Forenote: No time for responses – this fic is long overdue! I am, again, sorry for the long wait; I wish I could say it won't ever happen again, but…
Yes, it is necessary for you to read everything in Italics, if you want me to shed a little light on a few things…
Hint: The background of one of the characters was built on one error I made when I said that the baby Leanne was pregnant with while she lived at the castle was Marcella – it turns that Marcella should not, then, be only ten; rather, she should be around twenty-two, twenty-four. Thank one reader for this keen observation, and the fact that this error made one certain character possible.
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Chapter 19: O, the Sorrow Love Has Sown
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The clock's ticking was ominous, slower than it usually was and oddly abrupt in the air. It was in a small, cramped parlor, full of odd trinkets that were actually decorations, rugs and paintings that resembled the personal possessions of a merchant; a sitting set sat in the center of the room.
There was a seat for two, and two sat upon it: a big-eyed, thin-faced, brown-haired woman, dandling a little baby girl on her lap – a baby girl who looked remarkably like her, sharing the same big eyes and the same chestnut curls, although the baby certainly had healthier cheeks.
And on the rug sat a serious young woman – also with thin cheeks – looking about 18, who regarded the baby with an indeterminate expression: wary, but unconsciously concerned.
The middle-aged but still beautiful woman was smiling and running her narrow fingers deftly through her babe's shining curls. She looked up with bright eyes and something like an engraved sadness stirred within them – a look that was almost permanent on her nowadays, a sorrowful shadow that tainted even her most dazzling smiles. "It's only been four months, you know; that is considered a time too quick. I do hope that you would rather wait and handle things more traditionally, dearheart."
But the grave-faced eighteen-year-old only shook her head rapidly, averted her eyes, fingered her peculiarly colorful skirts. "Mother, I know what I am doing; I would swear upon it. You cannot stop me loving him, in any case. If he does not have a very prosperous business, we will find another way to survive – I am not lacking in skill, either." And then she gave a tiny sigh, turned her head away completely. "Though I really desired your support, you know."
"And you have it," her mother said sternly, her gleaming eyes hard. "You shall always have it. What I ask of you is intelligence. You love him, daughter, but understand that that will not always resolve your way in life."
"Oh, I know about your mistake, Mother. You told me. And I know that it tore your life apart, when you had me; but I am not being blind. He truly loves me; he'd shout it to the entire world if that were possible."
"But even that wouldn't be proof enough," her mother muttered, looking down at her younger daughter. The baby had fallen asleep, it seemed, even amidst the stretching tension of the conversation. The oldest daughter looked upon her sister with those forever-solemn eyes, those eyes that were so very different from her mother's. Her mother's eyes once had the power to laugh, in days long past.
"I still don't understand," she started carefully, most plainly not looking at her mother. "why you made the same mistake twice. You had me, paid for it, and then went ahead and had her. Father shouldn't have visited; you know that the two of you together is forbidden."
"Oh, Jessamine, don't you think I know that? But you cannot blame us. I could not be rational, not when I hadn't seen him in over four years. The merchant allowed it, anyway, so long as the visit was kept private. Your father still loves me, you know," And a smile touched her face, a very brief expression of bliss that stood out from her more perfunctory smiles. "After all these years. Such long years."
The girl called Jessamine was silent, brooding. "I still cannot understand why I call him Father. I see him only once every three or four years, and simply for a day – which he spends with you, most of the time. I don't know why I love him, especially when there have been less than twenty words between us. Maybe we spent more time together in the past; but I do not know."
"Love is a very strange thing, all the forms of it," her mother intoned with a smile. But Jessamine could read her mother's face, could see that it was not a smile at all. Simply a pretty curving of pretty lips. Jessamine had seen her once-laughing, once-lively mother smile a real smile before, and this was not one.
And suddenly, her once-beautiful mother did not seem so glamorous anymore.
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The landscape of the territory they ventured into was getting dryer, not bringing the rain the earlier few days promised. Soil turned slightly yellow, not a thriving color, and the patches of grass became few; the scattered forest came to an obvious end by the afternoon. Ever-present, the sun looked down upon the unfortunate troop below and warmed them when they did not need to be warmed. Moods were, like the weather, unpleasantly heated.
There would be no rests, according to a rather severe Artor – they would eat on the road, for spending too much time in one place would increase the risks of danger. Jessamine, the very serious woman, agreed without hesitation, and when it was clear that midday had approached, she dug in her satchel for a small loaf of bread. I, just as cranky as the rest of them, could not help but watch her in worry.
