Drives Us Away

Much of Rosamund's time was spent in a bleak fog, her mind too consumed by fear and anguish to confront the harsh realities of her new life. Once a place of mystery and beauty, Castle Dravenstone had become a confining jail. Its dim corridors extended in front of her indefinitely, and the dusty rooms felt as though they were closing in on her, their stifling quiet making her feel even more alone.

Usually she was able to avoid her husband completely, floating through the hallways like a ghost, her footsteps mellowed by the heavy, faded carpets that covered the flooring. However, there was one memorable moment when she felt an intense, overwhelming hunger that tore at her insides. Sensing her desperation, Count Ivar grabbed her arm and dragged her violently out of Castle Dravenstone. With panic pulsing through her veins, she resisted feebly, her weak body no match for his unwavering might. She was relieved that he had no plans to cause mayhem in the community. Rather, he led her on an elk hunt through the dark, moonlit forest. The chase vanished into a haze of movement and blood as the event unfolded in a tornado of instinctual behavior and intense need. When they got back to Castle Dravenstone, he left her alone again without saying a word, and the gap between them grew wider and wider, a gap forged by time and unsaid suffering.

Rosamund's early interest in Castle Dravenstone turned into aimless roaming as the weeks stretched into months. She vaguely knew that she had only delved into a small portion of its rooms and that its ancient walls held a wealth of secrets. But the gloom that filled the ancient room started to sink into her bones, smothering the curiosity she had previously experienced. The fading tapestries and deteriorating threads of Castle Dravenstone's elaborate furnishings were now taunting remnants of a life she was no longer able to regain. Nevertheless, she continued to pace restlessly, if only to pass the time, her heart heavy with an inexpressible anguish and her mind disconnected.

She had intermittent numbness that fluctuated like a tide. Some days her senses became painfully clear, as though to counterbalance her customary detachment. The frightening shape of Count Ivar seemed to tower above her, with each shadow created by the flickering torchlight twisting into it. Her breath was shallow and quick, her pulse pounding at the sound of an old floorboard creaking or the slight murmur of a draft through a broken window. These flashes of hyperawareness, however, were short-lived; most often she wandered Castle Dravenstone like a lost soul, her thoughts as hazy as the dust particles floating in the gray, dim light that filtered through the tall windows.

One afternoon, Rosamund sat on her vanity stool, temporarily comforted by the routine of brushing her beautiful, lustrous curls. A delicate anchor in the midst of her current storm, the steady movement of the brush across her hair bound her to recollections of her former existence. But when she walked, her senses were dulled again by that familiar numbness. She looked at herself in the mirror, a lone figure against the room's background. There was no other form in the glass, yet the bed curtains moved gently, agitated by an invisible breeze. Only Count Ivar might be the culprit. Her breath caught, and she bit her lip to keep scrubbing, pretending not to notice the terrible thump of her heart in her chest. She felt his presence—a huge, unseen force crushing against her—as the air grew colder, a tangible frost that pricked her flesh.

Her nerves frayed at the unexpected contact, and she gave a little, uncontrollable squeak when a hand touched her hair. Her heart jumped and pounded frantically in her throat.

"Pardon me, sweetheart," She was taken aback by the quiet, regretful tenderness of Count Ivar's voice as he muttered. "My intention was not to startle you."

As she placed the brush on the vanity, her quivering hands fumbled, but she refused to look away from the mirror. The tension between them crackled like static, as the quiet became thicker with unsaid words.

His voice became even softer, almost begging, as he said, "I only came to give you something." She recoiled when his fingers touched her hair once more, skillfully fixing a couple of curls with a comb set with shimmering emeralds. His hand was invisible, and the comb moved in the mirror as though by magic, a menacing reminder of their strange life together. She was shivered by the image, but she didn't find it funny; instead, it made her stomach turn up in fear.

He said in a barely audible voice, "You are so very beautiful," with a compassion that was unfamiliar to her. Her skin pricked with discomfort as she shivered uncontrollably as his icy fingers touched her cheek. "Remember, you are my wife, and I would stop at nothing to ensure your happiness." He let out a deep sigh that was laden with remorse. "I simply have no idea how."

Despite her attempts to control it, her response was filled with raw passion, and her voice broke. "Restore my humanity if you genuinely want me to be happy."

