Say You’ll Remember | Tristelia
opheliafontaine
It wasn’t fair.
None of this had been the least bit fair.
Her father ripped from her side, leaving her to the terrible whims of her eldest sister.
Her family ripped from the only home she had even known at the behest of that two-faced harpy widow of her cousin’s, flinging her northward, far from the friends and familiar places of her youth.
Ophelia herself had not been allowed to protest. Was so quickly told by everyone she turned to in this god-forsaken place that an old maid such as herself should be glad for this kindness the “Saint of the Downtrodden” had shown her. That somehow it was an unbelievable act of generosity by Lynessa Valles to take what had never been hers and to send a grieving family into exile.
It burned.
The pain and hatred burned in her heart as she tried to stem the flow of sobs she felt rising up in her throat once more, choking her from the inside as panic and despair clawed and tole at every piece of her.
Ophelia pressed her hand more firmly against the trunk of the old oak tree. Her fingers tracing the ridges and whorls she had memorized over the course of her lifetime of hiding in its branches. Small gasps fell from her parted lips as she pressed harder and harder, wondering if somehow she could simply fold herself inside of the wood like the women of her storybooks had been able to.
Perhaps then she would be saved from these trials. Perhaps then she would no longer have to pretend that she was not falling apart inside.
Surely it was the grief that had dulled her senses. The overwhelming waves of it screaming in her ears left her unable to hear even the softest and most familiar of footsteps approaching. It wasn’t until Tristan spoke her name in the gentlest of tones that she even noticed he had come so close behind her.
Swiftly the girl lifted her head in surprise, those feverish blue eyes he had admired so moving to catch his own, even as Ophelia quickly wiped at her cheeks. It was embarrassing to be caught in such a state. Even by her dearest and closest friend.
Another sharp pang threaded through Ophelia’s heart as she suddenly realized that here too was something else she would lose. It was all so much to bear.
“Tristan…” She said softly, voice catching even as she attempted a smile. Hers too held more than a hint of sadness, a melancholy to match his own. “It’s good of you to come visit. I… know the Capitol is quite… full of activity after the blessed death of my cousin. I’m sure you are needed far more by the queen’s side than my own.”
Ophelia’s hand scraped slowly down the bark of the tree, feeling it scratch against her palm, knowing the way her hand would look feverish and red now and finding she did not much care.
“We leave within the fortnight.” She continued, staring past Tristan towards the hall of Gryffintree. “It’s not enough time to collect everything, but then again, it seems as if we shall not be allowed to take much with us. Lady Valles is far too fond of Gryffintree just as it stands. I….”
A soft bitter laugh bubbled over Ophelia’s lips as she shook her head. “I am not even to be allowed to take a single book from the library. My library. The library my father and grandfather had stocked and collected as a sanctuary. Elyzabeth made sure to point out my atlas to the Lady Valles as well, showing her how fine it truly was.”
Her fingers curled tightly into a fist at her side.
“Lynessa took it with her back to the Ravenhall two weeks ago.”
Ophelia finally took a deep breath and looked to Tristan, reaching out and placing a hand gently on his arm. “But I am certain you did not come here to listen to my grievances over my books… What brings you here, my dear friend? Surely you are not coming to say goodbye now of all times? You shall return again before we leave?” Another melancholic smile crossed her face, not wishing to think of that too-quick approaching day.
“I will have to beat you in one last horse race at the very least. I believe we are tied and I could not bear to let us part on a stalemate.”
Tears glistened in her eyes and on her cheeks, sparkling like diamonds in the bright sunshine. She, who who ought always have reason for smiles and laughter now was weeping and there was no Impulsively he came forward, impulsively he reached for her. He did not think that he should not, must not. Ophelia’s cheek was soft when he touched it, brushed away her tears, and her eyes were consuming, blue as sapphires even behind the tears. He was caught in them, his will wrested away as if my some sweet magic, and for a moment forgotten. His eyes fastened on her lips, sweet and rosy like the first blush of dawn...
