by Bree Aguiar
“Never rely on a man,” Gwen would groan, a knowing smirk on her face.
“Exactly! You may love them, you may tease them, you may even worship them, within reason of course. But never rely on them! They’re the most useless creatures. I mean, just look at my husband.”
Gwenyre laughed at this as she looked towards Edyweine sitting on a nearby chair on the other side of the room. He sometimes joined their meetings when Lenora was in a good mood and was starting to slightly warm up to Gwenyre. Comments like this however, which were quite frequent in their chats, did deflate him a bit. “Oh, come now,” the troll said, noticing his glumness. “You are much more than a man, Edyweine. You’re a saint. Now why don’t you see if you can get someone to bring us those cookies I like so much?” Puffing up with pride at her words and request, he hurried out of the room, straightening his hat as he called for another servant to assist his mistress.
When he was clear of the room, Lenora gestured the girl to her wardrobe. “Would you mind, dearie? There’s something in one of the bags at the bottom that I want to show you.” Gwenyre obeyed, bringing the rich leather purse over to the troll’s bedside.
Lenora dug around for whatever it was, taking out various items and tossing them on the floor when they proved to be useless. After a bit, she exclaimed in an excited voice. “Ah-ha, here it is!” She pulled out a long, beautiful necklace.
It was a golden heart pendant hung on a matching chain. Though a piece of jewelry like that might have been tacky, there was something about the piece that made it seem refined. Perhaps it was the delicate vine patterns engraved on the front of the heart or the soft color of the natural gold. Lenora handed it to Gwenyre, who turned it over in her hands. The pendant, which would have been subtle on someone of Lenora’s size, fit perfectly in her whole palm. She turned it over, noticing small dents in the back. She looked up at the troll with a silent question forming in her eyes.
“Teeth marks,” Lenora explained in a quiet voice. “From when I was a baby. This necklace was my mother’s, and her mother’s before that, and her mother’s even before that. It’s been in my family for generations. She almost killed me the day she caught it in my mouth – me using it as a teething stick!” Lenora laughed at the memory, wiping tears from her eyes. “But before she died, she told me that those little marks became her favorite part of the piece. I’ve cherished it ever since.”
“It’s beautiful,” Gwenyre said, unable to take her eyes off of it. She used her little finger to feel the dents and could almost picture a baby Lenora munching away at solid gold. The thought brought a smile to her lips.
“Open it,” the troll commanded. Upon closer inspection, Gwenyre realized the pendant was actually a locket. Feeling for the clasp, she pulled it open on the hinges. Inside were small portraits: one of a troll and one of an elf. Gwenyre gasped at their beauty, turning to Lenora for further explanation.
“That there,” she said pointing to the troll, “was my great-great-great grandmother. There may be a few more greats in there, but I’ve lost count over the years.” She smiled at the joke before turning to the other photo. The one that intrigued Gwenyre more. “And that was her ward, Calliope. The story goes that she took her in one day when the elf showed up at her door, younger than you and wearing rags. She cared for Calliope more than her own children and did all she could for the girl. Unfortunately, Calliope suffered and died young. My ancestor had this piece commissioned in her memory and passed it down for our family so that we would always remember the importance of love and friendship and reaching out to those in need.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you remind me of the stories of Calliope. Not just being an elf, though that’s part of it. But it was said that she was a sweet girl. Stubborn as all hell, quick to anger, and a bit too prideful for her own good. But with a kind heart. She’d do anything for her adopted mother, and my family honors their friendship. Just as I honor ours.”
Gwenyre felt tears forming in her eyes as she reached over and hugged Lenora. Surprised by the affection, the troll laughed. “Now don’t get soft on me girl,” the troll exclaimed with a smile.
“Thank you,” Gwen said, subtly drying her eyes. “I appreciate it. You really are special to me, and I’m honored that you wanted to show me this.” She handed the locket back to Lenora, who thrust it back at the girl.
