by Tim Marquitz
It had stood for fifteen years in his absence, but on the day of his return, it had all gone to ash. He could not help but wonder if the prince had been right, that Lathah’s fall was upon his shoulders. Had he truly brought the Grol down upon them?
He shook the thought away, his head knowing the truth of it, even if his heart did not. The Grol would have set upon Lathah regardless of Arrin, but the belief he might well have done something to save the city would not be chased away so easily. His child had been lost in its ashes without ever knowing the truth of its mother and father. It would never know of his love.
That alone would torment his every moment until the earth was shoveled overtop.
He could feel the eyes of those that waited at the trees behind him. They had been gracious enough to grant him a moment to say his farewells, but he could feel their impatience, their desire to be as far from the stench of the Grol as they could manage. He turned to see Kirah standing near his side. She set her warm hand upon his newly healed arm, the flesh and muscle weaved together once more as it had always been. The rest of his wounds had been repaired, as well, leaving only the scars that burdened his thoughts.
He looked up to meet her somber eyes. “I have seen all I can bear.” He ushered her toward the rest of the gathered refugees who milled about with anxious energy, their numbers having grown somewhat since he was last among them. The Pathran warriors hovered about Waeri, who looked off toward the nation of Pathrale. He no doubt feared what was to come.
Off to the side of them sat the young, Nurin boy that had ridden the hem of the Sha’ree’s cloak when they’d arrived at Lathah. Beside him sat a quiet young girl covered in the dust and grime of the streets, her unkempt hair hiding her face behind its wild locks. She seemed to weep, though he could not be certain. To the boy’s other side sat a gangly Velen, his dark face cast in brooding shadows. He had only eyes for the boy who bore a vague resemblance to the Velen. Behind him hovered a pale warrior, the purple line of his veins marking him as Yvir. The warrior’s blue eyes met his and Arrin nodded in reply.
And then there was Malya. She sat quiet in the midst of the group. Though her children sat close at her side, there was sorrow on her face, her eyes on Lathah. Arrin knew she mourned her people, but he could only believe she mourned the loss of their child, as well.
Her father’s prone body was laid out on the grass before her, covered in a dark cloak. He stared without sight toward the cloudless sky. Malya’s husband stood at her back, his hand upon the hilt of his sword as he too looked to Lathah. As if he felt Arrin’s stare upon him, he shifted his gaze. There was steel in his eyes, but also sorrow. He nodded grateful to Arrin.
Arrin looked away as he felt his cheeks grow warm. He could not hate the man, for all he wished to. He was a part of Malya’s life now, her love, the father of her living children. Arrin would simply have to accept that fact. His love of Malya and their life was in the past.
He glanced to the Sha’ree who stood apart from the rest, the hood of her silvered cloak pulled low about her shadowed face. There was nothing left there for either of them. “If you are ready, then I am as well.”
She gave a shallow nod and strode slow toward the woods. The silence was broken by the shuffle of feet and whispered words, the refugees gathering their meager belongings and shambling off after the Sha’ree.
The boy, Cael, smiled at Arrin as he rose. Arrin returned the gesture, thankful for the healing touch of the boy’s relic. For his kindness, Arrin would know the chance to revenge himself upon the Grol.
Kirah tugged at his arm, pulling him toward the rest of the group. “Come, Arrin. Soon we will be in Pathrale. We will feast in the village of my people and share pleasant company before the dark of war comes to steal our smiles away.”
He looked into her purple eyes as she stretched her face into a toothy grin, her whiskers pulled forward and fluttering. He pulled her in closer, glad of her presence, and fell in line behind the rest of the travelers.
Though he would never be free of the sorrow that weighed upon his heart, he yet lived to draw steel across the throats of the Grol. It was a hollow victory amidst the tragic whole of his losses, but it was all that had been left to him. If he did nothing else with his life, he would spend it ridding Ahreele of the plague of beasts, once and for all.
His steps lightened by purpose, however grim, he clutched to Kirah and set his feet on the path before him. The war had come upon him unexpectedly, but he knew its face now. When next it came, Arrin would be ready.
This he swore.
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