A whistle sounded from the woods, shocking them out of this dream. Ascelin’s head shot up to scan the hollow. She fell from his grasp then, her body making contact with the cold ground. The lack of his touch felt profoundly void, her limbs like cold, dead stone spinning aimlessly in a dark universe. She tried to regain her senses as she fumbled, reeling on the forest floor. He stood with his hand on his sword, scanning the woods. As she got up, she saw a collection of men emerging from the forest, none of whom looked familiar. Ascelin stood defensively, perched like a cat, his hand ready on the handle of his sword. At least a dozen men were descending from the forest, all of them armed, rough and angry-looking. Sensing how tense he was, Maryone knew these were not his uncle’s men. She watched him for any sign of direction, but his attention was completely on the men around them. From the way they eyed her, and the way Ascelin stood defensively between them, she sensed they meant to capture her. With a hand on his sword, Ascelin attempted a few peaceful words, in hopes diplomacy might deter a fight. But from their looks, they’d no interest in such a thing.
Realizing her escape might draw them away from Ascelin, she turned and ran in the opposite direction; wishing to put distance between he and their swords. She ran wildly through the woods, orange leaves splaying across the ground as she went. She heard him cry after her as thumping footsteps followed in hot pursuit. The clash of swords could be heard as well, filling her with an icy dread as she deciphered Ascelin’s voice grunting with effort. She stumbled through the woods, jerking her ankles on rolls and bumps in the ground. Soon, she stumbled upon the edge of a lake with steep hills bordering on all sides. Mist rolled across it’s waters as she jerked to a halt at the shore, it’s water lapping gently on sand beneath her feet, ignorant of her desperation and fear.
She turned and saw their sinister forms closing in, their faces impish as they came into focus. Desperate to get away, she splashed into the water, wading as quickly as it would allow. Before long she was up to her chest, then dove in to swim. It was difficult with her heavy, rough garments, but her swiftly beating heart drove her on. Some way out, a large stone provided respite. She climbed up and looked back to shore, seeing a line of men bordering the water’s edge, their image blurred by heavy rain. Ascelin came up behind them, following to find her.
The men at the shore called out to her, but she couldn’t make out their words, only the gaping movements of their mouths. A few of the younger men waded uncertainly into the water. But before long, the older and cleverer decided there was a better way to get her back. Despite his strength, Ascelin was no match for six armed men. They jumped on him and held a knife to his throat, the ringleader’s shrewd face gleaming a silent threat out to where she hovered over the waters. He pressed the knife hard into Ascelin’s throat, jerking his jaw upwards. And a cry escaped her throat.
“NOO!” she cried, her voice echoing out across the water.
They communicated back with a series of waving gestures, beckoning her to come back to shore. She shivered as she crouched there on the rock, freezing, soaked and uncertain of what to do. It seemed she had no choice. The sight of Ascelin’s face with the knife at his throat was sending her into a strange fury. She shook with it. She felt a cloud descending, surrounding her and filling her mind with a strange smoke. She became strangely calm and still, and like an animal adept at maneuvering in wet places, slunk back down into the water. She treaded water slowly back to the shore, her eyes never leaving the scene there. Her head bobbed up and down slowly, sinking and emerging into the lake’s foggy waters. The mist was still thick over the surface, obscuring the men from time to time. Finally, she reached the shallows and was able to stand, water reaching her belly button. The men remained on the shore, barking orders at her.
“Get out!” they yelled in rough accents. “Out ye dumb wench, or we’ll slice ‘im up! You belong to our master Wyndill now.”
She realized that these men had no reason to let Ascelin live. Looking around at their faces, she felt a rage at their existence, one that emanated from her chest in a static burning sensation. The sight of the knife - that was still at Ascelin’s throat - sent a flicker of rage through her; and at her anger’s rise, she felt herself push it out. Suddenly, the men all around her flinched as if taken by some sort of strange fit, while beneath her, the lake rose. The foggy, gray waters rose half a meter, crawling up her legs like a cold, wet eel. As the sensation rose up her legs, she felt something rising up in her body; some strange, energetic force. One greater than anything she’d ever felt. It frightened her. So she pulled back her feelings, her intention, her anger; all at once. And at that, the men jerked and gyrated to the ground. The water fell also, splashing up onto the shore in a heavy wave. The current pushed her forward, nearly knocking her over as it gushed upwards onto the land. When she opened her eyes again, the men were strewn about and still as the dead. Save for Ascelin, who stood upon wavering legs.
Smoke rose from the men’s bodies, and as she approached the shore, she saw that their faces had been burned smooth. Their features were indistinguishable now, even their eyes covered over with melted flesh. When she looked up into Ascelin’s face, shock and guilt overtook her. She recoiled in horror at herself, thinking he must feel the same.
But his gaze upon her was neither accusatory nor shocked. Something had passed between them in the moment before the event, and from his look, she knew he’d felt it too. Movement on the ridge above drew their attention to two of his uncle’s men. From the shock and fear marking their faces, they’d witnessed the whole event. But unlike Ascelin, their eyes shot accusation at her.
