[Content Warning: language, infertility, miscarriage, domestic violence]
A fret was blowing in from the Abecean, hugging the craggy walls of the keep; Lucias Therin had returned home to Crowhaven to a night misted and dark. Were he a gentler man, Lucias might suppose that the dampness upon the air to be the source of his aching joints. Though, he knew the true culprit to be his own doing. The daft old cunt. He was returning from having competed in a tourney; melee, archery and joust. Lucias would admit that the source of his aches and pains were his own doing. When it came to honesty, he was doggedly forthright. Shame, however, that he could not turn that honesty to the matter of his own increasing age. To that, Lucias Therin still turned a deft and defiant blind eye.
As he came upon the courtyard, two of his sentrymen called to him in greeting, and a third appeared to retrieve his horse. Somewhere across the wet cobbles, a cat yowled. Morris, out prowling for mice, no doubt. It was true what they said about men looking like their homes. Crowhaven became Lucias; as he became it. There were no frills to the keep; no trappings or needless ostentation to his court. Nay, Crowhaven stood as Lucias did; a bulwark, and a crumbling one at that. It was less of a hall, and more of a Fort. But that fact suited Lucias Therin. It suited him well.
When Lucias dismounted his destrier, he found that he was still limping. Mayhaps if he were a liar, he would blame the long ride home. But that was not the truth of the matter. Stupid old cunt. He lumbered across the forecourt, noticing a light that flickered in the window of the Western Tower. The Lady of the House must still be awake.
One might've been forgiven for thinking that Crowhaven had no Lady at all. True, the miserly keep seemed to lack that fabled woman's touch that a wife was supposed to give to home and hearth. But, a lady did indeed live here; and had done so for some twenty seven years. Though, then again, Lady Meredith Therin had been naught but a blacksmith's daughter. It only stood to reason that her tastes would be more modest than those of a well-bred mare.
Though, for all that the outside of Crowhaven might appear cold and cavernous, the rooms within were found to be homely and warm. A breath of hot air hit Lucias' face as he came into the main hall; assailing his junctions in a new fashion and provoking the cut above his brow to smart. The fire in the hearth was by now burning low and dim, but the residual heat still condensed beneath the low ceilings and made the room stifling. For the present, the hall had been decorated for the coming Saturalia. An evergreen tree had been pulled in from outside and decked out with fancies. Holly and pine cones flanked the fireplace and hung from the ceiling beams. The tapestries that fringed the walls had been needled by Lady Meredith herself, giving merry splashes of colour to the otherwise windowless room.
The main hall of Crowhaven painted an unadulterated picture of those who dwelt there; rough around the edges, but undoubtedly well-lived. It was a moment later that Lucias realised that the remnants of that evening's dinner were still littering the dining table. Immediately irked, he shooed one the cats from the counter; who was licking cold gravy from a plate, and raised his voice to bellow.
"Poppy!! You lazy slut!" He barked loud enough so that the serving girl might hear him from the kitchen. Lucias paused for a trice by the wooden benches, awaiting the trill of her reply. Though, the bawdy bitch gave him none. Likely asleep by the fire; shirking her duties. Eventually the Condonttier of Crowhaven tutted his defeat and hobbled off towards the stair. He found he had no appetite for altercation this night; younger men had already kicked it out of him in the tourney pit.
The Lady Meredith must have heard the fall of his tread upon the stair, for she had already looked up from her book and was watching the door to herald his arrival. She was arranged upon their bed, pillows at her back and blankets covering her knees.
