Morning comes, with a blanket of fresh dew. It clings to her skin and eyelashes, droplets rolling down like tears. Osythe rubs her eyes, sits up to find herself by the same river she had bathed in the night before. She shudders, stands to find her clothing. Dark cloak slips from her shoulders, scar-riddled skin beneath. They catch her gaze—how long has it been since she last saw the daylight on her skin?
One from training, at her side. She was never known to move carefully. Another on her leg, darker—from a duel some months ago. An old scar, white like a brand, above the pronounced bone of her hip. She runs her thumb along it tenderly.
“She could have been killed, Ósmund,” Cadda accused, as if she weren’t standing right there, beside him. “What in Béma’s name were you thinking?” The chill of foredawn filled the air with dim light and morning mist--a wet dampness, one that shook the core.
“It was only a hunt,” the younger man replied, jaw set stubbornly. “She is as capable as any of her shield-brothers, you have said as much yourself. Why shouldn’t she join in the hunt?”
“She is too young! Inexperienced—“
“And she’ll never gain experience if you insist on keeping her at home!” Ósmund exclaimed.
“Boar-hunting.” Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, tinged with tenderness. She speaks aloud, pretends that he is there beside her as often times before. Leaning against the trunk of a tree, or perhaps wading into the laughing water. The golden sunlight of late morning glints off its waves now, a sharp contrast to the ghostly glow of the night before. “He would’ve had both our hides for rugs if he knew the full of it,” she chuckles, slowly donning her garments, piece by piece.
“Hold your tongue, boy,” Cadda hissed. “You forget your place.”
Osythe reached out, grabbing her father's arm as his hand danced at his sword-pommel. “Atta, please! It wasn’t his idea, I—I made him. I would’ve followed after if he refused.”
“Go inside, Osythe. We will talk about this later.”
Her fingertips brush over that old wound once more as she dresses, and she smiles with a softness long forgotten. It was the first time she had ever felt such pain—the red hot blade of his seax, searing, pressed flat against a wound deeper than she'd ever earned before. They had hunted more than boars that day.
She could still taste the strap of leather on her tongue, clenched between her teeth. She didn’t scream. She didn’t tell her father, either. Camped out on the hillside, warmed by the fire. The light always made his hair shine like the sun at night, grey eyes dark beneath it. River-grey, she called them. Like the Isen in the fog. They shared a skin of wine, tunics cast aside—hers for the sake of medicine, they agreed, and his to make it even. His lips felt like home... Call it love, or loyalty.
Such words held little weight, back then.
