The morning sun was blinding. It had just crested the eastern rooftops of Bree-town, and now blazed straight over the landscape and into the huntress' squinted eyes. The village seemed different somehow, from her perch atop an unwitting house, whose inhabitants had not heard her quietly scuffling shoes over the wooden tiles. Her back was set against the chimney, one leg dangling on either side of the ridgepole. The street below was beginning to awaken and bustle with the goings-on of the townsfolk. Cart-wheels clattered on the cobblestones, voices shouted to neighbors and merchants and wayward husbands who'd been out drinking all night at the Prancing Pony. A flock of geese squawked as they were herded through an icy puddle and down a side alley.
Her head tipped back to rest against the frozen bricks of the chimney. She inhaled slowly and deeply through her nose. She thought about the various, friendly faces she'd encountered over the past few days. The laughs, the drinks, the jokes, the arguments.
It was all in vain.
She felt a nudging at the edge of her thoughts. Like a pesky, stray mutt butting its nose against your leg while you're trying to enjoy your supper. No amount of breathing or listening to the pleasant din of the street below or musing about banter in the tavern could make it go away.
It was becoming more and more difficult to get him out of her mind. She could feel the beginnings of that thing she feared more than anything else. That bittersweet, infuriating ache behind her ribs. Now and then it would radiate down through her gut, making everything hurt inside.
But the hurt felt so bloody nice.
Nay. Nay.
It was just a fantasy. A phase. A juvenile, girlish whimsy. She thought too much. She always thought too much. Surely, she was building it into something it wasn't. Ruminating and chewing and rolling it around on her tongue, refusing to spit it out and move on from it.
But...he'd said...
NAY.
She felt a hard, sharp pain on the back of her hand, and winced. Glancing down, she saw her fingernails, gripping a portion of her skin, digging into it in a violent pinch.
Maybe Nathan was right. Maybe she needed to get away from town. Not an hour's walk away, but far, far away. Away from every single person. No companions to muddy her brain and confuse her further.
But she didn't want to go so far. From him. From them.
A man's voice rang out from the cobblestones just beneath her perch. It was deep and musical, not like a Bree-lander's. For a moment, she thought it was the ghost, and she sat up quickly, eyes flying open. She leaned over and peered eagerly to find the source, while her pulse exploded into a wild, panicked drumming. But...nay. It was only a traveling peddler, hawking his wares to the owner of the home upon which she sat. Simultaneously disappointed and relieved, she sagged back with a sigh.
Maybe it was his fault, too. How dare he show up out of nowhere? Parking himself in the inn as if he'd not been gone for years! The audacity he had, to look at her, to notice her, to speak to her!
She felt her stomach tightening. Her cheeks were growing hot. Anger was easy. She welcomed it in.
Damn bastard, he was. Flipping her world upside-down when she was only a girl. She'd been impetuous and reckless, aye. But he was a seasoned, worldly man! He should have known better! Why hadn't he taken pity on her and left her alone! His damnable grin was burned into her memory. She hadn't seen it for what felt like ages, but could picture it without any effort.
Her fingers went into her hair. Grabbing it in handfuls. Her eyes pressed shut.
The taste of whiskey. She'd hated it ever since. His voice screaming her name as she walked away from him, feeling like her heart was being ripped from her bowels. That night on the road...he'd torn her to shreds with his tongue alone. It had always been his most potent weapon. She was left crumpled on the ground, sobbing. All from words.
Her chest was heaving now.
Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Narys. Come back to the present.
Trembling hands lowered from her face. A cold wind tousled the ends of her fiery locks. A smith struck an anvil in the distance. *clang! clang! clang!*
Something hot and wet snaked along her chilled cheek.
The past was over. Gone. Done. Buried. There was no need to dig it up again.
Why, then, did she feel this terrible, melancholy need...to apologize?
She didn't bother to brush the tear away. It felt good on her skin. Warm at her eye, then cooling to a tiny pinpoint of moisture by the time it reached her chin. Her heart wasn't entirely ruined, perhaps. She could still weep.
"Besides," she muttered aloud, pulling her knee up to rest her chin upon it. "He would never."
