Night settled over the villa, the peaceful gloom promising rest from the day's labors. Having recently returned from the bathhouse, Goldwyn changed into her nightgown and sat down upon a stool to allow Raen to braid her damp hair. "When your hair is dry in the morning, it will be full of beautiful waves," the elderly handmaiden told her with a smile as she arranged her long, golden tresses into plaits. Goldwyn closed her eyes and for a brief moment imagined that she was a child again with her grandmother fussing over her. Perhaps it was cruel, and more than a bit morbid, but there was a part of her which was glad that the dear old lady had passed away peacefully in her sleep three years prior. At least she had been spared the horrors of war and the indignity of slavery. Perhaps the dead were the truly fortunate ones, for they no longer had to endure the miseries of life.
Although Goldwyn was determined to hate every day she spent at Esarhaddon's villa and make as few attachments as possible with those who dwelt there, she did find comfort in little rituals such as bathing with fragrant soaps, lounging in the warmth of the bathhouse, and changing into a soft linen nightgown upon returning to her chambers. As a merchant lord's concubine, she was granted the freedom to spend her time as she wished, and she often made visiting the baths an affair which lasted long into the night. Perhaps it was frivolous, but simple acts such as these made her feel as though she had some say in what befell her.
After dismissing her handmaiden for the night, Goldwyn took to her own bed, pulling back the covers and settling into the soft mattress. She was quite weary, for long had she spent training with Mistress Zora that evening. She had been initially hesitant to seek out lessons from the instructors at the School of Industry, for she did not wish to become overly close with any of these Mordorian women. However, having the ability to defend herself would serve her in good stead when she at last put her plan to escape into motion. As she sparred with Mistress Zora, she liked to imagine that she was pummeling Esarhaddon with her fists, or kicking him where it hurt most, or cutting rivulets of blood into his flesh with her blade, or impaling him by running a spear through his guts… Sometimes fantasies of violence were the only things which sustained her in these dark days.
As Goldwyn lay upon her side, she pulled the light blanket up to her chin and stared absently at the soft amber glow of a small lantern which sat upon a table across the room. A cool breeze caused the gauzy curtains which hung over the bay windows to flutter, and the faint sounds of fountains splashing and the song of crickets drifted up from the garden below. Closing her eyes, she reflected upon her plans for the morrow. After her morning lessons with Shireen, she wanted to take Hopa for a ride around the villa grounds, especially the lands which lay to the west and north. If she became known for having a love of riding, her wanderings would not appear suspicious, and her keepers would think that her intentions were innocent. She considered that she had made a very wise decision when she agreed to accompany Esarhaddon to the wine festival, for the brief journey to Shakh Sandana's villa had allowed her to survey the surrounding territory. She understood that somewhere beyond the vintner's estate lay Kuga Mos, the nearest city towards the west. Her next goal would be to find some excuse to travel there. Perhaps she would become so enamored of the city that she would insist upon journeying there on a frequent basis…
A devious smile tugged at the corners of Goldwyn's lips as sleep overtook her.
Suddenly she was being shaken awake by firm hands. Confused and disoriented, she gazed up at a frantic Esarhaddon, her sleep-addled brain attempting to comprehend who had interrupted her slumbers.
"Esarhaddon! What are you doing here at such a late hour?" she demanded, half fearful and half irritated. "Is something wrong?" Sitting up in bed, she studied his appearance in the dim light of the lantern. His face was gaunt with worry, his clothing disheveled.
"I wish to see you," he told her, unable to hide the plaintive note in his voice.
"It is the middle of the night, and I am weary. I have no desire to make love at this time." Her voice was as chill as a frost-glittering, snowcapped mountain, and she made no attempt to hide the disgust which she felt.
"It is not passion I desire tonight, but comfort." His words were filled with such conviction that he sounded as though he were swearing an oath. "I have much on my mind that vexes me of late, and I desire your company."
Goldwyn could not help but feel a pang of worry at Esarhaddon's uncharacteristic demeanor, and her brow furrowed with concern. "What is wrong, my lord?"
He sat down upon the side of the bed, holding his bowed head in his hands. "Ever since I ventured into the Thraqum Wood two nights ago, I have been tormented by nightmares and terrifying visions. The dream I just had was the worst of them all." His shoulders tensed as he drew in a shaky breath.
