Luminous

124 - Corien and Maelaith

Evening fell once again over this little cabin he haunted alone, for the second or third time, he'd lost track. It was of no consequence. On the fifth morning, the King's men would arrive to bring him to his trial. Whatever the verdict, it was of no consequence, either. He'd turned his focus to the far future, where pain couldn't reach him.

The crackle of the fire swallowed the rustle of parchment as he turned the yellow, spotted page. Ink that had faded to brown relayed to him the sights and sounds of Tyldorn, the grueling voyage across the ruthless sea, the barren, wind-weathered stones and empty beaches of Everglen.

Dreaming of distant, unknown shores with all the promises of riches, of freedom, of waters of immortality, was a blessing generations of Latakians were robbed of. Being earmarked for a vessel to Everglen was something to be feared. Little boys may stow away on ships, but no further than Tyldorn. They knew what was beyond.

Now, for the first time in two hundred years, they didn't. He'd always hated not knowing, but he knew now—where there was an unknown, there was hope. She taught him that.

His heart writhed at the memory of her smile, her Song riding on the wind. He'd lost himself as far as Everglen, and still she wouldn't leave him. Her linen pants lay by the roaring hearth, spared by his indecision. He'd presented it to her, the night before they left Hyacinth. She'd blushed red as a rose and struck him on his sore spot. Then, she'd slipped it on, slipped out of the remainder of her clothes, and they'd made love.

He gritted his teeth against her whispers, her sighs, her tortured cries of his name, but somehow her lullaby only swelled. She approached from afar, but she was also in his skull, lulling him out of his senses. Knocks on the door, then a creak, the soft thump of a shoe on wood. A familiar shadow stretched towards his foot.

"Lord Coris?" 

A voice like the chime of bells of finest crystal. A young woman stood wringing her hands in the mirror, dressed in a raggedy crimson dress. Two thick, red-gold braids hung over her breasts, reaching to her waist. Freckles peppered her full, round cheeks.

Large, acid-green eyes glowed in the falling dusk. She pleaded through them, having seen his eyes reflected in the glass. He lowered his gaze to the seafarer's journal, imagined her reeling. His heart pained, but he'd seen the damage such an innocent, fragile young creature could wreak. What could she possibly say? After what she did to him? To his child? After what he'd said? That he loved her?

Coris stared down at his book, but didn't read. His bone-white hand curled into a fist. He didn't welcome her, nor did he banish her from sight.

Warmth petered from her heart with every moment silence reigned. Still, she ventured in. Whether her words would reach him, she knew not, but she must try nevertheless. She carried his child. Right now, that was his sole concern, the last frayed thread connecting their worlds she tore apart. It was the least she could do—must do—to atone.

Closer, closer she invaded. He made no move to stop her, to acknowledge her, save for his futile attempt to read his book. She'd never seen him so cold, not even to enemies. She'd thought it wouldn't bother him. How could she have been so foolish? So cruel?

Shivering, Meya sunk to her knees, her eyes fixed on his profile like chiseled marble. Soundless tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Milord, I'm so sorry," she whimpered. "I've wronged you, your brother, your parents, your child, so unforgivably. And I'd trade all the riches of the three lands for the chance to make the choice again."

Silence. He didn't move but for the tendon twitching in his jaw, as he dithered how long he would tolerate her audacity, crushing her heart between his grinding teeth. She didn't have long left.