Chapter 18: Veiled Affection

"O' sisters of the Sightless Eye! Celebrate and be glad this night!"

Applause.

"Celebrate, for the demoness Andariel has fallen!"

Applause again.

"Never again shall our monastery fall prey to those of darkness and of Hell—we are free!"

Yet more applause.

"Yes, be glad, my sisters, and celebrate! You have every reason, and every right to submit yourselves to joy; but let us never forget the heroes, without which, this victory would not have been possible! Tonight, my sisters, let us honor them; arise, Saul of Scosglen! Arise, Cordelia of the Medjai-Kiel! Arise, Kashya, Captain of the Sisterhood! Lift your cups, sisters, and let us drink to their eternal health!"

But it was Liene who deserved the greatest honour of all.

Saul blinked placidly towards Akara for several short seconds, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he did so. It struck something within him to know that the High Priestess had omitted the name of one who'd fallen proud in battle for the sake of that which she loved; her home, and her family. But to mention that name, she, who was one so loved amongst her mourners, in the midst of such a celebration would be nothing short of cruel—and Saul both understood, and empathized with Akara's decision.

Almost mechanically, he reached forward, and lifted his chilled goblet to his lips, then took a long, deep draught of the sweet wine within it. It was honey-wine, richly coloured in a shade of golden-brown—and it had been to Liene what milk is to an infant; and it was in this rather minute, yet significant detail that the High Priestess chose to remember that bravest of rogues.

He could feel Cordelia's eyes boring into the back of his skull has he drained his goblet of the remaining wine—like him, she had remained deeply rooted within her seat, blatantly ignoring the call of the High Priestess. He had not a doubt that her thoughts were as his were; that arising would be a gesture to overshadow the memory of she who had departed. Such glory was better spent on heroes; true heroes, the likes of Tal Rasha, and Talic of Mount Arreat. He swiped carelessly at his mouth with the back of his hand, and in a voice both quiet and solemn, said, more to himself than anyone else, "To Liene."

Yes, to Liene, who, surely, stood amongst the women of courage that he'd had the pleasure of knowing. And he had known her well.

But it was, perhaps, time to let go. She was dead, gone forevermore; a fact irreversible, even by means of necromancy, which Saul was loathe to employ. Besides, Liene would have hated his mourning of her passing.

She had believed in heaven.

And that would simply have to be enough for him.

"Saul—?"

He blinked several times—then shifted his gaze ever so slightly, the legs of his chair scraping against the ground as he did so. "Hrm?"

Cordelia bit gently upon her lower lip—she seemed at rather a loss for words. At any rate, she didn't quite meet his eyes, as she usually did; and when she spoke once more, her volumes were low, and her demeanor, somewhat sedate. "Are you alright?"

For some odd reason, the question struck a chord of irony within him. But he chose to ignore the words of biting upon the tip of his tongue—it was not her fault that she was concerned for him. "I won't lie to you, Cordy. I am not alright—but I will be, eventually. But don't trouble yourself for my sake; I am not so important, as to enter into the vestiges of your mind to keep you from spiritual peace."

She eyed him rather dubiously for a moment, before crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not troubled."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying." She protested, her crimson brows arching slightly. "I'm just—well, concerned. You haven't spoken a word to Kashya since—well, you know."

Saul scowled. "How do you mean? I rarely speak to her, even when we were on speaking terms. This isn't much of a difference."

"You're either very cruel, bitterly cold, unbelievably dense, or horribly mean. Take your pick." Cordelia returned his scowl—and her scowl cowed his into a mere expression of neutral dislike. "Personally, I'd say you were unbelievably dense, if I'd not witnessed her extraordinarily blunt confession to you myself."

"I refuse to acknowledge her love of myself. Is there a law that somehow requires me to reciprocrate her feelings?" He grumbled. "I don't love her, Cordy. You know I don't. What else can I do?"

He thought he could see the crevices upon her forehead deepen ever so slightly—and was startled to discover that her eyes were now flashing with exasperation. Those eyes, in addition to the crimson sheen upon her cheeks, and the expression of severe disgust upon her face served both to amuse and alarm the druid. He was not particularly afraid of her, but rather, of causing her grief. "Cordy—?"

"No. Don't speak. It's my turn to speak." She hissed. "I'll tell you what you can do, Master Vyreant. You can acknowledge, at the very least, that she has revealed her innermost self to you. And while it is entirely blameless for you to not feel that way for her, I have every right to berate you for not—turning—her—down—gently!"

