Chapter Fifty-Two: Ardent Revolutions
Kieran blinked, "What's wrong with you. It looks like you haven't slept in days."
Rubbing her eyes, Mariah shook her head, "I just didn't sleep well last night, that's all. I'm just a little tired." She growled slightly as Andrar chuckled in her head, knowing very well she'd been up all night furiously thinking about Murtagh. It had surprised her, though he'd always been kind and would openly talk to her about nearly anything, she'd never thought of him as being affectionate in any way. The sudden way it had occurred had been surprising as well, though now that she was thinking it over, she realized she should have seen it coming.
"Mariah!"
"Ah – what?" She jumped, looking at Kieran.
The princess narrowed her eyes and growled a bit, "I said, get ready, you and I are going to practice fight today in the court yard for Galbatorix."
"Oh…" she said simply, trudging to the armory to get ready. Mariah pushed open the heavy door and froze, staring at Murtagh.
"Morning," he said brightly. "Sleep well?"
She blinked, was he joking? Mariah stared back at him a moment more before going to find suitable weapons to give Kieran a thrashing for the day.
"…is… something the matter?" He asked, watching her as he tightened his vambraces.
Mariah bit her tongue and grabbed her sword, striding back out of the room to meet with Kieran in the courtyard. From a ways off Andrar was watching her, You know why it is you're so upset, don't you darling?
She shot him a glare, No.
Oh, but you do. Your heart's torn in two and your mind tells you no but you really want it to say yes.
Speak not in riddles dragon. Mariah stared over at him a moment, hating every second of his silence. When she finally decided he wasn't going to continue she strode off to find Kieran. "Are you ready?"
"There you are; I was wondering if you were ever going to show up." She said, readying her blade.
Mid-way through their spar, Galbatorix strode out to watch them. He seemed pleased with Mariah's progress, despite Kieran holding back to make the match more even. When he'd seen enough, he stopped them both and turned to Murtagh, standing beside him. "I want you and Mariah to fight, and I don't want either of you holding back." The younger man straightened a bit, clearly wincing before stepping over to take Kieran's place.
"Don't hold back Mariah, I can handle myself."
Her eyes narrowed a bit at him and she lunged forward, already worn out from the fight with Kieran moments ago. With the sword she'd taken from the armory this morning being lighter than her previous ones, she was doing quite well. Her swings were a little wild, but it was to be expected since her mind was elsewhere.
Realizing she was out for blood, he gripped his sword tighter and defended himself, backing away from her attacks until he'd nearly been pinned against the wall. Catching her blade, he twisted his hand and shoved her back away from him so she stumbled. Before she could regain her balance, he slipped away from the wall and repositioned himself better to fight against her.
"Murtagh, you haven't even so much as tried to attack," Kieran mentioned to him, glancing over her nails. He flicked his gaze to her for a moment and then lashed out toward Mariah.
Parrying the blow, she fell into a series of maneuvers, allowing herself to avoid the majority of his attacks. A few swipes of his blade landed heavily against her leather armor, but none, thankfully, drew blood. Mariah snarled and twisted in closer against him, drawing a knife from her belt and jamming it deep into his left shoulder. He shoved her away, gritting his teeth and reaching up to grab the blade, wincing as it shifted in his muscles.
"Looks as if Mariah won this time," Kieran muttered, looking at the girl, impressed. If she'd wanted to, she could have easily dug the dagger into his heart and killed him on the spot. "I wouldn't pull the knife out yet Murtagh, you're going to bleed profusely."
"Then what do you suggest I do Kieran!?" He shouted at her, wincing painfully as he touched the knife again.
She folded her arms, "I suggest you get someone to pull it out and heal that gaping hole in your shoulder. And you know very well it's not the best idea to do all that yourself." Kieran glanced at her father and he nodded.
"You are all dismissed for the day. Murtagh, see me tomorrow and bring Thorn with you." He insisted as he stood and, without so much as a good-bye, left the courtyard.
Mariah shoved her sword back through the sheath at her side and pivoted on her heel, walking back inside, her stride long and purposeful. Her feet brought her to the armory, where she quickly stripped off any excess armor and dropped off her blade. Afterward, she went straight up to her room and slammed the door shut behind her.
