Heart of a Lion 3/7 : Last Chance (Part II)

Autumn 379. A sequence of events from Bascombe Keep, Astolat – told in many tales.

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Geraint snapped awake as a small sound penetrated the fog about his brain – his name, spoken very softly. He blinked. Had he fallen asleep? How much time had passed?

“I’m here,” he said gruffly, trying to focus.

“Geraint,” she said again, very softly. And in that moment he realised two things, almost simultaneously.

The first was that he did not think he had ever heard her say his name like that, bare of any title, as it was when he had first started out in life.
It terrified him – though suddenly not as much for what she had said as the way she had said it: very softly, on a gasp, as though she barely had the breath.

For it led to the second realisation: Heidi was dying.

Her breathing was very, very shallow, barely there; her skin was ashen and in her eyes, still bright with fever, he saw the effort it was taking to draw even such sparse breath.

“Heidi.” His tone held a warning. “Wait for Seren.”

A single, despairing note came from her lips – it was clear she could manage no more. A tear ran down her cheek.

“He’ll be here any moment,” he assured her, slipping off his chair and kneeling beside the bed. He folded down the nearest fur to get to her hand and enclosed it in both of his. It was freezing, despite the bedding; her fingers stiff in his, icy and barely responsive to his touch.
Like holding the hand of a corpse.

Her breath was rasping now, as though she could no longer get the air she needed.

“Please,” he said, throat tight. Tears blurred his vision even as fear gripped his heart with fingers as cold as the ones he held between his palms. “Just wait for Seren. Just like last time. All will be well.”

She looked at him for a long moment, pausing so long between breaths that he wondered whether she would take another.

Then, with an effort that showed in her pale face, she raised the hand that he was not gripping and gently brushed the moisture from his face, even as more spilled on to her fingers.
She smiled; and there was a tenderness in it that he had never seen in her before. It was as though she was saying goodbye.

“No.” Geraint snatched her other hand in his and steeled himself, drawing everything he had into the core of his being, knowing he had one chance to help her and one chance only. One last chance, just like the last time.

He tried not to remember that the last time he had taken such action the man he loved had died anyway. This was different. All would be well.

“No,” he repeated. “Heidi, look at me.”

Her eyes met his – he could see she was fading but still trying to hold on. Her grip on his was weakening by the second.

“I am your Earl,” he told her firmly. “You are a member of House Cordraco – you cannot go while we have need of you. We have a dragon to slay and two men to avenge. We have a name to make. We have a house to form. I need you there, with me, however you are with me. Stay with me.”

It was, as it had been last time, like being kicked in the chest by an ox. He closed his eyes as the surge went through him, propelled almost physically into her body.

There was a second of nothing.
Then he heard her take a deep, gasping breath.
He opened his eyes.

Heidi was looking back at him, dazed.

Exhausted, Geraint slumped to the floor beside the bed, back against the wall, his hand still in hers. There were more tears on his face – but he lacked the strength even to brush them aside.

Above him, Heidi’s breathing was slightly easier, though her flesh no cooler.
He did not know how long it would last. He had to hope he had bought them enough time.

He sat there for what seemed like hours, steeped in regret, holding her hand and feeling every pained breath as though it came from his own chest.

Until at last, when he had almost lost hope, the sound of swift footsteps on the stairs brought him scrambling to his feet.

“Seren.”

The tall knight scowled at him as he entered, hands already at the square leather box pouch that he wore about his waist.

He moved to the bed, deftly examining Heidi, whose eyes opened momentarily, lids sluggish.

“What have you done to her, Geraint? I sent her to you less than a week ago – is this how you treat your yeomen? Did I not say she was to rest?”

“I…” Geraint was lost for words. “I sent for you as soon as I realised…”

“I was hunting,” Seren snapped. “It took them some time to find me. And in the meantime…” He threw the fur off her and pulled back the covers. “Are you trying to stifle her to death? Can you not see she is burning with fever?”

“She was cold…Her room was freezing. I was trying to keep her warm.”

Seren was shaking his head despairingly.”You have not an ounce of your sister’s intelligence,” snarled the older man. “And at this point I’m not going to stipulate which sister.”

Geraint gritted his teeth. “Say what you like,” he said quietly. “Just save her.”

“Go and fetch me some hot water for an infusion of willow-bark – and a bowl of cold water and cloths for bathing.” Seren had unclipped his pouch and was selecting herbs. “We need to break the fever. Then she may live.”

She may live. It did not sound as though he was certain at all.
Geraint tried to block the thought from his mind. He would bring water. He would follow instructions. All would be well.

The alternative was not one he could bring himself to consider.

*

A shaft of sunlight falling directly into his face woke Geraint. He was lying on his bed, face down, on top of one of Stefan’s furs. He turned his head to the other side and saw Heidi, covered lightly in blankets, sleeping on her back across from him.
Her breathing was more regular now, her skin less flushed.

He disentangled a hand from the bedding and laid the back of it gently across her cheek. At last, the fever had broken; her skin was warm to the touch but did not burn as it had before.

As he withdrew his arm, she opened her eyes; and for a moment, they just looked at each other, in the calm after all that had gone before.

Then, gradually, a dawning of what looked very like horror crept into her face.
Slowly, she sat up, looking around her, eyes widening. “Sweet virtues…”

He knew, of course, what she was thinking. “No,” he said hastily, also rising to a sitting position.

“My lord…?”

“No, Heidi.” He suppressed a grin at the look on her face. “I fell asleep. That is all.”

She nodded slowly, letting out her breath in a sigh of relief. “But…This is your bed…”

“What was I to do? Leave you in that freezing cupboard? I had no idea you lived like that.”

“Why would you, my lord?” Clearly exhausted even by this short exchange, she slumped back against the pillows.

“Well,” he said, shrugging. “I have ordered new quarters be prepared for you. The Castellan of Bascombe Keep needs a bed of her own, at least.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Two days.”

She repeated this wonderingly. “Earl Seren…I remember something…”

“He was here. He still is, somewhere. He tended to you.”

She looked closely at him, as if struggling to recall events through the mists of fever and despair. “And…you…tended to me, my lord.” She looked down at the bed, at the covers surrounding her. At her hands lying on the furs.

“I merely supervised, I assure you.”

Slowly, she nodded. It was clear that, though perplexed, she knew otherwise.

He wondered if she remembered the way she had laid her cheek against his chest, as if finally she had begun to trust him.
The way she had brushed the tears from his face when she was moments from death.

Her hand was at the lion pendant again now, playing idly with it, as though she was used to its presence.

“You are still wearing that?” he asked gruffly.

She frowned momentarily, then her fingers stilled upon it as she understood..
“I haven’t taken it off since you gave it to me.” She paused. “I…I told you that at the tea party – do you not remember? I…asked whether you wanted it back.”

Geraint could not think of anything he wanted less.
And he could not name the feeling in his chest when he looked at her, his personal sigil hanging heavily about her neck, chain lying against the red slash where he had almost ended her life.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?” he asked her; and he could not quite keep the edge out of his voice. “Did you not think I would give you time to rest?”

“You were….” She paused. “Things have been…different, since I got back…And…there was so much to do…”

“I was drunk? Is that what you are trying so hard not to say?”

She nodded, not meeting his eyes.

He shook his head in disbelief. “And if I was? When have you ever needed permission to do anything, ever before? You do as you like to manage me, yet you cannot care for yourself? You almost died, Heidi!”

She shook her head wonderingly at this. “Again.”

Geraint gritted his teeth as the memory of his squire lying at his feet, covered in blood, rose up to meet him. “Again,” he said shortly.

She saw the pain in his face and it gave her pause. “My lord, I didn’t mean to…”

“It doesn’t matter.” He held up a hand, rings glinting in the sunlight. “I’ll ask Will to bring you some breakfast.”

Heidi threw him a puzzled look.

“What?” He frowned, relief and lack of sleep making him irritable. “You think I don’t know the names of my own servants?”

“I..”

“And there is to be no more of this…running around organising everything,” he added.”You are to follow Earl Seren’s instructions – I do not expect to see you out of bed for a fortnight.”

