by Bree Aguiar
The troll appeared to be listening to her and taking in every word but looked quite uninterested in it all. After a bit of her rambling, he interrupted. “Yes, yes. That is well.” As he said this, he pulled a large, leather-bound journal out of one of the desk drawers. Grabbing a quill, he positioned it over the pages as if ready to take notes in case she said anything interesting.
“But tell me child,” he continued, a look of excitement crossing his face. “Have you met any old friends here?”
Gwenyre wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but she found herself answering anyway. “New friends, sure. Not old. Though Cyran is pretty old, but he’s an elf like me. And you know we can get to be quite old. I mean, I’m not old. Not yet anyway. But my parents are. They’re, like, really old….”
She continued speaking, using words and phrases and tones she’d never even used in casual conversations with friends, never mind with a seemingly evil troll hell-bent on hating her. But if he hates me, she asked herself while she continued her incessant speech, why would he invite me here for tea and a chat? Why would he care about any of this? And why am I speaking so much about it anyway? Upon asking that question, she forced herself to stop talking. She took the cup of tea, cooled now but still held firmly in her hand, and poured the rest down her throat as fast as possible. The taste was horrid, but the action kept her quiet.
Sylvan appeared nonplussed by her rambling and actually now looked quite interested until she stopped. When she chugged the remainder of her tea, his face took on a look of rage. He breathed a few times in an effort to calm himself down as she swallowed the bitter drink before urging her to continue. “Your parents are old,” he said to her. “Tell me more about them.”
She didn’t want to do that and got a dark feeling in her gut that doing so wouldn’t be a good idea. That wasn’t the only feeling growing in her gut, however; the slight nausea she felt earlier had reached a crescendo once she finished the tea. As she opened her mouth to figure out what to say, she felt a bubble coming up from her stomach. “I’m going to throw up,” she warned in a panicked voice.
Before she could say anything else, he screamed and threw her out of the room. But not without commanding her to return next week. “Straight here and bring a steel stomach next time, you ungrateful little urchin.” She nodded, holding her mouth and stomach in an effort to keep herself from sicking up in front of him. Once he slammed the door in her face, she ran to the little window from earlier and threw it open before heaving the contents of her stomach out. Thankfully, nobody appeared to be walking on the dark grounds below. Finally, after what felt like hours, she was done. Her stomach empty, throat burning, and knees weak, she made her way down the stairs and through the dark estate slowly to find her way back to the Dwelling and go straight to sleep.
Unfortunately for her, that was not going to happen. Being a weekend, visitors had begun arriving earlier in the day and were milling around, chatting to one another with drinks in their hands. Gwenyre had to backtrack out of several halls filled with drunken guests, laughing and fighting and just generally being loud, so she wouldn’t be caught. She didn’t know what would happen if a high-class visitor saw her, but she didn’t want to find out. Plus, she still felt sick. She needed to get out of the House, and fast.
Trying to hurry back while keeping away from the guests, Gwenyre turned a corner into a hall that she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before. She wandered in front of each of the doors, trying to place where they went, when she came across one that looked oddly familiar. She pushed it open, hoping it would lead her to the kitchens quickly and out of sight of the guests. But she was wrong on both accounts.
Opening the door led her into a study she had wandered into a few times in her first day at the estate. It was a beautiful room, with one wall covered by windows that reached from the tops of the high ceilings to the bottom of the handcrafted hardwood floors. The other three walls were lined with shelves, each filled with thick leather-bound copies of books in all colors. The window faced the side of the estate, and from it could be seen fields and trees and flowers lit up by the perfectly placed moon. Lamps were lit and placed throughout the room, to be used by those wanderers who ventured here for a midnight story. Woven rugs, supple and soft beneath her feet, were placed sporadically, each of their handmade designs unique and clearly expensive. On these rested sofas and chairs, velvet-cushioned and in various sizes for the different guests that might occupy the room. Side tables, some covered in books and other in chess sets or puzzles, were also placed nearby every chair for each visitor’s convenience. In another life, this would have been one of Gwenyre’s favorite places. It reminded her so much of her own family’s library, though their furniture was all elf sized. But this was not a room she was allowed in except for cleaning, and especially not when there was someone else there. Which there now was.
