Blades of Men (on hold - sorry!)

Chapter Five: Conrad

Chapter Five: Conrad

   After she had gotten over her little outburst, I set off (once more) to hunt for dinner. The refined ladies and debutantes of my class wouldn’t exactly have been impressed with the offering – more likely to take one look at the ball of fur in my hands and faint with revulsion. Still, it was all we had, really, and when indeterminately away from home, one couldn’t exactly pack food.

   Athalia’s eyes had flashed with fire whenever she had even caught the slightest hint of cynicism in my tone or actions. I was buoyant with the knowledge I wouldn’t be alone anymore (even if I wasn’t quite sure why this was such a revelation and welcome relief), but that wouldn’t help me much if I ended up the subject of a crime of passion. I cringed at the thought that she had once considered me capable of taking another man’s life. She still did, I knew. She wasn’t stupid, and although it seemed a blessing rather than a curse most of the time, I shuddered to think that that same intelligence could convict me of a murder.

   I couldn’t deny that she had good reason in her accusations. I was well aware of the rumours seeping through the towns and villages, excruciatingly conscious of the layers of poison wrapped around my name. I couldn’t even say that it was based on falsehoods – unfortunately, the best I could hope to plead my innocence with was misunderstandings. Deceit and assumptions, and compromised situations. All of this painted me as the culprit. Vehemence and spite; the true nature of families.

   My feet trod lightly on springy moss and crackling leaves. I didn’t exactly enjoy the sport that was suddenly deemed necessary for survival. The elite had always loved the crack of rifles and dried blood on stones, but it seemed...pointless. Like a waste of life.

   Of course, Ireland had long since gotten used to the stirrings of hunger in her belly, and the necessities that went with it. The famine had claimed so many lives, and all for nothing but gold pieces and loaded ships. Blight had affected only the crops of the poor it seemed – those that relied too strongly on only one measly, wrinkled tuber. It was before my time, but the scars of poverty had lasted far longer than the victims. Tensions swirled at the harvesting of every yield, and even more so between Protestants and Catholics. Mummers of disquiet still rocked and crooned in the taverns. A country at peace? More a country beckoning battles and at the tenterhooks of war. Sickeningly eager.

   I found my way back to the clearing, happily surprised to see a fire lit and roaring with comfort, and a familiar pot of water boiling merrily nearby. It seemed she had had no qualms about searching my pack. Athalia, herself, however, was nowhere to be seen.

   I shrugged to myself, no one there to see the rise and fall of my shoulders. I wouldn’t want to invade her privacy, and she would probably come back in her own time.

   Ironically, that was exactly what I ended up doing. I deftly skinned the rabbit with my sharpest knife, the same one I had held to the smooth skin of Athalia’s throat. When I had finished that, and she still hadn’t come back, I started to feel uneasy. I chucked the meat in the waiting pot, sending splashes of clear liquid everywhere. With a final, fearful glance at the newly rising moon I set off into the trees with a vague hope that I might just be able to find her.

   I hurried to the stream, each stride long and loping, praying to deaf gods that she was just taking a long drink or washing her face. That wasn’t so uncommon.

   It didn’t help. There was nothing to be seen except for my reflection, a lightly tanned face gazing worriedly back at me in sluggishly moving waters. I had nothing better to do than continue on my path on a whim, trusting she had gone this way instead of any other random direction.

   As luck would have it, she had. I didn’t realise, though, not until it was too late. I didn’t hear the splashes and the light slapping of water on skin. I followed the trickle of babbling water to a spring, filled with the perfection of icy coolness. It wasn’t empty. There was one occupant, her creamy skin gleaming gently in the glistening moonlight, the soft glow of the purest pearl crowned with a swirling cinnamon cascade.

   A naked Athalia.