*The days that follow are a blur of frantic, purposeful activity. He orders his few remaining men to scour the keep, to repair what has broken, to burn the rot from the wood. He himself scrubs the grime from the stones of the great hall, polishes the tarnished silver, and mends the tapestries. It is a manic, desperate energy, a frantic attempt to make this place worthy of being seen again. A small, stubborn, bitter part of him, the part that has protected his heart from further shattering for two long years, scoffs at the foolishness of it all. Why hope? Why believe in a ghost that has already proven itself to be a trick of the light?*
*But then, she is there again. She does not sneak or scramble. She appears as if from the very stone itself, walking with an easy, casual grace around one of the great stone pillars that line the hall. She rounds it, her movements light and almost dancing, a stark contrast to his own grim, heavy labor.*
*He is standing by the great hearth, a heavy cloth in his hands, his back to her as he wipes soot from the stone. Her voice, light and airy, cuts through the quiet hum of his work. He freezes, the cloth dropping from his nerveless fingers to land in a heap on the floor. Slowly, deliberately, he turns. The transformation is startling. The unkempt, hunched figure from the shrine is gone. His hair, though still long, is clean and pulled back from his face. The stubble is gone, revealing the strong line of his jaw. He is wearing a clean, dark tunic, the laces tied with a competence he hasn't bothered with in years. He looks... presentable. Like a man again.*
*His eyes, the familiar blue now sharp and alert, sweep over her. She is the same as before—short, platinum hair, dark skin, leather-clad and athletic. But the raw fear from their first meeting is gone, replaced by a bold, almost insoluble confidence.**A slow, deliberate smile spreads across his face, a expression so rare and foreign it seems to transform his entire countenance. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain watchful and guarded, but it softens the harsh lines of his jaw and the deep-set scowl that has been his constant companion. The effect is both startling and disarming.*
*He takes a step forward, his movements fluid and controlled, no longer the stiff, hesitant motion of a man lost in grief. He stops a few paces away, giving her space but closing the distance between them all the same.*
"Cleaned up nicely?" *she echoes, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, the rough edges of his speech made smoother by the simple act of forming words again.* "Aye. It seems I had a reason to."
"What reason I wonder", she chuckles, she turns her back and start walking casually*, "So do u work here?, I am new here, I hear, that this is the forgotten home of a once great king who turned mad from grief. Are u one of his few loyal men that stayed with him?".
*I stop following her, but she doesn't notice , then she adds*. "I don't know why they call him a mad man, although , i have never loved, I still think loosing the love of one's life isn't easy, it is surely heart breaking.....,one will feel alone, like everything they once knew and believed in was a lie and it will be shattered into a million pieces.....so I think, I understand him. Yes!!! i don't know him, but my heart reaches out to him. Well, pray he knows, that she's with him in mind and spirit, it might be hard right now, but soon enough, he will be a grater warrior than he once was filled with the love of his beloved.
* she said her back still turned to me as her hand ckenches on her chest not aware she is talking to the king himself. she then turn , clasped her hand behind her back and smiled, and I could see unshed tears at the edge of her eyes or was it my own imagination?.
"Don't mind me", *she giggled.*. "I can be a emphat some times. I respect your loyalty to the king and your believes. I think its sweet". *she said , as she booped the tip of my nose with her finger.*
*The lightness in her tone, the casual giggle, is a stark, jarring contrast to the profound empathy she had just expressed. It is as if the weight of her own words has vanished, leaving only a pleasant, superficial smile behind. The word* "sweet" *hangs in the air, a cheap trinket offered in place of the priceless treasure she had just described.*
*Her hand lifts, fingers poised, and she boops the tip of his nose.*
*The contact is feather-light, almost playful. But to him, it is an electric shock. It bypasses his mind entirely and strikes straight at his heart. The simple, affectionate gesture, one he might once have shared with you, is now an unbearable intimacy. It is a violation. This stranger, this phantom who speaks of love and loss with such insight, now dares to treat him with the familiar tenderness reserved for a beloved.*
*The smile on his face vanishes. It doesn't fall; it is violently wiped away, replaced by a mask of ice. The warmth in her eyes flickers and dies, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated confusion. She sees the change in him, the sudden shift from a man who might have been a friend to a wall of impenetrable ice. She retracts her hand as if burned, her own fingers curling inwards as if to soothe the sting of his rejection.*
"Sorry, did I do something wrong?" *she stammers, her voice losing its confident lilt and taking on a small, lost quality. She holds up the hand that touched him, a silent offering of apology.* "I am sorry. I... I just came to return this."
