Shadows of Naamor

Ayria never expected to be alive. Not like this.

How? The more she thought on it the more her body grew restless from her slumber, trying to shake herself from it. Yet her world began to spin when she tried urging her feet to the ground, falling back upon her bed as she gazed up at a familiar wooden ceiling that sheltered her innocence for so long. It gave her little peace of mind, though, questioning even its existence after all that happened, after all that...

She closed her eyes at the thought, curling up into a ball as she began to despair.

Was it all a dream? No. Her body was reminding her of the living nightmare she endured with subtle, lingering pains, each alluding to memories she wanted to forget. How she was even in one piece begged doubt as she succumbed to morbid curiosity, smoothing a timid hand down her belly, wanting to confirm one dark memory that tormented her most. Yet her privacy was short-lived, pausing at the sound of two men talking quietly outside her room. She felt at ease knowing who one of them was, wanting to call out, to ask him what would not come easy from trembling lips.

Yet the other was a stranger to her, calm and well-spoken. He was solemn in his exchange of words with who she knew was her father, hinting a sigh of relief she was so used to hearing when something that troubled him was not as bad as it seemed. Were they talking about her? She could barely make out what they said and yet...

No. It had to be about her. Her and that... that monster.

She bided her time, not wanting to intrude on their conversation. Whatever was said was enough for the stranger to be on his way as she heard her father's tone shift to an almost exhausted thankfulness. Who was he to earn such from a man she knew was slow to showing emotion, slow to give appreciation when his actions meant more than what a common man's gruff skill with words could muster? It was never his strength.

She had to know, plucking herself back up from her bed as she shuffled across the room with pain searing through her legs, like she had travelled for days without rest. Strangely her feet were not what bothered her most despite bearing the memory of them being soaked in blood as she ran barefoot from what she only knew was evil, gnashing its teeth at her when it wasn't laughing menacingly, whenever she fell and begged for mercy, feeling its claws grope her flesh when it wasn't looking for--

No. The more she thought on it the more she asked herself one thing. How?

By the time she reached the door she was almost frightened when it opened without her consent and there staring worriedly at her was her father, a burly sort of man who any other day was as strong as an ox and could threaten a man just by sharpening an axe for a chicken that had laid its last egg months ago. Yet now he had the look of a man starved of rest and composure. It was a sight that made her weak with grief.

"Fa-Father...?" she uttered before her legs lost her weight and saw it tumble into him. Fortunately he was quick, even if his calloused hands were unkind to her bare flesh. By then she realised to her embarrassment that aside from some bandages covering the worst of her wounds she was as naked as the day she left her mother's womb.

It mattered not to her father, too busy putting on a brave face that did little to hide the fear settled in his kind brown eyes. "Creator's breath, what are you doin' outta bed?!" he exclaimed, holding her gently to his chest. "The lad said you'd be out for days."

"The lad? You mean the one you were talking to earlier?" Ayria asked.

"Aye, thank the almighty a bane was looking out for--" he paused, realising what he had almost said to his daughter, still a little girl in his eyes. "Are... are you alright?"

She blinked timidly at the thought. "A... bane? ... he slew the monster, then?"

Her father grew quiet at that, closing his eyes. It took him awhile to find words but she could tell if he had his way he would say nothing at all. "Aye... aye, that he did," he said, hugging her tighter. She could tell he was lying, though, to keep her calm.

She frowned. "So he's still out there..."

"It doesn't matter now," her father assured, helping her up as he lead her back to her bed before turning his attention to an old storage chest for something she could wear. "Come dawn we'll take what we can carry and head south for Kirinhold." he added, grabbing a modest gown and handing it to her with as much grace as a wounded ox. "Should have enough coin to barter with those river rats for some place to rest, too."

Ayria was aghast at the thought.

"Kirinhold?

No, father...

please.

I am fine, really."