"Who are you?" I blurted, wondering how such a solemn woman would consent to wear such bright clothing. "Who are you, really?"
"Me?" she replied, finding some bread wrapped in a clean linen cloth. She split it into two equal halves and handed one to me and one to Corinne, who was looking very sickly again. I remembered that she did not do so well without water, either. "I recall introducing myself as Jessamine. Do you still doubt my trustworthiness?"
Biting into my bread and wincing as my jaw ached, I couldn't honestly bring myself to shake my head, 'no.' "You cannot blame me, though. Anyone would be paranoid in such circumstances, and considering how many times I've been surprised and threatened… and we just met you. Who are you, Jessamine?"
I watched as she took a breath and looked up into the sky, squinting at the sun. The land was not desert-like, no matter how dry – and yet, the sun was. "A bard's widow. My husband died four years ago, but in those two years we were married and he alive, we could never have a child. Not long after our marriage, I discovered that I was barren." A smile appeared on her face, mirthless and bitter. "And I'm still very young, you know. 24 – a sad thing he had to pass away after simply two years of marriage. A sad, terrible thing. But there's no point in brooding over any of it now. What has been, has been. Right now, I can only think of finding my sister and helping you. I can't afford to bury myself in memories."
In a very twisted way, I could see she was right. We were not in a predicament where we would spend four hours crying over mistakes of the past. But despite that, my heart couldn't help but ache for her. "And I suppose that is why you still wear a bard's clothing. To remind yourself of him."
"That is partially the reason. But I mostly wear them because I am a bard myself. I sing and recite poetry; and my husband told stories. We were held in high respect in our working days, and I like to think that we still are. Very recently, I sang in King Ignatius's court, at the Queen's request. I was returning home to Ferdwell before meeting you."
If I were holding anything, I would've dropped it. Not counting my bread, of course. Unabashed, I stared at her; my manners and composure could go hang themselves. "You sang in King Ignatius's court? How recently? Do you… have you any news of what is going on in Arvette?"
She countered my gaze with her own thoughtful one; I could see her remembering something that had slipped her mind moments before. "I had nearly forgotten; you are Rozenta, aren't you? Your friend called you as such. Mind you, you fit the description, although you don't look evil. Or magical."
Swallowing another bite of bread, I groaned. "Is that what they say about me now?"
"Among other things, yes. The enigmatic noblewoman from the enigmatic Elysia – a country unheard of until you showed up. A tan-skinned, black-haired, black-eyed young woman with a supposed ill disposition – often grumpy, I heard. Seemed to have magically wrapped the Prince around her finger." Her serious face broke into a wide smile as she eyed me from the side. "Judging from my last visit, it seemed like that indeed."
I did not reply immediately. "Oh?"
"Mm-hmm. He has organized a troop to search for you – and is part of them as well. Although I think that was a terrible decision; he should've stayed in the court. The last I heard, he was very ill."
"Ill?" I snapped immediately; he was most certainly not ill that last time I had seen him. He did not even have a cold; where did this mysterious illness come from? "I… I don't remember him being ill. Is it serious? It can't be. I would've noticed."
But she shook her head, a dismaying sign. "I'm afraid it was serious, although the herald would not tell the court to what degree. Which has me wondering if it is so terrible. It certainly sounds like it; I only wish I knew where the troop was now. Finding them might be easier than reaching Arvette, you know. They left the dawn after you disappeared. We might have even passed them, for all we know."
She was not improving my day. "Ill. Heavens above. And… he went anyway?" I could not filter the heat from my tone, the rage and incredulity. How stupid could he be? If it was so lethal, then he should have remained in Arvette – sending a troop should've been enough for him.
Against my will, a sensation of pleasure bubbled in my stomach; he was being very valiant, joining the searching troop even under inconvenient circumstances. And all for me. It was a winning gesture, even if it was indescribably stupid. "Did you ever see him ill? Can you recognize the sickness?"
"Oh, no. First off, I am not a physician. I have no skill with illnesses, what causes them, and what can treat them. And I did not see him ill, no. Most of Merilian knows he had fallen ill on the journey. I should've been clearer; he did not leave ill. But he fell ill, and the entire country knows about it – and Arvette has been thrown into a panic."
So he hadn't been sick as he arranged to leave, it turned out. But that did not change much; I was as furious as I had been when Jessamine first mentioned it, unbelievably furious. Even if he hadn't been sick when he left, surely he would have the sense to return to Arvette once diagnosed! Knowing him, he was probably being stubborn and foolhardy, hoping I'd fall to his feet and grovel with gratitude. And he was probably right; the instant I'd see him, I'd probably lose all resolve and throw myself into his arms, weeping and wailing like a madwoman. Well, all the more reason to take this opportunity to be angry with him, then.
