The blood was still pouring from the teared flesh when Atticus stepped forward. He walked past me and sat on the stone at the front—where I was sitting not long ago, now owning it as his own.
My eyes were still lingering at him in confusion, and then he lifted the deer's head and held it out towards me.
I froze.
For a second I didn't understand, maybe I didn't want to understand.
"My Lady."
That's how Atticus addressed me, but being called at a time like this felt heavy.
"Anaphora."
He called my name this time, I still didn't move—staring dumbfoundedly.
"My Lady—Anaphora, please take it."
I supposed he was joking, but he wasn't. I stepped closer without thinking, my gaze caught somewhere between the blood and his face. He lifted the head slightly towards me.
"Take it." he has a slight smile on his face. Could say was he proud over himself? Foe what…..
My fingers closed around it.
Warm sensed flowing profoundly. The heat startled me more than anything else. The blood slid instantly across my skin, coating my palm, slipping between my fingers, running down my wrist in slow, relentless trails. My breath caught, but I didn't let go.
I looked at him, confused. What did he want from me?
"Pour it on me."
Everything inside me went still.
"….What?"
"Pour the blood on me."
My grip trembled, slick and unsteady. This wasn't how this worked. Everyone knew that.
"…Isn't that supposed to be done by the man…..on their woman?" I meant to explain, my voice smaller than I intended.
"It's not like that," eh cut me off, calm, certain. "Originally, it was supposed to be between partners."
Partners.
The word sank somewhere it shouldn't have.
My fingers tightened around the heavy head without meaning to. My heartbeat stumbled, then began racing, loud and uneven in the ears. Even if he doesn't remembers me, his actions spoke for the opposite. Why does he always leaves in such place? Why does my heart pounds telling me, he is the same? He hasn't changed...…he's the same person—My Love.
"Pour it," he said again, quieter—with straight brows as something normal.
My hands shook. Blood kept slipping over my skin, thick and clinging, the way I had never experienced. It made my stomach twist—but still, slowly, I lifted my hand.
He shook his head. Waiting—for me.
I swallowed hard and tilted my grip.
The blood flowed. At first, uneven like I might stop at any second, then steadier.
It spread through his silver hair, staining it a deep, violent crimson. It slid along curve of his head, down his temple, across the sharp line of his cheek. A drop brushed the edge of his lips. Another traced his throat.
It should have been disgusting.
But it didn't feel so.
My breath caught. It looked—wrong. and yet it fit his too well. The red didn't ruin him. it revealed something—something harsher that I seemed to have not notice yet, something that made more sense than the untouched silver hair.
Something that felt—dangerous.
Like….like it was how he was meant to look.
A faint murmur rose behind me. whispers. Low, uneasy, spreading through the others, I didn't need to turn to know what they were discussing.
I stood at a unique position wit Atticus. Doing something which happens to be correct culturally but not socially. The society had always taken shape into something according to the majority preference.
However, being at the mighty position, no one dared to question from front.
The last drop slid from my fingers. silence followed heavily.
My eyes were still on him—on what I had done, or what allowed me to do.
He exchanged a look once, gave a faint smile of assurance and then straightened like nothing has changed.
"Take care of it."
A servant stepped forward immediately, head lowered, taking the remains from my hands. The ritual would be completed properly. Burned and then buried with respect.
Everything returned to order.
Except it didn't feel like it had.
Atticus walked past me and mounted his horse in one smooth motion. The blood still marked on him—his hair, the edge of his face—and he didn't bother to wipe it away.
I stayed where I was. Still in shock for what just happened…..it crossed my expectation in each aspect.
"Come," he called while I was still standing frozen.
I looked up then. He had his right hand extended towards me—waiting.
For a moment I didn't move.
"If the blood over me stinks you, you can move back..." he continued. I was barely listening to him.
Then suddenly-- he pulled.
The world tilted and then suddenly I was on the horse.
With him—too close.
My breath caught as I tried to steady myself, but there was nowhere to go that wasn't him. his presence surrounded me—warm, solid, inescapable. Even if didn't accept, I didn't refuse too—I liked it this way.
And then I hear it. His heartbeat—slow, even....completely unaffected.
Unlike mine.
Mine was too fast, too loud, as if it would betray me at any second. Heat crept up my neck despite the cold air biting my skin.
The horse moved. And I stayed—still stayed near him, close to him.
.......
We returned before the night fully settled. I don't remember the feal—faces blurred, voices distant, everything insignificant.
Because after that—he was gone.
He was nowhere to be seen.
Just a single word I remember before him leaving, "I will come soon."
That's all.
......….
Time doesn't pass gently in the North.
It cuts.
Three months, and Atticus became something that existed only in absence. In empty spaces. In quiet tension of soldiers who never spoke his name unless necessary.
I didn't ask.
Training filled everything else.
Macios never went easy on me. He never had.
Every strike forces something out of me—hesitation, weakness, doubt. Bruises replaced softness. Pain replaced uncertainty.
And still- I didn't resent him. I did plan to beat him one day, I always dream off to have him by his knees one day...….but I didn't resent him.
Because he taught me something—even if he despised me, he still trained me.
I learned how to hold my ground. How to take a hit without breaking. How to move before thinking too much.
Sometimes I failed--often actually. But not completely to say.
My skills with bow are still poor, I will put the blame on eyesight. But my sword is pretty fine.
In duel with the bachelors, I played pretty fine. But dare not say anything when the sword used to be in Macios hand and if he just get taunted by Lisika—that situation used to be a total tsunami for me.
My body had already adapted. My habits followed. Meat became something a part of my routine, hunger became something to control—even higher class life wasn't so fulfilling in the North.
The North reshaped me—slowly, quietly, completely.
........
The mountains felt colder than I remembered.
I moved carefully, bow in hand, eyes scanning the uneven terrain ahead. Snow crunched softly beneath my boots, the silence stretching too far, too wide.
Aoran and Frecios stayed behind me—close enough to intervene, far enough to let me not act.
Sworn knights. Atticus chose them himself. At first I thought they were some simple knights, only to end up knowing that—they were supposed to stay with me almost all time. I couldn't thinking of escaping once when they didn't hunt me down.
My grip tighten.
"…..a fox," I murmured, irritation slipping through. "I can't even hunt a fox."
It was almost laughable. A shame one me honestly.
Atticus had hunted a bear here. That huge beast. And I –
My thoughts stalled. Those silver hair drenched in crimson stain has still not left my mind. Months have passed, and I still through my pillow in utter shyness. Tearing here and there—almost still not able to accept for the sacrifice he made for me. Definitely he was the same man I knew, he was the same person I have always loved.
Swiiss...…
Something moved—fast, sharp.
A steak of black cutting through the trees.
I didn't see, but still I froze.
At first the thought that it was possibly some animal covered my mind, but my mind spoke it wasn't.
My fingers tightened on the bowstring, breath slowing, instincts sharpening.
"…..That's not a fox."
And whatever it was—it wasn't a prey.
It was watching me.
Interesting.