A Fate Not So Hastily Accepted

Many things flooded the young mind of Rowena Aleire Mikin as her unconscious wanderings lead her closer to the realm of waking. Something rougher, earthier smelling than the lavender-scented smoothness of her silk pillow grazed against her cheek. When her neck twisted to avoid the unpleasantry, her nose burrowed into the texture of burlap. It was almost abrasive to her porcelain skin.

Thoughts muddled with growing fogginess and confusion, the girl squeezed her lashes more tightly together. She protested the discomforts and rolled blindly in a tangled web of stiff, cotton sheets and a scratchy, woolen blanket. A moment of ferocious limb-flailing granted her right foot freedom into the chill of the room, and an end to that freedom as her dainty toes kissed a solid, oak chest good morning.

Rather than submitting to the challenge of household menaces, like any moody adolescent, Rowena let her leg flop lifelessly back onto the disheveled bedding and groaned sideways into her arm. She listened to the rhythmic thud of blood coursing between her ears, feeling the beat of her own heart against the press of her other arm. The lullaby cradled her in promising arms, drawing her deeper towards the beloved state she was in such danger of losing.

But alas, not all lovely youths were granted their every wish. The sudden warmth of light flooded over her exposed wrist, snuck past her curled mane, and tickled at her eyelids. And to adversely accompany nature’s gentle prodding, a woman’s gravelly voice spontaneously grated into her ear.

“Awake, dear child! An army of wildlings could’ve hopped o’er the wall and into town thrice by now the hour in

which ye slept!” As if this perceived shout weren’t crime enough, a less than loving pat violated her blanket-padded backside.

Heart turned with misery against this abusive routine, Rowena snaked her left arm back over her face and struggled to roll onto that side while her dreamy eyes finally peeped open…to meet another pair of eyes. And lolling tongue. Up close.

“Light!” She gasped in shrill voice and wrestled violently with the cotton bindings to flee the slobbering greeting of a shaggy beast. The brindled dog panted heavily and pawed at her arms and knees, unwilling to let her escape so easily.

Rowena shouted again, dodging unsuccessfully the stinking breath and fairing even worse in her attempts to disentangle her limbs. All dignity was forgotten as the dog leapt onto the modest bedding to press his affection further. “NO!” She cried and threw up her legs, blankets and all, in defense. This desperate motion set her disoriented body off balance, and in a flurry of faded green, snowy satin, and mangy brown, both canine and human toppled into the sunray which had initiated the mess. Rowena’s hair pins clattered against the stone floor as her slender figure thudded at fall’s end. The dog padded nonchalantly over her limp frame now that his mission was accomplished, and disappeared from view around the bed’s corner.

Unimpressed and unmoved by the noble blood’s plea for help, a middle-aged woman stared at the ended display from just an arm’s reach away. Her arms folded with a sigh over her generous bosom and head tilted to regard Rowena’s dazed expression with a tiny ‘humph’. “That’ll teach ye to ignore me calling. Alberon was just doing his duty, mind ye.”

Alberon? How did such an awkward brute of a creature earn such a noble name? Lifting her head from the unforgiving floor, Rowena sniffed and nodded dumbly. Slowly, she freed her legs from the bedding while her eyes watched the woman cross the small room and through the door. It just wasn’t fair.

When her head ceased to ache, she climbed to her feet and dumped the lumpy mass onto the now bare mattress. Her hands gripped at her shoulders in defense against the eternal chill of the room. A glance out the tiny window confirmed her suspicions. Blowing winds shook the naked trees. Frost was coming. Frost was fast approaching and here she was, abandoned into the hands of a commoner who had already established a turning of the classes. The sounds of meat crackling over a flame and pungent scent of herbs drifted in through the open doorway. At least she would not starve here.

Stifling a hiccup into her sleeve, the girl stared sadly about the room. The oak chest she had earlier kicked was wedged between the bed and the wall. No tasseled keys dangled in display from its lock. In fact, there was no lock. No cheery, painted faces of dolls smiled at her from within either, when she peeped inside. Just the lone homestead of a pioneering spider. Pivoting her feet over the ashen stone, she put her back to that window and glanced to her left at the faded tapestry. She recognized the war scene depicted. A similar making was hung in her father’s chamber. Alongside it, a surprisingly polished sconce held the remains of last week’s candle. Perhaps four steps to her right, another sconce clung bare to the wall, having once illuminated a half-length mirror that sits beneath it. Catching eye of her reflection, Rowena touched the remaining hair pin that protruded from behind her ear. Beauty was a lost cause, here. Grudgingly, she plucked it out and tossed it to join the others on the floor.

