Come back to me, Cassandra, come back to me. Place my hand on your warm cheek and let me feel your heart beat one more time. Don't perish, don't leave me, let me see you again.
I remember the first time I met; the hot iron scolding my fingers and the pieces of thin fabric that I had wrapped around my knuckles didn't help. The iron would have fallen from my grasp and hurt my leg but a heavy hand caught it before it hit me. Your hand. I looked up. "Thank you, ser," was on my lips but two kind eyes met mine and the words didn't pass my lips. You asked me why a girl like me was in charge of the smithy. I replied that somebody had to do it; my father and brothers had been called to the army. You gave me a sovereign and then left.
You came back the next day, saw the bruises on my legs, and my arms. The scorch marks. The black eye I had from when one of my customers had refused to pay for a sword when he realised it had been made by me. You looked hungry and tired; I asked if you wanted any food. You accepted and I made you a simple meal of fish and bread. You laughed when you saw that I cooked our food in the same oven that forged the weapons. I offered to make you a sword, and while you sat and ate I worked. You continued watching me with those eyes intently, burning into me and I felt myself trembling. I found myself wishing that you could have met me before my mother died and father left, when my hair was still brushed and washed, when my arms weren't bruised and my skin was still immaculate. I felt ugly and I wanted to be beautiful in your eyes.
When you came back a week later I presented you with the sword. "I hope it suits you," I said, my voice reduced to a whisper. You nodded and took it without a word. You fastened it on your back. "How much do you want for it?" I found myself stuttering, nothing, no, of course not, it's yours, my pleasure. You nodded again, too tired from battle. I suddenly noticed that your arm was hurt, and you look pained when you moved. What could I have done except invite you into my home?
You sat there, on my chair, by my table and let me strip you of your armour. You moved your face, didn't want to see the cut; you were brave. It wasn't shallow, my love, but you hadn't asked for help. Your bare arm held more scars than I could ever had imagined and I wanted to touch each one. Kiss each mark and blemish. Instead I cleaned your wound and dressed it with a cloth and some herbs for the pain.
"How is the war going?" I asked to break the silence.
"We will win."
I waited for you to say anything else, but you remained quiet, looking out of the window.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"My name is Cassandra Pentaghast,"
"Amelie," I said, offering my name even though you haven't asked.
"I… should go," No, don't go, just stay for a little while longer.
"You can sleep in my brother's room," I said.
You stayed for a whole week. Didn't speak much but shared my meals with me, helped me in the smithy and listened to me when I talked. You helped me when customers complained or got to rowdy; I felt safer with you sleeping under my roof.
You left and I missed you. We got messaged daily about villages fallen to the war, our world being torn asunder. We heard about fallen heroes, and I found myself asking. Cassandra Pentaghast, any information about her? My heart in my throat. Five weeks I waited. Five weeks I prayed. Five weeks I worried.
This time when I saw you walking towards my smithy, I left my tools, my apron and pyre. Without thinking I ran towards you and for some reason you opened your arms. "I was so worried," I whispered in your ear, my heart beating loudly and my mouth dry. Before letting go, I knew I had to, I pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. You looked tired like you always did, but there was a spark in your eyes that I didn't recognize; and a smile on your lips. I hadn't known you could smile.
Us. We. Together. No clothes; just bandages, scars, blood and us; so much of us, so much skin. Skin. My hands in your hair as you kissed and bit my lips. As we held each other on my childhood bed, your silence a sharp contrast to my cries in the night. I love you. I couldn't say it. But I knew you, and I have loved you since the day I was born.
It is cold now, and the war is creeping closer; my village being the last one untouched. Most people have left but I wait here, hoping that if I stay you will come and find me one last time.
I can hear the wind and storm outside, something brewing in the shadows. I have closed my doors and shutters and am waiting for the end. I will die dreaming of your dark short hair, your warm brown eyes and your strong and fair demeanour. I know you won't come for me this time; I am too insignificant compared to your responsibilities.