Hullo everybody ! I told you I was going to keep on this ! Please R&R and I hope you enjoy ! -LR
(Thank you, SeekerM !)
Sleep is unkind, in that it doesn't come.
There's no end to the anguish. No end.
How could there be, when my son is missing?
A knock on the wall draws my attention, and I look to see Argis watching me, concern etched into the lines of his face. I glance away, indifferent. He doesn't have anything to say to me. Not unless it concerns Segen. Apparently, my son had quite the head start. It takes an hour to reach the limits of my land, eight more to finish the ranging, and the walk back is another hour in itself. Upon his return, Argis found a slew of families, one son bearing a letter of my intent for him to guard them as he would us.
There was much confusion, that I understand.
And, though I try not to direct my anger towards my steward, I cannot forgive or understand that in that mess, my son managed to slip away.
I hear the sound of nails clicking against wood, and I know without looking that Na'el has padded into the room.
When I left her, the pitch-colored wolf was about as big as a barrel.
Now, she's the size of Segen's bed.
Silent as ever, Na'el sidles up close to my chair. resting her huge head on my thigh. She misses him, I know, and she wants me to feel better. Big, amber eyes stare into me it seems, their somber look reminding me vaguely of Shazaa.
I had not expected to see him, in the Whiterun gaols. Eyes like gold, a chiseled face, pretty lips, so quick to smile. . .
He hasn't aged a day.
I suppose that ought to tell me something, just as Marrick looking his twenty-nine years had. Marrick has moved on from me, that much I know. A foot before his face, he still did not know me. And, if that wasn't enough, he had slept with the same woman, something he had only ever been comfortable enough to do with me before. I know. I saw the way he looked at her, the way he looked at me, like he was pleading me to find a heart and save Iman.
At least he didn't kiss her.
That brings a wry smirk to my lips, Yes, at the very, minute least, he didn't kiss her.
He's moved on, Marrick Stray-King. And, I thought for these past five years that I had too; I had the child to prove it.
I ride home after three weeks of delivering the Alik'r stores to the city with my visa, to find all the families I'd put up in the manor, and all of their children playing happily.
But, not mine.
I leapt off the back of the wagon, and sprinted out into the yard, calling out his name. I was four weeks gone, and I know how he worries about me already would be amplified by our time apart.
Children began to appear, from the back of the house, from the fish hatchery, from the stables, from the decks, all watching me curiously - and none of them my son. My Nordic changed quickly to Yoku and I began to scream his name, asking- no, begging for his whereabouts-
"If you mean to dismiss me. . ."
Argis cannot bring himself to finish his sentence.
I stare straight ahead still, through the window at nothing in particular. Na'el bristles at my side at the sound of his voice, as if she wants him to leave me alone. I stroke her neck absently.
"You're fine, Argis," I whisper hoarsely, shaking my head. "You're fine. This. . . this is my fault. If I were a better mother . . ." My lower lip starts trembling madly, "If I were a better mother-"
I curl my knees to my chest and hug them tightly, rubbing my head against the hills of my knees.
Tears would come, I'm sure, if I weren't already dry of them.
"I am so sorry," he says, in a quiet, grave voice. "You most of all deserve a break. Someone's vigilance besides your own. I meant to send a courier, I swear, my lady, I did, but there were dragon sightings along the East Road and. . ." Argis shakes his head tightly, biting his lip."And, there is no excuse. I've failed you."
Vaguely, in the most far removed, most quiet recesses of my mind, I consider Argis. I consider Argis, outside of his being my steward. He's maybe one of the most gruffly beautiful men I've ever seen. Tall, strong. Brilliant eyes, clever, good with my son. Large, steady hands, red-gold hair tied back out of his handsome face. Stoic, understanding and brave . . .
Not an altogether poor choice, for an affair.
But, that word, that affair. Against who; who would be wronged?
My teeth sink into my lower lip.
I know. I know who.
No matter my dedication to this new life, I can't deny Marrick. I should be miles away from what and who we were; but I'm not. And now, I'm starting to think I never will be. I feel married to him. I don't want to, but I do.
No muscle-bound, russet-haired steward would ever be able to tempt me from my vilest temptor. Even if I did, I would only hate myself more, not purge myself the way Marrick so obviously had. Argis the Bulwark could never be Iman Suda. He could never be a distraction from that unspoken vow.
I feel married to Marrick Stray-King, and that is my curse.
"Nevermind that," I say, and it comes out hoarse, so I clear my throat and try again, louder: "Nevermind that, Argis, just don't fail me again." I rise up from Segen's bed, and stand as straight and tall and proud as I can. "Just don't fail me now. We still have people to protect here. Each of those parents is me, and all of those children are Segen. We have to take care of them, now, like we'd take care of my son."
Argis watches me, with an expression akin to awe. He seems on the verge of saying something, but instead he nods slowly, gratefully, and turns to leave the room. When he's out of sight, I straighten Segen's bed. I stroke smooth the covers, and raise up the pillows the way he does when he reads at night, even after I've told him time and time again to go to sleep, lest he damage his eyes and he fights it so hard because he just wants to finish his chapter and so I end up reading it to him and he falls asleep in my arms-
"By the grace of Stenndar," I hiss brokenly, standing at the door frame, drifting my gaze across his hollow room. "By the grace of Stenndar, be safe and smart." I press my forehead against the frame, new tears taking me by surprise. "Be safe and smart, my precious boy."
