Into the Deep Wood

Everything felt extraordinary to Val. The air smelled so fresh; the breeze was just right. The wine never stopped flowing into her glass. The embroidered pillow she sat on was one truly fit for a princess to lay her head on.

The man, so courteous to her, kept telling her jokes and stories. She would laugh so hard she was afraid she would spill the wine on her dress - or worse yet, have it come out her nose.

She even took the copper vase herself, although she could not figure it out. Johannes tried to explain and grabbed it, his hand over hers. And it was so warm. But in the end, she blew into the spout, and nothing came of it except the bitter taste of tobacco on her lips.

This night had not felt real from the start. Perhaps she stepped right into a fairytale her grandmother used to tell. The princess and the prince. But he was a prince, wasn’t he? So glamorous in his velvet clothing, the golden beads and cuffs decorating his beard. What had Marat said? General?

In the light of day, the night still lingering and wine still flowing, she could see the details of Johannes’ face. His eyes were blue and mischievous, and they were always smiling, even if he wasn’t. His skin was not weather-worn, and neither were his hands.

She focused on his face a bit too much, and when he asked her a question, she did not hear him at all. And she laughed because that was absurd, and he laughed with her, leaning into her until they both went toppling over.

She kicked his glass, which spilled into the linen cloth and quickly disappeared.

“Tell me,” Johannes said, “But what is it that you find in Marat? He has always been such a murderer of joy. Even as a lad.”

She was still laughing at whatever it was that they had previously discussed, although she no longer remembered what it was.

What was it that she found in Marat?

Did she find something in Marat?

She could not help but recall how rough yet lovely his hands had been when he carried her weak, injured body through the grounds at the farm. She had wanted to die then, but he kept taking her to the groves of the wildflowers even when she begged him to leave her be.

Even before that, the very moment that she made the cut, how fast and desperately he ran to her; he was near death already, too. It came back to her in pieces for the past year—his shout, him cradling her, his hands holding her pieces together before the world went dark.

But wait, why was he asking about Marat…

She did dream of the rugged texture of his skin, sometimes, she could admit. The hands that had known nothing but the body's hard work, without complaint, taking great pride in whatever he had done.

His smoky scent of sandalwood and bergamot oil.

She dreamt of running her fingers across his skin and down his back - where it was deeply scarred by thrashing against the wooden pole in the barn, the scars still fresh and redolent of his atonement. She wanted so much to find every scar on his skin, both those she knew and those she didn’t, to soothe them and whisper that the pain was long gone.

Val’s mind kept coming back to his hands. She could almost feel them on her as she had imagined they would be.

But wait, she could feel them.

Real. On her.

Touching her, the warmth of the fingertips running down the curve of her shoulder bone.

She welcomed them, the taste of wine still on her lips. She begged for them.

What was the question?

Was there a question?

It was as if the world had faded back in like a rapidly rushing distant light. The haze dissipated.

Except, as it did, Marat was not there. There was a different, foreign presence.

A heavy shape lay next to her. Still warm against her skin, but completely wrong.

Confused and beginning to panic, she pushed against it, but it was too heavy.

The space around her was bright yet uncertain. It felt as if it spun lazily around. It disoriented her, making her limbs feel weighed down.

What had she done?

Disoriented, she pulled herself away, crawling out from under the blanket, which felt like a sauna. She felt her body burn internally, her head pounding, the sense of dread overtaking her.

Val's memories, fragmented and overshadowed by unshakable feelings of embarrassment, formed into a horrifying reality.

No, no, no-- please, god no!

The bulky shape beside her faced away, bits of straw blond hair protruding from the sheet pulled over it.

No…

She felt the bile rise and squeezed her eyes shut.

Why was she so thirsty? It was as if she had not had water in weeks... oh gods...

Val had not drunk much in her life. There was but one or two occasions of wine or beer at celebrations. Now, the taste of the bitter, rank fruit threatened to come rushing to the surface.

Too much. She'd had far too much.

With trembling hands and a pounding heart, she gathered what she could of her things. She did not come with much, her shoes - the green dress, and her white shawl, but it seemed that she lost a shoe... She grabbed the other, rushing barefoot out of the tent.

Gods! No..!

This was an unfamiliar tent in an unfamiliar part of the grounds. She ran, men walking past her. Some glanced in her direction; some paid her no mind. It was so hot outside, she couldn’t take it. The moment she saw a skin that did not look empty fastened to a saddle - she unhooked it and downed it almost all at once.

Relief washed over her for a heartbeat until the urgent rush of bile followed suit. She doubled over, heaving and then retching into the grass.

She could not stand up, her knees and hands shaking. Another wave came, and she convulsed again.

“What did you learn?”

This voice was the last on earth that she wanted to hear. Instead, she felt his hand graze her neck as he pulled back her hair.

“Stupid girl. Get it all out. Until there is nothing, or this will be your whole day.”

She felt her shoulders shake. Again, the gag, the heave. She wanted to collapse. Suppose she could only die right then, right there, and not have to feel the sun or the twist of her gut. To not have to stand up. To not have to face the thoughts that she'd had the night before. To not face her actions.