"I don't know what you've done to make her so sore at you, but I suggest you find out quickly, because I refuse to assist you with that…" she motioned to his shoulder, "I don't particularly feel like getting blood all over myself today." Kieran told him flatly. He growled slightly and hurried after Mariah, dripping blood all along the stone floor, leaving extra work for the maids.
"Mariah!"
She glared at the door, sitting on her bed, trying to pry off her boots. Chucking one against the floor, she stomped over unevenly and flung it open, "What?" She growled out to him.
Setting his jaw, he looked at her hard for a moment before giving in and sighing, "Will you fix my arm… please?"
"Sit… down," she said, turning away from the door and kicking her other boot off. He did so and she walked back to him, grasping the dagger tight in her hand and wrenching it out without much warning. Murtagh clamped his teeth together, groaning as she flicked the bloodied knife onto the table and started healing up the wound. "There." Mariah told him, walking to her dresser and grabbing a handkerchief to clean the dagger.
"Mariah-"
"You're healed up, you can leave now."
"I didn't mean to upset you."
"Well, you have." She snapped, turning on him. Mariah snatched up the dagger and set to cleaning it furiously. "So you can leave now."
"Mariah." There was that tone again, the one that always got to her. "Look at me." She snapped her eyes up to his and moaned inwardly. "I did not intend on upsetting you. If you'd like we can pretend nothing happened."
"But it did, and that's where the problem lies." Mariah hissed.
He reached up and grabbed the knife away from her, placing it on the table. "Please sit down for a minute Mariah." She sat in the chair across from his and sighed. "Most women simply slap me when they're upset with me. I've never been stabbed by someone like that." Mariah stared at him, not giving him so much as a smile. "Mariah… I… I thought you wanted me to make an advance…"
"I never said that."
"Then let me apologize."
"I don't… know Murtagh."
He watched her a moment, "You don't know where this is going… or why…"
"Yes."
"Mariah, I don't know either. But do know neither of us have any intention of being stuck in this castle with Galbatorix longer than we have to be… and now both of us are Riders…"
"Are you simply saying that it's convenient?"
"No… I'm just saying… that you're here with me and I enjoy being in your company, more so than anyone else. If you don't want me so close, then we can both be done with it right now."
She looked at him for a moment, and then shifted her gaze to their hands, interlocked softly. When she hesitated, he leaned forward and kissed her gently on her lips. Murtagh met no resistance and smiled slightly, pulling away again, "…Mariah?"
Who knew how long she was going to be stuck in here? If she ever saw her brother or Eragon again, it would be a miracle. She was trapped with Galbatorix and having Murtagh to hold onto through it all sounded like a better way to handle it than alone and crying all the time. She smiled slightly back and squeezed his hand, "I'm sorry I stabbed you earlier…"
He let out a chuckle, "It's alright."
She nodded slightly to him.
"I'm quite tired from that fight… so I think I'm going to turn in for the night. Besides, Galbatorix wants me to see him in the morning." Murtagh said to her.
"Right. You should rest."
He stood and pulled Mariah to her feet, hugging her. "I'll see you in the morning Mariah."
She blinked at the hug as her cheek pressed against his shoulder, hands against his chest. As he let go, she smiled slightly. "Good night Murtagh." She said, watching him walk out of her room. Mariah waited for the door to close before slipping onto her bed, hugging her pillow.
My darling, are you alright?
Yes Andrar, I'm fine… she insisted, curling up and going to sleep.
Having slept quite restlessly, Murtagh woke early the next morning. Dressing and pulling on his boots before the sun was even up. He paused in the hallway and listened hard, wondering if Mariah was awake yet. Thorn nudged his hand as it moved toward the door and snorted. "Alright." He muttered, turning and walking down the hall toward the throne room.
"Ah, good morning Murtagh." Galbatorix grinned at him, lacing his fingers together, standing up from his throne. Shruiken was lounging in a corner, eyeing up Thorn with a large glassy eye.
Murtagh swallowed hard, a shiver running down his spine. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes. Your performance yesterday was lacking to say the least, and I believe this to be a fault of your Dragon Rider abilities being so new. You're not used to them and they're definitely not as powerful as Mariah or Kieran's. So, I've come to the conclusion you'll be better matched if we increase your abilities."
"Isn't that going to happen over time…?" Murtagh asked, furrowing his brow.
"Time is one thing I do not have. The Varden is getting anxious and I plan on attacking them soon. However, you are unfit to fight if you can lose so easily to the girls. I would expect you to be ashamed of yourself for losing so badly to a woman."
