Briallan Galloway let out a heavy sigh as the carriage bounced along the uneven, broken cobblestone road. The footmen traveling with had warned Bria that this part of the journey would be rough and uncomfortable. They said it was because Oldingham Road was difficult to maintain -- for several reasons, or so she’d heard tell at the inn where they’d rested the previous evening. Two in particular had stood out in the young woman’s mind the most - perhaps because of their macabre nature.
The first, and main, reason was the wolves. They were quite common to the area and fearless when it came to men. Every time a group was sent to repair or rebuild the road the men disappeared - presumably dragged off by the beasts for food. It began to happen so frequently that it wasn’t long before men refused to take on the work.
The second reason was far less sinister, but no less shrouded in mystery and general creepiness. The road wound through some of the densest parts of the Shaldorn Forest before breaking free and proceeding in more rigid, northerly direction. At the end of the road was the infamous Braewood Castle, towering over marshlands that stretched for miles to the north and south. Many believed the location to be haunted, those who had dared venture near it claim to hear wails of agony - the remnants of tormented souls - carried away from the castle on the wind.
A loud cracking sound jerked Briallan from her thoughts before a rather hard bump sent her careening across the inside of the carriage. She hit the opposite wall with enough force to knock the air from her lungs. The carriage lurched forward again and once more she found herself at the mercy of momentum. She hit her head this time, a glancing blow against the door handle as she tumbled forward. It left her dazed and confused and would likely result in a rather nasty headache, but otherwise she was no worse for wear.
For several seconds she waited and once she was certain the carriage had stopped moving she made attempts to get up off the floor. The carriage itself was tilted completely on its side, making maneuvering difficult. She could hear voices outside, their alarm evident. Without warning the door above her opened and the coach, an older gentleman by the name of Elias Farrier, leaned into view.
“Are you alright, highness?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. Briallan still felt strange whenever someone addressed her so formally. She was still getting used to all the pomp and circumstance that came with such exclusive titles.
“Yes, I’m fine, please… just help me out of here,” she said growing more and more aware of how confining and almost tomb like the space had become. When she was just a child she had fallen into a well and spent nearly an entire day trapped in the chilly depths. Her only salvation had been a rotted wooden bucket hanging from a thread worn rope. She’d been sick for nearly a week, the doctors fearing the worst when the fever had refused to break. In the end the only casualty was her long dark curls. Had she been a vain child this might have devastated her, but she took it in stride, like she did most things, and made sure to steer clear of that old well. Ever since the incident, she has found tight spaces to be uncomfortable, though not entirely unbearable, so long as she had easy access to an escape.
“Of course, your highness,” he reached down and wrapped his large hands around her outstretched wrists. "Try to step on the seat as I lift you.” He instructed. She did as he asked, her fine slippers sliding against the velvet seat coverings. She kicked them off in frustration and managed to finally find enough purchase to escape. She took a deep breath of cool, fresh air as Elias waved over one of the footmen attending to the frightened horses. “Ezra, I need your assistance.” The footman nodded and wound the reins around a low hanging branch before joining Elias by the carriage. In a maneuver that impressed even Briallan she was lowered gently to the ground, kept steady by the hands of the footman wrapped securely around her waist.
“You’re wounded,” he said.
“It’s nothing, just a bump,” she assured him, even going so far as to reach up and touch the source of the throbbing pain in her head. Briallan was startled to feel something warm and sticky and drew her hand away to examine her fingers. They were coated in a thin layer of crimson - blood, her blood.
“Please, let me tend to it, your highness,” Ezra insisted, taking hold of her hand and leading her away from the carriage. Forgetting about her lack of footwear she stumbled when a stone dug into the tender sole of her bare foot. Ezra’s hand shot out to catch her elbow and keep her from falling.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “My shoes, I sort of lost them in the carriage.” Briallan looked down at the ground littered with all manner of rocks and broken twigs - quite the gauntlet for a shoeless maiden. She was prepared to do what she must but before she could take another step Ezra reached down and swept her up into his arms.
“Forgive me, your highness, for my forwardness,” he said. “But I could not live with myself if you injured yourself further while I stood by, capable of preventing such needless suffering.”
Whatever protests she had prepared regarding his actions died on her lips. How could she deny him this lone act of chivalry? So she bore the humility in silence. It wasn’t that she feared any present would think less of her. In fact, it likely reinforced the pre-existing notion they had that she was some sort of poor, unfortunate victim to be pitied and treated delicately. At first she had struggled with the misconception, though she knew quite well from whence it came and that she had only herself to blame.
