A Daughter’s Reunion

If only it wasn’t so personal.

He was unconscious, slumped against a tree and reeking of alcohol. The collar of his jacket was soaked, and white froth clung to the thick whiskers around his lips. He held a tankard limply in his left hand and an empty bottle in the other. His indulgence had made things so easy. His boorish snores drowned out the noise of the others’ passing. A natural folly which kept him unaware and sound asleep.

I crouched down beside him, taking advantage of the time he had given me. On my haunches, I cleaned my blade, wiping the flat against the taut fabric around my thighs. I wouldn’t need it for this, at least not at first, and I wasn’t about to sheath a dirtied blade. I knocked back the scabbard and put the blade over my shoulder, letting gravity secure it in its casing.

Brushing my fringe from my face, I tidied my appearance. I nestled the loose strands back into the braid, wiped the wet strains from my cheek, and removed my mask. It was old. Chipped and painted ceramic that was made to look like a white-furred fox. An ear was broken, I had lost it years ago, and a crack imitating a scar ran down its snout. Its hollow eyes stared at me as I set it aside. Hopefully, I would soon be able to put this behind me as well.

‘Wake up.’

He barely stirred. My words were not even an inconvenience to his slumber.

I slapped him.

In a fit, he began choking. Like a pig, he was snorting. Hacking up a bitter bile that splattered over his shirt, he was no better than a sickly infant. Dazed and drunk, his head rolled from one side to the other and his eyelids started to droop.

‘Wake up!’

He coughed, spitting out the bile as a vile mist. I startled him and paid the price. The dewdrops of mucus stuck to my face and the stench of the foul vapour was even to turn my stomach. I swallowed the feeling and wiped the drops away with the back of my hand.

At least he was awake – wide-eyed but not so bushy-tailed. Perhaps he had expected me to be one of his men, perhaps he had not expected to see their bodies strewn across his camp, or perhaps it was because I was a woman. Truly I didn’t care to know where his frustrations came from.

‘The fuck are you?’ he growled.

I cleaned my hand on the grass, speaking as I dragged it back and forth. ‘I feel the pleasantries can come later, Master Travello. First, as hard as it may be in your current state, calm down and tell me where I can find Cinco Tussi.’

He laughed, gargling the salvia that was still in the back of his throat. Pushing himself upright, he wiped the spit from his mouth and regained some consciousness along with his confidence. ‘Fuck off girl. You might have gotten lucky with my men but I ain’t scared of you. I ain’t--’

He screamed as I drew my blade from its sheath and drove it into his shoulder. I never expected to need it this early, but clearly, he didn’t recognise me.

‘Master Travello, I don’t care if you’re not scared of me. I’m not here to make you scared of me. I’m here to know what I want to know. So where can I find Cinco Tussi?’

The pain sobered him up quickly. A slurry of curses passed his lips and he started to spit again, frothing at the mouth. None of it was what I wanted to hear. I twisted the blade deeper, leaning forward as I did so. Immediately I regretted it. The sour stench of the cheap booze overwhelmed my senses. I dipped my head, catching my breath before I turned back to look him in the eyes. My patience was running out.

‘Where is Cinco Tussi?’

‘How the fuck should I know? I’ve not seen Tussi in months.’

I left the blade inside him for a moment. Reaching inside my jacket and into the pocket on my left side, I retrieved a collection of unsent letters that I had procured only a few weeks ago. I couldn’t help but have a smile on my face. ‘You might have not seen him, but he does seem to enjoy writing to you. Now,’ I said as I put the letters away, ‘Are we really going to do this again?’

He was spluttering again, speaking through gritted teeth. His words were mumbled and useless, feigned ignorance and excuses that kept him talking in circles. He hadn’t recognised me and so he was trying to play me as a minstrel plays his lute. I ripped my blade from his shoulder and listened to him sing.

‘He’s in the Western Forest! In the ruins of De Loc! Fuck!’

‘See? Was that so difficult?’

I put my mask back on, fixing it into place as I stood up. He was still on the ground, clutching his wound. He wasn’t going to offer me any more satisfaction. He didn’t recognise me. I had hoped that he would. Out of all of them, I expected him to be the one to remember my face. It was him who held me down, kept me still. It was him who made sure I was helpless to do anything whilst the others stole what little we had and pillaged what they couldn’t take. He wasn’t the one to do it, to give the orders whilst shaking the blood of my father from his mace, but he was there. He was a part of it, and now his usefulness had run out.

‘Fucking bitch, I’ll end you.’

‘No. No, I don’t think you will.’

I turned my wrist and straightened my blade. What came next should have been difficult, perhaps once it was. But then, if only it wasn’t so personal.