May 3rd, 2027
As Brenda lay cocooned in the bed, her mind instinctively traced the familiar blueprint of her family's Manor, a mental map etched deep in her memory. The central building commanded her attention first, its grandeur a focal point from which all else unfolded. The grand entrance and the great ballroom, alongside the primary living quarters—rooms two stories high—were a tapestry of Myers history, the heartbeat where generations had thrived.
Her childhood memories, playing hide and seek with her siblings through these very halls, now served as an internal guide through every nook and cranny of her beloved hearth.
Encircling the central edifice were four wings that both surrounded and protected the Manor proper and housed the day-to-day lifeblood of the estate. While technically a 'Viereck' because of its quadrangular layout, as far as she could remember, everyone had always affectionately referred to it as 'the ring'. What was once a protective barrier now served as housing for the support systems of the Manor, sheltering human, supplies, or equipment. As she mentally walked through this ring, she noted how the ceilings lowered progressively, a physical echo of the Manor's hierarchical functions. The servants' quarters, a quick dash across the courtyard to the grandeur of the main structure, buzzed with the energy of those who kept the Manor alive.
The kitchen, a cavernous domain of culinary alchemy, was strategically placed to serve both the Manor's residents and their guests, a hub of nourishment and tradition. Moving further along the ring, the pump house loomed, its ceiling dipping to a mere half man's height, a testament to its utilitarian purpose. Alongside it, the stables and storage areas stood as the operational backbone of the estate, each area resonant with its unique symphony—the clatter of hooves, the rustle of hay, and the silent stories held within the archives.
Scattered within the ring were the guest rooms, varying in luxury but uniformly infused with the essence of the Myers' travels and experiences, their furnishings a silent invitation to explore the family's expansive narrative.
In this half-awake state, Brenda utilized the architecture as her compass, relying on her intimate knowledge of the Manor's layout to discern her location. Once her eyes opened, the room's height would unveil her position; the windows' alignment would indicate which side of the great hallway she resided in.
Yet, Brenda's decision to keep her eyes closed, to bask momentarily in the illusion of her own bed, revealed her resilience and strategic thinking. This act of feigned vulnerability allowed her to discretely survey her situation, the steady creak of a rocking chair by the window and the brisk breathing near the door suggesting the presence of at least two guards.
The lavender-scented care she'd received and the soft slip she found herself in spoke to a degree of respect, yet also underscored her present vulnerability. Devoid of her usual defenses, she was now in a different kind of battlefield, one that demanded a mastery of power dynamics, alliances, and psychology.
Laying enveloped in the deceptive comfort of soft sheets, Brenda contemplated her next steps. Her eyes remained closed, but her mind was alert, strategizing her approach to the coming negotiations and potential confrontations. This moment of introspection was the calm before the storm, a silent gathering of strength and wits.
Brenda Myers was on the verge of stepping back into her legacy, her home, and possibly shaping a future that would merge past divisions. The Manor, with its towering spires and echoing corridors, was more than a mere structure; it was a living chronicle of heritage, ambition, and tenacity. As the dawn's light began to filter through the curtains, she prepared to face not just her immediate surroundings but the intricate tapestry of alliances and rivalries that had led her to this pivotal moment of reckoning.
They had done everything they could for Brenda while she lay unconscious—tending to her with a care that was almost reverent. But there were limits to their ministrations; they could not feed her, and as she drifted between consciousness and slumber, a scent teased her senses, elusive and faint, yet piquant enough to stir the cavernous emptiness within her. Her stomach, attuned to the scent's hidden promises of nourishment, clenched with a ravenous urgency. It was a primal signal, one that transcended the genteel confines of her current surroundings and spoke directly to her most basic needs. This subtle fragrance, mingling with the lavender that coated her skin, was an olfactory enigma that hinted at sustenance just beyond reach, igniting a hunger that was both physical and emblematic of her craving for action and agency.