"Ech!" Saul inhaled sharply, rubbing tenderly upon his arm as his eyes narrowed themselves into points of frustration. Cordelia had chosen to punctuate her last words with punches. Painful punches that left his arm feeling helpless afterwards. "You act as if I'd turned you down." He grumbled.

He thought he saw a flash of helplessness within her eyes—but it was gone in a mere second. If anything, her temper seemed somewhat calmed, though her words and tone were no less biting. "I have no patience for romance." She grumbled. "But if I had been born Kashya as opposed to myself, I would have had enough sense to see that you cared little for me. And I would have saved us both the drama."

"Be careful, my dear. Your words sting so—would you have yourself hurt my feelings?"

It had hurt.

"As you have hurt Kashya's?" She countered.

A frown had made its way into his face—it knitted his brows together in slight frustration. "Why do you even care? She's made it quite clear that she hates every fibre of your being."

"She won't hate every fibre of my being the second you sweep her into your arms and beg her love and forgiveness."

"What was that?"

She was silent just then, choosing only to drum gently upon the table with her fingers. Her eyes were upon his—though she did not smile, nor make any slight movement for many long moments. Finally, in rather a defeated cadence—"Apparently, to her, you and I are—well, involved. Somehow."

"What was that?"

"You heard me perfectly. Don't make me repeat it." Cordelia leaned back in her seat, biting down upon her lower lip. A soft pink flush had begun to appear upon her cheeks—and despite the heaviness weighing upon his heart, Saul found himself smiling at the sight.

"I heard. I was just—ah—expressing my—er—disbelief."

"At any rate." She began. "I think its best if you talk to her. I know you don't reciprocrate her feelings. But all the same, a woman needs closure, even if it isn't the happy ending she'd imagined."

Saul chuckled softly under his breath—then reached over to grasp his companion's hands in his own. "For one who has no patience for romance, Cordy—you certainly seem to know a lot of the matter."

She bit her lower lip, though the corners of her mouth twisted themselves, however slightly, upwards into the makings of a smile. Perhaps he'd imagined it—but Saul thought that he could feel the tightening of her fingers about his; and for a moment or two, he fancied her sentiments towards him to be an exact match to that of his own. Perhaps, just perhaps, she wanted nothing more than to simply hold his hand, until death claimed them. But such thoughts were but a fool's thoughts.

Had she not said that she'd no patience for such things?

But surely, surely, it was a lie? Somehow, Cordelia did not strike him as the kind to wish romance away—he could very well picture her a fiancé, a wife, and a mother. She made it too easy for his imagination.

Several long moments passed, in which they merely contented themselves in one another's company; and they were silent. The musicians had taken their places by the podium; the festive sounds of strings and drums rang loud within the great hall of the monastery. The dancing had begun, and many a rogue sister flew across the room on tiptoes, all a-flurry with laughter and activity. None stopped to speak to the two—and Saul was rather glad of it.

It was rather comforting to feel the gentle touch of the sorceress's hand within his own palm. Such was a sensation as he was loathe to relinquish. Besides, she'd not shifted; nor had she apparently thought it necessary to withdraw her hand of his grasp.

It seemed half of forever later before she spoke once more. "Did Warriv approach you earlier today?"

"Yes." He leaned back into his seat, stretching his legs out. But he did not loose his hold of her hand—and she, likewise, did no such thing. "Did he ask you, too?"

"Yes."

Saul tilted his head gently, deep grey eyes searching. He was curious as to her response to the caravan master's question—she had, after all, shown dislike for the port-city in days past. "Will you go with him, Cordy?"

She watched silently, the colour of her irises wavering ever so slightly—and for several short minutes, it seemed as if she were but a lost child. "To go to Lut Gholein, Saul? I've heard many stories of the jewel city—and they have long interested me. Is it truly so beauteous a sight? I know the sands are golden, and the sun, warm. The weather of the port-city is known to be as erratic and changeable as the sea—warm and humid one moment, and cool and breezy the next."

"Then you will go?"

"No." The sorceress sighed quietly, bowing her head just a touch. "I—I find myself rather loathe to leave the monastery. And though I am very much intrigued by the wonders of Lut Gholein, I have little—no, I have absolutely no desire at all!—to enter through the threshold of the city gates."

"I see." He said, a full minute later. But the words were mere words—he did not see, and he did not understand.

Did the sorceress seek to avoid such existances as could be found in Lut Gholein? But what, what was it that caused such an aversion?

