The frigid wet had somehow worked its way through that last layer of clothing, seeping past the seams until I was entirely, incessantly miserable. To be fair to the weather, my mood wasn't spoiled by the cold alone. I had slipped in the mud that morning in front of everybody, managing to catch myself sideways on my bum ankle, and it had been throbbing ever since.
Was I wallowing? Maybe just a little. We were still a day's ride from home at least, and the trip had been, for lack of a better word, lonely. Not that I would have fared much better had I stayed back in Athanarel by myself, now that Bran and Nee had removed to Tlanth. But there was something about being in close proximity to a loved one, and yet unable to speak with them, that particularly chafed at the heart.
I could see Vidanric through the gloom up ahead, or at least the back of him. He rode alongside the emissary from Aspir, one of many important people he had to entertain this week. My own companion was Nessaren. She must have sensed my foul mood because she'd dropped back to keep me company for the last few hours.
"We should be stopping soon, Your Majesty," she piped up, eyeing my lips which I'm sure were a lovely shade of purple. "There's a town nearby with dry beds."
I just nodded, looking out over the gray, sodden fields we passed. Something was gnawing at me, had been all day. A feeling low in my gut that whispered, "danger," and had me continually scanning our surroundings. Perplexingly, I seemed to be the only one afflicted by the sensation. Around me guards and courtiers alike had their heads down, shoulders angled to avoid the rain.
It irritated me that I couldn't place my misgivings. Was I recognizing some strange magic that no one else could feel? Some sort of silent message from the Hill Folk? As the day progressed with agonizing slowness, the worry inside me rose from a subtle nudge to a nearly unbearable level of dread. It ate at me hour by hour, and my resulting vigilance strained the muscles across my back and neck, and left my cheeks numb with wind driven rain despite my excellent riding hat.
And then we neared a small footpath branching off the road, and the incessant tugging in my mind turned into a pounding roar. My field of vision narrowed as every other detail faded away. In bewildering slow motion I watched everyone else continue on the road, and my own horse was following right along, oblivious to the desperate importance that only I had recognized. Were there really only a few seconds remaining to change course? It seemed like an eternity, the innocent-looking path looming ever ahead, daring me to turn my face away and ride past like a coward.
At the last possible second, icy panic locked my spine into place. I reigned my horse back before I even realized what I was doing, its confused snort barely registering in my mind.
"My Queen?" Came a quick inquiry from Nessaren as she came to a halt a few paces ahead of me.
"I need a minute," I said, the calm tone of my voice sounding so wrong in my ears. A dreamlike, no, a nightmarish haze settled over me the longer I stared down that forgotten path lined with ferns. I didn't want to go. Every rational thought inside me begged to continue on with the rest of the group. But that familiar, surreal feeling of having no power over my body had enveloped me wholly. I didn't want to go, but I had to.
Nessaren gave a low command to the other riders to continue on, and began to turn her horse. She undoubtedly believed I was due to relieve my bladder.
"Alone, please."
She blinked back at me, unprepared. "But surely-"
"That's an order," I quickly tacked on, not about to bear looking her in the eye. I would have time to regret this later.
"Yes, Your Majesty." In my peripheral I watched her redirect her horse, relieved that she took my command seriously. That would buy me enough time.
I turned back to the path, and that momentary brush with reality was then a thing of the past. A click of my tongue, and I was off. Away from everything that mattered to the Queen of Remalna, and towards a memory that had the Countess of Tlanth jerking awake at night in a cold sweat.
It was a lunatic's ride. I was flying down the soggy path, my hat barely staying pinned to my hair while I urged my horse to run faster than the fetters of duty could overcome me. I knew no Hillfolk dances or peaceful scenes awaited beyond, but the draw to this memory was no less strong, despite the associated pain. Or perhaps because of it.
In no time at all I came to an abrupt halt, horse snorting and stamping its hooves into the mud as I beheld what I knew would still be here in this clearing. In disbelieving awe I stared up at that same large, commonplace structure, surrounded by fields and trees, the village sprawled out just beyond. So ordinary that a part of me chastised myself for the dramatics, even while the uncomfortable pinch of goosebumps sliced across my skin.
I dismounted with a splash of cold mud, and winced at the pain that shot up all the way to my knee. Had it really been two years since I was last here? That day had been wet, too, and my ankle had been throbbing from overuse. Quickly tying my horse to a branch, I scanned the area for threats and found myself quite alone.
As I was meant to be.
