Asbjorn scraped the dregs of gravy from his bowl with the last of his trailbread. Content, he chewed, and licked his fingers. At the fire, Eorrid stirred a pot and was adding herbs to its steaming contents. To one side a flat rock had been propped up in front of coals. Palm-sized lumps of dough were cooking. Feagrim was removing the ones that had become golden and crusty.

“Walking party indeed,” grunted Asbjorn. “You’re going to make us fat and useless if you keep this up. For begdar, that wasn’t just merely edible. You make me want to go back and get another even if I have to dig all the way into the labyrinth.”

Eorrid’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Please don’t. The next time I see one I want it to be at a distance and not in the pot. That was a lot of work for too little.” She dropped another handful of what looked like wood shavings and bark into the steaming pot. “All I can say is I’m glad the grease from it doesn’t smell like the hide.”

“It could have been a lot worse. Asbjorn was right about finding one that had mostly been living on things other than roots and rotting carcasses. Despite that, it was still gamey. The rest was all you.” Feagrim looked up into the thick clouds.

“Relax, lad. The rain is coming, but not until morning. If we get up early, we can get the bedding rolled up before we get wet. Just a quick bite if you feel you need it, then we’ll need to get moving to stay warm.”

Eorrid stirred the pot’s murky contents. “Good thing it won’t be too hot, this salve needs to be kept cool or it’ll get runny. If the weather’s going to be like that, we’ll all need to eat something before getting started. Even if it’s just compote and those biscuits.”

“Not much, but still more than I’ve had on many of my travels. Though,” Asbjorn paused to pat his stomach, “I can’t think of food anymore today.” He turned and began to spread out his bedroll. “I’m taking first sleep since you’re going to still be busy with that for a while.” He wagged his finger at them, “You’re both walking wounded. Get the salve done, use it, and sleep so you can heal. I’ll watch the rest of the night and wake you up when the rain starts.”

With that Asbjorn laid down and shrugged himself into a comfortable position and closed his eyes.

Feagrim looked at Eorrid, and without being asked, she said “Another hour or so for it to boil down, then we need to cool it. Start thinking about what to put it in.”

“Only thing I can think of is putting some thyd leaves on a patch of cloth to stop it from soaking through. I saw some big ones on the way into camp. Not exactly ideal.”

“It’ll be good enough, we won’t have the salve for more than a couple of days at the most, and by then it won’t do us any good.” Eorrid stirred the coals under the pot, it’s resinous, sweet aroma wafted through the clearing. “The begdar tallow might go rancid anyway.”

Feagrim began to stand. He had gotten stiff sitting by the fire tending the biscuits. Bandages tugged at wounds just starting to heal giving him fair cause to wince. Eorrid tried to rush over to help him up but just fell over, gasping and rubbing her leg.

“Cramped up, huh?” Feagrim grunted through clenched teeth. “You didn’t drink near enough water today.” He fumbled for the nearly empty waterskin and finally stood up. He limped until the life came back to his legs. It was nearly dark, but he could still see well enough to refill the waterskin at the creek.

He was picking thyd leaves as the last of the light faded leaving just a glow over the edge of the hill in the direction of camp and the barest of glows from the starflies above the clouds. Nearly blind, he felt the plant for a few more leaves. What they didn’t need to contain the salve could be used when nature inevitably called them into the bushes. With the waterskin over his shoulder and his hands full of thyd leaves, he carefully found his way back into camp.

Eorrid was seated on the ground by the fire, hugging her knees to her chest. Moist eyes watched him return, fresh tears glistening on her cheeks. He had seen the same pleading eyes before, albeit ones of a different color. Feagrim dragged his eyes away from the girl and fixed them on the large pack. Something tickled his neck and for just a moment and a familiar scent drifted by his nose. It was just the web of an ambitious spider and some honeybloom spreading its sweetness in the cool air. He shook off the reverie, Eadryth was, for the moment, not on the journey with them save for the echo of her that remained in the book and his memories.

He walked into their camp and handed the waterskin to Eorrid. She looked up at him, locking her eyes on his, the firelight dancing among the unshed tears. Her fingers grasped the waterskin. At first, they were tenuous, then with a near desperate firmness, she grasped it as though it was a lifeline. A thin trickle leaked from the stopper at the sudden pressure. He let the waterskin slip from his hand. She collapsed into herself, hugging her knees and lowering her face to her arms. Quiet sobs shook her thin shoulders and the strap of the waterskin dangled from her fingers.

Feagrim looked past her to check the salve, but it wasn’t on the fire any longer. Thin wisps of vapor rose from the pot which had been set on a nearby stone. He set the pile of thyd leaves nearby. Conscious of his bandages, he gingerly sat down to prepare for changing them. Before he could lift his tunic, Eorrid reached for him with a shaking hand. Pain flared from the wound where she had blindly clutched. He set his teeth as she lurched towards him and buried her face in his chest. For several long moments, he let her cry before putting his arms around her. He lowered his face to her ear.

“You’re free now,” he whispered. “You’re free. Free.” He took a long breath. She smelled of smoke, musk and something resinous yet compelling, maybe juminer. It was one of the ingredients in the salve. “I’m sorry it took so long, can you forgive me?”

She looked up at him, their faces close. “Forgive you? Forgive me! All those years I couldn’t stop him. Even after I learned how to make philters I couldn’t bring myself to use them like that. I even thought that maybe if I wasn’t there he would stop, maybe change for the better. But I wasn’t strong enough to even use them on myself! Only the ones that deaden the feelings and take you away from the present and some that are given to stallions to quiet them for stabling. I could not have borne such shame had I not done at least that much. In his madness he may beat them, he may tear off their clothes, but he shall spoil no maids. It is too small a compensation for his deeds.

