The flash of his teeth was more a snarl than a smile. Varin circled the King's woodsman, the dead body of a deer laying between them. The opposing man, in the forest green and white colors of his master, gripped his short sword.
“Poaching here is illegal, barbarian.” The woodsman spit near Varin's boots. “But truly, I am thankful for this chance to slay scum like you. My father was killed in one of your rebellions.”
Smoothing a hand over his fair beard, Varin nodded contemplatively. “Was it some thirty years ago? The field of Rethdrak where he fell? Aye, I thought you looked as bloated and ugly as a coward I took the head of, we hung it with the rest of them from the trees over the field. Tis sacred to our people now, where your father's body rotted-”
The woodsman lunged forward with a growl, his emotions getting the best of him as Varin had hoped. Varin dug the humble hunting knife he bore into the man's exposed armpit. The woodsman gurgled and slumped forward. Varin threw his body off of him with a scoff.
The Clansman wiped the blood off his blade and replaced it in his boot. Throwing the doe over his fur clad shoulders, he paused to look back at the dead man. He tore the silver tree seal of King Gendall off his leather vest and pocketed it as a prize. Varin stared down at his wide eyed death glare.
“You met your fate bravely," he muttered, shutting the man's eyes with blood slick fingers.
Hitching his kill on his back, he strode through the twilight eaves of the forest. The tavern lights glowed through the growing night. The cold didn't bother Varin but he found it odd for the time of year. Unnatural if anyone asked him.
Something was off in these lands, he had felt it since he had stepped onto the moors. The giant attack on the young woman had been the first of strange incidents. He wanted nothing more than to be riding westward, back to their mountains.
Varin pounded on the locked door of the isolated building, the sign of a tankard creaking above his head. The door creaked open to reveal the scarred, half blind face of the tavern owner. He jutted out his receding jaw towards the deer. "You seen hunting on the king's land?”
“Not by any still breathing.”
The tavern owner cracked a brief smile and pulled the door open. “Should have known better with you, Bonetalon man.”
Varin winked at him and strode into the warm room, boots thudding on the floor. A group of his kinsman and those from other Clans were drinking and talking in low tones at a long table. Varin approached the somber looking group and threw the deer into the middle of them. A roar of appreciation rose from the men.
“Hungry?” He asked, removing his hood.
Varin's older brother Eubar clapped him on the shoulder. “You know how to win a crowd.”
“It's not much but it's Bloodyhanded Gendall's so that should satisfy this horde more in their hearts than their bellies.” Varin's grin faded as he glanced towards the hearth.
Eubar looked back at the figure by the fire. He ran a hand through his sandy grey curls with a sigh. "Been like that since you left. Just staring.”
“I'll speak with him.”
Varin sank into the chair opposite his King. Roark Blackhelm cradled his chin in his hands, his sharp gaze studying the fire like a field of battle. He had been having these spells ever since he had disappeared into the forest for a few days at the end of summer. Those close to Roark knew where he had gone but none asked about his mysterious errand.
“It's coming time, Roark.” Varin ventured, unsure of how to break the man from his enchantment. No doubt the woman who held him captive was a witch of some kind, keeping them from their fate. Holding Roark back from his rightful claim.
Roark shifted his weight, barely glancing at one of his oldest friends. “We will make our move when I say so, Bonetalon. The Earls were uneasy when my mother and I spoke with them. We wait on their hand.”
Sensing the warning in the older man's tone, Varin sat back with a sigh. He rubbed his tattooed hands together and held them towards the fire. The chill he had felt out in the darkening wood had yet to leave his bones. Perhaps it was this wood witch of Roark's calling up this eerie foreboding.
“I thought the crossroads of my fate had passed years ago,” Roark spoke. The rich sword in his hand dug ruts into the worn floorboards at his boots.
Varin shifted uncomfortably. "What do you mean-”
“I mean, perhaps I was never meant to take back what had been stolen from our people. Our life in the Collach Highlands is good, we would lose that if we fail. Perhaps it's not my path to take...but my child's.”
Narrowing his mossy hazel eyes at Roark, Varin stomach clenched. All they had worked so hard for suddenly felt out of grasp. “But you don't have children.”
Roark pierced Varin with uncertainty as he turned his burning stare on the man. Shadows under his eyes showed a long, restless struggle. Varin looked away, uneasy about the future of his people.
A ruckus came at the door, interrupting their conversation. Heavy pounding and swearing in their native tongue. The tavern owner ran over with hatchet in hand. Roark waved his weapon down. “Open it.”
Two Clannish messengers burst in, red faced and sweaty from riding hard.
“They are with us, the last earls and their Clans from the highlands!" One of the men announced. He marched up to Roark and took a knee. “We are with you if it's your will.”
The moment had come. Word from the other clans that they would follow their king to death or glory, whatever fate the gods held for them. With only a word, Roark could call them up and march towards their stolen home. Westward.
Only the roar of the wind rising through the trees broke the silence. Roark sheathed his sword and faced the room. “We will ride to meet our fate.”
A lightening strike flashed in the window beside Varin. He glanced over in time to see sparks burst in an ancient trunk of an oak as it split into two.
