Memoirs of Anya Eisenjaeger
~ Marktag 3rd Ulriczeit 2522 ~
A few days have passed dear friend since I spoke to you the silent listener of my innermost thoughts. I have put to one side my moral grumblings and faltering faith in order to get through the boredom of this journey. I really wish we had not lost the barge in Reiksbruck. At least it had shelter and a more ready access to warmth and sustenance. A cup of warm something would be welcomed by my fingers today. Bitter again.
There are other things we do still have. Stefan is still putting his heart and bruised skin into learning with his father’s sword. When Grunnd and Pieter are not stretching their legs and arms in beating him senseless they ride in the cart. I am impressed the mule does not spook at the sounds of the fighting behind. It must be deaf or dense. At least the fray is a source of amusement for Danielle and I. Hans too splits his attention between keeping an eye on the mule and on watching the sparring. Though the mule honestly seems to drive itself as there is only the muddy track to follow. There are no juicy tempting shoots this side of Mondstill.
I am glad. The sky has remained surprisingly kind to us on the open road. Only light showers have fallen over the woods, just enough to make us damp and a little grim. I think the sword practice of Stefan has helped in keeping our spirits on the more pleasant side of humour, and the little ditties Danielle sometimes serenades us with help too. I do not wish another confrontation between the Witch Hunter and Grunnd, and certainly not one between either of them and anyone else.
In speaking of the sky, when we do catch more than a branch-webbed view of it, it is turning a more threatening hue. I fear snow may be on its way soon. For that reason I hope we reach Altdorf before it does. I did not dress for the icy breath of Ulric, though we are in his month.
Another source of amusement is Danielle. She is merciless in her chiding of Stefan. He on the other hand feigns indifference- stoically hen-pecked.
When I came out of my tristful fog I turned to my friend in the hope of helping the time pass at a faster clip, and maybe to lift my heart a little. She did not fail me. Danielle seems not to have been touched by the mental pain I have been afflicted by since the burning. I do not believe she is happy about what took place. In fact I know she is not, but she is wise enough not to goad Verstohlen on the matter, or to dwell on it. We have spoken of many things. Mostly inane in nature. Nothing of too deep an importance. Just banter of where she is from and her view on our city. Places and people we both knew of. Shared experience on the opposite ends of the social ladder.
I find it beautiful. She has a light in her heart, a bright flame of joy and strength that cheerfully infects those who wish it. I wish I had such a gift. At least I am blessed to have her with me.
I have dipped back into the sorrow again. This is getting tiresome. Maybe I should put my writings away. To write is to look inwards and for now my insides are cold and sad like that of a blue winter twilight. They cannot help leak out to soak the parchment with the aid of my pen.
Let me see. Something else. Lifting or practical.
Grunnd is currently sitting meticulously cleaning and repairing all of his worldly belongings. I swear if this journey took any longer his mail shirt would shine like the stars. I cannot help but smile a little when I watch his little routines and rituals. His hammer is like a corporeal part of him. It does not stray far from his grasp. His hand checks for its whereabouts without his mind even asking it to- a reassuring pat to his trustiest friend. I think I would not be surprised to find an eye open on it and a mouth to speak.
Danielle seems to have taken a leaf out of Grunnd’s book and is repairing some clothing in the absence of my attention while I scribe. She is humming something familiar under her breath though I cannot remember the words to this one. Her needlework is astounding. It is not the rough ‘that will do’ of some maids work but is precise, fine and even. No doubt that some of the embroidery is of her hand too perhaps. For a someone who does not wish the marriage bed she would make a very fine wife for a deaf man. That’s a little harsh, I jest of course. Maybe a man of expansive humour and patience. She certainly deserves that at least. Someone to love her and tame the shrew within.
Hans does not speak much but his laughter is almost infectious. Danielle seems to think so at least. It sounds like it comes from his heart through the soles of his boots. His blue eyes twinkled with his wide smile while watching the sparring earlier this morn. I am glad he does not seem too affected by the loss of so much. Reiksbruck was his home and by all accounts his only family of a sort was the Baron. All who knew him in this life are now dead. How does a boy cope with such knowledge? Maybe he has not thought on it’s implications yet? Maybe I think too much.
Stefan is sitting with his huge tome of a book open and weighing down his legs as he sits. His legs and fingers are all I can truly see behind it’s leather-bound cover. I wonder if his feet feel numb or prickly yet? I do not think he would let such a trifling bodily discomfort cause him to move. Strange, he does not read as much as I thought he would, though far more than most who can. A lot of his time is spent sitting quietly contemplating. Not looking at anything in particular. As if he is waiting for something. Death I suspect, but maybe I am wrong.
Ah, Verstohlen. I try and keep my back to him as much as possible for I do not wish to illicit conversation, not that I think he enjoys such pursuits. When I do watch him during Stefan’s training he looks serious and humorless. I think it is important that though he has accrued companions like a net gathers flotsam and jetsam, we must not pose too much a danger by being helpless or useless. Though it was Stefan who requested his beatings, and only he who is practicing so maybe I am wrong. It is interesting that he gave Hans and myself a choice, admittedly between death or joinging him, but still he could have saved himself the trouble and blown our faces off too. I wonder how his brain works. I wonder if he is still a man or if in becoming a Witch Hunter you give your humanity over to a higher order, namely Sigmar. Does he have anything of the true Pieter left in his soul? Who was that boy before he became the fearsome man? I saw a crack in that armor during a well timed comment from Danielle as Stefan faltered and landed in the sodden ditch by the wayside. An almost smile softened on Verstohlen’s face but the iron mask came down just as quick. Interesting, like watching one of the ferocious beasts the men made fight for sport and money down by the market. Hard animals with all sorts of scars and learned behavior through the hardships of life with man, but sometimes, just sometimes when they let their guard down they looked as if they could be touched in friendship. Maybe best not to try lest my hand be ripped off.
Not long now. Hans says there is just under two days before we reach the City of Spires by the stone marker we just passed. I think I will walk for a bit. Keep the mule company at the front. Poor beast has no one to speak to.
~ A ~
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