Page 35 of Odette's Vow

He paused, watching me closely, as if expecting to see horror or disgust. I worked hard to keep my expression passive, refusing to let him see the turmoil inside me.

“I swerved at the last minute,” he continued. “But in the dream, I didn’t. I wonder if it is a message that something has happened to my son.”

As he said it, the flickering light from the lone lantern in the medical tent cast ghostly shapes on the canvas walls. The scent of medicinal herbs and the faint, metallic tang of blood filled the air. The rest of the injured men slept soundly around us; the only sounds were their soft breaths and occasional sleep murmurs. Otherwise, we were undisturbed.

“You should not say such things.” I reached for the cloth beside the bowl on the small table. Dipping it in water, I wrung the cloth and gently applied it to his brow. “Rest.”

“How can I rest when I do not know the fate of my boy?”

I could see the tension in Odysseus’ muscles, his body still rigid with fear and anguish that the nightmare had conjured. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each exhale a whispered plea. This anguish, this torment, I realised was worse than anything I had planned for him.

“My husband told me that you would come and bash our babes’ heads in. That it would be better if we died in our sleep as a family, the night before you raided my village.” I hesitated on the next part. “It was I who mixed the hemlock for us that night.”

I sat on the edge of Odysseus’ bed, watching him. His face was twisted, his brow already damp with sweat again. At first I thought it was disgust that shaped his face, even though he too had just admitted to terrible intentions of his own.

He hadn’t acted upon it, I supposed.

“You had a child.”

I nodded, reaching for the cloth again, anything to keep my hands busy.

Odysseus frowned. “But I killed your husband.”

“I … I got the doses wrong,” I whispered, choking on those last words. I had buried the admission so deep within myself that I did not have to look at it. It had curdled like soured milk and turned to venom in my heart, making it cold, hard, black; and it burnt the back of my throat as it all came back up now.

A horrible silence filled the air afterwards.

Eventually he spoke. “That is a cowardly thing to ask of the mother of your child.”

“It is a thing no true mother would ever have considered doing.”

“Is that why you looked at me with such ire the day you watched us burn your village to the ground?”

I was momentarily thrown. “You remember me watching you?”

My heart started hammering wildly against my chest.

“I remember every look you’ve ever given me.”

I was waiting for him to confess he had seen my looks of murderous rage, that he knew what I had plotted. Yet, he surprised me once again.

“I thought you were just proud, vengeful for losing your home,” he continued. “Now I know that by killing your husband, I stole something from you. Something more than just his life.”

That statement stole the air from my lungs.

I had never thought of it in the way Odysseus worded it now, but the words landed true. I felt my soul vibrate in agreement. I had not just lost everything; I had been stripped of my power todoanything about it. To hold anyone else to account. Except Odysseus.

But the war had taken him from his family, too.

As he passed back into sleep, my thoughts continued. I had wanted him dead for so long, blaming him for everything I had lost. Yet, seeing him tormented by his own demons … He was also a victim of this war, in a way. And if he died, I would simply be handed over to another lord, and who knew what fate would await me then?

Whether I liked it or not, my survival – my only hope to reclaim some semblance of control over my life – was now intertwined with Odysseus’ life. It was a truth I was still uncertain I wanted to accept.

I awoke to the pitch black of night in the medical tent. It took a moment to register where I was. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep beside Odysseus, but here I was, my head resting against his shoulder, his hand gently stroking my arm. I burrowed my head,confused, trying to remember climbing into bed beside him. Perhaps I had sought comfort in my sleep, drawn to the warmth and presence of another.

I shifted slightly, and Odysseus’ touch stilled. When I looked up at him, his eyes were open, watching me with a tenderness so at odds with the warrior I had come to know.

“You still have nightmares, too,” he murmured. “It kills me that you won’t let me touch you, let me hold you, when they come. And when the dawn rises, I know the only thing that dulls the ache of how much I want to, is the violence of the battlefield. It’s the only outlet for all this energy.”

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