Fyskar

Chapter 13

"Seonaid! She's beautiful!" Fearchar strolled in through the door with pride. His wife raised a sceptical eyebrow. Eoin snorted at the man's enthrallment.

"Have you finally taken up with Anna down the way?" she teased.

"No one will ever replace you." Fearchar reached for her, spinning her in the tight space until her skirts ballooned out, and she was left giggling. "Other than maybe Vanora, if I can convince her to like me."

"Was she alive?" Seonaid asked Eoin over her husband's shoulder.

Thankfully.

"You must come see her next time. You'll love her." Fearchar grabbed himself a tankard of warmed ale and collapsed on the rug next to the fire. Eoin eyed the fabric. He had been telling them about his life. Seonaid followed his fixation. She pushed a tankard into his fingers and sank to the woven textile to wait.

"Will she be okay up there in this weather?" she said, watching Eoin's stiff movements as he peeled himself out of all his layers.

"He's got her pretty content. Jist need to make sure of her feed and water. Got some lambskins and rugs nailed up to keep the wind out. I'll go up with him tomorrow." Fearchar downed his drink.

She will need to be fed again tomorrow.

"What will you do with her?" Seonaid pulled her sewing basket close to her and fished out a bit of mending while they talked.

Take her home with me when I leave here, now that I know she's alive. She was eight when I last saw her. She's growing into an old bird.

"Where is home, Eoin? Where you got those bracers?" Her needle stuck in a thick spot in the fabric.

I guess I should finish my tale, shouldn't I? Eoin put away his gear and sank to the rug with Fearchar and Seonaid. He waited for her to finish her line of stitches as he tried to calm the racing in his heart. Memories he would rather leave lie were boiling at the surface. Seonaid tucked her mending into her basket and pushed it out of the way.

"I'm glad your little angel is doing fine." She turned to him, holding out her hand.

Me too. You won't like this story, though. He took her hand and Fearchar's.

Smell was the first assault on their senses. Manure, ammonia, blood, a sickly hard spice from the bodies milling about. A cacophonic din pierced their ears. Slap of bare feet on earth. Metal clinked against itself. Cloth snapped in a sudden breeze that died as quickly as it came. The languages thrown around their confusion were diverse and harried. They suffocated as their throats constricted in the unrelenting dry heat. Sand tried to climb in their throats and wiggle into their lungs. Weight settled about their necks. The sun burned their skin through the cloth.

Light and shadow played harshly against each other. Buildings made of dried clay and limestone soared above them. Heat radiated from the yellow walls, rasping against the skin on their hands. Sweat trickled down their backs and under their manacles. They blinked, taking in the horror they found themselves in. Eoin walked beside them, shrouded in dirty fabric; two smaller figures behind them were similarly clothed.

Seonaid and Fearchar looked back. A line of people twelve deep shambled behind them. They were linked together by a single large, heavy chain at their throats. Fearchar followed the line of the glinting metal to where it was pinned to a wagon pulled by a set of horses.

Seonaid flinched, rubbing at her face. Fearchar glanced at her, his heart beating out of his chest. Someone had spat on her. A rock flew by and nicked him in the shoulder. Eoin's shroud dropped from his head, his white hair and pale skin blinding in the market. The old shrew-like man, bundled in brown leggings and a brown cloak, slapped him on the back of his head before pulling the shroud back over his hair. Eoin ducked away from the man and tripped, fighting the chain to right himself. That one second of revelation had quieted the atmosphere. Eoin's heart, racing and squeezing, threatening to squash his back, cut circulation from his fingers.