He ignored her, pacing towards the only window in the room. Judging by the light from it evening was near, almost time to light candles and lock what kept them safe. "Kirinhold will have all we need to start fresh, even if it means living in an inn."

It was not enough for her. "Father, no. Mother would never have abandoned--"

"I almost lost you!" he snapped back at her. "I can't go on thinking we'll be safe here, lass. ... not anymore." he argued as the weight of his words slumped his shoulders. "After what happened to your mother, do you think I want the same happen to you?"

A shiver brushed up Ayria's spine at the realisation. "What... what do you mean?"

"Ask the bane," her father sighed, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I'm done."

Her body was surely weak, yet she refused her father's help to lead her towards him. Though her world was still a haze she knew her way outside, flinching at what she could only describe was a tingling beneath her flesh that gave moments of warmth awkward to her. She wondered if it was just her nerves but her skin was sensitive, too, worse now that she was covered in a cotton gown that clung to her curves and nearly made her squirm. Any other day she would have wholly welcomed the sensation, knowing that the gown made her feel sensuous, even if she was growing out of it.

She frowned at the thought. Nothing she wore seemed to fit anymore.

It was a morbid reminder. Once she had a mother, beautiful, kind and resourceful. There was nothing she could not fix with a needle and thread, refitting old clothes and mending those ruined by daily work. Her father never went a day without something clean to wear and as Ayria grew older so did her wardrobe boast what she outgrew till her mother took her aside, made some new measurements and gave her back comfort. She could have opened her own tailor store with such skill, Ayria knew.

It never crossed her mother's mind. All she wanted was to make her family happy, tending to their needs as best she could. They did not have everything in life yet they were at peace in their minds and made do with what her father provided for them, usually not one to accept help from others. He wanted them to live off the land, although sometimes Ayria wondered if he was just possessive of his family and distrustful of his kinsmen, not wanting his wife and daughter to be objects of lust.

It did not matter to her mother, either way. She loved him with all her heart.

That all changed when she went into town one morning and never returned to them. Nightfall urged a frantic search. Ayria was told to wait at home where she was safe, yet nothing prepared her for the sight that haunted her for years when her father returned with a look that told her everything with little more than an empty gaze.

She was never meant to know what happened. Her father had kept it secret from her, not willing to traumatise his little girl with what even made him restless in his sleep, crying out his wife's name in anguish. His dreams were always so peaceful until then.

Yet that was all she ever was in his eyes. His little girl. As the years passed she tried to handle her mother's chores, clumsily knitting and fixing what was so simple for the talented seamstress. Not for her daughter. She could cook, clean and tend the garden without a qualm, but her finesse with a needle? It was a gift she surely lacked.

It made matters worse that her father had been possessive of her mother's memory. Everything she owned was kept exactly where she left them, gathering dust like her hand in their lives. Years passed before Ayria was even allowed to make use of her tailoring supplies, having to settle for what her father could find for them when he made lonely tracks to the nearest village, always demanding her to stay behind.

Just once, she thought to herself, it would have been nice to control her own destiny.

When she emerged from the front of her home the crickets were chirping and the light of day was falling beneath the great forest that surrounded them, where eager saplings bowed before tall pines, centuries old. She had mind to seek in habitual obedience what needed to be done for chores before nightfall, but things were different now. Was her father truly serious about Kirinhold? It made her weak inside to think.

"You should be resting," a gentle voice said nearby, no doubt belonging to the man her father spoke to before. "Do not worry him more than you already have."

Ayria waved a hand in her sight, not yet used to the fading light. She fell timid at his words as she searched for a face. "Who... who are you?" she asked, leaning her body against a support beam beneath her home's veranda. "Are you who I owe my life to?"

"You owe me nothing, good woman," he argued politely. He sat with his back to her on steps leading to the veranda, boasting hair as black as a raven's back cascading beautifully behind him despite not being properly groomed for quite some time. Something seemed strange about it, though, almost as if it had something to hide.

