Chapter Four

An archway of garlands, lanterns hanging from. The village green, grass and leaves. The village in shadowed gold. People scattered. Wine river. Wooded tables, stable and filled. Platters, dishes. Meat. The scent of it cooking. Smoke. From fire, from pipe. Music, strings and horns. Laughter.

Sylvia released her mother’s hand. Excitement in the eyes, in the body of the child. “I want to dance, Mother.”

A smile from Ana. “Then go, Sylvia. Dance until your heart is content.”

Sylvia left her side, running. White dress trailed, angel’s wings. To the square, her feet in jubilant flight.

Warm lantern yellow strung across the trees countered autumn darkness and chill as adult and child alike, their cloaks they cast aside. A square of dirt, grass cleared. The footprints of children, men garbed in white, all women dressed pure as the day before innocence lost. The day they faded to ebony.

Small, a boy, hair brown as the dirt of the square. His white shirt, sleeves loose, countered icicle eyes, clear as forest streams. He had a smile for Sylvia, and grabbed her hand to dance.

Tall, a man. Hair gray, eyes gray, a bend to a noble posture. Time-worn face, keen with interest. He turned to his wife.

Short, a woman. Hair gray, eyes green. A slight hunch to the figure wide and warm. She turned to her husband.

Said the old man, “That child. I’ve not seen her before.”

The woman looked to the square. “The girl? The girl dancing with the blacksmith’s boy?”

“Aye, her. With the hair brown and gold.”

“She’s a beautiful child. Looks just like her mother, she does.”

“Who? Who is the mother, Elisey?”

The wife, Elisey, in tones a matter-of-face, “She be the prostitute’s child.”

A look of surprise. “Her’s? Purehaste’s?”

“Yes, Ana’s.”

The man looked about him, checking. “The band is loud, but do keep down thy voice. T’would not be right if we were heard speaking of such topics.”

“Fear not. Everyone knows.”

“But no one speaks of it.”

“Of course not, Merrin. Not in front of their neighbors. Ana’s occupation is not… unheard of.”

Merrin shook himself, to shake off the conversatioin. “Let’s not speak of it any further. For the child’s sake.”

“Yes, I suppose. If her mother is discussed too much here, the child too will be of ill repute. If she is not already.”

The song ended and another started. A stringed melody. The blacksmith’s blue eyed boy laughed and bowed politely to Sylvia before running off with a passing group of boys.

Merrin nodded. A nod more to himself than to his wife.

Autumn chill, crisp death fallen and blown across the square.

“Woulds’t thou dance with me, young one?”

Sylvia, smile wide, upward looked to the speaker tall. Gray eyed, gray haired and hunched. A smile upon her face.

“Yes I would, sir.”

Merrin, Sylvia’s small hand he took and to the stringed melody began to dance. Unorganized steps.

Elisey looked on, white dress to her ankles, smiling.

x x x

Elsewhere, directed at the prostitute’s child was another smile.

A smile ungainly for such a cold face. Dark eyes, melted even if only for a moment. Gentle as he looked at the child.

“Tristain, thou art beautiful.”

The lips of his companion touched his cheek. His eyes he closed, the child he pushed from his mind. He pulled the woman closer to him, under the dieing oak in the dimmest lantern light.

She was beautiful. Slender, tall. Hair white blonde cascaded glimmering to her waist. Her face, slim features all. Dainty and sharp. Like him, a cold slant to her eyes. They were blue transparency.

“You seem… off tonight Tristain.” Long nails from a badger’s paw, her fingers ran from hair black to loose jaw and Tristain’s eyes, closed, flickered at her touch.

“No.” Cold. “I’m fine, Genna.”

Her nails stopped, his chin in her hand. A small, rough push, teasing. Tristain’s face darkened. She said, “You lie.”

A sigh from Tristain. Exasperated. At her waist, his hands, and he pulled her chest towards his. He kissed her long, and she felt her feet rise from her crown and plummet to the earth. Pinned, to the trunk of the dieing oak, by Tristain.

Genna took him in, let her lips linger. The one night kissing in public was tolerated and by everyone was done. By the man she loved, she was held.

But she would not surrender yet.

