The Advisor Breaks

She didn’t need candles. The dark of well past midnight doused her chambers in black and grey, but she knew where she was going. She locked the door firmly behind herself with trembling hands, though through a mind addled with copious amounts of alcohol, emotional instability and resisting breakdown, it took a few attempts to find the keyhole.

She turned back to the room, listening to rain begin to come to her windows. Was it raining on his corpse?

She shuffled over to the trunk she kept his personal things in, undressing awkwardly as she went, and needing to pluck at ties and fabric repeatedly to get it off. She still had the crumpled letter in her hand. She put it down carefully on a table, and then threw off the rest of the black clothing she’d spent the day in.

She turned back to the trunk. No, no it wouldn’t do. She had to wash. She had to get Ulrika off her. She felt sore all over. Sore and foul. She found her water basin and proceeded to wash everything; the evaporated saliva from her throat and lips, the fingerprints from her breasts, the hand impressions on her thighs, the lingering wet on her abdomen. Off, all of it, off. Drying herself fervently afterwards, she then felt ready.

A part of her felt awful for wishing the she-King’s presence off her so badly, when really she’d done nothing wrong at all. And it wasn’t disgust, she knew that much. She simply didn’t want anything on her skin that didn’t belong to him.

She went back to the trunk, and began to dress. Trousers first, the leather bagging off her in numerous places and really looking quite silly. She had to tighten the belt to the last hole to get them to stay up. She reached for one of the off-white shirts and pulled it over her head, and then the green tunic. Closing the lid carefully, she lifted both hands to effectively wrap herself in a self-embrace.
It didn’t work. They were just clothes.

She picked up the piece of paper from the table, picking up a bottle of wine and a corkscrew on her way to bed, and uncorked it. Sat cross-legged in one corner of the seemingly over-huge four poster, she drank from the bottle and straightened out the paper with one hand.

One fingertip touched the paper lightly. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, nail scratching over the surface. “I tried to make her you. But it didn’t work. Why didn’t it work, darling? Why...” she paused, the lump rising in her throat. She took a long drink to attempt to quell it, but only wound up coughing. She put the bottle down by the side of the bed, and once again resorted to cuddling herself, cheek leaning against her shoulder and her eyes squeezing so tightly shut she thought they might burst. Fingertips gripped at the fabric.

“Why aren’t you here with me?”

It was the middle of the night, he knew that much. And while all of his nights had been restless since he'd left home, this one seemed to be more so than usual. The nagging feeling as though something was missing was almost tangible in the air, and Samuel drew and released a deep breath, fitfully rolling to his side and allowing unfocused green eyes to drift in the direction where his fiancee would have usually been sleeping next to him. An arm wrapped feebly around a pillow as though it were her, and another exasperated escaped his lips. He'd already begun to realize that tonight he'd not be getting back to sleep.

So he rose with a scowl on his face, and as was his usual fashion, he drifted across the room like a wraith in the dead of the darkest night. Soft leather boots were carefully slipped onto his feet, and he reluctantly left the warmth of the tiny room's stove near to that lumpy feather mattress upon which he'd been sleeping, en route to the front porch of the little cottage. It might've been tolerable, had Eave been there. He stifled a quiet chuckle, thinking on what it may have been like if she had accompanied him. God forbid that the Lady Advisor should have to sleep on a less-than-luxurious mattress! And he'd have kissed her forehead, and wrapped his arms around her, and laughed that forgiving laugh that he so frequently reserved specifically for her...

God, he missed her. A puff of steam trickled from his lips as he very slowly released a breath and pulled his clothing tighter around his torso. While he'd have enjoyed spending a bit more time with his family, he was overwhelmed with the need to be with Eave. Had he truly understood why the need was so urgent, it was quite likely that he'd have immediately mounted his horse and galloped heedlessly off in the direction of Nharati's palace. Without any explanation, however, he merely acknowledged it simply for the fact that he missed her beyond belief. Perhaps a sense of resolve would help him to sleep. He turned and wandered back into the welcoming rooms of that modest cottage and flopped once more atop his bed. Eyes refused to shut, until he finally breathed the words to her: I love you, Eave. Yes. He'd leave tomorrow. Micheal and Vincent would surely understand.

The Huntsman would soon be returning home.