#rouelle

  Rouelle releases the arrow; it’s off center. “I’m sorry, Mila.” He has a deep voice and she’s sure she knows it. A friend of her parents? She hasn’t met many. Rouelle drops her arms, bow at her side, and turns around to watch the Enforcer hike down off of his horse, gathering the reins in one gloved hand. Suddenly her heart is pounding; she looks between the man and her mother, back and forth for an agonizing minute of silence before her mother, jaw clenched, gives her direction. “Rou, go inside.” But she stands there for a minute longer, fingers tightening around the leather grip. “Go on,” Mila insists.

She takes a deep breath and turns towards the cabin obediently. The two adults wait until the door pulls shut heavily before they resume the conversation. Inside, it’s even warmer. A fire crackles underneath a pot of broth and the shut door traps the humidity in with her. Rouelle stands on the other side, breathing deep, listening to the quiet. They’re talking low and calm, and she scarcely makes out their voices at all. After a while, she gives up. She returns her bow to the weapon rack, right next to her father’s longbow. The backup, he calls it. He prefers them short. She runs her fingers along the wood curve and wonders when she’ll be big enough to use it. It’s taller than she is. After a while, she sits at the dining table and waits, picking at the old, splintered wood with her fingernails. It feels like ages before the door pushes open, scraping against the stone floor, swollen with the moisture of summer air. Her mother enters the cabin carrying a splash of purple in her hands; Rouelle recognizes the Hunter sash immediately. She doesn’t move, only watches Mila step slowly to the table and set down the cloth with more weight than expected. Something is wrapped up in it, but Mila doesn’t unfold the cloth. She stands there, reaching out to rest her hands on the table, eyes boring into the sash as if it might move, or perhaps do them the courtesy of meaning something else. Rouelle can’t stand it anymore. “He’s dead, isn’t he.” Her mother’s voice is hoarse with control when she answers. “Yes.” Suddenly her heart is racing again, pounding in her little chest. She clenches her fists atop the table, pursing her lips, twisting them up as she tries to swallow down the desire to cry or scream or maybe both. “What was it?” She tries to sound calm, like her mother. Cool and collected and ever untouched. But that cool exterior burns to ash when Mila responds. “It’s not important.” The old hunter pushes away from the table and leaves her there with the sash covered items to cross the room, tending to her pot above the fire. She stirs the soup with a heavy ladle and silence fills the room again. Rouelle stares down at the purple cloth, a little dirty, but the color still bright and the pattern recognizable. She reaches out and pulls on it, loosening the wrap, tossing aside the top layer to see what was within. Just a ring, a bracelet made of little glass beads, and some coin. That’s it. That’s all that was left to return. There are no blood stains on the fabric, just dirt and old haphazard stitches where he let her sew a tear for him. Rouelle crumples it up in her hand, items and all. Outrage bubbles up inside of her, twisting her face, making her hands shake. She stands up from the table, the chair skidding on the stone. “What killed him?!” Mila pulls the ladle out of the soup and sets it down on the mantle with a snap. It makes Rouelle jump slightly when the woman wheels around and looks at her, eyes narrowed and mouth set with disappointment. Rouelle swallows her nerves and demands an answer. “What killed him!” Mila moves fast to the table and lands her hands on it heavily, leaning towards Rouelle on the other side. Rouelle leans back where she stands, breathing fast and shallow and angry, but her mother is like a panther growling low in warning. “I’m not telling you that because the last thing a hunter needs is a grudge.” There’s a thick pause in the air, Rouelle’s tightened mouth laxing into a frown under her mother’s hard gaze. “And we both know that’s where you’re headed.” Her eyes start to sting, so she looks away from her mother’s stern face and back down at the cloth bundled in her hand. “What if I fail?” “You won’t.” Mila’s voice is firm and quick. Rouelle doesn’t see her shake her head, or swirl her gaze around the room as if the words would come out of the wooden boards for her. “There isn’t a drop of magic in your blood, there’s no reason for that to happen,” is the best she can come up with. Rouelle has been training since she was six years old. Her mother was right. There was no reason for her to fail the initiation and no reason she would not become a hunter. With only a year remaining, she expected her father to be there. For him to see her off that day. One final day. Her vision gets blurry and her voice cracks around the knots in her throat.  “Is he really dead…?” Mila’s gaze softens, although her daughter can’t see it. Brows furrow, the line of her mouth deep when she frowns. Moving around the table, warm hands find her and Rouelle leans into her mother’s embrace, the hunter sash clutched in her hand between them as she lets out a soft sob. A hand pets the curls of her tied hair, brushing back escaped strands, and the smoke of Mila’s voice is warm and comforting, finally.