“No, my dear. I’m giving it to you,” she explained to Gwen’s look of confusion. “I have no daughter to pass it down to, other than you now. I hope you’ll keep it safe and share it with your own daughter. Whomever she may be.”
Overwhelmed by the kindness of the gesture, Gwenyre kept trying to give it back. “I’m nothing,” she explained to Lenora. “Just a servant. I don’t deserve this.”
A loving pity filled the troll’s eyes at hearing that. “Never say you are nothing, girl. You mean more than you know. And don’t let anyone, especially that boy you’re always sneaking off with, tell you otherwise. You hear me?” That got another laugh and a nod from Gwenyre. “Take it, it is yours.”
Gwenyre finally agreed, tucking the piece in her pocket. The chain was much too long for her own neck, but she would always keep it close. She promised that to Lenora as she thanked her again with another hug.
Eventually, Edyweine returned with Ametrine, holding a tray of the cookies Lenora loved so much. “How come I wasn’t invited to the party?” the girl asked in jest, strolling over while ignoring the protests from Edyweine behind her. “Oh, hush up,” she said to him. “And come have a treat! There’s enough for us all.”
Taking Lenora’s laughter as permission, he joined the girls and deigned himself to have just one of the sweets before sending the two girls off so he could get his mistress ready for dinner. Gwenyre squeezed Lenora’s hand before she left, silently thanking her one more time. She promised to keep the necklace as a reminder of the troll’s friendship and to always heed her advice. Especially the advice about men.
* * *
Happy times like that were surprisingly becoming a staple of Gwenyre’s new life. She kept telling herself not to get comfortable, but it was hard not to. Between her daily chats with Lenora, the consistency of her growing friendships with Ametrine and Wyndemere, and her twice weekly lessons with Sampson, Gwenyre felt more fulfilled than she had ever before. Plus, her meetings with Sylvan had come to an abrupt end after their last encounter and she thankfully hadn’t seen him since. She knew he was still around – she’d heard the other servants complaining whenever he’d had a particularly bad day and took it out on the first chump who walked by – but she’d been able to avoid him completely. There was nothing to be wary of, and she nearly forgotten about all of the negative aspects of her existence at Gatehouse as winter quickly approached its end.
The weather was particularly warm one day, the snow melting fast, as she prepared for one of her biweekly lessons. Some days, the lessons were easy. She was a fast learner, and most of the magic came quickly without a conscious effort. Other times, it was a slog. Sampson had trouble explaining how to do certain things, as his magic differed greatly from her own. When a particular skill did not come easy to her, he would push her for hours and days trying to get it to work. She’d get frustrated, both with herself and his horrid teaching style, and had stomped off in a fury more than once. They’d always end up making up by the next lesson, but their time spent together, especially their post-teaching chats, was getting less and less. It was too cold to spend long outdoors, and their fires had to stay muted as to not attract any unwanted attention. After several meetings with barely so much as a goodbye kiss being their only point of contact, Gwenyre was determined to find another way to spend time with the man; she was finally feeling confident enough to bring it up that particular day.
The light was gone as usual as she stalked off in the forest. She was thinking about her dinner conversation on her long walk, making sure to cover her tracks from the quickly disappearing snow. Ametrine and Wyndemere had noticed her i
ncreased blushing and daydreaming, moments when she was desperately thinking of Sampson, and continued to question her about it. Those questions came to a head during their dinner service, when she once again denied all of their theories.
“I’m just tired,” she said, making sure not to look Cyran in the eye. The old elf not only knew that she was lying, but also knew exactly what she was lying about. He’d continued to give her warnings when the others weren’t paying attention, so it was clear that he knew her relationship with the man hadn’t stopped. She also knew if she looked at Cyran dead-on, with that paternal stare of concern, she’d probably break down.
“Please,” Ametrine said with a sigh. “You’ve been acting weird lately. Well, weirder than usual.”
