In Which Electra Sees a Brother and a Ghost

March 21, 1155

Electra entered her cold bedroom to find Florian still asleep, just as she had left him an hour earlier. He hadn't left the bed in a good week--she herself had been sleeping at the kitchen table to avoid disturbing him.

Florian. Her husband. That word seemed like the last she'd use when describing their relationship; never had they lain together, or kissed other than once on their wedding night, and even friendly embraces were scarce.

It wasn't as though she disliked him, or he her. No, she did have a certain fondness for him, perhaps even a certain love, but their feelings for one another were anything but romantic.

He was a good six years younger than she was, this she knew for a fact; however, she very much doubted that anyone else in Naroni would ever guess that he was only nineteen, with his graying hair and sunken features. Gone was the handsome young boy she remembered from years before--now, there was only this fading skeleton of a man, barely fit to stand, let alone work the farm the baron had granted them.

As she stared at his sickly form, Electra couldn't help but be reminded of her first husband, Hamrick. He too had faded like this, just before he died; for a moment, she couldn't tell whether she was seeing his ghost or his brother.

Her marriage to Hamrick had been the brief summer of her life, a summer that had since faded into a sunless autumn. She had always been a plain, scrawny little girl, never pretty, never the one being chased by the village boys. The fact that a man such as Hamrick had noticed her, of all women, and picked her for his wife above all others... that event had given her the only self-confidence she had ever known. For the first few months, they were happy, until two things happened at once: Electra suffered her first miscarriage and Hamrick fell ill.

It had been the most terrible feeling, watching the man she loved perish slowly before her very eyes, knowing that his own pain was far greater than anything she could imagine. Over the course of his sickness, she lost four more babies--and to add insult to injury, the weight she had gained during those pregnancies remained.

Florian had been sent to the dungeons in their lord's castle about a year before Hamrick died, on several counts of petty theft. It was here that the younger brother began to deteriorate as well, as he awaited whatever fate the king chose to deal him.

Finally, only six months ago now, King Farilon had decided that it was a waste of time and money to continue to incarcerate Florian, but that he had not done anything worthy of an execution--therefore, exile was the only option. He was to leave before the New Year began, the same date that would later be given to Prince Roderick.

Florian and Hamrick's mother was dying at that time; Florian had been released from jail just a week before her passing. In many ways, Electra felt it would have been better if they had not had that final week together--their last meeting had been between a mother and son both in the worst condition of their lives.

"You hafta marry him, Electra," Alyssin had begged of her between fits of violent coughing. "He can't survive exile all by hisself. You hafta take care of him. Take care of my boy."

The next day, she died. She must have talked to Florian before she went, because he had mumbled a half-hearted proposal to Electra as the men burried his mother. With Hamrick's face and Alyssin's words in her head, she agreed.

They wed that very night, quietly, with only the priest and an alter boy present, then went back to Alyssin's house, where they slept in separate rooms.

Now, they were still in separate rooms, even though their new house in Naroni had only one bedroom. Florian was in a delicate condition; he needed that bed to himself, and it was the last gift she could offer him. It wouldn't be long, Electra knew, before she would be a widow for the second time over.

She turned away from him and let fall a few silent, controlled tears, her head hung low and her hands in her face, all but oblivious to the sounds of his body shifting behind her. "Electra? That you?"

Immediately, she dammed her cries; he needed her to be strong, and she would not let him see her weak. She did not look at him as he got out of the bed, merely crossed paths with him as he made his way to his clothes and she to the ruffled blanket. Carefully, she made the bed, feeling the sweat of his fever still present on the blankets--he was really in no shape to be awake.

"Well, who else could it be, you silly boy?" she greeted him, a false smile wreaking havoc upon her facial muscles. "Are you feeling better?"

Florian gave no reaction to her illusion of cheerfulness, other than two muttered words. "A little."

She took a moment to study his waning face--it might as well have been a skull, she realized. Still, the bags under his eyes had all but vanished, and it was the best she had seen him in weeks. If only he would smile, even an insincere one. But no, emotion no longer existed for Florian; in some ways, he had died in that dungeon.

"Do try to get some more rest, Florian. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me," Electra instructed, leaving him alone in the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She then took a seat at the kitchen table and thought; about Florian, about Hamrick, about what she would do with herself when Florian died...

At the sound of the bedroom door creaking open behind her, Electra was pulled back to her senses. "Florian!" she scolded. "You're not well--get back in the bed!"

"I'm fine," he tried to assure her; it didn't work.

"You are not, stupid child!" she snapped at him. "Go get some sleep!"

Angrily, she made her way to the kitchen fire and began to warm her hands. Not yet defeated, Florian followed her.

"Who are you to call me a stupid child?" he demanded, weakly in his frail state. "I'm your husband."

Electra sighed. "I'm not sure the church would say so. We haven't even..." She trailed off, uncomfortable discussing such things with a man who had still been playing with toys when she had begun her lady days.

Florian, however, seemed to know what she was thinking. "We could."

"With you sick like that?" she dismissed. "It could kill you!"

"Electra, I'm not sick."

She shook her head. "Don't lie to me, Florian."

"I'm not!" he insisted stubbornly. "How can I prove it to you?"

"Maybe if you went back to bed, you could prove it in a few months," sighed Electra.

He didn't reply. Instead, he began to stride quickly towards the front door.

"Where're you off to?" Electra demanded.

"The field," answered Florian, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "Damn crops won't plant themselves."

"Florian! You're not strong enough--"

She was cut off by the sharp thud! of the door slamming behind him. Biting her lip, she rushed to the window, watching disapprovingly as he made his way around to the small field at the side of their house. This couldn't possibly end well, she knew it; there was no way that he was strong enough to farm.

But all the same... who was she to judge how he was feeling? Nobody but Florian himself could know exactly how sick he was, she supposed, or how well he was; maybe he was fine. And really, now that she thought about it, he had certainly improved over the past few days, and the fresh air could only do him good.

A half-grin broke upon her face as her eyes continued to follow him until he had left her field of vision. The boy was hardier than she gave him credit for, she saw now--she decided to reward him with a hearty soup.

She grabbed a poker from off the dirt floor and began to prod the fire, the flames swelling as the logs shifted. She would need her good pot, but it wasn't on the counter beside her, she noticed; it must have been on the shelf. Whistling to herself, Electra began to make her way to the retrieve it, but as she passed the window, something outside caught her eye.

It was Hamrick. Hamrick, just as he had looked as he slipped out of consciousness for the last time. Hamrick, helpless and weak, a once healthy young man reduced to an invalid.

In that moment, thought and reason held no meaning for Electra. No, for her, there only existed raw, unyielding instinct; hers was to run.

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