Spirits of the Earth

Tags to @Cambie !

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Too many  more sips of March beer, and Constance Carwick was going to end up a wee bit tipsy. For years it had been the task of her father, the late Duke of Wulfbauer, to judge the March beer at the duchy's Spring Festival. It was a task that should, in fact, be performed by the current Duke. But Erwin Therrien, the man who had practically fallen into the role, was tea-total. And this being the first public appearance of the late Duke Carwick's long-lost daughter, returned to "her" people from the dead, the task had instead fallen to her. Plus, everyone got quite the laugh out of a young lady judging barrels of strong March beer. It was a task that had always left her father, a hale and hearty man, a bit 'jolly' by the end. And the good-natured laughter that met her own trial almost made Constance forget what really set her apart from the other festival-goers.

Not that she was born of high nobility. Constance Carwick was a known mage.

But at the moment, it didn't seem to matter. At least not to the common people of Wulfbauer beckoning her on to just try their beer and asking eagerly what she thought. Or else, from those who were not brewers, shouting out their own opinions as to which beer was really the best. And what even made the best beer! She hadn't fared quite as well with the noble circles of Wulfbauer. They had, of course, made quite the show of welcoming her back. But Constance found the gestures shallow, with a few exceptions, and some of their words had left her sputtering. 'I can't imagine what it must have been like, having to stay with all of those... those people. Criminals and sinners and... Oh, I can't imagine. How you must have suffered!' It had taken all of her self control and a conscious effort to channel her late, and much better mannered, mother to avoid punching anyone straight in the face. But despite the awkwardness of socializing with other nobles, and despite her still somewhat lingering nervousness about making a public appearance... Constance had to admit: The festival seemed to be a success.

And what shocked her even more, what was completely unbelievable to her, but Duke Therrien was right... people actually seemed glad to see her. To see one last Carwick, in flesh and blood, alive and returned to them. The only beloved daughter of their old beloved Duke. She could barely believe it. Now here she was, in the central pavilion of the fair - a grand, if simple, circular structure of brightly painted wood with a pitched, spiegeltent-style roof - performing the duties usually reserved for a duke. And people were glad of it. Constance could imagine few things more surreal.

The pavilion was packed to the gills, but somehow the crowds parted as - from each of its two entrances - the prize stallions (at one entrance) and mares (at the other) were led into the pavilion to be judged by none other than Duke Therrien himself. The sound of hooves clopping neatly and in time filled the tent, sounding over the din of people's voices. But it was another sound that set the hair on the back of Constance's neck on end. It was a quiet, creeping, smouldering sound.

The sound of fire.

Then a shout sounded from outside, and Constance saw the first flame lick its way from where it was set on the exterior of the pavilion into the crowded interior. Others were starting to notice, too. Other people, and the stallions and mares, who were rapidly spooking. The beasts reared up, one coming down hard on its handler. To those outside, the flames were clearly spreading along the large wooden structure. The structure whose only exits were now blocked by the panicked animals.

Indeed, at first the people had given Erwin furtive glances when Constance Carwick stepped up to the first brewer's table to try a sip of the March beer.  They'd never even heard of a Duke who didn't judge the competition, not in the hundred or so years that the competition had been held.  But it was the Spring Festival, and it took the people very little time to embrace Constance and begin encouraging her to try every beer available. It took everything in Erwin's willpower not to crack the barest of smiles the first time a brewer's young son carried a full mug up to her. The lad couldn't have been more than five.

But soon he too found himself involved in the festivities, doing something he knew very well -- judge horses.  As stablehands led the lovely creatures into the pavilion, even the Duke had to admit they were some of the finest horses he'd ever laid eyes upon, more astounding considering the especially long and harsh winter when most villages had barely enough grain to feed themselves.

The first horse, a black and grey beauty, was brought before the Duke to inspect, and he ran a hand along the creature's impeccably brushed mane.  The eyes of man and beast met before the horse looked away, its interest caught by something else.

And then it bucked up with a loud whinny as the first shouts of "FIRE!" flooded the pavilion.

"Get the Duke and the Lady out of here!" screamed a nearby guard even as a swarm of soldiers rushed forward to surround Erwin and Constance. They could barely reach the two though, as the entire tent descended into madness and screaming citizenry ran amok in panic.  The black stallion bucked again and stampeded into the crowd, but not before heavily brushing up against the Duke and almost knocking him off his feet -- and right into Olive.

"Get the Duke and the Lady out of here!"

The guard’s command rang out above the din of panic in the pavilion, but there was no way for any of the guards to act on it. The pavilion was complete chaos: people pushing against each other, horses spooked and rearing, everyone pushing to get out of the now burning center of the fair. Constance was temporarily transfixed by the scene: it was chillingly familiar. The fire that had turned the mage camp into a heap of cinders. That had killed many more than had escaped…

But Constance had been forced to think on her feet these past years, and she’d just mentally collected herself when the black-coated stallion reared, sending Erwin sprawling directly into her. The impact made her stumble, but Constance moved quickly enough to grab the duke by the arm in attempt to steady him. His momentum was stronger than skinny Olive, though, and rather than stop Erwin’s fall, she was pulled down with him.

Horse hooves stamped down dangerously close to Olive’s head after she hit the ground, and the boots of panicked festival-goers closed in around her.

Above, the flames reached the roof of the pavilion, and a burning, fire-eaten beam crashed onto the crowd below.

The world was so much chaotic from his back, and for a moment all Erwin could see was the dust being kicked up by hundreds of stampeding feet, all trying to cram their way out of the narrow entrances.  He didn't have time to ponder on it though.  The first foot that kicked painfully into his ribs reminded him that they had to escape. 

A loud groan from high above them had him practically rolling on top of Olive as the flaming beam collapsed upon its charred center and crashed down onto screaming villagers, the butt end of it driving directly into the dirt where Erwin had been a moment before.  A piece of it caught him just above his right shoulder, eliciting a loud scream of pain and a thoroughly unbecoming curse which was all but drowned out by the fire above which had engulfed the entire tented roof. 

Still, he fought his way to his feet, elbow agonizingly clutched at his side as he roughly dragged Olive up from the dirt.  His arm snaked around her and he began pulling her toward the nearest hole in the pavilion which had essentially been ripped open by the desperate hands of those before them.  They made it no more than several steps before several soldiers finally found their way toward the Duke and Lady.  One of them threw a ragged cape over his shoulders, and for a moment it seemed like they were trying to smother him.

It was only then that he realized that a part of his clothing had caught fire in the confusion, and the guards were beating it out.

There was little Constance could do as Erwin hauled her to her feet and dragged her towards the newly torn-open exit from the pavilion. Even in the fear and chaos, though, her instincts wanted her to pull away from Erwin and do... What? Something. People were mad; trampled by horses, trampled by each other, a man brought down by a crumbling, smouldering beam from the roof. And the fact wasn't lost on Constance that whoever did this, this was exactly the way that the Order of the Blue Star had operated. Hit and run guerrilla attacks. Fire, smoke, gunpowder.... Gone before the first flame was noticed.

But they did not target civilians. They never targeted innocents, targeted a festival.

Right?

Still, familiar images swam through Constance's mind, but from the other perspective. Watching from the shadows as the locked barracks was set alight. Running as poisoned smoke filled a mess hall. As a laden bridge collapsed in a crumbling explosion.

But those were soldiers, a voice said at the back of her mind. They were killing us. Innocent or not. We had to fight.

The question hung in her mind, though: Who had organized this?

But she wasn't thinking it for long once the guards had Erwin and Constance shepherded brusquely outside. Constance stumbled, choking from the smoke, away from where they were trying to smother the flames licking up Erwin's side. She only saw the scene of the Duke and his guards vaguely, out of the corner of her eye, before her attention was drawn away. And she froze on the spot.

Because the fire wasn't contained to the pavilion. The stalls and stands of the festival had also been targeted. And while panicked people poured out of the pavilion and away from the stalls, more and more people were seeing what Constance was seeing: The wind was carrying the fire dangerously close to the town. The town full of people's homes and shops and livelihoods and lives.

A strangled choke shook Constance's chest as she stood, glued to the spot, watching the fire. A guard was talking to her, asking if she was well or not, but she couldn't hear him. Slowly, her eyes moved from the fire to the clear, blue skies above. You could stop it, Constance. The voice pinged at the back of her head. You could darken the blue skies. You could cover the land in rain. You could do it. You know you could, Constance. You know.

But she couldn't. She couldn't... It was wrong. And it was dangerous. The urge to do it, though, to use her magic now was the strongest she'd ever felt. She knew mages who'd gone mad, unable to control that urge. And she'd always considered herself lucky that she had never suffered as they did. But now she was rent by it. She couldn't answer the guard. She couldn't move. All her energy was focused on not using her magic, eyes fixed on the clear blue skies.

The thick cloak draped over his body only served to amplify the dizziness of the whole situation.  He could still hear the screams, feel bodies brushing up against from every direction as people tried to flee the scene, but the noises were slightly muffled.  He also felt the searing heat of the flames licking at his clothing, at least until his soldiers beat them back.

Throwing the cloak off of him with a cough, he was greeted by the sight of the pavilion now fully aflame and on the verge of collapsing.  Stragglers were still emerging from within, some crawling and coughing, others bloodied and dazed from the madness.  Instinctively, the Duke first turned toward Constance.  She seemed enraptured by the fire, almost frozen in place.  Was she hurt?  Confused?  In shock?  Grabbing her by the shoulders, Erwin gave her a slight shake as his wide, concerned eyes met hers. "Constance.  CONSTANCE!"

From behind him, a pair of women screamed as others held them in place.  Handmaidens by the look of them.  It took him a second to realize whose handmaidens they were.  "BY ANSGAR! SHE'S STILL INSIDE! SOMEBODY HELP!!!"

Lainey Kenins.  And Lord Roland Kenins was nowhere in sight.

With an uncharacteristically loud curse, Erwin whirled on the soldiers forming a ring around himself and Lady Carwick.  "Get her back to Wulfbauer Keep."  He pointed at the two most grizzled looking men.  "You two, follow me."

Before any of them could protest, the Duke had dashed off back toward the gaping, smoking hole.  An arm pressed up against his mouth to keep out the smoke, he still found that it stung his eyes until they watered.  Hunched over, he fought his way through the small throng of people trying to escape, until he found himself back inside.  The pungent aroma of torched wood and seared flesh immediately had him coughing, and he could see bodies lying motionless amidst flaming rubble and fallen beams.  His eyes, dry now from the heat, searched desperately for signs of Kenin's pregnant wife.

There she was, exactly where the platforms had been erected for the noblemen and their wives, lying almost motionless as the flames licked up the sides of the platform.  Her festival garb was torn in multiple places, and was soiled with a deep layer of dirt and ash, and it was evident from the gash atop her forehead that she'd taken a heavy tumble in the chaos and, heavy with child, had been unable to do much else besides lay there.

With almost practiced ease, the Duke bounded over a fallen beam and scaled the side of the platform.  As he kneeled next to her, Lainey looked up at him with glazed-over, bewildered eyes.  She opened her mouth to speak, perhaps ask who he was, but no sounds came out.

With a deep frown and gritting his teeth, Erwin hauled her up to her feet and practically dragged her to where the stairs led from the platform to the muddy ground.  His soldiers were there to greet the pair, hands grabbing furiously upward to help the pregnant lady down. 

Erwin let out another slight cough began his own descent when a cracking sound emanated from overhead.  Tiny embers showered over him even as one of the soldiers screamed, "LOOK OUT!"  Without warning, a flaming beam, glowing orange from the intense heat, sagged under the ponderous weight of the collapsing pavilion, split down the middle, and came crashing down upon the nobleman's platform.

The Duke felt the heavy thud against his back, and very briefly thought it odd how fire always felt cool to the touch for the briefest of moments before the burning sensation took over.  And then the world turned black.

“Lady Constance, I’m very sorry, but this is a meeting of the lords of Wulfbauer, not the ladies.”

Constance didn’t budge, green eyes gazing levelly back at the head guard who’d barred her way into the Grand Hall where the lords of Wulbauer were gathering to discuss the deadly fallout of the Spring Ball. All, that was, except for Duke Therrien himself, who was still confined to bedrest for the injuries he’d sustained rescuing Lainey Kenins from the crumbling pavilion. Only a day and a half had passed since the disaster of the festival, and while their wives and children had, for the most part, been sent home, the lords remained behind. And Olive wanted to know why.

“In which every noble house should be represented,” Olive answered with a calm confidence that she didn’t completely believe herself. In moments like this, she always tried to channel her mother.

“Well, yes, m’lady, but..”

Olive raised her chin a little, keeping her gaze clear and level on the guard. Daring him to say out loud what they both knew was true: her house had fallen. The House of Carwick was a thing of the past. And, as she hoped, it was clear he could not. The guard, who had worked in the Keep since Olive had been a girl, deflated a little, shoulders slumping, and moved aside to let Olive pass. She waited until she’d entirely passed the guard before letting out a silent sigh of relief. She hadn’t been sure that would work or not. Olive was still testing the bounds of her influence - or the influence of her name and parentage - now that she was back in Wulfbauer. She wouldn’t push her luck now that she had made her way inside, though. The hall was full of mostly older lords and a tense, heavy atmosphere. Olive kept to the back of the hall where she’d be least likely to be noticed - and least likely to be escorted back out. And, for the most part, the lords ignored her; they were preoccupied talking amongst themselves, though one or two cast a long glance back her way. But no one bothered her. Olive sat tentatively a little way apart from the rest and waited, listening to what she could, until none other than Roland Kenins stood before the gathered lords and addressed the group. He was, of course, Chancellor, Olive thought, so this should be no surprise. But it still didn’t sit well with her.

“My lords,” he began, “a terrible tragedy befell Wulfbauer two days ago. I do not need to remind you of the details of the scene: Many dead, scores injured, and an unmeasured amount of damage done to the livelihood of the people.” Kenins took some more time outlining the very details he had just said he would not need to, to foment, no doubt, unease in the room. And it was certainly working. “The tragedy of the Spring Festival, that nearly took the life of my own wife and unborn child, is only the most recent in a string of calamities to befall our duchy in recent time. Let us not forget the fate of Valence,” this caused Olive to swallow uncomfortably, but no one looked back at her. If any suspected her part in the destruction of the village, or put blame on her, they did not show it now. All eyes were on Kenins. He continued to discuss at length various other misfortunes that beset Wulfbauer, from Valence to the long winter to poor crop yields and decreasing exports and the increase of highwaymen and petty crime in this time of war, all the way down to rumors of thieves let loose to pillage this very Keep. He was clearly building up to something. And that ‘thing’ was about to be revealed. “The time has come,” Kenins continue. Olive sat straight up on the edge of her seat, listening carefully, “to assess whether or not a steady, reliable hand has been guiding Wulfbauer. If these tragedies are the unavoidable consequences of a nation at war, or if they - even one - could have been prevented or mitigated by more thoughtful, firm, and clear-eyed leadership from our duke.”

An undercurrent of surprise and murmuring ran through the hall, but no one called out to interrupt Roland Kenins as he stood confidently before the assembled men. Olive’s eyes went wide. Was he suggesting…

“Therefore it is with a heavy heart that I bring forth the following notion… That it is time to discuss a vote of no confidence in Erwin Therrien as Duke of Wulfbauer.”

Now the room erupted in shock and talking. Still, no one made an immediate response. Roland Kenins let them talk, though, waiting patiently. He had just held up his hands for silence when a sudden thought occurred to Olive. She looked suddenly around, but no one had left their seat. No one, it seemed, saw fit to bring Erwin Therrien to this assembly. Silently, while the din continued, Olive got to her feet and slipped back to the door. The guard gave her a look, but opened the heavy wooden door to let her pass. In the empty hallway, Olive paused for only one moment, then ran down the corridor to Erwin’s quarters. By the time she made it to the other side of the Keep, she had to catch her breath. Two guards were posted outside of Erwin’s room, and immediately crossed their halberds over the door when they saw Constance approach.

“Sorry, m’lady, but we’re under strict orders that only Artem and Lord Kenins are to disturb the Duke.”

“From whom?” Olive asked immediately, straightening herself up to her full height and regarding the guards with as much authority as she could muster. But they only exchanged glances between them. Clearly they were clearly also under strict orders not to say ‘from whom’ they received the first. “Well, in that case, your orders from me are to stand aside. If you do not know who your ‘strict orders’ are from, my word supercedes yours.”

This was an unfamiliar role for Olive, but she knew what might ride on her getting through, so she kept herself puffed up straight and tall and proud.

“I’m sorry, m’lady, but we have word from--”

She didn’t risk letting him finish, cutting in sternly, “From Lady Carwick, telling you to open the door.” For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze. But like before, it was the guard who backed down. Slowly, they cleared the path and opened the door to let her pass through. Somewhat less ladylike, Olive scurried through the open door, then looked back and added as authoritarianly as she could, “Close it.” And they did.

For just half a moment, she stood there as though she couldn’t believe what she just got away with. But only that half moment. Then Olive hurried to Erwin’s bed. “Come on, you have to get up. You have to come through to the Great Hall,” she said rapidly, giving Erwin a shake before even really checking if he was awake or not. “I can help you walk or dress or whatever. But… I think your chancellor is staging a coup.”

He stood just inside the treeline atop a low hill, overlooking a green valley below, where two armies clashed.  The canvas beside him rattled slightly on its easel as a gust of wind blew in from the south... or was it the north?  Erwin frowned slightly and turned to inspect his work, the sharpened charcoal pencil held between thumb and finger.  The picture was a bit off.  He couldn't tell why.  Maybe because it was starting to get dark, or maybe it was the blizzard that began falling on him.

He turned back around but the valley was gone.  He stood in front of Wulbauer Keep, staring up at the ancient stones that formed the western turret.  He was missing something.  A meeting.  Hurriedly, he pulled the wool hood over his head to protect from the cold rain and circled the entire castle, until he reached the main gate.  The grand hall's doors were wide open, and at the far end, hunched over around a small table was a slew of people.

As he neared, they all turned to him.  A few familiar faces flashed by him.  Lord Kenins and Burrows stood at one end.  His father was there, and Erwin wondered if the grave look on his face meant that he'd missed something important.  Leaning against the wall, a dark-skinned woman with a turquoise streak through her hair shot him a wicked grin.  Nearby, Hilda was placing a towel across the back of another woman, whose face he couldn't see.  All he saw was the muddy blonde hair and a fresh brand upon her back, the mark of a mage.

His father was saying something to him, but he'd been distracted.  I'm sorry, say that again?  His father's frown deepened.  He didn't look well, his face was ashen and his lips were almost blue.  Erwin stepped toward him, concerned, but his father shook his head and said it again. Lainey Kenins is still in there...

And then the Grand Hall dissolved in a swirl of ash and flame as a plume of black smoke enveloped him.  He couldn't see where he was going, could only feel the intense heat above him as the beams cracked and groaned from the weight of destruction.  There, he could see Lainey lying prone on the ground, but as he hurried forward toward her a beam came crashing down upon him.

Someone was shaking his shoulder in the darkness.  Come on, you have to get up. You have to come through to the Great Hall!  But... wasn't he already there? No, this was the Spring Festival, and he was in a pavilion. 

Your chancellor is staging a coup.

Erwin's eyes slowly opened to the sight of Constance hovering over him, and he shot up from his resting position -- to immense pain that he immediately felt travelling down his back and his arm.  He let out a loud groan, realizing that he was swathed in bandages, and his arm was bound tightly in a sling.  The memories flooded back into his mind.  The pavilion.  That's where it had all happened.  But now he was back in his own quarters, in the Keep.

"Constance?" he asked in a parched voice, as though she needed to verify her identity.  "Grand Hall?  What are you talking about?"  Something about the chancellor... A coup, she said?

"Wait, WHAT?"   And instinctively he began fighting to swing around and get out of the bed.

"Kenins, he just called for a vote of no confidence... in you."

Olive had already moved business-like to the large, heavy wooden wardrobe at the end of the room. She moved with a confidence and familiarity that betrayed the fact that, of course, Olive already knew this room. It had been her parents', and little had changed.

"There's a general assembly of the lords going on now; purportedly to discuss the security situation following the Festival. I wasn't actually invited, obviously, but." She didn't explain 'but what' as she rifled through the wardrobe. She pulled out items and tossing them at Erwin's bed as she repeated what had happened in a fast, no-nonsense tone. "Kenins started by recalling the... the festival, in more detail than I think he needed to. Then carried on with a list of incidents in Wulfbauer in the last year. Well, you can imagine where he places the blame. He ended it by calling for a vote of no confidence in you. They were still muttering amongst themselves when I left, but you can bet he's already bribed someone to second it. Offered them his position, no doubt."

Finally, throwing a waistcoat over to Erwin, she turned to face him, face lit with action. "I know it seems trivial," she said, nodding to the pile of clothes she'd extracted from his wardrobe, "but if you go now in your bedclothes..." She shook her head, then finished, "It's better that you show up looking like a duke." She frowned slightly regarding him, unsure of the extent of his injuries.

A vote of no confidence?  Erwin really had to think hard to remember -vaguely- Lord Burrows mentioning something about it. There were so many protocols to the administration of the Duchy, and it had not been very long before his ears simply tuned out the discussion on procedure.

"Of course he's holding assembly without me there, and after I rescued his bloody wife," Erwin muttered as he pulled himself out of the bed with a little wince. "What'll happen if the vote goes through?"

He looked to the clothes she'd haphazardly pulled from the wardrobe with a deep frown.  It would take some effort to pull a shirt over the bandages tightly bound across his shoulder and torso.  At least his staff had the foresight to replace his muddied (and singed) hosen with plain trousers, though he doubted they would look proper in the Grand Hall.

Of course, that thought had barely crossed his mind when the doors to his chambers swung wide open and the Keep's surgeon shuffled in.  "My Lord, you must remain in bed!" Artem protested.  "If you are to make a full recovery, you need rest."

Erwin eyed him hard.  "Will I die if I walk to the Grand Hall?"

"Well, no my lord, but--"

The Duke cut him off. "Then that's that."  He glanced to the clothes then looked apologetically to Constance.  "Help me with these. Please."

'What'll happen if the vote goes through?'

Constance stared at Erwin for a moment, trying to decide if he was really asking that or not. Deciding that he wasn't, she shook her head. "If the vote goes through, the lords will select a new duke." Did he really not understand that? "And you can bet who will position himself to be the 'natural choice.'"

She opened her mouth to continue when Artem came into the room. And immediately shut it as the men exchanged words. In the end, it was Artem who was silenced, and he looked darkly between Erwin and Olive.

"Well, if you will not heed my medical advice, then I am hardly needed here," he said curtly, clearly upset at being ignored. After all, he was a man of learning! With one last disapproving look, he turned and left the room. Silently, Olive wondered where he was going, and who he would tell. But even a learned doctor could not enter the lords' assembly now.

At Erwin's request, Olive moved without comment to his side and, unfolding the garments, carefully began to dress him. There was no embarrassed bashfulness about it, though it might be expected from a young lady helping a man like this. Olive, however, had needed many times to attend to the injuries of other rebels and runaways in her time. There hadn't been any room for embarrassment then. Still, in this position, she avoided making eye contact.

"I doubt Kenins cares much that you saved his wife," she said as she carefully pulled the shirt over his injured arms and shoulders. "He has three sons already, after all, and a widower can remarry - a nice offer to make any lord with unmarried daughters." And there were many unmarried daughters, with so many men devoured by the war. She gave a little snort. "It's been madness for the past day. Everyone is clamboring for something to happen; I should have expected it'd be something like this. They apprehended someone for the arson, but -" Olive paused, and a deeply uncomfortable expression passed on her face. "Well, one thing at a time. You need to get into that assembly and speak your case. I'm afraid there isn't time to update you on everything now."

Erwin glared at Artem's back as the surgeon left the room, but said nothing.  It must've been frustrating to tend to a Duke who didn't listen to sound medical advice, but Erwin didn't have time to appease the man just now.  Instead he remained silent as the Olive helped into more respectable clothing.  All the while his mind raced with a hundred different thoughts about how he might approach the gathering of nobles.

Something Olive said piqued his interest and he turned to her. "A suspect? Do we know who is behind this madness?"  When she didn't respond to him, he steered the conversation in another direction.  "She is Kassian's daughter, surely Kenins would not risk losing favor with another of the council."  Of course, nobody would have thought the Chancellor any less if his wife just so happened to perish during an unsuspecting attack.

Finally dressed (or as well as he could be, given the urgency of the situation), the Duke gave a little grunt and made a beeline for the door.  "Speak my case?  What exactly has the bastard said about me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Olive corrected quickly, frowning a little, "I never meant to suggest he'd try to have his wife die - how he would even manage that, I don't know. I'm just confident he would make the best out of the situation, had you not stormed back in there and pulled her out."

She frowned as she watched Erwin move from the bed to the door, as if trying to assess how well he could carry himself in his current state. But she didn't say anything. And she didn't say more about the 'suspect' now. That would have to come later. But her frown deepened, and was maybe tinged with a little doubt, as she answered, "Of course you'll have to speak your case. If they're holding a vote of no confidence. Mostly Kenins has just listed off every bad thing to happen to or in Wulfbauer in the last year or so. The implication was that with a different man as Duke - someone who is more of a thinker, and less of a soldier - many wouldn't have happened."

She moved to the door to let them out, but she paused a moment to look Erwin over, as if deciding whether or not to say something more. Finally she said, "Kenins is a good talker. Don't lose your temper with him. It'll help him more than you."

And indeed, Erwin was trying to assume his normally confident posture.  Yet the bandages and wounds on his torso largely prevented that, instead producing a bearing that was somewhat less impressive.  His eyes gleamed brightly though and his face was a mask of granite.

He paused only momentarily for Olive to open the door for him before slowly but purposefully gaiting his way toward the Great Hall. "That'll be a tall order," he muttered out the side of his mouth, "My patience has been wearing thin for a long time already."

Olive didn't say anything, but opened the door for Erwin to pass through. As he walked by her and towards the Great Hall, her mouth creased in a small doubtful frown. She was, she wondered, supporting the right man in this, wasn't she? Of course she knew that if the alternative was Roland Kenins then of course she was. And Erwin had taken such bold steps to disentangle Wulfbauer from the body civil war. But she had to privately admit that Erwin Therrien didn't inspire complete confidence in her, either.

But give him time, she told herself. And maybe.

Time, though, was something they didn't have now.

The young Carwick hurried after the Duke, pausing only to tell one of the guards to come along in case Erwin needed any assistance. The Duke being ushered about by a mage, she knew, would do no one any good. And Olive didn't want to be seen as meddling, however accurate an assessment it might be. Erwin needed to look as strong and independent as possible. Olive hung back as they reached the Great Hall, lingering by the doorway. She gave Erwin a purposeful look, and a tiny nod of confidence that was more hopeful than certain.

They walked the rest of the way in tense silence as Erwin tried to imagine what scenario he might be facing in the Great Hall.  Of course, a hundred different thoughts coalesced in his mind, so much so that he could not concentrate on any one particular happening.  With a slight frown, he rubbed his eyes and stole a glance to Olive.  By Ansgar, if he only had the political acumen that she clearly displayed.

But there was no time for second guessing himself now, or wishing uselessly that he wasn't being thrust into this situation.  As they reached the shut doors of the Great Hall, he let out a small exhale and returned her look with a resolute nod of his own.  Time to defend himself.

"Open the doors," he commanded the guards, who did as he bid.  Their low ominous creak had every head turning to regard the entrant, and the whispers and mumblings of surprise drowned out all other conversation as Erwin Therrien, Duke of Wulfbauer, strode into the Great Hall.

The din of the great hall flooded out of the doors when the guards threw them open for Erwin. But it quickly turned into a stony silence once the Duke's presence was realized. The surprise on everyone's face was evident; though there were relieved faces, as well.

"Duke Therrien," Kenins greeted coolly, confidently, without missing a beat. "Yes, it is best that you are here for this."

Olive, meanwhile, slipped into the room a minute after Erwin, in time to hear Kenins' cold greeting. But even she had to admit that Kenins comported himself well; neither fazed by nor rude to the man he had called out as an unfit leader for the duchy. Kenins was cool, confident, and grave.

An uncomfortable silence followed Roland Kenins' words and for a moment, it seemed that no one knew quite what to say. Finally, Kenins turned to Lord Burrows, who was, after all, the senior member of the Duke's counsel.

Lord Burrows frowned, but if he disagreed with the appropriateness of the duty falling to him, he didn't show it. Instead he rose slowly to face Erwin, clearing his throat as he did so. "Duke Therrien," he began curtly, with more formality than even he might normally use. "A vote of no confidence has been called amongst the lords. To cast a decision on the suitability of you continuing to perform the role of Duke of Wulfbauer."

A small echo of voices drifted through the great hall, though it was quieter than one would have expected as all of the noble eyes were locked firmly on Erwin standing in the doorway.  Slowly, he drew himself up to his full height (despite the deep ache in his back) and took several strides forward so that he was squarely in the midst of the hall of lords.

"It seems rather convenient that my Lord did not deign to invite me to my own vote, so that I might defend myself," he said aloud, perhaps a bit too coldly as his eyes seared into Kenins.  Remain calm, he had to remind himself, remember what Constance said.

"But no matter.  As chancellor, you are entitled to calling the vote, and I would hear your charges against me, Lord Kenins," he continued.  His head swept left and right to all of the other lords present.  Some looked away a little too obviously, keen on avoiding eye contact.  Lord Burrows did not falter in his gaze though.  Something about it seemed to say 'Careful with your words, Duke.'

"I will hear all grievances.  Here and now."

[[Hoooray for the return of @Cambie !!! Let me know if anything should be changed.]]


It was a mess. A summer had passed since the disaster of the Spring Festival. Since Lord Kenins had called for a vote of no confidence in Erwin Therrien. A vote that failed. That should have been the end of it. That should have been when the young lords put aside their differences, shelved their personal ambitions for the betterment of the duchy. For a prosperous, strong Wulfbauer. But it hadn't been so. After losing his bid to oust Erwin Therrien in a vote of no confidence - a vote that had favoured the sitting duke by two lords only - Lord Kenins had not been content to let the matter rest. In his petulance, Kenins had resigned as chancellor, denouncing Erwin Therrien's bluster and inexperience. It would have been one thing if Kenins had simply left Wulfbauer Keep and returned to his own land to sulk. But had not. Lord Kenins had been traveling from lord to lord, spreading his dissent and forming an increasingly cohesive opposition to Erwin Therrien sitting as duke. An opposition that, according to rumors, was becoming militarized.

It was the last thing the duchy needed. With the ravages of the civil war still plain on the land, Lord Burrows could only imagine what an internal military conflict would reap.

The divisions had reached even Wulfbauer Keep. In addition to Lord Kenins' departure, Lord Kassian had joined the ranks of the opposition. Lord Burrows doubted he would have if another man were leading it, but of course his favorite daughter was married to Lord Kenins. Lord Kenins was the father of his grandchildren. And there were few  greater sins than raising your sword against family. Or so they said.

In truth, Lord Burrows had had his own doubts, as well. Erwin Therrien was, he thought, a good man. And, a traditionalist, Burrows imagined Wulfbauer had a more stable future with the man whose family had been elected into the Dukeship reigning than a man who'd won the title with blood. In his counselling of the young duke in the last months, Lord Burrows had begun to develop a certain fatherly fondness for the man.

And perhaps that was why, right now, the old Master of Coin was so angry.

As if the situation weren't dire enough. The woman had returned. Erwin had brought her back to the keep. With - Burrows had nearly suffered a heart attack, he was sure, when he heard - their bastard child. Who, rumor had it, Erwin had given his name to. It was beyond the pale. Lord Burrows had requested the duke's presence in his office, and now he paced uncomfortably while he waited. It was a conversation the man's father should be having with him. About family and responsibility and... Well, if Erwin's father were alive, this wouldn't be half the problem that it was. But alas, Marsden Therrien had left this earth. And his duties now fell to Lord Burrows.

The duke should arrive any moment.


[[If it's fine for you, I'll "keep the reigns" of Lord Burrows for now. :-D]]

[hooray for the first post in 10 months!]

Truthfully, Erwin still could not explain how he had managed to avoid the ignominy of being stripped of a Dukeship through a vote of no confidence.  By all accounts, such a procedure was usually reserved for those in desperation of their political careers and more often than not failed to garner the support of the noble houses.  His particular vote had failed, of course - though by the slimmest of margins.  Perhaps his words of defense, spoken from the heart and with a conviction that surprised even him, convinced those lords who had been undecided.  Perhaps the vote would have passed if several had not abstained.  Or perhaps... the other lords had greater confidence in him than in Lord Kenins.

No, that last option was fantasy.  In the four weeks since Kenins had stormed from the Great Hall in disgust with his allies in tow, somehow things had only gotten worse.  The news returning from the south was that bloodshed was imminent, that Kenins and his lot were prepared to muster arms and march on Wulfbauer Keep itself.  Such a move would have seemed almost farcical, if not for the fact that Kenins did truly possess both the ambition and the wiles (and perhaps the manpower) to see his gamble through. 

And, of course, no small portion of his woes were self-inflicted.  When he spied the castle guard approaching his solitary figure on the battlements, with his message of summons from the Master of Coin, Erwin already knew the topic of discussion.  Gods, how did prior Dukes do it?  How did they keep their personal impulses from distracting their work in furtherance of the Duchy?  Was he - he, alone, of all of Wulfbauer's prior leaders - too weak-minded?  And worse yet, he knew from the moment he let Mae'leena back into the Keep, from the moment he bedded her again on that cold wet evening, that he would come to regret it.

As he crossed the battlements and back through the bowels of the Keep, toward Lord Burrows' small if not comfortably furnished offices, he was already working on what to say to the old man.  Not that the Duke of Wulfbauer should ever have to explain himself to one of his subordinates.  But clearly his inexperience was beginning to rear its ugly head, a small but growing sore that might very well tear the duchy apart.  Perhaps the vote of no confidence should have passed.

As the doormen swung the Master of Coin's door open to allow the Duke in, Erwin immediately spoke before Burrows could.  "I know what you are going to say, and so before you say it... I know, and I agree.  I am an idiot.  She should not be in this castle, and every moment she remains here, our position in this Keep grows more tenuous.  Nor do I have any semblance of an explanation for any of it."

A tray had been brought into Lord Burrows' office before hand and set on his desk, two goblets pre-filled with ice cold water from a clay pitcher.  The Duke snatched up one of the cups and downed its contents, the frown never leaving his face.

"Gods," he muttered half under his breath, "they were right.  I am not fit for this Dukeship."

Lord Burrows turned when his door opened, admitting the young duke. He opened his mouth to begin the speech he desperately did not want to deliver, but Erwin began talking before he got the chance. After half a moment, Burrows closed his mouth and listened, a frown deepening his face. The old Master of Coin let Erwin say his piece and, though respectfully silent, he hardly looked impressed. He waited for Erwin to finish, and then for the tray to be brought in and out. He gave a curt nod to the guard who closed the heavy door, leaving the two men alone.

Truth be told, Burrows had planned to launch into his speech much the same way Erwin had done, and being cut off like this left him slightly flustered. His frown deepened, and he mustered his resolve. ”Sit down, Erwin,” he said sternly, almost in a growl. If Lord Burrows were the type to growl. Which he was not. It was hardly how a subordinate should address his duke, but in this moment, Lord Burrows didn’t feel like a master of coin addressing the serving duke. He felt like a stand-in for Marsden Therrien, delivering a dressing down to a profligate lordling. And though Burrows had a face like thunder, it was clear that at first he didn’t know how to go on. He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing agitatedly back and forth behind his desk.

”My lord,” he finally began, though he continued pacing, ”I have to say, I have a hard time believing now that you were such a successful military commander, when you clearly possess so little discipline over your own personal affairs. Your father would be ashamed. And, if you intend to continue like this, letting your personal lasciviousness wreak public chaos in this Keep and this duchy, then you are right. You are not only an idiot, but you would be unfit for this Dukeship. And I’ll say this to you now, Erwin, if you have more interest in what you can do in your bedroom, or God knows where, than what you can do for Wulfbauer, then by Gods, you should ride out this day to Lord Kenins to relinquish your position.”

He frowned seriously at Erwin, pausing to let out a short exhale. No, it was better to just get it all said in one. ”But, for better or worse, you are the rightful Duke in Wulfbauer. Wulfbauer, that has been strong and stable and harty for centuries. We are the most steadfast duchy in this country, and letting the Dukeship be overtaken by force now would send us into decades of political instability and economic uncertainty. So, by God, Erwin, I pray that you finally see that it is time to take seriously all of the duties and responsibilities that go along with your role as duke. Not only those that suit you.”

Lord Burrows stopped his pacing then, harumphing, then finally sat down opposite of his duke. He gave the younger man a hard look. When he spoke next, he sounded more candid, less rehearsed. ”It has been bad enough, your selfish insistence not to take a wife. But now, not only do you make this criminal thief - who, by the way, in stealing from this Keep was stealing from the duchy, your people, not from you personally - your… your mistress or what-have-you. But a bastard child. A child. What in Angsar’s name were you thinking? It’s not enough to say that you have no explanation. You’re not a rutting young military commander anymore! You are not a private person who is entitled to private affairs. You have very real public responsibilities, everything you do should and must have an explanation. And before you complain that the responsibilities of being duke is more than you wanted, let me remind you that you have always been a public person. The privileges that you, and I, and the other lords of Wulfbauer were born with mean that we have a role to play for the good of the entire duchy. Maybe there are other places where the elite do as they please - Hellvion or God knows - but that is the strength of Wulfbauer. And you, Erwin Therrien, are Duke of Wulfbauer. It’s high time you act like it.”

For a moment, the old man stayed silent like that, still with a face of thunder, before finally he seemed to deflate a little, and he almost slumped back in his chair, panting slightly. In that moment, Lord Burrows felt far, far too old for this. The silence stretched on for what felt like a long moment. ”So, Duke Therrien, what are we going to do?”

Erwin sat there silently, eyes avoiding Burrows even as the old Master of Coin recited every possible grievance against him.  The Duke had never heard such a tone from him – anger, frustration, perhaps worst of all, disappointment.  It took a moment for Erwin to realize that it hurt more deeply than anything he'd known in the last months.  There was a certain irony to the fact that the Duke felt (at least on some level) that the Burrows had begun to fill that fatherly figure that had been so abruptly removed from his life.  Indeed, all of Erwin's troubles seemed to flow right back to the day that Marsden Therrien took his last breath.  He thought back to the day when he'd first encountered the thief woman in the Keep.  He'd been wearing black, soaked through with rain and caked in mud.  He'd just attended a funeral.

When he finally looked up, his eyes betrayed a defensiveness.  What else was there to say?  That his romp with Mae'leena had been a way for him to cope with his family tragedy?  That he had acted not without thinking of the consequences, but in direct challenge to them?  Perhaps he had consciously avoided taking a wife in the hopes that, eventually, they would all realize that someone else should take the Dukeship, lead the country.

A frown creased his brow as he looked way. "Like I said, you are right," His voice was bit more hollow than before, but still held a tinge of conviction in it.  "I have acted selfishly, foolishly.  And I cannot continue the way I have.  Not for the good of Wulfbauer."  For the good of Wulfbauer.  By Ansgar, he was about to start a bloody civil war!  Had his people not suffered enough? 

The appropriateness of that sentiment occurred to him.  They had always been "his people", but somehow those words seemed to hold more meaning for him now, sitting in this room.  He was a Duke.  Perhaps an unexpected one, but a Duke nonetheless.  As usual, that meant that Burrows was right, that he had to change. 

"I suppose the first thing is that she has to go," he said.  "Her and the child."  Perhaps the child was not even his.  Or maybe it would be best if that became the accepted truth around these parts.  He'd seen the eyes of the castle staff and guards, how they had all eyed the woman and babe with suspicion and then surreptitiously turned those same gazes upon their Duke.  Certainly a man with his stature was not a 'private person who is entitled to private affairs' but the sort of scandal that accompanied a bastard child was beyond what the people would tolerate.  Especially in Wulfbauer.

The next part was more difficult.  It took a very deep breath to resign himself to his fate.  It took an even longer breath, and a knot in his gut, for the words to come out.  "And the Duke of Wulfbauer needs to take a wife, one who will bear him a proper heir."

Erwin's face hardened at the thought, but he did not look away from Burrows this time.  No, it was time he acted like a Duke.  And it was time he listened to the advice of his Master of Coin, his adoptive fatherly figure.

"Just... choose me someone that will not drive me utterly mad."

Burrows was prepared to have to continue his long-winded arguments to get Erwin to agree to the very things the young duke had just proposed. So when Erwin said, himself, that the woman would have to go and that he would - finally - have to take a wife, the old man was visibly relieved. And for the first time, something like (though not quite) sympathy was mixed into his troubled face.

Lord Burrows let out a long exhale, frown deepening. His next words were considerably softer, and spoken at hardly more than a whisper. As though he were worried anyone might hear him say them. "You can still provide for the babe. From afar," He didn't know how to describe the woman tastefully. But Lord Burrows was himself a father. "Send her to a childless, warm-hearted tenant farmer in Arbutus Vale. You needn't turn the child out with that... woman. It's the right thing to do; and it would be better for the child, as well."

As much as Lord Burrows had been intent on hearing Erwin agree to take a wife, the way he spoke the words now caused Burrows' brow to crease. "Yes," he began, the earlier anger gone from his tone, "it is time for you to take a wife, my lord. I think it can no longer be put off. But I entreat you to think, for a moment, that that may not be the sentence you imagine it. A wife may not be... be..." but trying to describe the appeal of the sensual Mae'leena left Lord Burrows flustered again, and he let the sentence trail off, before picking it up again. Though he didn't sound too much more comfortable, and he was silently grateful he hadn't needed to have this conversation with his own son. "But having a wife, someone steadfast by your side, can be a pillar of support. A confidant. Someone with whom you can have a private self."

He let out a long sigh, shaking his head, and finally poured himself some of the water. "As much as you may suspect me of wanting to, I can't choose your wife for you. But I can lay out some options for you," he said, rather wishing that they were financial options being discussed rather than young ladies. His wife had, blessfully, taken care of all of his own children's marriages. "And," he added, "give you my... recommendation."

And with those last words, Lord Burrows gave a very troubled frown indeed. A strange thing to accompany the mention of his own recommendation. And one that suggested he wasn't quite comfortable with it himself.

Erwin leaned forward and wrung his hands in frustration, letting out a low mirthless snort. "It's funny how that works isn't it?  If only 'the right thing to do' came so naturally to me."  The thought of sending the babe off to some caring family had occurred to him before, but he wondered how much of a fuss that would cause - particularly from the child's mother.  The woman had trekked all this way to leave a child at the gates of Wulfbauer Keep, yet somehow the Duke had trouble imagining her letting go of her newborn so easily.  But maybe she'd do the 'right thing' like him.  He barely knew her, maybe she had one more surprise left in her.

