achieved this feat. It was a beautiful flower, one he would stop to admire at the side of the road, but here, he hardly saw each one, drowned in the debasing power of uniformity. And wherever he looked, it was the same, here an army of wilting red roses, ready and forever waiting to meet the white ones at the other side of the path, frozen in their uniforms to never meet the day of battle.
He looked up to see her ladyship walk past them, her arm extended so that her fingertips might graze over the blossoms. She had pushed the sleeve of her dress up to her elbow and in a sharp contrast to her white — in the moonlight, almost translucent — skin he could see deep pink scratch-marks, crisscrossing messily from her elbow to the knuckles of her fingers.
Frowning, he leaned against the stone archway and watched her. Still caressing the flowers, her fingers lingered on one wilting blossom for too long, tearing a petal from its unsteady perch. She looked at it for a moment, as though in sorrow or confusion and then let it fall to the ground. It had a slow descent, such a light thing, caught by a breeze that suspended it there for an instant or two. They both followed its flight for the few moments it hung helplessly in the air.
“Stop watching me.” She wasn’t looking at him, nor had he moved to provoke her but there she stood, in half profile looking away from him. Her voice was quiet, but she had learned already that she didn’t have to be loud to make herself heard with him around. It shook, too; raw and haughty and frail like the roses around her.
“Milady?”
“I said stop watching me.” This time, she uttered each word by itself, interrupted by little shivering breaths, like tiny sentences. Owain could see her shoulder twitch a little, saw the tremor in her arms. In that moment, and quite unexpectedly, he felt a rush of warmth in his chest, the desire to protect her from anyone who would want to do her harm quite apart from his sense of duty and his post. She looked so small, so lost. He, too, saw the girl where by nature he should have seen a woman.
“I am charged with watching you, milady,” he answered quietly. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, nor what he wanted to say. The wolf inside of him growled quietly. He understood. He wouldn’t have liked being caged inside castle walls either.
Walking a few steps further away from him, her naked feet made that endearingly vulnerable sound of skin on stone but he knew she hadn’t given up. Her breathing sounded forced and wrong, her movements stiff and aching. He didn’t know what was wrong with her; he certainly hadn’t spent a lot of time around women, least of all around the noble kind. But there was nothing happy or content about the young woman who, rationally and by all rights, had little to fear, had never suffered hunger or plight, had never had to do a hard day’s labor and yet was standing there, one of the most pitiful creatures he had ever seen, ever smelled.
“Please?” He could finally hear her again, even quieter now. “Just turn around. Just leave me be!”
Owain eyed her for a long moment and then nodded. It was such a little thing, such a despondent tiny request he couldn’t deny.
“Yes, milady.” And as he was bid, he turned around to look into the darkness of the hallway. He even breathed through his mouth, trying to pick up as little of her smell as he could. But it didn’t take long until she realized it wasn’t enough and she stormed past him, back along the corridor, up the stairs and back into her chambers. This time, the door fell hard into its frame.
Owain stood there for a little while longer. Her scent lingered in the air, but it tasted as though tinged in salt and iron and fear.
Chapter Five
The Bramble Keep’s Great Hall was lit brightly, oil-torches spreading their spluttering glow over the late afternoon gloom of autumn. The floor was flattened smooth, the stone ground to a buttery sheen by centuries of use,
He looked up to see her ladyship walk past them, her arm extended so that her fingertips might graze over the blossoms. She had pushed the sleeve of her dress up to her elbow and in a sharp contrast to her white — in the moonlight, almost translucent — skin he could see deep pink scratch-marks, crisscrossing messily from her elbow to the knuckles of her fingers.
Frowning, he leaned against the stone archway and watched her. Still caressing the flowers, her fingers lingered on one wilting blossom for too long, tearing a petal from its unsteady perch. She looked at it for a moment, as though in sorrow or confusion and then let it fall to the ground. It had a slow descent, such a light thing, caught by a breeze that suspended it there for an instant or two. They both followed its flight for the few moments it hung helplessly in the air.
“Stop watching me.” She wasn’t looking at him, nor had he moved to provoke her but there she stood, in half profile looking away from him. Her voice was quiet, but she had learned already that she didn’t have to be loud to make herself heard with him around. It shook, too; raw and haughty and frail like the roses around her.
“Milady?”
“I said stop watching me.” This time, she uttered each word by itself, interrupted by little shivering breaths, like tiny sentences. Owain could see her shoulder twitch a little, saw the tremor in her arms. In that moment, and quite unexpectedly, he felt a rush of warmth in his chest, the desire to protect her from anyone who would want to do her harm quite apart from his sense of duty and his post. She looked so small, so lost. He, too, saw the girl where by nature he should have seen a woman.
“I am charged with watching you, milady,” he answered quietly. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, nor what he wanted to say. The wolf inside of him growled quietly. He understood. He wouldn’t have liked being caged inside castle walls either.
Walking a few steps further away from him, her naked feet made that endearingly vulnerable sound of skin on stone but he knew she hadn’t given up. Her breathing sounded forced and wrong, her movements stiff and aching. He didn’t know what was wrong with her; he certainly hadn’t spent a lot of time around women, least of all around the noble kind. But there was nothing happy or content about the young woman who, rationally and by all rights, had little to fear, had never suffered hunger or plight, had never had to do a hard day’s labor and yet was standing there, one of the most pitiful creatures he had ever seen, ever smelled.
“Please?” He could finally hear her again, even quieter now. “Just turn around. Just leave me be!”
Owain eyed her for a long moment and then nodded. It was such a little thing, such a despondent tiny request he couldn’t deny.
“Yes, milady.” And as he was bid, he turned around to look into the darkness of the hallway. He even breathed through his mouth, trying to pick up as little of her smell as he could. But it didn’t take long until she realized it wasn’t enough and she stormed past him, back along the corridor, up the stairs and back into her chambers. This time, the door fell hard into its frame.
Owain stood there for a little while longer. Her scent lingered in the air, but it tasted as though tinged in salt and iron and fear.
Chapter Five
The Bramble Keep’s Great Hall was lit brightly, oil-torches spreading their spluttering glow over the late afternoon gloom of autumn. The floor was flattened smooth, the stone ground to a buttery sheen by centuries of use,
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