Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The forest green door loomed large before her, expectantly. She had been standing outside of this stoop for nearly a quarter of an hour, debating on if she should be brave and actually knock.
After Owain had left that morning, Orla made her way down to the stables so that she could ready her horse for the journey from the palace to the heart of Imsil.
She hoped to return before supper. On her breakfast tray, Owain had left her a drawing of a hellebore in full bloom.
She gently folded the illustration and tucked it into the pocket of her cloak as she left.
Winter was fully upon Emmental, though she hadn’t realized it in Owain’s rooms. Despite him rarely lighting the hearth, his rooms were always pleasantly warm.
But as Orla entered the palace halls, she noted a significant chill.
The ride into the city was quick, but Orla had felt on edge the whole way. As expected, curious onlookers gawked and whispers of her identity dogged her as her horse trotted down the familiar cobblestone path.
Hero… Fontina…
There she is… Hero.
The words still set her on edge, but this time, she didn’t feel as gripped with panic as she had before. She knew they were wrong, that she was not a hero. But she had also felt lighter in the past few days.
Talking to Owain about her past had something to do with it.
Never before had she told anyone the whole story of what happened in Fontina.
She had told Cessly bits and pieces, but she avoided talking about what happened, and she had never told her that she had gotten distracted.
That Orla let Rhyan die due to her negligence.
Only Owain knew the full truth of what happened.
It’s funny, the kinds of things that force us to change.
Orla had been stabbed, hit, and punched more times than she could count during her ten years in the king’s army.
But it took nearly dying on the grounds of a palace she had grown to hate to make her realize that avoiding the things she was ashamed of didn’t make them go away.
Maybe Owain helped too. When she had told him about her failings, he hadn’t judged her or made her feel like the monster she so often thought she was. If anything, he showered her in kindness and worship. If that was his response, maybe Cessly could forgive her too.
Maybe she could even learn to forgive herself.
Leaving her horse tied up outside, Orla made her way up the familiar stone steps towards the forest green door of the townhouse.
Finally, she knocked twice using the brass knocker and held her breath.
She waited for a minute that seemed to stretch into an hour, picking at her cuticles as she waited.
She was just about to turn and leave when the door creaked open, and on the other side, was Cessly.
She wore a long purple tunic and gray trousers.
She was barefoot and Orla could see the metal of her prosthetic under her pants.
Orla felt nervous, remembering how she ran from the sweet witch when she saw her at the palace. She suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands and fidgeted from one foot to the other.
“I hoped I’d see you again. Come in.” Cessly smiled, shocking Orla. Orla had expected anger and scorn, not to be welcomed into Cessly’s home. Cessly moved away from the entrance and ushered Orla inside before closing the front door.
The townhome was exactly as Orla had remembered.
There was a large plush gray leather couch in the middle of the living room, buttressed by two wooden end tables on each side of it.
The golden hearth was lit with purple fire that Cessly was fond of, using her magic to change the fire’s hue.
The cream walls of the room were covered in art and portraits.
Orla was surprised to see the one of her, Cessly, and Rhyan, shortly after they had risen from the rank of cadet to warriors.
The trio smiled down at her. Rhyan had his arm perched atop Orla’s head while Cessly hugged Orla’s waist tightly.
The sight of the three of them, so happy and carefree, made tears well in her eyes.
Orla turned to find Cessly watching her, eyes filled with the same sadness that Orla felt.
Slowly, Cessly walked over to her. She stiffened just as she had in the palace, only this time she didn’t run as Cessly enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug.
Cessly laid her head on top of Orla’s as Orla broke down, sobbing into the taller woman’s chest. She heaved and cried for every time she had felt so alone, every time she had wanted to talk to Cessly but felt too ashamed, too broken, too monstrous.
And Cessly cried too. She cried for the friend she lost, and the other who shut her out.
She cried for the life she lost in those battles, and the isolation that came after.
They stood there, holding each other, making up for the years of lost time. Sniffing, Orla lifted her head to wipe her eyes, and Cessly stepped back.
“You don’t hate me.” Orla hiccupped. It wasn’t a question. She had felt so much love in Cessly’s hug. As if the two hadn’t been separated by years of grief and loss.
