《· of dutiful scorn ·》

～·～·～

"M'lady? M'lady, are you in there?" called a very anxious maid.

Alyria sighed disappointedly, trailing her eyes after the maid she could not see, for she was too deep in the forest. Not deep enough for any danger to pose a threat—the pixies would never lead her astray—yet far enough to forget her reality. Even for just a moment.

Standing to her feet, the maiden brushed her skirt of collected forestry before making the leisurely journey back. The pixies followed, fluttering about with their beautiful golden twinkle. The brilliance of such made the night far more admirable. Soon, after passing the fallen log, followed by a bed of wild mushrooms—which Dandeberry took the pleasure of bouncing joyously upon—Alyria spied the anxious maid.

The maid, Remmy, had her blonde hair wrapped into a high bun, yet it had lost a strand that fell over her fair face distraughtly. Her arms were crossed, yet she had the awful habit of biting her nails, which she currently did whilst muttering to herself with a pace fitting of a worried-sick mother. The irony of which Remmy was six autumns younger.

"You called for me?" Alyria announced as she emerged from the outskirts.

Remmy snapped her head, freezing, like the Dallows itself had come upon her. A moment later, she fell to Alyria's hand, clutching it dearly with eyes of glistening relief.

"Oh, m'lady, I'm so happy for your return! I had begun thinking the most horrible of things had happened," she cried, almost completely falling to her knees if it weren't for Alyria's free hand gripping her arm. "Why, how am I supposed to bring ill-ridden news to the Mistress of her daughter's disappearance? Or. . . o-or worse! How can I do such a thing?"

Such with the theatrics, Alyria winced.

Rosaceae fluttered into view, glancing at the poor maid with a frown, whilst Dandeberry—being Dandeberry—made mocking entertainment of the display the same way she had with Alyria.

"Come on, Remmy. On your feet like a proper lady," the maiden ushered, using force to pull the maid up by her arms.

"Yes, o-of course," Remmy maffled in embarrassment, quickly straightening herself with a dust of her maid's uniform.

It was a simple attire of a white blouse falling short off her shoulders and reaching her elbows, cinched by the black bodice to emphasise her malnourished waist, allowing her tanned brown skirt to drop in seamless folds. Her apron had seen its fair share of work, with colourless patches sewn into holes, yet it was unique in its own way.

"Oh my—" her sweet blue eyes widened in awe, spotting the orbs of golden wonder. "Fireflies? M'lady, how is it you've brought a firefly or two with you?"

Alyria only smiled. The pixies never hid away, for one could only see them if they saw fit to blow a dash of pixie dust in one's eyes. From Alyria's experience, it was quite the crisp, tingling sensation in all her senses, an acknowledgement of their existence for the first time.

Thus, to Remmy, they were but only fireflies which wandered the night.

Dandeberry hovered in front of Remmy's sweetened gaze, lighting her youth in all its unblemished worth; fair skin enveloping a sharply round face, settled with a snub nose, pinkish lips of a gentle smile, and sky blue doe eyes. All framed with the strands of blonde hair still without solace after a moment of distraughtness.

Dandeberry made the oddest of faces, matched with equally weird noises, all while Remmy watched contently as if it were a mere insect lingering around with interest. Ro stayed around Alyria as she wasn't fond of most humans. Meanwhile, Bramble was suspiciously nowhere to be seen.

"Have you news for me?" Alyria asked, gently shooing Dandeberry's schemes away.

It was normally Tali, her handmaid, who came to fetch her.

Remmy nodded. "A letter arrived this afternoon addressed to all maidens of the Willows family." She leaned in, as if spilling the newest gossip overheard like ale in a cup. "And it's from the Lord Vlarkala himself. I hear his son has become a bachelor in search of a bride."

"I'm hardly surprised. And I suppose it's an invitation to a ball of sorts." Alyria rolled her eyes, it wasn't the first time a bachelor formally wished for a wife. "Well, let's not keep the Mistress waiting."

Remmy nodded, and together, the two maidens hiked up the lush pasture with lifted skirts. Blades of grassy coolness swept against Alyria's legs. She imagined herself running through a vast open land where the only concern of hers was the time of day. If only.

