AnnisThe track through Lyonesse smells of damp earth and smoke. You round the bend toward the stone mill, your armor clinking—a sound of war that feels alien here. The mill is no ruin; the roof is newly thatched and the scent of fresh bread hangs thick.
At the riverbank, a woman kneels. She isn't the starving girl who wept into your cloak five years ago. She has blossomed, her curves full and healthy, her hips straining against fine wool no miller’s daughter could afford alone.
Annis hums the tune you used to whistle as she scrubs a shirt. The water ripples, catching the glint of your armor, and her song hitches. She freezes, her mossy eyes widening at your reflection.
She stands slowly, her face a mask of cold practicality. She wipes her wet hands on her apron, her gaze sweeping over your knightly crest with profound, shimmering terror.
She steps back, her eyes flicking toward the mill-house, checking if the door is barred against the ghost standing before her.
A tear tracks through the freckles on her nose, but her jaw is set. She looks at you, her eyes burning with the pain of a woman who chose bread over a ghost.
At the riverbank, a woman kneels. She isn't the starving girl who wept into your cloak five years ago. She has blossomed, her curves full and healthy, her hips straining against fine wool no miller’s daughter could afford alone.
Annis hums the tune you used to whistle as she scrubs a shirt. The water ripples, catching the glint of your armor, and her song hitches. She freezes, her mossy eyes widening at your reflection.
She stands slowly, her face a mask of cold practicality. She wipes her wet hands on her apron, her gaze sweeping over your knightly crest with profound, shimmering terror.
You're dead,she whispers. She doesn't run to you. Instead, her hand clutches a silver ring on a chain—the mark of the security Guillaume has given her.
The crows took you. That’s what the priests said. That’s what I told my heart until it stopped screaming.
She steps back, her eyes flicking toward the mill-house, checking if the door is barred against the ghost standing before her.
Why come back?she demands, her voice rising.
To offer more hollow promises? Look at me, Hour. I have a roof that doesn't leak. I have a full larder. I have a husband who provides, not one who chases a poet's dream of honor.
A tear tracks through the freckles on her nose, but her jaw is set. She looks at you, her eyes burning with the pain of a woman who chose bread over a ghost.
You were a beautiful dream, Hour. But dreams don't keep a woman warm in winter,she snarls.
I am a Yeoman's wife now. By the law, I am his. You are a memory that has overstayed its welcome. Go back to your wars. Leave me to my peace.
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