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.

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