Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tristan sighed in relief as he removed his armor, settling into the comfortable room arranged for him in Croyso Castle, a well-tended fire keeping out the winter chill. It was rare that he received his own quarters in any place their order visited, so knowing he would be able to spend months in such luxury greatly lifted his mood.

Plus a feast almost every night… The duke sure knew how to flaunt his wealth.

Now clad just in a tunic and trousers, Tristan sank onto the bed, and began rummaging through his bags to unpack.

His hand hit upon his father’s dagger, and he paused, remembering…

Tristan paced outside of his father’s study… though he supposed it was Edmond’s study now. 

He still couldn’t believe his father was really dead, though he had seen it happen himself…

The funeral had been tense, his half-brothers Edmond and Leon arriving only a few hours before the ceremony, throwing the whole household into a chaos of unpacking.

Tristan winced. His mother had caused a scene, venting her fury over losing the keys to the estate onto the servants, though at least they were used to her behavior, and had managed to keep things from escalating.

He’d avoided getting involved, avoided his mother and brothers throughout the day, avoided making eye contact with them in the chapel during the short funeral service.

But some time after the ceremony was over, Edmond had summoned him to the study. Tristan had no choice but to go before him and see what his brother meant to say to him. He had little idea—he barely knew Edmond or Leon, both had been squired when he was born, and…

Well, that his brothers and mother did not get along was something he had seemed always to know, and was the main reason his brothers were never around the estate. But it was only in recent years had he realized how deep their mutual animosity went.

He'd knocked on the study door, only to hear a gruff voice call out telling him to wait a moment.

So here he was, pacing, waiting to be let in, feeling like a child again, about to be brought in for a scolding. But he was 15 years old now, almost a man. He needed to hold his head up high, and not be intimidated…

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his brother called for him to enter.

Opening the door and striding into the room, it only took one look at his brother for Tristan to know this would be a painful interview.

Edmond looked up at him, his eyes filled with coldness and contempt.

“Sit.”

Hesitating, Tristan slowly lowered himself into the chair before his father’s old desk. He’d been in the chair many times before, but had always felt warmth and excitement to be there, to get to be near his father while he worked.

It was surreal to feel so much apprehension in a place he’d always felt comfort.

Edmond’s cruel expression hadn’t budged, staring across the desk at him. Tristan stared back, unsure what to say.

Finally, Edmond opened his mouth again.

“I’ve spent the last hour going over the ledgers and father’s papers. He did leave a record of how he wished his assets to be split between us in the case of his death.”

Tristan nodded slowly. He’d known about his father’s will—his mother had told him of it often, that she’d been sure to have his father arrange it so he would receive a third of his father’s property upon his death. Tristan knew his father’s property was… not extensive. In truth, it was one of the smallest in the duchy. But it had still been nice to know even as the third son, he’d have some income in the future, something to support himself beyond a knight’s stipend.

“I called you in here to tell you I have no intention of following father’s directions.”

Tristan stared at his brother, the feeling of unease that had been on him all day suddenly spiking, feeling like ice had been poured into his veins.

“I’ve looked into this matter thoroughly, and father never properly registered this “will” with the right authorities. And even if he had… the law is against him. Estates are not allowed to be broken up on such feeble grounds—if the duke were to allow this, the number of his vassals would spiral outside the duchy’s ability to support them. Know that if you or that… harpy who birthed you try to fight me on this, you will lose.” Edmond’s voice grew more vicious at the end, though his expression stayed calm.

Tristan felt his face heat up. He knew his mother was a… difficult woman, but he couldn’t let the insult slide. He finally found the nerve to speak. “Don’t talk about my mother like that—”

“I’ll say whatever I wish in my own estate.”

Tristan stopped speaking, taken aback by the look of spiteful pleasure coming into Edmond’s eyes.

“Looking over the ledgers, in my eyes, you’ve already received more than your due. Father spent a small fortune getting you your place in the Royal Knights under Sir Henrique. Much more than he spent on Leon or myself.”

Tristan opened his mouth to protest that he knew nothing about this, but Edmond continued on.

“But… I won’t leave you empty-handed today. Even I can’t deny that you are my father’s son.”

Edmond opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a sheathed dagger. Tristan recognized it as one of his father’s, one of a set of such ceremonial weapons, nothing particularly special.

“Here, take this, and consider our connection finished.”

“What?” Tristan exclaimed, confused, the agitation he felt somehow rising further. “What do you mean, finished? I am your brother—”

Edmond cut him off again, speaking over him with indifference.

“As far as I’m concerned, you are nothing but my father’s bastard.”

At that, Tristan bounded out of his chair, incensed.

“Bastard!? Father and my mother were married—”

“Yet my mother still lives!”

Edmond’s calm suddenly dissolved, his mouth twisting into a snarl, his eyes gleaming with fury.

Sweat on his brow, Tristan considered responding, but looking into his brother’s seething face, he thought better of it. Everyone knew that Tristan’s father had divorced his first wife and sent her off to a convent—but mentioning that to Edmond right now would only further enrage him.

Tristan kept his mouth shut, and a shudder seemed to pass over Edmond, the cool look of indifference back on his face.

“Once we’re finished, I expect you to gather whatever personal items you have and leave. I will never welcome you back here. Do what you wish, but don’t expect me to ever do anything for you or acknowledge you as my kin.”

Edmond threw the dagger at him, and rather than let it hit him across the chest, Tristan caught it.

“Now, get out.”

Humiliated, Tristan fled the room.

That had been the last time Tristan had been in his childhood home.

Shaking off his memories, Tristan refocused on the room surrounding him, the fact that he was no longer a powerless 15 year old boy, now 22 years old, and with a golden opportunity before him. Every Royal knight had been invited for grand celebrations at Croyso Castle to celebrate the duke’s marriage to the Roemian princess Arian Roem Girtha. 

The celebrations were to be elaborate, set to last months, an unspoken display of duke’s wealth and prestige. Tristan’s superiors suspected that he also wanted as many knights collected in one place in a show of confidence and strength, now that he had a stronger claim to his northeastern lands due to his marriage. His squadron was rarely invited to spend time in the duke’s castle, as they were so frequently stationed near the border with Dristan.

Regardless, Tristan was excited. It meant he and his fellow knights would get to spend several months mostly relaxing around, drinking, eating, carousing. And who knows, maybe he’d meet a lady…

He idly stroked the dagger once more, before carefully placing it back in his pack.

At that moment, there was a soft knock on the door.

“Pardon me, sir, may I enter?”

“You may.”

He didn’t turn at first when a young maidservant entered the room, carrying towels and a bowl of water. But when his eyes really looked at the figure before him…  She had dark, beautiful chestnut-colored skin, gilded by the candlelight, with shiny black hair carefully arranged underneath her maid's cap.  She was tall for a woman, and the dress she wore, a typical maid's dress, clung to her curves in an enticing way. Without realizing his eyes had trailed back to her face, to her sparkling black eyes set amongst flawless features, a regal, aquiline nose and full red lips.

My, she’s a beauty…

She gave him a short curtsy, and carefully set down the towel and bowl on the table, the movements snapping him back to attention. “I’ve brought some water and towels for you to wash, sir. Please let me know if you require anything else.”

He was surprised that her accent was no different from his own, though from her appearance, he had to assume she was from the Southern Continent. He’d seen enough merchants from there to recognize her features.

He gave her his most winning smile, the one he knew the ladies liked. There was no harm in a little flirting with a pretty girl. It would help him practice for the banquets to come.

“Nothing for now, but I’ll be sure to let you know if that changes, Miss…?”

She blushed slightly, and gave him another quick bob curtsy. 

“Isma, sir.”

“Isma… a pretty name. From the Southern Continent?”

She seemed surprised at the question. “Yes, sir.”

“What brings you to Wedon, Miss Isma?”

Her blushes were quite fetching, he had to note, as her cheeks turned an even darker shade of red. 

“My father was a merchant, sir, so I came here as a child to reunite with him…”

“I see… that must have been a difficult journey.” He regretted the comment when he saw her face lose its color. She quickly turned away from him to fidget with the towels on the table. 

He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable.

“My name is Tristan, Miss Isma. Tristan Alain. Thank you for the towels, a knight like me rarely is treated to such service.”

“Of course, Sir Alain.” She had a smile back on her face, though her eyes still seemed a little sad. “Again, please do not hesitate to ring if you need anything.”

Her father must be a difficult topic for her, much like his own. 

“Then I suppose I shall look forward to seeing you in the coming days.” 

She responded by giving him one last curtsy, the blush returning to her face, before leaving the room.

Looking at the door that closed behind her, Tristan made his way toward the table. He began to wash his face and neck, his thoughts still on the girl. Given her blushes, he had to assume she found him as attractive as he did her. 

Maybe she would be interested in a little fun…

He smirked. Well, he’d never been with a maid before, only women who wanted payment. The men around him always said it was more enjoyable when there was a real attraction between you and your partner. 

Perhaps that was another thing he could enjoy in the coming months. 

As Tristan had gotten older, he’d come to realize that his father had been a… complicated man. He’d divorced his first wife after she seemed to become confused of mind in her middle years, feeblemindedness being a valid excuse for divorce, and sent her off to end her days in a convent. But when he had then immediately married a woman of low birth from one of the farms on his estate, who’d born a son only a few months later… Of course Tristan’s half-brothers had been enraged.

His mother’s attitude toward her stepchildren had not helped. She’d done anything in her power to slight Tristan’s brothers, push her own son forward for special treatment. That his father had gone along with it had only really dawned on Tristan after his father’s death.

Even so, Edmond’s treatment of him had grated. And Edmond had gotten his real revenge—not one month after their father’s death, Edmond’s mother was back in the estate, and Tristan’s mother found herself packed off to the same convent. 

He’d gone to see his mother at the convent just once. It had not been pleasant—it was a bleak place, a forgotten waystation for unwanted women. She’d berated him for not protecting her better, as if there was something he could have done… But then she’d demanded that he find a way to take her away from that place. She’d told him his best chance was to marry well, find a noblewoman’s family to take them in.

It wasn’t impossible… he knew he was handsome, women had always paid attention to him.

He also knew he was a pretty typical young man—what little money he had left from his knight’s stipend, after spending it on the upkeep of his horse and armor, he spent right away on wine, gambling, and the occasional woman for the night. What reason was there to save? His prospects were not good. Rank among the Royal knights was all about one’s position at birth, so though he had managed to be knighted at age 18, he knew it would be hard to rise in the ranks, even though his superior Sir Henrique acknowledged to him he was one of the most skilled young knights in the order.

Still, he trained hard, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could beat the odds, make something of himself through skill and an advantageous marriage. 

And yet… while staying in Croyso Castle, night after night, Tristan was finding himself forgetting to be serious about meeting the young ladies who’d gathered there.

The elaborate wedding banquets went until late every night, the food and wine dazzling, the young women beautifully dressed and quite ready to flirt with a handsome young knight.

He could be honest with himself, at least as time went by—he was able to catch their eyes, but they were usually either already married and just looking for a tryst, or if they were unattached, they’d be snatched away after a dance with him by zealous mothers or aunts.

Even his good looks didn’t help him once a girl’s family learned he was penniless.

So instead of pursuing any of the noblewomen or wealthy merchants’ daughters seriously, he found himself drawn back to his room.

