Interlude - Isabelle 3

The ceiling was rough hewn, stone of origin Isabelle couldn’t begin to imagine. She laid in her bed, staring up at it, hair splayed out, and bored out of her mind. Her foot tapped at an unheard beat, ever restless, and the mattress squeaked beneath her idle movements. She was bored. So, incredibly bored. How had this happened?

It was her day off. Once something to be celebrated, now reviled. Her fingers itched to write, file paperwork. Not from an innate desire of administration, but anxiety at what might happen without her attending to it. She sat up, her hair falling over her eyes. She stood, grabbed her coat, her dusty instrument, and walked out the door. 

It was a quiet stroll through the castle. The servants that once greeted her with a smile now all ignored her except with basic courtesies. She was too close to him. Too dangerous to interact with. Her competence had become her greatest sin. Isabelle, though often alone without much thought to it, found a growing irritation at her isolation. She had always been alone with her books, her quills and her inks. Even as far back as her old village, the rocks she scraped on stone to write were her company. Now it seemed…pointless. A figure flashed through her mind. Tall, stern and gentle. Verinia.

Isabelle had seldom seen her since the incident, but the few times they had met eyes with each other filled within her a growing feeling she couldn’t recognize. It tugged at her lips, an unseen agent sabotaging her apathy. She had analyzed it over and over, poured over their interactions, trying to find some reason as to her behavior. Impossible. Verinia was unreadable. 

Isabelle blinked, finding that her feet had led her to the courtyard entrance. Two large wooden doors blocked her way. She pushed, opening it a crack, and felt the frozen air sweep over her. It was her first Autumn here in the castle, and the cold flash had surprised her. A freak storm, maybe? The orange and yellow signs of fall had been covered by a stark white, the once-fierce storm having settled into a drifting flurry.

Isabelle stepped into the empty courtyard, pulling her coat close to her body, the light crunch of the snow beneath echoing around her. She meandered, taking in the rosebushes now covered in a white film of snow-dust. The walkways were mostly clear, having been tended to by the servants. The fountain in the middle was frozen over. How had it gotten so cold so fast? A feature of the Demon Lord’s castle, perhaps. A reflection of its ruler?

Isabelle loved and hated the cold. She kept within it memories both fond and sorrowful. Her breath misted in the air as she sat on a nearby bench, dusting the snow from it, and settled her lute into her lap. It was a sorry thing, old and untuned from disuse and age. Her mother had given it to her as a child. She plucked at the strings, adjusting it to match her mood. She played the strings tens of times until she had it about right. Her fingers, cold from the air, faltered at the neck.

What should she play? She knew few songs, and those she did were almost as dusty as the instrument itself. Still, she let her fingers do the work. An unsteady rhythm played, echoing through the courtyard as a half-formed thing, causing her to cringe. She played another note, hesitated, then, trying to remember the rest, played a few more. Passable. 

She was distracted when the sounds of crunching entered her ears. Isabelle looked up, her eyes widening slightly. A hulking, tall form walked towards her, footfalls heavy, dark hair dancing in the cold wind, a stark contrast to the white settling into it. Verinia walked to her, face impassive, eyes inscrutable. They met each other’s gaze.

She wore a thick overcoat with a turtleneck beneath it, a handsome appearance that caused Isabelle’s eyes to linger longer than they should. She turned her vision to her instrument, ignoring a sudden heat that warmed her face from the cold air. 

“What are you playing?” Verinia asked. 

Isabelle looked up. “A song my mother taught me.”

Verinia hesitated, before gesturing at the lute. It took Isabelle a moment to gather her meaning, but she hesitantly passed the instrument to her. Verinia held it like it was made of gold. She settled next to Isabelle on the bench, her splaying knee touching against Isabelle’s. Verinia didn’t seem to notice. 

“It was close,” She said, eyes never leaving the strings, “But a bit off. You need to adjust it like this.”

Verinia tuned the lute, before strumming a melody that stirred a memory in Isabelle. Her eyes widened. Verinia’s fingers danced across the strings, forming a beautiful symphony of notes Isabelle couldn’t hope to achieve without years of practice. Had the Demon Lord’s dog always been so skilled? 

The wind whipped her hair near Isabelle’s nose, bringing with it the fresh scent of gardenias. 

