Sarnai rode home from town, holding her horse’s reins with an iron grip, struggling to sit up straight in the saddle, to look proud despite the filth, the scars, the clumsiness with which she spoke. In her mind’s eye she hardly looked a lady, perhaps instead a girl trying to hold herself together. She remembered Rannulfr.
So far from home he was, just like me, in a way. Why should I see myself in him? He treated me like the dirt beneath his feet, cursing me. I think he understood Westron, but he did not speak to me in the tongue I fight to use, the tongue I must use so that this strange land will listen.
She remembered his words, or rather one of them, not knowing many phrases in the tongues of the North. There were a few words she could recall despite her lack of fluency, but they were hardly suitable for polite conversation.
Perhaps I did not know what word he used for me, not in the way that I learn them in Westron. People will explain them, then, tell me the names of things and the meanings of them with easier words. That was not how I learned the name he gave me. It is a violent one, not one that a wise teacher will show a young pupil with care.
She knew the name he gave her, how to say it, spitting it like her mother’s favored maledictions, with the force that her father bore behind every swing of a blade. She knew that four winters had chilled the land since she first heard that name, learned what it sounded like and what it seemed to mean, when she would hear it most. She knew the feeling of a boot prodding her bruised ribs, a hand yanking her head up with a fistful of tangled hair, the sensation of blood in her mouth. She knew the chill seeping through the tattered remains of her coat, permeating her bones. She knew the press of steel, the sharp pain and the harsh cries that eventually turned to a dull, constant ache.
I remember that name, I remember the men with their yellow hair and blood-stained armor. I remember pieces, the shadows of firelight, the reek of gore, that feeling of loss, of emptiness. I should have died with honor then, just like the others, I should not have been there, to be dragged out and carried along like some spoil of war-
Sarnai dug her heels into her horse’s sides and the mare dutifully stopped. She shook her head vigorously, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a long, rattling exhalation.
Control. Hold it fast like Father taught you. Anger is a weapon, and like all weapons, it is yours to wield, not the other way around.
On she rode, but despite her best efforts, she could not shake the name from her mind.
I will never forget your words, Northman, as I have never forgotten. So I have been called in other tongues, in many places. I remember your name, but I reject it as I might a plague! It means nothing to me.
Sarnai rode up to her home, dismounting with ease and muttering a few tired words of thanks to her horse. She quickly removed the mare’s tack, and leaving her outside, carried her things indoors. Doffing her boots as a matter of principle, she sat on her heels by the fire, watching the crackling, leaping flames to distract herself from other thoughts. Despite all of the bravado she tried to summon, the Northman’s words cut her to the core.
Better he would call me a child than that. He never knew what -truly, most of them will never know- and he…
Sarnai shook her head, pressing her face into her hands.
Let him think what he will. Let him speak as he must, and let it hurt me, even. But I care little for his thoughts. They are only words, no matter how violent. Only words. Besides, I have more important things to do than listen to a Northman wielding his big mouth.
