Heart of Leoth: [HAITUS]

Part XIII ~ Fara

She lifted the hand that lay across her and let it drop next to her. Valdr slept on. The Dresyth she'd tricked into his blood keeping him there. She slid out from beneath him and stood, pulling the robe that hung next to the bed over her shoulders and knotting it at her waist. She went towards the tapestry and pulled it back, opening the door. The corridor was dark and empty. Fara's heart sank and her stomach churned with self-loathing. She hurried through the passageway to Valdr's chamber and pushed open the door. 

She expected she might see Dura sitting in the same chair she sat in last night, but the chamber was empty. She closed the door and made her way back through. Valdr slept on.

A glance outside told her that the sun was soon to rise. She believed that despite last night's events, Wyllan would be in the Moonalven Garden as he promised. If only to tell her that he could no longer offer her the support he had last night. 

She hurriedly pulled on her most simple gown, then a plain grey cloak she found at the back of her armoire, and glanced at the bed to ensure Valdr still slept. He did. In fact, he had not moved an inch since she rose. How innocent he looked in sleep. Hands loosely curled, hair brushed back of the angular lines of his face, mouth slightly parted. Deep soft breathing.

With a last look, she snuck from the chamber and hurried down the quiet corridor towards the servant's stairwell. It would likely be busier than the main corridors of the palace but she could not risk any of the lords or their ladies noticing her movements. Servant's gossip would be far less dangerous. Far more ambiguous. She passed no one on her way down the northern stairwell, which brought her out into the eastern corner of the stable yard. Some hands worked under the rising day, but she was able to keep to the lingering shadows until she reached the end of the yard before slipping through the gated wall to circle back towards the gardens on the other side. Pulled her hood low, and kept her eyes fixed on her feet. 

She thought of Dura. Of what she may say or do now that she knew the truth. It was a risk to have revealed it, she knew this. But she supposed that it was only a matter of time. She was Valdr's wife. But more than that, she was Fara's... friend. Dura deserved to know. Her hope had been that this would, at last, show Dura how hopeless this misplaced devotion was. That maybe it would shift her loyalty elsewhere. 

Her slippers were too loud on the gravelled walkway. That chilly morning air had sprouted a soft frost on the paving beneath her feet so that to her ears it sounded like a booming cacophony in the early dawn. She quickened her steps through the great gardens, reaching the central atrium where she turned west through the curved archway toward the Garden of Moonalven. The paving changed from roughened stone to smoothest marble here and she was grateful for it muffled her steps. Her heart sank when she entered through the western gate into the tree-lined space and spied it immediately empty. It was abloom with the blues and indigos of the season of the moon, the scent less potent in the chill of the morning. 

She walked the line of the trees and crossed to the other, then walked back the way she came down the opposite side. Dacian appeared from the shadow to her left, grabbing her wrist and pulling her between two of the floriferous Virgin's Bower trees. He turned her so that she was between his body and the tree, covering her with his body from any who might pass. He towered over her, body warm and familiar. Had he ever been bold enough to assume such proximity? She glanced up at him, found his eyes rimmed with red, dark circles causing the pale grey-blue to stand out bright against his skin. He looked as though he had not slept.

"Fara, I..." he began.

"I know," she said, gentle. "Valdr took great pleasure in informing me of your marriage."

Dacian swallowed, torment swimming over his eyes. "There was nothing I could do. He brought her before me like a poisonous gift. A chaplain of the order, four of his Nati. And Ravol, of course. There may as well have been a sword against my neck." A flare of anger pulled at his mouth. "I thought he may stay and force the consummation too. But thankfully he did not."