Member
Dinh AaronMk
Timemaster
Lunamaria Hawke
Taeryn
Nallore
Sigma
RolePlayerGuilt
Andreyich
Lord Zee
King of Rats
A Terrible Loss
Year 30AA, spring, Ha-Dûna...
The day had come at last. After weeks of preparation, discussion and offerings to the gods, the tournament grounds had been set up properly and all the gods had been invited to watch the sanndatr and anointed of Selesta, Ser Boudicca of Gaardskarl Clan Metsep and théin of théins, defend her honour as the chieftess against her good friend-turned-rival théin Hilda “the Leoness” of Clan Ur-Gaard, who ushered a challenge against her abilities as a leader. The arena was grand, and there were many games in which many others would participate to warm up the crowds for the great fight. Logging competitions, snow shoveling, spear-throwing, archery - all would be tested and competed over to please the crowds waiting for what was to come. Legendary athletes such as Frode the Enduring, Megan the Strong and théin Valix of Leothe all participated with great glee and stage presence, rousing up the crowds with their prowess in sport and sense of competition. Braziers with offerings to Caden and Selesta burned all day - in many ways, the tournament was much like a light version of Caden’s Test of Strength during the week of Helgensblot. Festivities raged around the spectacles, too, wherein the occasion was celebrated with fresh spring salads and berries, and some even slaughtered goats to grill. Nets of fish were hauled up from the Misanthir and speared onto sticks over the fire. The bards danced and performed elaborate dramas about the stories of old battles, of the likes of Gaard Goldhair and the Gaardskarl Rebellion, Charles du Pierre and the Battle for Brasfort, and the Herjingsaga. Children and grown-ups alike all took great pleasure in the bards’ work, and all joined in to sign the songs they knew.
When the hour of the battle finally arrived, the city was as wound up as a bowstring. The arena was filled to the very brim, and those who had not come in time to get a seat sat themselves upon the roofs of surrounding buildings or climbed trees. Everyone had to watch - this was possibly the greatest event of their lives, and no one knew if there would ever be a tournament like this ever again. The combatants were hidden away inside tents opposite of one another on each side of the flat wooden arena in the centre of the tribunals. Inside her tent, Hilda stood quietly with her family as a trell dressed her in her armour, bronze scale hauberk imported from the south over custom-sewn leather and linen underarmour produced on her own commission by the crafters in the city. She donned her tall, cone-like helmet and drew a slow breath, looking over at her husband, Fender. In truth, Fender was her second husband, one she was forced to marry by the druids in order to do her duty to the Sun. She had little love for him beyond what was required of her, her heart in all known truth still belonging to her dearest Vegard, dead and buried with honours by the Grimholt stronghold where he fell. However, in this moment, she felt affection for him - real, genuine affection. She reached out to him and took his hand, looking deep into his eyes. They said nothing to each other, but the smiles they exchanged said a thousand words. By his side stood her son Brian and her daughter Ailsa, none of whom were older than ten winters. She kissed them both on the forehead and caressed their cheeks. “Now you make sure to cheer mommy on from the rafters, okay?”
Brian sniffed quietly and Hilda smiled at him. “What’s wrong, Bry? Are you scared for mommy?”
The young boy nodded. “I’m scared that mommy will die,” he whimpered and closed in to hug her. Ailsa, reading the mood, joined in with a whimper of her own. Hilda felt that familiar burn in the nose and struggled to keep the tears from flowing.
“Now, now, my, my little babies…” She cleared her throat. “Mommy will be just fine, okay? She’ll kick that mean Boody’s butt so hard she’ll never come back again, and then we can have cheesy oatmeal for dinner today, what do you say?” She looked up at Fender with a small smile. “Think you can manage that, dad?”
Her husband snickered warmly. “Yeah, that shouldn’t be too much to ask.”
Hilda slowly pulled her children away. “Would that be okay?”
They nodded through the tears. Hilda smiled and gave them each another kiss. “Good. Cheer loudly, okay? There are a lot of people, so you have to make your voices extra loud.”
“Okay,” said Brian. Ailsa nodded.
Boudicca held out her arms while the trells dressed her in scale hauberk adorned with gems and sigils in honour of the gods. They wrapped her wrists in bronze bracers and her shins in bronze protectors; around her waist, they tied a belt with a great buckle displaying a boar’s head. Her shoulders were pauldroned with leather, and her many layers of cloth, skins and hide made for thick underarmour. She took a bronze spear and practiced a few stabs at the empty space before her. A curious hum sounded from her right and she turned to face her daughter Materix and the rest of her family. “What?”