Once she saw the shadow of another in the room, she immediately backed out the door, hoping she could retrace her steps unnoticed and get back home quickly. So much for not running into anyone, she thought while trying to hold her nausea in. She hoped against all odds that whoever it was hadn’t noticed the door opening. This hope, however, was quickly dashed.
“Ah, it’s you. I was wondering when I would see you again.”
That voice stopped her in her tracks. Lord Sampson. She felt her cheeks redden, wanting to escape, but doing so would be futile. She stepped further into the study and curtsied with her head down, hoping he wouldn’t notice the crimson in her face. She stayed quiet, both to hinder any conversation and to hold in the sick feeling that remained in her stomach.
Taking her silence for subdual instead, Sampson began to converse with the elf. “How have you been these past few days?” She swallowed to settle her stomach before giving a quick answer.
“Fine.” He looked toward her, his eyes looking her up and down as if her body would give him a further answer than her words could. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said quickly, trying to back out the door.
He rushed over faster than she thought his human body was capable of, and pushed the door shut so she could not get through. “Leaving so soon?” he asked, his voice taking on a leering quality. A new fear crept into the elf, the feeling quickly replacing her nausea. She needed to get out of there but stood frozen by the doorway, her feet unable to move an inch. Sensing her helplessness, Sampson laughed. The warm, beautiful sound of it contrasted with the sneering voice he had taken on just moments ago.
“Relax,” he instructed in a firm, but calm voice. “I don’t plan on harming you.” Regardless of this promise, she still felt herself frozen against the door. “Sit,” he commanded, more firmly this time. He pointed towards a set of chairs facing one another, beckoning her to take the smaller of the two. She could see impatience rising in his face as she stood there, but then eventually decided it was in her best judgement to do what he said. She walked over to the chair slowly, watching him suspiciously as she lowered herself down onto the cushion. He remained standing, holding onto the back of the chair across from her, refusing to take his own eyes off of hers.
The two remained quiet for a bit before he began with his questioning again. “Why are you in the House so late? I never see the staff here past their abysmally late dinner unless they are summoned or for special events. I don’t think there is anything particularly special about tonight…” His voice trailed off as he turned to face the windowed wall, staring out at the darkened forest lit only slightly by the bright moon. She thought about taking the quick moment of distraction as an opportunity to see herself out, but quickly realized that would probably just anger the man. Though he said he wasn’t planning on hurting her, that could change if she didn’t obey whatever it was he wanted.
After a moment he turned back, raising his eyebrows while awaiting her answer. Swallowing the last of her fear and remaining nausea, she answered in vague truths. “I had a meeting with one of the Wardens.” Not knowing anything about this man, and
doubting she could trust him, she figured that was the extent of the information she should share. And, she thought to herself, it is none of his business anyway. Her thoughts led her to feel anger at his intrusion. Why should I even be here? He has no right to keep me in this room!
She opened her mouth to tell him off with every last bit of her courage she’d gained from her quick temper, until she was cut off with another command. This time it was given in a harsh whisper. “Quiet,” he said, crouching down to come close to her face. He put one hand over her mouth, and she made to smack it off when she heard the sounds.
Footsteps boomed in the hallway outside of the door. They sounded familiar, like the large, iron-clad feet of a troll. Her heart racing, she sunk low in her chair as the footsteps came to a stop outside the door. She thought she heard the lock turn and the doorknob rattle, as if the mystery figure outside was testing the lock. Then a boom, like a bang on the door. More rattling, and then a sighed grumble as the footsteps turned away.