Before reaching the peak of the knoll, Alyria turned and waved farewell to her pixie friends, yet she wondered where Bramble had flown off to. It wasn't like him to disappear when bidding her adieu. And although she couldn't see, she knew Ro and Dandeberry were returning the adieu from the way they twirled around each other before parting ways with bouncing flutterings.

"Did you. . . just wave to the fireflies?" Remmy questioned, glancing over her shoulder with confusion.

"They were the light guiding me home. It would be rude to leave without expressing my gratitude, would it not?"

Remmy looked down like a child caught wrongfully judged. "Of course, m'lady. Forgive me for implying otherwise."

"Come now, no need for such apologies."

As they reached the top, a cobblestone pathway etched into the soil where considerable rocks gathered on either side like a low-dropping fence. From the metal lamp posts hanging above, its orange hue glistened upon the moisture gathering on the rock's mossy coat. Walking along the cobblestone saw the rocky entrance drop into a single layer, which framed the curved trek, keeping out the patches of grass left untouched.

It wasn't long before the maidens had reached Limroy, a village known for not only its hospitality in welcoming all fine guests who sought the Lord Bastian of Vlarkala—whose estate hailed furthermore west-north—but also Odsian's Peak, a great mountain towering in the north's face.

The first few cottages greeted the maidens with their fenced-off backyards. Stones a many built up the cottages with paled concrete, slanted brown bricks for rooftops—some with a squared chimney—and each fitted with second storeys for wilted gardens to hang over their protruding ledges from windows.

Each cottage passed was livened by soft candlelight glowing through its windows as the cobblestone path diverged and curved by each doorstep. Autumn leaves grazed in the crisped wind, sending a neighbouring dog into barking suspicion. Plenty of metal lamp posts lit the otherwise dusk-fallen village.

People were scarce once the sun had taken its last gaze. Alyria couldn't blame them, for the people of Limroy never forgot the horrors the forest housed. Years ago, before little Ria had stumbled upon the village, Limroy was prone to attacks by nocturnal demons who thrived on blood, yet burned upon a sun's glare. Vampyres.

Audrey and Piers—their eldest brother—spoke of how men, women, children, and animals were snatched from naïve little cottages and slaughtered in the streets. Those who were taken, yet miraculously returned, had every trace of humanity mangled and stripped away; becoming feral beings far more savage than the nocturnal demons themselves. Her mother, Mistress Fiona Annabeth Willows, lost her husband to the creatures in the early nights.

Yet, ever since his Lordship Bastian of Vlarkala's claim on the empty land a day's ride from Limroy, his protection offered solace to the weary-boned. The last vampyre attack was a little over a decade ago. And for Lord Vlarkala's generosity, Limroy offered vast portions of food, dried meats and fruits, firewood, herbs, construction materials, apothecary relief, weapons, mead, money and such to develop and sustain what had become an embellished estate that could be seen from far.

Alyria could see it from her viewpoint in the village; the soft speckles of lanterns in the distance where the grand estate sat darkly upon the slope of a clustering ridge rising through the earth.

Having reached the town square, the cobblestone pooled without a trace of grass, although a few trees sprouted along the edges. Cottages developed into large buildings where wooden beams peered through smooth plains of pale concrete for architectural delight, the three storeys topped off with curved clay orange roofs.

Stood in the middle was a grand statue of Lord Bastian himself—the village's way of honouring him. His stone-hewn pride held a gauntlet fist over the breastplate of his heart, onwards looking where Limroy's entrance laid in the east; a gesture to greet wayfarers. His tousled hair stilled over the spaulders of his shoulders where the rising sun insignia of Vlarkala laid on the right.

The maiden barely glimpsed where a few Limroy folk had laid bouquets, bread, and dried meats at his feet. It was sure to be stolen by hungry mouths later on—human or animal.

"If there's to be a ball, suppose I could pay a visit to the modiste," Alyria said in thought as they wandered past the very establishment. Next to it was the Willows' fine business, an apothecary shop called Clover and Grove.