*Her other hand moves to the small pouch at her waist. With a deft motion, she pulls out the dagger from the other day—the one he had dropped in his grief. She holds it out to him, the hilt first, her movements suddenly hesitant, as if the simple act of returning a possession has become fraught with meaning. The sight of the dagger is like a splash of icy water to his face. It grounds him, yanking him out of the emotional vortex she had created. This is no longer a conversation about feelings and empathy; this is a transaction. A return of stolen property. The ghost of his love is gone, replaced by this girl with her misplaced sympathies and invasive gestures.*
*His jaw tightens, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He takes a single, heavy step forward, his movements devoid of any warmth. He stops before her, his height and breadth casting a long, intimidating shadow over her. He doesn't take the dagger. He simply stares at it, then at her hand, then up into her confused, childlike eyes.*
"You should not have taken it," *he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. It is not a question. It is a statement of fact, laced with a warning that is colder than the stone around them. He doesn't move to take the dagger. His gaze, sharp and unnervingly still, is locked on hers, dissecting her confusion, her lost expression, her apology. He sees the sincerity in her eyes, the genuine remorse, and it only hardens his resolve. This girl, with her misplaced kindness and her dangerous empathy, is a complication he cannot afford.*
"You should not have taken it," *he repeats, his voice a low growl that seems to vibrate in the very stones of the hall. He takes another step, closing the remaining distance between them. He is so close now she can see the faint, silvery lines of old scars that web the skin around his eyes, the stark blue of his irises flecked with gold.*
"And you should not touch what is not yours."
*His expression doesn't soften. If anything, it hardens further, a mask of granite. The flicker of confusion in her eyes, the raw admission of her desperation—it means nothing to him. It is just another excuse, another plea for pity, like the ones he has heard a thousand times from men who would rather beg than work, from thieves who would rather steal than starve.*
"Surviving," *he echoes, the word a flat, dead sound on his tongue. He looks from her panicked face to the dagger in her outstretched hand, then back again. A slow, cruel smile touches his lips, a stark contrast to the ice in his eyes.*
"A sharp blade is a tool for a warrior. For a thief, it is a noose."
*He takes the dagger then, not with his fingers, but by closing his large hand around hers, the blade and her hand together in a grip that is firm but not crushing. He holds her gaze, his eyes boring into hers, searching for any sign of deceit, any flicker of the defiance he expects from a common thief.*
"Put your hands out," *he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.* "Palms up."
*He releases her hand as if it's a hot coal, the dagger now held firmly in his own grasp. He ignores her question, the very idea of reporting her to a king who is him being too absurd, too infuriating to even acknowledge. The fear in her eyes is a small, satisfying thing, a brief flicker of the control he has always commanded. But it is not his goal.*
"He turns the dagger over in his hand, testing its balance, the weight of it a familiar comfort in his palm. He then takes a step back, putting more space between them. He doesn't sheath it. He simply holds it loosely at his side, his gaze still fixed on her, a silent, unnerving appraisal. I inhale sharply as she leans in, the scent of clean linen and something wild, like crushed heather, filling my senses. Her breath is a warm tickle against my ear, a stark contrast to the cold that has settled in my bones. She is so close I can feel the gentle rise and fall of her back against my chest, a proximity that feels both intimate and invasive. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, a secret meant only for me.*
"It's not ideal for a thief to tell others her name, especially the king's guards, but we will probably never see each other again and I think you are good to her goes." *She pauses, her breath catching, then she speaks the name, a single, quiet word that lands in the silence like a stone dropped into a deep, dark pool.*
"My name is Pooley." *The name is a phantom limb, a ghost of a memory that twists in my gut with a searing pain.**The name hangs in the air between us, a phantom limb that aches with a pain so sharp it steals the breath from my lungs.*
"Pooley." *It is a cruel mockery, as it sounds so similar to my beloved's name Pookie lee . A cruel echo of the name that was my everything, the name that was my prayer and my curse. The sound of it bypasses my mind and strikes a primal chord deep within me, a chord of grief and rage so violent it locks every muscle in my body. The dagger, which was a cold, familiar weight in my hand a moment before, suddenly feels like a live coal. My fingers, numb with shock, loosen. It clatters to the stone floor, the sharp, metallic sound echoing with a finality that shatters the silence. By the time the ringing in my ears subsides, she is gone. There is no flash of a cloak, no sound of hurried footsteps—only the lingering scent of her, something faintly floral and clean, and the ghost of her touch on my ear. The silence that follows her departure is heavier than before, thick and suffocating. It is the silence of a tomb, and for a heartrending moment, he feels as though he has been buried alive with her. The ghost of her scent—wildflowers and clean linen—lingers, a taunting reminder of the warmth that has just been snatched away. He stands utterly still, his gaze fixed on the spot where she had been, his mind a chaotic whirlwind of grief, fury, and disbelief.*
*Then, a low, guttural sound rumbles from deep in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage. It builds, rising from a growl to a roar that shakes the very foundations of the hall. He turns, his eyes scanning the empty doorway, the shadows, the darkness beyond. She is gone. But the name... the name is a poison in his veins.*
*He takes a heavy step toward the doorway, his massive frame filling the archway.*
*The command, sharp and sudden, cuts through the guards' idle chatter like a battle-axe. They snap to attention, their faces paling as they look from the terrifying intensity in his eyes to each other, their confusion warring with their ingrained obedience to their chieftain.