Heid looked at him levelly, something between disbelief, amusement and gratitude in her eyes. “The servants will talk, my lord, if I do not leave your bed for two weeks.”

He signed. “You will move to your own chamber, of course, when it is ready.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. Breakfast, then.”

He reached the door, then turned, because he could not do otherwise.

“Who is Leah?”

Heidi’s eyes widened. “She..she was my lady…my mistress…when I lived with Lord Edward. I have…told you about her before, I think.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Hm. I had forgot her name.”

She was very still, watching him almost warily. “Why do you ask?”

“You were asking for her these last two nights.”

“Oh.” She dropped her eyes. “Was I?”

“Mm. At times.” He moved back into the room, watching her avoid his gaze. “You were in love with her?”

What colour there was in her face left it. “In…love with her, my lord?”

Geraint smiled. “I know you do not think much of my powers of observation, Heidi. But even I know that it means something when one person calls out the name of another in such circumstances.”

“I thought you said I asked for her?”

He shrugged. “It was a little more than that.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Is it worth it? Love?”

“You’re not the first person to ask me that,” he said, trying to keep his voice light but knowing, after everything, she could see through him. “I’m beginning to think I’m not a very good advocate for it.”

She smiled slightly, still waiting for an answer.

Again, Geraint shrugged. “I don’t think I ever want to do it again,” he told her. “But I cannot say that I regret any part of it. And it is not something I would deny you, if you have a chance of finding it.”

“Myself and Lady Leah are best apart,” Heidi said softly.

Geraint nodded. “I was thinking, perhaps, that there may be a chance for you with someone else. I noticed that you spent much time with Magda at the party…”

Heidi looked down again, clasping her hands together as she took a deep breath.

“I think myself and Lady Magdelena are best apart, as well,” she said softly.

Geraint frowned. “She gave you earrings,” he said. “You were most pleased with them.”

“Yes.” It was so quiet as to almost be inaudible. A single tear ran down her face and the sight of it pulled oddly at Geraint, filling him with an ache that he did not understand.

“Then, why…?”

Just for a moment, she looked up at him – and the pain in her gaze was one he recognised.

“Please, my lord. Not today.”

Her tone was soft, but it spoke to him of disappointment and resignation, more so even that the tears on her cheeks. Whatever decision she had come to was against her own happiness; that was plain to see, even for him.

Her eyes said that she was not offended by his question, that she understood why he asked. That she would tell him, perhaps, when she was stronger.

But not today.

“Breakfast,” he said, and left her in peace.

Heart of a Lion 2/7 : Last Chance (Part I)

Autumn 379. A sequence of events from Bascombe Keep, Astolat – told in many tales.

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No wine. As usual. Geraint, teeth clenched, pushed his chair back from his writing desk and peered into the all too evidently empty jug.

“Heidi!”

Nothing.

Geraint closed his eyes. His head was pounding. As usual he had not slept, for the dreams remained as vivid as ever.

Even seeing her whole at the tea party had not dispelled them. The sight of the livid scar running across her neck where his blade had passed had rendered him speechless at the time and continued to do so every time he thought about it.

Every time he saw it now it still caused a jolt deep within him.

“Heidi!”

And now no wine. Again.

Since her return to his household the wine cellar remained locked and she had kept the supply strictly limited, as though she were the master of Bascombe Keep and not Geraint himself. No matter how many pouches of those ridiculous purple flowers she hung up around his bed, nothing helped him to sleep like wine did.

And now, it appeared, the supply had dried up altogether. Furious at the very thought, Geraint banged the metal jug back down upon his table, strode across the room, threw open his chamber door and roared:

“HEIDI!”

Silence.

His voice echoed down the corridor, thrown back at him by unyielding stone.

Nothing. No hurrying footsteps or swishing of the skirts he was finally starting to get used to.

Where was she?

He slumped impatiently against the wall and tried to remember when he had last seen her.

He had not seen her this morning.

But then he had risen late after lying awake half the night, and he had assumed she was already about whatever household task she seemed to enjoy so much these days.

She had attended him at dinner last night…he definitely remembered her chastising him for something…and encouraging Cherubina in her interminable chatter about ribbons and Sarvosian velvet…

Or had that been the night before?

Geraint frowned. It was not that he was avoiding his squire, he told himself. It was just that she was so busy with her tasks and he was so busy…Well, he had matters to attend to.

Besides, now that he needed her she was clearly the one avoiding him.

Well, enough was enough.

Geraint pushed himself off the wall and headed for the kitchen. He was not entirely sure where it was but going in a downwards direction seemed like it would be fruitful.

As it was, he got no further than the great hall before he stumbled upon a servant, a boy just on the cusp of manhood, sandy hair flopping in his eyes as he knelt to sweep out the enormous grate.

“You!” Geraint strode up the boy, who looked up, eyes wide, as his new Earl bore down upon him. “Where is Heidi?”

“I…I don’t know, my lord.”

“You don’t know? Isn’t she in charge of you people now?” Geraint scowled at him, crossing his arms.

“We…” the young man looked around wildly for help, found none, and shrugged apologetically. “We haven’t seen her, my Lord, not today.”

“What do you mean you haven’t seen her?”

“Well….she retired early yesterday…and there’s no answer when we knock on her door…Could be she’s gone on an errand and forgot to tell anyone, my lord.”

Geraint froze.

Had she returned to Seren? This is what he had feared, ever since she came home – that she would change her mind. She had assured him that she would run his household – that she did not want to go back. And now she had just disappeared? What could Seren offer her that he could not?

“What do you mean, no answer?” he asked, frown deepening.

The boy was sweating now. “Well, I mean…when we knock-”

“Yes, I had grasped that,” snapped Geraint. “Have you searched her chamber? Are her things still there?”

The boy stared up at him, more uncomfortable than ever.

“Well?”

“My lord…the door is locked…we wouldn’t want to intrude…”

“And who is taking account of what I want?” Geraint’s head came up as something occurred to him. “Did she leave the cellar key with anyone?”

“I…Not that I know of, my lord…”

“Right.” Spurred into action, Geraint gestured to the door. “Take me to her chamber.”

He followed the boy as he scurried along corridors, occasionally shooting a nervous glance back over his shoulder to check the Earl was following. When they eventually came to a plain wooden door in a part of the keep that Geraint was sure he had never been to, the boy stopped, pivoted, and nodded his head at it.

“This is her chamber, my lord.”

“Good. Stay,” he added, for it seemed his reluctant guide was about to flee.

Drawing back his arm, he pounded several times upon the wood, causing the young servant to jump at the sound.

“Heidi!”

Silence. Geraint had just raised his fist to knock again, when a tiny sound reached him from behind the door, pulling at his memory.

“Heidi?”

Again, the softest of sounds, barely audible through the wood. Something between a gasp and a moan; a sound that spoke of pain in every note of it.

The same sound she had made weeks ago, as she lay before him, her life force bleeding into the ground.

Geraint rounded on the servant. “I thought you said she wasn’t in there?”

“She…I…” The boy looked stricken.

“Never mind. Stand back.”

Geraint took a few steps backwards, then threw his full weight at the door. The quality of the wood and the evident damp in the air rendered it much weaker than the cellar door – it yielded to his shoulder as the latch broke off the inside with an audible metallic snap, catapulting him into the room as the door hit the wall beside it with a bang.

Then silence.

The first thing he noticed was how cold it was. The tiny fireplace bore the ashes of a fire that looked like it had been dead for many hours and his breath misted in the air before him as he stood, motionless, taking in the cramped space, the single table and chair, the neat wooden chest pushed against one wall.

The pallet against the other wall; and the small figure huddled upon it.

“Heidi?”

Geraint went forward, breath suddenly catching in his chest.

She lay on her side, breathing fast and shallow, curled into herself as though seeking warmth. One hand was clenched around the edge of two thin blankets that covered her, clearly doing nothing to dispel the bitter cold that was causing her whole body to tremble. The other clutched at her chest, white knuckled.

Geraint put out a hand to touch her cheek – and the heat of her flesh burned into his fingers, making him pull back, instinctively looking behind him for assistance.

“My lord…?” Behind him, the boy crept forward, awaiting instructions.

