Lady Lydia

Lady Lydia stares out the cold glass panes of her study — its windows permanently dirtied by ambiguous grime which grows thicker towards the cobweb-claimed corners. Eyebrows raised high and thin lips squeezed tightly shut, she adjusts the deep blue sapphires of her necklace connected by a delicate gold band. Lydia’s face tenses violently for an instant: her bright green eyes flash like sun on water, and her lips part slightly, revealing perfect teeth pressed tightly together.

A knock on the door.

Eyes close and a deep breath; shoulders relax down and back from her neck; eyebrows fall and round handsomely about her eyes; finally, lips form a soft smile. “Come in!”

He is a sturdy man in dark iron armor. Thin, but tall, and armor clanking with the resulting space that occurs from such a figure. The tarnished gold on the arm of his left shoulder shows his command. He bows humbly, chest to the floor. Then, smiling: “M’Lady.”

His smile is childlike: toothy and perhaps a little mischievous. This is the sort of man who steals pies. “Come in, come in,” she says.

They both sit down.

Her features are tightly draw again, as if invisible strings were pulling. And they pull on his as well: “What is it?” he asks.

Lady Lydia’s eyes are wide; her face flat; it twitches; a wince?

“May I?” she asks.

He nods, closes his eyes, lowers his head. Lydia reaches forward, gently resting her fingertips against his eyelids.

The man shifts in his chair. He is not a stranger to war or bloodshed, but his eyes are squeezed shut watching these memories passed to him by his master. The man breathes deep and clenches the handle of the curved knife in his belt. Lady Lydia watches, her jaw clenching and unclenching.

The memory breaks and the man opens his eyes, looks at Lydia:

“What do you need of me?”

“To kill the man who did these treacherous things.”

“Tell me where to find him, and I will gut his stomach.”

Lydia’s eyes meet the man’s; her words are sharp and fast, wicked: “Don’t you know by now. You are to blame. You are to kill.”

The man’s eyes grow wide in surprise, but Lydia’s glare is constant. The man’s eyes fall to the floor, and he walks about the room. Once or twice, he looks back as if to say something, but stops himself. Lydia looks away. He was a good man. Her captain turns and removes his armor — and then his curved knife. He slices a long, graceful arc into his stomach, and the floor turns hot and wet.