Chapter 27

Tornadoes of dust and air flew up at the end of the red snout which blew in great gusts as the owner catnapped lazily, and Tom looked on skeptically at the beast as it languished without any remorse in the daylight.

Even in slumber, those massive lipless jaws possessing jagged teeth that, while fit together in unison, was a maw filled with razor-sharpened death and pain. It was no wonder the staff of the House of Gaunt had begun using the rear entries exclusively, as opposed to having to cross paths with the recently-arrived monstrous apparition.

The morning sun glistened across the scales of the red Dragon as though it were adorned with little glittering rubies, and Tom admitted silently that he would be remiss if he did not concede that despite its acidic demeanor, and increasingly alarming levels if aggression, the beast was a specimen possessed of a very lustrous appearance. If one could discount the arrangement of teeth and never-ending rows of sharp horns that protruded throughout its body.

It had been some number of months since the Lord of the House of Gaunt had returned to his ancestral castle with a red Dragon, of all things, in tow. Not only had the families occupying the lands surrounding him as vassals and serfs been stricken with constant fright and terror, the House staff had been so fearful they hadn't come within five feet of the Lord himself for near a fortnight. It hadn't been until he had a meeting in confidence with his personal valet and butler that some more assuring information has progressively spread around to those who worked and served the family of Gaunt.

Though, quite frankly, it had been little enough at late enough hour that there remained an air of nervousness among the peoples that came and went that they felt they should stay out of the Dragon's path. The cantankerous beast itself had similarly concluded that it wished for the 'unending scampering of vermin to cease, lest it decide to make one a snack.' This proclamation had done nothing to help Tom quell the pervasive fears of his domestics.

Speak your thoughts, fleshling. I do not prefer my day to be disturbed with the humming of your tiny brain. The gnashing tone was acerbic and annoyed, though the great beast had not moved to acknowledge Tom's presence. The tempo of its breathing had not even changed from the deep thrum of its torpor-like slumber. Tom nodded his head to the animal and rubbed his hand over the letter in the inside of his jerkin, secured in his breast pocket, as an afterthought.

"My fellow Houses have intercepted accounts that the Lord Gresham has spent many weeks in convalescence following our failure to purge him from the stage fully." The Lord tucked his hand behind him, standing regally as he looked out both over the Dragon, but the vast lands surrounding his castle, dotted with both a forest to one side, as well as acreage of farm land opposite.

Degenerate lowlings never accomplish anything, little Lord. It chided, and chucked darkly with its sharp clacking tones that caused Tom to wince.

"Indeed it seems that my selection of assailant was….." He paused as he tongued the word distastefully. "Ineffective." The Dragons laugh rolled over once as it cracked open the eye closest to the Lord, and considered him, though its head remained resting over its claws.

Your failure makes you vulnerable to discovery, Lordling. Your obsessions make you weak. Tom's eyes shot straight to the creature, and his expression grew indignant.

"This is not about obsession, Dragon!" He defended of himself. "This is about reclamation of rightful properties, of purging the noble lines of their frailties-" The Dragon rolled its great yellow eye shut and huffed as its heavily armored limbs stretched to and from its body. The wings unfurled to capture some of the sunlight along the vast swaths of leathery membrane between the heavier armored frames. Tom's diatribe had ceased as he watched how lazily the Dragon responded to his defense of himself, seeing that it mocked him profusely and he tamped down on his urge to explain himself further.

"What then of my notion to mount an assault directly to the castle in Morvan Rove, Dragon?" He queried stiffly and the beast had the gall to yawn loudly, the cracking of its voice accompanied by a low roar at the same time.

Know you very little of Dragons, man-creature. It chided and rolled onto its side, resting its head back upon the earth, unconcerned in Tom's desire to further their plotting. The first inkling of our skirmish will send the sires flocking, and they will abandon the nest in defense. An incursion will rend the eggs unable to hatch, and the wyrms lost. Its tongue lolled out from his maw for a moment before the monster pulled it back in with a swipe. I fancy facing one Dragon sire solely. If his mate is formidable, she can be of use to me sometime later.

