Clare
The Twarum Thicket was dark and foreboding. No birds were singing, no foxes hunting; all forest life seemed be at a standstill. All life that is, except for the trees. Tall pines shook in agitation, protesting the wind that howled through their ancient branches. The thicket, wise in its many years, urged its lone traveler along in haste; fighting desperately to keep her safe from the fierce hunters that resolutely pursued their fleeing quarry.
Clare fought blindly against the wild that bombarded her, trying not to trip over the ferns and vines that lay sprawled across the overgrown floor, tangling themselves around her weary feet. The young mistress did not recognize the forest’s attempts to guide her, blinded by the feral panic that gripped her heart and surrounded her world in more than just shadows. She ignored the gentle tugs of the vines on her fine linen sleeves and did not notice the wind whispering into her ears behind limp ringlets of russet hair. Nor did Clare acknowledge the velvet kisses of fairy moths against her flushed cheek; to her, every creature was a threat, every obstructive plant an obstacle, and every wasted second a count down to the final minutes of her brief life. Her courtly gown, which had once been radiantly purple color was now ripped and tattered into a filthy green. She was not bothered by this humiliation; it was of little value to her now.
Thorns found their way underneath Clare’s many layered skirts, splitting gashes through her fine undergarments and slicing open the delicate skin beneath. Blind to the nuisance this offered, the young traveler forced her way through these brambles, stumbling into the safe arms of a nearby tree. Monstrous pain emanated from her bulging stomach, which carried the only precious gift left to the unfortunate maiden. Gasping with pain, Clare supported her abdomen with a free arm, willing the child to wait just a bit longer.
Auburn curls fell over her eyes, damp from fright and perseverance. She had been travelling for days, desperately fleeing for the safety that her unborn child deserved. It was a miracle that the Royal Sentries had not yet discovered her! The best soldiers in the entire kingdom must have gotten lost in the forest, just as she was now. The expectant mother was no longer certain if she was heading in the right direction and had no idea what to expect once she arrived. At this point, she only knew one thing:
This was her last chance.
The child stirred within her, restless, eager to enter the fury of the world that raged around it.
“Hold on!” she whispered, eyebrows scrunched tight. She would not allow herself to become emotional at this point. Clare had gotten where she was out of love for the child but she could not afford to become attached. Too many lives depended on her ability to remain strong – and unemotional.
Alert and wary, Clare forced herself to keep moving. There was no telling how much longer she would be protected by the cover of night.
From the moment she had exited the high walls of the Vausthelm Kingdom, Clare knew she was being followed. She heard the hunting dogs in the distance every night, searching out the scent of her perilous trail. It was the only sound that motivated her to continue onward, to follow her plan. But she hadn't heard the dogs at all that day; not since crossing the river. For some reason, that knowledge worried her.
Crashing through the underbrush, Clare was hit with a wave of relief. The small town of Twarum slowly unfolded before her eyes. Savoring this small victory, Clare rushed forward with a new surge of energy. She was almost there.
Much younger than the forest life that surrounded it, Twarum’s cottages and barns looked almost unwelcome nestled into the backbone of the ancient thicket. Yet this small peasant community was a great deal more rustic than the bustling society of the much larger capital city. The streets were not littered with the flickering light of street lamps, nor was there much activity now in the darkness of the night.
Clare was thankful for Twarum’s simplicity as she entered the outskirts of town.
The main road looked calm in the quiet of twilight. Small cottages encircled the pebbled street, which was lined on both sides with different shops and parlors. Foreign to the country existence, Clare marveled at the simplicity of them: linens, smithy, butcher, carpentry.
Now that Clare was so close to the safety she sought, the fear that had been haunting her for days was washing away. She was thankful for the warmth of the evening. In late autumn, it was a miracle the winter chill hadn't entered the plains yet. A slight breeze swept the young mistress’ tousled hair across her eyes. She brushed it away mindlessly.
Clare slipped through the deserted streets in silence, passing open windows unnoticed but jumping at every noise that reached her. She nearly screamed aloud when a tabby cat darted out from behind a small shed, streaking across her path. A loud crash to her right sent her heart over the edge with panic. Not far up the road several horses were tethered to a post outside of a large, well lit building. Inching forward, Clare recognized it as a tavern.