Where he seemed to constantly be running into a certain young maid.

“Sorry to disturb you, Miss Isma.”

“Oh! No, sir, I apologize for still not being finished…”

She was tending the fireplace—he’d noticed a cart filled with firewood outside his door, as she was on her rounds to make sure the fires in this wing of the castle would burn through the night. 

He smiled at her, a conspiratorial smile, and saw her give him a small one back. He’d known very well she’d be nearby—he’d asked her just the day before about her daily routine.

“Tristan.”

Her eyes widened at his words, her beautiful smile slipping a little, looking up at him.

Her eyes… they are so black, yet somehow they reflect the light of the fire so… it’s like they glow… 

He moved a little closer to her, stopping when he was only a few feet away.

“Remember? I asked you last time to call me by my name…”

“Oh… yes, s-, that is, Tristan.” She blushed, and turned back to stoking the fire.

“Can I help?”

She looked up at him with surprise.

“Help?”

“If you finish quickly, maybe we can spend some more time together.”

She fumbled with her hands, flustered, and ended up dropping the fire poker she was holding. She reached to pick it up, and ended up touching the wrong end, letting go with a hiss as the hot end of the poker touched her skin.

“Oh!”

“Miss Isma!”

He rushed forward, taking her hand in his, inspecting the burn. Luckily it was minor—she’d barely touched the hot iron.

The skin on the back of her hand was very soft…

“I’m fine, there’s no need…” She tried to pull her hands back, but he wasn’t ready to let her go. “Besides, my, my hands… they’re dirty…”

“Nonsense.”

She blushed harder. With a sigh, he let her go, disappointed to have to stop touching her.

“Well, now you must let me help you. Your hand must hurt.”

“A-alright.”

Pleased, he carefully picked up the poker and replaced it in its stand. 

“Well Miss Isma, what needs doing?”

“I should see to the fire next door…”

With a bright smile, he waved his hand and gave her a short bow, as if inviting her to dance.

“Lead the way, my lady.”

With a small giggle, she gave him a curtsey, and led him out of the room.

He followed her from room to room, pushing the cart for her and helping her carry in the firewood. The rooms were all empty—the rest of the castle was still in the banquet hall.

Which afforded him plenty of opportunity to talk to her.

“How long have you been a maid in the castle, Miss Isma?”

She straightened from tending a fire and carefully wiped her sooty hands on her apron, seeming to think for a minute. “It must be over seven years now. I was almost eleven when I first came to the continent.”

“To reunite with your father, correct? Where is he now?” Tristan asked, curious to know more about her past.

“...He’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What happened…?” He trailed off, realizing it was an insensitive question.

She answered anyway.

“He… he died in a monster attack while on a trade expedition.” Her face grew blank, as if the emotions were too much for her. “It was while I was still traveling to meet him. I don’t even know if he knew I was coming…”

“That’s…” He stopped himself from saying how unbearably sad that was. He racked his brain for something to say. “Why… didn’t you go back?”

She looked at him, a sad smile on her face. “And how would I do that? The merchants who brought me didn’t want to be burdened with me anymore, so they left me here after finding me a position as a servant girl. I was lucky, really, they could have left me somewhere much worse…”

She sighed, shaking her head.

“Also… I didn’t have anything to go back to. We lived by the sea… I left because my hometown was destroyed by a giant wave. My whole family was missing… I was lucky there, too, a ship from my father’s merchant guild came soon after and let me go with them.” 

Tristan nodded, not sure how to respond to such a sad tale. He’d seen the sea once, seen waves crashing on the shore. He tried to imagine one big enough to swallow a whole town… it sounded terrifying.

“Do you miss it?” Tristan asked softly after a moment. “Your home?”

“Yes.”

A look of deep pain and sorrow passed over her face, before she collected herself.

“A-and, what about you? What is your family like?”

“...I don’t really have one anymore. My father died in a joust seven years ago.”

The image of his father as he took the hit from the lance, the other knight holding his lance too high, striking his father’s head instead of his body… His father then seemed to slowly slide off his horse like a sack of grain… The sound of his armor hitting the ground…

“Oh… I am sorry.”

Her words brought him out of his memories.

“These things happen to knights. Even though it’s just practice, jousts can be dangerous…” He trailed off again, and they stood silently in front of the fire together for a moment.

“What… what about your mother?”

He grimaced, trying to decide what to say about her.

“She retired to a convent. My half-brother runs the estate now, and we don’t really get along… I haven’t been home in these last seven years.”

She looked him in the eyes, really looked at him, an earnest expression in her dark eyes.

“Do you… miss it?”

“Yes, yes I do…”

She smiled, and came and took his hand, no longer caring about the ashes.

Staring into her eyes, he pulled her closer.

“May I kiss you?” he asked, a little breathless.

Her cheeks had such a beautiful rosy color as she kept eye contact with him, before she slowly nodded.

As their lips touched, he found it really was more enjoyable, immeasurably so, to kiss a woman you cared for.

It didn’t take long for him to coax her into his bed.

A few days after their first kiss, he returned from the evening’s festivities, and though he’d danced with a few ladies, he’d been unsuccessful in gaining a second dance with any of the unattached ones. After a few too many glasses of wine, he headed back to his room.

Isma had been waiting for him.

She was wiping down the table, clearly idling there. Her eyes lit up seeing him enter.

“I brought you something.” He pulled out the carefully wrapped pastry he’d put in his pocket. He’d taken to sneaking something out from the dining hall for her, after she told him servants rarely got to try any of the food prepared for these banquets.

He watched with pleasure as she put the treat into her beautiful mouth, chewing it carefully.

“Thank you, Tristan, it’s delicious.”

He pulled her into his arms for a kiss, tasting the sugar and her own sweet taste. 

“I can tell. Though not as delicious as you…”

She blushed, and he pulled her in for another, more passionate kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth.

He wanted to do much more.

Reluctantly, he pulled back, looking into her dazed eyes.

“Do you have to leave?” he said, his voice thick with desire, his hands slipping down from her shoulders to grip her slim waist.

“No, I… I can stay… A friend said she’d cover for me.”

He didn’t need another sign from her. Leading her to the bed, he gently pushed her down to lay beneath him.

They didn’t speak. She seemed hesitant, unsure, but when he placed her hands around his neck, or on his back, pulled her legs around him, she went where he led.

At some point, he removed her dress, a tight gasp escaping his mouth once her body was bare before him. She was gorgeous, unlike any woman he’d been with. She fit perfectly into his hands, her brown skin smooth and soft and seeming to glow in the candlelight. Her waist flowed into shapely hips and thighs and beautiful, long legs.

His fingers found their way inside her, and she moaned.

He felt drunk, his head spinning with a familiar thrill, though heightened beyond any other point in his life. 

She grew wet under his touch, leading his body to twitch in anticipation. Wanting to be further connected with her, he lowered his head and kissed her chest, her neck, before returning to her lips.

He thrilled when her hands threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, her moans growing louder. He ran a hand through her sleek tresses, marveling at the feel of her silky black hair.

Unable to wait any longer, he sat up, leaving her panting between his knees, and quickly pulled his tunic off his body and threw it to the side, before undoing his belt and removing his trousers. 

Lowering himself back down onto her, her slick skin brushing against him, he guided himself inside her. There was… a little resistance, an unfamiliar feeling, but she was warm and wet and felt so good, soon he found himself moving with abandon. Her moans became short little gasps, punctuating each of his thrusts, her hands gripping his back tighter with each of his movements. He kissed her again, their tongues touching.

He felt his climax coming, and managed to pull himself out, hissing at the loss of her. He gripped himself, and after only a few pumps, fell over the edge, his seed covering his hand and dripping onto her thighs.

Collapsing onto her, pulling her into his arms again, he sighed with contentment. He felt her softly kiss his neck as he drifted to sleep.

The experience had been incomparable to anything he’d felt before. Even more so, when night after night, she returned to his arms… 

Each time was better than the last.

She told him she’d never been with a man before, and given how she acted, how… innocent her touches and reactions were, he believed her, and found that fact led him to feel a possessiveness over her that he hadn’t expected. Everything about her intoxicated him, her soft skin, breathy moans, how she clung to him afterwards, stroking his hair.

The nights when she could, she’d linger in his bed, and they would stay up late talking. He listened intently to her stories of her childhood, marveling at how exotic and different her homeland seemed from his own. 

Sometimes he dreamed of going there with her.

Four months after he'd arrived at the castle, Isma told him she was with child.

A sharp, freezing chill had gone through him the moment he processed her words, as suddenly the illusion he’d wrapped himself in for the past few months came crashing down.

He had tried to avoid this, knowing not to finish when he was inside her, but there must have been some nights where he’d made a mistake… nights when he’d had too much wine to be in enough control to stop. 

As spring began to bloom around them, the wedding celebrations came to an end, the close of winter meaning the duchy’s knights could no longer loiter about the duke’s castle. Sir Henrique had informed him a few days before that they should be ready to return to the Dristan border within the week. 

Isma had told him the news, looking up at him with those bright, black eyes of hers, and he cursed himself for a fool. She looked at him like he could do anything, solve any problem, when really…

He had nothing to give her, no solution to the problem he’d created. 

He’d pulled her into an embrace, wanting to avoid that pleading look in her eyes, and lied to her, telling her it would all be alright, that he would take care of her. 

He’d never forget how tightly she held him, hearing those words.

Which is what led him to the door of Sir Henrique, hesitating for a few moments before knocking.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Tristan Alain, sir.”

“...Come in.”

Sir Henrique was behind his desk, handling paperwork for their upcoming departure. 

“What do you need, Alain?”

Tristan took a deep breath. There was no other option, but he loathed having to tell the man he respected what he’d done.

“I… have gotten myself into a situation, sir.”

Henrique put his quill down, and let out a gruff sigh. “I believe I know what this will be about, Alain. It’s not exactly been a secret, your… dalliance with one of the maids.”

Tristan grimaced. He hadn’t tried to hide it—early on, he’d even bragged to the other knights about her attraction to him, partly from bravado, and partly to make sure they wouldn’t try to bed her themselves. They’d snickered at him on more than one occasion as he left the celebrations early, knowing all too well what he was up to.  

“Well, spit it out. Am I right?”

“...Yes, sir. I got a maid with child.” 

It was his first time saying it out loud, and he hated himself for it. Hated that he’d been such a fool, when he had no way to…

He wasn’t sure what he expected his superior to say, but Henrique just shook his head. 

“Four months was much too long to keep a crowd of rowdy young men in one place, you’re not the only one who’ll be, shall we say, leaving something behind. You, though… If you’re going to make these kinds of mistakes, you better figure out some way to take care of it on your own. Men without means can’t afford this kind of thing, not if they wish to be honorable.” 

Tristan knew this all too well. Which was why he was suffering through this humiliation—Henrique was the only person he could turn to for help. “About that, sir… As you know, I don’t have, well…”

“Here’s what you’ll do, Alain. I’ll lend you some money for a dowry. Go to the headman in Croyso village, and ask him to find a man who’ll take a ruined woman. There always is someone who will, for the right price.”

“But…” He couldn’t bring himself to tell the older man that he didn’t want to give the woman up, not when he knew he couldn’t keep her.

Henrique gave him a knowing look.

“This is usually how it’s handled, at least when the man can’t offer her protection himself.”

