The Parchment II

Regan’s normally bronze, shiny skin was dusky, a dull-brown, weathered with an almost powdery covering of winter laying just over the surface. Her left hand splinted the bandage cloths on her left side, and she used one hand to pull the cloak around her frame, holding it together as she walked through the forest. Her lips moved sluggishly as she spoke to no one in particular, “Just let me get there…” A prayer to the Priest-Kings? To Odin? To the predators of the forest? To her own legs that seemed to want to falter? The snow-covered grass crushed softly beneath her dark, fur-covered boots, and then eventually, there was mud.

Mud everywhere. The beauty of forests, wild and animalistic, is always ruined when men are involved. She watched her step as her boots carefully navigated through the mud near the Parsit’s Landing. Her eyes slitted and a grateful breath escaped her lips as she pressed the palm of her hand flat against the smokehouse that stood on the outskirts of the little village in the Northern Forests. Her belly, flat, pressed flush against the smooth wood of the back outside wall, and warmth wrapped around her body like a blanket. For a moment, she simply caught her breath and leaned against the building. She only needed to walk a few feet into the gathering spot to hand off the note, trade the furs in her pouch for some more salve, and be on her way back.

That is when she saw him, perched upon a snow-covered boulder, his face scarred, nose broken in at least three places, his hands bandaged. He was watching her, a slight smirk on his features. She shivered in disgust and anger, too, that it was apparent how weak she was in that moment. This was the same idiot who had been deep in the forest, sitting next to the pond near the camp with only his pants on, no shoes, no shirt, shivering and proclaiming he was going to die out there. And here he was again.

So then she stood. Forcing herself to straighten, her chin raising and chest leveling. She looked over at him and met his gaze. She lifted her thigh and took a step, refusing to allow the pain to bleed through on her features. Every trembling fiber of her body stilled in that moment. A violent wind whipped up the bank and over her, and the discomfort was so intense, her breath was taken away but no, she did not flinch. And in standing, proud and beautiful, the afternoon sun gleaming against her bronze skin, she felt the first stitch on her side tense, tense so terribly, excruciatingly painful, and break. She turned her chin, her mouth opening and voice level, a pure alto like silk in the wind as a warm trickle of blood began to ooze down her side to her hip, “Tal once more, male.”

She rounded out the building, the endorphins from the pain building in her blood stream, pushing her on further, and when she was sure he was not watching, her eyes filled, spilling over, two twin tears coursing down her cheeks. She dragged a fur-covered forearm across her face, feigning perspiration, to wipe the moisture from her skin and made her way to stand before the window of the small tavern. She could spy the back of the courier, hunched over the table, his mouth full of food, his eyes sparkling, on attended on the slavegirl that knelt at his feet. With raucous laughter, he smacked the table, only a muffled sound emitting from the door, but one that made her almost jump in contrast with the stillness of quiet forest she’d just exited.

Her fist encircled the parchment and she flexed her knee, leaning on the porch. She need only wait for the man to exit, and her trip would be finished. She watched the girl’s expression for a moment, kneeling, her thighs parted and her lips covered in some kind of moisture, dripping down her chin. The man’s body erupted again, and she saw his face contort in laughter as he shoved the horn once more, almost slamming it into the girl’s lower lip, trying to get her to take another drink. The scene played on like this for what seemed to be an ahn. Regan pulled at the skin of water from her belt and took a sip, continuing to wait. She turned, wincing, and slumped down the post of the porch and sat down, shaking her head as she felt a breeze push past her cloak and linger on the trickle of blood that still seemed to be fresh on her skin. She was still bleeding. In that moment, her vision spun, the trees in the distance all swaying at the same time as if a great, violent wind had overtaken them. No coherent thought of alarm could be formed, only a soft moan of confusion escaped her dried, cracked lips.

The door to the tavern flew open just in time for Regan to blink and look up at the towering, drunken form of the man that stood over her. He grinned, his eyes shining, face ruddy and unfocused, “What is this, then!” he shouted, his large, calloused hands smacking together, violently disturbing the calm.

She pressed her palms against her thighs and stood, turning. A jolt of panic gripped her spine as she took a step back, careful to mask her features. She held out a hand, sensing the man was unsteady and might lunge for her. She took another step back, “I have a parchment to be delivered.”