~
Wyndill’s men tore through Rypon’s forces that day, silencing their numbers until few remained alive. The old lord himself was murdered early in the struggle by Wyndill’s soldiers, torn down quickly without seeing any action, and left on the hillside for several hours. His sons were cut down as well, and their bodies disposed of in a grave along with the common men. Rypon’s house had fallen, and as the unacknowledged manager of the old man’s affairs, Ascelin was lord of what remained, though Wyndill now claimed it.
Maryone escaped back to her home. Ascelin gave her what he could - money, a horse and two of the men who’d witnessed the scene at the lakeside to accompany her back to her home county. Ascelin feared that disappearing along with her would cause a search party to be sent. For Wyndill knew him, and that he was the shrewdest of Rypon’s men. If he and the girl were nowhere to be found, Wyndill would suspect games, and would immediately send a party to search the countryside for the both of them. But if he returned, telling a story of the girl’s drowning, Wyndill’s men would likely give up the search.
He waited with her at the side of the lake while his uncle’s two men went back for what supplies they could scavenge. They stood in silence, neither knowing what to say to the other as rain pattered gently on their faces. The men returned too soon with horses and supplies in the saddle bags. Ascelin instructed them to make the entire journey with her for protection. His men were known about these parts. They were hard men, clever and canny. They would keep her safe.
He watched as they prepared her ride, his expression bitter. He knew she must go, but found himself hating her all the same for leaving him. Much to his regret for years to come, as she left, he did nothing but watch. She looked back at him as they trotted away, her guide pulling the reigns from the seat of his own horse. Her eyes were wide and expectant, with a hint of shock in them; but he did nothing, made no signal, turned no expression, spoke no words. And soon they were beyond sight, hidden by the trembling leaves of the forest. He knew he must be getting back, and quickly. So he swallowed the choking sensation in his chest, and forced himself away.
The lodge felt especially dead now, like a grave marker; a memorial to a life disappeared. Everyone had scattered. The fighting men had nearly all been killed, and his own uncle and cousins were dead. The servants had run off to their homes, in hope of escaping the roving soldiers looking
to loot and make trouble. The lodge was occupied by Wyndill’s men now, who were roused and drunk on battle. They seemed eager to challenge him as he strolled through the courtyard, his arms empty and upturned in a symbol of surrender. But he didn’t believe old Wyndill would let him come to harm. He was a wise man, not cruel, senile and vicious like his own uncle. He showed mercy and recognized merit where it was due.
He approached Wyndill, who stood on the main step surrounded by his lieutenants, and submitted himself to the man. He honestly cared little of what happened to Rypon’s estate now, or into whose hands it’s management was lain; he only wished to be left free to live as he chose. He’d spent his entire life under the yoke of a man who never gave him any credit and who’d wished him harm over some unnamed grievance. It was his dearest wish now to simply be his own man. To benefit from his own labors and be subject to none. Truly, he could bear nothing less. Wyndill greeted him with civility and accepted his story of the girl’s death. The man seemed to have been familiarized with her lack of worth - as far as obtaining ransom - and appeared to care little about it anyway.
After a fortnight of familiarizing Wyndill with his new lands and house, it was decided that Ascelin should be released to return to his relations on the continent. He’d never met them, nor communicated with them at all. But it was found that his uncle had been in some contact with them throughout the years, for several correspondences were found among his possessions. Ascelin knew of this family’s existence, but little else. To be honest, he welcomed the idea of travel and far away lands, and the possibility of success among new people. But his heart was pulled, always, back to the southern county where Maryone lived, and the image of a great house there.
The few weeks after that were wrought with discomfort. He travelled on horseback, through rain and storm, mud and forest. Many of the roads were bad, nearly impassable, and movement was slow and labored. The inns along the way were cramped and filthy. The journey was arduous, but he was determined to make his detour. He was a free man now, and had both the luxury of doing as he wished and taking his time about it.
When he finally made it to her home county, he felt a cold, weary, bedraggled creature. Trotting through the village, his heart beat hard and fast. The sense of her tingled through his body. His heart leaped as the memory of her turned to visceral reality, materializing from sensation to the threat of present form. But far out of town, at the base of the road that led into a thick forest and eventually to that great house he’d been picturing, he stopped and could go no further. Studying the dark spires of the house rising above the distant trees, he felt a very solid barrier fall over his heart. Truly, she would never receive him. He was a barbarian. A ruffian who took part in her capture and torture, and in the murder of her own father. She would never want him, or even allow him in her home. Surely, she would turn him away. She was a fine young woman and he a mud-soaked wretch. Surely, she would marry someone upstanding.
These thoughts stood between him and the object of his desire like a brick wall, one that stretched all the way from his own chest, through the forest and up to that great old house. One built of his own self-reproach and doubt. It felt impenetrable, commanding his perception. And yet he was constantly drawn back, hanging on to hope. Within that house, far away, he felt a spark of consciousness, like the awakening of a mind to his presence. He convinced his heart that it was her sensing him there, and moved on before the feeling could leave him.
