King Woden and Queen Genevieve's Chambers

(Genevieve's harp)


King and Queen's secret door (Woden had it put in after their marriage)

Her ladies maids fussed over which gown she would wear that morning while Genevieve ignored them, seated in her night gown in front of the window. Occasionally, she would listen to hear if the debate had ended only to hear it had begun all over again. She could have silenced it and taken her own pick of gown, but did not feel the need to be bothered.

Thankfully she had been able to hide the nasty bruise and cuts on her palm from the eyes of those who attended her. The debate finally ended as they picked the "perfect" gown and she slowly rose from the cushioned seat as they approached her to undress and redress her.

The nightgown was unhooked and peeled off of her body, leaving her clad in her underclothes. She shivered briefly as the cool morning breeze wafted over her, but was soon covered with the first layer of the gown. It took almost an hour for the ladies to finish dressing and cooing over their live doll, hair styles being the thing that morning they could never agree on.

Finally tired after the seventh fixing of her hair, Genevieve rose from the seat and headed for the door, not caring that squawks of disapproval echoed from behind her.

"But my lady, your hair is not finished." Lady Mamya whined, her heavy set body causing her to puff as she hurried after the Dowager Queen.

Genevieve said nothing, entering the sitting room of her suite and taking a seat on the chair opposite her harp. Soon four pairs of hands went back to her hair, but she felt much more comfortable.
She had not played her harp since Wodon's death. It had seemed wrong to play without his presence. Contemplating inviting either of her sons to her rooms, Genevieve slowly shook her head and motioned for the guard who hovered near the door to bring the heavy wooden instrument nearer to her chair. Her ladies maids stops playing with her hair to listen as she gently caressed the strings.

Wodon had a seat across from hers that he sat in while she sewed or played. Now it sat empty and she found the music felt equally hollow. The cut on her hand made it difficult for her to play, but she welcomed the pain, finding it allowed her to in some ways, feel the music.

Bavona, her great-niece, carried in the gift piglet and it snorted softly as it ate something from her hand. The pig was not something Genevieve found practical... but she could not refuse a gift without being rude and thus it became Bavona's delight to care for.

Despite her own feelings of the harp sounding hollow, to those listening it was rich and deeply felt with pain and sorrow. For years they had heard the soft melody of the harp, but never before had she played it so well. It was not to last though, as Genevieve felt herself cracking and ceased playing to control herself.

It was then that Lady Sherona noticed the abused palm and promptly gasped.
"My lady! When did your hand receive such pain?" she asked, reaching out to take the injured hand within her own. Knowing better than to feign ignorance, Genevieve sighed.

"Yesterday in the gardens and it is quite well. But a scratch." Her ladies maids hardly looked sure of that and Genevieve knew by the end of the day, Oberon would be notified of his mother's self-injury.

Oberon headed to his parents' chambers - well, these days it was just his mother's chambers - at as brisk a walk as could be considered decent, but was not so hasty in footfall as to be classified as striding without dignity. He had just received word from one of her ladies-in-waiting of the wound his mother had received to her hand. The King of Alrania had been about to head outdoors this morning for some archery practice, but he immediately altered his plans.

He nodded to the guards stationed outside the chamber doors. "Is she still in?" Oberon asked sternly to the guards. She had better be considering they were still at attention. A courtly but curt nod from both was all he needed to give the gesture for one of them to knock upon the door for him.

"His Majesty arrives to greet Queen Genevieve," the knight's deep but clear voice projected through the sturdy door.

Immediately upon hearing the knight's announcement, two of the ladies maids hurried to open the door, while the rest hurried out the side door. They were not allowed by order of their lady to remain in the room with her when she son came to see her. After the door was opened for the king, mainly by the guard than the lady-in-waiting, the two women bowed and left the room as well.

Genevieve sat regally on the large divan, the harp having been pulled away from her and several large pillows having been added in its stead for her feet, though she refused to use them.
"Good morning, my son." she stated, clearly, making sure he knew she was in perfect mental condition.