Remmy looked at the musing maiden with piqued interest. "What kind would you pick, m'lady?"

"Hmm, perhaps one without sleeves so curly frills can make do with what they please in the dropped neckline. A fitting corset with a grand skirt of laced perfection to accentuate a beautiful sunflower shade of yellow. Adequate, wouldn't you say?"

Remmy's bright blue eyes beamed in fascination. "M'lady, that would look most beautiful! As if your skin were the flower's florets!"

Alyria grinned. "Precisely."

Strolling past the prideful statue, the Jenki's tavern hollered out its presence with men of all occupations heartily conversing about such masculine things. A few peered at the maidens, most paying no interest, yet there was one she recognised instantly; a rejected suitor glaring at Alyria above the rim of his clutched metal cup. He quaffed the beverage slowly, watching her walk by with predator's eyes from his meagre vantage point at the tavern's entrance.

Brone, was it? Alyria looked away, indifferent—as if such insecurity should intimidate her.

She had no desire to marry a man without regard for personal hygiene. Within the mere minute he approached her, Brone had the audacity to offer courtship after scratching his balding scalp, coughing phlegm into his hands, smearing the snot from his beard, and wiping such disgust onto his dirty hunter's attire.

Not to mention, he was well into his forties. Although a skilled hunter, nothing sounded more unpleasant; she would rather bathe with the pigs than accept such a filthy man.

"M'lady, i-if I may?"

"Yes?"

"What. . ." Remmy fell silent, hesitant. "What does. . . accentuate mean?"

Alyria glanced at the maid with a chuckle swelling in her throat. "To call upon attention without a word uttered. Like a ray of sunlight peering through the darkened clouds."

Remmy's mouth formed an oh of understanding.

A familiar, rhythmic clang-clang-clang drew closer with each step until the maidens happened upon the blacksmith's establishment towards the west end of the town square. A great fire burned in the forge. Blackened brick and wood held strong as Limroy's blacksmith hammered brightly lit metal upon the anvil. Heat crackled near his tanned skin of brawny build, sweat drenching through his smoky white shirt. Black breeches sat fittingly with leather boots, draped over by a blackened leather apron that had survived plenty of scorch marks.

"G-Good evening, Abraham," Remmy greeted in diffidence.

A clang came as his response, obliviously engorged in his work. The maid sulked behind Alyria, embarrassment ridding her of mustered confidence with fingers wrung together. Alyria found amusement in it. A mouse would fare had better odds. She turned as the blacksmith paused briefly to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead.

"A good evening to you, blacksmith."

Brown eyes glanced up in question, then resting a smile upon the maiden. His golden curls held at the nape of his neck with a tie, although many locks frilled about the square frame of his face where he kept his prominent jaw clean-shaven. He was rather dashing, caring and respectable, as favourable in the village—preceding his family's reputation, four generations and counting.

"Evenin', lass. Are yer here for that item yer 'quested a week ago?" the blacksmith offered with a Scottish accent.

Alyria quirked a brow. "I do not recall making a request. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else?"

Realisation widened the blacksmith's eyes and he quickly cleared his throat. "Yes, uh—someone else. What brings yer here?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," Alyria said with a smile. "Just passing by the brutes at the tavern."

"Aye, brutes they are. Never be enough barrels to keep their cups filled."

"And yet it's a wonder the tavern always has dry spouts."

The blacksmith chuckled in understanding, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. He had good qualities. As good of a man as they came. A man Alyria would happily begin a courtship with. . . if it weren't for the way his eyes wandered towards the shy maid peering from behind.

"Remmy, perhaps you can make yourself acquainted with Abraham," the maiden suggested despite the clench in her chest. "I can make it home from here."

Remmy snapped her head to the maiden, surprised, yet there was no denying the hopeful smile brightening her doe eyes. Alyria nudged her head in the blacksmith's direction. Remmy gave a soft nod with expressive gratitude before shyly approaching the man making her no better than a mouse.