"Kieran and Mariah are both excellent fighters… there's no shame in losing to someone with more skill than your own."
Galbatorix shook his head, "Then you've learned nothing. Don't lose, that's what you should be thinking. It's always shameful to lose, realize that now. Winning is the only way to prove yourself."
Murtagh set his jaw, staring back at the king.
"As I was saying, time is of the essence." He stepped down and toward them, reaching out to Thorn. The dragon cringed and hissed slightly, scurrying to Murtagh's other side, pressing his head up against his hand. "Your growth must be supplemented with magic if you're to be powerful enough to lead the army's siege of Surda." Before Murtagh or Thorn could protest, he spoke loudly in the Ancient Language, leaving Thorn cringing and roaring out in pain.
Eragon had been in Du Weldenvarden for so long that he had begun to long for clearings, fields, or even a mountain, instead of the endless tree trunks and meager underbrush. His flight with Saphira provided no respite as they only revealed hills of prickly green that rolled unbroken into the distance like a verdant sea.
Oftentimes, the branches were so thick overhead, it was impossible to tell from what direction the sun rose and set. That, combined with the repetitive scenery, made Eragon hopelessly lost, no matter how many times Arya of Lifaen troubled to show him the points of the compass. If not for the elves, he knew that he could wander in Du Weldenvarden for the rest of his life without ever finding his way free.
When it rained, the clouds and the forest canopy plunged them into profound darkness, as if they were entombed deep underground. The falling water would collect on the black pine needles above, then trickle through and pour a hundred feet or more down onto their heads, like a thousand little waterfalls. At such times, Arya would summon a glowing orb of green magic that floated over her right hand a provided the only light in the cavernous forest. They would stop and huddle underneath a tree until the storm abated, but even then water cashed in the myriad branches would, at the slightest provocation, shower them with droplets for hours afterward.
As they rode deeper into the heart of Du Weldenvarden, the trees grew thicker and taller, as well as father apart to accommodate the increased span of their branches. The trunks – bare brown shafts that towered up into the overarching ribbed ceiling, which was smudged and obscured by shadow – were over two hundred feet tall, higher than any tree in the Spine or the Beors. Eragon paced out the girth of one tree and measured it at seventy feet.
He mentioned this to Arya, and she nodded, saying, "It means that we are near Ellesméra." She reached out and rested her hand lightly on the gnarled root beside her, as if touching, with consummate delicacy, the shoulder of a friend or lover. "These trees are among the oldest living creatures in Alagaësia. Elves have loved them since first we saw Du Weldenvarden, and we have done everything within our power to help them flourish." A fain blade of light pierced the dusty emerald branches overhead and limned her arm and face with liquid gold, dazzlingly bright against the murky background. "We have traveled far together, Eragon, but now you are about to enter my world. Tread softly, for the earth and air are heavy with memories and naught is as it seems… Do not fly with Saphira today, as we have already triggered certain wards that protect Ellesméra. It would be unwise to stray from the path."
Eragon bowed his head and retreated to Saphira, who lay curled on a bed of moss, amusing herself by releasing plumes of smoke from her nostrils and watching them roil out of sight. Without preamble, she said, There is plenty of room for me on the ground now. I will have no difficulty.
Good. He mounted Snowfire and followed Orik and the elves farther into the empty, silent forest. Saphira crawled beside him. She and the white horses gleamed in the somber half light.
Eragon paused, overcome by the solemn beauty of his surroundings. Everything had a feeling of wintery age, as if nothing had changed under the thatched needles for a thousand years and nothing ever would; time itself seemed to have fallen into a slumber from which it would never wake.
In late afternoon, the gloom lifted to reveal an elf standing before them, sheathed in a brilliant ray of light that slanted down from the ceiling. He was garbed in flowing robes, with a circlet of silver upon his brow. His face was old, noble, and serene.
"Eragon," murmured Arya. "Show him your palm and your ring."
Baring his right hand, Eragon raised it so that first Brom's ring and then the gedwey ignasia was visible. The elf smiled, closed his eyes, and spread his arms in a gesture of welcome. He held the posture.
"The way is clear," said Arya. At a soft command, her steed moved forward. They rode around the elf – like water parting at the base of a weathered boulder – and when they had all passed, he straightened, clasped his hands, and vanished as the light that illuminated him ceased to exist.