The talk of a wife had the Duke slumping back in his own chair, looking defeated.  He waited until Burrows had filled his cup, before refilling his own.  "You know, I used to consider myself a romantic.  I used to assume that when the right girl came along and stole away my heart, then, perhaps, I would wed.  That her choice would be reciprocal, without any underlying intentions or motives.  Something built from real, actual trust and respect.  A true pillar of support.  Otherwise it is a sentence, for man and for wife."

He shook his head at the idea, however.  To a Duke (and he had to start being a proper Duke now, instead of playing at one), that had to be a ridiculous notion.  Of course people could support and confide in each other out of a sense of duty.  By Ansgar, half the castle staff probably only remained out of duty!  Was it really any different with a wife? 

Was it any different for him?  Maybe the real issue at hand was whether he was willing to do his duty for Wulfbauer.

He decided he was.

"You have my trust and my respect, Lord Burrows.  That is why I value your advice." He let out another slow exhale, this time more measured.  He sat up a little straighter, as if bracing for impact.   "What are my options?  Look to the other Duchies?  Wed the daughter of one of our allies still remaining in the city?"

A feeling of apprehension roiled in his gut at the sight of Burrows' frown.  "It's not Gabrielle Fleury, is it?  That woman is insufferable and if you suggest her, I will stick my head into a cannon."

”I’m an old man, and in my experience, the old sayings are generally true: embers warm longer than flames. And love blooms better where it’s given room to grow.” Old Lord Burrows shifted uncomfortably. This was straying a little too far from business for his taste. But still, someone should probably say it. And if not him, then who? ”But it will be a sentence, you’re right, if you decide that’s all it will be.”

He shifted again, then cleared his throat, as though to signify that that was all he would say on the subject. Lord Burrows certainly had very little interest in counselling the brash young duke on love! He laid his hands on the table, adopting a more business-like tone now, moving onto the real matter at hand.

”Actually, my lord, I would suggest rather the opposite. As I see it, one of your options is to use a marriage,” he colored only very slightly to already be speaking of it like that, after only moments ago assuring the young man that the marriage could still bring love, ”to bring some lords back into the fold. Reach out to one of the lords who has only lately been won over by Lord Kenins, or one still on the fence. It will show that you are forgiving, and that you are a reasonable man who is willing to strike reasonable deals. Off the top of my head,” that was a lie, he’d asked his own wife to go through the pertinent families the previous night, ”Lord Kensington has an unwed daughter and I hear was only convinced grudgingly of Lord Kenins’ cause. Abigail Kensington, his daughter, is just 17, but, well, has the best of her years ahead of her.” He coughed uncomfortably again. ”Lord Carrington’s daughter, on the other hand, is recently widowed. Lord Carrington hasn’t yet been won over by Kenins, but rumor is he’s waivering. The girl’s 28 and has no children yet, though, which could be rather a bad sign... But Lord Carrington isn’t one we want to lose. Amongst the somewhat more minor lords, I believe Lord Hartor, Lord Pettiton, and Lord Ainswick all have daughters of suitable ages, unwed.”

Lord Burrows poured himself another glass of water and drank from it. He was still troubled by what he was going to say next to Erwin. He could, in fact, hardly believe that he would suggest it. But he’d gone over it again and again and, he thought, it was the most sensible and tactical choice.

”Those are all one set of options. All would build bridges to important houses in the duchy. My recommendation, though,” he coughed, ”would actually be something rather different… Not a young lady with a connection to one house of Wulfbauer, but one with a connection to all of the houses of Wulfbauer. A continuation of the duchy’s past.” He frowned uncomfortably, meaningfully, hoping that Erwin would understand his meaning without him needing to say it explicitly.

If you decide that's all it will be.

Erwin sat there attentively, drinking in that little bit of wisdom from Lord Burrows.  A marriage, no matter how planned or political, could work if he willed it to work.  Just like the Dukeship.  Somehow, Burrows' affirmation emboldened him and made him sit a little straighter.

When Burrows listed off his potential suitors, he grimaced slightly at the mention of Lord Carrington's daughter.  Erwin doubted that the Master of Coin would have been so versed in past social circles to know, but he had courted Devlyn Carrington many years ago before Lord Carrington had wed her off to a wealthy Earl.  They had been foolish youths then, but like all his previous romances, it ultimately had amounted to nothing.  Hearing her name again, though, brought about the realization that his past paramours had all gone off and married other lords.  They had borne children for their husbands, perhaps all of them in the name of duty.  By Ansgar, some of them had become widows and were ready to remarry while here he sat, a lifelong bachelor.  Burrows was right, he was an anomaly.

"Ah... perhaps not Lord Carrington's daughter, though I will speak with him myself and ensure that I do not lose his support," he said.  'How' would be a different matter, of course.  Between Valence and the Spring Festival, Erwin suspected that his reputation was precarious at best, even among those who had not sided with Kenins during the vote.

The end of the list brought about a raised brow.  "Is the purpose of this not to build bridges to the important houses?  What other choice could there be?"  He stared quizzically at the Master of Coin as his mind processed those subtle words. 

A connection to all the houses, a continuation of the duchy's past...

His eyes widened.  "Ansgar's beard, do you mean Constance?  You want me to marry Constance Carwick?  I can't do that to her!"

He sat back with an incredulous look on his face.  Gods, she would never agree to it! 

He couldn't do it to her. Lord Burrows had expected push back on the suggestion, but he hadn't expected that.

"My lord, you must understand," he explained carefully, "if you take a wife, whoever it is, then Constance must marry someone. A new duchess can hardly be expected to tolerate her continued presence here. Especially after she has already performed some public duties reserved for the duchess. She's not a girl, you can't keep her as a ward. And you can hardly just... return her to the wild, as though she were some injured animal you've been nursing back to health."

Burrows let out a sigh and sank back into his chair. "The choice of course will be yours in the end. And if you disagree, then I won't press the matter. If not Constance or Lord Carrington's girl, perhaps the young lady Kensington. But please, allow me to make my case."

He shifted again, pouring himself another glass of water. How would he make his case? Without sounding too callous?

"First and foremost," he began, "think of the legitimacy a marriage to Lady Constance would offer you. Your children - your legitimate children - would be the grandchildren of the late Harlow Carwick, and thus continue a line - albeit through the mother - that has been ruling Wulfbauer for centuries. People will respond to that. Furthermore, it would bring the Carwick's private holdings officially back into the reserves of the duchy. I wouldn't underestimate the power of either of those to points to paint you as the more stable, traditional man to hold this title."

Lord Burrows paused for a moment, letting that sink in before he continued, with care. "I know she may not be a... conventional young lady, and in strict confidence, I can't blame you for not taking to the idea... But, well, she has her father's head for management. You should hear her in here with me, arguing about the proper use of her family's funds." He shook his head. Not typically the quality one looked for in a duchess, but... well... better that one of them have it. "I know you already take her counsel, whether or not I'd advise it. And it may or may not have occurred to you, but you and young Constance have suffered rather similar losses. You may actually prove a comfort to each other." In fact, Lord Burrows felt he had - without ever intending it - stepped into the role of surrogate father for both of them. Far better that they trouble each other than him. "It's what her father wanted for her."

A tense silence followed while Burrows debated just how to phrase the last - and biggest - argument. One he was sure Erwin would not like. He sighed again. Well. They may as well have the truth of it.

"And, well, your marrying the returned Constance Carwick will be big news. A distraction people can feel good about. And rather bigger news, I'd wager, than any other sordid and unsubstantiated rumors that may make the rounds."

Erwin's brow wrinkled in exasperation at the talk of 'rumors' making their rounds.  "Yes, yes... I know that I've gone and mucked things up tremendously.  That is solely my fault.  By Ansgar, the farce never ends, does it?"  For all anyone knew, it wasn't even his child! 

But that was all beside the point.  He downed his water, wiped his mouth with a sleeve, and leaned forward.  "Perhaps she could help quell some of the rumors, provide some stability and normalcy to the Dukeship," he said.  "And yes, I do value her advice very much, as much as you value her.  She clearly is perfect for it, in every way.  She was born to be a duchess.  But by the GODS, Burrows!"

He stood and began pacing the room.  "Look, I know I've made enough fuss about how I'm not ready for a marriage.  But what of her?  You would put her through all this?  Has she not been through enough already?  Her father and mother are both dead.  She was manacled and bound and dragged north to those bloody camps.  I cannot even begin to imagine the horrors she witnessed.  You can tell she barely wants to be in this castle, let alone be my wife!  And yet here we are, asking a lifelong commitment of her." 

It occurred to him that he had used the word 'asking' when, really, he could simply command it.  What an abstract concept it was.  Maybe it was because she was a Carwick, and he still had difficulty reconciling the fact that a Therrien held greater power than that ancient house.  Truthfully, some part of him still felt as if he was only holding the Dukeship in trust for the old ruling family.

And, of course, in spite of his impassioned plea on behalf of her rather than himself (which irony he also recognized with a humorless laugh), Burrows once again did have a point.  If he chose a different bride, Constance Carwick likely would not be long for Wulfbauer Keep, and yet where else would there be for her?  Certainly 'returning her to the wild' would be a death sentence, regardless of just how unconventional or resourceful she might be.

He stopped and looked back to the Master of Coin.  His expression softened but remained troubled, trying to convince himself the plan would not -- should not -- succeed.  "She'll be bound to me for life, my lord.  For life.  That's a lot to ask.
Despite what people think, I actually have a conscience, and I... I do not know if I could do that to her."

His frown deepened.  "What is clear is that, if this is to happen, she will have to agree to it.  I'm not going to start forcing anything on a Carwick."

'Perfect in every way' is certainly not how Burrows would describe young Constance's suitability to be a duchess. Or, for that matter, a wife! Erwin's agitated defense of how 'unfair' it would be to ask her to fill that role struck Burrows as a little displaced, though. It was easier, he thought, to fight someone else's corner than fight one's own. And that was what Burrows suspected was going on here: Erwin trying to save himself from having to marry the girl with the excuse that it was for her sake, not his.

"Of course we can find another young lady, but I have to say, my lord, I find your argument flawed. Surely the tribulations Constance has faced until now is exactly why it would be compassionate to give her a home here. A permanent home, and position. What better way is there to protect her, if that is your concern, from the horrors of the war? What you say is all the more reason to offer her a stable, safe life here. I feel I owe it to Harlow to ensure that some future is secured for the girl."

Erwin tried in the back of his mind to reconcile his own argument with that of the Master of Coin.  Certainly, the Duke could see merit in keeping Constance in the heart of Wulfbauer and in a position of power -- at least on paper -- to guard her against the horrors she'd already faced.  But surely Burrows could see deeper than just the logic of the situation!

Or had the Duke completely misjudged her?  He knew little enough of Constance Carwick.  Indeed, a part of him still defaulted back to the days before the war, when he only knew her as the precocious daughter of the reigning Duke, when none of this mattered.  But as little as he knew her now, something about her character suggested that she would rather be left to her own devices than be crowned a duchess, not that the former was even a viable option.

"I had a difficult enough time convincing her to attend the Spring Festival," he offered lamely and halfheartedly.  What more arguments could he make in support of his position?  He already knew that his next suggestion -- that she just remain as a close advisor and counsel -- was untenable.  The moment he married, she would likely be cast from the Keep.

Shaking of his head, he stepped behind his chair and leaned forward over its back, looking pointedly at Burrows.  He already regretted acquiescing to a wife.  With a grimace, he said "Bring her in here, then.  See what she says on the matter and... if she agrees to it, then fine."   

"But she attended," Burrows reminded him, for all the good that had been. The Spring Festival had been a disaster. But Erwin's command made the old Master of Coin's face crease in a frown, and he looked very uncomfortable indeed! Bring her... here? Burrows coughed and shifted awkwardly. He wanted Erwin married, true, but he didn't watn to be involved. All he wanted was a stable duchy so he could be left on his own to happily manage the wealth of Wulfbauer. He'd done quite enough shepherding around of the young, wayward nobles! He coughed, clearing his throat, "Ah... surely you don't propose to breach the subject with her... here? In my office? I think such things are dealt better between... Well... You don't want a dusty old thing like me about."

In other words: Anywhere else. Please. Anywhere. So long as he did it.

"Why not?  This office is as good a place as any."

Erwin looked quizzically at Burrows for a moment before it dawned on him.

"Bloody hell, Burrows, surely you don't mean for me to go it alone, and try to convince her to marry me?  Me, the man who took her father's castle and then locked her in the East Wing?"

It was no use though, as the Master of Coin's uncomfortable look essentially said that this was as far as he'd bring Erwin.  The rest was upon in.  Gods.

"You know this will never work," he said with a fierce scowl, heading for the door and thankfully out of the old man's wispy hair for now.  He stopped at the entrance and looked back for a moment.  "Start considering my alternatives now, for when I inevitably come back here with my bad news."

And then the young Duke vanished, his frustration having done something rare by bubbling right to the surface.

---

It was evening by the time Erwin had calmed himself enough to even approach the heavy wooden door of Olive's chambers.  After all, he certainly wasn't going to convince anyone of anything in that flustered state of his.  Even now, as he lifted a fist to the door, he hesitated.  This was certainly the oddest way he'd ever courted a lady, if one could call this courtship.  But the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that Burrows was nothing if not full of compelling arguments.

At least he was somewhat composed by the time he knocked on her door. "Constance," he called out with another low breath.  "It's Erwin."

The Keep had been abuzz in the last days since the thief had returned - and with a child! Constance Carwick, for her part, had simply been trying to stay out of the way. The news was as troubling to her as it was to anyone else (though perhaps with a less dramatic flare when compared to much of the staff); it would make Kenins with his Connlaothian wife and four children look much more attractive to many. But Olive hardly thought it was her place to counsel the duke on any of that.

Plus, anyway, Olive had her own hands full. Smuggling out whatever valuables of her own to her compatriots still out there she could manage, little by little. It served as the monetary resources needed to provide safe (or as safe as possible) passage to fugitive mages out of Connlaoth. An underground scheme that even saw mages being funneled through the Keep's stables and storehouses. With help from certain members of the staff, of course. In that sense, the distraction of Erwin's dalliances was convenient cover to Olive's own endeavours.  Not that that gave her too much comfort; all of her work would completely unravel if Erwin were unseated as duke.

She was sitting perched in her window sill when the knock came at her door. And the quiet call of 'Constance... It's Erwin. She'd heard through the grapevine that Burrows might give Erwin a sit-down talk today, and Olive imagined this might be the end of her not-having-to-talk-to-Erwin-about-all-the-rumours streak. Perhaps he'd want to get her in his corner; try to convince her that he didn't really need to send the child away, that he didn't really need to find a wife. Well... Olive would try to stay as neutral as possible. But she knew very well that she wouldn't be able to really back him on either.

Olive pulled open the wooden door, giving Erwin both a short, polite smile and a curious look. "Good even- " but she was cut off by the now half-grown shepherd pup Kipper bounding forward and bouncing up to Erwin. "Kipper, heel!" But when the pup didn't comply, Olive scooped him up in her arms. He was a bit too big for her to do this comfortably now; he was an armful and the puppy squirmed and turned to lick Olive's face. Finally she let him down, but content with the chaos he'd caused, he laid down on the rug, tail thumping happily against the floor.

"Sorry about that," she mumbled while wiping the puppy kisses off her face. All very graceful and dignified. "Anyway," she looked back up at Erwin, "what can I do for you?"

His prepared words had already deserted him by the time Olive opened the door, so instead Erwin took the moment to smile down at the eager pup, giving him a playful muss on top of the head.  "He's grown," the Duke noted rhetorically before looking back to her.  "May I come in?"

The moment he shut the heavy wooden door behind him should have been an indication of the seriousness of the coming conversation.  He was still trying to decide what to say when he realized the uncomfortable silence that had sprang up between them.  And the fact that he was staring off at nothing in particular.

"I really don't know any other way to say this, Constance, and I know that this will need some explanation but..."

Recollecting himself, he let out a long exhale and met her gaze.  Might as well start with the shocker.

"Constance Carwick, I would ask for your hand in marriage."

Wait, what?

Olive stared at Erwin with the look of someone who was expecting at any moment to realize they’d not heard something quite right. Yes, true, when he’d come to her quarters and shut the door behind him, she had expected some quasi-personal conversation to follow. But she thought it would be about, well, maybe whether or not he should keep the child in the Keep. Or maybe even the mistress. Or maybe she’d expected that, right, he’d want to talk about whether or not he’d have to marry now.

But marry, well, someone else. For a million reasons. For a million reasons before she even considered what she would want.

Surely she’d misheard him. But there he was. Looking at her, silent. As though he had indeed said it.

”Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a mage." Her reply came out very matter-of-fact. As though Erwin were pulling her leg. Or as though he’d suggested they become unicorns, and she’d had to tell him to stop being silly, that wasn’t possible. Maybe he was pulling her leg. Maybe the famous teetotaller had finally wandered into wine cellar.

”Look, I know you’re in some hot water now,” she offered, posture relaxing a little, deciding to decide that he surely wasn’t being serious, ”but I don’t think you’re that starved for choice.” With the last words, she flashed him the smallest of smiles, one that seemed to say, Because we both know you’re not serious. Right? You’re not serious. Right?

"Aye, because this whole marriage thing is by 'choice,'" he said sarcastically before shaking his head with a sigh.  "Look, I know it sounds ridiculous.  It sounded that way to me too, but the more I think about it, the more I fear that it's the right choice.  Ansgar help me, I actually agree with Lord Burrows for once."

He gestured for her to take a seat on her bed, and pulled the small chair from the desk and placed it opposite her.  "Let me make my case first, and then you can decide that I've gone mad and kick me out."  As he sat, Kipper bounced over to the two of them, alternately cycling between her and the Duke and panting with excitement.  It wasn't everyday that he had more than one friend to play with!  Erwin scratched behind the pup's ear, but the troubled look remained on his face. 

Another exhale.

"Your hand in marriage would bring stability to this duchy.  You saw how the people at the Spring Festival regarded you.  I saw it too.  Generations of Carwicks ruled from this castle, and I do not think they're quite ready for a Therrien to take the reins yet.  Or at least maybe not a Therrien by himself."  He frowned.  "Yes, in a way I would be using your family name to consolidate my own power.  I do not know any other way to describe it."

"You also have a head for all of this," he continued.  "You're knowledgeable, have experience and insight into how this duchy should be run, and you know all the right moves.  I value your counsel more than you might realize and, frankly, without it I probably would have been banished from Wulfbauer Keep by now."

As though any of this were about choice.

The way he spit that out at her. Even if it hadn't exactly been directed at her. That stung. Of course the idea of marriage - now, and to her - wasn't a choice Erwin Therrien wanted. Olive didn't expect anything more than that. (She hadn't even expected this in the first place!) But there was something, well, frankly cutting about being reminded that of course this wasn't what he wanted. What man in his right mind would want to marry a boyish, stubborn mage? Much less a nobleman. Much less a duke. Unless, of course...

"And it's awfully convenient for you. Convenient timing."

It would have been better not to say that at all. And maybe normally Olive wouldn't have. But his words, his demeanor, cut her. And she hated that they had. She shouldn't care. The whole situation suddenly had her on the defensive. Trapped. That was a familiar feeling, and something in her eyes blazed.

"But you can't say you've had no choice in the matter. You've had plenty of time to take a wife of your choosing, without needign to make a last-ditch effort in desperation. You chose this situation yourself, my lord, even if you didn't realize it." She cut herself off, even with her temper up, she knew she was out of turn. But she gave Erwin a hard look. You chose this. Refusing to marry. Bedding a thief. A bastard child. You chose it, Erwin Therrien, her silence said, not me. It wasn't her normal tract to worry about the propriety of other people's affairs. On a personal level, she didn't care much what he did. If he'd been some minor lord or rich tradesman's son. But he wasn't. He had responsibilities. He had a duty. The same duty in whose name her own family had sacrificed so much. In whose name she had.

Yet Olive couldn't help but think Erwin Therrien thought himself the victim here. Maybe he was, but of his own making.

But.

Feeling suddenly annoyed that she'd been led to sit down on her own bed - as though she weren't capable of deciding herself, as though she were too weak to bear this news on her own two feet - Olive walked briskly over to her window, arms crossed and back to Erwin. Kipper watched the tension in his human with confusion, looking up at Erwin with a cocked head. But she listened to his words. Or, she guessed, someone else's words he'd been convinced of. Sourly, and unfairly she knew, Olive wondered if Erwin could even have managed that on his own. Olive knew her temper had gotten the better of her. She knew that her instict to fight had grown too strong and that this wasn't the time for it. So she stood in silence at the window for some time, looking out into the murky grey dusk.

"And what," she broke the silence without turning to face the duke, "will you do when the Grand Duke, or one of his allies, or the Church marches against Wulfbauer for making a known mage your 'wife'? Will you send out your troops to defend her - and, at the sametime, your own sovereignty - and ask the men of Wulfbauer to spill their blood over one woman? Or will you hand her over, undermining your own authority in the process? Have you thought about that yet? Because that is likely another choice you may have to make."

Olive frowned at her own reflection in the mirror, letting out a long breath, before turning back to Erwin, anger somewhat subsided now. "You think I was raised for this, or that I have 'a head for it', but I wasn't. Avery was. And Avery is gone. Perhaps I was in my father's counsel more than most daughters would have been, but..." She looked at Erwin, as though asking him to understand. "Erwin, I was eighteen the last time I saw them. The last thing I heard from them was a letter from my mother, telling me to cooperate with the government. Since then, my life has been as far away from all of, all of this as you can imagine. I... I don't know that I'm who you think I am."

There was an edge to her voice. Olive heard it without knowing herself if it was just emotion, or a warning.

A wry smile came across Erwin's face at her accusatory tone.  Not a hint, but a full toothy grin.  And there was absolutely no joy in it, given that her words dripped with absolute truth.  Erwin was almost glad that Olive had turned away so that she wouldn't see this, the face of someone who had come to realize that his transgressions were all coming back to haunt him now.

"Look, I'm not hiding from any of that now," he answered.  "Yes, this is all my own doing, the consequences of my male naivety.  Yes, what I propose is awfully convenient for me.  I'm sorry that I even had to come to you with this."

His face hardened again with resolve.  "But I want to do right by Wulfbauer"  I need to do right, he thought.

Perhaps she intended her question to be unanswerable, and likely there was no correct answer that a Duke might give that would appease all listeners.  That was the way of politics, he supposed, unlike in the army where soldiers followed orders.  How else could he answer now but truthfully, from his heart? "My wife would be the Duchess of Wulfbauer, and representative of the duchy itself.  If it came to that... I would defend her with all my strength.  And I would expect any man of Wulfbauer to do the same."

Her next words also softened his expression.  It was so easy to forget all that she endured just to make it back this castle, only to find that it was not as she remembered it. 

"Constance..." he said after a pause.  "You and I both.  But you think too little of yourself.  You know more about the needs of this duchy than any woman I know.  Frankly, maybe more than some men."

Including him.

"You are exactly who I think you are.  Someone who can be trusted to do the right thing.  That's why I am here, because I'm also trying to be that person."

He was sorry that he even had to come to her with this. Yes, Olive believed that. But it was what he said after that made Olive stop. ’You are exactly who I think you are.  Someone who can be trusted to do the right thing.’

Was she? Olive had done many things, and most she believed had been the right thing. But would Erwin think the same? And what he was proposing… that he was proposing… was that the right thing? Because Olive already knew, deep down, that if he thought it was, if he genuinely asked her to do this for Wulfbauer, she would. Perhaps that knowledge hadn’t crystallized in her mind yet, but it weighed on her all the same. Like a sack of coal on her chest.

Especially how Erwin had answered her question. It hadn’t been a hypothetical. It had been very real. And his answer made her chest tighten almost in a panic. An attack on his wife would be an attack on the Duchess of Wulfbauer. And thus an attack on Wulfbauer. ’I would defend her with all my strength.  And I would expect any man of Wulfbauer to do the same.’ So much blood had been shed in this war. So much blood had been shed because of her. She couldn’t let more be shed. And, suddenly, she knew she had to tell him more than she had until then. It would change his mind, hopefully. But even if it didn’t, she’d have to tell him regardless.

”Erwin,” she started tentatively, moving to sit on the bed again, across from the man who would be her husband, ”I… I don’t know if I’m that, anymore. But I’m not just an escaped mage. Though that would be enough.” She kept level, earnest eye contact as she told him this. ”After I escaped, while I was still in the camps even, I took up arms against the government. Against the army. I’ve attacked military infrastructure. Barracks. I’ve killed men. Justly, I hope. If killing, even in war, is ever just,” she frowned, deflating a little as she said this, eyes darting temporarily down. She wasn’t sure anymore. Was any part of this war just? But what choice had they had? What choice had she had?

She knew then that if this did change his mind about this crazy idea of marrying her, it might change his mind about her in general. And then what? She hadn’t lied to Erwin about this up to this point. She just, well, hadn’t mentioned it. And he’d never directly asked. Olive let out a breath, then looked back up at Erwin. Now you know. And suddenly she felt vulnerable; self-conscious. Because she realized she cared whether or not this changed how Erwin saw her. In the months since she’d come to Wulfbauer Keep, she’d come to respect Erwin in a way. She felt, somehow, she’d found something of an ally in him.

"No, you're not just an escaped mage, you're C-"

Her next words silenced him.  I took up arms against the government.  Against the army.    He'd heard the reports, of course, of the mage camp uprisings and the rebel ambushes on unsuspecting soldiers. 

I've killed men.

That took him by surprise more than he would have liked to admit, likely because he'd harbored an admittedly narrow idea of who she was.  Who she is.  She was the daughter of Duke Harlow Carwick, and a noblewoman, and it was easy to forget that she had to endure horrors that most men and women could not even stand to imagine.  How could an innocent young woman like her do such things?

He wrung his hands and then looked down at them for a long moment, before meeting her gaze again.  "Constance..." he began, thinking of how to approach the topic.  He couldn't say that he understood her, because uttering those words would be marginalizing all her experiences.  Could he really say that he'd experienced the same thing?  He'd killed men too, but on the field of battle.  Did those scenarios even compare?

His eyes dropped and he exhaled softly.  "Constance, this country is falling apart.  We all have a hand in it.  Ansgar knows I've killed men too.  Just or not, nobody is innocent in this.  What I care about is what we do next though." 

Her words rang in his ears long after they'd been spoken though.  If killing, even in war, is ever just.  He had no answer to that.  Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, and said quietly, "There may be more killing to come, yet."

"Maybe," Constance agreed grimly. In all likelihood, there was killing going on now, right that moment, somewhere in Connlaoth. "But in that case you should know who you're asking." She held his gaze for a moment, her expression hardening, something defiant in her eyes. Daring him to challenge the justness of her actions. Constance was on the right side of this war. She knew it in her bones. Even if she had not always made the right decisions. For a moment she felt the flare of zealotry and nearly spoke out about the righteousness of her cause. How she wanted nothing more than to be released from her internment in this Keep. The internment that was the only thing keeping her from taking up arms again. Keeping her from returning to the life that she wanted. To the life she was free. In a way. She wanted to tell him that that was where her loyalties lay. Not to Wulfbauer. Not to its Duke.

But she knew that wasn't true. Or, rather, she knew they were all true. Her loyalties lay with the mages fighting across the country. And to Wulfbauer. And, perhaps, to Erwin Therrien, its Duke.

Constance let out a short exhale, defiant gaze slipping away. "Because, in the end, we both know it's your choice," she said joylessly. Perhaps even a little defeated. "Let's not pretend that we don't."

The Duke's brow furrowed a little deeper as he tried to make sense of her words, of her hot glare.  Given the revelation that she'd killed before (and likely could do so again if her hand was forced)... was that a subtle threat?  The words -- and her tone -- certainly had him pausing and re-assessing the situation.

Still, he shook his head with an amused smirk. "Yes, isn't it all a bit odd that a man could somehow tell a woman to marry him, and it must be done?  I'm still asking you though.  Perhaps it's naive of me to think this, but I still believe that a marriage works better when one party is not completely subservient to the other."

He sighed and continued, "Look, Constance, I did not lie when I said I would not force you into something to which you did not agree.  But I am asking you to consider it.  I think you would make a fine duchess, certainly a better one than any other possible suitor in this duchy.  And frankly, I'd rather have you by my side than any of them."

It was still a tough ask though, and quietly he braced himself for her definitive rejection.

"Perhaps it's naive of me to think this, but I still believe that a marriage works better when one party is not completely subservient to the other."

Olive gave a soft, derisive snort at that. She couldn't help it. 'A marriage works better...' Sure. Because what he was proposing was that kind of marriage. Was something more than a convenient fix for him; a way, hopefully, out of an awfully awkward situation. As though his, what?, mistress? And his bastard weren't in the Keep now. But he wasn't asking her to do this for him, and she understood that.

Olive could feel the situation closing in on her. Weighing her down. Trapped. Drowning.

"Let's get some fresh air," she said abruptly, "this is too claustrophobic in here."

With a short, low whistle to Kipper, Olive led the way out of the room. She should have let Erwin do so, but she either didn't think of it or didn't listen to the etiquette. She walked mutely down the hallway, eyes cast demurely downwards, as she led Erwin down the empty, gloamy stone hallway. She looked calm and perhaps submissive, but her mind was racing. Would- could she go through with it? Or, a voice in her head whispered, should she acquiesce and make a run for it? Tonight, tomorrow.

When they walked out onto the castle's inner ramparts, Olive let out exhaled as though she could only finally breathe. She leaned carefully against the fortification's cool stones, eyes searching the darkening hills visible from this vantage point. Were they there, somewhere? Hiding in the wilds, free, pursued, fighting? Silas and the others. Could she serve them, serve their cause - her cause - and serve Wulfbauer at the same time? Serve, she reminded herself, Erwin Therrien.

"If I said no," she finally broke the silence, gaze still cast out over the duchy's shadowy landscape, "then what? Would I be free to just walk out these doors? Out of the Keep and, if I wanted, out of Wulfbauer?" She looked at him questioningly. Defiant, but vulnerable. "Or is this just a choice of who I am wedded to?"

The chilly gusts of wind that danced across the ramparts also helped to clear Erwin's head, oddly enough.  Far below, a small regiment of castle guards went through their daily drills in the muddy bailey while the stablemaster Bairn led a pair of horses toward wooden stalls to be groomed.  Beyond the walls, wisps of smoke rose in the distance from the town of Wulfbauer, an indication that life -- or at least some semblance of it -- went on.

He was glad she'd brought the two of them out there.  After all, a man always operated better under a clear sky, with fresh air in his lungs.  Though the heavy grey clouds above cast a dull, gloomy light down upon the castle, it was better than nothing. 

When she asked that inevitable question, he took in a deep breath of that fresh air, of the scent of pine from the nearby wooded hills.  And then he shook his head. "No, you would not," he replied truthfully and with little hesitation.  There was no use in dancing around the subject anymore.  "There's too much at stake in this duchy for you to just 'disappear' all over again.  If the order to keep you here does not come from me, then perhaps from Lord Burrows or the others left on the council.  More likely, some minor lord will decide to take you for a wife so that he can tie his House to your ancestral name and secure a rise in the social ranks.  In either case, I... I doubt you'll be able to just 'walk out these doors'." 

Hopefully his words did not bite too deeply, but why shy away from the truth of it?  The look on her face almost suggested that she wanted him to respond as he did, just so that she could say that she'd been right all along, and that his proposal of marriage had been just as they'd both known: a political sham.  And a part of him felt almost guilty thinking that.  Was his offer that much worse than any of her realistic alternatives?  At that moment, Erwin could not answer that question.

At least someone out here is enjoying themselves though, he thought as he watched Kipper bounce around excitedly at everything new out here before burying his snout into a pile of dirty old snow.

No smug 'Ha, gotcha!' or sudden 'See, I told you so!' followed Erwin's admission. Olive simply nodded and turned her gaze back outwards. Yes, she'd doubted as well that she'd be able to just walk out the doors of this Keep. But Erwin was right that he'd said what she wanted to hear. Not so she could take a swipe at him. She just wanted to get the truth of it out in the open. "No. I didn't think so."

All that had changed, really, since her arrival was the boundaries of her cell. From the grimy dungeon, to the lonely East Wing, to the confines of the Keep. In some way, she preferred the first. It seemed the most honest.

"Maybe it seems odd to you that any noble lady would prefer to walk out these doors and live as an outlaw in the wild, than to live as a duchess," she said after a prolonged silence. She didn't turn to look at Erwin, and sounded half as though she were talking to herself. "Living like a hunted animal; always in danger of a soldier's blade or of starvation or God knows. That isn't exactly freedom, living like that. But it seems freer to live in the wild, acting on your own will, than to live in safety and comfort, acting only on somebody else's. If you can act at all." She let out a short sigh. The hills were dark and shadowed and the night would be cold. "Out there I was freer to act on my own volition than I had ever been. There I was subservient to no man."

All that had mattered was that she was a mage. And free. And willing to fight. She could hold a handcannon or a bow as well as any. That had been a freedom Olive had never experienced before. And may never again.

"For all that, though... for all the danger of the wild and all the apparent safety here. I feel closer to being sent back to the camps here than I ever did there." She glanced sidelong at Erwin. "All it takes is for you to change your mind. Or the political winds to change. For 'what is good for Wulfbauer' and 'what is good for Constance Carwick' to come into conflict again. At least out there I could run, or hide, or fight. Here... if I agreed... I would be a sitting duck. All over again."

"Nothing is odd to me these days," he replied quietly, stepping up to the spot next to her and leaning his arms against the ramparts.  His eyes slowly scanned the horizon, at the calmness of it all.  Somewhere out beyond the wooded hills, he knew that Roland Kenins and those loyal to him was preparing for a bloody coup. 

Not even a full year as the Duke, and already he'd made a mess of it.

"What would you do?" he asked offhanded, staring out at nothing in particular.  "Out there I mean, with this 'freedom' that you desire? Would you seek quiet peace somewhere?  Would you take up arms again?"

What would he do, if he had that freedom too?  For a moment, he wished that he could also share in her dream of escaping from Wulfbauer, of living as his own man.
The moment passed though, and all he was left with was an emptiness inside.  One that, he supposed, had no cure but to strengthen his resolve and do his duty.

"There's no 'quiet peace' for a mage. Not in Connlaoth." Did he really think that was an option for her? She heard, too, the inflection on the way he said 'freedom.' As though it was something whimsical, childish, or imagined. She wanted to scowl at that. Throw it back in his face. Maybe it didn't sound like 'freedom' to him, but he was the one free to go where he pleased. Even here, Erwin might like to imagine himself as her 'guardian,' but she couldn't leave the Keep without being accompanied by guards. And she knew better than anyone that those guards weren't merely there to protect her. Constance Carwick was a prisoner here, in her home, however they dressed it up. Erwin Therrien was no prisoner, however much duty might bind him, and he was under no threat of being hauled north to the nightmare of the mage camps. As long as she was here, that threat was just around the corner for her. And not just the threat of being sent back the camps as soon as Erwin had a change of heart, or was overthrown, but a duchess who wore the Mark... she may as well wear a bull's eye. She wondered if he'd thought about how much risk he was asking her to take on to make his claim as Duke stronger, to cover up his mistakes. "I'd survive," she finally answered, "for as long as I could. Try to help others do the same."

"But what's the point of dwelling on impossibilities.'

The words came out of her mouth without her realizing she was saying them. Constance pushed herself away from the cold rampart walls by her palms, so she was standing up straight now. But her eyes were still turned to the silent shadows of the countryside. The sleeping farms, the heavy blanket of thick pine forest draped over Wulfbauer's rolling hills. She could feel the calm of the forest at night from here, smell the pine needles, hear the crackle of a fire and the hushed voices of the runaway mages sheltering under those boughs. A place where she wasn't anyone special, a place where she'd found, well, a place for herself. But now, out here in the night air, looking out on the same forest, maybe, from the sturdy ramparts of a castle, it was clear. It was a place she was not going back to. Constance Carwick, like it or not, was not born to live in the wild. She was born with responsibilities, weighing on her like the very stones of the Keep.

And she couldn't run away from that. Her gaze shifted to the stone rampart in front of her, feeling its rough texture on her fingertips. Returning here, it changed everything. So, it was time to start thinking about what she would do. What her options were. The real options.

"If I were to say yes," she began slowly, her voice too measured, betraying uncertain nerves, "what is it you would be asking of me? What," she turned her eyes to him, feeling suddenly small and young and vulnerable next to this man, who whether he liked it or not, held so much power over her, "what kind of marriage do you want? I'd like to know what I am answering."

Olive might have been several years Erwin's junior, but she wasn't naïve. Even had she not already known Erwin's reputation – which he'd made for himself already as a young officer when Olive was still at home, before everything -  recent events in the Keep certainly would have made his character where women were concerned abundantly clear. And the way he'd proposed the idea, it seemed unlikely that it had been his own, or something that he himself wanted. If this was a pragmatic, and convenient, political fix now. What would it be in a year? In five years? Ten? Would she be, forever, a public face, a screen for whatever his actual personal affairs were? She wanted to know now, if she would. Or would she be more than that? A wife as her mother had been. And which answer did Olive even want to hear?

As his eyes locked onto the horizon, Erwin tried to recall the first time he'd climbed the stone steps up onto these walls, seen this view.  He vaguely remembered feeling awestruck: the hearth light of distant homes had gleamed through the morning dew, and a low mist has given the woodlands an almost ethereal beauty.  The din of the castle courtyard was naught but a soft whisper, but the sound of distant crows had rung so clearly in his ears.  But that was the first time.  After so many long months in this castle, having stood on this spot on so many subsequent occasions, his wonder had been replaced by cold familiarity. 

What kind of marriage do you want?  Her words jolted him back to the present, and he also stood back from the ramparts' edge.  A fair question, and one that deserved an honest answer from him – if he could knew how to answer.

"Truth be told," he said, "the marriage I always wanted was one built on love and trust.  Someone to confide in and be confided in." 

He met her gaze for a brief quiet moment, then looked down and took a breath.  And why would those words not be completely unbelievable coming from Erwin Therrien, whose reputation was well-known among both the noble circles and the whispered gossips of Wulfbauer's towns and villages?  He was a handsome and charming man and knew it, and for years had leaned on that bravado even as the women came and went.  Indeed, in years past, he certainly would not have given the wiry, boyish Constance Carwick even a second glance, regardless of her station or the gravitas of her name.

He could almost hear the voices of his father, his mother, even old Lord Burrows, how at some point or another they all tried to convince him to settle down for the sake of duty.  Perhaps he might have held those classically romantic notions as a younger man, that eventually some lass would tie strings around his heart and drive the philandering out of him.  But now, standing before Constance having asked for her hand in marriage, Erwin wondered if he ever believed in those words at all.  He certainly didn't feel ready for marriage.

Love and trust.  They had none of the former.  And he had to wonder, after all of his missteps as Duke – both political and personal – whether there could ever be the latter.

He looked back up at Olive and exhaled.  If she was thinking of the chaos caused by his recent escapades in the Keep, he couldn't blame her.  Everyone was talking about it. 

"I know it takes more than a fairy tale sentiment.  My father used to say that marriages happen out of duty, but marriage is a duty in and of itself.  I'll never be the man he was, but I can try to live up to his ideals.  What I'm trying to say is... I would be dutiful, loyal, and faithful to my wife.  I would be hers as much as she was mine."

He felt dry in the mouth  even as he said it.  As much as he wished it to be true, could he uphold that promise?  Was it even what he wanted?  In the moment, it was hard for Erwin to tell.

I would be dutiful, loyal, and faithful to my wife.  I would be hers as much as she was mine.

Olive felt her stomach drop at those words, and not in a particularly pleasant way. What had she wanted to hear? That it would all be for show? A political front to ease tensions in the duchy and bolster Erwin's standing? One that would leave their private lives much as they were currently, while they lived a public lie? Maybe. Maybe she had. It would be easier. Lonelier. But Olive would at least know what to do.

But that's not what he answered. And what private life did she mean? Hadn't she just berated Erwin for thinking himself entitled to a private life? Olive felt some of the color drain from her face, the gravity of the proposition settling on her.

"My parents' marriage was arranged for political benefit," she muttered, eyes falling back to the ground, and it was not clear if she was telling this to Erwin or to herself, "and they were very happy." Likely the latter.

Olive shifted to face back towards the countryside, unconsciously moving slightly further away from Erwin as she did so, arms folded over her chest. She wasn't sure he had answered quite what she was asking. She had wanted to know what her role would be more than she'd wanted to hear any assurance of his sexual fidelity. In his answer, though, she'd gotten hers. And fidelity... her eyes fell on the stables below, still glowing gently in the night. Bairn or Valerian finishing their nights' work. Valerian. She felt a tightness in her chest then. She wondered if Erwin knew anything about the young stablehand. They had been considerably more discrete than Erwin and his thief. And as lifelong friends who'd always been thick as thieves themselves as children, she didn't think that any of the servants saw them as anything more than friends reunited. Maybe they gave them more leeway, both scarred and broken by the war. But maybe now she was the one being naïve.

How would she tell him, if she said yes? His life was bound here now, she knew; where else could a stablehand with one leg find work? How would they ever be able to face each other?

And suddenly, as her brain ran through these scenarios, Olive realized why she was already imagining how things would go. If she said yes. Because how many options did she really have?

"'Love and trust,' you said," Olive repeated his words without turning back to him. "I've chosen already to trust you." And she meant it. Though circumstances had led her there, Olive was backing Erwin in the fight for Wulfbauer. And not just because he was the man who held the reins on her life. She genuinely thought he was the better man. So she had to trust him. "And, in the last months, I have come to think of you as a friend." In a way. She sighed. "I suppose there could be worse starts."

Her words had been barely audible above the soft winds that blew over the ramparts, but their weight landed on Erwin just as hard.  And what about my happiness? For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to say those words out loud.  He'd been perfectly fine commanding troops in the field of battle, reveling with his men like soldiers were meant to do.  He had no need to settle for a wife, no matter her station, his mother's disapproval be damned. 

He didn't ask for any of this.  Not for the Dukeship, not for the Keep.

But he stayed his tongue.  Few in their circles had the luxury of marrying by choice.  The Carwicks certainly knew it.  And his father and mother – they both had known it as well.  Erwin ought to have known it too, as the eldest son of the Lord of Arbutus Vale.  Their house had not survived and thrived for so many generations without sacrifice in the name of duty.

I've chosen already to trust you.  And, in the last months, I have come to think of you as a friend.

At that moment, Erwin was thankful that her back was to him, so that she did not have to see the breath of relief escape his lips, or to see his shoulders straighten out even so slightly.  She'd acted so guarded around him all of these months, that he had begun to have his doubts about whether she could ever trust him.  He'd taken the mantle of Dukeship from her line after all, and no matter how he wanted to frame her presence in Wulfbauer Keep, she really was a prisoner here for better or worse.  If their roles had been reversed, he'd have acted the same. 

