There was not even a moment to catch her breath before Léofe was called elsewhere.
A handful of volunteers, led by Alfrida, were lugging and unloading trunk after trunk into the hall. "From the cellar," the lady explained, pulling a set of keys from her reticule to begin opening the trunks. "This is what is left from Erk's wedding gift to me."
This was not what Léofe had any notion of expecting, and when the heavy lid was lifted she could only stare at the pile of clean, white linens. "Wedding gift?" she asked, dumbfounded. "But—"
"Erk was very generous. He over-estimated how many linens and candelabras I would need as lady of the Keep." Alfrida straightened, sending Léofe a pained smile. "At least, that is what I believed. I am thankful for the excess now."
"But—why?"
"Bandages." Alfrida moved onto the trunk, unlocking that one as well as she continued. "The healers we have are refugees; they brought no supplies. If we want to help the wounded, we must use what we already have."
"But—your wedding gift! This is a barracks, should there not be the necessary supplies on hand already?"
The lady glanced at her. "There are supplies, but they are disappearing fast; what with the increased soldiers riding in from skirmishes and wounded refugees from the past months. And it matters far more to me that we can provide care for those that will need it than to keep an unused wedding gift intact."
Léofe bit her tongue, understanding the wisdom of Alfrida's words, but the thought of a wedding gift used to treat wounded soldiers made her heart ache. Béma—what if Théodred was one of the wounded? Her stomach knotted, and nausea clouded her senses.
"Come, we will prepare them together," Alfrida said, sounding calm as she unlocked the last of the trunks. "It will make the task that much faster."
No matter how Alfrida spun the tale, tearing linens into bandages made for a very arduous afternoon. It took very little thought, leaving the women to their own musings. Léofe was not happy to allow her mind its liberty—the imminent invasion made her shaky and ill. Alfrida was obviously no better off, for her forehead was pinched and her lips had disappeared into a thin line as she tore the linens with a significant amount of aggression. They were joined by others, but their moods were not any better, and the hall was thick and silent with tension.
The doors to the hall were thrown open, and Erkenbrand strode through with a face like thunder. "Alfie!" he bellowed, and the paused as he saw that she was standing rather near to him. "Sorry," he added, much lower, though his voice still boomed. "I cannot find the blasted tools for the Deeping Wall repairs—I looked in carpenter's shop and in the storage cupboards all along the lower level."
Alfrida was weaving through bandage-makers to approach him. "I am sure you did not find them there," she said. "We had to move nearly everything into the caves to make room for people."
"Damn right! I have been searching for upwards of an hour."
"Erk!" Alfrida scolded. "You know better than to swear in mixed company!"
Erkenbrand looked very much like a man who wanted a rousing row, and Léofe looked away, thinking that perhaps Théodred should have given him an assignment elsewhere; anything would be better than him fighting with his wife! She was sure she had never seen him in such a state before—he was usually so well-humored. Alfrida had reached him by this point, and their conversation was continued in whispers, though a whisper for Erkenbrand was a raised tone for a normal person. Léofe could hear his words, though she did not want to.
"How am I supposed to get the wall repaired in time—and reinforced, too!—if you hide all the materials from me! The little time we have will be spent running around looking for hammers!" A pause. "No, Alfie, I do not remember you informing me that the storage rooms were emptied." Another pause. "Yes, I was there, but I do not remember! Béma, woman, I am an aging man and I cannot possibly retain everything you say to me! It is an awful lot!" Alfrida's subsequent growl could be heard, and Léofe, her eyes burning as she tried to keep her focus on the linen in front of her, thought she heard the lady stamp her foot.
"You have always been terrible at organizing things, Erk!" Alfrida's voice has risen to an audible tone in exasperation, and Léofe wished it had not. "Why—you should roll bandages and I will see to the wall!"
"Do not start that, woman! Théodred gave his orders and I will see them through."
Alfrida let out of huff of air. "You have never given Théodred's orders priority before; suddenly they are so worthy of being upheld?"
"They have never been so important. Béma, Alf—do not tell him I said that! I will search the caves—I am going now!" The stomping of Erkenbrand's heavy footfall back through the front door could be heard. When the door thudded shut behind him, the entire hall seemed to let out a breath. Léofe paused rolling her bandages, the sick feeling that had been plaguing her intensifying. If this was enough to make Erkenbrand and Alfrida argue…
Tears blurred her eyes as she forced herself to concentrate, and for the hundredth she wished Théodred was there to give her the comfort and hope she so desperately wanted.
.
.
