Gibtober: Week Three
10th Moon, 303 AC
She woke long before the first light of dawn, as she had grown accustomed to doing these past few moons.
For a while, she remained lying down, staring at the dark ceiling above her. The sept was quiet at this hour, as everyone else was still asleep. She wished she could do the same.
With a sigh, she pushed aside her blanket and rose. There was little sense in lying there when sleep would not come. She dressed herself, tied her hair back, and made her way into the main hall of the sept, where she fetched a broom and began sweeping the stone floor.
She had been at it for some time when she heard footsteps approaching.
"You're up early."
She glanced over her shoulder to find the old septon standing a few paces away, watching her. There was little surprise in his voice. He had found her awake before dawn often enough that it had become something of a habit.
"Sleep's hard to come by," she answered quietly, returning to her sweeping.
The old man studied her for a moment. There was a sadness in her voice that he had heard far too often.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, child," he said gently. "There was nothing you could have done."
She stopped sweeping. He had said much the same thing to her before, and she had nodded then, just as she nodded now. Yet knowing something and believing it were two very different matters.
"I’ll try," she murmured.
The old man sighed. He seemed to wish to say more, but perhaps he knew that words would do little good. He offered her a smile before continuing on his way. She watched him leave, then returned to her work.
Three moons. It had been three moons since her father died. Sometimes it seemed as though it had happened only yesterday. At other times, she could scarcely remember what life had been like before. He had fallen ill so suddenly. At first, neither of them had thought much of it. A fever, perhaps. A few days of rest, and he would be himself again.
But the days passed, and he only grew weaker. With him unable to work, she had taken whatever work she could find. She swept floors, washed clothes, carried water, and ran errands for anyone willing to spare a copper or two. She would leave at first light and return long after sunset, her feet aching and her hands sore, only to spend what little she had earned on food and whatever medicine the local healer recommended.
She had prayed, too. Every evening, no matter how tired she was, she had come to the sept and knelt before the Mother, begging her to make her father well.
None of it had been enough. He had died one night while she sat beside his bed, holding his hand. Even now, she could remember how cold that hand had felt. For days afterward, she had done little but cry. She had scarcely eaten, scarcely slept. Every morning she had woken expecting to hear him calling for her, only to remember that he would never call again.
What was she supposed to do? She had no mother, no brothers or sisters, and no family to turn to. The little shop had been her father's, and she had neither the coin nor the heart to keep it going. Everything she had ever known seemed to have disappeared with him.
Eventually, with nowhere else to go, she had come to the sept. The septon had taken her in without hesitation. He had given her a bed, food, and work enough to keep her occupied. And so she swept the floors, tended the gardens, cleaned the candles, and helped wherever she was needed. It gave her something to do. More importantly, it gave her something to think about other than her father.
By the time she finished sweeping, the sun had begun to rise. She put the broom away and stepped outside. The morning air was cool against her cheeks, and a gentle breeze stirred the loose strands of hair about her face. Beyond the sept walls, Stoney Sept was slowly awakening. She could hear merchants preparing their stalls, the rattling of carts upon the cobbled streets, and the distant calls of men beginning another day's work.
She closed her eyes and turned her face toward the rising sun. For a little while, she simply stood there, letting its warmth settle upon her skin. A small, genuine smile came to her face.
There was still a whole day ahead of her, and she had no intention of wasting it. By the time the sun stood high in the sky, Bess had been through half the town. She had helped an elderly woman carry a basket of vegetables home, fetched water for a washerwoman, delivered a parcel for a merchant, and spent the better part of an hour helping unload a wagon of grain. Along the way, she had stopped to exchange a few words with familiar faces.
People knew her well enough. Some remembered her father and asked after her, while others simply greeted her as she passed. She answered them all with a smile, though she could not help noticing how often those smiles faded once she had turned away.
By the time she returned to the sept, the little pouch hanging from her waist held a handful of copper. She loosened its strings and counted them carefully before tying it shut again. Not much. But it was something.
Every coin brought her a little closer to leaving. She had made up her mind some time ago. There was nothing left for her in Stoney Sept. Her father was gone, the shop was closed, and she had no family waiting for her here.
Yet somewhere across the Narrow Sea, there was someone she still wished to find. Someone who had once promised to return. Perhaps he had forgotten her. Perhaps he had found a new life for himself in some great city across the water, among strange people who spoke strange tongues. Perhaps he no longer remembered the foolish girl who had sat beside him upon a bench outside the sept. But perhaps he did remember. Perhaps he was lonely, too. And perhaps he needed her as much as she needed him.
She held that thought close as she made her way to the writing chamber. There was work she had left unfinished the previous evening. The septon had been kind enough to let her practise her letters upon scraps of parchment, and she had taken to spending whatever free time she could find there.
