"Who died?"
An adequate enough question when in the presence of such an unusual occurrence; for the Raven, quite suspiciously so, was smiling to herself. Stood tall upon a plinth, her resemblance to a rather ornate-looking statue was uncanny. A statue that depicted the likes of a faceless deity of fertility or something equally as feminine.
A handful of girls were bent low around her, symbolically in worship and realistically in fussing over the enormous skirts of a velvet dress, the dark material cascading far beyond the confines of the plinth and glittering with innumerable pins.
"Must everything be so doom and gloom?" She asked dryly, green eyes cast over to the supplier of the question yet their face, for the moment, remained obscured by a slice of shadow.
"Asks the maiden draped in velvet blacker than any midnight sky."
Two boots protruded from said shadow, one foot crossed leisurely over the other, spurs glinting like jewels and leather wrinkled as wizened skin was one to do. It was rather obvious that these boots were finely crafted from the lands of Gondor, with not a single scuff of evidence to prove that they had been travel worn.
"Arthur is away with his father today and for that I am rather pleased," Ashaia explained to the figure, her eyes lifting from the fixed spot to gaze down upon the girls altering the dress, "'Tis a bonding experience and it is imperative for them to be around each other. Arthur deserves a father and Dagramir deserves a purpose."
A serene chuckle issued from the shadow.
"To hell with fathers. You and I have managed just fine without ours breathing down our necks. Though come to think of it, I doubt my father has ever been close enough to try. Being so consumed by 'honour' and 'duty' does tend to give one a rather distant personality. And dreadful dark circles."
"Dagramir is different, darling. I expect only the very best of his efforts. Otherwise I would gladly point him in your direction."
"Oh, don't you 'darling' me like you never acquired that phrase from the likes of I." The tone was light, mirthful to which Ashaia's smile could only grow.
"Come now, dear. I jest."
"You do indeed, 'lest you're trying to pawn off your lover unto me. I daresay he may not be too interested."
"Yes, well - perhaps you are simply not his type then."
"Don't be so dim-witted, my love. I am everyone's type." The boots shifted from the table and the figure leaned into the stream of light with one fluid movement.
The picture of a man, with the unnaturally sublime appearance of someone who seemed hardened and capable yet with a great tendency to care for himself and his looks, lounged magnificently upon his chair. His neat hair was charcoal in shade and shaved close to the scalp, save for the rest on top which was long enough to slick back or otherwise fall into the pale eyes lined almost absurdly with black kohl and smudged for an effeminate effect. A crooked nose to evidence it had been broken once or twice did not derive from his allure and his skin was much darker than Ashaia's: a foreigner in these lands.
For lack of a better description, he was dramatic and elegant as though he belonged in the swirls of a oil painting mounted prestigiously above the mantle. He would have easily described himself as 'dastardly handsome' and, annoyingly to some, this was entirely true.
His title: formally Lord Caspien Avery Beck. The presence of 'formally' sparked a pang of interest indeed. Though that was a tale for another time.
"That man is so taken with the likes of you, I could barely get a look in. You look ravishing, my dear." He smiled appreciatively and vague dimples deepened at the corners of his lips, "Perhaps not the centre of attention standing so close to me but you will be a sight to behold to those attending the gala."
He stretched luxuriously, a hand gripped around the golden head of a cane at his side. Not quite a walking aid per say but rather a staple of fashion. He rolled the thin stick between slender digits, black-coated fingernails striking against the gold. His aesthetic oozed with these two colours: the deepest black and the richest gold, complimenting flawlessly with the rippling folds of Ashaia's velvet train.
"Your charm knows no bounds, which in turn will prove useful to have you on my arm as we-"
"Madame!" came the desperate cries from the opening to the chamber, abruptly interrupting Ashaia's sentence. The girls at her feet paused, pins poking from between their lips as they glanced around bemusedly.
Two young women appeared in the open doorway, supporting a third between them who could hardly stand, her feet dragging against oaken floors and her face tear-streaked. She screamed and wept horribly and at once, the girls dispersed from the plinth as Ashaia stepped down from it, meeting the trio halfway across the chamber.
Caspien rose from his seat, cane left forgotten. Yet Ashaia lifted a hand almost automatically in his direction.
"Stay put," She instructed and he swiftly respected her wishes, remaining stock still beside the desk, watching.
Only now was it clear to notice that the middle girl was drenched in the unmistakable liquid of dark, thick blood. Her hands and bodice stained from fresh white to deep crimson, her choked sobs continuing.
"What happened?" Ashaia demanded, her tone remaining somewhat level despite this. The length of the dress's train was so huge, it trailed far back towards the plinth.
"We found her wanderin' through the Chetwood and assumed she'd been to see her beloved. It's her day off, after all. She can barely walk, madame." The clearly disturbed voice of the first explained, brown eyes wide.
"I-I...he..he hit me and I pushed him...but I....I didn't mean to-...he hit his head and he fell to the floor..." The fragmented words came tumbling from the middle girl's lips, bloody hands quivering as the two others continued to hold her by the elbows. The congregation of more stood in silence, eyes turning from the girl to Ashaia with expectance.
Ashaia gazed at her for a long moment, thinking. The hiccups breaking the silence and then she said: "The boy you had been courting?" Her tone was low, dangerous. The girl nodded rapidly, shaken by more sobs.
"He hur-...hurt me. And I...I was just defending myself..." At this, her knees buckled and she crashed to the wooden boards, quivering violently. The two others stooped to grab her but Ashaia batted a practised hand at them.
"Away," she cut in, lowering to the ground to meet the girl, the vast skirts of the dress surrounding them both like an undisturbed lake or, perhaps more fittingly, a wing wrapped snugly around her form.
Cold hands reached the girl's face and Ashaia muttered, holding her, "Emmeline, is he dead?"
The girl peered back, misty-eyed and weak, "I...I don't-...he wasn't moving, he-"
"Is he dead?"
"He wasn't...he wasn't b-breathing..." Emmeline managed to choke out before she descended into more crying. Ashaia's eyes raised to the remaining onlookers.
"Then the body is still there. Rosalie, Elizabeth - you know what you must do." Two of them departed at these words but not before exchanging dark looks with one another.
"Lyra," Ashaia continued, "Fetch me towels and tea. Ysolde, prepare the bath...Emmeline, look at me." The girl was trembling under her grasp, peering back up at her. Ashaia's hands remained resolutely upon either side of her reddened face, "Nothing will happen to you."
"B-but I-"
"Emmeline, as long as you are here," Ashaia spoke slowly as if to truly engrain these words, "You will be safe and secure. You cannot, regardless of what you may think is right, take this information to any authorities. I am aware of what terrible men can do and I shall bear the brunt of these circumstances."
Emmeline nodded frantically, sniveling through a stuffy nose as she collapsed against Ashaia's chest. She held her there tightly, ignorant to the obvious transferral of blood and much like a mother caressing her child would have done.
"Ashaia, my dearest...how many more can you protect?" Caspien's voice surfaced, his mirthful tone had since dissolved to be replaced with an uncharacteristic seriousness.
"As many as it takes," Ashaia spoke over Emmeline's head, "Their mistakes are mine to carry the burden of."
