by Kim Bowman
If only.
Chapter Thirteen
Broken
Waves of emerald and blue crashed against jagged rock as high tide ascended toward the highlands. For days, Marek had grieved over the grave of his wife and son on the hill overlooking the sea. When the sun would rest below the horizon, he would drink away the memories and images that haunted his dreams around the fire. Never before had he felt so alone and without purpose.
Marek pulled his dagger from its sheath, and twirled it in his fingers. He sat against the large stone marking the burial site of his loved ones, contemplating whether or not he should just plunge it deep into his chest and end the aching of his heart or continue with his grieving rituals. A quick thrust would be so much easier, but revenge had crossed the depths of his mind in between swigs of lager.
Sighing, he grasped the handle firmly and placed the cold steel against the back of his neck. Slow and smooth, he dragged the blade flush against his scalp. The golden curls fluttered to the fading grass of season’s end. As he carefully shaved his head, he breathed a quiet prayer to the gods, hoping they would carry his words to his wife and son so their souls might rest in peace.
“Oh, my son, whatever shall I do with you? You have been out here for too many days a drunken old sod. You will catch your death on this hill, I am afraid.” Marek’s mother braced her weight on his shoulder and lowered herself to sit beside her son.
He made no acknowledgement of her presence. Marek focused on the dimming horizon as his thumb and finger lightly traced the design on the round metal object in his palm.
“We need to have a talk, you and I,” Murron huffed, pulling her arisaidh over her shoulders. “I know the village is hesitant to welcome you back, but I am overjoyed that you are alive. You, my son, are alive.” She took his face in her hands and cupped his cheeks, rubbing a knotting finger over his hollowing cheekbones. “Ronan told me of your travels and how he was saved. I know how your heart aches. There has been talk of moving the village east — our numbers dwindle with each passing season. I fear there is no one left to make new babes…”
Marek stared into the nothingness before him and took another sip from his flagon.
“No amount of good highland whiskey can take away that empty ache in your heart, Marek.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Ahh, so he does speak. Come with me, I will show you. I was hoping you were ready. Ronan is waiting.”
Rising to his feet, Marek tucked the silver charm back into its hiding spot beneath his tunic before helping his mother stand.
“Oh, this weather sets my bones to aching,” Murron groaned as she stumbled over her first few steps. She forced a smile. “I see you have started your mourning period.” Murron’s eyes shifted to Marek’s shaven head. “Curls suit you better.”
“Would you like me to carry you, Mother?” poked Marek.
“There’s my boy,” smiled Murron, showing a wide, toothy grin. “I have missed him.”
As they walked through the old village, Murron explained to Marek how the raiding party swept down the valley and through the village, taking the women and children captive while the men stood helpless. The raiders demanded the men pledge allegiance to Lord Westmore, and when they refused, he slit the women’s throats in retaliation. After the highlanders recanted, the raiding party strung the children together and hanged them all from the rafters of the meeting hall. When the men fought back, those caught were hacked to pieces, too old to defend themselves without armor and proper weaponry.
“Those who could escape made their way to the shore and hid beneath the trees and in the watery caves, as did I. That is when they started to burn everything. They made sure to flush everyone out.” Murron’s hands shook as she recalled that frightful night. “She fought hard, Marek. You would have been proud.”
Marek kept his distance from the haunted place, not wanting to approach the remains in fear of perhaps seeing things he knew had long since passed, so he stood in the cold with his arms folded across his chest.
“I recall five. She killed three before they got to us. After they — well, I ran — there was nothing I could do. She told me to run, to take Ewan and run, but I couldn’t find him. We found the bodies of the attackers littered with arrows after the fire. It rained that night.”
“Good girl,” Marek whispered, picking up a blackened wooden object. As he dusted it off with his sleeve, his heart broke into a thousand tiny pieces. In his palm was the toy horse he had carved for his son. Marek wiped his eye with the back of his hand, fighting back the tears. He’d been mistaken. He was not ready for her words. Try as he might, he couldn’t drown out his mother’s voice.
Grieving properly was proving to be difficult when he was filled with a much more powerful emotion — pure, unfaltering, hate. He would hunt down this Lord Westmore and tear out his heart. He would hunt this Engel until his last dying breath.
“We found Nya first, run through and left to die. What they did to her, Marek…” Her voice choked, frail and hollow. “Ewan,” she continued with a catch in her throat. “He was found some distance from the croft… running, I suppose. The boy had two arrows in his back. He never a chance… such a small boy.”
A wave of sickness spread throughout Marek’s body and he tried to keep his footing. Unable to handle the gruesome details, he tumbled to the ground. He sucked in a breath and looked to Ronan. “I am going to kill him. Brother, come with me.”
“I have seen enough battle to last me a lifetime, Marek. This fight is yours. I mourn your loss. I truly cannot imagine your pain, but I will not leave again. I’m done.” Ronan took his mother’s arm to lead her from the shambles, leaving Marek to his own vices.
As she passed, Murron leaned over his trembling body and whispered, “At least wait until spring, love.” She gave his shoulder a tight squeeze.
