Rhoda’s Death

Let’s get Rhoda killed off already…

Rhoda coughed then cringed from the pain. “Dammit.”

“Hold still, Rho-sweet,” Wendel said. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ve only been abed a day. We’ve got the time to find Morgan.” From behind Wendle, a monk squeezed her arm firmly then released his grip slowly; it was as bad as it looked.

Wendle tucked a few of Rhoda’s lavendar highlights behind the girl’s ears. This close she looked like her older fair-haired sister Morgan. Wendel knew they looked alike, all the Bearforts favored their father’s northern heritage, but she had not realized how much the girl’s dark hair and braids defined her. Nor how much she herself had let that dark hair convince her that Rhoda wasn’t Morgan’s little sister.

Wendle felt Rhoda’s warm breath on her own lips, and when she closed her eyes she betrayed Rhoda with a thought of Morgan. [expand that here, but not now]. Wendle opened her eyes to the cooling sensation of Rhoda inhaling.

“Is it dead?”

Wendle bit back a sob and nodded her head just enough.

“Good. I lost my foot though?”

Wendle echoed the nod. Rhoda looked to the darkness in the rafters for a moment. Then, reclaiming Wendle’s attention, she said, “Skin it. And have it taken back home.” The girl hadn’t lived on the Bearfort estate since before Wendle and Morgan were wed, but there was no question which home she meant. “Tell my father it choked on my foot. That’s good for a laugh at the table.”

Wendle nodded a third time and felt a smile stretch across her face. “It is and I will.”

Rhoda pressed the cuff of her shirt to Wendle’s tears. She surprised Wendle by hugging her close where Wendle smelled the girl’s black hair and tan skin. Melon from their bath this morning; dust from the road this afternoon. The undabbed tears on Wendle’s opposite cheek smeered through the würm’s blood on Rhoda’s own. Then, in her ear: “No one cries for me. No one. Now get out and get Morgan.”

The strength of Rhoda’s shove put Wendle on the polished floor and sparked the monk up from the stool where he waited for today’s last death. The monk insinuated himself to Rhoda’s side; rough fingers searched out a pulse on her neck. Wanting to do as Rhoda commanded—wanting to find her Morgan, Wendle stood but didn’t leave. “Is she?”

The monk situated Rhoda’s lolling arm to her chest. “Near enough.”

“Will she…”

“No,” he said. His placid face emphasized the point. “If you leave a little money, we’ll see she’s taken care of.” Wendle wanted to rain fire down on the man and his monastery. How dare he dismiss her death like turning a page to find another waiting. Blah blah….

Wendle looked at the girl. “She was a sorceress. A…the Bearfort sorceress.” She snatched the monk’s attention from the floor. “And my sister.” Wendle’s words dropped like a bell from a tower.

“Then you have my gratitude for being able to serve [our lord] and my assurance all will be well taken care of. Thank you.”

When Wendle reached the infirmary’s archway to the outside hall she stopped then turned and came back to Rhoda’s bed. Kissed her sister’s lips and left faster this time than the first.

There are pieces to this that I very much need to clean up and pieces that need repairing but for now I’m done.

578 words on day 841

I Finally Kill a Main Character (almost)

Rhoda coughed then cringed from the pain. “Dammit.”

“Hold still, Rho-sweet,” Wendel said. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’re going be abed for a couple days, but we’ve got time to find Morgan.” The monk squeezed her arm firmly then released his grip slowly; it was as bad as it looked.

Wendel tucked a few of Rhoda’s lavendar highlights behind the girl’s ears. This close she looked like her older fair-haired sister Morgan. Wendel knew they looked alike, all the Bearforts favored their father’s northern heritage, but she had not realized how much the girl’s dark hair and braids defined her. Nor how much she herself had let that dark hair convince her that Rhoda wasn’t some one she had to care much about because she was just Morgan’s little sister.

, Wendel felt Rhoda’s warm breath on her own lips.

143 words on day 839

Rhoda Interview III

“Thanks for you patience, Rhoda. I hadn’t expected to interview for several days and still not be done. Question four: is one sense more highly developed than another?” I ask.

“I think I hear quite well. In crowds I never have trouble hearing voices I focus on. I see some people cup their ears in a market to hear better.” She demonstrates. “I never have to do that. Same with kegshops.”

“I do that in bars all the time.”

“Bars?”

“Uh, what you’d call a kegshop. I hear everything fine. I just can’t sort it out.” I check my notes for the next question. Something ought to be good in here…”Here we go. Do you usually notice problems around you?”

She looks at me then cocks her head slightly, so I repeat the question. She interupts, “I heard.” She shifts her weight in the chair to sit straighter. Her finger tip strokes the contour of the dagger’s sheath, but she never looks down. “No. No, not really.” She nods while answering negatively, so I know she’s partly lying.

“That can’t be true.” I call her bluff but lead in with some flattery before she can deny it again, “A smart woman like you can certainly sense how others feel and guess something of their motives or intentions?”

“I want to say yes, but I don’t think I’m good enough at that yet to sure.”

“OK. Fair enough. Would you say you are an optimist or a pessimist?”

“Pessimist for sure. The youngest sees too much coming down not to think it’ll be bad before it gets good. If it gets good.”

“Are you more interested in the past, the future or living in the now?”

She puffes air like she might blow away a fly. “Right now’s fine for me.”

“How do you decide if you can trust someone?”

“We share the same mother.”

I leave the air quiet. I don’t glance to my notes. I pretend she has more to say…and she does.

“I suppose their are other people I trust in different ways. Or maybe should trust more, but for now family will do just fine.”

“OK. That usually works out to be true.”

“You don’t think?”

I shrug. I don’t want to give away that I’m thinking of some authorial way to fuck her over now that she’s said that. “I think everyone has their own agenda. I think that in families that’s usually down the same sort of path, its easy to be trusting. There’s not much conflict, but I also think in families it’s easy to take minor differences of opinion too personally. Actions you might forgive your friends for you won’t family.”

“OK,” she says. She doesn’t believe me. Crap, this’ll be too easy I think.

“Are you a deliberate, careful speaker, or do you talk without thinking first?”

“I say what I feel. Sometimes I temper that. I’m told I should try harder, but can’t understand the point of it.”

506 words on day 594