Tom grimaced at the last mention; the implicated footnote speaking of defilement soured him for some reason. The Dragon bellowed a guffaw, the noise all clanging and sharp noises. You are verily uncultured swine, indeed. It mocked. When the male is slaughtered, the female will be unguarded by her mate, and I will take her magic for my own. The Lords pallor notably improved at the confirmation that there would be no violence of force involved. Something about that particular suggestion had turned envenomed within his mind as most displeasing. A corruption, as it were, of the most putrid sort.

The man rocked back on his heels, simmering in his frustrations. The Dragon spoke wisely, though without any hint as to what might be a more suited path for them to move upon. Did he have to initiate everything himself, he wondered? He glanced over the mass of the creature as it basked in the warmth of the sun and grumbled its delight at the luxury of it. He rolled his eyes and made to leave back to the castle to address the communications, and send one in turn out to Lucius. It was, perhaps, time he paid a visit to his fellow Lord. This time, without his scale-clad collaborator.

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At the very end of the road that lead out through the cluster of jagged mountains, the procession could be seen approaching the castle at Morvan Rove through the barbican, and at the head of the stairs leading into the keep, an anxious and fidgety Ursa Gresham stood. She had donned a dark red gown highlighted with threading in gold, orange and yellows along the neckline and belt that had sweeping sleeves and a modest square bust. Her hair had been bound at her neck in a multi-plaited braid, and hung long down her back. She sighed as the slow paced group seemed to inch their way forward through the valley.

That morning, as breakfast concluded and the group of four pupils had made to leave to their lessons with Master Mora, Ursa had been informed that a young lad accompanying Loren's procession had arrived at the castle bearing news of his arrival.

The lad had struck out alone through the final stretches of the journey, navigating the weaving paths of the mountains unaccompanied, and at a hurried pace. He had arrived early to herald the arrival of her Lord, and the company he had left those months past with.

The news had been met with much enthusiasm and commotion from both Tyt'o and Hermione; the pair were frenzied at the news of their fathers return and though Ursa had shared smiles with them, she had harbored secret feelings of dread at the idea she would be returning to her drudging tasks, and her more-oppressed days.

Now that she watched as her husband returned to her, the anxiety had been joined with fear of seeing him again as well. His dark and smoldering eyes, how they had been wild with anger at her in his study. Her heart had begun beating so hard she felt lightheaded and prickling of sweat had begun beneath her great long braid at the back of her neck. It was only when spots had danced momentarily before her eyes that she realized she'd forgotten to keep breathing.

The wait for their arrival was entirely uneventful and painfully monotonous. The figures along the far horizon growing larger only little by little. Both the Gresham children had fidgeted relentlessly between the two of them, though they were still yet not on speaking terms with each other; Tyt'o still indignant to Hermione's mistruth to him, and Hermione refusing to admit that she had broken her oath to her brother.

At the final, most anticipated arrival of the group, Ursa had taken her last deep breaths and painted a smile on her face that she hoped desperately looked sincere, though she was confused and uncertain. In the middle of the group of men, a carriage had arrived that Loren had been transported within the entire journey hence from Brandwell. Now, in the safety of the mountains where no prying eyes could watch, the men assisted their Lords person out of the body of the carriage and into a sling to carry him into through the Keep and up to their marital rooms.

Her husband's face was pale and drawn; Beads of sweat tracked his forehead in his feverish state, and the hair head his face clung to the damp. Ursa's fears of facing her husband were buried as she approached with unease to his vulnerable state. She made to touch his sodden hair, but thought better of it and motioned instead for the men to bring him inside the castle and out of the evening airs.

Not much was spoken in their ascent, only that a female of unidentified status assumed the likeness of the Inn-owners ward and surprised Loren in his rooms, poisoning him with an unknown magic or brew that had weakened his heart and caused him to slip into a brain fever for these many weeks. As the Lady of the House listened to the account, and the treatments that had been used to stabilize him, she was hushed and calm. She absorbed the information in an almost numb state as she sat by the bedside where Loren lay. His breathing was consistent, but shallow and rapid. Certain signs of ailment, most assuredly.

