The White Hart

The White Hart

In the depths of a winter far back in time, morning rose frozen from the blackness of night. Like a pale star carved of ice, the sun shivered as it lifted into the fragile air, its naked majesty unhindered by even a wisp of cloud. All around, the wild hills rose and fell, covered with snow and ice and bristling with black, barren trees. Darker forest loomed deeper into the vale, coniferous trees impervious to the blight of Scotland's cold stood tall against the weight of icicles and frost. Within the ancient protection of the pines lived all the creatures of the forest during those months. Man rarely ventured there, for it was rumored to be haunted and men are craven creatures when not traveling in groups.

That morning, as sunlight crisply sparkled across the frozen edges of things, the creatures of the wood remained still and listened. A party was moving through the bottom of vale some miles away, and there could be noted the noises of dogs, men, and horses. This season had been lean for beasts and men alike, and the creatures that trembled in their dens knew in their hearts that they hadn't the energy to run far. Yet one rose to his hooves, a mighty stag with a lean body insulated against the chill by a pelt of white fur. The ten points of his antlers glittered like bare ivory veined in silver, gleaming in the slips of light that filtered in through the branches, and his dark eyes watched unblinking, ears facing forward to listen to the hunting party approach. Does, fawns, and younger bucks sought shelter there, and if driven from the wood they would have no cover at all.

His hooves and slim legs waded through the cover of snow as if it were hardly there, his passage as silent as flowing fog. The stag, in those times named a hart, descended into the vale to meet the coming of men, the cervine nobility of his blood heating his body and giving him the courage to keep going. At the bottom of the slope he waited, as still as one of the naked, gray ash trees that clawed up towards the sky. Ravens perched and cawed as the hunting retinue came closer, the scavengers waiting for the inevitable. And when, finally, the hounds caught the scent of the hart and began to give chase, he dashed off through the slim trunks, his snowy fur flashing in the light.

The chase was long and winding, and led far away from the deep, ancient wood. The stories of that hunt say that the hart was tireless because he was magical. Others say that only when he was far enough away from his herd did he turn and menace the hounds with his antlers, feigning exhaustion, killing many of the dogs as they unwisely sought to pull him down. The red of his blood soaked into the earth, and each drop of it brought a crimson flower to bloom up through the snow. When enough spears had lodged themselves in his body the hart cried out in despair and sank to the ground, and the earth trembled at his death.

But that is surely just a story.

Many years later, a young woman knelt as she raked out the ashes from a large fireplace in the king's castle. Winters in the region had a way of sliding into any shelter, the touch of ice deadly to those who didn't keep their hearths warm. She had to work quickly, pulling piles of ash into a burlap sack with a steady squealing scratch of the small metal trowel. Already the chill gripped at her fingers and cheeks and ears as it slid in from the chimney flue. A rosy bloom glowed on her face and the tip of her nose as she set new wood down, her fingers clumsy with cold.

For a long moment she knelt in the dust and soot in her plain gray servant's dress, her hands extended towards the growing flames she'd kindled to bathe in their warmth. The chill from the flue crawled back up and away, its deadly touch retreating from the room. Were it not for the smudges of soot and dust the girl's beauty could have rivaled any of the royal ladies living within those walls. Her features were fine and her eyes were large and dark, standing out against her milky skin and her snow-white hair. Slender limbs and a slender frame made her seem fragile, although in truth she was quick and tough. The girl had never broken a bone, no matter how hard she was struck or pushed or beaten as punishment, and she was punished often. The only reason she was kept around was for her beauty, the wildness of her spirit only forgiven when it was put to use in a bed chamber.

Gathering up her tools, the girl got to her bare feet and made her way down towards the kitchens and the servants' quarters to clean herself. That had been the last fireplace to need cleaning, and as she walked a wake of shimmering gray dust trailed behind her, shaken free from her hair and clothing with every step down the narrow and winding stairwells. Unlike her hands, her feet were hardly bothered by the chill of winter, and after having been denied shoes while growing up she had learned to live without them. Indeed, she seemed so resolutely impervious to discipline that many thought her to be far too stupid to understand what proper behavior for a servant meant.