Verinia lifted her eyes to Isabelle’s face, her hands never halting. The melody turned sweeter, transforming into a delicate dance of tones she had never heard. A strand of hair fell out of place, catching Isabelle’s eyes. Without thinking, her hand moved out and pushed it behind Verinia’s ear. 

The music stopped.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Verinia set the lute in-between them. She turned her head. 

“I’m sorry.”

Isabelle’s breath caught. “What?”

“What Albrum said. About me finding a new partner.”

The gears in Isabelle’s head stopped churning. What had she said? The conversation had changed in a way she couldn’t understand. 

“What about it?”

Verinia stood. She kicked a nearby snowbank, scattering it across the yard. She rolled her shoulders, seemingly coming to a decision. She turned, crossing her arms, and stared at Isabelle. 

“Go on a date with me.”

Isabelle’s mouth fell open. What had she said? Her brain fired into gear, running a million miles a minutes, analyzing each conversation they’d ever had. Was that affection? Adrenaline coursed through her, making her recontextualize every conversation she’d been apart of. Was there some pattern she could put to it? A change in body posture, a color or blush? 

All those threads drew to one thing in particular, not the actions of Verinia, but the feeling she’d been unable to identify. Isabelle turned her head to the side slightly. Oddly, she wasn’t against the idea of a date. New information, a fresh strand of data to note down in my journal later. Apparently, I am fond of directness.

And perhaps the idea of something to do on a day off. The idea landed strange and alien in her mind. She looked at Verinia. The woman looked unbothered, but a tension in her shoulders made Isabelle smile. For a woman used to the battlefield, was asking someone on a date such a hard thing?

Isabelle stood, brushing the snow from her clothes. She looked at Verinia’s face, noting the trembling muscle in her cheek, the intense, unblinking eyes that stared with fake confidence. The fingers that gripped tighter than they needed. So, this is Verinia when she’s nervous?

“Well,” She said, drawing the syllable out, “Perhaps we could have dinner?”

Verinia broke into a goofy smile, before it was hidden behind a stoic mask. 

“Do you know,” Verinia said, filling Isabelle’s glass with a dark wine, “What we call Albrum on the front lines?”

Isabelle leaned on the table, her now bare arms touching the cloth. She felt a chill from the thin dress she wore now, and imagined Verinia felt the same. They had both laughed as they reconvened, each adorning their finest wear. Isabelle had plucked and cleaned one of her raven’s feathers, setting it into her hair as a decoration. Her gaze poured over Verinia’s dress, her curly, dark hair, the jewelry that matched her vivid blue eyes. 

“No, what do you call him?”

Verinia laughed. “It was the soldiers — not me, I swear — who coined it.” She handed the glass to Isabelle, letting her take a sip before continuing, voice alit with amusement. 

“They call him the Dipshit Lord.”

Isabelle snorted, nearly choking on her wine. She cackled. “Does he know?”

Verinia shook her head. “No, I’ve reported only how awed and grateful they are to have served him.”

Isabelle shook her head, laughing, before draining her glass in one smooth, practiced motion. Her head was spinning, perfect for the food she’d helped prepare. 

“I wonder,” Isabelle said, “What he would do, should he go to the front? Would he still call you incompetent for not moving thousands of soldiers in seconds?”

“Most likely.”

Verinia cut into her steak with delicate motions, before gracefully taking a bite. Isabelle watched her lips move, the impeccable table manners. Gorgeous. Her head spun as she looked. 

“Do you have to go back out?” She asked, suddenly.

Verinia looked at her, surprised. “Of course. It’s my duty.”

“You can’t just…not fight?”

Verinia smiled, before cleaning her mouth with a napkin, and leaned forward. Her eyes were filled with fire, joy, energy.

“I live for the fight. I can’t imagine myself giving it up.”

Isabelle frowned. The idea of Verinia not returning made her profoundly uncomfortable.

“What about it do you like? It seems an odious affair to me.”

Verinia picked her glass up, swirling it. Her eyes fell into remembrance. “It may be strange to you. But it’s the thrill of it.” She smiled. “I love the look in their eyes as they realize they greet the end. That death is knocking, with me as its messenger.” 

She took a delicate sip. “I love the smell of blood.”

Isabelle looked at her. Maybe she truly was a dog. A hound of war. But was she more than that?

“Would you execute me if ordered?”

Verinia looked at her, a loving look on her face. She reached out, stroking her hand with a gentle touch.

 “I would give you time to run.”