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Draken began regretting having taken the girl with him the moment she opened her mouth to issue her first complaint. He wanted to go West, she wanted to go South. He wanted to make the wolf walk ahead of them, she wanted to keep it by her side.
By the time the sun had began shining directly on top of their heads, Draken had had enough of her for a lifetime.
“He should be here,” Draken said, more to himself than to Ayne. Still, the girl seemed to be under the impression that any time a person spoke, it was to her.
“Well, clearly he is not. I told you we should have headed South, to our old house.”
Draken clenched his fists. He wanted his first impression of her back. He wanted her to be the beautiful flower that had blossomed out of nothing once again. He wanted her to be docile, and kind, and above all, quiet.
Instead, he was stuck with the loudest, haughtiest, most annoying woman he had ever met. If she was indeed a rose, her thorns were thicker than her petals, and more stinging than her perfume.
“His footprints lead West,” he repeated for what seemed to be the thousandth time. “He should be here.”
He turned and saw her stomp her foot in exasperation, which made her look very much like the little brat she was, rather than the woman she appeared to be. “Can't you see he isn't?! There aren't any footprints, even!”
“There were in the mud.” Normally he would have left it at that, but he couldn't resist but adding, “You just couldn't see them with your nose so high in the air, my lady.”
When he turned, he saw that the look on her face was well worth all the suffering. Her hair seemed to pale in comparison to the increasing ardor of her cheeks, and Draken could almost feel the heat of her anger licking his skin like flames.
He wanted to see how much she could burn. If he kept feeding the fire, would it melt the ire away, leaving only cold ashes when it died down? Or was this the sort of fire that spread and consumed everything in its path?
“You...” she breathed, “are the most ungrateful person I have ever met! I have been feeding you for the last days–”
“Oh, so it was you who did the cooking?” Draken asked, feigning surprise. “No wonder it tasted so bad.”
“You're an ungrateful –”
“Are you sure I'm the ungrateful one? If I recall, I have done nothing but help you and your brother. It should be you thanking me, my lady, not the other way around.”
This was enough to make her close her mouth. Now, if only the effect could last longer...
“You are an outlaw. You should be grateful we speak to you at all.”
Draken turned on his heel to smirk at her.
“And what do you suppose your father was, my lady?” he asked her. This time he was not feeding the fire, he knew, but rather throwing a bucket of water on it. “A brave knight? A highborn gentleman? A noble merchant?”
In a second, he knew he had extinguished the fire.
“That's different,” she blabbered. “He – He was a good man.”
Her words cut him like the sharpest of blades.
So she thought he was a “bad man”? That was what the world seemed like to her – people were either good or bad, right or wrong... She didn't know the true difference between men, the only one that mattered.
He drew out his sword, the one he had taken from one of the tombs. Ayne gasped and stepped back, but Draken took a step forward and buckled his knees to make sure she had a good look at his face.
“This is the difference between your father and I.” He pronounced the words slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I knew how to use this properly. He didn't.”
She didn't break eye contact, as she seemed to be entranced. When she finally spoke, her voice was thin, like the hissing sounds a fire makes as it dies.
“My father died.”
“Exactly.”
His gaze dropped as quickly as his sense of victory. He had seen it there in her eyes, the second before he had looked away: she knew. She knew the difference as well as he did.
Draken didn't realize he had been standing there like a cold mountain until the wolf growled.
“Rome?” Ayne squirmed. “Do you smell Derrick?”
The wolf sprant, and without a second thought, they followed him. Through the woods they ran, jumping over roots and bushes, dodging trees and treacherous branches. They stopped at a hill's end, and there they saw it.
Behind him, Draken heard Ayne's breathing come to a sudden halt.
His first impression of the scene was so like his first impression of death that he could almost smell the scent of blood in the air. He had to inhale deeply to reassure himself that there was no blood. Yet.
He saw the two men with the same eyes he saw his own reflection in the mirror after his first kill – with disgust, and confusion, and hatred. These men were grown, though, and they were dressed in clothes that Draken sensed had been worn for many years now. One of them had long, greasy black hair; the other had no hair at all, but a bald head that shone under the sun. But the important thing was that they both had swords.
He examined their bodies, calculating their strengths and weaknesses – the bald one was fat, he would not be quick in battle – as a way to not let his gaze wonder to the other people in the scene. It all felt so familiar, he had to take a deep breath to clear his lungs of a scent that wasn't there.
“Just take Curls,” the man with with the hair rasped. He was holding a young woman, perhaps a only older than Ayne by a few years, and ignoring her wails and kicks. “I take this one."
“No, I ain't takin' the ol' hags no more,” Baldy grunted. “I want her.”
“You've already had dozens like this one,” Greasy Hair argued. “Curls ain't that old. She'll bear you sons before you die, gramps.”
Draken averted his eyes from them for only a second. Curls was the woman who was crying silently. Close to her, a red head could be seen resting on the lap of another child. Derrick's eyes were closed, but from this distance, it was hard to tell wether he was resting for a while or for ever.