Indeed, the girl was not simple, but she allowed others to think that of her. It wasn't a difficult lie to weave, given how she hardly spoke or truly engaged with anyone else. The other serving staff disliked her but tolerated her and allowed her a small space in the back of a pantry to sleep in. In that room she kept all of her earthly possessions, though the most precious among them were hidden beneath a loose stone in the floor behind a barrel. The girl left just enough by her bed roll to convince those who thieved from her that there was nothing else to look for, and for the sake of keeping her true keepsakes secured she happily suffered the loss of a few baubles and sweets.

This morning, of course, she passed by her little space in the pantry as she stepped outside to bathe herself. Even with snow heavy upon the ground, the girl still cracked the ice over the water trough for the horses and pulled out a bucket's worth to use for her shower. Ash sluiced from her white hair and from her naked body, the cold not biting as fiercely within the confines of the barn. Here the animals were just beginning to mill about, digesting their morning feed of beer mash, hay, and wheat chaff. With half a bucket of water left, she washed the ash from her dress and hung it up by the horse's stalls, knowing that their body heat would be enough to dry it.

In the meantime, the girl slept in the straw stored up in the loft, warmed by the rising body heat of the animals. She didn't have long to doze before the sound of the barn door opening creaked into the dark cavernous space, and the sound of boots crunching upon the hard-pressed dirt of the floor came further within. The girl remained still, listening. If the door remained open, then it was someone she likely didn't want to run into. If the door closed, then that was something else entirely. Soon enough the door was slowly shut, and the latch was set into place to bar against unwanted visitors.

With a smile, the girl slipped from her warm nest of straw, standing and brushing herself off as her visitor, one of the lord's middle sons, climbed the ladder to the loft. His clothing was fine - leather, linen, and wool in abundance to keep away the chill, though in such a warm place he quickly removed most of it. Dressed only in his leather hose and boots, the man spotted the girl in the shadows, her large eyes slightly reflective as she watched him silently.

"Farrah, are you still so timid?" the young lord teased, his mouth pulling into a generous smile within his black beard.

Farrah herself knew the man, named Lachlan, to be in his twentieth year just like herself. They had grown up together, fast friends since the age of five when she had stood up for him against his bullying older brothers. Of course she had been severely punished for it, but the young lord himself had begged his father to keep her, and so she'd stayed. Yet even with Lachlan she rarely spoke, and to that small jibe the girl just smiled and slid her hand through her hair to neaten it, as if to make a show of how little she cared about her nudity.

Lachlan chuckled and walked over to her, extending his hand cordially. It was their system, given how little she liked to speak. If she wanted to be with him as his lover that day she would accept his invitation and take his hand. If not? They would simply sit and talk, or rather he would talk and she would lean against him happily and listen, cuddling against him. That day her fair hand slid into his, Farrah's fingertips feeling the callouses that had built up over the years from his horseback riding and other princely pursuits. With his invitation accepted, the young noble gathered her to him and their lips met, the girl lifting onto the balls of her feet to match his superior height. Even so, Lachlan had to duck his head, his muscular body curling forward just a little in compromise with her petite form.

Back when they had been children, Lachlan had been small and somewhat sickly. His mother had born him too early, and it had taken him a while to fill out as a teenager. When he did, however, he towered over his other brothers, the irony of his size and strength not lost on him. Many newcomers to the castle thought him to be the oldest, which made social functions somewhat humorous for him and highly irritating for his elder siblings. Luckily his father was greatly amused and encouraged his mighty son, third born out of six children, to represent his kingdom when the older brothers were indisposed. Indeed, Lachlan was a far better leader than any of his siblings and would likely inherit his father's title well if his older brothers were unable or taken from the world.

Of course, such things weren't on Lachlan's or Farrah's mind as he laid her down on the straw. Long had they experimented with each other once they were old enough, and while his parents were still looking for a wife for him, Lachlan knew that he would always keep Farrah close to his heart. She would never be his wife, nor he her sole lover so long as he wasn't the king, for that was the price of letting her stay - she belonged to the desires of the castle as a whole, and Lachlan knew that even his father made use of her on occasion. It didn't seem to bother Farrah, who bore all treatment with silent stoicism.

