The Brush Tiger of Derven Ch. 01-05

"Perhaps you could show me your town," he suggests, still slightly irritated, "then I have a picnic planned for us for lunch."

"A picnic?" she says, adding some fake excitement as she leads him down the steps and towards the town center.

"Yes, my dear. It will actually be my first. In Alumenia we do not have such wide, open spaces outside. My sources say that it is a good way to stem a romance."

She smiles at his attempt to woo her, though her heart remains cold and lifeless. The remainder of their morning is spent wandering through the various shops displaying the Derven wares. All of the owners and citizens bow in awe of the pair, fooled by Irron's good looks and Namora's excellent acting. When they finally reach the last shop, a knife shop, Irron is beside himself.

He picks up a beautifully made, dark wooden knife. The one piece construction features a blade of the same wood. He runs a finger along the edge, leaving behind a line of blood as the blade slices through his skin. He examines the finely made, leather sheath.

"You Dervens can make just about anything out of wood, can't you?" he mumbles to Namora. He turns to her, curious yet skeptical, "What would a wooden knife be used for?"

She smiles, seeing the nervous shop owner hover by them, "Hunting. Mostly small game, but it is strong enough to clean a deer with. The down fall is that the blade can't be resharpened as much as a metal one, for obvious reasons." After seeing Irron continue to examine the weapon, she can see that he wants it, if for no other reason than novelty. She turns to the shop owner.

"John, how much would you ask for the knife?"

He shifts awkwardly, smoothing his hair back, "For my Lady, a deer would cover it."

Irron looks confused, "You don't use money?"

"There are a few shops that do, those who deal mainly with the peddlers, but as a whole we purchase on the barter system," she says to him before turning back to the owner, "Now John, don't be modest on account of us, I know this is worth more. What would you charge your neighbor?"

"Well," he pauses, as if almost embarrassed to mention it to the Princess, "An elk or at least six tiger pelts, but I would never expect our Princess to pay for anything."

Namora gives him a look, as if to say she would never take anything from him for free. Irron rustles around in his inside coat pocket and pulls out a silver coin, about the width of an egg. He hands it to the shop owner, "Would this cover it? I know you don't use money, but it is silver. You could trade it to the jeweler for something you want."

"Oh no, King Irron, I couldn't accept that...it is too much and I do not have enough in my shop to pay you the difference," by now the owner is sweating profusely.

Namora stays out of their discussion, wondering how it will end up. The shop owner is right; while a silver coin in Alumenia might not buy bushel of fresh vegetables, in Derven it is worth six times the owner's price.

Irron insists and places the coin in the owner's hand, "It is the smallest I have on me, so I suppose you will just have to keep the rest for yourself. It truly is a fine knife," he adds and before the owner can object further Irron leaves the shop. Namora bids him farewell and follows Irron. Though his gesture seems generous, she knows that wood is an expensive commodity in Alumenia. As Derven only exports furniture, handmade wood wares are extremely valuable in other countries. A wooden knife like this one could be worth as much as a horse in Geofen.

"Astounding," Irron says, tying the knife to his belt loop, "I would have never dreamed of a wooden knife. How is it that it says so strong and sharp? What kind of wood is it?" He once again takes Namora's arm and begins to head south of town, where the small cluster of his troops are camped.

Slightly irritated at his amazement, Namora replies, "There are many types of trees that grow in Derven. Your knife comes from the burwood tree; there aren't many of them. Instead of seeding, once a burwood tree dies, its roots spring up another in the same place. It is a very tough, impervious and stubborn tree; it takes a lot to kill one and most die of old age."

"They aren't cut down while alive?"

"No, not that one. It is a coveted symbol of our nation, almost sacred. No one would dare kill a living burwood. Most knives are carved from branches that the tree sheds. There hasn't been a dead burwood tree harvested since before I was born. Aside from that, the extremely dense bark makes a living one almost impossible to chop down."