"Will you go with him?" She was staring at him, now, her eyes widened—but they were somber; almost severe in expression. Yet it struck something within him, to gaze into those eyes, and to realise that they were, after all, filled with fear.

He smiled—then squeezed gently upon the warm, slender fingers entangled in his own. But his answer never left his mouth—for half a second later, they were interrupted.

"You wish to travel to Lut Gholein?"

Kashya.

One he had little patience to deal with at present.

Very, very little patience.

She seemed rather uneasy as she approached them—but her jaw was set in grim determination. "Well?"

"And if I do, what business is that to you?" Saul said, dryly. Beside him, Cordelia muttered something vague under her breath—then excused herself rather hastily. Saul supposed that she did not wish to witness the confrontation; or perhaps she was in no mood to endure harsh words of bitter jealousy. At any rate, the sorceress, clearly, had the better end of the deal; she had not the arduous task of facing the rogues' captain.

"Will you halt your boorish manners, at least just long enough to listen to me?" Her voice was terse; she was clearly annoyed, now. "I need to talk to you, and I wish to goodness you'd allow me time to speak, before lancing through my words. It is quite bad enough to never see you alone—" Here, she threw rather a dirty glance towards the retreating back of Cordelia—the sorceress had, by now, made her way through the floor of dancing rogues; and it was thus that she'd slipped through the double doors, and disappeared from sight.

"—that is because I don't want to talk to you when I'm quite alone." Saul countered. He frowned—then crossed his arms over his chest. "And I would appreciate it, captain, if you would cease your baseless arguments with Cordelia. She has done nothing to provoke you."

"Do you opt, simply, to ignore that which I have said to you? Against everything within my being, I have admitted my love for you. And whilst I understand that it is entirely possible that you do not reciprocrate my sentiments—" She swallowed, hard. Her cheeks had begun to colour. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that I, too, am human? I have every right to fall in love. Yet you punish me for it."

"You flatter yourself, Kashya. It was never my intention to punish you for your affections towards me, whether they be veiled, or not. But you have guessed right—I do not recipocrate your sentiments." Saul said, gritting his teeth. He was in no mood to discuss the subject further.

Her steely teal orbs were misty now—and her hands were clenched into tight fists as she took a step towards him. "I suppose it has not occurred to you that I deserved, at the very least, a reaction prior to my confession? Did it not cross your mind, even once, to set me free, should you not care for me as I care for you?" She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. "Perhaps I have been very wrong in the judging of your character." Her voice was but a whisper.

Saul inclined his head gently towards her; but his eyes, nor his expression were softened. He did not, at present, care very much that his words were venomous. "As was I—but perhaps, in disappointment, we are perfectly matched. You did not think that I could be cruel; and never had it crossed my mind that you would abandon your sister to death." He stood, pushing his chair back with the backs of his knees as he did so. "Have a good celebration."

And, without so much as half a glance in her direction, he strode away into the fray, his arms held rigidly at his sides.

The night was young—and the midnight darkness of the lands had not yet settled within the skies. Twinkling stars found their homes in ageless constellations, surrounding the silvery-hued crescent moon of Summer's end. The children were assembled about their mother—and together, they glimmered in a breathtaking vision of lights and colours.

Like sequins upon silk, Cordelia reflected, as she gazed up into the deep blue stillness. The quintessence of absolute beauty.

The atmosphere within the outer cloister was silent—a strinking contrast against the cheerful festivities of the grand hall. But this night, the sorceress had little stomach for celebration. To stay where the happy people were garnered many a questioning glance—such as she was eager to avoid.

And so, she'd left—left to seek solitude within silent courtyards. Left to hide the anxiety of her own being from the sphere of joy and happiness. And so she found herself within the outer cloister.

She'd been obliged to slip into a dress, as was required of one such occasion; and in all honestly, she didn't much mind the soft, cool feel of cloth about her legs—this dress was, in every essence, magnificent. Peacock-blue sleeves of a semi-translucent material, clasped in antique gold about her upper arms, fell in swathes about her knees—but they did not hinder her in the least. The bodice was of the finest ebony silk, heavily embroidered with glassy beads of a gold and silver hue. The many-layered skirts were silk—black, blue, and green; and they rustled gently upon the grass as she walked. Cordelia decided she rather liked that sound. It reminded her of dreams—dreams in which she was free.

As free as a bird in the sky.

"It's a nice night, isn't it?"

She felt her heart collapse into her stomach—but was compelled to swallow the gasp that threatened to choke her to tears. Instead, the sorceress forced a little laugh—then turned to face the newcomer. "Yes, it is."