"That's why it has to be you, Constance," he said to the back of her head. "Of every single soul in the castle, you're the one I trust the most, maybe the only one I trust – and I say that sincerely.  All those Lords downstairs have every right to doubt me, but I do care about what happens to this dutchy.  And if I'm to have any chance to not muck it all up, I need you there.  I want you there."

And for a moment, he had to pause and reflect on what he was saying.  Lord Burrows had been right in a sense, that she was the most logical choice for his betrothal, both politically and practically.  But Lord Burrows could not have realized just how much Erwin Therrien needed a friend at that moment.

It was just as well that his words remained unspoken. Constance would have given him an acerbic reminder that he had their roles reversed. She was not standing here asking anything of him.

But his last words struck her. Olive turned to face him again and she couldn’t hide the startled look in her eyes. She didn’t say anything, only watched him in an ashen silence. She might have been studying him for sincerity, but – though she looked for a moment as if she might say something – nothing came.

”Let me sleep on it, Erwin” she finally said, quiet and almost demure. She regarded him still, concern creeping onto her face. ”I – “ she started, but her mouth closed suddenly. She stood there, tense and uncertain for another moment or two, then turned without so much as a ‘good night’ and walked down the ramparts. Once she’d turned the corner, Erwin would hear her footsteps change from a quick controlled walk to nearly a run.

Poor Kipper, confused by the tension, just looked up at Erwin with a quizzical whimper.

---

It had taken Olive, buried under her covers, ages to fall asleep. And even once she had, she woke up in a start, wondering if she’d just had some surreal dream, or if it had all really happened. By the time the sun came up, she finally settled into an uneasy slumber when – WHOOOSH! the comforter was torn in one swift movement aside, leaving Olive exposed to the cold draft from the window. But before she could make sense of what was going on – thwack! – something clipped her on the back of the head.

Olive scrambled upright, ready to defend herself, onto to find Grace towering over her bed with a face like thunder. ”You didn’t give the duke an answer!?” Thwack! whatever Grace was wielding smacked down on the back of her head again. Only when Olive lurched backwards did she see what it was: the measuring stick her tutor used to threaten her with. But he’d never actually hit her!

”Ouch! What? Where did you get that?” Thwack! The measuring stick snapped against her ear. ”Did you go find that just to hit me with?!” Olive demanded in disbelief. Was she still dreaming? But the stink of the measuring stick was very real.

”Constance Olivia Carwick! You impudent child! What on earth were you thinking?! The best chance you have to fulfill your parents’ wishes and keep yourself safe and to serve your people and –“

“I just asked if I could sleep on it!” Olive pleaded, feeling very much like an impudent child, being treated like this, and managing to defend another swat from the measuring stick with her forearm. ”Grace, calm down! It’s – it’s a big decision!”

But Grace would not calm down, and it was written all over her face, though she at least ceased her physical assault of Olive and put her hands angrily on her hips. ”When I think what your mother would say. ‘Oh, it’s a big decision,’” Grace mocked, in an impression of Olive that was good enough to sting. ”What decision?! What on earth else are you going to do! Do you think – do you think you can just run away with the stable hand – Don’t think I don’t know about that!” she cut across when Olive opened her mouth in protest. ”You stupid, selfish girl. I suppose you haven’t even thought of what an unkindness it is to him, hm? Letting that poor boy hope when you’re a noble lady and it is PAST time that you acted like it! And when a DUKE has asked for your hand in marriage! Do you honestly think you can deny him? I know you have had a hard time, Constance, and don’t think it doesn’t keep me up at night, thinking of all those years you were gone. But you’re home now and you have a chance now to do right by all your parents’ hopes and to do right by your duchy. And you didn’t even say goodnight to him!”

How did Grace know that part?! Olive always marveled by how many eyes and ears servants had around a house. Olive’s mouth opened and closed, not unlike a fish, not able to get a word in edgewise as Grace’s reprimands continued for at least the next ten minutes. Recounting every heartache and worry she’d ever inflicted on her mother, reiterating how much every single member of this household wanted the best for her, reminding her over and over of her responsibility as Harlow Carwick’s only child.

When she finally started losing her wind, Olive stumbled out of bed, pulling at whatever clothes she’d been wearing the previous night. ”Okay, fine, fine, I’m going,” she retorted, sounding much more like the surly teenager who’d used to fight with her mother than she liked. ”I’ll go talk to him now, just…. Stop, please.”

Olive tried to walk past Grace, but felt a sharp snag at her collar. ”Oh, not like that you’re not! Sit down.”  And the old lady’s maid, with strength that frankly surprised her young ward, sat Olive down on a chair and started brushing out her slept-on hair, muttering darkly about what a bad job Olive did at keeping it tidy, but thanking the stars again that at least it’d grown back out and she had something to work with.

---

It was more than an hour later that there came a sharp knock at the door of the Duke’s study. As soon as he’d answered, the door opened and Olive nearly stumbled in. Almost as though she’d been pushed. The hissing sound of urgent whispered instructions – ’stand up straight’, ‘don’t get fresh’, ‘and act like a lady, for Angsar’s sake!’ – confirmed as much. Olive glared balefully at the door.

It wasn’t until it closed that she seemed to remember where she was and turned to face Erwin, the disgruntled expression wiped from her face and replaced with a wide-eyed, nervous awkwardness. It would not escape Erwin’s notice that Olive was considerably better groomed than she normally was, in a pretty light blue dress and her dark, honey blonde hair freshly plaited into a braided knot at the nape of her neck. She actually started a little when the door latch clunked as the door closed.

”Um. Good morning.”

Erwin stiffened ever so slightly when she turned about around to face him. He'd wanted an answer from her, but now that it appeared to be imminent, a part of him wondered in trepidation if he actually was ready to hear a response.  And worse yet, what if the answer was yes?

And then she brushed past him hurriedly, without so much as allowing him a single word.  He raised a hand after her fleeing figure, but then closed his hand and bit his lip without saying anything more.  He watched her silhouette disappear down the stone steps, leaving him alone on the cold stone walls of the great Keep with just a half-pup at his side and the long shadows of the setting sun.  Gods, you damned fool, he cursed himself in his mind.  What the hell just happened?

By the time a sharp rap sounded against the thick door of Lord Burrows' chambers, the sun had fully set.  The old Master of Coin, bent over the reams of ledgers spread across his desk, lifted his head just in time to see the door swing open and the Duke stride without so much of a greeting.   "I asked her for her hand.  She said she'd sleep on it." A pause.  And then, perhaps anticipating that the old master might interject and remind him that he was the Duke, Erwin held his hands up like he could do no more.  "She said she'd sleep on it." 

---

That night, Erwin's sleep proved equally as fitful as Olive's.  He'd lain in bed for what felt like hours, eyes wandering aimlessly between the dancing embers of the fireplace in his chambers, and the glimpses of moonlight floating in from the stone window to his left.  His thoughts unconsciously drifted back to the previous winter, when would-be assassins almost made him the fifth Duke of Wulfbauer to be slain in a year.  And that had been weeks into his reign – now the Duchy was on the brink of civil war, with Lord Kenins and Ansgar knew how many other Lords preparing to take up arms and storm the Keep by force.

His thwarted assassination, conveniently or not, had coincided with his first encounter with the thief woman who now was still causing much commotion within the castle.  All of his misfortunes really were the result of his own follies, he'd thought bitterly to himself in his sleeplessness.  His mind turned then to Constance, the way the blood had nearly drained from her face up on those ramparts before she'd slipped away.  Perhaps it had been foolish to ask to marry her.  Maybe even she realized that the task of keeping Wulfbauer intact, of undoing Erwin's mistakes, was too great.

When the black of night slowly faded, and the pre-dawn lights of blue and grey began filtering in from the window, the Duke irritably threw the covers aside and arose.  Eyes still blurry from the few moment's he'd slept, he hurriedly changed into the clothes laid out for him before emerging from his chambers.  The castle kitchens were already lively even at this uncommon hour, and it was not difficult for the Duke to find himself some bread and jam before retreating to his study.  At some point, a servant brought him a pot of tea and a clay mug.

Various correspondences and military reports were still laid out across his desk from the day before, along with maps bearing small wooden carvings that marked the locations of various castles, towns, and encampments.  At least this was something with which he was familiar, and he gladly preoccupied himself with their study.  By the time a knock sounded at the study door, he'd almost lost track of the morning hours.

"Come on in," he said, reading the last lines of a letter from one of the minor lords to the south, who had somehow managed to pledge loyalty to the Duke without actually committing anything to his cause. Clearly the man was trying to play the status quo, happy to wait and see which side might gain an advantage before making any weighty decisions.

When finished, he dropped the letter back to his desk and glanced up, fully expecting to see Lord Burrows or another of his council.  Instead, he found Constance Carwick standing across from him as the door shut behind her.  And it was not the same Constance from the day before, or from any other day since she'd returned to Wulfbauer.  No, this Constance, with her impeccably-combed and braided hair and that dress, looked noble and ladylike, moreso than even during the Spring Festival.  As if the castle could have belonged to her.

Realizing he was staring, he cleared his throat and stepped around from his desk.  "Good morning, Constance," he responded, gesturing for her to step away from the door.  "Have you broken fast yet? I have some bread and tea here if that's to your liking,"  he hastily added.

Erwin wasn’t the only one who noticed he was staring and, much to her own frustration, Olive felt her cheeks flush. But she didn’t step away from the door or seem to hear his offer of breakfast at all. Olive stood stiffly where she was, like a doe caught in torchlight.

”Okay, I’ll do it,” the words came tumbling out with an urgency that suggested if she didn’t get them out now, she might never manage. ”If it’s what you want, I’ll do it.”

Having managed that, Olive breathed and a small fraction of the tension released from her posture. But she still didn’t move further into the room. Unconsciously, she touched the bump that had already come up from Grace’s physical reprimand. But before Erwin could reply, she went on, ”But if this is just a strategy to join my family’s money to the Duchy. Or to make sure I don’t run away, or change allegiance, or…” She still spoke quickly, frowning. Olive swallowed. ”I won’t. I know I’d have to leave, if you married someone else. But I can, I can make the serving Duke the trustee of the finances. And- and I’ll marry whoever you think is best. I won’t make a fuss.” Though she said this, a look in her eyes betrayed the fear of putting herself in the hands of some unknown lord, who might have any number of views on how to treat mages. Or women.

Olive took a breath, seeming to calm down slightly as she spoke. ”I’m not just desperately reaching for other options,” she said, her voice slowing and lowering a little. ”Honestly, some of them scare me. But I don’t – “ She paused, trying self-consciously to brush back a loose strand of hair, only to find that there were none; Grace had done too good of a job. Her hand fell to her opposite elbow instead. ”What I mean is, I know you feel forced into getting married. But I don’t want you to feel forced into marrying me. There must be dozens of nice, sweet, pretty 18-year-olds without any past or opinions who’d want nothing more than to make you happy.”

Olive exhaled, deflating a little, eyes finally falling on the modest breakfast. But her stomach, trying for a gold medal in summersaults, wouldn’t even consider food. And after a moment her gaze turned back up to Erwin, wide green eyes silently asking for… what? For him to release her? Or, of all things, for him to reassure her?

Erwin started to approach her when she failed to budge from her spot near the door, but then abruptly froze as the words slipped from her mouth.  The two of them faced each other, both unmoving, caught in an awkward standoff. 

I'll do it.  If it's what you want, I'll do it.

He'd wanted to hear those words since the previous afternoon, but they brought doubt flooding into the back of his mind immediately as they were spoken.  It was almost fortuitous that she hurriedly articulated her thoughts before he could respond.  It gave him a chance to collect his racing thoughts, blink his tired eyes, and let the reality set in.  It was all going to happen.  At that moment, he couldn't decide if he was more unprepared to be the Duke, or to be married.

On several occasions, he almost interjected.  To tell her that he could not have cared less about her family's money, or that he had not proposed in order to keep her under lock and key.  To reassure her that he had no plans to pawn her off to some Lord just to curry favor, something that felt disgustingly like a move that Roland Kenins might happily make. 

Her last words jolted him out of his silence though, and it was his turn to cut her off.  "Constance," he said, looking down with a furrowed brow.  "You're right.  It feels ... forced, all of it.  As I stand here, I don't know if I'm ready for marriage, to be a husband." 

His features tightened into almost a grimace.  With his tired eyes and disheveled hair, he barely looked like he possessed even an ounce of the confidence of a younger, more careless (or uncaring) Erwin Therrien - one that would have gone out of his way to charm some of the eligible young ladies Olive alluded to.  But this was not the time for those frivolities.  It was an entirely different, more serious, situation. And when he looked back up at her, the firmness in his voice grew as he spoke, as if he was convincing himself with each word.

"But it doesn't matter how unsure I feel because I know it must happen.  And all I know is that if I'm to be wed one way or another, I would rather have you.  Maybe you're right, that there's scores of 'nice, sweet, pretty 18-year-olds' out there, just waiting in line for me.  But I'm not trying to take them to the Winter Ball to go dancing, am I?  They don't have your thoughts and opinions or your past, and that's the problem.  They aren't you."

Erwin paused for a moment to think on whether those words had come out of his mouth the way he'd meant it, before letting out a heavy exhale.  "Look, I'm not saying that you're the choice just because of your history or your name, even though they're important too.  But I meant every word I said yesterday, Constance.  You're a friend to me, and I am willing to put all my trust in you." 

His eyes softened as he gestured at her clothes and her well-groomed hair.  Grace really had done an impeccable job making her presentable. "Besides, it's not as if you aren't just as pretty as any of them," he said matter-of-factly.

"Oh for God's sake, don't say that too loud," came Olive's alarmed retort, casting a suspicious and disgruntled look back at the door. "If Grace hears you say that, she'll make me sit through this every godforsaken day." Despite trying to mask her embarrassment with a small bit of levity, the color in Olive's cheeks betrayed her again. "And don't inflate yourself too much. I just said 'dozens.'"

But no amount of joking could shift the weight of what had just passed between them. She'd said she would marry him if that's what he wanted. And he said it was. So that meant now... Olive again tried to push back a strand of hair, a clear nervous tick, and shook her arm in frustration when there still wasn't anything out of place. "Can I – can I sit down?"

She looked like she needed to, and she didn't wait for Erwin's answer before walking stiffly over to her the worn leather armchair that had been her father's favourite and collapsing into it. Forgotten were Grace's hissed commandments to sit up straight and be ladylike. Slouching in the chair, Olive looked suspiciously at Erwin. It was a marvel, really, how far he'd gone in convincing himself in one night. Because what she remembered from the night before was Erwin admitting that it was exactly because of her name that she was being considered.

"Forgive me if I seem skeptical, but for all this talk of how special I am, I can't help but note that you've shown remarkably little interest in me except when I can help you." In Erwin's defense, he'd needed help pretty much since she set foot in the door. Still, she couldn't help but feel the support had not been reciprocated. But it was clear from her expression that she regretted the words almost as soon as she'd spoken them. "I'm sorry. That was unfair, I..." She was acting like a surly teenager again, she realized with annoyance. Why did being back here keep doing that to her? She sat up a little straighter, but only half-hearted, and tucked her feet underneath her, drawing her body protectively around herself.

"I do want to help you, and I will," it was hard to actually get the words out, "I will marry you. But I have conditions." Awkward Olive was mixing now with the more defiant Olive Erwin had become familiar with in the last months. "I won't just run the Duchy for you. That's still your responsibility. But, I will keep helping you," she said, her tone softening, guiding herself back in the script she'd prepared for herself. "As much as I can. I'll do that gladly. But I think for now that should stay..." it felt like a loaded word to use with him now, "well, private. Or as private as it can be. I'm still a mage, even if I am a Carwick, and if it looks like I have too much influence on you.... Who knows what they'll say. It could be dangerous, for both of us."

"And second..." Olive paused, drawing her knees closer to hers. "Well, you said you want a marriage based on trust, so I feel I should tell you," for a moment she paused, as though unsure whether to disclose the next thing she would say. In truth, Olive was uncertain which thing she should disclose. One, certainly. But the other? Finally, she continued with more conviction, "Well, I don't think many people suspect, but I don't want you to hear a rumor from your manservant or to have any suspicion about my intentions going forward. Since I've had more freedom in the Keep, I've been with one of the stable hands. I'll stop, obviously. I do understand the particular importance of a wife's fidelity," she added hastily. Her tone wasn't embarrassed or apologetic, but she did not want to allow any space for Erwin to get the wrong impression about what her request was. But she didn't dwell any more on her last statement; its obvious implications – a wife's most important duty, producing undoubtably legitimate children – was not something Olive was remotely ready to face yet. "But I don't want him to lose his position. You have to promise me that. I don't want him to lose his livelihood because I was careless. He's worked his entire life here and finding new employment... it wouldn't be easy for him. So. Those... those are my conditions."

She fidgeted, watching for Erwin's reaction, before adding with a small and not at all convincing laugh, "I probably should have come up with more while I still have some leverage."

Erwin didn't bother to stop her as she pushed past him and practically melted into an old armchair.  Instead, after a moment he maneuvered himself to a nearby stone wall, close to the small line of uncomfortable wooden chairs set out for lesser councilmen who visited his study.  He grabbed one and dragged it across from her, sitting leaned forward with hands clasped together. 

As she spoke, he remained silent and attentive, his face stony and pensive.  His expression changed only a few times – first, when his face hardened into a deep frown when she complained about how he had "shown remarkably little interest" in her.  Of course she was being unfair!  He'd been under so much stress these last months, and so much of his attention had been focused on trying to save a duchy from collapsing, it would have been absurd to expect him to find time to make small talk with her. And it's not as though she had ever come to him seeking the same.

Yet, at the same time, the frustration in his eyes betrayed a sullen realization that – once again – she was right.  She'd lived a hundred lifetimes, and experienced horrors that he could not even imagine, even before returning to Wulfbauer a prisoner in her ancestral home.  She had lost so much in this war.  Even then, he'd hardly taken the time to inquire about her well-being, tend to any of her needs, offer to listen to her problems.  He hadn't even mentioned her late parents, even though he knew intimately how big a hole their absence left in her heart. No, he only ever sought her out when he required her counsel.  Some "friend" he was.

And – she was right again – it was less than a day since Erwin tried to argue against old Lord Burrows why he should not ask Constance Carwick to wed him, and then tried to convince her how she could help him consolidate power and rein in the chaos that had befallen Wulfbauer.  Even if he'd somehow managed to convince himself that night of all the other, more personal reasons why it should be her.

These were strange times, and they had a long way to go if this was going to work.  And so he said nothing and just listened as Olive listed her conditions for agreeing to marry him.

Her second bit of information had Erwin sitting up a little straighter in his chair, a curious look crossing his features.  He stared at her, as though her admission of a tryst with one of the stablehands cast an odd, scandalous spotlight on her.  That curiosity quickly faded though, with the awareness that she was a grown woman with her own needs.  As a younger man he himself had snuck into the bedsheets of more than a few chambermaids, to satisfy his own carnal desires. Why would she not meet her own needs in whatever way she chose?

Idly, he wondered which stablehand she was referring to.  There was Tomas, Bairn and his son... and a half dozen whose names who couldn't remember this morning.  Quickly, he decided that it was better not to know the man's identity.  The tenderness in her voice suggested it probably was someone who she could trust to speak her heart to – exactly the person he had not come close to being.  Instead, she was offering to move forward, and he resolved to do the same.

When she finished, he paused for a long moment before given her pensive nod and letting out a soft exhale. "I understand, Constance.  I am the Duke of Wulfbauer, and her responsibility rests on my shoulders.  I'll not place that burden on you.  But I will value whatever counsel you can provide me.  In whatever way."

He glanced down for a second. "As for your stablehand, you'll have no judgement from me, Constance."  By Ansgar, he'd fucked a Saranthian in the middle of all this! At least nobody in the Duchy could blame her for finding solace in the arms of a good wholesome Wulfbauer citizen.  There also was the problem of the child born out of wedlock, with which he had not yet decided to do. "We do not have to speak any further of it, if you wish.  And you have my promise that nobody in this Keep will be replaced."

Her final comment, surprisingly, elicited a suppressed smile and a low laugh from Erwin.  "I'm sure you'll think of a few more once you've had breakfast," he said half-jokingly.  The faint curl in the corners of his mouth quickly faded away though, as he looked back down at his hands, counting the callouses in his palms as he gathered his thoughts.  When he gazed back up at her, his eyes were more solemn, but undeniably appreciative.  "Anything else you need, just say it.  I'll do whatever it takes to make this work for you.  For both of us."

He wrinkled his nose. "Within reason, of course.  I'm not a magician."

Olive withdrew inward as she listened to Erwin, gaze downturned, absently running her fingers over the worn leather of the armchair. When she was a girl, she used to curl up and fall asleep in this chair when her father worked late into the night. Her mother hadn’t approved of it, but Harlow often indulged his daughter, taking her shooting and hunting and letting her sit in on meetings, even as a girl, if she promised to sit still and remain very quiet and out of the way. Olive remembered his justification for this once when her mother complained that Olive really ought to be doing something more appropriate for a girl of her age – lace making or arranging flowers or writing flowery correspondences to other young ladies – things appropriate for a girl in general! Harlow had laughed that those were not his daughter’s strengths and if they were going to prepare her to be a duchess one day, they couldn’t ignore what she was good – or not good – at. She’s bright and driven and eager to learn, her father had said. Let her learn this, then. And one day, when she’s married, that is how she’ll be able to support her husband. How she’ll support a duke. The memory sent a sharp, physical pang through her body; she missed him so much. And wished she could talk to him now more than ever. But it also made Grace’s words from the morning echo a guilty knell in her mind. This was what her parents wished for her. The role they’d prepared her for and then fought, against their own society’s prejudice and the grasping hand of the Church, to preserve for her.

Olive looked back up at Erwin. At how quickly the smile fell from his face, at the way he sat, hunched forward, his own gaze fallen to his hands. She took advantage of that for a moment to actually study him, the solemn lines in his face, the gray in his hair, the cant of his shoulders. He’d been more of a character to her until now, she realized, a role, someone whose political actions and decisions reverberated into her own life, yes, and the duchy. But she hadn’t really thought of him, oddly, as just a man before. As a flesh and blood physical human, like any other. And as she looked at him now, she thought that before her sat not just a duke who needed support. But a man who needed it.

Shifting, Olive moved her feet back to the ground, unfolding herself and sitting up across from him. Her tone and expression softened now, though concern still resided there. ”Erwin, that isn’t what I meant. The burden of the duchy, it is your responsibility,” she leaned forward and half extended her hand, paused for a moment as if uncertain, then reached out her hand to his, resting it lightly on his folded hands, ”but you don’t have to bear it alone.”

She left her hand there for a moment longer, drawing her thumb across his knuckles and was suddenly aware of how loudly her heart was beating in her chest. When she withdrew it, sitting back up, she folded her hands together in her lap and her gaze stayed meaningfully on him. ”What about what you need? For this to work for you?” Somehow she couldn’t manage, as he had, to use words like ‘us’. She paused a moment, unsure if she wanted to go on, before cautiously continuing, ”Because I won’t demand the same things from you. I know what you said last night, but I want to be honest about what… realistic expectations are.” Olive was not getting this out well and she frowned, looking down at her hands. She tried to speak carefully, matter-of-factly, without accusation or judgement, as she went on; for all that, though, her discomfort - or was it resignation? - was nonetheless visible. ”There’s no need to pretend it isn’t different for a man. Half the lords and dukes you and I know have known mistresses and bastard children.” That, of course, included Erwin Therrien already. Somewhere in the Keep this very moment were his own mistress and, they said, his child. Olive let out a small sigh. ”The only thing I would ask for from you is discretion.”

You don't have to bear it alone.

Erwin looked down at her hand placed tenderly over his, feeling her thumb brush against his knuckles.  The soft touch of her fingers and her gentle words brought a strange tranquility to the room.  For a brief second, it almost felt like the world stopped still, as though the weight of the Duchy lifted from his tired shoulders.  At that moment, he would not have traded her assurance for all the gold in Connlaoth.  Finally, after several seconds he slowly nodded his head, mouth firmly pressed together. 

His posture also straightened when she pulled away and sat up.  At her pointed question, he took a deep breath and rubbed his stubbled cheek with a hand.  Uncomfortable as the subject was - and the discomfort rang clearly in Olive's voice - he had to address it now.  The plan had been for the Saranthian thief woman's wounds to be tended to, and when she was ready for the road again, to leave with her child.  But here she was, still holed up somewhere in the castle along with her babe, as if they were honored noble guests.  The sun had not even risen that first night of her return by the time he'd impulsively (or selfishly) bedded her again.  He searched the deepest recesses of his mind and heart for the reason why he'd done it - by god, they could barely stand each other! - but no matter how hard he dug, it always kept circling back to himself. 

What about what you need?  For this to work for you?

Whatever he needed, Erwin decided, that wasn't it.  Perhaps the answer might have been different for his younger, more rash and emotionally impulsive self, to accept both the responsibility of his station as well as the implicit power to do as he pleased.  But even if Olive was right, about all the lords and dukes with their mistresses and bastard children, the idea of a 'mistress' suddenly seemed so contrary to how (or what) a Duke should be. 

Thoughts drifted to his late father, the longtime Lord of Arbutus Vale, and most recently Duke of Wulfbauer.  As far as Erwin knew, Marsden Therrien, stoic and unswerving in his sense of duty to the Duchy, and out of responsibility to his wife Chantal, would never have even dreamed of taking a mistress, no matter the circumstances.  And as far as Erwin knew, his father was the noblest man he'd known.  Sickeningly, he wondered how the apple could have fallen so far from the tree.  He recalled the scant few times when Marsden had privately admonished his son for his loose, womanizing ways, and implored him to live up to the nobility into which he was born.  But the elder Therrien never did so in a denouncing way.  The father did not condone the behavior and would never have violated those ideals himself, but loved his son too much to force him to change either.  And so his son never did.  And that broke Erwin's heart.

Constance had already pledged him support and trust.  Surely neither of them wanted, at that moment, to contemplate the idea of an heir.  So that left the issue of fidelity.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Erwin shook his head resolutely.  If she wanted 'realistic expectations', then he'd have to say the words out loud just to reinforce the notion of what he expected of himself.  "If it's all the same to you, Constance, there will be no need for discretion. I meant what I said last night, about duty and faithfulness."  Or at least fervently hoped he could uphold those words, make the same pledge that she'd reluctantly made to him.  "If we are married, you won't find me in the arms of another woman."

He paused for another moment before continuing.  "She'll be gone from this Keep.  And about the child... Burrows said to send her to Arbutus Vale, and provide for it from afar.  I think... that is the right decision to make."

Olive looked up at Erwin’s words, brow creased. She felt less certain than he tried to sound. There will be no need for discretion, he said. Part of her wanted to warn that there may yet be. To tell him that the assurance he was giving her was not what she was asking for. That she even worried that, perhaps, it could put undo strain on their future. To tell him that what she really feared was not infidelity, but the pity others would regard her with if it were known. But something in his expression made her feel that even if Erwin himself was uncertain if he believed his words, that he wanted to. Last night she told him that she’d chosen to trust him. In the war, Olive had found that trust was often a matter of choice; believing that your ally had the same aim as you even when you had little proof to go on. This felt different, but was it? Perhaps, she thought, she needed to shift her feelings from I’ve chosen to trust you as an ally to simply, I’ve chosen to trust you.

So instead of any of those things, she simply nodded and said, ”Okay.”

When he went on to tell her of the thief and her child, though, she tried and failed again to tuck her hair behind her ear. She wished, if he wanted her counsel on this, that he’d asked her before asking her the other thing. She felt she could have spoken more candidly then. Now, instead, she gave a little smile and said, ”Poor Lord Burrows. I think he feels quite taxed, looking after us wayward orphans.” But she knew she couldn’t dodge the point altogether. Earnest now, she asked, ”But is it the decision you want to make?”

Mention of the Master of Coin elicited a low laugh from Erwin.  "At least now he'll be relieved that I'm finally listening to him," came his reply.  Her brief answer of acknowledgement, even if not fully confident, finally relaxed his stiff shoulders somewhat.  At least they'd gotten it out of the way, and that was good enough for now. 

He thought on her question briefly, but quickly concluded that he wasn't going to be any surer than at this moment, and it was better to voice his finality before he began doubting himself later.  "Yes it is," he answered, with as much conviction in his voice as he'd had all morning – never mind the fact that it had been Lord Burrows' idea to begin with.  "It's time I cleaned up my own mess.  I'll make sure that the child has a good home and wants for nothing, but enough is enough."

Placing his hands on the edges of his chair, he began pushing himself up to a standing position.  "I suppose he'll want to hear sooner rather than later that I've finally 'come to my senses' about that whole debacle, as he likes to put it."  Pausing, he glanced back down at Olive.  "And about us," he added softly, probing to see if she was as ready (or more aptly, as unready) as him to relay the news of their betrothal.  It all still seemed a bit surreal.

He also gestured with a sidelong glance towards the door.  The next part would have to be her burden.  "Grace probably will want to know too." 

The shift in Erwin’s tone felt like a sudden return to reality. For a moment there, she had felt out of time and place talking to Erwin about marriage and fidelity and the weight of the duchy; their marriage and fidelity, and a weight they might bear together. It had ben surreal, but the frank discussion of the fate of the child and Lord Burrows’ steering in it all made it feel not surreal, but all very frighteningly real.

He’ll be relieved I’m finally listening to him. Cleaning up his own mess. Coming to his senses about the whole debacle. That brought Olive back, too, to why this was happening. Whatever else had been said, Erwin was marrying as part of that clean up. Olive had just been swept up in it.

”It sounds like what you should do then,” she replied, a little stiffly. ”Let’s just hope that there’s a future for her or any child in Connlaoth.”

The thought of the future felt like the greatest weight yet. Something in Erwin’s words made her feel like she was already shrinking into a role that didn’t fit her. Dismissed, she thought in that moment, to go report back to her own maid while Erwin talked to the men of state.

She frowned, her expression darkening as she glanced to the door. ”Oh no, if Grace thinks she’s hearing about this from me, she has another thing coming. She made it painfully clear to me this morning that she can learn whatever she wants on her own.” Olive gingerly rubbed the sore lump on her head, glaring at the door. But that left…. what? What was Olive supposed to do now? And not just in this moment. For a moment she thought to cut in to say that she would tell Burrows, that she had to talk to him about a new bridge she wanted to fund from the Carwick money anyway, but she restrained herself. She would have to, she realised, learn how to behave.

”Okay, well,” she started awkwardly, pulling herself out of the chair and back to her feet, ”I guess I will leave you to it.” She stood up facing Erwin, an arm’s length away, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. She stayed there for a moment too long, then finally gave a small nervous laugh. ”Well, right, then. Pleasure doing business with you, Duke Therrien,” she feebly joked in a faux-businesslike manner, holding out her hand. ”Should we shake on it?”

Her ominous words about the future of Connlaoth's children sent a cold chill running down Erwin's body as he stood fully from his chair.  It was a sobering reminder that there was still a war raging out there beyond the walls of Wulfbauer Keep, and more blood would be shed before all of it was over.  Two wars, he had to bitterly remind himself – the Grand Duke's vicious crusade, and the strife brewing here in Wulfbauer itself.  And no child was safe.

His chair looked out of place in the middle of the study, and so Erwin dragged it back to the side of the room, half so he didn't have to look at Olive just then.  A hundred thoughts of the war and politics simultaneously flooding his mind, he failed to notice the rigidity of her voice, steeped in almost resentment.

Having replaced the chair back in its proper place against the far wall (and having spent an unnecessary second making sure that it lined up with all the others), he turned and took four long strides back to where Olive stood.  Prepared to usher her towards the door, he was instead greeted with her outstretched hand.  A look of incredulity crossed his features.  "You'll leave me to it?" he repeated back to her.  "You think I..."

The words died on his lips.  Did she really think that he was sending her away while he conversed with the Master of Coin?! A hot sensation flooded his cheeks as he realized their gross miscommunication.  By Ansgar, they weren't even married yet, and already he was speaking past her. 

His green eyes drifted down for a long moment to Olive's offered hand, then back up to awkward smile plastered across her face.  It was clear she was making light of it, though, so with an almost exasperated exhale, he reached out and grasped her hand.  He indulged her with a single shake, before gently directing her hand back to her side, his fingers lingering for a second wrapped around hers.

"How about we make a better business deal.  We'll go speak with Burrows together – because there is no way in the hells that I am doing that alone.  And I'll do the talking with Grace."  And get yet another glare of suspicion from her, no doubt.  Those had become almost commonplace these days.
   

Erwin’s exasperation elicited a sudden laugh from Olive. It was her first genuine, spontaneous laughter, and she regarded him with a bemused smile. ”Oh Erwin, you’re going to have to learn to lighten up if you’re going to get through this.” At first it might not have been clear what ‘this’ was, but after a moment her gaze turned outwards, towards the window over Erwin’s shoulder. The sun had fully risen now and it was a glowing autumn morning. Her smile faltered. ”It’s only going to get darker out there.” It didn’t occur for a moment for Olive to question the appropriateness of instructing a military commander nearly ten years her senior on surviving the bleakness of war, so confident was she that, between them, she was the expert. ”Trust me.”

Olive’s gaze remained cast out the framed view from the window then, thoughts momentarily elsewhere, inaccessible to her present surroundings. She snapped herself out of it with a short exhale and nodded. A small feeling of reassurance and slight embarrassment sparked in her, realizing she’d misunderstood Erwin’s meaning.  ”Okay, we can speak with Lord Burrows together. But no, I don’t want you reporting to Grace either. That’s probably even worse,” she said with a sudden firmness. ”I know she means well, but if I’m to go ahead with this, she has to learn that I’m not a child and she can’t treat me like one. Nobody in this Keep will take me seriously if it looks like I’m still answerable to my mother’s maid like some delinquent little girl.”

Partially dreading running into Grace – who Olive was sure she would be ‘just passing by’ whenever she left this study – Olive went decisively to ring for a footman and asked that he summon Lord Burrows. It might seem childish to avoid the old maid like that, but Olive knew she needed to have a more serious conversation with her about the fact that, whatever Grace may want, she was not a surrogate for Olive’s mother. Nobody could fill that particular lack. Instead she turned to Erwin once the footman was gone with a bracing look. ”Are you sure you’re ready for this?” She gave him a small, lopsided smile, as if to come full circle on the point of levity. ”You probably have ten minutes or so to change your mind before Lord Burrows arrives.”

---

When the old Master of Coin did arrive, he entered the room with his nose in the sheaths of paper he carried with him. ”I’m glad you called me, my lord,” he started, striding in without looking up. ”I’ve done some work through the evening looking through the duchy’s registry of families…. You’re probably right, at any rate, so we may as well begin discussing your opti– “

The elderly lord sputtered to a stop, having finally looked up. ”Oh. Lady Constance. Ah, good morning. I, uh, didn’t see you there…”

For her part, Olive looked thoroughly amused at the poor man’s comfort. A welcome distraction if ever there was one.

Erwin pursed his lips together and resisted the urge to glower at her (of course he knew he needed to lighten up!).  Instead, he ran his hand through the disheveled bird's nest of hair on his head and let his expression fall back into its usual cool, stony facade as a footman came to answer the call.  Only after the young soldier had smartly saluted the two and left the study did he glance at Olive and allow himself a long exhale. 

No, he certainly wasn't ready for this.  She probably wasn't either.  But despite his reservations, the small smile on Olive's face – even if it was teasing – brought about an odd sense of comfort in him.  Despite his best efforts, Erwin could not help but crack a slight grin back at her.  Here they stood, about to make a decision that would change the course of both their lives, and possibly the Duchy too.  Having her there made the choice infinitely easier.

"Maybe I could look a bit more presentable," he said, fixing a wrinkled sleeve.  "But I'm ready."

---

It had been an odd evening for Lord Burrows.  He'd not heard from the Duke again once they parted ways in his office, and the old Master of Coin suspected that he had gone riding, or back to the study to pore over his maps and military reports – or any other thing that Erwin might have done to avoid thinking about the sensitive topic of marriage.  And based on the Duke's reaction to his suggestion earlier that day, he had a nagging suspicion that Erwin might also avoid broaching that topic with Constance Carwick.

Speaking of Constance Carwick, she was nowhere to be found.  That was odd these days, because he frequently found her in his candlelit chambers eagerly pestering him with questions about local taxes, or the status of trade agreements and tariffs, or the disposition of her family's wealth.  It was the latter that he'd hope to speak to her about that evening too.  He'd discovered several discrepancies in the accounts after poring through pages of ledgers, nothing so egregious as to have piqued the curiosity of a less astute man, but discrepancies that a sharp accountant like himself would never have missed.  And yet, when he wanted to find her and ask her about them, she might as well have been a ghost.

At an impasse regarding the financial future of Wulfbauer, Burrows instead diverted his energy into reviewing the Duchy's family registries.  If Lady Carwick would not work, then perhaps another nobleman's daughter would have to do.  Carefully, he curated a list of potential suitors, all from families with stable resources that could help bolster the Duke's position – and provide manpower, if it came to that.  His research was neatly laid on his desk in a well-organized pile when the guardsman came to collect him the next morning.

That's why, for all his preparations, the sight of Constance Carwick in that study brought pause to even the normally-unflappable Lord Burrows.  Having lost his words, the old man stood just inside the doorway of the study, his grey brows raised as he slowly turned back to the Duke.

At the sight of Lord Burrows, Erwin cleared his throat, consciously became aware of his heart thumping rapidly in his chest.  Might as well just say it.  "Lord Burrows, we wanted you to be the first to know." The announcement came out in as measured a cadence as he could have hoped for.  He stepped next to Olive.  "I asked Lady Constance for her hand in marriage, to be Duchess of Wulfbauer, and she graciously agreed."   

Erwin glanced sidelong at Olive, as if silently asking for her to confirm.  At the same time, Lord Burrows' eyes also turned slowly to her, his mind processing this unexpected – but not unwelcome – news.  After taking a second to compose himself, he nodded over the pile of now-obsolete papers.  "Ah – a hearty congratulations to you, my Duke, and–"  He bowed his head in Olive's direction.  "and congratulations to you, my Lady.  I am thrilled for you both."  And, inwardly, relieved about the future of Wulfbauer - or at least the near future.

The three of them stood in silence for a brief moment before Lord Burrows spoke up again. "I'll have to consult the Duchy's finances first of course, but we can see to the arrangements for the wedding as soon as possible."

By the time that Lord Burrows arrived, Olive was standing awkward and arms crossed off to Erwin's side. Normally so quick to give her opinion, she was, for once, happy to let someone else do the talking. When both men's eyes turned expectantly to her, at first all she did was give a little shrug and nod.

Grace's hissed instructions from the morning replayed in her ears, prompted by Burrows' mild look of disapproval at her reaction, and she uncrossed her arms, opening her posture back up and, yes, standing up straight. "Thank you, Lord Burrows," she replied, mustering all of her politeness and trying to plaster over the face she nearly pulled at 'wedding as soon as possible.' Gosh, how was a duchess supposed to speak? Thinking on her feet, she offered, "We should consider who we should invite to oversee the event. Since normally it would be the work of the bride and groom's mothers," Olive only faltered a moment, and did not fill in the second half of her sentence. "We can use it to cement relationships. Ask someone with lands near to Kenins', or else someone whose loyalty is faltering."

Lord Burrows nodded and agreed that was a prudent idea and he would look into possibilities. But listening to Constance now, Burrows was distracted by a sudden realization. Once they were married, the stubborn, opinionated young lady would no longer be his problem – she would be Erwin's! Burrows could go back to dealing with the duke who, though he wouldn't say it out loud, he found much easier to manage. And Erwin, in turn, could manage Lady Constance. Unwittingly, Lord Burrows found himself smiling at the thought and was glad he could pass it off as being happy about the marriage.

---

Lord Burrows resolved to wait a few days, in order to not scare Erwin away from finally deciding to settle down, then bring the issue of the financial discrepancies to Erwin directly. And so he found himself nearly a week later back in the Duke's study. They had spent the better part of the last hour going over the threat a military confrontation between Erwin and Kenins would pose to the duchy's primary exports and which items, in a worst case scenario, they could raise the tariffs on to compensate.

As they were wrapping up, Burrows cleared his throat before saying, "If you have a moment, m'lord, there is one other thing I wanted to go over with you..." He shuffled his papers until he produced a cramped, hand-written ledger. "I was reviewing the Carwick family finances in anticipation of the transfer to your own resources upon your marriage, and I noticed something... odd. You see," Burrows flipped to a page in the ledger where several small transactions were recorded. "I may just be misunderstanding things here. But it appears Lady Constance has been selling little by little her personal possessions – jewelry, mostly, small things of worth her father gave her and the like – to the family trust and withdrawing their liquid worth. The prices she records them for are, well, I have to say fair. And she is within her rights, I suppose," he harrumped a little, clearly disapproving, "but there is no record of what happens to the gold she withdraws against what she sells.

"Now, this had been happening as only small and sporadic transactions and a sharp, diligent eye was required to catch them. But since your betrothal, you'll see here," Burrows pointed to several lines of neat by crowded handwriting, presumably in Olive's hand, "she's 'sold' quite a bit more. I imagine nearly the rest of what she could call her personal possessions of worth. It looks," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, not liking to insinuate anything untoward against a future duchess, "as though she's trying to sell what she has to her name before your assets are merged. Again, all sales to her family trust. Very strange. I'm sure, ah, I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding on my part. I'm an old man and not always as sharp as I once was. But I was hoping that you," he cleared his throat again, "might ask her about the matter."

Erwin was trying his best.  Since his first day as Duke, he'd put forth his best efforts to learn the minutiae of running Wulfbauer, particularly with respect to topics such as duchy finances and trade.  But by Ansgar, these things were difficult to grasp!  Standing over the maps laid out across the table in his study this early afternoon, listening as Burrows prattled on about exports and tariffs, about market supply and price drivers, he had to expend all of his willpower just to avoid pulling his graying hair out.  Inwardly, he was almost thankful that part of the discussion involved the mustering and movement of troops still loyal to the Duke – at least he understood those parts.

Mercifully, the discussion started wrapping up (he wondered for a moment if Burrows had just given up on trying to drill economic concepts into head at that point).  As he sat down and rubbed at his tired face with his hands, he only half-listened to the old Master of Coin.  Something about Constance selling her personal possessions.  The words coming out of his mouth might as well have been in Essyrni. "What of it?" he asked through his fingers, his tone anything but condescending.  "Is she not supposed to sell her possessions?  I mean, if they're just going back into the family trust, why is that of any consequence?"  At the mention of the uptick in transactions, Erwin lowered his hands and glanced back up at Burrows with a frown.  "I don't understand.  She's writing it all down, isn't she? Sounds like Constance is doing a fine job of tracking all of this."  Before the Master of Coin could speak any further though, Erwin let out a long sigh and shook his head.  "You know what, it will be easier if you didn't provide an explanation right now.  I'll just go talk to her."