“Get Seraph…” The first two syllables of his eldest sister’s name were in the air before Geraint realised she would not be able to help him.

He paused, knowing who he would have to ask and knowing what the consequence would be. “Send someone to fetch Earl Seren,” he amended over his shoulder. “Tell him to hurry.”

He turned back to his squire as the boy’s running footsteps faded away down the corridor. Her eyes remained closed, lashes dark against cheeks that were unnaturally flushed.

“Heidi?” Again, he touched her cheek, brushing the damp hair back from her face.

Her eyes opened, dazed and unfocused and she made that sound again, very softly, as they closed again.

Geraint’s brows drew together as he moved closer, aligning his face with hers. How had she become so ill so quickly? She had been fine yesterday…hadn’t she…? He remembered a cough, now he focused his mind; and he had thought it was odd that she was breathless after climbing only a few stairs when she brought him wine…when had that been? How long had she been here, alone, with no fire and no one to tend her?

He covered the hand that lay on her chest with his own, surprised at how cold it was when the rest of her body was giving off a heat he could feel from where he crouched.

It was only then that he realised she was gripping something – a chain round her neck, the pendant held tight in her fierce grasp. A wave of nausea went through him as he realised what it was.

His silver lion. Had she been wearing it all this time? He did not know how she could bear to have it near her, after what had come to pass.

He uncurled her grip from the unyielding metal and pushed his own fingers against her palm, holding her hand in his, trying to warm her or comfort her, he knew not which.

Heidi gave a jolt as the pendant left her hand and her eyes flew open, focusing on him this time.

She took him in silently for a long second – then her face crumpled into anguish and, still gazing up at him, she pressed the hand he was not holding hard against her left side, as if trying to keep something in.

As she turned her head the hair fell away from her neck and the scar caught his eye. It was red and angry still, a deep slash across the smooth skin of her neck; seeing it was the same as always, like the stab of a blade through his own flesh.

“Heidi?”

“My lord…” Tears were in her eyes. “You have to go.”

“Go where?” Confused, he followed her hand to where it was flattened against her nightgown, under her ribs. Had the wound there somehow opened, after all this time? Why did it seem as though she was in pain?

“No, please…” She snatched his hands away, holding them in hers for a moment and staring at her fingers gripping his. “Oh, Virtues…”

“What is it? Heidi?”

“Is that all my blood?”  Agonised eyes searched his face, her lips trembling.

“There’s…so much…”

“I don’t understand,” he said helplessly, looking down at their entwined hands. “There’s no blood, Heidi.”

She let go of him and pressed both palms to her side now, silent tears running down her cheeks. “He isn’t coming, is he?”

“Who?” Geraint was becoming unnerved – she seemed outside of herself somehow, eyes too bright and skin beaded with perspiration.

“Seren.” The word ended on a sob that became a cough; she curled back into herself as the harsh sound tore through her, one fist pressed to her mouth.

He watched her fight to catch her breath after it was done; he could not remember the last time he had felt so helpless. Or rather, he remembered exactly, and could not believe he was here again so soon.

“Please, just leave me.” Her hands clutched at his tunic now, pushing at him ineffectively. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “It’s not…your fault…You had to do it…Your father…You have nothing to regret.”

Then he understood. The blood, Seren, his father.

She was back there, in her mind. On the ground after he had struck her down, bleeding to death while he watched.

“He’s coming,” he told her, though it no longer seemed as though she could hear. Her eyes had closed again and she was shivering, her breath rasping through trembling lips.

She could not stay here, on this pallet that soaked up the cold from the flagstones beneath. She would freeze to death as surely as if she still lay upon that ground.

Gently, Geraint knelt and eased his hand under her, gathering her body to him. He curved his left arm about her back, drawing her, unresisting, up off the pallet.

She made a small sound of distress as he settled her head against his shoulder, eyes briefly flickering open and then closing again.

He crooked his right arm behind her knees and then, blankets and all, he lifted her from the crude mattress, her long braids swinging out behind her as he rose cautiously to his feet.

She was lighter than he had imagined and he was filled with shame suddenly, that he had not noticed how brittle she had become.

Not wanted to notice, if he was honest with himself.

As he straightened up she shifted slightly, angling herself into him and turning her face into his chest, one hand coming to rest with her palm against the neck of his tunic. Her skin burned with fever where it touched his.

For a moment, before he was able to gain control over himself, Geraint could only stand, arms tightening about her, awash with emotions: guilt, shame, dread that she could be seriously ill, anger that he had not known or noticed.

Above all, fear.

That he had used up all his chances again; that he would have to watch her die, again.

He shook his head silently, as if steeling himself. He could not allow it.

She would be made warm and attended to – she would recover. All would be well.

He did not have to consider further where to take her; he thought only of the healthy fire that was always alight in his chamber – and the Wintermark furs upon his bed.

He made his way as swiftly as he dared, Heidi occasionally making a murmur of pain but nothing more, her fingers gripping his tunic now, holding on.

The scent of lavender rose from her hair – a scent he was well acquainted with after she had filled the castle with the small purple blooms. Magda had told him what they were called at the tea party…it seemed weeks ago now, not days.

At last, he got her there. The door of his room was ajar and he kicked it open further, turning his body and guiding Heidi gently inside, where the air was warmed by the blaze in his hearth.

Angela rose from the window seat; welcoming smile already faltering as she took in the woman in his arms – it was clear she had been waiting for him.

“Get out,” he said flatly as she opened her mouth to greet him, or perhaps enquire what was happening – he did not care which, he just wanted her gone.

Confusion flashed across her fine features but he did not have to tell her twice. She inclined her head, jaw set, and swept from the room.

Geraint was already at the bed, sweeping back the covers with one hand and, gently, lowering Heidi into the soft mattress.

She stirred as she left his arms, brows furrowing as if she missed his warmth; eyes opening again, very briefly.

He pulled the bedding up over her, averting his eyes from the scar and from her body in the thin nightgown she wore, covering her deftly, tucking several blankets around her and placing one of Stefan’s furs on top. He needed to make sure she was warm – then she would be well. All would be well.

After she was covered he stood, looking down at her, not knowing what to do next.

“Geraint?”

When he turned Cherubina was hovering in the doorway, fringe falling in her eyes.

“What do you want?” He could not imagine what use his sister could be at a time like this.

“Will said Heidi was unwell.”

“Who?”

She rolled her eyes. “The scullery maid? He took you to Heidi? He’s worked here since he was ten, Geraint.”

He shrugged dismissively, but she was already moving past him, dismay crossing her features as she knelt at the bedside.

“Heidi?”

“Cherubina, leave her – can you not see she is too ill to converse?”

His sister was not listening, too busy stroking Heidi’s hair and fussing with the blankets.

“She’s so hot,” she said, looking round in dismay.

“She has a fever,” he said shortly, “I’ve sent someone for Seren.”

“She didn’t look well at all yesterday,” his sister said mournfully, tears in her large blue-grey eyes. “I thought she was going to faint at dinner – when I asked her she said she was just tired. Didn’t you think she looked ill then Geraint?”

“I cannot remember every moment of every day, Cherubina,” snapped Geraint, recalling now, against his will, his eyes on his plate as Heidi moved around him, averted from the scar and from her face. From the awkwardness that had been between them since she returned.

“Well, she did.”

“And where have you been all day?” he threw at her. “Did you not notice she was not about her duties?”

She looked stung. “I was playing with Courage. He is growing so, Geraint. His walking is very much improved.” She smiled up at him suddenly. “Should I bring him, perhaps, to cheer her?”

“No!” Geraint saw his sister flinch at his harsh tone. He paused, remembering Heidi’s pleas for him to be patient with her, and took a deep breath. “Go back to your dodo, Cherubina. Heidi will be fine.”
“Very well.”  Smoothing the bedclothes, Cherubina rose to her feet. “I am sure she will get better soon. She has you to look after her, after all.”

“Just go.”

Geraint turned away, crossing to the window and looking out, hoping to see any sign of help arriving – but all was still on the approach to the Bascombe walls. No hurrying black-clad figure, no accompanying dogs.

Behind him, the door closed behind Cherubina, leaving only the sound of laboured breathing from the bed behind him.

