17th November 1102

Kelgar squinted into the darkness that engulfed the cavernous castle kitchen. Polina had told him Illewen was usually here quite early.

He had left her helping Osras put on his armour. Her nimble fingers would fasten the buckles that later that evening, god willing she would pull open again, her mouth pressed against his brother’s. She would take down his brother’s sword, balancing it in her sturdy hands and sliding it deftly into the sheath at his side. As she worked, tugging at leather straps, adjusting carefully the tunic that would protect his brother’s brawny chest her hands would linger for long moments on his forearm, brushing against the sensitive skin of his throat. Perhaps he would steal a kiss and she would scold him with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth though her heart was heavy.

Kelgar had risen earlier, awkwardly tugging on the mail tunic, the metal buckles tearing at his skin as he struggled to pull it over his head. He had quickly sheathed his sword, thinking of the last time it had tasted flesh. He remembered the unpleasant sensation, a gritty grinding as though he were probing some pit of sticky tar rather than that creature’s body. He had shuddered then, his skin prickling as though sad eyes were watching his preparations solemnly though he did not know who exactly they belonged to, the colours blurring green into brown.

The air was thick and warm in the kitchen, the heavy scent of baking bread filling the murky darkness. He scanned the room for her now. She was sitting, motionless in the corner, so still he had not noticed her shadowlike figure.

“Illewen”, he muttered, his voice low as the guttering fire.

Her head turned slowly, the shadows rippling across her face pooling in the hollows that had formed there in the recent months. Her eyes seemed larger and more sad than he could possibly cope with. They stared at him unseeing for a long moment and he felt as though she was looking right through him, focusing on something not far behind him.

He sat down slowly opposite her. She gazed at him blankly and then shivered as though awaking with a chill from an afternoon nap.

“Kelgar”, she murmured, “were yew wanting something?”

“No Wen love”, he replied gently, “I just thought I should come and tell yew that we’re going out to the ruined church today.”

What had he hoped to achieve by coming to see her, some lifting of the terrible guilt that was pressing down on his chest or was it the dreadful weight of a promise he did not know how to keep without losing himself.

“Oh”, she blinked slowly, her brow creasing slightly, “yew will be careful won’t yew Kelgar.”

A surge of irritation rushed painfully through him. What exactly was it that he wanted her to say.

“Yew understand don’t yew love, the Duke thinks he knows where the creatures can be found.”

Why was he pushing her like this?

“Won’t it be very dangerous fer yew Kelgar?” she asked.

Her eyes were so very dark, boring into his soul, accusing him, pleading with him, begging him and all the while the soft spoken voice of his friend whispered into his heart what it was he must do. He gazed into those eyes and saw that they were haunted by the spectre of her dead husband, his memory drowning in their murky pools.

“I’ll be alright love, I’m tougher than I look”, he replied.

“Wen…”, he began.

She looked up at him expectantly and he could almost see that gaze mirrored in another pair of eyes.

“I will avenge his death.”

Her eyes flicked away as though afraid to meet his. They were wide open, rimmed with tiny rows of trembling lashes. A dreadful smile drew up the corners of her soft lips and held them immobile in the confines of her grief. The pools were almost overflowing, her eyes brimming with tears, as she opened them wider and wider.

Perhaps this what he had wanted. He did not know anymore.

He got up to leave, striding purposefully to the door, his hand finding the pommel of his sword where it rested momentarily. He reached out to drag open the heavy door but his hand fell to his side as he heard the soft shuffling of footsteps behind him.

“Kelgar wait.”

He turned and she shyly wrapped her arms around him pressing her face against the cold metal of his plate mail. She felt tiny and fragile in his embrace as though one wrong move and she would break into a thousand pieces.

“Thank you”, she muttered.

He gently disengaged from her embrace gazing at her face in the first light of dawn. Though the shadows remained, where they did not fall was flushed the glorious pink of a new morning.

He turned and left.