docile by the effects of whatever drug had been administered. Was that what he wanted? Some docile, quiet wife? And had Taren been the one to drug her?


Surely it had been. Despite his hatred of her, he stood to gain a great many connections through Lord Dubois, and perhaps there was a pretty little dowry involved somewhere. Surely Taren had drugged her so that she would be compliant and not embarrass him in front of all those who swore fealty to him. The bastard! Let the damned poison take him, she thought.


His sudden presence surprised her. He herded her deeper into the caves, giving her no chance to protest, then pulled his fur cloak from her shoulders. “Good,” she hissed at him. “I didn’t want it anyway. It reeks of you, you know.”


Taren dropped a horse blanket down over her shoulders, rendering her speechless, then put the cloak back over her. “I said I didn’t want it!” she insisted as he tried to tie it around her. “Listen to me, damnit!”


She wrenched the fur off of her, hurling it at him. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Lord van Bale, but I want nothing to do with your games. Just keep your hands off of me! And if you ever slip something into my drink again to bend my will, I swear to the gods above I will slit your throat. With my fingernails if I have to.”

 

[Ion]

When the first light finally peeked over the canopy of the trees, Taren watched the water drops fall from the tips of every leaf. Like tear drops, the weeping face of women and children after thunder and lightning were done with their fight in the heavens. It was a shining day, though grey clouds still lined the horizon and the red streak of the sky pulled itself over the sky, Taren felt better than yesterday.


He stood up and walked back towards Mara, who sat in between the horses, looking to be asleep.


Taren’s fists balled together, trying to remind himself that it was definitely not right to argue with a child, yet hit one. She had been an absolute bitch yesterday, he really had no other word for it. Her attitude had been downright disgusting.


His eyes turned to the cloak, which lay on the floor, lonely and discarded before sniffing. After she had pulled it from her shoulders and thrown it at him, accusing him of things he hadn’t heard of, he had just turned and walked. The day’s events had been tiring, resting upon his shoulders alike the heaviest weight he had ever felt. And fighting with the stupid woman would’ve only wasted his precious energy.


With a soft cluck, he made the horses stand, before kicking at Mara’s slippered feet, ‘Wake up,’ he grunted.


He left his wife to arise herself before leading the horses to the entrance of the cave. Quickly, he saddled them, making sure to go back and pull the horse blanket from the ungrateful wench before rolling it up and stuffing it back under the mare’s saddle.


Though his back and thighs hurt, Taren swung back onto the stallion with surprising agility before calling over his shoulder, ‘I’m leaving, you better hurry or you’ll be left alone. And this time,’ he looked past his shoulder, the glare of his silver grey eyes evident in the morning air, ‘I won’t come save your ungrateful arse’.


In fear of more Drak’han on the road, Taren moved along the hidden forest path - only known by the men of the Valleys who used this way to hunt unexpected animals.


He rolled his neck and took in a deep breath, the sudden memory he had yesterday was still weighing upon his mind. Though it seemed quite far fetched. How fat was the chance that that exact red headed woman had orchestrated this attack on his home?


As the two rode through the morning to the Castle of McKellan, Taren pulled his horse to a stop when they managed to catch a glimpse of the Valley. Rage consumed him so fast he nearly forgot the spreading poison in his body.


His home was a broken box of toys.


The Valley which had once filled with farmlands, laughing and the drilling of town’s folk was now smoking in the morning air. Every house was blackened and ashen, and even from this far the littering of bodies upon the ground was evident. They were nearly all naked, here and there piles of corpses had been made and the smell of the dead filled the air in a pregnant silence.


With a bellowing angered roar, Taren dug his heels deep into the stallion and he charged down the hill, towards the Castle.


The Castle of McKellan, once a regal and proud structure, looked like a haunted place.


From upon the gates, spears had been thrusted, each bearing the head of people Taren knew. Servants, maids, allies that had fought by his side just yesterday.


