The morning sun blinded her briefly as Agathilea strolled out of the forest and toward the orchard.
Her brother’s death was a fresh wound to her heart, and she kept her pace as slow as possible, yet steady so as not to draw the family’s ire at her absence. Quietly she cut through a corner of the grain fields headed to the shelter of the herb garden for a jolt of fragrance that usually lifted her spirits. Above the quiet breeze and singsong of the field lark, she heard raised voices.
“She must know!” That was her grandmother’s husky but firm tone. The thundering reply from her father seemingly quelled even the breeze outside. “I forbid it!”. Pausing only to assess further what she heard, Agathilea decided enough was enough.
Grief had assuaged this family and seemed to hold them in an oppressive grip. She burst through the kitchen door and strode into the family room. Nodding briefly to her grandmother, she turned to her father and said quietly, “What do you argue about, Father?”
Her father’s angry demeanor changed in an instant. Regarding his daughter with a gentle smile, he replied, “I have lost patience with your grandmother’s worried questions once more, and I apologize.” Her grandmother stifled a slight cough quickly and interjected, “I perhaps am too hasty sometimes.” Eyeing both with a cautious grin, Agathilea said, “Whatever it is that the two of you are concealing from me, I wish you would truly consider just spitting it out. The truth can only free one, after all.” Turning sharply, she headed up the stairs to her tiny corner room and began to organize her travel chest. She hummed an old battle tune as she worked, carefully folding each item.
She would not return home for a while, as her duties to the Crimson Legion started, and she had much to learn. Her thoughts sprinted as she packed, first her brother’s untimely death-a hunting accident in which he failed to secure the wild boar he shot with his bow only to be tusked fatally. It was too late by the time her father found him; his life’s blood splashed across the ground in a macabre crimson river. In his stead, she vowed to the family to go into service. She was more inclined to be a soldier than her brother. He much preferred tinkering, carving gemstones, and repairing items. A quick question of what her father and grandmother were arguing about touched her mind, but she quickly banished it.
She would do well to rest and leave.
The family emotions ran high these days, and she had little use for them.
Freeing her hair from its tight bindings, Agathilea quickly undressed and snuffed the lantern, climbing between the cool sheets with a satisfied smile. At once, she drifted to sleep, the strong scent of lavender and mint filling her senses from the gardens below.
Screams. The bloody screams. Raw images of dark shapes and clammy blasts of air assaulted Agathilea as she fought to wake.
Something was holding her, piercing her skin with a talon; Agathilea sat up, eyes wide. Her fingers clenched around the dagger she kept under her pillow. She sat frozen, barely allowing her breath to escape.
She had to have been just 3 or 4 years old. Memories filled her head like swirling eddies of water. Her mother, scooping her up in her blanket and running to the barn, her father waiting in full armor the horses tacked and ready. She was lifted high into the air for a moment, the smell of burnt leather and vultite filling her nose. She was passed back to her mother, who told her to hold on. The feel of the horse under her in a full gallop. The sound of her father’s stallion pounding just ahead of them, snorting as he gained speed. Glimpses of the trees in the forest, looming overhead, as the wind rushed past her ears. Her mother’s heartbeat was steady, then faster as they cleared the edge of the dark woods.
Leaning back against her pillows, she allowed her mind to reveal the memories. Her mother’s sharp command, “Aga, close your eyes.” The strange rush of heat and wind, the smell of burning wood and flesh as her eyes flew open on their own. The sight of bodies, burning where they lay, elves, animals, children, with the structures all around them crumbling to charred remains. Here and there, other landowners, their faces familiar, strode, weapons drawn, searching the blackness. Her father calmly gave orders to move and cover the bodies. The cleric, murmuring over the dead, his face drawn, taught with grim resolve. She remembered the time, how it crawled as she fought to keep still in her mother’s arms.
Groups formed and rode off to the south and west, searching for survivors, answers, and supposed reinforcements. Whispers flooded her mind. Although she hadn’t recalled them before, she noted them in the darkness. “Attacks, hiding, magic, demons, unprepared.” Agathilea sat straight up. She thought, “demons?” How could she not remember this until now? Suddenly a wave of nausea overcame her as the thought assaulted her whole being.
Standing, she crept out of her room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Drawing a cup of water from the cistern, she savored the cool water that flushed away from the bile from her stomach. A lone nightingale reminded her of the past and now. She listened to the song then quietly returned to her room. A quick prayer to Kai resolved to uncover the memories. She tossed and turned but slept through the night devoid of dreams.
In the dew-laden morning air, she smirked as she entered the barn. No amount of stealth could keep the old stallion from noticing a change in the surroundings. A quiet whinny greeted her ears. Smiling, she leaned against the door to the stall, tossing the apple lightly in her hand. Another second, and the familiar soft nostrils were against her cheek. She whispered to him as he munched the apple, recounting the night, asking what he thought, grateful for his continued friendship. Dark eyes encountered her before the familiar snort and departure from sight. A stallion of few words, as usual, she cheerfully thought.
Her mother’s voice pierced the air. “Good morning, daughter.”
Turning, she smiled and greeted her mother. “Good morning, Mother.”
Her mother quietly observed her, a thin line of disapproval flitting across her face as she settled her gaze on Agathilea’s hair. “Might there be a hint of pride in wearing your hair more fittingly?
Agathilea fought the retort that threatened to escape her lips. “Yes, Mother, I will arrange it before I come down for our morning meal.” With a gentle smile, Agathilea’s mother gathered her skirts in a most courtly fashion and gingerly stepped over the sturdy threshold of the barn.
“That’s my girl. See you then.” came the soft reply.
OOC: Thank you to Yardie, Uniana, and so many who gave their input, encouragement, and inspiration.
Agathilea Rassine Vaalor
