((This is a closed roleplay between Monroe and myself.))

Sunrise graced the small village of Willum with welcoming shades of red, orange and yellow warming the rest of the cold that the night before had left behind, the warmth surprising considering the lateness in the Autumn season. Nonetheless rain had come during the night, allowing the crops that were to be harvested to grow that small bit more before being taken out of the moist earth and into the storehouses for the coming winter, as deceiving as the weather seemed to be. Already the occupants of the small place were awake, rousing children and spouses awake to begin another day anew of harvesting, but this was not the case for all of the townspeople, for their village sat poised on the border of Isler and Kiltheon, though it itself rested within Kiltheon’s jurisdiction. As such, civil war had come to Willum just as it had come to Kiltheon, and now many of the townspeople who should have been getting ready for another hard day’s work in the fields were instead healing in the town’s inn, which had become a make-shift infirmary for the nearby military camp.

Not surprisingly, the people of Willum were skilled enough to treat minor injuries and the like, but none in the village were prepared enough to deal with the complications of battle wounds, prompting the arrival of some more experienced healer from the south of the region to begin frequenting Willum, as it was one of the few places in Kiltheon that was so close to the border as the farmland nearby the small gathering of houses was some of the finest in the region. So it had been for many a year, the fighting prompted over a decade ago by the death of King Stephen Deregach III, who had skilfully managed to negotiate peace through Ibaria during his reign through peace treaties and in some more ugly situations, through hostage exchanges as had been done with Isler and Kiltheon. His unexpected death with no direct heirs sparked a fight for the throne between his nephew, Baron Robert Deregach of the southern region of Jalim and Commander Matthias Therin, the military leader of Kiltheon during King Stephen’s reign and trusted and well-liked by the people.

Unfortunately, Isler and Kiltheon chose to back different candidates; Isler supported Commander Therin, whereas Kiltheon sided with Baron Deregach, once more igniting the flames of unrest that had been shortly put out. This fighting became more personal over time and has eventually claimed the lives of not only Lady Juliana Peryonai and Lord Ulric Quentier, but also the two sons of Alexander Peryonai, a blood feud reignited by the civil war over the crown.

It was the civil war that prompting the travelling of both Lady Juliana Peryonai and her daughter, Lady Sophia, who decided that if they would be unable to stop the fighting through political means would take care of the people of Kiltheon who would surely be neglected by their Lord. It is this travelling that starts our story in Willum, seven years after the death of Lady Juliana Peryonai and thirteen years after the end of the hostage situation, as the Lady-in-Waiting Sophia Peryonai has been in residence there for some time now and is due to return to Hilten in a few days, as her father wisely recognises the risk poses by the new untested Lord Nathaniel of Isler and the recent major victory of Kiltheon has yet to be reacted to.

Amongst the early risers was the Lady herself, waking alongside an Isleri soldier who had suffered a horrendous jagged wound to his right leg, therefore rending him unconscious and unable to retreat with his battalion and as the young Lady opened her eyes, she found him awake, eyes disbelieving. “Welcome to Willum stranger. You’re safe here, you will not be harmed,” Mercy reassured immediately, the soothing tone of her usually cheerful voice taken on to put the Isleri soldier at ease. Understandably, he tried to rise and was halted in his efforts by the young woman, who shook her head softly.

“No, you must not stand, lest the wound opens once more,” she urged, lifting a hand from his chest to check the bandages. “Please, trust me.”

“Mercy?” The man’s voice questioned weakly, still groggy from the blood loss but the word was clearly spoken and Mercy affirmed him with a nod. “You... why?”

Mercy stood then, her once mauve travelling dress marked by dust, blood and sweat, looking down at the man with a heart-warming smile. “Do you have a wife, or sisters?”

The man looked hesitant to answer for a moment, but then nodded slowly, the movement taking a lot of strength from his tired body.

“I thought so. I do this so that your wife and sisters won’t have to suffer upon hearing of your death. I ask this of all my patients and I ask this of you now; please, if you recover be more careful with your life.” The words were practiced and often spoken, but the sincerity in her eyes and smile were quite real, as if every time she said this, Mercy spoke with her heart and soul, dedicating every promise to memory, as each promise marked a life more likely to grow old than it was before. As expected, there was no immediate response from the wounded soldier, as sleep overtook him once more, the strength required just to stay awake too great, but Mercy did not mind. In the next few days and weeks, the man would learn that Kilthean people were just as deserving of the right to life as Isleri ones and there would be one more mind less likely to kill peasants who defended their homes.

“Mercy?” The whisper had come from the doorway of the inn, sunlight pouring in through the crack made by the woman who stood just on the edge of the doorframe, her dark brown eyes firmly concentrated on the woman who turned to face her, auburn braid swishing gently in the movement.

“Yes Lucy?”

“I’ve come to relieve you; you should rest now,” the suggestion was supposed to be spoken gently but it came out harshly, more of a demand than a request, causing Mercy’s smile to falter momentarily.

Nonetheless, the young Lady did not let her disapproval show anymore than that, regaining her smile and nodding. “Thank you; I should tell you, Isleri four has stirred for a while but passed out not long after.”

“I will remember to check on him later, now rest.”

“Yes, I will,” Mercy returned lightly as she carefully made her way to the doorway, which opened wider to allow for her exit into the early sunlight, narrowing her eyes as the sunlight hit them, stopping just past Lucy. “I know you don’t approve of my rescuing them, but not one of them has come back, nor turned on Willum. Isleri men are not bad.”

“Yes Mercy,” the younger girl responded tiredly, as if they had had this argument before, which of course, they had, but she ended the conversation early this time by stepping inside the room, leaving Mercy relatively alone in the small courtyard that was the centre of Willum, only accompanied by the baker opening the front of his shop, who gave Mercy a small wave in greeting. The young woman returned this heartily as she approached the small well, sitting beside it for a time, her eyes fluttering closed as her exhaustion claimed her. It had been a long night and keeping that man alive had not been easy, but it was surely worth it.

Although the castle that sat atop the hill looked grand, inside it was dismal and wet. The sky above was the color of dirty water, which was exactly what was raining down and slipping through the cracks in the mortar. Puddles formed in the corners of corridors and buckets were placed under particularly persistent drips, quickly filling and having to be continuously dumped out. A great fire was built up in the room that was currently serving as Lord Nathaniel Quentier’s drawing room. The room itself was rather small and lacking in the luxuries one might suppose a Lord to have. As of late Nathaniel had slipped further and further into debt as the war with Kiltheon continued to go on with no near end in sight. Tapestries had been sold at market like day old bread, and the fine golden goblets were long gone. Even the Lord himself looked less than expected. Once he had worn nothing but luxurious furs, heavy golden rings, and finely woven tunics, but he now looked more like a merchant than the son of Ulric Quentier. He was at the point of desperation, waiting for a catalyst that would finally throw things one way or the other. If the war continued on as it had been doing, it would only be a matter of time before either himself or Lord Peryonai went bankrupt.

Nathaniel paced before the fire and ran a hand through his graying, salt-and-pepper hair. His beard, though neatly trimmed, was beginning to look slightly patchy- a sign of the stress weighing on his nerves. At the table in the middle of the room, feet propped up in the chair opposite him, sat another man, who stared up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. A drop fell and landed on his face and he blinked, wiping the moisture away. He sat up in his chair and sighed, waiting for his master to say something. They had been in a tense silence for the last ten minutes. Lord Nathaniel had summoned the man and had yet to make his purpose known.

“Simon,” began Nathaniel, finally breaking the silence. He looked plaintively at his Knight, whose eyebrows rose in question. “How much do you remember of your childhood?”

This was not the usual line their conversations followed, and the Knight frowned in puzzlement, clearly perplexed by his lord’s inquiry. “My childhood? Why ever do you ask?”

Nathaniel, already well into his fifties, looked at the younger man with an inscrutable expression and sat down across from him, pouring them both a glass of cheap wine. “Tell me what you remember about Lady Sophia Peryonai.”

A sigh escaped the lips of the Knight, who clasped his hands on top of his lap and looked at them thoughtfully. The conversation was beginning to make a little more sense, but he didn’t like where it was going. He didn’t particularly like to talk about the five years in which he had been traded like cattle to the Peryonai’s for the sake of a treaty. He had been nothing more than a twelve year old boy, with no idea what he was getting sold into. At the time, he had known very little about the hostilities between Isler and Kiltheon, and had been told by his father, the previous Knight, that he was being sent for educational purposes to aid his future as a diplomat. Of course, as the illegitimate son of Peter Abbassy, there was no such possibility of such a future. Since he had no formal claim to his father’s title, and since his parents had never wed, he was at best the bastard child of a respected man, and at worst a bastard of no name or title.

“We were mere children, my lord. What would I tell you of her? She was the beloved daughter of Alexander Peryonai, a precocious child, and she adored, if I do recall correctly, running about out of doors and eating spun sugar that the old cook would make for her. What more can I say?”

Nathaniel Ulric regarded him with a deep frown, his mouth pursed. “Correct me if I am wrong, but the two of you were friends during your captivity as a hostage, were you not?”

Simon’s forehead furrowed and he nodded reluctantly. “Naturally,” he finally relented. “There weren’t many children in Kiltheon castle to play with, and fewer still that were allowed to go near such a guarded person as myself.”

He had been under constant watch, from the moment he arrived in Kiltheon to the moment he was exchanged and given back to his people at the age of seventeen. Sophia had been only eight years old when he had met her, and he had been only twelve. At the time the age gap had seemed immense to him, and he had regarded her as somewhat of a nuisance as she curiously followed him around, an endless source of questions at her disposal. Eventually, as he grudgingly allowed her to play swords with him, using two wooden practice swords used in training by some of the soldiers, or to play a game of tag, or other such childhood games, he began to see her as more of a playmate and friend. He remembered telling her when he was thirteen that he would marry her some day. He hadn’t realized at the time that they were meant to be enemies, and he had had no idea that his future would involve effectively giving up any and all freedoms, including taking a wife. Especially a wife like her. Of course, they had been children and his vow had long been forgotten, but Sophia still remained his first and only childhood sweetheart.

Upon his arrival back in Isler, he had been questioned aggressively by both his own father and Nathaniel’s father, Lord Ulric Quentier, who had then been the Imperial of Isler. As a surly teenager, he had refused to speak much about her, and had never really broken his silence on the matter. He was loath to do so now, but his lord and master had asked it of him, and he was hardly inclined to refuse.