“Why aren’t you using your sword?” asked her eldest daughter. Boudicca looked ahead again and went for another jab.
“The sword is Caden’s work - it cuts wood like paper and bronze like skin. I want this to be a fair fight.” She stabbed again, this time piercing the tent wall. Her husband Aethel sighed.
“Can you be sure Hilda will think the same?”
Boudicca pulled her spear back and wiped the first drops of sweat forming on her brow. The trells hastened to patch up the hole. “Hilda is many things, but she is no cheater. She knows that those who have come to cheer for her want to see her win under our shared rules. That would prove her strength over me.”
“But you’re not going to let her win, right?” Materix asked. Boudicca smirked and put on her coned helmet.
“Of course not. She will be defeated for all to see and then we can once again return to guiding this city in the right direction - we can finally put this squabble behind us.” She picked up a wooden tower shield emblemed with the symbols of the Eight and tested its weight. She nodded at her family. “Alright, then. Materix, you find your father, sister and brother a good spot on the benches, you understand? I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”
Materix rolled her eyes and stepped over to kiss her mother on the cheek. “Yes, mom.” Aethel sighed and cupped the teen Zelda and Boudin on their backs.
“We’ll be cheering for you, my love,” Aethel reassured her and Boudicca nodded again.
“You better.” Then she stepped out of the tent.
The applause was deafening. As the two combatants ascended the arena from opposite sides, sound thundered from the benches the likes of which had never been witnessed in Ha-Dûna before, not even during the Helgensblot competitions. The crowds were wild animals, nearly pouring onto the arena as they closed in around to get as good a view as possible. Neither contestant roused them on, however; both were much too occupied studying one another, the wolven eyes of Boudicca studying the Leoness’ scowl. They each stood still, testing the weight and feel of their weapons and shields, armour and forms. Atop an altar built tall to oversee the fight, the druids had prepared a large elkskin drum, and Kaer Pier, ancient as he was getting, was slowly making his way to the top to say a few words before the fight. Some in the crowd egged him on to hurry up, which he took with humour and tolerance, though others chastised the rowdy ones for hastening an old man. Meanwhile, Boudicca and Hilda continued to circle around one another.
“This didn’t have to happen, Hilda… Yield now and your honour will be spared.”
Hilda spat. “You know it won’t be - the gods know it; the people know it. If I yield before battle is met, I will lose all glory and respect.” She banged her spear against her shield. “This fight was your idea - live with it.”
Boudicca sighed and tested a battle stance, knees bent and shield held close to the torso, spear lifted above her and ready to stab downwards. Hilda tested the spear’s swinging momentum, did a spin attack at the air and then stabbed in Boudicca’s direction. The crowds cheered. Then sounded the drums and the arena quieted down. Both Hilda and Boudicca turned to face the altar, atop which Kaer Pier stood with his hands lifted to the sky.
“As every Dûnan should know, blood and tears are not the draughts of peace and friendship; however, there come times when peace between persons must be set aside so the greater society may continue to live in it. Hilda of Clan Ur-Gaard has committed acts that challenge the authority of our sanndatr Boudicca of Clan Metsep, and the sanndatr has requested a duel between herself and the offender to determine who has the right to rule in the eyes of the gods.” Before him were arranged one row of eight wooden boxes and one of seven leather pouches. He reached into each one starting from the leftmost of the boxes, took a fistful of its contents and sprinkled it on the wind over the arena: “Hear us, great gods, and give your champions your blessings. May the seeds of the Sun give them hardiness; may the mead of the Moon give them warmth; may the sand of Stone give them smoothness; may the salt of the Sea give them fortitude; may the colour of Ink give them beauty; may the splinters of Trees sharpen their edges; may the dust of glass make True their strikes; and may the dust of Stars give them hope to persevere.” He then moved onto the pouches. A few in the crowds were getting sleepy, though fewer still dared even pretend like they weren’t paying their fullest attention. The champions stood with their eyes closed, allowing whatever substances hit them to do so. The druid reached into the pouches and continued: “May teeth give you Endurance; may dried berries wash away your Sorrow; may ribbons tie you to your Promises; may mothdust give you Structure; may Metal dust grant you armour; may charcoal rile you up like Fire; and may the Bones of the fallen guide you on to victory.” The crowd took a moment of silence to finish their prayers before the druid lifted up the drumsticks. Boudicca and Hilda turned to face one another.
