Forgotten Dream
by Senbazuru
«
The atmosphere in the fief of Trebond was heavy with anxiety. An unexpected attack on a lady's carriage, slaughtering all men-at-arms and killing the lady herself…such brutality was uncommon, even for Scanran raids. Usually, the raiding Scanrans had reasons – good or bad – for their attacks. For instance, only the previous year Scanrans had attacked a tiny, unprotected village fourteen miles northeast of Trebond in the Grimmold Mountains.
It had been an easy target. The village had been thoroughly plundered, once all the opposing villagers had been taken care of. The Scanrans took the livestock and horses, wagonloads of supplies, and all the gold and silver they could find – though there was not much in such a small village.
There had always been a huge problem with Scanran raiders. They were renowned for being consistently dishonorable, and they themselves never missed an opportunity to refresh this opinion. Still, it was confusing as to why they would attack a lady's coach. What was there to gain?
Seeing as they had destroyed the coach itself and burned everything else with magefire…nothing.
Lord Alan was, as usual, quiet when the news of his daughter's death came to him. He stood still for a moment, papers in hand, staring into space. Then he seemed to give himself a shake.
"Her body?"
Coram's voice was steady. "Unrecovered."
"Ah."
There fell a long silence between the two. Lord Alan's face was pale, but set. "A burial must be arranged."
Coram was surprised at how well the lord was taking it. "Yes, milord. D'you –"
"Do I what?"
"Want to retaliate?"
"No. It's not necessary. Alanna was reckless, and no doubt she was meant to end this way." He made the sign of the gods on his chest. "The gods know what they are doing."
"Forgive me for sayin' so, but you don't seem very sorry about any of this."
It was a bold statement to make, but true. Lord Alan never displayed great amounts of emotion at any time…yet one would think he would show some remorse over his daughter's death. Even if he had expected her to die so early in life.
Lord Alan's eyes burned, and his voice turned steely. "No man should have to bury his daughter."
Coram bowed stiffly and left the lord alone in the library. The matter was not brought up again.
Not with the lord of Trebond, anyway.
The villagers had expected the chief healer to be grieving for many months to come. Maude, however, was as calm as if nothing had ever happened. She steadily wove bandages as Coram paced back and forth in front of her. His face was pale and his eyes red.
"Why?" he exploded suddenly. "Why attack her? Why was everythin' burned?"
Maude was silent, focused on weaving. Coram continued, agitated. "There was nothin' to gain. Nothin' at all. Kill a lady? Murder her pathetic little escort? I should've sent more guards. I should've –"
His eyes fell on the silent Maude. "Dammit, woman! Speak! You loved her every bit as much as I did. She's dead now! Have you no feelin'?"
Maude was quiet. She kept her eyes on her hands, steadily weaving away. "The gods know what they are doing, Coram Smythesson."
"The gods." He started pacing again. "We all know what Alanna thought of them. Are they angry enough to destroy a little girl just because she 'ad some reasonable doubts?"
Maude finally looked up, her expression stern. "Be silent, Coram!"
He opened his mouth to retort, but she smoothly interrupted. "You remember how, seven years back, I read the fire to determine Alanna's destiny? To see whether or not her plan to become a knight would work?"
Coram's face paled. He hated magic. He nodded shortly.
"Then you must trust me when I say that the gods do have a plan. This plan, Coram, goes beyond mere death."
«
"Eh…what's this, here?" muttered a gravelly voice. A sharp exclamation of pain soon followed.
"It's a knife, stupid."
The second voice was clear and quiet – a bit sinister. A brief silence followed, then the gravelly voice spoke again.
"What're we going to with that?"
"The girl?" Footsteps neared the place where the body of an auburn-haired girl lay in a crumpled heap – her pitiful form barely visible in the light of the flickering campfire. A young, dark haired man stooped to glance at the young woman's face.
"She may still be alive," he observed coolly.
The other man leapt to his feet. "Then let's off her, quick!" he snarled, brandishing a slim, familiar-looking blade. He rushed forward – only to be tripped by the dark haired noble.
"Leave her be. I may want to chat with her when she awakens."
The first man got up painfully, dusting twigs and dirt from his ragged tunic. His ugly face twisted into a feral grin. "You mean –"
The dark haired noble curled his lip in disgust. "No, Maurel. Unlike you, I am above such things."
"What's the use of talking? She killed Racinth. She oughtta be dead."
The noble narrowed his dark eyes at his troublesome companion. "And do you not wonder how she managed to do that? How she managed to penetrate the magical barrier of one of your strongest mages, and kill him…armed with nothing but a simple longbow and the very blade you are holding? And how," he mused, more to himself than the Scanran, "did she still survive?"
"It don't matter how she survived," Maurel argued. "If she survived. Jarek was right when he darted her. The girl oughtta be dead – and t'stay dead."