Despite her distaste of Irron, she is somewhat hopeful for their picnic. Perhaps seeing the man in a very human sort of situation will help add to his character. As they soon leave the town behind, only followed by her chaperone, the pair nears the Alumenian camp. When they are close, the soldiers stand in a line at attention for their King; he simply ignores them and continues walking to an elaborate looking, golden canvas tent. Namora's hopes are crushed when she realizes that Irron hasn't the slightest clue as to what a picnic actually entails. With three sides of the tent drawn up, the fourth blocks out the warm sunlight, casting a shadow inside of it. Elegant, plush carpets crushing the grass below, a small table is formally set up in the center with two chairs opposite each other and a smorgasbord of cold meats, cheese, bread and fruit make up the spread.

Irron pulls out Namora's chair for her-she attempts to smile thankfully. He sits opposite her and tries to make small talk while loading his plate. Holding up a flesh colored, fuzzy fruit, he inquires, "What is this?"

"A peach."

"A peach?" he says in disbelief, "This is what it looks like fresh?"

Namora gives him a curious look, chewing slowly on a bite of cheese.

He back tracks a little, obviously slightly embarrassed by his astonishment, "We don't get very many fresh fruits or vegetables in Alumenia, only the ones that are hardy enough to make the trip up the narrow mountain side. Most of what we get is dried," he bites into the juicy fruit and for a moment Namora is able to see him as a person.

"That sounds...depressing," she confesses; Irron laughs slightly. "What kind of meat do you have there?"

Wiping the juice off of his chin with a cloth, he speaks freely, "The same as you, though like the fruit, most of it is dried. The only fresh meat we get in abundance is mountain goat. There are several of them that live wild in Alumenia."

Namora finds the thought of eating goats somewhat disgusting; the goats of Derven are kept not for their meat but for their milk, which is made in to cheese.

While Irron continues praising the taste of the fresh fruit, he nods to Jones who is standing at the edge of the tent. Namora can hear him walk to the small buffet and uncork a wine bottle, no doubt the 'special wine' Irron was talking about the night before. While answering a question of his, Namora explains the harvest season, her free hand drifting over her empty wine glass, signaling to Jones that she does not want any. The Advisor hesitates, fills up Irron's glass before setting the bottle down on the table and leaving.

As she finishes her explanation, she can see anger grow in Irron's eyes. He takes the bottle and pours her a glass, his voice as thick as the wine itself, "You must try some of this, my love. It is my own personal creation."

She smiles, trying to diffuse his anger, "Thank you, but I mustn't." Not only does she not trust her tongue to stay still while under the influence, she highly suspects that Irron is trying to either poison or drug her.

"Please, I insist," his voice is frigid.

Looking down at the glass of wine, she is quick to come up with an excuse, "I am sorry, Irron, but I cannot. It is tradition."

"You do not drink?" he questions, aggravated.

"I do, but...in Derven, when a woman gets engaged it is tradition for her to give up her most favorite food until her wedding day. As most give up bread, before you arrived I chose to give up spirits," she looks back up at him, her face forming a convincing sincerity, "You see, as a woman's life could never be complete without the love of a man, so must her meals be lacking as well," her stomach tumbles in knots as she forces her hand to slide across the table to find his, "As my life will not be complete until I marry you, I shall not enjoy a complete meal until that happens."

"I see," he responds coolly, almost convinced but not entirely.

Namora drops her eyes, speaking softly so that her voice comes out timid despite the fierce rage that boils inside of her, "So on our wedding night, I will share a glass of wine with you, as well as other things..."

When he squeezes her hand, she keeps her eyes down; his voice is flush with desire, "Perhaps we shouldn't wait that long to...share other things..."

She clenches her jaw, "But it is tradition."

"Then maybe we can start a new tradition," his free hand finds her chin and tips it up so that she has no choice but to look into his dark, dull eyes.

Letting the rage inside flare up to her cheeks, she can feel them begin to burn. Irron mistakes her blushing for embarrassment, to which he smiles at her. He lingers for a moment before rising. Walking around the table to her chair, he rests his hands on the back of it. He leans forward, his cheek brushing her ear while he plants a small kiss on her bare neck. The idea of any man touching her so, infuriates her. With Irron parading her around on his arm like a pet and making passes at her, she has never had so much contact with a man outside of training with Laren.

"Shall we head back to the castle, my love?"

. . . . .