Tristan felt cold, but his superior was just repeating his own thoughts back to him. If a dowry was all the support his superior would offer, what other choice did he have?

A small voice said he could take responsibility for her himself, but… he had no place he could send her, especially with his duties as a knight pressing him to leave in a couple of days. 

Truthfully, he’d never considered his time with her to be anything but fleeting, just something to indulge in, happiness to take while he could. A maidservant, an orphan girl from the Southern Continent… wasn’t the kind of girl a knight like him could marry. Not when he still had some hope of advancement, some hope of a marriage that might help him make something of himself. He’d seen what happened to himself and his mother when his father had married for love… his mother’s bitter face and demands on him still rang in his ears…

Henrique continued, “Unless I’m mistaken, have you spoken to your brother in the past few years?

“...No, sir.”

He had briefly considered sending his brother Edmond a letter, seeing if he could at least take her into the estate as the mother of his child… but the memory of his last meeting with him stopped him from truly considering it. Even if seven years had softened Edmond toward him, Tristan’s pride couldn’t stomach the idea of groveling to his brother over such a matter.

He truly was despicable.

“Well, then it’s settled.” Henrique opened a drawer from his desk, and pulled out a chest where he kept his funds. He started putting coins into a purse, and placed it in front of him on the desk. “Here’s a likely suitable amount, though check with the headman.” He frowned, then threw in a few more coins. “Though you were with the pagan girl, were you not? Better play it safe.”

Tristan’s chest ached to hear her spoken of that way, but he had nothing to say to refute it.

“And remember, this is a loan—I expect you to repay right away.”

Tristan nodded, took the purse off the desk and looked over the amount. His stomach turned—twenty derhams was nothing, really, at least for the nobility. Though given his stipend and expenses, it would probably still take him months to pay Sir Henrique back... 

All the more pathetic to think even for a moment that he could support a woman on his own.

And the child…

He hadn’t fully processed that fact. His stomach turned again.

“If that’s all, go on and be quick about it. I don’t want you or the woman to cause a scene here in the duke’s castle, our order can’t afford that. And Alain…” 

He gave Tristan a hard look.

“This is the only time I’ll lend you money like this. I hope I can count on you to be more discreet in the future.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, sir.”

“Good. Now go.”

Tristan turned and left the room.

Tristan tried not to stare down the man, Novan. He really did try his best. 

The village headman hadn’t needed much prodding, his eyes lighting up when Tristan had given him one of the coins from the purse, saying he knew just the man for the job. He’d left the tavern where Tristan had met with him and came back only an hour later with another man.

The farmer was unremarkable, and a good deal older than Tristan, or at least looked it, but seemed of sound mind and body, sturdy and accustomed to labor.

He didn’t have any right to feel hostile towards the man, if anything, he should be grateful. He was going to take care of Isma, raise his child…

But Tristan couldn’t help resenting him.

“Is this amount enough?” he asked, trying to keep his feelings out of his voice.

“Yes, I told him the amount, and it is quite generous, Sir Knight. Novan, you agree, yes?” the headman said, nudging the man beside him.

“Yes, the amount is enough.”

He also had yet to look Tristan in the eye, which Tristan didn’t mind.

“I’ll… be sure to use it well,” Novan added, finally raising his eyes, though still not quite meeting Tristan’s. Seeing his look, Tristan’s heart twisted at the sincerity he saw there. “The money. I won’t waste it. It’ll be for them, I mean.”

He should be happy, content that there was even a small sign that this was a good man… but the largest part of himself hated the man before him. Hated that he was leaving her, and his child, to another man.

That he wasn’t strong enough to do it himself. Or brave enough…

He wasn’t willing to abandon all he was for them. 

A true coward…

Everything moved quickly after that.

The headman sent someone to the castle to fetch Isma, and went with Novan to the village church.

Tristan sat in the tavern alone, drinking a glass of wine, filled with bitter thoughts. Part of him wanted to run away, but he felt he had to make sure he wasn’t being duped, that these men wouldn’t just take the money and then do nothing.

Also, pathetically, he wanted to see Isma one last time.

The headman and Novan returned with a junior cleric, and explained that the wedding would take place on Novan’s property—apparently the head cleric of the church had not wanted a pregnant, “pagan” girl to be married inside the church itself. Wincing, Tristan handed the cleric five of the coins from the purse, the price they demanded to conduct the ceremony.

After leaving word at the tavern for the man who’d gone to fetch Isma, they set out. The walk to Novan’s house from the village was short, but to Tristan, it felt agonizingly long. When they finally stood in front of the little, unremarkable house, more of a hut than anything else, Tristan felt his resolve waver. Was this really the best he could do for her?

But there was nothing else, nothing else he was willing to do. He’d followed his superior’s orders, gathered these people here. 

There was no turning back.

Novan, seemingly unwillingly, led them inside. It wasn’t much better than the outside, but at least it was fairly clean, and the walls seemed solid, the roof in good condition.

My child will grow up in this house…

He banished that depressing thought the moment it passed through his head. 

The headman and Novan made awkward conversation amongst themselves, speaking about the weather and how the recent planting season had gone. The cleric even joined in every once in a while, seeming to be used to farm work himself.

Tristan stayed silent.

Finally, yet too soon, there was a knock at the door.

The headman’s messenger entered first, followed by Isma. She had a blank look on her face, as if she couldn’t process what was happening.

Tristan wished he could look away as her eyes met his, seeing how her face fell.

“Tristan… is it true? Are you leaving me here?”

The other men in the room looked away awkwardly. Tristan hardened his heart and steeled his expression, answering, “Isma, I’ve arranged a dowry and a marriage for you, so you will be well looked after.” He gestured to Novan beside him. “This man has promised to take care of you.”

Novan stood up and walked toward her, looking strangely dazed himself.

“They explained your situation to me, Miss Isma. If you’ll have me, I promise I will look after you, and your child.”

He grasped her hand, and brought it to his lips.

Tristan hand itched, and he realized he had an overwhelming urge to wrench the man away from her. Disgusted with himself, he forced his hand to unclench.

This was all his doing, what right did he have to covet her anymore?

The blank look was back on Isma’s face as she stared at Novan, not answering him.

The headman spoke first, turning to the cleric. 

“Well, it seems settled, are you ready to perform the ceremony? I suppose we can all stand as witnesses.”

The cleric quickly moved to stand in front of Novan and Isma. After clearing his throat, he stammered his way through the bare essentials of the marriage service. When the time came, Novan swore with some fervor in his voice, while Isma’s oath was barely a whisper.

With an awkward, wavering voice, the cleric pronounced them wed.

At that, the headman, messenger, and cleric all gathered to leave and head back to the village. Feeling numb, Tristan stepped forward and stiffly handed Novan the money purse, before turning to follow the rest. But before he could go, he felt a hand gripping his arm.

“Tristan…”

Novan watched the pair of them with wary eyes, before saying, “If you want to say goodbye, I don’t mind. I can go for a moment…”

“No, we’ll go outside. I’ll bring her back shortly.” Tristan didn’t want to stay another minute in this house, didn’t want his last image of her to be here.

Novan nodded, the wary look still in his eyes.

So Tristan found himself leading her outside behind him, forcing himself to only look forward. Noticing a small hill nearby, he pulled her along with him towards it. It was a good distance from the house, which he desperately wanted.

They walked in silence, Isma’s hand never leaving his arm.

Once they reached the top, he stopped, looking out over the hill, watching as the sun began to set. He stared at the red hues, still unable to stomach looking down at the woman clutching him.

Isma finally spoke.

“Tristan… please… don’t leave me here.”

He took a deep breath and looked at her. She was unbearably lovely, even with a look of desperation in her eyes. He forced himself to speak.

“I’m sorry, I… I have to. Our orders are to leave tomorrow for the Dristan border. This will be best for you, I don’t have anywhere I can take you…”

She finally broke, her body folding and falling into him, and she began to sob on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, though he felt numb, as if the shame and regret he felt had come inside him and taken residence right where she lay her head. A long stream of curses ran through his head, of what an utter fool he was to have done this.

After a long time, she finally calmed, and looked up. Her expression tore at him, unbearably sad, but with some other emotion he could not place.

“Will you… come back for me?”

Taken aback, he didn’t know what to say. He suddenly realized that the look in her eyes, beyond the sadness and grief, contained a glimmer of hope. 

A dagger to the heart would have been less painful.

 “I…”

Her eyes seemed to grow more determined. 

“If you ever can, will you… come back for me… for us?”

He stared into her wet eyes, red from crying, but still the most beautiful he’d ever seen. Something came over him, and before he could stop himself, he found himself speaking.

“Yes… Isma, if I ever can… I will.”

She gave him a wistful, soft smile, and buried her head back in his chest.

He really was a fool.

Somehow, ten years passed. 

He found himself back at the duke’s castle for the first time in those long years, for another set of marriage celebrations, with yet another Roemian princess, the first having died after a string of pregnancies that only left behind one daughter.

The affair was less elaborate than the first, only planned for a month, a pitiful shadow of the time ten years ago when he’d danced and laughed and loved someone.

He knew he’d spent those ten years poorly, though at least his order had been sent on almost constant campaigns, so he’d never had much time to stew in his thoughts. He'd been granted a small estate near the capital, but he spent almost no time there, and it garnered very little funds. He’d also taken to drinking heavily. Though this naturally took a toll on his skills as a knight—no one would have called him talented in recent years, especially after he’d taken several serious injuries, including an injury to his back that he’d waited too long to get treated. Now his back ached almost constantly, making it excruciating for him to wear his armor for extended periods. In many ways he was barely keeping his position within the order. 

It had taken him a year to pay off his loan to Sir Henrique, but even after that, he found he’d never managed to save any money.

So returning to Croyso Castle, looking around the banquet halls and merriment throughout… despite avoiding thinking about anything but his day to day struggles for years, he could now admit to himself that he was ashamed of who he’d become. 

He had no thoughts of trying to attract a wife this time, any ambition he had long since faded. He just wanted to drink and forget.

When the word came that they were finally heading back to Croyso Castle, he’d resolved to avoid seeing her. Not because he didn’t want to see her again. Far from it… What he didn’t want was for her to see him as he was now—no longer the strapping young man who’d loved her. 

He didn’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes, when he admitted he wasn’t there to take her away.

But throughout the month of celebrations, he’d felt a burning curiosity grow stronger within him. He wanted to know… Had the child been born? What was it like? Did the pair of them even still live?

He’d even had a brief thought that he owed it to make sure the woman and child were well, that he still had some duty towards them…  laughable as that was, given how he’d been away for so long and hadn’t brought himself to find out what had happened until now. But… he was finally nearby…

Which meant that on the last day of the celebrations, unable to contain himself, he dressed in a simple tunic, threw on a cloak, and headed to the village.

The tavern was mostly empty, as it was early in the day, and most of the men were out working the summer fields. He flagged down a serving boy, and handing him a coin, told him to fetch the headman, that a knight wished to see him about a past affair. He ordered two mugs of ale and sat down to wait, his nerves on edge.

He’d already had his mug of ale refilled when the headman arrived.

The man had aged noticeably, his hair gone a grizzly gray, many more lines on his tanned face. It was lucky for Tristan that it was the same man, he suddenly realized. Many things had likely changed in ten years…

The headman took the seat and extra mug of ale next to him, and said awkwardly, “Sir Alain, if I remember correctly! It has been a while! I was shocked when Charles here told me a knight was asking for me.”

