He was looking back at her.
Upon the slated step of a cottage door the girl stood, black eyes peering out to him from the shadows within. Eyes welled with tears, tears that would not fall upon eyes that would not blink. He wanted to look away. He could have looked away, looked ahead. Snow was falling in white mists, dusting her face where it shone form the darkness.
Turn your back. Forward, look forward. She's nothing to you now. Never was.
He wanted to look ahead, to turn his back. One simple turn of the hip, a mere glance to the left. But he couldn't look ahead. He could only keep looking back. Horse hooves thumped against winter snow and mud, each hoof a heartbeat.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
The palfrey ambled along, a painstaking slow walk. The cottage grew smaller as he moved away, distant, but when he blinked, she was there again, as was the cottage, because he had never left.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
Hooves ambled through snow and stone. The cottage grew distant. Then it grew close again.
"It ambles, Daddy. Tha' horsey. It don't trot, it ambles. That's what Deyton says. "
"Does 'ee now?"
"Too weak t'be a 'orse of war, Deyton says. Not a destrier, no. That Ser knight wanted to end it, but Deyton bought it instead for mother."
"Why you always talk about him? He's not your bloody father."
"I know."
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
Blood on the saddle. Not my blood. Blood on his scabbard. No, not my blood. Not her blood, either. His.
The cottage moved away, then it grew close again. Her black eyes stared at him through the doorway. She said nothing, only looked through welled tears, tears that would not fall and eyes that would not blink. A body trembling in the darkness.
"Tania... Tania... gods gra'mercy.. I'm sorry..."
Dark eyes looked to him. Last winter they had been bright as the stars, eyes that laughed and sang when he looked into them. Now they were dark, dark as the winter cold. She wailed at him, a banshee's scream.
"Fuck ye' t' the hells! Bastard! Devil-spawn! I curse you! Every breath, I curse you and your pissant breath. You ain't my blood, an' ye can't 'ave her, neither. Feck off an' leave us! Go!"
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
The cottage grew smaller, distant, but then it was close again.
Forget her, she's nothing to you now. Never was.
The cottage became dark, wood splintering into charred ash, the roof opening up into a great chasm where smoke billowed out. Thatched straw and wood blazed into cinder, the sun blotted out to a crimson red. From the doorway, she stood, eyes welled with tears. Tears that would not fall upon eyes that would not blink.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
Off within the trees, a hurdy-gurdy droned. Drunkards laughed and bellowed while glass tinkered and smashed. Two voices spoke among the din.
"Jus' say the word, Belcaw. We''ll come all the way north wit' ye. Me an' Graff. Don't care how many of those hoarde bastards we gotta cut our way through t'get there. We'll find her."
"We ain't bloody going."
"She's your daughter, ain't she? Gods above and below, man, she's your own flesh and blood--"
"She ain't no flesh an' blood of mine, y'stupid bastard! I won't be liftin' a bloody finger t'save 'er! Her and that stupid whore she's got a for a mother!"
Forget her, she's nothing to you now. Never was.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
She still stood in the doorway, charred walls crumbling, wood splitting and snapping in the heat. It came from the south, a hot wind that sucked the air dry and suffocated man and beast alike. Trees shook and trembled, leaves stripped and bark torn bare as it came rumbling from the shadows, orange, red, white, it stormed and flowed, a wave of heat, and everything it touched became nothing. With violent disregard it struck the cottage, smashing it to pieces, a thistle in a thunderstorm, a blazing ball of flame to wrought wood and stone asunder.
She stood on the stone step that remained, aflame and blistering, tearing, skin to muscle, muscle to flesh, flesh to bone. Eyes looked back at him, eyes that were empty as bone. Eyes that would not blink.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
"Rhian..."
He didn't know if it had been his own voice speaking out that awoke him, or whether it had been the dream itself, or merely or the summer heat, stabbing through the room's diamond windows like a deity's sword. Sweat ran down his face in a torrent, soaking the pillows and sheets.
He sat up with a grunt, legs swinging to the side, eyes scanning about. An empty bottle lay on the floor, empty with the faintest smell of bourbon. When he got lost, he thought about her, then he turned to drink. He'd asked for more drink the night before, and the tender had been most obliging. Problem was, the drink only brought the dreams, harsh distorted memories made worse tenfold by mindless nightmares.
Idiot. You stupid, bloody idiot.
He somehow found a way to drag himself over to the small dresser, kicking it's wooden leg and rattling the murky mirror with a clatter of pottery that sat on its stop. He spat an obscenity, hands reaching to brush away the dream that now clouded his thoughts, a muggy, distant fog that was slowly clearing.
Soon you'll forget her face. Aye, then she'll just be a name. Just some stupid bloody name of a stupid bloody dead girl.
Sweat caked his beard, the black hairs a mop of dirt and grime. He ran his fingers through them, scowling in the golden dusty hue. His black eys narrowed, a scowl forming across scarred cheekbones.
"Glove," he mused, voice hoarse and dry. "A feckin' glove, she says."
Teeth gashed together, and he found his dirk on the dresser's table. The leather hissed as he released it from the scabbard. A soft, harsh hiss, the hiss of death so many knew all too well. The morning sun gleamed from the steel, and he ran his finger softly along the edge, the whetted edges tickling the fingers. Not as sharp as he'd have liked, but it'd do.
He found the washbasin with fresh water, a luxury he hadn't been afforded for quite some time. The blade swished through it, small stained lenghts of blood peeling off, only to liquify and murk the water like blossoms in the spring. Leaning towards the mirror, he began a long, careful cut along his chin.
"Don't even make bloody sense, man wearin' a glove on 'is face," he muttered, before falling silent in his concentration.
He felt little hands for a moment. Or at least remembered them, small hands that ran along his stubble, her little voice cackling with glee as she hugged him. Tickles. It tickles, daddy. She never liked the beard. Only the stubble.
It was noon before he'd finally gathered his wits and his gear to make his way downstairs, leaving the tavern to head into town. Time would tell if the day benefit to his restless night, as the stifling heat wasn't doing any good for his raging hangover.