The Mortal Soulbinder (Severed Gods, #1)

Chapter X: Tymund

Tymund

With his hands tucked underneath his armpits, Tymund leaned against the wall of the King's Oracle Inn, admiring the thin wisp of his breath as he sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time. He had been waiting there for at least an hour more than he should have for Myrella. He knew the brat would be late, but he hadn't expected her to be this late. I should just forget about her, he thought to himself angrily. His sister always ruined everything.

Earlier, he had been tempted to go in without her and question the elf maid himself, but his hate for non-humans was too overwhelming for him to handle on his own. He had even considered asking his father for Myrella to come alone after the Royal meeting (for that reason, and because he found it humiliating to be publicly accompanied by his sister). However, did not want to encounter his father's disappointed gaze (which he hadn't for a few years) and his disapproving talk of how Tymund was a Royal son and thus should never decline orders from the King. So, with hatred beating at him like a sheepherder whipping his sheep, he bit his lip and hoped Myrella would do the talking. If she actually turned up, that was.

Expelling heavily, he pushed himself up from the wall, shaking his cloak so that the mud fell from the fur. Straightening his cloak, he thought, I am not waiting around for that brat any longer. She has made me wait far too long as it is. 

Only just managing to internally subdue the hate for non-humans which bubbled inside, Tymund took a step forwards to go into the Inn alone. Suddenly, he spied the flicker of green towards the houses in the distance. Leaning forwards slightly, he carefully looked through his peripheral vision and could make out the distinct shape of a sword poking from behind the house ever so subtly, like a finger poking through the bars of a prison. Tymund had suspected that his father would send some Royal guards to keep a look out for him, and he had been right. Best they keep a look out for my sister instead of me, he thought with a scowl. The brat. He had even been tempted to approach them and tell them about Myrella not showing up, but then he thought more carefully and realised that they could see that for themselves. Also, he didn't want to waste his energy for scum like those.

He abhorred the guards. Especially the City Guards. He hated the way they meandered around the Citadel, with heads held high, looming over all like ivory towers, casting shadows everywhere they went like demons. He hated the way they looked at all - even at Tymund - peering down from knitted eyebrows with an air of superiority like they were hunters amid a field of rabbits. Often, they pranced around the beggars slamming their swords in and out of their scabbards, laughing threateningly when the beggars shied away into the dark corners of the allies. In truth, Tymund would do the same if he were one of them, but he still hated them - and he despised the Commander even more. Sometimes he dreamt of ramming Rolfe's head onto a spike, his warm blood spurting from his widened eyes, soaking into Tymund's skin. He smiled at that thought.

A murky stream of fog settled around Tymund's feet and he began idly moving his foot around in it. With an uninterested gaze, he watched a trail of fog follow his foot, like the dissipating tail of a comet, merging with the thick fog as it seized everything within its grey grasp. The sun was slowly creeping its way up from the horizon, casting a cold glow over the silhouette of houses in front of the Inn. Despite the dazzling light permeating from the suns core, brilliantly streaking across the sky like dragon tails, there was no warmth to it. Tymund had watched countless citizens hurry past, shivering, teeth chattering and forcefully tugging their children along, being eager get home and escape the bitter chill. The air drifting down the Citadel streets was biting cold, and Tymund would soon freeze to death if he were to wait for his sister much longer. 

Tymund couldn't complain about the cold though; he could not deny how he actually liked it. Despite being shrouded in a thick royal cloak that he had wrapped around his shoulder, the teeth of winter somehow still; managed to penetrate through and bite his flesh. He closed his eyes and allowed the icy wind to encircle him, clutching at him with frozen talons. A half-smile pulled at his lips, as the wind curled around his face and embraced him. He yearned for the cold to claw deeply into his bones. The cold always welcomed him; cherished him; comforted him. He could feel his impatience being to recede.