Eleanor remembers their beginning. If possible, she’d have followed her guards into the waters below. She’d screamed as unearthly noises approached, ascending her tower; and swooned as the axe demolished her door.
She awoke astride an old, broad-beamed steed, slow-plodding through a darkening forest, then drifted again, recovering as he loomed above, speaking soft promises.
She assessed the situation: his gauntlets were greasy, his breastplate buckled and broken, his rerebraces rusty. Equipment maintenance was obviously not his strength; but he’d saved her, and she would be his.
She smiles at him now, over her needlework, bouncing a twin on each knee.
This is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, where Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts a weekly photo challenge and writers contribute 100 word stories in response.
I suspect some readers might be scratching their heads in bewilderment, but this diagram should clarify my story somewhat, and this silly little song from long ago will make it even clearer.