Teresa goes hunting with her father; she always has, and says that she always will. Owen doesn't like it, but he's seen the smothering husbands at court - the kind that he doesn't want to be. So Owen wraps her small hand in his own, kisses her on the cheek, and hopes that she'll be careful. Teresa teases, and then she cajoles: won't he come too? Owen shakes his head; he can not, may not, speak. He tells himself that she's well looked after by Lord Wyldon and his men. She doesn't need his protection, or so she tells him daily.
Owen turns his back as the hunting party rides off. He doesn't see, but he hears.
Snap, go the twigs. Snap, goes her neck.
Owen's eyes widen, and he freezes. He turns slowly, afraid to see.
Darkness.
Teresa refuses to sit at home, while he's out chasing bandits. Chasing dreams, she calls them. It won't bring your mother back, she sneers cruelly. Teresa finds comfort at court, amongst the University graduates. Intellect. Owen is ashamed; he's failed her.
No, that's not Teresa. Cruel is not Teresa - it's not her style. Owen clings to her smile, but her red lips are lost in the dark. Her grey eyes turn to stone and tears; silence.
Owen protects the realm, and Teresa refuses to hide at home. Her aim is deadly, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He's failed her, somehow. She shouldn't have to carry a bow and arrow – she never used to. He's tried telling her this, but she always smiles and raises an eyebrow. Fiefs don't protect themselves, while the men are away. Owen knows that she's right, but can't help but worry. The bandits have circled Jesslaw like vultures, ever since his father's death. Owen is ordered to stay at the border.
He doesn't see her fall until it's too late. She's twenty-two, with an arrow through her heart.
Owen goes for the archer with his bare hands, but he can't touch the man. He's not there, not really.
Owen is falling, and the bottom of his stomach drops twice as fast. He lands in a grassy field, hard. He lies there, for what seems like forever. Misery, guilt, raw pain. He wallows in it all.
Jesslaw. Owen knows that voice, and recognizes the command. He forces himself up, and turns to his knight-master. Lord Wyldon looks old, and beaten, but mostly disappointed. It shows in his eyes, and his slightly slumped stance; Lord Wyldon of Cavall is disappointed in him, Owen. It weighs heavy on Owen's shoulders, and it hurts.
Owen looks past his knight-master, to the Cavall temple. It's late afternoon, and the sun is behind the temple, giving it a yellow halo. Owen stumbles uphill, as if drawn by some un-seen force. It's a struggle to open the thick, temple doors, and this shows how tired he is.
Eyes refocusing in the dark, he inhales sharply. Teresa lies at the altar, dressed in her best gown. Owen wants to shake her, wants to wake her up, wants to hear her voice, wants to scream. He opens his mouth to say goodbye, but closes it, before his throat catches. He's not allowed.
But then again, when has he ever cared to distinguish between forbidden, and permitted? In any case, this is far more important; this is Teresa.
Owen opens his mouth, and a door opens. Steady hands pull him from the stone chamber.
You'll do.
A/N : Recently, Tamora Pierce announced the canon version of Wyldon's youngest daughter's name. Needless to say, it is not Teresa. Since this is Teresa's moment of glory, I will not mention the name, but I will say that I want to have a go at writing her. The personality that I've picked up is quite different from Teresa. Rather than have my much loved (by myself, if by no one else) leading lady fade into nothingness, I wanted her to go out in style and with a dramatic death. Unfortunately (or fortunately), she doesn't die very easily. This was the result. Comments and questions are, as always, very welcome.
Tough Love,
Fenella