CHAPTER 33
Lost to This World
Maryone returned to a home overtaken by her overbearing Aunt Everild, an austere woman intent on making her a proper lady, who’d taken up residence in her father’s house several weeks past, in the time of her captivity. Her aunt said she’d come to prepare it for her return, but Maryone guessed it’d been an attempted coup. Either way, Maryone was, of course, already a proper lady. But Aunt Everild meant to solidify her position as a fashionable, available young woman of the neighborhood and beyond; likely hoping to wash any stain of the “northern incident” from the family’s reputation.
Her aunt was not impossible to live with, showing Maryone more kindness and civility than her own father had. It was strangely comforting to have a female in the house, though the price of this comfort was receiving more ministration than she was used to. Aunt Everild was an exacting woman, constantly instructing Maryone on propriety and ladylike behavior. She also took a keen interest in Maryone’s dress, making sure to clothe her in the latest styles, so as to show her off to suitors and other fine folk of her acquaintance. Maryone didn’t mind this so much, though she admittedly didn’t care nearly as much for the good opinions of her neighbors as her aunt did.
Aunt Everild was also more socially inclined than her poor father had been, who had never thrown balls or parties, but had spent most of his time holed up in the library keeping company with ancient books. He’d seemed more resentful of his neighbor’s existence than anything. But, her aunt seemed determined to fill the house with them - nearby neighbors and her own friends from far off distances. There were parties and gatherings frequently, which Maryone found exciting at first. Soon, their demand on her time and energies became oppressive. Making forced, awkward conversation with strangers was tedious, especially since her life had been recently engulfed with kidnap and torture, subjects hardly appropriate for tea-time chatter.
As time went on, she balked at the prospect of another party approaching, paling at the thought of copious old ladies fawning over her, asking her the same questions one after another. She found solace by taking walks as soon as she was allowed away from the guests. Likely they’d think her an eccentric, but she didn’t care. She’d get lost on the grounds, find some quiet bench somewhere in the trees on which to hide, or wander through the gardens. It felt strange to be out in nature all dressed up like a starched doll, but it was better than facing company and awkward suitors.
One evening, after an early dinner party, Maryone had wandered out onto the grounds, still dressed in her finery, and down toward a pond that lay to the south of the house. It was bordered all around by forest, and boasted a silence that Maryone found extremely comforting after the clucking, nervous interchanges of company. Her aunt would be furious when she returned, but it was a small price to pay for freedom. Most ladies would feel intimidated by being in such a place near dark, but she knew these grounds like her own reflection, and didn’t even feel the need to open her eyes to find her way back.
She sat upon a rock at the water’s edge, listening to thunder as a storm threatened in the distance. She didn’t worry, there were several places she might take refuge from rain. Her dresses were so plentiful these days, it didn’t seem to matter if one was ruined, though she was sensible of what a wasteful, spoiled attitude that was to have of such fine things.
She sat peacefully for some time, enjoying the cool, damp air on her face and the sound of wind blowing through the trees. But before long, a strange presence crept at her back. It came upon her suddenly, with a potency that was startling. It felt strangely familiar, akin to memories formed in earliest childhood. She didn’t hear footsteps, nor the creaking of branches breaking underfoot. But as she turned, there stood a man, dressed in elegant, if rather exotic clothing. She recognized him and assumed he’d been at her aunt’s dinner party. Strangely, his presence made her feel dizzy, as if her head were swimming.
“Good evening,” she said, a bit dazed as she leaned back on the rock.
The man bowed graciously, in a style somewhat foreign. He wore more jewelry than she’d ever seen on any English man (or most women), and kept his facial hair cropped in a style most unusual. He must be from abroad, she thought. He stepped forward and introduced himself, and at that moment, her relationship with Valefar began.
~
Nine months after her return from the north, and all that’d occurred in that savage, lawless place, she was settling nicely into her role as the most eligible young maiden of the neighborhood. The role suited he
r at least, if the company and all that seemed required of her behavior did not. She was not of an overly social taciturn. She preferred few and genuine relationships to a multitude of combatting acquaintances. It seemed she only knew how to speak from the heart, and was rather bad at the shallow, maneuvering dance of social intercourse.
Her relationship with the mysterious man Valefar had developed more than any of the others she’d met by her aunt’s design. He visited from time to time, always arriving unannounced; sometimes when there was company and sometimes not. She was always relieved by his presence and took refuge in his conversation at her aunt’s parties. Despite it’s platonic nature, their friendship had sent many tongues to wagging. She also sensed that, in among this gossip, a certain taint had followed her south, one she didn’t fully understand.
Only recently when she’d been walking through the village on an errand for her aunt, a group of children had whispered and pointed strangely at her. When she wished them good morning, they ran off as if frightened. She’d also noticed fearful looks from other townsfolk as well, and found herself feeling rather stigmatized by suspicious, watchful gazes. She’d always been a shy creature, not known well by many. In fact, most locals had likely thought her a strange bird her whole life, with her hermit of a father and her own unsociable wanderings about the forests and moors. She tried to chalk up their behavior to idle gossip and the jealousies of the simpler folk. But a shade was cast over her heart.
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