Windbound

Is this a gift? Or was it cursing me, was it cursing me, was he cursing me? I’m grateful regardless of intent — but did he wish this? He said he didn’t. It said he did.

I hope so. He really should’ve. How fucked would it be if he didn’t. It ought to be just a little satisfying, seeing justice done. If you regret, it’s not really justice, I’ve learned. But that? That was justice. That was a mercy.

How fucked does someone have to be for burning them to be a mercy? For scarring them to be a mercy?

Back and forth. Soothing repetition. Maybe if I just rub at it enough I’ll get used to it.

It still hurts, sometimes. I know it shouldn’t. I bet if I look into myself too long, I’d probably figure out I want it to hurt or something like that. Always been a sucker for the distraction of pain. If it works, it works. Pain works for me. That’s it. It’s that simple. I’ll figure out something healthier when that problem feels like a priority, how’s that.

What an actual fucking barking madman I am. Hey, Grymfalk, I dunno what to do with the fact that you’re a horrible person. I dunno, Atraeus, let’s be friends. Fucking genius, I am, and sensitive to boot. I’m sure that landed me a special place in his heart. Fuck, I’d’ve shot me then and there for shit like that if I were him. He didn’t even reach for his weapon.

The fuck was all that about, anyway? Acting like he didn’t agree that it’d be good if this thing scars. Cordiality. Civility. Bullshit. Listen to myself, sounding just like the shit he used to say that made me laugh, but I mean it. How else do you react to news like this but bone-deep fury? How do you feel anything less than all-consuming rage? I’m thirty years old, Atraeus. How many of those are you willing to bet I didn’t spend hunting your people? How few bodies do you assume I piled up over the years? The only thing that can ever be said for what I wrought is that their deaths were quick. What kind of reassurance is that? Less than worthless.

There was so much slaughter. More than I’ll ever know, and I’m the only one still alive who’s even aware of most of it. I killed people I never even saw. I stared down a cannon at a child. What do you do with that? How do you let that keep living?

Why couldn’t you have just… Kch.

Well, as long as I’m still kicking, I’ll be doing all I can. Who cares what I wish I was or had. This is what I’ve got, and this is what I’ll work with. No indulgent self-destruction, no sirs, not for me. Qel would be pissed. Besides, I’m here to lighten the load, not add to it.

If Atraeus can stomach my continued existence, I guess I can, too.

Well, I’ve got nothing to hide, anymore. No need to cover this mess. Awfully tired of hair in my eyes.

I suppose it’s high time for a trim.

—————

It is a cold night, even indoors. Grymfalk sits on the edge of her cot with the blade in her hands. Her torc lies on the cot beside her, unworn. She is the only one awake.

She stares into the darkness, unseeing, as time passes.

Her other hand raises to clutch the clump of hair hanging over her forehead. After awhile, she releases the lock of hair and rubs over the skin there instead. The skin is warped, ridged and discolored. Some of the tattoo ink had remained and smudged in the scarring. Her hand rubs slowly back and forth. She stares into the darkness awhile longer.

Finally the knife rises for the clump of hair and begins to cut. Practiced strokes sever hair, lock by lock, in even measure. She runs her hands through her hair once when she’s done to shake out the last loose strands, puts the knife away in the bin beneath her cot, and begins to gather the cut hair for disposal.