Tears

Goda left her to cry for a long time. When she finally lifted her face from the bed, the sun was bright in the room. It glared off her white skin as if she was lit from within, and her embarrassment grew into a raging flush of heat as she remembered her nakedness. Glancing around with swollen eyes, she located the piles of her discarded clothing and swooped onto each piece, dressing as quickly as she could.

The old woman was sitting on her bed waiting patiently. "Better?" she asked. "Are you done with your weeping now?"

"Yes," Lenka lied. Weeping filled her up. It made her whole head feel waterlogged and dull and her heart as heavy as a stone. A lifetime of dreams had broken inside her and the pain was more than she could stand.

"You didn't wake and leave him as I told you. It would have been better if you had done as I planned. But he knows now, and he would have known sooner or later. That much is done and you have to decide what to do next."

Do? There was nothing to do. He had sent her away, knowing how she loved him he had sent her back to her father's house. He wanted another woman for his wife.

"Fetch me my morning ale and cook me some blood soup. Half the day is gone."

"Yes, Mother." The fire had died again, and she took some time to raise the heat. Now, these small tasks would no longer be hers and the thought almost brought fresh tears.

"Well? What will you say when he comes back in from the field? Or better, take him his meal as if nothing has changed and be silent. Let him work over his own indignation."

"He told me to leave. I've to go back home to my father as I feared."

"Rubbish, girl. I told you he won't send you anywhere while I live under this roof. Let him plan on other wives, he's only a man. There's only ever one queen bee in a hive and that is me. I won't have his street urchin warrior for a daughter." Goda spat at the floor and took the mug of ale from Lenka's hand. "How could he think I'd have such city dregs in my home, in my son's bed, raising filth for my grandbabies? It won't happen. Now, fetch my soup and help me dress while we plan on what you will do next."

* * * * *

Dragan walked into the house, his eyes cold and steely as he considered his mother, sitting on her high-backed chair by the fire, in her best market dress, and bright shawl.

"Why am I not surprised?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. "Your idea, was it? How many years have you dreamed of having Lenka as your child?"

"As many as you think, perhaps more. It shouldn't surprise you. I am your mother and I have always wanted the best for you."

"So you feigned illness and misery so she would stay in my house?"

"In my house, and yes. Not altogether feigned, but I haven't been as poorly as you might have thought. I miss your father more every day. I loved him as dearly as my own flesh for forty years, and he would be here with me still if you'd come home when you should have."

"That's your argument? It's my fault my father died and so you should choose my wife? I won't have it, Mother."

"You will because you will have no other choice. I won't have that gutter slime you dream of here under my roof. It is her fault your father died. Her fault you didn't return months before you did. Her fault you mope and waste away on the hills year after year when you should have been starting a family and raising my grandchildren." She stood slowly using Lenka's hand as a prop. In her bent old age she did not reach past the middle of his chest, and yet she used her stature to command her son as if he was a small child.

"You are the fool, boy. How long have you believed your war would end and you would bring that midden home to me? How long? Really, I want you to tell me. Because I want you to think carefully about how long it is you've loved her while she never loved you back."

Dragan's eyes went cold and his mouth formed a hard tight line over his teeth. Lenka feared him then as she had not feared him before. The flare of anger in his features told her just how profoundly that judgement had wounded him. Hardly daring to look, she raised her face only just enough to watch his answer as it formed on his mouth.

"I am a fool, then, if that's the case." He strode to the table and seized the pot of ale, gulping away a bad taste. "But it's not true. She isn't like these desperate farm girls who hover over any man. She's strong and you will learn to love her for it. Now, will Lenka leave here?" He turned his fierce glare on her and she wilted, wanting to sink back against the wall or to melt down into the floor at her feet.

"No. She will not," his mother answered, her determination just as fierce.

"Then I'll be the one to leave." Already he was moving to the chest where his clothes were folded. As he spoke he began to throw small items he might need onto the table before them. "When I'm ready, I will bring my wife here to my home. Do you understand me? Both of you?"

"Yes," Lenka squeaked.

"Good." He glared at her contemptuously and she studied the floor as her cheeks caught fire. He was leaving and her tears had not yet even begun.

* * * * *

A horse.

Freya leaned into the hollow of its neck and shoulder, breathing deep the perfume of the gods themselves. The ride would be long, but it would be out in the mountains she knew.

The fortress of Aporta stood seventy miles to the north, on the western foothills of Eumidea, in the Delian mountain range. The road which connected the twin citadels was not well used, being so far to the east of the centers of commerce; the only travelers who needed roads out here were military supply wagons and an occasional clutch of officers who made the journey in rare and extreme circumstances.

So, four days on empty roads, in clean air, under open skies. With the familiar comfort of her sword and dirk, a horse, and simple orders to follow. Bliss. If this was the discipline Paske had marshaled against her, it was worth all she'd paid. Four days there, four days back, it was more than enough time to imagine pain for him, and the thought raised a smile.

