The night was long past; the flames in the stables had died down hours ago. Everybody was down in the dungeons, holding each other, telling stories, speculating about what had happened, praying, doing anything to pass the time and not go insane. Nobody bothered to make a distinction between the former soldiers of Falkenstein and the men and women of Luntberg anymore. Actually, everybody was so covered in soot that it would have been difficult to distinguish Luntberg soldier from a former prisoner, or a maid from a gong farmer.

Burchard was quite agitated by that fact. Released from his temporary detainment, he glared at anybody who came near him as if he suspected all the world of being his personal arch-enemy, or worse, Ayla's.

Ayla herself didn't mind, though. In fact, she was glad about all the dirt. For one thing, it made people treat her with less awed reverence when they saw her covered by the same soot as they. For another, she couldn't see their expressions anymore and read the fear in their faces.

She had enough fear of her own to deal with.

"Can't we go up?" she pleaded with Burchard. "It's been hours since the last bolder dropped. I'm sure it's perfectly safe."

The steward's mustache twitched with menace. It was a louder "No!" than most men managed to affect by shouting.

"But it has been so long! Reuben must be—I mean they must be on their way back by now," she corrected herself, blushing, and once more sincerely grateful to the cover of black soot that concealed it. "I have to be there to welcome them home! They've risked our life for us!"

Again, the mustache gave an expressive twitch. This time, the steward deigned to follow it up with a shake of his shaggy head. "No."

"But Burchard..."

"No, Milady! I'm not allowing you to take any more chances. You've risked your life quite enough for one day."

"Actually, it's long past Midnight. So that was in fact yesterday, and..."

The next twitch of his mustache was so accusatory, her voice dwindled and she lowered her gaze.

"Sorry."

"You should be! Now go and sit over there, where you can't get up to any mischief. Don't even dream of putting a toe outside the door."

That wasn't exactly the way a vassal was supposed to talk to his liege lady, but then, not every vassal knew her from the cradle. Sighing, Ayla slunk off into the corner Burchard had indicated. She burned with the desire to go outside, but she knew it wasn't rational. The fire was extinguished, and Captain Linhart's second-in-command was keeping an eye on things. There was no logical reason for her to go outside. He would inform her the moment Reuben and the others were sighted.

Besides, she felt she owed it to Burchard to stay. She suspected her ordering to have him restrained by two of the very men they had been fighting the last few months had probably hurt the old curmudgeon's feelings.

In the corner into which she had been sent, Ayla found Captain Linhart, his leg now washed and wrapped in a bright, new linen bandage.

"How are you doing, Captain?" Ayla enquired, kneeling down beside him and forcing a smile on her face.

"As well as can be expected, tied to my bed like this," he said, and although his manner remained as calm as respectful as ever, there was a note of frustration in his voice.

"I told you, Captain, you just have to be patient. The leg isn't broken, just severely bruised. A few days of rest, and you'll be on your feet again."

Linhard's fist clenched around the hilt of his sword. Ayla knew she should have taken it away from him. Swords did something to men's brains. As long as they had a length of sharp steel strapped to their hip, the fools thought hey could do anything, regardless of how battered and bruised their bodies were.

"I don't like my men being out there without me. Milady. Are you sure I couldn't go out, just for a quick check to see if everything is all—"

"No! Captain, if you even think about getting up, I'll see to it that you really are tied to your bed, with thick ropes, or metal chains if ropes won't be enough. Do we understand each other?"

Linhart sighed.

"Yes, Milady."

He was about to let his gaze fall, disappointed—but then he seemed to look at her more closely, and his expression changed, his eyes sharpening. "How are things with you, Milady? Is everything all right?"

Ayla opened her mouth, planning to reassure him, to say yes. But when her lips parted, all that came out was a sob. Only then did she realize that there was moisture in her eyes.

"It's been so long since he left!" She didn't bother to conceal the emotion in her voice, or to say "they" instead of "he." Instinctively, she knew that Linhart wouldn't give her a lecture on proper morals like Burchard might. "What if something has happened to him? If he doesn't come back, I'll... I'll..."

Through the veil of her tears, Ayla saw understanding flash across Linhart's face.

"Sir Reuben?"

She just nodded, pressing her hand to her mouth to prevent any more sobs from escaping.

"I must admit I suspected something was there, between the two of you, but I wasn't sure. He... he is a good man."

A choak of laughter shook Ayla. "N-no, he isn't really. But that is all right. I love him anyway."

"And he? How does he feel on the matter? Has he asked for your hand?"

Ayla's heart had already been hurting, but at the Captain's words, the agony that seized her was instantly centuplicated. How could she admit to Captain Linhart that Reuben hadn't asked for her hand, worse, that she doubted he ever would? How could she admit that, in her darkest moments, she even doubted his love for her, for what other explanation of his reticence could there be than he was falling out of love?

And then she thought of how he had risked his life for her, of how he was risking his life for her right now, and felt shame wash over her. If only he got back safely! Then, everything would be all right. They would find their way to each other. If only he got back savely...

She opened her mouth, not knowing what to say to the Captain, when from behind her, she heard the creek of an opening door. Whirling around, she saw, at the top of the stairs, Cort, Ladwich, and all the other soldiers who had accompanied Reuben to the river. There was Theoderich, his young squire, too. Frantically, she searched the small crowd for a sign of intense gray eyes, or a flash of that devilish grin, or just a mop of messy, jet-black hair.

Nothing.

Instead, she saw fear and uncertainty in the men's faces such as she hadn't seen since the death of Sir Isenbard.

"Oh no!" she whispered, her voice ragged. "Please, God, no!"

*~*~**~*~*

"Won't you eat something, Milady?"