Raised in the lap of luxury and tradition, Brenda's upbringing was a symphony of refinement, grace, and etiquette. Yet the wild had rewritten her, the past year a crucible that honed her instincts, transforming manners into a tempered edge of survival. Now, as she lay amid the trappings of her heritage, the rawness of her recent existence pulsed just beneath her cultivated surface.
With the impulsive energy of her newfound savagery, her eyes snapped open. In an instant, Brenda's mind, against her conscious intent, mapped her location—Bartold's room, situated on the inner edge of the eastern side of the ring. The room's meticulous care was at odds with the image of marauding squatters she had envisioned. There was a reverence here, a respect for the property that permeated the space.
Her gaze landed on the woman she had observed from afar—Miniatur von mir, she had named her internally. Up close, the resemblance waned, the distinctive Asian features of Brenda's own visage not mirrored in this woman's face. Yet, she watched Brenda with a silent intensity that spoke volumes without words.
At the door stood an imposing figure, a sentinel whose formidable presence was undeniable. The guard's mass was double that of Brenda’s, her stance an unspoken testament to her training. Brenda knew without trying that this woman was a barrier not easily breached, a fact the guard herself seemed to acknowledge by maintaining a studious avoidance of eye contact.
This rapid assessment unfolded in mere seconds, a fleeting prelude to the visceral call of hunger that gripped her. The scent had been a siren, and now her eyes fixed upon the domed platter resting on the side table. With none of the elegance that once defined her every movement, Brenda reached out and cast the lid aside. The trappings of her heritage might surround her, but the instincts of the wild were an undercurrent too potent to ignore. The dome rang out with a deep resonance upon striking the floor, its sound then rattling with increasing frequency before coming to a sudden rest.
Silver glinted at the periphery of Brenda's vision, the platter bordered by vessels of refreshment—a triad of water glasses and a duo of juices, orange and apple, standing sentinel around the feast. With the ferocity of a creature long denied, she lunged, each glass raised and emptied in rapid succession, the liquids cascading down her throat,inside and out, with a wild abandon that left no room for the niceties of her past. The act culminated in a resounding belch, a primal note of satisfaction.
The ham steak was next, seized not with utensils but with bare hands, torn with teeth in a manner far removed from the dining rooms of her youth. The toast and Danish followed, the meal a blur of hunger met and sated. Her fingers, now tools of consumption, swept up the last of the feast, bringing to her mouth the remnants of flavor with a thoroughness that left nothing behind.
Sophice's voice, tinged with amusement, broke through the carnal display. "Feeling better?" There was no mistaking the mirth that danced within those words, a lightness that might have once drawn Brenda's ire or embarrassment.
But Brenda, smeared with the evidence of her indulgence, felt nothing but a burgeoning vitality. She reclined, the detritus of her meal a testament to her disregard for judgment, her focus solely on the resurgence of strength within her veins. The bed received her as she lay back, a queen in her own right, unfettered by the gaze of the doppelgänger or the expectations of her station.
In the aftermath of her feast, Brenda remained ensconced within the soft confines of the bed, her demeanor one of tranquility. Her body had been satiated, her spirit buoyed by the unexpected bounty, rendering her still and expectant, like the calm surface of a pond awaiting the next ripple. There was a tactical patience in her repose, an understanding that the unfolding narrative was now in the hands of her current hosts. She had made her silent declaration: the ball was in their court.
Sophice, acting with the authority of one accustomed to command, addressed the sentinel by the door, "Veronika." The name was unexpectingly feminine, hinting that their parents had no idea the juggernaut their daughter would become.
"Get Bertruce to clean her up," Sophice instructed, her tone carrying the expectation of swift obedience.
Veronika, without turning, responded not with words but with a rhythmic knock against the door: short, long, short. The pattern bespoke a code, a method of communication that was likely well-established within the Manor's walls. It was a system that spoke of order, a reminder that even in Brenda's absence, the estate had not descended into chaos but had been governed by a new regimen, an organized structure that she had yet to fully understand.
