by E. B. Brown
“Sturlsson needs a Blooded One to travel through time, he is not powerful enough alone. He would use you to return to his time, and then he would take your life to save his father.”
“Our children…”
“All of our children are Blooded,” Winn said quietly. “Do you know how powerful a child would be, born from a Blooded man and woman?”
She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge the horror of what he implied as he kneeled down beside her. He gathered her fingers between his warm hands, lowering his head into her lap.
“It is your right to know this,” he said. “Yet, still, I would not tell it to you if there was no need.”
“Why keep it from me? I – I trust you with my life. Have you no trust in me?” she asked.
He pulled her into his arms, his lips pressed into her hair.
“I trust you with all I have, ntehem. The burden of fear is a heavy one,” he said. “It is only that I wished to carry it for you.”
*****
Later she checked on the babe in his cradle at her bedside, and Winn reluctantly left her. Although she wished him to stay, she understood he had taken time away from his duties and she knew he needed to return to the men. He left her with a few tender kisses and a pledge to return soon, and she settled down to rest on their pallet.
Alone in her thoughts, it was then that she cried. She was not certain what drove the emotion, whether it was the worry over the danger her father presented or the numbing hum of grief that still plagued her over losing Rebecca, but it consumed her. Even when she clenched her eyes tightly shut, it haunted her. Her family would always be in jeopardy, forever hunted. Despite the magic in her blood, she was powerless in the face of the danger before them.
The door creaked, stirring her from her shallow sleep, and she smiled knowing her husband had returned. He knew her weakness, he called it her strength. She needed his arms around her to feel that certainty once more.
Expecting a gentle greeting, she was stunned when a hand gripped her wrist and jerked her painfully up off the pallet.
“What the –” she yelped as Makedewa dragged her to her feet. She stumbled over the loose bedding and struggled to right herself, trying to wrench her hand away from him without success.
“Quiet!” he hissed. Torn between relief at seeing him and confusion at his behavior, she could not hide her rising annoyance. Even knowing what a hothead he was, his behavior was strange even for him, and she tried to stem the suspicion rising in her gut. His face was shielded in the darkness of the longhouse so she could not see if he smiled or sneered, but from the way he twisted her wrist she suspected the latter. Even in the darkness, she could feel the menace in his touch and smell the reek of danger emanating from him.
“What are you doing? You’ll wake your son!” she whispered. He stilled at her words, and she stopped struggling against him when he moved closer to the cradle. She could see the outline of his face there as a sliver of moonlight shone down on him through the smoke-hole.
She saw no gentle loving gaze in his countenance, rather what laid there she was at loss to put words to. It was a stranger she stood next to, staring down at the infant as if he would smother the child in his sleep rather than claim him as his son.
“Come with me. Make no sound,” he demanded. When she opened her mouth, he shook her hard and then she felt the pierce of a blade against her side. She glanced down at the newborn in the cradle and then at her three sleeping children. None of them stirred, and for that she was grateful. Seeing their beloved uncle behave like a mad man would only frighten them.
He took her from the safety of the longhouse and she did not fight him. Whatever he had in mind, she knew he was as troubled as she was, and to see him so rankled and fearsome caused the sickness in her belly to surge stronger. When he pulled her down the path through the woods, she saw he was leading her toward the hill where Rebecca was buried. Perhaps he only wanted privacy, and the roguish way he was treating her was his way of asking. Makedewa had never been one to share his feelings without strong persuasion.
“Uncle?”
He jerked her around at the sound of Dagr’s voice. Dagr stood watching them at the end of the wood line, his eyes wide with confusion.
“Go back to sleep, Dagr. We’re just talking,” she said, her voice steady. Makedewa’s hand tightened on her upper arm.
“But Ma–”
“I said go!” she insisted.
Dagr rubbed his sleepy eyes with one curled fist and nodded.
“Aye, Mama. It’s good to see yer home, Uncle,” he said with a yawn. She let out her breath in a grateful rush as Dagr turned and went back toward the longhouse. Makedewa grunted something coarse and resumed pulling her along without haste.
She stumbled as they neared the grave and he released her wrist. Rubbing her bruised hand, she watched him walk a few paces away, then turn back to her. His eyes, always dark, were like burnt embers in an empty shell. Although things were far from pleasant in their relationship, she cared for him as a brother and it twisted her heart to see him in such pain.
“I’m glad you’re back. We were all worried about you,” she said. At her words he gave her his back, and she heard him utter a snort as she approached.
“Speak no lies to me, Red Woman. You worry for no one, save yourself.”
Despite her desire to comfort him, his accusation hurt her and she lashed out in return.
“Oh, do I? Is that why I have been caring for your son? Is that why I feed him from my own breast, as if he were my own? You’re not the only one who lost her! We all miss Rebecca–”
He was on her in the next moment, his fingers wrapped tightly around her throat. Her vision blurred as he squeezed.
“You know nothing of what I feel. I will not hear her name from your lips,” he growled. His grip loosened and she sputtered into a coughing fit as the air surged back into her lungs.
