Calling for help had been one of the hardest things Oksana had ever done. She’d done it without letting herself think about the consequences, simply calling to the others she’d seen moving. It had been animal instinct, calling out for help when needed. Now faced with the concerned eyes of Pavel and the impatient, worried eyes of Petya she was face to face with the consequences. Shame filled her. Shame that she wasn’t stronger, shame that she had needed help in the first place. She tried not to picture how much better it would have been if she’d stumbled into the tavern, bloodied, battered but walking on her own. Brave Oksana with a tale to tell. Brave Oksana, won’t you tell us the time you fought off the dark? But no, she couldn’t stand, she was certain of it. She hurt too much, the burning over every inch of her skin was intense as if the cuts had been rubbed with salt and spice. She felt afire. 

In her pain and fear she’d imagined that what had happened to her had been a fluke. She convinced herself that she’d simply passed some barrier of protection at some point and had the misfortune of being caught in something that had slipped by the witch. But Petya’s words told her otherwise. There were other’s hurt and she was taking time away from them. 

That sense of urgency and a healthy dose of empathy made her muster up the strength to stand. Pride may have been involved in her decision to stand, stubbornness as well. She nodded to Pavel and using the tree upon which she leaned to lever herself up. She closed her eyes to hide the way the moisture pricked at her lashes as a soft noise of pain slipped from her lips. She would not let herself cry out and the effort of standing was obvious as was the pain she was in. 

Still her eyes flew open, blazing when Petya made his offer. She looked to him, her lips twitching as her jaw clenched. Petya hadn’t been one of the ones to openly mock her, but he hunted with them, Dimitri being the worst of the lot. He certainly had never stuck up for her either. Guilt by association. Carry her? Oh that would be rich, she could just hear the laughter as she was carried in like a helpless girl. Well she wasn’t helpless. Hurt or not she was going to walk in on her own two feet, or drag her bleeding body over the threshold of the tavern if that was what it took. 

The angry light in her eyes and the blaze of color across her scratched cheeks spoke of her melodramatic, prideful thoughts even if she did not give voice to them. Oksana would never be described as subtle, her actions and thoughts were often clearly writ on her face. Honesty was less a habit for her than an inescapable disability. 

“Thank you, no.” she said to Petya with an honest attempt at graciousness that was as natural on the girl as skirts on a cow. 
 
“I will walk. I should not have called you from helping others.” 

To prove that she could walk she took a step, or rather attempted to but her knees gave out and she let out a whimper of pain before she caught herself on the tree and by some miracle, remained upright. 

“Dammit!” she snarled and let out a few words that she’d clearly overheard in the tavern and words that her father would beat her for knowing. 

“Maybe a little help.” She conceded as her head hung in defeat. 

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Someone tugged at his hands, pulling them away from his ears and it was in this moment that he heard the scream that was ripping from his throat. A long, animal scream that was all but unrecognizable to him. He could feel warm rivulets of blood begin their journey from where his nails had pierced the thin skin on his temple, from where he’d been clawing at his flesh as what his father’s last words had meant hammered home.

His mother. 

His mother, the one he’d never known, the one his father had perversely refused to name. 

His mother, he’d betrayed her. He’d betrayed them all.

He felt another scream bubbling up his throat and to keep it in he clapped his hands over his mouth. Still it pushed against its bindings, wanting to be out, to shred the night like the other scream had. He wouldn’t let it.

It was his mother whom he’d led the priests to. His mother whom he’d betrayed and in doing so, had betrayed the whole village. His mother who would not see him when he’d gone to her. She must have known and not wanted to see her shameful boy. His mother whom he’d then watched as she bathed, stirred with dark, heady thoughts. His mother whom he’d spent nights restlessly dreaming about. His mother whom the Crows had surrounded and attacked while he had fled. 

“Vasily.” He said, reaching out and clutching at the man’s coat. “The witch, something’s happened to the witch.” 

He felt terror fill him. They would condemn him if they knew. They would stone him, burn him, turn him out if they knew. He would deserve it. He was an unnatural thing, born of a witch whom he’d betrayed and lusted after. The priests were right, he was a creature of sin. But his mother, perhaps it wasn’t too late to save her and maybe to redeem himself in the process. But that wouldn’t happen if anyone knew what he’d done. 

“My father.” This was true, it was not further sin to be added to his burden. “My father said we should find her. Please!”

The last was said as a sob, his voice breaking as he collapsed forward, weakling that he was, to bury his face in Vasily’s chest and weep.