She settled into the chair, drew a sheet of parchment toward her, and reached for the quill. That was when her eyes fell upon the flower. It lay beside her things, dry and wilted, its petals long since faded. It had lost whatever beauty it once possessed, and the stem was so brittle that she feared it might break if she touched it. Yet she had never found the heart to throw it away.
A smile crept across her face. Such a sweet boy, Symeon. He had been in her life for such a short time, and yet she could scarcely imagine what that life would have been without him. Before meeting him, she had never learned to read or write. Her father had been a simple man, and there had never been coin to spare for such things. Besides, what use had she for letters? She could count well enough to help in the shop, and that had always seemed sufficient.
Symeon had thought otherwise. He had known his letters, much to her surprise, and had taken it upon himself to teach her. She had protested, of course. She had laughed at his lessons, complained that they were dull, and found all manner of excuses to avoid them. But he had been terribly stubborn. Eventually, she had learned to read.
Writing had proven another matter entirely. He had managed to teach her a few words before he left, but little more than that. After his departure, however, she had found herself returning to those lessons. At first, she had only wished to remember what he had taught her. Then she began asking the septon for help, practising whenever she could. Her letters had been clumsy things, uneven and often scarcely recognisable, but slowly they had improved.
She had told herself there was a reason for all this effort. One day, Symeon would write to her. And when he did, she would be able to read his letter and send one of her own. More than a year had passed since he left Stoney Sept, but not a single letter had come.
She lowered her eyes to the parchment. Does he even remember me? Her smile faded at the thought. He had promised to return one day, after he becomes a great knight. He had promised that when he did, he would make her his lady. She remembered laughing at him when he said it.
But he had seemed so certain. So terribly earnest that she had almost believed him. Perhaps he had meant it when he spoke those words. Perhaps he still did. Or perhaps he was dead somewhere, lying forgotten by the side of a road, and she would spend the rest of her life waiting for a boy who would never come home.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
No.
She would not think of that. That was why she had to leave. She could not remain here forever, wondering what had become of him. She would save enough coin to cross the Narrow Sea, and then she would find him. Somehow, wherever he was.
She opened her eyes, dipped the quill into the ink, and returned to her writing.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
Hugor could scarcely contain his excitement when the familiar rooftops of Stoney Sept appeared in the distance. He leaned forward, peering past the carriage as the road curved toward the town. There were the walls, the narrow streets, and, rising above everything else, the sept itself.
He knew this place. He knew its roads, its markets, and the little shops that lined its streets. He remembered the garden behind the sept, the writing chamber where he had spent so many hours, and the bench beneath the wall where he had sat every evening with a certain girl.
Bess.
The thought alone was enough to bring a broad smile to his face. He had not expected to see Stoney Sept again so soon. Lady Bethany had decided that they would spend the night here rather than continue along the road toward King's Landing. There was still some distance to travel, and a proper bed beneath a roof was preferable to another night out in the open. Hugor could scarcely have been more pleased.
As the carriage entered the town, he found himself looking from one side of the street to the other, recognising familiar buildings and eagerly searching for those he remembered, though he tried not to appear too excited.
Yet when they reached the busier streets, he could bear it no longer.
"My lady," he said, turning toward Bethany, "might I get down here?"
He could scarcely keep the eagerness from his voice. Before she could question him, he hurried to explain.
"I visited Stoney Sept with my father once, and I have a friend here. I should very much like to see her, if you would allow it."
Bethany looked at him for a moment before smiling with a nod.
“Of course, Hugor. But remember, be safe and return soon.”
"I will, my lady. Thank you!"
He was down from the carriage almost before it had come to a proper halt. Then he watched it continue along the street with the rest of the party. He knew where they intended to stay and could find his way there easily enough.
For now, he had somewhere else to be. He set off at a brisk pace. The streets came back to him almost immediately. Here was the corner where the baker sold his bread, there the narrow alley that led toward the market. He hurried along the street where Bess lived with her father.
His heart quickened as he approached the shop. He wondered what she would say when she saw him. Would she be surprised? Of course she would. Perhaps she would laugh, or scold him for not writing. Perhaps she would refuse to believe it was him. He grinned at the thought.
When he reached the shop, he was still lost in thought. He noticed that the door was closed. He frowned. It was well past the hour when the shop ought to have opened. Bess's father had never been one to waste a day's trade, and Bess herself had always been up early to help him.
He stepped closer and knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.
"Strange," he muttered.
He looked up and down the street. A few people were passing by, going about their business. He approached the nearest man and asked whether he knew where the shopkeeper and his daughter had gone. The man shook his head. He tried someone else. Then another. Most knew nothing, and those who did merely told him that the shop had been closed for some time.