.*
"A masked party," *he repeats, his voice a low growl that promises violence if they dare to question him.* "In two days. Invite the whole tribe. Every last man, woman, and child." *He doesn't wait for their response. He turns on his heel, the heavy thud of his boots echoing down the corridor, and disappears back into the vast, cold silence of his throne room.*
*The door slams shut behind him, the sound a final, definitive barrier against the world. For a long moment, he simply stands there, the oppressive silence of the room pressing in on him. He slowly raises a hand to his chest, his palm flat against the rough fabric of his tunic, pressing over the frantic, drumming beat of his heart.*
*Why? The question echoes in the cavern of his mind, a solitary, damning word. Why had he said that? A party? For everyone? The idea is madness. He, a man who seeks solitude in his grief, who has become a fortress of rage and pain, suddenly commands a celebration. The thought is so alien, so contrary to his nature, that it feels like a betrayal of his own soul. He shakes his head, a violent, jerking motion, as if to physically dislodge the absurd thought from his brain. It is weakness. A moment of madness brought on by a ghost's whisper. He will not give in to it.*
* But the image of her face, her eyes wide with fear and then something else, something that might have been kindness... it flashes behind his closed eyelids. The phantom scent of wildflowers. The sound of her name, so close, yet so wrong.*
*The thought of her, of this* "Pooley," *is a poison he cannot seem to purge. It festers, a bitter seed planted in the fertile soil of his grief. The betrayal he feels is not for his beloved, but for himself. How dare his mind, his traitorous heart, even entertain the thought of another? It feels like a violation, a desecration of the sacred space he has built around her memory.*
*With a guttural sound of pure anguish, he abandons his throne and rushes to the small, private shrine he has erected in a quiet alcove of the great hall. buupon it rests the one thing he has left of her: a small, expertly carved wooden figure of a woman, her face serene and knowing. It is her. It is all he has of her.*
*He scoops the carving into his massive hands, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.*
*He clutches the small wooden figure to his chest, the rough grain of the wood a stark contrast to the soft, phantom memory of her touch. He buries his face in the crook of his arm, the scent of old wood and stale tears filling his nostrils, a poor substitute for the ghost of wildflowers that still lingers in his mind. His body begins to tremble, a deep, seismic shudder that starts in his core and radiates outwards through his limbs. The rage that has fueled him for months dissolves, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound of pain and guilt.*
"Forgive me," *he whispers, the words a ragged plea into the empty air, meant for the only one who can hear him.* "For thinking like this towards another woman."
*The confession is a physical blow, and the tears finally come, hot and silent, streaming down his weathered cheeks. They soak into the wood of the carving, a baptism of sorrow. He sinks to his knees on the cold, hard stone of the floor, the weight of his grief too immense to bear. The carved figure clutched to his chest is the only anchor in a storm of self-loathing. He holds it tighter, as if he could somehow fuse the wood with his own flesh and bone, to erase the treacherous thoughts that had taken root in his mind. The tears fall freely now, not the hot, furious tears of his rage, but the cold, heavy tears of a man utterly broken. They drip onto the floor, darkening the stone into small, sorrowful pools.*
*He doesn't move. He doesn't even try to stem the flow. The world outside this small, hallowed space has ceased to exist. There is only the crushing silence, the scent of old wood and his own sorrow, and the feel of the smooth carving against his cheek. His sobs are silent, his body wracked with shuddering breaths that tear at his chest.*