Clare had never been inside a tavern before; her father would never have allowed it! However, curiosity overpowered fear for a moment. She tiptoed closer to the window, careful not to alarm the horses whose startled whinnies could easily take away the undetected presence she fought to maintain.
The tavern was alight with activity. Clare peeked through the glass, hidden by the shadow of the large building. Glancing around, she delighted in the simple life that these peasants lead. A long bar covered the far wall, behind which several taps of beer and shelves of alcohol loomed. Tables of every shape and size surrounded the bar and spread out to fill the rest of the hall. Men crowded around these tables for beer and food, and were constantly hunched under a steady cloud of cigar and pipe smoke.
On the far right a staircase led up to the second floor, which presumably held rooms for rent. A door was placed under the stairwell, where several women appeared carrying platters of smoking hot meats and breads. A pleasant aroma greeted Clare’s nose as the women passed near the window that she peered through. Her stomach rumbled loudly in response. She longed to enter the tavern for supper, but another glance around the smoky hall erased all thought of food from this hungry traveler’s mind.
In the far corner, partially hidden by a rowdy party of gamblers, several hunting dogs grouped happily around the feet of their masters, hoping for a scrap of whatever lay deliciously on the tables above them. Though the men were turned from the window, Clare knew who they must be. Her eyesight grew foggy with panic. Only one man in the entire kingdom owned hunting dogs as fine as those! Without pausing for a second look, she hurriedly backed away from the window and raced down the road. Trying to run, another stab of pain emanated through the young girl’s stomach – stronger this time, heightening the fear that was already so prominent in her lungs.
There was scarcely enough time left; hours, maybe minutes. She did have not much further to travel, but it would not be long before the soldiers discovered her presence in town and followed her. As soon as a hunting dog caught whiff of her scent from the road as somebody entered the tavern the sentries would be back on her trail. She needed to be long gone by then.
About a mile outside the town she rounded a bend in the road. The thicket was thinner on this side of town and gave way to the countryside that the people of Twarum depended on for life. In the darkness, she recognized the rows of small hills that were developing before her eyes. The petite cottage she had been headed toward for days stood before her at last. Her heart began to flutter wildly with a new kind of excitement.
Would Anna remember her?
Clare's doubt did not dispel her sense of urgency. The child was nearing screaming to be freed from the constraints of her stomach! Steadying herself on the rock wall that encircled the garden, she made her way to the cottage. The wrought iron gate opened silently between two large rose bushes. In the darkness, Clare could almost see how much Anna's love for plants had indeed flourished in this simple life.
Clare knocked quietly and the deep barks of a Plott Hound greeted her immediately. The door opened slowly but immediately, and a tall dark man stood before her. A smaller, paler woman peered out from behind him. Clearly, they had never been called upon so late before.
“Anna,” Clare gasped, filled with joy at the familiar face of her childhood nurse, her features softening in relief.
“Clare!” Anna's expression changed from unease to shock as she looked Clare over from top to bottom. The child of privilege Anna had nursed from birth now stood before her, clothes ruined, nearly bursting with child and looking to have a status lower than a peasant’s! Tomas' eyes narrowed with suspicion as he too recognized Clare. The rumors from the capital must have reached the country at last.
Clare hunched over once more, crying out with the strength of the birthing pains. Anna rushed briskly past Tomas, ushering Clare into the cottage. Her muscled arm gripped Clare's firmly, a squeeze of greeting as she ushered her forward. A young boy clung to Anna's skirts, small fist stuffed shyly inside his mouth, dark hair waving happily across his youthful forehead. While the boy's eyes clearly resembled his mother's, the rest of his features favored his father.
“Anna,” Clare gasped. “You have a son!”
Anna laughed at Clare's surprise. At nearly thirty-five winters, Anna was quite old to have such a small child.
“Anna,” Tomas whispered, eyes nervously darting up the road toward town. “We should not.”
His face was full of the doubt and suspicion that Clare's brother must have been spreading across the kingdom since her departure.
“Hush, Tomas!” Anna scolded. “We cannot let the poor girl deliver a child in the filth of the plains.” She nodded urgently at Clare, who was clutching her stomach as the pain returned. “Fetch me a bucket of water.”
Tomas nodded once, retreating to the back of the cottage and dragging the hound along with him. They exited through a small door at the back of the kitchen, returning shortly with two large buckets of water.
