Fingers

She was thankful that the sun has set, before she had finally managed to remove her armour, wash the blood from her fingers and take a moment to breathe and scream and sob. It meant that it was dark before she ran from her tent, where Robbie had slept the night before, within arms reach, where they had joked and laughed and talked as only briars could, openly and freely and pulling no punches. And it meant that no one could see her run from her tent in a state of un-League undress and with tears streaming down her face, desperate to find a family member.

She was thankful that the tent was dim, when she entered the back of the Foxes’ tent in her chemise, carrying her dress in shaking hands and trembling fingers that could not fasten her sleeves properly. It meant that no one could see her shock, or her embarrassment, no one could see the blush that sprang up to her cheeks at seeing Fred inside with the others, waiting for her. And it meant no one saw her slowly hug her dress closer to herself and feel utterly naked in present company.

She was thankful that none of the other Foxes said anything about it, if they noticed (and they surely noticed!), when she sat down beside Frederick with her dress tossed over her knees, struggling to make a start on the sleeves. It meant that she could sit here quietly with her mortification, and focus on getting dressed without embarrassing herself any further, without the usual snark and loving insults that, while normally a sign of acceptance and affection, would have pushed her over the edge. Only her fingers would not stop shaking, and the task would take all night at this rate if she couldn’t…

She was thankful when Fred’s fingers picked up one of her sleeves and set to helping her, his attention engrossed in fitting the ribbons into the tiny rings that held them along one shoulder, while she worked on the other side. It meant that from the corner of her eyes she could watch his fingers caress the ribbons of her sleeves, the fabric; she could compare her own trembling fingers to his assured ones, and wonder at all the things that fingers do…

She was thankful that the whole task did not take long, and that she could gracefully excuse herself to step out the back of the tent to put the dress on. It meant that she could try and get her mind off of the idea of what his fingers would feel like on her skin, of whether the world would stop and everything in the midst of the storm would fall into place, like in everyone’s stories. It meant when she sat down next to him again, she had mostly stopped her fingers from shaking, when she put her hand in his and he squeezed it reassuringly.

It was a long while before her mind successfully moved on from thinking about it.

The Lucky One

Is luck one of their virtues? Eleanor can’t remember. Courage is, she knows that, that was what the woman from the League talked to her about, sang about, after she made her that tea the night before. The little purple bottle was tipped in, the priest consumed the rest, and with both of their minds duly poisoned, she’d felt the constant fear recede.

But he was right. It was all lies. And she had been tricked, led to that tent by her own deluded brother, with promises that it would help her to cope with the orcs in Anvil. Now, a night and a day later, that poison has worn off. The fear surges back and forth through her, over her, like the waves that shoved her onto that beach all those years ago, into the nets of the slavers.

No. Don’t think about that.

Courage. Pride, perhaps? Love? Surely that must be one of their virtues. The love she has for Freddie is the only good thing inside her. The only thing he didn’t take. No-one has mentioned being lucky as a virtuous thing. That’s the one virtue she knows she has. She was lucky they didn’t put her in a salt mine. Lucky that the Seer picked her out. Lucky that she was made a house slave. Lucky that the Grendel treat obedient slaves well. Lucky that she learnt how to repress her rage after only one flogging.

No. How can any of that be good fortune? Perhaps luck isn’t one of their virtues. It’s so hard to make sense of it all. She is so tired, so weak, the fever that gripped her for the two weeks of travel to Anvil still broiling away inside her. Did he do something to her, something that would make her sick if she ever escaped?

She tries to imagine what he did when the overseer told him that she wasn’t where she should be. Did they scour the villa for her? The grounds? Did he use magic to look for her? With his wealth, it would be so easy to hire mercenaries to find her. They’ll come for her here, put her in chains again, drag her from her brother. Her throat tightens as she scours the edges of the glory square, looking for any who could be waiting to pounce.

No, why would he do that? She is nothing. Another slave will have already taken her place. There are always more and the cost is inconsequential to the likes of him. But she was the only one that was chained at night. The only one he touched. She remembers how lucky she is that he only touched her back, in the place between the scars, the place she forces her mind from again. The only one he would call to serve when he and his guests discussed the nature of the world and of magic. So many times he’d grabbed her hair as she poured ale, his breath like a swamp, and say “Are you listening, slave? Do you understand how they lied to you? Do you see how there is only sand and sea and sky?”

And she nodded, keeping her eyes down, knowing that if she looked up she would be beaten again. And she knew she was nothing. Little more than a dog that had learned how to escape its owner’s displeasure.

“Welcome to Dawn.”

She jolts, looks up. A handsome man stands in front of her, dressed in blue silk the colour of his eyes. She panics. She looked at his eyes! She looks down again, swiftly, hoping he hasn’t noticed. He doesn’t move away and she realises he expects something from her. “Thank you,” she whispers, still fearful of her own voice. Not long ago, the very sound of it meant a beating. She was lucky enough to learn fast and stay silent.

