Pain wracked her body, in multiple places. Not her throat? Argh, she screamed and the bloody knife in her hand stabbed the log. Her hands needed to assuage new points of pain, throbbing and stabbing knife-like, excruciating.
Charis lost consciousness to escape the pain.
She dreamed.
Her spirit journeyed to another place, the sun high in a clear blue sky, shining down and warmth radiating from it, observing the glorious beams did not blind her. Admiring the land below, she flew above a forest, a living green expanse; the limits beyond her range of sight, beyond the horizon, the middle dominated by a massive tree, towering well above those around it. Then in an instant, she stood before the tree, so wide she couldn’t see past it. Around Charis at its base, a field of sweet-smelling multi-coloured flowers blooming in welcome; the bees loud, their vibrating wings singing a joyous chorus of sweet welcome. She wanted to stay. Her soul is at peace here, an undeniable belonging. Halius’ death is not an ending for her, a beginning according to the dream, reassuring her without reservation. He would encourage her to continue in life as they discussed and would affirm the same in death as well. You don’t need to grieve for him in the future, you will ensure he will soon be at peace. Your memory will keep him alive, therefore share his deeds with others and celebrate his life and goodness.
Stabbing pain! Throbbing ache. Head whipping side to side … no! Her dream spirit is torn away from the happy place, her bliss fading as her consciousness returns, called by agony. Trying to use her hands to hang on to the tree, she hit the sides of the log instead. The rough wood skinned her fingertips, jarring her awake, eyes open. Black of night surrounded her and the wind in the trees rustled leaves to greet her return. She exhaled; returned. Why couldn’t she stay in her dream?
Locked within the right boot, the big toe throbbed, aching for release. Her knees bent before her face, back curved forward, removing a boot from within the confines of the log, impossible. Kicking her boot-enclosed toe against the log no cure, no relief. While trying to ignore that ache, another grew centred on her belly button, gasping due to the intense stabbing pain, Charis’ head bent forward smashing into the log. Wanting out of the log, her fingers crawled about, searching. Before locating the knife, an overwhelming slicing pain pierced her left breast, left hand instinctively massaging, trying to soothe. Something wriggled under her fingers. Her hand recoiled. What? Each intake of breath is a jab of pain and with each jab the concern of the unknown rising. Hands braced against the sides of the log, while her heart pounded, lungs gulping air even as the silent dark enclosed upon her. The aches, pains, the thought of something moving within her body … wild breathing … light-headed. Charis slumped unconscious.
---
Dawn broke and the sun on her face woke her. Except for a residual pain in her chest, to her relief, her other two pains were now subdued and became bearable. Using the light of the morning, she untied the ropes and crawled out of the log. She stretched out her body despite her grief, cramps, and aches.
Charis centred her efforts, on herself now, assured by her dream, in death, Halius encouraged her to live, and she needed to rise. The guilt of survival was not hers to bear and her level of grief a measure of their love and loss, nothing to be ashamed of, her memories of Halius would keep him alive, forever young. There wasn’t a single sliver of doubt within her … she didn’t know why, she just needed to accept.
Charis stared down at her chest and the drop of blood painted on her shirt pocket. She unlaced the top of her shirt and searched for the source of her pain. The small silver circle was now embedded in her breast, more specifically, under the curved flesh below her nipple. Set, refusing to budge at her touch, melded perhaps, silver and flesh, like the stranger’s ear and bronze loop. It hurt when prodded although not an angry red like a wound as her breast remained smooth and fair, untouched by sunlight.
The red stone set in her flesh behind her belly button. Specifically searching for it, you would notice an odd colouration under the skin. The cloth around her waist was no longer required. The bronze ring firmly surrounding her big toe, melded to the skin the same as all the others. The three items were now part of her, bound and melded to her. What did this mean? Would she turn into a mindless hulk like the stranger? Would the strange trinkets harm her in other ways?
She considered using one of the knives to cut them away or out and quickly cast the option aside as she imagined the unbearable pain and then what, after being removed? Charis accepted them, as other terrible duties called, which if left unfinished, would threaten her survival.
