Memory

By Emelyn

By the time the bells tolled, rousing the townspeople with their low, melodic tones, she was already standing at the foot of the bed, naked to the new day. The sound of the morning tones didn't alarm her, but she did move farther away from the open window, remembering that there may be others out on the street, and not wanting to display herself for all the world- whatever little of it may be in the small town- to see.

The girl ran her fingers through her hair, rubbing her scalp with several long, rounded nails, alleviating an itch that had been there since she'd crawled from her bed minutes before. It was an unconscious action, as was the soft pat of her feet, following one long, cold floorboard towards the dressing stand. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, sans the low-slung bed that was much less comfortable than it looked. Thinking on it, she turned her head over one bare shoulder, peering through a slightly tangled mass of dark hair to eye the disturbed brown and red covers and wondering if she'd ever find herself sleeping there again.

Money, Richelle, her mind said, whispering answers to her as it had done all throughout her life- whether it be supplying her lips with an answer to one of her father's riddles, or to muse to herself when she found herself without anyone else to talk to. ...You need money if you think you're going to stay here another night. Unless you've forgotten, there's nothing left in the pockets of that worn out thing. ...She picked up the object she meant- the worn green dress with darker trim that she'd worn every day for the past two weeks of her life- and ran her fingers into the narrow slit that protruded from one hip. As she knew it would be, the lining revealed nothing but its own smooth interior- the last coins to see her hands or her pockets had been days since passed into the hands of the innkeeper. The emptiness confirmed to Richelle, more than the voice in her head, that this would very well be the last night she'd in the keeping of the Darkhorse Inn unless she could find a few coins to press into the palm of the square-faced, squint-eyed matron of the inn.

The bells ended their gentle assailance upon the ears of the waking townspeople, and afforded Richelle no answers to her questions as she brought the dress to the bed. She smoothed the material with her hands, but the gentle coaxing did nothing for the most stubborn of wrinkles, and they remained, a veritable hillwork upon the slightly stained surface. As Richelle looked down on the worn green frock, she imagined herself with her normal travel companions- several finer dresses and well-sewn travel wear that would stand up under the test of the road. This had been one of them- the thing on her back, and the only item that had traversed the mists with her. Its quality was high enough to have several months of life left in it... but its appearance was not so lucky. No matter, she said to herself, folding back the lower layers of the skirt and running her arms up through the garment... survival first, appearance later.

She pulled the dress into the air once her arms famed its interior, and slipped it over the hair that seemed darker this morning than usual, past her bare shoulders, and over the patchwork of scars that criss-crossed her fair skin. The material had become accustomed to her curves with such frequent wear, and so it took little coaxing for the dress to rub past her ample bosom and into the generous swell of her hips, settling into place with a practiced ease. Richelle tugged at the fabric, hoping it would take some direction and rid itself of the creases, then tied up the flat brown lacing that drew up the bodice. When the laces had been drawn, she fell onto the bed, laying back a moment longer on the stiff mattress, and, as Richelle was often prone to doing in those usually peaceful moments, her mind took over, and she ran through what manner of stuffing could have possibly made the bedding so uncomfortable. Not eider, she thought, or probably any other manner of feather, she concluded, and brought her hands up to her hair as she thought, using the 'idle time' to braid the tangle into two long, thin plaits. The rest she raked through with her fingers upon rising and attempted to tame it by binding it all behind her head. Her shoes were by the door, and she slipped into them, glad to see that the soles were holding up. There was a dull, copper-backed mirror hung above the dressing stand, but Richelle's dusty green eyes never trained themselves upon its murky surface. She'd stared into its depths only once since paying for the room a week and a half ago, and never since. That first night she'd pulled the slightly less worse for the wear dress up over her head, and caught sight of herself in the mirror she'd not noticed until that moment. She had been naked and pale in the dying light, and ran her fingers over her curvy form as she stared at herself through the grey shadows that had crawled from the window and dripped onto the floor, lengthening as the night deepened. It had been the first time she'd gotten a clear look at the marks that lay claim to her body, and she'd stared despite herself, transfixed with the violation of her flesh. She could remember none of the ordeal, but her stomach had quickened at the sight of the torturous wounds. At first glance, they seemed almost senseless- there were so many of them that they overwhelmed the eye and portrayed a dark painting of helplessness and defeat. Only a moment was needed, however, to recognize the clear pattern of the marks- incisions, rather than gashes, deep but medical, obviously intentional in their criss-cross patterns of dissection.

Richelle had run her fingers over the marks- they were still so fresh then, and the flesh of her scars had tingled as she graced their raised redness with the tips of tentative fingers. The feeling was so disquieting to her, and she imagined the skin, so betrayed by the outside world and the torture that had been inflicted upon it, was retreating into a world of its own- no longer fully recognizing the sensations of heat or cold, or the gentle touch of other skin. Instead, that constant tingle and increased sensitivity to the elements was all the wounded skin could produce. The sight of her feminine body in that moonlight, so deformed by the alchemist, had kept her eyes away from the smoky mirror ever since.

Now, however, other thoughts occupied the girl's mind, and she went to the window, opening it to the morning air and using a deep inhale to give herself the opportunity to think. It was true, she needed money- she'd only paid the matron up until this night, and by the look of the tight-fisted old hag, Richelle imagined she wasn't the sort to squeeze herself for a single drop of human kindness. Richelle had no doubts that, were her account not repaid in full by the morning, the woman would have the local armsmen come and toss her into the street come the first peals of the morning bells.