Once Lord Burrows had retired from the study, Erwin rubbed his face again before standing with a grunt.  It was only a short distance, down the hall and around a corner, from his study to Constance's chambers.  Of course, it only made sense for them to continue residing in different rooms since they were not yet wed.  As his boots pattered against the stones, though, Erwin reminded himself that they eventually would have to broach that subject – a conversation he was not looking forward to having.  Instead, in his mind he ran through Lord Burrows' questions about her finances so as not to forget, while secretly hoping that they could have a conversation about just about anything else but money.

A knock on his betrothed's closed door yielded no answer, but that was not uncommon at this hour of the day, with the sun only just starting to set in the horizon.  Most of the Keep's staff gave him conflicting reports about Constance's whereabouts, but eventually he found his way to the stables where the old stablehand, Bairn, gave him the response he sought.  "She had her horse saddled and went for a ride westward, my Duke.  Not quite five or ten minutes ago, actually.  You might be able to catch up to her if you are quick."

Erwin glanced up at the orange-blue sky.  Even though the sun was starting to set, its rays were still bright enough to bask the Keep in a brilliant evening glow, with few obstructing clouds.  Not a bad evening for a ride, he thought to himself.  In fact, he decided a second later, going for a ride was precisely the thing that he needed, after a stressful day of talking nothing but politics and economics with his advisors.  "Have my horse saddled too, then," he responded with a nod to Bairn, who bowed low at his Lord's directive.  Erwin turned to another, younger stablehand and added, "fetch a coat and my sword as well, if you will."  It would feel good to ride with a blade again, just like he did in the army. 

When the preparations were complete, Erwin climbed into the saddle and grabbed up the reins.  The breeze was cool on his skin, and he relished in every long inhale of fresh air in his nostrils as he rode his horse out the Keep's gate and down the westward path, following the fresh set of hoofprints along the dirt.

With the crisp autumn wind at her back, the sky painted brilliantly blue and orange, and the smell of damp leaves under her horse’s hooves, Constance Carwick felt for the first time in months – like herself. Erwin could have won her hand much quicker, she thought, if he’d just led with telling her she could come and go as she pleased. Still, if he knew where the soon-to-be duchess was headed now, as her sleek black horse slipped past the gates of the Keep, he might not have been so keen to give that particular allowance. The thought of it had Olive anxious and distracted herself. Even though her place in Wulfbauer was more secure now, or exactly because of that, what she was setting out now to do was extremely risky. Perhaps that was why she took less care than she ought to have to not leave a trail Erwin would be able to follow.

Constance led her horse first in the direction of Caerith’s Seat, an airy overlook amongst the sandstone pinnacles that cropped up west of the Keep that was accessible by horse and was one of her favourite spots since childhood. Somewhere she’d be expected to go. But as the horse track wound up towards the heights of the Seat, Olive turned her horse off the track and instead of going up, they turned into the narrow, moss-covered crevice that led into Maze. At least, that is what she and her cousins had always called the narrow paths that wound around the bases of the pinnacles. The air was thick and cool and moist here and at times Olive had to squeeze her knees in for her and Searchlight to be able to pass between the cold stone walls. The darkness was much more present in here than out there and only few golden rays of sun penetrated onto the cool mossy paths. Olive’s saw her breath light up as she passed through one. Finally she turned down a path that seemed almost entirely engulphed by stone; only the smallest crack of light shown from above where the stone slabs nearly met. It was difficult to see, but then the path suddenly opened up onto a small, enclosed clearing, almost like a cave. And in it stood a familiar figure. Tall and thin, the man looked, frankly, haggard. Older than his years, though he was in his early 40s, he looked easily in his fifties, his sandy blonde hair nearly all grey and the gaunt look of someone who never had quite enough to eat. His clothing was drab and worn, beneath a tattered grey wool cloak. A puff of smoke came from his long wooden pipe.

Once she had Searchlight into the clearing, Olive practically flew off the horse and flung her arms around Silas Greene in a completely unreserved embrace. They remained like that for a long moment; not the embrace of lovers, but of long-separated family. Or comrades in arms. It broke when Silas held Olive at arms’ length, hands on her shoulders as he regarded her.

”It’s good to see you, Olive. And looking well, finally with some color in your cheeks.” That did make Olive’s cheeks flush, but not with embarrassment, but guilt. She hadn’t seen Silas – or anyone – since before the ball in Helvion and he looked worse than she remembered. She opened her mouth to say something to this effect, but Silas cut her off. ”Now don’t you dare apologize for that,” he admonished gently. ”It lightens my heart knowing that you’re warm and fed and safe.”

”I’m so happy to see you,” Olive answered, more earnest than she’d been in a long time. ”I’ve missed you all so much and, whatever you say, I feel rotten being warm and fed and safe while you’re out here. But Silas,” she cut across him before he could argue with her on the point. A sudden worry, even fear, flooded her eyes as she thought about what he had called her out here to do. Though she hadn’t had direct contact with Silas since she’d entered the Keep, Olive had various indirect lines of communication to him and their comrades. When she’d learned of the current situation, she felt her insides gripped in an icy clench. ”Silas, I don’t know if I can help. I don’t know if... I don't know what I can do. I can’t cont-“

But now it was his turn to cut her off. ”Yes you can, Olive. You know that you can, or you wouldn’t have come,” he told her, tone firm but reassuring. You can control it. You have to help them.”[/b] While he was speaking, hands still on Olive’s shoulders, a large, furry gray moth floated down and landed on Silas’ stubbled cheek. He paused, as if listening to something, then stood up, stiffening. ”Somebody followed you.”

Both mages turned reflexively to look down the stone passageway Olive had come down, where the dark silhouette of a rider was already visible in the fading light.

As Erwin rode in a steady gallop westward, he kept his eyes focused on the disturbed trail of leaves canvassing the dirt road even while the rhythmic sound hooves underfoot brought about a strange calmness in him.  It felt as though the further Erwin strayed from the Keep, the more the burden of the Dukeship almost melted away from his shoulders.  All around him, stone pinnacles rose out of surrounding landscape like beautiful spines out the back of a great slumbering beast.  The formations felt familiar yet foreign to him at the same time.  Somewhere in his mind, he recalled having ridden this way before, perhaps in his youth, with his siblings.  But that was long ago.  By Ansgar, his younger brother must almost be twenty-three by now, and almost a knight.  More than a year had passed since he last saw any of them – at his father's funeral.  You can't escape the duchy, a voice in his head reminded him.  It sounded like his own voice.

Lost in thought, it took Erwin a minute to realize that the upward-sloping road, while undeniably leading toward Caerith's Seat, no longer bore the telltale signs of recent travel, fallen leaves laying undisturbed before him.  With a frown, he eased his horse to a stop.  Constance had not come this far, unless she suddenly learned how to float.  He glanced back over his shoulder with a sigh and tugged at leather reins to turn his horse around and retrace his own steps.

About fifty paces back down the winding path, it became clear to the Duke that the subject of his search had veered off the main path and down towards a cragged crevice in the rocks.  A puzzled look crossed his features, and he pressed his lips together in mild consternation, but nonetheless urged his steed down that trail.  The light of the setting sun was starting to fade fast, and much of the paths at the base of the stone pillars were cloaked in evening shadow.  Yet, the clues of recent activity were all there: a hoofprint in the dirt here, a cracked tree branch there.

"Constance?" Erwin ventured once he'd traversed some ways down the path. "It's Erwin."  His voice ricocheted off the rocks on one side of him and immediately was swallowed up by the moss and foliage on the other.  From up ahead, the faint sound of a neighing horse cut through the rustling wind.  Cautiously, he rode forward under two great slabs that almost formed a long stone tunnel.  He had to cautiously duck his head several times to avoid slamming it against low-hanging rocks. 

"Constance," he called again.  It seemed almost odd that he had to disturb her solace out here to have a talk.  But that was his fault.  Ever since their betrothal, he'd found every opportunity to 'keep busy' just to avoid the awkwardness of it all.  No, you're just giving her space, he thought, and decided that sounded infinitely better.

Although the sky was beginning to settle into evening, the transition from the dark passageway into the clearing still forced Erwin to blink his eyes several times to adjust.  The first thing he saw was the form of a tall, gaunt man staring at him, dressed in tattered, well-traveled garb.  A vagabond, from the looks of it.

And there, behind the man, stood the future Duchess of Wulfbauer.

"Fuck!" The loud curse escaped Erwin's lips as he instinctively dug his heels into the sides of his horse, and reached his left hand down to his scabbard.

No sooner had they spotted the rider than, in the same instant, Olive recognized the Duke of Wulfbauer and he began his charge through the narrow sandstone passageway. Seeing Erwin’s hand reach down for his sword, Olive instinctively jumped in front of Silas. It was a gamble that the duke would be less willing to swing a blade with his betrothed in the way, assuming his inertia didn’t already force him to follow through. ”Erwin, stop!”

Silas, however, moved in measured steps back in front of Olive. His voice was soft and calm when he repeated her command, though his eyes were not on the armed, charging man. ”Stop.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Erwin’s horse jolted to a stop. The movement was so sudden that it unseated its rider, flinging Erwin out of the saddle and sending him tumbling to the moist, mossy earth. With a clatter, his sword landed a few feet away from him and Olive scrambled to retrieve it before Erwin got the chance. She held it pointing downward, non-threateningly, but in a white-knuckled grip as she spun on Erwin. Her first instinct was to stomp her boot onto his chest, keeping him pinned down. But she thought the better of it and stared at him, wide eyes blazing.

”What on earth are you doing!?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice down but not entirely succeeding. While there was anger in her tone, it was second to sheer incredulity. ”You can’t just try to behead every stranger you see!”

Silas meanwhile, had gone over to comfort the confused horse, stroking its nose and neck and whispering something in its ear. The horse gave a little snuffled neigh to Olive’s horse, then turned and walked calmly back down the passageway. Searchlight looked once to Olive, then followed Erwin’s horse. Silas patted his neck as he passed. It was better, Silas thought, not to give the man an immediate means to flee this place and call the guard. The horses would wait not far away until their riders fetched them. Silas had told them where they could find the next clearing, which was carpeted with thick, dewy grass.

”Please forgive the fright, Duke Therrien,” Silas said, his voice as calm and soft as it had been speaking to the horses. He came back to them now, putting a hand on Olive’s shoulder. ”I assure you that I mean Constance no harm.”

With his blade freed from its scabbard, all of Erwin's martial instincts burst into the forefront of his mind as his horse galloped forward from the passageway.  His eyes darted quickly, left then right, scanning the scenario emerging before him.  Constance and the stranger were standing mere paces from each other, but the man appeared to be unarmed as of now.  Judging from his distance from them, it was possible for him to get between the pair, before the man could produce a blade or make any other move.

When Olive rushed forward and shouted for him to stop, Erwin hesitated, perplexed.  What in Ansgar's blood name was she doing?  He didn't have a chance to further that process that thought, however.  Inexplicably and without warning, his horse suddenly skidded to a halt.  Earth and sky tumbled over each other in his vision as he somersaulted out of the saddle, and his body crashed into the mossy ground with a heavy thud.

Erwin laid there stunned, all the wind knocked from his lungs, his vision swimming in blurriness.  The moment quickly passed though, as his senses flooded back into him, and he realized how vulnerable he was down here on the ground, sword dislodged from his grip in the fall.  With a grunt, he rolled over onto his back – only to find himself staring up at Constance Carwick holding his sword.

Her angered words elicited no reaction from him as he just laid there, staring up at her, mouth slightly agape, an expression on his face that matched her incredulity.  He was trying to protect her!  "Beheading?" he repeated, almost defensively, after a moment of silence, "what are you talking about?  I wasn't..."  The words trailed off.  He'd been so focused on Olive that he had barely noticed Silas shuffling over to comfort his horse.  But a glimpse from the corner of his eye was more than enough.  The way the man whispered gently to his steed, and then it walked itself back down the dark sandstone passageway...

When Silas finally stepped over to the pair, the Duke's eyes slowly turned to where he'd gently placed his hand on Olive's shoulder.  Incredibly, the stranger seemed the most rational of the three.  Erwin's face wrinkled again.  He'd mentioned her by name, and the serenity in his voice was a complete juxtaposition to the situation at hand.  "You two know each other?"

His look of confusion slowly faded away, replaced by a deep scowl and a piercing glare directed right at her.  This time, it was his turn to raise his voice.  How was he at fault here?  "What on earth am I doing? There's a bloody war brewing, and I find you in a hidden clearing, cornered by god-knows-who.  What am I supposed to think?  What in the hells are you doing?!" 

”’Cornered?!’ Who says I’m cornered?’” Erwin’s accusations – and clear assumption that she needed him to protect her – immediately pushed Olive from incredulous to, genuinely now, angry and she met his glare with a new light blazing in her eyes. ”As for ’what you’re supposed to think’ – did you stop to think for one second before resorting to your blade? And do you think I haven’t made it this far alive without you or any other ‘noble knight’–“

”Olive…” She felt Silas’ hand squeeze her shoulder, snapping her out of the well of anger that was swelling up inside of her. It was a righteous anger, and it was familiar. Almost comforting. The idea that Olive should feel protected and not threatened by a military man on horseback drawing a blade and rushing towards her. What end of that blade did Erwin think she’d been on for the last five years? And that he felt the need to remind her that there was a war going on. As though she didn’t know! And as though she didn’t know better than he did. And why had assumed Silas was a threat? Would he have thought so as quickly if the man had been dressed in finer clothes or wore the armour of a knight? Her mind kept racing with similar thoughts and at first she glared at Silas, but confronted with his steady gaze, she deflated a little. And her defiant expression transformed into one not yet seen in the Keep: deference.

Olive frowned and glanced back at Erwin, something still smouldering in her eyes, before walking a few paces away. Silas was right; she was letting her temper flare. It was easier to control when she was only in the Keep, surrounded by her surreal new life. But the sudden juxtaposition of these two men, of these two lives, felt like someone lit a fuse in Olive’s mind, threatening to explode in a confused tumult of emotions. What was she really: a young noble lady about to become a duchess, or a hunted mage surviving only at the margins of society?

Silas watched Olive for a long moment then, with that situation at least temporarily defused, he turned back to Erwin. ”I asked Constance to come here. I do realise that the war in the country and the situation here in Wulfbauer mean that request comes with risk. But there has been an accident and innocent lives are at stake, including children. You must understand that there are few people we can safely turn to for aid. I believe Constance can help. I implore you, Duke Therrien, not to prevent her from doing so.”

Laying there on his back, Erwin positively bristled at her comments. "Well, you're not out there on the run anymore!" he shot back at her, feeling the heat of anger flood his cheeks.  "You're the future Duchess of Wulfbauer!  That's who I'm protecting!"

He had to ball his fists up tightly at that point to refrain from letting his words spiral out of control into something utterly catastrophic.  Oh, the words that were just aching to burst from his mouth... about how he couldn't have cared less if she was actually a damsel in distress, or some great warrior queen from a child's bedtime story, because he would have acted just the same.  He was trying to protect the future of Wulfbauer, one in which they could both exist.  Why could she not see what he was trying to accomplish here?  Why did she - all of this - have to be so difficult?  She was supposed to be helping him, not undercutting him.

No...they were supposed to be helping each other. 

As she turned away, Erwin felt his body almost trembling at the anger and frustration welling inside him.  In the moment, he couldn't tell if he was angrier at her selfishness, or himself for having lost his composure so quickly.  He'd always been a calm and collected man, even in the midst of battle when facing a hail of gunfire or a bloodied blade swinging at his head.  He'd worn that stoicism like armor in his time as Duke, as though control of his demeanor also meant that he could control the chaos around him.  Yet slowly, that armor had been chipped away over many long months, crumbling under the weight of the Dukeship.  In this moment, he was left completely exposed, and his emotions had suddenly poured out.  A part of him was glad that only Constance (and her acquaintance) were there to witness the outburst, instead of an entire court of his peers.

Still seething but fighting to suppress the frustration into his gut with long breaths, Erwin slowly rolled over and climbed back to his feet.  He couldn't stand to look at her at that moment, as if doing so would affirm just how uncharacteristically agitated he'd become.  Instead, he turned his eyes to Silas. 

"Accident?" Erwin finally asked with a furrowed brow. "What accident?  If aid is needed, of course I would not deny it.  You should have just come to the castle seeking help, instead of out here." 

As soon as he spoke those words though, his eyes widened slightly and he pressed his mouth shut.  The stranger had seemed a common bandit from a distance, but up close Erwin could finally notice the gaunt face and hollow eyes of a man who'd lived too hard of a life.  He'd seen that look before, in the eyes of young soldiers traumatized by the horrors of battle.  Constance Carwick almost had it in her eyes as well, that first day they'd brought her to the Keep as a captured rebel... and a mage.  In an instant he knew the bond between the two of them, forged through their shared suffering, was something that he could never understand.

What he did understand in that moment was the implication of Silas' words.

"You're a mage too."

Constance physically recoiled from the heat of Erwin’s anger, taking another step backwards away from him and Silas. She watched him wide-eyed and clench-jawed, feeling like a cat they were cats pried out of a fight, waiting muscles tensed for the other to pounce and strike. He was the only one that had threatened any violence so far. And removed from the trappings of the Keep, here in the gloam of the forest with Silas and knowing others’ lives hung in the balance, Constance was having a hard time not seeing Erwin as a threat. As the enemy. Men like him usually were and in that moment she felt disgusted with herself that she had agreed to tie her future to his.

No, a small voice in her head protested. Erwin had not turned her over when he could have, when she’d arrived as a waif, a runaway, and in the eyes of the law a criminal at his doorstep. He had recalled Wulfbauer’s army. Ceased the official deportation of mages to the camps. Still, the way he looked at her. She found herself trembling, feeling more like a trapped, frightened animal than a lady. Well and truly cornered. But she he held her tongue, watching Erwin closely as Silas spoke.

”Yes, I am,” came the older man’s measured answer. He remained calm, but there was now the smallest hint of tension in his voice. ”As are the majority of the poor souls trapped nearby, caught when the passageway to the cave they were sheltering in collapsed. So you see why it would not be so simple to walk up to the castle, even assuming your guards did not take me for a wayward vagabond. But it has been several hours now, and some are injured. We need to go quickly. You may come with us; of course I understand your concern for Constance’s safety.”

At those words, Olive gaped at Silas. Was he serious? Erwin couldn’t come with them and see what – She closed her mouth again. Of course he would have to come. She couldn’t imagine he’d allow anything else. But real fear shone in her eyes at the thought. Tolerating mages was one thing. Seeing their powers actually manifest, she feared, might mean something entirely different for Erwin Therrien. But she didn’t have time to speak her concern before Silas came and, putting an arm around her, led her down the opposite end of the clearing, inclining his head for Erwin to follow if he wished.

Olive kept glancing down at her hands as they walked over damp sand and mossy rock, vaguely aware of Silas’s quiet murmurs of encouragement. They tread through a narrow passage that passed through another clearing, a little smaller than where they’d come from, and finally – after narrowing to barely allow them to squeeze through one at a time – opening up into a small patch of forest, surrounded on most sides by lichen-blue low rock cliffs. It was immediately clear this was their destination: across from where they came out, a bulk of earth and rock slumped off the cliffside. Olive balked. The largest rocks were considerably bigger than she was, and the tumult of rock, earth, and broken trees looked impenetrable.

When they arrived at the foot of the landslide, it was clear that manual attempts had already been made in vain. Even what looked like paw marks digging at the earth. Silas hurried forward, and a tiny black mouse appeared from between the crags of the rocks and scurried up Silas’ shoulder. His cam visage looked troubled as he listened, but he nodded and looked gravely back at Constance. ”Olive, there isn’t much time.”

Even before Silas spoke, Erwin could already anticipate what news the man might deliver.  But hearing those words spoken out loud, confirming his nagging suspicions, still caused the color to drain from the Duke's face.  The man had not been traveling alone after all, but rather with a whole host of mages.  Refugees, if he had to guess, possibly not even from Wulfbauer, but nonetheless fleeing through the wilderness from whatever horrors lay behind them.  Innocent lives, children.

So this was why Constance had ridden out of the castle this evening, why she'd veered off the winding mountain path and deep into this maze of crags and brush – to use her magic to help these trapped souls. 

"...where are they trapped?" was all Erwin could muster in the moment, bereft of the appropriate words for this entirely unfamiliar situation.  He only stole furtive glances toward Olive, unable to bring himself to look at her directly.  He was almost grateful as, silently, Silas ushered Olive away and gestured for him to follow.  For a moment he hesitated, watching their backs vanish into a narrow passageway at the end of the clearing and leaving him alone in the clearing. 

Instead, he stepped over to where his sword lay discarded in the soft mossy earth some paces from him.  He stared down pensively at the gleaming steel.  You were doing the right thing, he stubbornly thought to himself.  The image of Olive turning on him with incredulous anger would not leave his mind though.  It was a microcosm of his entire life these last few bleak months.  How, no matter what good he tried to do, it never worked.  He didn't know her at all, just like he didn't know what it took to be a Duke. 

Slowly, he bent over and picked the sword off the ground, brushing flecks of grass off the hilt and re-sheathing it at his side.  His blue eyes turned back to the passageway at the end of the clearing.  Should he follow them?  Was he prepared for what he might see at the end of that tunnel?  Swallowing the lump of doubt in his throat, Erwin hardened his face once more and willed the apprehension out of him as he quickly squeezed through the passageway after them.  The view from the other side – the massive tumble of jagged rocks piled haphazardly on top of one another – elicited a low exhale from him.  It would have taken a dozen men to move that pile. 

Or one mage.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, he finally turned his full gaze upon Constance - or rather the complete stranger that only looked like Constance.  That she was a mage was no secret, but until now it'd always just seemed to Erwin an abstract label tied to her name.  She had never displayed those uncommon talents in front of him, nor would she ever have had a reason to do so.  And some naïve part of him thought that, having accepted the offer to be Duchess of Wulfbauer, she might have never used those powers again. 

All of that just underscored the gravity of what she going to do.  If he'd previously dismissed her magic as abstract, she was about to reinforce to him just how real it was.

Numbly, Olive nodded at Silas' words. There wasn't much time. She needed to act. But she hadn't acted, not using magic and barely at all – really, sine the fiasco with Krah's army. And what had happened then? She'd lost control, and how many people's livelihoods had been destroyed? This was different, she tried to tell herself. People's lives were at stake and there was no army bearing down on her. There was no threat here. She could focus. She wouldn't lose control. But she felt another presence pressing on her mind, eyes boring into the back of her head, and she felt her stomach drop. Unwittingly, Olive cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder at Erwin. The earlier blaze of anger was replaced by something that looked more like fear, or perhaps distrust.

She tried to push him out of her mind and stepped cautiously forward to the slump of earth and rock. Gingerly, she touched her fingertips against the coarse surface of a large slab of rock caught precariously in the mud, looming nearly vertical over her. She breathed in, closed her eyes, and when she breathed out a gust of wind strong enough to bend even the older trees snapped through the clearing, but did not seem to touch the slight young mage. In another second in stopped. But the rock and surrounding earth remained unmoved. "No," she muttered to herself. 'I didn't think so."

Olive took another deep breath, closing her eyes. After a moment, she flattened the palm of her hand against the stone. With that movement, an icy frost spread across the stone and surrounding area and up Olive's arm. When she removed her palm, it instantly melted. She would have to do better than that. Olive could tell she was holding herself back, too afraid of the magic getting out of control. But she wouldn't move anything with frost. Olive took another long breath, trying to clear her mind of doubts and worries. When her palm touched the stone again, a thick layer of ice spread with a crack from the stone through the landslide, freezing whatever water was available in the sediment and between the rocks. It even crept a little farther, curling up the spine of a nearby fern. She breathed out, withdrew her hand, and it melted, a trickle of water seeping from the toe of the slide to her boots. She repeated the process, driving the cold further each time, causes thick wedges of ice to penetrate between the slabs of rock and earth. Each time it melted, the lattice holding the whole thing together weakened.

As Olive worked, Silas stepped back and stood near to Erwin. He pulled out his long wooden pipe, lighting it with a spark of flint. It may have looked casual at first glance, but he watched Olive with a quiet seriousness. He had more confidence in her ability, he knew, than she did herself. But the arrival of the duke had upset things, and the lines in his eyes betrayed the same concern gripping Olive's stomach: that she would lose control of the magic. He looked sidelong at Erwin, studying the man for a long moment as he breathed in a puff of smoke. "Your duchess is quite powerful, when she puts her mind to it," he remarked quietly, perhaps just to gauge Erwin's reaction or perhaps to mask his own concern. He looked down as he said it, a blanket of frost extending now to the soles of his boots. "You should consider yourself lucky."

The clearing melted again, water now poured in tiny rivers around Olive's feet. She paused for a moment, feeling a change, when there was a groan of the rock overturning and tottering forward. Olive had just enough time before in one fluid movement, the whole mass flowed suddenly forward in a river of mud and stone. It was a flash of movement tumbling slabs of rock and flowing earth before it slowed to a stop. Though she'd avoided the fallen slab of rock, Olive found herself caught knee-deep in mud which swept her down the flow a moment before knocking her onto her butt. Olive was chalk white, a cold sweat on her brow. Spent. Everything was still.

Then there was the sound of something scrambling. Where once had been immoveable earth was an opening not much large enough for a man to pass through at the top of what remained of the landslide slump. A pair of eyes, gazing out, flashed in the moonlight.

Erwin could do no more but stand as motionless as a carved sculpture, his eyes wide and locked tightly on Olive's form.  The frost seemed to almost radiate from her figure in pulsing tendrils, each arm reaching out farther and farther before melting away in globules of water.  The surreal scene unfolding before Erwin might has well have come out of a child's fairytale or an abstract painting.  In the back of his mind he tried to recall magic being used this way, but no conjured memory could even remotely compare to what he was witnessing.

Even though Silas was stood right next to him, the man's terse voice was but a distant call compared to the sounds of crackling ice and grinding rock.  You should consider yourself lucky.  Erwin turned his head to regard the man, his enthrallment fleetingly disturbed.  The duke's mouth opened slightly at first, produced no words.  After a moment, though, Erwin blinked twice and pressed his lips back together hard.  With an almost ruminative nod, part agreement and part simple acknowledgement, his gaze turned back to the remarkable display of power unfolding before them. 

And then suddenly, the entire heap of accumulated stone and clay gave one final, tortured groan before giving way.  Erwin's heart leapt up his chest at the sound, his reverie dissolving away in an instant.  Without conscious thought, he lurched forward toward Olive even as the jagged slab of rock crashed down, narrowly missing her thin frame.  "CONSTANCE!"

The deluge of mud flooded outward from where the haphazard pile previously had stood, and it took all his balance to remain upright as it flowed around his legs and filled the clearing.  It was another six bounding steps through the squishing, sucking mud before he finally reached her fallen form, dropping down onto his knees in the mud next to Olive.  His hand found a tight grip on her shoulder, and he peered down at her earnestly.  Where moments earlier his face had been consumed in fury, now it was replaced with an expression flickering with trepidation, but also filled with concern.  All of the color had drained from Olive's face, and he could see her chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.  But Erwin could see that she was unharmed.  He remained there for a long moment, gaze locked onto hers, only faintly perceiving his own rapid heartbeat and quickened breath from all the excitement.  Frightened.  Awed.  Relieved.

Then, almost instinctively, his face hardened once more with steely resolve, and he climbed back up to his feet.  Slowly, and with several glances back over his shoulder at Olive, Erwin trudged through the lake of stone and rock toward the narrow opening into the cavern that had materialized.  The heap of remaining stones were slick with mud, and climbing up the pile proved to be more difficult than anticipated, as on more than one occasion Erwin almost lost his footing to a loose rock.  Eventually, though, he managed to scramble up to the opening. 

The sky was mercifully cloudless this night, allowing the moon's gleam to shine a shaft of light into the dust-filled hole.  Erwin could make out several huddled forms, but in the light he could not tell just how many were trapped down here.  The one closest by, whose eyes had flashed briefly in the light, looked to be a woman in her fifties, but her ragged clothing was caked in mud and dirt, and her gaunt, malnourished face made it impossible to discern more.  No matter though.  With one hand gripping tightly onto a loaf-shaped rock to keep himself steady, he reached down toward her.  "Take my hand," he uttered.

The woman let out almost a cry of anguished relief, but then immediately froze.  As her blinking eyes slowly adjusted to the light, the blurred silhouette of the man on the other side of the hole came into focus – a man too well-groomed to be anyone associated with their party, and whose finery was a far cry from their own tattered threads.

And he had a sword at his side.

Trembling, the woman recoiled repulsively from Erwin's hand and nearly tumbled backwards back into the cave, sending pebbles bouncing into the darkness.  With another cry, she scrambled back toward the huddled mass of bodies and let out a loud wail.  "Soldier! Soldier!"  As if on cue, a cacophony of moans and shrieks began to fill the cave.

Erwin froze as well, stunned at the unexpected reaction, hand still outstretched.  He could feel the rock and mud underneath his weight starting to shift and wobble, though, and with a clenched jaw, he repeated more forcefully, "Take my hand, quick." When none of the shadowed people came forward, he gave his hand a shake and added, "I'm not here to harm you, I'm here to help."

And after a few seconds of inaction, a different figure crept forward out of the darkness.  The quivering boy couldn't have seen more than twelve summers, and his dirty blonde hair was matted down with blood.  The child's eyes betrayed his deep fear and mistrust, but also desperation.  The boy reached up with a dangerously thin arm, just far enough for the duke to grasp his wrist.  Erwin was almost surprised by how little he weighed, as he practically yanked the youth off his feet and hauled him out of the cave.

Seeing that one of them had escaped their stone coffin, the rest of the trapped bodies began surging forward, some limping, others coughing.  Erwin reached back down the hole again even as he turned over his shoulder and gave Silas a silent, almost demanding look, gesturing with his head for the mage to come help him.

Silas was already right behind Erwin when the duke turned to him. At the sight of this familiar face, there was a palpable ripple of relief between the trapped mages. But they still cast wary, sidelong looks at Erwin once they were out of his grip and Silas helped them navigate their way back to solid ground.

The shaken mages were not the only ones casting strange looks at Erwin. Olive, finally managing to pull herself out of the mud, was watching him uncertainly. What was that look he gave her, when he’d rushed to her side? Fear, she thought, and something else she couldn’t quite decipher. But she hadn’t had much time before he’d rushed off. And Olive didn’t dwell on it in that moment either, springing forward – a little wobbly at first – to help the refugees arriving into the clearing.

Wrapping her cloak around the older woman who’d first called Erwin a soldier and her skinny grandson, Olive silently did a headcount. There were only seven. She was sure Silas had said nine. She glanced up to Erwin and Silas; frowning.

”One didn’t make it,” the older woman said quietly, reading Olive’s thoughts. ”She was trapped under the fallen rocks. We tried to dig her out before it was too... well. She’s free from this world, now. Her husband kept trying to get to her. He managed to move some of the rocks, but they came tumbling back down and got his leg. He’s still in there.”

At this news, Olive nodded and scrambled up the slope to the haphazard entrance to the cave. She stopped next to Silas, peering into the yawning blackness. ”Somebody’s still in there.” But from here, Olive couldn’t make anyone out. So, still moving a bit shakily on her legs, she climbed in through the opening and slid down into what was left of the cramped little cave. Even before her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she found the man by his soft sobs. When she could make him out, she saw his crumpled form next to the toe of the slump, one leg at jarring angle. She hurried over to him, putting what she hoped was a reassuring hand on his shaking shoulder. The rock that had trapped his leg had been dislodged by her earlier magic, but what was left of his leg, mangled, bloody and broken was in a bad state.

”It’s all my fault,” he said through a hollow sob as he looked up with haunted gray eyes at Olive. ”She wasn’t even a mage. She came for me. I told her to stay. To remarry. To live a happy life and now…” Genuine sobs now drowned his words and Olive squeezed his shoulder, crouching down next to him.

After a moment she got back to her feet and called up to the cave opening, emotion thick in her own voice, ”I need a hand. I can’t get him up on my own.”

Between Silas himself, Erwin managed to pull each of the mages out from the cramped confines of the stone hollow.  The way each of them flinched at his touch was not lost on him, but he numbly brushed their wariness aside and focused on the task at hand.  By the time he lifted the seventh one out of the cave, a bony shell of a man with barely a hair left on his head, Erwin had to brace himself against the rock pile and catch his breath.

He watched Olive scramble up the slope next to him, and his eyes followed her down the hole and into the shadows.  When her cracking voice echoed up to him, he spared the ragged group of survivors one more look before steadying his breath and climbing in after her.  Sliding down the slope, his scabbard ricocheting against the rocks all the way down, Erwin soon found himself hovering over the sobbing man. 

What little moonlight that filtered into the cave from the opening above illuminated the man's badly mangled and bleeding leg, and Erwin had to grit his teeth to prevent his expression from belying his sinking heart.  He'd seen this type of wound before, in men who had been trapped under fallen horses, but not to this extent.  The rocks had smashed the limb completely.  Even with a cursory glance, he could tell that the man's chances of survival were slim.

There was no time to dwell on that though.  With an almost practiced precision, he reached down to his waist and unbuckled his leather belt, removing his scabbard and laying it on the ground.  Kneeling next to the man, Erwin gave his hand a hard squeeze.  "Courage," he said firmly with false assurance, "We'll have you out and back on your feet soon."  And then he slipped the belt underneath the man's upper thigh, just above where a splintered bone protruded from his torn pants, and fastened it tightly with a strong pull.  The man's cries turned into a loud scream.

Glancing over to Olive with a foreboding look, he said simply, "Help me get him up."  He roughly pulled the man up into a sitting position, and the two of them managed to lift him over Erwin's shoulders. The jostling caused the man to scream even louder, but Erwin's face hardened and he drowned out the noise.  The precarious climb back up the slope was much more difficult with the added weight, and he had to steady his swaying body against Olive's on more than one occasion.  Step by step, though the pair climbed out of the pile of rocks and back up to the opening where Silas was already waiting to help. 

Dimly, Erwin realized that, somewhere during their ascent, the man's screams had stopped. 
Together, the three of them brought the unconscious man back down into the clearing and laid his limp down on the only mossy patch of grass not covered in thick mud, as the the rest of the survivors swarmed around them.  With the man's weight off his shoulders, Erwin doubled over and steadied his hands on his knees for a moment, licking his lips and inhaling heavily to catch his breath.  He watched the man for a brief moment, almost feeling each ragged breath that escaped from blue lips, before turning to Olive.  Even in the darkness, her emotions were clear on her face.

Swallowing, Erwin lifted a hand to her back and drew her some paces away from the injured man and his cohorts.  "His leg is crushed in multiple places," he muttered with a grainy voice, almost whispering, a grim look on his face.  "The tourniquet gives us some time, but not much.  I've seen this injury before, and it's bad, very bad.  He'll need a surgeon if he's to have a chance.  And if he lives – if he lives - I don't know if his leg will survive with him."  He pressed his mouth together and gave her a hard look, not mentioning what she probably already knew, that finding a willing surgeon would be a near-impossible task. 

And he did not mention the other option, involving his sword... and mercy. 

Concern was etched on Olive's face, and a deep sadness at the man's sorrow and regret over his wife. But there was a firmness in her expression, too, and she did not seem nearly as shaken by the bloody, gory mess of the injury as one might expect from a young lady. The violent reality of war had touched her on many occasions and, in other circumstances, she had chosen Erwin's unspoken option. But now they would not need to make such a crude choice. With a determined look, Olive shook her head.

"No, not a surgeon," she responded, her green eyes leading Erwin's to where Silas was already crouched next to the injured man. As Erwin had spoken to Olive, Silas had already set to work cutting away the man's trousers from the crushed and bloody leg with a long, bone-handled knife. He tapped a green-gray ash out of his pipe into his hands and, spitting on them, rubbed it into a thin paste, which he spread over the worst of the bleeding.

"Olive," he called her back, his eyes not leaving his work and his voice still eerily calm, but now with a steady focus and underlying urgency, "I need two young rowan beams. I saw a tree on the far side of the clearing."

Silas passed her the long knife and Olive sprang off in the direction he'd indicated with a newfound energy. Before Olive came back, the little black mouse appeared by Silas' side with two companions. Each mouse carried a ball of a different kind of moss. Taking the moss from each, Silas thanked them and whispered something else, and the mice scurried hurriedly away. Counterintuitively, Silas removed now Erwin's ersatz tourniquet. Where the blood might have been expected to surge out after this, it only seeped slowly into the green-gray paste the mage had applied there, making a dark ooze. Silas tore up the mosses into small pieces and, taking a handful of nearby mud, made a thick paste which he slathered over the man's open wounds. At first nothing happened, but when Silas breathed a fine, shining powder he'd produced from a small pouch, the thick muddy paste began to glow softly silver green. When the glow subsided, what was left was not untouched skin exactly. It looked more like the bark of a beech tree. It was stiffer than normal skin and the color was a pallid green-gray, but there would be no more blood lost.

The other seven mages watched on in nervous anticipation, their eyes wide. Whatever the common rumors in Connlaoth might be, most of them did not know how to effectively use their magic. When could they have learned? From whom? The older ones had been taught, like everyone else in Connlaoth, that using magic was the greatest sin and most had been taken from their families and raised by the Church. The children had only been raised in war. Many of them feared, as Olive did, that if they used their magic, they would quickly lose control of it. So seeing Silas work in this calm, practiced, steady way was a wonder.

Olive returned with two mottled silver beams of rowan. They were longer than the man's leg and did not look sturdy enough to make a reliable brace out of. Silas took the young tree beams and the knife and deftly cut off the clusters of small red berries, handing them back to Olive, and stripped the bark off one side of each beam. When that was done, he took the half the berries back from Olive and crushed them against the stripped side of the beams, staining them red. He then crushed the rest in his hands and spread the red juice over the man's leg, staining it the same color. When he held the beams to either side of the man's leg, at first nothing happened. Silas closed his eyes, breathing in and out, whispering something that Olive couldn't understand. Not, she thought, a human language. And the rowan responded. Slowly at first, new shoots emerged from the rowan wood, stretching over the man's leg, then once it had begun, it started to spread rapidly, like a living, ravenous tree devouring the man. At a change in Silas' whispered mutterings, though, the sudden growth ceased and when Silas placed his hands on the leg, the wood began to subside, shrink inwards until what was left, to anyone's eyes, was only a leg. A leg of wood.

Silas let out a slow, shaky exhale, nearly spent himself. Just then the first little black mouse appeared again on his shoulder with a mouth full of teaberry, its smooth, dark green leaves and bright red berries shining dully in the moonlight. "Thank you," Silas said as he took the little bundle. The mouse stayed there to watch, whiskers twitching curiously, as Silas tore a few of the fragrant leaves and placed them gently between the man's lips.

The man stirred slowly, then woke with a start. The scream that had been on his lips when he'd lose consciousness cried out now, but Silas put a hand on his shoulder and the man stopped, looking at Silas with wide, frightened eyes. "Flex your leg," Silas instructed gently. At first the man looked like he didn't understand, then he looked in shock down at his leg.... At what had been his leg, and now looked like something between a leg and a tree. But, cautiously, he did as he was told. And the man's foot flexed, then his knee jerked. With a few more tries, it appeared as though the man were controlling it almost as normal. "Good," Silas nodded. "It will always be a bit stiff, but it will carry you. Let's get you to your feet. We need to keep moving."

Watching Silas work his magic on the poor man's mangled leg was at once remarkable and disquieting.   The sight of the wood branch reaching its tendrils around and assimilating the limb caused Erwin's breath to catch in his throat, but even then, he found that he could not pull his eyes away.  A hundred thoughts raced through his mind, but when they all faded away, he was somehow left with the strangest emotion of all: resentment. 

Where was this magic when it could have helped those he knew?  Why was it not present when his brothers-in-arms, laying on the battlefield with wounds too grievous for even their field surgeons to treat, could have benefited from it - or, in some cases, lived?  What a bloody waste, he thought bitterly before shaking his head clear of that delusion.  No matter how useful such a power, it would never be accepted in Connlaoth. 

The entire ragtag group of mages was still giving him a wide, suspicious berth.  However, it wasn't until he caught sight of the thin boy eyeing him fearfully that Erwin realized his brows had narrowed into a deep, thoughtful frown.  Quickly he looked away, thankful that, at that moment, the injured man finally stirred awake to the sounds of relief from his compatriots.  Instead, his eyes drifted over to the remains of the landslide.  It occurred to him that he'd left his sword somewhere in the cave just beyond that pile of rocks.  He made a mental note to retrieve it, lest any passersby stumble across the fine steel.

With Silas and the mages tending to the man, coaxing him back to his feet, Erwin turned his gaze back to the others.  "What now?" he said softly under his breath to Olive.  "Where will they go?"

”On to safety, God willing,” Olive answered, eyes not leaving the weary group of refugees, and she did not look as hopeful as her words. The others helped up the poor man whose leg might carry him, but whose wife would remain in these woods, buried beneath earth and stone, as he moved on. The older woman huddled close to him now, speaking low words of solace and encouragement as the man’s bereaved stare refused to leave the cave.

Olive broke away from Erwin and moved over to the man, gently touching his arm. ”Tell me, brother, your wife’s favorite flower.” The question snapped the man momentarily out of his reverie, and he hoarsely told her of his wife’s love of maybells, the herald of spring turning into summer. ”I will come back here and raise her a cairn, surrounded by maybells. She won’t be forgotten. I promise.”

As Olive spoke to the wooden-legged man and the old woman, Silas Greene approached Erwin. His blue-gray eyes regarded him more frankly now than they had before, as if trying to decide what to make of this nobleman, this famous military leader – of a military which had, of course, harassed and persecuted his own people for years – but who had aided them without question tonight, and in whose hands the fate of young Constance rested. After a long moment he spoke, ”Thank you for your help tonight, Duke Therrien, and for your discretion,” he added pointedly. ”If I can at some time be of service to you in turn, you need only call on me.” He paused, something shifting in his expression, and it felt for a moment that he had more to say, but it passed and he only said, ”Constance knows how to contact me.”

Silas turned then to address Olive, who’d returned from the bereaved man, but before he could she pulled him into a fierce hug. Olive buried her face in her friend’s shoulder, desperate to hold onto this moment. She didn’t want to say goodbye to Silas now; she knew she wasn’t just bidding farewell to him. Or to the mages he was shepherding. But to the life he represented, the version of herself that she got to inhabit again for a few hours tonight, the one that really felt like herself. Free. And a life amongst people who understood her; her own people. A cold stab of loneliness penetrated deep into her. With a final squeeze, she felt Gilas gently release her from his embrace and hold her at arms’ length. The emotion on her face could not have been plainer; it left no room for doubt about which life Olive would choose, were she given a choice. She looked for a moment nearly as grief-stricken as the widower. But Silas leaned forward and spoke something quietly in her ear and, though she frowned, her expression settled into an unhappy resolve, and she nodded.