“Are the combatants ready?”
“Yes.”
“Yes!”
The drums thundered. “Begin!”
Hilda ushered forth her leoness scream and lunged forward. If she was to win, she would have to do so quickly; it was no secret that Boudicca had divine levels of endurance, and she would likely attempt to win by attrition. Hilda would need to overpower her immediately. The Leoness thus stormed in swiftly, absorbing her momentum as Boudicca knocked her spear away and turning it into a powerful shield bash, which the sanndatr had been less prepared for. Still, however, it wasn’t enough, and Hilda hurriedly kicked away to put distance between herself and Boudicca again. The two circled one another again, occasionally jumping to see if the other would flinch. Both upheld iron stances, however, until Hilda struck again, aiming for Boudicca’s legs, her height making those inconvenient to defend. Boudicca’s shield took the strike, so Hilda swung her spear around from the ground to necklevel, the sharp bronze blade whizzing past Boudicca’s collar bone and singing against her armour- a few scales flew off her hauberk. The Leoness didn’t let her rest for a second, and the sanndatr quickly busied herself with dodging the rabid hornet jabs. A few struck metal and leather, and one or two struck skin. However, Hilda was beginning to pant - she couldn’t keep this up. As her jabs grew sloppier, Boudicca found an opening, dodging around her spear and bringing her shield up to knock Hilda away; Hilda, more tired than she had anticipated, was knocked back far, nearly falling off the arena. There, on the edge, she tried to catch her breath while Boudicca patrolled in a crescent on the opposite side of the arena.
“Heh… Aren’t you gonna attack me? I’m right here, y’know!”
“It’s not right to beat someone who’s down.”
Hilda grit her teeth. “Oh, trust me. This is far from over.”
Meanwhile on the benches, Hilda’s family watched the fight anxiously. Ailsa kept pulling at her father robes, begging for him to head down there and help mommy; Brian, on the other hand, followed the battle intently, though the bench they had been granted didn’t necessarily give the most detailed view - sure, one could see everything, but they were far away, and Brian would need to get closer to study the battle closer. He rose from the bench.
“Going somewhere?” asked Fender.
“I’m going to get closer - I need mommy to hear me.” Fender sighed at looked at the moshpit around the central arena. Someone had brought in ale pots and horns, and the cheers were beginning to slur.
“Alright, but be careful, okay? Don’t walk into the middle of the crowd.”
Brian nodded and stepped down the rafters, disappearing into the architecture of the wooden colosseum. The inside was barren of people, as was to be expected - no one could see anything from within here. The boy hurried over to the staircase that would take him to the ground floor again, turning around a corner at which stood two hooded figures. He paid them no mind until he heard them whisper:
“Isn’t that…?”
“Sure is.”
Next thing he knew, four mighty hands gripped Brian’s arms, and the preteen kicked with futile ferocity as his mouth was gagged and he was stuffed in a sack. The boy kept kicking and screaming, but the cacophony of the arena made even his loudest yell just another tweet in a birdsong. His captors hurried down towards the exit, making sure to take the quickest routes. They bypassed the crowds unspotted, all faces facing the arena. However, as they were about to exit the arena, they spotted a pair of singing drunks stagger by. They had already exposed themselves, so hiding again would make them even more suspicious. Barely flinching, they continued walking forward, offering the drunks a nod.
“Heeeeeey! Where’z you goin’?” asked one of them, a fat, bearded man who spilled drink from his horn with every word.
One of the hooded men smiled and said, “Oh, we’re just taking this chicken here to be butchered! Hope you all are hungry!”
The drunks lifted their horns in the air. “Waaaaaaaayyyy! Chicken, chicken, chicken!” They kept chanting as they slumped back into the colosseum. The hooded speaker sighed his relief and the pair continued walking, further and further away from the arena and Ha-Dûna. Only once they had stepped completely out of sight of the city did they remove their hoods. They dropped the sack in the cold grass, whimpers sounding from the inside and panted their exhaustion away.
“That was way too close,” Murtagh quivered. Burud rolled his eyes and peeked over the hillside down to the city.