Oh, hell be damned. Had she not left the captain in the company of the unfortunate druid?

Surely, it was her, now, who was unfortunate.

"What can I do for you, Kashya?"

Kashya held within her façade an expression of severity; and it was almost frightening to behold. But she did not seem in the least bit inclined to hide her distaste—nor did she make any effort at relieving the discomfort which so obviously plagued the sorceress. She spoke; and her voice shook, if just a touch. Perhaps it was anger, and perhaps it was grief—Cordelia decided she could not make it out.

"I find myself in great need of some perspective." She began—but her tone was that of an embittered woman. At any rate, the sourness of her face was quite enough to curdle new milk. "And I find you to be just the person to aid myself in such a time."

Cordelia bit her lip—but nodded gently. "What plagues your mind?"

"A puzzle."

"May I enquire as to what your puzzle is?"

Here, the captain paused—and time seemed to halt as steely teal sought pallid blue. And when, at last, the former found the latter, time began to swirl once more. Yet it seemed, now, as if time would not, and could not pass quickly enough—and that the pace of nature's minutes were all but too slow for the sorceress to welcome.

"I puzzle, Tia-aldyn, over why love is."

"I beg your pardon?" Cordelia blinked once. The question had not seemed a question in the very least.

Perhaps Kashya had noticed the uncertainly in her tone, and the quiet bewilderment in the crease of her brows. "You do not understand me. What I mean by my words—I question the very existence of love. Why, Tia-aldyn, is love allowed to flourish within the depths of our beings? Love in and of itself is no great wonder—I cannot understand the power of it at all. And unrequited love! That is the worst of the lot; and I have little stomach for it. I have little stomach for anything, as of now!"

"Well. I am sorry to hear that." The sorceress began, rather tentatively. Truth be told, she was not entirely afraid of the captain at present—but rather, wearied. She had not the desire to argue. "By all accounts, captain Kashya—I beg of you to remain light-hearted as to the nature of love. It is not half as bad as you choose to suppose. At least, I prefer to think otherwise."

She could feel the cold, hard stare of the other upon her as she re-adjusted the gold-and-silver bracelet entwined upon her wrist. But she was unphased—gone were her days of fear, and gone was the captain's influence upon the state of her nerves. "You would think otherwise, Tia-aldyn. I quite understand."

"I beg your pardon?" Cordelia lifted a crimson brow, the motion slow, almost languid. "That sounds almost as if you were accusing me of something. But that cannot be so—I have done nothing to incur such behaviour on your behalf."

As much as she was loathe to admit it, the captain was beginning to annoy her. Such were the beginnings of arguments. Violent arguments.

"Then you are, truly, as stupid as you seem to be. That I do declare." The whispered tones in which the words were uttered were riddled with sarcasm; laced with silent rage. "You cannot truly be as blind as that. You, of all people! You must see who it is that Saul truly desires—who he truly loves. Yet you ignore it as you would a madman's cries!"

The words, whispered as they were, echoed loud and clear within the sorceress's mind; and at the same time, reverberated from column to column of the silent courtyard. Time—time had, once more, chosen to stop. Even the light in the stars had dimmed—or perhaps it was all in her head. But that which surrounded her, at present, was immaterial. Naught was important.

Where now was the voice of reason?

Cordelia swallowed hard. Her fingers were tense; for it was with them that she'd held, rigidly, doggedly, onto the hem of her sleeve. Remnants of memories flooded her head, threatening to engulf her in a wave of nausea. Why, now, was she scared? But it was in her instincts to deny that which she knew to be the truth. And so she did.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She murmured—but her voice shook. Kashya was sure to notice it.

She did not disappoint. "Deny it all you wish. You know—and I know, that your heart has been his, all this time. If you'd chosen to tell me when you'd had the chance—but you never did. And so, I am thus your victim. I have been played for a fool—by you, by you!"

"I have never—never made advances upon him!" Cordelia found herself crying aloud. She cursed the desperation in her tone.

Certainly, she had never made advances upon him. But that was no measure for that which she felt for him.

Surely, there was love. However mild, however faint—there was some love.

Unrequited love. Forbidden love—such was her fate. She both understood, and accepted her destiny.

"You lie." Kashya's eyes were narrowed in disgust; and in the steely-teal orbs rested both jealousy and wrath. "I see the both of you—hand in hand, gazing at naught but the other, day in and day out. It sickens me to watch you!"

