A swift wind blew through the gilded woods. Uplifting in their mood yet chilling in their manner. Swiftly as she rode toward the west, carrying the tidings of fate for her land, her golden hair streaking behind her, her white hands clutching the reins with measured determination, her black stallion charging towards vengeance, retribution and peace.
He could see her as she rode, down the valley opposite like a sweet flowing river. Her words had the charm of an angel and her wrath, the destitution of hell. Her lips, softer than rosebuds. He was pining for them, and there she was, riding toward him. High on the precipice of his castle, he stood, waiting.
She was blind, like she had been for the last twenty years. The purulence of her septic existence was an abominable blight on the quiet, honourable street. She lived there, but withdrawn into herself, destitute and surviving on scraps and leftovers. If she was in her right mind, she might have been inclined to seek justice, but she was mad. She was crippled and out of her mind, had been for the last twenty years.
He was a good man. Very shrewd and very kind. He had fed her and clothed her since that terrible night. People often asked him, in high-end parties, why he cared for the old witch. He just smiled. He had his own penance to pursue, he said.
And who could forget the night, of course. The night was dark as hell and the winds forlorn and whining. The soldiers were meagre and certain of their death; they were shivering and filled with dread and despair. The villagers too were fazed and had surrendered to their fate. Rape, pillage and destruction. Then the attack came like the swoosh of an unfailing tide. Merciless and determined, the swords of the attackers chopped, swerved and slashed through the defence with disdain. In minutes the resistance was crushed and the village was won over. It was not how the villagers feared however. They left most of the businesses intact. But she was too bewitching to ignore, too ravishing not to defile. Her husband was murdered, her children disembowelled and she was raped, over and over again, by a hungry pack of wolves, rabid and putrid. When they were done with her, it was dawn and it was red and she was going to die. But they all went away, satisfied in their heinousness simply because none of them remembered to kill her.
He had been the one to take her. Not like the other villains took her. But otherwise, to safety and a place of relative calm. He took her away across the valley, across the river to this village, where they had been living for years.
She and her daughter, her beautiful daughter, who had escaped death that night. Like her mother, due to a stroke of derisive luck. Her suitors were nonplussed by her coldness and her friends vexed by her perpetual distractions. Their neighbours smirked at her swordplay and her lack of propriety.
He was struck by her loveliness though. And his infatuation was as if, meant to be. Governor of the region, a man in good standing with the king himself, was considered a splendid catch, even if he was a bit old. And she was pushed into the wedlock and engagement by her people. He went back early to handle state affairs and she had some time to say her goodbyes.
Her mother was a destitute and she could barely think coherently. But she could remember vividly the night that was her last and she told her daughter, amid hiccoughs and struggling breaths, of her villains and their faces.
The Gilded woods stood between her and her husband. They stood between her mother and her vengeance. They stood between a place of life and a place of hate. They stood between her sword and his slain body. The wind blew swiftly and it seemed to be whispering. At last, vengeance was riding home as a bride. And it was going to be swift and sweet.