“Nathan, why do you ask? What is Lady Peryonai to you?” the Knight asked, and Nathaniel waved away his question, changing the subject.

“I’m sending you away for a bit, Simon. I need you to pick someone up for me.” he said, and the Knight laughed.

“Send one of your servants to do it, I’m not a courier!” he laughed, but his smile vanished immediately when he saw the seriousness on Nathaniel’s face. “Who exactly would you have me accompany?”

“There is a woman called Mercy who helps soldiers from both Isler and Kiltheon. She travels the border healing the sick and injured, but she is in Willum now, helping the fallen soldiers of both sides. I would like you to retrieve her and bring her back to me.”

Simon’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Retrieve her? You mean for me to kidnap her!” accused the Knight, his voice rising. He stood, his chair scraping against the cobblestone floor. He took his lord’s place and began pacing before the fire, his head down. He shook it emphatically. “As a Knight, it would go against everything I have been taught. I can no sooner kidnap a neutral party than I can… than I can…” he stopped and sighed, his statement dying with inevitability.

“Than you can disobey me?” filled in Nathaniel, and he nodded. “I know this puts you in a sorry position, Simon, and for that I apologize, but these are times of war.”

“And what do you propose to do with her?” asked the Knight, his voice low. He didn’t like where things were going one bit. Kidnapping was not the way of a Knight, especially the Knight of Isler. It went against everything he had ever been taught. Lord Ulric looked up at him sharply, measuring him.

“What my intentions are do not involve you. I have given you an order, and you are my Knight. However, you are also my friend, so I will divulge to you that perhaps with the woman called Mercy as my hostage, I may be able to hold the upper hand over Alexander Peryonai and Kiltheon.”

Simon’s mouth set into a hard line, his face a mask of neutrality reserved for situations in which he was forced to do something he did not want to do. Although as a child he had been carefree and rambunctious, time had very much changed him. Gone was his youthful exuberance; replaced with a cold, sobering sense of duty. Though he was a Knight, he was infamous for his lack of chivalry, and those who knew him reported that his lack of decorum was his greatest fault in regards to his Lord and master. And though he had once been kind and warm, after learning the truths of the world, all warmth had been replaced with a streak of cruelty.

“My lord, if I may interject, I think it may be mo-”

“You may not interject!” shouted Nathaniel Ulric, standing abruptly from his chair. It clattered to the ground behind him and the room was deafeningly silent for a moment. “You will do as I say and you will do whatever is necessary to bring me the woman, is that clear?”

Simon inhaled, his chest rising, and nodded curtly. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Very well. Then find your way to Willum and bring me Mercy.”

The Knight lowered his head and stiffly bent at the waist in a quick bow, then left the drawing room, a scowl darkening his face. He would get Mercy, as his master had ordered him to, and that was all there was to it. His life, since becoming a knight, had been almost entirely about duty, and this was no different. Mercy would be his.

It was not unusual to find Mercy resting against the well as the people of Willum went about their early business, ascertaining that the young woman had been up all night once more, tending and guiding another wounded man through the first night of treatment, which was nearly always the hardest one. Only the children seemed to pay attention to her anymore, the rest of the village having much more important things to do rather than worry needlessly about the frequent visitor to their village, her presence a natural and welcome part of the village’s structure now, despite the fact she only tended to come in times of strife.

Despite this, Mercy always wore a smile, as if her mind was always focusing on some happy memory no matter what hardship she faced and there was no limit of them in the past decade of Kiltheon’s existence, the civil and personal wars it fought reducing the more impressive parts of the region into desolation. In stark contrast, the farmland areas such as Willum appeared to have thrived, their self-sufficient nature keeping the fight along the borders progressing comfortably, especially after Lord Alexander’s troops managed to push back the Isleri forces from a spot not far from them only six months ago.

Some wondered if that indeed was the reason that Mercy frequented the village, for its fight to go on as normal despite the hardships it and Kiltheon faced inspired her to keep trying, especially after the death of her mother, who had truly been the bastion of Lord Alexander Peryonai and the people of Kiltheon. It was an ill-kept secret of Willum that Mercy was in fact the Lady-in-Waiting Sophia Peryonai, but one they guarded fiercely from all strangers and particularly the Isleri soldiers that she treated. If it was to be discovered by Isler who Mercy was, it would surely create a crisis of interest for the young Lady, who would most certainly pick the safety of the people of Kiltheon over her own. So, as stated before, the secret was kept solidly under lock and key, all of the adult villagers mindful of how they addressed the young woman around others not of the village and the children had all been deceived, only ever knowing the Lady Sophia as ‘Mercy’, her famously known alias.

As the sun rose high in the sky, settling inconveniently over the well, Mercy stirred, lifting a hand over her eyes as she opened them, still wincing from the bright light. Helpfully, a shadow completely soon covered her in darkness. “Mercy, you should not be sleeping out here, it is undignified.” The male sounded irritated and Mercy wondered briefly if it was the sun’s heat that had made him so, but of course knowing it was her lack of decorum when she adopted the persona Mercy that had infuriated Thane Damien Ulrius so. It took a moment before Sophia’s gray eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, standing slowly as she felt strength return to her, as there had been none present when she had collapsed near the well earlier that morning.

“Thane Ulrius, I am honoured that you take an interest in my personal safety but it is not for you to worry about me so,” she interjected smoothly, smiling pleasantly at the light fun she was enjoying at his expense as of course, normally a Thane would not worry about the appearance of a peasant woman. The response to the jibe was as expected; he scowled, screwing up his ordinarily chiselled featured face into one of a child who had not got his way, much as he had done when he had returned from Isler thirteen years ago.

Struggling to smooth his scowl, Damien settled for changing the subject. “I hear you’ve taken in yet another Isleri soldier, soon there will be no room for any of our own,” he chided lightly, their brief change in station allowing for this way of speaking to her, as he would never dare ordinarily, but still Mercy frowned, as although his speech was light, his eyes were not.

They challenged her, questioning her motives for protecting the Isleri soldiers for the umpteenth time, telling her the same thing that her heart already knew: It would never be him. Tales of the Knight of Isler were not pleasant ones; his father had been a good man, Mercy having met him when Simon Abbassy was first brought to Hilten, although she had thought of him then as very gruff as she had never truly met a soldier before and certainly not one such as Knight Peter Abbassy. But this was not what brought sadness to her eyes, averting them from Damien as her smile held, but just barely.

“Excuse me Thane,” she whispered quickly, stepping out into the sun abruptly, her eyes narrowing at the brightness of the light, only wishing to distance herself from her protector as much as possible. Mercy was not blind to her father’s intentions; she was twenty-six and as yet unmarried, Damien making a smart match for her politically and she supposed as a friend, but marriage would limit her ability to be able to as free as she was as the only surviving child of Lord Alexander Peryonai. Plus, as silly as it was, she had promised as a child to marry another, smiling shyly at the memory. Then she felt a hand catch her arm, half-turning, startled to see Damien hold onto her arm tightly, his eyes unforgiving.

“Let me go sir, please,” she asked with fervour, well aware that Damien was doing this to draw attention to them, alarmed at the risks he was willing to take in public to get her attention on him. “Please,” she begged gently, relieved to no end as Damien released his iron grip on the female optimist, allowing her to flee quickly.

“Thane, it would not be wise to practice such things in public; Mercy is a different person in Willum,” an elderly farmer advised, earning him a death glare from the angered man.

“I will treat her how I like, as it would be no different if she belonged to him!” he raged before storming back towards the inn where he had been organised a room, leaving the small group of villagers that had gathered to back up Mercy had Damien over-stepped his bounds to disperse, a few knowing that despite their best intentions, it would be best to let Mercy deal with herself before she returned. Her smile would return and the moment would be forgotten, her optimism renewed by unknown means.

Damien’s angry exclamation had very nearly caused Mercy to whirl on him; how dare he assume that was the object of her distress and believe that her sadness was solely due to the path Simon Abbassy had walked, whether it was willingly or not. There was some grounding in such thinking, as Mercy was nothing if not an idealist who believed that if given time, anyone could be more open-minded and such was her preoccupation with the current Knight of Isler. Her romantic affliction with him as a child had been just that; they had been both been young and although his friendship had imprinted on her, Mercy had forsaken her ability to love personally when her brothers had died, devoting her life to the protection of the people of Kiltheon.

“My Lady, please stop running,” a female voice asked pleasantly, Mercy halting in her running about halfway across the courtyard, turning to recognise the voice as Lucy’s, who had chided her so harshly only this morning. “He returns to Hilten today, don’t let it end on a bad note.”

Mercy resisted the urge to shrug impassively, to pretend that she didn’t care if Damien thought badly of her or not, when of course she couldn’t not care. “Lucy, it is silly to believe you can change people?”

The handmaiden chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. “It hasn’t done you any harm so far, so why would it be prudent to doubt your beliefs now?”

“Simon,” Mercy replied automatically, the name sounded foreign on her lips but immediately bringing a smile to grace them, allowing Damien's fury to be forgotten. “I don’t think it’d work on him.”

Lucy sighed in defeat, resisting the temptation to throw her hands up in the air in defeat; this was also a debate she had frequently with the young Lady. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? The likelihood of you seeing him again is so small Mercy,” she reasoned, “Now come, the Isleri soldier has roused and is asking for you.”

Under the cover of nightfall, Simon left the castle of Isler. He sat atop his prized destrier, which was also quite often his only companion. The horse was lightly loaded for his three day journey to Willum, and the adornments that marked it as the warhorse of a knight were removed. His mission would be incognito- he did not want Isler knowing of his deed. Kidnapping was highly frowned upon, even by himself, and it did not make the proper impression for the Knight of Isler. Now, in his modest cloth tunic and leather riding pants, Simon looked more like a squire than a knight, and everything had been done to make the majestic, chestnut-colored destrier look more like a common rouncy.

The rain continued mercilessly. All sane persons took under the cover of a sturdy thatch roof and put off their traveling till the muddy roads dried up a bit, but Simon of Isler did not have that luxury. He rode hard against the rain that stung his face like a nest of angry hornets. The horse kicked up so much mud that the original color of his clothing was completely lost. On the morning he reached Willum, when the sun finally peaked out from behind dewy grey clouds, he looked nothing at all like a noble or a knight. He was covered from head to toe in mud and filth, and it couldn’t have been any better than if he had planned it. His normally clean shaven face had not seen the sharp side of a razor for four days and was dark with stubble. His nearly black hair was stringy and windblown from all of the rain he had endured, and his light, olive complexion was smeared with mud. The only thing that even resembled his former self was the pair of dark hazel eyes that glinted out from behind the mask of peasantry with fierce determination.