Muddy fingers dug through the grassy knoll behind their home. The storm had swept up quickly, the sky black with heavy rain and violent lightening. It wasn't natural. Thistle could feel the hum of a spell conjuring up the tempest. The temperature dropped and the rain turned to freezing sleet. Still she dug through the bramble.
“Feverfew, feverfew,” she muttered as though saying it aloud would bring the bloom into existence.
She had exhausted her mother's books and herbal cabinet. She had used all of her knowledge in healing plants. Her dress drug behind her, skirts caked with mud. With a gasp, she uprooted the white petaled plant from the ground and stuffed it into her fitchet.
Stumbling through the dark, Thistle ignored the sharp crack of the lightening as it touched ground not a half a mile away, leaving a smoldering birch. She combed through her mind.
“Feverfew, lemon balm, sage...” she muttered medicinals known for breaking fevers.
Lirare had been ill for days. Nothing helped and her condition was worsening. As the storm fell on the wood, her temperature raged out of control. She had been unconcious for an hour. Thistle was out of options. She could only pray her mother would still be alive when she returned.
She burst into the cottage, heart raging against her breastbone. A hooded figure rose from her mother's bedside. Thistle reached for her hunting knife. As the stranger pulled back her cloak, white blonde waves tumbled into view. Meridun turned, glowing with celestial authority in such a common setting. Thistle almost collapsed with relief.
Rushing forward, she threw her arms around her grandmother. The river spirit embraced her, smoothing her soggy curls. “I had hoped I wouldn't be too late.”
“I didn't know- I had no way of getting word to you-” Thistle sputtered between sobs, “It happened so fast.”
Meridun's ethereal face was drawn with grief. She cupped Thistle's cheek. “I know. I was warned in a vision a few hours ago. I'm so sorry I was not here sooner-”
“But- but now you are and she's going to get better!” Thistle's eyes widened with hope. Meridun's expression didn't change. Thistle swallowed past the knot in her throat. “There isn't anything you can't do. You are Meridun of the River-”
“Thistle.” A weak voice cracked from the bed.
Lirare's waxy skin was slick with sweat in the flicker of the mulberry candle, her favorite scent. She gave her daughter a weak smile, her fingers lifting wearily. She didn't have the strength to hold out her hand. Thistle burst into tears as she knelt at the bedside and took her icy hand.
“Mother, don't be afraid, Meridun is here and she can-”
“No, she can't, daughter,” Lirare interrupted, licking her dry lips, “She can't.”
Thistle picked up a cup with her mother's favorite dandelion tea. She helped her take a sip, dabbing the sweat from her brow and wiping a dribble from her chin. “What do you mean? Of course she can.”
“It was a miracle she was able to bring me back long enough to speak with you. This isn't any illness of natural means. Meridun saw it in the sky. I have felt it in the earth. This is fell magic.”
“But can't we just counter the spell?”
“It's grown too strong too fast. And it's using your mother's life force to ignite the magic.” Meridun explained. Thistle turned to find her by the window. A flash of lightening illuminated her figure. "And I cannot decipher from where it is being spun.”
“What are you saying?”
With the last of her strength, Lirare gathered Thistle's fingers to her. “Please, dear one. I have to tell you something. Do you remember when you returned from the wilds not long ago?”
Thistle nodded and wiped her nose with her sleeve.
“I kept something from you. That night you were gone, I had a visitor. Your father. He lives still.”
Reaching into her pocket, Thistle pulled out the pipe she had kept on her person ever since. She held it out to Lirare. “Is this his?”
A spark of life returned to Lirare's face. Thistle wrapped her fingers around the pipe and held it there.
“Yes, that is his. Your father is a Clansman from the western mountains.”
Despite herself, Thistle managed a smile for her mother. “I make a lot more sense then.”
Lirare's lips pulled up in an attempt to smile. "When I am gone, you must find him. He will give you the life you deserve. You cannot stay here, Meridun agrees. There is too much fire in you to live your life in the wood. You must seek your fate far from here, Meridun and I have both foreseen this.”
Thistle breathing grew shallow, her mind not fully accepting what was happening. “I will. I promise.”
Lirare closed her eyes with an easy breath, “You have filled my life, daughter. You are my precious and only legacy.”
“I love you, mother.”
The end came quick as the storm reached it's zenith. Lirare breathed her last. Thistle knelt motionless by the bed, her hand still cupped around Lirare's with the pipe interwined in their fingers. Meridun threw open the door. It banged against the wall and Lirare's herbal cabinet crashed to the floor. Thunder roared.
Thistle stood as a whirlwind caught up the dried fragments of herb and ash from the hearth, dried leaves and musty wildflowers caught in the gust. The burst of air rushed out into the clearing and up towards the sky. The storm abated as quickly as it had come. Meridun stood on the threshold peering up at the stars.
“Her soul is free now.” Meridun closed her eyes. Thistle noticed her hands were shaking. She wasn't sure if it was from grief or anger. Either way, Meridun was certainly a force to be reckoned with. This anonymous spell caster would not be able to flee her wrath. “You must leave as soon as you are able, granddaughter. You must find your father.”
“But-” Thistle panted, “I cannot just leave our home-”
Meridun exhaled heavily and met Thistle's eyes. "I fear your father's fate is sealed as well. I always knew those two were intertwined like ivy. I just didn't realized how closely.”
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