After a minute, Sampson took his finger from her lips and backed away. She let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding in, trying to calm herself down. “What was that?” she asked without thinking.
“Someone,” Sampson replied cryptically. “Someone who was clearly looking for something. I sensed… anger. Rage. I couldn’t let them in.”
Gwenyre was unsure what he was talking about or how he would even know what the other creature past the door felt. But it didn’t matter. All she wanted was to go to bed. She made to rise again before the man shot her a look that led to her slumping back down in her seat. “I’d wait if I were you,” he cautioned. “You don’t want to run into that in the halls.”
Knowing he had a point, though she hated it, she nodded in agreement and remained in her chair. Taking the cue, he finally sat down opposite her, looking her deeply in the eye. She focused her own eyes back at him, if only out of some sick need to win whatever staring contest he’d started. After a minute, he blinked and began to laugh, leaning back in his chair and propping his hands behind his head. The picture of arrogance.
“You’re quite a lot to handle,” he observed with a smirk.
“Not as much as some,” she contested, thinking of Ametrine. Gwenyre may have won a staring contest with a handsome, smug man, but Aimee would’ve been able to do the same with a smirk of her own, all while telling some lude story she’d heard once in some seedy pub.
He laughed again at her remark, shaking his head in disagreement. “So, Gwen, is it?” he questioned.
“Gwenyre,” she answered icily, with great emphasis given to the second syllable.
He smiled meekly at that; a look she didn’t think he was capable of. “My apologies, Gwenyre.” She was impressed that apologies were also within his vocabulary but said nothing. “So, Gwenyre, while we are stuck here awaiting safety, perhaps you could tell me a bit about yourself.”
She wasn’t sure if he was genuinely interested, but she did know that she was sick of speaking tonight. After her last meeting, where she’d revealed more than she wanted and ended up sick after it, all she desired was to keep her mouth shut. Sighing, she tried to find a way to explain this to him. “I’d rather not. I’m not feeling quite well, to be honest. I just want to go to bed.”
He seemed to understand and empathize, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the man held two separate personalities. The kindness exuding on his face had no hint of the leering, arrogant jerk who had scared her just minutes prior. She knew that her own emotions could change on a dime, especially her temper, but not like that. Ignoring it, and hoping to encourage the gentler version, she thanked him.
“For what?” he asked, cocking his head in genuine confusion.
“I don’t know,” she sighed with exasperation. She didn’t even want to be nice to this stranger, but somehow found herself expressing gratitude, which annoyed her more than it should. “For understanding. For helping me from whatever that thing was. I don’t know, just… thanks, I guess.”
He smiled at her, though more muted than before. Just a slight tilt of the lips, no show of arrogance at all. “You’re welcome,” he said gently. “Well, if don’t feel up to talking, maybe you’ll feel up to listening.” He said it as a suggestion, which she glumly agreed to. Better than sitting in silence until he declared it was safe. Or forcing her to speak. Though her nausea had gone away, she slowly felt it creeping back and she swallowed several times in an effort to keep it down. Maybe listening to him ramble on about nothing would be enough of a distraction until she could escape and get to bed.
The man didn’t question her acquiescence and just began speaking. He told her of his day and how he found himself at Gatehouse unplanned this evening. “I sometimes get these… instincts you could call them. I just knew had to be here.” So, he had hopped on Kyndene and rode the few miles to arrive just in time for dinner service. Gwenyre wasn’t sure she believed this so-called “instinct;” she had a feeling the man just got bored easily and would rush off to the estate for free food and drink whenever he felt like it. He lived close, as he explained, and could come visit whenever he desired.
He then told her more about his home, a fine estate which he shared with his younger brother. “Henrie is nothing like me,” he explained, describing the other man. “Everyone says there’s no doubt we share the same blood from our appearance. But he is such a boring man – he barely leaves the house, and truly doesn’t know how to enjoy a fine evening with a strong drink and a few beautiful women.” Gwenyre rolled her eyes at that, reserving any further commentary. She stayed mostly silent while he talked, occasionally nodding or adding a well-timed “oh really?” when necessary, but she surprisingly found herself enjoying listening to the man too much to add any of her own thoughts. Plus, the longer she stayed silent, the less nauseous she seemed to feel.