The maiden took her leave, although spared a glance at the pair over her shoulder. She observed how the blacksmith's gaze softened to Remmy's feeble greeting, imprinting a pink hue on his cheeks.

Alyria sighed and hastened away, wishing for someone to gaze at her with the same affections as he did. Alas, it wasn't meant to be.

However, it proved Audrey wrong. The love Alyria longed for did exist—no matter how scant. Mr and Mrs Payne were the embodiment of timeless love, and perhaps one of the only happy couples.

She walked away from the town square, diverting right, up a relaxed ascend of lengthened cobblestone steps where two cottages bridged above her. Its ledge once had the most admirable flower bed spilling over in long waving vines, yet like all the other flowery ledges, it too, had wilted, casting a ghastly shade of brown beneath the hanging lanterns.

It was then that Alyria felt a tug in her hair. She paused, turning questionably with a hand feeling where the coiled strands were disturbed from its braided bun. Nothing out of the ordinary, and after a moment, the maiden brushed it off.

After trekking by lantern-lit cottages, the maiden had finally reached the Willows establishment claiming the knoll kept in Limroy's north. It wasn't quite a manor, yet it possessed the audacity to pose as such, especially with Odsian's Peak's shadowing presence looming behind like a guard dog.

Stone-bearing walls encompassed the land which the house claimed, fitted with many bushes prickly so. Large, autumn-shedding trees laid bare, beckoning those to dare enter. Lanterns were lit out the front porch as Alyria audaciously entered the darkened land. It's old grey bricks and chipped cream concrete gave way to the historical nature of the property. It was one of the first built in Limroy, and one of few still well maintained after nearly a century of housing the Willows family.

At times, Alyria felt she was an imposter, much like a skin-walker would.

"Back so soon, Ria?"

The maiden nearly jumped out of her skin with fright as she snapped her head to the voice. "Piers! How many times have I—"

"Have you told me not to sneak up on you? Only about a hundred and twenty-one times, and counting, sister," the man remarked with a traitable grin. "Yet it's so easy."

Alyria rolled her eyes with a pout. Piers was the eldest brother of the Willows who ran Clover and Grove, the family tradition of being herbalists. As the only source of medical treatment, and in favour of his Lordship, business remained sumptuous, to say the least.

And if one wished to find the man, he either had his head buried in apothecary experiments or the gardens. Upon a lantern's observation, Alyria could guess her older brother had been amidst the front garden for quite some time. His dark blue shirt tucked into a pair of sullied black breeches, folded to his elbows, revealing dirt-smeared forearms. His characteristic brown leather vest welcomed women to the sight of his chest where the first couple of buttons were undone. And of course, his brown boots were always rimmed in a caked layer of mud.

However, Alyria was frowning at the nasty red graze along his tanned collarbone. "What happened to your chest?"

"Oh, uh—" Piers chuckled sheepishly. "Uh, I found a baby bird on the ground. It looked as if it had fallen out of its nest. So I tucked the little guy in my shirt to climb back up the tree and well. . . he got too excited and scratched me."

Alyria sweetened her gaze. "Aw, how kind of you, brother."

Piers rolled his amber-like eyes that saw chestnut locks. "Haven't you somewhere to be?"

"Haven't you a shrub to trim?"

"It's not I who mother wishes to see," Piers retorted with crossed arms.

Alyria felt a sudden knot clench in her stomach. "Be honest, is mother mad?"

Her brother shrugged, curling the reappearance of that irritating grin. "Why so little faith in mother, Ria? It isn't like you've kept her waiting for almost three hours and missed supper an hour ago."

"Can you, for once, take matters seriously?"

"Define 'serious'."

Alyria muttered a profanity under her breath before turning her back to the fool. But there was no denying the dread swelling into her throat as if hands had claimed her neck in a wringing grip. Mother was mad. She was most definitely mad.

Shaking the thought away, Alyria marched up the cluster of cobblestone steps with an elegant lift of her skirt before pushing the grand door of hewn oak open.