The walk back to the castle doesn't take very long. Once they reach the steps, Namora stifles a large yawn; having hardly slept since the Festival and not at all the night before, she is utterly exhausted. Irron stops and kisses her hand, "Perhaps you should rest, my dear. We will have plenty of time to spend together tonight. Besides, I have some business I must attend to at camp."

She forces a smile, "Thank you, King Irron. I shall see you tonight."

He parts her company, not daring enough to try to kiss her in front of her chaperone. Once he is well on his way, Namora thanks the Officer and heads back to her room. Too tired to try to get out of her corset, she falls on to her bed and her eyes drift shut in a matter of moments.

CHAPTER 5: THE ORCHARD

Namora is back in the woods; it is impossibly dark as there are no stars in the sky, just the moon sulking in its loneliness. Namora knows, deep in her bones, that there are but a few more hours until the sun rises with its tentacles reaching rudely through the tree tops to touch every blade of grass, every particle of dirt, every fiber of her being.

The aching in her stomach threatens to consume her; Namora is desperately hungry but in her attempt to capture some prey, she herself has been spotted by something. Now, she runs. She is not sure from what but her instincts tell her that if she is caught it will be the end of her. She spots an opening in a thicket of brush and she dives for it, wiggling her body into the tight space. Her chest rises and falls rapidly; she forces herself to slow her panting and breathe through her nose. As her eyes desperately search the darkness for her hunter; she thinks she has lost him until a dark figure floats into sight. At first she cannot make out anything but its vertical shape, then menacing blue eyes glow in the darkness, reaching out to her very soul.

Namora sinks down, tensing her slender frame. The adrenaline courses through her veins; she is ready to attack or run, whichever happens first. As the eyes drift closer, her pursuer takes shape; the eyes are set in a tall, muscular frame. Golden blonde hair glimmers in the moon light. He calls to her, her hunter. Namora untangles her slender body from the brush, slinking out into the shadows. Something about him draws her out. She wants to be near him. She wants him to end her suffering.

. . . . .

She jerks awake, slightly panicking when she finds it hard to breathe. It takes a few moments for her to remember exactly where she is and to remember that it is a corset that restricts her movements. She sits up in her bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Pulling back a thick curtain, she spots the sun still high in the sky; she wasn't asleep for very long. As Irron doesn't expect her company until dinner, she is relieved to have the afternoon away from him. She splashes some water on her face before stepping out into the empty hallway.

As most of the attendants are preparing for the dinner service, Namora finds the castle almost abandoned so she seeks refuge in the orchard, lest she run into her father. Weaving her way in among the rows of old, established trees, she stops at the largest apple tree, its foliage thick and its apples plush at the height of the season. Quickly she looks around before she hikes up her silky dress and begins to climb the trunk. Weaving in and out among the braches she finally stops near the top, some twenty feet off of the ground, where the sweet fruit hangs just below the leaves, out of the sun.

Carefully she inspects a few before she plucks two, sinking her teeth into the crisp flesh. The sweet juice runs down her chin but she doesn't care since she hidden from view.

She is half way through her apple when she hears footsteps on the crushed rock below. Instantly she freezes, not wanting to be discovered. She hopes it is not Irron looking for her. As the footsteps draw closer, she can pick out two pairs and by the lightness of one and the slightly lopsided gait of the other, she knows it is Laren and her father.

Her guess is confirmed when she can see the pair stopping at the base of the trunk below her. As quiet as possible she slowly chews the chunk of apple already in her mouth, swallowing slowly. She can see her father look around, ensuring, like she did, that no one is near.

"I know this is rather unusual Laren, but I fear it is necessary," her father says quietly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your Highness," Laren says, equally hushed.

Her father pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket; Namora can barely see that it has been shut with the royal seal, "If, for any reason, accident or not, I am to perish from this world, you must open this and follow it to the letter." He hands it over to Laren, who takes it hesitantly.

"Am I to understand King, that you suspect a threat on your life?"

"I haven't been entirely honest with you all these years, Laren. The Queen didn't—no, now is not the time. You must trust my judgment on this one; I promise all will be revealed at the appropriate moment. What is important right now is that you swear, on your life, that you will follow the orders on that paper upon my death, or any deadly injury that is inflicted upon me. Am I clear?"