Worrying about money was a first for Richelle. She'd grown up, not only comfortably well-to-do, but also in a world where the only money she'd ever concerned herself with was that of hypothetical sums in her studies. If a man had yea many bushels of crops, worth such a sum, and then charged three men to do the labor of the harvesting, what is the absolute limit salary he could afford to them and still turn a profit? Trying to earn money on her own, however, was an entirely different matter. She'd only just begun to offer her services out for tutoring when she'd been swept up in her current predicament- not long enough nearly to maintain a salary that she might hope to manage. The only wealth she had with her after the mists had dropped her in a new land was gone now, undoubtedly lining the matron's thick pocket, or back out into the community. How to retrieve some of that money, however, was the thing that led to Richelle's natural conclusion: 'If I was aiming to make a living tutoring before, surely I should try the same here.' With that, she swept out of the room, looking back as if there was something to take with her- but indeed, the room was empty, and it prompted a second thought: 'Or, of course, I could just leave this town, and find somewhere new after my travels.' She nodded her head, agreeing soundly with her fine choices, and closed the door behind her.

Out on the street, Richelle took a moment to hang in the door of the inn and look about, first down one side of the cobbled street where the butcher's sign hung, the thickly carved wood not allowing for any breeze to swing it back and forth. Then her eyes trailed up the opposite end of the cobbled stones, up towards the merchant's office, wondering which direction would hold the key to her needs. A gust of wind finally rippled its way around the narrow, crooked buildings and down the winding street, making Richelle's decision for her by catching up her hair and blowing the tied-up mass to one side of her face.

"Well, I suppose that settles it," Richelle said, brushing the brown strands away and starting off down the street in the wind's direction. She walked with the confidence she'd been born with, her gait only slightly marred by the suspicion she now carried around with herself like a shield. Every bustling villager that slunk past her into dimly lit alleyways, or who shot a crooked glance at her were met with narrow, warning eyes. Ever since she'd been overtaken by the alchemist those few weeks ago, she'd found there'd been more than just physical marks left upon her. A part of her wondered whether she'd ever trust anyone completely again... and another part didn't even realize her trust had soured so.

The village at that hour was barely alive- the people on the street were few in number, and fewer in prospects for the young tutor. Indeed, the only boy she saw who was of the right age to be schooled was the young baker's assistant, leaning up against a building and passing long rolls in through the window to the woman buying them from her kitchen. And he was an unlikely pupil at that, she decided, shaking her head in frustration as she pattered along the stones. She debated whether or not she should start knocking on doors, walking down the line and offering her services- but at first house she walked up to- with its red and black door and plain straw mat lain before it caked with mud, Richelle just ran her hand along one of her thin braids and sighed. The likelihood of there being any child in any of these homes who would need her services was slim- and even less so was the chance that a family would take in a wandering tutor- a girl, no less- with dirty clothes and not a penny to her pocket or a reputation to her name. She was a far ways away from Nova Vassa.

She continued to follow the streets, her hope deflated- for where else did she have to go? Her room at the Darkhorse was indeed still hers until the next daybreak... but nothing about the bare, depressing little room appealed to Richelle then. There was nowhere in this town that she knew, and certainly no one, so she walked, each step taking her miles away from a solution, and so much closer to despair. It wasn't until she found herself in a small alley between a stables and a tall brick building that she stopped, realizing that she didn't realize where she'd wandered, or exactly how to get back to the inn. Somehow, in her search for either employment or for the inspiration to move on, she'd lost herself not only in thought, but also in person.

Sighing, Richelle leaned up against the wall, her eyes skirting over the side-entrance to the stables with the dismissing ease of someone who grew up with horses, and didn't afford them much attention when she was faced with them. Instead, her eyes digested the fact that the cobblestones had disappeared, solid earth having replaced it, and stretching out past the alleyway into a small open area, squeezed in between the buildings. It wasn't fenced in, but unless you shimmied between the houses that circled the area, you'd have no way of getting out, sans going through the stables. That was undoubtedly what it was, Richelle decided- some sort of stable or practice yard, owned by some semi-wealthy townsperson who, although they could afford the possession and keep of horses, couldn't either afford or find the space in this well-populated rural area to have anything larger than this small square of earth for the horse's outdoor purposes.

Richelle at that moment, may have rested against the wall, resigned to let her thoughts stew, hoping they'd give her some direction- or she might have edged her way back along the wall and left the alley, either walking on or turning back to the Darkhorse Inn, if it weren't for the sudden emergence of a sound she knew well.

"This is hard!" ...The sound of a child whining.

The voice had come from the open area, and Richelle peered around the wall just in time to see the owner of the voice- a young boy, not much older than the last child she'd taught, accompanied by an older, bow-legged man with a patch over one eye. They were coming out of the side-entrance of the stable, circling around a large roan colored mare who was swishing her tail at the disturbance, and moving toward the center of the earthen area.

"It's supposed to be hard, yeh li' git!" The man cuffed the boy on the back of the head and grabbed one of his wrists, bringing the boy's hand up to place a sword in it. "Now take it again, and this time don' run off. I'll always find yeh." He released the boy's wrist and it fell, dragging his arm down with the weight of the weapon.

"Tomorrow, we'll do more tomorrow!" The protest gained the boy another cuff as the older man took a stance several feet away from the youngster.

"Today, blast yeh," he growled, "Now take a swing at me."