Tristan nodded into his glass, taking another swig. “It has been a long time.”

The headman’s eyes darted around nervously.  “Well, what can I do for you? I assume… well, I suppose I shouldn’t do that.” 

Tristan hesitated for a moment, then said, “Tell me about the child. I’ve been away on campaigns for the past ten years, so I know nothing. I simply called you here to ask that.”

The headman nodded slowly, processing his words, and then seemed to relax.

“I see, I see. The boy is well. His name is Riftan… and if I may say so… he looks rather like you.”

A boy, then. 

He wondered briefly about the name, Riftan. He’d never heard it before. Was it from the Southern Continent…?

“And… the woman?”

The headman gave him an uncomfortable look. “Also well… The three of them live in the same house. The last few years have been hard on all of us, there have been several poor harvests, but we’ve survived it.” He paused, then added, “Ah, I remember Novan told me the boy started working in the stables at the castle. He’s likely there now.”

Tristan swallowed. The boy was working in the stables… which meant he could possibly see him without having to go near that house, near the boy’s mother.

The headman continued, “Any word you’d like me to leave for them?”

“...No, I’d prefer if you didn't mention that I came.”

He left a coin on the table for their drinks, and handed another to the headman, who took it with a half-smile, seeming to be disappointed at the amount.

Tristan left without another word.

He’d barely been to the stables during his stay—he knew he was neglecting his horse, neglecting participating in training drills, but he hadn’t been able to make himself care.

But it was their last day in the castle.

So, returning from the village, he headed to the stables under the guise of checking his horse.

The stables were enormous, made up of several buildings, able to accommodate hundreds of horses. There must be dozens of stable boys, so with no real plan, Tristan headed inside, thinking he’d look around while appearing to go tend his own horse.

His order’s horses were stabled in one of the farthest buildings from the castle, so he slowly made his way there, keeping his eye out, though trying to avoid attracting attention. None of the servants around the stables paid him any mind, used to knights stopping by. 

Not seeing any boy that seemed like he could be the right one, he finally arrived at the stable where his horse was kept. He cautiously entered… only to see a dark-skinned boy mucking out the stall next to the one holding his own horse. 

He only had a moment to stare, before he saw a middle-aged man amble up to the boy, swigging from a bottle that smelled strongly of alcohol.

“Get a move on, boy, there’s several more stalls you need to clean before their horses return.”

The boy gave the man a sullen, angry look, causing the man to smack him roughly over the head.

“None of your lip,” the man muttered, cursing and calling the boy a “dirty pagan” under his breath, before turning unsteadily and moving on down towards the depths of the stable, likely looking for an empty stall to lie down and sleep off a drunken headache.

The boy continued to glare at the man as he left, before glumly turning back to his work.

That… has to be him.

Tristan was struck immediately by how much the boy looked like his own childhood self. He hadn’t spent much time looking in mirrors as a child, but even so, it was remarkable, to see his own childish features once more, the only difference being the boy’s darker coloring.

Though… he didn’t believe his eyes at that age had ever held so much anger. 

While he was still staring, the boy started looking around. Afraid of being seen, Tristan slipped away, back behind the door that stood open at the entrance of the building. After a few moments, satisfied that the boy hadn’t spotted him, he leaned around the door again, peered back towards the stalls… and saw that the boy was now standing before his own horse. 

“My name is Riftan, what’s yours?” the boy was saying softly to his horse, so softly Tristan almost couldn’t hear it from where he stood.

The boy’s whole demeanor had changed, as he reached out a hand and stroked the horse’s nose.

An indescribable emotion welled up in Tristan’s throat.

He had a momentary desire to approach the boy, go and tell him that the horse’s name was Baucent, that he’d named him after a mighty horse from a book he’d read as a child. That he’d had the horse since he’d been a squire, that it had been a gift from his father.

But then his next thoughts stopped him in his tracks. Yes, he’d had the horse for years, and while Baucent was a stellar horse, beyond reliable, had always served him well… he was reaching the end of his usefulness. 

Much like himself. 

He didn’t want the boy to see him.

He fled, back to the castle. Back to a place that was only slightly less painful to be.

“Sir Henrique says he plans to retire next month.”

Tristan grimaced into his drink. The celebrations had come to a close, and he and his fellow knight Marc Cornwall were the last ones up in the common room near where their order was quartered.

“Who’s going to replace him?” Tristan asked, feigning indifference.

“All signs point to his son, Erique.”

“I see…” Not that Tristan had imagined it would be himself—well, not for many years, at least. But for it to be such a young knight, one with no apparent talent… and an arrogant son-of-a-bitch to boot. It really drove home to Tristan that birth and status were all that mattered in this world. As if he needed to be reminded again.

Marc let out a forced laugh. “No helping it, I suppose. I bet he gets us killed in his first battle…” 

“We all have to die some time,” Tristan said apathetically. 

He stared into his cup, and seeing it was almost empty, grabbed another wine bottle and refilled it to the brim. 

“Well, aren’t you in a good mood today. You’ve been in a funk all month, truth be told. I thought you’d be over the moon to take a break.” Marc was looking at him like he wanted to laugh again, but couldn’t bring himself to.

Tristan paused for a second, before downing the drink he’d just poured. A sudden urge came over him, to let it out…

“I saw my bastard son today.”

Marc sputtered, coughing roughly on his drink, before quickly pulling himself together. “Ah… ha, so, uh, that’s why you’ve been on edge?” 

“I guess…”

To Tristan, “on edge” felt like a strange way to put how he’d been acting. A better way to describe it was that he’d been slowly unraveling for years, and the process had only grown faster in the past few months, and even faster the past few days. 

He poured himself another drink.

Marc looked thoughtful for a moment, before saying, “You know… I had heard that you had one. A bastard, I mean... I remember Sir Henrique grumbled about you owing him money for it at one point…”

Tristan stared at him. He shouldn’t be surprised and yet… strange how you could think you’d hidden something deep within yourself, even from the people closest to you. What else had he not managed to keep hidden? 

Marc gave him a chagrined look and rubbed his neck. 

“Well…  what was he like?”

Tristan breathed out.

“...Looks just like me.” 

“Hm… lucky kid then.”

Tristan gave him an incredulous look and forced himself to laugh.

“Yeah… lucky…”

He’ll be as lucky as me, I suppose. Which is to say not at all.

“So… did you talk to him?”

“No…” Tristan suddenly grew angry at speaking of this with Marc, forcing himself to take another drink to keep himself from growling at the man. Though he knew, deep down, that the anger was at himself. 

He found himself saying, “What would I say to him? Admit who I was? Tell him I am sorry for abandoning him? For not being a father to him?”

Marc sat back, uncomfortable. “If you put it that way…”

Tristan sighed, his anger abating suddenly. What use was his anger? Would it change anything? It certainly wouldn’t give him the chance to go back and undo any of his mistakes.

“Just… there didn’t seem to be a point.” He drank deeply—it was almost time to refill his glass again. “What’s the point of any of it…”

Marc grimaced, looking into his own drink. “Well, I don’t have any children… that I know of at least, but… to a lot of people, maybe most, they seem to be the point. A legacy of some sort…”

Tristan almost laughed at that. But he couldn’t, not really. He wondered for a moment about his own father. Had he thought of his sons as his legacy? Given his actions… had he thought Tristan would be his greatest legacy of all?

What would he think, seeing him now?

Marc continued. “Maybe… maybe you should have tried talking to him…”

Tristan shook his head. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to speak of the real reason why he knew he would never have tried talking to the boy—those angry eyes were lingering in his mind, haunting him.

Was it too much to ask to let himself imagine the two of them as being happy without him? The boy’s eyes were making it hard to pretend. If he spoke to him, learned more about him, he’d likely learn things he’d regret.

And yet… 

Did he want them to be happy? Himself, he hadn’t been happy since those far off, fleeting days years ago.

Did he want them to think of him?

So he found himself speaking.

“If I die in battle… will you take this to my son?” 

Marc just looked at him, not understanding. Tristan continued.

“This is my father’s dagger.” He unsheathed the dagger at his waist and held it across his hands. In recent years he’d taken to keeping it tied to his waist at all times. “The only memento I have of him. If I die… I have no other family I’d wish to have it. Only the boy…”

And… her as well… though I have no right.

He couldn’t speak the rest out loud.

That he wanted his son to know he thought of him, even if he’d been unable to do much for him, like his own father. And that, selfishly, he wanted her to know what happened to him, if it came to it. Since he had never been able to move on, had no one, where she, at least, had their child…

“I can do that,” Marc said.

Tristan nodded, feeling a small bit of the heavy weight lift off his chest.

Marc’s estimate of when their new commander would get them killed was off by two years.

After a blessed period of relative quiet, the skirmishes at the Dristan border had resumed, drawing their order back to there. They’d been drawn into a conflict with bandits near the border, skirmish after meaningless skirmish. But this time… though cooler heads had tried to convince Erique to listen to their advice again, he seemed to have finally decided it was his time to lead, his time to come up with some new, brilliant method of ending things once and for all—which of course meant doing something utterly brainless, the exact opposite of what the rest of the knights knew to be the smart strategy.

So Tristan found himself in a small cohort of knights, their forces splintered into pieces with the idea of “surrounding” the bandits and eliminating them before they could retreat into the forests.

An insane, laughable plan, one that relied on an impossible feat of coordination between a dozen groups with no means of communication.

And Tristan had to simply go along with it. The… little asshole was his commanding officer, after all.

His small group of knights snuck into position as the sun started to rise, hoping the rest of the groups were in position, though with no way of knowing if this was the case.

Suddenly, a shout rang out far to the left.

Before they could react, Tristan felt a deep impact against his chest, knocking him back.

He’d taken an arrow to the torso, a lucky shot, right between the gap for his arm in his breastplate.

He slid off his horse, looking up to see more arrows raining down on them, the rest of his group scattering, their horses whinnying in panic. 

He felt another arrow pierce his upper leg, another hit his clavicle, knocking him fully onto the ground.

Pain racked through him.

His vision started to fade, the noises of horses and running and blades clashing sounding all around him, before they started to fade as well. He realized… his last moments were upon him.

No! He didn’t want to die.

But… if the time had finally come…

I hope… someone mourns for me. 

Everything began to fall away, blackness overtaking the flickering light of the early morning sky. His thoughts flickered with the light, flitting through flashes of the life he’d lived, settling on an image of the boy with angry eyes… And a woman who’d looked at him with love…

Isma… will she…

Then, there was nothingness.

Nothing but silence.

Chapter Text

Whenever she looked out over the hill, she imagined the sea.

When the sun set just right, and there was a shimmer of light that blurred the border between the horizon and the sky, she could almost imagine the sea stretching out before her, replacing the rolling hills that were truly there.

She had a lot of things she tried not to remember. A lot of things that were both comforting and painful.

Was there anything that was just a comfort to her? That only made her feel happy? Or was every memory awash with sadness and hurt as well as any joy?

But at least looking out into the distance, as if she was her childhood self again, as if she was looking out across the sea for a returning ship, at least she could remember that fondly.