Her mind turned to face her predicament, unforgettable really with Halius’ body nearby. With a determined effort, she was steadfast in refusing to allow his corpse to thwart her plan. To protect the body from predators she quickly tied the rope back in place to lock Halius and his backpack into the log using the grids. The grids rested easily against the ends of the log. No other way possible, as Halius couldn’t tie them from inside … not anymore. Charis held back the tears this time distracting herself with the task, with no more remorse, needing to think clearly and act, dig deep to find new strength and harden herself to survive. Halius was no longer able to lead them and therefore be ger hero to ensure rescue or save her. Charis needed to achieve this herself and escape from the forest was the first step. Her body shuddered, needed to achieve, the single thought crystallising ownership and responsibility.
With two backpacks, two waterskins, a bow, a quiver and Halius’ Spear Charis jogged off down the game trail. The jog soon a run and the run shortly after became a sprint. After a time collapsing, muscles burning and lungs gasping for breath. Then the tears started and having no energy, she laid back on the trail in the open not caring. This isn’t fair she thought as she descended into lonely melancholy.
---
The sun shone down bright enough to penetrate Charis’ closed eyelids, an awakening in more ways than one. For now, under the warmth of sunlight, her thoughts returned to the present. She needed to rise above, and be the one to rescue herself and the first step would be to escape. With renewed determination she jumped to her feet and continued down the trail at a loping jog.
She slowed and glanced back. Was that what I think it is? Slow steps at first and then faster until she proved to herself the break in the foliage beside this major trail, more than that. An abandoned game trail, the forest claiming back the narrow path, yet the vegetation light more like camouflage. More important to Charis, which had her blood pumping was the fact the old game trail looked to lead more directly towards the stream. Swallowing, she marched forward seeking hope. Keeping her arms before her face she made good time and with every step, a sliver of joy filled her heart.
Eventually to her great relief the old narrow game trail opened to reveal the bank of the stream. With a rope and desperation, she would willingly test her bravery to cross, without a rope never, the tumbling water could cover a treacherous unknown truth below. She sighed, what did she expect of an old game trail? As her hope dimmed, she remembered where a rope could be found and shook her head with fury. No, never! She needed another way and declared crossing here would not be her salvation. Heartbreaking to accept, a washed-out ford too great a risk, stepping cautiously it would take only one slip, and she would be gone. The large body of the stranger would have floated down the stream and given he wasn’t snagged here, clear enough evidence of its depth for Charis, so reluctantly she turned away to look back along the old game trail.
She could retrace her steps along the old game trail and resume following the other trail. That would take her deeper into the forest and the unknown though. No, if there was one old game trail, there could be more and the best way to find them would be to copy Halius’ idea and follow the bank of the stream and push through the forest. She would earn some scratches until the stream revealed another way across, but a small price to pay she thought to escape this trap.
Charis knew from witnessing Halius that this would be hard work and she gathered the courage to continue by picturing the welcome relief of her father when they found each other and the lovingly embrace sure to follow. Meeting the Baron, a dreadful necessary opposite but someone she was resigned to face. After discovering a path out, every return she imagined included meeting both, without exception. Her want of Halius’ strong safe arms, now overwhelming with him gone. She managed so far though …
The stream flowed on and on, she needed to cross and held on to her conviction the current must slow or an in-tacked bridge or ford would appear. Just a little further on … The brush and the bushes scrapped and grabbed at every part of her body, small, although not small enough as any exposed skin became grazed and then grazed again. She grew tired as she fought, the forest suffocating her, fighting back. Dropping to the ground, exhausted she needed rest. She could look back at the tunnel of vegetation she pushed through, so defined and then she turned to the wall of branches, limbs, leaves, and foliage before her. She needed help. Charis shed a tear as she reached within the stranger’s backpack carefully. If a knife was needed, then the non-blooded knife would be the instrument selected.