The noble smiled slightly and resumed his reclined position beside the fire. "That is why I am the one in charge of this expedition, Maurel. Not Jarek, not you. Me. It is my decision whether the girl lives or dies. And, at the moment, I want her to live."
A flicker of movement attracted the nobleman's attention. The young woman was moving, her hand reaching up to her face to weakly brush flame coloured hair from her eyes.
Then there was a flash of movement. The dark haired young man threw himself forward to block the Scanran's path. A sword seemed to materialize in his fist. "My patience with your moronic displays of rebellion is rapidly dissipating, Maurel."
The Scanran simply stumbled backwards, his eyes fixed on the sword. The noble smiled dryly and saluted mockingly. He sheathed his blade and turned to look at the young woman.
Her red hair fell into her eyes, hiding them as she slowly dragged herself upright. Her eyes shut tightly as her hand accidentally brushed against a bloody gash on her forehead. She swayed unsteadily and began to slump to the ground.
An arm steadied her, holding her upright. She forced her eyes open, stifling the pained moan that was desperately trying to escape her lips. A face swam into view. Dark eyes, dark hair…the nobleman. He helped her into a sitting position and released her.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Wouldn't you like to know," she whispered. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths as she tried to remember how she had gotten there…and who she was. She was wearing a dark purple gown – or the remains of it, anyway – that was coated thickly with mud and splattered with red-brown stains. Blood?
She felt her forehead carefully, gingerly brushing her fingertips against the half crusted-over wound over her left eyebrow. It would probably leave a scar.
The young woman breathed out, and let her hands fall tiredly to her sides. One hand came in contact with something sharp and pointed. She let her fingers curl around the object and opened her eyes, watching the two men warily.
The younger man ignored her, tending to the fire by feeding it branches that had fallen during a recent storm. He was of medium height and fit; a surprisingly slender man of clearly noble lineage. He wore black breeches and tunic, the ensemble surprisingly plain save for the muted accent of silver in the tunic's lining.
The other man, however, was quite different. He was short and squat, his gaze fixed on her with surly malevolence. He sneered.
"It don't matter whether you tell your name or not. We already know that you're Trebond's daughter."
Trebond. Her memory returned. She was Alanna of Trebond, misfit daughter to a respectable lord, on her way to the convent to be put away once and for all. And these men had murdered her countrymen –
Wait. Why wasn't she dead?
Alanna cautiously slid a hand behind herself in search of a weapon – anything, really.
"Looking for something?"
The noble's low voice made her jump. He was watching her, a small smile on his face, his dark eyes studying her. "If you are," he said, "it won't work. All your weapons have been confiscated. Your bow was burned with the bodies and your knife has been – shall we say – repossessed."
The Scanran grinned nastily. He waved the dagger in her face. "Too tired to fight now, eh? Why, I'd like to –"
"For heaven's sake, Maurel, will you shut up?"
Maurel glowered his hatred at the noble. Alanna felt oddly like laughing. She bit her knuckle to stifle the sound. To laugh now would be a huge mistake, considering the mutinous glares the Scanran was sending.
"You ain't Scanran." seethed Maurel. "You got no charge over me. I can say what I like."
"You cannot say anything if your tongue is missing."
The Scanran paled and became silent. The noble was a vicious man, for all his quiet demeanor. Alanna inwardly shivered…then became thoughtful.
Her strength was returning. A moment ago, she was barely able to raise her hand. Now she could sit up by herself and was moving more freely every moment. Her balance was back – as well as something else.
Somewhere deep inside – in the very core of her being – a purple fire she had never noticed before was steadily beginning to burn brighter. It flared wildly as it sent tendrils of misty lavender shooting through her veins.
Magic.
Gods above, Alanna breathed silently. I have the Gift?
«
"Your daughter is dead."
"She's dead."
"Like the mother."
"Slain…I saw it myself…"
"Three of them downed her."
"You could see the signs of struggle as clear as anything."
"No body. They must've burned it with everything else."
"She's dead."
Alan of Trebond lowered his head to rest in his hands. He breathed raggedly, the harsh sound of his dry sobs echoing in the stillness of the forest glade. The mound of earth, the burial place of his daughter's charred bow and quiver, was clustered with small bunches of flowers – mementos the villagers had place there in respect to the girl's courage.
"She's dead."
Alanna's former archery ground was now her tomb.
Hm. Better? Worse? Too simple? Or confusing? Whichever way, let me know your thoughts on this. And ye have a good dee, thankee, marm.
Random quote:
"I drink because it intensifies my personality."
"Yes, but what if you're already an idiot?"
Soundtrack (songs I listened to while writing this)
· Hold On – Good Charlotte
· Who Am I? – Casting Crowns
· Bring Me to Life – Evanescence
· Mary Goes to Jesus – The Passion of the Christ soundtrack
--Senbazuru--