That strange, emotional urgency propelled me forward, limping towards that barn for the second time in my life. Every step felt like a rough scrape against my heart, worrying it raw until only the barest parts of me remained. I was pushed down into myself, into that desperate, shrewd survivalist who lay dormant inside me all these months at court. The one who traveled for miles on a compassionate villager's bread and cheese. The one who defied the worst court decorations Galdran had to offer, who successfully infected Debegri's tent with itchwort, and told that stuck up Marquis to eat mud.
But when I took my first step into that barn, I went even further down. I was the girl out of her depth in war. Hopeless, despairing, watching her brother get shot by an arrow and believing him lost forever. The one who, burning up with fever, could still feel the oily shame from being gawked at by those tittering, bored courtesans. The one who knew deep within herself that she was inferior, ignorant, and would only embarrass herself in any role of importance.
The hayloft ladder was suddenly in view. Safety. Around me flowed the quiet murmur and bray of farm animals sheltering from the cold. I could still remember the wonderful smell of that fresh, clean hay, and how good it felt to rest my aching body there for those too-short hours. No soldiers to avoid, no trees to climb, just one solitary entryway that separated me from the dangers of the world.
The sound of galloping hooves broke through the quiet. I whirled, stomach clenching in fear when I realized I'd left damp tracks across the dirt floor. I stood rooted to the spot, too paralyzed to decide whether to run or hide. Debegri's laugh seemed to ring out in my head, suddenly so clear and stark that it had me second guessing if it was only a memory. There were those familiar tones, the hushed urgency in the voices of the soldiers searching for me. Everything escalated, turning into a shrill ringing that stretched on louder and louder, until the wet splosh of footsteps poked through the void, and then there was nothing but my pounding heart and roaring silence.
Slowly, impossibly, a figure appeared outside the open barn doors. Cloaked in black, face half hidden under the wide brim of his anonymous hat, the damning white-blonde hair was all the evidence I needed to know who had discovered me.
The Marquis of Shevraeth.
I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I could only stumble backwards in horror. Dead. I was dead. If I was lucky, a quick death in front of Galdran's disgusting, grinning face. If I was unlucky… The sharp, metallic smell of hot instruments stabbed through my memories.
Shevraeth tilted his head and quietly asked, "Mel?"
Mel. Not Countess, Mel. I gulped air into my lungs even as I took another step backwards, toward the ladder. My back hit something firm and my hand fastened instinctively around a handle. Probably a shovel, or a pitchfork, but I didn't dare remove my eyes from Shevraeth. Vidanric. He was Vidanric, the king. My… husband.
My friend.
"I'm s-sorry," I forced out, trying to pitch my hoarse whisper loud enough for him to hear. "I didn't recognize you at first."
True and false. I had recognized him, I just forgot him. I licked my lips, willing myself, begging myself to come back to reality. Queen. Wife. Safe.
Shev— Vidanric's gray eyes left mine to glance around the inside of the barn, and I saw the spark of understanding when he put some pieces together. His gaze flicked back to me, my face and the trembling hand I was trying to hide in the folds of my cloak.
"Are you alright?" He asked softly.
"My ankle is killing me," I confessed.
His lips flattened into a thin line. He looked back over his shoulder at something, then told me, "Wait here."
And then he was gone.
My hand spasmed open, releasing the pitchfork. What was I doing? He surely thought I had lost my mind. We were out in the middle of nowhere, just trying to get home, and the queen was off chasing imaginary shadows.
I didn't let myself drop to the floor because I knew I would cry, and then all would be lost. I would use this time to compose myself. I would compose myself. That girl hiding in the hayloft was dead and buried under layers of satin ribbon, and to dig her up now would be selfish and indecent. I owed it to Vidanric and to our people, and I especially owed it to myself to get it together.
There was no reason why I couldn't walk back out those doors, untie my horse, and meet the curious eyes with a bright smile and a courtesan's excuse. Tamara would have been able to manufacture one in the time it took to flutter her fan. I could instantly imagine her sweet, musical voice explaining, "Well you see, I recognized this quaint little path, and thought, how thrilling would it be to pay my respects to that funny sort of farm girl?"
If anything could convince them of my mental breakdown, it would be that. I didn't know how long I stood there failing to pull myself together, my inner monologue full of self accusation, until finally Vidanric reappeared, alone.
He came laden with a basket in each hand, looking much so like a pack horse that I nearly forgot myself and smiled.
"What are you doing?" I inquired warily.
"I had to scavenge some supplies for tonight."
His voice was a careful, light and humorous tone that I recognized from previous attempts to draw me out of a gloom. To my surprise he stepped past me, abandoning one of the mysterious baskets at the base of the ladder and beginning to climb with the other.
"What are you doing?" I demanded now.
He poked his head up through the opening for a moment before leaning back down to answer.
