(This follows Northward - The Conclusion and takes place earlier in the year, in late spring.)
She was on her knees. She did not recall how she had gotten there. Her senses returned slowly, a little measure at a time. The wind was whispering again in the grass, and the sound became clearer and clearer. There was a great pain in her back. It swelled from an annoyance to a throbbing ache in the span of a breath. Her hands were clamped around the hilt of her sword. She did not wish to open her eyes, but knew it could not be avoided. It would not do to remain frozen and pretend that she might hide from the world behind her shut lids.
The Dunlendings’ eyes were wide-open in shock and horror. Not unlike the wagon-master’s had been. Her blade was plunged through his belly, pinning him to the earth. A dark patch of scarlet had wetted his garments in a messy halo around the puncture. Her gaze was drawn against her own wish, focusing on the spot. His shirt was dimpled and pulled taut towards the steel blade. She had a notion that bits of the torn cloth had been driven into his body by the blow. This bothered her, and she shuddered violently.
She gripped the hilt anew and began to stand stiffly. The sword shifted a little, and she felt sickened, and released her hold on it. Once she was erect, her fingers moved to clasp it again. They hovered and hesitated for a moment, floating reluctantly, until she gave a heavy sigh and moved all at once. She took hold of the hilt and yanked it upwards. A kerchief was drawn from her pocket, and she wiped the crimson wetness with a trembling hand. The iron-like scent of blood mingled in her nostrils with the sweet freshness of the spring wildflowers growing along the roadside. There was no memory of the skirmish itself. A vaguely hazy array of images and sounds was all she could bring to mind. The sword was slipped into its sheath. She balled the kerchief in her palm before stuffing it back into its place.
“Jack?” She heard herself calling out in a faint voice. From behind her right shoulder, there came the slow, ponderous sound of heavy hooves shuffling over the earth, and a weighty muzzle butted gently against her arm. She turned instinctively and latched onto the horse’s neck. Her knees wobbled. “Oh, Jack! You are not hurt, are you?” Her palms roamed searchingly along his shoulder, his ribs, down his forelegs. He was blessedly whole.
Her movements aroused the ache that had been forgotten for a few moments. It announced itself anew with a pounding hurt between her ribs, just beneath her right shoulder. A hand was awkwardly pressed to the site, and her breath quickened in fear. Her fingers crawled over her leather tunic, but no holes were felt. No warm wetness.
When her legs felt steady, she turned to regard the figure upon the earth. His stare was as it had been before. Open wide and pointed to the sky above. She closed the distance with a single step, and looked down on him.
“I did not wish to do it,” she whispered. Whether the words were meant for herself, for his unhearing ears, or for some unseen entity, they were snatched away from her lips by the sun-warmed wind.
His face held no malice now. He was not glaring at her with violence and bloodlust. Now his brow was smooth and relaxed. His jaw was loose and slack. She glanced at his hands. She wondered what other tasks they had done, before this day. Perhaps they had hammered together the walls of a house, and then lay propped against his hips in pride when it was done. Perhaps those grit-covered fingers had caressed a woman’s cheek once upon a time. Or held a newborn child. Or patted the head of a dog.
Heat was simmering behind her eyes now, blurring her view of him.
“I did not wish to do it,” she murmured again. Her mouth felt loose and weak, and her throat tight. She turned away.
An hour later, the sun was yet high. The warblers in the tall thickets had resumed their twitterings, and the frightening cries and shouts from the morning were fading from their memory.
The fallen Dunlending warrior was now laying beneath the sheltering, green fronds of a willow tree. His eyes were not gaping at the sky in horror anymore, for they had been carefully closed before stiffness could freeze them in that tragic expression. His rough hands were folded over his stomach. His spear was laid beside him.
He had spoken of other warriors nearby. In the hour it had taken to move his body away from the road and settle him in a manner that seemed right to her, no enemies had appeared. If none were near enough to have heard his battle-cries, perhaps the northern road would not prove too perilous. Perhaps he had lied about their existence in order to deter her from trying to escape. Perhaps whatever scouts might be hiding among the hills and dells would have their eyes turned elsewhere when she passed. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