Brenda, her face still painted with the remnants of her meal, watched the exchange with a detached curiosity. She understood that this was more than a mere cleaning—it was a restoration of sorts, a symbolic gesture that she was being prepared, perhaps, for a role yet to be unveiled in this unexpected chapter of her life.
As she awaited the arrival of this Bertruce, Brenda's mind began to weave possibilities, strategies, and potential alliances. She knew the importance of appearance, of the impressions one made, and the subtle power dynamics that could be communicated through such transformations. Whoever this Bertruce was, they were the next piece in the puzzle, a new character in the play of her homecoming, and Brenda was keen to see how they would fit into the larger mosaic of Tal der Ruhe.
Bertruce, Brenda assumed, appeared. The entrance was without fanfare or announcement, marked only by the quiet swing of the door as she carried in her hands the tools of her trade—a modest wash pan and an assortment of cloths.
Her approach to Brenda was professional, almost clinical, as if Brenda were not the heir to this estate but simply another task to be completed. There was no need for words, no desire for eye contact; Bertruce's mission was clear and singular. With a practiced hand, she dipped cloth into the cool water, applied liquid soap, and began to cleanse Brenda's skin with an efficiency that was both impersonal and intimate.
The cold water was a stark contrast to the warmth of the room, sending a shiver through Brenda's body, but she remained still, allowing Bertruce to do her work. The woman's hands moved with a precision that bespoke a routine well-honed, her touch firm yet not unkind as she removed the vestiges of Brenda's indulgence from her face, neck, and cleavage.
And then, as quietly as she had arrived, Bertruce was gone, leaving as much a mystery in her wake as she was upon entry. The door clicked shut behind her, and Brenda was left in the renewed stillness of her room, her skin tingling from the clean and cold, her mind buzzing with unanswered questions about the silent servant who had just tended to her.
Veronika, the stoic guard by the door, remained unmoved as Sophice spoke, her voice carrying the weight of familiar names and unspoken hierarchies. "Otto," she said, the single word laced with a sense of pride that only intimacy could confer. It was clear Sophice enjoyed the privilege of using his name with such casual ownership. "Otto, wished to know when she was ready to receive company." Now the tension that crept into her jawline, the subtle hardening of her tone, betrayed a deeper narrative to Brenda.
Brenda's keen observation, honed by both her upbringing and her year in the wild, allowed her to read the subtext woven into Sophice's demeanor. There was resentment there, a bitterness that soured the air with jealousy. Sophice was acutely aware of her own role as a mere placeholder, a surrogate for Brenda in her absence, and Brenda's return threatened the precarious status Sophice had carved out for herself.
"Do you wish to get dressed, or are you happy with the feral wolf motif?" The challenge was barbed, a thinly veiled attempt to provoke, to claw back some semblance of control or superiority.
Brenda, however, was not one to be baited so easily. Amusement flickered through her, a spark that ignited her response. "I think feral wolf fits me quite well. I'll see my old friend Otto as is." Her words were a parry to Sophice's thrust, a dismissal of the implied criticism and a reassertion of her comfort in her own skin.
In her heart, Brenda recognized the prudent path would have been to smooth feathers, to pacify potential animosities. Yet, the wild year that had stripped her of her genteel veneer had also imbued her with a raw honesty, a fierce authenticity that chafed against the confines of polite duplicity. She chose to stand in her truth, even if it meant ruffling Sophice's carefully preened sensibilities. It was a risk, but for Brenda, authenticity was worth it.
Without awaiting further cues, perhaps as a subtle defiance against Sophice or simply following protocol, Veronika delivered two long, sharp knocks on the door. This action, executed with precision, left Brenda pondering the complexity of the communication system within the Manor. The array of knocks and their meanings, the unseen network of staff and security outside her room—it was a world operating on an intricate ballet of signals and responses.