Laren, though obviously disturbed, nods slowly, "I swear, on my life and yours that I will do as you order."

Nathanial nods slowly. As if he is lost in thought, he turns without another word and wanders back to the castle. Namora can hear her father's lopsided steps retreat into nothing. She remains as still as the tree, not daring to move while Laren is anywhere nearby.

Slowly, he tucks the letter into his jacket pocket. Though he looks down at the ground, his voice caries up to her, "You chew like a horse, Princess."

She rolls her eyes in exasperation. Finding a clearing down through the braches, she holds out her second apple and lets go. Anyone else would have been hit on the top of their head but Laren's deft hand quickly plucks it out of the air. He walks a few steps away from the trunk so as to let her climb down. Reluctantly, with her half eaten apple in her mouth, she does.

Once on the ground, she takes a bite as she turns to Laren.

"Hiding from your future husband?" he taunts, playfully.

She swallows, ignoring his jab, "The sweetest fruit is always the hardest to reach."

He looks her over, shaking his head, "Eunice will be angry with you. You should try to wash up before she finds out."

Namora sighs and walks next to her old friend. Together they slowly wander back towards the castle. While she wants to know what is in that letter, she knows better than to ask. Though Laren is just as faithful to her as he is to her father, she is not Queen yet.

Half way back, Laren breaks the silence, "I have heard that the brush tiger wanders by candle light, sneaking around, about, and out at night."

Namora throws her apple core behind some bushes, "As it seeks a reprieve from the sun, by the moonlight, the tiger has some."

"Upon my death, I shall never see, another tiger as beautiful as thee," Laren turns to her as they stop at the castle doors, "But the tiger be warned, or else we be forlorn'd, for the only thing worse than losing her to the sun, is losing our beloved tiger to no one."

She musters a small smile for her friend's concern before she leaves him alone in the orchard, trudging back to her room in silence.

Someone drew a bath for her, so she quickly undresses and climbs into the warm, wooden tub. She manages to wash her hair and scrub her body before Eunice wanders in.

The old woman, seeing the somewhat dirty green dress and the apple tree leaves on the floor, gives Namora a teasingly irritated look before she turns away, holding up a towel for the Princess.

The underdress that Eunice gives her is substantially more fancy then usual; the top buttons up at the neck, ruffling at the collar, while the sleeves that stop at her elbows do the same. After cinching her corset tight, Eunice quickly shows Namora another new dress, to which she hesitantly puts on despite her better judgment. Though the old handmaid smiles brightly, Namora feels sick to her stomach in the shimmery golden fabric. Once Eunice begins to button it up, she understands the need for the underdress; the neck of the actual dress plummets to a V which would expose her breasts if not for the cover up. The tight sleeves show the outline of her muscles and stop just above her elbows.

"Your King Irron had this sent from Alumenia this afternoon. We had to scramble to come up with an appropriate underdress, however it still looks beautiful."

She smiles at the old lady in the mirror as her crown is perched on her head, "Thank you, Eunice."

As the sun has not yet set there is about an hour before dinner; Namora finds herself again in the orchard. She finds a bench, tucked away in the far end that faces west, where she can watch the sun set on another day of her life to be. Though the corset doesn't allow her posture to be anything but perfect, she desperately wishes to slouch. The warmth of the sun combined with the layers of tight fabric cause her skin to get hot. She looks around the orchard and upon seeing no one in sight, she lifts up the hem of her dress to allow her pale legs to breathe. Drawing her left knee up upon the bench beside her, she leans backwards onto her hands, letting the breeze waft over her body. It isn't long before the bright sun makes her tired eyes drift shut. Her mind, just as tired from pretending as her body is from lack of sleep, begins to wander in and out of focus. She doesn't hear Irron approach or even hear him sit down on the bench next to her. Instead, it is his icy cold hand on her inner thigh that snaps her eyes open.

Though her first instinct is to jerk away and punch him, she steadies herself. The lust in his eyes would be enough to make her blush if her face wasn't already red from the beating sun and the anger brewing in her chest. His cold fingers snake their way up her leg. As nonchalantly as she can muster, she stops his hand with hers and lifts it off of her body before she returns her foot to the ground and her dress around herself.