Chapter Text
It’s moments like these that she wished she could fold in her hand, like a crumpled piece of paper, and tuck safely in her pockets, to revisit whenever she wanted.
Her father guided her through the quiet forest, his hand on her back—never on hers, as much as she wanted so—its comforting presence a balm to her heightened spirits. The breeze carried the smell of rain, and the early morning fog hung over her like a snug blanket. If she squinted hard enough, she could still make out the silhouette of the cabin that she had come to think of as her home in the distance. Her favorite days were the ones spent in her father's company after waking up in that same wooden cabin.
An almost bucolic scenery, if she didn’t know any better.
Bhaal never said where he would take her in her dreams. It was nowhere and everywhere. A pocket of reality made just for them—a haven.
Eirin thought it was perfect.
Only one thing spoiled the idyllic picture.
Orin trailed not far behind them. She could hear the sounds of branches snapping as the older girl stamped her feet, could practically feel her furious gaze boring into her back. If she looked back, Eirin had no doubt her face would be contorted into an ugly mug, as it often was, but she paid her no mind.
Let her sulk. All Orin did was sulk these days.
Turning her attention to happier matters, she chanced a look at her father's profile. Bhaal’s hair was a perfect mirror of her own, long and shiny like threads of silver. Orin’s hair was different, a shade darker, less moonlight and more setting sun over a steep hill.
What did the other kids call her? That’s right. Half-breed . The meaning of the word eluded her, but it seemed to anger her sister like nothing else could.
Without warning, Bhaal stopped in his tracks and Eirin was pulled from her musings, her back taut as a string and ears straining to catch any hint of sound.
He held up his hand, motioning for them to stay put. Following his lead was as easy as slipping into her night clothes, no trouble for her at all. He walked to a bush and knelt down, his long black cape blocking her view.
Standing under the shadow of a tree, the two girls waited with bated breath.
When he turned to them, she saw that he held a young hare by the scruff of the neck, its fur coat white as snow.
“All living things are meant to perish.” His voice was little more than a whisper, but she heard him as if he were standing next to her. “The least we can do is rush them to their ends.”
He beckoned her to come closer, and she knew what she had to do. Her hand hovered over the dagger on her hip out of instinct.
The hare remained perfectly still, subdued, its crimson eyes opened wide.
“… It won’t even fight back,” she grumbled and instantly regretted her words. Taking a deep breath, she asked, “What’s the sport in this?”
Bhaal took his time to answer, a faraway look in his eyes, as if reminiscing about the long-gone past. She was always struck by the strange quality of that gaze; the passing of centuries, a concept too foreign for her to grasp.
He was mortal, too, once.
Hard to believe now.
“I was very lenient with your education. Careless. My mistake.”
She would have preferred anger or scorn, anything to the indifference on his face as he handed the hare to a grinning Orin. Her sister looked at her with barely disguised triumph, and she felt her gut churn in response.
Orin kept her eyes on her as she knelt in the tall grass and drew her dagger from its sheath. The first blow was aimed at the hare's throat, blood gushing from the wound to form a puddle beneath her feet.
She wasn’t spared from the spray of blood, and neither did Bhaal, who remained silent, eyes occasionally darting away from Orin to gauge her reaction. Orin, of course, wasn’t blind to this. Nothing escaped those milky white eyes where their father was concerned. But she didn’t let it faze her. On the contrary: her blade flew with acute precision; cutting, slicing, and peeling skin from bones. An eye was ripped out from the skull. One ear was torn off, thrown to the ground for the vermin to feast on.
A gruesome spectacle. Purposeless and meant to impress.
Silly Orin. Her father didn’t care if a man was murdered with one stab or a hundred. It was one of the first lessons he taught them. He didn’t bother correcting her now.
She remembered a time when she woke up in the cabin with blood on her hands and her clothes in disarray. She had gotten into a fight with one of the taller kids and made a fool of herself. In her anxiety-ridden state, she feared the worst. Her father had explicitly advised her to pick her battles wisely. What good was an heir prone to bouts of childish anger? Tears streaming down her face, she tried to wipe her hands on the bedsheets, on the fabric of her dress, but only managed to stain it further. Bhaal appeared shortly thereafter. He took her trembling hand in his, ran his fingers over her knuckles, and then ruffled her hair a little. It soothed her crying like candy to a baby. The following day, she wore the bloody shape of his fingers on her forehead with pride.
Her father was a strange man. If she could even call him a man, that is. He praised her stubbornness and admonished her in the same breath; he demanded absolute obedience and none at all. Eirin wondered if there would ever come a time when she would understand him, even begin to see the reasoning in his ways, but then again, all adults were strange.
Their gaze met above the bloodbath: they both knew where her mind went. She tried to tell him with her eyes, ‘ That was different! That pig-faced little bastard! My dagger was too good for him .’ And he replied just as silently, ‘ Just as the scales do not tip towards the weight of a man’s guilt, it makes no difference in the end. You’ll learn this, in due time .’
“I saw another burrow further away,” Bhaal said conversationally after the hare was reduced to nothing but a pile of disjointed flesh on the ground. He didn't need to elaborate, his meaning clear. He wouldn’t tolerate another mishap. ‘The stench of failure is discernible for those with a keen sense of smell ’, he said to her once. The feeling in her gut came back with a vengeance.
She thought of hands in her hair and bloody fingerprints on her skin. “I’ll do it, Father,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I won’t disappoint you.”