Unséftness



Mead-addled. No, ale. 
Osythe first realised it when she spoke of music. Even now, on the way back to the sweet refuge of her tent, the song plucks at the chords of her memory. 

I dreamed a dream last night 
of silk and fair furs 
of a pillow so deep and soft 
a peace with no disturbance...
 

His voice. No, her mother’s voice. It rings out soft and low, but the movement of her lips exposes the true source. Who had taught the words, and who the melody? 

The answer’s oft a stronger weight, 
though the question hurts to bear
 

Osythe kicks away her leather boots, slips free from her travelling robe. Sets her seax down beside her bedroll. In moments, sight gives way to darkness. 

Darkness gives way to fog, across the meadow, cloaking the laughing waters of the Isen in pale mist. Like breath in the winter, frost on the blade of a leaf. Suddenly wool blankets turn to thick furs, and there is a familiar heat beside her

”Why have you come?” she asks, and the warmth surrounds her like the gentle touch of early morning light. She basks in it, a hound by the fire, a cat in the beams of midday. But it grows hotter still. Like a red iron, and her skin blisters at its touch.

“Why won’t you leave me in peace?” she wants to cry, but she cannot find her tongue. The stench of burning fur fills her lungs and she strains to cough. 

The melody plays on. 

When she wakes, she swears that there are ashes, speckled at the edge of her bedroll. She lies awake in the dull gleam of foredawn, and wishes for a pillow, deep and soft. For silk, and fair furs...

 


Lyrics adapted from Drømde mig en drøm i nat