He took a sharp breath, the sound like a sword piercing the silence. He remained silent for a while as the impact of her words hung between them.

Finally, with regret in his voice, he answered, "That is not possible." "I really apologize. Rosamund, I wish I could take away your suffering because I know how you feel about your loss and misery. As it slipped down her cheek, his fingers snagged a tear, his touch cold against her flesh. "Until you are at peace with who you are, I will be here to wipe away every tear." Maybe you will pardon me someday. She tensed, catching her breath as stress gripped her muscles as he pushed his lips to her naked shoulder. "Perhaps you won't be afraid of me one day."

The words persisted, brittle and unmet, a wish she was unable to understand. Rosamund didn't say anything, creating an imperceptible wall between them. He left her alone with her sorrow and the emerald comb glittering in her hair, and then he stepped back, his presence waning.

Hilda, the housekeeper, became more and more concerned about her mistress's declining health over the course of the months. Once a vibrant figure, the Countess had degenerated into a lifeless shell, her energy waning as she wandered the halls of Castle Dravenstone like a lost soul. Finally, Hilda decided to face Count Ivar. She discovered him on the balcony, his towering, dark figure silhouetted against the rose garden's silvery moonlight. Her pulse raced at the sight of him, alone, dark, and menacing, but she braced herself, holding a basket of linens as she walked toward him.

“May I speak with you, My Lord?” she said shyly, her voice shaking a little.

Count Ivar turned, his pale features glimmering with surprise at her boldness. Hilda, of course. What is it? His gaze was heightened by a glint of inquiry, but his tone remained calm.

Her hands gripped the basket tighter as she licked her parched lips. "My Lord, I'm not trying to be intrusive or meddle in your business."

"Speak freely," he insisted, his tone surprisingly soft, encouraging her to continue in spite of her anxiety.

"Sir, it's the Countess. I'm concerned for her.

His eyebrows narrowed slightly, and he furrowed his forehead in real worry rather than anger. With an undertone of nervousness in his voice, he inquired, "What bothers you about her?"

"Well, sir, I understand that she doesn't require food, drink, or rest, and that not much can hurt her, but her recent behavior seems to indicate that she is in serious distress." Hilda's eyes begged him to understand, and her voice grew softer.

"How so?" he asked, bending in closer, his passion compelling her to go into further detail.

Recalling Rosamund's empty, haunting eyes, she shuddered. "Sir, she looks empty. Except when you take her to the forest, she wanders the hallways day and night in a daze. She seems to have lost all hope, as seen by her dejected and emotionless countenance. It seems as though she is ensnared in her own world and cannot hear me when I attempt to communicate with her. My Lord, I know you love her, but I fear she's not happy at all.

Count Ivar's eyes clouded with sorrow as his face darkened. He muttered, more to himself than to Hilda, "I thought my presence would only distress her further, hindering her adjustment." "Perhaps I was wrong." His voice was laced with doubt, displaying an uncommon fragility.

Despite her dread, Hilda spoke firmly and earnestly, "You are her husband, sir." "You are the only person who can console her. She needs you, even if she doesn't know it.

His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his revelation as he moaned, "She hates me." She avoids my touch and hardly ever talks to me. When she ignores me, how can I get in touch with her?

Hilda gently stated, "She needs time, sir, but maybe she needs your presence too." "Even if she doesn't express it, your help might have an impact."

With a low, harsh voice, Count Ivar turned back to the moonlit garden. "How can I express my love to a woman who despises me? How do I convey that I am enthralled with her sweet disposition and that I am mesmerized by her every time I look at her? She thinks I'm a monster, and maybe she's right.

Hilda remained motionless, looking into his eyes with a mix of compassion and determination. They briefly came to an unsaid accord, but the tension was still evident. A man divided between love and remorse, Count Ivar's confession revealed his desire and hopelessness.

“Maybe, My Lord,” she whispered, “you ought to give it a shot. She needs to know that you care, even if she fights or flinches. She might have a different opinion of you in time.

Count Ivar gave a long nod, his face thoughtful. Silently, he whispered, "Thank you, Hilda." "I'll think about what you said."

Hilda felt a glimmer of hope as she turned to go. Maybe Count Ivar could heal the chasm between them, and maybe the Countess might find her way out of the darkness with time and effort.