Carving her way clear utilising the knife, she wormed her way closer to the stream, the bubbling water summoning her. With the knife she knew the forest wouldn’t trap her against the stream, the sharp blade never dulling which allowed her to cut back into the forest around any obstruction or sunken bank. She blinked twice when sunlight greeted her, surprised as an ancient tree exposed its roots with soil still attached acting as a giant organic shield torn from the ground rising before her.
Charis stood in the dry half crater, the other half taken by the stream, which caused the ancient to lean, precariously balanced. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Could this tree be a bridge? Tree how tall? River how wide? Over half of its roots were exposed including those still griping the bank and the huge tap root. Charis decided this ancient tree provided a chance, possibly her only chance.
She reached out with the knife to cut its roots, the blade hovering. Which should she cut to cause it to fall across the stream? She withdrew the knife from the root she chose only a moment ago. Within her dream, the forest and the one tree infused her being with an oneness with them. Foolishness she thought, a dream, pfft! Other choices? She needed to try, alone, with no help and no witnesses, failure or success would be her secret to tell or not tell. What was there to lose? Charis knelt, arm extending, right hand touching, spreading across the tap root.
“Ancient one, I need your help. I am sorry your journey is ending. Can your last deed be to help me? Tell me what I need to do.”
An impossible heat returned to her breast, brief and painful, tightening her grip on the taproot seemed the natural response for relief. Releasing her grip, she then went to touch other roots in turn. Some would feel right, and she cut them, others she passed over.
The knife was as sharp as ever, with each root cut, she felt the tension on the reaming roots increase. One more and the tree burst from the bank, dirt exploding as the last of the roots snapped on their own accord or if stout enough to resist, were ripped from the ground dragging any attached dirt with them. Charis sprang back as quickly as possible dirt spray hitting randomly. She bravely peered past her handiwork. The tree didn’t fall neatly across the stream. She sat disappointed and contemplated her chances and decided after a time it didn’t matter.
Considering its length, the fall had every chance of being perfect; instead, it fell somewhat along the length of the stream, against the current. Still, the tree’s top foliage washed up against the opposite bank, so Charis took heart. Her eyes studied the eddies and whorls around the branches and foliage in the river and for the moment the war between tree and river seemed to be going nowhere. She nodded satisfied, this impromptu tree bridge represented her single chance to escape, and she decided to take it.
Charis returned to the crater, the closest location near to her of any depth. Putting aside backpacks and weapons, she folded herself into a praying position, her bottom resting on the back of her folded legs and ankles; her chest laying forward to allow her forehead to rest upon the ruptured soil in the deepest part of the crater.
“Goddess of the Dead, Jury is your name, please don’t take my soul. I follow the ancient ways and those deserving I will set upon a pyre to be burnt and carried to the sun, Judge, your brother. Those undeserving I will burn upon the ground to face your verdict. I promise this not knowing what is in my future, admitting I could be dead soon regardless of today. Please hear my prayer.”
Charis didn’t think you could really bargain with the Goddess of the Dead. She prayed because she needed to cross a stream on a makeshift bridge and face the very real possibility she would fall. Once in the river she had no illusions, the backpacks would fill with water and drag her under to drown. There would be no salvation of the soul from death by drowning, cursed to never join with and see her loved ones in death. Never to see Halius and when due, her father.
She climbed over the spikey root shield of its base, most of which rested in the stream having slid down the steep bank, as the tree broke free. Then on hands and knees, Charis started crossing the stream, occasionally water would lap up and over the tree trunk, only its girth on her side and upper foliage on the far side holding her bridge partially out of the stream. Her concern grew with each shuffle, shift one limb, steady, then another and so on, whispering to whoever would listen to not let her fall as someone needed to tell them where Halius’ body lay she explained. Mid-way she half-called to her father, strangling the cry. She dropped her head while admonishing herself to uncover her own inner strength and her face stared back at her. A wavering visage reflected in the water; did she peer into her own soul?
Charis continued, subject to a new urgency, the water now flowed over the main trunk and only the branches growing outwards remained as guides. Deciding to stand, she needed to lurch from branch to branch, grasping onto each lifeline branch after a lunge forward, in effect climbing the tree horizontally instead of vertically. Fortunately, the browning leaves due to the beginnings of tree death unnumbered days ago separated from the branches without resistance to provide a clear view. The dead leaves hurried away in the current, floating to freedom thought Charis as she prepared for another step to attempt her own.
