Chapter Six
It was a long night.
Forceful gales knocked at the windows, and the snow had turned to heavy sleet. You could hear blood-chilling screams in the distance, preventing you from getting the sleep you so desperately wanted. Before long, you lit a taper and drew back the covers, having given up entirely on sleep.
**
You wished you could say that you were strong, in the face of adversity. Just once, you could be a hero and not the patronised and ridiculed heroine. Just once, you could hold your dagger in strong hands that did not waver at the first glimpse of danger.
Courage is not a lack of fear, but doing the right thing regardless of it. The words materialised in the air that hung before you, weighted with your own anxiety. Someone had said them to you once, but you weren’t quite sure who. And perhaps, your facade did not give away how you truly felt on the inside. A place where you weren’t strong or courageous.
Nevertheless, you found yourself walking the castle restlessly, as if you were seeking something out. The walls echoed your endless thoughts, whispering the deepest fears of your conscience into the gloom.
In the past, you had whispered things into the dark. Telling the spirits that lurked there that you were not afraid of the din. You were not afraid of the shadows. Now, you weren’t so sure.
It was cold, in this part of the castle, and long untouched - it was empty most of the time, its occupants dead long ago. Dusty, the torches solid to the touch in their brackets. The space before you was illuminated by a single candle, the flame flickering precariously before you. It was, perhaps, irresponsible of you to be out by yourself at this time, but you couldn’t stay away.
A mouse skittered past you, making you jump. There was creaking and howling in the distance - the snow and wind buffeting at the ancient battlements, no longer in use, but the only noise you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.
Was that sweep of your skirts a murderer creeping up behind you? Was that prickling of your skin a thousand spiders come to feast on your skin? That strange noise a bat, come to peck out your eyes?
You swallowed, covering the candle with your hand. How could you be so scared? These used to be your parents’ quarters. So many times you had run down these halls, laughing and smiling. These halls were safe, not home to terrible foes.
Your futile attempts at reassuring yourself were just that - futile. Your shoulders shrank back into your cloak. Which way did I come?
There was no way of knowing in this murky dark. How do I get out? Heart pounding, you whirled widely, trying to make some sense of direction. Suddenly you couldn’t remember where you had turned right, and where left. There was a sudden rush of air beside your head, and you gasped -
A hulking figure, coming towards you -
The candle shook in your grasp, blowing out, as you tripped over your skirts, trying to get away -
The harsh, slate floor was coming up quickly to meet your face-
Hands grabbed your waist, pinning you against a wall. You struggled, kicked, shielding your face. A rough snarling in your ear, and the flash of metal - you were back in your chambers, cowering behind a table, praying for someone to help you. Not this time.
Gathering your strength, you kicked forwards with all your might, and the creature - it couldn’t possibly be human - grunted, dumbfounded for a moment. You took that second of surprise to pull out your dagger and thrust it blindly forwards, until it met the flesh of the creature’s neck.
It yelped, gargling blood and tissue that it couldn’t swallow, and stumbled backwards, knocking against a wall.
If you had been trembling before, it was nothing compared to now. It was almost as if a thousand icy gales had blown in, rendering you freezing and desperate for any semblance of warmth. You couldn’t move. The wall was comforting behind you, a shield from the outside, as you stared at the unmoving black mass in front of you.
Your hands scrambled to find purchase, something to hold onto. But there was nothing, only your blood soaked hands, and stuttering breaths. Bile rose in your throat, as you realised what you had done - the overwhelming urge to throw up overtook you -
But when you hunched over, retching over the floor, there was nothing but dry air coming from your mouth. Dry air, and the anguished sounds of fear.
And you were running again, seeing the corridor filled with the same creatures, all snarling and wretched, horrific figments of your fevered imagination. There were spurs at your sides, forcing you to race faster, faster until you felt you were a blur -
The breath was knocked from you as you collided with the inevitable enemy. But you were ready, procuring your dagger, still covered with the blood from the last one who had tried to counter you.
“Wait,” a voice whispered softly. Different hands, strong and warm, reached forwards to hold yours.
Nothing came out when you tried to speak. You hadn’t even seen the candle’s bright light, illuminating Sir Roger’s face in front of you. He opened his mouth, and you were sure he was about to scold you, but then he saw the thick, oil-like blood that coated your hands.
“What happened to you?” He asked gently.
You shook your head. You couldn’t speak of what you had done, or even think about it, without the sick feeling rising to your throat. Wordlessly, Sir Rogers guided you, a strong hand on the small of your back, out of the maze of corridors. If any mercenaries had been lurking, they didn’t come for you.
**
He led you, dream-like, into your chambers, pulling up a chair and sitting you down next to the fire. Light danced in the flames, shapes and figures, but you were in too much of a trance to see them. He found a bowl, and filled it to the brim with hot water, kneeling at your feet. You couldn’t look at him, only offer your hand when he reached for it, cleansing it with water and soap, washing it clean of the evidence of your deed.
You weren’t sure how long you were there, staring as he cleaned your hands. He didn’t scrub or redden your hands, only used the gentlest of touches, until your skin was free of blood. The water swam with the residue, and he disposed of it quickly.
Sir Rogers once again knelt at your feet.
“Lady,” he began, “there is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Isn’t there?” You replied, noticing the hopelessness in your voice. “I killed.”
“It would’ve killed you, if you hadn’t done anything.”
“Perhaps,” you shrugged, feeling your nonchalant old self lingering at the fringes of your mind, “but I’m not proud of it.”
He shook his head. “That’s an honourable thing. So many men delight in the harm they deal, but here is a lady who is frightened, but able to defend herself. You fared much better than others of your station.”
“No thanks to you.” you smiled slightly.
Sir Rogers laughed wryly. “Yes, and I’m sorry about that. But I was under the impression that you didn’t need my protection.”
“I’m starting to think that was a foolish thing to say.”
Sir Rogers just looked up at you, a smile pulling boyishly at his lips. He was only inches away, his blonde hair showing strands of copper in the firelight.
“Why don’t you sit?” You said. “I would hate to see you strain your neck.”
He looked as if he was about to accept your invitation, but he stopped himself, shaking his head. “I’m worried that there are mercenaries within the castle. The one you killed could’ve had companions. I won’t be long.”
“I understand.”
“Be on your guard, my lady.” Sir Rogers, taking one of your hands in his. “As I know you will.”
You revelled in his warmth, and his solemn gaze. You had never seen eyes so serious and blue, precious cerulean dancing in the firelight.
"Thank you, Sir.” You said.
“You can call me Steve, if you would like.” His smile was bashful, transformed in an instant. You rewarded him with one of your own, his name whispering itself through the caverns of your mind. Steve, Steve, Steve.
**
Your eyes were beginning to grow heavier with each hour. But something was jumping inside your chest. Steve had advised you against leaving, for now, and had barricaded one of the entrances so that you could be safe. The other door was left unlocked, so that Wanda could come in whenever you needed her, or when She slept soundly in the bedroom down the hall, and Pietro beside her on the floor.
You could almost see him stalking the halls, sword in hand - reflexes quick, ready to fight whatever enemy came his way.
It was a comforting thought.