Simon led his horse to a thicket about a mile and a half from the camp in which Mercy was said to work. He let the horse drink from the cool spring as he went over the plan in his mind. Looking down at himself, he mused that he certainly looked like a man that had been involved in war. He looked weary and covered in grit. It would be the perfect disguise to get into the camp, except for one tiny problem- he had no injury to speak of. He would figure that one out later, he decided, and tucked a dagger into his boot for safe keeping.

The mile and a half walk to Mercy’s camp did not take long, but it gave Simon entirely too much time to think on things. Memories had been stirred up by Lord Nathaniel’s line of questioning, and now his thoughts were focused on Sophia instead of Mercy. He tried repeatedly to clear his mind of her, needing his full capacities for what was soon to come, but no amount of head shaking or self-chiding would get the image of the girl-child from his mind. As he walked, he wondered what had become of her. He knew there had been great loss to the Peryonai family, and he had tried all his life not to dwell on the fact that much of that strife could be blamed on Isler. Such a sweet, innocent girl she had been. Clever too, and kind to a fault. As children, when he finally began to see her as more than a pest, they had gotten along famously. But that had been ages ago, and he hadn’t seen her in thirteen years. Somehow, he couldn’t see Sophia approving of him kidnapping Mercy.

The edge of Willum came into sight and Simon ducked behind the cover of a few sparse trees. He leaned against the trunk of one, closed his eyes, and sighed. It was now or never, he decided, and pulled the dagger from his boot. To get into the camp at Willum, he would need a believable injury. He unsheathed the knife and looked at the glinting blade warily, took a deep breath, and made a long slash across his abdomen that ended at his side. The wound was shallow and would heal quickly with or without aid, but it hurt like hell and immediately began to bleed. He wiped the blood off of the dagger’s blade, sheathed it, and carefully hid it once more in his boot. His torn tunic gaped open around the wound and the blood began to seep into the muddy cloth, turning the brown to brackish red. He winced at the discomfort of it, but he had endured worse and for much smaller gains. He clutched his side and then looked at his hand, covered in shiny, ruby-colored blood. His own blood, and by his own doing. He knew there were better ways to infiltrate the camp and kidnap Mercy, but he wanted to get the mission he had been given over with, and finding alternate means would require time that he didn’t have.

Clutching his side, trying not to let too much blood escape lest his injury become a real risk, he began limping toward Willum, looking in all aspects like a weary, injured Isler soldier in need of immediate medical attention. At the edge of the town, an older woman caught sight of him. She hurried over in the wobbly gait of the elderly, and looked at him closely. “From where do you hail, boy?” she asked, and Simon resisted the urge to scowl. At thirty years old, and being the Knight of Isler, he did not appreciate being called boy, but he wasn’t very well in a position to argue.

“Isler.” he croaked, and her eyes slightly narrowed. Not a fan of my people, then, he mused.

“Another one, huh? Well, come on, then. Mercy’ll be wanting to see you, I’m sure.”

The gray haired lady with the tough quality to her tone walked away, presumably leading him to Mercy. Tiredly, feeling slightly weakened from blood loss, Simon followed after her as quickly as he could, trying to absorb as much of the camp as he could as he passed through. Knowledge of the camp was likely to become useful in the future. The Knight, disguised as a soldier, was led to the location of the other wounded soldiers. It seemed there were too many already, but somehow all were being treated, with none turned away. The woman guided him a cot in the corner and gestured for him to lie down with a limp flick of her wrist. Simon Abbassy got the impression that this woman tended more carefully to the fallen of Kiltheon than she did to those of Isleri. For that he couldn’t blame her, but he had heard that the woman known as Mercy was completely neutral, giving equal care to the fallen and injured of both sides. He wondered after a woman that could set her allegiances aside and give such steady care to men marked as her enemy. Many rumors spread through Galatien pertaining to the kindness of Mercy, and he found himself wondering how many of them were true.

Lying back against the cot, Simon let his eyes fall closed. The wound had yet to stop bleeding, but he was sure lying immobile would help it close. It would be a short matter of time before he was back to full strength, and he was in the perfect position to kidnap the woman known as Mercy right from under Willum’s nose. She would be in Nathaniel Quentier’s grip in no time, and after that she was none of his concern.

It took not a few minutes for Mercy and her handmaiden to reach the inn once more, although they were not expecting the meeting with Magdalene, an elderly citizen who tended to sit on the edges of Willum, escorting wounding soldiers to the inn. Just the fact that she was here could only mean ill for another man lying within, although as usually the old woman merely nodded and spoke shortly, “Isleri, cot five.” Mercy blinked, surprised by the revelation; the fight between Isler and Kiltheon on the border had been days ago; for a man to have survived that long, no matter what wound was remarkable and evidently her face shown her curiosity. Lucy however saw the look and shook her head.

“No, you must tend to Illiam, he asked specifically for you. Probably has an answer to your damned question,” Lucy urged, already proceeding into the right-hand side inn towards the previously specified location, leaving Mercy to head to onto the left, smiling broadly at the man who lay conscious there, his eyes fixed on her oddly.

“Are you feel...”

Mercy’s words were cut abruptly by the young man, who interjected with determination. “A wife and two daughters is what I’d be leaving behind.”

So, it was an answer he wished to give her and it was gladly accepted, the resentment in his eyes evident to the time he had been thinking this through. “They would miss you,” she reasoned gently, approaching him and checking his bandage, concluding that they wouldn’t need changing.

“Yes,” he answered gruffly, offering no more on the subject and Mercy let him be silent, only speaking to him to give him instructions to turn and lift as best he could, his grunting indicating his effort at doing so but no discomfort was displayed on his face. A true soldier, Mercy thought admirably, strong until the end; well it hadn’t done her brothers any good and it wouldn’t do him any good either, finishing up the bandages as she took a quick glance over at the new arrival who Lucy tended to, as the inn’s floor was open plan.

Listening carefully to the exchange of words between Illiam and Mercy, Lucy steadily approached the new arrival with a frown. He looked like he had been dragged through the fields backwards and that was a positive analysis, gently rinsing a cloth to clean the fresh blood away from his wound, sighing unhappily. Tending to Isleri soldiers was not the work of Kilthean women and it was an idea that she frequently forced upon Mercy, who only smiled and shook her head, not even needing to speak to give her reasons.

“Well, there’s a lot of blood, but it’s a clean cut. A few days rest and you should be fine again,” Lucy said aloud, more to herself than anyone else but it often conveyed to the patients the situation they were in. “Do you have a name, because if I refer to you as Isleri five, Mercy’ll... I actually don’t know what she would do. Odd woman,” Lucy asked pointedly, the end of the question trailed off as the handmaiden recalled that she had never seen the young Lady do any harm to anyone without very good reason. Shifting the cloth gently away from the wound, Lucy began to clean the area around the wound, trying carefully not to put too much pressure on the wound itself, a little disturbed by the freshness of it, sighing once more as she tore the shirt’s rip a little further for better access. “Forgive me, I’ll repair it later,” she injected into the silence of the inn, only broken by the footsteps of Mercy rapidly approaching her from behind, Lucy turning her head to pay attention to the younger woman all too quickly.

“Is he alright Lucy?” Mercy inquired, her eyes settling on the wound immediately, her smile turning slightly sad. “I apologise if you were injured by a Kilthean man.” Lucy shot her mistress a look of disbelief despite the fact that she had known the apology was coming. Honestly!

“He will certainly live; a couple of days in a cot should heal him up just fine, though I think a bath would be in order at some point,” Lucy advised absently, her attention still on the wound. “Do you mind if I leave you with him?”

Mercy’s mood immediately brightened; this was the reason she had come over. Curiosity was one of her fatal flaws and Lucy knew better than to give into her, but she had been working in the infirmary since sunrise and desperately needed to rest. “Not at all, go and rest,” Mercy urged, shooing her physically with her hands, her mauve dress’s skirts swishing all the while and a cheery smile on her face as she retrieved the cloth from Lucy’s hands, only now observing the man as a person.

On the whole, he looked much like the others who were being tended to here; well-built, strong and short hair, but Mercy was immediately drawn to his eyes, the only part of him that didn’t seem to have been splattered with blood or dirt. They were fierce, alight with inner determination, her concerned gray eyes meeting his only briefly before dabbing at the ends of the wound that Lucy had left as she walked away. Mercy indicated he sit up slightly, lifting the hem of his tunic gently, not aiming to injure him further.“I can’t believe she was going to leave the shirt on you; she must be tired,” Mercy muttered amusedly to herself, her smile turning jovial, knowing that Lucy never made mistakes.

This was the part she enjoyed most; tending to a mostly healthy patient and being able to learn a great deal about Isler. Of course, her enemy's patients often didn't divulge everything as Mercy was still Kilthean at the end of the day, but she had learnt much about Isler and Simon during these times, her eyes saddening for a moment as she recalled her friend, fighting the urge to ask the wounded soldier as it would certainly not do to probe him whilst wounded. Perhaps later.

He could see the distrust in their eyes as they looked at him. Isleri soldier: lost cause. He couldn’t blame them, either. Why should they trust him? It was a leap of faith taking in enemy soldiers, but he deserved every ounce of distrust they had and then some. He was the Isler Knight and had every intention of kidnapping their prized Mercy and handing her over for lord-knows-what. As Simon lay back in his cot, he mused that perhaps he ought to feel more guilty about what he was planning to do, but he didn’t. He would do what it took, and he wouldn’t let guilt eat away at him like an iron sword carelessly left out in the rain. He knew he was a cold-hearted man, but perhaps it was better that way. Not everything about the life of a knight was chivalrous and honest and brave. He had done many things he ought to have been ashamed of. He had lied, he had hurt people. He had killed more people than he could count, and unlike Mercy, he had not wondered whether they had a mother or sisters. He did his job because he was the Knight, and that was his title, and such title had certain requirements. The title itself had a false sense of respect and honor and valor, but oh, how very misplaced those notions were.

A woman found her way over to him, taking quick stock of his injuries. She ripped at the tear in his tunic, promising she would repair it, and Simon almost told her not to bother but then remembered his place. If he truly had been a poor foot soldier, that would likely have been his only set of clothes. He kept his mouth tightly shut, listening to her talk about Mercy. She asked of him his name at one point, but then seemed to disregard her own question. Simon was glad, as that gave him time to formulate a false identity.