Nearing the far bank, she stretched out to reach for an upright branch, the water a hand width below her knees tried to sweep her off the trunk yet her hand grasped the branch. Progress, winning. The water skins which occasionally fell loose off her shoulder needed to go. She freed one, giving it to the stream as an offering, returning water to water. The second, she chanced throwing ahead to the bank and was satisfied when it landed safely.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
With that success, now to land the rest, her backpack next. She wore the strangers on her back and her own on her front. She could afford to lose it; nevertheless, she prayed, wished, and willed it to land safely. Perhaps the practice with the water skin assisted, her backpack landed safe and sound. Throwing Halius’ spear child’s play after the others, and it stood proud, impaling the grassed bank. Now she needed to complete her crossing with the stranger’s backpack safe with her.
She reached out for branches and continued her shuffle along, step after step. The water became waist-deep as she walked on the formally higher branches, slightly springy instead of a solid trunk. Charis continued slowly, carefully choosing, as she couldn’t see clearly into the stream, a clash between shadow and sunlight playing on the churning water. She continued by feeling for the tree trunk with the toe of her leather boots now waterlogged.
The tree trunk proper began to flex under Charis’ boots, shortly only the former high tree branches would be available. She needed to decide her next move. The stranger’s backpack started to take on water; being grabbed by the tumbling water of the stream and tugging against her. She threw it with all her strength. Her precious evidence contained within and although heavier, the bank being closer now balanced out the difficulty to land the pack amongst the other throws. Her bow and quiver next; an anguished yelp followed as some arrows escaped, quickly claimed by the stream. Now her turn.
She cleared her mind and told herself she could make this leap. She imagined it first. I will spring forth and grab at the bank and think of success only. I will then pull myself out of the water. I will succeed for me, to embrace my father and for Halius. She leapt. The tip of the trunk proper underfoot sprang to sink further although fortunately didn’t snap and assisted by nature’s design and her light weight, sprang back to propel her forward.
Fingers clawed around a sapling growing on the bank proper, her very soul on the line. Secure, arm muscles dragged her body over the bank with one breast suffering pain demanding a rest to recover. Her face screwed up and shortly after she breathed again. After a further scramble, legs kicking, arms pulling Charis finally made the bank and rolled over in relief.
Eyes now skyward she found herself appreciating glimpses of blue through a tree canopy being nudged about by a slight breeze. With the clouds sailing by as a backdrop, Charis wished she could remain forever. Except noticeable through the tall surrounding trees, a high tower across the stream spoilt the view, poking up like a bone finger. While dismissing any thought of returning to find out for sure, she guessed the tower would be at the end of the wide trail, the stranger’s trail.
Charis quickly confirmed the packs remained tied and secure and therefore retained their contents. Securing the gear, she broke into a jog while the thinning trees allowed, wet leather pants and boots nevertheless ‘sticking’ to her and squelching with every step. An urge swept over her to run naked and free, sunshine warming the skin, hair tossed by wind, fulfilling an unknown until then hidden desire. She reached for a reason, to make sense of this madness and remembered lines from a poem her father recited to her last Death Season. Yet that felt more like finding a match whereas her fantastic need to cast away her trappings of clothes and such came from deep within, primitive instinct or other such memory. Charis managed to reason away the silly and common sense prevailed; deciding wet clothes would dry well enough while running. In the back of her mind though, she knew, this wasn’t about how best to dry her clothes.
Early afternoon the forest thinned again, cut off stumps from older trees common, the Lord of the Land taking them to establish his Barony many years ago. She felt a lingering happiness for the first time, despite the dread and remorse accompanying her. The guilt of her survival returned briefly, soon squashed by her recalled dream assurance. Her journey back would be a balancing act she realised. Running free, step after step, avoiding that rock, skipping over a fallen branch, trending on a grass patch, following overgrown planting rows, the first celebration of her survival, an indication of past civilisation.
