Hunting
Arthes sat, back against a tree, crossbow in her lap. With a sigh, she closed her eyes.
Papa...
She could still see him. His arms, horrifyingly emaciated, skin drooping from muscle atrophy. His skin, pale, clammy. His eyes... He'd looked at her so sadly as she gave him herbs, poultices, anything to keep him going.
"He's already gone," Herthe had told her, a slight softness in her brusque voice, "There's nothin' you can do but ease his way."
She'd been right, but Arthes had refused to accept that. Her father had raised her to never give in, and she wouldn't just let him slip away. She wouldn't let go.
She still wasn't letting go.
Oh, she kept going. It was hard not to, with a toddler and three babies in the house. And then, food had stopped coming, so it was time to go out and lend a hand. Still... It was like part of her had stopped when her father had let out his last breath.
She let out a sigh and bowed her head.
The soft crunch of footfalls in snow shattered the silence. Arthes's head snapped up. Two rabbits. She raised the crossbow.
And lowered it. She couldn't... They looked like mates. One might have babies, and what would they think if they found out their papa had died? She sank back against the tree, eyes downcast.
Then, a streak thundered through the underbrush. A fox snapped up one of the pair and streaked off as quickly as it had appeared. The surviving rabbit made itself scarce.
Arthes stood up. How could that happen? Didn't the fox--
"Didn't give a thought to it, did he?" The gravelly voice was punctuated by the crunch of boots in snow. Herthe's tiny form appeared in the underbrush. A turkey was slung over her shoulder.
"Huh?"
"The one got snapped up, t'other just runs. He may be sad, but he knows he's got to accept what life deals 'im."
Arthes looked at the Elder Goodmother silently. Her eyes and throat hurt.
Herthe stood in front of her, then put a hand on her shoulder. "Your husband... he told you about the agreement between hunters and prey, didn't he?" Arthes nodded. "The one agrees to go to t'other. 'Tain't so much givin' up, as it is knowing when to let go."
The old woman looked at the turkey thoughtfully. "My, this is a burden. Tell you what..." She put it down. "You could try listening to the land like you do. Y'might find something. Or not." With that, she crunched back to town.
Arthes watched her go. Once she was sure Herthe was out of earshot, she dropped to the ground. Warmth spilled from her eyes, searing her face and moistening the earth. She took a few breaths, squeezing her eyes shut.
What did it mean? Letting go? How could it help anyone if her father died?
How could it help anyone if a tree got struck by lightning? The thought came to her instantly. It's not whether it helps. It's whether it's time.
Arthes lay for a moment, letting this inspiration sink in. Then, she became aware of tiny footfalls a few miles away.
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