Alaric finds himself uncertain for the first time in decades. He's used to having a woman living in his manor. After so many marriages, his wedding day has lost its meaning. It's another favor to the emperor. Nothing more than a way to keep the nobles who want to seize the throne for themselves in check.
He doesn't expect anything from his duchesses. The estate is managed by servants under the direction of Corwin. There are no festivals or banquets to host. After the ceremony, he tries to put the new duchess out of his mind—and he's usually successful. Lenore, however, lingers in his thoughts.
There's no reason for it. But the stacks of documents on his desk remain untouched as he tries to understand why he feels shaken. Lenore's circumstances aren't unusual for his wives. A collateral relative of the right age cast aside to avoid sending a favored daughter to a cursed land. Most of his previous wives actively avoided him after the wedding. If they were trustworthy enough and promised not to leave the area, he sent them to a villa on the far edge of his territory—a place with mild winters and a small, bustling village. Many duchesses lived out their days quietly there, leaving his life as quickly as they entered it.
Yet, in the middle of his parade of brides, only one stirred his heart—Elyria. Until now.
He doesn't know why Lenore brings long-forgotten sensations to his heart. What was it that made him freeze in the middle of lifting her veil at the altar—a gesture he rarely gave much thought to with his other wives?
There's a knock at his door, and he knows it isn't Corwin as he barges in without waiting for Alaric to grant permission. This visitor has some semblance of etiquette. "Come in."
Eva enters with her head bowed politely and a paper in her hands. "Your Grace."
"Have you come from Lenore's chambers?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Eva steps forward and holds out the papers for him to take. "She requests that this letter is sent to Viscount Edric Rowanhart."
Ah, right. One of her only terms for their marriage is sending letters to her family. He takes the paper from her and waves her off without a word. While he doesn't know what to expect, it's not this. Her words feel distant. Well, she was taken from her parents at a young age and stuck with her uncle—a man Alaric isn't fond of. He has too much ambition and confidence, which fits too well with the rest of the nobles' faction.
It's nice to know that Lenore meant her actual parents when she asked to write letters and not her uncle. Still, he's not ready to give her envelopes and a seal to prepare the letters herself. If anything, his age has left him wary and unwilling to trust others, especially if they have connections to his enemies.
He folds the paper with precision and places it inside an envelope, sealing it with wax before addressing it. Then, it joins an array of other letters on a silver tray. Corwin will be by later to take them to the couriers. It's not his business, but he hopes she receives a reply from her parents.
Something about her seems withdrawn, like her uncle has drained away her life and left her with that pale, ghost-like countenance. Perhaps that's the reason she remains on his mind—concern for a wisp of a woman. However, Barrowmere isn't a place that adds color to one's complexion.
In that way, she fits perfectly into these dark halls. A pale shadow that sticks out enough to notice, but disappears just as quickly as she shows up. Her presence is the opposite of Elyria's—a radiant woman who demanded attention wherever she stepped—but there's something about it that he finds almost comforting when he's near her.
With a sigh, Alaric returns to the reports filling his desk. Running a duchy has never grown easier—a new issue appears as soon as he solves a previous one. If it was an option, he'd give up his title and waste away somewhere else in solitude. If it wasn't for that promise.
Truly, he regrets making it. But he didn't know what was going to happen at that time.
He was happy then. The proud duke he was raised to be. Not this hollow shell of a man clinging onto memories that fade a little more each day.
When Corwin interrupts him, he hasn't made much progress with his work. "You've been distracted lately, my lord."
"I know." Alaric stands up, stretching his legs to chase off the stiffness setting in. "My age must be catching up to me. I can't seem to focus."
Corwin is professional enough to hold his tongue, but not to hide the expression on his face that clearly says Alaric has always been old. "Well, dinner is ready. Would you like it served here?"
"No," Alaric says. "I'll go to the dining room. A break might help me clear my head."
Corwin takes the silver tray of letters from Alaric's desk. "Yes, Your Grace. I'll let the kitchen staff know and get these letters sent."
As Corwin heads to the kitchen, Alaric starts down the path to the dining room. There was a time when he'd have his assistants, servants, or even escort knights walk with him wherever he went in this manor.
Now, he walks alone. There's no need for protection—if he could die, it would be a mercy. His assistants no longer try to earn his favor and the power that came with it. Servants know better than to hover around him.
It's a lonely life, but also a penance. He's failed too many times in ways that cannot be forgiven. So, he accepts his lot and keeps moving forward as his heart stands still, trapped in a past he can't rewrite. At the same time, his solitude is a shield. With hope and normalcy kept distant, he can't fool himself into thinking that he can live a regular life.
And yet, when he sees Lenore seated at the dining table, a crack appears in his shield, letting her presence slip past.
She looks up at him with a hesitant smile, caught between politeness and anxiety. "Good evening, Alaric."
For a moment, he doesn't feel alone.