{ history } her defeated arms thrown wide like futile weapons
Every now and again there are events that touch many lives instead of the usual one or two. This is less of a ripple than it is a blast radius, as these things can be.
An event like this was building in central Elenia for years before its trigger was pulled, manipulated by Zalasta and in some ways spearheaded by Sir Martel, who in due time would be better known as the Pandion renegade.
This is not the momentary faltering of a defied father. This is not the incadescent rage of a disappointed brother. It is not the age old heartbreak of a mother who wonders if the mistake was hers, nor the friend become an enemy, nor the fellows behind locked gates who don't know yet how their lives are already changing or why.
Here, in the woods outside of Demos, this is a woman not loved enough witnessing her life and name irrevocably tied to a man who will leave her behind without ever having spared a thought for how his choices branded her. He will leave, and take with him any love he had for her, but the fires he lit in his wake are hers to tend. She thinks, perhaps, the worst betrayal is the one made in sheer negligence.
His eyes seem to have already forgotten her and in turn she questions their every moment, that she might have only seen what she wanted to when she had faith in him. The blood and sweat that mar him now will mar her memories as well, staining them with this unfamiliar bitterness.
The forest is darker when he meets her half-step for half-step in the crescendo of her tirade, twisting his fingers around her delicate wrist in a silent threat; later she's grateful that there weren't any words, that she can pretend to forget and have no ugliness in her ears to play counterpoint to the way she used to say my lord.
The worst of it is how well she still knows him; that this is the same man frightens her more than his hands or his sword or the way he discards her without ever answering her accusations or recriminations. This breathed in him when he lay sleeping at her back; this is not some traitor wearing his face. This is, somehow, who she loves and who she's loved all her life and who she will try and fail to forget.
She knows him, and she still couldn't see when he was lost until far too late; guilt mingles with pain and anger until she can barely see for the hot rush of unshed tears, reflected in the strange way his eyes glitter before he lets her go with more force than a man with his injuries should be capable of. Understanding - a new and unwelcome knowledge - dawns in her eyes and in an instant she's turning, skirts in her hands, fleeing the sight of him.
This is not the end; this moment will haunt her in low-voiced rumours and whispers where she walks. He isn't the only one who faces consequences, and she hasn't got the luxury of walking away from them as he's set on. She can't defend herself from implication.
She hates him so desperately when she loses her footing and the hopeless unfairness keeps her on her knees, weeping with her hands in the tall grass. She knows far too well how she can expect to be punished for his sins, and some part of her thinks of turning back and following him with no more than what she carries now. If she's to be punished, God, at least let her deserve it.
Petrana doesn't turn. She sobs until she hasn't got the energy to, and then she raises herself up and begins to look for her horse. There is no time for mourning; everything has changed.