It was hard to eat. It was hard to drink water. It was hard to sleep, or do anything else at all.
Ever since the announcement of her arranged marriage had been made, Gwynileth was little more than a walking husk of a woman. She could hardly stand to think of it: she would be married to Jenithar Hlaalu, the man who raped her, on the 29th of Second Seed, 4E 201.
Her birthday.
The date of the wedding was an insult to an already grievous injury, one that only Anya's company could soothe. Her handmaiden was as loyal as ever, taking care of her by forcing spoonfuls of stew into her mouth, by bringing her large glasses of water every single hour, by gifting Gwynileth a notebook within which she could write her innermost thoughts… by being Anya.
"You must run away," Anya insisted, day after day. "I can't stand the thought of you chained to a life of fear and misery, Gwynileth. You need to go."
But where could Gwynileth go? There was nowhere she could run, no friends to assist her. Anya could hardly go herself, as she had very little money to help her restart a new life, not to mention she had her brother, his wife, and two young nephews to take care of and look after.
Soon, there was one more reason why Anya could not also flee Morrowind.
Illness of some sort always found its way into the Nerussa Estate during the winter months. The other Great Houses weren't exempt from this; there was some cold, some flu, that made its way through the servant's quarters. But this year's was brutal and unlike anything Gwynileth had ever seen before—and it had taken Anya as one of its hostages.
It seemed that this disease affected one's ability to breathe. When Anya attempted to take a deep breath, she began to cough, as though there were cobwebs in her lungs. On days when the cough became particularly powerful, her saliva was tinged with the red of blood.
Gwynileth was able to shrug off the gloom that her engagement had wrought in order to take care of her handmaiden. She quickly began making stews and other easy to eat foods for Anya—she traipsed into the ash fields of Morrowind for what little healing herbs the country sported, and began boiling the roots and tubers together for medicinal pastes and syrups. On days when Anya was frightfully hot to the touch, Gwynileth prepared hot baths in an attempt to sweat out the fever; she would bathe Anya as gently as she could, while taking care to avoid contracting the same disease herself.
Even though Gwynileth was glad to do all of these things for her best and only friend, her parents were not as enamored with her activities and behavior. Now that she was to marry into the Hlaalu family, she was expected to begin learning the traditions of the Hlaalu house, as well as attend many soirees with the ladies of her future in-laws.
But she could not be bothered with such useless frivolity; hence her parents' ire.
"You must attend Lady Briala's tea-time tomorrow!" exclaimed Nihali, tugging at Gwynileth's arm. "She is expecting you!"
"I will not. Anya needs me."
Her mother's nostrils flared, but Gwynileth did not shy away. It was much easier for her to make small stands of defiance when they were for the benefit of someone other than herself. The two women ended up glaring at one another for a long while.
"Your handmaiden will survive two or three hours without your presence," said Nihali at last, with a cold steel lacing her tone. It was a stark contrast from the hot anger that had been occupying it only seconds ago. "This is expected of you."
Gwynileth stood up straight, crimson eyes blazing. "I have lived all of my life doing what was expected of me. I will not be convinced to do so when my best friend is grievously ill, and may need my help at any time."
She did not add that she would sooner eat ash than attend Lady Briala's tea party, for that was one of the women who, when rumors that Jenithar had 'slept with' Gwynileth began circulating about, declared that Gwynileth had been lucky.
So it was that Gwynileth remained at home for the day of the tea party, but her luck was not to last. Only three days afterward, her fiancé came to visit.
There was no escaping this time. Both her mother and father approached to say that Gwynileth was expected to remain in the lounge with her betrothed while they and his parents began discussing the upcoming celebrations and the matter of her dowry.
There were snacks and drinks prepared for them all: cheeses and wines, grapes and sausages. Such fare was rare for most in Morrowind, considering all the farmland was tinted with ash—but when one lived at the height of luxury and could summon anything with but a snap of their fingers, that was not an issue.
Gwynileth's head was ringing as the Heads of the Great Houses spoke about the upcoming bridal shower, the matter of a dowry, a potential honeymoon to Elsewyr, which was supposedly warm deserts and oasis… Each of them had such joy upon their faces. He was at ease, too. Everyone was smiling and laughing save for Gwynileth, who felt as though strangers were talking about her as though she were not there at all.