As strong and stable as she liked to believe she was, there was a time when even she had felt so utterly broken life itself seemed to lose all luster. The day he died. The two had only been married a few weeks, but their love had been one fairytales were born of. Just thinking about it now made her heart squeeze in her chest and her breath catch in her throat.
Vincent was no man of means, he offered her no great wealth, but he was generous and kind and Briallan loved him for it. Their romance was best described as a stew set to simmer after being brought down from a boil. For much of their youth they’d been friends - the best of friends one could say - and as children, Vincent would often claim that one day he would marry her. Briallan often ignored such foolishness, oddly enough, uninterested in the notion of marriage.
As their childhood slipped way they grew apart, as life has a way of doing. Vincent was feeling restless and once that wanderlust had set in there was no holding him back. He promised to return soon and she promised to wait, but as the weeks slipped by into months and those long months became unbearably tedious years, Bria stumbled into moments of frustration fed by the ache of a lonely heart. She tried to fill it, to replace it with any number of tasks and hobbies. In the end, books were the only thing that had even the tiniest amount of success.
A sharp, stabbing pain in her temple caused her to suck air in sharply through her gritted teeth. Why in the world did such tiny wounds have to hurt so much? Pulled from her reverie, she was faced once again with the grim reality of the present.
“What happened to the carriage?” she asked Ezra, desperate for anything to distract her mind from the burning pain.
“Something spooked the horses, one of the wheels hit a particularly deep rut and the axle snapped,” he explained. Briallan was reminded of the wolves.
“Are we in any danger?”
The dragging silence between her question and his answer lasted too long for Bria’s liking. “Of course not, your highness. Unfortunately the carriage is in a sorry state. I doubt it will be repairable enough to finish the journey.”
“How much further?”
“Only a few miles, we’re nearly out of the Shaldorn and from the edge of the forest, it’s just a short ride across the moors,” he explained, dabbing one last time at the cut on her forehead.
“Then I’ll travel the rest of the way on foot,” Bria replied, her tone suggesting she was quite serious. Ezra’s hand drew back and she looked to see a surprised expression shift across his face. Had circumstances been different, Briallan might have been amused by the effort he was making to maintain his stoic composure.
“Your highness, if I may… as admirable as your desire is…,” Ezra was hesitant to continue. Bria knew the reasons for his reluctance and found it bothered her more than normally. It wasn’t a servant’s place to question the actions of his master - or in this case his mistress. Briallan found such formalities to be stifling and too rigid for her tastes. During her short time in Eaveton she had been forced to adhere to them simply because if she failed to do so it was the servant that got rebuked.
“Please, Ezra… speak freely,” she encouraged, suddenly desperate for a moment of normalcy amidst the whirlwind her life had become. He studied her face and she could almost see his eyes soften. It wasn’t pity, but sadness.
“It’s simply not safe, your highness,” he said at last.
“The wolves, the stories are true,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. He nodded, his expression grim. Why hadn’t they told her? Did they think her so simple minded that she wouldn’t understand or did they fear she would refuse to go? She’d made a promise, pledged her life before king and country, and she was not one to break such sacred vows.
“I couldn’t help but overhear, your highness,” Elias interjected as he moved towards them. “It’d be best to wait for help to arrive. I’ve already sent one of the other footmen head by horse to inform the castle of what has occurred. It won’t be long until they send someone to fetch us.”
Briallan nodded, “Of course, Elias, forgive me for suggesting something so rash.”
“No need to offer apologies, your highness,” he said with a smile. “Oh, before I forget.” He pulled from his pocket the shoes Briallan had kicked off within the carriage. “One of the men fished them out for you. They’re not quite as pretty as they used to be but they’ll have to do for now.” Elias hadn’t been lying about the state of the slippers. The soft leather was scuffed and stained, the fine silver threads embroidered in intricate patterns along the sides was torn and frayed. Her handmaids would have a fit I they saw her disheveled state. The thought alone was enough to make her laugh silently.
“My lady? The shoes can be replaced…” Ezra’s concern tone puzzled her until she realized he had misinterpreted her mirth for sorrow. It warmed her heart.
“I care little for the state of the shoes, Ezra,” she assured him with a brief glance. “But I appreciate your concern nonetheless. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been in the presence of someone so… genuine. Thank you.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Bria noticed Ezra’s cheeks grow flushed with embarrassment and once again stifled a laugh. She found his innocence and candor to be quite refreshing after her time spent in court. How unfortunate it was that he’d be returning to Eaveton and she would be left to face the ghost of Braewood Castle all on her own.