His unease grew with every answer. Finally, after questioning several more people, he found a man who seemed to know something.
"The man who kept that shop?" the stranger repeated, scratching his beard. "He's dead, boy."
Hugor stared at him. The words made no sense.
"Dead?"
"Aye."
"But... how?"
"Fell ill, from what I heard. Never recovered."
All the colour drained from Hugor's face. He remembered Bess’s father well enough. The man was always kind to him, kinder than a stranger had any reason to be. And now he was dead.
"When?" he managed. "When did he die?"
"Some moons ago."
He swallowed.
"And his daughter?" he asked quickly. "Bess. Do you know where she is?"
The man shrugged.
"Listen, boy, I know nothing more."
With that, he went on his way.
Hugor remained where he was. He looked at the closed door again, hardly able to believe what he had heard. Dead. Bess's father was dead. And Bess… Where is she? The thought struck him with sudden force. She had no one other than him. What had become of her? Was she still in Stoney Sept? Had she gone elsewhere? Had something happened to her as well?
His stomach twisted only on the thought. He had no idea where to look. For a while, he simply stood before the empty shop, unable to decide what to do. Then, from somewhere beyond the rooftops, he heard the ringing of a bell.
The sept. A flicker of hope rose within him. Of course. If anyone knew what had happened to Bess, it would be the septon. He set off at once, almost running, weaving between merchants and townsfolk, squeezing through the gaps between passing carts, and hardly noticing the annoyed voices that followed him.
Soon the familiar walls of the sept came into view. He slowed as he approached. There, beside the wall, stood the bench. He remembered sitting there with Bess after the day's work was done. She would tell him everything that had happened, often speaking so quickly that he could scarcely get a word in.
He could almost picture her sitting there now. A faint smile touched his lips. Then he turned away and continued toward the gardens. They, too, were familiar. He remembered tending the flowerbeds, pulling weeds from the soil, carrying water for the plants. It seemed so long ago.
He stepped inside the sept. There were only a few people within, kneeling before the Seven or murmuring prayers beneath their breath. The familiar scent hung in the air, and sunlight streamed through the windows, casting pale colours across the stone floor.
He walked toward the statue of the Mother and knelt.
Please help me find her.
There were always too many things he wished to ask and he didn’t have quite the right words to ask them.
I don't know where she is. I don't know what happened to her. Please, Mother, let her be well.
He remained there for a little while longer before rising to his feet. The septon was nowhere to be seen. He looked around, wondering where the old man might be. Perhaps he was tending the gardens. Or attending to some business in another part of the sept.
He began searching. His feet carried him through the familiar corridors, past doors he remembered and rooms where he had once spent his days working. And then, almost without thinking, he turned toward the writing chamber. He had spent so much time there that it seemed the most natural place to look.
He reached the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. The septon was not there. Instead, a young girl sat at the table, bent over a sheet of parchment, a quill held carefully between her fingers.
He stopped at the doorway.
"Oh, forgive me, my lady," he said, offering a small bow. "I was looking for the septon. I thought he might be here."
He had grown so accustomed to addressing ladies in that manner that the words came to him without thought, whether the woman before him was older than he was or little more than a girl.
He began drawing the door shut. Then the girl looked up, and their eyes met. He stopped, his hand unable to move.
The girl had gone utterly still. Her quill remained suspended above the parchment. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes had widened so much that she seemed almost frightened.
He stared at her. His hand slipped from the door. For several heartbeats, neither of them moved. Then, very quietly, he spoke.
"Bess?"
The name seemed to hang between them. A smile spread across his face, wider than any he had worn that day.
"Bess!"
He hurried toward her.
"I've been searching for yo…"
SMACK!
His head turned sharply to one side. The cheek started burning. He had hardly straightened before Bess struck him again, this time across the other cheek.
SMACK!
He straightened again slowly. There was absolutely nothing he could think to say.
Bess stood before him, trembling. Her eyes were filled with tears.
"Symeon."
She spoke his name so softly that he almost failed to hear it. Then her face crumpled. All at once, the tears began to fall.
"Symeon..."
Her voice broke, and she began sobbing. He stared at her helplessly. He had imagined their reunion a hundred different ways upon the road, but never anything like this.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. It was all he could think to say.
She stepped forward and threw her arms around him. He barely had time to react before she pulled him into a tight embrace.
"You stupid boy!" she cried between sobs. "You stupid, stupid boy!"
He held her carefully, still too astonished to speak.
"Where were you?" she demanded. "Where have you been all this time? Do you know what's happened? Do you know what I've been through?"
"Bess, I-"
"You never wrote! Not once! I waited and waited, and there was nothing!"