Then, her mother said the dreaded words.
"Why don't we take a stroll around the gardens and leave the couple to discuss the finer details of the wedding?" asked Nihali, with a smile so thick and sweet it could've been mistaken for that Nordic jazbay syrup.
Everything in Gwynileth's chest was screaming at her to beg her parents not to leave her—to just stay, for once in their lives, to stay.
She already knew it wouldn't work. They had never listened.
"That sounds like a splendid idea," replied Lady Varanya Hlaalu. "I've heard many lovely things about the winter-roses you've had planted in the windowsills, and I must see them for myself…"
Without further ado, the two sets of parents were off. And for the first time since the first day of Sun's Dusk, Gwynileth was alone with him.
The door clicked shut softly, but due to the utter silence of the room, the sound was near deafening. She sat still, her hands folded in her lap the way her mother had once taught her, and waited.
After a long and uncomfortable moment—during which Gwynileth absolutely refused to meet his eyes—he cleared his throat and said, "So… it would seem we are to be married."
Gwynileth kept her gaze fixed upon her hands.
"I think that means we need to discuss who will receive invitations to the wedding, as well as where we shall buy a house and begin our lives and new responsibilities," he added, apparently encouraged by her silence. "Do you… have any suggestions?"
"Somewhere warm," she whispered. Gwynileth didn't want to talk about this. She didn't even want to think about it, but it simply seemed that everywhere she went nowadays, it was more of this hell. It would be better to play along with it, to just get it over with, instead of fight it. "And… not too crowded. Please."
She still did not look at him, but Gwynileth could feel rather than see the relieved smile upon her fiancé's face as he replied, "Yes, of course! My cousin has a summer mansion she has been looking to sell for a while, on the Ascadian Isles. I could purchase that from her straightaway."
Her heartbeat was loud; much too loud. All that was running through her head was how terrified she was.
"Gwynileth? Are you… well?"
Upon hearing that Jenithar sounded worried, some of her fear melted away to make room for anger. Her crimson eyes snapped to his face, which bore signs of unmistakable concern—but no, it couldn't be concern, because he had hurt her, he had hurt her so badly she did not know how to even begin healing from it.
Teeth ground together, she hissed, "Of course not. I'm petrified, furious—do you honestly think I want this?"
Jenithar blinked. "I don't understand—"
"This… this farce of a marriage!" she cried, and now her hands were no longer in her lap, but thrown to the air in a hopeless gesture. "After what you've done to me, and what I told you at the New Year Festival, how can you possibly deceive yourself into thinking that we will have a happy life together? We won't, Jenithar, no matter how hard you try to ignore what happened."
"It was a mistake," he retorted, and now his hands were extended, but in pleading. "I'm sorry! What else am I supposed to say? I made a horrible mistake. I hurt you, the woman I genuinely care about, and I can never take that back. Do you want me to throw myself at your feet and beg? If that's what you want, then…"
He trailed off, looking as though he was about to burst up from the couch, and Gwynileth couldn't take it. It would be so much easier to hate him if he had been the ruthless man she had seen that day, the one who had ignored her pleads and told her that no matter what she was saying, her body was responding well and that deep down, she knew she liked it.
This wasn't the same man—but it was.
Everything hurt. Gwynileth's head was pounding so fiercely she was afraid she would faint right there; but she couldn't, not unless she were to put herself at the mercy of Jenithar Hlaalu once more.
The tears spilled from the corner of her eyes. She hid them away and gasped, "I don't want your apology. You've already made it before. I just want this to be over—all of this."
She began to sob, keeping her face carefully concealed so he wouldn't see just how deeply affected she was. The only one whom Gwynileth completed confided in was Anya, who was but a few corridors away, resting pale and weak.
A minute passed, during which time Gwynileth tried to remake her mask of stone. But the truth of the matter was that she hadn't quite begun to process any of the trauma, any of the emotions that battered at whatever remained of her heart.
"I see," Jenithar said at long last. His voice was composed again; unreadable. "If that is your wish, then here is my suggestion: once we are married, you will take the left wing of the mansion. I shall live in the right wing. I will not go to see you save for at night on the seventh day of every week."