As a little girl, she used to wait atop the cliffs above her hometown, usually with her mother by her side, waiting to see if her father’s ship would come up over the horizon. When another ship would arrive instead, her mother would help her come up with stories to go along with its arrival, who was on it, where it came from, what other little girls were waiting for its landing.

She had so loved the sea, could still remember it fondly.

Until she remembered the wave.

That day was sunny and bright, with just the right amount of wind, so Isma and the other neighborhood children snuck away from their mothers to run their kites across the cliffs just above the town.

Isma loved running, loved dragging her kite behind her, the beautiful one her father had gifted her the last time he had been home. She loved watching it flap in the wind, keeping it afloat as long as possible before it would finally tumble to the ground.

She and the other children ran and laughed, whirling their kites through the sky, at one point watching as a large flock of birds flew by above them, racing inland. Maybe the birds didn’t like the wind?

“Isma, come make flower chains with me!” cried her friend Rana, already seated off to the side, near the cliff, where she had the best view of their town below.

“But Rana, the wind is still good!”

“Pleeeease, I’m tired!”

“Alright…”

Isma reluctantly went to join her, plopping down to sit on the ground.

She quickly forgot her annoyance, loving to look out over the town and the sea beyond. The waves sparkled today in the bright sun, the wind causing the waves to crest white even more than usual. It reminded Isma of the painting in the front foyer of their house, the one her father was so proud of, a group of fishermen batting their sails on a stormy sea.

“Here, help me with these flower chains! We can wear them and pretend to be princesses!”

Giggling, Isma helped Rana tie together the flowers she’d gathered. “Yes, then the boys can be knights!”

One of the boys still playing with kites heard them, and yelled, “Boo, who wants to be a knight, I’ll be a dragon!”

“Perfect, you are scaly and mean like one anyway!” Isma yelled back, getting a chorus of laughs and jeers from the others.

Rana continued making chains with the weeds and flowers around them, but Isma soon grew bored, preferring to look out at the sea.

She might be the first to see a ship come, and then all the children would come running, hoping to see what merchant guild it might be from, which of their fathers may finally be coming home.

She was looking out at the horizon, when something… odd near the shore caught her eye.

The shoreline… was pulling back. Fast, too, too fast.

She checked the sun, and yes, it was still the time of high tide. So why was the sea receding suddenly? It didn’t make sense.

She frowned, about to poke at Rana next to her, who was focused on her flowers.

Then she saw farther out… that a wave was coming… and it was tall…

“W-wave!! There’s a wave coming!” Isma gasped, watching with horror, the other children growing silent behind her, until all she could hear was a roar…

It was so loud…

Until it hit… and suddenly, the sound before was like a whisper.

They all began to scream, inaudible screams over the noise, watching with horror as everything they’d ever known was swept away like sand castles on the beach.

The week that followed was a blur.

Isma and the other children had spent that first night on the cliffs, huddled together, weeping. Only in the morning, once the water finally started to recede, did they slowly climb back down to the utter wreckage of their town. There was detritus everywhere, very little left standing, a wall here, a recognizable structure there, everything utterly obliterated and coated with mud and sand. Just pieces that made no sense on their own, all crumpled in a heap across the whole horizon. Isma’s red, raw eyes couldn’t rest anywhere.

Everything smelled, the reek was overwhelming. Her whole body ached from crying, from hunger, from fear of what was going to happen next. Would another wave come? Where should they go?

After only a few hours, she decided she never wanted to let her eyes rest anywhere ever again. Because as they really started looking around… there were bodies strewn throughout the town, bloated and rotting and…

She couldn’t find any of her family, alive or dead. She had desperately wanted to find them, but every time she laid eyes on a corpse, she was glad she couldn’t recognize it as someone she knew. At least… she felt something like gladness, until she became too numb to feel anything.

After that first day, she avoided the town, spending all her time near the remains of the docks. Most of the other children drifted away, finding a surviving relative, or simply too afraid to be near the sea.

But Isma couldn’t bear to be anywhere else, praying to all the gods that her father would come and take her away.

When the first ship came, the survivors who’d gathered by the docks cried in relief.

But their relief was nothing compared to Isma’s, because the ship that came...

It bore the emblem of her father’s guild.

Father… is that you… have you come home?

There was a flurry of people bounding forward on the rickety, makeshift docks. The wood creaked and groaned under the weight of too many people, swaying unsteadily... Isma felt her empty stomach lurch, terrified of falling into the water, either pushed by those behind her, or plunged into the water if the wooden planks under her feet buckled...

“All of you, get back! We can't dock like this!”

The sailors on the ship shouted curses down at the huddled crowd, waving ropes to shoo them away so they could attempt to dock. Isma ducked, barely missing being struck by one.

People fled behind her, afraid of being hit or sent reeling into the water. Huddled on the dock, Isma was too afraid and tired to move.

“Girl! Get back!”

“P-p-please! Help me! My father...”

“I said, get back!”

She screamed, and crouched into an even tighter ball.

Then she felt a hand grip the back of her dress, lifting her up...

Only to have it set her down on her feet. Startled, she looked up with tear-filled eyes at the man before her.

“That emblem on your dress...”

She suddenly remembered... all her clothes had had her father's guild emblem embroidered on them, her mother had stitched it there herself, saying they should be proud of their good fortune, her father's success.

She gasped, realizing... maybe this would help her reach her father...

“Y-yes! M-my father, he's in the guild! His name is Rif!”

“Rif Tajir? I know of him...” The man turned to another who'd made his way onto the docks. “Aram, isn’t he currently at the Wedon branch?”

“I believe so...”

Isma felt her heart nearly burst with a mix of sadness and relief. Her father wasn't there... but they knew him. They knew where he was!

“Tsk, what a disaster, Cesme reduced to a pile of rubble... I guess we can't leave her behind...”

Aram sighed. “One more mouth to feed won't be so difficult, I suppose. We certainly can't stay here. We only have so many provisions, and that mob... who knows what they'll do, they look desperate enough.”

Isma glanced back behind her, to see a group of armed men that must have gotten off the ship, pushing the other survivors back off the wooden docks, back onto the shore.

“Yes, best to send word of the situation to the capital... maybe leave them something to tide them over...”

“Not too much, captain, or we'll be in no shape to reach Wedon.”

They kept talking, but Isma wasn't fully listening. It was starting to dawn on her what they'd said... they were going to take her with them... she was going to be alright...

“Girl, what is your name?”

“I-Isma.”

“Well, Isma... where is the rest of your family?”

“G-gone. All gone. There was a wave...”

“I see, that's what happened... Well, I couldn't face your father if we left you here, so I suppose you better get on the ship.”

She finally felt tears roll down her eyes.

I am safe.

The feeling didn’t last long.

“Hurry, let’s get to the branch office. I want to get going as soon as possible,” grumbled the leader of the merchant caravan, as their carts rumbled down the main road of Croyso village.

Isma stayed quiet as a mouse, knowing by now that the man had little patience for anyone, even less for a useless girl who was little more than deadweight.

She had grown very, very silent. It was easier that way.

Once the ship had reached Wedon, the men of her father’s guild had arranged for her to travel with a different Southern merchant guild’s caravan heading to Croyso Castle, where she could reunite with her father. None of the goods they carried were fit to take there themselves as they’d expected to exchange them in Cesme, so they had no reason to head inland, planning to head on to the next port after restocking their supplies. So they’d left her in the care of another guild, wishing her luck for the rest of her journey.

If only… she’d had that luck while on board the ship—

No! I will not think of it! I cannot!!

So she let herself hope, hope the… awful, awful journey was over, and soon, soon she'd be able to run to her father, feel his arms around her, feel safe once more…

I’ll continue to block out all thoughts of the ship, never think of it, never speak of it to anyone, just like he said I must…

“Hm, this is odd...”

They had arrived at a large, well-kept building, bearing the emblem of her father’s guild on the front... but the windows were boarded up, the building appeared empty. 

Passersby threw glances their way, but did not seem to want to stop. Finally, the leader approached one.

“You there, why is this guild house closed?”

The man started, clearly uncomfortable being approached by strangers. 

“I… well, I heard a rumor, but…”

“Well, tell it, and be quick.”

“I heard… the majority of the guild members were killed in a monster attack during their latest trading expedition. The remaining clerks packed up and headed to the capital after that…”

The leader swore. Isma shrank back, wondering what all this meant, but her mind latched onto one word.

Killed…

Majority? What did that mean? What about her father?

Where is he?

“Damn it, and we were planning to move on to Dristan… We can’t afford to go to the capital with the funds we have now… how many people were lost? What of their cargo?”

“All I know I just told you… the Master of Guilds probably can tell you more…”

The rest of the conversation washed over Isma, as she felt the now familiar feeling of panic rise in her throat. It felt like the world was falling out from under her again, like quicksand under her feet, like a wave coming to wash her away…

They made their way through the village, to an even grander building. The leader and a few other men went in, leaving the wagons outside. She stared dumbly ahead, feeling as if a deep chill was settling over her, her limbs tingling. She sat on one the wagons, pulling her legs into herself, praying, praying…

Until…

The men exited the building, returning to the wagons, their faces grim. The leader shook his head, before his head twitched toward her, eyes dark, the bad news written all over his face. 

“Damn… what are we going to do with the girl?”

“This is the girl, then? How old is she?”

“Ten, ma’am, or so she told us.”

“Hmm… a bit old to start training as a maid. But I suppose we can make it work, God willing.”

The woman, who looked neither young nor old, was looking down at Isma as if she was a bolt of cloth she was considering buying. Her face had a few lines, her hair covered by a crisply ironed white headcloth. But the impression that struck Isma was her mouth, clenched into a tight, unfriendly line.

The merchants spoke with the stern-looking woman some more, arguing over their acquiring fee or something, and the woman testily responding back about training costs, something Isma couldn’t follow…

She could barely focus on anything, her mind just replaying the same chorus, over and over and over.

Dead, dead, dead, father is dead…

I’m all alone.

Dead, dead, dead…

Finally, with a sigh, the leader gave the woman a coin purse, and after throwing a quick farewell nod to Isma, they all turned to leave.

She didn’t know how to feel, seeing them go. They had not been friendly… though… at least none of them had…

Her mind recoiled from the memories. 

Only to return to her chorus.

Dead, dead, dead.

Where was it that she was being left? What was to become of her now? The thought felt odd, like it was bubbling over her cold sadness. She looked up at the woman who was now staring down at her with a measuring look. 

“What is your name, girl? Assuming you speak our tongue.”

“I-Isma, ma’am.” She managed to keep her voice from quivering too much, unsure how to talk to this unfriendly woman. Why would the woman think she couldn’t speak the same language? Their town had also belonged to the Roem Empire at one point, united under one language, or so her mother had taught her…

“Are you baptized, Isma?”

Isma gave her a puzzled look. She wasn’t familiar with that word…

The woman clicked her tongue.

“A true charity I’m doing, then, taking on a pagan girl! But I am a devout woman of the church—if I didn’t think it would save your soul, I might have refused.” 

Isma just kept staring at her in response.

Dead, dead, dead…

Clicking her tongue again, the woman approached her and grabbing her arm, started dragging her along, bringing her outside the room where they’d been, down the grand hall, past people dressed in the same white and black uniforms bustling by, some pausing to give the pair of them furtive glances.