Goldwyn felt herself bristle with irritation; a grown man had interrupted her sleep to complain of nightmares. "What was so terrifying in your dream that it necessitated you barging into my bedchamber to tell me about it?" Snorting a little, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
Visibly offended by his concubine's lack of sympathy, Esarhaddon straightened his posture and glared at her with disapproval. "I dreamed about you, Goldwyn." Each word fell heavy like the fall of a hammer's strike. "You were dead. But yet… you were not. You were some sort of ghoul... a rotting corpse filled with unholy life."
A sudden sense of familiarity washed over Goldwyn like an icy wave, chilling her to the bone. "What really happened to you in the forest, Esarhaddon?" Her voice was quiet as her eyes met his.
He was silent for a moment, as though deliberating upon what to tell her. Then he reached over and pulled the bell cord beside Goldwyn's bed. A moment later, a bleary-eyed Raen emerged from her quarters. "Leave us," he commanded. "I would have a moment alone with my concubine."
"As you wish, my lord." The handmaiden bowed from the waist, and then departed from the chamber.
When they were alone, Esarhaddon turned back to Goldwyn. "You are to tell no one what I am about to tell you." He waited until she had nodded her head in acquiescence before continuing. "The account which I gave you and the others contained no lies, but there were details which I omitted, for the truth was far too terrifying to tell." Even in the dim light, it was obvious that he was still tormented by the horrors he had endured. "As Zabar and I rode through the forest, we heard a woman screaming. Convinced that she was a prisoner of the dark ones, I felt compelled to save her from a horrific fate, and so I rushed into the woods to find her. We soon became lost in the fog, and wandered in circles through the cold and damp. Our meandering trail led us to the shaman's cottage, where the ancient elf was waiting. He warned us to leave the forest, for a great evil stirred beneath its boughs. I ignored his warning, for I thought I could still save the woman." He sighed heavily. "Indeed, I was a fool."
As Goldwyn listened to Esarhaddon's tale, she felt her heart beat ever more rapidly at the unspoken dread which lay behind his words. Though she did not yet know what had befallen him, she knew that it was something deeply unsettling. She had seen the strange bruises upon his arms, the lingering impressions of an iron grip far stronger than mortal hands, and the gruesome scratches which looked as though they had been made by the talons of some fearsome beast. Though she loathed Esarhaddon and would gladly celebrate his downfall, the sight of those wounds had chilled her to the core. There was something about them which held the taint of evil, something which felt all too familiar…
"We came to a clearing in the forest which seemed empty upon first glance, but then I heard the woman crying out for help once again. I ran on ahead, leaving Zabar behind me. I found the woman lying in the center of the clearing, surrounded by a ring of green fire which seemed to spring up out of nowhere. I know not why I did not see the flames until they were all around me; perhaps the ground was soaked with oil, and then lit by a flaming arrow shot from an unseen bowman lurking in the trees. I knelt down beside the woman, and then she seized my arm, holding me tightly in her vise-like grip. I managed to free myself from her grasp, and she fell back upon the ground. For the first time, I saw her face clearly: her countenance was that of a skull, the flesh having rotted off to reveal the bone beneath."
By now, Goldwyn's heart was hammering inside her chest with the frantic pace of one running a marathon, even though she sat as motionless as a marble statue upon the edge of the bed. She was reminded of her own encounter with the horrors of the shadow realm. In the darkness of the Gondorian crypt, she had heard a voice calling her name, and to her weary ears, it had sounded like the voice of her husband. She had followed the sound, venturing through ancient passages forgotten by time, feeling her way through the gloom with her hands. Just when she was about to succumb to exhaustion, a softly glowing orb of pale light appeared before her astonished eyes, a corpse candle flickering in the darkness. The light floated deeper into the crypt, and she followed, believing that it was Fasthelm's ghost come to guide her to safety. Yet this was not the benevolent shade of her husband, but rather an evil spirit who sought to lure her to her doom — and claim her body as its vessel. The creature which Esarhaddon encountered in the Thraqum Wood had similar motivations, it would seem. A chill went down Goldwyn's spine, and the shadows in the room grew deeper.