“You lack resolve, man. This couldn’t have gone better.” He then looked eastwards. “We should have enough supplies hidden away along the road to last the journey. Resla better keep her end of the bargain.”
“D’aaaw… Doubting me already?” Both men jumped nearly a metre into the air as the fossilised form of Resla the Grey seemingly appeared out of nowhere, dressed in more colours than her skin had had for the last hundred years. She smacked her non-existent lips and offered Murtagh a rotten wink, possibly taking a few years off his sane mind’s lifespan. Burud held out his hand warily.
“What, what’re you doing here?”
“Funny you should ask. See, I know I said you should come to me, right, but then you never showed up! Been waiting since winter here, come on. Anyway, since you took so long, I decided I might as well get out of the house and come over here - make a workout out of it, y’know?” She clapped her boney hands together at her own joke - neither Burud nor Murtagh joined in. “So,” she continued, ignoring their terror, “you’ve got the sacrifice?”
“Y-yeah,” Burud answered and kicked the sack, making it cry. “Right here.”
“Ooooo!” cried the witch and squatted down next to it, undoing the wrapping and pulling it away to reveal the bruised boy’s face. Brian stared up at her maggot-eaten face and screamed as loudly as he could into his gag, kicking and clawing at the rest of the sack still covering his body for freedom. “Oh, they’re so adorable in that age, aren’t they?”
“Can, can we just get this over with?” pleaded Murtagh. Resla blew a curt raspberry and rolled her eyes.
“You guys are so depressing. Hadn’t I known better, I would’ve thought you’re backing out on me. Just keep in mind that your fingers won’t be returned! I have a strict policy against refunds!”
“Fine! Fine! He didn’t mean it like that… We’re still determined to do this,” Burud snarled. Resla grinned.
“I knew you’d have the balls for this, man. Don’t worry. After today, Hilda the Leoness will never be at peace ever again.” Brian stopped screaming, shifting between the three faces in a mortified manner.
In the arena, the cheers had died down. After Hilda had failed to break Boudicca’s early defense, the fight had become so incredibly one-sided, with Hilda being pushed back after every strike. The attendees who cheered for Boudicca kept up their vigorous chants in her name, but Hilda’s supporters were silent with pity. Their most honoured théin, who had been one of the strongest and bravest fighters during the Conquests, and who had been one of the few who dared stand up to Boudicca’s dogmatic leadership, was dangerously close to losing. She had cuts all over her body; she had long since tossed her shield away, reasoning that she would be more dexterous without it. That had been a mistake, and while Boudicca had just begun to break a sweat, Hilda found that just the spear was challenging her endurance. The fight had gone on for almost a third of a thlénn, and the Leoness felt her ferocity fail her. She packed it all into one final lunge, one that was heavy-footed and predictable, and struck Boudicca’s shield. Her opponent punched the spear to the ground, planted a foot on its shaft so Hilda lost grip and then swung her own spear at Hilda’s neck, stopping a few brief inches from the skin. “Yield!” shouted Boudicca.
Hilda snarled and raised her hands. “Why? Why don’t you kill me where I stand?”
Boudicca snickered. “Killing is not our way. You have shown by losing this battle that you have been wrong, and so you shall serve in--”
“What do you mean ‘it’s not our way’?”
Boudicca blinked in curt confusion. “I, I mean that the Gospel of Selesta says--”
“Selesta! Another goddess telling us what to do! Hah!” Hilda flinched as Boudicca’s spear nipped at her neck. Around the arena, the crowd grew surly.
“What is she saying?!”
“Of course we do as the gods command!”
“Blasphemy!”
Boudicca held up a hand and they quieted down. “Hilda, you are walking a dangerous road - you know as well as I that to speak ill of the gods is to sin. Caden, Selesta - both tell us to show mercy when--”
“Mercy?!” Hilda pushed herself to her feet against surprisingly little resistance from Boudicca, speechless as she was to the point of being stunned. “What mercy is there in preserving my life? I am nothing if I lose here! Such is our culture!”
“False! Our culture is--!”
“Our culture is one of war, of battle! Gaardskarls have forever been warriors against the Ketrefans; Herjegallings are raiders in the hills; Brasfortsians, too, raided the lowlands when the mountain soil was meagre.” She gestured up at Kaer Pier and his fellow druids, among whom some ducked for cover to not be seen. “Even the Clennon Fen, peaceful as we think they are, have been some of the most warmongering among us throughout our shared history as tribesfolk!”
