Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
As they left the chapel, Orla realized she hadn’t picked her fingers or had to focus on her breathing once in the time that she and Owain were swapping fables. It was the most peaceful she had felt in the palace since she arrived over a fortnight ago.
That all changed as she walked Owain back to his rooms. A group of warriors were out in the hall talking animatedly to someone at the center of their group. As Orla approached, her breath caught. Standing at the center of their group was a head of familiar chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes.
Cessly.
It felt like a vice suddenly gripped Orla’s heart.
She hadn’t seen Cessly in years, but she would know that kind, heart-shaped face anywhere.
Orla froze where she stood as Cessly’s gaze fell to hers.
Tears swam in those lovely hazel eyes. Cessly walked towards Orla, her limp less pronounced since the last time she saw her.
Panic gripped Orla. Was Cessly about to out her in front of all these people for avoiding her for these past years?
Would she call Orla a murderer for letting Rhyan die, or for killing so many other warriors?
Would she tell her how disappointed she was that she could no longer fight, that the warrior Cessly had loved so much was just as dead as Rhyan?
“Are you okay, Orla?” she heard Owain ask as he took a step in front of her, but it felt distant as if she were hearing him from under water.
Before she could answer, Cessly reached her.
At first, she just stared at Orla, the hazel eyes meeting her coffee-colored ones.
This was too much; she couldn’t do this.
She couldn’t look at the pain in Cessly’s eyes and know that she was the cause.
After Rhyan, Cessly was the person Orla had felt closest to.
And look at what she was doing to her—she was hurting her and she couldn’t bear it.
Cessly opened her mouth to speak, but fear took over and Orla ran.
She didn’t care that she looked foolish running through the palace halls.
She had all but forgotten that she was supposed to be escorting Owain back to his rooms. Panting, she wrenched open the door to her room and slammed it shut.
She locked the room, and for good measure, pushed the side table in front of it so that no one could get in.
Murderer… Failure… Killer… Rhyan.
The words thundered in her head as she ran across the rooms towards the washroom.
She barely reached the toilet before she vomited.
She retched over and over again, sobbing as she did.
The hurt in Cessly’s eyes was all she could see.
She sat for long hours in the washroom, head leaning against the cool stone walls of the room, trying to stop the tears that kept flowing.
The sounds of swords clanged around her as the cloying smell of blood and sweat filled her nose.
She was locked in battle with a large male from the Kingdom of Edam, Prince Gwayne.
He met her sword swing for swing. Screams filled her ears as others were also locked in battle.
The sun was warm for an autumn day. Sweat slipped down her brow, impeding her vision, but she had to keep going.
This is what you want, a voice in her mind said.
Kill him and you will get everything you’ve ever dreamed of.
You were made for this. Just one more strike and it will be over.
Orla lunged at the male, striking out to slice this throat.
She struck true, her blade sliced cleanly through his neck.
He fell, bloody, to the ground. But when Orla looked at his face, it wasn’t Prince Gwayne staring back up at her. It was Rhyan.
Orla woke with a start, vomiting again. It took her several minutes to realize that she was at the palace and not on that fated battlefield.
She had lost track of how much time she had spent in the washroom, slipping between bouts of unconsciousness and waves of nausea.
She walked over to the sink and rinsed out her mouth.
Staring at herself in the mirror, she looked haunted.
Her rich skin looked sallow. She had dark circles under her puffy red eyes.
Her normally immaculate braids looked frizzy and unkempt.
Orla gripped the cool porcelain sink as her arms shook with fatigue.
She hadn’t eaten since this morning, and what little food she had was now making its way through the palace plumbing.
Moving over towards the clawfoot tub, she turned on the warm water and waited for the tub to fill.
Elven palaces and estates like this had magically heated water.
A luxury she didn’t have back in Benin where she had to heat all her water on the stove to take a warm bath.
She went back into her room to grab a small satchel of herbs.
Orla sprinkled dried oats and lavender into the bath, hoping that they would help calm her nerves.