Stew hit her senses first; a faint, delightful scent of meat, vegetables and herbs boiling in broth. Candles lit the hallway raked in wooden pillars that supported the second storey's weight, wrapped adequately in brocade floral wallpaper. At the end, the hallway expanded into an open space where the staircase would lay to the right, just out of sight. It wasn't Alyria's destination. Quickly, she made herself presentable; dusting off stubborn forestry and dirt, and smoothing down unruly misplaced coils. She cleared her throat before venturing in and making the first corner left.

There she found her mother, Mistress Fiona Annabeth Willows. The lounging area housed two large windows occupying the left wall. It drank in the darkness from the front porch, thus, Mother would have surely seen Alyria's approach. The furniture all matched from the same furbisher. Fat golden legs curved into balls, green velvet fabric tufted to luxury for the two sofas facing each other, whereas the small tables situated around the room maintained their golden trimmed wood.

"What hour should you call this, daughter?" her mother questioned. Its rhetorical nature was blunt.

She sat in her solitary chair no different to the sofas. From how close she was to the hearth, its orange heat burned murky against her typical taste of a viridian green dress with black underlays folded over fashioned cuts. She always wrapped her honey-blonde hair in an enormous high bun, masking the silver highlights that soaked in the orange tint.

Alyria cleared her throat yet again, finding it parched with nerves. "Forgive me, mother. I was. . ."

"Off with the faeries again?" her mother mused, finally looking away from the window and settling her amber scrutiny on the maiden.

"Of course not, mother. There's no such thing," Alyria replied with averting eyes, echoing berated words. "I was tending the horses with Mr Payne this afternoon. He sends his regards."

Her mother hummed in cruel wonder. "And yet it's not the truth that dress wears. And your hair looks no better than a beastly hedgehog."

Alyria couldn't keep her expression from wincing at the sight of her dress. Her antics had sullied its once soft blue complexion. It was hardly noticeable in the dark, yet contrasted uglily so in the firelit room.

"Forgive me, Mother." There was no use in arguing.

"No matter. Come, sit." Mother made a gesture to the sofa before her. "We have other matters to discuss."

Alyria obediently nodded her head. She came forth and smoothed the back of her dress before plotting down. She noticed the accent table waiting at Mother's right. There beheld a letter with its dark red seal as broken as the Capitol's justice system. 

"I trust in the hours you spend away from home you've been upholding your duty in search of a husband?"

Alyria snapped out of her thoughts, though caught off guard. "I. . . I haven't yet—"

"Of course, not," Fiona muttered. "And I suppose this is how my generosity is repaid after taking you in? Ridiculing your duties, prancing around with the horses and faeries, making a jest of the Willows' name?"

Alyria kept her vision low, tracing the glittering patterns sewn in mother's vividly green skirt. It was a fruitless distraction to Mother's gaze scorning upon her ill-mannered behaviour.

"You are far too old to be acting like an ungrateful child," Fiona chided. "You'll be lucky enough if any man should still want you."

The words were like frozen pine needles against her skin. Unlike most girls, Fiona allowed Alyria the leisure of finding a suitor herself, for her dark tanned skin wasn't the most desired. Fiona took pity on that. Yet all the maiden had done for the past nine years was scoff and scorn at any man audacious enough to ask.

She didn't understand why—she was acquainted with many men, yet her heart didn't sing thrills at any who took interest. At times, the maiden questioned what—whom—attracted her. The blacksmith, as dashingly handsome as he was favourable, would be the safe choice for a promised life of contentment. Nothing her heart would flutter at the sight of.

"And as luck would have it, you are being summoned to Lord Serafino Vlarkala's betrothal ball."

Alyria peered up, mildly intrigued by the name of Lord Bastian's thirdborn. "Oh?"

"Indeed," Mother murmured, picking up the questionable letter to run her fingers across its folded material. "A most magnificent ball to be held five days from now. Thus, the modiste shall be sent tomorrow morning to tailor you a gown of noble beauty, and the maids will make fine work of all your required necessities beforehand. We haven't a moment to spare."

A day before her birthday.

"Sounds delightful, mother. Will there be anything else?"

