The Eye of The Storm

Chapter 4

Towards Philippopolis

Aella wanted to talk to the young soldier, whose name she was still not familiar with. A plan was beginning to take form in her mind. She was certain that he had been admiring her from afar for several weeks now- months even- but she had foolishly ignored it. She recalled how he had bowed before her when he entered and left the tent, and how his eyes never left her, constantly tracing and retracing her features to form a permanent picture of her in his mind. She had been preoccupied partly because she had been too concerned with figuring out the cause of the storm. These days, it consumed most of her thoughts. And how could it not? The storm formed high walls around them on every side. Due to her foolishness she had ignored the fact that the soldier could be manipulated, used for her own purposes and for that she silently chastised herself.

The previous night, Aella had made a discovery, when she had stumbled upon her parents whispering to each other outside the tent. She remembered how despite their hushed voices, there had been hostility in the words said. And then there was what was spoken between them. Aella hadn't heard much of what they had been fervently discussing. After she had rested and awoken this morning she remembered a name, which stood out with distinction in her mind- Medea. Aella wondered who she was, and what she had to do with the storm. After all, her parents had been talking about the storm. She couldn't find reasons for anything else they could be arguing about.

Aella was just about to start the conversation by thanking the soldier for the flower he had given her when they last spoke, even though this itself was an exaggeration by great means,  when he began talking.

"You are riding Oak today," he said. It was an observation, not a question. His dirty blonde hair was flashing in the light like wheat on a summer's day.

"How did you know his name is Oak?" Aella asked dumbfounded that he knew this fact.

"I cared for all of the horses when I was younger. I still do," he said with a slight smile. " My father gave me smaller tasks to keep me occupied."

"You were born before the storm?" she questioned, looking intently into his eyes. She noticed that they were green with gold flecks in them, and when he turned his head the light bounced off them differently so that they changed colour depending on the angle at which he faced her. She had never seen eyes like that before.

"Yes. But I was only a small child, not yet three years old when the storm came upon Thrace. My father barely had enough time to save me..." His speech grew low, and Aella sensed that there was pain in his voice, yet no tears fell onto his cheeks.

"But he did save you." Aella said softly.

"Yes. He did. But we lost my mother that day. The winds were very strong... she was pinned under the falling limestone when she was praying in a temple."

"I'm sorry." And she was. Aella felt special that he had cared to tell her about the death of his mother as she could see it made him feel vulnerable. Weak, even. Still, this didn't make her want to abandon her plan. He was a soldier to her, just another member of the royal fleet that had escaped at her mother and fathers side some nineteen years before.

"Nothing to be sorry for." He replied, his eyes this time looking straight ahead as he said it.

But Aella felt as if she did have to be sorry. What if the storm was her fault? What if the cause of the evil that had taken so much from those still left was because of her? She couldn't shake those thoughts. This feeling in the pit of her stomach.

They traveled for some time in silence again. Finally, she said,

"You never told me your name."