Mid-afternoon Charis cleared the forest proper. Shortly after, jogging over overgrown farmland with fences down and wild grasses growing where once crops did. All of it long abandoned, confirming absolutely her forest escape. Her exit path far from where they entered the forest at a guess, although for now it didn’t seem to matter. The sun well behind her heading west, so she scanned the eastern horizon for rescue, an occasional blinking and reflection a positive sign. This could only be her rescuers or perversely executioners as only the Lord of the Land could equip servants with expensive metal armour and weapons.
Charis hurried on to a large surviving tree approximately in their direction and set a campfire in its shade, adding a branch of green leaves once established. Her approaching rescuers were now certain to find her, as certain as a future audience with the Baron. How would she survive? Her father advised many during her short lifetime. His decree, those grieving, the least suited to make any decision. A time for family and friends to help he advocated. Charis stood alone and the Baron wouldn’t delegate any decision making concerning his son.
According to her father’s advice, anyone emotional won’t make the best decisions, those thoughtful and thinking would. Charis cried her goodbye to Halius for now and hoped, no, because of her dream, knew, he would understand. Tears dried up, face wiped, she eliminated any distractions due to guilt and remorse; her next actions must be planned and purposeful.
Charis positioned the backpacks and their contents to dry beside the fire, adding boots and leather pants. Resting against the tree trunk, waiting, she spent the time running through her story, carefully reciting any half-truths trying to remember everything checking the evidence multiple times, assuring herself the facts would set her free, her innocence obvious to all. She needed the Lord to accept her recollection of events as facts, no more and no less. The Lord would realise his son’s death the result of an ambush and no one’s fault once he knew the details, she convinced herself.
---
Dressed in her boots and pants, shortly before his arrival, Charis stood smartly as the horse-riding Castellan rode towards her meagre camp. He dismounted from the brown mare gingerly, being the only one of her rescuers mounted. One of the Lord’s guards held the reins, face at least neutral as far as Charis could tell. She cast her eyes to the ground as the Castellan’s boots crunched the dry wild grass when he stepped towards her.
“Where is the Lord’s son?” A deep gravel voice asked without emotion a now bare right-hand toying with his soft leather riding gloves.
Charis’ body stiffened, mechanically deepening her bow.
Now confronted needing to answer, the silence dragged on as her mind recalled her prepared response. “He … he is slain sir, murdered by a stranger in the forest.” Charis released a held breath the truth finally free and shared.
She practiced this reply repeatedly, she didn’t want to bumble it or sound unsure, as she needed to say it clearly, as little emotion as possible – and she failed. Her gut churned denying her need to scream, the facts are important her father taught her, the facts not the tears. Her body betrayed her, her throat dried and constricted as a result, in her moment of need.
Using a gloveless left hand, he held her chin raising her face to meet his. He stared directly into her eyes locking her gaze. “That is not news the Lord will easily accept, much less the Lady. It is news that should not be delivered so directly either if the messenger wishes to live after saying it.”
The occasional laughter of the past between him and her now seemed forgotten although perhaps its memory prompted this piece of advice. Why would he give her advice? Were the words spoken a mistake? Did she barely succeed with her reply, but fail?
The Castellan’s black hair, lots of black hair, joined a very full beard and made the man appear grizzly and raging. Although Charis knew this man for many years, he intimidated her now, standing before her, assessing. Relief arrived when his hand released her chin. And upon that release, Charis burst forth in babble.
“I tried to protect my friend’s body from predators as best I could, although until we return to him, I don’t know if I have been entirely successful, I am worried for him.” She bit her bottom lip and waited. The Lord would want his son preserved for any pass over rights, Halius body could save her once again. Charis silently prayed her companion would deliver her.
The Castellan signalled to the guards and three came forth with one of the Lord’s hunting dogs. Their hard-boiled leather breastplate baring the tower outline of their Lord’s Keep. Their polished helms reflecting the fading sunlight.