Anna led Clare to a small chamber off the side of the main room. It held a large iron bed and tall, upright wooden chest in the corner. Two large barrels acted as tables for the lanterns on either side of the bed. Stripping the mattress of its finer pallet, Anna helped Clare onto the bed and rushed to light a fire in the small grate across from it. Despite her worried glances and hurried movements, Anna's hands were quite firm as she struck the flint for flame. It lit at once.
Clare fell back against several woolen blankets with exhaustion. She had barely slept since fleeing the capitol six days before. Nevertheless, she was not greeted with rest. A sharp pain seared up her spine and down between her legs. The young mother screamed as her eyes rolled up behind her lids. She was struggling to remain conscious. Anna's pace doubled.
In two short minutes, Anna had removed Clare's many layers of clothing until only her thin lariam remained. Being the bottommost garment that Clare wore, it was also the least ragged, showing off her high status at last. Anna stuffed several more blankets behind Clare, and hurriedly tore a clean silk sheet into rags. It was probably the only one of such fine material she owned.
Tomas brought water into the room and tended it to boil above the fire. Clare did not notice her nakedness before this man; the labor was far too severe. Despite the pain that now surged through her body with increased urgency, she felt no fear.
Clare's delivery was grievous, but short. The small bed and upper portions of Anna's arms were drenched with dark blood when Clare finally collapsed with relief after the last clench of pain. The silence of the room however, caused her looked toward Anna in alarm. She did not hear the cries that usually accompanied a baby into the world. Anna walked around the bed, wiping the face of the child with a rag and smiling down at Clare. She did not look worried as she passed the baby to its mother.
Clare gazed down at the rosy boy staring up at her, eyes a piercing blue. He had the same auburn hair that was signature to her family lineage. Tears of joy and sadness flowed down Clare's cheeks and her heart throbbed with a different type of pain as she treasured the few moments she would have with her only child.
“Have you thought of a name, miss?” Anna asked, tears sparkling along her cheeks as well. “What shall you name your child?” Anna had aided Clare's mother in all her deliveries many years before, and Clare was thankful to have her help now as well.
“Eóvan,” she whispered, brushing the light curls away from the child's forehead and admiring the wide-eyes which were so intensely blue. The child's tearless face resembled that of another, one whom Clare loved even more than life itself. “Eóvan.”
Anna's eyes swam with confusion at the strange name, but she said nothing. The look soon changed to alarm however, as Clare passed the child back to the nurse and began to scramble into her traveler’s gown.
“Lay back down, miss!” Anna attempted to force Clare back onto the bed with one hand but did not succeed. “You should not be up and about!” she protested, careful not upset the baby in her arms. “You've just been through quite an ordeal.”
Clare laced up her boots, rushing through an explanation with a tortured. Her eyes never left the face of the infant boy.
“I have to leave,” she insisted. “I cannot stay here. It will not be long before my presence becomes known to this town. If anybody learns that have stopped here it would mean trouble - especially for you, Anna.” Clare looked meaningfully into her old nurse's eyes. “They must never know.”
“I don't understand, miss,” Anna protested. Clare reached into the front of her dress and pulled off the necklace she kept hidden there. Quickly, she handed it to Anna.
“This is the only protection I can offer you both.” Clare pulled out a letter from the folds of her sash. “I don't have time to explain,” she insisted in response to Anna's inquisitive and panicked face. “I wrote it out before...before I left.”
Clare forced the thick parchment into the protesting hand of her childhood nurse. “Once you've read it, even if you do not understand the danger, you must burn it.” Clare clutched Anna's hands in earnest. “Promise me you will!”
“I promise,” Anna agreed, seemingly against her will.
“I must be off.” Clare hurried toward the door, pausing only once to look back longingly at the now sleeping infant. She then vanished into the night, ignorant of the throbbing pain that should have been ailing her after the birth of a child.
Clare rushed down the cottage lane and broke into a run when she reached the dirt road. She did not notice the dark young man that crouched hidden in the darkness behind the stone wall as she turned left at the gate; nor did she look back for a final glance at the cottage. There was still much more road to be travelled.
By the time Anna and Tomas reached the door to latch it tightly, all evidence of Clare's visit had disappeared. All evidence, save for the tiny baby, which now slept peacefully in Anna's arms.
Clare would never return.
I appreciate these comments...I've been losing faith in this story a bit so it is nice to see some more positive feedback! 
Re: Firetales: Prologue
will eat you!
Linear Mode