Wyndemere, who also noticed the change in her friend, piped up. “I saw you running off today when that group of guests arrived. You didn’t even greet them like we’re supposed to. That’s not like you.” The incident Wind was referring to had indeed happened that morning. Sampson had arrived early that day, followed by a raucous group of very handsome, richly dressed men. Gwenyre, who had spilled coffee on her dress earlier while serving breakfast, was embarrassed to be seen like that. She’d tried to hide before he could notice her, and while trying to calm her fast beating heart she’d eavesdropped on their conversation.
“Are you planning on sneaking out again, Lord Sampson?” one of the loud men asked. Rarely hearing anyone refer to him by his title, she felt her stomach flutter (though she was not sure if it was out of embarrassment or pride).
“Whatever are you talking about, Jackson?” he asked, that familiar leer she hated so much clear in his voice.
“Please. We all know you’ve been noted missing from your room late at night. I daresay that one of the many tantalizing guests here has become an object of your interest.” Sampson laughed, denying it. Gwenyre listened with bated breath as the conversation continued.
“Or perhaps, it’s one of the servants here,” another voice chimed in, this one quieter than the rest; Gwen had to strain her ears to hear. “I’ve seen a few beauties in aprons. That one human girl, with her round cheeks and even rounder bosom to match, always wearing a smile… I wouldn’t mind sneaking off to her bed in the middle of the night.”
Gwenyre wanted to roll her eyes at the disgusting conversation but couldn’t stop herself from listening. She wanted to hear what Sampson said. To see if he let off any hint of their relationship. Or if he kept it a closely guarded secret like she had.
“I think I know who you’re talking about,” Sampson countered back. “But you know me, I can’t be seen cavorting like that. I just enjoy the occasional late-night stroll.”
The men continued protesting his denials, but Gwenyre could barely hear them. She wondered long and hard about what he meant. Cavorting like that? Did he mean with a servant, like her? Or in general? She wasn’t sure if she should be offended, but she tried to brush it off.
“He’s just joking with his friends,” she whispered to herself, well out of the men’s earshot as the men stomped their way up the stairs, laughing. “Whatever it is, it means nothing.”
“What means nothing?” Wyndemere was standing behind her, a curious look on her face. Gwenyre hadn’t heard the girl coming, she was usually pretty quiet due to her nymphish nature. Regardless, Gwen cursed herself for being so careless.
“Nothing,” she lied.
Wind continued to look at her with wide, curious eyes, but decided to ignore the blatant lie to ask her a different question. “I saw you run and hide. That’s why I came over here. Is something wrong?”
Gwenyre continued her denials, brushing the nymph off with the excuse of needing to get back to work. She’d hoped the girl would forget about it, but it was clear from her line of questioning at dinner that night that this wasn’t going to happen.
“So, any reason why you did that?” Wind asked, pulling Gwenyre out of her memories.
“I just didn’t feel like saying hello,” she explained slowly, trying to come up with a story. “That group comes here all the time, and they say the nastiest things.” (That part was most definitely not a lie; she’d heard bits of their conversation comparing their romantic conquests, it was rather disgusting.) “I just didn’t want to be a part of it.”
“Which group?” Ametrine asked. Wyndemere rattled off their names, and an eyebrow raise came from Ametrine as soon as she heard the nymph mention Sampson. She looked at Gwenyre, about to exclaim something, when the elf shot her a look back, begging her to be silent. For once, the girl picked up her cue and turned back to her dinner. “Interesting. I don’t particularly like them either, I don’t blame you for running away.”
Gwenyre knew Ametrine had further questions for her about her suspicions but said nothing as the three travelled back to the Dwelling. To avoid it, Gwenyre feigned a headache and said she was going to have a lie down before her lesson that night. Aimee rolled her eyes, seeing right through the rouse, but bid her good night. When Wind was out of earshot, she shot a quick whisper at her friend with a smile in her eyes. “Don’t think you can get out of our talk tomorrow! Sampson… I always knew you had a thing for him!” Shaking her head, Ametrine wandered over to her bunk, leaving Gwenyre alone to fake a nap until it was time to go.