She knew she also needed to eat. Her nerves were always worse when she didn’t eat or sleep, but from the dark sky outside, she knew the kitchen would be closed.
Orla knew where the kitchens were and could sneak down to grab herself something, but she was worried about running into anyone.
Only now, with hours and some emotional distance, did she realize what a fool she had made of herself, running from Cessly in the middle of the palace for anyone to see.
Shame crept over her, and she thought about the hurt on Cessly’s face.
She was a coward. But she couldn’t face the idea of hearing Cessly voice all the worst things she thought about herself.
Stripping out of her armor, she sunk into the gloriously warm water in the tub.
The warmth of the water helped soothe her aching muscles.
Her muscles were always so tight when she was attacked by her nerves.
She grabbed a wash rag and a bar of soap and got to work.
Maybe if she scrubbed enough, she could scrub off this terrible day.
But then she remembered, the day hadn’t been all terrible.
Her morning with Owain had been… fun. Laughing and swapping fables with him had felt easy.
She could almost forget that they were at the palace and that she was stuck here until Owain concluded his business in Imsil.
He was a curious male. He appeared bored or unimpressed by everything, but then he had these rare moments where he let the mask slip.
Like today in the chapel. He surprised her with his enjoyment of fables and the flippant way he spoke about the Gods.
He clearly enjoyed recounting his favorite tales to her, and it surprised Orla how much she enjoyed hearing him talk.
The water had gone cold by the time Orla had stopped ruminating on the events of the day, both the good and the bad.
She was still tired even though she slept for hours on the washroom floor, but she felt jittery.
There was a hum under her skin making it impossible to sit still.
After she dried off, she threw on a black velvet night dress and a wool cloak to ward off the crisp autumn air.
She pulled on her riding boots, thinking a ride across the grounds would calm her mind.
When she opened her door, glass clinked under her foot.
Looking down, Orla realized it was a plate of food.
In her haste, she hadn’t realized that the plate was sitting outside her door.
Along with a crushed pastry, there was soup that had long gone cold, a cup of cold tea, a few berries, and an orange.
She looked up and down the hall, trying to figure out who might have left the meal for her.
Gods, she hoped it wasn’t Cessly. Pocketing the berries and the orange, she picked up the rest of the tray and set it on the side table she had used to barricade her door earlier.
The palace was quiet. No footsteps or low chatter could be heard as she walked along the familiar path that would take her outside.
She had planned to go to the stables, but her feet had other ideas, and instead she found herself back in her favorite garden.
Gravel crunched under her boots as she moved towards her favorite bench, one surrounded by deep purple petunias and blushing azaleas.
She donned her heavy cloak, expecting it to be cold in the mid-autumn night, but she found it was surprisingly warm.
The warmth of the air washed over her skin like a calming caress, easing the tension in her chest. Taking her first full breath in hours, Orla sat on the bench and quietly ate her orange while she thought about how she could make this all more bearable.
For the last fortnight, her nerves had been as bad as when Rhyan died.
She knew it was this place and these people, but maybe it was her too.
She was constantly aware of playing the part of the warrior.
The armor, the sword and daggers. None of it felt like her anymore.
Though Orla hated to admit it, even to herself, she had softened over the years.
She used to think the only way she could have value was to be ruthless and unrelenting.
If she wanted Elves to respect her, she would have to speak their language.
But now that language felt heavy on her tongue.
She couldn’t even look at herself in the mirror each morning without feeling sick.
The only times in the last several weeks that she had felt like herself were when she was in this garden among the plants and flowers.
And for those brief moments in the chapel this morning.
Gods, what would others think if they knew the Hero of Fontina would rather sit amongst the flowers eating fruit than ever touch a blade again?
Some guard she was. And she hadn’t even met with the king to give him any reports on Owain and his lords.
How could she when she was so focused on not falling apart that she hardly noticed what the Edamish heir got up to?
Yes, the king had required her services, that was a part of their bargain, but no one said she had to act like the version of her that left for Fontina. That version had died on that battlefield.