"Salvation"

By Cam F.

It was romantic at first, the adrenaline fuelled weeks that led to our meeting had laid out a storyline for us to follow, pat as any fairytale. The accounts of the cruelty of his captors, the difficult and charged political situation leaving him without allies, though innocent and deserving; his own heroism having left him vulnerable to such an assault, the terrible washing of hands of those who should have been protecting him, the refusal to act.

And so when our little band agreed to make that daring rescue I felt that frisson of interest stir, here I was, a noble lady, disguising myself, risking my life, and worse, my reputation for the sake of some foreign hero that I hadn't even met. A man whose standpoint, whose whole philosophy would incense my countryman, and indeed my own family and friends to fury and invective. And yet, I could not leave him in the hands of those torturers. For all our differences, nobody should be subjected to such things, nobody who had acted so valiantly should be cast away so lightly by the cowards in charge.

So as my companions, my brave few, and I determined the plans for that fateful night, I could not help but fantasise, forbidden thoughts, impossible scenarios sped through my mind. Eloping, riding together into the dark night, fleeing to who knows where. Nursing him back to health after his ordeal, him noble, gracious, grateful and charmed by my manner, my boldness and gentleness combined. Beginning that courtly dance of unspoken attraction so potent, so overwhelming that surely we could both be forgiven for getting carried away on those tidal emotions.

So as the raid came to its fruition, having fought and sneaked and crept to the very room where he lay, blindfold, helplessly bound to a stake, I was not disappointed by what I found. He was fine figured, slender, yet strongly built, a tousled mop of blond hair, a boyish pout of a mouth in a square jaw. His bloodstained shirt was cut open where they had tormented him, but forsaken as he was he did not look broken. I knelt by him, leant to unbind his hands, paused to place my hand on his shoulder, softly to whisper to him to stay quiet, that he would be safe now, we were here to save him. I could not see his eyes but as he angled his face towards me I could hear the depths of his gratitude in his murmured response.

We unbound him, and made good our escape. He was too weak for conversation, the journey was difficult and necessitated silence anyway for the most part. He stayed quiet throughout, even though the bumps and jolts must have pulled at his wounds and injuries. When we reached safety I set about washing and tending these cuts, burns and breaks inflicted by his unseen abductors. His eyes it transpired were blue, and as he watched me work I fancied that I saw passion stir in them. He began to gain strength and our courtship trod delicately, yet deliberately, down its well-defined and age-old path.

We had but a matter of weeks together before my family would suspect that I was not at the silent religious retreat in the mountains keeping the hours with the priests, but in actuality unaccounted for. I had imagined that him and I would have a conversation about this, one in which we would both declare that we could not live without each other, our passion would crescendo into a whirlwind of action, and clinging to one another, the desperate flight from our respective backgrounds would commence. I determined the time was right to have this conversation, and over several days rehearsed what I would say, debated the pitch and tone of every word, every syllable, my nervousness and excitement sometimes reaching unbearable heights.

He was still in his sickroom at the Inn, which we had hired out in the guise of merchants recovering from a bandit attack. I went to the door and, disdaining to knock, flung it wide open to increase the impact of my arrival and subsequent declaration. He was perched on the end of his bed, staring intently at the end of a stick with which I determined he had been picking his toenails. Just for a second I saw him entirely unguarded, a creature of all too human failings. I felt a sensation of smashing, fracturing, splintering. I closed the door again gently and went downstairs to the bar, where I drank several strong ales with my comrades, who had not had the best of my company for the last few days. We swapped jokes and told old stories and I remembered my family, my countrymen, my patriotism, my friends, and it seemed as though madness had gripped me. How could I have considered leaving all this for one simple solitary man?

The next day I escorted him to a place where he could contact friends of his own and make his way back to his own country. I could see the puzzlement, perhaps even hurt, in his eyes as I formally reminded him of our differences, the danger to my reputation should my part in his rescue be discovered, appealed to his honour not to speak of it should he have deduced my identity. He was not to know how it was that I had come to break from the path of courtship, which it seemed he also had imagined and felt safe in the familiar pattern of.

And I did not tell him, for I am a vengeful creature when disappointed.