Darrin loved her lavender scent. It was that same scent that first attracted him to her, an illustrious perfume that enlivened his imagination with wild thoughts. It was a curse, he knew, to love that unreachable. He could still picture her face, each contour shaped by the hands of the Gods.
To love.
That's when the ache would kick in. No matter what his friends had assured him, that ache never subsided.
He'd suppose that it would have been better to move on, perhaps a farmgirl or some flowery daughter with golden locks.
There were times he yearned to forget. He'd dream of the day, that sweet release. That's when he'd curse himself all over again as if he'd betrayed her.
That's humorous, that I could betray a spy.
That's what love was, an obscene game that did more harm than it did good.
He slackered an abundant amount of grease on the white linen sheet and started buffering the clean silver surface of the blade.
It wasn't really Silver,
he reminded himself. In actuality it was a composite. He'd recalled when the King had attempted to list the quantity of the blade, not that he cared of such details. It was a trueblade. A blade forged for a hero. Darrin could still make out the inscriptions carved into the face,
Darrin, Champion of House Truecrest.
Hero.
Darrin had to laugh at that.
"Sir Darrin?" A voice squeaked behind him.
It was that farmhand, a lad not old enough to bed a woman. "I'll not belong."
"Yes, Sir Darrin." The boy nodded obediently, stuttering in that quirky habit he'd had since birth. Half the boy's face was darkened in scars, few droplets of spittle flying through the air with each word.
"Boy." Darrin harked back "How many times do I have to remind you, not to address me as such."
"Yes Sir Darrin... er...ah, I mean Darrin." The boy bobbed his head again. "Gan said, don't forget to lock up... so I lock up. Gan said don't be late... so I gotta move..."
Darrin sighed "Run along lad, I'll lock up for you."
"But..."
"Go ahead now," It took more than a little pat on the lad's behind to get him moving.
It was dark,
he had to admit. The fading rays of the sun descending past the innerwalls that surrounded the keep, what few shadows remained of the parapets high above, melded with into the shadows. In the distance, a hand shuffled from post to post, lighting each in turn with a large torch. The air carried a waft of manure, so close to the stables. Periodically he heard the wuff of the horses breathing. The smell comforted him.
That was odd,
he knew. It was home. It was that smell of his childhood where matters of state didn't matter, where every corner didn't hold the reminder of your misdeed.
It was her.
He saw her everywhere.
Was it worth it old man? Was it worth betraying your King for a whore's love?
He didn't know the answer anymore. He thought he did, at first. No, was the simple answer. Yes, was the hard one.
It would have been easy to mull over the multitudes of men who worshiped him, even easier to bed those dozens who lapped at his feet at every procession.
He was a Champion of the House,
that would never change. Could he live with it? Could he bear the torture with every passing day. He grew older with each passing second. Each day represented another day when a youngling wouldn't know his name, each season was a season where people would forget his deeds in that battle, long ago. And then he'd turn grey, frail and old. What would they say then? If the truth was discovered then, how fast would it take for the mob to slay him?
But it was shame, most of all. And there were times, late a night when he huddled beneath the meager sheets of some unnamed tavern, when he would welcome death. He would welcome that silence that accompanied the great passage into the underworld.
All for love.
All for her.
He need a drink.
**
"Another round Sir Darrin?"
"It's just Darrin barkeep." He tossed a gold into the man's general direction. It clattered against a rotted tabletop shaded in various shades of black and brown.
The whole place stank. It was a place one went to not be recognized. It was one of those dens where you could find the dejected and suicidal. Darrin caught the stench of vomit in the air, twined with the compelling gut reaction to spray his own all over the floor. What's worse, the tabletop itself was sticky. Clouds wafted in an eternal cloud in this place, a staple of how ominous the Black Market trade of dreamweed had become.
"Your gold isn't good here, not for a Champion such as yourself." The man laughed, as if making some joke he'd respond to.
"No, I insist." He withdrew another silver and slapped it on the table.
"Don't be silly!" The barkeep waved nonchalantly, "A man of your stature..."
"Look!" He bellowed, louder than he'd intended "You'll take my damned coins and be damned well pleased I don't gut you for just standing there!" Darrin found his hands gripped around the man's collar.
"Ok. No harm friend. No harm." The man held up his hands in a bewildered expression.
Darrin let the pudgy barkeep go, watching him waddle away into the backroom.
Deluded fool.
The bottle was easy enough to uncork, the dark ebony liquid tasted nasty but had one hell of a kick.
And no doubt, this particular vintage, was of the illegal kind.
That was the truth of the matter, that crimes would go unpunished even this close to the main keep. Justice should have met him long ago. Justice should have slayed him at the King's funeral. Justice should have claimed his soul when he gave the eulogy.
He spit, not caring in which direction. The tavern was near empty save for a few drunken souls in the far corners of the room. Darrin could hear their murmurs but more so, he could smell them. If it was any other tavern, he'd swear he was smelling rotting corpses. In this tavern, it was just another day.
Lavender?