The boy attempted to oblige, but the weight of the sword was too much for him to bear, and he swung wide, his balance throwing him into a wobbly crescent before the steel fell to the earth. It brought the boy down with it, and he stayed in the dirt even when the older man screamed at him to move.

"Blast yeh! So weak!" The man finally cried, giving up on the boy and kicking the dirt with his shoe. Something about the look in the man's eye, a fiery yet dispassionate look of contempt that he focused on the child, made Richelle realize that he wasn't taking the boy's failure as harshly as he was the fact that he had to be there. Richelle knew the look of a begrudging tutor- she'd not been without a mirror all her life, after all. But as much as she could sympathize with the older man's forced profession, she couldn't relate to the abuse of the youngster- especially when his failure could be chalked up to improper tutelage. ...She went forward, in mind and on foot, going into the midst of the square with a confident air.

"He's not actually weak," she explained as she came forward, "but he is untrained. He's obviously not done this before. That's no trainer's sword."

"Ey there, 'oo are yeh?" The curmudgeon grumbled, glaring with his one good eye, narrowing it in suspicion. Richelle stopped when her shoe toe touched the edge of the boy's tunic where he still lay in the dirt.

"A tutor," she explained simply, glancing down summarily at the boy before giving an appraising look at the man. "It's too heavy."

"Wha?" He said, his vowels as round as his eye was thin.

"The sword. You have to start him off with a trainer's sword."

"I dinnae hafta do any such thing!" He growled. "Get off with yeh, lass."

Richelle had walked into the situation without an agenda, without a plan to sell herself or her trade- but rather, she had been driven out of the alley by the confidence she had in her abilities and in an unconscious desire to show up someone who was doing something wrong. ...Particularly a man. However, by this point, her confidence had taken a temporary back-seat to her intellect, and she realized that there was a potential client here.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," Richelle said, lying through her teeth, "I just noticed that you seemed a little flustered with the boy's training."

"What business of yers is it?" The man took a step forward and nudged the boy with his toe roughly, not looking at Richelle any longer. "Get up, boy."

The child looked up, but before he could crawl to his feet, Richelle put a hand out to catch the old man's attention, and the boy was distracted by the movement.

"I'm a tutor, like I said, and I was just... curious," Richelle said, attempting the gentler route, "...Why hasn't the boy's training begun earlier? He would be so much better with the sword if he had even a year before under his belt. Preferrably two. I've seen boys who are weaned on the sword with the bottle."

"'E's the last resort. Ey boy, dinnae I tell you to get up off the earth?" He made to toe at the boy again, but the youngester rolled away from the boot and instead grabbed for Richelle's hand. She helped pull him to his feet, then probed his 'tutor' further.

"The last resort?"

"Aye, are yeh deaf? His older brother's not to be trained anymore. The trainer is also deposed. So wots a stablehand to do but bite the leather straps and do wot 'es told?"

That would explain why the child was so ill-suited with the weapon, Richelle decided. In her mind, she recreated the situation- this family had two sons, and the older had done something to grossly displease his father, and so he and his tutor were deposed, leaving the family's name and station solely on the shoulders of this younger child. The boy had obviously not asked for this lot, and Richelle felt sorry for him. However, she saw a redemption for both the child and for her, in her being hired.

"Well then, sir, you're in luck. If you just point me in the direction of your master's house, I will speak with him about letting you free of your burden. I can teach the boy. What's your name, child?" She put a questioning hand on the boy's shoulder, and he looked up at her with confused blue eyes.

"Martins." He said. The stablehand cut off any further conversation on that vein, however, with a quick snarl at the sound of Martins' voice.

"Ey now, be on your way, lass. We need none of yer nonsense around here. Get back to yer sword, boy."

"Oh, now don't be foolish," Richelle said, her voice soothing and condescending in the same breath. She bundled her skirts in a fist at her side, then bent her knees to scoop the sword where it lay. "Here, child, I'll show you how to hold this one correctly." She turned her back to the stablehand, placing her feet at shoulder's distance and gripping the hilt of the sword with a practiced ease. "Here now watch me make..."

She was suddenly cut short of words by a hand roughly grasping her shoulder, and by a low-pitched growl that accompanied the painful motion.

"Drop it!" ...It was the stablehand, upset that she'd picked up the sword... but Richelle paid no mind to the specifics of the incident. Instead, her mind was suddenly flooded with half-shadowy memories of being strapped to a table, and of being overcome in an alley- rough hands on her shoulders and throat. ...Adrenaline poured through her system, and the acrid taste of fear and anger flooded into her mouth, making the hair on her arms and on the back of her neck stand at rapt, terrible attention.

She swung, not with the sword, for that had been dropped- but rather, with her arms and her entire form, to lunge at the man... without thought, and without reason. She was driven by something primal now, something that had never before existed within her, but was now as much a part of her being as were the scars that lay claim to her flesh. She screamed at the man, but what came out... was not a scream, but rather, a pure stream of concentrated terror that escaped out her mouth as a silent yet deafening atmosphere of gripping fear.

The stablehand fell back, forced onto the earth though the girl had not touched him. His brain froze, and before him, he no longer saw the impudent young woman who had taken the sword, though all reason told him that was indeed what she was... but instead, before him, he saw and felt every terrible thing that had ever happened to him in his long, painful life. His fear of death, of pain, and his greatest fear of all- fire... loomed up and seemed so real. In that single instant, he could almost see a fire in her eyes- and could feel the flames licking at his toes and consuming him. The fear overtook him, and it took him all of his might to break her gaze, letting his head fall to the dirt. And in that instant, the spell was broken.