She hadn’t noticed the lean wiry dog until now. A slim shorthaired breed, they always found what they tracked, the limit of her knowledge, its nose level with its slim handler’s waist. The hunting dog seemed to Charis the better fed of the two.
As the dog approached her, she glanced uncertainly at the Castellan and instinctively shied away. He didn’t reply or indicate anything. The dog sniffing her all over, Charis stood rigid, willing herself not to whimper. The dog handler and two guards then followed the dog, which quickly picked up Charis’ scent towards the forest. Charis moved to accompanied them.
“No girl, I am to escort you to the Keep, the Lord would be eager to hear your story of how his strong and healthy son died.”
Charis stopped immediately and turned to face him, her mouth slightly open, closing it quickly. A slight shake of her head and a mumble arguing with herself. She needed to tell them.
“They will need to cross a stream and I only managed it at tremendous risk,” she whispered, her eyes unable to meet his.
“Halt!” called the Castellan and the men paused, looking expectantly. The Castellan then swivelled to look directly at Charis.
“Speak and look at me when you do!” Riding gloves slapping his thigh. “I would rather see your face than the top of your head.”
At his shout words tumbled from Charis’ lips, babble barely understandable. “The stream flows fast and I found a ford to cross it which seemed washed out at least to me, although I used my rope to secure the Lord’s son, so I didn’t try and cross it. I used a felled tree to cross and barely made it across. Three men and a dog couldn’t follow my path they need to search north and see if they can pick up the game trail and then use rope to secure themselves across the stream’s ford.” She finished, hands trembling.
“Sir,” she said. Remembering his honorific, racing her eyes to the ground.
He waved the men back. Two of the three remaining guards were added to the returning two guards and dog handler. The five and dog now tasked to find the game trail missed on their way south, perhaps distracted by a fire instead of using their own senses. When found, a guard and the dog handler to wait this side of the stream until the return of the three guards. They left in a hurry bounding through the long grass. Return with the body of the Lord’s son or not at all, their orders.
The Castellan mounted his plain brown mare with care and led the way, Charis marching beside him, the remaining guard bringing up the rear. By her estimation, they would arrive well after dusk and therefore depend upon the Keep lights to guide them home. Judgement would then commence no matter how late they arrived, as the death of a Lord’s son would brook no delay. Charis’ carefully considered plans and thoughts while alone in the forest now all astray, her speech practice sorely tested under the Castellan’s piercing gaze, her reactions beyond her control at times and now, marching back, her stomach constantly churned, and occasionally her body shivered. She folded her arms trying to find comfort, swallowing down bile as necessary wondering for the first time if she could have survived alone in the forest.
During the journey back, a single attempt to start a conversation; the Guard asking Charis a question, terminated briskly when the Castellan threw him a reproachful glance. Charis noticed the abandoned farmhouses, the fields overgrown like the one she encountered running from the forest. The southern farms of the Keep long abandoned with the families either gone or dead, Charis unaware and therefore shocked by the extent. Drawing near the Keep, well-tended farms with growing crops became more common place. Walking to her death on tired legs, the observations distracted, given the jeopardy to her life. With the lack of conversation, she resisted the urge to shout out nonsense at the top of her lungs while laughing, confirming some sort of madness had finally taken hold of her.
Early in the march Charis devoted a portion of time to ponder the Castellan’s advice or hint perhaps. Her father, a direct person, people asked what they wanted he would question them to make sure of the facts, the requirements and then determine a fair price. Her life on the line, she wanted the facts told; the facts would prove a stranger responsible for Halius’ murder not her. Halius her friend, a dear lifelong friend how could they imagine she didn’t grieve for him, equally devastated by his loss as they. She spent more time with him in the last eleven years than anyone else in the Keep! Surely, their relationship, their life bond would be obvious to all.
The black outline of the Keep welcomed them, interrupted occasionally by a torch on the walls to assist the guards patrolling above and unknowingly guide the return of the Castellan during the night. As they approached the village proper, one or two villagers followed with torch or lantern and like buzzing insects to a flame, other villagers joined or peered from their cottages adding to the available light. Their passage through the village therefore well-lit and easily spied from the walls of the Keep.
