The uncharacteristically hot sun of March beat down on the backs of the deliriously happy, but mostly intoxicated, crowd. The dust and gravel kicked up by the parade made the women that much more susceptible to tearing eyes, and the men that much eager to quench their dry throats with the freely flowing wine.

The Count of Etchingham surveyed the crowds with a cool and satisfied eye. That was the way it should be. His adoring, reverent populace was ecstatic about his impending marriage to the most beautiful girl in all the lands; and in his honor, they held an immense public celebration that the world had never before seen. As for his bride – she was to be the most gentle, loving, and doting creature that would be the key to his complete domination of the three Great Lands: Aubrey, Chiltern, and Stockton. He was that much closer to accomplishing a dream that used to seem as unattainable as the stars.

Holding the reins to his white steed steady, the Count turned his head slightly to once again assure himself that his precious Princess was safe within the open carriage. Despite being in the midst of such coarse and vulgar peasants, or perhaps because she was, the dear Princess gleamed as if she were a pearl nesting in her rouge pod. The Count's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his prize more closely.

Etchingham would have preferred her hair to be a glorious and golden mane reaching her waist, and her eyes to be the deepest blue of the sea. However, he was more than willing to make compromises since she was, after all, the most beautiful and politically powerful woman within the Great Lands. He let out an inaudible sigh, somewhere between contentment and restlessness.

The Count flashed a winning smile at the trio of reasonably attractive peasant girls who had pushed their way to the front of the crowd. He mentally crowed with satisfaction as they nearly melted in a puddle of want. One of them managed to regain her presence of mind long enough to toss a small bouquet of white and yellow carnations in his direction, which he effortlessly plucked from the air. Without breaking eye contact, he tucked the modest flowers into his buttonhole with a winsome smile. That smile broke into a smirk when the wench almost fainted in her delight.

Turning back to the procession, he coaxed Polaris into a light canter in order to catch up with the carriage. On the way, he tugged the peasant flowers out and tossed them to the ground where they were trampled beneath the boots of his personal guards.

With a jolt, the girl woke from her muddled-minded doze. She whimpered in pain when the bright beams of the sun assaulted her weak eyes, sending answering sparks of agony through her skull. Her head lolled back to rest against the throw pillows stacked around her as she closed her eyes against the light that could not be completely blocked out. She swallowed with difficulty, her mouth so dry her tongue felt like a piece of sandy cotton. It was hot, too hot. She could nearly taste it – the flavor of salty, putrid sweat and cheap wine that could only be conceived when a swarm of drunken, perspiring, unclean bodies were compressed together in an unsavory mix. And, hell and damnation, she could hear the said unclean crowd around her as much as she could smell them. The blaring cacophony of instruments not meant to be played together, the off-key inebriated singing of gravelly voices, the giddy hysterical laughter of people who were not quite sure about the topic of their uproarious amusement . . .

Her eyelashes fluttered dazedly as she tried in vain to focus on something, anything. Everything was too bright, too loud, too hot, too heavy…

Too heavy?

She made two tries before she could lift her leaden arm to tentatively pat her head. Her hair was miraculously clean and soft for the first time since what seemed like an eternity, but there was something . . .

Her brows furrowed as weak fingers traced what was unmistakably a circlet. If she was not mistaken, the circlet was one of considerable value. Its weight suggested that it was made of gold and protrusions from the otherwise smooth surface were most likely precious gems. A sudden image flashed to the forefront of her mind. With a muffled groan, her hands rose to cradle her throbbing head.

No. The damned thing must come off.

Tugging at it fiercely, she yelped in pain as a few well-attached curls were pulled along with the circlet. Falling back on the pillows again in frustration, she slammed her fist against the soft material that was transferring even more heat to her uncomfortably dry and feverish body. She scowled. Beating a pillow was just not as satisfying as she wanted it to be.

A slight lurch in the reasonably steady movement brought her attention to the view in front of her. She stared dumbly at the four, glistening, bare male shoulders contorting and flexing under the weight of beams. It took her a while before she tore her eyes away from the well-muscled flesh to trace the beams back to their origin.

Realization slowly crept upon her. Great gods, was she always this slow? The men were carrying her carriage! As her eyes had finally adjusted to the bright light of noonday, she finally took in the sight before her.

People.

Crowds upon crowds of people were gathered along the long procession on the streets, singing, laughing, and drinking freely. Brightly colored confetti and rose petals were scattered along the hot winds. The blindingly gay colors of the peasant women's skirts swirled dizzyingly in her vision. Flowers and handkerchiefs were tossed to the soldiers sitting atop their horses. Jugs of wine were merrily shared between strangers and brothers.

A celebration?