Her toes crept onto the mud bear rug that lounged beneath the mirror and she buried them in the fur. Her nose craned forward to breathe fog onto the glass while she fingered her hair into place over her shoulders. The lean caused a gape in her chemise’s neckline, exposing much more of her silken skin to the mirror’s eyes. She glanced downward with a sigh and straightened out to smooth the ivory fabric over her small, thirteen-year figure. A slight turn to the side and back-thrust of her shoulders presented a slightly more mature image into the mirror. Her eyes intently stared through a coy strand of dark hair while her hands pinched and tugged at her gown in search of a shape that wasn’t quite there.

“What’re ye doin’?” inquired a prying tone of an eleven-year old boy. He met Rowena’s startled glance with beady eyes and upturned smirk beneath a crooked nose. His mop of red hair attested to his mischief. Voice caught in her throat as she gaped at the doorway, Rowena stiffened her arms at her sides and lifted her chin in regal fashion. “I…”

“Hey Johan!” The boy announced over his shoulder with a mocking ring to his voice. “I think you’ve got yerself a fancy lady in here!” A wicked cackle erupted from his lips before Rowena could refute his comment. She stood baffled and humiliated as the boy then ran from the room while his older brother uttered a loud oath of promised pain and leaped from his place at the table to give chase.

Feeling her cheeks burn intensely, Rowena stole a final glare to the mirror and marched to the wardrobe that stood by the door. She didn’t emerge to investigate when the sudden halt of scrambling feet met the sharp tongue of a tempered mother. There was some protest from the other room while the boys were shoved into the frosty air without their breakfast.

Served them right. Tugging open a door on a creaky hinge, Rowena reached inside to touch one of her gowns. A remnant of home. But next to them hung an ugly, brown apron of sorts. She did not want to be here. Bending at the waist, the girl rummaged through her pile of trinkets on the wardrobe’s ‘floor’ and found an odd ornament of squawker feathers and polished shells from the river.

Gently, she turned it over in her palms, pulling the smoothness of the feathers through her aching thumbs. She’d been here only a few days, but already the toll of bucket carrying and plant-tugging was beginning to show. She wanted to go home to her freedom. She missed her friend.

“On yer feet now, I see.” The woman observed sourly from the doorway. Rowena jumped, letting the ornament fall back into her things. She hadn’t even heard her approach.

“Yes.” Rowena replied softly, lowering her eyes to the floor, wistful thoughts interrupted.

“Well then, git into th’wash now before we eat and go into town. I wouldn’t want ye looking like one of us now, would I?” If this was humor, it was only discernable through the twinkle in the woman’s hazel eyes. Her pale hair was pulled tightly against her skull in a bun, revealing the first touches of grey. Early begot, no doubt.

Rowena furrowed her brows and peered around to the small, wooden tub that had been situated somewhere between her bed and the wardrobe’s wall. The water was only a few inches deep and probably had lost any warmth it once held. A bucket rested alongside, filled with fresher water to rinse.

Trying to mask her disappointment with a grim smile, Rowena looked back to her host and nodded. “I shall. Maeve.”

It was the first time she’d used the woman’s name since her arrival, as before, she was never far away enough that a simple “Excuse me” wouldn’t suffice.

That agonizing initiation into apprenticeship had been three years ago. Stretching her arms over her head as she awakens from her reverie, Rowena nudges the invasive dog out of the way with her hip. Sweet grass rustles beneath her gown as she draws her knees together and picks herself from the ground.

She had been resting here, in the clearing within the wood behind Maeve’s cottage. Glittering rays of gold filtered through the overhead leaves, casting a glare over the tiny spring that bubbled forth, while a light breeze whispered in her ears. Sprigs of flowers and mushrooms peeked forth like impish children from the bases of the trees. Birds and chitters cavorted noisily in the branches when she stirred.