Oberon watched as the doors to his mother's chambers were opened and the women attending to the Dowager Queen vacated the rooms. It did not surprise him; long ago had he surmised that his mother commanded them their leave whenever he visited. In response to the ladies' bows, Oberon inclined his head slightly out of courtesy and entered as bidden.

The slightest of smiles played across his face to see his mother apparently well despite the injury he'd received word of, sitting with a regal glory upon the divan. He spied the nearby harp but paid it little heed. It was his assumption that perhaps she tried playing it, and thus was how one of her maids had discovered the injury. True to form, the pillows placed nearby for her feet lay unused. A stubbornness he was quite frankly proud to have inherited from one, if not both, of his parents.

"Good morning to you as well, Mother," he replied and bowed out of courtly respect even though this was her private chambers. She even sounded well, Oberon observed. But yet, from his training even the King knew that sometimes everything wasn't entirely what it seemed.

Oberon glanced to his father's usual chair very briefly. Though it was four years since the former king's death, the man couldn't help but find the sight odd. While he could have taken a seat there, Oberon did not consider himself worthy of sitting in that chair. King Woden was a man of great and many achievements. Oberon was still - in his own opinion, anyway - a long way off from filling his father's shoes. Instead, he pulled up a different one that was just as lavish and took a seat beside his mother.

"I've received word your hand had been injured. Have the physician's seen to it?" Oberon inquired, keeping as much of the worry out of his voice as possible.

Genevieve allowed herself a brief smile as her son bowed to her. He was always a reminder of every good year she and her husband has shared. Oberon was caring and strong, a combination that made him both a good king and man. Pride lit her heart although not her face as he took another chair, his manners so perfected that he did not take his father's chair.

Taking a slow breath to gather herself together, she nodded ever so slightly. There was no punishment that came to mind harsh enough for the lady-in-waiting who had slipped away to inform the king of her injury. Of course nothing would in truth befall the woman, but if thoughts were daggers... Genevieve's eyes moved to her son, willing herself to not give in to the desire to melt before him and seek comfort. The pain was her own and she refused to add it to her son's already daunting position as king.

"No, it is hardly worthy of any healer's time." In her mind the simple truth, despite the extensive bruising and the purpling cut. She wondered if he guessed how the injury had come about... or if Lady Abigona had simply told him her suspicions, which giving the young woman's active imagination could have been anything from a botched attempt at suicide to a full scale attack from an assassin.

Oberon was intelligent and wise enough to know a fantasy from truth, of this she was sure. But it pained her nonetheless that he was sitting beside her. Was it by some cruel twist of Fate's hand that her dear son was only her companion in times of her own pain? Something of her own making and yet her own disgust. Times such as that moment she longed to be able to go back into the past and hold him in his infant years, play with him in his years of boyhood, and watch him come to be the man sitting beside her. Her husband had done what she had not.

It was not lack of love or time that had kept Genevieve from doing as she most desired with her sons. No rather it was fear. Fear that she would pass to them the cursed childhood her own life had been. She even to that day was always torn between the showing of her emotions and the careful masking of them. It being so natural to her to hide them that at times she forgot she was doing it. But there were also times she longed to be able to forget the masks.

Oberon observed as his mother became rather pensive, though deemed her small smile and nod a good sign. While he was not the most patient man he would wait for his mother to gather her strength and her words. The same was applied to his immediate family. At her answer, he lowered his gaze briefly in a sort of nod. "To hear Lady Abigona speak of it... well, I'm sure you're rather well aware of her imaginations. ... Might I inquire as to the true event that transpired?" he asked gently, seriously.

However, a smile began to play about his lips. "Unless it was indeed an assassin that could shift into a dragon, and had asked you for a dance?" Oberon added, revealing the story the lady in waiting had told. Or, at least, what little he'd been able to catch as the woman had continued on her tale before they parted company. She had spoken so swiftly that he hadn't heard the full yarn. Now that Oberon had repeated what he thought he heard, it did sound rather ridiculous. At least the dancing part.

