Wicked Hunt

Chapter Three, Part II

Rafe: Control

A stark wind ripped suddenly through the air, grabbing his black cloak and dragging him right up to the edge. The toe of his boots hung slightly over it. He rocked back onto his heels, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. He stepped back and collided with the stone wall.

He ran his hands along it as he made his way back to the gate. When he reemerged back into the cobbled courtyard, there were more people but not his men. They, it seemed, had followed Dorius's lead and headed back to the barracks. He couldn't blame them for wanting to get out of the throng of bustling townsfolk. They were used to open expanses and wide berths filled with fresh, unencumbered air.

Cautiously, Rafe pushed through the crowd, not knowing where he was truly going. He should have gone to the barracks as well, sleep or yell at someone, but the sense of failure continued to overwhelm him. If he let it persist, there would be no rest.

The crowd parted with hesitation at first. Slowly, the people were ebbed back without a single word from his lips. Matilda was nowhere to be found. Had they been out of the keep's shadow and in the fields below or the dingey villages, they would not have hesitated. They would be running, begging him to leave them be. A cruel smile tugged at his lips. Fear was the only thing these people responded to. These fat, soft villagers, gawking for sales and pushing their way to the front to buy food and wares, these were not Verlic's true people. The people outside these walls, they were the survivalists. They were the ones who knew what true fear was. It was his job to spread it to them, teach them horror in order to govern them easily. It was the way the king ruled such a spacious area. And Rafe agreed with him. There was no other way. No other choice.

"Let me pass," he ordered one of the guards who thought to block his way back into the keep. He glowered at the man and rested his gloved hand upon the hilt of his sword. Irritation bubbled up inside him. "You honestly think it's wise to-" His words were halted as the man hurried to the side. Rafe stared blankly at him, then pushed the doors open.

Once the heavy wood was closed behind him, he stilled his thoughts. The king would wave him off. Clive did not care for the girl, Rafe could see that. It did not matter that he had disrespected her. She was just a simple child; one he would use for his own purposes. Whether that be roughly bedding her until she became with child, beating her until she whimpered for mercy, or keeping her locked away in the tallest tower at Dunhelm. The thoughts would have startled and disgusted a better man, but Rafe had sanctioned long ago, that he was not a better man. Those types of men did not exist, especially in Verlic.

Perhaps a quick visit to the girl herself would appease him, but the thought was quickly thrown from his mind. He did not feel like forming a friendship with her, and she would take his apology with too much warmed empathy, as if he would be doing it out of the goodness of his heart and not to placate his own warped thoughts of perfection. He would not come to know her. Most of his time was spent away from the keep.

What exactly had she been doing anyway? How had she come into the hall? The Gilded Rite was a sacred ritual, one that should not have been taken so lightly. Yet, there she was, peering in on something she did not understand, seeing the blood etched plainly on those who were worthy. It seemed tainted somehow now. Fatigue crept into the corners of his vision. He had not slept well since the Rite. He placed his gloved hand upon the cool wall of the hallway. The silence of the endless rooms and galleries comforted him; a direct contrast to the bustling voices from outside.

Rafe thought of the wedding and the impending meetings it would bring. A pure vision of an innocent child swam, unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He had worked so hard to not allow his two worlds to collide, especially the weeks leading up to and following the Rite. This weakness with Princess Halle had allowed a crack to form. Now, it continued to splinter until many more of his transgressions were dredged up from the depths of his mind, where he liked to keep them in an orderly fashion.

But alas, Mira would have to come to the wedding; she and her husband, Lord Collin Craft... and Saydee, Rafe's daughter. She was only three years old, too young still to understand that her father was a harsh man, unsuited to the whims of fatherhood. That still did not stop the girl from getting excited upon seeing him or reaching out to him as if she expected him to be gentle with her. Her desire to be treasured by Rafe only fed the fire behind Mira's disapproving glares and made Collin's sympathetic gestures seem forced and contrite. Rafe knew that behind the man's veneer of kindness, jealousy lurked. Despite Collin's constant care for Saydee, his zealous doting and affection, she still always wanted Rafe.

Which was a problem.

Even if fatherhood were to come naturally to him, his job would never allow it. How could the brutal Commander be taken seriously with a baby in his arms? Not to mention the fact that he was constantly away, dealing out the king's justice. It was the best thing for Saydee to be brought up in Collin's household with Mira to teach her how to be a proper little lady. It was better than living with him abroad or the other alternative: staying with Mira's elder sister, Victoria Drake of Cascade Castle. It was widely known that the woman practiced black magic and was a complete lunatic. Who knew what she would try to teach Saydee if left under her protection? Could he resign her to that fate? Was he the better option in that case? Surely it would never have to come to that. He eased the morbid thoughts from his mind, rubbing the back of his neck where it had gotten stiff.