Thorne – Part One
The window sill sat worn, unused, and lonely on the far end of the room, longing for the hands that would grasp the ledge it rested upon. Likely, it often missed the smooth arms that would heave the larger body into the room, carrying with it the scent of pine and sawdust from the nearby mill where it usually found itself. The lithe form would turn to the table by the window, snuffing out the candle that always found itself lit far past its curfew. She always hated letting the candles burn down, hated the waste. She erred on the side of conservative, never wasting anything that could be saved for later, always making sure they had something more, that it wasn’t over until everything had its turn.
It was too bad, when they took her and he could do nothing about it, just standing there watching as the doors to his bedroom flew open in a flurry of energy. A dozen boots rocked the ground as the armored forms filled the room, several rushing directly towards her, pulling her naked form away as though it were diseased, gripping her loosely, but with force. He had simply watched as they stole her from him, shouting as though it would influence the events, as if it might change anything at all. He sat now on that bed, with his head in his hands, wishing her well in her trial later today, hoping that she gets out of here unscathed. It was unlikely, given that she had slept with a royal, let alone the fact that it had been out of wedlock as well. She would probably be executed, her soft, but scarred face contorted in a look of anger, too proud to go down quietly.
At best, she might be able to fight her way out of this, Collas mused. That is, if she could maybe get ahold of one of their swords, perhaps, or if she got out of her bindings, or got lucky or…what the hell would all of this thinking accomplish? She would still be facing a trial followed by an execution if things went as everyone expected them to, and he would be sitting here, moping on his rear with nothing changed, and the love of his life dead in Bastian Square, her poor, red locks rolling down the stones as hundreds looked on. He didn’t want that for her. She deserved so much more, so much longer of a life, and a happy one at that, whether with him, or somewhere far away, far safer. He began to wonder if perhaps he might be able to get her out of there, looking across from his silk, canopy bed, over to the sword that hung on his wall.
It was a fine, sharp thing, made by some important blacksmith some long time ago, though he hadn’t quite paid much attention to the descriptions given. It had runes going all up and down the center of the blade, spelling out “Glory of Caillibotte” or some such patriotic nonsense that his ancestors had thought sounded appropriate. The guard at the base of the blade was made to look like the hooded head of a cobra, the symbol of his family, the Caillibotte house, which his father constantly drilled into him was the most important thing on this world. He followed the body of the serpent down the hilt of the blade, where it ended in a small diamond of ruby polished to a shine.
He could do it, pull it off the wall and charge down into the prison, crusading for her freedom and convincing others to join the charge. He could lead the populace, championing her glory, and get her out of here, get her somewhere safe, he could…no, that was all so stupid. There was no chance that anyone would help him, and even if they did, what would they gain charging the castle with no equipment? Many would die and nothing would be gained of it but more suffering because of him. Perhaps a more subtle approach would be called for if he was to have any chance here. He would take the sword, but simply dress for training, yes. That would be his excuse, his alibi if he was caught on his way to her. Alright, yeah, he could totally do this. He got up from the bed, his tunic having been ripped a little in his stressful fidgeting, and he worried how his mother would fuss over him ruining his clothes again. He walked up to the sword, looking at it and all that picking it up would mean for him. There was no way he could ever come back here if he succeeded, and no future left for him if he failed.
As he reached up to the sword, a muscled, lithe form stepped in front of him and pulled it off the wall, grasping it in both hands and turning towards him. Her red hair was noticeably darker, matted with blood, either hers or others. Her body was covered in cuts and she was dressed in a prisoner’s smock. His mouth was opened in shock, practically on the floor below him as he immediately recognized her.