"May I?" he inquired and held out his hand for hers. The request was not because he didn't trust her to know when wounds did and didn't need a healer, but to simply put his mind at ease. And, really, if she didn't want him to see the wound he wouldn't push it on her. However, it would cause him to send a healer, possibly in the discreetest manner, to be on the safe side.

Genevieve lifted an eyebrow at the sordid tale, thinking that Lady Abigona had gone well out of her way to be deemed mad. Dragon assassin...and a dancing one at that. It did amuse her slightly, since it was so unbelievable. And in a way it sounded better than the truth.

"I went to watch the sunset." she confessed, although most might wonder what this could possibly have to do with the injury... she knew her son would gather the truth from it. For thirty years, adding more or less, Genevieve and Wodon had in some way, shape or form, watched the sun set. Both publicly and privately it had descended in under their watchful gaze. And in times when they were apart, either one still at the palace had observed the tradition alone. "And... the pain was too deep." her eyes closed and she almost timidly held out her hand to him.

She knew the terrible purple and black bruising and the cut were indeed well worth the effort of healing... many times infections from such wounds could cause the losing of said limb, if not ones life.

Oberon did his best to tame the smile threatening to take over his face at the arched eyebrow his mother responded with. While some would question whether his humor was indeed well-placed or not, the king could tell when his mother was amused or not. And, though some would think the Lady who told him the tale to be utterly mad, the man actually had found the tale somewhat amusing as well. If it weren't for his mother having been non-fictitiously maimed Oberon would have been greatly entertained. It came close to the occasional story he would make up for Cara or Liam when he wasn't giving more credible accounts of conquest, battle, and the first few years of his marriage to Cassandra.

Dark blue eyes lowered upon hearing this information, knowing precisely why it was so crucial. To the casual listener it wouldn't have made sense. But, to Oberon, it told him all he needed to know. Sunsets would always be watched by his parents from a section of the gardens or a balcony or elsewhere in the castle where it may be viewed in all its glory. When one was absent the other would continue the ritual of sorts in watching the sunlight retire for the evening.

The loss of the previous king - a ruler, a husband, and a father - was a day of mourning for all of Alrania. But the people that no doubt took it the hardest were the members of his own family; those that knew the man behind the regal crown. Oberon remembered a time when his mother would only speak to him and perhaps his brother, though not both at one time. Oberon immediately uttered a noise to demonstrate his understanding.

A gentleness not unlike how the King approached Cassandra's wounds took over as his mother's hand rested in his. Concern immediately leapt into the sapphire orbs at the wound and discolored skin. A healer was definitely in question, in his mind. Infections from such wounds were common, and, if left untreated, could mean great peril for the afflicted.

"Is there any hope of persuading you to at least allow a physician look at this, mother?" Oberon asked, not bothering to hide his concern. From within a vest pocket, the man retrieved a linen handkerchief and gently laid it across the wound. If his mother permitted him, Oberon intended to cautiously secure a knot so the makeshift bandage would stay in place. While he had not healing herbs or ointments, he still wished to be of some assistance.

A single tear ran down Genevieve's pale cheek as she watched Oberon carefully laid a soft cloth from his vest over her hand. Guilt already plagued her, driving its cruel fangs deep into her heart and mind.

"If you insist..." she murmured, her face calm despite the tear. "Though the doctor has claimed I am a frightful patient and may require coaxing to attend to me." It was a private jest... as Genevieve loathed physicians and had no qualms about making that fact a well known one. The main royal healers no doubt gnashed their teeth in bitter agony at the idea of attending to a conscious Dowager Queen... they rarely attended her without mishap. Although the accidents were of a purely innocent nature, the healer who had last treated her would no doubt hold it against her that his once human nose had been twisted into that of a pig snout.
Genevieve blamed the pain for the magical "mishaps" but few believed her, having chuckled behind the irate doctor's back about his nose... his wife agreed that the queen had made an excellent choice, however disfiguring it was.

