I stood aside her corpse, now long cold and beginning to fester, and I started to dig.
Her father departed her side not long ago - I had tried to speak with him, but the man was overwrought. With no more than sword he charged off, slashing and screaming, and while I followed him for a ways, I could see that even in a rage the man was formidable. It would be far more dangerous for both of us if I tailed him than if I didn't. So there was little to do but return to the body.
She was mangled, and relaxed, sprawled across the ground with a large gash that clipped across her neck and bit into her collarbone. Bits and bobs of her inner workings were visible, washed clean of blood by the rain. She held none of the nervous energy that defined her life. All the color in her face was gone. Soaked into the ground. The ground there - the Weeping Peninsula, they call it - was wretchedly damp. It rains there nearly all hours of the day, never so heavily but always scattered showers.
I didn't know what to do. I hardly wanted to leave her there, though the motes of gold still tugged at the corners of my vision and I was eager to leave this rainy place behind me. I had no shovel, so I started to use my hands, and when that proved fruitless, then I made an attempt at it with the oversized cleaver left behind from the murder. Little more progress was made. Nearly an hour of slopping mud around, and I had less to show for it than a bare patch of wet dirt. It would take hours more. I thrust the cleaver in the ground and leaned heavily upon it. How had it come to this?
When I first met the girl, I didn't know a lick of the language, but I could tell that she needed help. She was caught out in the drizzling rain, in a blood-stained dress. Her voice was clear and plaintive. I thought it strange, as this had proven to be a dangerous area between all the rabid guards and chimeric angelkin covered in scales and feathers.
When I approached I saw the bindings around her eyes and realized just how much danger she was in. She must have heard me coming. Her head turned in my direction. I swear I could almost see her ears twitch: she had a surprisingly harelike disposition. A shiver of fear ran through her, and to be quite honest, I've long harbored a tormentor's predilection. It feels nice to be feared. Exhilirating. Perhaps that was why I had been drawn to battle so eagerly in my youth; alhough, having held my tastes as long as I have, I know when and how to defuse them. I sat heavily down on the rock beside her - not too close - and breathed deep. She turned to face me. She spoke in that same strange language. I didn't know what she was saying but I could tell that she was gently prodding me, trying to understand who I was and if I could help her. I didn't need to understand the language for that.
I said nothing, but once she realized she was safe the conversation progressed swiftly and one-sidedly. That is, until, she produced a letter from within the sash of her dress and pressed it into my hands.
"What's this?" I said, in the only language I knew, and she balked immediately.
The sound she made was half delighted laughter and half embarrassed choke. And all of a sudden, her nervous words became sweet as honey. I don't know if she'd ever encountered someone like me, who could not understand her, but the phenomenon of my being temporarily washed away all of her anxieties. She reached out and clasped my hands and her voice started to chatter. Suddenly, she was filled to the brim with girlish glee.
There was a certain magic to it. I had been raised a fighter and a warrior all my life, and while that well suited me, never had I gotten to enjoy the innocent pleasures of "girlhood". Now, in the body I inhabited, that was the last thing I ever thought about, but here was a girl who was so ready and willing to invite me into that walled garden, if only for a while.
The touch to my hands led to her remarking something about them. She was surprised. Maybe by their shape or texture or size. I think she could sense my nervousness to be touched, and she moved a hand up to grasp my elbow. Her fingers were so thin and small. She tried to squeeze my skin, but I could more see the bones moving in her hands that I could feel the pressure she exerted. She cooed again at the sensation of touching my arm. I could do nothing but return a nervous laugh to her. Eventually, the excitement waned to a warm joy, and she calmed down enough to slow her words, which she slowed down a great deal. Overenunciating every syllable, she began to walk me through sounds. And then through things around us.
First she taught me her name, "Irina". And I taught her mine, "Zo". Then she pointed to the golden god that loomed over the world. She taught me its name "Erdtree". She taught me the name of this place, and her home, and the animals near here, and more. And on we went, more and more and more. Words so many that I could not remember them all, but enough to make stumbling and broken gestures at sentences. I could tell she was still worried about whatever it was that had happened to leave her in this state, stranded on the roadside, but the distraction of a new friend was a powerful drug indeed to her. We wore our time well on into evening before the comfort of newfound camaraderie finally died down, and her face couldn't help but drift toward the south.
She said something about the smell of smoke, and if I tried, I could barely catch a hint of it. She chuckled at the sound of me sniffing the wet air. Again, she told me about her father, and the outbreak of violence in her home. She re-enlightened me as to the purpose of the letter, and my task. She begged me again to deliver it. My heart ached. She was precious and soft and vulnerable, and I could not bare to see her go unaided. I was overcome when I hugged her.
I think the hug came as a shock. Little more than a sling contained my breasts which pressed into her own. My torso dwarfed hers, likely, if she curled up, she could have comfortably sat inside my ribcage. My skin was doubtless hot through her dress. Despite the rain, she was warm in my embrace. I squeezed her, and wished I could hold her forever, protect her and keep her safe. Vague flashes of lovers and kin from my past loomed somewhere deep in the back of my mind, the strong emotion so far buried, that when it emerged I barely had the good sense not to crush her tiny frame in my grip.
Irina's fingers trembled as she clutched at my back, and buried her face in my neck, and wept. I held her close as she cried. My grubby fingers combed through her wet hair.
When the episode was over, neither of us wanted to speak about it. The violence that still brewed at the castle where she lived had been raging all this time just on the other side of the valley to the south of us, and here we had been playing happy. I think both of our hearts shook in that moment. Who knew what could have happened in those hours. Who knew if her father was alive or dead. I couldn't in good conscience take her back into that violence, and I asked her if there was anywhere safe for her to be. She said no, that the only safe place for her was at her father's side.
The looming parting of ways us hung heavier and heavier until there was nothing else to say. I kissed her forehead, and mussed her hair, and bid her goodbye. She called to me, to hurry back with news of her father's safety. I ensured her I would.
At that memory, I could not bear to keep digging. I had ensured his safety. I had done his bidding and fought their enemies and swiftly sped him to her side. Only, too late. Maybe, if only I had declined her invitation to dine in the garden of girlhood, if I had been less intoxicated by her kind and shivering hand, if I had taken her letter and followed the Grace of Gold without a moments' hesitation, maybe then...
I sank to the ground. I touched her leg. Cold. And when I left the Weeping Peninsula, no grave dug for a girl who lay mangled on the roadside, I hoped never to return.