Winter Wildflowers

Chapter 25

Day 188

Knightly, still, was nowhere to be seen.

A new guard, overexerted from an extended days work, positioned on the outskirts of Ofelia's tower had fallen asleep at his post and was to be hung for it. A guard with an odd twisting in his gut had firmly insisted to peak into Ofelia's room, despite strict orders not to, and had rushed in instantly at the sight of a dark figure throttling the queen.
He had been right to.

It was a great gossip among the Kingdom. It was unsettling to the people, the fact that someone, a strange foreign man, could infiltrate the Queen's guard, the King's guard even.
And because of that, it was a bitter, bitter morning.

Ofelia sat as a physician tended her, his jarring fingers prying and poking at spots. She doubted she would be able to box with Sir Simon or attend a language lesson with her new mentor. She averted her eyes each time the memory of bumping into the stranger called to mind.

The man had been killed, as running a person through usually resulted, but as guards flooded into her room, filling the dark room with light, it was clear that he would not be needed for questioning anyways.
The man bore no signet, so symbol, no marking. There was not a paper on him, nor anything to determine his person. The effort gone to conceal his identity showed that it had been no misdirected attack. And no attack led by a small organisation either, this had been calculated. Perfectly timed. Ofelia suspected it was directed by Veralta's opposing nation.
The Physician left after applying and ointment and prescribing medication, leaving her to the unknowing hands of her maidens. They had looked so terrified that Ofelia had almost felt sorry for them.
Especially Olivia, her favoured little blonde girl.
The women had shaken lightly at the sight of her, had swallowed, one even shed a tear.
But Olivia audibly cried, no doubt the terrible sight scaring her. She assisted the maidens with a continuous tear down her cheek, slipped Ofelia's rings on with a sniffle, helped pack their things whilst wiping her eyes.

But Ofelia had been hurt much worse before. It was apparent as she watched the women fawn over her, that Knightley had been right. She was so much stronger.
Ofelia was not flattered by their concern, rather it bothered her. They had not acted as fiddly when her eye had swollen shut, nor when she had first visited the Kingdom starved and battered. Ofelia knew that their concern rooted from concern for themselves, for their loved ones.
Olivia only received the warmth she did because she was a young child. Of course, she was scared, but even so, she managed to send a smile to Ofelia, trying to comfort her rather than wallow in her own fear like the rest of the women.
Ofelia had held her hand fearless of the response, and wiped her cheek because of it.

As for Knightley, he hadn't bothered to visit.

Ofelia's mother, Audrey, used to tell Ofelia a lot of stories. Lessons she had learned, ones she wished she had learned sooner, ones she'd learnt too soon, ones she wished she hadn't learned at all.
This was a lesson that Ofelia wished she hadn't learnt at all. To Ofelia, the purpose of sharing lessons was to show that trials end, and that the persecuted must persevere until the end to reap the rewards. But Ofelia didn't understand how this trial would result in a reward. Like she had for the past hour, she stared into the mirror. Her throat looked disgusting, she was purple and swollen. How could this lesson possibly result in a reward?
Ofelia remembered the last lesson her mother had shared with her, a story her mother had viewed as a good lesson learned, but the story Ofelia now recognised of betrayal. It had ended with her mother enduring hardship. But how was that a reward? Her mother had said it like she had triumphed, and at the time of hearing the story, Ofelia had understood, had agreed with her, but in retrospect, it was clear to Ofelia that her mother had mistakenly viewed a backstabbing friend who had left her in the dirt to rot and ditched her for the boy she had taken the fall for as a good thing.
How? How could she not say such a story in a bitter tone? How could she not shake her head in disapproval and roll her eyes? Ofelia found herself irritated at the memory of the story.
She remembered the moral her mother had attributed to the lesson, that if she was ever in a grey situation and she couldn't figure out what to do that to always do the kind thing. That the kind thing was the good thing to do, that it would always help her out.
Ofelia, having only being subjected to her mother's wisdom and no personal experience, had easily accepted her words.
But in some situations it was simply not applicable.
How was she to show kindness to someone who had attempted to kill her? To that person who had now died. For all her mother's lessons, for all her preparation, nothing had ever or would ever prepare her for the horror of an assassination attempt, especially one so seared into her mind. Perhaps the shadowy figure in her memory would never fade, perhaps she would always fear darkness now. Perhaps the view of the sun setting would always cause her to tremble as it did that evening.
Perhaps the dreadful lingering residue of her soulless acceptance of it all would eat at her forever.