New tears deep in the scar tissue made mounting more difficult, but once seated, she was free of weights too long hanging on her, choking her. Balconies leered from every wall, and an itch between her shoulders told her somewhere up there, he was watching. She refused to look. Turning the horse to the gate, she moved away from the ancient stonework and all it had become.

The pack she carried was sealed and she had no idea what it might contain. There would be nights at camp with nothing better to do than satisfy such curiosities. It could wait.

* * * * *

From his window, standing back so dawn shadows covered his form, Paske watched her readying to leave. He had made a gift for her of all the parchments she had ruined, dried by the fire and gathered into a heavy roll. He had even tied them, extravagantly winding reams of military ribbon in scarlet and black firmly around the shaft of the scroll, sealing it deliberately with his own blood-dark signet. So official; so authoritative. He knew she would never resist the urge to judge the importance of what she carried.

He studied the sky's growing light and grinned. By late afternoon she would be nearing Galla mere. He knew it well. No traveler who would be on the road for days would pass such a perfect campsite. A chuckle rattled up from his chest. Yes, he knew the road well. He had a few hours yet to ready himself for the journey.

* * * * *

Well before evening, the forest's shadows stole the warmth of the sun, leaving the road cold and pale as it wound between dense forests and the impatient rise of the ranges. The road picked a careful line between stone and wood, and even the water that fell in rain and snow was hemmed in, trapped in narrow gullies where rock falls had halted its escape.

Around a low rise, as she rose above the crowding trees, a wide mere opened to view lipped on three sides by alpine meadow, rich and green. It was a scene of pure beauty, and somewhere deep inside her a small recognition of the fact formed, but first and foremost she weighed the convenience of flat open ground and fresh water, against the threat of exposure.

Past the verdant paddock, scattered all over with yellow field daisies and fist sized white gibbers, the far bank was rocky and part covered by the encroaching tree line. She looked up at the sky; there would be good light for a few hours yet. She had passed no one on the road all day; not a soul. Apart from a line of goat tracks disappearing into the woods, she had seen no evidence of movement anywhere along the journey. Still, life had taught her well enough that it was those you did not see who were most a threat.

Leaning forward, easing her bruised bottom, she considered the aches that came from so long away from a saddle, and with that last consideration she moved the horse down the slope and angled off toward tree cover on the far side.

In the last hours of light, she gathered a stock of dry, dead wood, best for a hot smokeless fire. She dug the fire pit under the lee of two large boulders so the light and heat would be deflected down to her small sleeping place, preserving for her the boon and disguising the flame from all sides. Then, she stripped and waded into the cold, clear water to bathe.

Her horse had grazed while she'd moved around. Then she'd tethered him well back into the tree line, and while she bathed she scanned the open sides of the lake, up toward the road. From where she swam her small campsite was invisible, and she was pleased with her efforts. But it was not water she could laze in long, the cold ate into her muscle chilling her to the core, and she soon moved back to her fire.

As she chewed the drying bread of her road rations, she weighed the pack she had been ordered to deliver. It was long but not heavy, and she shook it. It rattled with a solid thud. Resting it between her knees, she worked quickly to unbuckle the line of straps that held it secure and removed a squat leather cylinder. Again she shook it. Documents? She twisted the tight fitting lid and it slipped off so she could empty the contents out onto her lap. A roll of parchments, bound by official ribbons. Sealed. And bloodstained? Buckled and stained by…?

From where he stood deeper in the forest, her horse cried out a long welcoming whinny. Darkness was settling fast, and she dropped to a crouch, turning to peer over boulders and past the mere at the meadow and the road above. She could see nothing, no movement. Then an answer came from high in the clearing, the loud reciprocation of another mount.

When she picked out the movement of the horse, she watched as it followed shadows down from the road, tearing sheaves of sweet green grass as it sauntered toward the waterline. Riderless. It raised its head, turning sharp ears toward the place her horse was tied, and called again. Riderless, but saddled; it had thrown a man and wandered alone; or someone had cursed the broken silence, and opted for the concealment of the ground and the cover of darkness.

Freya silently took up her sword and moved back into the trees, away from the fire to higher ground, and waited. For long, cold ages nothing happened. She shifted her weight quietly, easing the aching cramps of her hips and thighs. She wriggled toes buried deep in her boots and flexed and extended her fingers. When a man stepped into the light of her fire, she was ready.

Deep in her throat she groaned; if only she had carried her quiver. She'd have slipped her first bolts through his thighs; first one, then the other. Her next, perhaps through his shoulder as he tried to flee. Then, one from close, from where he could see her eyes; she would loose one through his neck. Such were dreams of vengeance when he wore the face and carried the weight of all her humiliations. But she had no quiver.

Instead she moved with expert care across the distance between them, closing on him from behind, her sword drawn.

Editing, with thanks to Essie Holton.

Come and chat about Touchstone and the ideas behind it here.