For three years now she had lived and learned beneath this woman’s roof. It had made her aware of many things not found in the court of royalty. Her rich gowns had been replaced by simpler wear, hair permitted to reign freely, and eyes opened to the wonders of nature. She was almost at peace here. Still…something was missing.

“Let us continue with our journey home, Alberon.” Rowena sighs to the aging pup and reaches to take the basket of collected sage. Her fingers brush over the moisture of the spring’s bank, reminding her of the watery presence behind her. She turns to peer into the rippling reflection. During her daydreaming state, an insect had nipped at her chin, leaving a tiny, red welt. Oh, the horror.

Her frowning reflection is disrupted by the splash of a tongue into its depths as the dog helps himself to a drink before he was led away again. “You’re filthy.” She states in a scornful tone and wobbles to her feet.

Alberon woofs softly in reply, glassy eyes gazing up at her without shame as the muddy water dribbles from his whiskered chin. For a moment, girl and dog stare with unspoken thoughts about the other, and then Alberon leaps past her and begins a stiff, loping pace towards the cottage. Rowena hugs the basket to her breast and dashes in pursuit. It would be a footrace.

Once ‘home’, Rowena deposits the basket of sage atop the other baskets that sit outside the thatched, back door of the cottage. The oafish hound had already disappeared inside long before she ran past the laundry line and washboard. Her breath comes in shallow pants now as she dusts off her skirt and mends her rumpled braid. She could not enter the home with poor presentation.

Muffled tones of a man’s voice from inside draws her noisy breathing to a sudden halt. Head tilting so her ear may rest against the door as she finishes the last length of braided hair, Rowena strains her ears to listen. A round of Maeve’s laughter foils this attempt at eavesdropping, however, and footsteps on the other side of the door dissuade her from lingering any longer in secrecy.

She gives her wardrobe a final, downward glance, and then tugs open the door to step inside. The tart aroma of berry pie and richly spiced tea burns tears into her eyes as she hesitates in the warmth of the kitchen, scanning the room for faces. Only Maeve is present, bent over the wood of the fire with an iron rod in hand. Without turning to greet her apprentice, the woman says “He’s waiting for you, child, come in.”

He? Growing more anxious now that the gender of the visitor, *her* visitor, was indeed male, Rowena nods distractedly and gestures to the door with a light stammer. “The sage, I put…it’s with the rest.” Lowering her hand to clasp its mate tightly before her, the teen paces quietly forward on worn, leather slippers. Her skirt whispers against the roughened oak wood of the table as she peers ahead at the shadow that shifts within her bed chamber.

Timidly, she braces a hand against the doorframe and leans her head inside to look. Standing across the stone floor, back to her as he stares out the clouded glass of the window, is a tall, lean man. His tunic was lustrous, deep blue velvet, fitting with perfection over a pair of gray riding trousers. A blue cape lay crumpled over her bed, adorned with a silver clasp. His hair was a rich brown, lightly tussled by the afternoon breeze. He’d not been here long...

Before she can take another step inside, the man turns to reveal his face to her, wearing a wide, boyish grin. “Sister!” He calls, extending a hand.

It was Orell.

Stunned, Rowena remains frozen in place, suddenly very aware of her somewhat ruddy complexion, the stray hairs that sprung towards the sky. It had been several months, perhaps a year even since she’d seen a member of her family.

Sensing the shock that raced through his sister’s mind, Orell relaxes his smile somewhat and moves forward with long, easy strides. How she’d matured since he last laid eyes upon her. With raised brows in question, he extends the other hand to her as well, inviting a hug of greeting to the silent girl. Woman.

As Orell approaches, Rowena’s vision begins to blur and it is then that she remembers to blink. Clearing the dazed expression from her face, the teen comes to life at last and darts forward to close the distance. Her arms fling about his broader shoulders, chin burying into the stiff material that lines his shoulder. “Oh, brother, how I thought I had seen the last of my kin for years….” She mumbles into the tunic.

“The same has been felt on our end of the world,” Orell replies, resting a gloved hand over her upper back while the other teases a piece of frumpled hair upon her head. His smile deepens the creases of his mouth, brow furrowed with a more adult expression, separating him from his younger sister once more. He gently lifts her hands from his shoulders and takes a step back to peer down into her eyes. “Much has changed since we last spoke.”

