We all learn

[boxcattin]

And on the sixteenth day of Velieaux, she was born and full of fire. Small and fierce, she did not cry but stared and dug her small fingers into those that came to visit her. Her skin red, hair black, and eyes a dark, murky blue, they said she was a beautiful baby.

Even so, R'sari shunned the child to sit in her husband's throne and throw his wealth away on silks and supping with lords and merchants alike... And though she did not nurse this babe, nor go to see her, she spoke of her... as one might speak of a pedigree pup they meant to sell, discussing potential dowries.

Arethe Wynward was worth a lot, but not that much they'd all say, suspicious of how long it had taken R'sari to conceive and birth a live child. If you could promise me an heir... But R'sari's promises were false, and the lords and merchants left with their dowries and hosts, and R'sari grew to hate her tiny child, so fierce and full of fire.

[boxcattin]

There must be something wrong with her, she must be sick, poor child. Those that complained about the infant being hush came to complain about how much noise she made when words came to her. She is spoiled.

The Wynward men loved her, and they held her and coddled her when R'sari turned her back, playing small games and urging her to take up new vocabulary. The Salo family paid her little mind, as if the babe was a black mark to their name... And she learned quickly that the crueler ones might pinch her and shout if she became too loud, R'sari included.

Remarkably resilient, she grew wary and angry of adults, but was quick to differentiate between friend and foe, her father's men and her mother's. She just stares at me. She learned which faces would smile, and which hands would harm. That's unnatural, that baby is a monster, that child is a wolf. And for the first time in her short life, she heard her name, and grew to love it.

[boxcattin]

Punish her. R'sari would not be refused, and spears bristled from all around. Red and angry, he towered over the little wolf, though she did not flinch in his shadow. She's staring, I-I- Fingers curling in her hair, he stammered. The spears jostled closer and bit into his back. You will.

Arethe had never seen a man cry, but her father's man wept like a baby... I can't, please, R'sari, she's- She'd been struck before, her eyes bore into him as he sobbed.

"You're weak." Punish. Her. "You're weak," she whispered again, goading him. Arethe Wynward is five, and she is small, but she holds her head high. He doesn't even have to hold her hair, really, when he slaps her.

Arethe Wynward is nearly a woman grown, her mother says, and Arethe Wynward takes her punishment beautifully. Arethe Wynward is the stone that makes the wall and the iron at his hip. She is the fire in the hearth, the wine that clouds her mother's eyes. I am so sorry, he begs.

Arethe Wynward goes to bed with the taste of blood in her mouth and her face swollen. Your mother loves you, her nursemaid whispers to Arethe's empty plate. "Liar."

[boxcattin]

Tall and bronze, with hair like fire, he gives the best hugs. Arethe Wynward is ten and married to betrayal, but he promises that he'd never hit her, and she vows to make him her knight. She has bled and is a woman grown, she tells him. Antony, the stable hand, kisses her and tastes of wine. He lets her drink from her flask and promises her the world. If you're wed, I'll steal you. Antony the stable hand is three-and-twenty, and Arethe Wynward is ten, and wed to betrayal.

He presents her with her first horse, a red mare, and leads her around the yard once. I shouldn't. He does.

She puts her knees to the mare and feels the wind in her hair. She is uncertain, she has never ridden so fast, but the jarring gait that sets her teeth and pounds in her chest, Arethe is free. He calls, and she turns the horse about. "Merry" is her name. Arethe Wynward is ten, and wed to betrayal. Antony is three-and-twenty, and he kisses her. Arethe Wynward is a woman grown and bled - she knows she'll love him to the grave.

[boxcattin]

Hugging Antony fiercely, she cries. Arethe Wynward is fourteen, and the cat is barely recovered from his injuries, but purrs loudly. He smells rotten, and his fur is dusty, but he is all she has to remind her of the stable hand-knight. Antony is marched out of the yard in tight ropes and the accusation of "Raper". Antony the stable hand is an exile, her nursemaid explains. He can never steal her now, and the world grows dark and hopeless.

She is no longer the wolf, but a dog under her mother's command. Her leash is lengthened the dimmer her fire burns, and she often takes long, lonely rides. Sure that her fight is extinguished, R'sari almost loves her daughter, and dresses her in silks. Arethe is hollow.

Somewhere along the Soot Coast, a lordling suffers the first on many attacks.

