No Fury

Now: Fifty Seven

My daughter is every drop of sunshine her father is: dark curls, cherubic rosy cheeks, a pink berry mouth. When she is five months old, her eyes turn a brilliant, light green ringed with the deeper green of the forest. When she giggles, dimples carve deeply into her cheeks.

Some days it is nearly painful to gaze upon her. Other days I stare at her for hour upon hour, grateful that I am able to remember his face through hers.

Many of the soldiers return home after over two months of searching for Harry and Liam. However, a band of nearly twenty men still roam the countryside, holding out hope that they will be rescued.

The village is very kind to us, bringing our family food, crafting charms for luck, for safety. All of these gestures are lovely, but over time it grows harder for me to manage a smile when they come to the door.

I know they whisper at night in the ale rooms about what will come of our kingdom. I know they wonder whether Anne will be an infant queen, whether she will be taken from the village and raised in the privacy of the castle.

I know they all wonder how, if the remaining rebels furiously protested Harry's half-blood lineage, they would respond to a child queen who is only one quarter royal blood.

All of the speculation is a buzzing of bees in a hive. It begins to feel as though they believe Harry to be dead. I begins to feel as though I am already a widow.

I cannot help but feel that if Harry was dead, I would know somehow. I do not admit this to anyone but myself in the blackest heart of the night, but in my bones, I know it is true. Harry was put on this earth for me, and I was put on this earth for him, and if he ceased to live, something inside me would die, too.

But instead of feeling weak, instead of fading, I feel stronger.

He is out there, still fighting.

Needing air from the cloying scent of the ale house, I leave Anne with Da for a spell to walk outside, inhaling the fresh summer breeze of lilac and rainwater.

Wandering aimlessly in the courtyard, I gaze at the white, circular scar on my ring finger, touching it lightly. I can see the shape of Harry's teeth in the marking, can nearly recall the way it felt when he pressed sharply into my skin, claiming.

My heart spasms, blood heats.

I miss the clean scent of his skin, the warmth of it beneath my hands and my mouth.
I miss lying beside him, talking for hours, his face so close to mine I could hardly make out a single distinct feature.
I miss the soft tenor of his voice, his delighted laugh, his playful smile.
I miss his overwhelmed, gasping breaths over me.

I will love you - and only you - until the end of time.
Other than my promise to protect my kingdom, that is the only vow I intend to honor.

"Cathryn."

I startle at the sound of Douglas' voice, glancing up to see him standing only a few yards in front of me. I blink to the side and see Zayn lingering not far away. I realize he must have followed me at some distance: always vigilant, always protecting.

"Douglas."

He advances cautiously: a deer approaching a bear. When he is just before me, he bows deeply, lingering. "Good day to you."

His obsequious tone sets my nerves on edge, and I clench my jaw.

"I imagine your life looks quite different from that vantage," I say.