Autumn Festival, Lofta Village--Adra

I brushed my hands together and smiled in satisfaction as I looked over the produce I had brought to the Autumn Festival this year.  I had displayed the finest of our harvest. Varieties of peppers, cucumbers, late radishes, onions and other vegetables.  I was more limited in fruits, with only summer-end strawberries and blackberries to offer the crowd that would come to my mother's booth.  Though all our harvest would tasty, I was most proud of the sweet white squash that I had grown with my brother, Ren.  Once cooked, it had a taste reminiscent of apples and caramelized sugar.  It would definitely be the first to be sold.  My mouth watered and I grabbed a bowl of cooked squash from my cart behind the stand that my mother insisted I bring to give samples to potential buyers.  I pulled two pieces out of the bowl and set them aside in a small container.  I wanted to make sure Ren would get a taste of our hard work.

For the last year, Ren had run a smithy in Lanry, the village closest to my mother's farm on the west, a half day's venture.  My mother and I didn't go to Lanry very often. When we did get off the farm, we shopped in Dayri, the closest village on the east since it was only an hour away from our home and it had supplies that came from Eenven, the capital.

Ren tried to make his way to his old home at least twice a month, depending upon the orders he had.  He usually could only stay a couple of hours before he would have to return to Lanry.   Even though we never knew when Ren would come, Mother made sure he returned with as much food as he could carry in his arms.  He didn't bring his horse, Dei, anymore, trying to give her a break since she would be soon giving birth.  He had promised me the foal so that I eventually could come visit him in Lanry.

I missed my twin.

Running--Adra

The problem with  trying to running away from pain is that running itself is a solitary pursuit.  Dodging trees the only slight distraction from the thoughts and memories that kept surfacing. I saw my village on the morning of the Autumn Harvest Festival with Ren in the forefront, beckoning me to join him and his friend, Yoru, in the festivities that I thought were too childish.  I remember Yoru's bright smile as he lifted me on his shoulder when we had beaten Ren and Tono in the three legged race that day and the light peck on my cheek from him later that evening.  But those memories faded quickly into the scene of the massacre that Marcatot and I had found upon our return from Dayri, Yoru's slashed lips and lifeless face was the first one we saw. Tono the second.  

I put my hands on my temple and pushed, trying to somehow block the images of the dead.  Only old man Badro had survived the massacre and was able to tell us the names of those he had seen taken captive, mostly women, a few children and Ren. Where they were headed, Badro didn't know.  I did, though.  Eenven. 

 Why had I trusted Courtier?  Looking back, it was easy to see that he was not used to farming.  His hands too soft and nails manicured.   Though it had been helpful, he had known the city too well for a farmer's son on a visit.   He had played my emotions to get what he wanted from me, which was more than just a harmless kiss.

I was the former Spy Master's daughter and  training to become an intelligence supplier myself.  Why was I blinded by his good looks and flirtatious ways?  I knew I had been foolish and should have trusted my first instinct, that he was too well dressed and a player.  If I had, if I had...

I screamed out in frustration as I tripped on a tree root that crossed the path.  As my body hit the ground, I finally succumbed to the pain, both physical and emotional. I lay there, the side of my face planted in the dirt, my arms stretched out above my head.  I cried for my friends' lives that were cut short.  I cried for my lost brother.  I cried for the anguish I felt in being betrayed.  But mostly, I cried because of my selfishness, pride and naivete that caused me to not even suspect Courtier.  I had not followed one  of the village's rules and not one village Elder was left to censure me.   I sobbed, tears running freely until I could cry no more and then I slept.

Gwen-yth's Homecoming

Soft candlelight illuminated the large vanity mirror as Gwyneth removed dye from her skin with a mixture of milk and the juice of the Nymig fruit.  It would not be a good thing for her journey tomorrow if her complexion looked like one of a peasant.  A slight smile reached one corner of her mouth as she thought about the irony of her situation, exchanging one disguise for another, only to go to the same exact location.  She paused her task and sighed, reaching for a small framed portrait to the left of the mirror. She traced the outline of the face and studied the hairstyle.  It should not be hard to recreate this disguise.  It would have been more difficult to come up with reasonable excuse to politely decline the King’s request.  This would still allow her to be in place to gather the information she needed, but it would be more difficult to remain anonymous.

Gwyneth set the portrait down as she turned to sound of footsteps.  She watched the thick curtain that divided her quarters from this alcove be pushed aside slowly.

