1711, Aethiel Palace, Kestramore City
Following their little rendezvous that night at the opera, something had sparked between Eleanora and the Duke, though none of them was willing to admit it.
Instead of lowering her head, Eleanora now hid herself Behind the tall Jessamine le Comte whenever the Duke passed by, so that she would never have to see him. Eleanora herself did not know why she did so. It was just habit that told her if he looked directly at her that she would become flustered and try to make a quick escape.
Despite this, her days were relatively calm, with the evenings spent in the sewing room, and at night, she would read the books that she had borrowed from the library in her dark chamber, which was only sparsely lit by a small candlelight. Other than the few times when she bumped into the Duke, Eleanora's life was quite peaceful.
In fact, perhaps it was because Eleanora was so at ease that she forgot about the demons that lurked in the palace's gilded halls. One night, Eleanora found herself walking back from the library, clutching a leatherbound novel in one hand and a candlestick in the other.
In the distance, she could hear footsteps, but she thought nothing of it since the guards often switched positions at midnight. But when the footsteps got increasingly closer towards her, Eleanora's heart abruptly sank.
She did not even need to turn around to know who it was. He stepped closer towards her, his eyes glowing in the candlelight, before leaning down close enough for her to smell the strong scent of alcohol on his breath, mixed with some other scent that Eleanora could not recognize.
"Your Majesty," Sir Rolf taunted, mocking a bow. "It has been a while since I last saw you, hm?"
Eleanora stared at the floor, refusing to meet his gaze. She could feel his presence beside her, as well as the hand resting against the small of her back, and felt sick to her stomach. Her silence, however, did little to appease him.
"Speak to me, whore! Have you forgotten that your fate lies in my hands now? If I told the Queen of you and your mother's schemings, both of your heads would be lopped off!"
Eleanora could not tolerate it any longer. "Leave me alone," she retorted, hoping that her voice was intimidating enough to ward him off. But instead of walking away, Sir Rolf let out a peal of amused laughter.
"Ah, so you do have a voice. Now, tell me, Your Majesty, how is our son doing? You should be able to tell by now, shouldn't you?" he chuckled.
This time, she did not look up. The hand that rested against her back suddenly tightened and pressed down a bit harder than necessary, causing pain to shoot through her side. Eleanora gasped, unable to contain her reaction, but still said nothing. She refused to give him the satisfaction.
"Well? Are you going to answer me?" he asked. When she continued to remain silent, he growled. "I said 'answer'!"
Eleanora finally snapped, whirling around and slapping him across the face with all of her force. He took a step backwards, surprised at first, but recovered quickly and raised an eyebrow at her, a look of anger slowly forming on his face. Eleanora was not supposed to fight back. She was supposed to be quiet and obedient, or at least that is what Dinah Finley had said.
It was like hitting a dog every day and every night, and yet, he expected that the dog would never fight back.
"You dare hit me?!" His fist lashed out again, aiming for Eleanora's cheek, but this time, she blocked him. Eleanora's sudden burst of strength, accompanied by the defiant look in her eyes, was the final straw for Sir Rolf. In a flurry of rage, he roughly shoved her shoulder, causing her to lose her footing.
A loud thud rang out as she landed on the floor and a sharp cry escaped from her throat. For a moment, neither of them dared breathe. Eleanora tried to push herself up to sit, but her arms felt as weak as water and the blood began to drain from her face.
Having realized what he had just done, Sir Rolf went as pale as a sheet, and he abruptly took a step back, then two, then three. "Oh no, oh no," he muttered under his breath, fearing that the fall would ultimately cause Eleanora to miscarry, or worse, kill her.
And like the man that he was, instead of helping her, Sir Rolf fled, so that in the case where Eleanora actually did die, he would not be blamed for her death.
But it would take more than a shove to kill Eleanora. With difficulty, she forced herself to stand up, and with shaky feet, she stumbled back to her chambers. However, as she lay alone on top of the silk bedsheets, she discovered that she could not fall asleep.
Instead, she sat there, staring ahead into the darkness. And for once, it seemed as though the shadows in front of her were moving, beckoning to her. They seemed almost alive and restless, eager to drag her into oblivion.
Indeed, Eleanora had been so happy as of late. Too happy. To the point where she forgot that her nightmares were just beginning.