As he stormed through the gates and jumped from his horse, his silver eyes swept the courtyard. The ground was a darkened crimson and when he stepped upon the mud, blood oozed out in pulses. The opened frightful eyes of the corpses seemed to follow the Lord of McKellan’s every move as he walked past them and moved towards the Great Hall.


More corpses greeted him, a mixture of friends and foe. At the other side of the throne room, Taren saw something that urged him into a run.


When he saw who it was, he kneeled down and pulled the man towards him.


Priest Efgarad was hardly breathing, his wrinkled face now in pain instead of the happiness he had displayed on Taren’s wedding day. Blood was trickling over his face, his head nearly red and Taren peered down at him, anger and sadness climbing into a soft spiral of heat up and down his spine.


‘My Lord,’ the Priest managed to cough and Taren wiped his bleeding mouth corners with his fingers.


‘You’ll be fine,’ he muttered, his arms already wrapping around the frail man to move him towards safety.


‘My boy,’ Efgarad hissed, placing a skeletal hand upon his large bicep, ‘it is too late for me’.


‘It’s not,’ Taren growled, feeling the heat of tears prickle at his eyes.


The Priest managed a smile, ‘Promise me’.


‘What? Anything,’ Taren answered, desperation clinging to his words.


Efgarad looked past his shoulder, ‘Leave aside your pride and protect her’.


With a quick turn of his head, Taren looked past his shoulder, locking eyes with Mara who was now standing in the Great Hall. Feeling a hot tear run down his cheek, Taren looked back at the Priest, knowing it wasn’t the time to argue with a dying man.


The Priest smiled, ‘Remember what I said’.


‘I promise,’ Taren whispered, his shoulders hunching over as the old man’s body grew slightly heavier.


He was gone.


With soft wails, Taren held the old man to his chest, and rocked upon his knees until the world fell away.


Taren gathered everything he could find. Food, clothing, as much weapons as he could carry - bundling them into the saddle bags of the horses.


A quick scurry over the Maestro’s medicine cabinet he swept whatever he could find into another bag, deeming that enough to deal with any situation they would have along the way.


‘I’m taking you to your father,’ Taren growled as he walked past Mara, stuffing more things into the saddlebags, ‘I don’t want you with me, I’m going to find the bastard who did this and gut him slowly until he doesn’t want to live anymore’.


Taren’s eyes had never been so dark as now, the silver had nearly dimmed to an enraged grey that hardly saw anything but the path in front of him. A path full of revenge.


Pulling a map from the wall of the scout’s cabin, he rolled it up and stuffed it into the sleeve of his new shirt before walking through the Castle one more time.


All the memories of the place, gone in one go. No people, no nothing.


He found everyone’s corpses, closing their eyes and whispering a soft prayer. He took down all the spears he could find, pulling the heads of his beloved people from its points. Yet he did not find Noran’s corpse, his best friend had probably found a way to escape - at least, he could only hope so.


As Taren swung a leg back onto the saddle, he did not look back once as he left the gates of the place he had once called home.


Taren kept his gaze peering straight ahead as his horse made its way through the villages that had once been under his protection. And he had left them, for what? For her?


A bitter taste entered his mouth as he urged his horse faster, wanting to put more distance between that woman and himself.


It was the stirring of a dark figure that caught his eye and in a sudden movement, Taren slid from his horse, putting his finger to his lips before he snuck into one burnt down house.


At the sight of the Drak’han he growled in rage and charged.


The dark skinned creature had not been any problem to subdue. Taren had vicious anger on his side and the moment he sent his kneecap into the creature’s face before gutting it in a quick move - keeping it on the brink of life as he pulled it out of the confines of the house.


He tied the creature to the pillars of a burnt down house, strapping four of its limbs into a widespread style, quite like a Drak’han spider web before he flicked out the silver dagger from his thigh.


‘Listen,’ he hissed, stepping forward to the creature who flinched away from the angry man, ‘I know you understand me,’ Taren growled, ‘You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, or I’m going to let you die the slow way,’ with a calm demeanour, Taren slid his dagger blade over the creature’s leather dark bicep, adding pressure with every inch. Soon enough, the blade cut into its skin like butter and Taren kept on slicing until he was sure he had cut through its muscle. The creature struggled and gurgled like an animal, and then Taren waited, ready to torture the stupid thing more if it refused his orders.