“I don’t doubt that it has,” Rowena chirps and self-consciously swipes at that provoked lock of hair. An aside glance ensures that her wardrobe remains closed. “Has Father purchased the new yacht he’s been eyeing? I know he’s been keeping a sharp eye on every kahar that the farmers bring in…even counts the alms donated at Temple. The last boat really was a coinsuck, having caused him more problems than – “

Orell’s continuous stare brings silence to the girl’s lips.

“What?”

Lowering his eyes, Orell chuckles a bit. “Oh, he still counts every bit of silver that catches his eye – Mother testifies. But he’s very confident that his next major transaction will bring enough coin to buy that wooden glory. That’s why I’m here, actually. Well, one of two reasons. In smaller news, Alieron has ascended in his ranking and is now very close to taking the position as Chancellor. Very close, actually. We should hear confirmation from the Crown in the following week.”

“That’s astounding,” Rowena nods, voice upbeat and lips smiling but her eyes fail to take on the typical sheen. “I am sure that Merielle and Sophia must be an anxious mess, awaiting the news.”

“They both tend to fret, that much is certain,” Orell sighs and imitates an eye roll to spark a small giggle from the noble lady in freelander clothing. “But really I must speak with you about those...coins.” Lifting his chin, Orell peers around her head and into the main room of the cabin. Catching Maeve’s eye lingering there, he jerks his head sideways in an order to shoo. With a huff, Maeve obliges, carrying and dragging a boy under each arm as she goes.

Once alone, Orell shuts the door for good measure. When he turns back, his sister has moved a safer distance away, hovering near the bed with a wise look of distrust about her features.

“Rowena, you’ve been here three years now – time well enough spent away from Father to allow his temper to cool and rational side to return. He’s a fine business man, you know, and the opportunity which has recently arisen was too secure a future to pass by. The Lomasa House has been very generous.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Rowena demands softly, tone low and even with suspicion. Her eyes stay sharply over her brother’s face as he paces sideways to the mirror and toys with the gaudy sconce.

Orell flicks a piece of dried wax from his finger. It clatters inside the open chest, bombarding the poor spider nest – long since abandoned. Rather than hearing the putter of the object trounce about the wooden interior though, it is silent.

“I’ve brought something for you from Mother. I think it will explain the arrangement better than my clumsy words,” he steps back, extending an arm to the chest that for three years has lain unmolested between bed and wall.

Now, in the year 614, a grassy green bundle of satin, lace, and velvet occupies the space. Rowena doesn’t need to approach any closer to know what it is. All had become perfectly, disgustingly clear.

“No,” Rowena refutes, then says it again a bit more loudly. “I will not wear that...”

“Be calm, sister,” Orell croons, taking a step closer to her and opening his palms to her. “You are a young woman of reason now and can understand well how such matters affect our house. I know it’s much to accept at this present time but I beseech you to consider the offer. The Count is a very successful breeder of horses – he’s given one to myself recently as a gift. A mare of very fine stature. The first colt she produces will be yours.”

“What need do I have for a horse?” Rowena shouts, tears welling in her eyes. She squeezes her trembling palms together at her waist. “If I DID own one, I’d use it to ride away.”

Closing his eyes, Orell utters a patient word or two to himself before turning his gaze back to the budding tantrum. “You’re sixteen years old, Rowena. A few your age have already been made into wives. In another year or two you’ll be bombarded with offers. If you consent to one early, it will save you much grief in the long run.”

“I don’t want to be married, Orell!”

“Really?” Orell muses lightly, crossing the room to the wardrobe with a cruelly knowing gleam in his eye. With a single finger, he nudges the battered wardrobe door open then hooks the crude ornament that lies on its floor by the feather-adorned cord. Lifting the shell/wood creation high into the air, he dips a brow in her direction.

“Before you protest, know that as your older sibling it is my duty to inspect every inch of my sister’s living quarters. Honestly it surprises me to find you still are in possession of this. He is a Prince, Rowena. Soon to become Horse Master, it is rumored, even at his young age. Any bride to take his hand will be an impeccably fine stature and manner. That’s not to say you are lacking, but rather refute those traits by choice. You were given the invitation to come home last month but you denied it, wishing to stay until your eighteenth year.”

Speechless, Rowena stares heatedly at the object he holds so carelessly.