He says a name, she doesn’t catch it, her thoughts having drifted back to the villa again. She tries to smile, but can’t quite muster it and then he holds his hand out to her. She shrinks back and it’s withdrawn. She knows she should have taken it, but cannot bring herself to.

The Earl of Freddie’s house was wrong about her. She isn’t brave. She didn’t bide her time like a hero in a story, ready to seize the moment and make a dramatic escape. She collapsed in on herself, did all the things she was told to, and was grateful not to be beaten. She was treated well. He treated her well, cared about her enough to teach her how the virtues and all the things they believe about them are lies. Perhaps she wasn’t nothing, otherwise why would he have done that? But if she’s worth enough to re-educate, won’t he will come after her?

“I’m glad you made it back to the Empire,” the man in blue says and she jolts again, realising he is still there. He moves on, to her relief, and she scans the square for Freddie, desperate to have him close but so painfully aware that she has clung to him too much. How can he love her like this? How can he be proud of her when she is a shadow? How can she protect him, when she is nothing?

She turns and looks down the hill at Anvil sprawled below. She has tried so many times to go and talk to people, to find out what she needs for her test of mettle, and every time the fear has paralysed her.

“You’re nothing, slave.” He touches her back. “You thought you were something special before, in the Empire. This means nothing. There is only the sand and the sea and the sky.” He leaves and she sags against the chains. She is lucky that it’s the only place he touches her and she holds on to that as her body shivers with fear and suppressed rage.

She blinks as someone cries out nearby. Fighters in the glory square. Not a slave about to be punished. She’s not in that villa any more. She sees Freddie in conference with someone, talking so earnestly, his companion nodding and looking at him with respect. She looks down at herself, in the boots that the Wintermark man gave her after healing her broken legs, at the white undershirt she borrowed from her brother’s tent. There is nothing of her own save the strip of leather she holds tight in her fist, and even that she only holds to prove it is no longer round her neck.

She has to pass this test. She has to make herself into something her brother can love, can respect. Eleanor summons the same strength that dragged her through the fighting in Spiral, the same strength she called upon to climb out of the ditch with broken legs having been left for dead by the orcs, the same strength that made her drag herself to the Suaq raiders and beg for help.

She has to prove that he was wrong about her. She needs something else to believe when he speaks in her mind, reminding her that she is a slave and always will be, even here in Anvil. The resolve hardens in her chest. She grips the strip of leather tighter, reminding herself that she cut it from her neck. Trembling, eyes fixed on the dust, Ellie marches out of the Dawnish square and heads into the centre of Anvil. She will pass the test, she will be made anew, and she will look at her brother and see pride in his eyes.

 

Frederick Novarion: A boy becomes a man

370 YE – 10 years ago

Frederick ran down the steps from his parent’s manor house, smiling as he ran towards his father in the fields.

“Papa! Papa! Look what Uncle Karl brought me from Astolat!” He was waving a wooden sword in the air as his father turned from tending to his orchard and spread his arms wide, engulfing Frederick in a wide hug, struggling to lift the energetic boy.

“Ooof my son, I won’t be able to pick you up much longer, you’re 10 now, you’ll be too tall and heavy for me.” He set the boy down gently onto the grass.

“Frederick, you know you should be practicing your numbers rather than playing with a sword. We need you to take over managing the estate when I get too old, we’ve got to keep the town running.”

Frederick stuck his bottom lip out, his sword high in his hand.

“But I don’t wanna. Counting money is a yeoman’s task, I’m going to be a Questing Knight.”

His father looked at him sternly. “Our Loyalty demands we remain here, not going foolishly off to somewhere like the Barrens to die on a stupid errand.”

Frederick backed off, shaking his head. “Glorious heroes don’t die for stupid errands, their names live on and so they are eternal.”

“You’ve been spending too much time listening to the Troubadours. Go back to your room and do your numbers, as your sister does!” His father pointed angrily back inside, not brooking further argument from his son.

373 YE – 7 years ago

Frederick stood at the door to the Stanhope manor house, hand proudly on a metal sword. He knocked on the door and waited until he heard his mother’s call.

“Who is it?”

“It is I, Frederick, I have become a man and passed my citizenship test.”

He heard a scurrying of feet and the creak as his mother opened the door, “You silly boy, you didn’t need to wait outside, your father won’t be happy that you took the test without asking. Come in and sit by the fire.” she said, shutting the door behind him and pulling out two chairs for them to sit on.

“What dad doesn’t know won’t harm him, and it’s easier for me to tell him I’m now a man, than to be a boy begging for permission.”

She looked up at him. He’d grown rapidly, and whilst he was still very skinny, he’d shot up to 6 feet in the last half year or so. “You’re still our boy, and we would have you ask our advice for when you are ready.”

“I want to ask for a test, so I can be a noble.”

“NO!” His father nearly shouted as he strode through the room. “It is too soon. Now you have passed your citizenship test, you can make yourself useful by organising the trade for us for at least two years until I consider you ready for a test.”