Turning one last time to regard Erwin, Silas gave him a curt nod, then turned back, as it were, to his flock, shepherding them into a narrow passageway by this time engulfed in shadows. He was the last to follow, giving a low whistle into the night before he disappeared into the maze. A few moments later, the soft clop of the horses’ hooves could be heard, and the beasts rejoined their masters in the clearing. Olive felt the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end as she became suddenly very conscious of being alone with Erwin now. The look he’d given her earlier flashed back in her mind; his anger and, later, his fear. But Olive was exhausted now, cold and drained, both physically and emotionally. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but she turned slightly towards him, looking determinately at a particular leaf on the ground, to which icy frost still clung, and bracing herself for the censure she was certain Erwin would deliver.

Erwin rubbed the stubble on his chin with a calloused hand, tired eyes turning to regard the approaching Silas.  He pressed his mouth together uncomfortably at the man's thanks, but acknowledged his words with a slight nod.  "Nobody will know you were here," he replied after a second, before falling silent again. 

Slowly, the Duke's eyes drifted over to the injured man, who by now was standing upright.  He could not help but stare at the wood that had replaced his crushed leg just minutes ago.  It's just magic, he told himself in the back of his mind, yet he could not shake the uneasiness in his gut at the sight of living tree bark where flesh used to be.  That uneasiness slowly morphed, and a feeling of bitterness washed over him again.  He'd seen stronger men bleed out after having lost a limb, but this man was already walking.  Where was this magic before?  No, he told himself silently.  That was unfair to the man, to his compatriots, and to Silas.  The man had survived a horrific injury – and that's more than anyone could have hoped for.

With an apprehensive look, he turned back to Silas.  For a long while, his mind churned for the right words to say.  Eventually though, Erwin just said quietly, "Good luck to all of you.  Keep them safe, and yourself."  He stole another glance at the wooden-legged man.  "And, ah... give him my condolences.  For his wife."  For everything else that man had gone through, some of it a result of the actions of men like Erwin.

Once the refugee party had filtered out of the muddy clearing, Erwin became equally conscious of the fact that it was just Olive and himself again.  The dying embers of his anger and frustration still smoldered somewhere inside of him, threatening to well up again, but they were joined by a hundred other conflicting emotions that he could not even begin to process.  Somewhere in him, he felt an impulse to voice his disapproval at all that had transpired.  Her downcast expression almost looked as though she had resigned herself to that fate. 

Erwin could not shake from his mind the image of her forlorn expression though, as Silas and the others took their leave, a reminder that even though she'd pledged to provide him the support he needed, her heart clearly was still with every mage still wandering the wilderness just trying to survive a nation that had forsaken them.  Perhaps one of those emotions he now felt was guilt, for how impulsively he'd acted when he first came across her and her mage friend.  But he couldn't find it in him to apologize just yet. 

"My sword's still in the cave," he said suddenly, as though that would somehow ease the palpable tension between them.  It did not.  "I have to get it, so people don't find out we were ever here," he added, his voice lacking even a hint of blame.  If she was expecting him to dress her down, that was the best he could muster.  Truthfully, he was also mentally exhausted, after what was supposed to be a calm evening ride and a conversation with Constance about some financial question (which he could not recall at that moment) had taken the most unexpected of turns.

Somehow, their horses had found their way into the pool of mud and rock with them.  Slowly, Erwin reached out and took the reins of both, before taking a step forward and holding them out for Olive.  "Then we can just go back to the Keep," he added numbly, fully recognizing that he might emerge from the cave after having retrieved his sword, just to find that she'd mounted up and ridden away, perhaps to follow her friend and the band of refugees.   

Olive nodded numbly as Erwin handed her the reins, not making eye contact. She only even watched him scramble back up to the cave from the corner of her eye. The idea in his mind, of her mounting her horse and riding off after Silas and the others, didn’t even enter hers. Without the urgency of the situation pumping her full of adrenaline, Olive felt the full effects now of the feat she’d performed. She was beyond exhausted all of the sudden and, partially as she had left her coal on the old woman’s shoulders, she was feeling very, very cold. It wasn’t exactly the magic that consumed so much energy; it was controlling it. And controlling it in the emotional state she’d been in had required a considerable effort that was starting to take its toll on her.

Feeling suddenly faint, Olive leaned her weight against Searchlight’s black fur. For a moment she felt relieved, but a wave of light-headedness flooded through her. She very much did not want to appear weak now, expose her vulnerabilities even more in front of Erwin. She already felt vulnerable enough that he’d seen her perform magic, found her amongst the refugee mages. But a darkening in the corner of her eyes told her she had no choice and she made her way unsteadily to the broad trunk of a beech tree, sliding down its smooth silver bark until she was sitting crouched at its base. Realising she was shaking badly now, Olive pulled her knees up around her, letting her forehead rest on her folded kneecaps. She just needed to rest, she told herself. In just a moment, she would be fine.

Although he was sliding down the pile of rocks a second time, only now did Erwin realize just how tight and cramped the nook was.  It was a miracle that eight refugees had managed to huddle together in here, and the thought also served as a grim reminder that, somewhere buried beneath all of this rubble was the wooden-legged man's unfortunate wife.  With a grimace, he quickly wiped that image from his mind and knelt down to retrieve his blade, half-illuminated by the thin beam of moonlight that managed to shine through the opening above, already covered in a thin layer of dust. 

The ascent back up to the entranceway seemed to stretch forever to him, and with each crunch of rock beneath his muddy boots, he found his heart racing quicker in anticipation of being greeted by an empty field.  When he finally poked his head out, the sight of two idling horses greeted him with a feeling of relief, along Olive's small figure huddled up against a tree.  Sheathed sword gripped tightly, Erwin slid back down the rocky embankment and cautiously approached her. 

As he neared, he could see her face buried in her knees, her shoulders rising and falling with each shiver.  In the darkness, Olive might as well have been sinking into the grass itself.  She looked... defeated.  A far cry from her burst of fury earlier in the evening, and a shadow of the mage who, just now, had wielded almost preposterous powers to move earth and stone.  Ewin reached his hand out, at first hesitating and snatching it back to his chest, unsure of what to do.  After a moment though, his lips pursed and he let out a long exhale.  Dropping gently down to one knee next to her, he laid his sword on the ground and placed a hand on Olive's shoulder.  His eyes studied her quivering form intently, before finally he shrugged off his own coat.  When he'd first climbed up to the cave's opening, the old mage woman had recoiled at its sight – a finely-stitched leather and sheepskin garment in Wulfbauer greys.  Now, as he draped it over Constance's shoulders, it was soiled with dirt and mud. 

The night felt almost eerily calm without the shouting and screaming of the refugee mages.  An owl's hoots were joined by the echoes of a howling wolf somewhere in the distance, beyond the sandstone pillars around them.  Behind them, the horses let out a few brusque snorts and gently clopped at the ground.  Erwin let his own silence meld into the background, the only other sounds coming from their breaths.  When enough time had passed, and both Olive's trembling shoulders and the breaths emerging from her lips had steadied, he finally broke the stillness with a quiet voice.  "Let's get you back to the Keep."

After helping Olive up and into Searchlight's saddle, their ride back through the narrow stone passageways, and back along the main dirt road toward Wulfbauer Keep, proceeded in more tense, ruminative silence.  The moon was high in the night sky by the time the two horses wound up the ascending pathway toward the castle's stone gateway.  With an audible grind, the steel portcullis lifted, and the heavy oak gates swung open just in time to allow the Duke and future Duchess to ride through and into the torchlit castle courtyard.  Stablehands stood waiting expectantly, and they all stole puzzled glances at each other at the sight of Erwin and Constance disheveled and covered in mud and grime.

A somber silence surrounded Olive on their ride back to the Keep and she made no attempt to engage Erwin. She rode several paces behind him, watching him with a strange mix of emotions, though they were all secondary to the exhaustion that still wracked her body. It was a strange mix of anger, appreciation, and fear. She couldn’t forget the ease and the haste with which he’d moved to attack Silas. The easy assumption that anyone who looked downcast, who didn’t fit into society’s prescribed norms was not only assumed to be an enemy, but disposable enough that a nobleman could afford to draw his blade first and ask questions later. But once he’d understood the situation, he had not thwarted them, as he so easily could have. Couldn’t he have? More than that, he had helped and when he returned from retrieving his sword, he hadn’t berated her. He’d helped her; his skeepskin coat still warm around her shoulders. But for all that… what would he think of her now? Now that he’d seen some of what she could do? Seen her with, in her mind, her own people. She’d seen the fear in his eyes. Would she prove as disposable as Erwin had first flagged Silas to be? And what would she do, if Erwin decided it was safer to turn her out, or turn her over, than to keep her? Somehow she didn’t think that he would, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. She didn’t flatter herself that he needed her that much. But some gut feeling told her he wouldn’t. Then again, her own father had signed her over to the camps. So she took nothing for granted. But she didn’t say anything; she was too tired, and too sad. She only rode dutifully behind Erwin and looked, every so often, over her shoulder into the night.

When they arrived at the Keep, Olive slid off her horse without a word and was handing his reigns over to one of the newer stable hands when she saw Bairn rush forward. ”Miss Olive! Er, I mean, Lady Constance, what – I’ve been waiting, since you left so late – what…. Are you okay?” The obvious, almost fatherly concern on Bairn’s face made Olive’s stomach churn with guilt. How could she keep track of everyone who might be affected by her actions? And of course, Bairn’s concern was more knowing than that, which was underscored when he said in a lower, worried tone, ”You look likeyou’ve been through the trenches. You’ve blood all over your sleeve, Miss- m’lady.”

”We came across an injured hind,” Olive lied unconvincingly. ”We put her out of her misery, but she was too sickly to warrant bringing back, and it would have taken too long, at any rate. But I am sorry to come back so late and to cause you worry, Bairn.”

Olive did her best to muster a small, reassuring smile for the old stable hand, but she felt her reserves quickly failing and thought she might soon collapse where she stood if she stayed much longer. So, without another word, she handed Searchlight’s reins over to Bairn. Turning to Erwin still without making eye contact with him, Olive shrug off his coat, handing it up to him with a quiet, ”Thank you,” then hurried still a little shakily back to the main Keep.

Bairn frowned deeply as he watched her go, glancing uncertainly at Erwin. ”Lady Constance always brings her horse in herself,” he said plainly, clearly dismayed as he stroked the horses’s velvety nose. ”Poor soul. Putting that hind out of her misery must have shook her. I’m sure you did the right thing, though, m’lord.”

---

Inside, Olive found herself standing in front of the closed door to her quarters. Somehow, even though she was bone tired, she couldn’t bring herself to go in. The juxtaposition between scrambling in the mud with the refugees – knowing that they were in this very moment likely huddled together in the cold, struggling to sleep in the cold night, wary of danger – and the safe, cozy bedroom of her childhood was too much for her to take. She took a few steps backwards, then decided to simply collapse in some unused guest room. But as she wandered down the hall, her mind was racing with too many half-materialized thoughts to fall silently to sleep. Changing direction, her feet carried her to the now dark library.

Olive picked up an oil lamp positioned near the door and lit it, lowering the flame to just enough to see by. She let the large, heavy doors swing closed behind her, not noticing that one remained slightly ajar. She wound her way silently along the shelves until she saw the spine of something familiar. With some effort, Olive pulled out the green, leatherbound, and worn copy of The Epic of Herion, an Old Connlaothian, pre-Angsarian national epic. It was now forgotten in many circles, but one Olive had read as a teenager and even written a series of essays about at university in Uthlyn. This copy was a large, heavy vellum tome and Olive had to lug it over to a plush nook of a window seat beneath a tall, narrow stained glass window. Still in her stained and muddy riding clothes, Olive curled up in the nook. She didn’t even open to the first page, or a particular page. She just opened the book at random.

Herion was trapped in the snares of the Red Witch, whose aim was to seduce him and waylay him from achieving his ultimate goal of reunifying his father’s fractured kingdom. She had succeeded in luring him back to her lair having disguised herself as a frightened and helpless, but young and beautiful, widow in need of his aid to oust the lecherous and violent barbarians who’d invaded her home. When he arrived, though, Herion found that he was the one in trouble and the hapless widow was infinitely more powerful than he thought. Stripped of the magical hide armor that made him invulnerable to any man’s weapon and bound hand and foot by hissing, venomous serpents conjured by the Red Witch, Herion could only imagine what dark and nefarious purposes the dangerous woman might have….

But what they were, or what Herion did next, was lost on Olive. She only made it through a page and a half before sleep took her, curled up in the window nook with the tome open in her lap, the oil lamp still flickering on the colorful windowsill above her.

Erwin's face hardened as she all but whispered a hollow thanks to him and handed him back the muddy coat without ever looking up.  The garment sat limply in his hand as he watched her retreat toward the keep and disappear inside.  His eyes lingered for a long while at the corner at which she'd turned, before finally letting out a soft exhale. 

Turning to Bairn, he swallowed the dry lump in his throat and let out a low cough.  "Yes..." he repeated vacantly, "we did the right thing."  He looked down at the soiled coat again, the memory of the old lady from the cave flashing in his mind, the look of stark terror on her face, the scream of soldier.  Beside her image stood the bloodied child, and the man whose crippled leg had been miraculously restored.  All three of them had left that clearing on their own accord, along with the remainder of their party.  But at least they were alive.

"We did the right thing," he said once more, with more conviction in his voice.

--------------------------------

The hearth in his study was still lit, and the crackling flames enveloped the room in a comforting warmth by the time Erwin stepped in and closed the door behind him.  Absently, he tossed the muddy coat onto the stone floor.  The cave lingered in his mind, but now Constance was in the scene, willing the elements to bend to her command, the pulses of frost growing stronger and stronger until the entire landslide disintegrated in a flood of rock and earth. 

Perhaps it was the image of her wielding that power, or perhaps it was the way she'd looked at him in that clearing, with a mixture of anger, and fear.  Either way the thought shot a chill down his body.  Even with the fire burning, he somehow still felt cold.  Would she ever trust him again?

By the time his head cleared enough to notice his surroundings, Erwin found that he had slumped into a round-backed chair, his scabbarded sword laying clumsily across his desk.  At some point he'd pulled his muddy riding boots off and tossed them near the door, next to the coat.  Leaning forward now, he rubbed at his face and stared at the hearth light dancing shadows across the floor, lost in thought.

--------------------------------

A cool draft and the sound of an opening door stirred Erwin awake.  Vaguely, he recalled having an odd dream, though he could not remember who or what it was about. Slowly he blinked his eyes open to the pre-dawn light filtering from the window, the only light illuminating the dark room.  The hearth had gone cold hours ago, only a pile of ash and soot in its recesses.

As he sat up, wincing from the soreness in his neck from having drifted off in such an uncomfortable position, he felt the sensation of something sliding off his shoulders and onto his lap.  It was a blanket that someone had draped across him.  With a grunt, he turned to the source of the breeze – the now open door, with Bethany standing there expectantly with clean clothes and a fresh pair of boots balanced in one arm, and a small tray of bread somehow balanced in the other. 

"I fell asleep in here," he said, pointing out the obvious.

"Yes you did, my Lord," Bethany responded as she approached him now, setting the boots down next to his chair and the folded clothes and food on his desk.  His sword had been replaced into its spot above the mantle.  "You looked very tired, so I did not want to wake you."

Sitting fully upright now, Erwin gave her an appreciative nod as he pulled the blanket away from his form and gathered half of it up into a ball on his lap.  He blinked twice and gave his head a rough shake, trying to force himself awake even more.  He barely noticed the housemaid reaching down to finish the job for him and pick up the blanket.

"Bairn told me what happened," Bethany remarked even as she shook out the blanket (now covered in a layer of dirt from his clothes, still soiled from the night before).  "That must've been such a frightful thing, my Lord, putting a poor animal out of its misery.  I couldn't imagine doing anything of the sort!"  She paused her task for a moment and gave him an innocent, quizzical look.  "And it must've been terrible for Lady Carwick too.  She couldn't even sleep in her own bed.  I found her in the library last night, curled up in the corner like a babe."

Mention of Constance fully snapped him out of his tired reverie, and he peered up at her with a frown.  "The library?"

"Yes, my Lord," Bethany said with an emphatic nod, before turning her eyes back to the blanket, folding it into a neat square.  "Tossing and turning, like the Lady was having a bad dream. I didn't want to disturb her either, so I also laid a blanket for her." Her expression turned sympathetic.  "It must have been such a hard thing for her to do." 

Erwin turned away to hide his grimace.  Bethany's news drove home the reminder that they'd have to talk about what happened at some point.  Might as well pull the arrow out now before it festers.  Standing up from his chair, he answered softly but with a tone of finality. "It was very hard.  I'll go check on her now.  Thank you, Bethany."  For her part, the housemaid took no offense to being dismissed, but simply smiled and curtsied before taking the blanket to be washed.

Once he'd changed into the fresh set of clothes, Erwin ran a hand through his hair, fingers feeling for bits of dirt still clinging to the roots.  He'd need a bath to gdt it all out, but that could wait.  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to the study and headed towards the library.

Shafts of red and blue sunlight shone through the stained glass window onto Olive’s face. The morning sun was already well above the horizon and, blinking off sleep, she realized it must already be mid-morning. If she’d dreamt, she had no memory of it; Olive had slept straight through the night and felt now like she was emerging from a deep, heavy mist back into wakefulness. The next thing she noticed was the strangeness of her surroundings. The colored light that shone in her face and, when she shifted, the stiffness in her muscles from sleeping curled up in the library nook. Olive rubbed her face, shrugging off the quilt she realized someone must have placed on her in the night. That jolted her and she felt a flash of annoyance that someone had found her here like this, out of place and vulnerable. Looking at her palms, she realized too that her face was still smudged with mud and, worse, dried blood, both of which she also found under her fingernails.

Scenes from the previous night flashed back through her head. The thrilling, terrifying, icy magic coursing through her. The struggle to control it. The injured man’s hollow grey eyes. Erwin’s eyes, flashing with hot anger. The near miracle Silas had worked on the injured man’s leg. Something cold trickled through her, settling uneasily in her stomach. Her place here felt suddenly and frighteningly insecure. She glanced down at the open pages of the Epic of Herion, which someone had placed carefully on the little reading table next to the seat, still open to the page she’d left on. In the margins of the illuminated tome, the Red Witch stood in her terror and glory, wreathed in blood red serpents. How appropriate, Olive thought. What aspiring ruler, what Herion, would welcome a witch into his home, once he saw what she was?

Something else was nagging at Olive’s senses as she woke. The increasing feeling that she wasn’t alone; that someone was watching her. Her green eyes looked slowly up and over to the door and she visibly startled when she saw Erwin Therrien there, silently watching her in the doorway. Olive scrambled to sit upright, back plastered straight against the wall of the nook, facing Erwin wide-eyed. She looked now more than ever like a cornered animal. How long, she wondered, had he been there? Suddenly Olive didn’t only look like a cornered animal, her back against the wall, but as her heart thundered in her chest, she felt like one as well.

”Good morning,” she finally said after what felt like an eternity. ”I suppose you’re here to tell the unkempt, unruly mage that it’s high time she pack her bags and go trouble some minor lord rather than keep her under your own roof.” The question, if it was a question, had the cadence of a joke and it was clear Olive was trying to break the tension. That she was trying to joke. But it was equally clear, in her stiff posture and the fear that shone clear in her eyes, that it was no such thing. ”I’m sure Burrows already has a list of options drawn up somewhere.”

The real fear, of course, was not that Erwin would decide she was too much trouble and foist her off to some other lord to marry. The real fear was that, after what he saw, Erwin wouldn't turn to Lord Burrows. But to the Church. But that was a fear that even Olive could not joke about.

Erwin arrived at the library just as Olive began stirring from her slumber, and he quietly remained by the ajar door, still slightly ajar, so as not to startle her.  It didn't seem to have the intended effect though as, a moment later, he jolted awake with such speed that he almost took a step back. 

"Ah, good morning," he replied stiffly, one foot halfway into the room and unwilling to enter further at the risk of disconcerting her further.  At her awkwardly delivered half-joke though, Erwin's face screwed up into an even more uncomfortable expression.  Quickly he slipped into the library and kicked the door shut behind him, hearing its ponderous weight close with a thud and a click of the latch.

"By Ansgar, I'm not here to do anything of the sort," he hastily answered with a severe frown, hands held up as if trying to assuage her, whatever good that might do.  "Look, I just to have a conversation, about last night.  About what happened out there."  That last sentence was spoken in a noticeably quieter voice, even though there was nobody else between the shelves of books but the two of them.  "Just the two of us, nobody else.  Remember that thing we said the other night, about honesty?  Well, I'm here to try doing that."

And apologize, he thought.  Erwin cleared his throat and took another slow step forward.  For some reason his breath had quickened, and it took a second to mentally compose himself again.  He knew he had to answer for his actions the previous night, but his mind was still trying to formulate exactly what he had to apologize about.  And, at some level, he also felt (whether unjustly or not) that he deserved an explanation about her actions.  Instead of verbalizing either of those thoughts though, he just peered at her cautiously, lips pursed and brow furrowed expectantly, like he was approaching a stag caught in a hunter's snare.  "So... can we talk?"

His eyes narrowed into a slight squint as he realized that he had stopped directly in the painted light streaming in from the stained glass window.  Taking another step forward, he offered his own attempt at lightheartedness.  "I'm unarmed, I promise."

'Remember that thing we said the other night, about honesty?'

Those words settled meaningfully on Olive and she blinked, looking at Erwin anew. Since the previous night, she'd been seeing Erwin with the same eyes the old woman had. As a soldier, a symbol of the oppressive regime that had wrecked all their lives and ended so many more, as a threat. As the enemy. But his words now made her see him again as she had the other week, when she'd agreed to marry him, and she remembered his slumped and, she thought, vulnerable stature when she had first realized that he was not only a duke, her duke, but a man. A man who needed a friend.

Olive swallowed, her posture relaxing a little. And though she gave him a troubled frown at his 'joke,' after a long moment she nodded, "Alright."

She scooted over in the window seat, leaving room for Erwin next to her should he choose to sit down. For several long moments she was silent, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. Erwin was right. For better or worse, she had agreed to bind her future to his, and she owed him a certain degree of transparency. But the remnants of a defiant anger still smoldered in her stomach.

"I am aware that I will be the Duchess of Wulfbauer and I do understand what that entails in terms of balancing my own personal freedoms and desires against what duty requires, even if it seems to you that I acted rashly," she began, speaking slowly and measured, finding her way through what she wanted to say, her voice quiet. "And I daresay that I have been bound by that duty for much more of my life than you have been. I went willingly to the camps when they came for me, without struggle or even complaint, because my parents asked it of me and because I, like them, understood that my actions had repercussions for the Duchy. I did it to protect them and, I thought, Wulfbauer." She paused for a long moment, looking up towards where the colored light played against the spines of books, as though looking for words. "I don't see things the same way anymore. What I've come to learn is that those actions only protect a Wulfbauer that includes some. It doesn't include good men like Silas, whose village was not far from Arbutus Vale, you know. It doesn't include that man or his wife, or the starving child. And if I had been born to any other father, it would not include me."

Olive fell silent again for a long moment. Wherever she was going with those statements, she did not immediately continue down that path. Instead she continued, "You can't know what it's like. To have someone just look at you and in that moment decide – because you don't look right, because how worn your clothes are or how hollow your cheeks are, because you're in the wrong place at the wrong time – decide in just a moment that you're disposable. That there is no reason not to act immediately with violence. If you're not a mage, you're probably a bandit or a beggar. Either way, no one will miss you and no one will ask questions. To have people just... utterly refuse to see your humanity."

She let out a long sigh, releasing some of the anger that built up in her with those words. Finally she turned to look across to Erwin at her side. "I don't want you to think that I just run wantonly around, or intend to, thinking I can still fight for my cause like I had before I arrived here. Using my... using magic terrifies me. But what was I supposed to do? Forfeit nine lives to protect my position? To protect yours? To protect a Wulfbauer only for those it doesn't condemn? I can't do that anymore. When the choice is that stark, I can't choose like I used to. Not anymore."

With a soft exhale, Erwin approached the window slowly before taking the offered seat.  He sat silently with his hands clasped, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on the nape of his neck.  He regarded her intently but silently as she spoke, eyes only occasionally drifting to the closed wooden door, beyond which the castle was already beginning to stir.

Only after she'd finished speaking did he look down at his hands.  A slight frown crossed his features as he considered her words – and his own.  Letting out another small breath, he tilted his head back up to her.  "What you did was the right thing," he said.  "Those people needed your help in that moment, and they'll live another day because of what you did.  I just wish that..."

He paused before completing that thought, shaking his head slightly.  What was he going to say?  That he wished she'd just told him about it beforehand, instead of surreptitiously riding out in the late evening?  In what circumstance would she ever have done such a thing, to tell him that she was sneaking out to use her magic?  For the last few years, the two of them had lived completely different lives, lives that were completely contradictory and antagonistic to each other.  The fact that she was opening up this much about it already felt like a miracle to him.

Clearing his throat, Erwin looked back up at her.  "I'm sorry for what happened to you, Constance, I truly am.  To you, and your friend, and all of the other mages.  I won't even pretend to understand what you all went through in the camps."

He paused to clear his throat, eyes drifting up toward the shelves upon shelves of books, the tomes in the highest recesses covered in a thin layer of dust and cobwebs.  Anything to avoid looking Olive directly in the eyes in that moment.  Finally, though, he turned back to her.  "I'm sorry I drew my sword at that moment.  What I did last night was rash, and without thought.  Your friend didn't deserve that, and neither did you, to feel again like your humanity was being taken away.  I'm sorry you had to ever feel that way in the first place."

His brow furrowed slightly.  "I didn't expect to find you out there with someone.  Hells, I just wanted to talk to you about something Burrows had mentioned, and Bairn told me you were not far gone from the keep and that I could catch up.  But in that clearing, all I could see was your companion standing over you, and my mind immediately thought that if he was there to harm you, then it was his life or yours. I would have ran him through with my blade, without any hesitation."

Erwin sat upright now, leaning back against the stone wall and rubbing his face with a hand.  "I hate all of this mage camp business.  It's asinine.  If I could snap my fingers and Wulfbauer could be rid of all this misery, I would do it in an instant, but I can't.  And in the meantime, while I try to figure out how to solve this whole mess, I need to make sure that you're safe too.  I know you think you don't need me to protect you, but it's hard to shake the feeling that it's not my responsibility." Lifting a hand, he pointed a finger in the window's direction.  "What if it wasn't me out there?  What if someone else had found you two with all those mages, someone more than happy to send the Church after you?  You'd be dead, that old lady and her family would be dead, and this whole duchy that we're trying to fix would crumble down around us."


Erwin let out a soft sigh, and glanced off at nothing in particular.  "If you want to help, there has to be a better way than riding out alone."

"Of course there's a better way," Olive answered matter-of-factly. She looked at Erwin nonplussed for a moment. Did he really not understand? Realising that maybe he didn't, she finally went on, "That's why I'm supporting you, Erwin. Even before you asked... anything of me," she stumbled a bit to avoid saying anything directly about marriage. "You stopped the deportation of mages from Wulfbauer, whatever mages are left. You withdrew the duchy's troops from Calent's war. You've already enacted real change, change that Kenins would undo in a heartbeat. And I – I'll be a duchess and a publicly known mage. If that does nothing to change people's hearts, then..."

Olive trailed off, leaving her doubt unspoken. But she frowned as she reflected on Erwin's words. She chose not to say anything more about his admission of how quickly he would have cut Silas down. It stirred a certain resentment in her, but back in the Keep and knowing the truth of what she'd just spoken, she didn't want to quarrel more with him about that more. It was the scenario he had imagined, where it hadn't been him who'd found her in the Maze. She thought he'd given her less credit than she deserved, assuming she'd have ended up dead rather than the non-Erwin, but that wasn't what troubled her. "But if you think that involves less personal risk than 'riding out alone in the night,' I think you're being naïve.  A duchess who's a marked mage. I'll be the most obvious and symbolic target for any radical conservative, ardent supporter of the Grand Duke, or a vigilante acting in the name of the Church." She sounded neither accusatory nor afraid as she said this, only as though she were explaining something obvious. "I did think about that, though, before I agreed. That's a risk I can take."

She sighed and leaned back against the stone wall, feeling her muddy riding clothes brush against the sleeve of Erwin's clean shirt as she did so. For a moment she watched the play of the colored light against the library. "It isn't just the camps, Erwin. The camps could disappear tomorrow, the whole country could go back to how it was before this whole bloody war began, and it would be neither safe nor just for us here. This war can't end with things going back to how they were before. I'll play whatever part needed, to try to shape a better future, for all Connlaothians. Even if I would rather be out there," she nodded to the window he pointed at, "riding on my own."

She let out a short exhale, though, and looked sidelong at him. A little sheepish. "I know that's not what you meant, though. I – I'm sorry that I put myself at risk without telling you. You're right, that's not what we both agreed to. I just wasn't willing to risk their lives, if you said no." She glanced at him again, briefly, before adding, "It isn't as though I've seen much of you, anyway, if I'd wanted to."

Erwin leaned back now and rested the crown of his head against the stone wall, posture sagging slightly.  His eyes naturally drifted up the bookshelf directly in front of him, and then further up to where the far wall adjoined the room's ceiling.  "I've been... preoccupied," he offered halfheartedly.  Or more accurately, he had consciously found things to preoccupy him over the previous days just to avoid having to broach the still-sensitive subject of their betrothal.  "But that's a poor excuse on my part.  I should have been more available to you, and for you to feel like you can talk to me."

He tilted his head to the side to regard her at an angle.  "I do wish you'd told me what you were planning though.  I most certainly would have done my best to talk you out of it, not that it would have worked.  In the end, you did the right thing in saving those people."  His face scrunched into a frown, and he let out a low breath.  The events of the previous night had truly demonstrated just how much Olive was willing to possibly sacrifice to protect her fellow mages.  It was at the same time noble and disconcerting.  "I just worry that you think you can save every single one of them out there." And do something reckless, he finished the thought in his head.

It was not lost upon him that she'd already indicated a willingness to trade her own safety to protect the mages struggling to survive in the wilderness.  Yet, he could not let go of the feeling burrowing in his gut that he needed to see her protected.  It was hard to tell whether it was Olive or himself being selfish.

With a sigh, Erwin faced forward again and sat back up.  "Look," he continued, "you know I agree with you, Constance, that we can't go back to how things were before the war.  I want a better, fairer Connlaoth too, and I want to do what I can to help make that change.  We just have to be careful about it, and exercise discretion."

He paused for a moment before glancing back to her, another frown creeping over his features.  "You haven't done this sort of thing before, have you?" he asked cautiously.

I just worry that you think you can save every single one of them out there.

Constance did not hear anything Erwin said after that. The words sent a chill down her spine and the temperature in the room, already tepid, plummeted. She was very still and very silent, letting Erwin go on, but her attention was dragged back to other places and other times. When she finally spoke, the control she had to exert to keep her voice steady was obvious.

”No, Erwin,” she answered quietly, ”I am painfully aware that I cannot ‘save every single one of them.’”

She remained silent for a moment, then turned to fully face him, pivoting her body toward him in the limited space afforded by the window seat. ”Would you like to hear their names? The ones I couldn’t save. Or how they died? Their brains splattered against a camp wall, or hunted down in the wild like whale-eyed hares, or caned into unconsciousness and left to die as an example? Or what it’s like, being forced to dig their shallow graves in the frozen earth? Or how, when there were too many to bury in the ground, they piled their corpses into unholy pyres? How long those fires take to burn? What it does to the air, what it smells like? Or maybe what they did to them before they were killed? Old men and women barely able to carry themselves, much less a burden. Children ripped from their parents and families made to toil at their side. Pretty girls barely teenagers left at the mercy of bored and cruel guards.”

She was shaking now, and so was her voice. Constance looked like she might strike him, or up and leave altogether, or – even less characteristically – burst into tears. But she did none of them, only stared tight-lipped at Erwin, a face not like thunder, but like a swelling storm threatening at any moment to break.

”So yes,” she finally said, ”I will try to save every single one that I can.”

The tone of Olive's almost quivering voice caused Erwin's back to stiffen.  He'd struck a nerve, an a painfully sensitive one at that.  The crease of his frown deepened, but he sat there silently as she recounted the list of horrific injustices that the mages had endured in those camps nestled in the frozen wastes of the north, the imagery of each example clear as day in his mind.  To have suffered so greatly at such a young age... he couldn't even begin to imagine the pain that she'd kept bottled up inside her all these years, which threatened to violently burst from her in that moment. 

Hearing the intonations of her voice, the barely contained fury, was difficult for him for an entirely different reason though.  He'd been a soldier who, until his father had assumed the Dukeship, had served in the armies of those very same men who'd adjudged the guilt of these mages and who'd directed their forced relocation and liquidation.  Erwin had known of the camps in broad strokes.  All of the soldiers did.  But the skirmishes and battles in front of him had consumed so much of his focus that he'd always let the plight of the mages fall to the wayside. 

Her recitation hit home just how complicit he was in all of this, how his own inaction and the near indifference of soldiers like him had directly contributed to her suffering, and to the bleak circumstances in which all those innocent mages found themselves.  The image of the old woman from the clearing flashed in his head, and Erwin felt an intense wave of guilt washing over his frame.  His jaw was tightly clenched by the time Olive finished speaking.  He could almost feel her green eyes searing holes into him, and he had to look down for a long, uncomfortable moment.

When he finally looked back up, there was a melancholic remorse in his own gaze, and his voice was soft as an exhale. "I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention to agitate you." 

She had agreed with him though – saving every mage still struggling to survive out there was an impossible task.  Not that it lessened her almost fanatical desire to at least try, and in the process possibly risk her own life and safety.  It was a reckless sentiment, but a nonetheless admirable one.  And it took more courage than most men he knew possessed.   

He steeled his expression with a slow nod.  "You're right, of course we'll do what we can.  You have my support, Constance.  I'd just like to ... know what the plan is.  So I'm not making any rash decisions again because I walked into an unfamiliar situation."

Olive hadn't thought long enough before speaking to have any expectations of Erwin's reaction. But now that it had all spilled out of her, something in the coldness of Erwin's response startled her. She frowned and, suddenly wanting more space than the small window seat afforded, jumped to her feet, regarding Erwin with her arms crossed tight across her chest.

She looked no less agitated, however, and was barely was able to stand still. She had heard him say that he supported her, but what he said next – 'I'd just like to ... know what the plan is.  So I'm not making any rash decisions again because I walked into an unfamiliar situation.' – sounded to her in that moment almost like a threat. She stood like that for several long moments, arms crossed, fidgeting, staring defiantly at him.

"No," she answered, finally acknowledging his earlier question, "I haven't done this sort of thing before, not since coming to Wulfbauer. How could I have?" she added sharply, a barbed reminder that until very recently, Olive had not been free to come and go as she pleased. "But," she paused, tight-lipped, before going on, "but I have been using the old store room of the stables, at times, as a waypoint, a safe station, on the way out of Connlaoth. For people like we met last night. I won't do it anymore," she added quickly, making that decision as the words came out of her mouth. "I realise that the stakes are too high for that now."

Olive glowered defiantly at Erwin, as if daring him to challenge the morality of what she'd done. But for all of Olive's sharp looks at Erwin, something in her expression made it unclear if he was really the source of her ire, her agitation. Or if it was some inner demon that troubled her.

Erwin remained seated even as Olive bound to her feet and shuffled uneasily in front of him.  If he also felt uneasy in the moment, he tried his best to keep any traces of it off his face, opting instead to surreptitiously fidget two of his fingers inside his other hand.  She seemed much more guarded than before, and a question crossed the back of his mind about whether he'd estranged her – both with his actions from the previous evening, and his words this morning.

The sharpness in her voice at having to deny using her magic within the castle brought about a frown and a raised brow.  But it was her admission, of having utilized this very Keep to user fleeing mages out of the war-torn country, made that frown deepen.  To accomplish her task, that meant that she would have had to smuggle those mages into the castle first, if not through the main gate then through a side passageway.  And the old store room... the stables were frequented enough during the course of a day that she'd have to have worked in tandem with at least some of the Keep's staff to keep it all covert.  Her secret stablehand lover made the most sense, and suddenly he wondered who it was again.

But of course she was smuggling mages.  After all, she'd slipped out of the castle in the dying light to risk her own safety and save those mages trapped in the landslide.  And her scathing rebuke of him just moments earlier...  I will try to save every single one that I can.  Those defiant, almost vitriolic words echoed in his ears.

With that scowl plastered on her face, it almost seemed as though Constance was daring Erwin to criticize her work, and he certainly could have thought of a dozen ways to admonish her at that juncture.  Instead, the voice in his head chidingly reminded him: You said you'd support her.  Slowly, Erwin too stood up from the window sill, a long, low exhale escaping his nose as he peered down at her with a stony gaze.  After a second, he said, "The stakes are too high, and bringing them through the castle is much too dangerous."  He swallowed and his face relaxed slightly.  "But... I'll help you find another way to get them out.  Through the village, perhaps, out of Wulfbauer and out of the country."

Erwin took a deeper breath this time and glanced past her shoulder at the shut door, before looking back down to Olive.  "I would like to see how you've been doing it up until this point though.  If you'll show me."

Olive took an unconscious step back as Erwin stood, staring sternly and stonily down at her. Again the Erwin she’d come to know, and even like, in the past months was slipping away, replaced with the vision the old mage woman had when Erwin appeared at the cave entrance. A military man, a man of power, a threat. Dimly aware of the trap her mind was laying for her, Olive tried to shake herself out of it and focus on something, anything, that would turn him back into the man she’d called a friend only a week before. But she could feel her pulse quicken, her heart thundering in her ears, pushing her towards she wasn’t sure what. She wanted to flee, out of the library, out of the Keep, to somewhere where she could tell in stark clarity what was safety and what was danger. But she forced herself to stay where she was, rooted in place, meeting Erwin’s cold stare.

And for a moment, the fog of anxiety began to lift. She blinked when Erwin offered to find another way to help the refugees find safe passage on their way to safer lands. For a moment that other Erwin, the real one, came back into focus. She felt her breathing return to a more normal rhythm. And though she noted it, she did not even react with Erwin looked over her shoulder; a move that moments earlier would have made her certain that another threat lay behind her.

It didn’t last. Olive’s eyes widened at Erwin’s next question. He wanted to see how they had been doing it? Why? Now it was not only the part of Olive’s brain reacting to the rising panic in her body that regarded Erwin with suspicion and fear. The request felt like the setting of a trap that he was now leading her into, one that would spring as soon as she'd said what he wanted to know. Shown him the methods and means of the already desperate operation. An alternative reality started creeping into Olive’s mind. One in which Erwin had been gaining her trust to find the information he needed to root out what was left of the mages still fighting for freedom in this part of Wulfbauer.

How does that make sense? He had no part in you showing up on his doorstep. But the small part of her that could still remember these things critically was drowned out by another memory. Of another mage, Darnell, yelling at her in the camps that she trusted those in power too easily because she came from the same ranks. She had trusted Mercuxio Rangstolir, certain that he intended to help them to safety. An icy grip clenched her stomach thinking of the results. Maybe Darnell was right. What made her think Erwin Therrien was different?

”No,” she answered after a long, tense moment, voice firm and clear and suspicion clear in her eyes, ”I would rather not. I said it would stop. Why do you want to know more?” She thought not only of the fleeing mages, but of Bairn and Astrid, and now even Valerian, who might lose their positions or worse if Olive exposed them.

The suspicion dripping from her voice gave Erwin pause, and his frown deepened.  It seemed that the more they spoke in this library, the more Olive was becoming apprehensive and agitated, almost accusatory.  At this rate, she'd flee the castle by mid-afternoon.

"Just curious, that is all," he finally responded with a shake of his head, running a hand to the back of his neck to rub the stiffness away. "But we do not have to speak of it any further.  Like I said, I'll help you find another way, to save more lives."  If she would accept that help.  Based on how withdrawn she'd become, Erwin wondered if she would ever speak to him about mage matters again.

Silence and tension pervaded the library again, with only the faintest sounds of castle activity filtering in from the other side of the shut doors.  There was a palpable fear in Olive's eyes as she regarded Erwin with that same look that the old lady has given him in that clearing.  For a brief moment he considered reaching out to place a comforting hand on Constance's shoulder and show her that he genuinely meant her no ill.  The way she'd taken a step back from him though, as if he was her enemy...

Don't make it any worse, came that voice in his head.

Finally, he sighed and relaxed the tightness in his cheeks.  "I'm sorry for how I acted last night, and for distressing you," he said quietly, eyes briefly looking away from her.  "I'll leave you be if you want.  If I can do anything to make amends, Constance, do please let me know.  And... do give my regards and my apologies to your friend too."

The hard, blazing suspicion that had been clear on Olive’s face faltered at Erwin’s words. It was replaced by an uncertain tumult of emotions. She was still present enough to see that Erwin was earnest, or at least appeared earnest, making her feel both embarrassed and guilty. But even that earnestness brought back a hot flush of painful memories. Erwin Therrien was not the first nobleman to tell Constance Carwick with an earnest sincerity that he wanted to help the suffering of mages, help her.

In that moment, she did indeed want to flee the castle. But instead she only nodded numbly at Erwin’s offer to let her be. ”Yes, I should… Grace must be worried,” she mumbled lamely, looking down at the library floor. She paused a moment and opened her mouth as though she was about to say something, but closed it and slipped silently out of the library. She stopped momentarily in the library doorway, casting one last look over her shoulder at Erwin, then disappeared.

---

Though it had been an excuse, Olive was right. When she entered her quarters, Grace was waiting here with a face like thunder. She stood up when Olive entered the room, mouth open ready – Olive was sure – to reprimand her. But one look at Olive and the coming tirade dissipated, Grace's shoulders slumping and expression softening into something that Olive thought looked awfully like sadness.

”Come on, let’s get you in the bath,” Grace sighed, sweeping Olive up and getting her out of her soiled clothing. Olive let Grace fuss over her like this; she could see the clear concern on the older woman’s face. But she stayed mostly silent, only uttering simple ‘thank you’s at the appropriate moment. And when the bath was drawn, much to Grace’s displeasure, Olive dismissed both her and the other maid who’d brought up the hot water.

Once she was alone, Olive sank into the hot water. She sank into it like she might disappear into it. She wasn’t sure how long she soaked there, feeling oddly disassociated from her body, her surroundings. Long after the water turned cold, an urge drove her to slip into it until it had enveloped her entire body. She opened her eyes, looking at her distorted knees through the bathwater and holding her breath until necessity drove her upwards. Gulping in air, Olive felt – finally – a return to the reality of her surroundings, of her life now. Yes, the night before she had been outside of the safety of the Keep, side-by-side with those made refugees and criminals, and yes for a moment Erwin had seemed a threat. But that moment had passed. Here she was, immersed in (once) hot soapy water with loyal staff at her call if she wanted them in the center of a fortified castle, a castle she would soon be mistress of. Whatever immediate threat she’d felt, she realised with a cold clarity, was in her head. It wasn’t here in the Keep, and it certainly wasn’t Erwin Therrien.

