Chapter 8
772 Words
The tanner's sheds were cramped and smelled of mildew, but they were secure. Warin supervised the organization while Alfred calmly cleaned a vicious, foul-smelling s***h on his forearm.
A servant soon arrived with supplies and several young village women.
"My Lord, the Merchant Marcus sends provisions. And these women are for your warriors, to warm beds and see to simple comforts. It is customary."
Alfred crossed his sweat-glistening arms. "Take them back. We are soldiers, not traveling minstrels. We need steel and sleep, not softness. The warrior's strength is in his discipline. None of my men will be sharing a bed."
Across the village, however, discipline was the last thing that lingered.
Harrald, the man Genevieve was meant to marry, stumbled through the narrow alley behind the blacksmith’s shed, his boots splashing through puddles as he steadied himself on the wall. The faint scent of ale and smoke clung to him. When he reached Atharina’s door, he did not bother to knock. He simply pushed it open.
Inside, Atharina was stoking the dying fire, her thin shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. Her small home was humble but tidy, with two extra cots tucked against the wall, the ones her younger siblings slept on when they were not working at the mill.
Harrald’s voice slurred slightly as he spoke. “Still awake, my fox? Waiting for me?”
She turned, forcing a small smile. “You always come late.”
“Better late than never,” he said with a grin that did not reach his eyes. He reached for her wrist, tugging her closer. “Don’t act like you weren’t hoping I would.”
“I hoped you’d bring what you promised,” she replied carefully, glancing toward the small purse on his belt.
He caught her look and laughed, low and mocking. “Always so eager for coin. You’d think my company alone would be worth something.”
Her lips tightened. “It feeds my family,” she said softly.
“Then let me... feed you first,” he slurred, his words thick with wine. He pressed her against the wall, his kisses sloppy, his grip rougher than affection demanded.
Atharina closed her eyes, her body stiff beneath his touch. She let him have his way, not out of love, but survival, because hunger was crueler than his hands, and her siblings still needed bread.
He whispered between breaths, “Genevieve means nothing to me. A girl for the council, that’s all. You—” He trailed off, his mouth brushing her ear. “You’re real.”
Atharina did not answer. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table for balance, her face turned away.
Later, when he finally rolled away, breath heavy and reeking of ale, she lay still beside him, staring at the low ceiling. The fire had burned down to embers.
Harrald rose unsteadily, dragging on his shirt. “I’ll send coin tomorrow,” he said, though he never looked at her.
“You said that last week,” she murmured.
He smirked, fastening his cloak. “Then you’re due two payments.”
When the door closed behind him, Atharina exhaled shakily. The silence that followed was heavier than his presence had been. She turned toward the small cots, where her siblings slept soundly, unaware of the compromises she made to keep them fed.
Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the blanket over her sister. In the dim glow of the dying fire, her reflection shimmered faintly in the kettle, pale and tired, lips bruised from his kisses. She touched her cheek and felt nothing.
“Real,” she whispered to herself, her voice thin. “He says I’m real, but I feel like nothing.”
She sat by the fire for a long time, her knees pulled to her chest, listening to the rain taper off outside. The faint chirp of crickets returned, the world resuming its rhythm as if nothing had happened.
For a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine what it would be like to be Genevieve. Clean hands. Soft dresses. Healer who is beloved by the people. A father who cared.
Her eyes burned, but she did not cry. Instead, she rose, fed the dying embers with what little wood was left, and whispered toward the small cots, “Sleep, little ones. I’ll make it right somehow.”
Outside, the dawn crept slowly over the village. Harrald was already heading home, his boots squelching in the mud.
He laughed quietly, the sound mean and empty, already thinking of how he’d charm the bloody old fool Tristan again after a long, perfumed bath.
- Writer