“I am called Madame Madeline, girl, and I oversee the maids of this castle,” said the stern woman, still hustling her down the halls. “If you work hard, and learn all you can, you will find a place here, God willing. As you are about to find a place among God’s people.” 

She stopped before a large room, filled with rows of wooden benches, light streaming through colored glass windows. At the front was a big stone slab, covered in cloth, and behind it, a large symbol hung on the wall, a “cross,” part of the religion of the Northern Continent, if she remembered right.

At the front of the room stood a pedestal with a circular stone basin, filled with water.

“Madame Madeline, good afternoon to you… and who is this?” a man called out from a corner of the room.

“A new servant girl. She came from the Southern Continent to meet with her father, but it seems his merchant caravan was beset by monsters.”

“Mercy on their souls… And you’ve brought her here to the servant’s chapel to…?”

“Be baptized. I won’t have a pagan staying amongst my girls, possibly corrupting them. And there’s her soul to consider as well, of course.”

“I see. Give me a moment to prepare.”

The man bustled about the room, draping a thin strip of cloth around his neck, lighting candles on the stone slab behind him.

“Be quiet and do whatever the cleric tells you to, girl,” Madame Madeline hissed into her ear.

The man—the cleric—approached them, and Isma stiffened as he drew close.

Then he started chanting.

She couldn’t keep hold of his words, they were unfamiliar and said in a tone almost as if he was singing. 

So much had happened that day… 

Dead, dead… dead.

Then suddenly, the priest grasped her neck, and with another chant, dunked her into the water, the shock of the cold water covering her head barely registering before he pulled her out by her neck, only to plunge her in again, and then a third time.

Drenched and gasping, she looked down, water dripping down from her wet hair onto the stone tiles of the floor.

I thought I was going to drown… 

Tears started then, undistinguished from the water running down her face. She was alone, her father was dead, and she knew no one here, knew nothing of what was happening. 

And she had no way to get home, just being one powerless little girl. 

“Keep quiet girl, don’t say a word of this to anyone. Good girls stay quiet about things like this. No one cares about one little girl anyway, so be smart or I’ll come find you again…” 

Home, safety… it didn’t even exist anymore…

Not for her.

Isma watched the other young maids out of the corner of her eye, from her usual spot farthest from the fire. Like everyone in the castle, their conversation was filled with nothing but talk of the upcoming wedding of the lord of the castle, the Duke of Croyso, and the flurry of guests from across the duchy and the whole world who had been arriving all month.

“This wedding must be the grandest of all time! The duke is sparing no expense, I can’t even fathom the lavishness of it all.”

“I’m just glad we don’t work in the kitchens, they’ll be worked to death at this point, with all the food they’re preparing!”

“Food, food. Who cares about food we won’t even get to eat. I’m more interested in all the guests! There are so many handsome knights! Any catch your eye, Marie?”

“Ha! As if I’m fool enough to fall for some handsome face just out for a little fun…”

“Oh, lighten up, Marie, what’s wrong with a little fun? You just have to keep your wits about you…”

Isma listened half-heartedly as she worked on her sewing. Even after all this time, she never joined in their gossip, never sat amongst them, carefree and at ease.

They’d never really accepted her.

She’d been a junior maid for five years, longer than was standard, doing the grunt work of clearing cinders from the fireplaces in the morning, carting pails and pails of water to the castle all day, polishing the floors late into the night until her arms and back ached. Always waking with the crack of dawn, and only laying down to rest when it was dark. 

Even now that she had been a chambermaid for two years, she was still at the bottom of the pecking order.

Always thrown perplexed glances by the guests, wondering what a “pagan” was doing working in the castle. Always talked over, insults thrown her way by her fellow workers. Life as a servant here was hard, and so it seemed that the rest of the servants needed someone even more unfortunate to look down on…

She was an easy target.

But despite the hard work, the cruelty from the other girls, and the way Madame Madeline singled her out with unreasonable expectations of piety and perfection, never allowed to miss a church service, to take a step out of line… she knew that she’d been lucky.

It had taken some time for her to realize this. She’d had to learn even more of the harshness of the world, to realize as she did now that her countrymen could easily have sold her for a tidy sum to a brothel. Instead, they’d spent their own money to get her a place as a serving girl at Croyso Castle.

Small mercies, but… enough to keep her going.

Sighing, she bent back over her sewing, until her ears perked up after hearing a familiar name.

“Well, even if you won’t say, I’ll admit to having my eye on a certain knight! Sir Tristan Alain is by far the handsomest of the lot! I wouldn’t mind if he asked me to… attend to him.”

“Elise, you are too much!”

“What? I hear he’s poor too, I’m sure he’s not too proud to grace a maid with his favors.”

They all tittered.

“Who’s taking care of his room? Can you switch with her?”

“Isn’t it…”

Another of the maids, Guinevere, surreptitiously looked over at Isma.

Isma tried to appear nonchalant, like she hadn’t been listening.

Because… just the other night…

Tristan leaned towards her, his hands lightly grasping her own, the light of the fire highlighting the strong contours of his handsome face, flickering in his hazel eyes that gazed at her like she was some beautiful, precious thing he couldn’t keep himself from staring at.

Then he asked her that question. 

“May I kiss you?”

At her assent, he'd bent down, until his soft lips were on hers...

"Hey, Isma! You’ll switch with me, won’t you?"

With a start, Isma focused back on Elise, who was now frowning at her, clearly annoyed that she wasn't answering right away. The other maids snickered.

“I… that is, I’d… rather not…”

Guinevere laughed loudly, slapping her knee. “Oh Elise, seems you have competition.”

Elise frowned at Isma, before turning back to her gathered group with a sniff. 

“Hmph. If that’s how it is…” She shook herself before a wicked smile came to her lips. “It’s not like there aren’t other handsome men in the castle. And if that’s his taste… not sure I want someone that depraved…”

“Elise, you’re too much!!” tittered another girl, Annabelle. She was newer, younger, and went along with whatever Elise did—especially if that involved tormenting Isma.

Marie shot up from her seat in the circle, hastily brushing off her skirt, before turning to Isma.

“Isma, you and I better get going, I just remembered that Madame Madeline told us this morning to make sure the second drawing room is stocked with firewood.”

The other girls giggled behind her, but thankfully didn’t say anything.

Isma quickly stood as well, placing her sewing down in the corner, and followed Marie out of the room. 

Once they were a safe distance away, Isma asked, “Did Madame Madeline really say that?”

“Of course not, but I was sick of listening to Elise’s awfulness.”

Isma blushed as she saw the genuine look of disgust on Marie’s face. 

She’d always thought of Marie as… well, the closest to a friend she had in the castle. She didn’t say cruel things to her like the others, even sometimes went out of her way to be nice to her. But she hadn’t known the other girl actually thought ill of the others. 

"Anyway, don’t let Elise get to you, Isma. She’s just jealous because she knows she's not even half as pretty as you are."

Isma blushed harder. "No need to exaggerate, Marie..."

"Who's exaggerating? Come, you must know you're the prettiest girl in the castle! The way everyone pays attention to you!"

"What are you saying... no one pays me any attention! Unless it's to be cruel..."

Marie sighs. "Fine, there are many awful people here, too. But come now, you can’t be completely unaware of it! The way all the menservants throw looks your way during chapel every morning!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Marie sighed.

“Really? Even after… I mean, we’ve been doing shifts in pairs for years now so we wouldn't be alone..."

She did know what Marie was talking about. There had been… too many close calls, with men of the castle trying to find her alone, probably thinking that the “pagan” girl wouldn’t mind, would be willing to do all sorts of indecent things.

She’d managed to flee each time. And Marie… well, she’d noticed, and mentioned one day to Madame Madeline that they should really be working in pairs.

"T-that's true for all of us! It's just safer that way... there are... so many men that can't be trusted."

Marie gave her a sad look.

"On that note... you will be careful, won't you? I know you're... well, spending time with that knight. I can't think of another reason you'd ask me to cover your shift tonight."

"He's... been very kind to me…"

Beyond his heavenly good looks, his heart-melting smile that had sent warmth shooting throughout her body, what had struck her immediately had been his kindness. None of the other castle guests she’d interacted with had ever been so kind and polite to her, usually barely sparing her a glance, or else looking at her in a way that only made her feel uncomfortable, exposed.

"Well... be careful, Isma. You have a fragile heart, I'd hate to see you hurt more."

Isma nodded, hoping to reassure Marie, as well as herself. She wanted to be careful... but another part of her yearned to throw all caution to the wind, give over some of her pain and loneliness and let Tristan fully into her heart. It had been so long... and his touch, unlike what she'd come to expect from men, had only filled her with want, unfamiliar and powerful and desperate.

She would try to be careful. She would.

The first time she slept with Tristan, she had given him a yes, but truthfully… she hadn’t been sure, felt like her body was just going along with where he led. All she really knew was that she wanted him to like her, wanted him to want her.

She felt so much less alone, when she was with him.

What they had done felt strange, not painful or bad… but confusing. She hadn’t known how to feel.

Thankfully… being with him hadn’t sparked any memories.

The next time was better. And the next time…

Soon she found she couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t even just the feeling itself, but how desperately he seemed to want it, want her.

She wanted to please him.

Before she’d realized it, she’d fallen madly for him, allowing herself to dream of him taking her away with him when he left, away from here, to anywhere. He listened to her tell stories of the olive trees around her house, her mother’s beautiful weavings, the exotic gifts her father would bring. He laughed and teased and held her, all things that had been missing from her life for years.

So while she heard the whispers of her fellow maids, saw them shaking their heads at her, she found she didn’t care anymore what they thought, what they said.

Not when she had him.

"Isma."

Hearing his voice, her heart leapt, and she turned from her idle tending of the fire in his room. He looked marvelous in his fine white tunic and smart black trousers fit to show off his powerful physique, a hint of silver embroidery on his lapels, his golden-brown hair a little mussed despite being combed back earlier in the evening. She’d seen him run his fingers through his hair enough to recognize its current state, some idleness or frustration prompting him to rake his hands through it throughout the night. 

He sounded happy now though, and maybe a little drunk, as he pulled her towards him.

"Tristan! You're back late..."

She trailed off as he wrapped his arms around her, pressing his body against her, before lowering his lips to hers for a kiss.

He tasted strongly of wine and rich food.

"I want to show you something," he said huskily when he pulled back after a time. "Are you alright with leaving the castle?"

She looked at him, still a little dazed. It was not yet spring, still the last month of winter, but it had been unseasonably warm for the past few days. Even so...

"If… If we were to get caught..."

"It's alright, it's alright, I brought you an extra cloak. No one will know it's you."

She noticed then the cloth slung over his arm.

"I want you to see this, I know you will like it."

How could she refuse him?

After seeing her quick nod, his face split into a dazzling smile. Carefully, he draped the extra cloak over her shoulders and head.

"Perfect."

After grabbing his own cloak, he took her hand and dragged her half-laughing behind him, his grin and good spirits too infectious not to join in. Isma forgot her tiredness, her worry over being caught out of the castle when she should be sleeping in order to prepare for the morning... and just let herself feel pleasure at being with the man she loved.

He walked her swiftly down a side passage and out past the front gardens, then farther out, past the smithy and the newly refurbished annex.

She gasped, to see rows and rows of flowers, freshly planted and filling the slightly chilly evening with a glorious fragrance.

