To Love Oneself (Saint Vals 2021 Short Story)

To Love Oneself

Zosime is in the barn when the witch-god and her lamp-bearer come. She is pitching hay to the cattle, sweating in the night's humid air, and humming a tune to herself. Normally, this would be Joshua's job, but he is in town, visiting his betrothed. The job is hers, then, and she does it to the best of her ability.

All she sees of them is a parade of black cloaks and yellow lights on poles. It's a quick glimpse of two women obscured with black cloth and two knights in shining armor, marching past the barn and toward the main house. Then the wind slams the barn doors shut and Zosime is alone once again. Minutes later, when her work is finally through and the nerves have settled in her chest and bouncing feet, she sneaks across the yellowed grass and the dirt path her family created; she opens the door quietly and keeps to the wall.

"Join us, Sir Hector. We march to the north to push back the tides of the giants and the Dark." The woman speaking sits at the kitchen table, her hood down and across her back. Zosime's father sits across from her, leaning back in his wooden chair. There is a cold bowl of stew between them.

"You are not a knight," he says, after a long, pregnant pause.

"No."

"You are a witch-god."

"Perhaps."

"And your lamp-bearers?"

"Only one Lampade will travel with us. The rest are needed elsewhere."

He sighs and runs a hand through his thick, shoulder-length hair. "I suppose I have a duty to assist you, to defend this land."

Zosime has seen the tapestries and heard the stories the bards tell in the public houses. This is the witch-god herself, and there is no doubt about it. She recognizes those that travel with her, too. One of the Lampades, who have beaten back the Dark for generations; Sir Refulgent, who was the subject of many a story; and Sir Tristan, the young knight who was making a name for himself by way of chivalric good deeds.

"I suppose you do," the witch-god says, a smile forming on her lips.

"Shall we depart in the morning?"

"We shall depart tonight."

Sir Hector sighs once again. "It is just as well, I suppose. Zosime, gather my armor."

"Yes, father." Zosime snaps to obey, and she climbs the stairs to the room she and her father share with Joshua. It is separated into three parts by a cloth and a row of chests. Zosime opens the lid of the middle one and begins to gather the pieces of her father's armor. Downstairs, the conversation continues.

"My daughter will come with us," Sir Hector demands.

"I sense no magic in her. Will she be of use?"

"She has been acting as my squire for years. She will be of use."

That is true. Zosime has been training since she was young. Joshua has always wanted to take over the family's small plot of land and the responsibility fell to Zosime, who was all too happy to participate.

"Then she will come with us."

Zosime almost drops the armor. Perhaps she shouldn't be eavesdropping. It's making her slower at her one current task. Still, the thought of participating, of accompanying her father to the north to actually participate in the defense of her own people... Zosime can hardly contain her excitement and fear.

*****

When they leave that night and begin the march, Zosime can't keep herself from yawning. Staying awake was never one of her strong suits, and walking isn't keeping her eyes from wanting to stay shut. Eventually, she splashes a bit of lukewarm water from her canteen on her face and adjusts the banner she carries so that it hurts her a little. Neither of these actions work.