In a sense of well-meaning (but ill-advised, Léofe thought to herself) charity, Alfrida dismissed the remainder of the servants to be with their families. All the refugees were welcome to use the Deep's facilities but they had to do the work themselves. This included the lady and Léofe as well, and after months of reprieve from her least favorite chores, Léofe was forced into self-sufficiency once more.
How she hated to wash clothing!
Léofe glowered at the dirty water as she dragged her sopping petticoat in and out, in and out along the washboard. The frigid water had stiffened and reddened her hands long ago, and it was only the sheer force of determination (that and not wishing to appear weak to Alfrida, who had her own washtub nearby) that kept her moving. She was splattered with the water, and it had soaked through all the layers she wore, as if its express purpose were to chill her skin. That the laundry was set up in the courtyard, where every stir of wind made her shiver, was plain bad luck—the private laundry chamber in the Keep was housing refugees, even with the weather never improving beyond moody. The entire ordeal was a uniquely torturous experience, and she paused, wiping hair from her face as she considered wearing the same clothing for the next several weeks.
"Do you hear that?" Alfrida's voice cut through her miserable thoughts, and Léofe raised her head to listen closely.
"No," she said after a moment. "What was it?"
"I thought I heard a rider approaching on the causeway."
Léofe shrugged, and returned her hands to the freezing water with a grimace. But then—a huge bang, and the front gates swung open. She dropped her petticoat in the water, splashing herself further.
"It must be Elfhelm," Alfrida said, wringing out the clothing she had been washing posthaste. "He intended to stop here before continuing on to Théodred."
Erkenbrand was hurtling up the stairs from where he had been overseeing repairs to the wall, obviously having heard the gate as well. But the guest was a disappointment—only a single, dirty and exhausted rider entered, his mount plodding along with a limp. Léofe tensed as she dried her hands; how could the man have ridden his horse in such a state! Nothing could warrant such cruelty to a horse!
The man looked up, seeing Erkenbrand, and calling in a loud but trembling voice, "The prince is dead. The Fords remain ours, but the prince is dead. The losses...are irreplaceable. We were...we were ambushed and outmatched; the wizard was cunning…"
Léofe gripped the edge of the washtub with a trembling hand, her ears ringing as the world around her seemed to turn to haze. No! She forced herself to focus. She had clearly misheard the man; there was no possibility that Théodred could be dead! He was too skilled a fighter; he had said they would marry when he returned…
She blinked several times, the man's slumping figure in the saddle sharpening, and Erkenbrand caught him before he fell onto the stone ground. A blur that was surely Alfrida was collapsed by the washtub, leaning her head against the rim, and—was she weeping? There was no need, Théodred could not be dead—he could not—
Léofe's knees buckled, and the tub upended and doused her with freezing water as she pulled it downwards with her. The voices and cries around her began to muffle, and she shook her head to try to clear it, but it worsened her dizziness, and she sunk to the ground in a dead faint.
.
.
She was racing down the Hornburg's corridors as fast as her legs to move, which was not fast. Oddly she could barely lift her feet, as if some outside resistance was keeping her from reaching the door to her Théodred's study. She forced herself onward, twisting and turning for what felt like hours until she reached the familiar place, but the door that faced her was unrecognizable. Had she gone the wrong direction? The walls shifted around her; and she pounded them with her fist as she realized she was at the other end of the Keep once more.
This time, the trip took longer; her limbs were heavy and slow as she cried out in frustration. Over and over she called his name, Théodred! Théodred!, but there was no answer. Why was there no answer? He had never ignored her before… The door to his study loomed over her, dark and menacing with twisted, black wood. Without a thought she pushed and pushed until it groaned open.
The study was empty. No furniture, no fire...she found the door to his bedchamber and shoved it with her shoulder until it opened, and she fell to the ground. The hard floor was merciless on her sore muscles, and she stayed sprawled as the agony in her muscles intensified. At last she lifted her head, seeing the linens of his bed swaying in front of her face, and she lifted a rebellious arm to grasp it, to pull herself up—but it tore in a long strip and rolled itself like a bandage before dropping to the floor. She reached with her other hand as well, but each time she touched the linen it ripped. With great effort she brought herself into a kneeling position, and stood on weak legs as she fell forward, catching herself on the mattress. Horrified, she lifted her hands and saw that her palms were covered in bright red blood, and she caught sight of the source—Théodred lay prostrate on the bed, blood seeping from his body as his eyes stared toward the ceiling, unseeing and dim. A scream built in her throat and stuck there, and unable to draw breath she stumbled backward, falling to the ground and gripping her head in her hands. Warm blood trickled down her face, and she saw that she was covered in blood as well, her pretty green dress soaked through and her hair dripping onto the floor… Her throat opened, and panicking, she screamed, and screamed, and screamed….