“I could never hate you, Orla. You’re my best friend.” Her hazel eyes were red from tears.
“I’m sorry, Cessly,” she cried, tears spilling down her face once again. “I’m so, so sorry.” Cessly wrapped her arms around Orla again.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Orla. Come on, let’s talk.”
* * *
They arrived at a familiar tavern up the street from the townhouse.
Orla felt as if she were transported back in time.
The dark wood of the bar was worn with age, the smell of stale ale hung in the air.
Even after all these years, Hosh, the old cyclops, was still working behind the bar.
It was packed that evening, creatures from all over the kingdom coming into Imsil for the king’s upcoming ball and to see the Elven nobility who ruled over them all.
Cessly navigated them to a booth towards the back of the tavern before heading to the bar to grab drinks.
She returned with two tankards of ale and two shots of whiskey.
They took the shots quickly before turning their attention to their tankards.
They sat in silence for a while, people-watching the various folks in the tavern.
There were several ogres and a few imps.
A fearsome looking minotaur sat a few tables away, talking to two satyrs.
A nymph was sitting on the lap of an orc, running her hands across the males tusks, clearly trying to seduce him.
Cessly broke the silence.
“Why did you leave?” It was a simple question, but Cessly’s voice was thick with emotion.
“I just… I couldn’t stand it, Cess. Everyone looking at me like I was a hero. Asking me about Fontina. Reminding me of Rhyan. I had to get away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you’d try and stop me. Or maybe I was too ashamed to face you knowing I failed you.” Cessly’s eyes widened, looking shocked.
“How did you fail me, Orla? You ended the war and made it home safe.”
“I did, but Rhyan didn’t.” The tears from earlier threatened to spill again. “You told me to keep him safe, Cess. You told me to protect him, and I didn’t.” Her voice broke.
Cessly reached across the table and gripped Orla’s hand in hers.
“That’s not your fault, Orla!” Orla averted her gaze.
“Look at me,” Cessly said. “We were warriors. Of course I wanted you to keep each other safe, but we danced with death every time we entered a battlefield. I would never blame you for what happened to Rhyan. We all knew the risks of joining the king’s army, of fighting in those battles.
Rhyan never would have wanted you to blame yourself for his death and neither should you. ”
She made it sound so simple, as if Orla could just stop the constant voice in her head saying she had killed her friend.
That it was her fault. But a small part of her knew that Cessly was right.
They had chosen a dangerous profession. Rhyan was the son of a general; he knew more than anyone what could happen in battle.
A small weight lifted off Orla’s chest for the first time in seven years. It wasn’t a massive change, and she knew she couldn’t change overnight, but Cessly’s words meant more to Orla than she could ever express.
The two continued to drink. One tankard became three, one shot became four, and soon they were deep in their cups, laughing and catching the other up on what had happened in the ensuing years.
It turns out, Cessly had been as lonely as Orla.
She had a relationship during that time to a lamia named Lillia, but that had ended because Cessly was unwilling to commit to the female.
Orla told Cessly about her string of lovers before she left Imsil and about her lonely life in Benin.
She told her about her guard duties at the palace and that recently she met someone who she was beginning to care deeply for, though she didn’t say who he was.
The complication of Owain being the Edamish heir was too much to untangle on the first night of reconnecting with her old friend.
When it was clear that she wouldn’t be making it back to the palace that evening, she used Cessly’s magic to send Owain a missive saying she would see him in the morning.
That night, Orla felt more carefree than she had been in years.
Orla arrived back at the palace midmorning, having slept in from her night out with Cessly.
There was an increase in activity at the palace as people arrived for the king’s ball at the end of the week.
As she walked through the grand entryway and up the large marble steps towards her room, several people stared at her and the whispers began.
There she is. Hero of Fontina. Lady Orla. Fontina.
But for the first time in seven years, Orla didn’t want to run and hide.
She held her head high and breathed as her heart rate increased.
She didn’t have to be their mascot or their hero.
She could just be Orla. Her previous night spent with Cessly, and the days spent alone with Owain in his rooms had begun to heal something in herself that had been broken for a long time.