"Such a tale is better told when the sun is high in the sky, for darkness abhors the light. Still, I will do what I can to lessen the night's hold and drive away the shadows." Rising to her feet, she went over to the lantern across from the bed and lit a candle from its flame. She then proceeded to light every other candle and lantern in the room until the entire chamber was aglow. Though the darkness was not banished, it was lessened somewhat by the golden radiance.
When Goldwyn returned to the bed, Esarhaddon gave her a nod of appreciation and then continued his tale of terror. "The woman reached out for me, seizing both my arms in her hands of iron. She pulled me down atop her moldering body, as though she were trying to drag me down into the grave with her. Then a swirling green mist rose up from the ground, burning my eyes and choking my lungs. When I awoke, I was propped up against a tree near the shaman's cottage. Zabar told me that the ancient mystic had used some sort of magic spell to drive away my attacker, and then the two of them carried me away to safety."
"This shaman must be quite powerful to defeat one of the undead," Goldwyn mused, wondering if she should seek the counsel of this mysterious elf. Perhaps he could supply her with some weapon or charm which would help ensure the success of her escape attempt.
Esarhaddon rose to his feet and walked over to the credenza on the opposite side of the room, admiring the patterns of light and shadow cast by the trio of lanterns which rested atop its smooth wooden surface. "You must know by now that I am not a man who gives much heed to tales of sorcery or outlandish creatures. The simple and unlearned are quick to cry magic or monsters at everything which cannot be easily explained, but I prefer more mundane explanations over ignorant superstition. But yet what happened to me in the Thraqum Wood appears to defy reason." He turned back to Goldwyn. "For the past two days, I have contemplated the events of that night, and have come up with several explanations which seem plausible: the woman was a cult priestess who had been tasked with luring travelers into the forest; the ring of fire was a circle of oil which was lit by a flaming arrow; the woman was wearing a mask which resembled a skull; she had consumed a brew made from kapurdri mushrooms which bestowed upon her immense strength… But yet I still find myself filled with doubt."
"Perhaps it was not a woman of living flesh whom you saw in the forest." Goldwyn's eyes met his in a gaze full of dire meaning. "I know that this is not the explanation you wish to hear, but it is the simplest one, and the most plausible."
"The shaman said much the same." Esarhaddon gave a little snort of derision. "He claimed that the ring of fire was a portal to the world of the unseen, and that the woman is an ancient villager who was turned into a ghoul by a dreadful curse. What nonsense, I say! The ramblings of a deranged elf who has long outstayed his time in Middle-earth!"
"But yet you are haunted by nightmares which are more than mere dreams," Goldwyn remarked sagely, taking a certain amount of pleasure in his distress. "And your arms… How much worse do they look now than they did the morning you returned from Sandana's villa? Wounds inflicted by the shadow do not heal like those caused by blade or barb."
Suddenly realizing that he was scratching his wounds again, Esarhaddon crossed his arms over his broad chest and glowered at her. "I came here seeking comfort, but you give me none."
"Do you wish for me to tell you lies? Very well, then." She leaned back against the pillows, supporting her weight upon one elbow while lazily twirling her other hand in a circle. "You got lost in the forest and were attacked by a rogue priestess who was overzealous in her worship of the Dark Lord. To avoid a mortal blow to your pride at being bested by a mere woman, we shall say that she was besotted upon mushrooms, or heady drink, or some other draught or potion that would grant her the strength of ten men. She was also wearing a hideous mask shaped like a skull, and the sight of it frightened you so much that you fainted dead away. To add insult to injury, you landed in a patch of stinging nettle – or perhaps it was some sort of poisonous Mordorian spurge – and you were left with welts upon your arms in addition to the scratches and bruises that the priestess dealt you."
Esarhaddon bristled with rage at such flagrant disrespect. If it were daylight, Goldwyn would have seen his face darkening with anger, his chest rising and falling as his breathing became heavy with emotion. But he swiftly mastered his temper, willing his body to relax. "You might mock me, Goldwyn, but I pride myself upon being a man of reason and practicality, and not one who is quick to believe in superstition and old wives' tales."
