tws: hunting, animal death, blood
She cannot be more than eight. Never before has she aimed at something so large, something so alive. "The heart, Dagmar." It's scarcely a whisper, this reminder from her father. Barely audible above the sound of the wind. Brown eyes narrow, watching as the deer takes a step. She pulls the drawstring as far as she can, feels it in her shoulders. The arrow flies and she releases her breath when it makes its mark.
When she sees it up close, after following where it sprinted off to before falling to the ground, she's surprised at just how massive it is. Dagmar has seen fallen game before- this is hardly her first hunt- but it is the first time such a large creature was felled by an arrow a her hand.
It is her father who dips his fingers in the wound. Bjørn takes the creature's lifesblood on his hand, pulls his daughter near, and her face with it. She can smell it, feel the warmth still, the way it sticks to her skin. She is grateful now that her mother had spent the time in early morning before the hunting party had left pulling Dagmar's hair away from her face, secured tightly under her linen coif.
Red. The same blood on her face, on her father's hand, spilling to the ground. She is struck by the brightness. How little it can take, to bring down something so large, even when she was so small.
Red has always meant blood- but mostly it had meant sport, game, food and fur.