Who is he? asked Saphira.
Arya said, "He is Gilderien the Wise, Prince of House Miolandra, wielder of the White Flame of Vandil, and guardian of Ellesméra since the days of Du Fyrn Skulblaka, our war with the dragons. None may enter the city unless he permits it."
A quarter of a mile beyond, the forest thinned and breaks appeared within the canopy, allowing planks of mottled sunlight to bar the way. Then they passed underneath two burled trees that leaned against each other and stopped at the edge of an empty glade.
The ground was strewn with dense patches of flowers. From pink roses to bluebells and lilies, spring's fleeting treasure was heaped about like piles of rubies, sapphires, and opals. Their intoxicating aromas attracted hordes of bumblebees. To the right, a stream chuckled behind a row of bushes, while a pair of squirrels chased each other around a rock.
At first it looked to Eragon like a place where deer might bed for the night. But as he continued to stare, he began to pick out paths hidden among the brush and trees; soft warm light where normally there would be auburn shadows; an odd pattern in the shapes of the twigs and branches and flowers, so subtle that it nearly escaped detection – clues that what he saw was not entirely natural. He blinked, and his vision suddenly shifted as if a lens had been placed over his eyes, resolving everything into recognizable shapes. Those were paths, aye. And those were flowers, aye. But what he had taken to be clusters of lumpy, twisted trees were in fact graceful buildings that grew directly out of the pines.
One tree bulged at the base to form a two-story house before sinking its roots into the loam. Both stories were hexagonal, although the upper level was half as small as the first, which gave the house a tiered appearance. The roofs and walls were made of webbed sheets of wood draped over six thick ridges. Moss and yellow lichen bearded the eaves and hung over jeweled windows set into each side. The front door was a mysterious black silhouette recessed under an archway wrought with symbols.
Another house was nestled between three pines, which were joined to it through a series of curved branches. Reinforced by those flying buttresses, the house rose five levels, light and airy. Beside it sat a bower woven out of willow and dogwood and hung with flameless lanterns disguised as galls.
Each unique building enhanced and complemented its surroundings, blending seamlessly with the rest of the forest until it was impossible to tell where artifice ended and nature resumed. The two were in perfect balance. Instead of mastering their environment, the elves had chosen to accept the world as it was and adapt themselves to it.
The inhabitants of Ellesméra eventually revealed themselves as a flicker of movement at the fringe of Eragon's sight, no more than needles stirring in the breeze. Then he caught glimpses of hands, a pale face, a sandaled foot, and upraised arm. One by one, the wary elves stepped into view, their almond eyes fixed upon Saphira, Arya, and Eragon.
The women wore their hair unbound. It ripples down their backs in waves of silver and sable braided with fresh blossoms, like a garden waterfall. They all possessed a delicate, ethereal beauty that belied their unbreakable strength; to Eragon, they seemed flawless. The men were just as striking, with high cheekbones, finely sculpted noses, and heavy eyelids. Both sexes were garbed in rustic tunics of green and brown, fringed with dusky colors of orange, russet, and gold.
The Fair Folk indeed, thought Eragon. He touched his lips in greeting.
As one, the elves bowed from the waist. Then they smiled and laughed with unrestrained happiness. From within their midst, a woman sang:
Gala O Wyrda brunhvitr,
Abr Berundal vandr-fodhr,
Burthro laufsbladadr ekar undir,
Eom kona dauthleikr…
Eragon clasped his hands over his ears, fearing that the melody was a spell like the one he had herd in Silthrim, but Arya shook her head and lifted his hands. "It's not magic." Then she spoke to her horse, saying, "Ganga." The stallion nickered and trotted away. "Release your steeds as well. We have no further need for them and they deserve to rest in our stables."
The song waxed stronger as Arya proceeded along a cobblestone path set with bits of green tourmaline, which looped among the hollyhocks and the houses and the trees before finally crossing a stream. The elves danced around their party as they walked, flitting here and there as the fancy struck them, laughing, and occasionally leaping up onto a branch to run over their heads. They praised Saphira with names like "Longclaws" and "Daughter of Air and Fire" and "Strong One."
Eragon smiled, delighted and enchanted. I could live here, he thought with a sense of peace. Tucked away in Du Weldenvarden, as much outdoors as in, safe from the rest of the world… Yes, he liked Ellesméra very much indeed, more than any of the dwarf cities. He pointed to a dwelling situated within a pine tree and asked Arya, "How it that done?"