"Yet old wives possess the wisdom of age, and so it is foolish to dismiss their tales as idle prattle," Goldwyn retorted. "You give me an account of what is quite obviously dark sorcery, and expect me to deny the truth to spare your delicate sensibilities?" She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of this pompous man who thought he knew everything. "You were attacked by a wight, a creature of the undead. It tried to lure you into the forest and claim you as its victim. You should consider yourself fortunate to have escaped its clutches."
"I did not realize that you were a scholar of the arcane." He stalked over to the bed, his shadow looming over her. "Of course, I had heard many rumors about you, although I dismissed them all as the farcical stories of caravan laborers seeking to relieve the monotony of the journey, or the vicious lies of slaves jealous of the great boon I bestowed upon you by taking you as my concubine. However, now I wonder if there might be some truth to the tales."
Frightened by Esarhaddon's imposing presence, Goldwyn scrambled across the bed with a speed she did not know she possessed, almost tripping when her foot became entangled in the covers. She quickly regained her balance and cringed away, her back hitting a painting upon the wall and knocking it askew.
Esarhaddon turned to face her, but did not move from where he stood. "What happened to you in the crypt, Goldwyn? When Tushratta and the searchers found you, you were lying upon the ground, deep within a swoon that no injury could explain. You remained in this state for days, a ghastly pallor upon your face, your skin cool to the touch. When you finally regained wakefulness, Tushratta reported that you were frequently confused about who you were, sometimes believing that you were a long dead elf lord from the ancient days. The physician attributed this delirium to the foul air which festered within the crypt, compounded by the sorrow of being parted from your sons." He crossed one arm over his chest, cupping his elbow as his other hand thoughtfully stroked his beard. "Yet there was always something strange about the story I was given, something which did not quite set right. I desire to hear what happened to you, in your own words."
Goldwyn struggled to calm her breathing, to master her overwhelming urge to flee. Her eyes were wild, like those of a concerned animal, and they watched Esarhaddon's every move. She tried to remember her schemes, her plan to convince her captor that her heart had at last begun to capitulate to him, that she was harmless, trustworthy, obedient. It was a sore challenge, for every fibre of her being cried out to escape.
"Tushratta already gave you an account of my illness, as well as his theories about its origins," Goldwyn stated, her voice cold, her words measured. "Do you not trust the counsel of your own healer?"
"Tushratta is not a shaman; he is a healer of the body, not the soul. If indeed the affliction of the crypt was one of a spiritual nature, it would be beyond his scope of expertise. He would have tried to explain your malady with the knowledge that he possesses, and treat it according to his skill." Esarhaddon walked over to the bed and sat down, gesturing for her to join him. "While I have always regarded shamans with suspicion, perhaps there are indeed some illnesses which are more mystical than material — although I hesitate to embrace such a dubious belief."
Goldwyn realized that there was no answer she could give that would please him. If she told the truth, his skeptical nature would reject it; if she lied, the part of him which sensed the truth would resent her duplicity. She felt her anger beginning to seethe, and then to boil over like a cauldron spilling its molten contents. "Very well. If you wish to know what happened that night in Osgiliath, I shall tell you." She hesitantly returned to the bed and sat down upon its very edge, her spine a rigid column, her body poised to flee… or to fight. "My sons and I had almost been cornered by the guards; soon they would discover our hiding place. I knew that it would be difficult for the four of us to navigate the ruins without detection, and I wanted to give my boys the chance of freedom. Seeing no other choice in the matter, I entrusted the care of Fritha and Frumgár to Fródwine, and then charged off in the opposite direction, leading the searchers away from where my children hid. I ran and ran until I could run no more. With my strength failing, I took shelter in one of the many large marble buildings which rose up like cliffs all around me. I did not realize it at the time, but these were the houses of the dead, and the sanctuary I sought was a crypt."
Pausing to catch a breath and regain her bearings, Goldwyn was acutely aware of Esarhaddon's eyes upon her. His brows were furrowed slightly in concentration, as though he were pondering her words and weighing them against his standards for what was true and acceptable. A new plume of anger rose up within her, crackling and sizzling as she felt her fingers curl into fists upon her lap. She resented having to explain anything to this man, especially a matter so fraught with grief and sorrow. Discussing the absence of her sons was like a knife to her heart, the blow cutting sharp and deep. In the months since they had been parted, she tried not to let her thoughts linger upon their separation. It was easy to allow her mind to imagine that her boys were still with her, out of sight but still close by. Conversations such as these were a bitter reminder of the truth.