“You hold that tongue before I cut it off, you fiend!” roared the sanndatr, but in her rage forgot her stance and did not see Hilda squat down, pick up her spear and shove it into her leg. “AGH!”
“The Dûnans are a people of war, and the gods know nothing of our culture, of our needs and our wants! They see only our sins, and threaten us if we do not act as they wish, like we are children to them!”
“But we are the gods’ children!” shouted some in the crowd.
“We are their chosen!”
“Hilda’s right! Macsal, Caden, Selesta, Reiya - all have tried to restrain us from our destiny!”
“Shut your mouth, you blasphemer!” The drunken crowd, riled up after an hour of cheering, burst into blows. The druids and théins with their bruisers hastened to restrain as many as they could, but some of them were so angry themselves that they couldn’t help but join in. Boudicca snarled and took her own spear, raising it above her head. Hilda stared up at it, waiting for the strike to pierce her and free her from her wicked life.
“MOMMY, HEEEELP!” screamed Brian. His hands and legs had been tied, and his had been put on a flat rock overlooking the city. Next to the rock stood Resla sharpening a knife fashioned from a very special metal - it was silvery, but very clearly much rarer than silver could ever be. When asked what it was made of, she answered vaguely:
“Y’know, magic stuff.”
Murtagh sat a few paces away, covering his ears from the screaming. Burud eyed Ha-Dûna with hate in his eyes. He balanced a hand on the head of his axe menacingly and spoke, “Resla. What will this curse actually do to her?”
The witch creepily hummed a little tune. “Oh, you’ll see. There’s a lot of power in child’s blood. Just be patient.”
Burud groaned angrily. “How much longer?”
“Aaaany minute now, dearie, be patient, I said.” She ran the whetstone over the blade a few more times. The boy kept kicking and wheeping, trying his damndest to escape. Resla eyed him and shook her head giggling. “Now, now, my boy. This’ll take but a minute. You’ll feel an itty-bitty sting, and then it’ll be all over.” She tested the blade of her knife on a nail and nodded. “Alright, we’re set!”
Burud turned and sighed. “Finally. Murtagh, come over here. Murtagh?”
His companion faced away from them, whispering something to himself. As Burud stepped over, he heard it: “... can’t do this. This is wrong. We’ll be punished by the gods, for sure… My wife… My father, mother, sisters, brothers - all will hate me for what I’ve done…” Burud was about to reach out, but stopped himself. Instead, he turned back to Resla and said to Murtagh.
“You… You just rest for now, brother. Resla! Begin.”
“Oki-doki!” shouted the witch. She tossed her hands in the air and the boy was suddenly suspended from nothing, hanging by his hands as though from a rope in the sky. She handed Burud a wooden bowl fashioned with paint and carvings depicting skulls and demons. The man swallowed, but he had come too far to back down now - revenge would be his to exact finally. The witch smiled at him and the crying boy and asked, “Alright, you just hold the bowl riiiight there.” She guided his hands until the bowl pressed against the boy’s chest. “Ready when you are, chief!”
Burud swallowed one last time while staring into the boy’s tearful eyes. “Please… Don’t do this to mommy…” he whispered. The man steeled himself - he couldn’t let himself feel for this spawn of hers.
“Ready.”
“And whoosha!”
A ring of metal, then all sound disappeared. Burud’s eyes trembled as beads of blood trickled out of the boy’s throat, joined immediately by growing rivers. The bowl began to fill, and as Brian coughed up the last of his life, Resla helped steer Burud’s hands so not a single drop would be wasted. Meanwhile, she chanted in a language that sounded like nothing the human tongue could utter - it was bestial, wicked and coarse, like the tongue of trolls if spoken by demons.
And from the bowl in his hands blinked red and black lights, showing that demons were exactly what had been summoned.
Boudicca had managed to spear her opponent through the belly, Hilda’s breathing becoming like thread. The crowd had quieted down again, oppressive silence weighing down on everyone. Hilda tried to speak, but a coughful of blood prevented her. Across from her, Boudicca was in tears.