I fell into a disgruntled silence, growing more and more melancholy with every fleeting memory. This was not the first time Clement had invaded my mind, and heaven knew it would not be the last. His roguish smile, easy manner, electric blue eyes… and his touch. Oh, his touch. My mind wandered to the day we had been so close, our faces nearly touching, and the galvanizing shock that racked my bones – he kissed me, that day. And I ran. I ran. Like a coward, like the Eszti who did not realize she had let her alleged rival steal her heart away – the Eszti that I could not even remember.
Had I truly grown so much? It was a frightening thing, really, knowing that the skittish, tactless girl had been me – and it was even worse that that was me only a few weeks before. What a wonder. I could scarcely accept it.
Giving an audible sigh, I clenched my fists and tightened my grip on my horse's reins as I involuntarily remembered the feel of his hand around mine. Warm, and full of promises; protective; secure. And not too firm – his hold was loose and it offered me a choice of whether or not I wished to hold on any longer. With the exclusion of the first time he had ever touched my hand, of course. That day with Bedivere.
Had he been jealous?
I smiled at the memory and dropped my eyes to my reins, my anger slipping away. But what if he really was sick, was dying, even? What could I do then, if I managed to find him at all? I would do my best to save him, certainly, the way he was doing now for me – but would it be enough? I was not marvelous at herbal medicine; speaking quite truthfully, I was an amateur. And if other physicians could not treat him, what then?
These were not thoughts that would be of any assistance on our journey. It bode ill for us if I distracted myself so easily. I sighed. I shouldn't be so negative – I'd see him again soon enough. We would make it, after all, and then I'd see to this mysterious sickness of his. It was not so hopeless yet.
As I focused purposefully on the road ahead – so long and winding and yet oddly conquerable – I heard another sigh beside me. I turned and spotted Lady Asca in the action, looking quite tired. She had not spoken much since we departed, and that was now very understandable – bags had developed under her eyes, hollow, and her mouth was looking tired and sullen, as though it had spent the entire day gulping down mighty quantities of the most disgusting medicine. She caught my eye and I could see her face was pale.
"So you know now, Rozenta?" she inquired softly, and I nodded. Even if Corinne hadn't told me the night before, I would've guessed it from her display this morning.
"Two months?" I asked in return, and she shrugged indifferently.
"Possibly."
There was a moment's silence before I said sharply, "Why did you not tell me? This is not something to be kept from others under circumstances like these. If you were frightened that we would send you back – "
"Of course not," she snapped. "Do you think I am completely stupid? You and Corinne were trying to keep me safe from the bandits, and sending me back because I was pregnant and too fragile would defeat the purpose. It is only… I am used to watching out for myself, you see. Ozril tried his best to remain the protector, but I had a very strong personality. Just because I am with child does not mean I am utterly hapless; and I suppose I was afraid that you and Artor wouldn't realize that."
I paused. "So you told Corinne because –"
I was cut off from an impatient 'humph' from Lady Asca. So the mood swings were already kicking in. "I didn't. Corinne caught me vomiting once and knew instantly what it meant; luckily, she agreed to keep it secret."
"Ah."
I could feel the chagrin radiating from her, what with her muttering and bristling, so I chose to say no more and it seemed like she did the favor. And it seemed like it would remain that way, meditative (and not really that pleasant) silences from the both of us, with Jessamine sparing us glances in turns. Once, I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and met hers, and I caught something very peculiar about it. There was something not quite normal, not quite ordinary and not quite mortal, about the glint in her eyes, and I don't know if I imagined it, but I saw something around her spark.
Well, she could keep her secrets if they did not endanger our mission – but could I trust her?
The absence of activity – but for the riding – began to grate on my nerves again. I knew I was aching everywhere, and I suppose it was around two hours until I began to feel the stiffness. I was in the middle of flexing the fingers on one of my hands when I heard the unmistakable sound of trotting coming towards us, some distance ahead. Alarmed, I glanced at Lady Asca and she was looking ahead, squinting. I turned back, faced forward, and noticed that the rider coming our way from ahead was actually Corinne.
And following her closely, as was to be expected, was Artor, seeming annoyed. I looked from his expression to Corinne's, and I saw she wore a smug smile. Well, well. For once, it was Artor feeling the aggravation.