His lips at her forehead, for a moment they rested. A moment of perfection she felt the need to break.

“You lie.”

He released Genna, stepped backward away.

She pleaded. “I just want to aid thee. Tell me what is wrong.”

“I have told thee already. I’m fine. I am well.”

“And I have told thee, you lie.”

Over his chest, Tristain crossed his arms and against the oak he leaned his back , a heavy thrust, a drop of his weight. Eyes to his feet, slick black strands foreword fell. He shook them away. Away. But again, into his eyes they fell.

A cautious step foreward, Genna took, as toward and injured beast. He did not look up, her eyes he did not meet. She knew he was being dramatic.

Elegant fingers reached out again, a smile touching her lips. Tristain lifted his head to look at her, and backward she tucked his hair, out and away from his face. A soft, helpless look in icicles. His eyes returned to the square. The child was gone.

His chin he let, to his chest, sink, but raised it immediately, a façade. A sloppy façade. Tropics to tundra in the eyes of the man.

“Fine. Tell me not.” Her voice not cold nor vengeful, but warm, welcoming. “Pry I will not. I shall let thee be.”

No answer from Tristain satisfied Genna, it seemed. “Shall we dance, love?” she asked, the answer already known.

“Thou knows I don’t dance.”

x x x

A stone bench, small. Small enough for one Ana alone. No others. No others around. The band, she heard, but did not tap a foot. The roasts, she smelled, but she did not partake. Laughter was welcomed, but laugh she did not. The light of the lanterns did not illuminate where she sat, alone, but she could see them. So close but so far away. A light obtainable. Obtainable if only she reached. But reach she did not. The sun had set hours before.

x x x

“You like it, Sylvia? You do?”

“Yes! Yes! Very much!”

A wooden bench, long. Elisey, Merrin, Sylvia. The child between the couple. Elisey smiled down at the girl, with lips and cheeks brown stained. In her hands, a stick, metal. Rosted pork was wrapped around it, well done yet tender. Herbs clung to the skin.

“Thine husband helped cook those.”

“Started them this morning, we did. On the big fire. Near the square.”

Sylvia did not respond, her teeth sunk into the pork. Lantern, moon, and happy light reflected in her eyes.

x x x

The shadows imposed on Ana as the man did, darkly and unsubtle.

“Why art thou alone? Join the festival.”

A dull throb of surprise. A surprise she was not motivated to feel.

She responded flatly, “Thank thee, Tristain, but I am not partial to festivals.”

Next to her, on the small stone bench, he sat. Two white figures side by side. Discomfort his presence made. The bench was small. Their legs touched. A feeling, Ana had, that he had meant it to be that way.

“Then why did thou come?”

“Merely for Sylvia. That is all.”

A silence. Uneasiness from Ana’s gut. Not sure whether it was cold warm that Tristain was being. She hated the man. His eyes she felt on her face. Not be backed down, she looked up at him, her eyes she tore from her lap.

Cold. Ermine features met her gaze in the darkness, a dim light to go by. Uneasiness from Ana’s gut.

Unsure as slight pressure, brush of cotton, she felt against her calf half-bare. Tristain’s leg. A cat that rubs the table leg, and around her twists his tail.

An inch, she shifted. Contact broken. She shifted her gaze in the opposite direction.

“Dance with me, Ana.” A demand.

“I do not dance.”

“You lie.”

“Fine. I seldom dance.”

“Dance with me now. The band is starting another song.”

“No. Thank thee.”

More silence between the two. Cold, the voices were. Both. As though neither in white wished to be there, nor to the other speaking.

Tristain’s hand, large, suddenly covered Ana’s folded in her lap. A quick jerk of her head and her eyes met his again. “What is this?” was the silent question asked.

He closed in on her waist, hands with hands no longer. “Kiss me, Ana.” A demand.

Ana gave a jolt, part involuntary, full repulsion. She stood, shoving Tristain away.

“Do not touch me!”

Tristain also stood, and a step towards Ana he took.

Ana turned, away from the festival, away from Tristain, and ran.

A/N: Hey, sorry it's been so long. But this chapter is a little longer than the others, if that makes up for anything. I'll update sooner next time. Thanks for reading and reviewing!