"The duke had them planted as a surprise for his bride. We spent some time during the banquet tonight admiring them. They will probably die from frost in the coming days, so I wanted you to see them tonight."

He wrapped his arms around her again, pressing her back flush against his chest, before planting a kiss against her cheek, murmuring into her ear.

"I would have brought you some, but I wanted to give all of them to you..."

“Tristan…”

She turned slowly in his arms, looking up at him with shining eyes. It meant so much to her, that he’d seen this beautiful sight, and thought of her, of sharing it with her.

Their lips met, drawn together as if by an unseen force.

He drew her down, laying her amongst the flowers, the smell of roses and jasmine and irises wafting in the air, along with the sweet smell of grass and new dirt. She didn’t let herself think about dirtying her dress, didn’t let herself worry about how easy it would be to get caught out here, in the castle gardens entangled with a knight…

She just let herself feel Tristan’s mouth and hands and sweet words caressing her body.

He pushed her skirt up, pulled her sleeves down, her clothes bunching around her waist, his hands finding themselves against her breasts, between her legs. She pulled at his tunic, running down the contours of his body, before tugging at his belt, helping him remove his trousers.

Panting, their bodies half exposed to the night air, the garden strangely quiet beyond a soft call of a night owl, Tristan’s low moans, her own soft sighs... then they connected, a sharp thrill running up and down her body as he gripped her hips, proceeding to touch her in all the ways he knew she liked, pouring his whole self into her. Before she knew it, he was sending her over the edge, her already hazy view of the stars above blurring further, her body continuing to throb on and on after her climax.

It took her a moment as her haze cleared to realize that he’d followed right after, still connected with her.

Their breaths cooled, misting in the suddenly colder night air, and they lay on the ground in each other’s arms for a long time, listening to the quiet sounds of the winter garden.

"It's alright, Isma, let it out," Marie said, gently rubbing Isma’s back.

Moaning, Isma clutched the bucket Marie had fetched for her tighter, before once more vomiting bile into it, her stomach already empty from a morning filled with overwhelming nausea.

The sun’s brightness and the fresh, crisp air of the mid-spring morning made her feel even worse.

"Aaagh, Marie.... th-thank you... I just feel so..."

"I know, I'm here for you."

The other girls in the dormitory were starting to get up for the day, avoiding the corner where Marie was comforting a curled up and vomiting Isma.

"Tsk. We all know what that means."

Isma looked up with bleary eyes at Elise, who was shooting a disgusted sneer at her from her bunk across the room.

And Isma... couldn't deny that she did know what Elise meant, what this meant. She'd been denying it to herself for days, shying away from the thought whenever it bubbled up in her mind, causing her body to sweat and her nausea to grow more powerful.

Because... they'd all seen it before... it likely meant...

The memory of that beautiful, late winter night in the garden kept creeping back into her mind… the night when they’d been so careless, him drunk on wine, her on her dreams and the scent of blooming flowers…

Tristan had been right, the flowers had all died in a frost not three days later. The duke had replaced them a month later, but they hadn’t been quite the same, quite as lovely to Isma’s eye.

"I won't tell Madame Madeline, but she'll find out soon enough." Elise sniffed and got up from her bed. "You better hope that precious knight of yours has some honor in him."

Elise made to leave the room, a sing-songy tone in her voice.

"Else who knows where you'll end up."

Isma gathered all her courage, taking several deep breaths, telling herself over and over again that it would all work out, all would be well.

She entered Tristan’s room.

“Isma? You’re here early!”

Tristan sat up from the bed, blinking at the sunlight streaming through the window, clearly having just woken up. The banquet had gone late into the night before. The months of celebration were coming to a close, and the impending end seemed to bring out an extra intensity in the guests’ revelry.

“Good morning, Tristan.” Isma slowly walked up to the bed, her heart hammering in her throat.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Come join me—I have a splitting headache, and I’m sure a kiss from you will cure me completely…”

Unable to stop herself, she climbed into the bed with him, let him pull her into a tight embrace, rolling her under him to kiss her passionately.

Only for him to pull back after a moment.

“What’s wrong? You’re all tense, is this a bad time?”

“I, I have something to talk to you about.”

Her heart did a flip at the concerned look in his eyes, before he carefully sat up, pulling her up with him, holding her gaze.

“What is it?”

Here it goes…

“I think… that is, it seems almost certain, well, it is certain… ”

He simply looked blankly down at her, and to get the last out, she had to shut her eyes.

“I’m with child.”

When she finally opened her eyes to look at him, her heart dropped.

He looked… devastated. 

They stared at each other for a long time, her heart thudding louder and louder. All her hopes that maybe, just maybe he would take her with him when he left, had purer intentions towards her than deep down she’d always known was the case… all her hopes withered away, like flowers planted too early, only to be killed by a winter storm.

The voices of the other maids, their sneers and eyerolls at her foolish behavior all winter returned to her mind, and suddenly, she was struck by the fact that maybe… maybe they’d been right, she’d been a fool…

Suddenly, he pulled her into him, crushing her in a tight embrace.

“Isma… It’ll be alright… I’ll… I’ll take care of you.”

With a sob, she wrapped her arms around him, trying to press herself into him as tightly as he did her.

“I’ve been made aware of your situation.”

Isma tensed, staring at Madame Madeline’s impassive face, the only hint of her deep displeasure the pronounced downturn in her usually straight-lined lips.

She’d been startled when Madame Madeline had called her into her room for an “urgent talk,” and with a sinking heart, could think of only one reason, which the woman’s words immediately confirmed.

She hadn’t seen Tristan since yesterday, she didn’t know what his plan was, so if Madame Madeline knew she was with child, and planned to remove her from the castle, she had to find a way to contact him… She wracked her mind for what to do to stall, how she could sneak back to his room after Madame Madeline was done with her.

“A man from the village has come to fetch you for a rushed wedding. Thank God, else once this became… apparent in the coming days, I would have had to simply throw you out to the mercy of the world.”

Isma started at that, surprised. Had Tristan already arranged for them to… was he going to…

“I cannot allow this kind of depravity to spread, as you well know. Only good, church-fearing, unwed girls can work as maids in this castle, as long as I am in charge!”  She clicked her tongue. “After everything I’ve done for you, taught you, this is how you repay me!” 

Isma looked down, hoping to look contrite. If what Madame Madeline said was true… she’d never have to listen to another lecture from the woman again…

“Tsk. You continue to be a lucky thing, beyond what you deserve. At least the man who… you let do this to you has a shred of decency in him. There’s someone outside who’ll escort you to the village and your arranged marriage. Hopefully you’ll be of more use to the farmer that’s agreed to be your husband than you’ve been here, God willing.”

Farmer… Then did that mean… 

“W-what?” Isma said, unable to stop herself.

“You heard me, your… paramour has done the decent thing and arranged a dowry for you. Count your many blessings, and strive from here on out to lead a more virtuous life. Heaven help you.”

Isma felt like she’d been doused in cold water, dunked into a basin of water again and again, like all those many years ago. 

Following the cold, the fear… a numbness settled on her.

Tristan… please…

“Tristan… please… don’t leave me here.”

As the red, red sun set against the green, rolling hills, casting Tristan’s beautiful face in heartbreaking relief, she could feel the numbness dissipate from her body, replaced with sharp desperation clawing at her throat, her eyes, begging him to change his mind, change what had just happened…

He took a sharp breath. 

“I’m sorry, I… I have to. Our orders are to leave tomorrow for the Dristan border. This will be best for you, I don’t have anywhere I can take you…”

She couldn’t make sense of his words. Nowhere to take her? How could that be, when he had everything, everything in this world compared to her. Honor, respect, money to stay and go as he pleased… How could he leave her, just like everyone had her entire life, ever since the wave had destroyed her home and her family? Like everyone who’d taken her in for a time only to abandon her, throw her away when it became too inconvenient…

Just like the merchants had, he’d paid someone to take her, leaving her as the belonging of some stranger.

No, no, no, Tristan was different, he cared, he loved her…

So why… why couldn’t she stay by his side? 

Why was he leaving?

And so she broke, falling against his chest, refusing to believe this was happening, needing to be connected with him, with someone, needing to matter…

Sobs racked her, sobs for her wretched self, wretched life, always to be left behind, while everything was swept away from her, alone on a hill, as the world crumbled all around her…

His arms wrapped around her, his head resting against the top of hers as she sobbed, on and on, his arms shaking slightly as they held her.

Her heart clung to those arms.

Slowly, slowly, her tears stopped, like she’d run dry, no more tears left inside her to fall.

After the last of her tears dried along her cheek, she brought her eyes up to meet his, with only one thought in her mind.

Hope… I need something to hope for…

“Will you… come back for me?”

 “I…”

“If you ever can, will you… come back for me… for us?”

She poured all her love and desire into her eyes, begging him, begging…

“Yes… Isma, if I ever can… I will.”

His voice was just a whisper, but she clung to it.

Somehow, she found herself back inside the dark, tiny cottage, alone with the stranger she’d just married.

The wedding had been a blur, as had the whole day.

The refrain from one of the many other terrible, numbing days of her life returned to her mind.

Dead, dead, dead…

But no—she wasn’t dead, he wasn’t dead. 

As long as that was the case, she had to have hope.

The man—Novan, that was his name—coughed, clearing his throat.

“Miss Isma, um… would you like something to eat?”

After a pause, much too long a pause, she nodded.

She and Novan were awkward around each other, those first few months. Her first thought on meeting him was simply that he was nothing like Tristan—shorter, older, his dark brown hair thinning, his watery brown eyes unsure, nothing like Tristan’s warm and confident gaze. 

Luckily, she didn’t have to think about him much, as he was busy most of the time, the hard farming work of summer keeping him out of the house, out amongst his fields. She stayed inside, sewing or working on some small household project, something to keep her mind and hands occupied.

She’d gone back to the castle a few days after the wedding to fetch her things. Everyone had avoided her, barely making eye-contact… except for Marie. 

Marie at least had greeted her, hugged her, told her to come to her if she needed anything, to keep in touch.

It had meant… a lot, to know someone else beyond Tristan cared about her, cared if she lived or died.

The summer passed in a blur of heat and boredom and growing discomfort at her pregnant state, until one day, in mid-fall, the baby arrived.

The birth was painful—so, so painful. It felt like she’d been cracked open, her lifeblood spilling out onto the scratchy, uncomfortable cottage bed, her screams resounding around the cramped cottage walls, her one small comfort being the rough midwife’s cloth wiping the sweat from her brow.

Once it was over, she added it to the long list of days she could not think about, could not let her mind dwell on. A day filled only with pain and sadness.

Because after… after, when she held the baby, looked into its black eyes, took in its tuft of black hair, skin lighter than hers, but darker than his… staring at the child, she felt… nothing.

She named him Riftan, though, thinking of Tristan, and her father.

More months passed in a blur, each day of the cold, dark winter melting into each other, as she stared at the walls around her, avoiding looking at the child except when she had to feed it, avoiding looking at her husband except the few times he spoke to her, requiring her attention.

Then one day, the first day of the new year that felt like spring , despite the chill still in the air. She felt a sudden urge to move, to do something, to leave this cottage that was starting to feel like a prison.

She remembered Marie’s invitation to come see her… 

Quickly glancing at the sleeping child in its crib, she made the decision. 

It would be fine for an hour or so, she could slip away for that long.