“Father,” Gwyneth said softly as she saw the man who had adopted her as his own.  His smile spread across his face, but there was no sparkle in his silver blue eyes.  She stood up as he came towards the vanity, grabbing her small delicate hands in his large manicured ones.

“Gwyneth, I have missed you so much. I could not wait a moment more to see your lovely face.”

“Father!” Gwyneth repeated as she threw arms around his neck, burying her face in his robe as the tears began to fall.  “Not as much as I’ve missed you.”

After a moment, her father cleared his throat, pushed her back and wiped the tears from her gray eyes.  “It will not do if your eyes are red and puffy in the morning.  You will need to present yourself well tomorrow.  I doubt anyone would believe that your persona would cry.”  Her father scanned her face and saw the tell-tale signs of fatigue and felt regretful that he required so much of his daughter.  His face softened as he opened his mouth to cancel the expedition, but quickly clenched it again.  He shook his head abruptly to help push those thoughts away. This mission was too vital to let sentiment dictate his actions.

Gwyneth lifted her had to remove the last few droplets and stared questioningly at her father’s uncharacteristic, even though brief, wavering.  She did not fully comprehend the danger she was about to face, but her father certainly did and regretted that the fate of his faction’s hopes and dreams rested heavily upon her success. 

To cover up his moment of weakness,  he brusquely commanded, “Remove that obscene color from your hair and then sleep as much as you can.  You have a tiresome journey ahead of you that I once again cannot accompany you on.”  He patted her right shoulder.  “I’ll see you in morning, before your carriage leaves.”  He turned quickly and left.  Gwyneth was not offended.  She realized that her father’s path had left him with a lot of pain and loss, but he could not let his determination waver, even for her.

Weak--Adra

I picked up the small silver framed portrait off the fireplace mantle and stared at it.  A mixture of emotions filled me. Longing, grief, anger and inadequacy were the first ones I identified before I forced myself to turn to Marcatot and raise an eyebrow.  He cleared his throat as he shifted his shoulders forward, staring into the crackling flames.

"You're mother and I have been ... ," he paused, looking at me for a moment, as if he was deciding something.  I lowered my still raised brow and handed him the portrait.  He took a deep breath and accepted it, brushing his thumb up and down the right edge, almost like he was caressing it. One corner of his mouth lifted, but moisture threatened to run down his cheeks.  He looked up at me and replaced the portrait in my hands.  He straightened and continued slowly, measuring his words. "Friends, yes, friends. For as long as I have been in your kingdom, your mother was my friend. Even now."

Marcatot turned away from me and headed towards the table off to the side of the fireplace.  He pulled out one of the wooden chairs and gently motioned me to sit.  I reluctantly walked the few steps to the offered seat. Marcatot waited until I was sitting until he pulled out another chair to sit on and angled it so that he would face me straight on.  His direct gaze made me uncomfortable and I looked down again at the portrait in my hands. This time there were no mixed emotions, only sadness, as I looked upon the gray eyes, filled with life and the long white hair she usually hid.  I did not hide the tears forming nor did I attempt to wipe them away. We both were failures, my mother and I.  We both had lost what we loved most because of our inability to end a life.  My father was in some godforsaken land in some godforsaken time, Ren was captured and our people's numbers nearly decimated.

"Your mother is not weak, Adra.  She never has been.  Just as you are not weak." I looked up sharply, causing the tears to overflow. I sniffed and glanced back at the portrait and then again at Marcatot. Was he reading my mind even though he claimed he couldn't? "You follow your teachings, your conscience, your heart.  You did not take that young man's life when you could have.  Mercy for your enemies does not make you weak.  It makes you strong."

I forced a cynical laugh. "His death would have been justified."

"Yes, Adra, I think you could have made that argument and even convinced those on the council with what we know now. But would you have ever been able to convince yourself?"

I stood up abruptly, knocking the chair over and dropped the portrait on the table.  I spun around and walked quickly out of the room towards the back door, towards the woods, towards freedom from caring and away from Marcatot.

 As soon as I was outside, I began to run.  Marcatot was right.  I would never have been able to justify Courtier's death to myself.  Courtier had done only what his father and his king commanded.  But Marcatot was also wrong, I was weak. It wasn't mercy for an enemy that had stopped me. It was fear of losing a possibility of  being loved.  My own personal need for love killed hundreds of innocent people.  I picked up the pace.  Maybe, just maybe, I could outrun my pain.