Frederick stood up swiftly from the chair to face his father, arms clenching by his side.

“And what if I don’t want to do that? What if I want to leave?!”

Before his father could speak, his mother spoke sternly behind him. “Do not for one second think that I won’t pull you out on the tourney field my son. I maybe older but I am still well enough with sword to make you rue that tongue of yours.”

He heard both his parents sigh, and he looked them up and down, as if seeing them clearly for the first time. “I am going to town for weapon and tactics training. I will return later in my own time.” 

374YE – 6 years ago

“I’m leaving.” Frederick said matter factly. He heard a gasp from his sister off to his left on the high table. The family sat on the long table at the head of their banqueting hall, laying on a spring feast for all the people of Horsford.

His mother stared at him incredulously. “What? Why?”

“I do not want to stay here and be forced to do the sums before you will consider me for a test. I am going to find Glory elsewhere.”

“You would throw away everything you have for a stupid notion of Glory?!”

“It’s not a stupid notion. I intend to live forever in deed. Is that not what all Dawnish want?”

“Some of us prefer virtues such as Loyalty.” grumbled his father.

“And how well has that done for you?! The town is failing, you hang onto the scraps of former acts, there’s nothing here for me!” Fred slammed the table with his fists, glaring at his parents.

“This is not a discussion I want to have. I thought you’d be happy. But I see you are foolish old people, with no understanding of Glory. I am going, now.”

With that he stood up and left the table, returning half an hour later, wearing his plate, sheathed sword and carrying the shield with his personal heraldry of green, white and gold, and a sack of clothes and food. He glanced back at the high table, holding back his emotions, and when he saw the glare in his Father’s eyes, he hardened his skin and strode out of the estate, heading West into Weirwater.

Night of Flowers

Lord Frederick Novarion returned to his wing in Castle Novarion, tired from the Crusade in the Barrens, and looking forward to a few days rest to close the wounds he’d taken and reset his rib. He gently eased off his tunic and sat on the edge of his bed, looking wearily at the fireplace. It was coming to that season again, the night where Dawnish passions ran even closer to the surface. He’d thrown himself into his nation’s hearth-magic in the vain hope that if he could not ease the pain, he could enjoy life again, and to a degree he had. His friendship with Marcus Drummond marked a highlight of the past half year. But there was one night he was not ready for. His eyes flickered to the top of the mantle piece.

Two red roses sat there, each beneath a painting of the one who’d given it. On the left, a rose picked from the gardens of Urizen. Decius Cascade smiled down from the picture, captured as he was in his prime, a man who had taken the mantle of General of the Citadel Guard in that first year after Britta’s death. He has not shirked from that duty even though he freely admitted his inadequacies in the role,  and perhaps that was why Frederick had like him so much. Admitting your flaws was the path of Virtue, to find a way past them and be a champion for the Way. 

That day in Military Council Decius had accompanied General Tanwyn in, and he had picked a rose up from somewhere and awkwardly passed it to Frederick, saying, “I think you dropped this, Lord Frederick”, presumably knowing full well Fred had not entered the Council with any roses as favours. Then had followed the awkward silence when Tanwyn had forced Decius to speak to Frederick about the rose. Fred smiled as he remembered the awkwardness of Decius shuffling to keep poise, and the bright red he had gone when Fred uttered the words “I would be delighted to make you my Husband.”

Fred remembered them standing side by side, preparing to rescue a fallen comrade. Fred had said “Will you come with me?” and Decius had responded, without pausing for thought, “I would follow you anywhere, General.” That was when Fred knew Decius had his heart, but barely a season later Decius did not return from battle.

Frederick shook his head and poured a glass of wine, to ease this passage through his memories. He looked to the second rose, perfectly picked from Astolat, beneath the painting of Ros as he remembered her, proud in her own way, defiant and glorious. His one true Love, lost now a year ago at Reikos. They had exchanged roses that night, before taking the field together, Marches and Dawn under the command of Highguard. 

Frederick had fought alongside the bill blocks by the Druj fort, but eventually as the battle continued Dawn had been called off to smash a force of trolls. But then the battle had turned, retreat was called and it was messy, friends falling all around them as they held the line. As he reached the gate, standing side by side with D’Eon, he looked across the field and met the eyes of Ros. She looked at him for a time and then turned her head away, knowing that if she had held that gaze he would have charged the field to rescue her, or more likely, die side by side. D’Eon had said “There is Ros,” and choking back tears Fred had simply said “I know, and I cannot reach her.”

Without realising, he had drained the remainder of the wine and tears were streaming down his face.

“No, I cannot face the Knight of Flowers again, it is too raw, I won’t, I will be elsewhere so as not to spoil the festival for others, but I… I cannot participate.” He spoke to the paintings on the wall.

“I love you both, forever I will remember your names, you will live on in my writings, but I will not sully those memories by attempting the Night of Flowers this year.

“We will be reborn again soon, we will find each other again, Ros, I promise.”