The realization was a cold comfort. Olive didn’t know how to fight an enemy in her head. Where to run from it or how to hide. And with it came a new rush of not only embarrassment – at the way she’d reacted to Erwin – but shame. Since she returned here, she kept lashing out at the people who wanted to help her. She’d done the same thing to Valerian when she’d first seen him again, as well. But she’d had a lifelong friendship to fall back on with Vale. There was nothing to fall back on with Erwin. And it wasn’t only how she treated him that stoked the shame in her now. She thought of herself as stronger, as more resolute than this. Why was she cracking up here, now? When she had more comfort and protection than possibly any mage in the country. It was pathetic. She wanted to shake it off and go back to the plan of proactive involvement, of doing things. No longer fighting a guerilla war, but using her position to leverage change, save lives. But more than ever, the oppressive weight of it all lay on her like lead, unshakeable. The weight of the guild and sadness, and confinement.

So when Grace finally gave up on waiting and came to fetch her from the cold bath, the only resolve Olive could muster was to curl up in bed. She would apologise to Erwin tomorrow, she resolved. She couldn’t face him today. She spent much of the day in bed, half-asleep or shuffling through the charcoal sketches she’d made while she was still in the East Wing; her memories of the camps. As day turned to night, Olive grew increasingly restless, the weight of her guilt and the knowledge that she would need to speak again with Erwin sitting heavier on her chest. She stared sleepless at the shadows cast by the moon on her ceiling until finally it became too much for her to bear. For the first time that day, Olive got out of bed. Shrugging on an old dressing gown over her night clothes, she padded barefoot out of her room and down the corridor to where the duke slept. The castle was already silent and dark, but it was a path Olive had tread countless times as a child.

When she reached his quarters, she hesitated for a moment, then rapped her knuckles against the door. She pushed it ajar just enough to say quietly into the darkness, ”Erwin? It’s Constance. I… I’d like to talk.”

Despite his best efforts, their brief, terse interaction hung over Erwin like a dark cloud as he went about his tasks for the remainder of the day.  A meeting with Lord Burrows regarding the status of the trade markets and the ongoing health of the castle's finances was mercifully cut short when even the old Master of Coin could tell that he wouldn't get through the inattentiveness evident in the Duke's eyes.  "Ah... these accounts can wait, my Lord.  We'll reconvene tomorrow," he'd said, giving the younger man a pat on the shoulder.  The Duke was easily distracted (especially with mundane matters of governance), but this look was something else.

Even matters of the Duchy's security only briefly snapped him out of his absentminded state.  Letters had arrived from several minor houses professing continued loyalty to Wulfbauer Keep, and presaging the arrival of their respective Lords in a matter of days to reaffirm that loyalty in person.  And, in a moment of relieved comfort, Erwin opened a letter in his younger sister's distinct penmanship offering words of encouragement and well-wishes.  He kept that letter in his pocket the rest of the day as he meandered from duty to duty.  When all his meetings were concluded, he spent the rest of the afternoon aiding the builders and guards hauling stones up to the north wall to repair an eroding parapet there.  The physical labor was a welcome reprieve from bureaucratic work – and, most importantly, it allowed him to turn his brain off from the events of the previous evening and that morning.

The moon was high in the cloudless evening sky by the time Erwin found himself alone in his chambers and the troubling thoughts returned.  The fear and loathing in Constance's eyes flashed vividly in his mind, directed at him like he was some sort of monster.  Her face dissolved into the visage of the old woman, who'd borne the exact same expression in that dusty cave.  The memory shot a pang of regret down his spine, and he felt his heart race a beat faster.  With a heavy exhale, he meandered over to his desk and dropped down into the hard wooden chair. 

After a long silent moment of inaction, he finally pulled a fresh blank parchment from under a heavy paperweight and a charcoal stylus.  Forcing his heartbeat to return to a steady clip, and consciously regulating each breath exhaling his mouth, he sketched away.  The old mage woman and her grandson slowly took form in dark lines.  Erwin was only faintly aware of the crackling of the nearby hearth and the breeze rolling in from the wide-open shutters by the time he finished and threw down the pencil to inspect his work.  Neither of the refugees had looked at him with any hint of optimism, but here, on this page, both the woman and the lad's faces were filled with foreboding – but also, as idealized, hope.  Perhaps hope that this new, untested Duke would finally enact meaningful change.

He didn't know how long he sat slumped in that uncomfortable chair, eyes alternating between the rough sketch and the flickering light of the subsiding fire, but eventually a sound at the door snapped him out of his reverie.  A knock, and then a slight creak as the door swung open ever so slightly.  And that voice that drifted in.  Constance. Her presence was entirely unexpected at this uncommon hour, and it took a second for him to comprehend just who was calling.  Finally though, he shook the surprise away and hastily stood, chair legs scraping against the stone floor.  Striding over to the door, he gently took hold of the heavy ring latch and slowly opened it enough to allow what faint light was left in the chamber to spill into the hallway and illuminate Olive's frame.  He peered down at her silently with his tired eyes, before finally swinging the door open further. "Please, come in," he said in a soft, hoarse voice, gesturing with an inviting hand.

Inwardly he didn't want to admit it but, for the second time that day, a wave of relief washed over his form as though the fact that she had not fled the castle was a victory.  The relief was also mixed with apprehension, perhaps at the unknown conversation yet to come. 

The appearance of Erwin's form in the doorframe made Olive swallow a hard lump in her throat. Finding him awake and willing to talk to her, she had to remind herself, was what she should have hoped for. But still she had to steel herself to follow his gesture of invitation into the room with a quiet, "Thanks."

Now that she was here, Olive at first wasn't sure what to do, where to put herself, what to say. After a moment of hesitation, she simply chose the nearest option and perched half-sitting, noncommittally and not quite settled, on the edge of Erwin's bed. That thought on its own sent a cold feeling in her stomach; it was the same bed she'd crawled into as a small girl, wedging herself between her parents. She felt small now, and vulnerable.

"I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for how I acted this morning. I – I don't know what happened," she said after letting out a shaky sigh, her gaze fixed on some indecipherable point in the middle distance. She sat with her hands in her lap, fingers interlaced in a tight grip. Though she spoke softly, there was an emotion clear in her voice that was akin to fear, but this time it was not directed at Erwin. "Sometimes I saw something similar, I think, in people who'd come from the camps. Even though it might have been months since they'd escaped, they had spells were they couldn't understand that they weren't there anymore, that those particular dangers and threats were in the past. It might be any number of things that triggered it and it could be very difficult sometimes to bring them back to the present..." She paused to swallow again, feeling a burning shame kindle in her again. She frowned, continuing in a lower tone, "I think something like that happened to me. I- It never happened to me before, out there. I don't know what's wrong with me now." She rested her face in her hands and let out another long exhale then drew her hands down to her chin, fingers curled and a fingernail pressed into her lower lip. She felt deflated, defeated, and ashamed. Ashamed to be anything less than strong, defiant, and fighting.

But she forged forward, glancing with a nervous uncertainty at Erwin. "I think seeing you there, out there, with those vulnerable people..." Olive wanted to stop, to leave it there and keep the rest to herself. But she knew she owed Erwin an explanation. She bit her lip, hands falling to her lap again. "When I was in the camps, I made a mistake, a terrible mistake. Trusting a man like you, a nobleman who said he wanted to help. I believed him and because – because of that – I – " She tried to go on, but Olive felt her throat tighten, choking out any more words. Instead she glared furtively at the ground, angry at the hot welling of tears that threatened to fall if she went on.

Still a little raw from that morning's conversation and unsure of what was to come, Erwin silently positioned him near the hearth after she took the edge of his bed.  He readied himself, once again, to assuage her of any doubts she might still harbor about his intentions. 

What came next took him by complete surprise. 

He had not been prepared at all for her to launch into an apology, and then try and find the words to explain her own actions.  The way her eyes shifted uncomfortably around the room at anything except him, the clear tinges of emotion in her wavering voice... Olive was opening herself up to him in a way he'd never seen before, and it was difficult to reconcile this young woman before him with the weary, hardened persona that she'd worn like armor for all these months. 

He said nothing when she started describing the poor souls she'd encountered, the ones who'd managed to flee the horrors of the camps only to be trapped in those same horrors in their minds, men and women scarred physically and mentally from the pains they'd endured.  He didn't need to explain to Olive that he understood their plight, that he'd seen the same shock in the faces of dozens of soldiers who'd survived a bloody melee.  That she herself carried that same trauma with her now.

When her words finally failed her, and her eyes glistened dangerously in the dying light of the hearth, Erwin finally swallowed the lump in his own throat.  Letting out a soft breath and pushing himself off the wall, he snatched up the wooden chair and carried over to where she was perched at the edge of the bed.  Setting it down gingerly across from her, he sat and reached out to envelop her hands with his own, giving them a gentle squeeze. 

"There's nothing wrong with you, Constance," Erwin said in a soft voice, trying to reassure her with a steady gaze, "and there is nothing to apologize for."  He'd never encountered her in such a vulnerable state before, and just the sight of her near tears brought a small wince to his own face.  So, she'd misplaced her trust in a nobleman before and had paid some sort of terrible price for the decision.  He had to remind himself that it was her very father – the Duke of Wulfbauer – who had sent her away to the camps in the first place.  The thought brought about an almost reflexive desire to console her in the moment. 

He gave her hand another squeeze and leaned forward.  Another pang of regret ran up his spine and materialized on his features.  Regret for his actions the previous night.  Regret for having caused all of these simmering emotions to bubble to her surface and consume her.  Regret that he could have been – or perhaps he was – just like whatever nobleman betrayed her trust.  "I know it must be difficult to talk about it, and you don't have to explain anymore if it pains you too much.  But I'll listen to as much as you want to tell me, Constance."

And if she spoke any further, he silently resolved to never betray her trust like how this nobleman from the camps did.

”He’s the Duke of Bellkrath now, I’ve heard.”

Constance couldn’t bring herself to say the name of Mercuxio Rastognlir, but even mentioning him her shaky voice steadied into something cold, full of a different emotion all together. And yet she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go on, if she wanted to share this with Erwin. Or with anyone, for that matter. Part of her never wanted to speak about it again. What would he think of her? But her reaction last night and this morning made her realise perhaps she needed to. And who else did she have? She had no siblings, her cousins were dead. She would never have dreamed of telling her parents, even if they lived; one of her most fervent hopes was that they died without ever really knowing what they had sent their daughter into. She hadn’t even told Valerian about her time in the camps more than a few words. He would listen now, she knew, if she turned to him. But Olive had to think about what was fair to him now that their lives were necessarily diverging. So she went on.

”But he was a priest at the time. A Confessor, though he kept that to himself. He – I trusted him, maybe because I knew him. I had been friends with his sister. Maybe it was easier to trust him, though I hate to admit it, because he was like me: a highborn noble who never expected to find themselves in such a place.” Her cheeks burned with shame at the thought, and the memory of that very accusation that had been thrown at her. At the time she hadn’t been able to acknowledge the possibility that it might be true, but now she wasn’t so sure. ”Or maybe I just needed somebody to trust. Someone who might actually have the power to do something. I tried to do everything I could there, leveraging my position to protect the people I could. But I was just a girl, and still a mage, whoever my parents were. But the adult son of a duke, of the duke whose lands held the camps, and a representative of the Church… When he said that he wanted to change things, that he wanted to help, I believed he could. I was such a fool. Those were the very things that should have told me I could never trust him. But he did change things…”

Olive’s voice dropped and she fell silent for a moment, grappling with the memory. With the very real hatred she felt just recalling the man. She would kill him, if she could. She would do it with her bare hands.

”And when the Mordecai in the camp suspected him, I protected him. I thought I was protecting everyone and it nearly cost me my life… I’ll bear the scars of that mistake until I die.” Figuratively as well as physically. ”Gods, if I hadn’t… If they had detained him before he was able to call the others from his Order…” She had to stop again, hanging her head in her hands. But when she lowered them, they found Erwin’s again, and she looked up at him for the first time since she’d began. Her eyes were wide, plaintive.  ”They murdered everyone, Erwin. Everyone. Everyone except me. And I – “ Her throat closed again and she dropped her gaze. She was, she realised, shaking. ”He made them spare me. I was too personal for him, I think, to let them kill me with the others. For a long time, I wished bitterly that he hadn’t.”

"Duke Rastognlir?"

Erwin felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up on end, and his frame went tense and rigid at Olive's revelation that the nobleman who'd betrayed her in the camps was none other than Duke Mercuxio Rastognlir.  He'd never met the man and had no preconceived notion about just what the Duke of Belkrath was capable of.  The only details he possessed came from his councilmen who knew of these matters better than him.  Just having some knowledge of his background as a disciple of Ansgar could have given Erwin some clues though. 

But by his count, that made two Dukes who'd played a part in causing Constance Carwick such trauma.  Her own father at first, and now this man.  Erwin fervently hoped that he would not be the third.

The anguish in her eyes, the trembling of her slight frame, forced him to clench his jaw tightly.  With another squeeze of her hand, he listened quietly and intently to her story of how her misplaced faith in the Duke Rastognlir had resulted in so many deaths.  Small wonder that she'd been so hesitant to place any trust in Erwin to help those mages trapped in that cave.  If their positions had been reversed, he probably wouldn't have trusted Duke Erwin Therrien either. 

A long silence fell between them after she divulged the guilt she carried.  He too looked down, at the ground between them, as he let the weight of her words sink in, imagining the toll that such experiences could take on a person.  Thoughts drifted back to their strained conversation in the library, the way her gaze had burned with such fury. 

I will try to save every single one that I can.   With the right context, every word she'd spoken, every action, suddenly seemed justifiable.

When he finally looked back up, her trembling was palpable.  He didn't know the proper words to express how heartbroken he felt for her in the moment.  His own guilt at hearing about her experience in the camps wouldn't even compare to the heavy burden weighing on her soul.  Instead, with a low exhale, he gently maneuvered himself off the chair until he was sitting next to her on the edge of the bed.  He reached over and found the hands in her lap, interlacing his fingers with one of her own.  The silence lingered as they sat their, only broken by the sound of wood crackling in the hearth, and the sound of their shared breaths.

His eyes remained downcast for a moment, before lifting to search for her own gaze.  "I promise you, Constance, from the very depths of my heart, that I am not that man," he said softly but resolutely. "I will never do to you what he did.  By Ansgar, I hope I never know such cruelty." 

A simmering anger started to well up inside the recesses in his own belly, and for a second the thought crossed his mind of the entire Duchy of Belkrath, Wulfbauer's very own neighbor, consumed in flames or swallowed up by the earth.  Was that thought cruel in and of itself?

Shaking that feeling away, he continued, "I know that's the sort of promise that earned him your confidence in the first place, but... I swear on my father's grave, I will not betray your trust.  No matter what happened in the camps, you're here now and alive, and you can start righting those wrongs.  And I'll be there beside you each step of the way."

WE will save every single one that we can, he thought.

When Erwin's gaze found Olive's, hers mirrored the grandmother and grandson as Erwin had idealized them: full of foreboding, but with a clear note of hope. Just as had been the case with Mercuxio all those years ago, Olive needed someone to trust. But since she first met Merric in the ramshackle chapel they'd erected in Valarinus, Olive had spent five years surviving the war. She'd learned a lot about people in that time, and how to trust her gut. And in the quiet of that moment, Olive trusted Erwin Therrien.

A shadow flickered across her features, though, at Erwin's next words. 'No matter what happened in the camps, you're here now and alive.' She physically recoiled at the thought, her hand clenching in Erwin's. She looked away from him to the dying fire, her expression awash with both guilt and sadness.

"But that's the thing. By no merit of my own, I'm spared again. Because of the accident of my birth. Living here like this, safe inside a defended castle with a warm fire and always enough food and – I know it sounds silly, bit it feels terrible. I feel terrible." She trailed off for a moment, then realizing how that must sound, looked up at Erwin. "Please don't misunderstand me. I'm very grateful, Erwin. You didn't have to take me in and you've given me back... Well, as much as my old life as is left. But..." Olive searched for the words to express the anguish she felt, being set apart from the nation's downcast mages. "You were in the military," she finally tried, searching for an analogy, "doesn't it weigh on you living like, well, this," she looked around the comfortable and secure room, "when you think of your men out there? It weighs so heavily on me..."

Now that Olive had opened a crack of vulnerability, all the doubt and misgivings she'd kept bottled up in the last months were trickling out.

Erwin opened his mouth as if starting to respond but had to pause when words failed to emerge, brow furrowing slightly upon hearing her question and then repeating it in the back of his mind. In that moment, he realized he'd never really given the thought any serious consideration.  Or at least not since the moment he had been recalled from the field when his father had been elected as the new Duke.  Looking around the room now, though – the warmth of the hearth, the woven tapestry hanging on the wall near decorative racks of swords and guns, even the soft bedsheets on which they sat – it all did suddenly seem excessive.  Too grand. 

"I never really considered it that way, I guess," he ventured.  "I do often think of my men still out there in the field, wondering what battles they are fighting, how they are faring.  And I do often wish that I was back out there with them instead of here."    He glanced at her quickly with an embarrassed expression and pressed his mouth together, hastily adding, "not fighting Calent's war anymore, I mean.  Just... out there with them."

He felt something in that moment.  Was that the guilt that Olive had described?

Realizing that he was starting to grind his back teeth together, Erwin let out a low cough.  He turned towards Olive, an uncertain look on his face as he contemplated finally say what he was about to say out loud.  What he might have hinted to her before, but wouldn't dare acknowledge to any other person in this castle.  If they were to be truthful with each other though...

He took a deep breath.  "I wish I was back out there with my men because I understood them.  Your nobility, your house and titles, those only meant something out there if you forced it to mean something.  But if you didn't do that, then you could choose to share the same life as the soldiers next to you.  In the heat of battle, to not care if the next man was the son of a nobleman, or the son of a cobbler – as long as you looked out for each other.  I understood that life."

He frowned as his eyes wandered around the room, before licking at his dry lips and turning back to her.  "This I don't understand.  The Dukeship, the politics, the governing, these responsibilities they entrust in me.  I don't know what in the hells I'm doing, Constance, if we're being honest with each other.  Every day in this castle I feel entirely inadequate.  It's like I'm drowning but forgot how to swim to the surface.  At least out there with my men I know what I'm facing.  I could be stabbed out there but it would be from the front and not the back."

His face screwed up with guilt then, but a different kind of guilt than that of which she spoke.  Guilt at the recognition of his own self-interest, of his weakness.  At least her intentions came from a place of compassion and selflessness.  "I suppose to answer your question, it doesn't 'weigh on me' like the way I think you mean, because I don't find comfort in this life at all." What came out of his mouth next was a laugh of exasperation.  "Gods, that sounds so selfish.  Of course any of them out there would gladly trade places, to have a soft bed, hot food, the warmth of a fire.  What am I complaining about?" 

The mirthless grin quickly disappeared from his face as he found a spot along the far wall to concentrate on.  "I do wish I could be back out there with my men.  But I... I can't give up this life now though.  If I do, then people like Kenins wins, and everything goes back to how it was before.  The war continues, the country continues to burn, the mages out there die, my men die.  Nothing changes."

Olive was about to ask if he meant that really, considering what battles his men might have been fighting before Erwin, as Duke, had recalled them to Wulfbauer. But he quickly corrected himself and Olive only nodded, listening. Somehow listening to him and his own worries drew her out of her own personal anguish a little and brought her to the present.

”I know what you mean, about being the same as any other man, out there. I stopped being Constance Carwick after Mercuxio sent me away from that first camp. In that place over our northern border, nobody cared what your title or lineage might be.” A chill entered Olive’s voice as she spoke of it, her eyes becoming distant. That was not a place she often recalled. And for good reason. ”I won’t pretend that it wasn’t terrifying, losing what protection my name had granted me in the first camp and, I suppose, my entire life up to that point. The fear that comes when you’re trapped and truly powerless, held by those who consider you little more than an animal or a plaything…” She didn’t elaborate, and for a long moment she was silent. ”But after I escaped, living on the run with others like me, then there was a real camaraderie in being the same as everyone else. Finally I was really worth what I could do, what I earned with my own actions. And I wasn’t alone.” Olive let out a little puff of an exhale, looking down guiltily and adding, ”Silas says I’m in the same position still; but now I’m in a position to do so much more. But it comes at the cost of that camaraderie. And I know others believe I have betrayed them. Believe that if I’d been loyal to the cause, I never would have agreed to leave the dungeon once I’d arrived here.”

That thought had not ceased to trouble Olive. It was not, in fact, confirmed. But it was the logical extension of what many of her compatriots had said. And if the roles had been reversed, would she feel any differently? How could they not think that she had given up their ideals for the sake of her own personal benefit? She glanced at Erwin’s hoarse laugh at the thought of his soldiers who would be so quick to trade places with him. ”I can’t say that I don’t appreciate the physical comfort of being here. Out there, hunger and cold can be a more deadly enemy than a soldier. But out there we shared everything. But having these comforts when they don’t…” She sighed. ”Well, imagine if we both had our way and were back out there, instead of here. I imagine things wouldn’t be quite so cordial, were we to meet.” Then it was her turn to give a short laugh, glancing over at him.

”But Erwin,” she continued, more earnestly now, and she turned a little to face him, ”you must realise that when the lords chose a new line to take the Dukeship that they wouldn’t have only thought they were choosing your father. I know he passed before he ought to have, but he was not a young man. I know I wasn’t in the room, but I can’t imagine that those lords did not also think that they were choosing you. And listening to you talk about your relationship with your men, you remind me of my father. Not some pompous aristocrat, like you might find in Hellvion, but a Duke of Wulfbauer.”

Erwin looked sidelong to Olive at her laugh.  Her comment elicited a small chuckle from him after a short pause and, for the briefest of moments, the levity seemed to lift the tension from the room.  "Perhaps it would be cordial.  I learned a lesson about hotheadedness last night, after all."

At her mention of his father, he turned his gaze back toward the soft glow of the hearth's last embers, refusing to die out.  It made him wonder about Marsden's last moments, whether the elder Therrien had also fought with every breath to cling to the last vestiges of life, refusing to let the cold of death overtake him before he could complete his duties as the Duke.  Marsden was not a young man when he died, but neither was he old and infirm.  He should have had more time, Erwin thought.  More time to see to the duchy's well-being, while his eldest son learned what it meant to govern.

"When they first told me of his death, I thought it was a joke," he said quietly, almost to himself.  "Even when they brought me his sword, the family blade of the Therriens, I didn't want to believe it.  That sword was always destined to come to me, but not so soon."  Erwin pointed to the ornate greatsword set upon a pedestal along the opposite wall.  The symbol of the House of Therrien,red and orange reflections from the hearth dancing along its gleaming blade.  Even now, it felt like it still belonged to his father.

He let out a soft sigh.  "If the other lords thought of me in that room at all, I'm sure they imagined that it would've be many years before I assumed this Dukeship.  It is what it is.  Now I'm just trying to live up to their expectations, to my father's ideals."

He glanced to Olive then, frowning slightly at the comparison to Duke Harlow.  The former Duke was, by all accounts, a capable leader and a stoic defender of Wulfbauer  A man with many qualities.  But it was those some of those same traits that had led him to send her only daughter to suffer and perhaps die in the mage camps, in a bid to ensure Wulfbauer's future.   That daughter who now sat next to Erwin.  He didn't even want to think about being put in that same situation.  If protecting the duchy required him to sacrifice his family, sacrifice Constance... well, he didn't think he could do such a thing.

Instead, he ventured, "I want to protect my men, protect the people of Wulfbauer, as best as I can.  And maybe this is the best position for me to accomplish that, as much as I dread it."  He looked to her again.  "Silas is right, you know.  You can do so much for the mages from in this castle."

"Perhaps."

Privately, Olive thought Erwin was probably wrong, on both accounts. If anyone should have had more years as duke, she thought a little bitterly, it was Avery. Or Caspian, who was always so bright and full of life and mirth and whose loss she could still barely bring herself to think of. Both consumed by the unsatiable machine of war. Part of her wanted to remind him of this, of them, but she couldn't bring herself to. Still, given the quick succession of her own father's assassination, and the deaths of Avery and Caspian in battle, she doubted very much that anyone but Erwin assumed it was a given that the younger Therrien would have 'many years' to learn at his father's side. Instead, she just listened, watching his features as he spoke of his father and his resignation to his role.

Nor was she certain that Erwin or Silas was correct that she would be able to do more here. Have a greater influence? Perhaps. As a symbol, not as an active participant driven by her own agency. She could, she thought, live with that but it made her feel trapped, small. But perhaps Erwin was right, and Erwin.

Olive stayed where she was for several long moments, watching the glow of the fire's embers, unconsciously moving her thumb against Erwin's hand. Suddenly, it seemed, she remembered that it was the middle of the night and that she had, after all, intruded. "Sorry, I came and imposed myself on you well past reasonable hours. I'll let you sleep."

Olive lingered for a moment, then rose. "Thank you, Erwin, for... talking to me." She turned to see herself out, but something caught her eye and before she was at the door, she found herself drawn over to the sketch of the woman and her grandson. Olive stared at it wordlessly for a long time. The fact that Erwin had taken the time at all surprised her, and moved her. Nor did she miss the trace of hope in the subjects' eyes. Erwin's hope for them, perhaps. But more than anything, Olive was impressed that Erwin had seen them. Really seen them. "This is very good."

Lost in their conversation, Erwin had almost forgotten just how long ago the sun had set.  But when she finally released his hand and hastily climbed to her feet, the tiredness hovering over his body finally crashed down.  It'd certainly been a long day.  A long two days.

"Of course," he answered with a half-nod.  He pulled himself to his feet almost instinctively as Olive made her way for the door, the polite gesture having been ingrained into his mind since youth – yet another product of their shared nobility.  "Please know that you can come talk with me whenever you want." 

When Olive stopped in her tracks and turned her gaze to his wooden desk, he suddenly remembered what he'd spent the earlier part of his evening doing.  The memory of the old woman flooded into him again.  It was fuzzy at first, but slowly color and life inundated the thought until Erwin, once again, could see the image of the woman's face as though she was there in the room with them.  He knew then and there that it would be another restless sleep.  How long could this woman haunt his thoughts?

Slowly, he slowly stepped over to where Olive was lingering.  Together, they gazed down at the parchment, old woman and young boy etched in a rough pencil outline.  With a soft breath, he reached down and picked up the sketch.  "I... couldn't stop thinking about them," he explained after a moment's silence.  "And drawing sometimes helps me process my thoughts."

He stared intently down at the artwork.  The old lady stared back up at him with charcoal eyes, and somehow the sketch seemed more willing to forgiving than the actual woman had the previous night.  It was an idealized representation, but one needed ideals to strive towards. 
"Maybe it's a reminder of who I'm supposed to be serving," he said, half to himself.  Saying those words out loud seemed to almost invigorate him, and for the first in two nights, he felt more at peace at the thought of the elderly woman.  Perhaps in time, he might be able to do right by her.  By Constance, by Silas, by all of those mages.

Folding the parchment in two, Erwin pressed it towards Olive.  "Here, you take it.  For safekeeping," he said, before placing a hand on her shoulder and producing a small smile.  "Rest well.  I'll see you in the morning."

Olive looked down at the folded sketch that Erwin pressed towards her for a long moment. For a long moment she considered it. A reminder, he called it. Constance did not want a reminder. She did not need a reminder. The faces of the others visited her most nights and in much of her waking days. Gently, she moved Erwin's hand back, until it and the drawing were pressed against his chest.

"If it's a reminder, I think it is best for you to keep it." There was no barb in her voice, no judgement. It was matter of fact, and afterwards she gave Erwin a small brief smile. She paused then, looking at Erwin without yet moving away. She looked as though she were regarding him, or trying to decide something. Though she felt better, calmer, now after speaking with him, the reality of her situation and of her future settled on her with a gentle resignation. So. So she lifted herself up onto her toes to kiss Erwin on the cheek. "Good night, Erwin."

With that she released the hand pressed to his chest and silently left Erwin alone in his chambers.

---

Erwin Therrien and Constance Carwick were not the only ones burning the midnight oil in Wulfbauer. Far away in the deeply wooded land Lord Roland Kenins called his own, the candle that was melting wax onto a carefully folded letter was already only a stump. Kenins pressed his seal into the wax. When a servant appeared in the darkened doorway of his study, he didn't even look up as he said, "See that this is sent with great haste to town council of Knightsbridge."

The servant nodded curtly and came forward to take the proffered letter. "My lord, Brendan Burrows is here to see you. Shall I see him in?"

Kenins looked momentarily annoyed, but quickly composed himself. "Yes, of course." A few moments later, a well-dressed young man, perhaps in his late twenties, with a mop of red hair entered Kenins' study. The young man made a quick, curt bow and waited until Kenins' waved for him to sit before took the chair across from Chancellor of Wulfbauer. "Brendan. To what do I owe the pleasure at this late hour?"

Brenden Burrows flashed a confident yet disarming smile. "I have a proposition for you, my lord."

Erwin watched Olive's form vanish out the door and into the dark hallway.  Warmth lingered on the spot on his cheek that her lips had touched, and after a few seconds he tilted his head down to look at the folded parchment clutched against his chest.  Slowly, he unfolded the sketch and gently smoothed it out on the surface of his desk.  A small charcoal smudge drifted off the edge of the old woman's face, and he spent a moment smoothing out the line with his thumb. 

Fear and hope.  A promise of things to come, for him and Constance both.

With a soft exhale, he went to throw another log into the fire before striding back over to the bed.  Whatever problems they had to fix with the Duchy, it could wait until the morning.

---

"Ah, a midnight proposition," Kenins answered, feigning his own casual smile and sitting up in his chair.  "I would have imagined that, after such a long journey, you'd have preferred a good night's rest before discussing business in the morning.  But that's besides the point.  I'll always have time for my good friend Thurgood's favorite nephew."

The mention of the elder Burrows caught the younger by surprise and, despite his best efforts, his smile faltered for the briefest of moments.  Brendan quickly wiped that uncertainty from his expression and leaned forward, meeting the Chancellor's gaze with an expression that, on its surface, displayed the confidence of a man who'd practiced the words in his head a hundred times during the ride here.  But the glimmer of intimidation was there in his eyes.

"Chancellor Kenins, my proposition does indeed involve my uncle," Brendan began, keeping his eye contact with his counterpart.  "He loves Wulfbauer, with every fabric of his being, I want to be clear about that.  He's been Master of Coin for thirty-four years.  Our house has served the interests of the duchy for much longer.  But I'm afraid that he has lost sight of what makes this duchy great, and what must be done to ensure its continued prosperity."

Kenins, for his part, said nothing but only listened attentively.  Even as Brendan spoke his first words, Roland could have already anticipated where this conversation was headed.  The younger Burrows had always been an idealist, more so than his pragmatic relative – even when both shared a common knack for numbers and finances.  Perhaps it was a product of age and experience that informed Thurgood's demeanor, but Brendan Burrows certainly acted with his gut more than a cunning man like Thurgood ever could do.  The young man's traits, ironically, almost mirrored their current Duke.

The Dukeship that should have been his. 

"I agreed with your words during that last council meeting," continued Brendan.  "Erwin Therrien is out of his element, and he has lost the confidence of the nobles.  I believe that this duchy cannot recover and grow until someone more capable and with more experience can take over and lead us in the right direction." He paused to clear his throat.  "And the new Duke will need a new council to help him realize his vision.  A new Master of Coin."

Brendan's heart raced as he watched the cool expression of the man across from him. Kenins was taking his time to respond, turning over his quill in his hand thoughtfully. After what felt like an excruciating wait, Kenins looked across at Brendan. "Perhaps. But you hardly needed to come here in the middle of the night to put yourself forward for the position, as I believe you are." Kenins raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"No, you're right. And frankly, my lord," Brendan continued, just slightly too quickly, betraying the nerves underlying what he was actually here to propose, "I don't think I need you in control of Wulfbauer Keep to become Master of Coin." He could tell that caught Kenins attention, and went on with more confidence. "From my uncle's letters, I can tell that Erwin Therrien relies heavily on his Master of Coin, and trusts him greatly. If anything were to happen to him, I have no doubt that he would appoint his chosen heir without hesitation. You know, my uncle could have chosen my cousin Frederik as his heir, as well. But he trusts me. And so would Erwin Therrien. The Master of Coin knows intimately every decision a duke makes. Is responsible for allocating and distributing funds. Or withholding him. He would be a powerful ally to have in the heart of the government. So you see, Lord Kenins, I have not come to beg anything of you. But to make you an offer."

Kenins put down his quill and inwardly Brendan smirked. Now he had his attention in earnest. "There is just one little hitch, Brendan. The good Lord Burrows is not – in his current state of, well being alive – in a position to pass anything on to you."

"My lord, my uncle is an old man," Brendan entreated, his voice dripping with sympathy, "if the excitement of a wedding or a war were too much of a strain on his aged heart, I do not think anyone would be surprised. We are on the brink of both. I ride to Wulfbauer Keep the day after tomorrow to help my uncle with the former. And I have heard through the hops hedge* that you have plans for the second."

---

OOC: * I couldn't help it! Wulfbauer makes beer, not wine!

 "Lord Thurgood may be in his twilight years, but he looked hale the last time we were in each other's presence," the Chancellor replied with a soft smile, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk's surface.  "It would be a shame if his health has taken a turn for the worst."

He shrugged his shoulders lackadaisically. "But he has been under tremendous stress lately, I surmise.  That castle has become almost a mummer's comedy, and it must take all of Thurgood's energy to keep some semblance of order there." 

He pushed his chair back and stood now, taking several steps away from the seated youth, hands clasped behind his back.  "No matter, I wish him all the health in the world.  Regrettably, I will not be able to attend the wedding as I have other matters of state to attend to.  I trust that with your light touch, the wedding will be a grand affair." He gave Brendan a subtle, almost knowing look.  "And if anything unfortunate were ever to happen to my good friend, I would appreciate if you alerted me with great haste."

Brendan responded with his own smile and nod.  "Of course, my Lord."

Kenins turned now to regard nothing in particular.  He'd explicitly made clear that the current Duke had lost his faith and the faith of many in the council of nobles.  And he'd gathered all those dissatisfied noblemen under his banner.  But war was such a strong term.  "I just want to remind you, Brendan, that I am no warmonger.  No, that sort of activity is more of Duke Therrien's strong suit.  I am just a patriot and a loyal servant of the Duchy, and all I do is in service to Wulfbauer." 

It was like an out-of-body experience. Constance Carwick was dimly aware of the fuss being made over her – and what a fuss it was! – but felt oddly removed from it; more of an observer than a subject. Was this really happening to her? Not that she was able to form a question like that into an actual, concrete thought with the cacophony of chatter in the room. When had Olive last been surrounded by so many women? So many noblewomen at that. A perpetual tomboy who, as a child, had chaffed easily under the attention of only her mother and Grace whenever she needed to be made presentable, Olive thought the answer was perhaps never.

Grace was here now, of course, doing something both time-consuming and uncomfortable with her hair. Two additional maids were there at Grace's disposal to hold this or tie that or pin here. Then there were Adette and Marietta, Erwin's two younger sisters, both teenagers still and filled with such unwavering and inexhaustible enthusiasm for the day that it nearly bowled Olive over. The pair flitted between Olive, the maids, and the other guests, cheerfully speaking with everyone and anyone who would listen. Lady Rosengard, an old friend of Lord Burrows, who the Master of Coin had recruited to spearhead the wedding planning was in the room with her two daughters, only a bit older than Erwin's sisters and, like their mother, brimming with opinions. Lord Burrows' three daughters, for that matter, were here as well. Olive had to search between all the shifting women in the mirror to find the figures of the only two members of her family – the only two left – sitting quietly apart from the rest. Olive didn't know Ainsley and Bryony as well as she'd known their brothers; they had come much less often to the Keep. There was less reason for them to. But she thought they felt the same ghosts here that she did. Ainsley, the elder of the two and only a year older than Olive, had been hastily married to a middle son of the family who inherited Birchollow, looked solemn but not out of place in the room. Bryony, on the other hand, both stood out and simultaneously nearly disappeared in her modest gray nun's habit. Olive tried to catch her eye in the mirror, but her cousin hastily looked away, casting her eyes down.

Almost as surreal as the scene around her was the cause of it. This was the day Constance Carwick would disappear, and she would become Constance Therrien. Duchess of Wulfbauer. Inwardly, Olive hated that; she liked the sharp alliteration of her name. Constance Carwick. It felt right. 'Constance Therrien' felt awkward and muddled on her tongue. She could barely even get it out. It was an annoyance that she focused on, perhaps, to distract herself from the real business of the day. Becoming a duchess. Becoming a wife. The thought nearly took her breath away. Not in a rush of romantic excitement, but like a cold, clawed hand reaching into her chest and crushing her lungs. It wasn't because of Erwin. Erwin was, she knew, a better option than many that might have been given to her. And since their reconciliation after the night she'd moved the earth to save the trapped refugee mages, Olive had made a concerted effort to spend more time with him, at least for a mug of tea, even when they didn't have anything to speak about. And though the idea of having a more intimate relationship with him than that still made her feel a little uneasy, she accepted that he was the partner life was giving her, and she would give it her best. It wasn't him, personally, but what the whole affair represented. For years her life had felt full of possibilities determined by her own agency. Today, she felt, that all ended. Constance Therrien would be bound to duty, whose agency would be determined by the needs of the duchy and her husband.

"There. You look beautiful, Olive." Grace's voice, spoken quietly and only for her, crystalised amidst the din of the room. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Olive could see that Grace's were shining with tears. Olive reached out and squeezed Grace's hand, yearning for her mothers. "Come on. It's time to go."

---

The scene was more subdued in the Duke's quarters, where Lord Burrows was finishing going over some final details with the Duke – who he was quite sure was not paying attention – while a manservant attempted to ready Erwin for the event. That was, until the raucous sound of laughter echoed down the hall and finally erupted into the room in the form of Kristian and Marcel Therrien. The slightly quieter but genial form of Brendan Burrows, whom Lord Burrows had introduced to the Duke some weeks earlier, and who was staying in the Keep to aid the old Master of Coin with all the necessary arrangements. They passed a bottle, half empty, that sloshed with a fine, peaty-smelling amber whisky between them.

"Watch yourself, Kristian," Marcel warned, pulling a serious face, "you don't want Captian Serious catching you with that!"

Kristian laughed and picked up the nearest discarded glass he could find. "Normally you'd be right enough, but today of all days," Kristian answered in a feigned grave seriousness, pouring a generous amount of the liquid into the found glass, "I imagine our dear teetotal brother could do with a bit of Serenian courage." Placing himself entirely in the way of the poor manservant, whose job was not done, Kristian clapped Erwin firmly on the shoulder and thrust the glass upon him. "Don't worry, we, your brave and caring and ever supportive brothers, selflessly tested it to make sure there was nothing nefarious, no hidden poison, to spoil your big day."

"Aye, though, mind you," Marcel agreed, drinking from his own cup, "I had a look at the old chapel earlier. That gargoyle's still missing an eye. With a wife who's a better shot than half your brigade, poisoned whisky might be the least of your worries."

Erwin could hardly recognize the man staring back at him from within the mirror, a dashing, almost regal figure being attended to by a manservant diligently ensuring that every fold of his sleeves was in place.  The reflection was him, but it didn't feel like him.  Some doppelganger straight out of a children's book, here to take his place and accept the encumbrance of ruling this war-torn duchy.  A shade who would, in his place, intone the vows that would by Ansgar's guiding hand bind him to a life of faithful duty to his new bride. 

A slight frown crossed his features as he idly examined the face staring back at him.  They'd insisted and of course he'd acquiesced, but Erwin could not remember the last time a razorblade had glided so closely to his cleeks to produce such a close shave, leaving not even a shadow of stubble on his cheek.  His face looked smooth, refreshed... and unnatural.  Or at least it did to him.  Both his sisters had squealed in delight when they first laid eyes upon their eldest brother in all his trappings and finery.  Marietta had lifted herself up to wrap him in a long hug, proclaiming how royal he looked.  Adette, giddy with unrestrained excitement, had declared her conclusion that he and Constance made such a perfect couple, and that they would be so happy together.

He felt the knot in the pit of his stomach tighten.  For weeks, they'd been building up to this moment.  Ever since that night in the clearing, when she'd used her forbidden magic to save those refugee mages, Constance had visited him more often than at any other time since they'd first brought her to the castle from Valence.  They'd gotten to know each other more than he could have ever hoped, perhaps in an effort to blunt the inevitability of this moment.  Yet somehow all of it still didn't feel right.  He cared for Constance, he was certain of it.  But to marry her?

"Did you hear that last part, my Lord?" the voice of old Lord Burrows reverberated in his ear and pulled him back to the present.  Erwin turned to regard the Master of Coin and, spying the annoyed expression on his wrinkled features, hastily replied, "Yes, of course." His eyes drifted away unconsciously, and he missed the glance that Lord Burrows shot over to his young nephew as he shook his head in mild exasperation. 

Before the Master of Coin could muster another word though, the sound of laughter flooded into the room along with the two Therriens and their free-flowing bottle.  Their familiar voices had Erwin spinning to regard them, so fast that it caused the manservant to drop a pin and sign in exasperation.  His dear brothers, so impossibly lighthearted and carefree – even though one of them was the current Lord of their shared ancestral home, and the other a soon to be anointed knight. 

The mention of his dreaded military nickname elicited narrowed eyes from Erwin, but it was also accompanied by the first real smile he'd shown all morning.  "Judging from what's left in that bottle," he shot back at Marcel, "He won't need Captain Serious to catch him, his breath will attract all the attention he needs.  It'll be a grand sight: the esteemed Lord of Arbutus Vale falling over on his own brother's wedding day."  Yet, he still warmly embraced Kristian as the younger Therrien approached him.  Kristian was perhaps an inch shorter than Erwin, but looked remarkably similar to the Duke aside from the well-trimmed beard on his face, dotted with the same salt-and-pepper as his own hair.  This close to his sibling though, Erwin realized perhaps for the first time just how few lines blemished his brother's face.  They were five years removed from one another, but it might as well have been a decade.  For a moment, Erwin wondered how long it would be before the stresses of his brother's newfound position would replace that easygoing personality.

"Luckily for me," Kristian replied with an impossibly warm laugh, as though having read Erwin's mind, "Duke Therrien of Wulfbauer is a kind and just ruler, and he would never have me thrown into the cells for ruining his big moment."  The comment elicited a similar laugh from Marcel, and Erwin turned to regard him.  Somehow, Marcel had avoided whatever blood ran in their veins that caused the premature greying of hair.  Indeed, his hair, flowing down to his shoulders in neat waves, shone a light brown through and through. 