"No. Go away."

"Not even a little bit? I've got a bowl of grewl here and—"

"Take it away and leave me alone. I'm not hungry."

"Not even an apple? Sir Gregor found another one. I don't know where, but it looks deliscious."

Dilli's face pleaded for another answer than "No." But Ayla didn't even bother to reply. She had no words left to speak or strength to speak them. Slowly, her maid retreated. After a minute or two, Ayla heard the door of the room close. Immediately, the last bit of self-respect that had kept her sitting upright left her, and she collapsed on the bed.

His bed.

Because she was in his room. She had been, ever since the men had returned to Luntberg Castle without him. How long ago had it been? Two days? Three? She didn't know. The days passed in an endless monotony of pain, one sunset blending into sunrise, all red, the color of blood. The color of Reuben's armor.

Reuben. Even to think his name hurt. A half-sob, half-chuckle racked her chest. Wasn't this the pinnacle of irony? The knight who knew no pain had left her, and left behind nothing but pain.

Now it's too late. Now it won't matter if he doesn't truly love me. He's dead, and I will never see him again.

Instinctively, she buried her face in the sheets. Almost immediately, she regretted it. The sheets smelled of him: steel, sword polish, linen, and that rough, masculine smell that was uniquely Reuben. Grabbing his pillow, she hugged it with all the force she possessed, wishing with all her might that it might not just smell like him, but feel like him, taste like him. That it could be him.

But to no avail.

Somewhere deep inside, she knew that her behavior wasn't rational. She should be out there, coordinating the defense, listening to reports, giving orders. Instead, she had sat in this room for days, staring at Reuben's red surcoat that hung over the back of the only chair in his chamber, and crying herself to sleep, night after night.

The only time she had left was when she knew she had to check on the wounded soldiers. But even that she did without being aware of what she did or even whom she did it for. She didn't talk to her patients, didn't even look at them, just dressed their wounds and left.

Yes, deep inside she knew she wasn't being rational.

But that's the thing. Love is not rational.

Lifting her head a fraction to gaze up at Reuben's red surcoat once again, she felt a new flood of tears approaching.

I told him that I love him only once. Once, and that was it. I should have told him a thousand, a million times. It still wouldn't have been enough. Oh, if only I hadn't let him go.

But then... she hadn't exactly let him go. She had forbidden it, and he had done it anyway. Just as he had always done, the stupid fool. The young squire Theoderich had told her, in a voice nearly as choked as Ayla's own, what Reuben had done on the riverbank, why it was that he hadn't made it back. Ayla knew she should have been angry. But at whom? At Theoderich, who was really only just a boy? At Reuben, who had given his life in defense of another?

It only made her love him more.

Still, what use was her love for a dead man?

"He might not be dead," Dilli had dared to suggest one day, when her mistress had refused the third meal in a row. Ayla had only laughed. A dry, hollow laugh that had as much humor in it as an execution.

She knew what the Margrave of Falkenstein was like. Too long had she suffered from the man's evil deeds to not know the dark depths of his nature. If Reuben was in his hands, there was no hope in heaven, on earth, or in hell that he was alive. And if by some miracle he was...

Ayla shuddered.

Better to be dead than to be alive and in the hands of a monster like Falkenstein. The things he would do to Reuben—she didn't even want to think about it.

Sighing, she lowered her head again and pressed her face back into the pillow. What was the use? Those were wild, fanciful dreams. Reuben was dead, and she would be, soon enough, too. Without him, what chance did they have to resist the Margrave? What chance did she have of even wanting to? She didn't even want to continue living.

Nothing and no one had been able to rouse her from her lethargy. Not Eleanor, not all those people, her people, about whom she used to care so much, not Sir Gregor, young Theoderich, Burchard, or even Dilli. She had pretended to listen when soldiers came to give her reports, but not one word had been able to touch her. Not even the news that the enemy had started building wood bridges over the river had roused her. It was only to be expected, wasn't it? They were coming, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Through the walls of her prison of misery, she heard footsteps running down the corridor towards her.

"Leave me alone, Dilli!" she called, her voice hoarse. "I don't want any gruel!"

But the footsteps didn't stop. Ayla frowned. They didn't sound like Dilli's footsteps. They were much too heavy.

Suddenly, the door burst open without warning and a guard stumbled into the room, his face red from running.

"Milady!" he panted. "Milady, the enemy is crossing the river!"

"What has that got to do with me? Go tell Captain Linhart."

She heard the dead, emotionless voice—and shock washed over her as she realized that it was coming out of her own mouth.

Have I changed that much in just a few days? So much I would let my people face death and distruction without me at their side? What am I, a heartsick child, or the Lady von Luntberg?

Swollowing her tears, she rose, and opened her mouth to say...

To say what?

She knew not.

She only knew she would go and die with them. At least the pain would end. But she did not get to utter a single word. The guard was faster.

"But Milady..." he rasped, still out of breath. "You don't understand. They're coming, and they're leading a prisoner in chains at the front of their lines!"

Ayla's head snapped up, as if she'd been hit by a whip. Hope and fear welled up inside her, so tightly entwined that they became melted together into one terrible, unrecognizable torrent of emotion.

"A-a prisoner?"

"Yes." The guard nodded, his face settling into a grim mask. "It's Sir Reuben."

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My dear Lords and Ladies,

Very busy today! Working on book publishing. But next time, I promise you a really long, epic chapter! Sir Reuben versus the Margrave! Are you looking forward to it? ;)

Till then,

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Gong Farmers: The people whose job it was to scrape off the poop that dropped down from the castle toilet (a room hanging on the outer wall of the castle) and often stuck to the wall of said wall. Not one of the nicest jobs in history.