Richelle didn't realize what had transpired, except to realize that the adrenaline was beginning to soak back into her system. She was still a little set aback, and her breath was uneven and ragged, but she no longer had the desire to lash back at the stablehand, or whatever impulse it was that had run rampant through her system- she couldn't remember now.

"I'm sorry," she said, "you startled me. Here, let me help you up." She offered a hand, bending down to the man. But he scurried away under her arm, and scrambled to stand on his bowed legs- out of her reach.

"Boy!" He called, his voice shaky, "Come away from 'er! Come away now!" He shuffled back towards the side-entrance to the stable, and averted his eyes from Richelle as he went, calling instead to the boy.

Martins had not seen any of the fire in Richelle's eyes- nor had he been in the 'stream' of fear that had emanated from her small frame. So he stood, surprised at the sudden turn of events- grateful for whatever it was that was ending his lesson so early, but still confused at the circumstances that caused such fortunate grace. He looked to Richelle, a questioning look on his face. She just sighed and nodded.

"Go on ahead, Martins. I don't think your tutor is very fond of me. ...Go on."

"Come away, boy! We're gettin' off!"

The two urges were finally enough for Martins, and he ran along to catch up with his unwilling tutor, giving one last look back at Richelle before the two disappeared into the stables. Richelle thought she could hear the whispered curse of 'demon' escape the stablehand's lips, and wondered why he was so hard on the boy, and what would possess him to evoke such curses.

"Poor child," she said, making her way back into the alley, pressing her hands up against the cool brick wall as she went.

"He does have his fair share of troubles," came a voice, not too far away from her. She was not afraid, but rather, a little startled as she turned her head. She hadn't been expecting any others to share this thin space with her. But indeed, when she turned to look, she saw a man who couldn't be much older than she, sitting on a blonde crate that sat outside the stables, one knee drawn up to his chest and the other knee swinging over the edge. He was looking out over the practice yard, and not at Richelle at all.

"How long have you been sitting there?" She asked. Now it was his turn to look surprised, and he jerked his head to the sound of her voice.

"Oh. Are you speaking to me?" He said, his deep voice softening with wonder.

"Who else would I be speaking to? Unless there's someone else hiding in the alley."

"I wasn't hiding," he said, his eyebrows still furrowed in some sort of surprise. "It's just that people don't often notice me. I'm a bit of a... nonentity, you might say." He crooked a smile, and Richelle found herself matching it- even though she didn't know what exactly was funny. He had that sort of face that others wished to match- to smile with him, laugh with him, cry with him. ...Richelle shook the thoughts from her head. What was she saying? She'd only just met the man, and now she was imagining laughing and crying with him.

"Either that," Richelle agreed, "or you just blend in so well." He was blonde from the tips of his long hair to the ends of his cream-colored shoes. Even the crate he sat upon was of bleached wood, probably meant for hayseed or baling twine. Richelle imagined him almost like a dream- blonde and gentle.

"It's true," he laughed, running a single hand down his cream-colored tunic and winking at her. "I'm just one color into the next. I hadn't even thought of it, when I sat here."

"Do you often?"

"Often what?" He said, jumping off the crate in one neat, almost liquid movement.

Richelle narrowed her eyes at him. "Sit here. Do you often sit here?"

"Oh, all the time. Frequently. Most of the times. ...All the day. Every day, I imagine." He said, teasing her with that rich voice that couldn't make Richelle quite mad enough at him for teasing her. All she could manage was to roll her eyes and step back against the wall.

"And is this how you spend your life, watching others go about their daily lives?"

"Well, I don't know if you'd quite call it a life, but it's certainly something to do." He winked. "And what about you? I don't recognize you at all."

"What, do you know everyone in town?"

He laughed. "One way or another. It's not a very large town. And as you remember," he took a slight bow, never letting his eyes leave Richelle, "I'm the great watcher."

"Yes."

"Yes what?" He said, straightening.

"Yes, I'm new in town. ...My name is Richelle."

"I don't think I've ever heard a name like that before."

She furrowed her dark brows. "It's more popular... where I'm from," she said, floundering for something else to say. But the man put a hand up to stop her.

"No, I didn't mean to insult. ...I think it's a beautiful name."

Richelle's brows eased, and a smile played behind her lips, wondering whether to come out at the insistance of such an unexpected compliment. "Thank you."

"No thanks needed. ...Fineal."

"What?"

He laughed, "Are we really to play this game all day? Maybe one or another of us should be clear about what we mean. We seem to be two ships... passing each other in the fog, never quite knowing where the other is... but hearing, all the same, the lonely horn. Fineal. It's my name."

"Oh," she said, simply, her mind awreak with thoughts. He, as if seeing into her thoughts, came forward, close enough that she thought she might have been able to feel his breath, were he an inch closer.

"What is it you're thinking?"

She laughed- a single, unbelieving huff. "You have to be joking."

"Why is that?"

She blinked. "Well, I don't know you. And who goes about asking people they only just met what's going through their minds?"

He inserted a hand into hers and firmly shook it, though her fingers were still held limp with the surprise of it. "Fineal does. Hello, I thought we'd already met."

She laughed- this time, more believing. "If you really want to know?"

"This is going to be a very long conversation if you keep doing that, Richelle." The sound of her name on his lips was invigorating, and Richelle nearly laughed at herself with the absurdity of it all.