The immediacy of Otto's entrance did little to dispel her musings. It was as if he had been just beyond the threshold, poised for the summons. His appearance, strikingly out of the ordinary in festive lederhosen and with hair meticulously styled, carried an air of celebration, or perhaps an attempt to evoke a lighter, more carefree atmosphere. The decanter he held was a gesture laden with history, a nod to shared experiences and personal connections. "Behind him, two small, middle-aged men—possibly Sicilian, definitely related—hovered with cups and saucers."
Sophice's reaction to Otto's arrival was telling. Her leap from the chair and the manner in which she hovered around him painted a picture of eagerness and perhaps desperation, a stark contrast to the poised, controlled demeanor she had aimed to present earlier. This shift in dynamics, from the tension-filled exchange with Brenda to the almost sycophantic attention given to Otto, was a vivid illustration of the complex interpersonal relationships at play within the Manor.
Otto's offer of "Schwarzkaffeeextrastark?" was more than a simple query; it was a bridge to the past, to days of youth and camaraderie in Bad Tölz, a shared history encapsulated in the ritual of strong black coffee. Brenda's response, a smile warmed by the flood of memories, signified a thawing of the frosty atmosphere, a momentary connection amidst the undercurrents of rivalry and resentment. It was a reminder that beneath the surface complexities and the roles they now inhabited, there remained a foundation of shared experiences, a testament to the enduring bonds of friendship and history.
Brenda's words were a deliberate dance around vulnerability and assertiveness, "Here I am, a defenceless woman, weaponless, barely clothed - do you really need all this protection?" Her voice, tinged with a mix of irony and challenge, was aimed not just at Otto but at the entire room, questioning the necessity of the guards' presence with her disarmed state being emphasized for effect.
Otto's response came with a flush of color to his cheeks, "Perhaps they are here to protect you?" His words, possibly meant to reassure or deflect, only sparked Brenda's next move, a strategic play that would reshape the dynamics of the room. "All the more reason to dismiss them." Her counter was swift, leaving no room for argument, and the audible reaction from Sophice, a telltale gnashing of teeth, was a satisfying confirmation of her success in shifting the power balance, if only momentarily.
This maneuver by Brenda wasn't part of a premeditated strategy; rather, it was an adaptation, a spontaneous response to the unfolding situation. Yet, the idea of Otto as an ally—or potentially more—was not without its appeal. After all, navigating the complexities of her current predicament required allies, and who better than someone with whom she shared a past? The notion of rekindling whatever might have been between them, even if only as a tactic, was a pragmatic solution to her immediate need for security and companionship.
Assuming Otto held significant influence, aligning herself with him seemed the most prudent course. It offered safety, a chance for intimate conversation, and perhaps an opportunity to explore what had once been between them. The time they could spend together in the interim was a chance for Brenda to gather information, to understand the current state of affairs within her family's domain, and to plan her next steps.
"Everyone out," Otto commanded, his voice echoing louder than intended, prompting an immediate exodus. Veronika and the two manservants exited swiftly, while Sophice hesitated, inching closer to Otto.
"Liebkind," he addressed her, the term carrying a firm undertone of command rather than endearment. With a heavy step and a door slammed in her wake, Sophice left, leaving the room charged with tension.
Once alone, Brenda didn't miss a beat. "Am I going to need a food tester now?" she quipped, her voice tinged with mock seriousness yet expecting the laughter that followed from Otto.
"I'm serious. If she's my doppelgänger, I assume she's Gefahrengeist too," Brenda continued, her jest fading into genuine concern.
"Doppelgänger?" Otto's interest was piqued, eyebrow arching in intrigue.
"Yes, she looks like a teenage version of me—back when you knew me. She's dressed in my old clothes, living in my old home," Brenda explained, her words deliberate, inviting Otto to reflect on the uncanny resemblance and its implications.
Then, with a slight shift in tone, Brenda ventured deeper into their shared past, her statement a mix of inquiry and revelation. "I always thought we were just a teenage fling. Have you really been carrying a torch all these years?"