.
.
A hard thunk brought her back to reality, and Léofe tried to sit up frantically, but was trapped by—not bandages, but the quilts on her bed. She was lying on the floor, twisting helplessly between the covers. Her heart pounded, and she stared at the ceiling, taking in shaking breaths as she tried to think.
She was in her bed, or at least, she had been. She could not recall how she had come to be there...the last thing she remembered was the laundry, and the soldier, and…
Théodred dead!
Léofe inhaled sharply. No, surely he was alive. He could not be dead, her vibrant, handsome prince. His life could not be snuffed out in such a short time, it had only been four days since he had farewelled her, telling her they would marry immediately upon his return.
A knock sounded at the door, and she started violently, nearly slamming her head onto the edge of the bed as she tried to fumble her way to an escape. The door opened, and Alfrida's ashen face poked in. "Are you well?" she asked in a low voice. "I heard...I heard you fall."
Léofe laughed, smoothing the hair away from her face. "I am fine!" she chirped. "I only had a nightmare, can you believe it! In my dream Théodred was dead! A rider came from the Fords and everything—how dreadfully detailed it was! What rubbish."
Alfrida's face wrinkled into a wretched frown, and she sidled into the room and shut the door behind her. "Oh, sweet Léofe!" she murmured, and knelt beside her. The grief on her face made Léofe's heart stutter in fear—it could not—it could not— "It was not a dream, my girl. I—I am sorry."
Numbly, Léofe felt Alfrida embrace her, and her head was placed on the lady's shoulder. "No," Léofe whimpered as her body began to shake. "No."
"It must be faced, Léofe."
"No!"
A barrage of tears was falling onto Alfrida's gown, and with shock Léofe realized she was crying—Alfrida crying! Alfrida was never express her emotion in such a way, she was too strong, unless...unless…
Théodred was...dead.
.
.
The sun rose and set each day, and to Léofe it meant nothing. Why should it matter if the heavens continue, if stars rise or fall by night if Théodred was no longer a part of the world? Life meant nothing—life was nothing at all if she was doomed to be alone.
She wanted him so much, it felt as if her heart was burning. Fire raged across her skin, heating her anger. Even as she stared out her window, she wanted to curse and scream at the people that coursed through the Hornburg, going about the preparations for battle. Why did they not all stop, why had not the world stopped turning? If ever there needed to be a cause, this was it.
The singular, crushing anguish dogged her every step, and Léofe refused to leave her room. She would not see anyone. Why parade her pain and grief to where others would see? It was hers, as Théodred had been hers, and it was all that she had left.
She would never be happy again.
Théodred had walked through her door! He had sat on her bed, stoked the fire. Léofe rushed at the bed, pulling the linens with all her strength, and shrieking at them as she tore them to shreds. She howled and slammed the poker into the hearth, banging it against the stone wall. How could you! How could you! She rushed at the door and pounded on it with clenched fists, shouting obscenities to the gods—they did this! They took away her Théodred—they should die, too, in the painful, burning fire with her own vengeful face laughing down at them.
The moon rose upon the Hornburg with silence but no peace. Léofe trembled at the window, dressed in her nightgown but nothing else, the feel of the frigid wind piercing her skin and freezing the tears on her cheeks. Was life not cruel enough that she lose her mother, her father, her home? Must she lose her love? Could not fate have spared her and taken her life as well?
By the time dawn began to reach into the sky, she was quite decided. Her bare feet made no noise and she glided through the corridors like a ghost. She saw no one, and all the better.
Léofe pulled open the door to the great horn of Helm with numb arms, forcing herself through the stiff breeze that met her. She climbed the steps as if walking through a foggy mist. The sun was bursting above the horizon as she reached the top—how dare it? Fury made her tremble as she climbed the wall to sit on it, the stone cold beneath her skin. The sight of the desolate valley far below took her breath away, and the tears were whipped from her face by the wind, and she closed her eyes against it. Théodred, Théodred, why have you forsaken me…
A trumpet sounded far below, and when she opened her eyes she saw a mass of soldiers—an army!—entering the valley with haste. But not an enemy army; the cries rising the Deep far below were of hope, not of fear. Léofe stayed, transfixed and confused, until the sight was clearer. Green banners floated about ranks of horsemen, bearing the king's seal, and she began to hear cries rising from the people below: The king! The king is come!