Their arrival news, an important event and many gawked and gaped noting someone missing. The Keep Gate opened, inviting them in, and as Charis approached with her escort, her father came running towards them. All knew his usually plump friendly ruddy face, although now, highlighted by the torches and lanterns, ashen and pallid contrasting starkly with his overgrown bushy black beard.
“Master Blacksmith I will allow you to accompany your daughter. Don’t speak, don’t ask any questions. The Lord must be the first to hear her story. I allow this as I know the respect the Lord has for you, don’t abuse this privilege,” the Castellan declared in a clear commanding voice his eyes challenging the gathered villages to dispute the decision. They now knew their place.
The village Blacksmith nodded solemnly, mumbling thanks, quickly hugging his daughter, and attaching himself to the escort. His large, muscled body an impenetrable protective wall, Charis wormed in as close and as complete as possible muscled arms wrapping around as a final protection. She listened to his heartbeat hammering sure and steady, instead of the murmurings of the gathered villagers. A small respite. Charis the child, safe within the arms of her father instead of the girl about to enter womanhood, prayed to Judge his love for her wouldn’t end in his death, certain the loss would crush her completely so soon after Halius’ death. The Keep Guards deployed their spears horizontally to prevent the villagers escorting the Castellan’s party through the Keep Gates. A small blessing thought Charis as their muttering hum diminished with each step towards her doom.
Before they entered the Great Hall, the escorting guard relieved Charis of all weapons and backpacks. Once satisfied, the Castellan commanded the two guards at the doors of the Great Hall to open them. The Castellan carried the Lord’s family Spear while an escorting guard carried the balance and they herded Charis and her father into the presence of the Baron and Baroness.
Charis couldn’t read anything in the Lord’s stony face; the Lady’s face red around her eyes, clearly saddened. News of the rescue party returning with one survivor winning the race to the Keep. Upon seeing Charis, the Lord and Lady deduced the obvious heartbreaking truth, their strong brave son somehow didn’t survive. Their heads heavy with grief, fighting to maintain their poise. The Baron waved to the Castellan.
“Tell your story child,” the Castellan whispered in Charis’ ear.
Charis told her story and produced the ear and attached loop of the stranger as evidence, tipping out the stranger’s backpack when given to her after requesting it. Both knives tumbled out, one knife caked in blood still as Charis didn’t want to touch her friend’s blood or clean the knife used to murder him. It rattled on the stone floor of the Keep’s Great Hall with its twin. The tinny echoing sound produced by the knives disturbed all present, an awkward interruption to the solemn confession delivered before a grieving father and mother.
The Lord listened in silence. The Lady attempted to leave after hearing of the stranger’s murderous deed; the Lord leaned closer to reassure her and held her hand more firmly. She stared vacantly at the blood on the knife on the stone floor until the Castellan discretely as possible returned both knives to the backpack.
“Until I see my son’s body, you will be taken down to be held in the Keep’s Dungeon.” His tone direct, a sitting Lord in his Keep, his authority absolute. Would their son’s body reveal to them how and why he now lay dead?
Her father started to protest. One grief-stricken stare from the Lord stopped him cold, realising he possessed no power here, he never did. He, like everyone else would wait upon the return of Halius. The Lord then left the Great Hall and assisted his Lady to leave to maintain her dignity. Her father briskly escorted her from the Great Hall and shortly after out the Main Gate. Their thumping closure an unwelcome finality.
At the dungeon door, the Guards took her boots, yet left the remaining clothes, treating her fairly and without judgement. Charis placed one foot over the other trying to fend off the cold of the dungeon floor, hiding the bronze loop in the same action until the door slammed shut. Then the lock clunked as a final reckoning. Darkness filled the small cell, a dampness on the stone walls, the floor somewhat worse. Charis perched adjacent to the door upon the dry raised doorstep. Her arms wrapped around bent legs drawing them to her chest allowing her head to rest upon her knees to try and grab snatches of sleep, in between bouts of blubbering, while alone in the dark.