It is only really a blurred and hazy memory now, worn out from numerous replayings. The choking, stifling heat of the crowded tavern, the various foetid stenches of assorted animals and the sharp aroma of spilled beer and ale, the people who looked so huge and formidable from a child's eyes; all had built up immediately upon my entering the place and quite overwhelmed my five-year-old senses. I still wonder why my father brought my there; it was certainly no place for someone of my age.
Never good with children, though, my father. On the birth of my sister he had had another chance, but again could never master the delicate art.
I still regret being so difficult on purpose, but... I shouldn't dwell on such things. Back to the memory. I must watch one more time, I think.
I...remember a haze of smoke in the room, clouding my senses even more then they already had been from the surroundings, and my first sip of ale, a horrible, choking experience that burned all the way down and left me coughing the vile substance up. How the crowd laughed at that, and then - I remember my father telling the men that this was his land and that they would do well to remember it. I did not understand at the time, but the jeers and jostles stopped suddenly and a kind of malicious, sullen silence fell.
Frightened by this, I clutched my father's sleeve tight. I can still feel the rough-textured linen in my hand, and how he prised my small fingers away. I think I embarrassed him in some way... I always felt that I was a disappointment, somehow.
A bristle of red beard, my father's face looking at me sadly. Turning away.
"Back to your drinks, lads. You've had your fun."
He downed the rest of his ale in one huge gulp and left me sitting there, staring at the dirty, stained table and the spilled drinks on it. I felt vaguely nauseous, and only just managed to quell a rising fear. A child's panic, like being scared of the monsters under your bed or the things that hid in a dark corner. Only this time it was of the crowd, and what they might do. Never underestimate rabble-rousers. I heard it all, the quiet whispers. Even lords couldn't order them around. Let them dare!
My father was on the other side of the tavern, his hair and beard sparks of flame reflected in the fireplace. He was cheerful again, I think, and was joking and laughing with the others seated at his table.
Looking around me, there was no joking or laughing. The men sitting near my empty table were silent, and took sullen sips from their half-drunk tankards. Some left, slamming the heavy oak door in a rush of cold outside air. I could almost feel the remaining of them staring balefully at me, and the panic rose like a wave again.
I looked down, and seem to remember thinking I must do something -anything- to stop this crippling fear.
I began to draw one plump index finger through a trail of spilled beer, feeling it coat the skin in wetness, keeping myself preoccupied with the table for a long time before I became aware of the back of my neck prickling unpleasantly, and seeming to burn, and looked round.
The man was of medium height, medium build, and no especial beauty, with eyes set deep into his skull. These eyes glared at me with a menace unparalleled by any that had come before him. He began to rise, and I wanted to run and hide somewhere far away from all this. Glancing wildly around, I noticed that my father had moved further away and was clashing mugs of ale with a passion.
The man smirked, and I felt about to lose all control and run to my father; did not, though, instinctively knowing that this would put my father even more out of favour.
Then the door slammed, and we all turned our heads. There. There, in the firelight. An overweight, thickset man with a neck like a bull, holding a young woman firmly by the arm. The girl struggling, a pretty face set to grim lines by fear.
"Malry! 'Ere's a little gift for yer!"
Glancing over to my father, still shouting and laughing at the other side of the tavern. He'd not noticed.
"Why, thank yer! I owe yer one now, dun' I?"
A second man -Malry- staggering over to the first. Obviously drunk. Grabbing the girl by the shoulders. Leering into her beautiful face.
I began to rise from my seat.
"What a pretty one ole Malry 'as 'ere, eh?"
She wore the garb of a servant of St. Elimine. What were these men doing?
Malry pulled the girl to him, ignoring her weak struggles. Forcing his mouth upon hers. A cheer went up from the assembled men.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father turn.
Malry breathed a deep sigh into the girl's face, holding her so she could not turn. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
"So... sweet," Malry said slowly, reaching behind he to the great abundance of long blonde hair. Lovely hair, catching the firelight in its sheen, reaching down her back. Put to sharp contrast by the rough brown bristles of Malry's beard against it.
I wanted to scream.
"Les' see whether yer' as pretty underneath all those clothes, eh?"
The girl's eyes widened. She struggled even more, but not hard enough to break free. Still she was silent - from shock? What were they doing to her?
A white cloak on the floor, hers. Malry by now the epitome of all that was evil in my mind, forcing a kiss on the girl again. Looking round, my father startled, rising. He could help me.
I couldn't turn away from the terrible scene in front of me, no matter how hard I tried. All etched on my memories in vivid detail. Malry's hands finding the girl's collar, searching for some fastening. Father striding towards them, telling him to stop this. Malry finding no way of undoing the girl's dress, pausing a moment. Father shouting, still not close enough to stop him. Malry's drunken laugh.
He ripped off the blue dress like it was paper, so we could all see the girl. And stopped.
My father stopped.
Silence fell, broken only by the rustle of clothes as the blonde gathered them slowly, holding them up as if to create a shield.
This was the first time I was to meet Lucius.