When she realised she had been staring for too long, the man turned to face her, twisting his upper body with a degree of concern as she caught sight of his features, no doubt accentuating a noble's handsomeness. "Is everything alright?" he asked, speaking from lips many a woman would kiss. Yet where there was warmth in his tone he had contemplative eyes beneath a serious brow, a shade lighter than his mane. His gaze itself was like a cloudy sky, blue yet covered with flecks of silver and grey.

It was hard to tell what he was thinking, seeing her there, only that it forced him to his feet and made her blink in surprise when she realised what a mountain he was to her. Rarely had she seen anyone so tall, worthy of being called a giant. He wasn't even standing at level, looking at her from the base of the steps. He had a warrior's build, broad of shoulder and strong of arm with a strangely slender waist, all cloaked in comfortable robes modestly to his feet, wrapped in fine sable leather. The latter was unlike anything she had seen her ilk wear and certainly no cobbler of the north had a hand in making them. Then again, she knew very little about footwear altogether...

He suspected her curiosity at least, lifting a thick eyebrow. "Lost for words?"

"Oh..." she lowered her gaze. "My apologies, milord, I did not mean to stare."

For some reason that took him aback. "You think I am a noble of these lands?"

"Yes? I mean, I... I suppose not," she meekly replied. "Would it be fair to say you look nothing like a commoner from around here then? You are much too handsome."

He merely smiled at that, enough for her heart to hasten and earn a sigh in her mind. Judging from appearances he was perhaps in his mid twenties if not younger than. "And yet one could argue the same for you, unless you mother was a bard?" he asked.

She blushed. "My mother served a noble in her youth. What she learnt was in some small part handed down to me, yet I've never found use for it here in these woods. Why should it when the only face I know so well is my father's? Bless his heart."

"I would imagine he prefers it that way?" he said softly, "They say those who live in cages seek to fulfil desires their masters forbid, too. So is that why you left yours?"

She fell uncomfortable at that, lowering her gaze shamefully. "So you know then..."

"Only what your father told me," he started, crossing his arms over his chest. "Regardless, I'm more concerned about the dark beast that preyed upon you than whatever reason you had for disobeying your own flesh and blood. Understood?"

She sighed, nodding reluctantly. "... I--I understand."

She tried recalling all she knew, on the eve of her twentieth birth year when she begged her father to take her into town than celebrate it where they had every year, alone. Things were fine when her mother was alive, when she could make things special with little more than a smile and gift as simple as a home made dress or doll, knitted with love Ayria truly believed was divine. She made everything look perfect.

Her father thought it was, too. He never wanted anything else for his little girl.

He silenced her protests with little more than a growl. It was his way to dismiss her, and even threaten her with that unamused scowl of his if the growl was not enough. Still, with the same breath he would gently set her aside and promise gifts if she behaved like that good little girl he still saw in her. It was an old trick he used for well over a decade yet on that fateful day? Ayria wanted more than mere trinkets.

That was when she hatched her brilliant plan, waking to the heavy footsteps of her father leaving to do business with the local traders of Elmsden. He had to leave early as the journey would take all day, entrusting everything back home to his daughter the night before with an apologetic smile. Though she was oblivious to it back then he must have known just how much her birthday meant to her that year.

She wasted no time, taking only a meagre satchel of coins with her into the north where it was maybe only an hour's ride to Bardshearth. As much as she didn't want to involve the family's old draft horse with her little escapade, it was her accomplice, her chance to live a little. If all went well, she could spend a day in the real world and be home before her father knew what she was up to, before she was grounded for life.

It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Besides, she never left the home anyway.

Bardshearth was nearly as magical as her mother described so many moons ago. There Ayria found a village nestled within the forest, hiding in the shade of the ancient pines while lapping quietly around a flowing creek that separated the village in two. There were many hovels seemingly joined together with fishing lines hanging out the clean local laundry while a handful of women were hard at work scrubbing away for their families in ankle deep waters. It all seemed to remind her of home, save for the joy of children scampering about within the earshot of their busy mothers.