On her way back to the cottage, she was drawn to the hills.

She’d stayed longer than she meant to, lying to Marie that someone was watching her baby, steering the conversation away from her life to hearing about the castle, all the people she’d known and hadn’t heard of for almost a year.

She even found herself… missing them, even the cruelest ones. 

At least she’d felt something back then.

And so, heading home… she found herself unable to approach the house, unable to bring herself to go back in.

So she went to the hill, and looked out, remembering…

Tristan, and the sea.

As the sun began to set, her cold, numb heart ached to look at the colors as red as the day he’d left her there, redder even than the ruby of the roses in the garden that fateful winter’s night.

When she’d been touched with love, drunk on it.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone running towards her.

Novan…

“ISMA!!!”

She recoiled—there was raw, overpowering anger in that voice.

She’d never heard him like that… never really seen any emotion in him other than sincerity and awkwardness. 

Truthfully, she barely thought of him, barely noticed him.

She pulled back as he stormed up to her, grabbing her arm and hissing down at her.

“Where the hell have you been?! How could you leave the child alone like that? He’s blue with cold, he could have died!!”

She could think of nothing to say, a strange, throbbing feeling coming over her… the child… yes, she’d forgotten about it…

Swearing, Novan dragged her down the hill, dragged her back to the house, depositing her in one of the chairs at their lone table.

Muttering, frantic, he went over to the crib, where he’d clearly hastily wrapped the child in more blankets, and pulled the bundle out of it, rubbing its back to warm it.

“Stay right there,” he spat, his eyes still filled with anger. “I’m going to find… someone… to watch him. You better be here when I get back.”

With that, he strode out of the house.

She sat there, staring at the looming cottage walls again, the strange emotion continuing to swirl through her.

A long time later, after the sun had set, she heard the door open, and Novan entered alone.

“I’ve arranged for the widow down the road to watch him tonight. Maybe longer…”

She just stared at him, unable to think of anything to say, the strange, strange emotion growing stronger…

“This can’t happen again, you understand? A child needs a mother, and you’re that boy’s! I can’t watch him, I have to work these fields or else we’ll all starve! Do you understand? He needs you!!”

At each word, he’d taken a step closer, until he was looming over her, his shouts turning to pleas, his hands grasping her arms, so tight as to be almost painful.

He seemed to see something in her eyes, and he gripped her arms even tighter.

“Say something…” he whispered, his anger still apparent.

She balked, trying to move her tongue, the feeling swelling, crashing harder over her than before.

Was this feeling… guilt?

“Will you… ever really look at me? Ever… let me be a husband to you in anything but name?”

His grip loosened, and with a shaking hand, he pressed his palm to her cheek.

“Will you ever give me a chance?”

Tired, oh so tired, racked with guilt before this man who’d been nothing but kind to her, and yet was nothing to her… she nodded.

Afterwards, when Novan had stopped, she curled over onto the far side of the bed and retched , her mind replaying that cursed, cursed time in her childhood, back on the ship that took her to this place, back when she’d been innocent and still believed in that people were inherently good… To the time when that cruel, cruel sailor with his crooked, yellow teeth and blood-shot eyes had laid hands on her, taken away from her all sense of safety in this world. She’d sworn to that man she’d never think of it, never speak of it, sworn to herself that she’d try and believe it had never even happened …

Novan never touched her again.

Somehow ten years went by.

These days, every time she laid eyes on her son, she felt something crack inside her heart, like a painful spasm, ice breaking in the depths of winter.

Because every day, he was turning more and more into his father, his features melding into her memories of him, the only change the boy’s dark complexion, somewhere between his father’s and her own.

The older he got, it became easier to simply not look at him.

It was easier to not do or think about a lot of things.

After the episode when he’d been a few months old, she’d done her best to care for him, at least until he was old enough to walk, old enough to wander after his stepfather in the fields. From that time on, she’d found herself escaping the cottage every day to stand on the hill, looking out, thinking of the very few parts of her life that didn’t cause her only pain. Think of the faint hope that some of her family still lived across the ocean, in a place she would never see again. Think of her beloved father, buried along some road. Think of Tristan, who had said he would come back for her.

Then a day came that wasn’t simple monotony—Novan returned from town, drunk, and spoke to her for the first time in months, since lamenting that their winter stores might run out unless they managed to forage something from the forest.

“The headman told me your knight was in town today.”

She turned and looked at him, blood suddenly pumping through her body in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

“What?”

“You heard me. Your knight, Sir Tristan, came to town today. He asked about you, and the boy.”

“H-he did?” She stared at him, willing him to continue, eager to hear what he might say next.

Then she really took in the spiteful smile on his face. He wasn’t telling her this for her sake…

He wanted to hurt her.

And yet… Tristan was here, Tristan was nearby. She turned away from Novan, and with shaking hands, grabbed her comb, slowly dragging it through her hair, though she’d already brushed it diligently that morning, just like she did every morning.

With a scoff, Novan turned and fell down on the bed, mumbling drunkenly.

She couldn’t make herself care, her heart was beating so fast.

Even though it was getting dark, the sun almost entirely set, she hurried out of the cottage, back to the hill. She thought about going to town, but no—if he was coming, he’d know to come here, back to where he’d made his promise.

She wished she had a mirror, to check her face. But she’d seen herself in a stream not too many months ago—she was still lovely, still not so changed as to be unrecognizable to him.

She stayed on the hill as the sun fully set.

In the last light of day, she could make out a small figure that was wending its way from the castle towards the cottage, causing her heart to beat fast again for a moment… until she saw it couldn’t be Tristan, it was much too small. And she was right—it was the boy, come back from work at the stables.

She vaguely remembered hearing Novan and the boy talk about it a few months ago, that he would start working at the castle, tending to the horses.

She didn’t know how to feel about the fact the boy was spending his days where she had been the happiest in her life.

So she didn’t feel anything.

The boy passed the hill, too far to really make out his expression, but she thought she saw him shoot an angry glare towards the hill.

But she couldn’t dwell on it because…

Tristan hadn’t come. The sun had set, and he hadn’t come.

She couldn’t give up her hope completely, but her heart felt colder and more empty than before.

Somehow, two more years passed, the disappointment fading into the background sadness of her life, numbness returning, her routine being all that kept her from sinking into feeling, into losing all hope.

She’d caught on after a few months that the boy had moved on from the stables, now working at the castle smithy, Novan having spent some of Tristan’s money to get him an apprenticeship.

She was noticing more and more about the boy, as he and Novan talked every so often in the evening, after the sun set and she was forced to return to the cottage. At some point the boy had started talking so smoothly, stopped being a small child, babbling… lost his chubby cheeks, started to shoot up like a weed…

Somehow, he was growing. Nearly grown, even…

Then one day, for the first time she could remember… the boy was sick.

She’d returned from the hill to find him curled up on his bed, shaking and shivering, his whole body covered in a sheen of sweat.

More parts of her heart cracked, seeing him weak and trembling like that.

It was like… a dam breaking, a wave crashing over her.

Panic.

She stumbled over to the bed, pulling a chair to sit by him, her hand trembling as it pressed against his forehead, feeling his hot, hot face.

Memories, sweet ones, came to her, of her own mother caring for her when she was sick, giving her cold compresses, stroking her hair, murmuring to her that everything would be alright…

The panic mixed with that feeling she remembered from when he was a baby, of guilt, sadness, loneliness and regret. 

She ran to prepare him a cold compress, to put together some soup.

She sat by his side all night, ignoring Novan when he came home, drunk as usual, ignoring how he stared at her like she’d grown an extra head.

Because looking down at the sick boy before her, she was enveloped in one thought.

He was just a little boy…  Her son.

She stroked his head, his soft hair, and her frozen heart cracked further and further, leaving something raw and fragile in its place.

But then… in a moment of lucidity, the boy looked at her.

There was such… confusion, pain, and anger in his feverish, hazy eyes.

For a moment she saw herself, saw herself in his eyes, what she really was, how deeply and thoroughly she’d failed him.

She hated herself in that moment.

Fortunately, by the next day he had improved, and within a few days he was up again and turning his back on her, heading to the castle.

The day after her son recovered, once he was out of sight, she headed up the hill.

Staring out over the horizon, she thought and thought… but this time, she wasn't only focusing on the distant past.

When she'd gone into town yesterday, she'd heard the rumors that the Royal Knights were back in the duchy. It was an instinct for that very fact to raise her hopes, make her wonder - would he come for her this time?

And yet, even in that reflexive thought, she found herself thinking more about the present, the time she’d spent in this place, in this cottage with Novan and her son.

She’d been like a lifeless doll, barely moving, barely thinking.

She’d wasted the past twelve years.

Perhaps… perhaps it was time to move on. Try… try to do more than just exist.

It may be too late… but…

A gust of wind blew, and she turned toward the house… to see a man, no, a knight approaching her.

Her heart soared, just like it had two years ago, and she knew, she knew in that moment, she’d never be rid of this, rid of the hope that Tristan would come for her. Moving on wasn’t possible, she was truly and thoroughly stuck.

…But it wasn’t Tristan.

No matter what the years had done to either of them, the man approaching her couldn’t be him, he was too short, his hair too light, his manner all wrong. 

He approached her slowly, and she felt her heartbeat pick up again, but this time… 

It filled her with dread.

“Are you Isma?” the man called out when he was still several strides away from her, apparently sensing her unease.

“Yes, that is my name. And you are…?”

He relaxed slightly and continued approaching, though his eyes were still… wary.

“I am Sir Marc Cornwall. I’m looking for a woman named Isma, the mother of a boy named Riftan. I assume that is you?”

She nodded, her mind turning, wondering what he was doing here, why…

The knight reached for his belt, and pulled out a jeweled dagger.

“I am sorry to bring this news, but I swore to the boy’s father that I would bring the boy this dagger in the event of his death.”

She let the words wash over her, not truly taking them in.

“I am a member of the same order of knights as Sir Tristan, and regret to inform you he was killed in action a month ago in a battle at—”

She didn’t hear him after that.

Dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

Tristan… is dead.

He wasn’t coming. He would never come for her. This was it, this was all that her life would be. A lonely, abandoned girl turned woman, a terrible, heartless wife and mother.

She didn’t want to remain here any longer.

She had nowhere to go.

They would be happier without her.

Somehow, she bid the knight goodbye, ignoring his furrowed brow as he stared at her, and stumbling, she found her way back to the dark, cheerless cottage.

Staring at the walls, the walls that always seemed like they were looming over her, it was like her whole self was squeezed by the walls surrounding her, suffocating her.

Her breaths became ragged, full breaths impossible to take, her head becoming light, panic, almost blind panic rising.

The walls… they were closing in all around her, like a wave coming to engulf her, drown her in sadness and pain.

Maybe… maybe her next life would be kinder. Maybe she would be better. She wouldn’t deserve it, but that was all the hope that she had left.

She had no words, no emotions left to give.

She wanted to be free of her pain.

She thought of returning to the sea, throwing herself in until she dissolved within the waves, swept away like every part of her life.

But the sea was so, so far away…

Amongst Novan’s tool kit, she found a rope.

.

.

.

.

As the blackness overtook her, final thoughts were flooded with regret. She suddenly knew, she did not want to die, did not want this, the cruel and senseless thing that she had done…

But she had done it. So there was nothing left but blackness.