"Why do you make it hard on me? Clearly, he feels nothing for you. It is not my fault that he cares little for your temperament and nature." Cordelia retorted—anger had, by now, overtaken anxiety. She was now entirely infuriated; her manners were quickly dissipating into nothingness. "And with your temperament and nature—it is no wonder that you send men running the opposite direction at any given chance. Why, you repulse even me! And I am one of your own gender."

She had hit upon a nerve—it became painfully obvious the second her words had left her mouth. Kashya's eyes were narrowed, now, and her hands were balled into fists. She was silent for a moment. And then, her tone poisonous—"You little bitch!"

"You venomous cow!"

She never saw the hand that had moved to strike her—nor had she fully anticipated one such motion. Yet it happened; swift, and quick as the summer rainfall. Cordelia staggered backwards, crying out as she lifted a hand to her burning cheek. It came away bloody—the rogues' captain, clearly, had claws for nails. Perhaps she had fangs in the place of teeth, as well. It certainly wasn't too absurd an assumption. But she had not the time to consider the anatomical errors of the captain's frame—there were far more pressing matters at hand.

Fight or flight?

Certainly, certainly—fight. She would not take the abuse in sheep-like silence—she was not so patient a person.

Cordelia gritted her teeth, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly as she tugged her sleeves from her arms—then dropped them in a heap by the grass beneath her feet.

And so began the violence of the argument.

The soft tap-tap-tapping of his footsteps upon the ground were loud in the abandoned courtyards. Silence—sweet silence in which no sound penetrated the air. It was music to the ears of one so tired, so wearied and exhausted.

Sweet silence.

He was not in the least bit inclined to re-enter the festive cheer within the grand hall—it was only with a diversion in the form of a squabble between Charsi and Gheed, that he'd managed to escape the rogues at all. It had amused him vaguely, however, to discover the popularity in which he had found himself suddenly immersed in. All wished his company for the night—all wished to dance by his side, and all wished to speak to him on matters both important and unimportant.

Damn the festivities.

The air was cool upon his face as he strode along the outer corridors. He found himself admiring the moon—and it was beautiful, in its gold-and-silver glory. It was surrounded by stars; and those, too, were silver and gold.

Such beauty as was expected of mother nature. It signified that all was, indeed, well in the world.

Yet was it?

He frowned. For a moment or two, it seemed as if he'd caught a whisper—a lick of screams in the air. Their voices were only vaguely discernible—they were women.

"You wretch! How false you are!"

"You see imagined faults within me, yet ignore the nail in your own eye—I have never lied to you! I have never sought to remove Saul from you!"

He froze. The voices were somewhat vaguely familiar.

"It was extraordinarily obvious that he was in love with you all along! You're so stupid, Cordelia!"

"And you!—you are blind to reality!"

Kashya. Cordelia.

Kashya and Cordelia.

Kashya fighting Cordelia.

Oh dear God.

Oh dear God.

Cordelia inhaled sharply, wincing as an involuntary, and muffled grunt of pain escaped her lips. The captain of the rogues had not earned her stature without merit—she was obviously well-trained in melee. And when the occasion called for it, the sorceress had little doubt as to whether she would seek the employment of tactics both vicious and cunning. Kashya was merciless in battle—and Cordelia found herself envying no enemy of hers.

It was still somewhat unclear to the sorceress as to why she'd chosen, at all, to involve herself in such a messy display of strengths and wiles. But Kashya's taunts had become overbearing—and in time had broken through to her inner core. She'd pushed the limits of the sorceress's patience; again, and again, and again. And so Cordelia had pushed back.

But she was, just now, regretting her decision.

Every inch—every minute part of her body tingled; but the sensations were unpleasant. Such sensations, she knew, were often the effect of scratches.

The captain of the rogues had claws.

Oh dear God.

It was then, at that precise moment, that the sorceress decided that she was tiring—and quickly, at that.

She groaned inwardly; and ducked—but to her dismay, found her wearied reflexes slowed. The captain's balled fist came into easy contact with her cheek, sending her back against the wall and knocking the wind from her lungs.

That had hurt.

For several long moments, it seemed as if the world was a blur of colours—and her line of vision swam in and out of focus. The captain was duplicated; there were three. And despite the various disturbing aspects of her current situation, Cordelia found herself chuckling—though rather faintly. She was fighting—fighting a woman she had once thought her friend. And the details of the fight—well, those were better left unknown now and forever.

If Saul were to discover the fight—

Well, that would be, quite honestly, bad.

But she had no time to further contemplate the thoughts in her head. Kashya was here—she was ferocious, and she was fast.