The question hung in the air, a bridge spanning the gap between their shared history and the present moment, opening a space for truths, unspoken and acknowledged, to surface amidst the complexities of their reunion.
In the charged silence that followed her probing question, Brenda leaned into a more strategic play, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "By the way, if she is me, she's at the door with a glass right now."
The suggestion struck home, a tactical seed planted, and Brenda watched as Otto's demeanor shifted, the cogs turning visibly behind his eyes. The moment stretched, filled with the silent contemplation of implications and strategies, before Otto broke the silence with a voice that carried the weight of command, amplified to ensure it reached beyond the room's confines. "Anyone other than Pike found at the door when I open it sleeps in the forest for a week," he declared, his authority undisputed. The addition of "no exceptions," growled with a finality that brooked no argument, underscored the seriousness of his decree.
This maneuver, a blend of insight and intuition on Brenda's part, not only tested Otto's reaction but also subtly manipulated the room's dynamics, asserting her own influence while navigating the intricacies of the power structures at play. It was a bold move, revealing her acumen in understanding and leveraging human behavior to her advantage.
Brenda's voice carried a raw honesty as she addressed Otto, the man who remembered her as someone else, someone she no longer was. "Otto, I'm not the refined girl you remember or even the woman that left for university a few years ago. I know the smart move now is to hold out on relations until I've leveraged that to its fullest. But I'm also a creature that eats what it finds and takes what it needs, and it's been a good long time since I've had a man in my bed—or even a bed to put him in. And the last time... it was against my will, an experience I'd like to wipe out of my brain. Is it within your power to take me now, hard and maybe a little cruel, and have it mean nothing? In the afterglow, we can negotiate whether I have a place here."
Her proposition hung in the air, a blend of vulnerability and assertiveness, a challenge to Otto's perception of her and a test of the boundaries between them.
Otto's admission infused the room with a palpable intensity, his voice steady but laden with the weight of unspeakable loss and resilience. "Brenda, I too am not the fumbling little boy you remember, who would have said anything to get laid. Can I make love to you and not have it mean anything? No, it will mean something to me. But don't worry about negotiations. After my home was destroyed and my family killed, I survived only by pretending to be part of the mob. I tried to steer the crowd away from the homes of people I admired, and when they were spent, I was near your home. I found it ransacked and violated. But I never doubted you would survive and find your way back. It's your home—I kept it safe for you. I only ask that you find a place in it for all of us."
His words spoke of a harrowing journey, of his own battle to preserve the remnants of his past, and of his efforts to protect Brenda's legacy amidst chaos. The Manor they stood in was a testament to his silent vigil, a beacon of hope that she would return to claim what was rightfully hers. In his eyes, there was a plea for inclusion, for a new beginning not just for Brenda, but for all those he had gathered under this reclaimed roof.
His confession was a revelation, a glimpse into the depths of his own turmoil and his covert guardianship over her legacy. It was a declaration of his intentions, honest and without pretense.
Brenda absorbed his words, the weight of her own desires momentarily balanced by the gravity of his. "I can't express my gratitude yet; my mind is overwhelmed by other needs. But know this—you are appreciated. And we will talk of your hells and maybe mine. But, the question wasn't whether you can make love to me and feel nothing. The question was whether you can take me like an animal and scrub horrors from my mind and body. Take me now, or by God, I will find a way to take you."
The tension in the room, once thick with unspoken histories and anticipated negotiations, shifted palpably as Brenda issued her raw command. It was a challenge that cut to the core of their reunion, stripping away the layers of civility and propriety that had once defined their interactions.
Otto's transformation was almost tangible, a visible steeling of self as he donned the metaphorical mask she had handed him. His movements were deliberate, primal, an answer to her demand that spoke volumes in the language of raw, untamed desire.
