Keeping a Nymph’s Heart

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Why of all days did it have to be today?

Orla had loathed this day for seven long years, and the raven’s arrival did not help matters.

She rose from her kneeling position in her garden, watching the ravens approach.

Her old gray gardening gown was covered in earth; evidence of the hobby she picked up two years ago to keep her mind occupied.

She looked down at her knee prints in the soft grass, before turning to see the delicate dahlias she was growing.

The patch to the left held the most beautiful zinnias.

A veritable feast of colors: reds, purples, yellows, and pinks.

Her garden had been her bright spot in a world that had become so bleak over the passing years.

The rich earthy scent of the soil mixed with the smell of wildflowers grounded Orla.

The one thing that she had always loved about being part nymph was that she could make things grow.

It hadn’t been easy at first. Orla rarely used her magic before the Battle of Fontina, and she had used it even less since then.

But now, in the safety and privacy of her little garden at the edge of her village, she allowed herself that freedom.

Only for the flowers, she thought as she glanced back up, noting the raven getting closer.

The black dot, in a sea of pale-blue sky dotted with whips of pinks, purples, and gold hinting at the hour, getting closer and closer as she watched.

It was early, and the poor beast must have flown all night to reach her.

Gazing over the forest to the Iridaceae Mountains, she took in a deep breath.

She knew who the raven was from. Something in the marrow of her bones told her it would be from the palace, which was the last place she wanted to be reminded of on this day.

Well, on any day really. It had been seven years since the Battle of Fontina.

Seven years since… No, she stopped those thoughts.

In previous years, Orla numbed the onslaught of emotions that cleaved her in two on this day.

She would find herself the nearest tavern, get deep in cups of mead, wine, whiskey, truly whatever she could get her hands on.

And when the blissful numbness of alcohol wasn’t enough, she drowned in the pleasure of warm bodies.

No names, faces she hardly remembered, just the touch and sensation of another’s body to make her forget her grief.

She told herself it was natural for a nymph to indulge in so many warm bodies.

Males and females from all walks found their way into her bed.

In her darker moments, Orla thought that inspiring lust was all she was good for, so she might as well lean into the role.

The day after those benders, she would wake, oblivious to anything other than the smell of stale alcohol and the sensation of numbness, glorious numbness as she waded through another year.

The first year after the battle had been the worst. Everyone venerated her, a hero who ended the war and killed the supposed conqueror, Prince Gwayne, herself.

She was showered in riches, titles, and awarded a healthy sum of coins.

She had even been fashioned as Lady Orla Afeani, though she despised anyone calling her that.

Many expected her to regale them with tales of the battle, of the awesome show of power that had left nearly everybody on that field dead by her hand.

They couldn’t know that anytime she thought about that day, she would break into a cold sweat.

That her heart would race and her stomach would churn.

Even now, she struggled not to break down in a torrent of tears when thinking about it.

While others saw her as a hero and finally respected her, she knew what she really was.

A failure. A monster.

Two years ago, she stopped the benders and the nameless, faceless sex as a way to numb her pain.

Orla had a particularly bad experience with a satyr who wouldn’t stop talking about her rumored prowess in battle.

The feckless male had even asked her, mid-coitus, how it felt to kill Prince Gwayne, ruining what should have been an enjoyable moment.

Instantly she was taken back to Fontina.

Watching Prince Gwayne fall, blood gushing from the holes in his body.

His head mangled from the thorn protruding out of it.

Hearing the screams of terror ring out through the battlefield and knowing that she was the cause.

No, she couldn’t think of a less desirable thought than that when she was meant to be in the throes of passion with a nameless male she met at a tavern.

After that unfortunate incident, every time she tried to have sex with another, she would go back there.

Back to sights and sounds of the worst day of what has arguably been a less than stellar life.

Shortly after that encounter, she decided to pack up her lush townhouse in the royal city of Imsil and return to the tiny backwater village at the edge of the kingdom where she was born; a place she had fought for ten long years to escape.

It didn’t matter how many accolades she won, how revered she was.

In the village of Benin, she would always be the half nymph whose mother left and whose father died of a broken heart.

Here, she could find a different kind of numbing.

The numbing that came with being alone and that came with no one expecting anything from her.

She couldn’t fail the ones she loved if there was no one left to love.

She failed herself because she couldn’t control her power.

And she failed her kingdom. She was worthless as a warrior after that day.

While she may now be the most decorated warrior in the kingdom, picking up a sword filled her with dread.

Donning her armor made her sick. The thought of another battle was enough to bring her to her knees.

This was written off by the king. Instead of admitting that the Battle of Fontina had broken her, King Mikki had written off her sudden leave from the army as a reward for a job well done for serving his kingdom.

She was free to walk away under one stipulation: that when the crown needed her she’d make herself available.

In short, she was a mascot for the mighty power of the Kingdom of Emmental.

If only she still believed in all that.

That made this raven particularly unwelcome. Not only was it arriving on this day, but she knew what she would have to do. She would play the role of the decorated war hero.

The raven landed on the fence that separated the deep-yellow coreopsis flowers and her lush-pink begonias from the rest of the more practical parts of her garden.

Orla abhorred having to go into the village for supplies, wanting to avoid as many people as she could, so she had taken to growing as much of her food as she could.

