21. Jasmine
The journey back to the estate is filled with an uncomfortable silence. Karul sits across from me, his gaze distant as he watches the forest scroll by outside the window… He seems lost in his own thoughts, brows drawn together and mouth set in a tense line.
“How much longer?” he demands of the driver, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The muffled response, “Nearly there, sir,” floats back to us.
I long to ask what”s on his mind but don”t wish to disturb his brooding. He must be processing the traumatic events of the past few days, as am I. We both suffered devastating losses - the ruination of my childhood home and the massacre of my family and friends.
And yet, in the depths of shared grief, we found an unexpected closeness neither of us could have foreseen. The connection we forged in the darkness feels as delicate as a new blossom. I don”t wish to damage it by prodding too insistently into his inner world.
So I leave him be, for now, occupying myself by watching the dappled play of sunlight through the forest canopy overhead. Nonetheless, questions churn in my mind: where do we go from here… now that our old lives lie in ashes behind us?
What future can bloom upon this scarred foundation?
I steal glances at his stern profile, wishing I could glimpse inside the complex workings of his mind. But his stony expression reveals little. So, I can only wait patiently for him to open up when he’s ready and hope that the fragile bond between us can endure past these quiet, heavy hours full of unspoken burdens.
The carriage finally rolls to a stop outside the estate. Karul moves swiftly, pushing open the door and climbing down without glancing my way. Taken aback, I gather my skirts and follow him out. He is already striding toward the front doors, spine rigid, giving orders for our luggage to be brought in. I hurry to catch up, confused by his abrupt, businesslike demeanor.
“Karul, is everything all right?” I ask tentatively.
“I have much work to attend to,” he replies brusquely, not slowing his pace. “I will be in my study.” With that, he disappears inside, the heavy wooden door clapping behind him. His sudden change in demeanor has left me stunned and motionless on the walkway, feeling hurt by his sudden distance. Following the intimacy we shared during our ordeal, his distance now feels like a door slammed in my face.
Trying not to let the hurt show in front of the servants, I make my way slowly inside and up to my own chambers. I cannot understand why he would shut me out after relying on each other for survival and comfort…
And now, the days drag by slowly. Slowly and sadly, in my gilded cage. Without a lock. Without a key. I wander the too-quiet halls of the mansion, lost in my grief, with no one to share the burden. Free to stay. Free to go.
Withering like a flower left to fend in the scorching sunlight.
Karul is my sole connection to the world of the living, the only familiar presence left. Without him, I have nothing. But it”s as if an icy wall has gone up between us again. I ache for the closeness we found, however briefly.
Now, the loss of him only magnifies my despair.
Assuring me that I’m truly and utterly alone.
As night falls, I’m unable to sleep, tears streaming all the prettiest makeup down my temples and staining the pillow. During the day, I wear a stoic mask, pretending I do not sit alone sobbing for hours on end. But inside, I am drowning. Imprisoned in a cell without a wall.
“And I was foolish enough to believe that I’d never feel that way again,” I whimper spitefully.
Each day, the darkness and isolation eat away a little more at my fraying composure. I need Karul”s strength to cling to before I unravel completely. But he remains in his tower, the door remaining closed, and behind his mask of stone, he gives no indication if my suffering even stirs him.
Attempting to keep myself busy, I stroll through the sculpted hedges and flowerbeds, dead-headed roses in hand. No amount of tending can shape this into the oasis of beauty and tranquility I had once known.
No matter how I lose myself tending the plants, reality always comes crashing down. I talk to the florists and gardeners, pick the brightest colors I can find, and plant every single one by hand until my hands scream louder than my thoughts.
Sometimes, I stand at the iron gates looking out longingly at the forest beyond. How easy it would be to fly away, to flee this beautiful, punishing prison. Yet, something stops me each time. Foolish hope.
Hope for him.
I keep myself strung up. Both the warden and architect of my own demise. Some fragile, naive, foolish part of me still hopes he will emerge one day soon and see me again. My gallant prince in shining armor. Oh, how I can swoon… For him to truly see me, not some ghost, he glances through.
