It's been something amazing to watch them construct a brand new castle within the old fort here at Pevensey. Amazing, and frightening. These Normans are...different from us. I have not yet decided if it is bad or good. Maybe it is simply a matter of being good for them and bad for us.
They are industrious at the very least. And skilled fighters.
Currently, I am sitting outside in the damp fall air, wrapped in one of Deniel's cloaks, watching as he trains his squire. He's noticed that I can write and like to draw, and has kept me supplied in ink and parchment...on the condition that I teach him more of my language.
He still hasn't explained why he even bothers to learn.
Other than the lessons, Deniel has mostly avoided me, which isn't hard considering that the duke has been sending his knights on raids into the countryside, trying to draw King Harold down to the duke's chosen field of battle.
Deniel always returns looking vaguely furious.
He doesn't like what they are doing, but he swore fealty to Duke William. The only choices he has now are between murder and dishonor. I am not sure what it says about him that his honor is more important. I have to confess it is not exactly something I can condemn him for.
I cannot understand this man. He deals in blood and death and seems to live mostly in a state of barely repressed fury. But still, he never raises his voice at me. He is infinitely patient in his lessons, more apt to get aggravated with himself than with me.
Sometimes I catch him watching me with a look of thinly veiled longing, but he has never touched me.
I'm beginning to pick up more of their language as well—I've heard the mutters and the jokes. I know what his comrades think. But they're wrong. Deniel hasn't even suggested that we so much as sleep in the same bed. He's stayed on the ground, wrapped in blankets and cloaks against the creeping chill.
Which only leaves me confused, frankly.
Why would he give anything up for me? Why would he...care for me as he has, expecting nothing in return. Demanding nothing in return. I am here and completely at his mercy. Why hasn't he taken advantage of that?
And this is obviously not complaining. It's just trying to riddle him out. Trying to wrap my mind around any of this.
He's just...kind. Sometimes exceedingly so and I find myself forgetting that I am his prisoner because he treats me like I am simply human.
They're nearly done training. Deniel always stops when his squire begins to get angry, and the boy seems incapable of picking up a blade without descending into that anger. Although, I suppose I cannot blame him. Fighting against an opponent as skilled as Deniel must be frustrating, when it's not outright deadly.
I can feel the knight's eyes on me. He watches me, when he thinks I'm not paying attention. Sometimes I wonder what he's looking for.
The sun is starting to set. It will be time for dinner soon, which is good. I'm hungry for the first time since Deniel found me, and he eats well. The smell of cooking meat is making my stomach growl.
I'm beginning to fear I've been with these people too long. Six days feels like a small eternity when it's lived like this—in a sort of cocoon. I must confess I find myself watching Deniel as often as he watches me. I am...fascinated by him, and I fear that fascination is turning into something else.
Even when he comes back with the blood of my kinsman on his hands, I find it impossible to hate him.
This fact only makes me hate myself.
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Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|
Historical FictionIt's impossible to be two people at once. Unless you're Abby Kilken. At 27, Abby's life hasn't exactly been all she would have hoped. That college diploma wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and she spends most of her time regretting all that time s...
