I fume even as I storm into the home of my brother; “I shall never again stay out so late!” I declare as if an impetuous teenager with little thought of consequence, and make myself scarce and hidden in my niece’s room. My niece, Jennefer, is already outside playing while her mother washes the laundry. It is early morning, and again was I out all night, and for such a dreadful reason to boot!
I grab my palette in my hands; the old hazelwood (curse my thoughts of Hazelwood, on the note of it) is indiscernible beneath the myriad of colors that has soaked into it already. The unfinished scenery on Jennefer’s wall taunts me just as much as that man outside the tavern had. I furiously mix together red and yellow paint, with a wee bit of white for a softer shade before I raise my brush to the wall. Though my temper is still hot, the methodical repeat of actions of dipping my brush into the paint before streaking delicate lines across the wall does temper it some. It makes me focus on what I am doing, and my breathing evens out.
Sunset over the Chetwood. I miss it. It is not far, but I miss it.
I did not realize how much I truly missed home until I was no longer there. Bree was full of roaming men and promiscuous women; not that our little hamlet was without them, only that they were what I was used to back home. Here it was in my face, abrupt. Spewing vile words and drawing swords at insults.
You drew your sword at an insult, Odie. Father would be ashamed.
Father doesn't need to know.
Father would be disappointed if he knew what I was up to. Flirting with men for fun rather than marriage, selling my art for coin. Daring to further my learning of the sword and shield of home. I continue to paint the sunset over the old homestead, which will cast a golden glow upon the scene when it is finished. I am exhausted, though; the fact remains that I was out all night searching for Arthur to show him his sketches.
My hand slips and I smear paint across myself. The sketches were ruined in the argument by the fountain. I was going to have to redraw them later. I sigh softly and look down at my dress; Marsie was not going to be happy with me if I brought my dress down to her in the middle of her washing. I was going to have to clean it myself once I was done in Jennefer’s room. I continue to paint, giving no further thought to the mess. I am not a proper Bree lass, anyways. I am rough, and I am bold, and I am reckless. Am I reckless, or was Arthur right? Do I give too much credit to the thoughts of others?
There is a knock at the door, but I do not turn away from my work. I can tell by the heavy footfalls and even heavier sigh as they approach that it is Ogden, my elder brother.
“Odie,” he grumbles, stopping behind me.
He is the only one in Bree who knows that nickname.
I know he wants me to cease my painting and face him, but I do not. I dip my brush to the palette once more and continue to work. I can hear him wring his hands together.
“Odie,” he repeats, but this time continues to speak. “You should rest. I don’t know what happened, but you came back in a right fury.”
“I don’t want to rest,” I respond plainly, and rather stiffly. “I want to paint.”
“You always want to paint,” he points out before settling down next to me, watching my work. I pause for a moment to look at him. He was six years older than me, and it showed. His face was a little more weathered, grizzled with the weariness of life, like our fathers’ was. He sported a beard as red as the hair on the top of his head, and worried hazel eyes met mine. I turn my attention back to the wall.
“You are so much like Mother,” Ogden chuckles softly. “She would always rather paint her feelings than talk about them.”
“That’s not what I am doing,” I respond sharply.
“It is,” he insists, his tone gentle. “It is what you are doing. I can tell by the way you’re doing it. Odie, what happened?”
I sigh loudly, knowing that he will not let up. Perhaps with my sigh he shall finally take as a hint…? No, he does not. He stays.
“There was an argument held outside the tavern. Words were exchanged,” I say. “Swords were drawn,” I add in a murmur, and I note the way his bushy eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I’m fine!” I insist before he has a chance to fret over me. “It was resolved, I partook in some drinks, and now I am back home.”
“Oh, Odie,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The action makes me think of Fenley, and I wonder if he has decided what to do with that lass of his in Ost Guruth. I let my focus return to Ogden next to me, who leans back on his hands and observes the whole mural. “What are we going to do with you?” He asks me, though the faint smile on his face tells me that it is intended in jest. I offer a tentative smile in return.
“Let me loose.”
art by Daniel Gerharts | art by Max Nonnenbruch | art by Caravaggio
