THE PYRE | ONC2021

Ⅲ

INGRID DIDN'T REMEMBER when exactly she found herself inside, wrapped in a blanket, the young lord stirring up a fire next to her. The wood snapped and croaked in the heat, like teeth chattering in the cold. The wood... the fire... the pyre—the corpse, the sound of thousand voices, the eyes of the stars. 

All of those... were fading. Just like after Adelaide died—she found herself reaching for details, but her head refused to give her any thoughts. She just couldn't recall it. She found herself imagining the heat licking at her armor as she jumped into the flames, the splash of blood as she chopped of what was once Anna Bein's head.

She only remembered  the eyes... and the voice.

"W-where...?" She tried to move, but the rough wool of the blanket restricted her.

The lord spun around, his hair now shining like rays of the sun in the light of the embers. "Oh, you're awake. Don't move, you almost froze to death." He shuffled up, a gentle smile on his face.

"What were you doing out there, Lady Ingrid? I was so worried," He frowned, leaning to get a bowl from the wooden table. 

"I was... I was..." Ingrid struggled for words. Her corset dug into her armpits, "I was feeling a bit faint. So I went upstairs for a bit of fresh air, and I collapsed there... I think. Yes. That's what happened."

"Oh," The lord said, "You should take a maid along next time. You could've died of the cold."

Ingrid shrugged, "I've suffered worse. Slept in colder places. And... I suppose I am still alive, am I not?" She pulled the blanket closer to herself, breathing in the fresh, warm scent of the forest still lingering in it. This was washed recently.

He handed her the bowl. Warm broth sloshed inside, and Ingrid could feel its heat even from the thick wood of the bowl. Chunks of meat floated inside. Ingrid could feel her mouth water—somehow, this simple broth was far more appetizing than all the luxuries that were laden on the table of the lords.

"Tell me how it is," says the young lord, pulling up a stool next to her, at a comfortable distance, and resting his chin on his fist. 

Ingrid nodded—but then paused, "Why are you—I mean no disrespect, of course, milord—"

"Call me Frederick, please."

"I couldn't possibly—"

"Please."

The last bit sounded like more of an order than a request, so Ingrid swallowed the arguments that were springing to her lips. 

"Have some broth, please."

Another order. Suddenly, the warmth of the room didn't seem so comforting anymore. Ingrid observed Sir Frederick's face—the way his smile and his features just—contorted. Yes, that was the word, contort. It converted his cold, handsome features from old classical statues in churches to something that seemed to the ordinary man vaguely friendly.

But it unnerved Ingrid.

 No human could keep that smile painted on for so long. 

Not unless he finds me amusing.

She took a sip, as quietly as she could. A brief thought of poison flashed through her mind, but Ingrid ignored it. What would this young lord gain from killing a sellsword? 

She chewed on the sweet chunks of meat, and then swallowed. 

Then she announced, softly, "It is good.  Thank you, Sir Frederick."

"That's good. I was afraid my cooking would have made you even worse," He laughed.

Ingrid had never heard such a fake sounding laugh before. She forced herself to smile, "I assure you, Sir Frederick, my stomach is made of iron."

God, she never was good at small talk. But Frederick gave a small snicker.

"Like your sword?" He asked.

Ingrid's hand flew to her hip, but it met only fabric. Her belt was missing, and her sword along with it. The only weapon she had were her teeth and her body, and a small knife hidden in her shoes. 

Frederick noticed, "Your sword. It is with me. Do not worry about it." He held up her belt, materializing it from almost nowhere, but put it a bit too far away for Ingrid's comfort.

"I would like it back—Please, Sir Frederick," Ingrid tightened her grip on blanket, planning to throw it at him incase he tried anything. It would make for a quick get-away, and it wouldn't harm him too. 

He pretended not to hear her, instead unsheathing her sword. The metal sung as it was dragged out gracefully, like a dance—Ingrid noticed how he gave an elegance to everything, even pulling out a sword—and watched it glint in the night.

"Iron..." He murmured, staring at the light dance on the blade, turning it into gold. Fool's gold. "This isn't iron, is it?"

He glanced at her. 

She answered reluctantly, "Steel. Damascus steel." 

"Ah," His eyebrows raised in acknowledgement. He tilted the sword, side to side, as if getting a feel for it. The ripples on the steel, a characteristic feature of Damascus steel, looked like a fisherman's net catching the light. "How much?"

"It's not for sale," She answered firmly.

"How did you get a hold of Damascus steel? I don't suppose these are easy to come by for..." He trailed off, but the implications of what he said were clear. 

For a bastard.

For a sellsword.

For a woman.

"I won it. Fair and square," It wasn't a lie. Not completely. 

Frederick just nodded slowly. "Brave. I heard what happened with the midwife—what was her name? Hm, nevermind. "

Frederick did not look at her. "My father will call you to the castle tomorrow. He will give you a task, something that'll get you more money than you've ever seen. There's this... Princess, you see. Princess Arzu."

Arzu. Ingrid rolled the name over her tongue wordlessly. "A foreigner."

"Yes. She's the... consideration for the contract of peace with the kingdoms down south. Trade, obviously. She's clever too, I heard a lot about what she is capable of in polity and economics. A clever princess," He chuckled at the last part, as if it was some funny little bit of irony.

Ingrid found herself getting more irritated.

"An asset for the king. He'll probably marry her off to Prince Alexander if he doesn't claim her for himself." He continued, but it sounded more like a observation to himself.

"What do I have to do with all of this? What do you want me to do?" Ingrid asked exasperatedly.

Frederick rose. He dropped the sword in Ingrid's lap, his hands lingering on her shoulders for a beat longer than she would have liked. And he whispered, kind as the devil:

"I want to you to kill Princess Arzu."

:::

words: 1110

date: 28/02/2021