Where was Seren? Would he even have received the message yet? What if he did not come?

Geraint closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool stone as a sudden wave of exhaustion broke over him. Too much wine, too many sleepless nights and the endless thoughts that chased themselves about his mind over and over again were taking their toll.

Seren would come for Heidi, he told himself. He would want to help Heidi. All would be well.

He crossed back to the bed, perching on the chair he had pulled up beside it, eyes on Heidi’s flushed face under the mound of blankets. She had not opened her eyes in some time now.

He tucked her cold hand in between his two warm palms and settled down to wait.

Heart of a Lion 1/7 : So Cold

Autumn 379. A sequence of events from Bascombe Keep, Astolat – told in many tales.

---

It starts with an ache in her chest, but as that has replaced the constant gnawing pain, she feels nothing but relief.

But there is no other respite—not from the endless accounts requiring the castellan’s personal attention nor from Geraint’s demands and Cherubina’s wishes. She has found herself with three occupations where she formerly had one, and she fears she is not even fit for that.

Nor is there comfort in her lord’s eyes. He cannot look at her—except for the scar on her neck, which he stares at endlessly, willing it away with his gaze. He tells her he is her friend, but only by letter, not in his words and acts. She has never felt more alone.

She ignores the cough, because it is winter and everyone from the kitchen boy to the armourer has it. All except Angela, who enjoys the comfort of her lord’s rooms at night. Heidi is not jealous, but she doesn’t like the way Angela now turns her nose up at them all, as if submitting to Geraint was a Test of Mettle.

Heidi is still slowed in the mornings and tired in the evenings, but she is no longer sure whether that is her healing wounds or her usual squire’s fatigue. She wants to consult with Earl Seren, but she doesn’t want to let Geraint know that she is still pained, still healing. He needs her to be well, and so she will be well.

She starts to feel strange at night, her nightmares invading her reality, red ribbons turning to blood that escapes her body and soaks the sheets. But it only sweat on the linen, and she douses the fire so that she may hope to find some respite.

The next day passes like a waking dream, the numbers blurring before her eyes and Geraint’s questions and tasks and orders threatening to crush her. He snaps at her over dinner, something about wine, as Angela enters for his evening entertainment. Heidi leaves them, limping through the tower to her room, wishing she hadn’t abandoned the stick so soon.

She falls into bed and falls down and down, somewhere dark and cold and all alone. She is so cold that she can reach out and touch it, the chill of the Labyrinth’s walls seeping into her skin.

It would be so easy to let go, to embrace the chill of winter, to take the rest she deserves.

Drabbles – Andrea

A trio of linked 100-word drabbles for Helen from her prompts (“Feelings”, “New Friends”, “What I Wouldn’t Give For…”), then a trio of separate pieces for Sonja from her prompts (“Through The Gate”, “Those Left Behind”, “Fuck’s Sake!”) 🙂

*************************************

(Spiral, Winter 379)

Never before much of a correspondent, Andrea felt slightly odd now waiting with eagerness for the next courier to arrive. There was already a small bundle of letters in her wooden locker, half a dozen scripts flowing across half a dozen different papers, but she craved more – more words of kindness or enquiry or fear or anger. More feelings. The words were often a complicated dance of hints and courtesy, but the feelings they gave her were an addictive balm in the chilly mountains, a salve against the wearying war, all wrapped up in wax and ribbon and fine inks.

~

“…your friend…”

“…in friendship…”

“…I hope we can be friends…”

It made her smile every time to read such words, and she’d taken to signing her replies in similar fashion. With a candle guttering beneath the reservoir of sealing wax on her makeshift desk, Andrea glanced over her latest page as the ink dried, wishing that her writing hand were as clear as that of those who wrote to her. The heavily inked lettering at the top of each page, however, more than made up for it – a new passion, this painting of names, to indulge in with new friends.

~

The candle died, revealing just how quickly night was falling on the mountains. Andrea reached beneath her desk to find the battered oil lamp she’d carried in and out of the Holmauer for years, cursing beneath her breath as it struggled to catch light. Eventually, with a face full of smoke, she could see the inside of her small shelter again, canvas and wooden poles against the elements. “What I wouldn’t give for some stone-built walls right now,” she thought to herself as she shivered in the early chill. “Ruined or not, at least the ‘mauer kept off the winds…”

*************************************

Nothing prepares you for it, apart from doing it. To be one moment in Anvil, bustling and jolly and peaceful, and then with a breath and a step you find yourself in unfamiliar lands, looking at a different horizon and with no idea of which direction you face – and then you see the enemy. It was almost a relief to Andrea the first time – she knew how to deal with a fight, wherever she stood. But still, every time she steps through the gate she faces that moment of complete disorientation and the fear it brings. It’s just another fight.

~

It’s one of the clearest rules in the Hammerfalls – you do not take a lover on the battlefield. Your loyalty there belongs to sisters, brothers, your commanders. Love lives at home, where it can flourish untainted by bloodshed, where those left behind make sure every warrior has a reason to return. Indeed, every Hammerfalls lass is encouraged to find that anchor, that reason – more than one questioning brow has been raised at the Captain remaining alone. Some worry it makes her take more risks, that it makes her too solitary. Andrea doesn’t worry. She smiles, shrugs, and always comes home.

~

(Holberg, 354YE)

“Nice young people shouldn’t swear, little mi.. little ma… little one.” The woman wagged a finger from beneath a parasol bearing the stern face of the Little Mother, pearls glinting. Andrea shuffled a step behind Fix, knowing her big sister would have the right response.

“You what?” Fix, twelve years old and fearless, put her hands on her hips in fine bravo style. “My sister’ll say whatever she likes, Mother, and it’s no business of yours!”

As the scandalised priest hurried away Andrea wrapped her arms around Fix. “Thanks, sis.”

“Fuck’s sake, Ands. Stop being such a soppy dish rag!”

A Very Boring Bravo

Prompt: What I wanted to be when I grew up

Quotations adapted from the writings of Galen and Hippocrates.

***

“I had the cloth imported from an Urizen silk-farm,” he was saying, proudly, cornering her again for probably the ninth time, one hand stretched out towards her so she could test the feel of it for herself, and it was beginning to feel physically tiring to smile at him, at his hopeful, awful smile, and say, “How lovely.”

Nora wasn’t listening to this man, and there was only a small amount of comfort to be drawn from the knowledge that he was incapable of comprehending for even a second how little she was attending to his conversation.

She had ended up pretending to take notes as he talked. At first there’d been genuine notes: taffeta, urizen, dual-toned. It wasn’t a bad doublet, but he wasn’t worth featuring – his attitude was overbearing and he was both rude and probably drunk. But she didn’t like to say so, so here she was. Stuck.

After ten minutes he was still talking – definitely  drunk – blocking her way to the wine, repeating himself, and being bloody rude about Holberg. So her pencil switched topics, almost of its own volition, and began scattering quotes from The Fundamentals of Surgery all over the page in a faintly panicked script.

“…and I said, none of that cheap crap from downtown Holberg, only the finest silk-”

The vessels in bleeding must be sustained by ligatures, for in some cases, they readily move under the skin

He couldn’t see what she was writing, so it made no difference. He wasn’t interested in really seeing her, not really; what he is excited by, she realised, is having a Looking Glass lady see his outfit, and being seen to be seen by said lady. She was a status symbol in a dress. And the dress wasn’t even hers, either; Sarvos was too hot for most of her things. She might speak entirely in Commonwealth and in all probability this man would not notice.

If only slightly penetrated, the parts swell, the discharge of blood is impeded, and suppuration may ensue.

This party had neither point nor purpose, Magdelena was probably surrounded by admirers somewhere, and this man wouldn’t shut up. She hadn’t the heart to shut him up herself, and thus a period of scholarly revision on the sly seemed fair game.

Two evils hence follow, pain for the patient, and disgrace for the operator. And this remark holds good in all similar cases.

She stole a glance at the bravo’s masked face as he waffled on. Considered what would happen if she were to feign a sudden bout of illness. No, he might try to help her, wait with her for help, maybe even escort her back to her rooms. All of which would be intolerable.