"Nothing more." Mother waved off with the letter-clutching hand. "Although, Mrs Payne saved you a helping of dinner, so fetch it from the kitchen, daughter, you look famished."

"I'll be sure to thank her. Thank you, Mother." Alyria smiled softly with a bow of her head.

"Oh, and did you happen to see your brother on your way here?"

"Yes, he's tending the garden outside."

Mother groaned exasperatedly, rubbing weary fingers against her temple as if the answer drained her so. "He ought to have a wife by now if he put the same effort into finding one as those shrivelled plants."

Alyria smiled. After bidding her mother good night, she left, taking her amusement with.

～·☆·～

Mrs Payne always made such a delectable stew, quickly becoming one of Alyria's favourite dishes over the years. After gorging on not one, but two bowls with plentiful helpings of bread rolls—much to Mrs Payne's delight—Alyria's belly ached against the corset, wishing for nothing more than to free her bloated belly.

As she waddled into her dimly lit bedchambers, the maiden absently threw the door shut with a click. Her thoughts were elsewhere, having hasty fingers unlace the corset of its clench around her waist. A moment later, a deep relief groaned from Alyria's belly as the corset dropped at her feet. She stood merely, taking a moment to appreciate the simplicity of having breath swell freely into her lungs.

She swiftly changed into a pale chemise, its embrace soothing over her skin as it hugged comfort on her hips. The absence of candlelight provided a tranquil ambience, casting a sense of cool serenity upon her sleepy soul.

The last thing to do was free her hair from its French braid. And so, after removing the ribbon, the maiden took great care in tenderly untangling the dark weaves until they fell to the narrow curve of her back.

A glow softened in the corner of her eye. Alyria turned, curious, when an abrupt orb of golden light squealed in her face. She shrieked, wide-eyed in fright, as a certain pixie beamed a charismatic smile.

"Bramble?!" Alyria gasped again, completely taken aback as no pixie had ever ventured into her house, much less her bedchambers. "What on earth are you doing here?"

She instinctively held out her hand, cupped for the pixie to settle in, and he did so; plonking down on crossed legs to share his latest antics in fruitful detail. Alyria listened intently, feeling her brows rise in surprise.

"You'll have me believe it was Dandeberry's idea to see how long you could hide in my hair undetected? Come now, even she has her limits—" Alyria tapped a finger on his head— "you did this of your own intent, didn't you?"

His guilty smile said it all, leaving the maiden to sigh disappointedly.

"Rosaceae must be beside herself with worry." Bramble's smile faltered, as if the consequences of his actions were finally dawning on him. Alyria eyed it well. "You didn't think of that, did you?"

The pixie drawled a hand through oaky locks, holding it at the nape of his neck with a sheepish smile that couldn't meet the maiden's stern gaze. It was enough for her to sigh in defeat. She fell back onto her four-poster bed that sat comfortably in the middle of the room, near an open window; an invitation to hush in a nightly crisp chill and all the noises of a silent village.

"I suppose it's too dangerous for you to return to Everflower Falls this late. Someone may see you," she murmured in thought, watching Bramble's smile beam once again, as if that was his plan all along. "Which leaves me no other choice but to put you in a jar and pickle you alive."

The victorious smile dropped into brow-drawing surprise, lifting the pixie to his feet.

"Perhaps I shall call it, pickled pixie with a side of sugar-glazed wings. I've always wondered what a pixie's wings tasted like—" Alyria glanced down with an innocent smile— "and you, sweet Bramble, have the tastiest looking wings by far."

She smiled broadly with an innocuous giggle. Bramble stared at her, horrified beyond the words that seemed to have rotted on his tongue. The maiden took great pleasure in it, having finally returned the times he had made her a target for his antics.

"Come now, I only jest. But perhaps, you'd like to help me lather lavender oil through my hair? It's quite the delicious aroma."

The pixie nervously shook his head with refusing hands. He darted up, planting a hasty kiss on her cheek before zipping out the open window before the maiden had any real intention of pickling a pixie.

O, how sweet victory tasted.

—

ヾ(￣▽￣)Bye~Bye~

~Sonya~

Word count excluding A/N: 4620