Atissa’s body felt horrible.

As she rolled on her back and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Her stomach lurched, letting her know that it was very unhappy with her decision the night before. Am I going to throw up?

Atissa wished her stomach would make up its mind. Then she would at least have the motivation to get up. Her limbs were heavy and she felt dried out.

Pushing down the blanket, she tried to remember the previous night. Uncle Tatros had started to talk about wrestling again. She was sure that was what had put her to sleep early.

The hole in the ceiling let enough light into the hut to tell her that the sun was already up. By Horto’s beard, what time was it?

She closed her eyes and focused.

She knew she was alone in the hut without looking around. There was no breathing close by.

Mark and uncle Tatros were outside on the even ground next to the firewood.

A thump. Almost imperceptible to the ear, but this close a distance there was little Atissa’s senses missed. She heard the men moving. Felt it. She could not have explained how.

Another thump was followed immediately by the scratching of feet on the ground. Atissa could almost see it now. Mark and uncle Tatros were sparring!

The realization made her sit upright.

She instantly regretted the sudden movement as something hammered against the inside of her forehead in protest. She groaned.

Some people believed Old Horto’s bad mood came from hangovers. Today, Atissa finally realized why.

No matter, she thought, dragging herself up. She had to see what was happening.

Atissa got to her feet, more careful this time, and staggered towards the entrance.

When she stepped outside, she had to close her eyes. Had the sun been this bright, yesterday?

She crept around the hut, carefully setting one foot in front of the other. She needed to avoid any unnecessary movement that would worsen the hammering inside her head.

A body landed in front of her feet, making her jump back on reflex. Her head immediately protested.

Mark, who had just landed in front of her, had already rolled back to his feet. Without hesitation, he moved back in on uncle Tatros who was waiting for him in the middle of the open space between the hut and the trees.

Uncle Tatros was smiling from ear to ear. He was having fun.

Strangely, Atissa resented his happiness. She carefully rubbed her temples and tried to focus.

The two half-naked men engaged each other, their upper bodies slightly bent forward. Atissa watched as their hands took and broke grips in quick succession, each of them trying to find a hold on the opponent’s body.

Uncle Tatros had tried to teach her when she was younger. In contrast to the bow, she had never taken a liking to wrestling.

She was by no means weak, and she knew she could outrun and out-climb anybody in the valley, especially in the woods. But wrestling took strength. The other girls did not wrestle and the boys her age quickly developed the muscles of lumberjacks.

Uncle Tatros always insisted that technique was as important as strength. Many of the men were younger and stronger than him but during the festival’s competition, he threw them all. Mostly.

The younger Atissa had not been convinced.

As she watched both men working for an advantage, she noticed how different they were. Almost opposites in fact.

Both stood mostly naked, only covered by a loose loincloth that covered them to the middle of the thighs.

Being the shorter of the two by almost a head’s length, uncle Tatros was built like a tree trunk with a thick neck and broad shoulders. His body was covered in black and grey hair, now slick from sweat.

When he moved, he did so with short precise movements, showing his years of experience.

Between his neck and the loincloth, there was not a single hair to see on Mark’s body. His muscles looked like they’d been carved by a talented woodworker.

During the grip fight, he shifted from side to side, trying to make use of his longer reach. The dirt sticking to his sweating skin showed that he had hit the ground numerous times already.

Mark’s arm shot forward, getting a hold of Tatros’ wrist, but it had been a trap. Atissa’s uncle turned the arm down and took a hold of Mark’s elbow with the other hand. A quick pull made the taller man step forward and Tatros circled behind him.

Mark sailed through the air.

To Atissa’s surprise, he turned what should have been a powerful impact into a smooth roll and was on his feet again before her uncle could reach him.

Apparently, the two men had agreed that a bout would not end when one opponent landed on his back.

Advancing once more, Mark seemed to be unperturbed. Being thrown repeatedly by the older man didn’t seem to bother him.

The fight for grips started anew.

Atissa had refused to train but she had watched uncle Tatros many times. She saw that her uncle was stronger. His technique was better.

Still, whenever he got a hold of his opponent, or even threw him, the younger man would slip away.

Mark crouched and launched himself at his opponent’s legs.

Too easy. Atissa had seen the move coming. And if she had, her uncle had for sure.