"I did not feel it was wise to linger near the entrance, so I ventured deeper into the structure. As the dim light of the moonless night faded behind me, I found myself in complete darkness. With a hand braced against the wall and my feet cautiously feeling out the ground beneath me, I ventured onward until at last I was overcome with exhaustion." In an attempt to keep her emotions from carrying her away to places she did not wish to go, Goldwyn focused solely upon the physical act of speaking, rather than feeling. She took notice of the slight monotonal quality of her voice, the way its lowered tones vibrated in her throat and resonated in her ears like the droning hum of a wasp. "As I rested in the gloom, I began to hear a voice calling my name — the voice of my husband, Fasthelm. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but the voice grew louder and more insistent. Then I saw an orb of light before me, and I felt compelled to follow it. The light would fade from my sight, only to reappear further down the passage, as though beckoning me to venture deeper into the crypt. At last the light halted and slowly began to take shape. To my great astonishment, I found myself gazing upon the ghostly visage of Fasthelm."
Goldwyn glanced at Esarhaddon, who was leaning forward in rapt attention, his elbow resting upon his knee, his chin cupped in his hand. She waited to see if he had any comments upon her story thus far, and when he remained silent, she drew a deep breath and continued speaking. "So overjoyed was I to be reunited with my husband that I did not think to challenge the veracity of the vision that I beheld. Too late did I realize that I was under a spell, and my eyes beheld what they wished to see. Then when the spirit tried to lay claim to my body, my shield was lowered and I was unprepared for the fight. I remember little of that dreadful struggle, or the battles which would follow in the days to come."
And what she did remember, she wished to forget.
Esarhaddon was quiet for a long moment before speaking. "How were you freed of this dreadful affliction?" He straightened his body and leaned back against the wall of the alcove, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted to the side.
Goldwyn's mind raced like a herd of wild horses over the plains of her homeland. What if she lied and told him that the spirit still oppressed her? She could scream and act a fool whenever she had had enough of him and his household and wished to be left alone. Perhaps if she were a good enough actress, she might be able to strike fear into even Esarhaddon's skeptical heart. That thought filled her with a mean-spirited amusement which she relished. However, if she employed this strategy, Esarhaddon would have her watched more closely out of fear that she might harm herself or others. More surveillance would affect her chances for escape; she needed to avoid undue attention as much as she could. Perhaps it would be better to tell him the truth. She doubted he would believe it anyway.
"As I told you before, I remember little which transpired during this time of great turmoil," Goldwyn began, feverishly spinning webs inside her mind. "Long did I wander in the realm of shadows, until I felt like I was no more than a shadow myself, formless and immaterial. And when I finally found my way back, I was exhausted from the journey, my body weakened and consumed with aching pain. As for the answer to your question... Tushratta, while not being trained in the arts of the shaman, is an exceptional healer, and quick witted in times of crisis. He invoked the name of the Lady of Healing, and the spirit fled from the sound."
"I trust that this… ritual… was able to banish the spirit for good, and that the dread phantom no longer haunts you?" It was obvious that he was attempting to appear doubtful of her story, but the suspicion on his face belied the truth: that some part of him believed her chilling account, and had been deeply unsettled by it.
Goldwyn tilted her head upward, her eyes slightly narrowing in contemplation. "It depends upon what you mean by haunting. If you are inquiring if the spirit still torments me, then the answer would be no… but yet I am still haunted by memories of the horrors I endured. My sleep is oft plagued by nightmares, and there are days when I can barely summon the strength to rise from bed."
"But you have recovered much over the months since your harrowing experience, and you are in far better health than you have been for quite some time." He moved to sit beside her and gently took her hand in his own. "It seems that I made a wise choice in hiring Tushratta to serve as the caravan's physician. I was his patient upon multiple occasions over the course of the journey."
