You do not have permission to edit this page, for the following reason:
The action you have requested is limited to users in the group: Write.
Bern, Gamonds new young squire, misjudged a parry and barely caught Anwyns downstroke on his [[shield]]. “KICK!” [[Gamond]] barked, and Anwyn delivered. Berns’s [[shield]] shook under the impact and slipped, opening him to a quick stab. For a moment it looked like Anwyns practice ladle would strike home, but a savage twist and slam with the [[shield]] pushed her off balance. “The kill is Berns”. Said [[Gamond]] in the tone of a tutor at funeral. Anwyn looked down at the blunt end of the squires practice [[sword]], set against her hip. She grunted and swore. Practice between the two of them had become a constant thing, whether riding, swordplay or care for equipment. The near constant raining of mid-autumn proved no respite. Anwyn lost more than she won, no matter the subject matter, and was getting decidedly annoyed. Mostly, these days, they practiced in the clearing near the grove, a large space had been cleared during the year to bring earth to the orchard. It was also a good place to keep curious eyes and ears at bay. “Well done Bern. Take a moment to rest”. Bern, a youth with the ungainly proportions of youth and the son of a wealthy esquire, grinned and took water. [[Gamond]] crossed to Anwyn, hugged her, and smiled. She always smelled good, even after practice, he had no idea how. She was tense though, and in no mood for hugging. “The only way to get better is to train, love. Losing is part of training”. She grimaced and relaxed, slowly. “I don’t care about losing, it just feels like you’re punishing me for something”. “No, I just want you to be as fit and skilled as possible, just the same as I require of myself. I respect your wish to decide for yourself when and whom to fight, I just hope that practice like this will give you valuable skill and a good base for measuring the opposition you pit yourself against” Anwyn looked up at him, her dark eyes inscrutable, then she smiled and punched him playfully in the ribs. “You bastard. You mean that I can’t even beat your wet behind the ears squire most of the time, so I should know to stay away from hardened [[Saxon]] warriors.” [[Gamond]] did his best to look entirely innocent, with modest success. “Nice way to put it though, how long did you have to think on it?” “A week or so” he grunted. Smiling back. <hr> It was strange indeed that such a small thing could inspire such dread. It lay, barely visible, swaddled in linens and furs. His son. Its needs kept his wife up at night and its demands were constant. The conception had been… very difficult. At length he’d had to consult the old [[lady]] where Anwyn now lived, she’d found herbs that helped. That had been immensely humiliating, especially considering Anwyns teasing. Of course the old [[lady]] and she shared everything. At least his wife no longer cried, she seemed somehow content with the babe at her breast, having found a place of comfort and power as well as responsibility. The bundle in the crib represented the hope and future of the Anarawd, and the very essence of a large part of the expectations placed upon both himself and his wife. In this, in the babes unfathomable frailty, and in the fierce love that slowly grew in his own heart lay that awful fear. The fear off loss and failure. The stream of visiting kin had been near constant these past months, distant relatives of both his wife and himself braving the autumn and the rain to bring their best wishes and gifts to the Anarawd lord. Some had behaved strangely, Meneris’ parents and close kin in particular, delivering a large gift wreathed in pointed expectation and reproach. In truth, he cared naught for neither their demands nor their whispers, nor for the gossip at court. Let them speak of him as they would, words were nothing unless aimed at greater things than himself. Anwyn, his family, his wife, his friends, his lord. All these things mattered more than him. A mewling, reedy cry rose from the crib. He took the bundle in his arms. Meneri was at his side in an instant, hovering over his shoulder. Did she not think he could hold his own flesh and blood? He stared at her for several long moments. No, that was not it. Her hand at his shoulder and her patient eyes let him know she was simply there should he want her help, if his boy was hungry or his own patience short. Suddenly he was glad to have her, she was a good mother and a good woman. They sat together by the fire in the long hall, caring for the hope of tomorrow. A hope with Ederns dark eyes and a tuft of hair his fathers’ hue. <hr> The [[forest]] was dark and the men’s torches did little to dispel the shroud of night. The snow helped, reflecting the flame and casting the circle of illumination wider around the three men and one woman. It was cold, damnably so, [[Gamond]] wiped frozen snot out of his beard. “Where the devil is the bastard?” He did not yet know just how correct that statement would prove to be. As the sun had sunk behind the dark shroud of Foreboding [[forest]] in the east, word had come from Forestwatch that a man, armed and armoured, had vanished into [[Modron]] near [[Ludwell]]. On approach he had shouted incomprehensibly and waved his [[sword]] so that none of the villagers had dared impede him. [[Gamond]] had set off at once, accompanied by his two footmen and Anwyn. The trees seemed to go on forever, and soon shadows of the past danced in the blurred edge between firelight and [[forest]] gloom. Trees loomed weirdly and ghostly faces flickered between the branches. Faces half buried in the snow, staring bloody and eyeless at his passing. He enveloped Anwyns small hand in his, and for a moment the back of her head was wet with blood, bone splinters spreading like a flower from her skull. She made a sharp noise of displeasure as he nearly crushed the bones in her hand, and looked back with fire in her eyes. Whatever she saw in his face softened her instantly, and she stepped back to snuggle in close as they walked. Somehow that made it better. Bearable, almost. He focused on her grip and warmth, and pushed on. It did not get easier. Glimpses of fur covered shapes with shaggy beards haunted the distance and the dead were ever present. The trail they followed was eerily familiar, and when they reached the circle of stones deep in the woods [[Gamond]] knew. This was the place. Somewhere near here his father had died a second time. From just beyond a rise came the halting notes of an old song, notes an icicle in the pit of his stomach. He’d only heard it once, repeated by the Bard [[Airla]] at the disastrous feast at [[The Rock|the rock]]. “Wait here.” He strode towards the sound, barely keeping his feet. His legs felt like boiled turnips. He tripped, almost fell, and felt Anwyns strong shoulder prop him up. Together they crested the rise and stumbled into a depression in the woods, where bent an indistinct shape like a willow tree before a gale. It sang, each word a sound drawn from it on hooks of pain. “Who goes there?” Cried [[Gamond]], drawing his blade. For the shape had one as well, waving it tho and fro as if beset by enemies. “Drop your [[sword]] or be cut down!” Receiving no response he stepped forward, and attacked. Blade rang against blade, and light bloomed upon the man standing by a huge angular rock, protruding from the side of the rise. It was his father. The sharp eyes and chiselled features he had heard described many times, the long hair streaked with grey. [[Gamond]] fell to his knees, the world swam and tilted drunkenly. All sound drowned in the roar of memory denied. Another [[sword]] parried the downstroke his father had aimed at his neck. Several shapes barrelled onto his attacker, pushing him to the ground. He saw a blade raised to strike, “NO!”, and hesitate in the air. He crawled forward. Suddenly, it was no longer his father. The face of stranger lay slack on the ground on top of twitching limbs. In fact, that face looked nothing like [[Edern]]. The man, now held down by both footmen and guarded by Anwyns [[sword]], wore the colours of some lord or other. “We’ll take him to forestwatch under guard, and ask the abbey for aid as soon as we can”. Thus [[Gamond]] met [[Cynyr]] for the first time, and his bastard half-brother, in truth no brother to him at all, nonetheless became entwined in the fate of the Anarawd line.
Unfinished Comments active
Save page Show preview Show changes Cancel