As to wounds and ulcers, four kinds are observed.

“I have to-” she found herself saying, as though pacifying her cat, trying to find a graceful exit and was stung to find he cut her off.

“And as I said,” he slurred, “to the ambassador, anyone who pays less than thirty thrones for their silk, is, well, let’s just say…”

Nora frowned, and realised dimly that this bit, and the probable assumption it was what anybody really worth swooning over ought to think, was really hitting a nerve, for foggy gut-feeling reasons she was entirely too hot and tired to unpick.

Dizzy fragments of surgical essays continued to float through her head unbidden, like a muffling shield against the noise and blur of the party. Maybe she was getting ill again. It wasn’t that she wasn’t proud of the Looking Glass. It was… it was… with no war anymore, it was…

When accurate dissection is necessary, it must be slowly accomplished, since, if too hastily effected, the pain is continual and severe

“Excuse me,” she piped up, at last, quite suddenly, before she could stop herself.

He actually stopped.

“What is my name?”

“Ed…uardo.”

“Not your name, sir. Mine.”

An awkward beat, and he said, swaying slightly, “You’re with the Looking Glass. You write the fashion… things.”

“Yes, but who am I?”

“….”

but when a single incision is required, do it quickly; for, as cutting is attended with great pain, we must make it as short as possible

“My name,” she murmured, with weary slowness, “is Leonora. I was the national representative on the Anvil Hospital Board of Surgeons until this month. I am writing a chapter for a book. It’s about suturing.”

“That’s…” He was clearly confused as to why this mattered. Nora was only half certain it mattered herself; all that was clear was how much, in this moment at least, she’d had enough of Sarvos.

The vomiting of bile and phlegm, if not too excessive, is very beneficial.

“In a past life I kept Giselle off the throne for eleven years. I also like baking and the tragedies of Van Heerden.”

“…”

Ardent fever does not originate as tetanus. It at once shows its nature to resemble that of a great fire.

“And I,” said Nora, “am going to the powder room.”

 

 

 

Beatrix Drabble Collection

Set during Autumn 379YE

Home
An icy early Winter breeze off the hills was rattling the shutters, creeping through cracks in the stones and Beatrix shivered and pulled the covers around herself more tightly. Garravaine’s fingers, resting softly on her side as always when they shared a bed, moved in an unspoken question. He had still not lost the almost constant concern for her wellbeing again. Placing her fingers over his reassuringly, she smiled against her cushion.

“It is nothing, my dear heart.” 

And almost inaudible even for his Changeling ears, she added, “Just… For a moment, it almost felt like I was back home.” 

What do you mean I can’t?
“You cannot go to Anvil. You’ve just recovered enough to get up, for Virtue’s sake. The journey alone would make you relapse.” Beatrix looked at the young physick standing her ground in front of her, arms crossed, legs apart as if facing a glorious foe and all she could do was not growl in rage. “I’ll have a word with my fiancé about that…”

Eleanor shook her head. “The lord agrees. In fact, he’s told me earlier he’ll stay with you. So, will you listen to me for once?” Beatrix sighed. Anvil, it seemed, would have to survive without her. 

Dawnish manners – Double Drabble
Beatrix entered the tavern, shaking the hood back from her hair, and around her, conversation faltered.

“Mylady…” The innkeeper came towards her with hasty steps. Beatrix rolled her eyes. “Still only by name, still a Leaguer.” She handed him a couple of coins. “Get me some ale, please. And no further fuss.”

“Yes, M…” She shut him up with a scowl before heading to the back of the tavern where a couple of soldiers were gathered around a game of dice. One of them looked up as she pulled up a chair. “I really don’t envy you.”

“I do not envy myself either. Never try to get married to a Dawnish, I tell you.”

The other woman laughed. “That’s why I’ve never gone Dawnish, love.”

Beatrix rested her head in her hands for a moment. “Probably wise.” Then, she untied a small pouch from her belt. “I got a small shipment in from my gardens. I will do you four Marrowort for three crowns if you throw in a favour.”

“Depends on the favour.”

“The generals’ orders came with the courier. I reckon you are not going to be bored much longer. So, what I would like you to do…”

Change
The scent of fresh cut grass spicy on her tongue, and the shouts of yeofolk at the last days of harvest like a song, or like a play by a troupe well versed in their craft. Garravaine’s arm strong and firm around her shoulders, holding her close, “you must not be cold, my dear heart,” the velvet of his doublet soft against her cheek, honeyed lemons on her mind. She closed her eyes as she rested against him, letting her mind drift into silence and in these quiet moments, Beatrix did not miss her beloved Holberg all that much. 

Blue velvet
Beatrix could not remember when she had first chosen blue velvet for a gown – or had it been some sleeves? – but over the years, the soft rustle when she walked and the structure against her skin had become as much a part of her as the bloodstains under her fingernails. The quality had increased over the years, but still…

With a sigh, Beatrix ran her hand over the cool silk. Good quality. Not Holberg made, and Beatrix thought of Leonora before setting the cloth down and nodding at the merchant. “A good choice. I expect the garment in two weeks.”

Talking to the Mirror
“I am not born for peace. I am not born for idleness, for rest. I do not know how to enjoy these things without feeling like there is work to be done and there is always, always work to be done. He is quick to indicate that this is the reason I am forced to rest now, as if I did not know. But I am not in this life to be at peace.” Beatrix put the mirror down with a sigh. Yet as she looked out the window, she saw Garravaine return and she could not help but smile.

After The Fight – Geraidi fic

Traumatic art by the most talented Melissa Trender

Heidi

For the first three days, Heidi slept. Long hours of dreamless sleep, interrupted only by a maid bringing her water or Earl Seren checking her wounds.

On the fourth day, the nightmares began. She gasped for air, but her mouth filled with blood, choking her. She could feel Geraint near her, but she could not see him, could not reach for him. He had killed her, left her to die. Alone.

She avoided sleep after that and concentrated on raising her tired, pained body from the mattress and doing what a squire should. Except she was weak as a new-born lamb, her legs unable to hold her and her stomach disdaining food. She could barely wash by herself let alone polish her new breastplate, but Earl Seren took care of that. In fact, he took care of most everything—she felt more like an honoured guest than a yeoman servant in his household.

But she missed home, yearned for it, ached for it. What was Geraint doing? Was he sleeping? Eating? How much wine had he consumed?

She was not left in the dark for long. Almost as soon as she woke, the letters began. Roderick had departed Bascombe Keep and taken his closest servants with him—including his castellan. The castle was in uproar, unable to function without its lord or head servant. For some reason, the staff turned to Heidi and, as writing letters was one thing she could still do, she took it upon herself to Sort It Out.

Which is how, entirely by accident, Heidi became Castellan of Bascombe Keep.

It had some advantages. The servants now had to look after Geraint, to the best of their ability, instead of just ignoring him. They also sent brief updates to Heidi about exactly what state he was in. They were painful to read, more painful than the pulling stitches in her neck or the strain on her ribs. She couldn’t even walk without the aid of a stick. Pathetic, Adelheid.

But what hurt her most of all was watching Earl Seren leave to fight her lord, to regain his honour and glory. Earl Seren was a formidable warrior and Geraint had rarely bested him. Heidi was acutely reminded of her first meeting with him, knocking him away from Geraint with only her frying pan, Thomas’ arrow sticking from her shoulder.

When Earl Seren returned, telling her Geraint was victorious, she jumped from her writing desk and beamed from ear to ear. And then she fell heavily into the bed post and had to endure her physick’s scolding for not resting as she should.

And then the letter arrived. The smell hit her before the writing and seal truly registered, and she tore it open, eyes devouring every word. Each line dragged at her heart, until she was back in that field, her own blood matting her hair and Geraint pressing his lion pendant into her hand. “I should have thanked you. I should have held you. I cannot stop seeing it. I did not know what to do but watch for Seren and hope.”

He thought she had abandoned him! She had almost died for him, and yet he barely lived, merely existing from hour to hour in his tower room and soused in wine. She did not think she could rouse in him such guilt, such anguish. But how now was she to make it right?