That day, Lachlan was quite good to her. In the warm shadows, upon a sweet-smelling bed of straw, the prince treated her like a queen, seeing to her needs before his own. Perhaps Farrah was reluctant to speak, but in these matters she made sound, her voice beautiful and full of desire and satisfaction as he used his mouth and fingers upon her. He knew precisely what she liked and he gave it to her, rolling her onto her hands and knees as he gripped her slender backside in his large hands and parted her cheeks. He cleaned her everywhere, from her star to her pearl. Of course she was already clean, her bathing from earlier quite thorough for his benefit, and her white, sweet flesh quivered as he tasted her deeply in all ways. The girl covered her mouth to keep her cry quiet as she came, and Lachlan knew that this was his cue to focus on himself.

With his hose unfastened and pushed down to his knees, he mounted her from behind, taking her roughly. Farrah, red-cheeked and breathless, dug her fingers into the straw as her sensitive flesh was stretched, filled, and pounded ferociously, and her eyes rolled up as her lids closed in ecstasy. The clap of his hips against her slender backside was loud and sharp and quick, his thick, meaty cock taking her as if she belonged to him completely. Oh how he wished that she did, and in these moments he pretended it was so. Yet he didn't finish as he'd started. Through pure luck no one had gotten a child on her yet, but such fortune couldn't last forever. He wanted children by her but not at this time, knowing that his bastards would be treated with cruelty given that she was nothing more than an orphaned serving girl. And so he withdrew from her, slickened with her nectar enough to let him push slowly and tightly past the clench of her star.

Farrah groaned and gripped the straw harder, trembling as his fat rod sank into her deeply, inch by inch. Lachlan held his breath as he took her this way, his hands keeping her cheeks parted to watch her flushed ring stretch around him possessively as her body swallowed him down. The girl relaxed as well as she could for him, trying to stay loose around his large organ as it filled her. For a while he had to gently thrust and withdraw, loosening her as his cock sawed slowly, his ruddy wet shaft disappearing into her pale body, sinking into it until finally the midnight black ringlets marking a trail from his fit stomach to his genitals brushed against her pale backside. As always his sack tightened, wanting to spill his seed right away, and his fingers gripped at her hips as he desperately fought the urge. No! He wouldn't end it so quickly!

After a few moments to calm himself, he felt the overwhelming desire to cum dissipate enough to let him take her roughly once more, her ring loose enough to allow him his vigorous rut. Farrah shook and groaned happily, her nipples tight and her feverish pussy leaking its glossy desire down her inner thighs. Truly she liked things rough, her slender, petite body so very durable that she liked testing its limits.

With a gasp, Farrah felt him withdraw from her tight embrace, leaving her feeling empty. The girl whimpered and looked back at him, her face flushed to the point that even her ears were red. Lachlan, tanned and black-haired much like the other men in his family, was glistening with a slight sheen of sweat as he loomed over her. His large hands moved her onto her side, one hand pressing her legs tightly together at the knees while the other guided his cock back into her star, taking her from the side. The girl gasped and held her breath, this penetration sliding within her easily. The feeling of being held down made her squirm with excitement, and as he bent over her she rolled her upper half to press her shoulders to the straw. Even as he took her like this he kissed her, his short beard tickling the taut lines of her neck and jaw.

His free hand caught hold of hers as she tried to reach between her own legs, swatting it away time and again. Farrah laughed into the kiss each time her attempt to pleasure herself was foiled, until at last he pinned her wrists to the straw altogether. His face loomed inches above hers and he grunted hotly as he approached the very last of his sexual endurance. Unable to hold out anymore, the prince gasped and came, his seed bursting forth in hot jets within her tight, willing body.