What for?

Had there been any event worth celebrating these last centuries?

She frowned.

Had there been any event not worth celebrating these last centuries?

She groaned softly and buried her face into her hands. It was so hard to remember past the mist, the darkness.

The darkness?

How long had she been in the darkness?

An eternity, it seemed. A lifetime.

Did it?

But why? Why was she in the darkness? Was there a life before the darkness? Why couldn't she remember?

The noise of the crowd blended into one continuous deafening roar that battered her eardrums in continuous waves. She let out a small whimper as she clutched at her black curls.

Suddenly, the sounds of the crowd faded as the slow, rhythmic trot of a horse reached her ears. She slowly raised her head. A dapple gray mare, almost light enough to be white, approached the carriage with her rider.

She studied the man almost apathetically. He looked to be a person of high social standing. His posture was impeccable, his blond locks were arranged so that not one strand was out of place, and his expression was warm and concerned. His features were set in an almost pixie-like delicacy that was most uncharacteristic for a man. She hoped for a spark of recognition at the sight of this gentleman . . . but . . . nothing.

She gazed at him steadily, her mind absently noting the words he was vocalizing, but unable to bring herself to understand. She complacently allowed him to gently take her hands away from her hair and place them in her lap. She didn't break eye contact, even when he leaned over to gently tuck her hair back into place.

It was strange.

His expression was kind – congenial, even.

Yet, why was there a feeling of unfamiliarity that was almost frightening?

The Count of Etchingham's eyes crinkled a little in worry as he gazed upon his bride-in-the-very-near-future's lovely face. She was not simple, was she? The villains that he'd rescued her from had assured him that she was very spirited indeed. She had not, however, made a sound or movement except to stare at him with those wide eyes.

He absently rubbed Polaris between the ears when he shifted and pawed the ground restlessly. Something was making his noble steed nervous and his beautiful bride-to-be silent. He turned to scrutinize the still celebratory crowd closely, there was no suspicious activity that he could discern.

The Count turned back to his Princess. Smiling slightly, he tucked another loose curl behind her ear. Even if she were simple, she would be that much easier to control once they were married, would she not? What use did women have for a sound mind anyway? As long as she could be taught to love and worship him as she should, then she would make a suitable wife and queen. In fact, was he not lucky as to have such a convenient set-up? It was as if his Mother in heaven was carefully arranging the pieces for his rightful ascension to power.

Etchingham touched her chin lightly, the gesture seemingly gentle and tender. "Chin up, love. Smile and look charming for our adoring populace," he murmured affectionately. His Princess finally broke eye contact and turned to study his raised arm almost curiously.

There was a sudden draft, unsettling in its coldness in the midst of such hot weather. Almost at the same time, his precious prize cried out in pain as the circlet he had so painstakingly ordered his blacksmith to design was pinned to the wall of the carriage with an arrow. There were two heartbeats of utter silence except for the soft fluttering of petals and confetti in the wind.

Then, all hell broke loose.

She clutched her head in pain where several strands of her hair were viciously torn out when the circlet was shot off. Stirrings of a familiar hot anger took her. Glaring, she shouted furiously, "That ripped out my bloody hair, you blasted scoundrel!"

For the second time in less than a minute, shocked silence overtook the previously rambunctious crowd in waves. Their seemingly genteel countess-to-be, spitting out a profanity in her fury?

The silence was quickly filled with loud murmurs of approval and amusement. This was their kind of Countess! Emotions spread through the crowd like dye through water. Anger and indignation filled the peasants even stronger than when they first saw the arrow fly toward their Lady. Who had the appalling gall to attempt an assassination on their already beloved Countess?

The peasant men's crude weapons quickly found their way into hands as they searched amongst themselves for the culprit who suddenly seemed to be all around them.

Blasted scoundrel?

She slowly turned to look at the arrow buried deep into the carriage wall. The steel shaft of the arrow winked at her menacingly, daring her to retrieve her dark memories from the endless abyss.

She did.

With a bright, flaring pain from behind her eyes, images assaulted her from all sides, taunting her decision to remember. She cried out in pain, but desperately beat back the darkness creeping around the edges of her vision. She needed to see it all, needed to remember, needed to . . .

It was not a noise that attracted her attention, but rather the lack thereof. It was a bubble of movement, deafening in its silence that seized her awareness, dug its nails into it and refused to let go.

Heartbeat increasing, she turned sharply to stare directly into frosty, livid gray eyes.

Warren.

A/N: Well, that was the prologue. To avoid confusion, this particular scene is set in the "present," and Chapter 1 and on will be in the "past" until it leads up to this point. And then forwards. Yeah. Adore? Abhor? Do tell!