The Art of Survival (Vale)

This is actually a story I wrote back in April of this year in the midst of a plot in which Vanith Caan (as described in the story below) showed up with some long-time animosity toward his living relatives. But as I was reading over it I realised that it was a good explanation of some of what Vale was like as a teenager, some of what shaped her and where she came from, and also the way she related to Ledgic when they were both younger. So with all that said, I hope it's of some interest!

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'The Art of Survival'

The old black walnut had been gnarled when men in the village who were now wolf-grey with age had been mere infants. Patches of scraggy lichen hung from its branches like unkempt hair, and the branches themselves twisted, clawing outward; when a hard wind blew, the black twigs creaked and moaned and murmured curses.

It was midwinter, and though snow rarely swept into the tangle of Duskwood that belonged to the Caans, the night had laid out a heavy pall of frost. Vale leaned over the frozen beck beside the ancient walnut, the bones of her shoulderblades vaguely visible through her roughspun shirt, and dropped the bucket onto the bank.

‘This’n’s t’ me feckin’ sisters for th’ lates’ load o’ bruises,’ she muttered, bringing up a booted foot and crashing her heel down through the ice. Her mouth twisted into a smile as the layer over the surface shattered; the water below was dark and sluggish, a forest serpent winding its way off to wherever the stream emptied into a river. Lucky bloody water, she thought with a distant grimace as she picked up her bucket and dipped it into the opening she’d made.

She heard – or possibly sensed – the sudden, soft whistle of something moving through air and whirled around, icy water sloshing over her boots and drenching the bottom of her filthy skirt. The rock grazed her arm and then clattered on the ice behind her. She pressed her narrow lips together, still clutching the handle of the bucket.

‘Feck off, Vanith. Yer aim's shite.’

A man, perhaps a few years older than she, stood several paces away. Where she was built like a willow, he was a goddamn oak; his square-jawed face was set above a broad chest, and as he lifted an arm into the air and wrapped his hand into a fist, his arms had the look of a smith’s or a woodsman’s.

‘Ain’ a feckin’ nice way t’say ‘ello, ye tart.’

She snorted, shaking her heavy, dark braid backward over her shoulder. ‘What d’ ye expect, a feckin’ kiss? Y’ broke one o’ me’ fingers an’ probably some ribs las’ week. Now feck off, I got shi’ t’do.’

‘I could go fer a kiss, yeh.’ He smirked.

‘Compared t’ ye a stinkin’ bled-ou’ carcass’d look good.’ She lifted her head, matching his smirk with a flinty stare. The beck murmured away behind her, gurgling through moss and across stones beneath its winter cover. ‘Ain’ ye got anythin’ better t’ do than act like a thick pile o' shite?’

Vanith was actually dimly attractive, in the sense that his nose hadn’t been broken as crookedly as those of most of the men in the village and that his frame, though heavy, was about as well proportioned as a man’s could be. His face might have been passable had it not been for the way the smirk lined it, twisted it. Vanith Caan made cold steel seem kind.

‘Feck, tha's 'arsh, lass.' Vanith lifted a hand and closed it, the sound of his cracking knuckles adding a sudden sharpness to the needle-like frost in the air. 'Since ye ain' up fer a kiss, coul’ jes break a few more o' those ribs o' yers.’

Vale tossed her head, a brief, careful movement; her eyes didn't leave his. ‘Go shit on a patch o’ nettles.’

With a swiftness that belied his size, Vanith barrelled across the space between them, the crunch of his weight heavy on the morning frost.

Shouting, Vale flung the entire contents of her heavy bucket into his face and sidestepped, but despite the gasping as the icewater slashed at his skin, he turned with her. His fist slammed just above her temple like a slab of meat against a butcher’s board. Vale staggered, silver light bursting through her head as she fought to keep her feet. The empty bucket rolled away as it fell from her grasp.

‘Y’ never learn do ye?’ He swung for her again, but in the midst of the haze she somehow managed to twist aside – years of the same had made dodging and ducking almost reflexes now – and kicked sharply upward.

