Ink flowed from her pen, creating words, crafting sentences. Lochlan watched her write in her journal. What she wrote, he didn't know. He stared at his book, trying to ignore her, but it was impossible. All he could think about was the scratch of the pen as it flew across the paper, writing down the thoughts and feelings that she couldn't, or rather wouldn't, share with him. He flexed his hand. It was but two in the afternoon, and they had both retired to the library next to the roaring fire. Glancing out the window, he gave up all pretense of reading. His hand ached. The cut, which Vivian had sewed up, had closed, and only this morning had she removed the stitches from his skin.

An extremely hard blast of cold winter air hit the windows, shaking the panes. A noise from Vivian brought his head around. "Argh, I blotted it again!"

Chuckling at her indignation, he calmly asked, "And what is it that you have once again ruined?"

She looked over to him, looking adorable in with her bewitching green eyes and pouting mouth. "I have been attempting to write a poem, but I blotted it again!"

He smiled. "A poem?" Reflecting over the past days, the few weeks she had spent in his company, he had to admit to himself that she had hidden her depression well. For if she cried over her captivity, she did so where he could not see or hear her. She had become a strong pillar, standing against every wind and blast that came at her. Not only did she set broken arms, and give tonic to his servants, but she also befriended every servant in the castle. Henry quite looked upon her as a daughter. He smiled and laughed more than he ever had, and it was all because of the beautiful woman before him. The woman was a healer in her own right. Not because she could mix her brews, but because her smile brought joy to even the blackest heart.

He frowned. No doubt his was the blackest heart she had ever encountered. For he was guilty of a great many sins; sins he had no wish of recollecting, yet they flashed through his mind. Each assassination he had executed boiled to the front of his mind. The first was when he was only sixteen. Leaving each of the bodies lifeless had scared his soul and turned it black. He was dirty and unworthy of anyone's love.

Standing up, he walked to the fire place. Resting his arm on the mantle, he put his head down. Vivian had fallen silent. Watching his movements warily, she rearranged her legs into a more comfortable position. Lifting his head, he stared into the flame. Chastising himself, he sighed. Vivian may be slowly becoming acquainted to the life of the castle and its servants, but she was nowhere comfortable with his moods.

Pivoting abruptly, he strode to the door. "Excuse me, I am not in the mood for company now." Slipping through the door, he tried to erase Vivian's image from his mind. She consumed his thoughts all day, and even into the night. He had taken leave of his senses. Even Henry raised an eyebrow as Andimar rested before Vivian's door instead of haunting the woods at night, as was his custom.

His life centered on the woman with flashing green eyes and raven black hair. He would admit it to himself, no matter how grudgingly. But to do so, he would have to admit a weakness. A stab of fear shot through him. He was well known, and everyone knew of the rumors, the rumors founded in truth, that he was the King's assassin. He had many enemies, enemies who constantly looked for a weak spot. Growling he threw his fist into the wall. Cursing, he pulled his hand back and looked at the bloodied knuckles.

What he needed was a good run. A run which would clear his mind, and numb his body. Changing directions, he headed for the kitchen. When he passed Henry in the corridor, he left off his duties and followed him. Bathilde backed away bowing when he approached. Servants scattered before him like ants in a rain storm. The cook bowed, and moved to the opposite side of the kitchen as he strode in.

"Your Grace, if I may…" Henry started.

"No, you may not. Blast it!" He turned on Henry, "She's perfect! And I'm a scoundrel! How in tarnation am I to do anything without being reminded that I am a soiled soul? One who has no hope of repentance for what I have done? What I must continue to do? She's a perfect angel and I am Satan's spawn to her! I am more unworthy of her than even Morven!" Collapsing to his knees, he shook with frustrated anger and sorrow. "I should never have brought her here, nor demanded Master's Rights. No good is to come of this."

Henry bent down onto one knee, putting his hand on his master's shoulder, he spoke. "Sire, she does not hate you. One day, if you give yourself enough time, you will come to recognize this. Even the most weathered men can find happiness in life. Open yourself up. She has healed far more than your hand, if you haven't realized. Until she came here, you never spoke more than two words together. She is healing you, but you must be open to her if it is to take any true effect."

Lochlan looked up to his servant, to his friend. "How could she find anything redeeming in me? I am a monster!"

Standing up, he offered his hand, "Give it time sir."

Lochlan nodded. Grasping his hand, he stood. "I may or may not return for dinner."

Henry nodded. "Aye, sir."

Wind blasted through the doorway as Lochlan stepped out into the driving snow. The cold numbed the pain of the shift. The wind whipped through is fur, shooting icy fingers into his body, but he didn't care. His paws beat rhythmically against the ground, sinking into the drifts. He ran from his thoughts, he ran from his problems…and it did no good, for he well knew that he would have to return. He would return to the warmth and light, but for now, he wanted the frozen darkness. He wanted the blackness that infected his soul reflected in the weather.


Vivian sat stunned. Lochlan's abrupt departure had shaken her. Only moments before, they had sat in friendly silence, then in companionable conversation. For, she had learned, Lochlan did not speak much. Instead he was a solitary brooding man, a man who liked his space, and his silence.

She looked down to her page; the ink stain now seemed irrelevant. In hopes of entertaining him, she had written it. Now it seemed childish and worthless. A tear slid from her eye, and she wiped angrily at it. A second tear traveled down her cheek, splashing on the parchment, and running the ink. She slammed her journal shut as sobs wracked her body. Childishly she threw the journal across the room. Then she rushed to pick it up, her sobs turning into hiccups. The door to the library opened, fearful that it was Lochlan, Vivian spun. Relived to see that it was Bathilde, she broke down once more into tears.

"There, there, dear. It's all right." soothed Bathilde, her voice smooth as a brook. "Forgive Master Lochlan. He is rather moody at times." Vivian, who had never felt a mother's embrace, melted into the housekeeper's arms. Bathilde stroked her black hair, marveling at its softness.

"He was speaking to me…then he walked to the mantle…" She hiccupped, interrupting her tale. "Then he stormed from the room. I…I don't know what I did! I don't know what I did to offend him so!"

"Dearest, it was none of your fault. He is a troubled man, unused to a beautiful young woman in his life. He has lived here his whole life, most of it without a mother or a father. I am not asking you to put up with his rude behavior, but only forgive him his insecurities."

Vivian laughed a sad mournful laugh, "Insecurities? The man is a legend? Surely legends do not have insecurities!"

Bathilde held Vivian away from her, looking her in the eye, she said, "They have insecurities like the rest of us. Him more than most." Vivian nodded, still unbelieving. "Come, perhaps you would like a mug of chocolate in the kitchen." She offered, leading Vivian from the library.


When dinner was served, Vivian felt a keen loss. Lochlan had not surfaced from whatever darkened depths he had gone to. His place was set, but sat lonely and unused. Rather than eating, she pushed the food Henry had ladled onto her plate, around in circles. Bathilde raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Henry scowled when she stood, but also remained silent. Smiling slightly to each of the servants, she retired to her room.

Wrapping herself in her night gown, she placed a shawl about her shoulders and sat on the window bench. Staring into the night, she drifted off to sleep, thinking of her father and brother.