An eagle screamed and the trance was shattered. Tristan broke away. His heart hammered in his ears. “I-I’m sorry,” he said, glancing away, glancing sheepishly back towards her. “Forgive me, my lady.” Reaching into his his breast pocket, he withdrew a handkerchief of his and gave it to her. It had been gallant, perhaps, but ungentlemanly, the way he had wiped off her tears, and he regretted it only because of how she must feel. Surely, she must be embarrassed - she was in pain and did not need that on top of it all. Still, he did not regret her tears running across his fingers in little droplets or that he could still feel the sweet burn of her touch.
But she had spoken to him and, internally shaking himself, Tristan sought to focus on the words. “As if there were anything that could keep me away at such a time.” He had, of course, wished to give her the space she needed, but even moreso he was determined to lend whatever support he might in such harrowing times. “You know, I hope, that anything, anything you need...” Tristan shrugged. “You need only say the word.”
His laugh was humorless. The Imperial City was active, indeed. Security had in all avenues been tightened and strengthened, though almost everyone in power seemed to know the right man had not been caught. It only left the unaskable, unanswerable question - who was the real killer? Certainly, that person was still out there, walking free. It only happened to suit Rowena’s needs to accuse Alexandir. She had wanted him dead for fifteen years now: Tristan’s only failure.
“If the Queen has urgent need of me, she shall send for me,” Tristan answered with a shrug. “I am just where I ought to be,” he assured her. He was where he wished to be, always.
“So soon,” he whispered, his voice stretched tight over each syllable, sounded raw as it rushed out of him. It was unconscionable, to hurl them out onto the streets like refuse, even in the midst of their grief. It was an act, he thought hatefully, worthy of Jon Valles’ memory and estate. He found himself unable to forgive any that would do her harm. “Might I render any assistance?” he inquired, hopefully. “I know it cannot do much, but perhaps it will help at least to have an extra set of hands in having to pack so quickly.”
He bit his lip. “Surely, Lady Valles would not notice if one or two books were missing!” But then he thought of Avelina at the trial, sharp eyes and harsh brows. She, he thought, would be the sort of inventory, to take note. Her eyes had been greedy when the trial had called for Alexandir Godiva’s blood.
He couldn’t help the sharp exhale of derision that arrived when she spoke of the fate of her atlas: of Elyzabeth’s betrayal and of Lynessa’s reaction. Certainly, it was a fine thing indeed. All books were priceless, little less a map of the world - such a rare find in itself - inlaid with gold and illustrated with such intricate detail. But it was more precious, still, to Ophelia than any of those things could make it.
Unsummoned, childhood memories sprang to the fore of his mind: tracing the rivers with eager fingers, thrashing through the imagined bogs as depicted, and stumbling through the great forests. Together, they’d mapped the world and spoken of all the places they would someday go. “It is a precious volume,” he said. “But more fine to you than to any other. It was uncharitable of your sister to indicate it, and uncharitable of Lady Valles to take it.” Yet, he faulted Elyzabeth more than Lynessa for the action. To Lynessa, she had been offered something. To Elyzabeth, she had taken something from her sister.
“But I did come to hear those things,” answered Tristan, quickly. “I came to share in your joys and your sorrow, as always.” Reaching out, he put a hand over her wounded one and gave a gentle squeeze. “I am, always, your friend.” He shrugged. “I remember well that you and yours were friend to me when I was only the captain of the guard of Fain’s boy, so beneath your notice. Yet, always, you were kind to me as though I were one of you. Now that I am grown to the Queen’s notice, I will not abandon you.” He shook his head. “I doubt as I can do much good but, if you like, I shall speak to her on your behalf.” Still, she was not like to turn down her cousin in favor of the children of a man who had been known to speak out against some of her crueler policies.
Tristan released her hand, glanced down at it as though it pained him. “I did not come to say goodbye,” he replied. “Ophelia, I-” he bit his lip. “My lady, I did not come to say goodbye, because I am determined never to say goodbye to you. I do not wish to ever say goodbye.”
He chuckled softly. “Yes, we must have another race,” he acknowledged. “The north will provide new terrains when we race there.”