She replied immediately, sending her reassurances that she would be home soon, she had not left him, she did not need his words. Cherubina’s letter reached her soon after—another victim of Roderick’s cruelty. “Please write back and tell me what to do. You were my friend too I think.”

But she had only letters to offer them. She couldn’t comfort with looks, or small beans, or a simple touch to the arm. She could only struggle against her weak, battered body that refused to heal as quickly or as well as she would like.

Heidi was not vain—how could she be, when she had first stood in Leah’s and then Geraint’s shadow?—but her body was now a foreign land. Her leg and ribs were stitches and bruises, and her arm hung awkwardly from her shoulder. But it was her neck that caught the eye, the curving arc of the sword made manifest on her flesh. Whenever Geraint looked at her, he would see that scar—and he would remember. Neither of them would be permitted to forget.

But her eyes also fell on the lion, the chain resting over the cruel cut. Geraint’s lion. The one he had left with her, as she lay dying. She had told him, in her letter, that it meant more to her than all the words he could’ve said. Though the truth was she had no idea what it meant. What could it mean, when an Earl gave his fallen squire his personal sigil?

She did not know, and she was not sure she wanted to know. Because whatever existed between them was changing—she could feel it, even at a distance. And change threatened to take away something that she valued, something undefinable that existed in the space between them.

Yet she would soon find out. When she was well, when it was time for the tea party, she would see him—and they would find out what had changed between them. Until then, she would rest and heal and run Bascombe Keep from her sickbed.

Because she needed to return to her lord.

Her place was at his side, no matter what.

—————-

Geraint

Frozen was how he felt when he thought of that day.
Frozen was how he felt most of the time, now. Waking, pacing, pretending to eat – lying sleepless in bed with Cherubina’s new lady’s maid curled against his back – whatever he did, he could not get warm.

His father was gone and Bascombe Keep was his.
The wine cellar was locked and he was sober, for the most part.

In his dreams, his hands were wet with Heidi’s blood.

He knew she lived. He knew she was running the household from afar, instructing the servants and even his sister. He knew she would come back; at least, he knew that was what she said.

But he had never felt more alone.
In the silence of a holdfast released from the grip of a tyrant, he missed Stefan with a raw, bitter ache that penetrated deep into his chest.

As for Heidi, he was trying not to think about it.

He did not want to think about her hair on that morning, bedecked with ribbons, falling in braids about the breastplate he had ordered Bascombe’s armourer to make, forcing the hapless woman to stay awake until it was complete. Or about girding her himself, unable to meet her gaze.

He did not want to think about her expression as she faced him, knowing what was coming. Or as she urged him to make the final blow when he let his weapons drop, because he did not see how he could continue.
He did not want to think about that blow – about the arc of blood springing up from his blade as she fell away from him.

More than anything, he did not want to think about crouching on the ground, inches away from her, inactive and speechless. There had been so much he could have said – so much he had planned to say.
And yet he had knelt, frozen, watching silently as her life drained on to the verdant grass beneath, as though watching a stranger die.

If the plan had failed and Seren had not come…
Whenever he thought that he could have sent her into the Labyrinth with no words of comfort it felt as if his entrails were being slowly twisted in clawed hands.

It had been all he could do to detach the chain from around his neck and push it into her palm, smearing his own hands with her blood as he did so, fingers grasping hers for a slender moment and then slipping away.

To hold her hand for longer, to speak final words to her, would have been accepting that he had killed her.

But he could not let her go with nothing.
So, for courage, he had given her his personal sigil: the silver lion pendant that he had worn, with its matching ring, since he was a young man. It had lain against his chest in countless training sessions; it had nestled under his breastplate as he strode through the Sentinel Gate into his first battle… it had been turned over in Stefan’s idle fingers as they lay in bed together on countless lazy afternoons.

It had been put aside of late in favour of newer, more costly, dragon themed jewellery; he could not even say why he had put it on that morning.
Until he found his shaking fingers at the clasp.

He did not know what he had thought – that Stefan would recognise it in the Labyrinth, perhaps, and protect her as he had failed to do? That she would somehow use it to find her way back to life – or at the very least, that she would forgive him for his lack of words?

Such thoughts were ridiculous, he told himself, staring up at the ceiling night after night.
Seren had come, so whatever had been done or said – or gone unsaid – was not important.
He had come; he had healed her. He had saved them both.

And Geraint had fled: saying nothing, dropping everything – including Stefan’s weapons, which he had sworn never to leave behind on any field, forgetting them as surely as he had forgotten his powers of speech in his haste to get away so she could be healed.

The true cost of what he had left behind had yet to be measured.
But that was something he preferred not to think about.

Heidi fic – more prompts

Prompts from Geraint’s physrep.

---

 

Walls

His manservant is sick again. It’s a common refrain—headaches, aching bones, shaking legs. All the servants are afflicted, except for Heidi and those guards who walk the perimeter. Heidi suspects the foulness of the basement levels are to blame and reminds herself to ask Earl Seren for his opinion.

When his manservant is sick, Heidi must attend Earl Bascombe. She doesn’t tell Geraint of these duties, for he is not much given to sharing, especially not with his father. It’s no secret that the son is nothing like the father, and each despises the other for it. Heidi’s loyalty is with Geraint, and most of the servants are torn one way or the other.

Geraint dines at a later hour than his father, so she leaves him to compare golden cloth samples from Holberg and Sarvos while she gathers fresh herbs for supper. The castle had a cook until last week, when Roderick banished her for poisoning him. She was much given to wine anyway and Heidi had taken care of most of Geraint’s meals herself, so it is no great loss.

She gathers field mushrooms with her herbs and then makes her way back inside. The first gate is guarded, locked and drawbridged, but they saw her coming. She walks halfway round the castle until she reaches the gate in the second curtain wall. Sometimes, she wonders if the labyrinth will be like this and if Roderick’s service has been good preparation for her future journey.

Once through the second wall, she circles the castle again until she reaches the third gate. She pretends not to notice the sharpened bolts ready to skewer any unwanted intruders and finally enters the inner keep. She passes through two more guarded doors until she reaches the kitchen, where another two guards are present to unlock the stores and watch her cook the meal.

She prepares a simple mushroom stew with the last of the day’s bread. Keeping Geraint’s supper warm in the oven, she prepares a tray for Roderick and Cherubina, adding a few sprigs of lavender in a vase. Making her way through door after door, escorted by the guards, she descends into the depths of the castle, a fathom or more beneath the earth.

Heidi does not like the cellars. Lord Edward’s castle was light and airy, a window never far away, and she cannot get used to this dark, cramped place. At least Geraint remains in one of the towers, her own room not far away. She would go mad if she had to live in the bowels of Bascombe Keep.

By the time they reach Roderick’s inner sanctum, the stew is mostly cold and Heidi can see her breath misting in front of her. She will need a new shawl if she is to continue this journey every day, but she hopes Roderick’s manservant recovers before she needs to consider it.

She lays out the food on the bare wooden table, the torches flaring brightly so that no corner is left unlit. Nowhere for an assassin to hide. After she has set the table, she steps back and waits for Roderick and Cherubina to attend. No one knows where the Earl sleeps in the maze beneath the castle, so they must wait for the bells to ring in his chamber and summon him through the labyrinth of his own making.

Cherubina arrives first and chatters to Heidi for a few minutes about everything and nothing while she listens politely. There is a superficial resemblance between sister and brother, but Heidi isn’t sure there is anything beneath Cherubina’s vacuous exterior whereas Geraint’s fripperies hide a serious, complicated man.

When Roderick finally arrives, he sits without ceremony and waves Heidi to the table without words. She knows the routine by now: she stirs the stew with a spare spoon and takes a mouthful. She then steps back from the table and waits for her own stew to kill her.

After a further half hour has passed in grave silence, Roderick scrutinises her face and then starts his meal. Cherubina tries to engage her father in conversation, but it is useless. She instead carries on talking to herself, about flowers and dresses and tomorrow’s supper.

“I thought I might get ribbons like Heidi’s, and wear them about the castle to brighten it up a bit.”

“You will do no such thing.”

His words startle all the room’s occupants. Roderick never speaks to his daughter at supper—he barely speaks at all, his voice rusty with disuse. Cherubina drops her spoon.