She spit one last time but could not bring herself to get up off all fours.

He picked her up, this pathetic little creature who got to learn the hard way the perils of wine and late nights, or in this case, days. He gave her ample opportunity to leave. But still, on the ground, shaking as if a sick dog, he hated to see her like this - hated that others walked by, glancing with interest and judgment.

He carried her, her body scrunched up and pained.

She smelled like puke, like sour grapes, like wine that escaped the pores through sweat the very next day. Of tobacco and grass. And there was something else, too, but he could not quite grasp it.

Inside the tent, he carefully set her down on a mattress. She curled up as an infant would, covering her face with the elbow of her bent arm. He took the shoe she held in one hand and threw it by the exit. Her stained dress would have to wait.

He placed the water next to her and went to look through the small wooden box set out by the firepit. It was filled with salt, and he put a pinch in his hands and brought it to her.

“Take this, drink water.”

“No, please…”

“Girl, I swear to the All-Father that if you whine and not do as I say…” He lost his temper fast this time. So delicate and unfit for the degeneracies she imbibed in. He did not even have to help her.

But he also did not want to listen to the sobs and mewls that were sure to follow her pain.

She seemed to hear and understand this as she turned, her eyes bloodshot and lips cracked and took the salt - licking it off her hand. He then handed her the water, which she grabbed quickly. He stopped her after a few gulps.

“You want to repeat what just happened, huh? That’s enough.” He warned her.

She nodded and set her head back down.

“Is it always like this…?” She asked.

“No. It is easier when you leave when you should.” He smirked, lowering himself beside her, propped up by an elbow. “And drink according to your weight, not your merriment.”

She started sobbing suddenly. He was caught off guard, hoping to have skipped that part. It accompanied any ailment with her, big or small. It accompanied a lot of things, really.

“You’re fine, girl. It will pass. Give it til night. Drink bits of water, sometimes salt, and do not eat anything until your stomach aches for it.” He told her. Regretfully, Erlan had a remedy for this in his bag of herbs and medicines, but Marat did not know which.

“No, no,” She sobbed, “It isn’t… I mean, it wasn’t…”

“Try to sleep.”

“Marat, I’d…” She looked up at him with her big eyes, the strained and dilated blood vessels nearly complementing the green.

He laughed to himself at the idiocy of that thought.

“I don’t know why…” She seemed hysterical between her sobs.

“Try to sleep. I cannot do anything else for you, girl.” He told her, and stood to leave. He had to find Johannes and work out a passage for them to the city.

He left, and she felt relieved to be alone.

This was wrong. All wrong.

She owed him nothing, yet…

She could not recall the events, but the feelings she had felt stood out clearer to her than memories ever could. She remembered missing his presence and then drowning in it all at once.

But it was not him. He was not there.

Val’s brow furrowed, a cold spreading like wildfire through her gut.

She felt it. It was not just a thought. She remembered it, even if only vaguely.

The hands were awkward and not gentle. the weight looming atop her, suffocating her, her cheek pressed into the fragrant beard and sweaty neck. The… she could not even think of it; the utter disgust it brought to her was worse than the repercussions of the wine. At that time, she did not even know who was there with her.

But the other thought, it would not leave her either.

She thought about Marat at that time in a way that she had not remembered doing ever before. There was a time in her youth when she looked at a boy with similar indulgences in her mind, but she had known little and only craved a passion she did not understand. She felt embarrassed. She embraced the reverie so eagerly at the time, without restraint, she could almost feel it.

And as it turned out, she had.

And it was not him.

She felt disgraced and humiliated. What was he going to think? He could not find out, not after the friendship they had built, him opening his life to her little by little.

Oh gods…

What was she going to do when she had to face Johannes?

What would he expect?

Val curled tighter into herself, her knees pulled up beneath her chin. She had once been so afraid of… this. So afraid that she would be here first with Ura, then Erlan - that he would force her here against her will. She was so indifferent to being there with Amir, although she tried so hard to imagine it at the time. And now, this stranger who was nothing to her but something to the only person she had.

How could this happen?

Marat was right, she was a stupid, stupid girl.

“Johannes.” Marat greeted as he came up on the regimen packing up.

“Marat!” The general smiled, gripping the other man’s arm in greeting. “But what a night we had! It is in the company of old friends that we remember who we truly are.”

“My brother, it was generous of you to have us here. I could not ask for anything more, but I must.” Marat said although he saw the extra bit of eagerness in Johannes’ eyes. He had known the man. This caused a similar stir in the pit of his stomach as if he was about to find a dead rat in his boot. “We seek passage with you. It is four days to walk and only two nights for your horses. We could pay–”

“Please,” Johannes stopped him, “I will not hear of it. What is mine is yours, and I am sure likewise - you are welcome to go with us as far as you like! I have horses; we will load the wagons in the back and free up two. I am afraid you will have to ride without a saddle - the men all own theirs, and it would not be right if I imposed. But, who among us did not ride bareback at one time or another.”

Marat nodded in thanks and shook his hand again, turning to leave.

Johannes’ eyes followed him until the man disappeared from sight.