The moment to attack was now, while the men where distracted.
“Release the wolf,” he whispered to Ayne.
She did as she was told, and Rome bolted to the strangers. He took Baldy by surprise, jumping on top of him and causing him to lose his balance.
Greasy dropped the girl as unceremoniously as if she were a sack of potatoes. He drew his sword and took a step towards his companion, thus turning his back on them.
“Ayne, get the kids and the women and run,” Draken commanded.
He didn't give her a chance to reply. Before Ayne had so much as opened her mouth, Draken was already raising his sword and aiming it at Greasy's neck. It would be a clean cut, a quick death, and then he would have time to take care of Baldy.
Or at least it would have been if his sword had not been stopped by Greasy's, who turned on his heels at the last second.
“Think I don't hear?” he hissed, leaning forward. Now that he was facing him, Draken could see that the most remarkable feature of this man was not his hair, but the hideous burn on his face.
Draken had been trained to expect surprises, but his training, like the sword in his hands, had gone to rust from lack of use. He found it hard to keep his arms raised and not drop the sword. He found it even harder not to get distracted by sounds that had nothing to do with the fight – the struggling between Baldy and the wolf, the women's cries...
But the hardest thing was to cope with the unfamiliar pressure in his chest. He hadn't felt it in so long, he almost didn't recognize it for what it was: fear. Not for himself, but for those whose voices he heard.
Still, he clenched his teeth and tried to focus on his current purpose. And that purpose was to kill this man.
Ayne could only breathe again when she held her brother in her arms and saw he was alright. At least, he seemed alright. She started doubting it when they parted and she saw the expression in his face.
Even his voice was shrill when he replied to her silent question. “They hit me with the hilt of brother's sword. It's lying on the ground there– I'm sorry–”
She would have hugged him again if they'd had the time. Hell, if they'd had the time, she would have cried and laughed and squeezed him and never let him go. But the only time they had was whatever time Draken could buy them, and by the sound of the grunts coming from the battle, it wouldn't be enough.
“Silly boy, I don't care about any swords! We have to run!”
Derrick's eyes widened, but Ayne couldn't allow him to think about swords and wolves and death. “Now!”
A hiss of pain cut through the air like a stab, and for a moment, Ayne almost allowed herself to hesitate.
She refused to look back. Liath's face told her everything she needed to know.
It was time to obey the outlaw and flee.
In this chapter
POVs: Draken, Ayne
Characters: Draken, Ayne, Derrick, Liath, Ysláine, Catríona
First appearances of:Two outlaws
Generation: first
By the time the sun had began shining directly on top of their heads, Draken had had enough of her for a lifetime.
“He should be here,” Draken said, more to himself than to Ayne. Still, the girl seemed to be under the impression that any time a person spoke, it was to her.
“Well, clearly he is not. I told you we should have headed South, to our old house.”
Draken clenched his fists. He wanted his first impression of her back. He wanted her to be the beautiful flower that had blossomed out of nothing once again. He wanted her to be docile, and kind, and above all, quiet.
Instead, he was stuck with the loudest, haughtiest, most annoying woman he had ever met. If she was indeed a rose, her thorns were thicker than her petals, and more stinging than her perfume.
“His footprints lead West,” he repeated for what seemed to be the thousandth time. “He should be here.”
He turned and saw her stomp her foot in exasperation, which made her look very much like the little brat she was, rather than the woman she appeared to be. “Can't you see he isn't?! There aren't any footprints, even!”
“There were in the mud.” Normally he would have left it at that, but he couldn't resist but adding, “You just couldn't see them with your nose so high in the air, my lady.”
When he turned, he saw that the look on her face was well worth all the suffering. Her hair seemed to pale in comparison to the increasing ardor of her cheeks, and Draken could almost feel the heat of her anger licking his skin like flames.
He wanted to see how much she could burn. If he kept feeding the fire, would it melt the ire away, leaving only cold ashes when it died down? Or was this the sort of fire that spread and consumed everything in its path?
“You...” she breathed, “are the most ungrateful person I have ever met! I have been feeding you for the last days–”
“Oh, so it was you who did the cooking?” Draken asked, feigning surprise. “No wonder it tasted so bad.”
“You're an ungrateful –”
“Are you sure I'm the ungrateful one? If I recall, I have done nothing but help you and your brother. It should be you thanking me, my lady, not the other way around.”
This was enough to make her close her mouth. Now, if only the effect could last longer...
“You are an outlaw. You should be grateful we speak to you at all.”
Draken turned on his heel to smirk at her.
“And what do you suppose your father was, my lady?” he asked her. This time he was not feeding the fire, he knew, but rather throwing a bucket of water on it. “A brave knight? A highborn gentleman? A noble merchant?”
In a second, he knew he had extinguished the fire.
“That's different,” she blabbered. “He – He was a good man.”
Her words cut him like the sharpest of blades.