"Well, I'm just surprised at your eloquence. For a man who spends his life sitting out in an alleyway... 'watching'... you certainly are a surprise."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment," she said, moving down along the wall, and away from his steady advances. "It was just a thought."

"I am going to take it as one, anyway. A compliment of sorts, from the fair Richelle, who has come to our town with an unknown purpose in mind."

"I'm a tutor. I teach for the service exams- or just in general, if that's what you wanted to know." She stopped her advancement along the wall, since she realized she was coming to the edge of the street- and didn't know if she wanted to leave Fineal there, in the alley. He hadn't moved since she'd started to edge along the wall. He stood, having as clear a view of the practice area as he did of Richelle.

"That would explain why you were harassing old Bart."

"I was harassing no one." Her dark eyes were indignant, but Fineal just pointed towards the practice yard.

"True. But to old Bart, everyone harasses him. He's been a stablehand since before he lost his eye, and to him, the whole world is out to get him. Probably why he takes so much of the day out on poor Martins."

Richelle crossed her arms in front of her, folding them up against her chest and leaning back against the brick. "So says the watcher?"

For once, Fineal didn't answer directly- instead, his eyes followed the path of the stable wall, down the alley to where Richelle stood, poised at the edge of the cobblestones. Only when he looked up into her eyes did he nod. "Oh yes. I feel sorry for the boy. He's come out here every other day for the past few weeks, training under the old man, and you can tell his heart's not in it. He never expected this for his life."

Richelle's heart both opened up to the child in that moment... and hardened. She knew what it was like to be slated for a life that you didn't desire, or have any inkling towards pursuing... but she also knew that she would have given anything to be Martins. To be groomed for the life she'd been meant to lead- and then to actually pursue it... it was a dream that could never be realized for her. She was silent, not knowing which heart to reveal to Fineal, who obviously pitied the boy.

"I can see I'm boring you, though." He said, breaking the spell of her quiet thoughts, and bringing her back into the real world.

"No... not quite." She said, uncrossing her arms and easing up to hold her own weight steady. Fineal walked towards her, a new smile on his face.

"So what are you to do now, Richelle? Off to find some other boy to train how to make his family proud?"

Richelle sighed. "Honestly? I don't know quite what I'm going to do. I don't think there's anything for me to do here. I may have to move on."

"Wont you stay a little longer, just to make sure? I'd hate to lose a new friend- particularly one who actually pays me some mind, now that I've just found her." He grinned,and Richelle once again noticed that he had the strangest way of being able to make those blue eyes sparkle.

"And you have friends who don't pay you any mind?"

He shrugged, "I told you. I just sit and watch. People don't give me the time of day, mostly. In fact, you would be the first one today." He paused, and Richelle wondered what was going through his mind. He didn't speak for several minutes, and she was very close to telling the strange man goodbye, and pretending she'd never met him as she went on her way... when he suddenly spoke, a sweet yet serious look across his face.

"In fact, since you don't have any other prospects for the day, and you're so determined to leave us... would you like some company today?"

Richelle was taken aback. She wasn't used to this sort of attention from... well, anyone, but in particuar, men. Her life had been one of learning, surrounded in women- her sisters, her neighbors, and her mother, who had always been preoccupied with marriage and etiquette lessons- things that she'd always considered to be beneath her. She'd been the learned one, the one with a purpose and drive. It had placed her, in her esteem, so much higher than those around her, and given her a foundation of self-importance and superiority that she'd not imagined could ever be so tested, out here in the real world, when faced with a man... asking for her company. She hardly knew what to say.

"I don't know what to say." Except, perhaps, for that.

"Say yes. You said you'd nothing else to do?"

"Yes, but I hardly see how that gives you license over my time." Her wit had always been her self-defense mechanism. Fineal just laughed.

"You're quite right. It doesn't. But I warrant I could show you a nice time here on this last day in our fair town. I might even feed you."

Richelle still didn't know quite what to say, but somehow, the words came out anyway. "Well, I think you'd have to. I don't have any money left."

Fineal took her hand, and with a wide grin, she pulled her into the street. "Good thing. Neither do I!"

"Well then, how are we...?" Her words were jolted by the force of being dragged out into the street at a near run. Fineal looked over his shoulder at the surprised girl and laughed.

"You'll see!"

* * *

The apricot was sweet, if not a little overripe, and the juice dribbled down Richelle's chin as she bit down on the fruit so brightly colored that it mirrored the color of the sun that beat down on them. She lay on the grass, propped up on her elbows, and wiped her mouth with the edge of her sleeve. She was warm to the bone, and the sweet, cool flavor in her mouth was heavenly.

"Not bad, hm?" The voice, too, was heavenly. She smiled, and, as if Fineal was looking into her mind once more, he laughed. "See, I told you I could get you fed, Ms. Winter."

"And you're sure these trees aren't owned by anyone?" She asked, swallowing the mouthful of natural sweetnes that rolled around on her tongue.

"I told you, they're in between owners at the moment." Fineal rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky, not wincing at the bright light in the slightest, his blue eyes round and open. "This entire plot of land here used to belong to the butcher, but he's been selling most of it."

"Well, you certainly do know how to get a free meal, Mr. Dahl."

"Told you. ...Now what was it you were telling me before you got juice all over yourself?"

"It wasn't important. ...Don't you want one of these? They're a little messy, but divine."

