text: Until a moment ago, Robyn thought he might not come. A thousand things to do in only a few short hours before the sun rises, and she wouldn't have blamed him if her little meeting spot hadn't been high on the list of priorities. A man must make use of the time he has, her father used to bellow from the high chair in his hall. And what a terrible waste of time for Painter to leave his troops, venture up into the dark hills for an exchange of measly little words, knowing that when the dawn came, his death would not be far behind. Still, she was glad he'd come. There, rustling through the brush and emerging from the shadows was Painter, expression as grim as the broken battlefield down in the valley. Where arrowheads stuck from the soft dirt and men took corpse after corpse back to one side or the other. She wanted to tell herself it was the way of men, war. That she held not the weight of responsibility that came with the blood of eager fools rushing off to their deaths. It’s not about what you tell yourself, but how much you believe it. Another bit of her father’s wisdom, and it did little to calm the beating in her heart or wash the dark guilt out of it. She’d made her choice, and there was no retreating from it. Stepping onto even ground, Painter kept his distance like she was rotted with the plague, eyes glossy in the gaze of the moon, dark hair rustled by the summer breeze. Made him look more a child than a man about to fight in the Deciding. He clung to the grip of the sword on his hip, fixed her with that vacant gaze he had when they first met, and only then did it stir up any emotion in her. Brought on all sorts of memories of looks he’d never again give her. Look of patience when teaching her the bow. Look of love when she shared his bed. And look of agony in those deep dark eyes when he knew she’d betrayed them. When the truth of who she was and who she served and who she was the daughter of came to light. That was the look that weighed the most on her heart. It was the one she was seeing reflected in Painter’s eyes now. “We buried ‘em today,” he croaked, a lone finger scratching at the scar running down his cheek. “Samson, Franco, Harper,” he paused, “ Finn. ” She missed a breath at that last name, remembered those big eyes of Finn’s and all his dreams and hopes now snuffed out like a fire that had only just been lit. “I’m sorry.” It was the only thing she was capable of saying. Any moment she waited for some sort of anger to come clawing its way out of him, like fire from behind the sharp teeth of a dragon. None came. Just the silence in the field. The moon and stars and the great unknowable divine as their audience. “I’m sorry too. Weren’t just my friends laid to rest.” His eyes, sharp as two spears searching for her heart, fell upon her. “They were yours as much as they were mine.” The words were ragged as a thornbush around her heart, swelling like a bruise, aching like one too. Beating so hard against her ribs Robyn could feel it in her skull, in her teeth. “Was my fault, wasn’t it?” He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t. Silence crept from him, mouth twitching like he had a thousand words to say but couldn’t find the right order to put ‘em in. That was when Robyn really felt the distance between ‘em, far greater than she dared to admit, stretching out the lengths of a battlefield. Funny that this was exactly what she expected. But expecting and feeling, as her tyrannical father would say, were two different worlds, like water and oil. Though she knew both well enough, not a thing in the world could make ‘em mix. “The Deciding is at dawn,” she said, voice cracking and showing just that bit of fear growing within her. Painter nodded, eyes towards the ominous moon. “We both know you’ll lose.” More silence. “My father has warriors from all across the Kingdom of Doreen, each one more eager than the last.” Eager as wolves stalking just beyond the light of a lantern. “It’ll be decided then, that your rebellion is no more, and you’ll be dead.” She had to wipe the wet from her eyes with the back of her forearm, holding tight to composure like it were a horse about to throw her. “You can’t win, Painter,” and she was screaming the words. “You’re going to die!” Met with his silence, Robyn wondered if his words might be too good for her, wishing for something more regardless. Wished Painter was filled with words like Finn with hopes and dreams for a better, more equal kingdom. Filled with words like Robyn was filled with fear. Yet he clung to that stoic silence the way the cold does a blanket, none too keen on feeling winter’s embrace. But the storm was coming and he wouldn’t stay warm forever. The tears, welling up in her eyes since she gave her father the rebel’s location, came flooding out now. Her knees wobbled and so very badly did she feel like crumbling. She’d strived for too long in the false attempt to appear strong in the face of challenges. Like an oak in a storm, her father would say. Though the King of Doreen was almost always referencing himself, that is. Maybe that explained his easy hatred towards Painter. Twice as young and twice as likely to choose silence over boastfulness. She’d heard it said that a man only hates silence when he is at odds with himself. When he cannot be still in the company of his own mind, sneering at anybody who could. That was her father. And tomorrow, his hatred would kill the only man she’d ever loved. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, vision blurred through the tears, heart racing like a steed in an open field. “I’m so sorry, Painter. I’m-” He was there, holding her tight, all the words he couldn’t say fading away at the touch of his embrace. She felt his hand in her hair, soothing her, voice as soft as a mother’s lullaby. “Hush now,” he whispered. “You can’t forgive me so easily,” she wailed, voice muffled, buried in his chest, heart beating about as fast as hers. “I shouldn’t be forgiven.” His hands gently took hold of her shoulders, brought her an arms distance away, moonlight dancing in the dark puddle of his eyes. There he looked strong and wise, all the things her father was not. A thumb wiped away the tears on her cheek, and she nestled into his palm. “Forgiveness ain’t a thing earned,” he said. “It’s about as free as the night sky, I reckon.” “My father is going to kill you.” “I know.” “I want to go back.” She was against his chest again. Holding him so tight, knowing he’d be lost to her regardless. “I want to go back.” “Time marches one way.” They stayed on that hill until the sun painted the sky a pink and orange canvas. Until the birds sang and the muster horn echoed through the valley. Until he was finally forced to leave her, hand on the hilt of his sword, walking into death as confident as a lion into a den of hyenas.