Marek clutched her hand in return.
He lingered by the destroyed croft, gathering his thoughts before returning to his mother’s fire. A bowl of stew had been set aside for him, and he picked at it; his appetite had left him. Losing himself in his drink was much more satisfying.
~~~~
For days on end his mind slipped beneath reality. Marek found himself sitting on the burial hill staring blankly at the sea, drinking himself into a stupor in order to find sleep without torturous dreams. His life no longer had reason. He was broken — a restless, wandering soul without purpose. His only comfort lie in the small little charm he kept tucked away, hoping it may comfort his aching heart while he slept off his ale, but he awoke only to find his heart yearned for something else entirely.
Marek stopped flipping the charm between his fingers to brush a snowflake from his eyelashes. Winter’s first storm had been steadily falling for several hours, its cold only numbing his extremities instead of his mind. Snow crunching between foot falls pulled his attention from tracing the lines on the charm and he turned to see who dared approach his roost.
“Might I sit a while with you?”
“Mother, you don’t favor the chill. Please go back.”
“Not until you listen to me.” Murron had brought with her a thick fur to sit on, unlike her son, whose clothing had grown stiff from the freezing snow. They sat together in silence. Marek continued to gaze at the silver piece, avoiding his mother’s weary face.
“She wouldn’t want you to be like this,” Murron stated, breaking the tension. “The worst is over now.”
“It has only just begun,” he replied, turning his face toward the horizon once more.
“Your brother, Gavin, and Aiden have all been helping to rebuild. The others could use your skillful hand.”
“I have no interest in rebuilding.”
Her eyes fell on his hands, and she pointed at the silver charm. “What is that? What is this thing you will never let leave your sight? You are obsessed with this piece of silver. Give it here.” She held out her palm.
“’Tis just a medallion. It is of no value t
o me.” Coolly, he placed it on his mother’s waiting palm.
“If it were of no value, you would not be carrying it so close to your heart.” Murron traced the engravings and designs on the silver trinket. “Where did you get this, Marek?” she questioned.
“Along one of my travels. I don’t remember,” he blatantly lied.
“Liar. Do you not know what this is? This is a birth charm. It can only be given to a child who is born under the brightest winter star. A child born on this day is said to possess mysterious energies considered close to those of the ancients. The purest of souls, indeed.”
“Well, that explains a great deal.” Marek chuckled, taking the charm. He ran his thumb over the lines once more, needing its comfort to release the tightness creeping up into his chest. Doing so seemed to calm his restlessness.
“So who is she?” blurted his mother.
Caught off guard, Marek could only stare. “What?”
“Little baby Archaean boys are not given birth charms, no matter what they possess. Only someone with plenty of silver could have had this forged — it’s very pure. Who was the woman that gave you this? You must have done something remarkable in order for her to fall completely and hopelessly for you. She gave you her most valuable possession.”
Marek frowned as all the tiny little pieces finally fell into place. She had given him the charm so he would never forget what he had done to her. She had inched her way into his heart, no matter how hard he’d tried to keep her out of it.
His intentions with her had been so clear, why had he gone and done something so stupid as to show her any affection? Because he’d wanted her touch upon him, that was why. He’d wanted her in more ways than one, and had shown his weakness to all. That first moment their eyes had connected, those fiery ocean eyes, she’d reached deep inside him and ripped out his heart. He’d left her severely lacking for that manner, selling her off when all along his heart was screaming at him to do otherwise. The gods had shown him his path, but he’d chosen not to see. Marek shook his head in disbelief that his mother had figured it out before he had himself. “I sold her, that’s what I did.”
“You what? Since when does my son partake in slave trading? If your father were alive, he would skin your backside.”
Groaning, Marek proceeded to tell his mother of his last journey home. “We were deep in Engel territory when Ronan took a hit by an arrow. I did what I could for him, but the tip shattered against his bone. We sought refuge at the manor of an earl close to Engel and Archaean borders. Ronan was not faring well at all. He was a mess, Mother, he needed help. A… misunderstanding occurred. Someone tried to kill the earl’s daughter, and I somehow got the blame of spoiling her — which I did not do,” he was quick to add, spying the incredulous look on his mother’s face. “You know me better than that, Mother. Well, this girl, she was a healer. She repaired Ronan and brought him back from the edge of death, and I… I took her. I took her from her bastard father and I took her from…”
“Go on,” Murron urged.
“I took her for myself. I wanted her for my own. Damn the gods! I don’t know what came over me. She was just a girl, oblivious to the world and just… perfect, with eyes the deepest blue I have ever seen.” Marek softly smiled, recalling her angelic features.
“What Engel would ever have blue eyes?” Murron asked.
“Aye, therein lays the confusion. I thought she was an Archaean slave. Clearly she was not.” He recalled to his mother how stunned he had been when he learned Brynn was that Engel’s daughter. “Golden hair, golden skin, and definite Archaean eyes. I was such a fool. I left her at the Crossroads. I found a rich man to take her. She will be well provided for in a family who deserves her. I just couldn’t bring her home to—”
“Nya,” finished his mother.