"Of course it's important," he said, ignoring her offer of a fruit, "we've had a grand time all morning listening to the delightful Ms. Winter tell about her life story. Let's not spoil the fun now."

"Aren't you going to tell me anything more about yourself? I mean, besides the fact that you have three sisters and one younger brother, and that your last name is Dahl?"
"I'm a particularly boring subject. I think you know everything there is to know about me. I sit around all day, watching others, and I live here in this town..."

"And you know how to feed a newcomer on ownerless apricots," Richelle laughed, licking the juice off the skin of the one she'd just bitten into.

"Precisely. So how many sisters did you say you have?"

"Two. Lorraine and Alice. Two of the most worthless creatures ever to walk the earth," she said, the image of her two marriage-minded, precisely attired sisters waltzing through her head. "But even so... it's sad that I may never see them again. Alice will be... 17 soon. In the fall. ...Hm."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. I just... hadn't realized I've been gone so long."

"I've not seen my sisters in a while, either," Fineal said, echoing her longing tone, if not sounding a little more... resigned, for whatever reason. "They're younger than Alice, however. Lisbeth is...12, I believe, and Embreth and Tara are both 9."

"Why haven't you seen them?"
"Well, it's as simple as I don't live at home anymore. Not much use to see ones sisters when they're there and you're... well, out on your own." He said, rolling back onto his stomach and holding up his torso with his arms, folded onto each other on the grass.

"What about your father?" He probed. "Do you miss him?"

Richelle conjured up a picture of the elder Winter in her mind, his long, broad face with its wide, strong nose- 'commoners features', as they were called. His eyes were as her own, that greyish green that changed in the light, and looked larger than life. That was a good way to describe him, Richelle thought- larger than life. Intelligent, driven, and focused- but sometimes, on all the wrong things. She banished his face from her mind when it changed into a visage of pure joy: it was the look she'd seen etched across his broad features when he'd learned of the birth of his son.

"...No. Not really," she said, realizing that it was true. "My father was a great man."

"..Was? I'm sorry, did he pass away?"
She shook her head. "Not exactly."

Her face was so sad- and Fineal recognized the look of betrayal and lonliness there. He reached his hand over- tentatively- he'd not touched anyone in so long, and certainly not with that caring feeling, and brushed a long brown hair out of her face, where it had escaped one of her braids. "It seems like you have more of a mysterious past than you'd like to admit, Richelle."

The touch sent a shiver through the girl, and something in her told her that this moment was weighed with some great importance. She looked into the depths of the blue eyes, and saw something... quiet there, and deathly still. She truly believed that he would listen to what she had to say about all the terrible things that had been happening to her the past few weeks.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she whispered. Fineal got up on his knees, drawing his face closer to her, and took up her lips in his, a fully unexpected, sensuous kiss that left them breathless. She stared, astounded, as he pulled away from her and ran his fingers down the length of her jaw.

"Try me." He said, a dry whisper in her ear.

* * *

"This is so unlike me," Richelle said, her arms wrapped around the strong arm that held her close to Fineal's chest. She ran her fingers down its length, lightly brushing the downy fringe of blonde hair on his arm. She felt the slight pressure of a kiss, dropped down on the crown of her head.

"Well, from what it sounds like, you've been changing a lot lately. So much has happened to you."

"It is a little surreal," Richelle said, whispering into the quickly darkening room, not meaning the events of the past few weeks so much as the happenings of the past few hours. She and Fineal had spoken for hours there on the hill just outside of town, Fineal ever the ready listener as she gorged herself on both the apricots and on the indulgence of having someone who listened, and believed her. She'd poured her soul out about how she'd grown under her father's willing tutelage, and how she'd thirsted for knowledge, then for something to do with that knowledge besides turning it over to her eventual son or brother. She expressed her pain at being out of place in the world of her birth, and her hatred at oppression. Then, at Fineal's urging, she'd told him of the encounter with the alchemist, and how violated she'd felt. As they'd walked through the town, and Fineal had guided her through back alleys and beautiful side streets all the way back to the inn, she'd told him of the mists, and how she'd gotten picked up by their wandering mystery and dropped here in this land. That's where they were now, wrapped around each other in the dimming light of her room. Or, at least, the last night that it would be 'her room'. The thought made her cringe.

"What?" Fineal said, noticing the change in expression.

"Oh, I just keep thinking that I'll have to be gone by the morning. I didn't find any work today, and I doubt the matron will allow me credit on my honor. ...Did you see the way she stared at us when we walked in? Looked at me like I was the most insane woman alive for inviting a man up to my room."

Fineal was quiet a moment. "I didn't see. ...I don't know why you chose this place, anyway. There are a number of inns in town."

"It was the first one I came across. Besides, I was comforted by the name. Darkhorse. ...There were always horses around when I grew up. Nova Vassa is known for their exceptional horses. I've been riding since I was two."

"I would have chosen another."

"Why? I mean, sure, it's not a fancy room...and I don't exactly have a lot to fill it, but..."

"Oh, nothing. I'm just not very fond of horses." Fineal said, cutting her off. His sudden interjection made her laugh, and she gave his arm a slight punch.

"Such a silly boy," she said. He didn't respond, just rubbed his fingers along hers. She was quiet for the gentle motion, and closed her eyes to the dying light as he continued to run his fingers up her arm, past her sleeve, enjoying the feeling even more by depriving herself of the sense of sight. He pushed up her sleeve and continued to roll his fingers up the downy hair on her arm... and then, at her elbow, his fingers stopped. Richelle didn't think on it, still savoring the feeling, when his voice, low and gentle, rose up out of the dark.

