Winter Wildflowers

Chapter 28

Day 199

"So, when are we to expect this great attack?", Ofelia asked, wiggling her fingers.
Sir Simon stood some paces away, his hands by his face, "My estimate is within a few weeks- "
"... A few weeks?", Ofelia repeated frowning, distractedly stepping back only to be struck.
"Keep yourself covered.", Sir Simon clapped, advancing again.
"... That's-...", Ofelia breathed, ducking to the side before undercutting him.
It had been two weeks since they had begun training, and unlike wielding a sword, hand to hand combat came to Ofelia much easier. In her travels, Ofelia had managed to fend for herself, which meant coordination and strength were skills she now wielded. When it came to defending, she had no issues. She could spot a strike, could hear it coming, knew when and where to duck, a skill which at the time of learning it had been indispensable. Even attacking, though a little more foreign, still came easier than swordplay. She was strong and was accustomed to using her body for a strike.
Truly, it was the dance overall that she liked most though, the jab, duck, jab, duck. It reminded her of Knightley, strangely it made her miss fighting with him in the forests.
"Two weeks is not long at all... ", Ofelia mumbled, swinging to her left, "What convinces you?"
Sir Simon attacked again, "The scouts, our spies. I'm informed of these things."
Ofelia frowned, "Are there higher ups that are not?", she asked. Surely everyone knew of the attack.
Sir Simon chuckled, "Of course not, ", he jabbed at her, "Of course, our generals know of the attack, and the soldiers are in preparation as always. But we will triumph, and so there is no need to startle the masses."
They would truly be in danger if the masses were startled, Ofelia thought to herself.
She hummed.
Sir Simon continued to dance around Ofelia, and she leaned into the dance. What a sound it was, the whooshing air around her, the sound of bare feet on the ground, her skirts swaying by her ankle.
It was so familiar, her heart ached, and it made her frown.
Sir Simon then stepped back, straightening.
Ofelia lowered her hands.
His eyes grew distant. Ofelia watched him hesitantly as he seemed to zone into his thoughts, "... The people are...", he started, pausing. His eyes hardened on the ground before flicking back to Ofelia, "... agitated."
Ofelia's pulse jarred. "... What do you mean by that?", she asked, holding his eye.
Sir Simon clenched his jaw as his words swished in his mouth. He clasped his hands together, "There has been an influx of reports over the past few days... Neighbours turning each other in, even small assaults... ", he frowned, "But over... menial, trivial things... I would not even consider this if not for the sheer number of them."
Ofelia held his hard eyes.
"... It is bad timing, perhaps there is a sickness.", He muttered.
Ofelia dropped her gaze, relaying his words to the floor.
It seemed even poor Sir Simon did not know of her intentions.

-

Ofelia was nervous. Her mind was running.
No doubt Knightley would do something to protect his Kingdom, something smart, and it was inevitable. She battled between angst over the harshness of it, and anticipation to see his clever retaliation.
After all, he knew what she was trying to do. There was no question about it.
It was tricky, she admitted. Knightley seemed to enjoy watching Ofelia put the puzzle together, he was not phased when she discovered something that she figured could put him away. He seemed... delighted. It disturbed Ofelia. He'd clarified that she was a threat, and as far as she knew, she was taking advantage of that. But his calmness unsettled her. What need would a man so obsessed with power have for calmness if his throne was being uprooted?
So maybe it wasn't and Knightley held that knowledge, arrogant and apathetic, enjoying watching Ofelia put it together. Maybe he watched her like a child to an ant's nest, detached, but enjoying watching them fret before a storm.
It didn't make sense to Ofelia. There was a house for that child to hide in when the rain came, he had no need to prepare for anything and so could watch. Knightley didn't have another house, he had no backup.
With war around the corner and the newly settled panic in the hearts of his people, surely, he had to be a little worried.
A knock on her chamber door lifted her out of her thoughts.

"George.", Ofelia pleasantly greeted, nodding to him as she met him in the foyer, "I have not heard from you in so long."
Though George was serious, even he could not hide the remnant of a smile, "Thank you, your Majesty.", he said, curtseying to her.
A strange comfort settled in Ofelia's chest. He had not changed.
Ofelia smiled, clasping her hands at her front, "How about we take a walk through the gardens?"

George was just the same. He held himself as a soldier did, strict posture, a hand on his hilt, heavily armoured. Still, he was overwhelmingly cute. He brought Ofelia joy.
His little blonde curls bounced as he walked and Ofelia fought a smile.
"How have you been, George?", Ofelia asked, turning her face to the path in front of them.
George chuckled, "I've been preparing for war, but I'm well fed, so better than you saw me last."
Ofelia tittered, glancing at him again.
In the afternoon light, he looked like a painting. A young boy, a dreamy painting of a war hero.
She nodded, "I can't say I fair much differently to you."
Simply walking with him made her heart ache. She had missed him.
"And what about you, my Queen? How have you found being a monarch?"
Ofelia smiled.

In slow strides, George and Ofelia followed the trail. George asked her of herself, Ofelia asked him of himself. George had fared well and though she would struggle to ever see him as a hardened warrior, it seemed that the soldiers he now instructed had no problem with that. Together they lapped the gardens, enjoying the birds and the flowers. It was as they'd neared their final lap, when the late afternoon light was beginning to dim, that George suddenly slowed and looked to Ofelia. She frowned.
"... George?", she gently questioned, her light heart dropping, "Is everything alright?"
George's eyebrows dug in and his gaze dropped slightly. He then turned and looked at the greenery around him, lifting his eyes to the treetops before landing back on the shrubbery. His silence was thoughtful.
Ofelia checked behind her before nearing him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, "... What is the matter, George?"
He looked back to her, searching her eyes. His hold was intense. "... Tell me, my Queen...", he murmured, clearing his throat, "... Are the rumours true?" Ofelia retracted slightly. He was quiet. Worried. "The ones of... assassins climbing through our houses at nights?"
And with his words, it felt as if the world around Ofelia shifted.
She held his eye.
What a situation she had created.
It hit her then, what she really was to do. What it involved. And it wasn't as simple as she'd once believed, nor as she now wanted it to be. This wasn't a simple an evil Kingdom with an evil King that bred simple, basic evil intentions. This Kingdom held people. People like George.
The enormity of the situation she'd created suddenly dizzied her head, and with that, memories of George flooded her mind. Understandings of him. Unbiased realities.
Little George had travelled the same journey as Ofelia, dealt the same blows, suffered the same attacks... but for longer... whilst younger. He had been dealt worse than Ofelia in some ways, and whilst she had not been able to sympathise with him during her travels, a great respect for him suddenly flooded her chest.
It was then that the contrast between them was made clear. And it made thick jealously rip through her ribcage.
Little George, who had saved her life, who had tried to fight the goodness of his heart and failed, who cared even when he hadn't wanted to. Who had acted on that care. Ofelia tensed.
Ofelia was not the same. Not anymore. George's anger was shallow, he was unable to fester it.
Ofelia's hatred ran deep.
Unlike George, Ofelia had let go of her care. It did not seem to burden her, it was not something that she fought off, rather something that she had fought to cling to.
The shame of it was worse than the reality itself.
It was undeniable. An inevitable conclusion. A final realisation that George was much stronger than her. The runt of the pack, the smallest and weakest of Knightley's army.
It was true, Knightly really did have exceptional taste.
It made sense to Ofelia then. What she was doing and the weight of her actions, and it saddened her.
Ofelia looked over to George and smiled at him.
"... Yes... they are true."