While her flowers were her passion, the various fruits and vegetables in her garden were her salvation from the questioning looks of the villagers who wondered what had brought her back home.

As Orla approached the bird, she saw the scroll attached to its leg, with the bright silver-and-blue seal of the palace in view. She blew out a breath, bracing herself for what she knew she would find. Unrolling the scroll, she read:

By order of King Mikki, King of Emmental, third of his name, you, Lady Orla Afeani, Hero of the Battle of Fontina are summoned to arrive at Lantana Palace in Imsil within seven days’ time.

The king requires your presence in meetings with the heir to Edam for the purpose of healing diplomatic relations.

Signed, Advisor to the King, Lord Kennedum Mavick

Knowing she was being summoned versus actually seeing the summons were two different things.

She could feel the panic rising inside her, thinking of the palace and the ghosts she had left there.

Orla took in a sharp breath and thought of the things she would need to do to prepare to leave for the city.

The city was a six-day ride from her village.

If she wanted to arrive on time, not that she had much choice, she would have to leave immediately.

She heaved a deep sigh and walked towards her small stone cottage situated between the garden and the edge of the surrounding woods.

“I can do this,” she said as she walked, preparing herself for the onslaught of difficult emotions that were bound to come her way.

Even the thought of returning to Lantana Palace made her heart rate spike.

She clenched her palms, nails biting into her skin, and tried to ground herself in the moment.

It was only a meeting; she could do this, get back to her quiet life, and continue the business of forgetting that she had ever dreamed of a life beyond this at all.

Orla walked towards her small cottage, mind swimming with thoughts of what she would have to do and who she would have to meet. She needed to pack quickly. When she reached the aged oak door of her cottage, she took in a deep breath.

It was going to be okay.

She walked inside the small stone cottage and lit the hearth for warmth.

The morning was cool, autumn announcing her arrival in all the usual ways.

Her cottage was cozy, with a small, quilted couch that sat in front of the hearth.

She had large built-in bookshelves with books and trinkets on both sides of the hearth.

A simple green rug covered the dark wooden floor.

Orla walked from her sitting room towards the short hallway on the right. Two rooms could be found on opposite sides of the hall. The room on the right was her bedroom, the same one that she had since she was a child. The room on the left, she avoided if she could.

It had been her father’s room, the same one he had died in when she was fifteen years old and she was left truly on her own.

Her mother, Ephedra, hadn’t stuck around long after Orla was born.

Such was the nature of nymphs. They weren’t known to be maternal or reliable.

The flighty creatures often flitted from one romance to another, finding fun and passion, but never love.

It wasn’t uncommon for them to have children that they had no intention of actually raising.

Her foolish father thought he could change Ephedra’s ways.

He thought that having Orla would convince her to stick around, that eventually she would learn to love the way Elves loved, with eternal devotion, and that she would stay.

How wrong he was. Orla knew her mother’s nature.

In many ways it was her own, and it was that nature that she fought so perilously against.

When she came back to the cottage two years ago, her father’s room felt like a tomb.

His old clothes, scraps of metals from discarded projects, and his favorite books were scattered along the various surfaces of the room like he had just left, instead of it having been over a decade since he died.

When she arrived back home two years ago, Orla dropped her old armor and weapons in the room and closed the door.

Now, not only was it her father’s tomb but in many ways it was hers as well.

Tomb of the old life she had longed for.

The one she had fought for, killed for, and had lost everything for.

No, she did not particularly care to enter this room.

But a king’s summon could not be ignored, so enter the room, she must.

The door creaked loudly as she pushed her way inside.

Nothing had changed. She knew that before she turned the brass door handle and walked inside.

But still, the loss and death that the room had come to represent hit her with a fresh wave of grief.

Pressure built at the back of her eyes, and her breath caught in her throat as she moved to the wardrobe to retrieve her armor and weapons.

She hastily grabbed what she needed before rushing out of the room and back into the safety of the hallway.

Throwing her burden on the floor, she went into her room next.

Her room was smaller than her father’s. Her bed tidy, a habit left over from her time in the king’s army.

Plants and potted flowers adorned much of the open space of her room.

Her bed was small, with a sage duvet and plush pillows.

It sat on the right side of her room with an ornate bookshelf pushed up on the wall next to the bed and the doorway to the washroom.

Orla walked over to the dresser and grabbed various items of clothing she needed.

A few gowns, as Orla had preferred wearing dresses.

The free-flowing material was a wonderful contrast to the tight-fitted armor and leathers she had had to wear for her decade as a warrior.

She also packed trousers and a few tunics and stays.

Cloaks, a few nightgowns, and boots were most of what was left to pack.

Finally, Orla went into her washroom and gathered her soaps, lotions, and conditioners, as well as her satin bonnet she wore each night.

Orla had shunned the opulence of city and court life when she returned to Benin, but there were a few court luxuries she would be hard pressed to give up.

Once all the necessaries were gathered, Orla packed her rucksack.

She changed out of her old gardening gown and into a dress and pants more suited for riding, as well as a pair of riding boots.

Reaching into the neck of her dress, she pulled out a thin gold chain, ending in a small emerald medallion.

It had been Rhyan’s. She kissed it and hefted her pack onto her back and walked out of her cottage, towards the stables and the horse that would take her back to the city of Imsil for the first time in two years.