The man’s chest raised, and he burst out laughing, clapping his hands again. He was obviously full of mead. The slave at his feet clung to his legs, her fingers clawing at the leathers strapped and binding his ankles, her bare skin showing gooseflesh at the arctic breeze that blew across it. “Do you now? Panther with a scroll! Now that’s something you don’t see every day!”

The slave snorted and pulled at his leg, her hips undulating on his boot. Her whimpers were a lurid harmony to the merriment that was now loud and evident emanating from the tavern with its door flung open. The amber glow from the heart inside crackled and cast shadows upon Regan’s face, the orange silhouetting the swaying man’s frame. He leaned into the girl, momentarily distracted, his feet shifting and upper body lurching to balance himself before falling on top of the girl.

Regan held up her hand, staying to the business, “Four copper tarsk bits? It goes to Port Kar.”

The man steadied himself and then slung his pack open. It was made of rence cloth, with a large flap and in it were numerous scrolls and sheafs of parchment, a few wrapped packages and surprisingly well organized. He leaned forward, his mouth open slightly, and looked at her, “C’mere and put it in, woodslut. I’ll take you.. er… I’ll do you one for FREE.” A darkness flashed behind his eyes, and his upper lip curled into a lascivious sneer. The slavegirl at his feet raised her hands, pulling at the leathers above his knee, making small, injured sounds in her throat as she begged for more of his attention.

Regan’s vision swam as her right fist curled around the note in her pouch. The man pushed off the girl on his leg and laughed, lunging forward. Regan stumbled backwards and reached down onto the strap on her calf to pull out her dagger but stopped short when she saw the man lying face down in the snow, unmoving. The slave scampered over to him and knelt, her voice mumbling in a high-pitched tone as she saw another man rise up from the table, peering out towards her. Regan turned then, cursing softly beneath her breath and began walking as quickly as she could, limp or no, back to the forest.

The Parchment I

Dear father:

It has been exactly 89 hands since we have spoken, since that day in the market when I slipped away, just for a moment, but yet for a lifetime. I am alive. Know that the daughter of Primus is strong and free.

Regan

She had folded and unfolded the parchment too many times to count, the edges beginning to look worn and slightly shadowed with the natural oil from her hands. She had no seal to press, no case for the scroll, but she knew the recipient would be convinced of its authenticity. He knew his daughter’s hand and also the length of time it had been since their separation. She had sworn to contact no one ever again, and the conflicting tides of regret and pride washed over her, vying for conquest. She could never tell him in words that she had lived in the northern forests for almost two years, how her body had barely survived the frozen winter the year before, how paranoia from almost daily trauma had threatened to steal her mind, or how she’d killed a sleen with a dagger, screaming, and almost bled to death from the experience two days ago. But, laying in the tent in her solitude, weakly pressing another bandage to her washed-out frame as she’d lay almost in shock, his face was all she could see.

Specifically, she could remember his face as he had watched her the night of the house ball.  He had been standing in a group of warriors, busy as he always was. He hadn’t had much time for anything save scouting the shores of Telnus, holding conference in the warrior’s hall, and recruiting. Though he had been the constant protecting force in her life, he rarely spoke to her in a casual way. And since she had began looking more like a young woman instead of a child, his dealing with her had been almost business-like, with an occasional fond glance and the rare embrace. But that night, he had seemed more focused upon his daughter, the girl who entered the room quietly. She had walked through the door nervously, knowing all eyes were upon her. She was, after all, the daughter of Primus.

Primus had looked up from the circle of warriors, and his smile was just for her – broad, his eyes full of the light of success from the recent campaign in Cos, a distinctly satisfied look. Everything had been proceeding according to his plans – which is exactly the way he liked it.  How useful she would be in allying his house with another’s of prominence. She smiled at the thought.  It was her who had caused this look of gaiety upon his features. Her heart leaped when had seen him pull away from the men in red and walk across the room to her.

Weakness, she thought as her throat constricted, responding to those familiar memories.  Weakness will kill me, here.  Regan picked up the pouch laying on her furs and winced, her side still painful from her injuries, the stitches straining below the binding cloths she had wrapped her torso in. Her eyes fluttered closed as a bitterly cold wind blew through the tent, almost as if to whisper to her, to goad her into making the decision to walk to the outpost and send the message. She turned and began walking out of the camp, pausing to almost kick dirt over the fire, but remembering her stitches, she decided to let it burn for now.

“I’ll be back for you,” she said, pointing to the sleen carcass, as if it could talk back, and then she departed, leaving only the sound of the crackling campfire behind her.