Goldwyn noticed that he did not say whether he believed her tale or not. It was as though they had spent the past half hour discussing bunions and hangnails rather than the horrors of the unseen realm. She supposed that he refused to acknowledge anything that challenged his perceptions of what he knew. But she regarded him so little that she did not care if he believed her. Still, the gentle pressure of his hand felt comforting.
Suddenly Esarhaddon withdrew from her with a curse and began scratching his arm. "Damn this vexing itch!"
Overcome by morbid curiosity, Goldwyn leaned over and tried to catch a glimpse of his wounds, but the light was too dim around the alcove which housed her bed. "Come, let us go over to the lantern, so that I may get a better look."
With only minimal complaining, Esarhaddon allowed Goldwyn to lead him over to the lantern which rested upon the nearby table. She was glad to get him out of her bed, for she feared that such close proximity might give him ideas that she did not wish to entertain. As she surveyed the scratches, bruises, and welts upon his forearms, a cold chill went down her spine. She had seen far worse injuries – she had three boys, after all – but these marks were different.
"You should have Tushratta examine your wounds." Her voice was grave as she looked into Esarhaddon's eyes. "Although he is not a shaman, seeking his counsel would be a wise decision, for his knowledge of the shadow has grown over the months that I was his patient."
Esarhaddon scowled at her as he rolled down his sleeves. "The wounds upon my arms are only two days old. They have not yet had time to heal."
"For your sake, I hope that they do," she remarked grimly.
He gazed upon her for a long moment, as though he were beholding her for the first time. "You really do care what happens to me." He reached out and gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.
Goldwyn was momentarily paralyzed with inner conflict. Her first impulse was to vehemently reject the notion that she would ever care about Esarhaddon uHuzziya, but she realized that such a strong reaction would destroy the illusion which she had been trying to create.
"Of course I care, my lord. I am your concubine, after all."
Her throat tightened as she spoke, for the words were bitter as gall, and she hoped that the high-pitched inflection of her voice did not give her away.
He smiled tenderly at her and squeezed her shoulder before letting his hand drop to his side. "For the past two days, my sleep has been plagued by nightmares and my waking hours by melancholy. As I looked out upon my garden this morning, I imagined a blissful future surrounded by my family. My thoughts lingered fondly upon each of my women, both those who blessed my life in the past, and those who bring me joy in the present. Then these blissful visions were ripped away from me, and I found myself imagining the greatest of calamities befalling all those whom I hold dear."
He was quiet for a moment, as though reliving some terrible memory. "The dream I had of you tonight... the one in which you became one of the ghouls of the forest... it greatly troubled my spirit, and I was filled with sore dread. But even worse than that, I was wracked with terrible guilt over my past behavior." An anguished expression transfixing his features, he gazed upon her with brows furrowed with remorse and wide eyes filled with desperation. "From the very beginning, I demanded your affections when you were not willing to give them to me. I should have taken into consideration that you still pined for your husband and grieved for the life you had led back in your homeland, and made more of an effort to woo you gently. Alas, my ardor for you drove you away – you risked life and limb just to escape from me. Now I come to you to beg your forgiveness."
Goldwyn found herself shocked into silence. An apology from the man whom she despised… How was she to respond to that? Though she considered the people of Mordor and its allies as her foes, it went against her conscience to be purposefully cruel to those who showed her kindness. However, she was determined to hate Esarhaddon, for he had insisted upon taking her as his concubine against her wishes, holding her prisoner and imposing his will upon her. She thought about lashing out, calling him a liar and claiming that his words were false. However, such an outburst would be a wildly inappropriate response, especially if Esarhaddon were legitimately remorseful for his past actions. It would irrevocably damage her carefully crafted ruse, and cause her captor to become suspicious of her true intentions. She also feared how he might retaliate if she were to anger him, and she considered that a callous rejection of his apology might drive him into a blind rage.
"You ask much of me, Esarhaddon," she told him plainly, her words carrying more candor than she had intended. "I can forgive, perhaps, but this bond is one which was forged during a time of great conflict, and it will always bear that stain. However, it would be in the best interests of us both if we were to strive for friendship and understanding. I desire that there should be peace between us, even if our lands are at war."