Another woman entered the room, asking questions to the first girl. At first Simon had no idea who she was and watched with an inscrutable expression on his face. After a moment, her identity dawned on him. This had to be none other than Mercy, he realized, and tried not to let surprise register on his face. Whatever he had been presuming of the woman called Mercy, he had apparently been wrong. He had envisioned an aging spinster with gray hair and sagging skin, a widow who would see all young men and be reminded of a lost son perhaps. He certainly had not been expecting to see a woman so young. Simon recovered and shifted uncomfortably on the narrow cot as they discussed his condition. A few days over his dead body, he thought. He’d likely catch her off guard during the night and set out as soon as possible. He wasn’t going to let a silly little scratch hold him back. Already the blood had congealed and stopped freely flowing. A fresh bandage, a clean shirt, and a hot meal, and he’d be good as new.

At the woman’s instruction, Simon sat up and helped ease the tunic over his head. He felt oddly ill-at-ease to be in such a state around a lady, but said nothing about it. His mouth remained a tight line, his eyes wary of this woman whose motives he couldn’t ascertain. “You are the one they call Mercy?” he asked, brow furrowing. No point kidnapping the wrong woman. And then, despite himself, curiosity got the better of him. “Why in Heaven’s name would you help soldiers of enemy lands? Kiltheon and Isler have been at war for generations. Surely you would get more pleasure from aiding the fallen soldiers of your own side. God knows there are enough to keep you busy for the rest of your life, with the way this war has been going.”

He snapped his mouth shut and looked down, confused at where his line of questions was suddenly coming from. If he wanted to know, he’d certainly get the chance to know later. There was no rush, as it took at least three days to return to Isler castle anyway. She was going to be in his company for a while, and he was sure that by the end of it she’d have told him more than he ever wanted to know.

Mercy folded the tunic with care before setting it on the floor next to the cot, rising once more to find that the patient was enquiring to her identity, noting his frown with a hint of amusement. “Why is that the first thing all Isleri soldiers ask me?” she posed thoughtfully before nodding her affirmation. “I am she and you are the patient, now be quiet and let me...”

Her soft command had been broken through by a sudden curious statement, Mercy waiting with practiced patience until the man had finished posing his question and it was one that made her hesitate every time, because of course, how did explain their reasons for this without seeming like a complete idiot? Instead of replying, Mercy busied herself with examining the wound at the unknown soldier’s side, eyes narrowing in realisation after a time, a rare suspicion passing over her before she smiled once more, dabbing the dried blood away with deft skill so not to break the healing process, wringing the cloth out as she decided to answer his question, her mind suddenly haunted with memories.

“Again, another thing you all ask. You all seem to have bad memories as there was a short time when we didn’t fight you know,” she replied, her tone an attempt at gentle, but her eyes closed suddenly as if trying to forget. Truly, she healed for his memory; for the past that they had shared together and for the possibility, however slim that if she did enough, there would be no more soldiers that would fight and then, Kiltheon and Isler might align once more. But, that was hardly an answer she could deliver to an Isleri stranger. “I... my reasons are my own, soldier but I will tell you this; from personal experience I know that there is hope for Isler and Kiltheon yet. A potential for peace,” she finished her idealistic explanation.

There was no point accusing the man yet, as he had not given Mercy cause to fear for the safety of Willum, despite the alarm bells that had rang upon realising that the wound had been self-inflicted; the young woman having seen enough wounds to be able to tell by now. So, the most important question that Mercy yearned to ask was why? He did not seem eager to meet her in the slightest, though she had noticed his surprised reaction with interest, assuming that Mercy must be a lady of age and doing her duty to Kiltheon and Isler because of a maternal instinct, though she had had to repress a small giggle at his apparent awkwardness at being bare-chested in front of a woman. And they say chivalry is dead.

Idly, Mercy was scanning across the man’s body noting that he had few scars, which meant that he had either seen few battles – unlikely for his apparent age – or that he was very good at what he did. Someone like him might know something... But she couldn’t ask, not as Mercy. Only as Sophia would she truly be able to ask faithfully and the risks to her safety were too great to dare, no matter how great the temptation. Instead, the young lady went down a different road of questioning. “Seeing as you have asked two questions of me, may I ask one of you?” she stopped, chuckling absently. “I apologise, two questions. Why did you injury yourself, for this was not caused by an enemy? I will not let my protector hurt you, but if you have ill motives, I will have to ask you to leave.”

Now Mercy’s disguise was gone, her eyes taking on a fire that only Lady Sophia possess, a fierceness to protect her people with all of her being, her very temperament changing from gentle to determined in one fell swoop and if the stranger knew any better, he would notice the change between the two personas. This was a very different Sophia to the one that had play fought with Simon in childhood, life's hardships also changing her, though the Lady had taken the road of self-sacrifice by choice rather than by forcing of the hand.

The woman’s explanation left him feeling utterly exasperated. She had delivered exactly the sort of politically correct response he’d have expected, a response which didn’t really require honesty. She had dodged his question altogether, and he found himself agitated. His hands, lying at his sides, clenched and unclenched several times as he tried to gather his thoughts and remind himself that no matter what her response, it didn’t matter. There was nothing she could say that would change her fate, and his morbid curiosity would only complicate things.

Her fingers, working tenderly at his shallow wound, felt cool against his hot skin, but not unpleasant. She seemed to be a gentle woman, from what he had gathered, and that fit against the persona he had heard from all the rumors about Mercy. Of course, the rumors were all so very different. In one version she was an aging widow with ulterior motives who was secretly slipping Isleri soldiers slow-spreading poison. In other versions she was a beautiful maiden, searching for her long-lost lover amongst the fallen soldiers. Physically, at least, Mercy was much closer to the second version, but he still had no idea what her real motives were. Though she seemed sincere, it was entirely plausible that the woman was a deceptive actress.

Simon could feel her eyes scrutinizing his wound and sighed in frustration. He absolutely hated being cooped up and tended to, and the way she was looking at the slash across his abdomen made him decided uneasy for some reason. There was something to her eyes, something to the expression she bore as she looked him over, that he didn’t like. He felt as though he were an open book, and she was a novel placed on a shelf that was just out of reach. She could read him as she found fit, and he couldn’t even look under the front cover, so to speak. He realized, with a chuckle, that his mental analogy sounded far more as if he wanted to take a gander under her dusty mauve skirts than to figure out what she was thinking. Not that he wouldn’t like to do both.

He was a hot-blooded man, just like the next, but he found he was less apt to spending time in ale-houses amongst the sort of women who returned there by themselves, night after night. Perhaps it was because he knew he could never truly have a woman to call his own, and he didn’t like having things he couldn’t have flaunted in front of him. Perhaps it was because he was far too busy with his Knightly duties. Perhaps it was because he was still haunted by the memory of a girl lost in his childhood. He had had his conquests, certainly, but had never felt a true connection. He had few friends, no family other than his retired father to speak of, and no plans of starting a family of his own. He knew that the only way he would ever even have the possibility of a life of his own was if Lord Nathaniel were to pass away, and the lord was in good health and had at least another twenty years left in him. By that time Simon would be fifty, and far too old to be looking for a wife. He didn’t think he could do as his father had done, either. He had no wish to spawn an illegitimate child and to leave a woman in shame and humiliation outside of wedlock. Such was the price of being a Knight, but it was a price he willingly paid. He had been given the option, and many would have probably refused, but it was such a great honor he found he could not decline. Nor did Simon of Isler regret his decision. It had marked his life and he believed it was his destiny.

Mercy’s question drew him out of his reverie and he had to pause a moment before he could even comprehend what she was saying to him. A cold sweat ran over him for a moment, but it quickly precipitated to cold anger. His hazel eyes, cast in her direction, narrowed. He lowered his voice, leaning in toward her, and his hand snaked out to grasp her wrist and pull her till she was only inches away from him. He could smell the soft, feminine scent of her skin and hair and could see the facets of color in her eyes.

“Don’t be a fool, woman.” he hissed, his voice only audible enough for Mercy to hear. There was no friendly glint in his eyes, no note of humor in his soft voice. “Why would I inflict these wounds on myself? I wouldn’t, and saying I would could get the both of us into very deep trouble, so I advise that you watch your tongue if you know what’s good for you.”

He let go of her wrist with a scowl and leaned away from her. His voice rumbling, but at a normal volume, he resumed their conversation. “Now, I believe you said you had two questions? What was the other?”

Simon was all ears.

Mercy had known that her line of questioning was dangerous but there was absolutely no way the young woman was going to stand for him staying here, certainly not after that display of fury; he was clearly not all he appeared. None of the other soldiers had reacted with such vigour when questioned by the young woman, whether the questioning had been heated or not. Clearly there was little love lost between this man and women, rubbing her wrist gently as he released her, not moving immediately, the man’s eyes once more holding Mercy’s attention; this man’s eyes were the door to his emotions; currently they were livid, not allowing for any hesitation in her mind.

As much as Mercy wanted to chide him for his impropriety, the woman wisely held her tongue, turning away from the stranger to wring the cloth once more, trying to keep her face impassive despite her own slight anger. Mercy knew she had already asked two questions, desperately trying to keep her curiosity to herself, not willing to incite another negative reaction in the infirmary’s new patient but he had shaken her out of her finely practiced act, inciting Sophia to the surface instead of the demure and careful Mercy and that change would allow her boldness through.

“You dare to touch her?!” Sophia turned at the angry raging, startled to see Damien holding some luggage across the room, eyes blazing, not taking a step, but the situation was bad already; how could she reason with him, especially after their argument earlier. As he took a step forward so did she, blocking the man’s view of the Isleri soldier. “My... Mercy, you would prevent me from chastising this scum?” His eyes rested on what he could see of the foreigner before returning to Sophia’s calm face, finding her eyes hard.

“You know I forbid violence in this inn whilst it is an infirmary, Thane,” she said smoothly, her balancing on the side table next to the cot the only indication of her nervousness. “I’m sorry for earlier, but I will not take back my past to please you.”

The diversion seemed to do the trick, his anger now deflecting onto Sophia, who he would never wound. “That child will not supersede me forever,” Damien threatened before turning and storming out of the inn’s door, Mercy’s eyes relaxing visibly as she turned back to face her patient, her patience suddenly very thin.

“I only asked a question of you stranger; I am no fool and I do not react lightly to threats,” she told him firmly whilst dabbing his wound a little harder than necessary with an herbal antiseptic mixture, frowning. “If I knew what was good for me, I’d be cooped up and married, so I’m willing to take a few risks with an injured man.” The temptation was there once more, the question on the edge of her tongue; all Sophia had to do was open her mouth and ask, not realising how dangerous her curiosity truly was.