Looking down at the glass pressed into his hand, Erwin wrinkled his nose.  The prospect of actually going through with this wedding severely tempted him to have his first drink in ten years.  "You know I can't," he offered lamely, which elicited jeers from his brothers.

"Oh come on, my Lord Duke," Kristian said, lifting an arm so that the manservant could sneak between the two and continue his work.  "I have a wife and children, and all the trappings that come with ruling a House.  And here I am, as happy as can be.  You know why?  Because I drink.  Why do you think you've been so dour these last few years? Trust me, it'll help at the altar."

Erwin's brow narrowed, and he started to retort about the stresses of leading a duchy through a civil war, but Kristian cut him off with an absent wave of the hand.  "And if my wife-to-be was a better shot than a Therrien, then I'd most certainly drown myself in my cups," he said with a wicked grin.  He leaned forward and continued in a softer voice.  "Marcel told me the whole tale.  Is it true?  Did Lady Carwick actually shoot the eye out of that gargoyle, with a stolen gun?"

Erwin glanced back over to Marcel, who simply shrugged and took another swig of his whiskey.  "That was a long time ago," the Duke finally acknowledged.  He'd almost forgotten about the gargoyle.  So much had time had passed since then.  So much innocence lost.  She was no longer the rambunctious daughter of a Duke, and he was no longer a squire watching over the two youths with exasperation.

Kristian shrugged, as if to say 'suit yourself', and took the bottle from Marcel's grasp and tucked it neatly in the place a book had been removed from the shelf on the wall. "Well, I'll leave this here; you may need it later. I know if I had to share my bed with a mage who was handy with a firearm, I'd want something to help me sleep," he snorted, some of the joviality leaving his tone.

Marcel frowned at his brother, as much for taking away the whisky as for what he said next. Of the Therriens, Marcel was the only one who'd really been friendly with Constance, even if he'd largely been tasked to be by their father. Sure, she was a mage, but she was a noble, so it wasn't really the same. "Careful what you say, that 'mage' is a lady, and she'll be your sister-in-law quite soon."

Lord Burrows opened his mouth to interject at this point, but Brendan Burrows got there before him, speaking for the first time. "She'll be your duchess," he corrected. And the elder Burrows nodded his head in agreement.

For a moment, an uncomfortable tension settled in the air. Marcel broke it, grinning at Erwin. "Well then, Captain Serious, I hope your nerves are steady without any liquid courage, then. Because we're not here to force a drink down your gullet. We're here," his grin widened considerably, thoroughly enjoying his grave elder brother's discomfort, "to escort you to your wedding. Time to go."

Marcel might have looked uncomfortably to his Kristian then, but the piercing stare that Erwin shot him at his unscrupulous comment could have punctured the walls of the castle.  This man was supposed to be his beloved brother.  Yet, the comment immediately triggered a feeling of defensiveness in him, and he felt the heartbeat in his chest quicken slightly with pangs of anger.  Unconsciously, the fingers of his left hand balled up into a fist.

He didn't presume to know the true plight of the mages, and he certainly was still working to process everything he'd learned from Olive about her experiences.  But he'd learned enough over the last weeks and months to take offense to Kristian's naïve words – words that he might have uttered himself, once upon a time, before Constance Carwick has arrived at the keep. 

But she was his friend.  No, his soon-to-be wife.  And his smooth-brained brother didn't know what he was talking about.

Luckily the moment passed quickly enough, without Kristian having noticed the iciness that has glazed over Erwin's eyes.  And, thankfully, the youngest Therrien saved the day with a voice that oozed with cheeriness – exactly what this day was supposed to entail.  The hints of disdain faded away from Kristian's face, and he replaced them with the same wide smile that he'd had earlier.  "Yes, our dearest brother finally comes to his senses today," he said, giving Erwin a hard clap on the back.  "If at any point you decide that it is all too much, I will come fetch this bottle with great haste."

The small party left the Duke's quarters then, weaving their way through the corridors toward the Great Hall, where the formal ceremony was set to take place.  Even though it was midday and the sun shone clearly through every window, the sconces along the walls of the castle were still lit and blazing, as if illuminating the path of righteousness for Erwin.  He spent the entire walk in silent contemplation though, trying to mentally prepare himself to the inevitability that lay ahead.  He'd made this commitment, spent countless evenings convincing himself that this was the most appropriate course of action, both for his sake and for the sake of the Duchy.  His thoughts drifted to Olive, who always seemed more unsure of this decision than even Erwin himself, but who'd agreed to it anyway with quiet resignation.  The spectre of doubt materialized again, haunting every bootstep against the cold stone underneath. 

Perhaps he should have had that drink after all.  But it was too late for that, and too late to walk back on his decision to get married.  Swallowing down the dryness in his mouth, he took a deep breath and steeled himself for what lay ahead.  He was ready.  He was ready.

The Great Hall's heavy wooden were guarded by a small contingent of vigilant sentries, although they remained open.  Beyond, Erwin could just make out a few of the pillars lining either side of the hall, immaculately wrapped with boughs of evergreen.  He could also hear the murmuring of conversation within, as the esteemed wedding guests awaited the arrival of the groom and bride.  How many had actually responded to the invitations that were sent out?  How many nobles had made appearances?  Lord Burrows must have said something about it, but he probably wasn't paying attention.

From behind him, Erwin heard the sound of Marcel adjusting the sword at his side, and felt his younger brother lean forward to whisper in his ear.  He couldn't see Marcel, but he could imagine the roguish grin on his younger brother's face, as their eyes locked onto the same thing.  "Here they come," Marcel said, right as the bridal party emerged from around the corner at the far end of the hall.

Constance felt like a marionette as she was shepherded through the Keep to the Great Hall. Not least of all because it was so awkward to move in the long, formal dress. In the name of saving expenses and her own profound lack of interest in dresses, Olive had insisted on simply altering her mother's wedding dress. It was a choice she thought prudent, but one which she quickly regretted when she remembered how much more of a taste for these things her mother had. The entire thing was embroidered with gold thread and freshwater pearls from her mother's native Castavar and fit with whalebone. The result was a dress that was painfully constrictive and weighed a ton. It was fine for Lady Rosengard and Grace to insist that it was beautiful, stately, and whatever else, she thought darkly to herself, they didn't have to schlepp the awful thing around, struggle to breathe despite the whalebone, or worry about tripping over its overly long tresses.

She managed to distract herself with these thoughts as they made their way to the Great Hall, filtering out the chatter of her escort; at least some of which was probably directed at her. Arriving in the portal to the Great Hall, however, dragged her rudely back to reality. She felt her body freeze and for a moment was unsure if she'd be able to actually, physically go further. She felt Lady Rosengard squeeze her shoulder. "Don't worry, Constance. It's perfectly normal to have nerves at this point." Then with a smile Olive thought was a little too maternal, Lady Rosengard lowered the lace veil over Olive's face and, when a gentle one didn't do the trick, gave her a rather forceful nudge to move forward when the music began.

Constance felt carried by some supernatural force from the portal to the altar where the priest waited in the center of the hall, excruciatingly aware of all the eyes on her and only dimly aware of the fact that, from the other end of the Hall, Erwin was making the same journey. When she found herself face to face with him, she managed to muster a small, fleeting smile. It wasn't the smile of a demure bride, but closer to that one soldier might give to another, a quick gesture of reassurance, before they rode into a hopeless battle. As the priest spoke through the rote liturgy of the ceremony, Olive's gaze remained steadily on Erwin, albeit obscured by the lace veil. She wasn't looking at him, however, so much as searching for something in him. Some sign of what her future would be. Because again she felt like she could hardly breathe, and not only because of the clench of the whalebone and certainly not out of the excitement of a blushing bride. But with each word the priest spoke, she felt her agency slipping out of her grasp. And maybe she was looking for a sign in Erwin, that it didn't have to. She also couldn't help but wonder, watching him, if his features would ever feel familiar to her. Something she could call her own. Her partner. Her husband.

Like Olive, Erwin felt equally conscious of the eyes that fell on him as he strode through the waiting crowd to meet her in the center of the Great Hall.  Their entrance had brought the chattering to an expectant hush, with only small whispers amidst the measured boot steps of the Duke and his small entourage.  The warmth of the late summer day had filtered into the hall along with an abundance of sunlight, which only seemed to enhance the general celebratory atmosphere among the lords and ladies attending such a joyous occasion. 

For Erwin though, all he could concentrate on during the walk was how stiflingly hot his outfit felt.  Befitting of the occasion, he was clothed in soft Wulfbauer greys woven with intricate lines of gold, and an elegant doublet with a high collar that felt unnecessarily tight and dug into his neck.  Tradition dictated that he also be adorned with a cloak in the deep green colors of the House of Therrien, clasped at one shoulder.  He looked like a Duke, but all in all it was too much fabric for such a warm day, the rays of sun beating down through the windows in a blanket heavier than the weight of expectation.

The sight of Olive in her wedding finery temporarily drew him back to the present, and her fugitive smile through that lace veil provided him a brief moment of respite from the gravity of the entire ceremony.  He could not help but offer her a shared, modest smile of his own, as if they were privy to a joke that had been told to no one else.  And truly this all suddenly seemed like a joke now, an elaborate performance just to placate the enchanted crowd and the Church of Ansgar presiding over the whole affair.  They'd both vocalized their trepidation about this wedding, and about what it meant for their futures - yet, somehow, here they stood, having both still agreed to come this far, having ended up here in the center of the Great Hall facing each other and their shared destiny.

His eyes remained on hers as she likewise gazed upon him, the priest's words of piety to Ansgar and to the sacred bonds of marriage under his loving watch only registering in his ears in blips.  Her eyes glimmered with what seemed like both resolve and resignation, and it brought doubt creeping back into Erwin's mind.  As he mumbled along with the priest's liturgy, repeating the oaths of devotion and protection, every echo of 'Ansgar' from the priest flashed images of those mage refugees in his mind again, to their expressions of fear that still haunted him now.  Uncomfortably, he shuffled his feet slightly and kept his eyes locked on Olive, reminding himself that he'd resolved to help her help them in whatever way possible - a promise he intended to keep.

And by his grace, now may your love pierce the veil of darkness, and may you find your way to Ansgar's light together.

They were the words spoken at Connlaoth weddings since time immemorial, the final declarations from the Church that Ansgar himself would bless two individuals with a long, healthy bond together.  And yet, Erwin understood their underlying roots - about how Ansgar had 'pierced the veil' cast by the unholy shadow of magic.  The irony of the priest's words were staggering, and he had to fight to keep a grimace from spreading across his face.  But those words were also his cue to complete the ritual.  So as the priest and the quiet crowd gazed at him expectantly, he took a steadying breath and reached out to gently lift the veil up from Constance's face.  Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss against her lips, lingering there for just a moment before pulling back.  All Erwin could do was offer Olive another small, almost rueful smile, his eyes silently professing an apology, but also a look of eternal thanks for what she'd offered and sacrificed for him through all of this. 

And with that, it was done. 

As the Great Hall descended into applause and cheers, Lord Burrows slid forward from behind Erwin and gently patted him on the shoulder, passing something into the Duke's hand.  He reached out to take Olive's hand and gingerly slid a jeweled, silver ring onto her finger.  "The ring of the Duchess of Wulfbauer," he said quietly, though she needed no explanation from him.  It was her mother's ring.  A matching ring already adorned Erwin's hand - the signet of the Duke, previously worn by both their fathers.

Time stopped when Erwin slid the ring on her finger. Olive stared down at it. Somehow she hadn’t prepared herself for this moment. The finality of what it meant struck her like a cold blow to the stomach. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. She’s really gone. You’re wearing her ring. The ring she wore your whole life. Now it’s yours. It was followed by a wave of bitter regret. Why had they fought so much? Why had Olive bristled at each touch, rebuffed each word? Yes, she had been a very different child and grown into a different woman than perhaps what her mother had wanted. But looking back now, from here, Olive couldn’t help but feel that she’d been profoundly unkind to her. Is that how all children feel, she wondered, when they find themselves finally, irrevocably adults?

She was snapped out of her reverie by, of all things, an embrace from Lord Burrows. ”Well done, my dear,” she heard him say, his normally curmudgeonly manner uncommonly tender, ”your father would be so proud.” Before she could quite recover from the shock of it, she was in the arms of Lady Rosengard, sobbing something about her mother. And when she finally emerged from that, she saw the procession of nobles and guests assembled to come and congratulate the newly weds in ones and twos. Olive played her part, politely returning embraces, hand clasps, kind words and thank yous as the line wound its way around the Great Hall towards them.

In fact, she spent much of the rest of the day playing her part, feeling as though she were little more than part of some student production back in the University in Uthlyn. Only on a grander scale. She wasn’t doing these things as herself, as Olive, as Constance Carwick, simply acting out the desired role of the audience: Constance Therrien, blushing bride, newlywed wife, Duchess of Wulfbauer. It had nothing to do with her at all, really. The only time the illusion broke, that she became acutely aware that this was real and most certainly involved her actual life was when the couple mounted snow-white horses and rode slowly, so slowly, through the streets of the town to be congratulated by their people. It was during this exercise – riding at walking pace through the town, mounted high above the crowd – that she became painfully aware that if a single disgruntled soldier, or covert agent of the Church, or any number of actors decided that they would not stand to see a mage Duchess, sent a bullet or a bolt or an arrow soaring through the air, that it would not be only Constance Therrien who’s life be snuffed out, but hers as well. She half expected it as they proceeded through the town, pushing down rising panic in her stomach at each new turn, impossibly vulnerable atop the milk-white mare. Even a mediocre marksman would have no trouble. But it didn’t come. Each turn only brought smiling children, hoisted up in their fathers’ arms to pass her a flower, or an old man reaching up to clasp Erwin’s hand. Then, incredibly, without incident, they were back at the Keep.

For the rest of the day’s festivities, she became Constance Therrien again. It was easier. Constance Therrien could be gracious, happy, demure. Protecting the real Constance underneath. But as the day wore on and gradually became night, the guise wore thin, became more wearisome to keep up, and she was relieved when Lady Rosengard pulled her aside and told her it was time to go upstairs. She didn’t even think about the implications of that instruction. She simply followed Lady Rosengard to the antechamber adjacent to the Duke’s quarters that had, once, been her mother’s dressing room. She looked down again, almost guiltily, at the ring. Grace and two maids were waiting for her. She gratefully let them help her out of the weighty and constrictive dress, glad to be free of it.

Now that she was, though, she found herself increasingly impatient to be alone. If only for a moment. It already felt increasingly impossible to sit patiently still while Grace began to undo whatever she’d done to Olive’s hair, when – to her horror – Grace attempted to broach the topic of a wife’s duties. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and in a flare of temper she knew she would later regret, she dismissed Grace and the bewildered maids from her presence. It turned out she regretted it sooner rather than later, though. Sitting in a simple white slip in front of the mirror, she began to unwork her hair herself and quickly found that whatever Grace had done had involved an unreasonable, she decided, number of pins. The ones she could see were easy enough to remove herself, but there remained an untold number in the back she could not. Swearing each time she pricked her finger on one, she was ready to properly swear at Grace when she heard someone approach at the door.

”Grace, I thought I – “ she began angrily, but stopped when she saw his reflection in the mirror. ”Oh, it’s you.” The anger had dissipated from her voice, replaced with relief, but also trepidation. She gazed at Erwin for a moment in the mirror, forgetting for the moment about the scars exposed by the slip, then turned on the stool to face him. ”Can you help me?” she asked, plaintive and a little embarrassed, and gestured helplessly to the few pins she had been able to extract. ”I think Grace must have used a hundred of the bloody things.”

He'd known that the formal ceremony before the Church of Angsar would only be the beginning of a day full of tedious formalities, and had steeled himself to the task at hand.  The endless niceties and thanks for each and every noble well-wisher that had attended was taxing but bearable.  But as the day dragged on, and the bride and groom embarked on the painfully slow ride through the town, shaking hands and waving at every turn of every boulevard, even the Duke could feel the energy sapping away from his body.  By the time the wedding procession snaked its way back to the keep, the summer sun already starting to set in the horizon, his face was sore from all the forced smiling.

The wedding feast, set up in the same Great Hall where they'd spoken their vows, proved no less draining.  As befitting a Duke's wedding, the newlyweds' raised table had been laden with all manner of traditional Wulfbauer delicacies, and the wine and beer flowed freely throughout the hall.  Erwin had little time to eat though, as guest after guest approached to make conversation and heap even more congratulations on the two.  He had not an ounce of patience left in his body by the end of the evening, and every word of thanks he forced out of his mouth took more willpower than the last.  The revelers, however, were still going strong, and likely would continue to do so even after the Duke and Duchess had retired. 

He could tell that Constance's own patience had completely eroded away, too.  By the time Lady Rosengard came to whisk her away, he almost felt a mixed sense of relief and jealousy for her – if not for what was expected of them next.  He remained in the Great Hall after she'd gone, keenly aware of the furtive but expectant glances from those present.  Marcel had not-so-subtly left a full glass of Kristian's Serenian liquor at his table, and it sat there in front of his barely-touched plate taunting him, asking which of his two brothers would win their bet as to when Erwin would finally break his yearslong abstinence. 

After several long moments, Lord Burrows' nephew approached him – odd, that the elder Burrows himself was nowhere to be seen – and whispered in his ear that it was time for him to retire to his bedchambers after his wife.  He paused, steeling himself for what was to come, and then, with a long exhale, snatched up the amber liquid, pushed his chair back, and stood.  An audible gasp rose from the crowd as Erwin raised the drink to them and then, in one go, downed the entire contents of the glass.  It burned all the way down his throat and sent stars flashing across his vision, so much so that he could barely see the room erupt into shrieks and applause, the loudest of which came from the Therrien table.  Consciously remembering why he'd stopped drinking, Erwin grimaced and offered the attendees one last smile and nod of his head before turning toward the exit of the Great Hall, the cheers fading softer and softer behind him.

The smile faded from Erwin's face as soon as he stepped out of the Great Hall.  The journey upstairs to the Duke's chambers afforded him plenty of time to think.  Even though he'd had weeks to prepare, it still seemed surreal that he was now a married man, to Constance Carwick of all people.  No, Constance Therrien, he had to remind himself.  They were bound to each other now.  But even saying it in his mind, the name had an odd ring to it.  And as he drew closer to the heavy door of his quarters, his thoughts turned to the fact that, as far as he knew, of all the women he'd bedded, none had done so reluctantly or with a sense of resignation.  It just didn't feel right, and the very idea sent a sudden wave of consternation washing throughout his being.  Or maybe that was just the alcohol.

As he entered, he heard a muffled curse coming from the antechamber.  Shutting the door behind him, he rounded the corner just in time to see the flash of anger cross Olive's reflection, at least until she realized it was him and not Grace.  Oh, it's you.  The words, tinged with defeat, almost stung him, but he shook it off and nodded at her request.  Standing behind her, his eyes drifted down to the web of uneven scarring left visible from her slip, and for a second he became lost in them and the tragic history they represented.  Realizing that he was looking for a little too long though, he quickly turned his focus back to her intricately braided and woven hair.  "Hells," he breathed, reaching to gingerly remove the first visible pin.  "How did Grace not stab you to death with all of these?"

After that initial comment, he silently worked to pluck pins out of her hair one-by-one, letting them clatter into the haphazard but growing pile beside the mirror, pausing at one point only to remove his annoying cloak and discarding it to the wayside.  Eventually though, he glanced up at her eyes reflecting out of the mirror and gave her a look of feigned annoyance.  "I don't know about you, but I thought they were supposed to actually feed us on our wedding day.  I could barely get a bite in." 

In the mirror, Olive saw his gaze linger on her back, but as he didn't say anything, she similarly remained silent and was grateful for it. Instead she just said, "Thank you" and sat silently on the stool while he worked. Strangely, something about the moment did actually feel, well, intimate. A grown man, an army officer, a duke, taking the time to pluck pins from her hair. Not even questioning why her maid had not finished the job. Though she suspected Erwin might already understand that particular point and, she hoped, sympathized. It had been a long day for everyone. Or at least for the two of them.

Those thoughts flitted through her mind as she sat patiently, silently, furtively watching Erwin's reflection. Whatever Erwin might have read in her realization that it was him, and not Grace, at the door, Olive was genuinely relieved to finally just be alone with him. Would she rather be alone? It wasn't a question she dwelt on; why bother? She'd agreed to the situation she found herself in now. But that didn't mean she wasn't a little nervous, a little self-conscious about all that that entailed.

For all that, though, when Erwin did his best at – what? making conversation? – Olive couldn't help but laugh. A bemused, or maybe amused, smile crept onto her face and she looked up to meet his gaze. "Oh gosh, I really hope I don't make you so uncomfortable that you feel that you need to force small talk, Erwin."

Maybe it was the sound of her laughter, or that small smile that crept onto her face when they locked eyes in the mirror.  Maybe it was the warmth that was starting to flush in his cheeks from that whiskey he'd downed.  Maybe it was just late.

Or perhaps it was the way that she'd gently chided him, and called him out on exactly what it was doing.

Whatever the reason, the exhaustion and restlessness that had dogged him all throughout the day and into the evening suddenly seemed to wash away just then.  In that moment, he felt a tickling sensation in his gut that ascended into his chest and, despite his best efforts, he could not contain the low laughter that now escaped from his mouth.  Somehow, despite the shadows dancing around in the corners, the candlelit dressing room seemed to glow just a bit brighter, and the levity pervading the room seemed so appropriate.  And across Erwin's face spread the fullest, most genuine smile that he'd displayed all day – and perhaps the most genuine smile he'd ever allowed in front of Olive.

With an embarrassed shake of his head, he averted his eyes from Olive's reflection and turned his attention back to the task at hand, still trying to force down the laughter.  The Duke's shoulders, though, visibly relaxed from all of the tension they'd been carrying the whole day.  For the briefest of seconds, they were not husband and wife, or Duke and Duchess, but just two people.  "It's been a long day," he responded lamely, offering just a shrug.  "With all the people we had to entertain, I ran out of things to say."

There was only one more pin remaining in Constance's hair that he could see and, when he removed it, her braided hair unraveled and fell down across her shoulders.  He dropped the final pin into the pile and inspected his work for a second before looking back to her reflection in the mirror, hands dropping from her hair to her shoulders.  "There, I think I got all of them.  I hope.  Maybe you'll want to check yourself." 

Olive's smile grew watching Erwin's somewhat unexpected reaction. Had she seen him laugh before? Maybe once or twice, but surely mirthlessly. But this, amazingly, seemed genuine. Genuine, but perhaps borne out of sheer exhaustion more than anything else. Watching him, it occurred to her that, however she was feeling, Erwin might be having a harder time with this than she was. At least in this moment. So absorbed had she been in her own thoughts, what she was giving up and for whose benefit, that she hadn't really stopped to think much about how Erwin might feel until now. Once she'd (yes) resigned herself to this path, she'd set about to adapting. She'd had to adapt to worse. And, in a way, this was easier than the limbo she'd been in before. There was still a strangeness to it, without any doubt. She felt in her entire body the tension of it. But watching Erwin she thought he seemed nervous and, despite his laughter, unhappy. "It's okay," she said after a moment, gentler now, "you don't have to say anything.".

We have plenty of time, she thought with a dark humor, but kept that to herself.

When he finished, she stood and carefully felt through her hair for any remaining pin. "This is why I had it all cut off at university," she complained, half to herself, "what a bother. I ought to have let Grace finish it, but you wouldn't believe what she was trying to – " Olive had started to laugh, but caught herself as she turned to face Erwin. Erwin Therrien, her husband. The rest of the story stuck in her mouth, and she swallowed.

She regarded him for a long moment, searching in his features for some sign of what he wanted. Finally, she reached out and brushed back a piece of his hair that had fallen out of place, her motion slowly deliberate, and cautious, as if experimenting with touching him life that. "You know, behind that grate over there," she said, a bit conspiratorially, motioning to a polished brass grate just visible in the Duke's quarters, "there's a little passage that goes up to the attic, and then to all over. It's how I used to sneak in here as a kid. I even used to sleep up in the attic sometimes," and several nights more recently, stolen time with Valerian. "I built a little hideout for myself, I guess. Anyway, I think I could still fit," she offered with a rueful smile that masked whether or not she was joking or serious. "I could leave you in peace for the night and no one would be the wiser. If you wanted."

Dimly, she was aware that these half-jokes didn't amount to much more than Erwin's pitiful attempt at small talk.

Still riding high on the unexpectedly light mood, a disarming smile crept onto Erwin's face at her half-hearted complaint about her hair, but it faded somewhat at the implication of her unfinished thought.  He could already imagine the instructions that Grace had given to Olive before he'd arrived back at these chambers.  She likely had given Olive the same talk on previous occasions too.  Erwin couldn't say that he knew the lady-in-waiting in any real capacity, but just based on his few interactions with Grace, he briefly wondered if Constance would have said yes at all if not for her likely-stern advisements.

He did not shy away or tense up when she reached up to fix his hair, but instead gazed down at her with a sincere expression.  Her touch felt oddly comforting, almost as though he could find a certain solace in her presence that was otherwise inaccessible to him outside of this moment, when he otherwise had to wear the facade of a strong, confident Duke for everyone else to see.  Truthfully, though, he still didn't know exactly what he wanted just then – or even if he was hesitating for his own sake or on her behalf.  Instead, following her gaze over to the grate, Erwin tried to imagine what the secret tunnel might have looked like, and how Olive might have used them in happier times to traverse the keep, or just as a reprieve from the tedium of life as the daughter of a Duke.  It'd never even occurred to him to look behind it.  "I learn something new every day," he said offhandedly.  "Good to know in case we ever need a quick escape."

At Olive's offer to essentially leave him be, he turned his gaze back toward her.  The thought of Constance climbing through some dusty, cobwebbed passageway to spend the night alone in the cold attic seemed completely outrageous – even if, behind that twinkle in her eyes, she might not have hated the option.  Though her tone had been light and joking, in his experience at least, it did seem like she often used humor to deflect from her unspoken thoughts.  She HAD said it as though it was a favor to him though.  No, he decided in that moment, you don't need her to 'leave you in peace.'  You don't need an escape from her.  He'd made a commitment, and he would do his best to make it work.  "I think I'd prefer that you stay," he said quietly but resolutely after a moment's silence.  Reaching down, he took her hand into his own.  "We can just get a good evening's rest here.  It doesn't have to be any more than that tonight."  These were her quarters too now, after all.

A wry look crossed his features.  "But since you mentioned it, now I'm curious about this passageway."  Were they... getting better at small talk?

I think I’d prefer that you stay.

Olive’s gaze dropped to Erwin’s hand as it took hers, aware of the earnest resolution in his eyes even as she looked at their hands. She felt something skip then tighten in her stomach. It wasn't a bad feeling, but... she wasn't sure what it was. This is real, she thought, as surreal as it felt. At his next assurance – that tonight needn’t be anything more than a ‘good night’s rest’ – she looked back up at him. She wondered what would feel stranger, having sex with him now (carrying out her ‘wifely duties’ as Grace had called it, before Olive had shouted her out), or sleeping in the same bed with him without crossing that other boundary of intimacy first. She honestly didn’t know. So she just nodded dumbly.

But it was only a moment before his expression changed and he asked about the passageway and Olive’s own lit up and a grin broke across her face, bright and almost beaming. ”Well, only one way to learn more,” she answered, pulling him by their still interlocked hands over to the grate. She released it, crouching down, to remote the grate and was greeted by a cloud of dust and soot. But with a resolute tug, she was able to pull the grate out and leaned it against the wall next to the now-exposed hole. That would probably leave a mark, but Olive wasn’t concerned about that now. She waved away the cobwebs before moving to all fours and leaned forward, her head and shoulders disappearing into the darkness of the passage.

She reemerged, dusty and coughing a little, but gestured for Erwin to take a look.  The ‘passage’ was a vertical shaft whose inky depths stretched upwards and downwards to unknown depths. It was made of rough stone block, maybe a bit less than two feet in each direction. ”The trickiest part, from here, is getting in – without plummeting into the kitchens, that is. But it looks scarier than it really is.” And as he reemerged, he’d see the clearest reflection of the young, mischievous girl Erwin had been tasked with keeping out of trouble that he’d seen since she’d returned to Wulfbauer. ”Do you want to see?”

If Erwin's laughter had offered a pleasant surprise to Olive, it was now his turn to take notice of the way his wife beamed at the mention of the passageway.  Whatever tentativeness still forming a wall between the two of them seemed to evaporate away when she gleefully led him by hand over to the grate.  Erwin wrinkled his nose at the cloud of dust emerging from the shaft's entrance, lifting a hand to swat it away from his squinting eyes.  Still, he crouched low behind her, head cocked as he tried to see into the darkness past her.

When Olive finally emerged from the passageway, both her white slip and her honey-colored hair already flecked with soot, he could not help but take notice of the expression plastered all over her features.  It was a pure, unadulterated exuberance that he'd not seen from her in many years, and certainly not since she'd returned to Wulfbauer Keep.  Back when the world was such a different place.  When he was no more than the son of a minor noble trying to cross the bridge between squire and knight, and she the rambunctious daughter of a Duke who sought out trouble, often with his younger brother in tow.  It'd felt as if the two of them had secretly concocted as many plans as possible to frustrate their older chaperone.  Gods, he'd been so dour back then too, so uninterested in what schemes the two had cooked up... he'd never taken the time to properly recognize that they were all just youths.  Young, reckless, and happy.

Seeing her excitement triggered something within him that he couldn't quite identify.  Maybe it felt good to see her happy, and he unconsciously didn't want that to end.  Maybe, for the hundredth time, it was just late.  But whatever it was, and for whatever reason that he'd been disinterested in her adventures back then, he was, somehow, interested now.  Erwin's eyebrow raised slightly, and a small smirk spread over his face.  "So, it goes up to the attic and down to the kitchen?  This I have to see." 

He maneuvered past Olive and poked his head into the darkness, the swirling dust and soot getting into his nose eliciting a cough from him.  Just reaching his hand inside he could tell that the walls were narrow, almost uninviting.  Perhaps a child or someone like her with a slight frame could fit, but it seemed more dubious for his broader shoulders.  "So you climbed all the way up this thing, and you never fell, or got stuck?" his voice echoed from inside the passageway, sounding incredulous.

"Well, I never fell all the way down to the kitchens," Olive shrugged. "It was a bit tricky when we first found it and I was small, but by ten or so it wasn't a problem. Anyway, from the attic passageway it's easy. But from here..." she shuffled past Erwin back to the passageway. She hesitated for a moment to assess the space again, then reached out first with her hand, leaning her body in until it reached the other side. "[/b]...you have to brace yourself."[/b]

With that said, Olive carefully maneuvered herself into the vertical passage until she had her shoulders braced against the far side of the shaft and first with her feet on the lip of the opening, and then gradually she got her legs in and kept herself upright by wedging herself by pushing with her knees on one side and shoulders on the other. She wasn't sure why she was doing it, exactly. It seemed easier than just... being alone together. But it wasn't only that. Maybe on some level she also realised that sharing something like this was developing another kind of intimacy.

She gave him a self-satisfied grin from the grate opening. "I can try to show you the way up to the attic if you want, but it might be a bit embarrassing if your guards have to come pull you out if you get stuck," she laughed. "And probably raise more than few questions."

"You know, normally I would say this is a stupid idea," he quipped offhandedly, his nose wrinkling again.  The same thing he'd once said to her when she ran off with Marcel and a stolen hand cannon to take pot shots at the chapel gargoyle.  Or when the two youths had decided to sneak out the West Gate to go climbing among the tall, moss-covered (and, as young Erwin might argue, very dangerous!) sandstone pinnacles.  Or a half-dozen other occurrences that he could not recall anymore.  "But I'm too involved in it to back out now."  If nothing else, it was a welcome distraction from the realities of their shared life now.  Plus, what other strange occurrences could happen on this already surreal day? 

From his viewpoint, Olive looked equally secure and precarious, wedged inside the narrow passageway through her back and knees, but still dangling over what appeared to be a drop into darkness.  It wasn't clear just how far the shaft descended, nor could he tell how long of a climb it would be to the attic.  A slight frown crossed his features in contemplation, though a part of him felt assured in the fact that he was more likely to slide to a halt than plummet down to the kitchens if he lost his grip. 

The real question was whether he might actually get stuck.  With the many layers of his fancy wedding attire still on?  That was almost a certainty.  Reaching up, he tugged at the neck of his thick, blue-grey doublet with one hand while using the other to unfasten each of the silver buttons holding the garment tight across his chest.  The garment came loose and was discarded to the cold stone floor of the antechamber, to be picked up and washed in the morning by whoever entered the Duke's quarters first.  The soft silver-threaded overshirt came off next and was added to the pile of abandoned clothes, leaving Erwin in just a simple white, long-sleeved linen shirt, thin enough to offer much greater mobility – and hopefully space enough to climb up through the narrow shaft after her.

He ducked his head down to the opening but paused for a moment, gazing up at Constance who was already inside.  He gave her a knowing look, which only half hid away his amusement.  "I'm sure my wife will have a good answer for them – and for why she was wandering around the attic alone, covered in grime."  It still sounded strange, but maybe he just had to say it more.

And then with a measured breath that begged the question 'why are we doing this?,'  he squeezed into the passageway after her.

Olive gave a surprised laugh, practically gaping as Erwin stripped down to his shirtsleeves and actually prepared to follow her. Particularly since she genuinely wasn't sure he'd be able to manage it or not. Starting her shuffling climb upwards, amusement clear in her voice, she called back down, "You know, I was really just showing off. And curious if I could still do it. If you get stuck, don't blame me!"

Still laughing softly to herself, Olive began the ascent up the stone shaft. She very quickly decided that this had been easier both as a relatively fearless youth and, critically, dressed in more than just a slip. But she could still manage it without too much fuss, only pausing – momentarily – when Erwin said 'my wife.' While part of her acknowledged that that was, indeed, reality and there was no reason to beat around the bush about it, another part of her still cringed and wondered if he really had to say it out loud. Especially when they were so thoroughly distracted. "You know," she started, choosing rather to reflect on the past rather than the very real present, "I think this is the first time you haven't told me off for an idea like this. I rather thought you would."

Once, Olive could scale up and down this passage in a matter of minutes, but it was nearly ten she guessed before she reached the opening into the long attic passageway. She pulled herself up and quickly dusted herself off. Not that it did too much good. The soot and grime wasn't going to be removed that easily, and her elbows and knees were both a bit bloody from the contact between her bare skin and the roughhewn rock. Well, she thought to herself, she was a duchess now. She didn't have to explain to anyone why she had skinned knees. The passageway was long and narrow, dimly lit by small round windows at either end. In one direction, the passage appeared to simply meet another, perpendicular route. On the other, however, one could just see from this vantage the small candle in the window, and the silhouette of haphazardly stacked books and other trinkets.

Olive's attention, though, was below, and once she'd collected herself, she peered curiously into the opening to gauge Erwin's progress.

Just from looking into the passageway, Erwin had surmised that the journey upwards, as easily as it might have been, would prove to be an arduous task.  And the moment he wedged himself into the dank shaft and started shimmying upwards, he was proven right.  Even with most of his clothing discarded, his broad shoulders still barely fit in the tunnel, and only if he angled himself diagonally.  And with so little room to maneuver, he could hardly use his strength to his advantage. Instead, following Olive's example, he wedged his knees against one side of the shaft, though he had to rely on just his palms to push upwards as he could not extend his elbows far out enough for leverage.

The slow, arduous climb upwards was compounded almost as much by the dirt and grime falling on him as Constance led the way upwards as it was by the constant, jolting slips that he faced.  He had to squint his eyes in the darkness and shake his head to clear the dust from his face, and even that was not enough to prevent him from coughing on more than one occasion.  When her teasing voice drifted down from above, he responded in a hoarse, breathless voice, "That's because Marcel isn't here.  I was never telling you off.  It was always my idiot of a dear little brother."  Of course that was a lie, half-hearted as it was.  After all, inevitably, it was almost always her idea.  "Though now I'm beginning to second guess my decision."

From above him the black passageway suddenly opened up to a little bit more light as Olive found and took the exit.  She'd scaled the tunnel faster than he'd thought; he was still some ways from it, and the exertion from squeezing through the tunnel, along with the swallowed breaths every time his grip slipped and he slid a few inches downward, was starting to wear on him.  With a grimace, he let out a low stubborn grunt, climbing and climbing and climbing.  By the time she popped her head back into the tunnel to check on him, he could see that he was only a few precious feet away from the opening.  Steadying his breath, he shifted his weight just enough so that he could reach his hand up, but in that movement he felt the pressure of the tunnel walls against his shoulders as his body rotated too much.

He gave his torso a few jerks before peering up at Olive with an expression that was half embarrassment and half amused incredulity.  "Okay, I might actually be stuck.  Give me a pull."

"Angsar's balls," Olive swore, the curse not quite masking her amusement, "I told you you'd get stuck."

Even as she chided him, though, she chuckled as she reached down to grab his hand. However, Erwin was still far enough away that Olive had to lean fairly far forward into the opening to grab his hand. It made leveraging her own weight to pull him up somewhat tricky and, as each tug was met with considerable resistance, she ended up being pulled down more than he was pulled up. After a few minutes of trying this way, she let go and frowned down at him. "Maybe I should get your brothers. Between the three of us, I am sure they could manage this better than me."

Without really clarifying if she was joking on that point or not, Olive disappeared from Erwin's view. As tempted as she was – as funny as it would be to embarrass him like that – Olive was now, she knew, in Erwin's corner. She could hardly make a joke from the other Therrien's at his expense. Plus, what would she even say? How could she possibly explain such a situation? Instead, she wandered to where she knew less commonly used supplies were stored in the attic cells. Squinting in the dim light, she felt her way around a shelf of bottles, periodically bringing one back into the hallway to try to decipher its label in the dim light. After some effort, she shrugged at a bottle labeled 'Castor Oil.' "Well, I guess that'll do," she muttered to herself, creeping back to where Erwin waited.

"Close your eyes and mouth," she instructed matter-of-factly upon her return, waiting only a moment for Erwin to comply before uncorking the bottle and pouring the pale yellow oil contained inside down the shaft, trying to pour it around Erwin as much as possible. "Don't worry. It's just what they make soap and things with. Alright, let's try this again."  With that she clasped his hand again with both of hers before leveraging herself to best advantage and throwing all her strength into one hopefully final pull.

If she'd been just a hair taller, perhaps she might have been able to angle herself down enough to dislodge him from the passageway.  As it were though, despite her tugging on his hand, his shoulders weren't budging much.  You knew this would happen, he admonished himself in the back of his mind.  This is why he always shot down her and Marcel's wild ideas – because they inevitably resulted in these situations. 

When she actually mentioned his brothers though, he looked up at her with what might have been slight alarm.  Sure, there was a singsong quality to the way she said it, and more than a hint of amusement behind those eyes.  But the very thought of his brothers finding him like this sent a cold wave of panic coursing through his body.  "Oh bloody hell, they cannot see me in here.  Especially not Marcel.  I'll never live it down."  He was almost glad at that moment when Olive disappeared back into the attic, though, perhaps energized by the terrifying thought of others being called in to assist, he continued to grunt and twist, trying to dislodge his shoulders from the passageway.  His squirming seemed to help the cause somewhat, but each time he felt as though he budged an inch, his own weight caused him to slip down again and back against the walls of the tunnel. 

When Olive finally re-emerged with the castor oil, a deep grimace crossed his features.  He was quite familiar with the substance, of course.  And of its particular... side effects when ingested, something that had been used out in the field on more than one occasion.  Cursing under his breath, he squeezed his eyes and mouth shut as Olive poured the oil all around him.  He felt it drip and leak down the back of his collar and against his body, soaking through his shirt with a slimy, disgusting sensation.  But they had to do what they had to do.  Feeling her hand close around his again, he pushed his legs against the walls of the shaft as much as he could, feeling the stone dig into his knees. 

But it worked.   Between the two of them, he felt his body finally come loose from the tight, narrow shaft.  The oil had slicked the tunnel walls though, and he could already feel whatever leverage he was able to generate with his legs starting to slip.  Luckily, the lip of the exit was close enough that, with her final full, Erwin's fingertips finally found the ledge.  With a loud grunt he hauled himself out of the tunnel, nearly tumbling on top of Olive before finally rolling onto his back with a low thud.  He lay there, breathing in deep breaths, the grimace still plastered on his face as he felt the oil clinging to his neck and back.

And then a low laugh escaped his lips again.  "What the fuck was I thinking?"

Having put all of her weight into hauling Erwin out, when he finally budged – and with the oil rather slickening her grip – Olive lost her footing and stumbled backwards, landing unceremoniously on her bottom. She had no time to react to that, however, before Erwin clambered out of the opening, dripping in oil and covered in grime, looking more like some sort of swamp ghoul than a Duke. She had to clasp her hands over her mouth to stifle her guffawing laughter at his appearance. The laughter escaped when Erwin hauled himself into the passageway, knocking into Olive, who landed on her back on the cool stone floor. Absolutely in stitches.

Several times she tried to pick herself up and say something to him, but fell back, shaking in stifled silent laughter each time. It wasn’t just at Erwin in his current state, but a culmination of the whole absurd day. A release, at least a little, of all the tension that had accumulated on the day of her wedding. No, their wedding.

Tears of laughter gleamed in the corner of her eyes when she finally came out of it and looked over at Erwin. She didn’t bother to get up, back still flat against the floor, her cheek pressed a little against the stone as she turned her head to Erwin. ”I must say, my lord,” she started, barely keeping it together, ”you look very stately. Very dashing. The noble duke decked out in lavish finery. An inspiration to all from the earnest peasant to the lordliest of lords. It’s just a pity your people can’t see you now.”

As Erwin lay on the stone floor, measuring his breaths as he blinked away the dust and soot from his eyes, the sound of muffled laughter caused him to turn his head and regard Olive.  She was also sprawled on the cold floor, and despite her best efforts, her shoulders were trembling with every guffaw that she failed to contain with that hand clasped over her mouth.  The sound of her laughter – genuine laughter – brought about an odd sense of lightness in his head, and he realized that despite the whole passageway debacle, he wasn't even mad.  He pressed his mouth together in another glower at her, but this one could not truly hide his own good spirits.

Instead, he just lay there, soaking in her laughter as much as his shirt had soaked in all of that cold, slick oil.  And it was everywhere.  In his hair, against his neck, some even having trickled down his trousers.  After a second, he became acutely aware of just how uncomfortable the oil felt against his skin.  With a slight wince, he gingerly sat up so as not to spread the mess further.  Too late though, a pool of it had already formed underneath him, leaving a large, man-shaped stain against the stones where the oil and combined with soot to form a disgusting slurry.