He had forgotten about the delicacies of a female, and how Mara might respond to this form of torture.


Taren, was finally at his breaking point.

 

[Scriven]

The valley spread out below them, once fertile and bustling with activity, now razed by fire. Cottages were reduced to barely smoldering stumps of wooden framework and charred, collapsed stone. Stray goats and chickens were the only living things. Horses had been butchered, the people of the town stripped of their clothing and thrown into piles. Their bleeding, sagging bodies made Mara gasp and gag. She had never seen such horrors before. If last night had been a nightmare, then today was truly Hell. What else could this be?


Taren rode ahead of her, stiff backed and exuding rage. She didn’t dare spur her horse forward to join him. There was no comfort to be had in each other’s arms. He was a hateful stranger and she seemed to be nothing but a burden to him now. Last night when she had hurled his cloak back at him, Taren had only turned away, anger and hatred in his eyes. She had laid there awake for hours, stewing in her anger. If she had been able to rage at him, maybe then some of the terrible energy would have been spent, but Mara’s feelings were now pent up to the point of exploding.


They rode through the town, Mara made dizzy and sick by the massacre. The castle of McKellan, if possible, was even more horrible to lay eyes upon. Severed heads were mounted on spikes and spears, a gruesome decoration before the castle’s gates. She had never heard tales of Drak’han doing such heinous deeds. They were monsters to be sure, but little more than animals. Animals didn’t do... this.


Inside the castle, Mara watched as Taren keened over the body of an old man- the priest who had married them, she realized, though she didn’t approach. This was a private sort of grief, she thought, and didn’t intrude upon it. Instead, Mara quietly turned, leaving her husband alone. She roamed the castle, trying to find and simultaneously hoping she wouldn’t, the body of Marianne. She didn’t, though she did find the room the two girls had shared upon coming to McKellan. She entered the room, finding it oddly undisturbed. She closed the door quietly behind her, then sunk down to the ground and hugged her knees.


She wished for the release that would come with tears, but none would come. She was still in shock, horribly numb and unable to fully comprehend everything that had happened and that she was seeing. She laid her head on her knees and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. The shirt she wore smelled unfamiliar, she thought. These clothes smelled like Taren, not like her. She whipped off the too-large garments and found her trunk at the foot of the bed, changing into her own clothes. She put on a simple, faded red dress and a long sleeved linen chemise beneath it, then found her boots and slipped them on. She packed a small bag, leaving the room to find Taren again.


He was raiding the maestro’s cabinet, gathering supplies. Mara had done the same. Her bag was packed and a quiver of arrows hung across her back. A dagger was sheathed at her hip and a bow was in one hand. The cloak she had found in the stable was over her shoulders. Her long hair was braided to get it out of her way. She looked plain and every inch the commoner, as she usually did. Her blue green eyes held the same intensity as before though.


“I’m taking you to your father. I don’t want you with me, I’m going to find the bastard who did this and gut him slowly until he doesn’t want to live anymore.”


“Good,” Mara replied evenly, and the two of them left together. Leagues seemed to separate them, even when she rode beside him.


They rode through several small hamlets and villages that morning. All were the same- ravaged and burned, with mutilated bodies lying dead in the streets. How had this happened? How were there even enough Drak’han for such a wide attack? There were Drak’han casualties too, and there seemed to be no end to the bodies.


Her eyes were drawn by the movement. Taren, a few paces in front of her, dismounted and engaged a lone Drak’han. It was barely a fight for the man, who seemed berserk in his anger. When Mara saw him lash the monster to the smoldering stumps of a destroyed cottage, she quickly jumped down from her horse. Her boots sunk into the mud and she ran to him. Taren sliced his knife through the monster’s leg.


“Taren!” she cried out, grasping for one of his arms. “What are you doing? Stop this!”


