Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Fifteen - Lost

The conversation flowed around Tor, just some strange current which could no more touch him than he could brush a star. Words were meaningless whispers, no matter how loudly they were spoken, because he couldn’t bring himself to care. All beauty had gone from the world. Music had lost its melody and no light reached the paintings which hung on the castle walls. No illumination brought the masterpieces to riotous life. No joy could be found anywhere. Not any more.

After waking to find Deòthas gone, he’d done his very best to stay in control, to push down the rising tide of despair which had bubbled more fiercely with each passing second. It had been no use; his mate had gone and the abyss of pain which she’d left in her stead grew, consuming his awareness, until it was all Tor could see. His grief was all he had left, all he had to cling to, since Aodh dragged him from his futile search for Deòthas.

He should be out there. He should be looking for her. But if she wouldn’t accept him, then what was the point?

There was no point, because Deòthas didn’t want him. And didn’t that thought just go and plunge an iron blade into his already aching chest.

Tancred had tried to be compassionate while debriefing him, and for his part Tor had answered every question honestly. He’d described the storage facility, the fight, his miraculous escape with his mate. He told the Comhairle everything he knew, from Deòthas’s concerns about the singing stones to the approximate number of bodies stored in the warehouse. He’d done his duty, but it was over now.

He would never again be any use to anyone, not after this. He would simply wither away, pining for the woman who’d abandoned him, because the gods had cursed him. Ràsbàrd had taken his heart and carved a name on it, and then the Great Father had smeared dirt in the wound. He’d poisoned everything Tor could have been by binding him to Deòthas.

Curse Ràsbàrd.

Curse all the gods. May their creations rise up against them, to devour them, to overturn their thrones, and to tear their halls down block by cursed block.

The table edge shattered in Tor’s hands, breaking under the furious force he’d exerted upon its surface. A growl of impotent rage echoed in his ears but he felt disconnected from the sound. He knew his made it, but he neither felt the vibration nor remembered commanding his vocal chords to act in such away. He was lost, and even his own body had become a sea in which he’d been cast adrift.

The concerned expressions of the captains seemed unimportant as Tor pulled himself to his feet, completely ignoring their cautious repetitions of his name. They had been called together for an emergency meeting to discuss what he and Deòthas had discovered, but now he’d told his tale of woe they ought to disregard him. They had jobs to do and an enemy to fight, and he was just…

What was he? Tor closed his eyes a moment, blotting out everything else as he assessed himself. In truth, he was little more than a wraith now. Dead. Insubstantial. He had become a lifeless being, like a marionette, who should have dispersed upon the wind.

“Tor, where are you going?”

He shrugged as he looked back at Tancred, murmuring, “It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re a ghaisgeach, one of my ghaisgich,” the chief pointed out. “So isn’t that for me to decide?”

Ghaisgeach. The word sounded hollow. He may have passed the trials, yet he’d never fight, not now, not as a warrior. Tor studied his hands, palms which had blistered and bled in training, which had been torn open during the trials. It had all been meaningless. Despite everything he had wanted to achieve, he would go to his grave as exactly what his father believed him to be. Worthless. Unwanted.