[boxcattin]

She is cold and obedient, but made of wood in his hands. Her hips are narrow. R'sari and the man argue over her. A year ago Arethe might have told the strange man from a strange land that she didn't lack siblings for Gregor and his lady not trying, taking her beatings in silence, but her fire had extinguished. Her eyes were yellow, not gold, and her teeth were made to nibble cakes, not rip out throats. His hand lingered on the breast that her dress left bare, and she only stared in silence at the wall.

She remembered how Antony had undressed her in the stable, and the terrified anxiety she felt in her gut. She'd not called him a raper, she had asked him to, but R'sari called her a whore and beaten her the day after, so badly that she could not leave her chambers for days. Smile, Arethe. She showed her teeth prettily, but the expression she made was not a smile. Without prompting, he slapped her, and she tried a little harder. Silent tears wet her cheeks, and her lip bled where it split. R'sari smiled for her. "Thank you." But she was small and fierce and filled with a great fire, kindled from the dying ember. And she stared

Mercenaries and sons seeking fortune flocked to the ports, heeding the Soot Coast lordling's call and silver.

[boxcattin]

Arethe Wynward was fifteen, and wed to the fat merchant and his many wives in a week, a thought that made her ill. While well padded, his hands hurt no less when he slapped her and her lips were ruined and broken, her cheeks and eye swollen. Even so, she could not smile for him, and stared... Punish her, R'sari suggested leisurely, and he did.

Her back was raw and bloody, her first tattoo had been laborious and intricate, all black ink snakes and flowers, though the coils had no head or tail. Beneath the bandages that flattened her breasts, it wept and stunk of ink, her ring of sorts. Her brand.

Entering uninvited, she caught him in the mirror and stared. He was small, laughably so, but she did not smirk. In britches and wraps, she looked almost masculine, but he only looked drunk. "The wedding is a week from now," she reminded, teeth rattling as his hand came across the back of her head.

Fearless, she watched the wrappings slither to the floor, tears welling as his fingers dug into the fresh ink... and she went to the bed, but not as a dog.

[boxcattin]

Wild and terrible, she stared. He cupped a hand to his mouth where she tore his lip with her teeth, calling her a bitch. Stunned, numb, his blows had slowed her down and laid her out. You can't say no to me.

Too drunk to be undeterred by his ruined lip, he struck her again and rolled her onto her stomach, forcing her face into the pillow until she lay reasonably still, reminding her that she was his property, twisting her hair painfully. But smothering did not both her, it was his weight - he's going to crush me - even as he drew up to his knees.

I bought you. She was as rags in his hands, and stared fiercely at her own fingers and his blood staining where he'd ground he mouth into the cotton. He struggled with her belt and pants, her eyes slid to the left, and she smiled for him.

[boxcattin]

The hand that held the candlestick shook, and her chest heaved painfully, fear and adrenaline shivering through her. Hastily she yanked the pants up from around her thighs again and laced them, the candlestick forgotten on the carpet. The wolf swallowed her screams, and slipped out of the pants again, kicking them under the bed and tearing a slip in its place, snatching up the candlestick again, she toyed with the balance of the fine silver.

"Rape." She croaked, stumbling half naked into the feasting hall. Mercenaries and base-born men begging for a knighthood paid her no mind, at first. She threaded among them, a ghost of silk and skin and blood, eyes gold with fire and locked on R'sari. "Rape," she whispered again. Some now turned, others gaped. She brushed by without notice. "Rape!" She snarled hoarsely, hurling the candlestick at the foot of the dais.

Wynwards and sellswords alike shifted, handling their blades anxiously. With a dull roar, the wolf's pack rose. Hang him! a familiar voice snarled, his hand warm on her back, his steel cold in his hand. He'd struck her and begged apology, and Arethe loved him fiercely now.

[boxcattin]

The fat merchant sagged in his noose though his face did not black. He'd died on her bed, his face well softened by her blows. R'sari regarded her, face terribly pale. Ana smiled for her, though an animal does not bare their teeth for joy - R'sari feared her, and did not return the gesture.

Wynward's men scattered among the mercenary ranks, fleeing the oasis now. There was nothing left here. For her safety, they bound her chest and dressed her in armor mixed and matched. Well laden with reminders of her father's blood and standard. They cut her hair and stole her in the black of night, she nearly looked the part of boy. Nearly.