“It’s... your Knig... No, never mind.” There it nearly was. Sophia’s eyes were suddenly fearful, no smile on her lips as she waited, absently fiddling with her braid, her eyes anywhere but on this man. This was the question she had wished to ask every Isleri soldier who came into the infirmary but never had the courage to ask, this man nearly pushing all the right buttons to force Mercy totally out of Lady Sophia’s behaviour.

Honestly, what would she do with the answer? If Simon was alive and well, it would be a joy to hear but then she would have to deal with the man’s questions as to her enquiry, not even considering the alternate possibility for a moment. Sophia had no real news of her friend since she had been thirteen; this had been a long time coming. Now it seemed it would be an even longer wait, for Sophia would not let her composure go so easily again, blaming her lack of control on her argument with Damien and this man’s threats, not even beginning to comprehend the recklessness that Simon inspired within her.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Sophia eventually managed, “I’ll be back later to check on you.” It wasn’t hard to step away from him, his temperament meaning that she couldn’t stand to be around him any longer, her strides quick and decisive, feeling her breathing calm as she got a few feet away.

Another person joined the duo, and this one seemed decidedly angry, thought Simon. He sat up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders and letting his legs fall over the side of the cot so that he could spring up into a defensive stance should this intruder decide to come any closer. The man, however, seemed content to vent his frustrations on Mercy, who had someone deflected his anger with only a few words. For the life of him, Simon could not make heads nor tails of the path their conversation had taken. The man stormed from the room of the inn, and once more the knight, clad as a poor foot soldier, was left with the woman. He eyed her warily as she came closer, and then she began dabbing at his wound with an ointment that stung. He noted she was not as gentle as before.

“Hey, that stings!” he hissed, pulling her hand away from him. He didn’t trust this woman, and he was thinking perhaps the rumors of a nurse who poisoned her enemy patients was more on target. He didn’t know what to make of Mercy, but he had decided he didn’t like her. She was difficult and didn’t know her place, and she was already causing trouble when the real trouble hadn’t even begun. He could only imagine the self-righteous fit she would throw when he kidnapped her that night.

“Maybe a husband is exactly what you need, woman.” Simon growled, past the point of even pretending to be friendly. If she was going to accuse him of inflicting his own injury, she had marked herself as a nuisance and a threat. It also didn’t help that she had been entirely astute in her observations, and as much as he didn’t want to admit that a woman had bested him, he was having to rethink his plan. She was shaping up to be much more difficult than he had previously comprehended. “Maybe you ought to just put away your ointments and your bandages and stop putting yourself in such dangerous situations.”

Those words were meant more as advice, but they were spoken with an aggressive edge. If she hadn’t been out there, treating soldiers of both Kiltheon and Isler like a great fool, he wouldn’t have been ordered to kidnap her. “In fact, you ought to just find whoever that man was and settle down with him. Immediately.” Tonight, thought Simon with an inward groan. Leave tonight and don’t make me kidnap you, if you know what’s good for you. Don’t be a fool, just listen to me.

Simon’s eyes snapped up at her broken sentence and then narrowed into a speculative frown. “My Knight?” he asked. Had he heard her correctly? “What about the Isler Knight?”

Did she have information regarding him? Perhaps he had unknowingly walked straight into a trap. He was sure Kiltheon would love nothing more than to hold him as their hostage once more. When Mercy stood and stepped away from him, the knight warily watched her, waiting for any false move. And then she did something that surprised him. She apologized. He had threatened her, and she was apologizing to him? He couldn’t figure her out, and that made him uneasy. She backed away further and promised to check on him later. That would be the time, he realized. That would be the moment he would snatch her out of her secure little world, and take her back to Isler for his lord.

Why did he have to be right? Sophia hadn’t been able to get the aggressive words of the most recent wounded soldier out of her mind for the rest of the afternoon, as she went about her other infirmary duties and tasks about the village, perplexed as to why. It was a given that it was the most logical thing to do; marry Damien and settle away from the borders, letting the men of Kiltheon fight the war as they were supposed to, dying like they were supposed to. No, that would never work, Sophia knowing that she was never to be a dutiful wife and especially not to such a controlling individual as her father’s ward, who had always been embittered since he had returned from Isler and it was all her fault. If Sophia hadn’t been so hung up on her young friend at the time, perhaps Damien would be different but as the young Lady had said to the Thane, there was no way to change the past.

However something about the soldier’s words had seemed further than taunts, her mind unable to place the emotion he had conveyed through his statements, Sophia finally sighing and admitting defeat at her charge’s intentions, settling that he was angered at being treated by a Kilthean, which she supposed was reasonable. ” In fact, you ought to just find whoever that man was and settle down with him. Immediately.” But that... that seemed so odd for a stranger to say to another, even if it was someone they were angered with; it almost seemed like a suggestion but that was impossible. Why on earth would he suggest such a thing?

As Sophia helped heft the one of the smaller luggage pieces onto the back of the cart that would take Damien back to Hilten, who had been called back there urgently, she recalled what had bothered her the most; he had heard her ask about the Knight but luckily, he hadn’t entirely understood the question, which was good for Mercy but nearly devastating for Sophia as he had not reacted negatively, merely curiously. That had nearly prompted the young lady to spin around, her need to hear of his safety so great even after all this time, briefly entertaining the thought that perhaps Damien had a point, but she had held her precious composure, leaving the infirmary to join the women of Willum in collecting fresh stock of the herbs that were used there.

“Lady Sophia, Thane Damien is ready to depart,” an attendant by the cart informed the young woman, breaking her reverie at the sudden addressing of her title, managing a brief nod in her muteness as she approached the man in question, his scowl still present from earlier that afternoon.

“My Lady, be careful, as with no protection you are vulnerable,” Damien cautioned, his tone serious as he placed a hand on her shoulder and Sophia let it remain, happy for the familiarity and friendship. “My anger was uncalled for, but that soldier was...”

“He stepped over the line, I know,” Sophia filled in, looking up to meet her friend’s eyes cautiously. “But I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Damien went to lift his hand and then stopped, taking advantage of the moment’s quiet. “Please consider me; it is a good match and would bolster our morale.”

Curses, now even Damien was talking about it! Sophia managed a wan smile, knowing that the match was sensible, but it had been a long time since the energetic young Lady had done anything that was sensible and probability dictated that she was not going to begin now. “I will consider it, I promise.” Her words were sincere; Sophia would certainly consider Damien as a suitor for a time and then politely tell her father that she would not marry yet and once more they would dance their common arguments about each other until one of them gave up, like always.

After that, the departure of the cart had been quiet and low key, most of the villagers in their homes at this late hour, the sun having set more than two hours ago, darkness and quiet blanketing Willum and only Sophia’s heels clacking against the cobblestones could be heard until she reached the inn door, sliding it open to bask in warmth and candlelight, scanning the cots to make sure no one had suffered unduly in her absence. Reluctantly, as she had promised, Sophia made her way over to the furthest cot where the bad-tempered Isleri soldier lay, his eyes closed though Sophia couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or not, deciding not to test him. He seemed well and would certainly recover, probably able to leave later tomorrow if the wound healed cleanly.

Sophia was terribly sure the wound had been self-inflicted, the soldier’s angered behaviour following her accusation seemingly backing up her hypothesis, but it didn’t matter as tomorrow he would be discharged and there would be no worrying over him any longer, back to humdrum. Despite not enjoying his company, Sophia had relished in being able to be herself around someone in Willum without worrying whose toes she might step on in doing so, a small smile gracing her lips, remembering the small boy who she had been able to do that with from so long ago.

“I wonder if you do know him,” she whispered, making a disapproving noise at the fact that he still had been offered a bath, reaching down to start wiping his hands clean of the dirt and sweat, the cool breeze from the window nearby bathing her in temporary coolness appropriately as Sophia worked diligently, the constant work keeping her mind blank of troubling thoughts of all kinds.

As the sun began to set, Simon readied himself for his task. His dagger lay concealed within his boot, and he could feel it’s sheath against the skin of his leg, serving as a constant reminder of what he had to do. The room had grown dark and quiet, and the breathing of the other soldiers was slow and even. As night fell, Simon came to be the only one still awake. It was a waiting game, and it was agonizingly slow.

She promised she would come back, he reminded himself. You only have to wait a bit longer, and it will be over and done with. This time next week you will be rid of her and never have to see the blasted shrew again.

He picked up the torn, muddy tunic he had been wearing. It had been folded and placed on the end of his cot, still in need of repair, but he put it on just the same. It made no difference. A mile and a half away, a clean change of clothes awaited him in his saddle bag. He began to wonder how exactly he was going to get her to Isler castle without her causing too much of a commotion. On his way to Willum he had taken a direct road, but that one cut through many towns and villages where a tied and gagged woman would surely get noticed. He sighed with the realization that he was going to have to go the back way, and that would at least double the journey. Why, he wondered, was Mercy so god damned important? Couldn’t he kidnap a Kiltheon a little closer to home for Lord Nathaniel to keep as his hostage? He was sure that Lord Peryonai would make a bargain no matter who the captive was.

Thoughts of the Peryonai family turned his mind to Sophia, and the memory of her made him wince. He laid back against the rough, wool blanket and closed his eyes, remembering a time when things had been so much simpler. One day stood out to him on that night, and it made him smile. He remembered when Sophia had taught him how to dance.

Like most fifteen-year-old boys, Simon had been awkward and gangly and ungraceful. As he was coming of age, he was expected to attend the upcoming ball held by the Peryonai’s. He hadn’t realize it at the time, but his invitation to one of their social events had been a gesture of good will toward the people of Isler. At the time, the Peryonai’s had felt like family to Simon. He had not yet learned the truth of his stay in Kiltheon.

At first the boy had refused. ‘I cannot dance’ he had told the messenger, insisting that his presence was not necessary. ‘I will make a fool of myself and everyone will laugh at me!’ he had later implored to Sophia’s mother, Lady Peryonai. It was she who had sent her daughter to instruct him on how to dance properly. Simon had felt ashamed, being taught to dance by an eleven year old girl, but she had had much more knowledge of dancing than he did. He was not a quick learner, either. For weeks they stayed up late at night in the library, going over the steps to the different dances in preparation for his first ball. Many times he had stepped on her toes or the hem of her dress, but she had never given up on him even when he didn’t seem to be showing much improvement. Finally, all of Simon and Sophia’s hard work had paid off, and he left for the Peryonai’s ball feeling much more confident. He had sadly been forced to leave her behind. She was still considered too young to attend, which he thought was a shame. He had wanted to share his first dance with her.