In a swift and startling motion, Otto overturned her, a mix of rupture and epiphany in one fluid movement. The sound of her slip tearing—a minor yet poignant detail noted by a corner of her mind as difficult to replace—heralded the intensity of his imminent entry. Brenda's reaction was immediate and visceral, her teeth sinking into the pillow to stifle cries that mingled pain with pleasure, a raw symphony of sensation. He was certainly no longer a fumbling little boy.
"Pull my hair," she commanded, her voice a scream in the charged air.
He complied, his actions aligning with her demands.
"Harder, I can still think," she urged, her voice breaking, tears streaming silently as her plea echoed in the room.
Otto's grip intensified, pulling until strands came loose in his grasp, his thrusts gaining a ferocity that matched the urgency of her request. Each movement was a profound declaration, a dance on the edge of pain and ecstasy, a storm Brenda navigated with a desperate need to erase, to replace, to reclaim.
"Feel me," he yelled from the gut, and thrust with a force that university student Brenda, less hardened and resilient, might not have withstood. His bellow, primal and unrestrained, was certainly heard throughout the Manor and perhaps even in the ring.
As they moved together, an acute awareness dawned on Brenda—the realization that Otto had transcended the role she had initially cast him in. This was no longer an act of performance but a genuine embodiment of the primal, raw essence she sought. He had shed the remnants of the hesitant boy she once knew, transforming into an undeniable force of nature.
Then, with deliberate force, he lifted himself on the tips of his toes and one hand, flipping her tiny body to face him, resuming the relentless pace of their union. He gazed deeply into her eyes, an attempt to peer into her very soul. Brenda tried to avert her gaze, seeking refuge from the intensity of his Seelenblick, but he firmly directed her face back to his, demanding she confront the connection between them. In a moment of raw defiance, she bit the hand that anchored him, tasting the salt of his sweat—a sharp, tangible reminder of their physical exertion and the visceral nature of their encounter. He ignored the pain, a silent testament to his focus, and held her glare unflinchingly.
A moment of release came, a breaking point where pleasure cascaded over her in relentless waves, each surge a cathartic release of the burdens she carried. In this melding of past and present, Brenda found an unexpected purging of her deepest wounds, a reclamation of her passion, power, and identity. This union transcended the physical, becoming a profound affirmation of her very being, a narrative rewritten in the embrace of Otto's fervor.
As the storm of their coupling subsided, Otto's stamina remained unyielding, a testament to his own needs and desires. Brenda, fortified by her own resilience, met his intensity with quiet fortitude until he, too, found release.
He attempted to speak, but she silenced him with a gentle admonition, "Shh, sleep. We will talk when you've rested."
He acquiesced, settling beside her, his head resting on her chest, his breaths soon deepening into the soft rhythms of sleep.
In that quiet aftermath, Brenda felt a profound sense of homecoming, a peace long sought and finally found. Her inner Ibex, the emblem of her struggles and moral compromises, began to fade into the background, a chapter closing as she embraced the sanctuary of the present.
A serene realization washed over her—the sun was setting. The soft amber light that filtered through the windows hinted at the day's end, blurring the boundaries between time spent in passion's embrace and the oblivion of sleep. Had they truly been entwined for hours, or had she surrendered to a day's worth of slumber before awakening earlier? The distinction mattered little; she was not tired, per se, but a profound exhaustion enveloped her—a testament to the intensity of their connection and the catharsis it had brought.
Lying there, a subtle contentment filled her, a gentle ebbing of the storm that had raged within her. There was no urgency to move, no immediate need to address the world beyond the room's confines. Instead, she reveled in the quiet aftermath, the peaceful lull that followed the day's earlier chaos.
A mischievous spark ignited within her, a flicker of satisfaction at the thought of Sophice, alone and perhaps unsettled, somewhere beyond these walls. This small, wicked pleasure was a guilty indulgence, a dark bloom in the garden of her recovery. It was a reminder of the complexities of her return. Yet, for now, these concerns were distant murmurs against the backdrop of her current repose, mere shadows in the soft glow of the setting sun.