Oberon ignored the tear, thinking it one shed out of a reminder of the grief she bore. He did not wish to cause more tears by bringing it into focus. It would have been his father's place to attend to the tears shed by his mother. "Of course I insist, mother," he replied automatically, though refrained from completely saying what he wanted to say. The grief was still too near to mention that he would not have infection send Genevieve away from him, as poison had sent his father away from the throne of Alrania. No... such an analogy would be far too close a comparison. It would have been tactless to say such a thing.

And therein his mother's next statement lay the problem: she was none too fond of the healers, something he could hardly blame her for. He, too, was not fond of them. A very light chuckle escaped him at the jest, or at least he perceived it as a jest where others may not have. "I'm certain an arrangement could be made..." he replied, following up the personal humor with a little bit of his own. Taken out of context it wouldn't have sounded humorous, but that was his intent. At the same time, though, he was serious - if need be, he would make an arrangement of some sort to get the physician to see her.

"Perhaps this time you could give him ears and a tail to match... since his wife was pleased with the nose," Oberon suggested wryly, his humor much more evident this time around. He had found it hilarious, when he heard reports of what his mother had done and seen the healer's state with his own eyes.

Genevieve smiled. "Yes, it would match well. Though he is said to be consulting a mage to have it removed." She knew he would be watching her closely due to his last visit with her. Doctors were untrusting in her opinion. He should have been thankful the nose had been a pig's rather than the elephant's truck she had first thought of... but she was greatly against bleeding, finding it something that disturbed her far greater than any pain.

"You do not worry do you?" she asked, her stern blue eyes gazing deeply into his own. It would be good for them both, she thought, if she finally assured herself and he that she would do no more harm to her body. And it irked her to no end, that the "small" injury on her hand could cause worry.

"Is he? Hmm. And here I was starting to get used to seeing him like that," Oberon chuckled lightly, glad to have some lightheartedness in this conversation. He had not wanted to come here entirely due to seriousness. What fortuitous chance that they found something to jest about, even if the man in question was in fact a doctor.

When two pairs of sapphires met, Oberon took a moment to select his words carefully before answering. Yes, he did worry. However, he worried out of love. The king would not have his mother risk her life or limb to infection if he could avoid it. It wasn't that he worried about her doing further harm to herself; he would worry about that when and if she did so again but not as of now. Concern about that would come later. "I care about your well-being, mother," he replied, making sure not to use the word 'worry'. "And shall only truly worry if the physician finds something that will endanger that welfare." Deep blue orbs mirrored the honesty of voice and words.

"If I knew the magic it would take to heal the wound myself, I would do it," Oberon added after a moment. That was his own fault, not being skilled in magic. It had intrigued him greatly as a boy, but he'd lost interest and patience with the craft not even a full five lessons in. Now, it had since been renewed. "I suppose I should've had more patience." Despite the statement's truthfulness, the king found a slight amusement in it. The slight smile curling his lips was not one of chagrin. Or, at least, not fully.

Genevieve remained impassive, despite the pride and joy welling in her heart. To have a child who loved her as deeply as Oberon had professed, despite the lack of affection she had showed him, was beyond her ability to understand.

She sighed, a gentle smile for a brief moment showing her emotions.
"You have become a great man, my son." she murmured. "Truly one far deeply set in truth and its value than I had ever hoped. This is both a blessing to my heart and a balm to my wound."

The magic... it worried her that he found it both frustrating and yet also amusing his inability to perform it.
"Your words and care are far better a testament than the doleful task of a healer. Do not blame that which you did not grasp in childhood." It was better in her eyes, that he was unable to perform magic, than that he had been forced to grasp it and learn to hate it. Reaching out with her undamaged hand, she gently curled her pale fingers around his hand, her eyes dropping to look at it. "Your...your father would be proud of your rule as king. He often spoke of how you would be a better sovereign than himself." And it was true... Wodon had been many things, a good king and man, but hardly the best. His jolly, spirited manner had often not allowed him to make right decisions and having little steel of will, he was fickle in mind at times.

A small smile curled the lips upon Oberon’s face at his mother’s similar expression, regardless of how fleeting it was. To receive praise from her was a rare honour, and something he was not fool enough to ignore. As such, he bowed his head slightly in thanks. “I am certain there is room for improvement on my part,” he stated in a rare moment of humility. “Yet I am delighted to know that I have made you proud, mother. I pray that my efforts to keep such a thing go not in vain.” Sapphire eyes slowly rose to their former level.

