Triviae

From the prompt: "Day of my despair..."

"Triviae"

Inside the keep of Castle Morgamond, Sir Alan de Crowell was talking to Sir Geoffrey Luttrell about a possible alliance.
"Eleanor is just gone sixteen, Sir," Alan offered. "She knows of Brandon well enough."
Mark of Llewellyn smirked. "Brandon never rides with us. He's the one knight never seen in the village."
Geoffrey said nothing to the younger, lesser knight. "Perhaps Brandon would wed Eleanor. He needs to learn some responsibility. He's a good enough warrior, we know. Mithras knows where he is during the day, though."
Alan arched an eyebrow at the mention of a pagan god, but said nothing, wisely.
"Ranolfe would have been wed and a father by now," Geoffrey murmured. The other two weren't sure if they were supposed to have heard or not, exchanging uneasy looks. "Ach. A second cursed son. Ye gods, a daughter would have served rather than him." Still spoken in a low voice, the other two wondered at the man's cryptic words.
Then Geoffrey lifted his head. "I'll talk to the Lady Vivian later." He waved one hand, dismissing the servants. "Mark, see if you can find Brandon, hm? He said he'd be out hunting today."

"Come in," Sir Geoffrey called.
The door opened, and Brandon stepped in, shutting the door behind him. "You summoned me, father?"
Geoffrey lifted his head, studying the young man before him. His gaze traced the familiar features, eliciting an aching sadness in his heart. Ranolfe. Brandon had the same facial features - jaw line, nose - but he was of a slightly smaller build than Ranolfe. The sadness boiled into anger as his gaze flickered over the boy's betraying features - his ears, but more importantly, his eyes.
"Ah, yes, Mark must have told you the news," Geoffrey said, feigning nonchalance. He glanced at Brandon again.
"Eleanor of Crowell. Yes, I heard," the boy replied. Geoffrey couldn't gauge any reaction in his eyes.
"Will you marry her?" Geoffrey asked.
Brandon hesitated. "I - I would like to meet her first, but if you wish it, I will."
"Sir Alan will sup with us tonight," Geoffrey informed him. "You will be introduced to him then. His daughter? Later."
Brandon nodded. "Yes, father." He turned to go.
"But Brandon!"
He paused and turned, hand on the doorknob. "Yes, father?"
"You know Eleanor isn't the only one, not for a Luttrell." Geoffrey allowed himself a triumphant smirk.
Brandon nodded. "Thank you, sir." And he turned and left.

Brandon burst into the garden and sank down on a stone bench, relief flooding through him. Thank the gods that meal was over.
"Ye all right, sir?" Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder.
Brandon sighed. "Fine." He smiled up at his friend. "I'm going out for a while."
Then he slid into the darkness, scaling the wall with surprising agility, and landed in the grass. He crouched there, panting, gazing up at the forest canopy shot through with stars and felt a sharp pain stab at his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a sharp breath. With a cry he sprang up, running through the forest, letting the world around him fade. His heart was pounding, thoughts churning with dizzying speed. He ran swiftly and silently, following an old path that his body knew, his mind long since buried. Trees flashed by, sounds mixing into an agonizing cacophony, the ground shifting beneath his feet.
He wanted it to go away, he wanted to forget it all...He exploded out of the trees and into an open clearing, shooting to the edge of the pond and then sinking to his knees. He knelt there, staring at his moonlit reflection. Why? What was so wrong with him? Why did his family alienate him so, dwelling in the past, in their memories of Ranolfe?
He hated his reflection. He looked like faery-folk and he knew it. He sighed, reaching out and splashing the water with a mild flick of his wrist, shattering his reflection. He sprawled out on the grass, settling his head on his arms. He'd often spent nights under the stars as a child, but his Nana had always told him to stay out of the woods. He wasn't a child anymore, and even so he was a knight.
"Faery folk," he scoffed aloud. "Aye, I was a child."
"Talk to yourself often?"
Brandon bolted up, looking around. Who had spoken?
Then he saw her. She was against a tree, faced veiled in the shadow of the hood of her cloak. He'd known she was a girl by her voice, but then he saw her as she stepped into the clearing, throwing back her hood.
"Who are you?" he demanded, jumping to his feet.
She strode into the moonlight, laughter in her golden eyes. "My, my, aren't you an imperious one for a stable boy." She walked around him, looking him up and down.
Brandon held himself rigid, tense beneath her gaze.
"I've seen you around town," she told him. He flinched involuntarily when he felt her breath on the back of his neck. "Best friends with Thomas the manor boy, they tell me."
Brandon whirled to face her, furious. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner! Who are you?" he yelled. There was something in her tone that he didn't quite like. Was she mocking him?
"Again, I say you are too imperious to be a stable boy." She smiled at him, golden eyes still laughing.
Brandon finally looked at her in the silvery moonlight. She'd been pacing in circled around him, taunting him, but right then he got a good look at her. She had smooth dark skin and large eyes as sharp and tawny as yellow wine. Her lashes were long, fluttering against high cheekbones when she blinked, full rosette mouth pulled into an amused grin. She was exotic, unlike any other girl he had ever seen. She was small-boned, delicate, feminine. She had her head tilted quizzically to the side, and was watching him curiously. "Are you all right?"
No. I have to marry some girl I've never even met simply because my father wants the land. He was angry, and he turned his emotions on this strange girl.
Brandon's eyes narrowed. His hand went to his hip for the sword that wasn't there. "You're a Saracen, aren't you? A heretic."
"Saracen?" she echoed, frowning. "Oh! Me? No, heavens, that I am not. I don't have the nose." She regarded him. "And who are you? Not a stable boy, obviously. Far too imperious. If anything I'd say you were a nobleman's son, maybe even a knight the way you reached for that non-existent sword."
Brandon stared at her. She was far too outspoken for a girl, if not intelligent.
"Who are you?" he repeated for a third and final time. "I've not seen you in the demesne village."
"They all me Anna." She was studying her shoes, swishing the folds of her homespun skirt absently. "I know who you are, Sir Brandon, but what are you?"
Brandon couldn't stop his cry of surprise when she reached out and tweaked his ear.
"Maybe someday you'll know." She threw up her hood and turned, vanishing into the shadows of the forest.
Brandon stared after her in disbelief. Why, she was as cocky as a lad. Far too outspoken and bold. And beautiful. Aye, she was certainly that. He'd see her again in the village, he was sure.

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