With a smile of satisfaction, he remembered people commenting on his lightness of foot and natural aptitude. He certainly had neither- it had all been Sophia’s doing. She had soldiered on and taught him everything she knew.

The door creaked open and Simon let his eyes open ever so slightly to see who it was. Mercy entered and the shaft of light from the corridor was cut off as she closed the heavy wooden door behind her. A candle in her hand illuminated her face in a soft golden glow, making her appear almost angelic. He, however, knew better. Mercy was not to be trusted.

She crept over to him, her footsteps making almost no sound, and he could feel her cool hands on him. Slowly, carefully, Simon let his hand trail along the outside of his leg and pull the dagger out of his boot. He drew the hand back up, keeping the glinting, silver blade hidden from sight. Mercy was intent on her task, too absorbed in being a good caretaker to take care of her own safety. She was easy prey, that one.

The Knight’s eyes flew open and he brought himself up, quick as a cat. In one quick movement he had her back pressed against his chest. One hand wrapped around her and tightly covered her mouth, pinning her to him and not allowing her to make a sound. The other hand took the sheath off of the dagger and brought the blade to the porcelain skin of her throat.

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “Or I’ll have to cut your throat right here. And neither of us wants that.”

He looked to the door and frowned, then looked down at her. He could only see her profile, and he didn’t dare take his hand off her mouth lest she scream. “Which is the quickest way out of here?” he growled. “And don’t lie to me, because that’ll only make it worse for you.”

Idly Sophia had noticed the soldier rising, bringing her eyes up an instant too late to realise the seriousness of the situation as the Isleri man pushed her roughly against him, a hand immediately clamping over her mouth to prevent her screaming out, the rest of that arm holding her incredibly still, only now realising that it had been a ploy. Why, what purpose did infiltrating Willum serve, the thought flying from her mind in horror as she contemplated the reality of the knife against her throat, being able to feel the edge every time she breathed out, her mind racing. Lucy was her first thought, but the elderly handmaiden was asleep, but there was no way Sophia would get her involved in this even if she weren't, not if meant her being wounded as well; so that settled that she was alone in her struggle.

His whispered threat now sounded considerably more real than the one he had made earlier, the Lady realising with despair that she had seen through his ruse through the self-inflicted wound which explained his vicious reaction, cursing herself for not being firmly earlier today, her life now lying in his hands. Despite her racing heart at the difficult situation, Sophia couldn’t help but smile at his request for her guidance for getting out of the inn, realising that this was her only chance for escape or at least to find help. Sophia worried at his threat if she tried anything, but she was definitely not just going to let this man take her without any form of a fight, so instead of offering him a direction with a point of her arm, the young woman closed her eyes, summoning all of her composure to vainly think of a way out of this situation that would her leave free and alive.

The musing brought Sophia back to her earlier dilemma; what would anyone want with Willum, a simple farming village, concluding that it didn’t matter about the reason, only that he sought to threaten those she protected, which only served to fuel her determination to survive this. A hot rage unlike anything she had experienced was rising in her at a bizarre rate, as she carefully raised her right arm to point towards the back of the room, as there was indeed a back entrance to the inn, whilst popping open her own side pouch, withdrawing a knife nervously, well aware that what was about to happen went against her very nature. This is no time for second guessing; he will kill you! Her conscience screamed at her as Sophia stabbed backwards into her captor’s leg solidly, praying fervently that she wouldn’t miss her target, whilst simultaneously biting down hard on the inner soft flesh of the palm covering her mouth.

“I would rather die than help you!” she fumed against his hand, the sounds coming out clearly as she forced the hand away with both of her now free hands, leaving the knife embedded wherever it had landed, elegantly spinning to face her attempted captor, stepping far enough away that he would have to move to grab her once more.

“How dare you!” Her eyes were bright with anger, something that hadn’t been seen for many a year in Sophia’s eyes, “Has the pride of Isler sunk so low?” she accused with fervour, turning and pelting towards the front door, her small frame allowing for quick speed, her courage gone as she realised her situation if she didn’t get out of the door before he reached her once more. If he could cause such a wound to himself, surely he would only suffer momentary surprise from her attack?

Her hand touched the brass door handle, realising with abrupt surprise that her palm was slick with sweat, unable to get a firm grip to turn it, the quick footsteps behind her alerting her that there was no time, turning to face him with no resistance. It had been totally unlike her to do such a thing earlier, her only thought had been escaping from him as quickly as possible. Her reckless attempt at escape could alert the village in moments and although he was only armed with a knife, it was likely he knew how to use it better than farmers and healers would.

“Promise me you won’t hurt anyone else, just me,” she said desperately, her eyes focusing on the knife across the room with unnatural obsession. “I couldn’t bear them suffering.” Her back was pressed flush against the oaken door, her breathing quick and uneven, evident of her panic, realising all too late that attempting escape meant that whatever chance she had at living had probably been dashed. Unconsciously, the young woman brought her hand up suddenly to clasp her sapphire necklace through the purple cloth of her dress, feeling the sharp edges of the blue star dig into her hand reassuringly.

It was unique, her star, carved especially for her on her seventh birthday and ever since Sophia had treasured the jewel as it should be, hardly ever removing it before her mother’s death and never after, it being the only adornment she had refused to sell to fund Kiltheon’s survival. Her fear stricken eyes focused on the eyes of the Isleri man, not leaving them for an instant. If she was to die, it would be facing him, not cowardly running.

The blade of Mercy’s knife sunk into his leg at the very moment she bit into the flesh of his palm. He immediately released her- an unwilling reaction to the pain he was feeling. She was backing toward the door, saying things to him, but he was hardly listening. All he heard was the rush of blood in his ears. He reached down for the knife that had been imbedded in his upper leg to the hilt, but even touching it with the slightest pressure had him reeling from pain. He was unable to get the knife out then. It would just have to stay, or maybe it would fall out on it’s own in the ensuing moments, whatever they were.

A golden moment had been granted to him as Mercy fumbled with the doorknob, too nervous to get it opened. He limped toward her, rage in his eyes and across his face. He was furious that she would dare try a move like that, more furious with himself still for letting her. She had gotten the upper hand, but it wouldn’t happen again.

She began pleading with him not to hurt the others, desperation in her voice. She was cornered like a little mouse, and the woman who had only a moment ago stabbed him was suddenly making demands. He lifted his fist, ready to strike her down, and almost did, but thought better of it at the last moment. Instead he roughly yanked her forward, away from the back door, and pulled her to him by the collar of her dress.

“Make a sound, and whoever comes chasing after us is not going to be as lucky as you.” he warned, his tone nothing more than a growl, and he hitched her up and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The added weight put more pressure onto his injured leg and he took in a sharp breath before wrenching the door open. Why did the damned woman have to complicate things? Now he was injured, and it was likely her own people were going to come after him. Simon was not going to let himself get taken, either. Under normal circumstances he’d have said it was no contest to fight a bunch of farmers, but injured he wasn’t sure. Her little knife was still firmly embedded in his leg, and the injury throbbed. He was not feeling any particularly kind feelings toward her, but he needed to get her back to Nathaniel in one piece. Bringing his lord a dead hostage would do nothing except for make him feel a little bit better.

The door swung open from the force he had put behind it, and he could see lanterns being lit inside of the homes around the inn. The damned fool had woken up everyone in town, he realized, and she was going to get him killed. He gave her an angry bounce as he limped away as quickly as he could, grateful for the darkness of the starry night. He used the moon as his guide, and he stopped to duck into a short ally as a mass of people hurried into the inn to see what all the commotion had been about. Dear Lord, thought Simon. Was Mercy so important that the whole town would come after him? Who in the world was this woman?

The townspeople, in their hysteria to find Mercy, missed him completely, blinded to anything but what was in the inn. They searched the building fruitlessly for her, as if she was somewhere in there hiding. He realized with a start they had no idea what had happened. They had merely heard the sound of yelling and come to investigate.

It felt like an impossibly long, ambling run to the end of Willum, but in actuality it was quite short. He looked down, pushing aside the fabric of her skirts that were obscuring his view, and saw that his pants had become stained with shining, black blood. Every step he took caused immense pain, but he had no choice but to trudge on with Mercy squirming over his shoulder. He cleared the edge of the small farming village and the sound of the townspeople grew faint. He headed for the trees, not looking forward to the long walk back to his horse.

Once deeply immersed in the trees, with little probability that the villagers would come so far out, Simon scowled and addressed the woman thrown so haphazardly over his shoulder. “You’re a damned nuisance, you know that?” he barked, no hint of humor in voice. His words were ice and fire and glass, and every ounce of his hatred was focused solely on her.

Sophia watched as his fist rose, clenched her eyes shut tightly. Never had she been so scared in her entire life but not even the fear of him hurting her would make her cry out, lest he didn’t hold reserve against those who would protect her with their lives, something the young woman was not prepared to test. Surprise forced her eyes open as the fist that was originally aimed to strike her instead yanked her forward towards him using her dress, causing her to release her necklace in distress, but he only demanded her silence before lifting her over his shoulder ungraciously. There was a sharp breath from the man and it took a moment for Sophia to realise that her extra weight probably did him no favours on his injured leg, realising just what she had done with horror, perplexed as to her situation but oddly grateful for her life.

In an odd turn of thanks, Sophia did her best to remain motionless as her captor made for the woods that surrounded the small village, not crying out to anyone per the Isleri’s demand, watching torches dance like fireflies in the distance as the man moved away, his pace quick considering his injury. There was no hiding the limp that impaired him, yet they had become hidden within the deep woods within minutes, Sophia’s eyes having no time to adjust to the dark as all lights from the village vanished, leaving them both quite alone.

It was a desperate thought but Mercy was hopeful that the people would not worry too much upon finding fresh blood staining the inn floor, especially when Lucy informed them that the new Isleri had been placed there for treatment. No doubt her father would know of her abduction by sunrise... Her abduction... Sophia blinked as the truth came to her as forcefully as she had been taken. The objective had not been Willum but her, making her suddenly very afraid because if she had been taken, it meant that someone in Isler knew who she was, perhaps even this man, though his treatment of her suggested otherwise.