That day, it rained again, as it did the day before. Eleanora found herself perched on the window seat, staring at the gloomy grey sky. A loose, ill-fitting dress of dark green satin was draped over her small frame, making her look even more vulnerable than she was before.
Eleanora had chosen this loose dress on purpose, ignoring how horrible it made her look. This way, the cuts and scratches on her back and neck would hurt less. Eleanora looked down at her hands. Under each of her fingernails was a streak of dark maroon, a stark reminder of what she had done to herself the night before. Now, simply scrubbing was not enough. Eleanora felt as if she needed to scrape away her flesh to be rid of Sir Rolf's touch. To remove his stain from her skin. To take away all traces of him that remained.
A knock on her door interrupted her musings, causing Eleanora to startle violently. The knocking continued after it was obvious she had failed to respond. She quickly wiped her tears before getting up from where she sat to open the door.
"Catarina?" Eleanora stammered, surprised by this sudden visit. It was not only her, for behind her stood Cosmina and Jessamine, both curiously peering into Eleanora's dark sleeping quarters.
Catarina sighed heavily. "We came to see how you are," she said, casually strolling into the room without even bothering to ask. Eleanora moved aside, silently inviting the women inside so they could sit with her. The group settled onto the window seats across from Eleanora's bed.
"I am feeling a bit under the weather these few days," Eleanora admitted, hoping that Catarina would find her answer satisfactory. "But I will show up to tonight's dinner for sure, so you mustn't worry about me."
"You must," Cosmina insisted. "I heard that we will be receiving some very interesting guests soon."
Jessamine rolled her eyes. "Please, there is not one person who is more intriguing than the Grand Duke of Devereaux."
Eleanora blinked in surprise, the first glimpse of emotion that she had shown since they invaded her room. "Do-do you like him?"
She hated how weak her voice sounded, and the stutter made her appear all the more pathetic. But it was not unlikely for Jessamine to favour Nicholas. After all, they both held high ranks in the military, and Eleanora was certain that they shared many things in common. Something that she herself clearly did not.
"Like him? No!" Jessamine snorted, bursting into laughter. "Although, I must admit that he is a commendable general. Perhaps even better than my own father."
"And he is twenty-four and unmarried," Catarina giggled. "Perhaps there is another reason why he prolonged his stay at the capital."
Cosmina, displeased that her gossip about these 'interesting' guests had been ignored, loudly stated, "Still, you wouldn't want to marry a military man."
"Why do you say that?" Eleanora asked softly.
Cosmina smiled knowingly, as if she were sharing some wonderful secret. "Everyone knows how rough and heartless soldiers can be. Upon victory, they would spend nights at the brothel, gulping down ale and coddling in between the thighs of common harlots. And do not get me started on what they do on the battlefield. Their hands are stained with blood, Miss Finley, and they reap away lives as if they were the Reaper himself."
The smile on Jessamine's face slowly faded. "I admit that my father has taken lives before, as did I, but that was all done in the name of the king. However, I had never seen my father do such a thing as bedding whores. Once they have won, my father would immediately return to my mother, and he would celebrate his victory with her.
"Well, then he is a rare exception," Cosmina sighed, before her eyes snapped back towards Eleanora. "All I am saying is that you should beware before you fall for a soldier. You should know what you are getting yourself into."
In the coming days, Eleanora did ponder on Cosmina's words. Nicholas indeed was a soldier, a far better soldier than Sir Rolf, who had never even faced combat.
Ravaeryn had been in conflict with the kingdom of Amaris over border disputes for years now, and Eleanora knew for a fact that Nicholas's hands were indeed bloodstained. If so, what kind of person was he? Was he as cruel and heartless as Sir Rolf was, or perhaps, could he be far worse?
"I wonder," she mused to herself one night after everyone else had retired. She had escaped to the garden, where she could finally be by herself. The grass was soft underneath the soles of her feet, and her pale face was lifted towards the open, starry sky. She could still vividly remember the kiss they shared on that night at the opera. It was so soft, so tender, unlike the rough, forceful ones that Sir Rolf had subjected to her. Eleanora subconsciously touched her plump lower lip, and her cheeks simultaneously became warmer.
Had it just been a wistful daydream, like everything else about Nicholas? Or...did she want it to have been real? Could Nicholas actually feel something for her besides hate and revulsion? Her head began to hurt from trying to imagine what it might be like, if this whole ordeal was just some dream she was having as part of her fevered imagination. How would they even react when they met again? Would Nicholas even remember their time together at all, or would he pretend it had never even existed? Would he even acknowledge her existence?