When Artor caught up with the haughty looking Corinne, he grasped her arm and turned her slightly to face him. And he ignored her sudden expression of outrage. "Listen, Corinne," he said stridently. "I can very well tell the difference between my past unfaithful lover and a recently met look-alike of hers. You did not catch me admitting anything."
"Oh?" she breathed, her eyes narrowing. "You said yourself that sometimes you saw her smile when I smiled, and that you heard her voice when I spoke. And that I even laughed the way she did. You confessed that it was hard to make a distinction between that Tedora and myself. So I caught you admitting that your stupid attraction was a great fluke, even if you won't repeat anything like it again. I won. Now leave me alone. And let go of my arm," she added, hissing. He released it slowly, but did not step his horse backward.
"I was in love with her," he intoned, carefully and clearly as though she would misunderstand. "With Vedora. I loved her smile, and I loved her voice, and I loved her laugh – so if what I say is true, how can you be any different?"
Everyone heard, and not one of us could manage a sound. Corinne, especially. We heard her suck in a sharp breath and make to step back, as though he were a madman.
Strangled, her voice was, and a little afraid. "Exactly. And she broke your heart, didn't she?"
Artor half-smiled. "Precisely. That is where the two of you are different. One is a dishonorable seductress; the other is a young and kind-hearted woman capable of loyalty beyond bounds. So answer this, if you think you know me well enough – which of the two do you think I'd choose?"
The change in Corinne's expression was rapid, but I believe I caught it: she gawked a little, but clenched her jaw as something flashed through her eyes. A sudden realization, maybe, as though she finally understood something that had slipped her mind for so long. Her face tightened and looked taut, and she stared at Artor with something like a smoldering resentment. She backed her horse up a little, but did not tear her gaze from his.
"The one you're still in love with," she said hoarsely, as though forcing the words out were painful. Shock wiped Artor's half-smile away, but he said nothing. From the distance, Lady Asca, Jessamine, and I could see her turn and set her horse into a gallop, riding into the other direction, way ahead of us.
Artor did not follow her. He hung his head for a moment, then gave a start when he finally realized Lady Asca, Jessamine, and I were fixatedly watching. It was clear that he averted his eyes, and he too turned and trotted away, in the direction of Corinne and her mount.
It had been a tense ten minutes of riding before I dared to break the silence. "Vedora," I said softly. "Yes, he mentioned her when we first recruited him. Do you think Corinne was right?"
"What, that he is still stuck on this Vedora of his?" Lady Asca replied skeptically. "It is something to doubt. Corinne is being blind; he might have noticed her for her resemblance to Vedora, but he is most definitely in love with her, not some memory. You can see when a man is madly in love. Well, so long as you are not the one he's in love with."
"Very true," I mumbled, staring ahead. Ah. Yes. Lady Asca definitely won a point there.
Jessamine did not seem likely to contribute any of her own notions of love, so there was no point in any further conversation. Our mounts seemed tireless, striding evenly with no protest or complaint, and to ignore our aching joints, we tried to relax and enjoy our scenic surroundings. Only, they were not very scenic – the land was flat and dry, and the green existed in scattered patches, and we could spot no tree groves or scraps of the forest. Lady Asca and Jessamine took to their own silent thoughts, and I followed suit.
The hurry seemed over, and the bandits far away. It was the phase after the first shot of storm, the deadness and strain that almost always existed before another stroke fell. We were too exhausted to be on our guards. By twilight we had reached a few trees, all thin and willowy and not at all practical, but we consented to rest there almost abnormally without vehement argument. Half-asleep, we fumbled as we tied the horses, spread the blankets without order, and with no words for one another, we fell asleep.
Would all our days be like this? I thought to myself as I drew my blankets around me. Accompanied with the nightly song of crickets, I could hear Artor snore. All our days, and our nights? This wandering is so aimless. And if we did manage to find Clement… the next thought, one of him lying dead in his cot, so still and seemingly carved from snowy marble, was too painful. I fought the notion, exhausted myself, and groped hopelessly for sleep.
If only love could truly conquer all… I thought, right before I fell into a doze. … but then again, the people who say so aren't exactly philosophers, are they?
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Through the marble halls of the Merilian palace, high-ceilinged, curtained with white and black and gold tapestries depicting the Twelve Gallantry – the legendary founding council of Merilian, consisting of the five influential district leaders and the five prestigious magician advisors, all headed by the King Berier and His Lady Eiova, the ancient title for the Queen – and marvelously spacious, a young woman ran, clutching her stomach and looking dangerously anxious. She was pale and perspiring and rushing through the halls, and at first glance quite pretty. When examined more closely, she was beautiful: she had a classic sort of beauty that was often associated with nobility, with her alabaster skin and curiously hazel-colored eyes, set off by hair that twisted and twirled on its way down her shoulder.