“I loved her, too,” she whispered. She dared to speak the words, knowing it would inflame him even more, but unable to keep the truth from tumbling past her lips. His face shattered then, his eyes glossy with unshed tears as his mouth fell slightly open.
“Then bring her back to me,” he said softly.
The moonlight gleamed across his shoulders, his muscles straining as he glared down at her. A bird screamed from a nearby nest. Was it a raven? She did not know.
“I cannot,” she whispered. She would not lie to him by saying she would if she could. She had given Winn her promise, and she could not break it. She could not tamper with the laws of the living by changing the past.
“You mean you will not.”
She gave him no answer, but he knew it without the words. She flinched as he drew his knife.
“Let go of me!” she cried. He dragged her closer to the edge of the peak, so close she could see the white-capped waves crashing against the rocks below, glowing like silver peaks along the beach.
“If I spill your blood, will it bring her back? Tell me how the magic works. Tell me!” he shouted. The knife dug into her side and she felt the sting of the blade pressed through the layers of her dress. It pierced her skin and a trickle of warmth surged forth, only a flesh wound, but enough to make itself known.
“I don’t know–”
“You lie! If I kill you here, will it bring her back? This magic brought you here, surely it can return her to me!”
His fingers slid, slippery with her fresh blood, and suddenly he pulled her into his arms. She clutched him, shaking with fear and despair, even as he continued to hold the knife to her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
His throat tightened and he bent his head downward.
“I tried. I tried to go on, as she would want me to do,” he said softly. “She was not meant to leave this life before me.”
Maggie stroked his head as she would have comforted a child, listening without question as he let his agony spill forth. His fingers twisted among her dress, cl
enching and unclenching as he shook. She felt the dampness on his cheeks and the shudder of his body as he held onto her, his grip that of a desperate man clinging to the last shred of reality.
“If it were you that died, would my brother feel this way? Would he wish to leave this earth and follow you?” he asked. She stiffened at the thought. It was not something she wished to have answered, nor ever think on. Could she fault Makedewa for his rash acts in the shadow of his grief, and would she or Winn be any better if they lost each other?
She shook her head, as both an answer to him and a denial.
“We should go talk to Winn. Your brother –”
“I am not my brother,” he replied. “And my wife…my wife was everything good and pure. She was what kept me tied here. Now there is nothing of worth left inside me.”
For a moment, she felt him waver, his embrace softening as if he meant to share his grief. Yet as fast as it happened, it disappeared moments later, and from behind them, she heard the sound of angry voices coming toward them.
It was Winn, and she could hear Chetan’s shouts as well. Makedewa held her firm, so she could not turn her head to see them, and she felt him turn the blade away from her.
“Makedewa…let me go. Come back to the village with us. Come see your son,” she whispered. Her cheek smeared with tears as he clutched her to his chest with one arm, his lips close to her ear. His fingers were tangled in her hair, his voice hoarse.
“No. It is too late,” he said softly. His hand tightened on her back. “I have drawn your blood. There is no return from that. There are things even a brother cannot forgive.”
When he released her, she did not move away immediately. She knew what would happen between them, her instinct strong to stand between the two men and the actions they would regret. Yet Makedewa would have none of her peacemaking, and with a steady hand he shoved her toward Winn.
She saw Winn’s eyes flicker from her face to her side, where her dress held the spreading bloodstain from the shallow knife wound. A rush of cold panic surged through her as her husband’s gaze turned to his brother.
“Come here, wife,” Winn said slowly. She darted a glance back at Makedewa before she complied. The younger warrior stood straight before them, his chest rising and falling in a tortured cadence as he returned his brother’s stare.
She went to Winn, who did not acknowledge her as she passed, but merely continued to level his gaze at Makedewa.
“Tell me my wife’s wound did not come from your hand. Tell me, brother, so that we may welcome your return,” Winn said.
Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but closed it when Chetan placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I cannot tell you that in truth,” Makedewa replied.
Winn took a step toward him. The scream of metal pierced the thick night air as Winn drew his sword.
“Then tell me it was some other evil, that another guided your blade. Ask for my mercy and I shall give it.”
Makedewa slid the bryntroll from the harness on his back. The long-handled axe had been a marriage gift from Winn at a time that suddenly seemed so long ago. As the warrior lifted the weapon and pointed it at Winn, Maggie shifted her stance, but Chetan held her tightly when the two brothers began to circle each other.
“Stop them,” she whispered. Chetan shook his head.
“They must settle this. There is no other way,” Chetan answered.
Makedewa was leaner than Winn, a picture of wiry strength against the raw power of his older brother. Neither seemed ready to strike, as if the consequence of their actions echoed between them. Winn raised his sword with both hands, his thick forearms strained tight as he aimed it at Makedewa.
“Mercy? You have the power to return my wife to me, yet I should ask for your mercy? Why should I not take the life of your Blooded One? Tell me this, brother. Tell me why you decide who lives and dies!” Makedewa barked.
She saw Winn’s jaw tighten as he remained otherwise steady.