"Are these the marks?" He said. Her eyes popped open, and in the moment it took her to adjust to the blue light, she recognized the raised scars that ran down her arm, marked incisions like the ones that covered the flesh beneath her clothes.

"Yes," she said, quietly. "They're all over."

Fineal let her sleeve drop back into place, and was silent while he did so. Richelle expected the matter was dropped, until his next words graced her ear.

"I'm so sorry. Do they hurt?"

She shook her head. "No. Not anymore."

As a response, she felt a gentle pressure against her back. It was Fineal, pushing her up into a sitting position. She moved, her muscles suprised by the sudden request to move- they'd been sitting in the same spot, wrapped up together on her bed since they'd gotten back to the room hours before, and they were hesitant to move. But she pushed forward, and stretched her muscles as Fineal moved out from underneath her. She wondered where he was going, and turned to watch him get off the bed- but he hadn't moved. Instead, he just put a single finger up to her lips, and looked into her eyes, a deep, penetrating stare through the grey glow of the room.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, the breathiest whisper, and he ran a heavy hand down her face, then letting it trace her neck... and down, into the lacings of her bodice, where he paused. She didn't stop him- in fact, she nodded ever so slightly, and held her breath as he undid the flat brown lacings, exposing a chest, round and full, etched with raised pink scars.

With a single finger, he traced a long scar that rounded one of her breasts, and she shivered, marked again by the feeling of importance at the sense of his touch.

"I can't believe you exist," she said as he grasped her bare shoulders with a possessive yet loving hold. He responded by pulling her towards him, and kissing her with a passion she didn't know was possible outside of the books she read so vociferously.

"What about... tomorrow?" She said, once the fairy tale kiss had ended. Fineal shook his head.

"Only think about tonight." And then, they fell into a deep embrace.

* * *

In the early morning, hours after Richelle had fallen asleep in Fineal's wide awake and watching arms, Richelle's eyes openend... tentatively, as if unwilling to shake off the sweet dreams that clung to her eyelashes. Blue-black light streamed in through the window, casting a shadowy silhouette against the floor in the shape of a man... who stood at the window, looking out. She was alone on the bed, and in the darkness, called out to him... Fineal...but he didn't hear her. Or maybe she hadn't called at all. Her eyes became heavy with sleep, and the vision of Fineal, standing at the window, blurred in her vision, and soon him, along with everything else in the waking world- was gone. She imagined she saw him looking at her, smiling sadly, and one hand raised in a wave... before everything went to black.

* * *

A heavy knock pounded through dreams of sweet kisses and of talking to Fineal until she collapsed into dreamland, and she sat straight up in her bed.

"What is it?" She said, her voice slurred with the remnants of sleep. A booming voice cut through the oaken door and accosted her ear.

"Oi!' It's mornin', lass! An' unless ye've got the coins for me pocket, yer out this mornin'." It was the matron.

"Oh... my apologies. I had meant to get out long before this... I just... overslept."

"Blast right, yeh did. Ar yeh decent? I'm comin' in!"

Richelle leapt from the bed, fully dressed but disheveled from head to toe. "No!" She cried, "I'm not..." the matron came through the door, "...decent. ...I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't let you know I'd have someone staying overnight."

The woman's face was thick and expressive in all the wrong ways. She was soured by a long life of spinsterhood, and spoiled by years of self-indulgence with the coins that had passed her palm. She placed her hands on her broad hips, and spoke through sausage-shaped twin lips that wobbled as she sneered.

"What someone? I hate to burst yer bubble, dearie, but yer all alone." And sure enough, with a single glance of the whole room, Richelle realized that she and the matron were the only people in it. And since she was wearing everything she'd brought with her, the only sign that the room had ever been occupied was the tousled bedding.

"Oh. He must have... left," she said, realizing the obviousness of the statement but not having any other words at mind to take their place. The woman threw up her large hands and rolled her piggish eyes.

"I dinnae rightly care, dearie. So long as yer out. Now. Unless ye've got the money."

"I'll just be on my way," Richelle said, pushing past the woman, and hurrying down the stairs, which bowed under the weight of the matron's heavy frame following her. She didn't look back, and headed for the door, saying to herself as she went, "I don't know where he could have went..." Just then, as she turned in the doorway to leave, the matron spoke from behind the bar, where she'd joined the crony she always sat with in the middle of the day.

"There she goes again. Talking to herself. Crazy lass."

Richelle furrowed her eyebrows- what was she talking about? But before she could respond to the heckling laughter that pushed her through the door, she was gone.

* * *

Richelle sat on the crate, swinging her legs and wondering where he could be. She'd walked through all the side-streets of town that Fineal had taken her down, and looked out onto the hilltop outside of town- and then, finally, she'd made her way to the alley, where she'd sat for the past hour, waiting for him to walk around the corner with his vivid bue eyes and blonde hair. The day was growing longer, and she wondered why she still sat there- Fineal hadn't promised her he'd be there in the morning, and she didn't even know if she wanted to see him again before she said goodbye. Or was she even saying goodbye? For the first time in her life, the girl who had all the answers had none at all at her disposal, sans a small voice that whispered in her ear to wait for him to show. Last night had been the most amazing, albeit surreal experience of her life, even more so than the attack that left her so violently scarred. They had done nothing more than talk, embrace, and touch each other with the mark of a strange, magnetic love... but something made it... mysterious, and amazing, and no matter how much rationalizing she did, she couldn't convince herself against her gut feeling: that he had been... special. Different.