As she had anticipated, Tatros moved back with a smile on his lips, easily stepping out of reach.

The smile disappeared immediately when Mark turned his launch into a role into Tatros’ legs. He twisted his body around and entwined his legs with her uncle’s.

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For a moment, the move looked ridiculous. Mark lying on his shoulders, his arms and legs wrapped around uncle Tatros’ limbs. Then uncle Tatros went down hard.

Atissa was as surprised as he was. She had no idea how Mark had pulled it off.

Meanwhile, Mark didn’t hesitate to press his attack. With a speed his earlier performance had not foretold, he climbed over Tatros holding him down at the same time.

Tatros tried to throw him off with his superior strength but to no avail. A heartbeat later, Mark was sitting on his belly.

There he slowed down. Uncle Tatros tried to use his legs to push himself off the ground, bridging but Mark stayed in place, riding it out.

After a couple of heartbeats, Tatros slowed down. Atissa could see the exhaustion on his face.

His opponent did not give him time to rest. The moment Tatros’ resistance slowed, Mark went for his left arm. He used his arms and head to push the arm across Tatros’ throat. Then he hugged him. His right arm went under Tatros’ left shoulder, his left going over the right, fixing the other man’s arm in place with his head.

Sensing danger, uncle Tators tried to break the embrace. Mark just slid off Tatros’ body to the left without letting go. Atissa could see the muscles on Mark’s arms flex as he tightened his hold.

Tatros was strangled between Mark’s biceps and his own arm held in place by Mark’s head.

The struggle lasted only a moment. Then Tatros’ right hand tapped twice on the younger man’s arm. Mark immediately let go of the embrace.

Uncle Tatros had given up.

Tatros shook his red head. “By Hortos’ beard! That was a tight one.”

Mark nodded, accepting the compliment. “Your standup is excellent. I was unsure I if would be able to get you to the ground.”

“Well, you did!” Tatros laughed. “But do not expect that one to work again.”

Mark stood up, brushing the dirt from his body. “I would much rather receive some lesson in wrestling. I am quite lacking there.”

“Haven’t had enough of being thrown around yet, have you?”

Her uncle got back to his feet and the two men turned towards the hut. It was then that they took notice of Atissa for the first time.

“Good morning,” Taros said, with a broad grin. “You look like something the wolves would not touch.”

Atissa decided to ignore her uncle. A happy Tatros was not something she wanted to deal with this morning.

She looked up at Mark instead, who showed her a sympathetic smile.

“Good morning, Atissa.”

She replied with a nod, not trusting her voice. Her mouth and throat felt awful.

“Your body is probably dehydrated,” Mark said. “Drink lots of water and move around. It will help your body to process the alcohol.”

Atissa nodded again and smiled. As always, she had not understood everything Mark had said. Drink water. Stay on my feet. I can do that, I guess, she thought.

If Mark was really a magi, it was probably good advice. And she had things to do anyway.

Uncle Tatros picked up a jug of water and drank deeply before handing it to their guest.

Mark took it gratefully. “Where can I freshen up….clean myself? Down at the creek?”

“Sure,” Tatros said. “That’s where we do it.”

“Thanks. And thank you for the clothing.” Mark handed back the jug, before picking up a bundle of fabric.

Before he left for the creek, he turned to back one more time. “You don’t happen to have an extra toothbrush, do you?”

Looking at their blank expressions for a heartbeat, he turned away. “It’s okay. Never mind.”

He brushed it off but Atissa had still noticed the flicker of despair in his eyes.

Her uncle shrugged and emptied the rest of the jug over his face and back.

“You will go to see Licen today?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was the first time she’d used her voice since waking up and it came out croaky.

Her uncle rubbed his neck. “Pack the rest of the food from Ipras for them. Is his wife still sick?”

“She was when I last saw them.”

Uncle Tatros knew this.

An old hunter, Licen had married a woman from the tribes who had their settlements on the western end of the valley. While Licen was Helcenaean and traded with the loggers, his wife had apparently insisted that they build their house in Horto’s shadow.

Horto seemed to grudgingly accept the locals so close to his seat. At least if your bloodline reached back three or four generations.

“I already put some of the food to the side for them,” Atissa said. “And the rest of the wine.”

“There was a third amphora?”

