BRUISES
Written on October 6, 2021 (♎︎)
Author's Notes: Written for Whumptober 2021 for prompt No. 6: Touch and Go (Bruises).
Meliadoul had been used to ignoring bruises. The Templar were a martial order, and any novice after their first year would be sparring with enough regularity to accumulate some marks. Mullonde was also nothing but cliffs and hills where it wasn't sea, and her brother had not always been a cautious or obedient child. If their harsh profession or their harsh island left its imprint on him, she imagined he would not want it fussed over. She was sure, in fact, that she had given him his share of bruises in her time.
It was a long ride to Riovanes, however. Her thoughts turned in many directions. She did her best to put off consideration of rumors or reports; she told herself she would assess the situation when they arrived. When Meliadoul considered her brother, it became her impulse to look to the past and not the future. The Izlude of the past could not die. He could only stumble. When it came to scraped knees or blackened eyes, such marks would mend. She recalled more than once that last parting at the docks, his arms loose and clumsy as he threw them about her, his hair teased out of shape by the wind. She had held him close—bunching the edge of his hood over his neck as she did so, such that she couldn't see the color of his skin. When she prayed that night for his victory, she wept without meaning to.
Now, miles and months away, her company only reached the Yuguewood at dusk. She bade them ride harder for it—told them they should see the castle by dawn. In the sprawling black of so many layered shadows, their pale-feathered birds seemed their own sort of ghosts.
The stars and sky trailed away from her. Meliadoul thought of Izlude penitent, of Izlude apologetic, of Izlude patient under the weight of expectation. She recalled to herself how their father, always sparing in his praise, had told him that he should stand proud in casting off childishness—that he had all faith in him on the journey ahead. She remembered how quiet he had been the last time he came to tears and how quick he had been to dry them.
Her mind traced her brother's life through ever path that might keep him away from her anxieties. She confronted no evil that had or might have come to him. It was only in the purple of morning twilight that she could bring herself to recall the sound of a glove striking skin, of a shout stifled before its completion. She could already scent the decay on the air then, and hear the clucking of crows and jackdaws.
One of the archers shouted that they should wait to approach; she was doubtlessly right. Meliadoul pushed on into the keep nevertheless without any acknowledgement or command. She did not look to the men fallen by the gates any longer than to see the colors they wore. She did not linger on their features; she did not look to where their skin had swollen and split. She gripped her sword tight and kept walking.
It did not take her very long to find her brother, and when Meliadoul found him, she did look and she did linger. She knelt. The flies scattered. Her eyes followed the trace of every wound upon him, searching in vain for some unmarked inch of him remaining.
It was as if every past injury had been visited upon him at once and she must bear every past suffering due her as witness.
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