It's hot in the kitchen, as four women who are all better cooks than me, and all claim to be better cooks than each other fuss over the venison stew. I felled the stag out hunting earlier, while the fathers did my yard and ranging work and the mothers did all the cleaning. Argis watched over it all, and kept the children orderly, thinking it best that I have time to myself to kill something.
That's my other curse, I suppose; the Work.
It' was my father's euphemism for our family's occupation.
The Work.
I'm no stranger to killing, and he's no stranger to me; in many ways, he was my first lover. I know how to perform, how to execute, to compartmentalize what I feel and separate myself from the Work. It usually puts me at ease, to kill, but somehow, I found myself weeping over the stag.
He was somebody's son, was he not?
Perhaps some yearling's father?
The only thing that saved me from freezing to death while I mourned his death, was the fact that he would feed not only fathers and sons, but mothers and daughters, too. That knowledge absolved me some, or at least enough for me to clean myself up and return to the manor.
To family and warmth and meat and bread and house where I sit now, watching other women do my housework.
"Quinn, off milady's table, if you please! Ibsen: WIPE YOUR MUDDY BOOTS! Frieda, put down your dress, this is not a brothel!"
"Hard day, Danica?" I smirk, chopping carrots with a cleaver.
"You would not even believe, milady!" she exclaims, shaking her head. "I am trying to put your house is some sort of order, but the work, Lady O'Naharis, the work."
Indeed.
I give a tight nod, and a tight smile before slipping deeper into my task, letting the precision of each slice take me further away from the now.
Two of the fathers, Denan and Osmund, are loading freshly chopped firewood into the back porch sunroom, while the third father, Timmald, shoveled snow from the walkways and the fourth, Brennan, tended to the livestock: my chickens and cow. The two other wives were Lysette and Ana - as Osmund is recently widowed - and while Danica busied herself in the kitchen, the two of them worked on keeping the manor spotless.
Danica and Timmald have the oldest boy, Eamon, at sixteen, a little girl, Gida, who's half his age, and have lost their youngest boy, Kent, to the dragons.
Denan and Ana have four children Jocasta, Ibsen, Orel and Sam, at ages fourteen, ten, eight and four, respectively.
Osmund has his and his passed Marion's boy, Liam, who's thirteen.
Brennan and Lynette have Quinn and little Frieda, at ages thirteen and three.
With some moving and shifting, there was more than enough room for all, and food and wood enough to keep us fed and warm.
"Where is Argie?"
I smirk at the small, red-headed girl, Frieda, who toddles forward to me clasping onto my knees for support. We've taken to calling her Carrot Top; that way, there's no mistaking who someone's asking for. After a few days in the house, every child's face seems the same. "Where's Argie?"
Taking a thin carrot in hand, I lightly brush its bush of green leaves across her freckled nose. Frieda giggles, and makes a grab for it, before I flick it upwards, out of her reach.
"He's out ranging," I tell her, raising the carrot up again. "Looking for bad things on the borders."
"Will they hurt us?" she asks, still playing for the carrot. "The bad things?"
I let the carrot droop and she snags it delightedly; I smile.
"Not if he sees them first."
In all truth, I ought to have been with him out in the marshes. But I've been too distracted lately; too disturbed to be present, as much as I try. My thoughts are occupied by my son and his father. Without the one, my home becomes merely a house. Without the other, my soul becomes halved.
Six or seven years ago, I'd have been disgusted at myself.
The independent heir of Barak-dur - so dependent on the lives of others to even be happy. To even be whole.
"MILADY!"
The shout breaks me from my trance, and my body responds instantaneously, grabbing Freida under the armpits, turning sharply as I sit her in my quitted chair and whirl back around. I snag my scimitar and my dirk, a steel dagger sitting inside my right boot, and I emerge swiftly from the kitchen, shutting the double doors behind me.
Ana and Lynette sit at the dining hall table, their faces twisted in confusion and fear; they need orders.
"Get the children downstairs in the armory. Bolt the door." They still seem to need convincing. "NOW."
Their eyes turn on me, and finally clear as they gather their wits and grab at the young ones with hushed, urgent whispers.
I don't grab my cloak; there's no time for it. I fly out of the front door, the freezing wind ripping my hair from its braid and whipping around above me. I ignore the cold biting at me through my cotton longshirt and red leather vest and through my trousers and boot. Buckling my swordbelt around my waist, I scan the blizzard for a sign of my summoner.
Brennan - who was with the cow, I think - and his Quinn come trudging through the thick of it, legs lifting as high and as fast as possible, a torch in Brennan's fist.
"What is it?" I call out, unsheathing my blade. "What's happened?"
Brennan's boy stares at the warm glint of my blade in awe as his father flaps a hand towards the stables.
"En't a threat, milday, en't a threat," he hollers, over the screaming wind. "It's a man!"
I thrust my blades away, and step forward off the porch.
"Lead the way!"
We tore through the storm, Brennan's torch grasped tight in my hand, my wild hair guiding them behind me. At the stables, my Allie is spooked, and stamps agitatedly around the stall, blocking us from the figure behind her. Practically throwing the torch at Quinn, I take my girl by the bridle, whispering sweet nothings in Yoku until she calms. Once she has, I hand her over to Brennan, and he pulls her aside, revealing Argis, stooped low over someone.
"He's in bad shape, milday," the steward grunts, shaking his head. "The cold's got to him something fierce."
I lean over to see the storm-tossed man and my breath hitches in the back of my throat as his heavy-lidded gaze meets mine.
"Just hang on," I breathe. "Hang on, Shazaa."