Also, he had asked if her name was Mercy, which was quite curious. There was not time to dwell on this man’s knowledge as he spoke to Sophia once more, this time the words feeling like she had been dealt a physical blow, they had been spoken with such vehemence, realising her actions had done nought but anger him. Yet, there was something else there as well; an immense pain reverberated through his voice and body that no amount of battle training could disguise, making Sophia wonder just how badly she had managed to injure him.

Instead of apologising the young woman suddenly wriggled enthusiastically, eventually causing her kidnapper enough pain to throw her to the ground, Sophia gasping for breath from the impact but it had worked and now she stood slowly, looking at him dangerously. Bending, she began to tear the hem of her dress, shortening its length to just above ankle height, the beautiful travel dress looking rather despondent now, the torn section having been separated into a few rags to wrap around the wound. Leaning forward carefully, the young woman reached for the knife, wrapping one hand around the hilt and applying pressure to the damaged area with the other, yanking it out quickly before allowing it to clatter to the floor. Immediately Sophia worked, wrapping the cloth around the wound tightly, trying not to focus on how bad it looked, as there was nothing she could to help it here other than to compress the bleeding, finishing her knot within a matter of seconds.

Then, in a rather odd move for a hostage, Sophia then handed out the last rag to the man, judging it long enough to wrap around her wrists at least twice with some give, her eyes wary despite her open offering. “If you don’t trust me, use it,” she offered, knowing that this was highly irregular but still realising that Willum’s safety depended on her leaving with this man and he obviously didn’t like nor trust her at all.

With a grunt, Simon hoisted the woman off of his shoulder where she fell unceremoniously to the ground. He watched guardedly, blade at the ready, as she began tearing at her skirts. He had never seen a lady do such a thing, and couldn’t understand her madness. When she pulled the knife from his leg with a smooth, quick jerk, he saw stars before his eyes, but gratitude washed over him to have the weapon removed. He had far less medical knowledge than she, and he knew in all likelihood that he would have made the injury worse had he removed it himself. The only question that remained was, why was she helping him? As she deftly bandaged the wound she herself had inflicted, he could not make sense of the woman called Mercy. She was a walking contradiction.

Pain muddled his confusion and dulled his capacity to think clearly. He was angry and in pain and tired from lugging her around in the woods, and now she was healing him for some reason or another. Mercy had to be mad, surely. He had just abducted her, and she was still treating him like a patient. Before she could grab the knife she had pulled out, Simon scooped the weapon off of the ground and held it tightly. Mercy looked up at him and handed him a length of fabric from her own dress. What a confusing creature.

“Get up,” he grunted, pulling her off of the forest floor with one hand in a motion that was careless to his comfort. She may have just helped him, but he wouldn’t have needed such help if she hadn’t stabbed him in the first place. They were far from square. If she thought that by offering up her freedom he would allow her to keep it, she was wrong. He tightly bound her wrists together behind her back and tugged her forward by her arm, holding her tightly. Admittedly, it was far easier to drag her than to carry her, but his gratitude was marred by the night’s events.

They marched in silence through the forest, and the knight used the North Star as his guide. From high up in the trees the owls hooted their soft, tuneless melody. In the distance a wolf howled. And all the while their feet made a steady beat against the grass and underbrush as they wove through dense trees. They had been walking for some time, and Simon began to fear that he had gone the wrong way somehow. Surely he had not left his horse farther than they had come. He looked around him in confusion, searching the near blackness with a worried frown. He whistled and there was silence. To his relief, a moment later he began to hear the sound of hooves beating against the ground, coming in his direction. The horse neared, wary of the metallic tang of blood in the air, sensing the agitation of the woman he held hostage.

Holding Mercy’s arm in one hand, he moved forward and stroked the horse, calming the animal. He reached into the saddle bag hanging off of the horse and withdrew a long length of rope, and then looked at Mercy with a scowl. He nodded toward the tree behind her.

“There,” he said gruffly, gesturing with his chin. “Sit.”

It was an order, and he did not look like he was in any mood to be disobeyed.

There was no time to reaction to his spoken command by her own will, the Isleri man yanking her to her feet, her eyes wide at the damage it would do to him, looking at him critically as he half-turned her, binding Sophia’s hands behind her tightly. Then they set off once more, this time with him tightly gripping her arm, but the young woman noted with satisfaction that the limp that had been present before in his stride was practically non-existent now. Her provoked attack had come totally out of fear and Sophia wasn’t entirely sure if she would have been able to deal with the regret of knowing that she had severely injured another, her mind floundering once more about the work her father and the men of his court did, wondering how they lived with the guilt. Then Sophia’s curious eyes watched the face of her captor carefully, aware from a single glance that he was not entirely calm, wondering how many he had killed and if he even felt guilt.

It was interesting watching him, Sophia found. There was not much else to be seen within the limited light granted by twilight and his facial expressions changed rather abruptly, depending on his thoughts, but she hadn’t seen him smile yet. Not that it was a great surprise, for he had no reason to. It was late at night, he had sustained an injury that he had not been expecting and Sophia wasn’t exactly being terribly co-operative, but there was no reason to be. He had broken into Willum under a ruse, deceived the townspeople and her, and had then proceeded to steal her like she was some treasure that could just be taken. To think, Sophia should be going home in two days time; now instead she was about to enter Isler for the very first time, under unclear circumstances and with an explosive companion.

At this, Sophia tried a little harder to examine her surroundings as although she knew from the villagers that the end of the forest marked the beginning of Isleri lands, it was hard to tell how much forest remained to be crossed, as they had been walking for some time now. The sounds of animals interrupted the monotony of their in-sync steps, he loathe to let her go and Sophia herself not wishing to end up dragged

Confusion marred the features of the young man, his head darting around like a lost child, the expression still present as he whistled, Sophia’s eyes wide at what it stirred within her, closing her eyes tightly. Ha, it would be ill-advised to let her captor see her agitated so, as the whistle reminded her of a more pleasant time; a couple of days that her father had spent getting to know Simon during his captivity in Hilten. The horse’s movements could be heard by the young lady, but instead of focusing on them to distract her from her mind’s wanderings, it had won out.

It had been a rainy day, which had put her in a foul mood, as she had wished to take Simon to see the farmlands just outside the town, there being no chance of her father agreeing now with the horrendous weather. It was only a few weeks into the exchange and although she followed Simon around diligently, her curious nature prompting her to ask him many a question about his homeland, he still hadn’t stopped treating her like an annoying bug, which probably wasn't a great surprise.

They had been given wooden training swords again, Simon seeming to enjoy it a great deal, though he was still uneasy about fighting a girl, especially one who had practically no training whatsoever. Nevertheless, the two children were playing happily, Simon easily scoring a hit on the young girl, who dramatically fell to the floor, squeaking in surprise as her headband had fell down about her eyes, blinding her completely as she stood, flailing around to find her friend and opponent. A whistle, followed by an amused chuckle pierced her hearing close to her left, turning abruptly to face the noise and being rewarded by a sound slap as the wooden sword connected with a thigh, worriedly causing the little girl to raise her headband. Simon didn’t look particularly angry however, smiling boyishly as Sophia smiled back cheerily as she came to realise that was her first hit on the boy. ‘Whistle again,’ she’d asked, lowering her headband and although he had looked confused Simon had complied, realising that the little girl was able to place hits better with no sight and his whistle to guide her. No doubt he’d found her an absolute riot at the that time, but all Sophia could recall was his smiling face and the score of her hits on him which had gone up from zero to five that day.

Mercy opened her eyes to see her captor regarding her foully once more, but her smile didn’t fade as the memory had cheered her as they always did, and it was a ill kept secret that the reason that Sophia smiled so much was that she had many happy memories to draw cheer from, hoping that times could return to that once more. Her eyes followed to where he had indicated she put herself, eyeing the long rope in his hands suspiciously, but Sophia could hardly argue in this situation, stepping backwards and breaking his hold on her.

Sitting down was going to be troublesome with her hands restrained as they were, but it was hardly going to be prudent to ask him to untie her, so sighing heavily Sophia tried to gently bend towards the ground mostly making it except for the last two inches in which she was forced to drop to the slightly damp earth with a dull thud, her back resting against wood for the second time that night. He was certainly still in a foul mood, as his order had been barked, leaving no leeway for argument and again Sophia wondered if he ever smiled, tucking her legs underneath her slightly for comfort.

He wondered after the ambiguous smile that crossed her face as he pulled her along. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere, and for a moment he envied her ability to transport herself to a happier place in times of chaos- if only in her mind. From the corner of his eye he watched her. He noted the way her gray eyes seemed to cloud over the tiniest bit, and then one corner of her mouth raised slightly into the smallest of smiles. Her face took on a pleasant, happy countenance, and for a moment he thought he was looking at Sophia.

Simon blinked hard and looked away from her, surprised by the path his imagination had taken. The Peryonai’s daughter had been on his mind a great deal since Nathaniel had mentioned her, and he couldn’t seem to stop remembering the tiniest things about her, almost out of thin air. On his journey he had passed a thicket of freesia, and he had remembered the time he had woven her a crown of those type of flowers and laid it on her brown hair, effectively crowning her queen for the day. She had issued him silly little orders until nightfall when the flowers began to wilt, and they had decided that the spell must have worn off that made her royalty. They had had such imaginative games as children, and an endless amount of adventures together, even if said adventures were only sneaking down to the kitchens to nick a treat when the cook wasn’t looking, or hiding under the trees in the rain and pretending they were bandits.

He had done everything in his power to put the girl out of his mind for the past thirteen years, and for the most part he had succeeded. He found himself immersed in all the duties required of the Knight, and he began to give in to all of the terrible things he had heard of Kiltheon, the land he thought of as his childhood home.

Upon his arrival, he had been greeted warmly by people he didn’t remember, who asked him questions like, was he okay, did they torture him, how had he survived all that time? They made it seem as if he had been held as a captive, which in a way he had been, but he had also been treated as a guest. As time wore on and he began to learn the terms of his stay in Kiltheon with the Peryonai’s, his resentment toward the region intensified. Bitter that he had been held as their hostage, he set out to avenge the injustice. The fact that they had treated him often as a son only added insult to injury. They had meant to dupe him, but it hadn’t worked.

Mercy did as she was told and lowered herself onto the ground with some difficulty, as her hands were still tied behind her back. Simon uncoiled the rope and wrapped it around her snugly a few times, tying it on the opposite side of the tree so that her clever hands would not find a knot to wiggle loose. He checked the ropes and nodded in satisfaction. They would do for a bit, he decided.