But as she was a young serving woman who was with child, no one could respect her, no matter that she was divinely attractive. She swept through the halls, looking a ghost even as she held her stomach – beginning to bulge – and gazing around as feverishly as a hunted rabbit. Panting, she moved as such as she did her errands, scaring the nobles she had to serve and displeasing her supervisors in the kitchen. She was nowadays increasingly jumpy and nervous, and when someone would comment on her belly – even in a complimenting fashion, hard though that was to digest – she would stare through them with such a fearful hostility that the person would never mention it again.
Even though the young woman was a serving woman, the Head in the kitchen demanded that she would carry no more trays, as she spilled almost every single one – particularly when they held tea.
On one specific day, a nerve-wracking one for her, the other maids huddled around and watched her silently as she rushed to and fro, silently biting at her with their eyes. When she was gone, the maids looked at one another and gossiped.
"She has gotten herself into trouble this time," a stout maid said, planting her fists on her hips and looking stern. A fierce-eyed one, tall and bony, glared at her impatiently.
"Obviously," she said cruelly, as though there were no truer words. "She has always been such a hussy, but never before has she actually been…"
"Are you positive?" asked another thin maid, one who actually looked kind and soft, although her looks lied. "I could swear that she has been gotten with child many times before. I wouldn't be surprised."
"Oh, don't be completely stupid," snapped the one with a predator's eyes. "Of course not. She's never been like this. She doesn't even flirt and wink at men anymore, not that they'd find her appealing with a stomach like that. Looks like our pretty little butterfly has finally lost her charm."
"Is she keeping the babe?" a more sympathetic maid asked in a hushed tone. "She has no one to provide for her. What can she do?"
"Find the father!" exclaimed the stout maid, earning a hurried hushing from the other maids. "I think," she said importantly, in a quieter voice. "she should find that selfish man and force him to care for her and their child! She isn't a total fool!"
"Yes, she is," said the tall maid. "And I don't even know if the father is still here. He left some weeks ago, and he had only arrived in Arvette some five months back. At least, I think that was the father. You remember, the dark one who she flirted incessantly with whenever he visited the palace. I personally think he isn't considerate enough to take her in if she ever found him again. Well, she's certainly thrown her life away."
"So will she stay after the babe is born?" asked the only maid who cared. The others shrugged and looked around at one another conspiratorially. "I don't quite think so," said the thin, nice-looking maid. "She'll be birthing a bastard. She will be forced out of the palace, and will probably end up working at some lord's mansion, weeding his labyrinth gardens and filling all twenty of his fountains with well-water."
"Hah! And I can't say I feel entirely sorry for her. This is her mess; this is what she gets for skiving her duties to flirt with men. Let us only hope that she doesn't worm her way into becoming that lord's lady of the manor."
"Let us hope," chorused the three cruel maids, and they all burst into peals of shrill laughter. The fourth one frowned and stepped away from them, looking shame-faced. When she turned to head off to her duties, she spotted that pregnant young serving maid watching them from a corner, a frozen look on her face.
The kind maid's heart ached. It hadn't been long ago when the serving girl's fresh face was full of zest, and her rarely-hued eyes so very keen for men – but that was all gone, now. What her circumstances left in her was scarce – only misery wrapped around her like a cloud, the dread of a life she knew she would despise forever.
The serving maid broke into sobs, turned, and stalked away, and utterly concerned, the kind maid followed her. As she caught up to her, she shoved the other woman's shoulder, lightly as to catch her attention. "I am sorry," she said hurriedly. "I do not resent you. But what will you do; can I help?" But the pregnant woman was marching away, tolerating none of it.
"All of you, you all sicken me! Do you have any idea what I am going through now, what I have to go through later? Stop acting like you care! Just let me be!"
Before the kind maid could find any words, the serving girl had already disappeared, turning the corner in a frenzy of tears and enraged curses, the very image of sorrow and pain when it is most misunderstood.
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Afterthoughts: The last part may have been a little intense for readers, but that is the way of the world – undeniable. And yes, you'd do well to remember the pregnant young serving maid with the dark suitor long gone, especially if you are planning to read this fanfic's companion fic ((still in the making))…
PS – I hate to give this away, but I'm afraid I'll have to – this is the LAST CHAPTER where Eszti and Co. are all together, and in Chapter 20 you'll see why. Little does Eszti know that those few days were the last of her monotonous ride to Arvette.
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