The sight made Ayria wistful. Life used to be like that back home.

No. She told herself then and there that she was there to have fun.

It was still early in the day and, as she asked around, many of the men were already out making their keep in the surrounding forest. Some were hunters, others miners. She learned that there was a small iron deposit nearby that had more than enough hands seeking the valuable ore for the Lord of Naamor, a man who Ayria's mother spoke of fondly when her father was not around. For some reason, he had little love for the nobility of their land, especially after his wife, her mother, passed away. Still, none of that truly mattered to her and the locals were not aware of her family history.

The local inn was where she was told to go. Among the hovels stood a great house with fine artistry adorning its pine infrastructure, its runic etchings a joy to behold. Above it was a steady trail of smoke from what she could only imagine was a magnificent hearth that must have been the source of countless tales told around it. Her mother once said it was the heart of the village before the village even came to be!

She remembered the buzz she felt touching its grand doors, how she had butterflies in her belly at the thought that within was the sound of many a skilful bard's merriment.

It was not like how her mother pictured it. Within was a seedy place with unwashed floors and the smell of alcohol, smoke and sex. She almost choked on the haze that greeted her as she tried to make out where everyone was, only to realise the truth.

There was no one there but a tired buxom innkeeper, barely steady on her bare feet. She looked a mess with long, untamed hair like a bird's nest, but there was a hint of satisfaction played across her full lips as she hummed a sensual, slow tune to herself. It took her forever to realise someone was watching her before she said hello.

Ayria expected more, wanted more. Was this not the place where bards met in their travels to exchange songs and yearn the warmth of pretty things that were eager to drag them off to candlelit rooms? The thought made something in her itch as the innkeeper made light of her naivety, giggling at her for thinking that she expected fun so early in the day, telling her to come back at night when things would surely heat up.

So much for her brilliant plan, Ayria sighed at herself then and there.

That was when her world was greeted with the most beautiful specimen of a man she had ever seen, bare chested and toned with muscle, adorned by silky, fiery red hair that framed a sleepy, androgynous face. His hair was nearly the length of her own and it made her almost want to touch it despite the glare she received for gawking at him for too long. Yet she was mistaken for the innkeeper as he sat himself at the bar, telling her to quit staring and get him something to cull the pain in his weary head.

She played along after the innkeeper urged her along, grinning at the sight as she leaned on a broom. The experience was certainly new as Ayria searched the bar and looked to the other woman for advice, lifting up random bottles till she saw nods of approval that gave her enough confidence to pour a concoction for the weary man.

The result was hilarious for the innkeeper. Not so much for anyone else.

After the urgent vomiting in the street that followed, Ayria almost felt sorry for the man before he gave her the most infectious smile she had ever seen after he regained his senses and took in all she had to say about the innkeeper's role in his misery.

What followed was something romantic. The man introduced himself as a wandering soul in search of paradise, so he could let the troubles of the world fade from his mind. His voice was like honey. She could listen to it all day as she pried him for what he knew of the outside world and made it painfully obvious she was a sheltered girl.

It earned another, infectious smile. Did she really deserve his attention?

She dared to think she finally found someone in the world that could care about what she had to say, offer a shoulder to lean on. Sadly for him, it also meant having to deal with a young woman's complicated emotions as they overcame her there and then.

He seemed to understand her, though, listening quietly to her woes, her frustrations. She told him much at the steps of Bardshearth's inn, enough to make him rise to his feet unexpectedly before turning to her with an outstretched hand. He gave her an offer she felt was beyond her reach with the sun now above the trees, giving her a serious gaze that made her heart flutter, lost for something so alien to her.

He promised her some fun. She believed him.

The day she spent in his company was wonderful. They explored the village together as she spoke of her life like an open book, sharing pages too personal for her father, too personal for anyone but her new friend. The way he smiled drew them from her kind lips as she yearned to hold his attention, keep him interested in being with her.