“If you hadn’t of stabbed me, I’d probably let you loose,” he told the woman sitting on the ground, legs tucked beneath her. “But seeing as you did in fact stab me, I trust you about as far as I can throw you.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her grimly, as if to tell her that her predicament could only be blamed on herself. He began digging through his saddle bag, withdrawing his other set of clothes. He also took out his shaving kit, as his beard was getting to be a bit itchy. He shook out the dust of the clothes and draped them over his arm, looking down at the leg she had bandaged. There was nothing he could do for it at the time being, and decided to let it go unaddressed.

“Now, don’t go anywhere.” he said, looking down at her with a smirk, and then released a short, cruel laugh as he turned on his heel and strode away from her. “I don't suppose you will.”

He didn’t bother telling her where he was going, but he left his horse to keep her company. Being tied to a tree was bad enough. Being tied to a tree all by oneself was unneeded punishment. He wound through the trees and eventually found the stream he had left his horse by, and then disrobed and carefully got in, being tender with his leg. The cold water on the open wound hurt like hell, but he was covered in mud from head to toe, so he didn’t have many options. He scrubbed his body clean and combed through his hair with his fingers, getting out all of the sand. He cleaned away the dried blood from his abdomen and all that had dried down his leg, and then he washed the dirty clothes he had been wearing. When he was done he came out of the water and let himself air dry in the cool night and shaved, then redressed in his fresh clothes.

Those were simple too- not his normal uniform. He still did not want to reveal his identity to those who might happen to see them on their journey to Isler Castle. He looked like an ordinary villager and would draw little attention to himself. He hoped that they would not run across anybody on the back roads, as having a woman tied up on his horse was not going to be a simple predicament to explain.

When he got back to the spot he had left Mercy, she was as he had left her: still tied to a tree. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at her. “I’m almost tempted to just leave you tied up. You’re easier to handle that way.” he told her, but he knelt down at the tree and began untying the knot. It loosened and came undone, and the rope became slack around her. He walked around the tree so that he was facing her, and then reached down and pulled her up by her waist. Once standing, he found the two of them to be standing uncomfortably close together. He could smell the sweet, feminine smell of her skin and the floral aroma of her hair. He quickly stepped away, much abashed, and stammered.

“W-Well, erm, it’s time that we leave now. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”

Awkwardness had descended upon him.

Sophia hadn’t minded the cloth around her wrists, but the coarse rope that the soldier had deemed to fasten her to the tree with rubbed her skin awfully, causing the woman to stay very still to minimise the irritation, choosing not to verbally respond to his accusation, though her eyes narrowed in contempt. This was all her fault was it – evidently her companion had a very selective memory, totally forgetting that it had been he would had initiated this whole fiasco, but it was hardly an appropriate time to be arguing semantics or he might very well leave her there. After all, he still had not made his intentions clear and it might be still within his rights to leave her there and that was not at all a situation Sophia wanted, because despite all the disagreements, her dependence on him at the moment was worryingly large.

With nothing better to do, the young woman watched from her low perch on the ground as the man shifted through his saddlebags on his horse, the intention suddenly clear as he drew out a change of clothes and what looked suspiciously like the shaving kit that her father owned, making her raise her eyebrows, her curiosity rising. Evidently he was going to wash and change, but that kind of equipment cost a great deal of coin, making Sophia wonder once more just who her captor was, settling to ask him later for his name, seeing he most certainly knew her alias at least.

It appeared that the man could not go five minutes without making some cruel jibe at her expense, her smile faltering slightly as he quickly departed the small area, leaving her alone with his horse, who had turned to face away from her whilst it chewed on some grass absently, blissfully unaware of the tension between his rider and prisoner. Which left Sophia with not a great deal to do, other than sit and wait with her thoughts, something that she was terribly comfortable with at the moment, as her mind drifted to unpleasant memories.

Damien and her father were sure to be furious at her lack of care when dealing with Isleri men, Damien even more so when he discovered he had only been minutes away from the village when the abduction had taken place... wait, hadn’t she seen someone who suspiciously similar to her protector in the crowds searching frantically as the Isleri soldier had carried her away from Willum? No, of course not, there was not any chance that Damien would have been aware of such an attempt, nor being able to return with such speed. But her father... her eyes saddened then, moistening at the mere thought of her father being delivered the news. He would be so disappointed with her and there was nothing she could do at the moment to avail that pain other than to sit and wait for her captor to return, hoping desperately for an opportunity to escape later, for Sophia suddenly made the decision to not get to wherever this man wanted to take her, regardless of his strength or cunning.

As if on cue, the man in question returned to them, Sophia’s head jerking up in surprise at the sudden return, eyes widening upon seeing what was actually behind the dirt he had apparently showered himself in before approaching Willum. In a normal situation, had he not been scowling cruelly, the young woman would have found him extremely attractive, startling considering her usual lack of interest in men, only blinking stupidly when he mentioned leaving her tied up, realising that whatever it was that the harsh man wanted Sophia for, he needed her with him and alive. The ropes fell slack around her waist, Sophia sighing in relief that the itchiness was no longer against her skin, allowing her legs to react automatically as he lifted her, stunned by his generosity.

Sophia’s feet finally found solid ground, the young woman’s eyes meeting the relatively close hazel eyes of her captor, smiling freely once more, this time at his spontaneous act. Really, if he smiled, he would be much more attractive than with that omnipresent scowl on his face, though she imagined that she was to blame for that. Just as quickly as he had lifted her off the floor, he stepped away from her, his eyes losing their hardness as he appeared to be uncomfortable, Sophia resisted the urge to chuckle at his apparent awkwardness, the resistance allowing her to ignore most of what she assumed was instinct to step forwards to follow him, something vague in her mind demanding to be close to him, much the contrast of only an afternoon before.

As if the fates were challenging Sophia’s resolve, the man tried to speak, stammering in a manner that Sophia struggled not to find utterly charming, her eyes flying open in alarm at the expression his face took on as Simon’s young face suddenly fitted perfectly along the adult features. Just like the Isleri man had done only moments before, Sophia blinked hard to see if it was a trick of her mind but unlike before, the sensation stayed, a long-suppressed feeling of companionship attempting to rise in her. Abruptly the young lady closed her eyes, shaking her head impatiently; Simon wasn’t like this and it was churlish to assume that because this man had the appearance of her friend that there was no logical explanation for the trick her imagination had chosen to play on her. If it hadn’t been for Damien bringing up Simon up earlier, he would not be so present in her mind, setting her up for a great fall as Sophia nodded in response to his statement, her smile turning shy.

“I expect it is, but I cannot get onto the horse unaided,” the young woman tried to explain, sighing in defeat at her own helplessness, nodding to the horse suggestively.

He really did look like her childhood friend when he was like this; Sophia remembering Simon’s awkward embarrassment as he declared that he would marry her someday, showing her much the same expression that her captor was now, her smile turning kind. “If you’ll look like that if I behave, I’ll cause you no more unrest,” she teased innocently, taking a step toward him, gently leaning forward. “You puzzle me. One moment you’re hard and the next, acting like a squire with his sweetheart.” Her straightforward words came tumbling out of her mouth faster than she could think them, her entire body language reflecting her distress at her seeming lack of self-control around this man, already stepping back from him in anticipation of a negative reaction. Really, she would learn to stop provoking him soon.

By a cruel twist of fate, the knight found himself completely and utterly flustered at the very moment that he should have seemed tough and intimidating. What in the world was she thinking? It almost sounded as if his captive was flirting with him! But of course, that was absurd. He didn’t know what to think of what she had said to him, and swallowed down the lump forming in his throat.

Remember, Simon, you’re a big, scary kidnapper. Forget about being a knight and all that, you weren’t ever that chivalrous to begin with.

His reasoning was sound. He was, by many people’s estimation, the worst knight of Isler there had ever been. Contradictorily, he was also one of the most efficient. He managed to do the impossible, but some people had a problem with his unorthodox means of accomplishing Nathaniel’s goals, and many found him to be rude, cruel, and generally unlikable. Throughout history, Knights were considered exemplary individuals. Not only were they deathly loyal and skilled in the arts of war, but they also epitomized the conduct of the day- namely, chivalry. Simon couldn’t seem to find a chivalrous bone in his body. Instead, he tried to make up for his apparent shortcomings with his other skills and his loyalty to his lord. The result was that the man, at only thirty years of age, had an atrocious reputation, and the only person who didn’t question his position was Nathaniel Quentin.

Upon finding himself with Mercy, who didn’t know of his reputation, didn’t even know who he was, he didn’t know exactly what to do. Any normal, sane person would have been cowering in fear of him. Hadn’t he kidnapped her, almost struck her, tied her hands behind her back, dragged her through the woods, and tied her to a tree? She was a glutton for punishment, that one. She was also impossible to read. For the life of him, he couldn’t make sense of Mercy, and he found that to be irritating to the point that he wanted to rip his hair out.

Her sudden coy, almost flirtatious, smiling demeanor left him speechless, and his frown deepened as a result of his confusion. The familiar scowl crossed his face as he began to think that she was playing a game with him, trying to make him look like a fool. He would not let her get the best of him so easily. “You will cause me no more unrest no matter how I speak to you.” he said coldly, and lifted her by her hips in one swift motion so that she found herself astride the horse. He hopped on behind her, and the action caused a sudden pain to go screaming down his leg. He saw a bit of blood surface on the leg of his trousers as the wound opened, but he ignored it. The pain had already passed, as long as he didn’t think too much about it.

With a sharp clicking sound and pressure from his legs, the horse set out at a slow canter, carefully finding it’s way through the trees. He knew there was a path somewhere nearby, but he wanted to stay hidden in the trees for at least a few more miles. He could feel her back press against his chest every time the horse took another step, and he found the action bothersome. It was making him far too conscious of her, and that was exactly what he didn’t want.

“When we’re farther from town I’ll untie you, but I don’t want you trying to run off.” he told her brusquely. When they were far from any villages, she’d have to be a fool to run from him. He had food and water and a horse, not to mention a direction in which to proceed, and if she decided to run on him, she’d starve or dehydrate of get eaten by wolves before she found any people.

His arms were on either side of her waist, and his hands loosely held the reins. He grew uncomfortable with the silence, and silences always seemed worse to him at night. He wracked his mind for something to say to her, but had a difficult time. Finally he settled on a question that he had truly been curious about.

“Do you know why you are being kidnapped?” he asked. If she knew, he found he would like very much to know. He didn’t understand the importance of this woman. Sure, she was giving aid to her people, as well as his, but he had been told to get her and not one of the others in Willum. What was her significance?