Zandria Reclaim: Trink's Resolve
....Trink's fit of vomitting subsided. She wheezed for a clean breath as she gripped on the rock wall on one hand and wiping her mouth with the other. Straightening to her height, she slumped up against that wall laboring for breath. As her body calmed, she thought about what to do. The girl was alive. That much she knew. Not fourteen winters, but fourteen autumns born. The Empress assumed the girl was twelve this year, which was fine by her. She hated that white-headed woman. She was no stranger to these halls, even though she now walked through them freely at that cruel woman's bidding. Her previous mistress was heartless to a fault, but she had raised Trink from the tender age of five. She was a slave then, she was less than that now. One bad master for one that was worse. Neither owned her full loyalty; she served as was required of her, but something came out of the two that won her over: the little Lady Ikrah.
Lady Isinn was folding paper boats and making making paper flowers when the eunich entered and announced Court Lady Trinkera from the Empress of Falshire requested an audience. Dressed in triple layers of silk robes of white-red-and-green, she was adequately warm and presentable for such a sudden guest without having to change. She was surprised to hear such a name, which had a familiar ring to it. She gestured with her hand fingers wiggling as granting permission for the requester. Soon, she was met with a very familiar face that struck her down like a stabbing in the gut. The years had been too kind to this woman who had flawless skin, macabre make-up, and that damn raven black hair now adorned with a thin double stranded golden circlet between the hairline and forehead. Her lips were painted rosey red with a touch of gloss that made them appear velvet. "You...!" Trink bowed fully over to the wife of the reigning High Lord in the House of Grace. "A very charming spring day to you, High Lady Isinn." Isinn's hands were clammy, trembling as she reached for the scissors. Her attempt to be prepared prompted the visitor into laying eyes on the exact object, then. A mocking cold smile crept onto Trink's lips.
"They say suicides by violent means only serve once. After that, one could survive anything." Isinn released the scissors and retrieved her hand. "Did you always work for her imperial majesty of Falshire?" "I serve her now. My master...has been disposed of." Isinn narrowed her eyes with restrained fury. "What does Falshire want of this fiefdom? We are small and poor compared to the great empire." "It is a personal request of her Imperial Majesty. She sends you regards." "Regards?!..." Isinn recollected herself. "Regards, indeed," she scoffed. "The last time her husband sent regards, Poplari fell in ruins...." her voice became honey, "and I ended up here." Trink chuckled superficially. "A strange turn of events, High Lady." A quivering scowl permeated Isinn's lips. She wanted to dig her nails into the other woman's face. Nothing would satisfy her anguish more than that. "You witnessed the kin-take and did nothing. Now, you come here to mock me as the dog from the big bitch herself. I want you out! Be gone with you!" "Good day to you, High Lady. I only wish you well." Trink retreated walking backwards a good distance before exiting the chamber.
She was escorted through the courtyard to be on her way out. As she walked through the walkway that led to the main square, she was directed to cross the bridge that connected the Halls between the Houses. A chilling breeze blew at her robes, giving her the look of a jaded maiden in her motley dress. The guide instructed her to wait then excused himself. Before long, Padrad appeared from the other end of the bridge, dressed in his native robes all colored in rusts and reds. He strode up the bridge to meet her halfway. His black hair was combed halfway up by the crown and secured neatly in place with a black ribbon. He had grown older with a short beard to his face, but those eyes of his were forever earthly to her. Those warm brown eyes.
"Hello." His voice was the same after all these years. Her heart was tightened as if a viper had bitten into it. She bowed her head, not trusting how her words would come out or even what her voice would sound like if she tried to greet him out loud. He stepped closer.
"How is our child?"
She turned to the side fighting the sudden emotion invoked upon her. Though among them, she had been reputed as a savage, she had fallen far from that with him. Yet, here she was, having to confess to him the loss of their child. It was aborted before forming a gender. As if he understood, he came close circling his arms around her lending her some of his warmth against the winds.
"You made it back to me, Trink. We can try again."
"Too late for that, Padrad. I'm infertile now." Pause. He drew her toward him in an even tighter embrace. "I have three boys of my own." She curled her fingers into a grip onto his tunics. "I'm glad." "Come, stay with me. Sunfire, it's been over a dozen years, now." "I can't live with you. I can visit and stay a day. The Empress has errands for me." "You do the bidding of the Empress these days? What is that like?" She was quiet for a time, then spoke. "My days are short. My work is long and arduous. I have no time for tears. I had more funerals than I can count. But still I do as I'm told as a good slave that I was from one master to another." "Couldn't we just get away?" "No. The war was done, but not the empire. They want what was taken and more as revenge and they are winning." "They haven't come north yet." "Be prepared to lose the Zand." He rubbed his face to her hair, holding her contently. In that moment as was delivering the summit's cold front of Northridge Range, a misty drizzle fell over them, blown their way on the winds....