He was just as glad when he knew his father was proud of him, but didn’t think it needed mentioning.

Oberon’s smile widened slightly and then waned. “It is not the magic I blame,” he explained, shaking his head, “... more aptly it is my impatience to learn it that I criticize.” Without thinking he gave his mother’s hand a gentle squeeze, eyes following her lead. As the conversation turned to Woden, and after his mother had finished speaking, he nodded solemnly.

Four years still seemed so recent... so awkward without that other presence in his life. It was different when Delyth had left his side, obviously, but at the same time it was also similar. Both father and former wife had been close to his heart. It pained the king greatly when they both left this world for the next.

“I still have quite a distance to go before I am able to name myself of as much accomplishment as he,” Oberon murmured in the same solemn manner as he had nodded. The king still looked up to his father and predecessor, even when the former king was deceased. Of course, while he loved his father, it was Oberon’s goal to become as great as Woden had been and then surpass him if at all possible. "But I shall persevere." A faint trace of his former smile returned.

It was a daunting task for any king.

As Oberon's hand gently squeezed hers, she felt tears prick at her eyes, threatening to fill and then slip down her cheeks. Effort, that forced her to even return the gesture, tightly clasping her son's hand, kept the tears at bay. "Never in vain..." she murmured.

Genevieve rose from the seat, both in an effort to assure Oberon that she was well and to convince herself of the same. "Impatience, like intemperance, can be shed from youth as a blossom slips from its dark pads... with a desire to grow, the blossom like patience must be kept and tended." she smiled softly.

"You have a shorter distance to go than you judge, my son." Genevieve whispered, her fingers playing with the smooth wood of the harp. She had wandered over to it, where it now sat. "I played today..." she added, as an afterthought. It had been so long since she had even been able to look at the polished wood without crying... now its very wood beneath her fingers caused no stir within her heart. The grief was that way; constant, but in waves. So that at times it was bitter, while others simple and poignant... other times even to the point she could almost dismiss it. But grief that was irreplaceable with joy lingered the longest.

"And I did not see him..." she turned back to face Oberon, the tears finally making their way down her cheeks, even as she smiled. "His chair was empty... devoid and...and." She lifted her injured hand to her mouth, to cover it. Shoulders shaking, she leaned down against the harp, the pain in her chest and heart too great to bear. "Why?" she whispered, slipping to the floor. "Why does it hurt so badly? An arrow to my soul had less agony...less pain. Have not other men died, and by my own hand... their passing even to my first I cared not. But the loss of a single life; with whom I shared with an entire nation... I am as a flame set in a ocean. My wick drips and no fire can ever pass joy back within my heart." Silent sobs wrapped around her, and for a time, Genevieve took comfort in the simple fact that her ladies maids would not swoop in to help her... she trusted Oberon, to understand her pain, even as she herself was lost in it.

Oberon's smile widened ever so slightly when his mother claimed that his pursuits to make her proud were not in vain. The brief tightening of Genevieve's grip reassured the king. As she rose from her chair, Oberon remained seated, merely observing her as he had as a young boy. It was not a great mystery, the point his mother was trying to make. Basically if he applied himself to not be impatient, he could become far more patient than he'd ever been. However, that was about as easy as telling someone not to swear when they're acutely surprised or angered; not to be out of breath after a great exertion.

Dark sapphire eyes lowered with polite acceptance of her judgment, honestly pleased to hear such a thing yet trying to stay humble before her. Around anyone else he would likely need to put up an act of confidence. Most of the time this confidence was genuine... but at the same time it was also false.

Oberon looked up again when Genevieve mentioned she'd played her harp today. He, as well as certain others, knew she hadn't been able to play let alone look at the wooden instrument without some form of tears. For her to mention it would surely mean something different had happened this time; that she hadn't wept for the loss of the man they both loved for their own reasons. Not quite sure how to reply, the king remained silent in wait for anything else his mother might say. However, his face brightened slightly at what he'd deemed to be good news.

