A Borrowed Name

6 - The Petals of an Aged Flower

The inn was not hard to find. A quaint traditional appearance on the outside, with a flowered sign hanging off a bracket above the door.

As though to spite this, the inside was far from the modest décor the inn's outer appearance suggested. Instead, the Red Rose was true to its name; adorned with splashings of crimson and a sickly pink bard who was singing upon a faux rose-bush stage. He winked playfully as she entered and Gytha had never felt so irritated in her life – it would hardly matter if he could sing a half decent song, but it soon became clear he had gained the stage through wealth and a seeming lack of actual talent.

Further in, a barkeep glared at her from behind the counter, aggressively drying a tankard with a rag. Gytha turned her eyes upon him and frowned when his gaze did not shy away.

She had not seen him before; the inn and its keeper being new additions to the town, though she suspected he held some familiarity for her.

Maybe he wasn't simply a stranger. Maybe he knew her before she was Darwynn the hired-sword, back when she was just simply Gytha, daughter of Garth, and nothing was expected of her except to tend to the fields. Maybe he could see through her stolen name, her stolen life, all of which she took greedily from her brother while he withered away; living the life which would have been bestowed upon him if illness did not seep so deep and sudden into his flesh and bones.

Though, what would it matter if a seeming stranger knew her taboo? Judging by the emptiness of the building on such a cold night – likely caused by the less than talented bard and garish colouring – it was clear the locals held little affinity for him.

What would his word hold against hers, when she held the recognition of so many of the townsfolk and he could barely lure a few to patron his business. She had borrowed her brother's appearance for years, cemented her identity into the foundations of the towns, and slithered her name across neighbouring towns and cities like the roots of an oak. It would be difficult to uproot her and reveal her to be nothing more than a mistletoe hiding amongst the leaves when she had wrapped herself so fatally around her brother's taproot.

Despite Laela's fears, and no matter the amount of times Gytha had attempted to persuade her otherwise, the hired-sword's secret could not be so easily revealed. However, the punishment of a women like herself and her low blood status deceiving various officials and members of the upper classes, for years upon end, meant she and her brother would be given a quick end. This possibility in itself was enough for Laela to turn away any sort of outside help and take to the fields with worn hands each harvest.

It irritated Gytha endlessly, but she ultimately understood and gave in to her sister-in-law's whims whenever the topic of help crept up.

Scoffing, Gytha scanned the room, ignoring the stout man eyeing her, and locked onto the woman bent halfway across a table in the corner.

"Ol' Eald?" she asked, approaching the figure.

The woman groaned and shuffled her shoulders. She looked the same from when Gytha and Darwynn were young and tugged at her skirts, begging for an apple or two from her cart. The only true differences were that she had aged. Her hair, once a rich red, sat a peppery-white in her classic plait she always wore it, crow's feet dug into the corners of her eyes and two lines pushed into the meat of her cheeks from either side of her lips.

"Whatsit to you?" came her drunken slurs, her bright green eyes were dulled with alcohol.

"I hear you know what's been happening to the children."

Ol' Eald raised her grey head at that and dragged a clammy hand across her face. "Today was'a be her nameday," she hiccupped, "My sweet Susette's eight harvest. She was'll I had left of m'daughter," she trailed off with a muffled wail.

Gytha looked down at the now sobbing woman and felt uncomfortable fidget come about her. She turned to the bar where the barkeep was still staring in her direction and signalled for two ales, then took a seat opposite the elder.
               
The alcohol arrived quick, and were herded into the grasp of Ol' Eald before they even touched the table. Gytha huffed, retreating her outstretched hand and rolled her eyes, but did not protest.
               
The barkeep glared at her before returning to his place at the bar. Even then, she could feel his eyes boring into her back. She threw a glance back over her shoulder while Ol' Eald enthusiastically slurped at the tankards, and looked him over, but was deterred by the obnoxious rise in singing by the bard who now stood near the bar.
               
Turning back, she asked, "Tell me, Ol' Eald. I search for a boy, like that of your Susette. But, you must tell me what you saw, Ol' Eald. Even if it is just inane ramblings of a mind crippled by age, I'll take anything to get him back." Gytha clutched the old woman's withered hands and stared pleadingly into her eyes.
               
There wasn't much that the hired-sword felt true emotions for these days, but anything involving family always seemed to draw out the human in her.
               
Ol' Eald threw back the last of the drinks and sighed sadly. "Oh, m'dear boy," she said, looking pitifully at Gytha with alarmingly clear eyes. The younger woman frowned, confused at her sudden bout of clarity, and internally questioned if the elder was ever truly drunk in the first place.

Ol' Eald gave her hands a tight squeeze before staring out of the window at the eerily full moon.