Atissa ignored his question, as they walked around the hut. “I will see if I can hunt some rabbits. There is a good place along the way.”

Tatros acknowledged her words with a grumble. Atissa knew that he was happy to share with his old friend. But he would have drunk it all if she hadn't hidden the smallest amphora.

When she was younger, they had visited Licen’s house often. His daughter had played with her, and the men had talked and sometimes wrestled. But his daughter had married a man from the tribes, two years back.

Licen was old now. He had told Atissa that he had forgotten to keep count, but Tatros said he has more than sixty winters. Few people could count beyond that.

When his wife became sick, last year, Tatros and Atissa had started to bring them some of their quarries. They could not do it as often as Atissa would like. Licen’s pride would not allow that.

Her thoughts were interrupted when her uncle stopped three steps away from the entrance. She followed his gaze and saw the staff leaning next to the entrance. The sun was coming around and the mysterious carvings running along the upper third were clearly visible. Some looked like they had been burned into the wood.

“Do you think he is a magi?” she asked, unconsciously lowering her voice.

“If he is, he is different than any I have ever met,” Tatros said, staring at the staff that was mentioned in every tale about magic Atissa had ever heard.

“Have you met many?” Atissa asked. She had doubts about some of the stories her uncle had told her over the years.

This time it was her uncle who ignored her question. “And he wrestles. Who has ever heard of a magi that wrestles?”

“Don’t they wrestle with demons and such things?” Atissa asked. Also, she couldn’t imagine, fighting monsters was even remotely the same as rolling around in the dirt with a sweaty old man. But what do I know, she thought? I have never even left the valley.

She reached out to trace the carvings with her fingers. Tatros slapped her hand away.

“Don’t touch that girl! Have you no sense?”

“I have touched it before!” she said. “We used it to carry the deer to Ipras’.”

Her uncle’s eyes widened. “That man is getting stranger and stranger.”

“So, he probably is a magi?”

Uncle Tatros shrugged. He entered the hut, careful not to touch the staff in passing.

Atissa followed him.

“Do you think… if he is a magi, do you think he might be here for me?” she asked.

Tatros stopped rummaging through his clothing and just stared straight ahead for a moment. Then he pulled a tunic out and threw it over his shoulder. “Could be,” he said in a quiet voice.

He picked up two pairs of sandals and turned to the entrance. When he passed Atissa, who had not moved since she had entered, he lingered for a moment.

“Look, girl, we know you are blessed by the gods. Did they guide him to find you, or did you just meet randomly in the middle of the valley? What is more likely?”

Atissa did not know what to say. She had always wished to see the world beyond the mountains. Now that her chance might have come, she did not know how to feel.

Tatros placed his hand on her shoulder. “I will go down to the creek to wash off the dirt. And give Mark the sandals. He said he wanted to visit the village to… do something. I didn’t understand it.” He paused for a moment, maybe trying to remember.

“Anyway”, he said, “I will offer him to go with you. Take him to the village after you have visited Licen.”

Atissa frowned. “But that is the opposite direction?”

Her uncle smiled. “That will give you more time together. Even if he is not here for you, this is a good opportunity for you to learn things. Try to talk to him. And listen for once!”

He gave her shoulder a squeeze and left.

Atissa had to smile. For the first time since getting up, she was looking forward to the day.

She quickly packed the things she wanted to bring on their trip. The food for Licen, her bow. It was not much.

When she was done, she decided that she had enough time to go down to the creek and clean up a bit as well.

She would take Mark’s advice and drink some water. It wasn’t quite as bad as when she first woke up, but her body still felt weird and heavy.

On her way out, she noticed Mark’s strange clothing neatly folded and lying on the bench.

Carefully reaching out to touch the fabric, she hesitated. Inspecting her fingers, she decided that they should be clean enough. She rubbed them on her tunic anyway to make sure.

Somewhat reassured she let her fingers glide over the white fabric. It was incredible. She could barely feel the structure of the weave.

Her fingers hit one of the buttons. They were incredibly small and polished to a degree that they were almost transparent. From what kind of horn had they been carved? She would have to ask Mark about it.

Her instinct warned her that the men were coming back.

Picking up a water skin she intended to fill for their trip, she hurried outside, thoughts about the day ahead fueling her excitement.