“I like ribbons,” she says petulantly.

“You are not a common yeoman whore,” Roderick snarls. “I will have one child who retains some honour.”

The words are meant for her, but Heidi does not change her expression, does not move. If she reacts, if she shows any pain at his words, it will reflect poorly upon Geraint. And she will not be a disgrace to him—never in life.

She is the wall between his father and him. She will not be moved.

Once he is finished with his supper, Roderick stands and makes his way to the door, back to his hidden bedroom. But he stops on the threshold, pitching his words only for Heidi’s ears: “I know what you are.”

And then he is gone. Cherubina retreats immediately, and then the kitchen guards escort Heidi back upstairs to resume their vigil over the triple-bolted storerooms. But Heidi’s body is carrying her without thought, because her mind is tied up in Roderick’s words. I know what you are. What does he mean by that? Is it related to his insinuation that she is paid for sex? Does he think that she and Geraint…?

No. It is too ridiculous. She pushes it clean out of her mind, retrieves her lord’s stew and makes her way up to his tower room. He is waiting impatiently by the time she arrives and she listens to his pointed comments about her tardiness without rising to them. If he is complaining about her, he is feeling more like himself. When he is silent, she worries about him. That he is slowly turning into his father, placing wall upon wall between them until he is surrounded by mortar and all his friends have fled.

Not all. Never all. Heidi will not leave. She will not allow those walls to form, to trap him like his father has trapped himself. And she will not burden him with his father’s words— why should Geraint care what his father thinks of his squire?

There will never be any walls between them. Except those that she builds to protect him.

---

 

Freckles

She cannot sleep. The letter burns the back of her eyelids. She cannot unsee its words, cannot unknow her fate.

So she stares at the ceiling and the dust motes floating in the air. She imagines they are freckles, adorning a perfect nose, gathering around those striking eyes.

She wants to conjure the whole, but that is denied to her. Her stomach turns at the thought of tea anyway. The lavender is already wilting, and she cannot bring herself to gather more.

The dust falls to the ground, the illusion shattered, and the letter fills her thoughts once more.

---

Harvest

Autumn is her favourite time of year. Once the hard ache of gathering the harvest is done, the village explodes into a riot of feasting and music and dancing. Heidi is always the first to the square and the last to leave at night, humming to herself as she staggers home under the pleasant weight of too much cider.

This year, Lord Edward is in The Barrens. Lady Leah decided she would not mark the festivities, out of respect for her husband’s absence, but she would not deny Heidi. Instead, she sits her down in front of her own dressing table and carefully braids her hair with new ribbons, burning gold and scarlet against the black.

Heidi watches her lady’s hands at work, the nimble fingers in her dark tresses, longing to know how they would feel against her skin. But she will never know. Leah is in love with her husband, no matter how his mind turns against her, and her loyalty is unwavering. As Heidi’s is to her.

She is late this year, and the children are already bobbing for apples, the farmers proudly displaying their produce, and the troubadour and musicians preparing for the entertainment. The Arwood lands host the best harvest festivals and therefore attract the best musicians. Heidi will dance every dance, until she is breathless and dizzy and her feet throb in time to the drums.

But this year, she has no sweetheart to ask for her hand. Many have waited on her, and many have tired of it. She can convince them for a time that she intends more than smiles and dances and chaste moonlight kisses. But eventually their patience gives out, and they seek more receptive partners. Heidi does not regret these partings, only their necessity. She cannot be dishonest to herself or her suitors. She cannot make promises of marriage when she does not mean to keep them.

Instead, she wanders among her friends and relatives, making polite conversation and deflecting questions about the nobility. Of course, she exchanges titbits with close friends, trusted friends, but she is not a gossip. How can her lady confide in her if her business is known all about town?

The troubadour begins her stories and Heidi listens to the tale of some distant lord with only half an ear. It is not the lack of skill in the storyteller, but something else that makes her uneasy. She feels that someone is watching her, though she couldn’t say who or why.

She excuses herself from her friends and walks warily through the crowd, studying faces to see who might be looking upon her. Finally, her eyes alight on the musicians, waiting patiently for their turn to entertain, and she catches the lute player staring openly at her.

Their face is shadowed, but Heidi can feel the intensity of the gaze. Her heart quickens in her chest at the feeling of it, so piercingly sharp that it could cut her open and expose her. Why are they staring at her like that? Does she know them? She cannot see, cannot tell, but she feels the look is as unfamiliar as it is strong.

The stories end and the musicians start to play, sweetness and life itself drawn into the air by their playing. Heidi finds a partner or three, her feet remembering the steps even if her focus is elsewhere. The lute player is still staring at her. She has never drawn such attention before, isn’t quite sure what to do with it. She begins to think she must’ve killed this person’s mother or wronged them in some way. How could a stranger look at her like that, as if she had set their world on fire?

The night races on, until the revellers dwindle and midnight brings an end to the musicians’ spell. Heidi waits on the edge of the square, watching the lute player and feeling watched in return. She declines offers to walk her home and approaches the musicians with courage warming her belly along with the elderflower wine.

“You play like an enchanter,” she tells the lute player, somehow without stuttering.

They smile at her with the same intensity with which they have watched her all night. “Perhaps I am one.”

She does not laugh, feeling the weight of something heavy and consequential in the air. The lute player offers her their hand and she takes it. They drift away from the band one or two steps and then they pull her close, and the two of them dance to the sounds of the nearby forest and the first fall of rain on the hard summer’s ground. She feels light at air, the starlight only offering her glimpses of her companion, but she does not care. To be desired is enough.

By the time they stop, they are alone in the square except for a cat or two and the abandoned lute. Yet the musician leads her on, towards the forest at the edge of the village. The ground is wet from the rainfall, but she doesn’t care, doesn’t think about anything beyond insistent lips and fingers seeking skin.

In that moment, she is free of Leah, free of her damning loyalty, and only bound to the lute player and their charms. She kisses them, and she forgets herself. She isn’t sure she wants to know herself again after this night.

She wakes in her own bed, alone, still wearing her dress but the ribbons lost from her hair. She feels warm and sated, still caught up in the lute player’s enchantment, even though her lady will soon be calling and she must return to her life. Forgetting all about travelling musicians and the sweet sound of the lute and the dance with new steps to learn.

Still, she thinks, there will be next harvest. Perhaps the lute player will return? She only had to continue dreaming until then. A year is not so very long to wait.

The Letter – Geraidi Fic

Geraint

Rage was the first emotion he was conscious of, reading his father’s letter. That rare, seething, soul searing rage, coursing through his veins as though it might really set his blood afire, the way people always said it did.

Helpless rage, that clenched the hand holding the vellum into a fist, crushing the blood red seal and the cruel, cramped script. Impotent, blinding rage, that for a long moment robbed him of all reason.

Did Roderick think that he could dictate his son’s fate so easily?
Did he truly think that such a thing would come into being just because his twisted mind willed it?
What monster was he, that he could think of such a thing?

Geraint’s boots rang on the flagstones of his chamber as he paced, both fists clenched now, fighting hard to keep control of himself, to keep from seeking out his father and giving vent to this rage, railing at him, saying all the things that had gone so long unsaid. What had he done, that the old man held him in such contempt? What was the crime that he had spent his boyhood being punished for?

What had possessed him to ask his father for a Test of Resolve?

Roderick was clearly increasingly unwell, spending more and more time locked away, crouched like a spider in his underground lair; surrounded by guards who, each time Geraint visited, searched him as though he were a stranger.

But Geraint had asked. He had wanted to be the Earl of House Bascombe, if he was to become Earl Cordraco. He had wanted to head his splintered family and lead it back to past glory as part of his shining new house; back to how it had been before all that had mattered was how high the walls could be, or how secure an island the keep could seem from the rest of Dawn.

He was as deluded as his father.

Disbelief spurred him to unfold the letter and run his eyes over it again. The cruellest phrases leapt out at him first.

‘If he prevails he will have both his Earldom and his honour – such as it is’…My son has always chosen the smoothest path in life’…

Geraint had never been under any illusions about his father’s opinion of him, yet somehow seeing this document, official seal and all, formalised Roderick’s disappointment and bitter regret in a way that was difficult to bear.