Gwynileth took a shaky breath and looked up at him from behind her hands. Her voice trembling, she asked, "E-every… the seventh night of every week?"
Hearing her confusion, he frowned. "Surely you realize the entire purpose of our engagement is to unite our Houses together by means of producing a son?"
Waves roared in Gwynileth's head—
"You have my word that once we have a son, you will be free of me forever," he added swiftly, noting the pale hue her face had taken. "You will be unable to annul our marriage, but in every other aspect of the word, you shall have your freedom, and whatever else you desire. Is that acceptable?"
She swallowed past the lump in her throat, unable to stomach the idea. And yet, as twisted of a suggestion as it was… it would be better than sharing a bed with him every night.
Before she could reply, voices began echoing from around the corner. Recognizing them as their parents, Gwynileth swiftly wiped her eyes just as the doors opened, and the four Heads of Houses reentered the room.
"You simply must send me those extra honey-bloom seeds of yours," Lady Varanya was saying, her face flushed lightly silver from the chill. "They were my favorite—ah, Jenithar! Have you and Gwynileth made any leeway on your celebration or your life afterward?"
"Some," said Jenithar. His eyes were still glued to Gwynileth, who had fully regained her composure not because she wanted to, but because she had to. "There are still a few decisions that need to be made, and things to be talked over."
His mother beamed at him and placed a slim hand upon his shoulder. "Of course. Preparations are never easy, but they must be done! We must go, however—if you remember, we have dinner plans with the Telvannis. There seems to be a rogue necromancer we must dispatch the Morag Tong to deal with, and we need the specific details."
"It was lovely to have you visit," said Lorth, who crossed the room to stand behind his daughter. Gwynileth shifted upon the sofa, wishing he wouldn't be so close. "Please, feel free to return at any time. We would love to give you a tour of the surrounding farmland next."
The Hlaalu family began dawdling towards the exit, with Gwynileth's parents exchanging the same stiff pleasantries and farewells they always did. For a little while, Gwynileth watched them go—but her attention was stolen away by Jenithar, who had approached her spot on the couch.
She tensed as he neared and leaned towards her, his lips unbearably close. Then he said, "I look forward to marrying you, Gwynileth."
He kissed her temple; she grit her teeth as he rose, his hand brushing the inside of her arm. Then he and his family were gone, to return to their grand estate in Balmora.
Gwynileth sat frozen in outrage. She was not an unintelligent woman: she knew what he meant by his words. They made it easier to hate him again. For that, oddly enough, she was grateful.
"Well, now. That wasn't so bad, was it?" said Nihali, shooting her daughter an approving smile.
"May I go check on Anya?" Gwynileth asked, ignoring the question.
Her father sighed and pat a hand upon her shoulder. The gesture only made her angry, even though it was meant to be comforting. "Of course. Give Anya our best when you see her."
Gwynileth rose stiffly to her feet and exited the drawing room. Her father didn't actually care what would happen to her handmaiden. He wasn't fooling anyone.
Lifting her skirts, she ran down the hallway, trying to ignore the feeling of dread that pursued her left and right. They were near empty as she went, and so she allowed herself to feel the despair she had pushed away during her terror-filled moments in the drawing room.
The moment she reached Anya's door, she took a deep breath. Anya had her own problems. The last thing she would do would be to bestow her own upon the poor woman as well.
She pushed the door open. Resting inside, even paler than last she had seen, was Anya. Her dark hair was frayed around the pillows; when she turned to face Gwynileth, there was a cloudiness to her scarlet eyes.
Gwynileth smiled and began walking to her handmaiden's bedside. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything? More blankets? Hot water?"
"Stop your fretting," murmured Anya. A wan smile took over her face, but her eyes closed. "You sound like my mother."
"With good reason." Gwynileth placed her hand upon Anya's forehead—she was still burning up. Biting the inside of her lip, she said, "Are you… feeling any better?"
Anya's eyes opened again. As she was now closer than before, Gwynileth could see the light that had been lost, the heavy toll the disease had taken upon her. Before she could respond, Anya burst into a fit of coughing—Gwynileth lunged to the bedside table for a cloth and gently pressed it to her mouth.
When the cloth was removed, there were heavy stains of red.
Both women stared at it for a moment. And then Anya said, "I'm still alive."