"We sing to the forest in the old tongue and give it our strength to grow in the shape we desire. All our buildings and tools are made in that manner."
The path ended at a net of roots that formed steps, like bare pools of earth. They climbed to a door embedded within a wall of saplings. Eragon's heart quickened as the door swung open, seemingly of its own accord, and revealed a hall of trees. Hundreds of branches melded together to form the honeycombed ceiling. Below, twelve chairs were arrayed along each wall.
In them reposed four-and-twenty elf lords and ladies.
Wise and handsome were they, with smooth faces unmarked by age and keen eyes that gleamed with excitement. They leaned forward, gripping the arms of their chairs, and stared at Eragon's group with open wonder and hope. Unlike the other elves, they had swords belted at their waists – hilts studded with berlys and garnets – and circlets that adorned their brows.
And at the head of the assembly stood a white pavilion that sheltered a throne of knotted roots. Queen Islanzadí sat upon it. She was as beautiful as an autumn sunset, proud and imperious, with two dark eyebrows slanted like upraised wings, lips as bright and red as holly berries, and midnight hair bound under a diamond diadem. Her tunic was crimson. Round her hips hung a girdle of braided gold. And clasped at the hollow of her neck was a velvet cloak that fell to the ground in languid folds. Despite her imposing countenance, the queen seemed fragile, as if she concealed a great pain.
By her left hand was a curved rod with a chased crosspiece. A brilliant-white raven perched on it, shuffling impatiently from foot to foot. He cocked his head and surveyed Eragon with uncanny intelligence, then gave a long low croak and shrieked, "Wydra!" Eragon shivered from the force of that single cracked word.
The door closed behind the six of them as they entered the hall and approached the queen. Arya knelt on the moss-covered ground and bowed first, then Eragon, Orik, Lifaen, and Nari. Even Saphira, who had never bowed to anyone, not even Ajihad or Hrothgar, lowered her head.
Islanzadí stood and descended from the throne, her cloak trailing behind her. She stopped before Arya, placed trembling hands on her shoulders, and said in a rich vibrato, "Rise." Arya did, and the queen scrutinized her face with increasing intensity, until it seemed as if she were trying to decipher an obscure text.
At last Islanzadí cried out and embraced Arya, saying, "O my daughter, I have wronged you!"
"Is this going to be a recurring thing with you?" Mark asked, folding his arms, leaning against the wall of an abandoned room in the castle of King Orrin.
"Only when we need to talk," Rowan said, flicking his dark hair out of his eyes. "When she requests it."
"Well, what is it this time?" He sighed. After the first occurrence had startled him, these little meetings had been practically once a week. One of them would sneak up, pull him into a dark room and talk with him in order to squeeze out any information they may not have been able to acquire on their own. It was beginning to get on his nerves.
Rowan rolled his eyes at him, "You should be grateful, you know, she could have killed you if she wanted to."
"Same to her. She underestimates me, all of you do. Now what do you want, I'm quite busy today."
"She wants to you accompany her on her next mission." He said.
Mark blinked, staring at him, "She's finally snapped then." He nodded, "Why does she want me to go along?"
He shrugged, "No idea, but you need to be ready to go by sundown."
"Could she give me less time?" He mumbled under his breath and glanced toward the window, realizing the sun was already setting. "Fine. Where does she want to meet?"
"Just outside the tavern around the corner. Make sure you're on time, she doesn't appreciate it when people are late." Rowan told him, sweeping out of the room.
Mark huffed and stalked back to his room, collecting his bag and throwing some essentials inside it before rushing down to the stables to get his she-horse. Naturally, he ran headlong into Nasuada on his way down. "Ah… good evening M'lady."
She blinked at him once, slightly startled. "…where is it you keep running off to Marcus? We've not had a proper conversation in days…"
"Ah… it's nothing."
Her eyebrows lifted, "I do hope you mean that in a polite manner, however I do not appreciate being lied to." She settled into her position, shifting her weight onto one leg, leaving him to realize that she wasn't about to walk away without a proper explanation. "Now, what seems to have your attention so ardently? If you're getting into trouble here, I'll not stand for it."
"No, no," he said quickly, "Nothing like that. I would never, you should know that Nasuada."