"I am glad you see things that way," he told her with a grateful smile. "Even though your illness kept us apart for most of the journey, my fondness for you only grew stronger over the many long leagues. It is my desire that you reciprocate my affections in full one day, but I know that it takes time to win a lady's heart."
"We have all the days and years to come." She forced herself to reach up and caress the side of his face. His skin was smooth beneath her touch, his beard coarse but not unpleasant. Her heart shifted painfully in her chest. Why did her enemy have to be so handsome? "Love is like a garden; it must be tended on a regular basis to grow and flourish." She drove all thoughts of Esarhaddon from her mind and imagined her husband Fasthelm standing before her. The vision of her beloved made her feel warm and safe, and she smiled softly to herself, drawing upon fond memories as a source of comfort.
Esarhaddon caught her hand in his and pressed it to his mouth. "I apologize for disrupting your sleep with my nightmares, but I was glad for your company. I will take my leave of you now and return to my own chambers." Gently clasping her shoulders, he bent down and kissed her lips in farewell. The kiss was restrained, even chaste. It was a gesture of fond affection from a man who cared deeply about his wife, not the impassioned claim of a lust-driven brute. Fearing that she might be led astray by such tender intimacy, Goldwyn closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was kissing Fasthelm. When Esarhaddon drew away from her at last, his face was filled with longing and desire, but he turned and respectfully left the room.
Raen returned a few moments after Esarhaddon departed. Even though the elderly handmaiden made a great show of yawning and blinking in a bleary-eyed stupor, Goldwyn suspected that she had been in the parlor with her ear against the bedroom door, listening to as much of the conversation as she could make out through the thick wood. Esarhaddon's unexpected visit and peculiar mood would be a matter of great interest to the servants of his house, Goldwyn mused. She would have to determine how much Raen had overheard, and then determine whether to tell her the truth, or concoct some story which would appease her curiosity. However, that could wait until morning.
After dismissing Raen to her quarters, Goldwyn was alone once again.
The trance came quickly.
It started with a feeling of recession, like the tide pulling away from the shore. Her eyes lost their focus, though she retained her ability to see. The candles which she had lit around the room melded into amorphous blobs of amber light which pulsed distantly from a shadowy void. She felt the muscles in her face go slack, the fine lines along her forehead flattening out like a tablecloth beneath a hot iron. It was as though a heavy curtain had fallen all around her, separating her from the outside world. She peered out from the thick layers of gauze, and then retreated deeper into the tunnel of cloth.
How long Goldwyn stood there, she knew not. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours. Time did not exist in this strange realm which was located somewhere between the body and the imagination. She had not always visited this place; it was a door that had opened the night when she said farewell to her sons and fled into the impenetrable darkness of the crypt. She thought she could return to the present if she wanted to, if there was some crisis to which she had to attend. A vision came to her mind of an unexpectedly stout gust of wind blowing through the open window and casting the curtains into the flame of the candles. If this disaster were to occur, she was certain that she would be able to free herself from the trance and grab the nearest pitcher of water to douse the fire. At least, she hoped she could.
Clarity gradually returned, like the currents of the tide coming back to the shore. As she slowly became aware of her presence within her surroundings, Goldwyn felt as though a cool, gentle breeze was caressing her senses, and her temples tingled slightly with sensation. She shook her head to clear the last remaining shreds of gauze from her mind, and then she took a good look around her room. She considered snuffing out the candles before she returned to her bed, but she thought better of it. The shadows were still far too thick for her liking, and the darkness felt far too much like a sentient being for her to sleep comfortably. No, the candles would stay burning until dawn, when their tiny lights were replaced by the brilliance of the sun, and the shadows were banished for another night.
Exhaustion rolled over Goldwyn like the wheel of a heavily laden wagon, and she staggered to her bed. The act of pulling back the covers seemed a monumental effort, for her strength was spent, and all she wanted to do was rest. Esarhaddon's visit had left her drained, and she was weary of scheming and playing games, of constantly being on guard, of pretending to be someone she was not. Her only desire was to be reunited with her sons, and her husband, if he still lived. While the time had not yet come for her to make her escape, at least she could flee the hopelessness of her circumstances for a while in the arms of sleep.