“Rowena I mean not to be harsh but I have been sent to fetch you. The Lomasas are expecting an answer by tomorrow. We’d hoped to have procured one sooner, but….as I said, the invitation.” “Please put that down,” Rowena whispers, eyes pleading to him to release the precious treasure of her heart. “Orell I know my own self well enough to know that I truly do not wish for marriage. To anyone. I’d just be an embarrassment. Father said it himself – “

“You don’t believe that,” Orell chides gently and takes another step closer after returning the amulet safely back to its home. “I’ve spoken with Maeve, Rowena, and she told me what happened last Riverstretch. I imagine it must have been a horrible thing to witness, my dear sister, but it is a natural part of our lives – the cycle of flesh and Light. I hope that this is not what discourages you.”

“You know nothing of what I saw!” Rowena snaps, narrowing her eyes in a miniature version of her Father’s fury. “She bled for three hours, Orell. Three hours before at last, death mercifully came to take her. The babe, too! Maeve had to wait until she died to cut it out. Right there. On our kitchen floor.”

“You weren’t meant to see it, Rowena. But you did. And now you’re simply the wiser for it. A skilled healer you will make. No one is asking you to become a midwife if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Don’t dance ‘round the subject, brother,” Rowena cries and swipes a hand angrily at her eyes. “The man breeds horses – what is it he seeks to gain from my hand? Another fine specimen for the breeding? Does he like my chocolate mane? Or would he prefer a roan?” Storming to the chest, she slams the lid down – her final answer.

“...That is Mother’s gown,” Orell warns lowly, energy gone from his voice. “You’ll have want for it one day…you’ll see. I beg of you to care for it if even for her sake alone. Some years down the road if you’ve not yet used it then Sophia may.” “I have work to do,” Rowena decides, moving forward to barrage past the young Lord. “Alberon and I should go collect more sage. I don’t think my basket was full enough.”

“It’s nearly dark,” Orell points out, lifting a finger in the direction of the window while his head remains bowed, summoning more patience. “Stay inside, Rowena.. Please. If we cannot speak of this any longer then let us relish in the pie that awaits us in the kitchen. I only ask that you reconsider the situation. You are a noble lady – you deserve more than this place – as generous as the woman is – can offer you. Your place is not here.” Rowena pauses delicately in the doorway, toes balancing on the threshold of privacy and public earshot. She strokes the wooden door frame with one hand while the wheels of her mind turn ‘round sharply oiled gears of her heritage. A frigidly calm smile placates her former scowl. “Then I suppose Father should have considered this social faux paux before he conspired its birthing.”

Biting hard on the inside of her cheek, the young duchess casts a dangerously knowing glance over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t he have?”

Orell stares hard and long, all too familiar with the inner workings of his baby sister’s thoughts and the damage they could wrought. “I suppose. Shall I convey this reminder to him then, that the only chastisement due forth as result of your refusal should be directed at his inability to make a proper decision?” Motionless, he squints against the pulsing in his temple.

“No,” Rowena decides, and looks away with indifference. “He need only know that I feel my training is incomplete at this point in time and I am in need of two more winters to secure my knowledge. If, at the end of that passing of time, this Lomasa Count still feels it fit to take my hand then I will consent to an attempt of courtship.”

This, it seems, is enough to satisfy Orell enough to wipe the expression of utter disaster away from his clenched brow. The muscles relax and he sniffs something mildly audible into his hand while taking more eased steps towards her. “Of course, my little Liege.”

Rowena snorts, waving a dirty hand of dismissal at her older brother and abandons him to snoop as he would. Silly men. Did they really think it would be an ‘earnest’ consent to said courtship when she finished her training? Oh contraire!

A deviant smile puts color back into her cheeks as she sidesteps between chair and wall to sniff at the fresh pie. Five years spent living as a freelander would not go to waste. She’d make every moment count. She’d make every moment’s memory count and share them each avidly with that Count, should his persistence deserve it. Oh yes. She would.

A cautious glance around ensures that no eyes had yet followed her into the room and so she swipes a finger across an oozing glob of berry. For to be shaped into a young, complacent bride? Her Father’s will is not her own. For hers is of stealthier iron, wielding the mongoose craftiness as its sword.

That much is certain.