As her sick feeling slowly dissipated, she learned more about Sampson than she ever thought she would. He was a great flute player (or so he claimed) and was quite adept at horseshoe throwing as well. He enjoyed company more often than not, though a quiet evening with a nice book was needed every so often (which is what had led him down to the Study that night coincidentally). He loved horses but hated all other unintelligent creatures. And he enjoyed singing, though he quickly proved that this wasn’t a skill he held a natural talent for.
Halfway through a verse of The Old Ogre’s Jaunt, Gwenyre finally felt settled enough to loudly laugh and cover her ears. “Please,” she begged in jest. “Make the torture stop.”
He faked a look of offense before landing on a genuine smile again. “She speaks!” he proclaimed. “I thought I had bored your voice into hiding.”
“You had,” she explained. “Until your awful singing required it to come back out and beg the world for mercy. Please, never do that again!”
They both laughed heartily, and Gwenyre felt a warmth inside of her. Feeling comfortable with Sampson, though knowing she might regret it, she decided to ask him about the beginning of their encounter.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” she began with a warning. “You were just…rather aggressive and downright scary when I tried to leave earlier. It was…” she searched for the right word before finally settling on it. “Uncomfortable.”
His face, which had been open and full of kindness just moments earlier, dropped. He showed a look of disappointment, which he explained was directed at himself. “I’m not exactly… how do I put this?” He thought for a moment, his lips pursing in concentration. She found herself staring at them as he began to speak again.
“I am not a good man,” he started quietly, turning his face towards the window so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. “I was raised to be a Lord. Kindness and sympathy are considered a weakness for those who aim to hold power, lands, fortune. My true nature is as cold as a winter wind.”
She spoke up to argue; she’d seen the exact opposite during the majority of their encounter today, with very little of this icy man he described
. He hushed her gently, continuing his story.
“It’s true; I’m arrogant like my father before me. I was taught that everything was within my power and that I deserved it all. I lived that way for years, until my father passed.” Upon hearing this, Gwenyre expressed her sympathies but Sampson just waved them off before continuing. “When he died, I took over our estate which encompasses a village. I ruled over the people as their Lord, just as my father taught me. But I quickly learned that they despised him and learned to hold even more hatred in their hearts for me. I was cruel and expected everything of them. I did nothing to help. When a drought came, the villagers all would have died if it weren’t for my brother.
“You see, he wasn’t raised like me. He wasn’t meant to rule, so my father ignored him for the most part. Instead, my mother taught him to be gentle. And all those years that we were taking advantage of our people, he was sneaking around to help them, unbeknownst to us. When the drought came, he stole my feast portions to distribute. I was livid when I found out, until I learned why he did it. To help the people, of course, but that was only one part of it. He also did it to save me.”
Gwenyre sat in silence as Sampson sighed heavily. She knew he would explain what that meant, but he needed a minute. To think, to gather his composure, to remind himself of the man he used to be and the man he was striving to become now. He paced in front of her chair and, without thinking, she reached for his hand as it swung by her own. His palm was large inside her own, soft and warm; he let her hold it, squeezing gently without looking at her before slowly pulling away to sit back down and continue his tale.
“They were planning on murdering me. Hanging me for my crimes against them. And I don’t blame them. I was selfish. I was cruel. I was arrogant. I deserved to die. But Henrie… he saved me.
“So I learned to be like him. Kind. Gentle. Understanding. And I started letting him do most of the work around the village, which has really saved me some time.” He smirked at that last comment, his small attempt at humor to lighten the situation. She shared in his smile but stayed silent, knowing the man had more to say.
