The Quest. A Tale of Vengeance, Torment, and Love.

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The end of the world...?

She was locked out, but what she had seen before the door closed on her, made her blood run cold.

That room had been closed for a thousand years, yet there had been flaming torches... Flambeax, blazing on the walls. There had been fresh blood on the dirt floor; hideously disfigured bodies, sitting against another wall, clearly dead, their chests opened.

Some, she still recognized behind the blood.

She saw her father, her brothers, uncles, cousins. They had all been made to pay the price for what they’d done when they had murdered Guillaume’s family.

Her grandfather had seen this, ahead of time. That was why he’d sent her away, to protect her from this.

Guillaume was there to atone for his ‘sins’, for what he had done here. But what sins?

Did not the bible describe 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth'?

She would not judge. Only her grandfather had been kind in every way. She had been more like him than she had been like any of her own immediate family. She’d often wondered if her grandfather had been her real father, and not the man she’d called by that name. They’d called this down upon their own heads by what they’d done. They were to blame for their own misery. She felt no pity for them.

They’d waited for Guillaume so that they could be revenged upon him in turn. Vengeance! Too many had died with that word ringing in their ears.

This was old history. Water under the bridge.

The only man she’d ever loved, or could love, was now in there.

She tried everything she knew to open that door, feeling over every inch of it for a latch of some kind, searching for the trick to open it.

It was solid, immoveable.

She heard faint voices from within, screams, from many voices. Screams of wild jubilation. And one other voice ... in pain. She knew that voice.

She redoubled her efforts, but she could find nothing.

The minutes passed.

She thought of something.

She ran back to their tent, caring nothing for her nakedness, and snatched up that crucifix that had once belonged to her, lying on her clothes where he had left it, and ran back with it.

No one in the camp seemed to be stirring, or there would have been shocked questions at her flitting about naked like that, in desperation.

She flew down those stairs and pressed that cross against the door.


She cried out in anguish. “If there is a god in this world, then please open this door for me. And if not for me, then for the children I bear, and whose father is in there. I beg of you.

She called out to him. “Hang on my love. I am still your Rossignol. Your wife. The love of your life, as you are of mine.

The door swung open, hammering back against the wall, almost precipitating her to the floor inside that horrible scene of devastation she’d seen, minutes before.

Her name, 'Rossignol', had opened it!

The sunlight flooded in across the floor.

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