The hovel of a home, hung with birds, rabbits and herbs from its cracked plaster ceiling. Baskets, boxes and bottles, the contents were familiar to her, their uses being to season, to heal, to harm. The fire never seemed to die down in the hearth, its bright flames causing the shadows of dead fowl, small skulls and trinkets to cast long shadows upon the wall. A garden spider, no bigger than the thumb became a shadow to haunt the dreams, but it bought her peace. Home. The air carried the smell of copper and burnt sage and nestled in the embrace of a rocking chair, a woolen blanket to her neck, she smiled as she slept.
Love and trust lead to betrayal, the fragility of her mind took one harm too many. Vandalan, as she now referred to him, only broke skin, only carried threats. The threat to harm those she loved. How foolish she had been to love, to trust. He controlled the mind of a man called Penthrop who stood at his side, he would not control them…but he did. Like crude little puppets, he made them dance, sing..Ellae seemingly his pride and joy for she would sing to whomever would listen, carry his words of the “mad witch and her lies“. How content she was to hate “the witch”, it was easier than to confess her betrayal. A murderer who confessed to both Viljawyn and Skarletta, yet blinded by his attention, the inn worker protected him. Through the evidence of Skarlettas cracked ribs, scarred skin and bruises, she protected him.
Love comes in many guises, the love of a friend is one. Viljawyn, no longer Redlady, claimed to have friendship, understanding, a sight beyond that of other Breelanders. Yet, betrayal also lay in her breast, and Viljawyns affections for Vandalan bought about a turn of events that should not have been. Skarletta agreed, in sympathy for her friend, not to harm Vandalan. To spare him whatever fate she could devise that would be suitable for a murderer, for one who spoke so freely of harming the children of her lover, the two women she called her friends, whomever she held dear. Now Skarletta was shunned after her act of benevolence.
Then there is the love of a man, one who would share a bed, a home with her, one with children who had bonded with her as if their own mother. Tylan, no longer Furclad. Handsome but a coward. He blamed her, such vitriolic words. He looked at her, bruised, in pain, yet in his estimation it was her fault, and could not bear to be at her side anymore, having been ridiculed it was an easy decision for him. It mattered not that he wasn’t there to protect her, that she protected his children alone whilst he gallivanted to distant lands. It mattered not that her heart, as fragile as it was, had been his.
Vandalan wished her to call him master, yet she remained stoic. He wished her to bow down to the wishes of the dark one he summoned, yet she stood firm..until his anger rose and he drove a horse toward her, such little time to act she had thrown herself to the ground but not before the creature had impacted her right side, forcing the shoulder from its joint, thundering into her side where the thin frame could not protect her ribcage from splintering, cracking.
Vandalan had raped her, not in a carnal sense, but had forcibly taken something from her, as if having a limb pulled free of the body, an eye gouged out with a spoon. They could not understand, they did not care. She had lost the inner sight, but with their betrayals, now her mind, now open and free, they became insignificant. As they laughed and spoke of parties inbetween their hushed whispers and stares, she drank, but also making certain that her last request of Viljawyn was still to be carried out. Their misery was of their own making. They had been made fools for the entertainment of a murderer.
Hornwort, mother but not, her return bought Skarletta comfort. She knew of the true ways, the old ways. As terrible as a tempest, yet as calming as a still lake. In her, Skarletta had trust.
