Gabriella as the last of the soldiers rounded the bend of the thoroughfare, some half mile distant. Darrick was barely a silhouette against the fog, but she could easily recognise him by his stance in the saddle and the lift of his chin. He raised his arm once, palm out, bidding a silent farewell. She did the same in response, hoping he could see her where she stood by the city gates under the gloom of a canvas awning.
He lowered his arm slowly and seemed to watch her through the misty distance. Finally, as the tips of the armies' pikes and the dull gleam of their helmets disappeared around the bend and over the hill, Darrick turned. He urged his mount forwards. A moment later, he was gone as well.
Gabriella stood under the awning and watched the empty thoroughfare. Puddles made dull mirrors of the sky. All around was the drab patter of rain dripping from the trees. Eventually, Sigrid stepped forwards and peered up at the sky, squinting.
"You'll catch your death out here, Princess," she said stoically. "Your guards will stand here with you all the day long, but I for one suggest we head back to the warmth of the castle. I expect some hot tea is in order, would you not agree?"
Gabriella didn't move. She stared at the distant place where the thoroughfare bent around a thick stand of trees. It was hard to imagine that the Army had ever been there at all.
" Come , love," Sigrid said, putting an arm around Gabriella's waist. "They are gone now, but they will return. For now, your baby needs you to eat. Come."
Gabriella drew a deep breath and nodded. She turned away from the thoroughfare.
As she climbed into the waiting carriage with Sigrid right behind her, she unconsciously reached up and wrapped her hand around the falcon sigil where it hung beneath her cloak. It was warm.
Please, she prayed, silently and solemnly , not even sure who she was praying to anymore , watch over him. Let him be all right.
The carriage jerked as it began its return to the castle. Gabriella stared unseeingly through the rain-streaked windows. Let him keep his promise to me, she prayed fiercely, challengingly . Don't you dare… don't you dare … make him a liar.
The summer months crept past with infuriating slowness. It was an unbearably hot year, reducing the valley brook to a mere muddy trickle and leaving the air still and dense even at midnight. Gabriella busied herself as well as she could with learning the intricacies of imperial government as well as managing the constant business of being pregnant. She found herself unaccountably weary by most afternoons, but retiring to her chambers was rarely any help. The upper rooms of the castle were the hottest of all, with barely a breath of breeze to disturb the bed curtains. Most days, she lay awake during these respites, stripped to her dressing gown and lying with one hand on the increasing swell of her belly, the other behind her head. She would stare through the linens at the afternoon sunlight and think of Darrick.
Sometimes, she would pray for him. Other times, she was afraid to, as if the very act of mentioning him might remind God of him with fearful results. After all, awful things happened to people every day, apparently with divine permission. According to the scriptures, God had seen fit to sacrifice His own perfect son for the good of fallen mankind, had He not? What would one small soldier mean to Him for the sake of Camelot? She knew her fear was not precisely pious—Bishop Tremaine would surely rebuke her for doubting God the Father's will—but this realisation did not change her fears. Battle Master Barth had been as stout a believer as anyone, and he had still seen his wife and child taken from him, sacrificed to the plague some years earlier. If anything or anyone could be blamed for the death of Rhyss, it might as well be the deadly plague that eventually led Barth to his traitorous enmity.
He lowered his arm slowly and seemed to watch her through the misty distance. Finally, as the tips of the armies' pikes and the dull gleam of their helmets disappeared around the bend and over the hill, Darrick turned. He urged his mount forwards. A moment later, he was gone as well.
Gabriella stood under the awning and watched the empty thoroughfare. Puddles made dull mirrors of the sky. All around was the drab patter of rain dripping from the trees. Eventually, Sigrid stepped forwards and peered up at the sky, squinting.
"You'll catch your death out here, Princess," she said stoically. "Your guards will stand here with you all the day long, but I for one suggest we head back to the warmth of the castle. I expect some hot tea is in order, would you not agree?"
Gabriella didn't move. She stared at the distant place where the thoroughfare bent around a thick stand of trees. It was hard to imagine that the Army had ever been there at all.
" Come , love," Sigrid said, putting an arm around Gabriella's waist. "They are gone now, but they will return. For now, your baby needs you to eat. Come."
Gabriella drew a deep breath and nodded. She turned away from the thoroughfare.
As she climbed into the waiting carriage with Sigrid right behind her, she unconsciously reached up and wrapped her hand around the falcon sigil where it hung beneath her cloak. It was warm.
Please, she prayed, silently and solemnly , not even sure who she was praying to anymore , watch over him. Let him be all right.
The carriage jerked as it began its return to the castle. Gabriella stared unseeingly through the rain-streaked windows. Let him keep his promise to me, she prayed fiercely, challengingly . Don't you dare… don't you dare … make him a liar.
The summer months crept past with infuriating slowness. It was an unbearably hot year, reducing the valley brook to a mere muddy trickle and leaving the air still and dense even at midnight. Gabriella busied herself as well as she could with learning the intricacies of imperial government as well as managing the constant business of being pregnant. She found herself unaccountably weary by most afternoons, but retiring to her chambers was rarely any help. The upper rooms of the castle were the hottest of all, with barely a breath of breeze to disturb the bed curtains. Most days, she lay awake during these respites, stripped to her dressing gown and lying with one hand on the increasing swell of her belly, the other behind her head. She would stare through the linens at the afternoon sunlight and think of Darrick.
Sometimes, she would pray for him. Other times, she was afraid to, as if the very act of mentioning him might remind God of him with fearful results. After all, awful things happened to people every day, apparently with divine permission. According to the scriptures, God had seen fit to sacrifice His own perfect son for the good of fallen mankind, had He not? What would one small soldier mean to Him for the sake of Camelot? She knew her fear was not precisely pious—Bishop Tremaine would surely rebuke her for doubting God the Father's will—but this realisation did not change her fears. Battle Master Barth had been as stout a believer as anyone, and he had still seen his wife and child taken from him, sacrificed to the plague some years earlier. If anything or anyone could be blamed for the death of Rhyss, it might as well be the deadly plague that eventually led Barth to his traitorous enmity.
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