Suddenly, a motion from the stables made Richelle slide off the crate, coming forward to see who it was. She'd only peered around the post, however, before she saw Martins walk out, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Oh, Martins. I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else." She let go of the post and stepped back into the practice yard. "Did you come out to practice again?"

If the boy seemed surprised to see her again, he didn't show it. Instead, he shook his head and scuffed at the dirt with his shoe as he came out of the dim stable light into the yard.

"No. I'm just hiding from Father. He's mad at me again."

"I'm sorry. It's no fun when that happens." Martins nodded, still kicking at the dirt.

"Is it about your training?" He nodded again. "Well, don't worry. I know it's hard, especially coming to it at your age, but trust me, you'll get better."
The boy narrowed his eyes to the sun, and looked up with a sullen look on his face. "How do you know?"

"Well, I've seen older boys than you take to it. And I'm sure you're better with the learning part, rather than the swordplay. Isn't that right?"

"It's easier stuff," Martins shrugged. "But still boring."

"Oh, I don't know. It gets more interesting."

"Yeah, I guess so," the boy said cautiously- but without any animosity. Richelle chucked him under the chin with a gentle gesture and smiled, dearly wishing to cheer the poor lad up.

"Besides, I'm not the only one who thinks so," she said. "Fineal said you're a good boy, and you'll catch on soon enough." With that, the boy's eyes went wide, and a near-smile spread across his face.

"You knew my brother?"

Richelle was surprised, but suddenly, all the pieces fell into place. Of course, she thought- Fineal said he had a younger brother, and that he no longer lived at home... and Bart had said that Martins older brother was no longer to be trained. He must be the older, disgraced son. It explained so much, Richelle decided, and she nodded at the boy.

"Yes," she said. Martins nodded sadly.

"Yeah well... I miss him. ...I wish I didn't have to do the exam."

Richelle didn't know what to say. She didn't know whether or not she should talk about Fineal coming home, or to tell Martins how his brother still watched him, beacuse honestly... she didn't know well enough to judge Fineal's intentions. She didn't want to get Martins' hope up and then have the little soul's hopes dashed once again.

In the time that it took her to think, however, Martins sighed, and looked up at Richelle with big, bright blue eyes.

"I wish he hadn't died."

Richelles heart skipped a beat.

"What did you say?"

"I wish he hadn't died."

"Who?" She whispered, suspending belief in the hope that Martins wasn't saying what she thought he was saying.

The boy looked upset. "You said you knew him. ...Fineal. He was killed last month."

"That can't be," she whispered, more to herself than Martins. The boy didn't hear her, he was too caught up in what he was saying.

"He was thrown from his horse. Father was so mad that he fired the only good tutor, too. That's why I have Bart. ...I didn't want to do this. I don't want to do the exam."

Martins was still talking, but the words were lost on Richelle. She was filled with an immense, sickening sense. Fineal was dead. Fineal was dead. She had been speaking with a dead man. How could she expect to cope with this? What was happening to her?

"Oh god, what is happening to me?" She whispered. Martins sniffled into his sleeve.

"I wish I were dead, too."
She had just enough side-reason left on her, with all the doubts and fears and countless screams that were rolling around in her head, to drop to her knees and take Martins by the shoulder.

"Listen to me, okay?" She said, looking into those blue eyes... those perfect blue eyes that matched Fineals. ...She should have seen it before. Oh, why didn't she put the pieces back together before her life had crumbled? "Listen to me... you don't wish you were dead. Okay? Don't ever wish that. Life is crazy, but it's wonderful, and you're going to be alright. Okay? Say okay."

The boy sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve, but he nodded. "O...okay."

"And know that Fineal is watching you.... wherever he is." With that, she looked over her shoulder at the alley, compelled by something she knew not what. There, sitting on the crate, was a half shadowy vision... of a man. She saw one hand go up in a silent wave... and then he was gone.

* * *

She ran. Like the wind was her enemy, she ran, her feet attacking the pavement as she propelled herself forwards. Tears streamed from her eyes- what is happening to me, she asked herself again- the one sentence her mind could make sense of as she flew past people in the streets. They turned as she ran past them, wondering what had set the girl in such an ungodly tizzy. She ran on the cobblestones, and finally had to stop, propping herself up against a building as she gasped for breath, choking on the air that wanted so desperately to get in her lungs. If she'd had anything in her stomach, she likely would have heaved it up upon the stones. She clung to the frame of the house, using it as her anchor to everything she understood. A couple passing by on that same street- an elderly woman and her young granddaughter, saw her in her distress, and they came upon her, concerned for her. The woman only had to set a hand upon her, though, that Richelle took one look at them and screamed.

Richelle saw in the woman, a grey aura- but, more than that, the very edges of her being seemed to fade away into nothingness, and it petrified her to her very soul. She commanded all the strength she had left and carried herself away on frightened feet, hoping to find her way towards something she could understand, and away from the nightmare that was now her life.

The little girl watched Richelle go, all aflurry in her stained skirts and furious tears. She turned to her grandmother and tugged on the old woman's arm.

"Nana? What was wrong with her?"

The elderly woman took a deep breath- it was difficult for her to have a full lung's worth these days, without it all seeming to be lost to the wind- "I don't know, child. Perhaps she saw a ghost."