By dawn, thick clouds hid the jagged peaks of the Westward Mountains. Green and white banners of the Woodland King's troops hung shredded over bodies from both sides. King Gendall had retreated, overwhelmed by the Clansmen. After years of exile, the Clans had won back their lands. But at great cost.
Thistle stood outside the encampment. She clung to the blanket that Varin had given her. Rain misted her face as a heavy winter fog rolled towards her. Staring bleary eyed at the carnage, all she felt was the death this victory had cost. So much blood spilled, no wonder the earth had been reeling in preparation of the trauma.
Roark Blackhelm had passed from this world as her mother had, leaving her feeling very much alone. Meridun in her ancient wood cared for her deeply but she had always been disconnected from the world. Besides, her Clannish blood was all Thistle now knew of her lineage. This was her inheritance. She could not deny that something spoke to her in the echoing and snow dusted passages of the mountains behind her.
"Lass, the rain will pick up soon enough. You'll catch your death out here." Varin drew beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder.
Thistle turned towards her protector, the man her father had appointed as her guardian. She knew so little of him, Varin Bonetalon. However, he had proved himself as skilled warrior and loyal friend to her father's. She rested in that knowledge for now.
The corner of his bearded mouth lifted in an attempted smile but his face was gaunt and weary. She knew she must look similar after the past several sleepless nights. He pulled his hand away and nodded towards the tents, "You must rest. I'll be sure you're not disturbed."
Thistle was too heart sick to argue. She conceded, walking with him towards a smaller tent beside the one where her father's body lay. Before entering, she paused. Putting a hand on the man's arm where he stood at attention by the cloth flap, he turned towards her.
"My father has left me in the care of a fine warrior.”
Varin looked down at the ground. She was surprised to see his eyes brimming with unshed tears. Such an admission of emotion was strange for a Clansman.
"There is no greater honor I could think of than the one your father has bestowed on me."
Thistle drew away her hand. With one last grateful glance, she disappeared inside and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her protector faithfully stood at watch outside the tent till she awoke later that evening. It was he who roused her.
Thistle's dreamless sleep came to a jagged halt. A rough hand nudged her shoulder where she lay in a mess of furs on the ground. Blinking awake, she sat up with all her nerves alight. It felt like a century had passed since the strange events of the night before. The pain in her heart throbbed and she remembered the reality of being an orphan.
“Lass, you are needed.” He crouched next to her.
She brushed her wild curls from her face and peered over at him in the dim light of the outside torches, “What do you mean?”
Varin sighed, running a hand over his face. He had washed the blood and soot from it but he still looked fearsome. She wondered how much older he was than her. Perhaps ten or fifteen years. “The rest of the clans are arriving from the Highlands. Including your grandmother.”
Thistle rubbed her eyes, "My grandmother? Meridun?”
Varin furrowed his brow in confusion, “No. Seran Wulfspine, your father's mother.”
Thistle gaped at him. She hadn't taken into credit that she might have extended family past her father. She had never met a woman of the Clans. From the looks of their men, the idea was intimidating. Still, she had the chance at another connection, another path to avoid loneliness.
“Does she know about my father-”
Varin helped her to her feet, “Yes, a messenger was already sent to the clans to tell them of Roark's death.”
“What about me?”
Varin sighed, perching his hands on his hips, “No but she will know the moment she sees you. You're the spitting image of her people, the Wulfspine clan. Your father took after them in looks as well, with the black hair-” he ghosted a hand over her messy waves then clenched his fingers and pulled it back.
Thistle swiftly bound back her curls with a leather tie, doing her best to smooth them out. “What kind of woman is she?”
With a snort, Varin started towards the tent flaps. “You'll see soon enough.”
The winter sun had broken free of the clouds, a light drift of downy snow blew among the ruins of war. Thistle squinted across the valley towards a train of travelers. Men, women and children with their worldly possessions all returning home in a long train. A few rode at the front, armored warriors both men and women. She had seen among the casualties many shieldmaidens. Unlike the kingdom they had defeated, the clans were known for their better treatment of women.
“Towards the head of the caravan, the one with the red and black shield.” Varin pointed.
Thistle tried to see more details of the figure but could only see a warrior in an ebony helmet on a massive stallion. A shiver raced up her spine, the same fear of the unknown that she sensed in Meridun's wood. She wished for her mother's calming presence. The thought of meeting such an imposing woman made her stomach turn. Varin stood at her shoulder. Though he was a stranger, his steady presence was welcome.
“She'll want to meet you in your father's tent. His body is being prepared so it is vacant. Avol and I will bring her to you once we have spoken with her.”
Swallowing hard, Thistle nodded and walked towards the tent.
“Mistress Thistle.” She turned back to him. Varin tapped the underside of his scruffy chin and straightened his posture, “Head held high, lass. Remember that your father claimed you as his offspring in the presence of witnesses. Don't let her bully you into submission.”