And near deadly, when thus angered.

Without quite thinking, she raised a fist, aiming to knock the captain back. Her own anger had quelled somewhat; but she was still annoyed, to say the least. And though she was quite, quite likely to lose the fight, Cordelia had no inclination whatsoever to declare a defeat and retreat. But the captain was quick—and in one swift motion, wrapped her fingers about the sorceress's wrist, thus impairing her movements.

"Give it up." The former smirked, eyes narrowing. "I'm obviously much better at this."

Cordelia bit her lip—then scowled, though she did not attempt to get away. "And Saul obviously loves that part of you. Bloodlust! As if that were pleasant at all, in a woman!"

"Bitch."

There was simply no time—no time, at all, in which the sorceress found herself at ease to dodge and to evade the captain's rapidfire blows. She was fueled, now, by wrath; the fury of a woman, scorned, that not even hell itself bore. The thought was somewhat frightening—but oddly, most oddly, amusing at the same time. To Cordelia, it seemed naught but a cruel irony. To fight for a woman for a man that she neither loved, nor carried hopes of marrying, was somewhat ludicrous, to say the very least.

Oh, such lies!

Cordelia scowled—and, begging silence of the voice in her head, began an attempt at removing the captain's grasp from about her wrist. But her efforts were in vain; the other was stronger, and she had not the peace of mind, nor the strength remaining to finish the fight. Yet Kashya would have none of it; and with rather a triumphant cry, launched forward, and in one swift blow, knocked the sorceress back several paces.

"Cordelia!"

She gasped, eyes widening even as she toppled helplessly into the air beneath her back. But the collision of stone against muscle and bone did not come. Instead, she was supported—and in half a second, was lifted onto her feet once more. Yet her rescuer's arms remained locked about her, drawing her close against a richly-robed chest.

"Saul—" Kashya's eyes were widened in horror—her hair fell askew about her, and her cheeks were smudged with dirt, mud and blood. "W—what are you—?"

"I believe that question deserves an answer from yourself, captain." His voice was calm—yet more than unusually cold. Cordelia thought she detected a vague whisper of contempt within his words, but she did not speak. "Well?"

The captain was silent for several long moments—but her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes, downcast; teary. Yet, when at last she cried out, her tone was that of an anguished, bittered woman. "Well, nothing! It is none of your business, you damned druid! Stay with your princess, and may the beasts of hell tear you to pieces!"

And with that, she turned her back to the two—and without another word, strode away into the darkness of the night.

Lies, lies and deceit.

Cordelia exhaled weakly, then leant back against the wall of her sleeping chamber. Her candle had long since melted away into wax and oil, and the moon had disappeared behind her sheath of cloud and sky. It was dark—completely dark. But she found the darkness comforting—for the darkness was but mere cover for the tears of one who wished to avoid the scrutiny of society.

It hid the weary.

She exhaled once more, shutting her eyes. Several hours had passed since her tears had run dry. She had no more to waste.

"I must be strong. Strong and steadfast, as the olden oaks are. I am a tree. Men cannot fell me. Especially not him."

Those words, she whispered to herself. Over, and over, and over.

"I am a tree."

A lie.

"He cannot fell me. He does not possess my heart."

Yet another lie.

"I do not—I do not—I am not in love with him." Her words were choked, now, by fresh tears.

She had not meant to engage in such arguments. Dear God alive, she had not meant to dishonor her family—never, never to dishonor her family, and her people. But such words—such cruel, and biting words as the captain had uttered had stirred the cauldron of boiling frustration within her.

And to her knowledge, boiling frustration was a recipe for wrath and anger. And clearly also demeaning catfights within monastery courtyards.

All in the petty, petty name of love.

She hugged her legs to her chest—then clasped her face in her trembling hands. And within the darkened chamber and the loneliness of her heart, Cordelia Cyrix began to cry.

Author's Note: Oh crud. I'm so sorry, you guys. This has probably been the longest wait since I first released this fic. I'm so sorry! Work's just been taking its toll on me, and I'm so darn tired all the friggin' time. Author's block doesn't really help, either. Anyways! I need to thank, this time, Ophelion! Welcome back, and thanks for your spiffy two reviews! Thanks also to skopde, and BloodHeron for the reviews! And also to Fallen Messiah for the alert! Thanks!

Don't forget to review this chapter! I'll try to get my next chapter, entitled, "Letters from Deeper Aranoch" out as soon as humanely possible, so look out for it! Until then, cheerio!