Before the last men in the company had exited, she thanked them all with her customary words of gratitude and revere for their characters. She wished she could bid them join the family for the feast of Mabon but as the last man left, she found that she had no more words to produce to entreat such an offer.

With the door to their rooms finally shut, and their privacy secured, Ursa Gresham discovered herself reticent to turn and face her husband physically. She stood staring at the wood of the doors closely, examining the pattern of the grain and breathing in the scent of the oils she had used in her bath that permeated the room still.

The woman mustered the vestiges of her courage, finding that it had waned in her indecision of how to handle his arrival; she had not accounted that the man would be ill, and she would be unable to simply leave him to his devices. Ursa closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she exhaled slowly, and turned back to the room. She felt herself relax notably, seeing that his form had neither moved, nor had his eyes opened. She'd nearly expected that one of the two would have happened while her attentions were elsewhere.

She reticently came to stand at the bedside, and drew a backless cloth covered settee quietly so as not to disturb him. The face she had looked on nearly every morning, day and night of her entire married life lay before her, his ailment now greater than any she had ever seen him afflicted by, and she felt pain in her heart.

"It feels like you've been gone a life-age, Loren." She whispered, and cupped her hands together nervously. "Even though we approach a third moon since you left. Your word was that you would be gone a fortnight," She chuckled lightly. "Yet look how much time has passed." His face was unmoving, but his breaths consistent, and she felt her face darken a moment, emboldened by the knowledge that he could not speak in return, nor apparently heed anything she told him.

"The day we spoke our vows to each other, you professed that you should share in my pain and seek to alleviate it. That you we would share in our burdens so that our spirits might grow in this union-" Her whisper broke as she began to fight against the tears of anger that had begun to sprout from her. "Our pledges were sacred, and consecrated with the blessings of the Dragons." The tears burst forth finally, dripping straight down her cheeks. "These oaths are a bond, sanctified with blood and magic from our lands and our bodies…. And you have broken your oaths to me." The words trembled now as she struggled to keep her voice low, and controlled. Though she shook with the need to stand, to raise her voice, to make herself be heard, if only once in her life!

The woman made no motions to wipe away the tears, she plunged ahead now that the damns of confession were open and she soldiered onward. "My heart has been broken, and you will never accept your fault in this. I know you too well, Loren." She nearly smiled, her words reminding her of his stubborn nature. "I do not know if I can love you again, Loren. You have…. Wrought upon me a great harm, of which I am not certain I can ever find myself to forgive you for." She stood, finally, afraid that if she sat longer, she would fail in her convictions and breech the physical distance between them in search of familiarity, and comfort that would be hollow.

"I will remain, until my last breath, the Lady of the House of Gresham. The magic that blessed our union will not be undone so easily. But I will no longer be the wife of your heart Loren. Never again will I be your wife. I will remain under this roof, and abide by the laws which govern and guide my person as your Lady wife, but you will never again feel the warmth of my heart, nor of my body. Not while I still draw breath shall my will be altered."

The fabric of her dress rustled only slightly as she moved away from the bed, and collected herself to the wardrobes to don her dressing gown and sit her vigil by the bed through the night. Though her proclamation was true, and spoken directly from her heart with as much conviction as she could imaginably possess, Ursa would not abandon her husband in his state of suffering. She would remain dutiful, as she always had, but her consecration was as true as the pain in her heart.

As the soft and light muslin caressed her skin while it was drawn over her head, Ursa felt herself almost lighter than she had when she had received news of Loren's impending arrival. Nearly as though her admission had lifted something weighing heavily within her.

Returning to the main bedroom, Loren remained still and constant in his state of ailment. His wife nestled into a small couch at the side of room, drawing a pillow beneath her head and a spare quilt to cover herself. With her magic she waved away the open flames in the room and rested her head as she curled up and warmed her surroundings a little, keeping her breaths quiet as she listened to the steady breaths her husband took. In the darkness of their room, the arrival of her dreams was blessedly quick.