Then Hilda suddenly retched. An echoing heartbeat punched through the air like a shockwave, and eyes went everywhere as people looked for the source. Anxious wariness spread through the arena, until someone pointed at Hilda and shouted, “The théin! Her skin!” Everyone looked on in horror as Hilda’s skin began to blister. Red pox filled her entire body to the centimetre, and some became large tumours which borders were black as coal and swelled up with menacing crimson. Boudicca dropped her spear in terror and stepped back, noticing that the Leoness remained standing - in fact, she seemed healthier than before. Her right arm grew monstrously large with blood-filled tumours, and the rest of her skin scorched over and became a charred, crusted black. Hilda didn’t sound human anymore - in fact, no one could say what she sounded like at all. Few had time to figure it out, too, because not too long after her transformation seemed to slow did she suddenly turn to the crowd and jump off the arena, her colossal, now-clawed arm massacring its way through to the exit. The crowd panicked, drunks, children and elderly falling over in the stampede to get to safety. Boudicca and the rest of the warriors tried to keep the peace, but the sight of those who had died only spurred on the panic.
Atop the hill, Burud looked down in glee. He could see people running for the lives away from the arena, and charging through the empty streets, he spotted a blinking, red monster, escaping for its life. He raised his hands in the air and shouted, “HAH! Victory! Vengeance for Scawick!” Murtagh, on the other hand, still hadn’t moved from his spot. Resla eyed the fleeing monster approvingly and clapped Burud on the shoulder.
“Good work, sonny. Couldn’a done it without ya.”
Burud grinned back, completely ignoring the bled-out Brian who had been left on the stone to rot in the sun. “We owe you our most sincere gratitude, Resla! Vengeance has never tasted so sweet before.”
The witch blushed, if one could call it that. “Oh, noooo, it wasn’t much.”
“So… If I may ask… What is that thing?”
Resla giggled and elbowed him playfully in the stomach. “Oh? Is my customer interested in the dark arts, hmm?”
Burud frowned. “No, it’s not that - I just wish to know what it is.”
“Pfft… Bummer. Alright, since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell ya. That, my friend, is a demon.”
“A demon?”
“A demon. But not just any demon - oh no! This one’s special, it is. See, normally, demons that feed on people eat their life away before killing the person. Sounds simple enough, right? Standard parasite stuff.”
“Uh-huh…”
“But this one - oh, ho-ho, this one - this one’s already fed. We gave it the soul of our little friend over there. So what we’ve done, essentially, is put a very fat, very full demon inside our friend Hilda there.”
Burud frowned. “Wait, what damage will that do? Won’t it just stay there and not do anything?”
Resla rolled her eyes and pointed back down at the bulbous monster. “Does that look like nothing to you? No, see, here’s the kicker - since the demon is full, it will eat very, very slowly off of her life, chipping away at it little by little. She will never be at peace from the pain, and the demon will have to eat its way through the entire kid’s life, which is at least ten years, before even beginning to consume Hilda’s. While she’s waiting for that, the demon actually makes her nearly unkillable, so she will go on rampaging through these lands for decades, killing everything and everyone she ever loved. Smart, right?”
Burud blinked. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“No need to say anything. If you have anyone who, like you, wishes someone eternal pain and suffering for a small, small price, just send them my way and we’ll be even.” She then packed up her things, waved a hand and went, “Too-de-loo!” before seemingly vanishing into thin air.
Burud pinched his arm briefly to confirm he wasn’t dreaming. This was it. They had finally exacted revenge on the person who had brought them so much suffering, and made her people cower in fear of what the Scawicks can do. He hastened over to Murtagh and sat down next to him. “Murtagh, brother - it’s over! We won!”
The man was silent, his eyes as dead as those of Brian. Burud tried to shake life into him again. “Come on, snap out of it! Hilda has been punished and so have the Dûnans! Scawick is avenged!”
“... We killed a child, man… He was just a boy who wanted his mother.”
Burud felt his words stick to his throat. He swallowed and stole a moment to recollect himself, but Murtagh stood up before he could say anything. “Murtagh? What’s wrong with you? He was a Dûnan!”
Murtagh kneeled down next to the corpse, his eyes brimming with tears at the sight. Burud’s mind struggled to balance the flavour of victory with the ever-growing tumour of guilt. He hurried over to his friend again. “H-hey,. Murtagh, look at me.” The man was unresponsive. “Look at me!” Burud repeated. Slowly, Murtagh’s face turned to face his. “Listen… We did what was right… For my family and for yours. They can rest now.”
“And can we, Burud?” There was silence. “Can we ever rest? Can you?”
Burud swallowed. He couldn’t answer.