Understanding concern could be read in his eyes when she returned her gaze to him. It was the tears that concerned him, but the reason for the tears that he understood. There were not many times in life that Oberon cried, albeit after infancy. Even fewer were the number of times he cried in view of another or the public in general. While his mother descended to the floor, Oberon still shed no tears. His grief was mostly private, despite it just being him and Genevieve in the room.

Knowing from experience that his mother would rather be left alone to her grief rather than assisted, the king kept his semi-distance. "It hurts because you loved him, and still do... Your heart aches for him whilst he is absent," Oberon murmured quietly, however he had a feeling she might not have intended for him to answer. "He was the exception to all others."

Feeling useless just standing there, Oberon tentatively approached and knelt beside Genevieve. "You do not grieve alone, mother..." he offered in a tone barely above a whisper, and placed a hand upon her shoulder. The touch was light enough to suggest that it could be shrugged off without risking offense, yet heavy enough to cajole if desired. Oberon's gaze was turned away so that she might weep openly and with the dignity of doing so in semi-privacy.

How could anyone understand another's pain, and simply leave them to face it, without first offering some form of comfort?

"Then in vain I have loved him." Genevieve whispered in return, desiring to take comfort in the gentle hand on her shoulder but refusing to. Wodon's touches had never brought her comfort, and although Oberon's did, the walls were too thick to allow it to soothe her.

Oh but what an exception she thought, an axeman to her heart and terror to her memory. If only Oberon could understand truly why she wept. But she did not want him to. His father's memory would never be disgraced if she could help it. It would never fall short of what it had been lifted aloft as.

"Thank you..." she murmured, reaching up to touch his hand on her shoulder. For a long moment she had paused before saying anything to his offered statement of comfort. And truly, Genevieve knew she would be able to share the grief, but only so far. The burden of truth could not be shared.

Turning so that her suddenly emotionless face faced his, Genevieve wrapped her arms around his shoulders, momentarily holding him in an embrace. The few times she had actually embraced her children were limited to the counting on one hand and thus she felt she needed to explain herself.

"I wasted your childhood," she whispered, not daring to look at him. "Your affection for me is beyond my understanding." Releasing him as quickly as she had embraced him, Genevieve rose, her tears already drying and her eyes although red, firm.

This would not be the first time that Oberon was at a loss for words that might soothe the pain writhing in his mother’s heart. It mattered yet didn’t matter that Genevieve did not find the solace he offered, but on the other hand the King had not entirely expected it to. Not even his father could comfort her in times prior; that was just the way things were, the way her personality was. She did not accept comfort the way he did not tolerate waiting for an extended period of time.

Her murmured thanks and acknowledgment caused him to tighten his grip slightly. The king heard not any tears, thus decided he could face his mother without her feeling as though he was intruding on her grief. Oberon remained silent, finding a phrase of return unnecessary. She would of course know he would be her support, and also grieved for the family’s loss. The Kingdom’s loss.

The emotionless expression was one he was used to, and though his face was lined with concern and tinged with thoughts of his own grief it was being kept as impassive as possible. A habit of being both a man and a king. When she embraced him and thus could not see his face, the countenance briefly changed to fill with worry and grief both for the passing and the fact that it seemed as though it had been long since his mother had any true happiness in her life. Strong arms wrapped around Geneveive to return the embrace, for it was not often such a gesture occurred.

Dark blue orbs darted toward the general direction of the voice as impassiveness enshrouded his expression once more, ears taking in the words. As swift as she’d embraced him, the king found himself released from the contact as she rose. “Affection works in mysterious ways. One does not necessarily need constant affections to give of the heart unconditionally,” Oberon tried to explain. It was very difficult to word.

“I shall have the healer see to your hand before the eve, unless you require more immediate services?” he said, not quite certain where to steer the conversation but knew further dwelling on grief was not an option. His mother was now calmed, there was no need to start the cycle over again. His mother wept often enough in the night, by the reports of her personal guards, and needed not to be upset during the day on top of it. If there was any way to distract her from such pain, Oberon would of course arrange for it or see it done himself.