“I make no such decisions. None of us could have saved her, even by going back –”
“You lie!” Makedewa bellowed, brandishing his bryntroll. Winn landed a crushing blow with his sword that ripped the axe from Makedewa’s hand, and Makedewa launched himself at Winn. The men crashed to the earth, the sounds of their shouts and grunts exploding through the night. Bodies collided, fists pounded flesh. Winn was bigger, stronger, and it was not long before he held his brother’s face into the dirt. Although Winn jammed a knee into Makedewa’s back and held him down, the younger man continued to struggle, unwilling to abandon his misery.
“Enough!” Winn shouted.
“You should have killed her from the start. I promise you, brother, I will do what you could not!” Makedewa grunted. Winn closed his eyes for a moment, panting shallow as he shook his head.
“I will kill you first,” Winn said, his voice hoarse. He slowly rose to his feet, releasing his hold on Makedewa as he stood. Winn retrieved his sword and sheathed it, then picked up Makedewa’s fallen bryntroll. “Go,” Winn said. “Go now, while you still take breath.”
Winn tossed the bryntroll into the dirt at Makedewa’s feet. The younger man’s eyes seemed to burn black as he stood up, ignoring the weapon.
“Our uncle was wise. We should have obeyed him, in this and all things,” Makedewa said quietly.
Maggie felt her vision blur and realized she had been holding her breath. As Makedewa turned and walked away, she let it out in a rush. This time when she moved toward Winn, Chetan let her go, but she was stopped by Winn holding up his hand. She could not see his face with the way he held his back to her, and for some reason that scared her more than anything she had witnessed that night.
“Go to the children,” he said, his words low.
She watched as her husband’s shoulders dipped downward and he raised his hands to grip his head. It was not the time to make him ask twice, so she obeyed his bidding and left them alone. On unsteady limbs she made her way back to her children, the blessed numbness of grief sending her back down the hillside with it.
*****
Sleep would not come. The empty bed beside her was all she could think of. Dagr had stirred when she returned, but he surrendered to his dreams with a few words of assurance and a pat on his back. The child had no idea what had happened that night, and truth be told she feared knowing the consequence as well.
Again, their lives had changed. Death and pain and anger, always a constant to balance the task of living. Would it ever change? She had no answer.
She could not stifle the gasp that left her lips when Winn’s body slid over hers. He was as stealthy as an assailant, as if he meant to pillage what belonged to another, and when she felt the force of his touch on her body she suspected that assertion was not far off. Should she speak to him? Should she comfort him? What could she possibly say to ease his pain? There was nothing she could summon that made any sense, and if taking her body was what he needed then she would gladly give it to him.
One of his hands slipped over her mouth, holding her head down, his face so close to hers. Sometimes he would warn her that way so as not to rouse the children when he snuck into bed at night, but this time his hand remained. His eyes bored like daggers into her, unseeing, brimming with rage and destruction. Whatever had invaded his soul, he was bent on submission, seeking to plunder. She squirmed beneath him but opened her legs, inviting him in, confused when the motion seemed to drive him further into darkness. His chest was stone against hers, abrading her breasts and pressing her deep into the furs. Without seeking her readiness, he growled an oath and drove into her, causing her to cry out beneath the palm of his hand, and with only a few deep thrusts he emptied himself of his need. She bit him then, hard, and it was that which finally stirred him from his furious haze as he jerked his hand away. He blinked once, twice, then just stared at her for a long moment, and she saw his throat contract as he swallowed. In the dim light of the dying fire, she could see the outline of his face, etched ta
ut to bursting, and a glimpse of dampness on his cheeks.
When she reached for him, he recoiled back as if burned, leaving both her body and her soul empty in one swift motion. Never had she felt such ferocity from him, even in the darkest moments they had taken from each other, but bereft of his weight on her body she was left boneless and broken.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. When he sat up and turned away she wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands running up his chest and strained shoulders. She pressed her lips to the nape of his neck, breathing in his thick scent, the taste of salt and smoke and the remnants of their joining like a brand on her mouth.
“I cannot stay,” he replied. She closed her eyes.
“Of course you can. This is home,” she said. She took one of his hands and laced his fingers through hers, reminding him of where his heart should rest.
“I…I cannot make this anger fade,” he said, his voice hoarse as he pulled away and bowed his head into his hands.
Fighting the urge to flee took every bit of strength she had left. They had lost so much, she would be damned if they would lose each other. She would not let him push her away. She slid onto his lap, trapping him as she kneeled around him and pressed his head into her breasts. His hands trailed up to hold her as if by their own accord and he let out a guttural groan when she reached between his thighs. Yes, he was still ready, if he had ever been truly spent in his furious burst of need.
“If it is anger you have, then I will take it, and you will give it to me,” she whispered, pushing him back onto the furs. “I am yours.” When he opened his mouth to object she covered it with her own, thrusting her tongue to his to show him she would give him what he needed. She mimicked his possessive embrace, trying to bend him, until suddenly the thing inside him snapped and he let loose the tide of rage. In an instant he switched their places, flipping her over onto her belly and covering her with his rigid body. He was tight as a bowstring, tensed, his hands splayed over her waist. She moaned when his fingers dug into her skin and he yanked her hips up toward him. His breath was hot on her neck, coming quick as he made no effort to control his ragged gasps.