Her fingers tightened around his clothes.
"I couldn't stay here anymore," she choked out. "I was going to leave. I was going to come looking for you!"
Hugor drew back just enough to look at her.
"You were?"
She nodded fiercely, wiping at her cheeks without much success.
"Of course I was, you fool!"
He looked at her for a moment. Then he took her hand.
"Come with me."
He led her out of the writing chamber, through the familiar corridors and into the garden beyond. Bess followed without protest. Together they crossed the garden, passed beneath the trees, and made their way toward the outer wall.
The old wooden bench was there. Hugor smiled as soon as he saw it. He led Bess toward it and sat down beside her, just as they had done so many times before.
For a while, neither spoke. Then Hugor turned to her.
"I know, Bess," he said quietly. She looked at him. "Your father. I heard about him. I went to the shop first."
She lowered her eyes. For a moment, she feared she might begin crying again. She had dreaded having to speak those words to him. Somehow, him saying that he already knew lifted something off her chest. They sat there quietly, listening to the distant sounds of the town beyond the walls.
It was almost like old times. Bess wiped the last of her tears with the backs of her hands and drew a shaky breath. Now that the shock of seeing him had begun to pass, a hundred questions crowded her mind.
"How… How are you here?" she asked. "Why are you here?"
She looked at him from head to foot, as though she still could not quite believe he was sitting beside her.
"You went across the Narrow Sea," she said. "You told me you were going to Andalos. How could you possibly be here?"
Hugor smiled.
"For you."
Bess stared at him. Such a simple answer. She wanted to be angry with him again. She wanted to demand why he had not written, why he had left her wondering whether he was alive or dead, and why he had chosen to appear now, when she had almost given up hope of ever seeing him again.
But looking at his face, at that familiar smile of his, she found she could not summon the anger. Instead, she looked him up and down once more.
"You still don't look like a knight," she said. A small, broken laugh escaped her lips.
"I will be one. You'll see!" He said with a grin.
Bess shook her head, smiling despite herself. He looked at her more carefully. There was something different about her. She seemed thinner than he remembered, and there were shadows beneath her eyes that had not been there before. Even her smile seemed a little sadder. But those were still her eyes, and that was still her voice.
They remained upon the bench for much of the afternoon. At first, Bess did most of the talking. She told him about the days after he left, how she had continued helping her father at the shop, how the town had seemed strangely quiet without him, and how she had often found herself looking toward the road, expecting to see him return.
Then she told him about her father's illness. It was not easy, but she continued. When she finally spoke of his death, her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
Hugor took her hand.
"I'm sorry, Bess," he said.
"I know."
She gave his hand a small squeeze.
After a while, she told him about the septon taking her in and the work she now did. She even told him about her lessons, and how she had finally learned to write properly. That seemed to delight him.
"You can write now?"
"Well enough."
"Then you should show me!"
She gave him a look.
"Oh, now you want to read something I've written?"
Hugor frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I spent a whole year hoping you'd send me a letter, Symeon. A whole year."
His smile faded, and looked at her, rather ashamed.
"I should have written," he admitted.
Bess watched him for a moment before sighing.
"Well, you're here now, and I suppose that's something."
He smiled. She smiled back.
Then it was his turn to speak. Hugor told her about the journey he had taken after leaving Stoney Sept. He told her about the road, the people he had met, and the doubts that had begun troubling him along the way. He had intended to travel to Saltpans and find a ship that would take him across the Narrow Sea. That had been the plan, at least.
But his plan changed along the way, and he went to King’s Landing from Harrenhal. Bess listened with growing astonishment.
"You mean you never crossed the Narrow Sea?"
Hugor shook his head.
"Not once."
"And all this time, I thought you were somewhere in Essos! I was going to go there looking for you!"
He winced, completely taken by surprise.
"That would have been unfortunate."
Bess stared at him, then she struck his arm.
"Unfortunate?"
"Ow!"
"You fool! Do you know how much coin I've been trying to save?"
Hugor could not help laughing. She tried to remain angry, but the sight of him laughing was too much. After a moment, she began laughing as well, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all.
When their laughter subsided, Hugor told her that he had remained in King's Landing ever since. He spoke of the city, its great walls and crowded streets, and how different it had been from anything he had known before. Bess listened eagerly, interrupting him with questions whenever he mentioned something she found particularly strange or wonderful.
The sun had begun its slow descent by the time their conversation finally eased. They were still sitting close together upon the old bench, speaking of little things now, when Hugor happened to glance toward the entrance of the sept. He stopped in the middle of what he was saying.
A familiar figure was approaching. Lady Bethany. He straightened a little as he recognised her, watching her make her way toward the sept.