The sound of footsteps crunching against dried leaves awakened Eleanora from her trance, and she hurriedly whipped her head around, afraid of what she would find. There was no one in sight, yet. Eleanora had no intention to stick around and find out, so she hastily picked up her shoes, which had been haphazardly thrown onto the grass, and tried to leave as discreetly as she could.
But before she made it a single step away, a hand reached out and grabbed her arm. Startled, Eleanora turned around and found Sir Rolf staring down at her. His eyes were glinting strangely, and his lips had curled into a snarl. "I see that you have not died," he sneered, his tone laced with venom.
This time, Eleanora swallowed her fears and faced him defiantly. "Clearly not," she spat. "And no thanks to you."
"Could it be... Are you not with child?" Sir Rolf said with a frown, staring at Eleanora's thin frame with dissatisfaction.
"If so, then I am entirely grateful to God for not allowing the Devil's spawn to grow in my womb," Eleanora hissed vehemently.
Sir Rolf scowled darkly, though there was an undercurrent of uncertainty hidden deep within those eyes. "That will not do, girl. You see, your mother and I have struck a deal. If you are not carrying my child, then the terms of the deal will be null and void. That means that I will not get my money. Now listen closely, not even God can stand in between me and my money. Pray all you want, but no one can save you," his voice dripped with mockery.
Before she could even blink, Sir Rolf roughly shoved her to the ground, and soon, he was on top of her, ripping apart her skirts and petticoats. Eleanora struggled desperately, trying to push him off, but she was trapped under him, pinned beneath his weight as his long fingers unbuttoned her corset and removed her chemise.
"Get away from me!" Eleanora cried, struggling to push Sir Rolf's hand away while simultaneously trying to free herself.
"Why don't you pray for help? Is there anyone in this world who would help you?" the man rented taunted.
Eleanora clenched her jaw and closed her eyes tightly, trying to make herself stop crying, but the tears came anyway. He was right. Eleanora could not think of anyone who would help her.
But maybe there was someone; perhaps there was someone who cared enough to save her. But even as the thought passed through her mind, she heard the unmistakable sound of hooves striking the ground. Looking up, she saw a black stallion galloping across the field towards them. The rider headed straight for Sir Rolf, whose body froze and his grip slackened around his waist.
For only a second, Eleanora thought the rider might pass by without stopping, but then the stallion reared back its head and charged towards Sir Rolf and her, its front hooves kicking up clouds of dust. The rider abruptly dismounted the horse and charged towards Sir Rolf, who was still in a state of immobile.
The rider was cloaked in black, his head covered by a hood, and Eleanora could not tell who he was. In the darkness of the night, his cloak billowed out behind him, fluttering like the wings of a ravenous bird.
In one fluid motion, the rider thrust out his sword, which plunged deep into Sir Rolf's throat. The sound of blood bubbling up his throat filled the air, and his gaze, at first filled with fear and hatred, eventually faded into nothingness. Sir Rolf's body slumped to the ground, laying still in a growing puddle of his own blood.
Eleanora screamed, but the sound seemed to bounce off of the surrounding woods and dissipate like mist. All that remained was silence. Then the figure in black slowly lowered his blade and looked up, staring at Eleanora with his cold blue eyes. He stood tall, with a lean build, muscular arms, and broad shoulders.
"Are you alright?" he implored, his voice calm, hiding the concern that bubbled under the surface.
Eleanora looked up to face him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Blood, still warm and fresh, streaked her face, the blood of her loathsome attacker.
Sensing that she was in no state to speak, the rider unclasped his cloak and threw it at Eleanora. With her clothes reduced to nothing but shredded rags, she scrambled to the cloak for warmth, and once she had covered herself, she finally got a good look at her saviour.
His hair was unkempt, a stark contrast from his usual slicked-back style, and his ordinarily calm blue eyes were now a stormy grey. The expression on his face was stoic, almost stern, but when he moved his eyes to meet hers, something changed. They softened slightly, and the corners of his lips lifted into a slight smile. It was almost as if he was trying to comfort her, but how could Eleanora find solace in Nicholas's presence, when he had just brutally taken the life of another just moments before?