She didn’t cry out when he lifted her. The probably would have pleased him she thought uncharitably as she bit her lip and muffled her reaction to a small grunt. No, she chided herself, Petya wasn’t one of the ones who mocked her or threw offal at her when they caught sight of her skulking around their kills. He was no friend of hers though. Oksana had no friends and that was just fine with her. She liked it better that way. She felt her cheeks heat at the indignity of being carried, like a girl. She held her tongue but inwardly cursed herself, this night, those things and each and every person who may or may not have had anything to do with this moment, including Pavel the Younger who trailed along behind them. He was cursed inwardly because he witnessed it and may derive some pleasure from it. Though she knew that was unfair. The young jack-of-all-trades was to quiet, to lost in his work to bother mocking her. 

She risked a look at him over Petya’s shoulders and saw that he was hardly even watching where he was going. Pavel’s broad blacksmith’s shoulders were getting quite the collection of snow on them as he walked, coatless behind them. She looked away, wrinkling her nose at the further indignity of needing someone’s coat. Doubt and worry that she was as weak as they all suspected filled her. 

Petya spoke then and all doubt was pushed aside when he offered not to tell on her following them. 

“Oh, how kind of you.” She said with acid as her chin rose imperiously in her telltale gesture of outrage. Oksana was not subtle in anything. Her words flowed out without thought or concern that he might drop her on her arse in the snow. She didn’t care. 

“Tell them, I don’t care. I was out hunting,” she said casually, which was true enough. “I was tracking a deer but some large group of oafs scared him off.” 

That part was a lie and she had to drop her eyes to keep the lie from being painfully obvious. Not that it helped much. Her lie was as apparent as her need for help. But that didn’t mean she was going to admit to needing it. Her pride, wounded, battered and beset from all sides would never let her back down or give up. Her scowl intensified as they walked but she held her tongue, maybe just a little ashamed of her vinegar and even more ashamed of her need. She managed something like a gracious nod to Pavel-the-younger when he opened the door to the Tavern for them. 

She struggled in Petya’s arms. She’d rather fall on her face trip and crack her head open than be carried into the full tavern for all to laugh at. Oh look, weak Oksana being rescued by one of the mighty hunters she’d always tagging after. Silly girl, when will she learn? She could just hear it and she would not tolerate it. 

“That’s far enough.” She said, “Let me down.” She shifted and struggled despite the pain it caused her. “Please.” 

Whether he let her go or her fish act worked, she found herself on her feet just outside the tavern, voices and soft weeping coming from the interior. She held onto the door-frame and took one step in, then another, moving through the antechamber built to cut off wind and cut down on mud, into the main room. She paused as if by choice to look around and take stock, when in reality it was only the sturdily built doorway holding her up. 

“Oskar!” she called happy to see her brother among the living. She would have denied the worry that was leaving her at the sight of him upright and well had she even been aware of it. Her anger, like in so many things, edged out her other emotions. She faltered when she saw who he was with, Vasily. That was a complex knot of emotions there. To see her brother in the arms of the young, loving father made her stomach sour even more than it already was. 

Acknowledging Vasily’s parenting status made her aware of something that troubled her. Nearly every single time she walked into this building, into her home, one sound always greeted her. That thing’s absence made the skin prickle along the nape of her neck. Her Father wasn’t yelling at her. He’d never laid a hand on her, almost as if he were afraid too but he had never spared her the sharp side of her tongue. There were a great many in the village who were of the opinion that if Oksana had felt the back of his hand more often then she’d have been a proper woman, not this half feral wild child. Unfortunately for him, his yelling, though it hurt her deeply, causing wounds and aches in places people wouldn’t see, had long since ceased to stop her from doing whatever the hell she wanted to. That she was a disappointment to her one living parent hurt. For all that he yelled and she defied him, she loved him in her heart. He and Oskar were all she had. But since she couldn’t seem to do anything but disappoint him, she’d stopped trying to do anything else. Besides, if he were yelling at her and nagging her, he left Oskar alone. 

“Oskar? Where’s Papa?” the worry in her voice was evident, as was the effort it was taking to keep her standing. 

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He let himself lean into the older man, his face a crumpled wreck as all the things wrong battered at him. Guilt that he’d started this all kept choking him and each and every cry and moan in the tavern was a reminder that this was all his fault. It wasn’t enough that the young father held him and then reassured him, not knowing that it was all Oskar’s fault, no the young man gently steering him through the tavern had to be a better man than Oskar in all ways. He had to think beyond himself and wonder about the well-being of others. 

“Where’s Oksana?” The question was one more blow to the slender, guilt-wracked man and he looked up at Vasily, his dark eyes filled with guilt and spilling over with tears. 

“I don’t know…” he said, his voice cracking as he shook under Vasily’s arm. She was out, she was always out and he was terrified to know she had been out in the snow and dark when the things had struck. His knees started to give way, the grip of the young father the only thing keeping him upright. But then a cold wind blew into the tavern and a rough familiar voice called to him. 

“Oksana!” he said in relief and flew across the tavern to her, pulling her against him. He ignored her struggles and her curses to hold her, looking over her shoulder at Petya.

“Thank you, thank you for rescuing her.” 

Pain, intense pain made him crumple to the floor with a high-pitched sound that didn’t seem all that human. He curled into a ball, as nauseating pain radiated out from his groin. 

“No one rescued me! No one!” she shouted as she stood over him, bleeding and swaying, her own knees just about to give out.