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When the light of the new day broke on the second day since Loren's return, his wife stretched both her body and her joints slowly beneath her quilt, feeling her muscles ache from their post-sleep paralysis. Her neck was stiff and she reached up to move it from side-to-side, and cracked her eye open to give her bed a forlorn look. She missed the comfort and luxury of having had it all to herself these last months, but did not dare to nestle into it while Loren's frail form occupied it now.

These last two nights had been long and tiring; she had woken several times to hear Loren's breath increasing and his fever boiling over. She'd uncloaked his body from the heavy covers in favor of a light blanket, and dotted his brow silently with a cool wetted cloth to ease his delirium. In the earliest twilights of the second day his sweating had lessened and his breathing had returned to a deeper pace, one that spoke of his body and magic working furiously in tandem to heal him.

Taking a deep breath in as she stretched now, she spied that Loren was as of yet, still unmoving on his back. His arms and hands above the covers as she had left them, still wearing his thinner linen undershirt. The Lady rose, and righted herself before picking up her blanket to fold it and replacing her pillow atop the folded mass.

"It is good to see your sweet face again." A deep voice practically croaked, and Ursa nearly jumped in shock at the intrusion of the statement into her reverie. She whipped around to see that her husband's eyes focused on her from his prone position. He wore a weak and tired smile, and his masculine features were drawn and narrowed by his months-long battle through his cursed sickness. His intense dark eyes took in her form in her light gown as though it had been the whole of his life since he had lain eyes on her last, and she felt suddenly self-conscious at his examinations, as though suddenly she were a maid again and it was the first time she was attired such in front of her Lord.

She cleared her throat of her own residual sleep, nervously. "'Tis good you have finally awakened." Loren's eyes did not leave her, instead they bored into her, though they were still moderately glassy and seemed unfocused to Ursa.

"What time has passed since my sojourn?" He whispered, and Ursa faltered. She had not considered her Lord would not have a concept of time as he had ailed and convalesced.

"We are approaching Mabon, my Lord. It begins three days hence." The man closed his eyes and sighed deeply, slowly raising a hand to his brow as his expression grew strained. He groaned and attempted to lean himself up. Ursa nearly leapt to his aid, automatically and without thinking, but held herself back before she had made any great show. Loren seemed not to note it.

"Take care not to strain yourself my Lord," she cautioned gently. "Your body has remained stagnant all this time, and the healers have advised that you use yourself with great caution." He nodded and leaned back again wordlessly, taking several steeling breaths again. Ursa slowly poured a goblet of cool water and brought it to the bedside to offer him, though did not seat herself beside him, she only stood close enough that he could reach the proffered cup.

Loren opened his eyes gingerly and slowly leaned himself up that he might accept it. His fingers were still chilled, but dry when they brushed Ursa's as he accepted it from her.

"What news since I have been indisposed?" he sipped as he watched her above the rim of the goblet, and Ursa broke eye contact to retrieve a robe with which to cover herself. His voice was still rough from lack of use, but the tone of it struck her and she glanced back over his shoulder to note that still his gaze followed her as she moved about the room. She found herself unnerved under his scrutiny, uncertain if it was suspicious or appreciative.

"The Masters have remained in service while you have been away, and the children have moved into more advanced combat training, meditations, and advanced magical casting. They excel greatly, and have shown themselves more seamless and united than when you had left. Breeding continues on-schedule, and grain stores will be at necessary capacity for the coming winter months. I have maintained your correspondences and seen to your audiences as steward in your name. The animals are healthy and in excellent conditions, and the wyrn nursery construction has experienced no setback or structural issues-" Ursa had not turned to face him as she had spoken, merely prattled onward through the mental lists of tasks she had seen to in his absence while she poured her own water.

Her long-winded account was interrupted by Loren without preempt. "What I mean to discover, my love, is how you and the children have fared in my absence." The familiar moniker caused her to freeze, reminding herself that despite her proclamations to his unresponsive personage two nights prior, the man who sat in the bed behind her still considered her his loving and adoring Lady wife. Accompanied by the knowledge that in his great absence, their sole daughter had been discovered in covert intimacies with one of the wards currently under this very roof! Biting back the lump she felt growing in her throat at the information she planned on intentionally withholding from him, she maintained her tone as best she could as she slowly turned, though did not meet his eyes.