Genevieve took Oberon's words in, proud of the man he had become. Affection did indeed seem a mysterious force. Some one could give love and care until it had been dried from one's very bones, and the person would continue to disdain said love. While others the smallest hint of affection affirmed a deeper bond. Oh the mysteries of the world and of the heart.

She remembered back to when he was a child, his large eyes wide with the wonders of the world. He had always been a good child, in her eyes. One that she knew would be a good king, a good man. Wodon had constantly berated her for her lack of attention to her son, but she did not hold that against him. In fact she held it against herself. Constant affection may not have been needed for Oberon to love her, but now that he was a grown man and she looked back upon her life and his, she longed to have been more apart of his life.

True, she had in shadow watched him closely. Wodon's attentions, laughter and playing were perhaps what Oberon and later Theseus had seen and remembered, but she had spent a great deal more time watching out for their education, tutors, nurses, playmates, all to see that nothing could possibly harm them, mentally or physically. Sometimes she was curious if Oberon knew how much time she had given him without being there, but she wasn't about to tell him and thought it better if he did not know.

It was enough simply to be loved.

She nodded. "No, that speed shall suffice. Thank you for attending to me, my son." A mother's overwhelming feelings of love and gratitude, hidden within the mask. Someday perhaps she would shed it, but walls once broken cannot well be repaired, and with the walls' crumbling often the roof follows.

"I look forward to time spent with Cara..." she murmured, softly. And then in almost the same breath, she bade him a good day.

She stood in the middle of a forests' glen, the fading trees tossed in a slow wind as she gazed into the midst. She was alone, clad in a light gown that reminded her of something she had worn as a child. Her hair, unbound, blew about her face with the wind and she turned her face upward into the sky to see clouds slowly drift in with high banks of grey and angry black. Rain soon ravaged her trembling body, but she remained where she stood.

"Eevastasa..." She turned quickly, soaked from the rain to find who had spoken her former name. Seeing no one, but feeling their presence, she walked into the trees, looking forward. FInally a glimpse of the man turning about the tree caught in her vision and she walked faster, her legs moving with greater urgency.

Her father... a man she had never before sought, held his arms out for her. His greying hair blew softly in the rainy wind.
"My child why did you hate me?" he asked, and she felt drawn to him, feeling as though time had reversed itself and a second childhood had descended upon her. There was no need to answer... his actions had defined her scorn... had carved her stone heart from its icy chambers.

"Genevieve..." Only one man had ever spoken her name in such a manner and with out hesitation, she left her father's reaching form, in search of her husband. As her father had before, Wodon seemed to allude her for a time, before she finally saw his form in the distance.

"Why do you seek me?" Suddenly he stood before her, in regal glory as if time nor death had ravaged his handsome face.

"You are my king..." she replied, going slowly toward him, desiring his comfort.
"I am dead... Genevieve, only those mad seek the dead..." Wodon looked upon her as a man did his child and she trembled, taking a step back from him.
"No..." she whispered. In her dreams he was alive... whole and good. Never telling her the truth that she vied against, her dreams were her refuge.

Wodon turned from her, and began to walk away. His armour, despite its weight, was silent; with his helmet tucked under his arm. She watched him walk among the trees, too stunned by his words to follow after, until he had vanished from her sight. It was then she hurried after him.

Still lost in her dream, Genevieve sat up in her bed and slowly slid to the floor. As one awake, she went forth and with ease that spoke of her shadow power, evaded her ladies maids, who were sleeping peacefully. Her eyes were open; but her steps were in sleep, seeking for that which her mind saw within a dream. She did not pause to slid her robe around her, her every intentional thought on reaching Wodon.

Making her way out of her chambers, she turned and began to walk down the long corridor. Her light night gown trailed out on the stone behind her as her bare feet silently padded against the floor. Her pale features and attire could have easily mistaken her for a ghostly wraith, lost within the world's grasp and unable to return to Acheron.

(continued in Northeast Hall)