Gwynileth didn't know what to say to this. The disease had spread to other corners of the house—a few of the maids who maintained the laundry had already caught it, as well as two of the ushers and server boys. None of them had gotten better yet.
"Something's wrong," said Anya with a frown. Sick or not, her death glare was still frightening. "Tell me what happened."
"You have enough on your mind."
"My lady, please."
This last sentence made Gwynileth pause. She had sworn to herself to keep her troubles away from her handmaiden—and yet the tone of voice was firm, decisive. As though Anya would be offended if she didn't speak her mind, and let her know of all that had occurred.
With a heavy sigh, Gwynileth relayed the events of the meeting between Houses Nerussa and Hlaalu. Throughout it all, Anya listened with a furrowed brow and the utmost concentration on her face… and then, when it was all finished, Anya exclaimed, "I would sooner marry an ash hopper than someone like that. Do you remember what I've been telling you?"
You must run away. You need to go.
"Yes," sighed Gwynileth, rubbing a hand upon her arm. "But… I do not think I can do it."
"Why not?"
Gwynileth blinked and stared at her handmaiden, who despite her sickly pallor, had spoken with such ferocity. It was there in her face, too: that determination, and something that almost looked like anger.
"You have nothing waiting for you here, unless you care about your family's riches so much that you are willing to sacrifice your life, love, and body to that snake," said Anya.
A greyish flush took over Gwynileth's face. Hotly, she exclaimed, "I hold no such sentiment for this lifestyle. Had I been born into a farmer's household, perhaps I would actually be happy at this point in my life."
Anya's lips twisted into a macabre grin. "My point exactly. Is happiness not what you want?"
"I…" But Gwynileth stopped speaking. A lump had appeared in her throat; she only barely managed to eke out the words, "I don't know if it's even possible…"
"Of course it is," said Anya. She reached out a hand from underneath her blanket and grabbed onto Gwynileth's sleeve, allowing only her thumb to caress the inside of her lady's wrist. "All you need to do is pluck up the courage and enough money to get yourself on a boat to Skyrim."
Gwynileth's mouth dried. "Skyrim…"
She had read much about the Nord's country bordering Morrowind to the west. The Velothi Mountains all but prevented travel on foot, considering how perilous a journey those snow-ridden peaks was. That meant despite being neighbors, the only feasible ways to reach Skyrim were by boat, or on foot through both the Black Marsh and Cyrodiil.
Skyrim would be a hard place for anyone to follow her…
But there was still something stopping her. Gwynileth grasped Anya's hand tightly and murmured, "I will not and cannot leave you here alone. My family will know that you helped me."
The smile on Anya's face both brightened, and became a little sad. "Gwynileth… I don't think you'll have to worry about that for long."
She did not have to elaborate. Gwynileth promptly burst into tears, burying her face into the breast of her best friend, perhaps the only person within the entire Nerussa Estate whose loyalties were hers and hers alone. The thought of living without Anya, who had been with her for as long as she could remember—
Slim fingers traipsed through Gwynileth's dark hair; an attempt to soothe, to salve, to calm. Knowing that now was hardly the time to break down, after only a few moments, Gwynileth raised her head, forcefully stopping her tears.
"Listen to me," murmured Anya, her face tired yet hopeful. "Promise me you'll run away after my funeral. You cannot stay here. Gwynileth… I've served you for the last eighteen years, and known you for the last twenty-three. Trust me when I say: I have only ever wanted the best for you. Go to Skyrim, and never come back here. Find a good place to live, and a good man to love. Have the happiness you deserve. Please."
At the bottom of her heart, Gwynileth knew Anya was right. Here in Morrowind, her choices were to marry the man who betrayed her… and that was it.
In Skyrim, maybe… maybe she could find something good.
"Consider it my last request, as it were," said Anya, this time with a cheesy grin.
Gwynileth made an unintelligent noise in the back of her throat—something between a snort and a sob. Either way, it set Anya to laughing, and the fact that she did not start coughing afterward was a minor victory.
After a brief moment of morbid hilarity, Gwynileth sighed and squeezed Anya's hand. There was something in her chest—a new sort of resolve—as she said, "I hope it does not come to that, Anya, but if it does… then I will do this. I swear to you: I will go to Skyrim."