"The children have been well, overall. Masters Black and Mora report that they have reached a sort of plateau of companionability together, in spite of the trials the pair design for them to test their resilience." When her eyes darted to meet his, Loren's face had no expression that Ursa could decipher.

"And what of yourself?" He inquired and she gave a nervous smile.

"I have found myself most occupied over this several moons. I have had little time for idleness." Her Lord nodded to her.

"Ursa-"

"Loren-"

The two spoke the others name simultaneously, interrupting the other. It was the first time they had used the others first name since Loren had left for his convocation. He bid her continue by raising her hand, and she wrought her hands together suddenly, her posture suddenly more nervous than it was before. She had moved nearer the bed, but maintained a distance between them that left him cold without her presence.

"It is my wish that I relocate my personal rooms to the old nursery, my Lord." She blurted out, causing Loren to startle slightly. Ursa had gathered herself, standing as tall as she dared at her bold proclamation. He examined her carefully.

"I have no want for you to leave our marital bed, Ursa." Her lips thinned as she pressed them together, and her brows drew together in a frown.

"I must declare then that it is my intent to transpose myself, with or without your consent or blessing, my Lord." She stated, very firmly. The man sat up straighter as he heard the finality of her tone. Her eyes this time did not waver or dart away. She set them upon him and her determination was evident to him. The Lord felt his heart flutter in his chest is slowly came to squeeze at him from inside at the thought that she would be so removed from his presence, as though she wished more than to only separate them physically.

"For how long?" He half-croaked and she inclined her head.

"Permanently, my Lord." Ursa felt herself emboldened, reminded of the words of her resolve from his first night back and narrowed her eyes just slightly, and blinked slowly. She remembered then that it was she whom had experienced suffering, and not that she asked this in supplication. The months of separation had strengthened her willpower, though in the face of her husband her initial reactions had been to waiver in her boldness. Mentally, she imagined tamping her foot to the ground in emphasis.

"You are my wife." He stated simply, as though it were some verifiable truth she has somehow forgotten.

"I am, and will remain the Lady of this House, Loren. But I will be your wife no longer." This caused him to frown deeply, not certain where this iron determination had sprang from, nor recognizing the firmness of her conviction. Emblazoned then his dumbfounded expression, she pressed onward in her statement. "I will perform my duties without dissent or objection, and remain faithfully to my station as Lady of this House, and to the mother of your heirs. With exception to those requirements I will be no more than that, my Lord, as I have no wish to remain as your wife. I shall neither share your rooms, nor grant permission to join my bed."

Loren was stunned into silence, hearing his wife's unyielding proclamation. He could not believe what he was hearing! Undeniably, there was a vast divide he needed to bridge between them, to repair the damage it had done to them. He had foolishly neglected to attend it prior to his departure; had this been what his wife had been ruminating in these last moons with him gone? His mind, newly cleared from his sickbed, whirled faster with questions that made his head light and left him slightly dizzy. He was beset with confusion, anger, fear and panic all at once, and the mixture washed over him, overpowered him completely.

"Then this would indeed be without my approval-" He managed to state as held a hand up as she opened her mouth to produce a rebuttal. "But I will not force my will on you." He conceded and made certain that his eyes spoke to her as loudly as he hoped his words did. "Not again."

His now-estranged wife's posture was regal and commanding, and despite her informal (though tantalizing) state of dress she ruled her motions with precision, and left without further discussion, as though his acknowledgment of his wrongdoing had meant nothing to her, it was left unnoted. Loren sagged back into the headboard of his vast and lonely wedding bed. Its largeness now dwarfing his singular form as the past months had been spent in much more understated accommodations than these.

The man leaned his head back, his mind jumbled and veritably overflowing with a barrage of questions yet left unanswered. He closed his dark brown eyes to the scene surrounding him, bereft of her warmth and love as he had so taken for granted until this moment. He righted his eyes and slowly made to sit to the side of the bed before he felt the tingling of tears that willed themselves from his eyes.

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