So I clip the heads off roses until my hands bleed, crying in secret where none can hear. Praying wordless prayers unto deaf ears. I’ve tried it all. Cursed the gods. Searched the corridors and my memories, looking for a clue or any indication of where I went wrong, until finally, I am left with a singular option: the drink.
The devil’s ambrosia. Yesterday, I drank deeply of my feelings, and tonight I do the same, but tonight I’m quite surprised to find liquid courage has replaced the despairing thoughts, and before I know it, I”m stumbling through the echoing halls toward the tower where Karul has sequestered himself these past several weeks.
I climb the winding stairs clumsily, using the cold stone walls for support, and upon reaching the heavy oak door, I pound my fists against it, heedless of propriety or composure in my inebriated state. Answers I will have. And now would be a day too late.
”Karul!” I shout, my words slurring. ”I know you”re in there! Stop ignoring me!”
Part of me is absolutely mortified hearing myself, but the wine has a funny way of eroding inhibitions, so I shout and hammer and curse in a way that is very unbecoming of my house, hammering on the unyielding door until my hands ache.
But no response comes from within.
Not even a stirring above the commotion, I have no doubt, started downstairs.
I pound and make a scene the best I can; my swan song, my last chance. I have to fight now to survive. Otherwise, all is lost — no longer able to keep the helpless thoughts occupied. I rage with everything I have, unable, unwilling to give up or surrender. I owe it to my father. I owe it to this small little slice of serenity I’ve been afforded.
Tears spill down my flushed cheeks, and I press my bloodied hands to the frozen barrier between us. ”Please,” I whisper hoarsely. ”Please, just talk to me. I”m still here, Karul. I”m still here.”
If I don’t fight now, I will simply wither away. It will be an unremarkable end for an unremarkable girl. But that’s not how my story ends. By some divine dealing of fate, I was given a chance to rise. So I must. For mother and father, who I promised to come back to, I must.
Then, quite suddenly, the wine or the memories or combination thereof sparks defiance within me. I stagger to my feet, swaying slightly. ”I”m not leaving, Karul!” I yell, pounding on the door again. ”I’m not giving up on us… I can’t; you’re all I have left… there is no reason to go on without once I’ve tasted love… I can’t…”
I know I”m being ridiculous in my drunken condition, but I”m past caring. Weeks of isolation and silence have eroded my composure. ”Whatever I did to drive you away, I”m sorry. Just talk to me… Yell if you must. Anything is better than this silence. I need you…” The silence is deafening, and I sink to my knees.
I start to fade…
It really is hopeless.
What does a piece of property really matter…
I close my eyes and think about the time it snowed for weeks and weeks, and we were doing everything we could just to survive. How a single piece of cloth burning in the stove was the difference between life and death. The ever-present whisper, the promise of warmth at the end of the clearing.
Lavender and a warm breeze caresses my cheek, the stairway warping and drifting…
When was the last time I slept? Or the last time I ate? Tears cloud my eyes, and I slump against the unbudging door, the fight bleeding from me. What use is there in raging or pleading? He has made his choice painfully clear.
I”m nothing. Less than nothing. With nobody left to remember me… nobody left to care.
… Suddenly, I”m roused from an alcohol-induced fog as the door gives way. With a yelp, I topple backward into the study, flailing clumsily, and before I can get my bearings, strong arms envelop me, pulling me against a firm, familiar chest. Karul. Overwhelmed, I can only clutch weakly at his tunic.
”Don”t leave me, Jasmine,” he rasps, his voice thick with emotion. ”Please, don”t ever leave me. Can you promise me that?”
I freeze, scarcely daring to believe this is real. After weeks of distance and silence, is he truly here holding me and pleading for me to stay? Joy pierces the fog of drink and despair. He said my name - not another”s, but mine. And the raw need in his voice tells me that somehow, beneath the ice, his feelings have remained untouched.
“I won”t be able to stand it. Understand?” He holds my cheeks between shaking hands, imploring deeply.
At last, I melt against him, fresh tears spilling onto his chest. I cling to him like an anchor, my harbor in the storm. ”Yes,” I whisper fervently. ”I promise I will never leave you. I am yours in this life and the next.”