“No marked grave for your father?” she asked somewhat carefully. She was hungry for any tidbits about his past. But when the past was as harsh and painful as Rooke’s, prying could make him draw inward, right as she had started peeling back his many layers.
“He did not deserve it. He deserves to be forgotten,” Rooke said, his tone as hard as the headstones.
They stood in the solemn silence of the makeshift graveyard for some time. The wind brushed its gentle hand over the snow that lay over the burial site like a soft blanket, already erasing the signs of a disturbance.
Corabeth could not help but wonder if her own village had memorialized her on a gravestone, if anyone cared enough tocarve her name into it. For all they knew, she was dead. But she was no great loss for them.
As if reading her thoughts, Rooke turned to Corabeth and asked, “Do you think your name is on that stone in your village?”
“No,” she replied with a surprising quickness. “If it was, I’d strike it out. They will have no part of me.”
It felt good to lash out with words like that. The contempt for her village and its people festered inside her and demanded letting. Like a wound, swollen painfully with pus.
If she had looked at Rooke in that moment, she would have seen the admiration in his eyes, the recognition of her rage—like seeing like.
Instead, she stared ahead into the woods without seeing much of anything and packed that anger neatly away again. She was still frightened of examining it too closely.
“They wouldn’t deserve a single speck of you,” Rooke said earnestly.
Corabeth turned to look at Rooke. The man who stood over the graves of his family and victims, carrying the guilt, and still somehow found it within himself to offer her comfort.
“And what do we deserve?” she wondered aloud.
Rooke considered it for a moment while the wind whipped up the loose snow around them. “Nothing. Everything.”
Eighteen
Corabeth
Rooke grew more restless with each passing day, although he hid it well. It became apparent as Corabeth watched him when he wasn’t aware. When he was reading, there was a constant tick in his jaw. When they took walks in the garden, Rooke’s head twitched towards each sound that came from the forest. When he spent less and less time with Corabeth, although his relief was obvious each time he saw her.
“Surely there must be another village or town nearby?” Corabeth asked on one of their walks. Her hand resting on his arm was no longer an oddity when they walked.
Rooke shook his head. “None that border my woods,” he said, "and I am not making you walk long distances through the snow with an animal in tow.”
“Then,” Corabeth said, searching for a solution, “I’ll go to my village.”
“Corabeth,” Rooke said, and the way her name sounded from his lips sent a jolt through her, “I will not make you return to your village for my sake. You really mustn’t worry about me.”
Corabeth tried to find comfort in his assurances that she now heard more and more of, but her fears were confirmed when, just two days after that conversation, Corabeth heard a commotion in the hall. She was not yet asleep, only starting to drift off, when a loud crash came from not too far away.
Corabeth threw the covers off and hurried to the door, her sleeping gown swishing around her ankles.
For Corabeth’s sake, Rooke had started to leave a few sconces burning in the main hall. Now, one of those sconces was knocked to the ground. The flames had started to catch on the carpet, but Rooke was stamping them out effectively, leaving behind burnt patches. The air was thick with the smell of smoke.
“What happened?” Corabeth asked, rushing to him.
Briefly, there was an animalistic glint in Rooke’s eyes as they flashed to her. As if for a split second, he didn’t recognize her.
“The light was irritating my eyes,” he said, all at once himself again. “Forgive me, I wasn’t myself.”
The last of the flames went out, and he just stood there, head lowered. For a moment, he swayed.
“You can’t go on like this,” Corabeth exclaimed, rushing to him and throwing an arm around him, as if she could hold up his weight if he decided to faint.
“I know,” Rooke said, defeated. “But I’m alright now.”
Gently, he pried Corabeth’s arm from around his body and gathered her hands in his. His touch had grown cold.
