✓ | TOUGH AS THE IRONWOOD (A.FORRESTER 2)

Coming Home. Chapter One.

Rodrik said nothing. Royland said nothing. Beskha said nothing. The hired swords said nothing. Cynthia said nothing. It was just silent. The only distant echo of a sound was the croaking of aching branches lurching overhead, and the gentle thud of horses padding across the muddied forest road. The horses neighed occasionally, wining and leering their head back, coursing their silky manes to shiver in the northern wind. All the little things were all that Cynthia could focus on - thinking of anything else would surely end badly. She couldn't think, it hurt, she couldn't talk, that hurt too, she couldn't even breathe, the pain was too much. She wasn't even sure it had fully sunk in yet - what had happened a few hours earlier. She wasn't sure that she'd actually spoken a final goodbye, she couldn't be sure that it wasn't just in her head rather actual words being spoken. All she could think about was his face, whether she wished to or not, the permanent image of the man she loved branded her thoughts so that every waking moment she spent travelling home to what remnants of family she still had, were all invaded by the lasting memory of Asher saying the most typical and ironic thing possible - "Don't miss me too much, Glover," Could he have been more of an asshole?

Rodrik, silently, blamed himself. Cynthia could tell by the way his eyes, his eyes that looked so much like his father's - like Asher's - had glazed over and just stared endlessly off into the distance, as though his mind were somewhere different to his body. It happened when Ethan died, and with his father, the noble part of him regretted all that he didn't do to protect his family, and Cynthia could see it in the distance lurking in his foggy, grey eyes. The guilt that surged to life again if only to torment him more.

Beskha didn't look regretful or guilty. She looked pissed. Her expression and unhealthy grip on the reigns of her horse gave that away - her knuckles were scuffed and white as her fists clenched around the strips of leather, more than likely causing pain, but no more than had been inflicted by what they'd all just witnessed and endured. Her brow furrowed into a constant, stern, frown, and her eyes glowed with indisputably fury. She hadn't said a great deal, in fact Cynthia couldn't recall a thing she had said, though the Glover girl hadn't been paying much attention, herself, since they left the harbour - she too had been staring off without any real focus, and occasionally tightening her grip around Rodrik to keep herself from falling off of the back of his horse. She was pissed too, but more than that, she was broken.

She could remember the day clearly that Asher had been exiled, watching Royland drag him away from Ironrath, kicking and screaming to stay, and the look he'd given her that begged her not to forget him; she'd seen that again today. He might have acted tough, and brave, to save his brother - and for doing that he was both those things - but when he'd touched Cynthia, his trembling fingers shivered as they connected with her skin, and his memorable eyes glistened with the hope that though she was leaving him physically, she'd never let him go. And if he could be certain of nothing else, it was that Cynthia didn't ever think she'd let him slip away, not from her heart anyway. She too felt guilt burn her scorned heart, she felt it crush her insides and bones, she felt everything ache with loss as her mind continued to replay the tragedy every time she closed her eyes. She could remember the day she'd watched him get exiled, never again did she think she'd ever witness something so horrific and heart wrenching - yet here she was, riding away from the fray without him, yet again.

"You loved him, didn't you?" A familiar voice, thickly-laced with an accent, arose from slightly behind Rodrik's horse, where the sword fighter's own had caught up, and now slowly paced within talking distance. "You can tell by the way you said goodbye - it was heartfelt," Amya looked solemn, almost, as though she felt for Cynthia - as though she wished she could express how sorry she was, but to do so she needed to understand how humans were supposed to feel, as opposed to the emotionless life she'd been taught to lead. "Yes." Cynthia mumbled, quietly so that she and Rodrik were the only ones likely to hear it; it seemed more like a confession to herself, or even to Asher who she hoped was with her in that moment, than to anyone else. "I loved him more than I thought humanly possible." She said louder, feeling Rodrik physically tense beneath her hold. She turned her head to look at Amya, once again finding the pit fighter looking regretful, and moved by the words of the Glover girl. "Losing him must hurt a lot, I am sorry that you must bear that." It came out more programmed than sentimental, but Cynthia knew that was simply because Amya knew not how to be genuine, and emotional, she knew only fighting and pain. "Thank you," Cynthia muttered her reply, her eyes pricking again - no amount of strength that Cynthia could will could've prevented the downfall, she learnt that some hours ago, not long after they'd left the harbour. "I do not know the burden of emotional pain, only physical; wounds heal, but the heart does not - that I do know. Do not let this make you weak, it may not seem possible, but with a war on the horizon you need vengeance on your mind, not grief. There will be a time to mourn when your enemies lie dead, and have paid for what they have done to you and your love, but believe me when I say anger will win the fight if you allow yourself to see past the sadness. Your heart will not mend, but it will recover after guilty blood has been spilled - consider that when we reach your home, and when your enemies threaten those who you have left." Amya nodded once, her words sinking in to Cynthia's mind, before she turned back to her fellow fighters that road alongside her, leaving her message to lie with the tormented girl. "She is right, you know. We need to avenge Asher before we miss him. Let's make the Whitehills pay for taking him from us, as she said, there's a time for mourning after we take revenge." Rodrik stated sternly, holding his head up high. Cynthia wanted to believe him, and Amya, but she'd discovered a flaw in their plan which seemed to hold her back from trusting their words; it was easier said than done.