He let out a bellow like a wounded boar, and the blows began to fall in earnest. She could only avoid so many of them– she threw a wild punch and scrambled to the side, leaping away– and then he caught her hair, and she screamed.

Only moments later she was curled on the ground, curses tumbling from her mouth as she shielded her face with one arm and tried to hook the other around the boot that swung for her head again. He avoided her grasp, and pain crashed over her again like the pounding at the bottom of a waterfall. She tried to roll away but the boot thudded into her side; more insults poured from her throat, mixed with the bittermetal tang of blood. No matter what she did, it was always this way—

‘Vanith!’

A shadow darkened the weak winter sun for a split second as a figure hurtled across the frozen stream and straight into a very surprised Vanith Caan. He stumbled, yelling. Vale scrambled to her hands and knees and then sprang to her feet with reasonable agility for someone with several freshly cracked ribs.

Ledgic didn’t bother to shout anything else as he swung his fists into Vanith’s face. (Vale added a kick to the back of one of her antagonist’s knees for good measure.) Ledgic was slighter than Vanith, but he fought harder and he fought smarter; two of his punches landed for every one of Vanith’s. He was more than a brawler: as with Vale, years of taking a beating had taught him how to move.

As Vanith stumbled again following the jab at the back of his knee, Ledgic caught him by the hair and slammed him into the knotty bark of the black walnut.

‘Yer gonna leave ‘er alone. Got it, y’ feckin’ piece o’ shite?’

‘Get off! I got rank in this place, yer gonna be sorry!’

Ledgic snorted, banging the other lad’s face into the tree again, dodging one of the meat-slab hands. ‘Jes’ tell me when y’ got th’ message cause I could do this all feckin’ day.’

Vale watched as Vanith’s humiliation unfolded at the hands of a man several years younger and a couple of stone lighter than he. She pressed a sleeve against the corner of her mouth to staunch the trickling blood. There was a small glimmer of satisfaction on her face, though it was not at his pain; she had lived with pain every day of her life, known its dull aches and fiery heights, worn it like a comfortable old glove in the day and slept beside it at night.

She couldn’t take pleasure in Vanith’s pain, but she could take it in the fact that was bloody well getting what he deserved for once.

‘All righ’ y’ bloody cunt!’

Ledgic stopped using Vanith’s skull as a mallet and held him against the tree instead. ‘Gonna leave ‘er alone?’

‘Yeh. Tha’s righ’. Whate’er.’ Vanith wrenched himself free from Ledgic’s surprising grip and spat on the other’s shirt. ‘We’ll see who comes out on top. Ye’ll wish I’d jes’ broken yer ribs when I’m done with ye.’

Stepping away and folding his arms, Ledgic didn’t bother replying. As Vanith turned and limped into the undergrowth, heading toward the village, Vale moved toward Led and pulled the bloodstained sleeve away from her mouth.

‘Ye're gettin’ better.’

Ledgic rubbed a hand across his face and then eyed his cousin intently. ‘Maybe. Y’ look like ye took a dive int’ a feckin’ thorn bush though. Ye a’righ’?’

‘Ad a lo’ worse. Vanith’s jes a git.’ Vale hitched up the collar of her shirt and turned, showing as little stiffness as she could muster through the darts of pain in her side, walking over to pick up her abandoned bucket.

‘Mm, ‘e’s a sod. Migh’ want t’keep out of ‘is way.’

Vale snorted loudly, like a disgruntled mare straining at a tether, and crouched down to refill her bucket. ‘Feck off an’ quit soundin’ like an ol’ woman.’

Ledgic laughed and walked over, reaching down a hand to help her up. She tilted her chin momentarily, and then wrapped her hand around his forearm and pulled herself to her feet.

She didn’t thank him for coming to her aid, and he didn’t ask what had happened that had caused her to be lying on the ground getting the shit kicked out of her. They had both learned long since that in their village there were some things that didn’t need to be said.

Ah, I've always really liked this one.

Glad you put it up!