As she made her way to the Clearing, she thought about what she would tell her friend when tomorrow came. Sampson was already there when she arrived, wearing one of his thicker cloaks with the hood up, protecting him from last of the winter winds.
“I figured we would practice healing tonight,” he said in the way of a greeting.
“Great,” she grumbled sarcastically. Of all of the magical skills, healing was her least favorite. And the most difficult. She was able to do it to herself pretty well, willing her skin to stitch itself back together from a cut, willing the pain from within to no longer hurt. But healing others had proved torturous. She couldn’t find a way to get her own internal being to heal another; Sampson, who used his external flows, had been no help. The last time they’d tried, she almost passed out from the effort with nothing to show for it.
The man pulled out a long knife and used it to cut his palm wide open. He remained expressionless even with the pain, but she winced at the blood as he spilled it onto the snowy ground beneath them. “Did you have to cut so deep?” she asked, rushing over to look at his hand.
“Maybe it’ll motivate you to try a little harder,” he said in a gentle voice as she turned his bloody palm over in her own. She looked within herself to find some way to fix it, but it was futile.
“I can’t,” she said after a bit, giving up. He wouldn’t let her, however. Reaching to her face with his non-bloodied hand, he pulled her in and gave her a deep kiss that ended in him biting her lip. Hard.
“Ouch,” she recoiled, backing away. “What was that?”
“Pain,” he explained in a bored voice. “I’m trying something new. Maybe this’ll work. Remember the pain and try to take on mine. Probably not the best advice, especially in the middle of a battle, but it’s a start.”
Sighing, she tried to take his advice and feel the pain. She placed her fingers on the curve of her lip where he’d bitten it, trying to remember the tingle. Then she moved her hand back to his bloodied palm, willing herself to feel the pain of his wound. Trying to absorb it. To take it on for herself.
Somehow, it worked. Only briefly, but more than it ever had before. She felt a stabbing in her own palm right where his cut had been and cried out as she watched the top of his wound stitching itself together, healing before her eyes. The pain, however, became too much to bear. She tried not to cry out but had to let the force within her go. She looked at her own palm, expecting to see it bloodied like his, but it was perfectly fine.
Sampson sighed, then used his other hand to heal himself. He pulled her towards him, comforting her with a hug. “Perhaps that wasn’t the best way to do that,” he said in a way of apology.
“Well, it worked for a second
. I bet I could do it again.”
He laughed at her stubbornness and incessant need to conquer every task set in front of her, even if she hated it. “You really are…”
“Quite a lot to handle,” she said, finishing his thought. “I know.” She pulled back from him so she could look him in the eye. “I have something to tell you. And something to ask, as well.”
He gestured to the ground near the small fire he’d set up indicating for her to sit. “Best to end our lesson early tonight,” he said. “I’m really not in the mood for another slice of the knife. We can talk.” She sat down and pulled his now-healed palm into her own.
“First thing, I think Ametrine knows.”
Though he was generally good at hiding his emotions, the shock of this statement showed clear on Sampson’s face. “Knows what?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“Not the magic part,” Gwenyre explained quickly, so as not to panic him. He let out a breath of relief that she hadn’t realized he was holding in. “The other part. About us.” She wasn’t exactly sure what “us” meant, but she could find no other word for it.
“Oh,” he chuckled. “So what? Also, which one is Ametrine again?” Gwenyre rolled her eyes, annoyed she had to explain this another time. She’d told him countless stories of her friends, all of whom he’d interacted with at one time or another during one of his visits to the estate, but he still couldn’t place them in his mind.
“The gorgeous one? You know, the human with the dark hair and the wide smile?” She could see him racking his brain to place the girl; how he didn’t know who she was baffled her. “And what do you mean ‘so what?’” she continued, giving up further descriptions of the girl. “Isn’t all of this meant to be a secret?”