So she thought he was a “bad man”? That was what the world seemed like to her – people were either good or bad, right or wrong... She didn't know the true difference between men, the only one that mattered.
He drew out his sword, the one he had taken from one of the tombs. Ayne gasped and stepped back, but Draken took a step forward and buckled his knees to make sure she had a good look at his face.
“This is the difference between your father and I.” He pronounced the words slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I knew how to use this properly. He didn't.”
She didn't break eye contact, as she seemed to be entranced. When she finally spoke, her voice was thin, like the hissing sounds a fire makes as it dies.
“My father died.”
“Exactly.”
His gaze dropped as quickly as his sense of victory. He had seen it there in her eyes, the second before he had looked away: she knew. She knew the difference as well as he did.
Draken didn't realize he had been standing there like a cold mountain until the wolf growled.
“Rome?” Ayne squirmed. “Do you smell Derrick?”
The wolf sprant, and without a second thought, they followed him. Through the woods they ran, jumping over roots and bushes, dodging trees and treacherous branches. They stopped at a hill's end, and there they saw it.
Behind him, Draken heard Ayne's breathing come to a sudden halt.
His first impression of the scene was so like his first impression of death that he could almost smell the scent of blood in the air. He had to inhale deeply to reassure himself that there was no blood. Yet.
He saw the two men with the same eyes he saw his own reflection in the mirror after his first kill – with disgust, and confusion, and hatred. These men were grown, though, and they were dressed in clothes that Draken sensed had been worn for many years now. One of them had long, greasy black hair; the other had no hair at all, but a bald head that shone under the sun. But the important thing was that they both had swords.
He examined their bodies, calculating their strengths and weaknesses – the bald one was fat, he would not be quick in battle – as a way to not let his gaze wonder to the other people in the scene. It all felt so familiar, he had to take a deep breath to clear his lungs of a scent that wasn't there.
“Just take Curls,” the man with with the hair rasped. He was holding a young woman, perhaps a only older than Ayne by a few years, and ignoring her wails and kicks. “I take this one."
“No, I ain't takin' the ol' hags no more,” Baldy grunted. “I want her.”
“You've already had dozens like this one,” Greasy Hair argued. “Curls ain't that old. She'll bear you sons before you die, gramps.”
Draken averted his eyes from them for only a second. Curls was the woman who was crying silently. Close to her, a red head could be seen resting on the lap of another child. Derrick's eyes were closed, but from this distance, it was hard to tell wether he was resting for a while or for ever.
The moment to attack was now, while the men where distracted.
“Release the wolf,” he whispered to Ayne.
She did as she was told, and Rome bolted to the strangers. He took Baldy by surprise, jumping on top of him and causing him to lose his balance.
Greasy dropped the girl as unceremoniously as if she were a sack of potatoes. He drew his sword and took a step towards his companion, thus turning his back on them.
“Ayne, get the kids and the women and run,” Draken commanded.
He didn't give her a chance to reply. Before Ayne had so much as opened her mouth, Draken was already raising his sword and aiming it at Greasy's neck. It would be a clean cut, a quick death, and then he would have time to take care of Baldy.
Or at least it would have been if his sword had not been stopped by Greasy's, who turned on his heels at the last second.
“Think I don't hear?” he hissed, leaning forward. Now that he was facing him, Draken could see that the most remarkable feature of this man was not his hair, but the hideous burn on his face.
Draken had been trained to expect surprises, but his training, like the sword in his hands, had gone to rust from lack of use. He found it hard to keep his arms raised and not drop the sword. He found it even harder not to get distracted by sounds that had nothing to do with the fight – the struggling between Baldy and the wolf, the women's cries...
But the hardest thing was to cope with the unfamiliar pressure in his chest. He hadn't felt it in so long, he almost didn't recognize it for what it was: fear. Not for himself, but for those whose voices he heard.
Still, he clenched his teeth and tried to focus on his current purpose. And that purpose was to kill this man.
Ayne could only breathe again when she held her brother in her arms and saw he was alright. At least, he seemed alright. She started doubting it when they parted and she saw the expression in his face.
Even his voice was shrill when he replied to her silent question. “They hit me with the hilt of brother's sword. It's lying on the ground there– I'm sorry–”
She would have hugged him again if they'd had the time. Hell, if they'd had the time, she would have cried and laughed and squeezed him and never let him go. But the only time they had was whatever time Draken could buy them, and by the sound of the grunts coming from the battle, it wouldn't be enough.
“Silly boy, I don't care about any swords! We have to run!”
Derrick's eyes widened, but Ayne couldn't allow him to think about swords and wolves and death. “Now!”
A hiss of pain cut through the air like a stab, and for a moment, Ayne almost allowed herself to hesitate.
She refused to look back. Liath's face told her everything she needed to know.
It was time to obey the outlaw and flee.
In this chapter
POVs: Draken, Ayne
Characters: Draken, Ayne, Derrick, Liath, Ysláine, Catríona
First appearances of:Two outlaws
Generation: first
5 bards | Sing the song