Chapter Text
In late September the land is beautiful, autumn turning the trees to shades of gold, and the rippling lake that is the namesake of the fief reflects the colour back to the shore in perfect accordance. There is a path around the banks of the lake that dips into the trees on the furthest edge, a path that your mother used to walk late every afternoon. Now you stand on the edge of the lake, staring out into the trees and walking your mother’s same route with your imagination.
There are guests in the great stone castle, Nonds who have come to say their last farewell to the daughter – the sister – of their hearts. For as long as you could, you had kept a quiet, polite expression on your face, enduring pitying looks and empty words of sympathy. You’d been quiet on the outside but on the inside you’d been raging, hating the world for taking away your mother and hating these people for pretending to understand.
In your hand you hold her handkerchief – the embroidered E for her first name, the N for her father’s fief, the G for her home – and wrap it around the largest stone you can find on the lake shore and tie it with the string you have in your pocket. For a moment you stare at it, tracing the embroidery with your eyes until you can hardly see it through the tears. It smells like her, the tangy scent of trees, the delicate aroma of woodflowers, but it hurts too much for you keep so close. With a shout that carries all of the passion in your body, you throw the rock with the silk tied around it as hard as you can into the woods, feeling the hurt and anger leave you with her handkerchief, emptying your spirit of all but a deep loneliness.
You don’t know how long you sit on the shore and cry, but when you raise your head, tears having at last run dry, the sun has slipped low over the horizon and you know that your father will have words for you in his study. There is a tug at your heart and you stare longingly at the forest, wishing you had not been so hasty in your rage, wishing you had kept her kerchief in your pocket and not lost it like you’d lost her. After splashing icy water from the lake onto your face, you head back to the castle and to your room, knowing you missed supper and hardly bringing yourself to care. You pass a small, blonde boy as you slip into the fief through the servant’s entrance, and ignore his wide-eyed stare. He doesn’t know – he has a mother – and so there is nothing for you to say.
Early in the morning when you come down for breakfast, the small boy is waiting for you outside the formal parlor, knees of his breeches torn and muddy. He ducks his head and pulls a hand from behind his back, and you stare at the proffered object. He is holding your mother’s handkerchief, slightly worse for the wear after its stint in the forest, but still carrying the faint smell of woodflowers and pine. Slowly, you reach out to take it. It costs every ounce of willpower you have in your body to keep your strong mask on, and if your father could see you now, you know he’d be proud.