"Musings - Isban" by Jenna L. Anderson

Try not to think about it, he thought with a grimace, but kept thinking about it despite his own advice. Horseflesh, he reflected now, tasted quite good, if it came from a young horse, and was salted enough, or seasoned enough. This meat tasted like it came from an old nag three weeks dead and rotting, the meat cooked just enough to blacken it- and then it tasted as if they, whoever they be, had let it sit for days in the broiling sun turning it into hard pieces of jerky.

Try not to think about it, he thought again, think about anything but the horse meat in the soup and the smell and the wine- And too quickly he realized his mistake, but it was too late. Not even the wine would cover the memories now, not once they started… Never. He shivered. Try to think about anything else. And Gambler was cruel enough to grant him that.

Memories came, soft, persuasive memories that teased his senses, tempted him into false security- or maybe he was just being paranoid. The inn around him was no more, he was falling, and all he could see was the darkness of night, and all he could hear was the soft sound of his own breathing, as harsh as any wind. He remembered this clearly, remembered what had happened- the twining of bodies, the beautiful ache, and the soft indentation in the grass where they had lain. He remembered, but he did not want to, but he was powerless against them. The memories moved on.

"I love you." He had whispered softly, and felt her shudder against him, as if he had just condemned her- and hadn’t he? - And he remembered kissing her forehead softly, then her cheeks, tasting the salt tears there. He hadn’t been surprised either, and didn’t try to comfort her as she wept in his arms… How could he? He was as miserable as she; not even the sounds of the night or of their own breathing could mask that. Not even the gentle flush to her cheeks could hide how pale she was. How terrified, and how her terror he shared intimately.

"No one will know." He had whispered to her, speaking of their secret love, and had kissed her again, but she was cold to him now, like a corpse in his arms, and like a corpse he could only hold her in return, at times whispering words of comfort, of love, but at other times just as unresponsive as she. "I promise you, no one-"

"Why?" She cut him off quietly, and her question was saturated with despair and hope mingled together, but he had no answer for her–he wasn’t sure of the question. She repeated herself: "Why?" And then: "Why do you love me? Why me?" Her voice trembled, and she clutched herself to him, burying her head in his chest in frustration. He had nearly laughed, though none of this was amusing, but instead stroked her hair. Such beautiful hair, he had mused, so long it tangled in the slightest breeze, his lioness’ mane.

"Because I love you, and no one else. Love doesn’t have reason, it has passion." He had replied after a moment and for awhile all the memories dipped once more into the sense of false security, leading Isban along through them at a quite comfortable pace but Gambler was cruel, his Gambler was, and peace became chaos, and chaos ensured.

Another memory, not long after the first, came into play: He stood facing a large wooden platform and stared up at a wooden post, from which a noose hung. He was only another face in the crowd, but it was his face she had sought, in her wordless terror, her eyes- her eyes! Isban had shaken, but he did not look away. He would not look away. He watched as they lowered the noose over her neck, her soft and warm neck, so full of life. Her neck, her smooth skin, and he almost did turn away, but he couldn’t now, she had stopped him.

He watched as a faceless man- they always were, who did the killing of the innocent- tightened the noose around his love’s neck, yanked it and hobbled away, favoring his left leg over his right. Isban curled his hands into fists and slapped one against his thigh, in helpless rage and terror and anguish.

There was an instant before the wooden floor was kicked out from under her, and in that moment their eyes locked- his and hers- and he had silently mouthed the three fateful words which had betrayed them in the end. "I love you." And then her eyes had widened, and he watched as her legs no longer touched the ground but flailed wildly above it, and her hands clawed desperately at her neck. He wondered why they hadn’t bound them behind her back, so she might die nobly, and stifled a whimper of despair. "I love you." He whispered softly, but she hadn’t heard, and nor had the crowd of shouting onlookers. Again and again and again.

Her feet kicked in the air and her hands… The way she flailed made her look like a dancer, like how she had never danced for him, save for in his dreams, and she danced now like she never would again. He would have gladly taken her place, gone with her- but that had been forbidden. He had started the war by sleeping with her, his father had ended it by hanging her, though… though…

He didn’t realize he was crying until they cut her limp corpse down from the rope, and drug it away behind a mule. He didn’t realize he was crying until a very soft tug at his pant leg alerted his attention, if nothing else.

"I’m happy, too, mister. I’m happy she’s gone." And the little girl and her straw doll had skipped away as if on air, and he could only stare numbly at where she had gone.

I’m happy, too, mister.

He found he wasn’t hungry anymore.