And now this test – the test that he had so naively asked for, believing his father would be grateful to hand on the leadership which so evidently burdened him…This test would exact a price he was not sure he could pay.

‘He shall, upon journeying to an open space a mile from the Bascombe Keep, fight my champion in single combat….if he fails I shall cease forthwith to recognise him as my heir and as my son…he shall be stripped of his noble status’…

Geraint’s teeth clenched and again the paper curled under his fingers as the knuckles whitened – for the worst was still to come. The words blurred beneath his vision.

‘As my champion I name the girl Heidi…who has caused my son to turn from the bosom of his family…unvirtuous lust…let there be no use of heroic abilities to prolong life…no potions and no use of magical healing…no quarter is to be given or expected’…

Geraint did not know what cursed delusion had caused his father to think that he was in love with his squire – and the sheer irrational impossibility of such a thing only served to make him more angry. Did Roderick write history now, as well as what was to come? Must he control everything – everyone?

And the indignity – the inglorious shame – of being instructed to fight a yeoman for such a test!
His father had made it very plain that this, too, was no accident.

‘If the test offends my son…then he should take this as the judgement I intend it to be. I do not consider him fit to fight a noble of Dawn as he has never shown himself to be of any worth in my eyes’.

With a growl of fury, the letter was crumpled into his fist once more.

Oh, of course there was a caveat – for even Roderick was not foolish enough to let his heir taint the House with such a craven Test. After he had killed Heidi to win his House, he must fight an Earl of Dawn and win in order to regain his honour.
So it would all be all right in the end – clever Roderick! Glory to House Bascombe!

After he had killed Heidi.

Geraint’s body slackened, the balled-up letter falling from his grasp, the rage draining from him as he finally allowed his whirling thoughts to still…to rest on what this test really meant.

His father was much too clever to order this to be a fight to the death. He knew such a thing was a violation of Imperial Law. But the rules imposed meant it would be impossible to get her somewhere to be healed in time.

‘He will come to know the pain of watching the woman he loves bleed, as his mother bled’.

He lacked the skills to heal her himself, and the letter forbade any accompaniment.
She would bleed to death before he could carry her home.

But to refuse was to fail the test, to lose the Earldom of House Bascombe, to be disinherited and stripped of his noble status…
And then he could not lead Cordraco. And Johann’s death had been for nothing.

This was not a choice he could make. It was like being suffocated.

He crossed to the window, pushing open the casement and gasping as the wind, with a new chill to it these past few days, whipped about his face, lifting the hair from his shoulders. Taking deep breaths, he gazed out across his father’s lands.

And there she was.

Returning along the path that led to the enormous drawbridge, an unmistakeable spring in her step and her arms full of purple flowers: Heidi.
Geraint, motionless, watched her for a lingering moment: her long dark braids, so impractical for a squire, swinging about her shoulders, the wistful smile on her features…What cause had she to smile, he wondered, momentarily distracted, when his own life had been spiralling into chaos for weeks? Why was she gathering these flowers all the time? Why did she think such a thing would help him?

His thoughts strayed to this morning, when she had tipped him, snarling, out of bed, to a plate of fresh, buttered bread and steaming small beans. As she had the morning before, and the morning before that.

He could not imagine fighting her, spilling her blood.
He could not believe his father could ask such a thing, for any reason.

She looked up then – and before her eyes could alight on him, Geraint stepped back from the window, back against the cold stone of a wall too thick to ever allow any warmth to seep into it.

He could not do this – but if he did not he would lose everything.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to think, for he knew she would be here in minutes, bringing him more of those damnable purple blooms…

And out of nowhere, the image of an inn by the side of the road came to him; of a knight who resembled the man he now was in only the most minimal way, dishevelled, weary, with rusty armour and a heart shattered by loss. Of a young man approaching him, cowed and nervous, seeking work as a squire. Seeking a new life.

Geraint crossed to the letter and swept it from the floor. Flattening it out, he tucked it into the box where he kept such things, making sure it was covered by others. He sat at the table, picked up his goblet of wine, and tried to look as though he had not just been handed his ruin, as his squire’s footsteps approached in the corridor outside.

He would tell her he had decided not to ask for a Test. He would tell her that they were leaving to seek a new life elsewhere. He would think of a reason later – for now if she asked too many questions he would simply shout at her until she was silent, or drink until he passed out.
He would not let his father destroy them both.

He may lose Bascombe – and Cordraco – but he if he never told her, he would not lose everything.

---

Heidi

It is only when she is alone inside her room that she lets the full weight of what she has done hit her. She collapses to the floor, as surely as if she had been struck down, killed, bleeding out all over the scrubbed wooden floor of her chamber.

But she is not dead yet. Not until her lord kills her.

Earl Bascombe is a cruel, sadistic man, driven by fear and paranoia. But he is her Earl, like Geraint is her Earl also. She is a servant of two masters. And if Earl Bascombe commands her to become his champion, to fight her lord to the death—though he would never be so careless as to say as much—then that is what she will do.

Geraint didn’t want her to know. He would’ve given up his inheritance, his rights to Bascombe and the Cordraco Earldom—all over her life. Her worthless, miserable life. How could she allow it? It was not so large a thing, to bleed for him, to die for him.

She had come close before, of course. On the battlefield, she had been struck and fell to earth. But the healers had come to her aid, with potions to warm and rags to bind, and she had leapt up again to shoot her arrows into the chaos of orcs surrounding them.

But this time, there will be no respite. Earl Bascombe has made sure of that. No heroic abilities, no potions, no magical healing at the site of the battle. Nothing that can possibly save her. It is his intention to be rid of her, the vile corruptor of his son’s honour.

Unvirtuous lust. Out of all the words contained within the letter, those have buried themselves deep within her heart. The Earl fears Geraint has fallen in love with her, had turned his head away from home to make these plans for Cordraco, to lead. If she could summon the energy, she would laugh herself sick, for the very idea is ridiculous. That Geraint, Earl Cordraco and infamous bedder of the beautiful, would even consider her is absurd. But then the Earl Bascombe is deluded—and dangerous.

Geraint had not accepted her offer to fall. He wanted to leave, to run, to refuse the test. But she had persuaded him, influenced him, done all those things of which she had been accused. He will answer his father, and then they will go together to Earl Seren and decide how it is to be achieved.

How Geraint can win his Earldom and Heidi can live.

Her hands are trembling. They have not shaken since that night in Anvil, when her entire world fell apart again. When her lord turned against her and cast her out. But now they refuse to stop, her chest heaving with it, and a small cry spills from her mouth.

She seizes the pillow from her pallet and presses her face into it, the intensity of her sobs frightening her. Her whole body feels like it is turning itself inside out with the force of her emotion and she cannot make it stop.

Geraint must not see. He cannot see. He cannot know I am afraid.

After some minutes, she regains control of her body. On coltish legs, she makes her way to the basin and splashes cold water on her face. He will not see, and he will not know. She has to show him confidence and bravery. She has to tell him that it is good and right to kill her, for this greater thing.

She cannot fear the labyrinth, or he will see it in her eyes. And he will falter. She cannot allow him to fail in this, not while it is within her power to prevent.

There is no glory in it, for either of them. Earl Bascombe has made sure of that. There is only the prize, and their lives. And Heidi knows, even if Geraint will not accept it, that the Earldom is worth a great deal more than the life of a yeoman.

She replaits her hair and changes into her shirt and trousers, clothing that echoes Wulf and her choice of battle dress. It makes her look stronger, less likely to die. He needs her to put up a fight.

She removes her necklace, the heart and the lavender, and locks them away. She will not be needing them where she is going. She places her Cordraco pendant around her neck, a sign of solidarity with her lord even if she must fight under the Bascombe banner once more.

Placing her cloak over her shoulders, she looks at herself in the dark reflection of her window. She looks like someone who can wield a sword, a soldier who will not die swiftly. Less fragile that she feels, as if one touch would shatter her. But she will not let it show. Not to her Earl, her lord, to no one she holds dear.

In that moment, she knows for certain: she would die for him.

But she would rather live for him instead.