Though it was meant to hearten her, his warning gave her even more trepidation. Putting on a show of confidence, Thistle continued towards the tent. Torches still burned in the corners of the tent, the cot where her father had died was empty and bare of bedclothes. His armor was neatly arranged beside it, his sword in it's sheath and propped up on the cot frame. Thistle edged towards it.
She reached out and lightly touched the cold metal of the hilt. A few runes in Clannish script ran down the edge. She studied them. At the end of the engraving was a symbol, the crow from her father's pipe with it's talon silver tipped and ready to pierce it's enemies.
“That was my late husband's.”
Thistle jolted back a step and whipped around towards the tent entrance. Flanked by Avol and Varin was the person she assumed was her grandmother. If she had ever felt out of place in looks compared to her mother and Meridun, there was no denying she and this imposing lady were blood kin.
She was of medium height but seemed to dominate the room with her presence. Clad in a fine, leather knitted tunic and chain mail, her black curls streaked with white were braided back along her scalp with bone beads hanging from the ends. Under her arm was a shining ebony helm. Thistle met her eyes to find the cold burn of deep winter ice.
“Come here, let me get a better look at you.” The woman ordered casually, shifting her weight on her feet and removing her riding gloves.
Thistle obeyed, recalling Varin's advice to hold her head up high. She got as close as she dared.
Seran Wulfspine gave an exasperated sigh and extended a hand, “Come here. I'm not a rabid dog, girl.”
Gathering her nerves, Thistle took a step closer. Seran reached out and grasped her chin lightly, turning her face towards the light of the nearest torch. Her eyes bore into her as she studied her profile. Releasing her with a nod, she perched a fist on her hip.
“Well, you are certainly one of his. Now what to do with you.”
“My lady, would you prefer to rest? I'm sure we can discuss this in the morning-” Avol attempted gently.
“Be silent a moment, Redeyed. We don't have time for an old woman to gather herself. My son's pyre hasn't even been prepared and the clans are already devising who will be our next leader.” Seran turned her attention towards the sword by the cot. She strode towards it, grabbing it by the sheathed blade. Swiftly, she marched back to Thistle and stood toe to toe with her. “We have just met but tell me this, what do you think a daughter of Blackhelm would do? You carry that name, regardless of who or what your mother was hiding in her woods. Will you take up your father's sword in his name?”
Thistle gazed at the woman, her jaw slack. This wasn't anything she expected. “What do you mean-”
“Are you willing to rise up from your weak roots and meet the enemies of our clan to fight for what is ours? Meet your fate like a true child of Roark Blackhelm?” Seran shoved the sword towards her, “Well? What is it? We have no time to waste.”
Thistle did her best not to recoil from the woman's intense glare. She had thought Meridun in all her immortal glory was terrifying but this mortal was certainly more intimidating. Her mind trailed back to the evening before when she had stood in that same place and her father had given her his dying direction. Your mother gave you the name of a fighter. After this evening, you must continue to fight.
She did not reach for the sword but met her grandmother's fierce stare, “I will do what is best to honor my father and his legacy.”
Thistle's eyes flickered over Seran's shoulder at Varin to catch a fleeting grimace cross his face, his eyes closing and mouth tightening.
Seran studied her in the silence, tucking the sword under her other arm. “Very well. We will see what you are made of in the coming days. For now, go rest. Tomorrow we will return to the halls of our fathers and burn the body of my son to send it back to the gods.”
She brushed past Thistle. Without looking over at her shoulder, Thistle retreated from the tent with Varin and Avol close behind her.
“What did I just commit myself to?” She breathed to them as they traversed the growing crowd of travelers from the Highlands.
Avol chuckled under his breath. “Seran Wulfspine is all ambition. She sees the throne as the property of her husband's line. Unfortunately, you are the end of the line. She'll make you into what she needs. A leader or pawn to be married off to the best man for the job.”
“But what if I don't want to be what she needs?” Thistle chuckled mirthlessly as they stopped in front of her tent. After everything she had experienced, the thought of being married off to a stranger seemed like the worst way to cap off the worst year of her life.
Varin and Avol exchanged glances in the flickering torchlight. Clearing his throat, Varin met her wary gaze, “We will do our best to back you but for the time, you have committed yourself to your grandmother's will.
“Most likely she will try to rule through the girl-”
“Yes perhaps.” Varin interrupted the Mage with a swift look in Thistle's direction. “We shall see once we reach the White Horn and the Halls. Let's send off Roark to the gods first and then consider the future of the clans.”
Thistle rubbed the back of her neck, the mountain chill invading her bones. “Will she give us that time?”
Varin smirked and shrugged his thick shoulders. “Rest for now, lass. You have much to see and learn about your people. Leave your grandmother to us for the time being.”
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