Once You Arrive

Every morning, I sat beside the eastern window. It was ridiculous really, since the view never changed.

Blackthorn Manor stood upon a lonely hill overlooking the valley below. From my chair, I could see nearly everything-the crooked rooftops of Brindle Hollow, the smoke curling from cottage chimneys, and the narrow road that wound through the valley before disappearing into the forest below.

To the North, despite the drizzle, the farmers were already working the fields. Their oxen pulled muddy plows through dark earth while children chased chickens between fence posts and near the center of town lay the blacksmith's forge which glowed orange against the grey morning, sending sparks into the damp air.

Beyond the village stood the stables, weathered by decades of rain and hard winters. A handful of horses shifted restlessly inside, their silhouettes barely visible through the open doors.

Past all of it, between the black pines and silver fog, stood the mountains.

Ancient.

Indifferent.

Their jagged peaks hidden beneath clouds that I sometimes wondered if they existed at all.

Yet, none of those things ever held my attention for long.

My eyes always returned to the road.

I told myself it was habit. That lie had become comfortable over the years.

The truth was far less flattering.

I was waiting.

The days passed slowly at Blackthorn Manor.

I spent them tending to the herb garden, mending clothes that did not need mending, and reading books whose stories I could already recite by heart. Anything to keep my hands occupied.

Anything to distract myself but nothing ever worked. Sooner or later, I always find myself back at the window.

Sometimes I would stand there for only a few moments before returning to my chores. Other times, I would lose entire hours.

The kettle would boil dry.

The bread would burn.

The sun would disappear beyond the mountains before I realized I had not moved at all.

It was embarrassing to say the least. A grown women lingering at a window like some lovesick girl from a storybook.

Yet every time I swore I would stop, the next morning I found myself in the very same chair, watching the very same road, hoping today would be different.

The seasons had nearly turned since the last time. The lavender in my garden had bloomed and withered. The wheat in the valley below had been harvested and replanted. Even the blacksmith's son had grown taller.

Still, nothing came.

At first, I told myself it was simply delayed but a week became two. Two became a month. I stopped counting altogether since waiting became something heavier than disappointment.

It settled beneath my ribs and made a home there.

Every morning, I woke with the same thought... What if it never came again? That thought left a hollow ache in my chest because I hated myself for caring so much. Hated how often my thoughts drifted towards it. Hated the way my pulse quickened whenever a rider appeared on the road, only to sink again when they passed by the manor without stopping.

There are moments when I convinced myself I was finally free of it.

Then I would find my feet, yet again, carrying me back to the window. Back to the road. Back to waiting.

Outside, rain began to fall.

Soft at first.

Then harder.

The townsfolk hurried through muddy streets below, clutching baskets and pulling hoods over their heads. Stable boys rushed to secure the horses before the storm worsened, while smoked curled from the chimneys of warm homes scattered throughout the valley.

Life continued.

Unbothered.

Unaffected.

Meanwhile, I stood motionless behind cold glass, staring into the forest as though I might summon it through sheer determination.

After a while, my legs grew weary with intensity, and I found myself now sitting in that same chair. I rested my forehead against the window frame and closed my eyes. Perhaps it had forgotten me. Perhaps it had found someone else. The thought twisted something sharp inside my chest.

I could scarcely remember who I had been before the waiting began. Before the anticipation. Before the hunger.

Then a sudden movement caught my eye and my breath faltered.

Stay calm. I reminded my heart.

Far down the road, beyond the village and the fields, a lone rider emerged through the curtain of rain. At first, he was little more than a shadow.

Then the fog shifted.

The horse appeared first-a bay gelding by the look of it, broad-chested and carrying more weight than it should have been forced to. Mud clung to its legs nearly to the knee. Exhaustion hung in every stride.

The rider sat slightly crooked in the saddle.

Old injury, perhaps.

His right shoulder dipped lower than his left.

He favored one side.

Interesting.

As he drew closer, I noted the dark cloak, worn leather gloves, and the short sword hanging from his hip. The weapon had seen use. The grip was polished smooth where countless fingers had wrapped around it.

Not a nobleman.

Not a merchant.

A working man.

Perhaps thirty.

Perhaps older.

Weather and hardship had a habit of stealing years from a face. Even from this distance I could tell he was tired. His posture gave him away.

People always reveal themselves if you pay attention and most simply never bother to look.

I did.

Always.

The rider reached the edge of the village.

The children stopped playing to watch him pass, the baker's wife glanced up from sweeping her porch and old Mr. Holloway even paused outside the tavern but nobody recognized him. Neither did I.

A stranger.

My favorite kind.

I stood up from my chair the moment I realized that same stranger kept riding closer to the manor. And for a split second, I simply stared. Then came the familiar rush.

Warm.

Sharp.

Electric.

The kind of feelings people spend their lives searching for.

"Finally!" I said as the stranger climbed the last winding path towards the manor.

I could barely remain still.

By the time he reached the front gate, I was already standing at the door.

The messenger looked exhausted.

Rainwater dripped from the brim of his hat and ran in small rivers down his cloak. Up close, he appeared older than I had first thought. Deep lines carved their way across his face, and his boots were stained with enough mud to suggest he had ridden for days.

Without a word, he withdrew a small parcel from beneath his cloak and extended it towards me.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I stared at it.

There it was.

Small enough to fit in both hands.

Wrapped in a shade as dark as midnight that had softened from the rain and wear of travel made it more beautiful.

No seal.

No markings.

No indication of where it had come from or who had sent it.

There never was.

I reached for it carefully.

Almost reverently.

The package weighed next to nothing, but I knew every corner of it by heart. The dimensions never changed. Neither did the texture of the paper or the thin black ribbon tied neatly around its center.

Familiar.

Comforting.

Like a touch of an old friend.

The messenger tipped his hat as he said something.

Perhaps a greeting, perhaps a farewell. I cannot honestly say.

My attention had already wandered elsewhere.

I closed the door behind me and carried the parcel into the kitchen.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and rain-soaked wood. A fire crackled lazily in the hearth. The box rested in the center of the table while I stood over it.

Waiting.

Again.

Though this kind of waiting was different. This waiting was sweet.

I traced my thumb along the ribbon, then to the edge of the paper, and then the lid beneath...drawing it out...enjoying it.

Months of longing sat before me in a package no larger than a loaf of bread and for a ridiculous moment, a chill of excitement ran down my spine.

At last, I untied the ribbon.

My fingers started to aquiver with excitement as they grew closer to the lid.

Inside lay a single folded parchment, nothing more. There never was.

Slowly, I unfolded it.

A name.

Just one.

I read it once.

Then again.

A cold smile cut my face. Finally. I knew the name well.

Outside, thunder rolled across the mountains.

Somewhere beneath that same storm, a women named Eliza Bennett was living an ordinary evening.

Perhaps she was finishing supper.

Perhaps she was laughing with friends.

Perhaps she was making plans for tomorrow.

Slipping the paper into my pocket, a thrill of anticipation sparked through my veins.

The waiting was over. At least for now.

And somewhere in the kingdom, entirely unaware, Eliza Bennett had just become the reason I would leave Blackthorn Manor before sunrise.