For a long moment they remained in that position as Lachlan caught his breath, their hot, sweaty bodies pressed together as he pinned her to the straw. Farrah's dark eyes looked up into his with such adoration that he dipped his head to kiss her again sweetly. "Farrah, you will never be parted from me" he whispered, nuzzling in to press his lips against her cheek and throat.

The girl's breathing had calmed since, and she hummed happily and tilted her head back to offer herself for such affection. Yet she had a sobering thought and frowned. "And when you take a wife?" she asked quietly, no longer looking at him.

Lachlan had no answer, and he knew that Farrah knew that. "I will not love her like I love you, Farrah. That is all I can give you. Is it enough?"

Those dark eyes looked back up at him slowly, and he felt in his soul that she was seeing all that he was. Every wish and desire, every bad dream, every fear, and every sin. His cock softened as she laid him bare, and the chill of winter flowed through his veins in fear that she would reject him. The man was too good to disregard her as a mere servant, and so he waited for her judgment. It had been a long time coming, after all. Never had he admitted his love for her before, though he had felt it always. Just before he thought his heart would crack from rejection, the girl slowly nodded. "It's enough."

That day, the prince announced his choice to marry. The bride was a good and beautiful woman from a neighboring kingdom, and Lachlan was very kind to her. That spring they wed and the princess was moved into the castle with all her retinue. Farrah saw less and less of the prince, but she knew that the life they had led in secret couldn't last. The girl still went about her duties as she always had, cleaning the hearths and relighting the fires in the early morning and sweeping the communal rooms in the afternoon and evening.

Farrah didn't hate Lachlan's wife, for the lady was kind to her. Soon into the marriage the princess made it clear that she knew of Lachlan's feelings for the girl. The princess, named Avalbane, had been realistic about her marriage, and knew that it was a political bond and not one of love. Oh, she did care for Lachlan, and was even then pregnant with his child, but she did not begrudge him his feelings for another. As a gift to the prince, Farrah was taken on as one of Avalbane's personal servants and given her own quarters. With such a promotion, the girl was given a few new dresses of beautiful make, and slippers and boots to wear when walking through snow.

By the time Lachlan's child was born, the news that it was a son flew throughout the kingdom and around the countryside. It was welcome news, for earlier that winter Lachlan's older brothers had sailed away to fight alongside a long-time ally in the very northernmost point of Scotland, and they had been felled from their horses as they'd fought bravely. The king himself had fought with them and had been maimed, only going back to his kingdom when victory for his side was assured. Besides the loss of his two oldest sons, the great old bear of a man had suffered the loss of an eye and his left arm below the elbow, but quick medical care had prevented infection from setting in. He looked even more fearsome than before, but while still virile and strong his sight had been ruined; old age had caught up to him and cataracts had left his remaining eye milky and useless. The old king gave Lachlan the crown and retired to a gentler life of listening to the sounds of the nearby sea or taking walks with his hounds, who never led him astray.

That summer, when Avalbane was nursing her baby, Farrah was sent to tend to the old king. Avalbane's magnanimity seemed to have waned during her pregnancy, and once she was the queen it had disappeared altogether. The girl had all her belongings moved into the old king's portion of the castle and was appointed as his sole caretaker. The old queen had passed away several years before, and the king seemed unwilling to marry again.

One day, as the gulls called out noisily over the sea and bickered as the fisherman hauled in their catch, the old king stood upon the ramparts to listen. The salty sea breezes flowed through his still-dark hair and beard, now streaked with white. His single white eye glinted in the sun, while his other remained forever closed, sewn shut by a surgeon to protect the socket. The man's single arm remained folded behind his back regally and his spine was straight, his aging body still immensely broad and tall even at his age of more than sixty years.

Farrah, clad in nothing but a summer dress of light green wool, stepped out onto the ramparts, silent upon her bare feet. A small wooden cup was nestled into her hands holding cool water, for the old king had been standing out in the sun for quite a while. Clearing her throat as she stood beside him, she reluctantly said "water, sir". One of the many terms of her service to the old king was that she had to speak to him. She had to speak all the time, because he couldn't read her body language or expressions. Farrah hated this indignity but had no choice in the matter.