"I rented this hayloft for the night. Granted, it was double the usual price for a room at the inn, but I think the old man could tell I would pay whatever. Do you think you could hand me that basket?"
He deposited the first one into the loft and then reached down expectantly. I was still staring slack jawed at him, rendered dumb in my confusion.
"You're… sleeping in a barn tonight?" I managed to get out.
"We are sleeping in a barn tonight. And it appears the hay is as fresh as he promised."
I stared at his hand still extended down towards me until his request finally made its way through the thick pudding of my brain. Automatically I reached down to lift the basket, finding it much heavier than I expected. But there was almost a relief in conducting a physical task outside of my mental spiral. He winked at me in thanks and quickly disappeared into the loft.
A king sleeping in a hayloft? I couldn't help but smile at the hilarity of it, imagining what my younger self would think to see him now. I threw a glance over my shoulder and spotted a couple of guards patrolling in the distance. They were in for a cold, wet night because of me. A well bred queen would have made it to that small town without incident, not subjecting everyo-
"You can brood just as easily up here," Vidanric called down, interrupting my thoughts. "There is far too much food for me to eat by myself."
Gods, I was quite hungry. My stomach was too knotted to get much food down earlier in the day. Suddenly the idea of a quiet, simple hayloft meal was the most welcome thing I could imagine. Sighing, I bunched up my sodden cloak in one hand and made my way up the ladder.
Mercifully no sense of deja vu came over me. It was a perfectly normal - albeit dim and dusty - little room for hay. Stunted, cloudy light begrudgingly filtered in from the lone window. Vidanric had his cloak spread across the floor and was unpacking what appeared to be bread and butter wrapped in waxed linen.
It was a newly forgotten feeling, hoisting myself up by my own strength with no swarm of hands offering to assist me. This was what all of those garden picnics utterly failed to capture - industrious self reliance - and it was as familiar to me as breathing.
I quickly warmed to the thought, and discarded my cloak to set about unpacking the other basket. Inside I found some sort of stew, a couple of simple wooden bowls, cheese, and honey cakes. Though everything I saw had my mouth watering, my concern was aimed at the woefully inadequate utensils.
"Are there any plates in yours?" Vidanric asked. "All I have is one spoon."
"Sadly, no. No napkins, either."
"Tea? Coffee?"
I sighed. "Again, no."
There was a small silence where all I heard was rain outside, before, "And will that be a problem for you, Your Majesty?"
My eyes snapped up, only to find him casting that infuriatingly bland court smirk in my direction. At no point in our relationship had he ever used that word with me, in jest or otherwise.
I pointedly smiled back before stuffing an entire honey cake into my mouth and replying with a muffled, "Not at all."
It was a mistake. A rogue crumb jumping down my windpipe sent me into a fit of coughing while Vidanric, ever the gentleman, continued arranging our picnic and pretended not to notice. By the time I plopped down onto the hay covered wood, red faced with both exertion and embarrassment, I found stew and the solitary spoon awaiting me.
"So what is this place to you?" He asked casually once I had taken my first bite.
"Nothing, really. Just half a night of safety from Debegri." From you too, was implied in the silence afterwards.
"Half a night?"
"I left when the soldiers began questioning the residents. The farm girl knew I was here, and I couldn't put them in more danger. Spent the rest of the night in the woods."
He made an acknowledging sound in his throat and took a drink of thick stew right from the bowl.
What else was there to say? Putting words to the memory only made my reaction sound even more pathetic. It was just half a night in a hayloft, no matter what the blood pounding through my body had tried to convince me. I sighed and tore off a chunk of bread, deciding that if I was going to ruin the evening with my mood, I might as well be fed in the meantime.
"I have often wished," Vidanric said unexpectedly, "that you hadn't gone through that alone. That I could have somehow convinced you to trust me, and avoided some of what happened to you."
"I don't know what you could have said that would have ever made me trust you. I was determined to hate you from our first meeting."
"Maybe," he replied thoughtfully, biting into some bread and cheese.
We finished our dinner in thoughtful silence. The continuous beat of rain on the roof above would have provided a cozy atmosphere were I not still encased in wet clothing. There was a substantial surge of gratitude in my heart when a servant came a little later with fresh clothes, blankets and a lantern.
"We are truly going to stay here all night," I realized aloud, failing to hide my interested stare while Vidanric shed his wet garments.
He gave me an amused smile and yanked some black trousers up his long legs before throwing on a rumpled-looking tunic. The end result was a mostly dry, though wonderfully disheveled Vidanric. Even in the dim lantern light I could see the stress lines in his face smoothing out. There were no responsibilities here, no orders to give or letters to write. Just some hay, and despite the warm stew, a cold, soggy wife.