"Then it's a lady, for I cannot think of another reason for you to rush off so often?"
He allowed himself to blush, not out of embarrassment, but at having been caught. And if anything, her guess would make a good cover. "Well…" he cleared his throat, "I do apologize for running off so suddenly all the time M'lady."
"You should have simply told me. Please, don't hide secrets from me, I have the utmost respect for you Marcus, don't make me lose that." Nasuada told him, "Now I suggest you get going, I wouldn't want you to keep her waiting."
Mark waited until she was around the corner, biting his tongue to choke back a laugh before continuing down to the stables. "I've been corrupted… goodness." Finally, he saw Aluora and quickly snatched up her saddle, securing it around her. He muttered under his breath all the while, "It should be illegal to lie so easily to someone."
"If you find your lies are easy, they're either not believable or you've become excellent at the craft of deception."
He swiveled on his heel and blinked at Kendra. "I've had many years of practice."
"Good. I like people who are good at what they do. Which is why you're coming with me tonight. I need to know how well you perform under pressure and what you're capable of." She walked back out, climbing onto her chestnut mare and waited for him. Aluora trotted out, carrying him. "We're going to ride hard, are you sure your little filly is up for the ride?"
Mark chuckled, "Don't insult my horse Kendra, she's far more than a match for your pony."
She clicked her tongue and the mare trotted from the stables and toward the outskirts of town. Once they were beyond the castle guard, Mark whistled sharply and Aluora shot off at a full gallop. Kendra blinked, laying low and digging her heels into her mare, catching up after a few strides.
After several miles they diverged from the road into the forest to avoid passersby, slowing the she-horses to reserve their strength. Mark sat up straighter in his saddle and looked over at Kendra. "So, where are we headed?"
"A small town near the edge of Surda. The empire constantly sends more spies in to collect information and I take it upon myself to kill them and strip them of their information before they can get back to Galbatorix. Yes, Surda and the Varden both have their own network of spies; however they're quite incapable of dealing with certain members of Galbatorix's army."
"And how do you collect information on where the spies are located?"
"What do you think Rowan does with all his spare time?" She asked him, raising an eyebrow. "He doesn't lounge about the castle, talking pleasantries with all the lords and ladies for nothing. By making friends, he's allowed access into places where most of us can't even sneak into… easily that is. This way, none of us are put in danger and we have positive contacts and information as opposed to lies written down on paper so there's no evidence. Plus, you wouldn't believe the things nobles will let slip when they believe they're in good company."
Mark smirked a little, "Actually, I do know. And are you going to tell me why you decided to bring me along this time?"
"Sure." She said, "Now that you're quite stuck out here with me." Kendra paused, "I need to know what you're capable of. If you can't handle killing someone in cold blood then I don't want anything to do with you. I don't want to wait until we're in that situation, with no way out, having to rely on you, only to find out you don't have enough nerve to kill a woman with a knife at my throat."
"You're worrying about the wrong person," he assured her. "But if you insist on running this little test, then so be it. It got me out of the castle at least."
She glanced at him, "You seem like the type of person who would like being stuck in there all the time."
"I seem like it, yes, on the outside. But I can stand there all day pretending to listen to the lords' conversations while I'm determining what the best way to kill them would be. Calculating exactly how much trouble I'd be in for killing him, what the consequences would be. Don't get me wrong, there are some of them I enjoy talking with immensely, however, there are those whom the world would be better off without."
"You've my full agreement." She said. "But now I'm going to ask you to be quiet, I don't like much noise when I ride."
"Can I ask why?"
"I need to listen. If you're talking I can't hear if anyone's about to kill me or not."
Mark smiled a bit at her and looked forward, in full agreement with her. Crazy as she might be, he realized that they agreed most of the time. Riding in silence with her the thought crossed his mind if he wasn't just as insane as her.
Bleh filler… so much filler with Eragon… and does anyone else feel like Paolini took a leaf out of Lothlorien for his elves? No? Huh… maybe it's just me then…
BUT HEY! Mariah and Murtagh… anyone gonna jump onboard?
Are you liking Kendra?
And again, I'm going to apologize for my long absence, I've been extremely busy and fell ill through exhaustion and stress, it was not pretty… chapter is slightly unedited as I'm posting it the moment I've finished writing it. I'll go back later and update, adding all the little accent marks above letters that need be there. If I remember...
With Love, As Always,
Mariah