“Aye. I took an oath. But it is of no consequence now. You have no idea how many nights I contemplated keeping her, but I couldn’t do that to Nya. She was a strong and dutiful wife, and bringing home another woman I had lusted over would have killed her. There was just something… different about that girl. I was drawn to it.”
“And you are still in love with her.”
“Mother, how could you say such a thing?”
“You stupid boy.” She sighed grievously, clucking her tongue at her son. “The gods wouldn’t let you love again if your wife were not already dead. They breathed you new life and you tossed it aside.”
“The gods do not exist. Nya and Ewan’s deaths prove that.”
“Horse shit. The gods gave you a sign. The gods couldn’t prevent their deaths, but they put your new woman in your very arms and you sold her out of them. Death is a part of life. You know this. You may mourn — keep them in your heart — but you must move on. You were given the gift of new life. How a son of mine could be so blind I will never understand.”
“Nya has my heart.”
“Never give all your heart, son, for love will hardly be worth thinking of when the one who has your heart is gone, and your heart has gone with them.”
“I am not in love with some… silly little girl who I transported for a while.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Marek, for you are the only one who believes it. Ronan has already told me about her. Corrine, was not it?”
“Brynn,” he corrected. Pursing his lips together, he frowned. Once again his mother had bested him. The snow had begun to settle on his clothes, cooling his core. His hands were shaking — strange, he hadn’t noticed before now. “Enough of this chatter, Mother. Let us get you next to the fire. You’ll catch your death sitting up here.”
“Better here with you than alone,” she replied, shifting her weight forward to stand.
“I will be leaving once the snow is dormant.” Stumbling to his feet, Marek took his mother’s arm in his.
“Only you can slay your demons, my son. I fear in my heart that once you leave me, you will not be returning.”
Marek shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Perhaps she was right, and they both knew it.
Chapter Fourteen
Cairn
Archaean Highlands
Late Spring
“Pass me that last bit of thatch, will you?” Marek asked Ronan, busy repairing leaks in the roof of Murron’s croft.
Ronan scaled the ladder two rungs at a time to toss an armful of thatch to Marek. Tucking in a few stray strands, Ronan lingered on the ladder. “There has been talk of moving the village. Have you heard this, brother?”
“Aye, I have,” Marek replied, indifferent.
“Well, what are your thoughts?”
“Honestly, I think it unwise. Combining forces — now that would be a wise decision. Leaving a village that has already been raided and taking it to a village due for one is not. I have been meaning to talk to you and the lads about riding over to Cairn to see about putting an end to these raids. I’ve heard about its vulnerability.” Wiping the sweat from his brow, Marek finished the roof and descended the ladder after his brother. “What say you?”
“Marek, I don’t think we should leave our people unprotected.”
“It will be three days, four at the most. They have soldiers — strong men ready to fight. Come with me. We can end this. I need you on my right, Ronan.”
“I’ll talk to the lads — see what news has been roaming the village.”
Marek clasped his brother tight. “I’ll find you later. I have something I must do.”
Strolling under a rare spring sun, Marek let out a shrill whistle, calling the only one happy to see his face as of late — his faithful friend and battle comrade, Arran. Within moments, his mount cantered from the far end of the fenced-in pasture with ears perked. Inquisitive eyes peered over the railing. Swatting away a pesky fly, Marek apologized for not visiting as much as he should have. “I’m sorry, my friend. I’ve been troubled lately.”
Arran nickered, nuzzling his nose beneath his master’s cloak, seeking a treat.
Marek playfully push
ed the insistent mouth aside. “What did you find?”
Arran persistently investigated a certain spot on Marek’s chest. A glint of sunlight reflected off the silver charm. The horse took it lightly in his lips, decided it wasn’t food, and released it with a snort.
“You miss her, eh? I do, too.” Marek continued his guilty conversation with his faithful steed. “I know I told you no more battles, but what do you say to one more? For Ewan and Nya. You were her favorite, you know,” he teased. “One last fight and I promise you can live out your days making many more little Arrans.” The animal gave up his search then turned to rejoin the herd at the far end of the pasture. “I’ll take that as you care nothing for me and my thoughts.” Marek fastened his cloak. “It seems nobody gives a damn these days.”
~~~~
As word spread about Marek’s pending plans to head to Cairn to seek out a handful of willful warriors, a meeting was called by the elders. Marek sat beside his brother in the shadows, quietly taking in his environment.
“If we go, the village is left to fend for itself. We are small in numbers as it is. Take away our best warriors, and we will be annihilated for sure this time!” one man argued, raising his voice above the chatter.
“Aye!” another agreed. “We have done our share. We need to continue rebuilding, not fight someone else’s battle!”
“Until they come back, looking for more,” called Marek. “How long are we to wait before this Engel is tired of his women and wants fresh bodies? How many more of our sons have to die trying to defend their mothers? How many times are we going to rebuild while that Engel parades up and down our lands looking to take whatever he can get his filthy hands on? Are we supposed to sit idly by while he preys on our own? If so, then why do we not just give ourselves to him? Let him cut our throats? Hell, I will let him use my own knife!”