The monster was howling in pain, She felt no sympathy for it, but this was senseless violence. Taren’s actions were needless and cruel. The Drak’han couldn’t answer him- it hadn’t the intelligence nor ability. “There’s no point to this, Taren. Finish it and let’s be gone! I don’t want to see more violence today. There’s been more than enough for a lifetime.”

 

[Ion]

Taren was about to gut the creature that had brought his home to pieces when a hand was laid upon his arm. He looked down at her, as if shocked, as if he had forgotten of the woman that was travelling with him. His silver eyes followed her dirty hands, up her arm to her panicked face. She thought him cruel - it was clear in her eyes.


Taren growled savagely, ripping his arm from her grasp and turned to her, nailing the Drak’han to the wooden column of the house with his dagger through the thing’s shoulder blade.


‘You know nothing Mara of Galladhor. You know naught of what this thing has done to my people!’ he roared, his arms opening wide, ‘I used to play here, I used to know every nook and cranny, every face smeared with dirt. He burnt it down, do not lecture me of what point there is to be made in death. Is there a point for their death?’ he pointed a finger towards the pile of bodies that lay just a few feet away. Children were amongst them, their small limbs flailed and their eyes unseeing.


Taren’s chest heaved, anger surging through his veins before he closed his eyes. His body was trembling with everything that had happened. A part of him wished this wasn’t real, wished that he was just dreaming about all that had happened. Yet it was all true.


Everything was gone.


Gritting his jaw, he turned to the creature once more, pulling his dagger from the creature’s body and it fell to the floor like a sack of dirt. With a clean swipe, it was beheaded and Taren kicked the headless torso body with one boot before he started stripping it.


It was when he saw the green mark upon its back that he stopped.


‘You might want to look away, my lady,’ he hissed at Mara before bending down and pulling out his carving knife.


In a few quick movements - as if he were skinning a deer - Taren had skinned the Drak’han. Holding up its scaly back skin where upon the green mark was etched. It was a mark of three peaks, the middle one being the tallest and under the make believe mountains was an eye. A green eye.


Taren rolled it up before looking up at Mara, he eyed the satchel upon her before he pulled her to him, ‘Carry this for me,’ he growled, ‘until I find parchment’.


He opened her satchel and stuffed the piece of skin inside roughly before closing it once more and gripped it with his long rough fingers as he stared into the eyes of his wife, ‘I know you don’t like doing anything for me, Mara of Galladhor. But do me this one thing and carry this thing until I can find a way to save it - it is the only key to finding who has done this to the land of my ancestors’.


With those words, he walked away, sheathing his knives back into their places by his thighs before he swung onto his horse, ‘We ride for Galladhor’.


The days ticked by slowly, too slowly for Taren’s taste.


Every day they inched over the mountains, each day they came closer to the Land of Galladhor yet Taren felt that they were going the wrong way.


It was on this particular day, where the weather was cold and the wind was strong that his fingers gripped the reins of his horse hard. He had made a promise to the wretched woman that he would bring her back to her father before he went forth with his journey. Yet he had withheld something from her.


If the green mark was indeed that of the witch. He would not be her only target.


Every one of his brothers would be slaughtered… as well as the families of their wives. As well as Mara’s family.


He looked past his shoulder at his wife, his eyes narrowing. She probably didn’t know that her family was in danger too. The naive thing.


He snorted, urging his horse back into a trot as they moved over the hill.


Here, the air was colder and it became harder for the horses to move. Stones jutted out, stones that crumbled away under the weight of their hooves. One slip and they would die.


Taren halted the black steed, waiting for Mara’s horse to catch up before grabbing upon her reins when she passed. Without a word, he tied their saddles together with the spare rope that he had found the other day in his saddlebag. Probably something that had stayed in their from the last time he went out hunting.


‘Just in case,’ he grumbled, refusing to look at her face as he performed an intricate knot, ‘wouldn’t want you falling off the cliff,’ he continued, a small smirk tinging his lips when he realised how comical that would be.


Maybe it would teach the annoying woman a thing or two.