Owe You My Sins [GxG]

Chapter 5

The next time Maeven saw Illythia, it was at the welcome feast.

The atmosphere was awkward and uneasy, nothing like the boisterous and lively celebrations Maeven was used to. It wasn't due to a lack of trying by any means, as they filled the hall with just as much food and ale as there always was, and the seats were still packed to their fullest. But there were no loud conversations or thoughtless laughter, and not even a single drunken squabble. In fact, Maeven was shocked at how much they could drink and not act the fool. It was downright unpleasant, although her father tried insistently to make up for it with polite conversation.

They sat just off to the side of the thrones, where a long, thin table was situated for important visitors. They had their own array of food, but Maeven struggled to enjoy it with Illythia seated on her right and striking up a conversation with her father that seemed suspiciously amicable. Why she'd been sat in between the two, she had no idea, but she was stewing in silent annoyance and she couldn't quite pinpoint what had set it off. Was it the celebration in honour of their possible murderers, or how close the vampire had situated herself? She convinced herself that she might find the answer in the bottom of her goblet of rum, despite having refilled it thrice already.

Her father was bumbling on about the harvest and how fortunate they were to be on good terms with Strathmore for otherwise Windermere would have very little to offer. The trading industry truly did serve as the foundation for all three kingdoms. Illythia hummed her interest and Maeven stared daggers into the table as she prayed the night to end early. They were both leaned in to speak around her, and despite Maeven praying that her bad mood would act as a shield, she was still very aware of the situation.

"What of Glauchester? With good weather, they're only a few days' sail over the Zulian Sea, aren't they? Surely, they'd have something to offer in terms of trade," Illythia placed her elbows on the table delicately and rested her chin in her palm, close enough now that Maeven began pondering if it was worth asking to switch places.

"Ah, Glauchester and Windermere aren't on the best of terms, my Lady," her father began uncomfortably, the furrow to his brow deepening. "They think us primitive and foolish for choosing to live so far north, and they've sworn off the old laws and any who still follow them. Something about being men of the future, or some tripe along those lines. We did trade with them at one stage, but after the dispute regarding Ferncombe, they've all but cut ties with us completely."

"Dispute?" Illythia raised a soft brow, inquisitive in such a way that appeared both politely withdrawn and endlessly searching somehow all at once. "I haven't heard anything about a dispute over Ferncombe."

Maeven hadn't even noticed she was peering up at her until she felt her blood pump impossibly faster, causing a frustrated flush to cover her skin. Her features twisted into a scowl, but before she could tear her eyes away, those pale pools of immortality moved to meet her own and the stars inside immediately consumed her. They were so bright that she wouldn't have been surprised to learn they could glow, appearing soft and calm like snow. Not the harsh, angry snow that fell so often in Stonehearth, but the kind that fell in the South, gentle and drifting from the sky to cover the ground in a blanket of white. She wondered how when the sun comes out and makes the snow glisten beautifully, if Illythia's eyes would do the same?

"You rat bastard, I swear I'll gut you right here from ass to fucking ear!" The man's voice was like thunder in the otherwise silent hall, causing Maeven to jump out of her stupor and stand abruptly to stare across the room.

A Windermere soldier was towering over a man dressed in grey, sneering down into his face as words left his mouth and were enunciated by globs of spittle. The Church member was a thin but tall man with studious features and a tidy appearance, appearing calm and unbothered in the face of the soldier's anger. While the Windermere soldier's very demeanour screamed of the rage he was feeling in that moment, the Church man appeared almost bored, wearing a slightly disdained frown, which was trained disapprovingly towards his aggressor.