"Maybe I should just march back downstairs and let them all get a good look at me, I'm sure they'd all be delighted," he replied to her, running a hand through his hair with a huge grimace.  When he removed his fingers, they were completely slick with castor oil.  "'There's the Duke of Wulfbauer, one drink and he's lost his mind.'  Bloody hell, at least it doesn't smell too bad."

Turning his gaze back to Olive's laughing form, he reached out with an expression that seemed to say 'this is your fault' before smearing the greasy hand on her.

Olive was still grinning broadly at him and at his obvious disgust at the oil. To be fair, she hadn't intended to the castor oil to put him in this embarrassing predicament. It just seemed like the most obvious solution without having to bring in help. But she had to admit, now that it was done, it was frankly hilarious and she didn't exactly regret it. At his threat to march back downstairs, though, her eyes widened and her smile faltered a little.

"Oh god, you're right, they're all still downstairs, it isn't even that late, I guess," she said, laughing now a little nervously. As if it couldn't get any more absurd. "How on earth are you going to get back to your quarters without being seen?" But something else he said made her sit up a little, propping herself up on her elbows, and regarded him with an amused curiosity. "'One drink and he's lost his mind?'" she repeated. "The famous teetotal Erwin Therrien? Falling back on liquid courage? I don't know if I should be flattered or offended. I can't be that intimidating."

That was, before Erwin smeared the now sooty and grimy castor oil across her fast. Her eyes flashed with faux-fury and she performatively wiped the oil from her cheek, flicking it onto the ground. "Oh, but I can be," she warned him, reaching out to grab the discarded clay bottle labeled 'Castor Oil' and wielding it threateningly, "this thing isn't empty yet."

Seeing the bottle of oil in her hand, Erwin sat up fully, his back stiffening.  A globule of the stuff had dripped down his hair and into his ear, and he tilted his head to try and wipe it away with a finger.  Every moment he sat there, he could feel it sticking more and more to his skin, and the sensation was not pleasant.  The very thought of even more oil being dumped on his head raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Still, he couldn't back down from her challenge, not now.  Straightening his posture, he gazed directly at her at first, then down to the clay bottle in his grip, then back up to her eyes. "My first one in ten years, and I don't intend on making it a habit," he responded with as cool a voice as he could muster, even as he fought to keep a smirk from crossing his face.  "But it's a celebration down there, and the occasion called for it, so it's for one night only."  Never mind that she absolutely was correct about the reason – that Erwin had been thoroughly intimidated by the prospect of the two of them reluctantly - begrudgingly - bedding each other.  In hindsight, dulling his senses with alcohol probably wouldn't have solved any of those problems, and would only bring back memories of why he'd quit in the first place.

But this though... this distraction.  He could handle this.  Even if he'd need the world's longest bath to get every ounce of oil clinging to his frame.  "I was going to say that the night isn't over yet, and maybe we can settle this peacefully with a drink, the only night you'll see me having one," His eyes glanced back down to the container, and this time he could not prevent the grin from surfacing.  "Or you can make a move," he added in as threatening a voice as he could find, "and I promise you neither of us will be walking back down, because we'll both be slipping and sliding."

”’The occasion called for it,’” Olive snorted, unable to suppress a skeptical smirk. ”Who are you trying to convince? Yourself, or me?” There was no malice in the question; Olive looked thoroughly amused. Maybe, even, a little sympathetic. After all, she certainly hadn’t abstained from having a drink to get through the night thus far, and she certainly wouldn’t turn one down to get through the rest of the night, either. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Lowering the bottle to a non-threatening position, she regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, before flashing Erwin a knowing, teasing grin. ”Though if you want to spend the night alone – relieve yourself from your ‘husbandly duties’ as I’m sure Grace would say,” she added with an eyeroll, ”this is probably the only drink you need. I can pour you a glass,” she laughed, ”if you like.”

It was, perhaps, a little too forward. But Olive wanted to see how he reacted. After all, this whole thing had been his idea (well, no, that she doubted; but he’d been the one to bring it to her). They might get away with avoiding the issue tonight, but they wouldn’t be able to put it off forever. They may as well acknowledge it.

"Or, you can keep up the threats," she added after a moment, smirking a bit again, "and we can see who's faster. The oil-slick, probably drunk former general who can't even fit through a single passageway, or the spritely, mostly dry former guerrilla fighter, who actually knows where she's going."

At the suggestion, Erwin's face screwed up with repugnance.  Not at the thought of his 'husbandly duties' as Olive put it – at least not this time.  He'd already told her he didn't need to be rid of her tonight.  No, this time it was the thought of those poor soldiers on the field who'd had to ingest castor oil for ailments of the gut.  "Sure, and I'll be relieving myself the entire night alone in the privy," he said with wrinkled nose, shaking his head.  "I'd rather take another drink of Marcel's vile whiskey than come near that."

Although he was sitting up, Erwin could feel the oil now starting to pool underneath him.  With a grunt, he adjusted his body until he was bent down on one knee.  He was almost ready to carefully climb to his feet when the unmistakable sound of a challenge emerged from Olive's mouth.  He turned his eyes to her and glanced her up and down.  It was true, she was certainly drier than him.  In a pinch, she'd have a much easier time maneuvering around than the slicked-up Duke.  And she knew the nooks and crannies up here.  Frankly, he couldn't recall if he'd ever even been to this part of the castle.

He'd not come this far to be backing down now, though.  Not that he would have engaged in this sort of chicanery and followed her up that tunnel on a normal night.  But this was a unique night, for more than one reason.  Straightening his back in a faux display of superiority, he pointed a finger at the bottle in her hand and gestured as if prepared for a fight.  "Come show me how fast you are, then, and we'll see how dry you remain."

At Erwin's argument that a drink of the castor oil would only end with him spending the entire night alone in the privy, Olive simply shrugged to say that that sounded rather like an Erwin problem. Nothing to do with her. It was, of course, a nonchalance that came with what had been a thoroughly unserious suggestion.  On what was turning out to be the most serious and unserious night of her life. Their current misadventures almost put out of mind all the very serious indeed things that had transpired earlier in the day.

Perhaps buoyed by that fact, Olive did not do the reasonable thing and laugh off Erwin's challenge, did not suggest they call it a truce and find the most inconspicuous route out of the attic. Instead, she raised an eyebrow at his finger pointing and his doubling down on his initial threat. Well, very well, then. He was asking for it.

In a flash, Olive flung the bottle hard onto the floor at Erwin's feet where it shattered on impact, pale yellow oil and clay shards ricocheting off the stone floor and splattering loudly between Erwin and Olive. She didn't wait for the shattered pot shards to hit the floor before she sprang away, dashing down the dark attic hallway, leaving a slick, spreading pool between Erwin and where Olive stood.

Sprinting down the hall, Olive threw herself sharply to the right, disappearing into the same little storage cell where she'd found the castor oil. It wasn't the only thing in here. Searching as quickly as she could in the dim light, she grabbed a squat clay pot stoppered with a broad cork lid. Scratched into the clay was the label: Talcum Powder. She threw aside the cork lid and, knowing Erwin would likely be close behind her, pressed her body into the shadows lurking around the small door to the cell. Ready to empty the pot's contents as soon as Erwin arrived.

To be truthful, Erwin had mostly expected his half-hearted challenge to be laughed off, and for the two of them to move on to figuring out how they would exit the attic unseen.  But evidently Olive was willing to meet his posturing and unwilling to back down.  The crash of clay against stone echoed throughout the cramped space and caused him to flinch slightly from the unexpectedness of it.  Instinctively, he climbed up to his feet now even as his eyes drifted down to the oil splattering all over the floor.

And when he looked up a split second later, all he caught was the fleeting glimpse of Olive's bare back as it disappeared around the dark corner.  Even though the only sounds echoing through the attic now were the faint sounds of her footsteps, he could have sworn he heard her laughing the entire way - or maybe it was just in his head. 

Under normal circumstances, he might have just leapt over the puddle, but these were not normal circumstances and he was already covered in the stuff.  So instead, with a slight smirk, he gingerly stepped through the spreading oil, taking care not to slip even as he moved pieces of shattered clay out of the way with his foot.  These passageways were not familiar to him, but he turned the corner into the same room that he swore she ducked into...

And immediately was met with a cloud of talcum powder exploding directly in his face, sending him stumbling and into a coughing fit as it got into his nose, mouth, and eyes.

The sound of Erwin’s coughs were drowned out by barely controlled fits of laughter from Olive. She had to clasp a hand to her face to keep from snorting at the sight of him. Talcum could make enough of a mess at the best of times, but combined with the oil, it stuck as a thick white paste to Erwin and a fine dusting where he was still dry. Even his salt and pepper hair was now white. The sight of him – the serious stoic military man, the suave womanizer, even the weary duke – like this was just too much. Olive’s ribs ached half-stifled laughter.

”I think we found your cover,” she managed to get out, still talking through the hand clasped over her mouth. ”Everyone’s had enough to drink that I think if anyone saw you in the corridors now, they’d swear they saw a ghost!”

Her words, though not terribly funny in and of themselves, set her into another fit of laughter. It was mixed now not just with the objective hilarity of Erwin’s current state, but with the abject absurdity of the day. Of the entire situation. Here they were, behaving like children, like they never had – not together – in their youth. As though it were all a game. And it was, in a way. And it wasn’t. And maybe part of her laughed now because, despite the surrealness and the seriousness of it all, it just felt good to laugh for a change.

Finally pulling herself together enough to feel a bit sorry for the coughing, wheezing Erwin, she stepped forward and reached an arm out to steady him. Then she wet her thumb on her tongue and carefully wiped away the powder from around his eyes, and then from his mouth. She paused, her thumb lingering on his lips. The laughter had left her feeling light and almost, for a moment, carefree. Buoyed and perhaps emboldened by the levity of the moment, she lifted herself up on her toes to close the distance between them and kissed him.

The nebula of fine white dust started to settle around Erwin, or at least as far as he could sense in his disoriented state, coughing and sputtering as he tried to wave it away from his shut eyes.  Stumbling back a step, the cold stone wall he mercifully bumped up against was a godsend.  All around him he could hear the echo of Olive's unbridled laughter filling up the room.  Of course she was enjoying all of this!  As she offered him her absurd suggestion, he tried blinking his eyes a few times but found that he could barely open them beyond a squint without the talcum cloud still tickling at his face.  "A ghost," he repeated, but as soon as he opened his mouth to come up with some sort of half-hearted retort, the coughing and sneezing started up again. 

It was only once he felt her hand clasp gently against his arm to steady him that he finally felt the itching in his nose subside.  He blinked his eyes open slightly and was greeted by her blurry silhouette in front of him.  As Olive wiped away the dust from his face, he glanced down at his dusty self and then back up to her, the expression on his face silently asking her something in between "how ridiculous do I look?" and "did you actually just throw that at me?"

And then, unexpectedly, she kissed him.  Erwin's back stiffened slightly at the touch but, as if through sheer instinct in the situation, he also found himself leaning into it.  The doubts and hesitance they'd shared, all of the drama, started creeping ever so slowly back into his mind, but his own voice rang in his ear, telling him 'Stop. Thinking.'  After the entire day – weeks, even – that they'd been through, this little adventure leading to a dark storeroom of the castle's attic, was pure escape.  Even if did not admit it out loud, he was having fun.  And if she too, well then now was not the time to ruin ... whatever this moment was.

He briefly broke Olive's kiss and pulled back to regard her face in the semi-darkness.  Then, impulsively, his hand snaked around her waist and pulled her against him, ignoring the fact that he was absolutely covered in oil and dust.  His left hand came up to briefly caress her face before he roughly pressed his mouth against hers in another kiss.

Aware of the sudden stiffness on his posture, Olive thought she perhaps she ought to apologise. Tell him what they both knew, anyway, that someone had to do it eventually. Erwin after all, and much to Olive’s initial surprise, had been the one to say he wanted a proper marriage, not one of mere political convenience. (Though some of her skepticism about that remained, even if she believed Erwin believed it.) And if it was a boundary they would have to cross eventually, Olive would rather it be her who pushed them over that line. She hated the idea of being the bashful, demure, and passive bride. If she wanted to keep hold of it, she knew she would have to exert her own agency every chance she got. Why should this be an exception?

Of course, that made it all sound much more calculating than it had been. To her own surprise, in that moment of playful and competitive teasing, it had felt natural. With anyone else, it would have been the natural escalation. With Erwin it was somehow different, both because he was Erwin Therrien and because he was now her husband. But any opening that felt less stilted or less forced seemed like one to take advantage of. However, his initial response, that tension, even if he didn’t break her kiss immediately, made her wonder if perhaps she’d misjudged the moment, or overstepped the boundaries of their fragile friendship.

So it was her turn to be surprised when he pulled her to him and roughly kissed her. Her first thought, now that she was pressed against him, was that he felt very gross. The oily paste coating his shirtsleeves was cold, slimy, and somewhat irritating against the bare skin of her arms and shoulders. But then her arms were around his neck, pulling herself closer to him, and despite herself (or was it?) she felt herself grow flush. It was as if committing to this moment might purge some of the tension and awkwardness that had grown between them since Erwin first, under great duress, proposed.

After what felt like an extremely long moment, or maybe two, Olive broke away from the kiss without pulling away from him. She looked up at him, her palms pressed still against the slick, oily back of his neck, her expression overly-earnest. ”I still think the ‘ghost strategy’ is our best bet for getting you out of here.” She only just managed to keep a mask of faux-seriousness shrouding her obvious mirth. ”There’s still a few more jars. We can make it a bit more convincing.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, ”You are really extremely gross right now, by the way. Maybe more of a ghoul than a ghost, now that I think about it.”

The uneasiness that had defined their relationship these last weeks seemed almost a distant memory in that second, the way that Erwin's arms now wrapped around her figure and pulled her into the kiss.  Of course, there was little doubt that it was only possible because here in the darkness of the attic, the realities of their situation, of their marriage, could be pushed to the back of their minds.  Indeed, a part of him was grateful of the fact that she'd initiated this contact, which made it much easier for him to reciprocate in the heat of this ephemeral moment.  Still, he fought to push all of those extraneous thoughts out of his mind to focus on the here and now.  And the here and now was good.

Once Olive had broken their long kiss, Erwin peered down at her once more, keenly aware that the pace of his exhales had quickened, even though that likely was in part due to the unhealthy amounts of talcum powder he'd inhaled just moments earlier, and the ragged coughing that had caused.  He also could clearly discern the quickened heartbeat in his chest responding naturally to the intimacy of the moment, to the warmth of her body against his, her arms wrapped around his neck.  It was a familiar but good feeling – though, with their bodies pressed up against each other, he also started to become acutely aware of just uncomfortable the oil-and-powder combination felt against his skin, having soaked through his shirt at this point. 

"The oil was bad enough," he complained superficially, eyes drifting up to the light dusting of talcum powder that had shaken off the top of his head and landed on the crown of Olive's hair.  "But the talcum was completely uncalled for.  I'll be finding it in my hair for days."  Her face was still hovering near his and, spontaneously, he leaned down to kiss her again, but this one much briefer in length before he lifted his head again and grimaced in acknowledgement of just how gross he felt. 

"Ghoul sounds about right.  This stuff is disgusting.  This is your fault, you know." As if to prove a point, he lingered for a long moment with his arms still tightly wrapped around Olive, letting her wallow in the disgusting paste that was starting to transfer from him and onto her, letting her get a taste of the ordeal he just went through.  But finally, he loosened up enough to allow just a sliver of space between them so he could peer down at himself, letting his hands drop down around the back of her waist.  "Bloody hell, I'd rather just sleep up here than let anyone see me like this."

"My fault?" Olive retorted with a snort of laughter. "I'll just shove you back in that shaft then, shall I? I told you that you wouldn't fi-" but her defense and the chortle of laughter accompanying it was cut off when Erwin pulled her tight against his oily, pasty chest. "That was completely uncalled for," she grumbled, slightly muffled as she was smushed against him.

When he released her, she stepped away enough to try to brush off whatever paste and, worse, oil had transferred onto her. "I don't know if I'm getting rid of any of it, or just spreading it around..." She shot him a baleful glare, full of mischief, that threatened for a moment to grab another jar and strike again. But it was only a fleeting mask for her profound amusement at the situation. When she did reach out, it wasn't to retaliate, but to start to unbutton his now thoroughly disgusting shirt. She did this matter-of-factly; nonetheless, she felt much more aware of doing it than she might have even half an hour earlier. It elicited a feeling in her stomach now she wasn't quite sure how she felt about. She pulled a face, grimacing, at the sound when she pulled the oil-soaked shirt off of him and when she threw it to the ground it landed with a distinct splat. "I don't think that was doing anyone any good anymore." She watched the shirt where it lay, as though it might jump up and smother her, then gestured out of the little store room. "Come on."

She led Erwin down the long attic hall, unfortunately passing back through the now fairly large puddle of castor oil. Olive tip-toed through it, careful to also avoid the shards of broken pottery. Past the opening they'd first come through, to the far side of the narrow passageway. Here it didn't join another corridor, but turned around a little corner and narrowed into what would very aptly be called a crawl space. Olive stooped down into cramped space and, after a few meters, pushed aside a musty, tattered old tapestry. The crawl space opened up into a small nook that bore the distinct impression of a childhood and adolescent hideout. The space could only be described as cluttered. Several haphazard stacks of books on a wide variety of topics, taken at some untold earlier date and never returned to their library of origin. Some, Olive knew with a small feeling of guilt, belonged to the university in Uthlyn. An old, worn celestial globe bore constellation names in some obscure and little known script. Next to it a small brass telescope that almost certainly should have been better housed. Scattered letters, sketches, what looked like drafts of essays, and some esoteric set of cards littered the little space. Atop a simple straw mat was a nest of blankets made of heavy wool or faded old quilts (one, in fact, bore the genealogy of the Carwicks up to Olive's grandfather). In the corner a longbow and a quiver of old arrows were stashed next to a spear that looked suspiciously like it belonged with one of the suits of armor in the great hall. Much of the assorted mess had a thick layer of dust on it, but some things showed signs of more recent habitation. There was a small round window in the far wall. Olive glanced at the stub of candle left on its sill and, momentarily, to the stables below. As children, and then again in the last months, lighting that candle had been a signal to Valerian to sneak out and meet her up here. She felt a small chill but pushed the thoughts away.

Instead, Olive turned to Erwin and offered a little shrug. "At least we can hide out for awhile until our lovely guests are more likely to have gone to bed. And any remaining will be too drunk to see straight." Those last words gave her pause and she suddenly looked around. "Speaking of, somewhere here..." She didn't finish the thought, instead she started feeling around the wooden planks of the wall until she found the loose one that wobbled under her touch. Carefully pulling it back, Olive reached into a dark little crevice of the wall and pulled out a half-empty bottle of amber liquid. Even Erwin might recognize it as an extremely prized and rare spirit. A treat even for a duke. "Gosh, I stole this from my dad years ago," she said, blowing the dust off the bottle and carefully uncorking it. She sniffed it gingerly, but her initial hesitance melted away into a bright smile. She reached back in and produced two small, jewel-encrusted glasses (almost certainly also out of place) and awkwardly balanced them in the crook of her arm while pouring with her other hand. "Well, since you proposed a drink anyway. This ought to still be better than whatever Marcel foisted on you."

Olive's lackluster complaint about the oily mess on her was met with just a shrug and a matter-of-fact look from Erwin, even as he watched her with amusement and an air of thorough satisfaction as she tried to rid herself of the stuff.  An appropriate comeuppance for her having resorted to such low tactics in the first place.  Though, as she feigned a quick movement towards the shelf of jars, a corner of his eye twitched in apprehension of being doused again with another face full of talcum powder.  Thankfully, she didn't actually retaliate against his little stunt.  Instead, as Olive started to work at the buttons of his soaked shirt, he lifted his arms up his sides to make the task easier.  This wasn't the first time a woman had removed his shirt in a dark room, and as if out of reflexive habit, his mind idly wandered to the logistics of how they would comfortably have sex in this cramped little storeroom full of clay jars and rickety shelves, the thought only interrupted by his own grimace mirroring hers as she finally peeled the foul shirt off his torso. 

As she tossed aside his garment and beckoned for him to follow though, he caught himself pausing for just the briefest of moments after she rounded the corner of the doorway.  Despite still riding the high of their little escapade, and despite having for the time being distanced himself as much as he could from the wedding that had just occurred, the little niggling in the back of his mind again reminded him that this was no casual encounter, but that she was his wife now.  Frowning to himself, he spent that moment ridding himself of that thought, instead focusing on the fun they were having, and also on roughly mussing his own hair to get some of the powder out. 

Finally, he too exited the storeroom and followed Olive down the passageway, back through the shard-strewn puddle of oil, to her little hideaway nook.  The first thought that ran through his mind was that she'd, amazingly, been telling the truth earlier: it actually looked cozy.  He met her gaze with a small, almost impressed nod.  "You were right, it's a good little hideout," he replied, "and hiding up here is the best idea I've heard all day."  Not counting the crazy idea to climb up a dusty, insufficiently wide shaft.

As Olive wandered over to the wall, Erwin crouched down to inspect the assorted collection of belongings tucked away into the nook.  He slowly leafed through the piles of many many books, silently reading off their titles one by one in his mind, pondering the sheer variety of topics, as if the collector couldn't decide what she wanted to read.  "Interesting selection here," he mumbled half to her, half to himself, "though some of these don't look like they're from downstairs."  He shuffled through the papers and sketches next, before finally picking up the spear, inspecting its still somewhat sharp edge.  Of all the things here, this one certainly looked the most out of place and he turned back to look at Olive with a raised brow and an expression that asked "Really?" 

His eyes next drifted down to the bottle perched in her hand , and now this time both eyebrows went up.  "I suppose I did propose a drink," he acknowledged with faux defeat.  Ten years without a drink, and now he was about to have a second in the same night.  And maybe more. 

Well, it was a special occasion.

Olive looked up just in time to see Erwin’s quizzical look regarding the spear. Tucked away in the corner, she’d almost forgot it was there. In response, she offered an awkward shrug and she tried to balance the bottle and two glasses. ”One of the stableboys and I decided we were going to run away and slay ogres. I thought it was prudent to practice a bit first. Let’s just say a lot of the sacks of grain storage ended up with mysterious holes. It’s amazing what you get away with when you’re an only child.” Of a duke. But she left that part out. ”But in my defense, I was just a kid.” She didn’t dwell on whether or not it would be any comfort to think of a child running around with a dangerous weapon as opposed to a teenager who still believes she can become an ogre hunter. But somehow she still wanted to set the record straight.

Carefully, Olive set the bottle down on one of the stacks of books while balancing the two now half-full glasses. ”Well, I’m not going to force you, but it was your idea,” she told him as she handed one of the glasses to Erwin. Though not large, it was heavy for its size, made of a clear crystal and adorned what looked like actual gems in reds and oranges forming distinct patterns. Once Erwin had his glass, Olive raised hers to her nose to smell its complex, peaty aroma and was hit by a wave of nostalgia. She remembered her father drinking this in his study, letting her try just a bit when she was a teenager. The peaty smell of the spirit mixed with the smell of the fireplace. For a moment, she was transported back into that happier past, when her familial home was full of just that: her family. And the worst thing she had to face was common prejudice, which felt daunting then but seemed almost quaint now.

As the heaviness of it set in on her, she looked back up and saw Erwin, and decided she didn’t want to think about the past right now. Moving a step closer to him, she extended her glass. ”To the end of a very, very long day.” She paused, then added, ”Well, I suppose we still have to get ourselves out of this situation, back to your actual quarters and, well, clean. So, I guess, to a breather during this very, very long day.”

The quizzical look on Erwin's face slowly morphed into a contained mirth as Olive provided an explanation for the dusty spear.  The image of a young Constance Carwick running around and stabbing sacks of grain with the spear seemed exactly consistent with how he'd remembered her – a troublemaker whose escapades somehow always resulted in his own headaches.  But that was a lifetime ago for both of them and, with his passing curiosity having been more than satisfied by her response, he carefully leaned the weapon back against the corner next to the longbow.

Turning, he accepted into his hands the glass that was presented to him, peering down into its amber contents.  It had a stronger, more distinctive aroma than the Serenian liquor that Marcel had pushed on him, but after all this time having avoided even a drop of the stuff, the only thing he could really discern was that it burned his nostrils.  That, and the fact that like Olive, it also triggered memories of days past, though his were decidedly less nostalgic.  For a moment, Erwin could almost swear that he felt an itch along the thin scar running across the side of his neck.  Ten long years. 

After having spent perhaps a second too long looking down into the cup, Erwin finally glanced back up at Olive and shot her half a smile, clinking the glass against hers.  "We can figure out the escaping part later," he responded.  "Here's to this respite from a long day, and to hopefully finding a towel." He didn't bother correcting her characterization that they were still his quarters.  Like she'd said, this was a breather – from those complicating factors, from the people still hovering downstairs, from whatever was looming beyond the walls of the Keep.  They could, at least for a little while, hide from all of that up here.  He'd drink to that. 

If he thought for a second that this cup would go down easier than the last, though (perhaps because he'd steeled himself to it after having downed Marcel's liquor, or perhaps because Harlow Carwick probably knew how to spot quality in his drinks), he was sorely mistaken.  The liquor, despite having a more pleasant taste to it, once again burned all the way down his throat, causing him to grit his teeth, blink heavily, and let out a hoarse cough.  That was immediately followed a rueful grin and a shake of his head, as he became fully aware of just how ridiculous his reaction must've looked to Olive: Erwin Therrien, defeated by a lowly cup of spirits.  There was still a drop of amber at the bottom of his glass and, after taking a breath to compose himself, Erwin lifted it again to finish off the remainder of the liquor.  With that done, he gently set the cup down next to the half-full bottle, idly thinking that maybe – maybe – he would pour another one later.  His eyes turned to his torso and he spent another moment wiping off spots of remnant oil with his hands and then wiping his hands on his trousers.  Then, wordlessly, he took a step toward Olive, his hands coming up to the sides of her face as he leaned down to kiss her again.

Olive's eyes widened in surprise – and maybe a touch of amusement – pausing in the middle of taking a careful sip of the rare spirit. Did he really just knock the whole thing back? She couldn't help a little snort of laughter. One of the lessons her father had made sure to teach her (another one her mother had not approved of a teenage girl being instructed in) was never to drink a proper spirit as like, in his own words, "backwoods tavern moonshine." But what came next made up for his mistreatment of such a prized, rare spirit. Olive openly guffawed at the terrible sequence of faces Erwin pulled as he forced down the drink. "You look worse than if that had been castor oil," she laughed, tears in her eyes. "Did you make the same face in front of all those people downstairs? I mean, I guess they can't depose you just because of that, but if they – "

But before Olive could finish, Erwin stepped forward and her teasing faltered as he crossed into her personal space. There was still a mirthfulness in the way she returned his kiss, though, reaching one hand up to the base of his neck while the other carefully holding onto her mostly full glass in the other. If someone had told her this morning that the day would take this turn, she would not have believed them for a moment. But the rest of the day felt a world away now. Like it had all been someone else's life. Certainly not hers. The present moment, the warmth of the spirit in her chest and of Erwin's bare skin, felt utterly divorced from those events. As if the two realities couldn't co-exist. Right now Olive wasn't sure which felt more surreal, but she knew which she preferred.

She broke the contact with a quiet "Wait," and she took another sip of the amber spirit before carefully moving to place the bejeweled glass next to its twin and the bottle on the stack of dusty old books. She hesitated for a moment, frowning at the precariousness of the ersatz drinks table, then decided to move the lot of them onto the floor. The delay only added to the energy she brought back to Erwin, hands on his bare shoulders as she pulled herself against him and pulled him into another kiss. Without breaking it, she did her best to leverage her comparatively small stature to steer them both towards the haphazard pile of blankets and the straw mattress.

Erwin's eyes drifted to the full glass balanced so delicately in Olive's outstretched hand as she pulled away from the kiss, and something about her posture caused the onset of a slight grin to curl up the corners of his mouth.  "Oh, just drink it or bring it with us," he murmured in a low but decidedly lighthearted tone.  That levity was only amplified when she spent a long moment tenderly seeing to the safety of that precious bottle.  And here he was gulping it down like a savage.  At least, with her back turned to him, she afforded him an opportunity to wrinkle his nose and lick at his gums to try to rid some more of that alcoholic aftertaste.  It probably would have tasted better if he sipped it like she did, like he was supposed to.

When Olive turned back to press up against him, Erwin was there to meet her kiss with just as much energy as she brought.  Their lips still locked, his body moved willingly and fluidly with hers as she pulled him with her and towards the makeshift bed.  Along the way, his hands wrapped around her slender waist, then deftly felt up her sides and along the contours of her neck as he kissed her.  Up here, away from all of the noise downstairs, away from the appearances and expectations, there was a relaxedness and confidence to his motions that perhaps would not have been possible earlier that evening, but was on full display having committed to this singular moment.

As they reached the edge of the bed, his foot bumping up against the side of the mattress, Erwin found the thin straps holding up her slip.  With an almost practiced ease, he hooked his fingers under the bands and slid them off of Olive's shoulders, letting the garment fall away from her.  He pulled back just slightly to gaze down at her body, at the smoothness of her skin, before his left hand found the nape of her neck and he pulled her mouth into his again, his right hand reaching down to work at undoing his trousers.

Olive’s body arched into Erwin’s touch, her hands finding their way up to bury her fingers in his hair. At Erwin’s deft disrobing of her, Olive couldn’t help but smirk. A little too deft, she thought, and spared one moment to shoot him an amused look that seemed to ask, Does that normally impress? But it was soon washed away by the urgency of the moment, and her hands moved down to move his own aside, undoing the fastenings of his trousers herself. Once he was free of them, she pushed him into a semi-controlled fall back onto the simple straw mattress, landing straddling atop of him. Hands pinning down of his wrists, Olive smirked down at him and teased, ”Now is the point where I reveal I’ve been a devious rebel mage all along, just waiting to have the Duke of Wulfbauer at my mercy.”

She gave him no time to respond to the jest before swooping in to kiss him, deeply and demandingly. It was thrilling to just not think – about the war, about her duty, about the trouble in Wulfbauer, not even in this moment about their marriage – just to act and to feel. And this felt strangely, and exhilaratingly cathartic. After weeks of walking on eggshells around each other as the awkward tension anticipating the inevitability of this moment sat obstinately between them. But this felt far from the moment she dreaded. This felt almost illicit, and exhilarating. She pressed herself against him, his bare skin now hot against her own, and shifted to press herself against his sex. She was so desperate to be lost in this moment that she almost didn’t hear it.

A soft rapping against the glass window. Tak tak tak. Sure she was imagining it, she pressed herself harder into Erwin, not wanting to leave the heat of this one, singular moment to return to cold reality.Tak tak tak. Olive paused and although she was panting, she lifted her head up and went suddenly still. Listening. Tak tak tak. ”Wait here.” Then slowly, and reluctantly, she disentangled herself from Erwin and rose to her feet, tentatively crossing the few steps over to the small round window. She saw it even before she undid the window’s creaky old hatch and quietly pulled it open. A magpie, the night light shimmering off its black and white feathers. With the window cracked open, noise from the celebration below could still be heard. Music and laughter and drunken people talking far too loudly. But her eyes were only on the bird. Its small dark eyes returned her gaze, then it opened its beak and a small, speck of light – almost imperceptible – glided out of its mouth and into Olive’s outstretched hand. She stared down at it for a moment, then raised it to her ear.

Nothing happened. She clasped her hand tighter against her ear, cupped around the little floating speck of light. But nothing. Slowly, she drew her hand back down and stared down at it, troubled. Then she looked at Erwin and understood. Moving carefully with the little speck still hovering in her palm, its light gently pulsating, she made her way back to Erwin, kneeling down next to him. ”I think it’s meant for you,” she said plainly, her quiet voice betraying a flicker of annoyance. Then, without further explanation, she held it up to Erwin's ear, her hand cupped around it with the little mote of light in the space between.

At first, there was nothing. Then Erwin would be able to hear what sounded like the crackling of a blaze and a man’s ragged breath. He would hear them as the he, himself, were there. And when finally a voice spoke, it was one Erwin had heard only weeks ago. The mage he’d nearly beheaded in the Maze. Silas.

”Duke Therrien, I trust Olive will convey this to you. Roland Kenins has taken the occasion of your wedding and the absence of the lords loyal to you on their own land to move his troops across southeastern Wulfbauer.  My eyes in the air report his men have occupied all the land from Turgal to the River Aeling. Nearly a quarter of your lands. Where they meet resistance, homes and harvests are being burned. I am watching it with my own eyes this very moment. This message should reach you at least a day before word would arrive by horse. You must use the time to act swiftly. Act now.”

The old straw mattress was uneven, hard, and lumpy, but Erwin barely felt it digging up against his back as he lay there with Olive straddling him.  As she pinned down his wrists and feigned deviousness with her humor, he opened his mouth to respond in kind, but she closed that distance too quickly for him to get even a word out.  Not that that was an issue.  He hungrily returned her kiss as his hands ran up her lean thighs and backside and then grasped her roughly by the hips to draw her to him, the muscles of his back taut as he arched up to meet her body.  There was a lingering warmth in his chest from the spirits, but that paled in comparison to the intoxication from feeling her flush skin, the heat between her legs against his own throbbing groin, the urgency of their shared breaths against each other's mouths. 

Then, he sensed Olive hesitating even with their bodies pressed up against one another.  He gazed up at her as their rhythmic movements slowed and, suddenly, she stopped still.  For a brief moment Erwin, chest pounding, wondered if she was beginning to have second thoughts about all of this, the same doubts that they'd somehow managed to push to the wayside up here in the isolation of the attic, that he was loath to let come back between them.  But there was something else about her expression that he could only half discern in the semi-darkness, that made her seem... troubled.  As she extracted herself from his lap and stepped over to the window, Erwin pushed himself up against his elbows, his blue eyes following her silhouette, a small, confused frown creasing his brow.  "What..." he started to say, but the words died on his lips. 

As she pulled open the small glass window, the distant, muffled echoes of laughter and merriment filtered in.  But he, too, suddenly had only eyes for the small bird that seemed to be the focus of Olive's attention.  And though the small bead of light might have been little more than a white dot in the shadows, it was so out-of-place in the darkness that it might as well have been fireball the way his eyes immediately locked on it, his breath hitching in his throat.  His unblinking gaze followed Olive's naked form all the way from the window, and he sat up now as she knelt back beside him and pressed her cupped hand to his ear, anticipating what he might hear in that small pocket of air, and dreading that he might be right. 

That voice.  Hearing it now was almost an out-of-body experience, as though his mind could not process how he could physically be sitting on this lumpy mattress when clearly he should be out in the wild somewhere, conversing with Silas Greene, the renegade mage.  "It's your friend Silas," he mumbled at some point, though he barely heard his own voice as he listened.  His gaze had fallen when the voice first started speaking, but slowly Erwin's eyes rose until they were staring right at Olive, the expression on his face morphing from confusion to stunned silence, his brows raising and his mouth sliding slightly agape.  By the time the report was finished, whatever exhilaration they'd wrapped themselves in with their intimate ministrations had all but evaporated, replaced by a curdling sensation in the pit of his belly.

"Angsar's balls..." he managed to say, before a second later the gravity of Silas' words truly hit him.  Then, suddenly, he was scrambling to his feet, the news having sobered him better than any bucket of cold water ever could have.  "Angsar's fucking BALLS!"  Quickly, his eyes scanned the corner for where he'd kicked his trousers when she first removed them from him. "Kenins has mobilized his men westward to the Aeling, burning the countryside as they go," he explained hastily, "He's declaring war."

He looked pointedly at Olive, an almost apologetic look in his eyes, a part of him wishing that they could just forget all of this and get back on the mattress.  But that look was quickly overtaken by a more familiar, harder expression.  "We need to get back downstairs."

Kennins had moved his troops to the Aeling. They were burning the countryside as they went. Olive felt a rising anger in her stomach – but not only directed and Kenins and his men. How could they have been so stupid? Scratch that, selfish? Erwin and Constance both had become so absorbed in their own lives, spent so much time feeling bad for themselves about the necessity of marriage, that the had taken their eyes off target. Kenins. Of course he would make a move now. How had she not expected that?

Olive gazed down for a moment at her now empty palm, allowing herself a moment of unease that Silas had sent that message for Erwin’s ears, not her own. Was it a show of solidarity with the duke? Or did he not trust her not to do something rash? Rash or not, Olive’s head was already buzzing with reactive ideas. The should destroy the bridge across the Aeling, trap Kenins men. Silent figures skulking in the dark, sabotaging their supplies, poisoning their water, setting fire to barracks in the night, moved like shadows in her mind. No, she heard her own voice in her mind. No, those tactics can’t work here, now, against her own people. They can’t destroy bridges, roads. And another knowledge lurked deeper than that, that she wouldn’t be doing any of it. She might have been a rebel fighter once. She might have done all of those things. But now that she was back in this world, she was back to being confined as a woman. As a duchess.

She was snapped out of her reverie by Erwin jumping up and announcing his intention to march back downstairs. ”Wait a moment!” she snapped. ”You can’t march downstairs like that,” she waved at his half-naked, dirty, oily body, ”saying that your known rival is moving troops across the countryside. People will thing you’re drunk, or mad. Or worse they’ll demand to know how you know. And what will you say then? That now that you’ve married a witch, you get secret messages from mages out roving the countryside? That a little bird told you? We have to stop and think for a moment.”

Olive wrapped one of the blankets around herself, thinking. Something didn’t seem quite right about it. ”Why would Kenins burn the countryside? I don’t understand that. His tactic has always been making himself look like the more stable, reliable alternative to you. Unless,” her brow furrowed as an idea came to her. ”If I were Kenins… I would have mercenaries attack farms and fields. Make them look like raiders, or mages, or both. Then use that as an excuse to move my troops across the region, to secure it. And decry the duke’s inability to protect his own land. Say he’s too busy throwing a party while his lords’ lands burn.”

"No, of course I can't, at least not down to the party," Erwin responded hastily.  Almost unconsciously, he found himself pacing back and forth in the little nook, several steps from one wall to the next.  And although the window was now closed, and his body was still warm from the alcohol and their near encounter, he also felt a slight chill against his skin. "But we need to act, tell somebody.  Lord Burrows.  Kristian and Marcel." He turned to Olive, a frown plastered all over his face. "If soldiers are at the Aeling, they could be here within the month.
Silas said that a message should arrive tomorrow, so that would give us at least one more day.    My brothers would not question it if we talked to them.  If nothing else, they could ride for Arbutus Vale and start mustering what troops Kristian can afford."  If they were still sober enough to listen at this hour.

Like Olive, he too was internally chastising himself for having let this whole marriage business distract him from having focused harder on the inevitable conflict with Kenins that they had both anticipated.  Not that they hadn't made any preparations.  Most of the army had dispersed back to their respective provinces months ago, with the few remaining troops still stationed in what was left of Valence, but riders were ready at a moment's notice to send word to call to arms again.  But as far as the Keep knew, while Kenins, for months, had been pouring honeyed poison in the ears of any Lords who would listen to him, there hadn't been a single messenger reporting that troops were actively gathering under the Chancellor's banner.  And so there hadn't been a need for Duke Therrien to muster troops to his own camp. 

His hands came up to rub at the sides of his temples.  Nothing about the whole situation felt right.  "You could be right about mercenaries," he said, stopping to look over at Olive even as his mind conjured up the map of Wulfbauer adorning the desk in his study.  The wooden pieces marking the map would have to be adjusted now.  "But we would have heard about it by now.  It's a week's ride from Kenins' lands to the Aeling, and it would take a column of soldiers twice that long to cover that much ground, not to mention the time it would have taken to gather the troops of the Lords loyal to him.  Even if he was trying to paint a picture of 'protecting the land,' the timing is all off.  It would be obvious that the whole thing was coordinated."

He shook his head again, trying to make sense of it all.  Why hadn't they received word about any of this yet?  "Like you said, confrontation isn't his style.  But Kenins has been sowing discord among the southern and eastern lords for months now, and he hasn't been shy about it.  He couldn't take the Dukeship with a vote, and he knows he has no other choice now but to use force.  Maybe Kenins is pivoting his strategy.  He isn't a soldier, but Lord Kassian is, and that's certainly something he would do."   

Marcel Therrien was having an excellent time. It turned out that it wasn't so bad being the eldest unmarried brother of a duke. He had taken genuine delight in watching the discomfort of his Very Serious Older Brother as he squirmed in the spotlight. But now that Erwin had been whisked away to see to his marital duties, it was Marcel's turn to shine. Every eligible young lady of Wulfbauer was being paraded in front of him. He was the first choice; the most eligible bachelor in attendance. Sure, barring a family tragedy, he'd never be a lord of his own land, but who didn't want to get closer to the Duke? Some men in his position, he knew, might complain, but Marcel was thoroughly enjoying the attention. With so many mothers vying for him to grace their daughters with a dance, there was no expectation he'd be able to spend more than one dance or glass of wine with any of them. What an excuse to flirt his way through the night without having to lift a finger! He was, in fact, just about to lead the very attractive – and, he'd heard rumor, not entirely ladylike – Lady Bronwyn Braedyn onto the dance floor when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

A very shifty looking servant was there, looking so awkward and uncomfortable that Marcel thought he was about to tip Marcel off that he'd sat in something unpleasant or else something else terribly embarrassing. And the look the footman gave him made it clear he wished to deliver his message away from the ears of the fair, young Lady Bronwyn. Giving ample apology and promising to find her again straight away, Marcel stepped side with the anxious servant.

"The Duke, er, m'lord, requests your presence," the man said, keenly avoiding making eye contact with Marcel while he did.

"The Duke? My presence? You must be joking. I'm quite sure my brother knows what he's – " but the earnest look of the young servant stopped Marcel from elaborating. "Now?"

"Right away, m'lord."

So it was that Marcel found himself being escorted up the stairs to his brother's bedroom on his wedding night. Maybe, he thought idly, fingering the bottle of strong wine he'd snatched on his way up here, Kristian's suspicion was right and Constance had turned out to be an evil witch, after all. Turned poor Erwin into a frog... But when the servant gingerly opened the door to allow Marcel to enter and then promptly scampered away, he found a much stranger scene before him...

There was his ever-serious, ever-stoic elder brother, the famed general, Captain Serious, the Duke of Wulbauer, stark naked sitting in the middle of a large, soapy tub. But at least he was clean! Constance, on the other hand, looked like she'd really been through the ringer. Disheveled and covered in grime with a skinned knee, she sat perched lightly in a window sill, wearing Erwin's blue-grey doublet thrown over what might have once been a white silken slip, but he was pretty sure was covered in soot? And the faces on them – you'd think the pair had come straight from a funeral!

Marcel's mouth opened and closed several times, but before he could find words the doors flew open and slammed shut again. "What the devil is all this about? demanded Kristian Therrien.