“And you speak of freedom.” She gave one short chuckle. “This body may be free, but some marks are far too deep.”

Feagrim winced again. “Speaking of marks…” he trailed off.

Eorrid’s eyes went wide and she jerked her hand back, the fingers stained where fresh blood had blossomed through the bandage where she’d been clinging to him. Once again he started to pull off his tunic, but Eorrid pushed his hands away. With great gentleness, she peeled the tunic back and pulled it over his head. She’d gotten a glimpse of him after the goblin attack, but this was the first time up close. He was covered with a patchwork of old and new bruises, scars, and healing scabs. Fresh tears welled up at the sight of it all and the story it told. Some of which she knew while watching from the side.

Her hands trembled as they worked the knots loose on the bandages. They became more sure of their task as she undid the old wraps, washed the wounds, applied the fresh, still warm salve, and wrapped the wounds in fresh cloth. She then gently rubbed the salve on his bruises and the older, still scabbed wounds. Quietly, she waited, her eyes gazing into the embers of the fire as Feagrim pulled his trousers over the bandage and shrugged his tunic over another. His lack of shyness at being nearly naked in front of her made her somewhat embarrassed.

She started when he swung the pot of salve into her view.

“Your turn,” he said. Her initial protestation died in her throat the moment he saw the sternness in his eyes. “You agreed. You didn’t make this just for me.”

Numbly, Eorrid took the pot and set it by the fire. She started to work her belt loose, followed by the laces of her bodice. Demurely, she looked back up at Feargrim.

“Could I…” she began to ask for privacy, but glancing at the open clearing, trailed off.

Surprised, but understanding that she wasn’t like Catrine, Feagrim picked up the waterskin that had been emptied while she washed his wounds. “I’ll just head back down to the creek then.”

“No!” she nearly shouted in a panic. “You, you don’t need to leave. Just maybe, turn away?”

Feagrim turned towards the fire and knelt by it to stir the embers and add a few more small pieces of wood. Over his shoulder he called quietly, “Don’t you mean to say ‘Please don’t leave?’ or ‘I don’t want to be alone?’”

He heard the rustling of her clothes stop for a long moment before it resumed. Several minutes later she coughed.

“Feagrim,” she called to him, her voice trembling, “can you get my back?”

He turned. She was seated on a log, her exposed back to him, holding her dress against her chest. Deep purple bruises with clear fingers wrapped around her slim waist. Right above the cleft of her buttocks was a blueish line. Another purple-yellow line snaked around her slender neck and between her shoulder blades was another oblong bruise. The backs of her arms bore more finger-length bruises. As he came near, where her thigh poked out from under the dress she was trying to hold for modesty, it was scraped raw on the inside. He picked up the pot of salve and cupped it between his palms to warm his hands. She flinched at his touch. Feagrim glanced at her face which bore a stony grimace. As quickly and gently as he could he applied the salve. He set the pot back down when he was done and moved back to the fire.

After a few more minutes he heard her exhale a long breath and start dressing. Presently she came back to the fire. Feagrim yawned and laid out his cloak. The bedroll Eorrid used the previous night was nearby and Feagrim pushed it towards her. He turned his back to the fire, wrapped himself in the cloak, and set his sword across his legs to keep watch.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

An hour passed while Feagrim waited to hear Eorrid’s regular, deep breathing in sleep. Occasionally he’d hear her mutter something but he could not make out what she was saying. Sure she was now asleep, he turned around and saw the blanket wasn’t covering her. Stealthy and gently, he put the blanket back on her. She groped for him in her sleep, but he stepped back and she laid still. Feagrim then turned to Asbjorn and with a quick nudge, he was awake. The man stretched.

“You should have got me up a long while ago.”

“You need sleep too. A little more won’t hurt, we’ll be on the move early, right?”

Asbjorn pulled his cloak around himself. “Right. Even if the rain holds off, the farther we get before it starts, the better. I’m awake now, get to sleep yourself.”

Feagrim held up the empty waterskin, “I was going to go back to the creek first.”

“No, give me that, and I’ll take care of it. Go to sleep. I’ll be back before you drift off.”

With that, before Feagrim could protest to the contrary, Asbjorn headed back to the creek. Indeed, he was tired, but not from the travel. He sat down by the pack and pulled out Eadryth’s book. He didn’t open it, just gazed at the cover and the hole that was now in it. He looked wistfully back in the direction of Dawnwick, and put the book back. Spreading his cloak on the ground, he laid on it. Putting his back once more to the fire, he laid down, covered up, and got comfortable as best as he could. He was just drifting off as Eorrid started to mumble again.

“What has Karolina ever done to you?”

The still warm hand-cakes steamed where they had been dropped. One of them, smashed flat by her own brother’s boot, oozed its creamy filling into the stones of the lane. The brightness of the morning turned grey as another meaty thwack echoed off the houses around them. The baker’s daughter wailed and cried between hiccups, unable to catch her breath. The apron dangled from its belt, the neck strap torn away to flutter by her feet treacherously near to entangling her feet. Her friend collapsed in the looming shadow of her brother, his leg already drawing back.

Numb, she watched a weathered old plank the size of a cutting board spin through the air. It struck her brother in the back of the neck and made him stagger.

“It’s not right to go around attacking anyone you can find just because you can beat them up. Can’t you see she was bringing cakes, not just for your sister, but your whole family?”

Tears began to well up. It was happening again. She would lose another friend. Another family would turn away while her parents were sick and needed help. And there was only one person that would stand up to her brother. The word caught in her throat. Reflexively she gagged rather than let it escape her lips. If her brother were to hear it…she shuddered. Through the tears she saw him, tall for their age, the clean brown hair, blazing eyes, the patched tunic, the rock dust on his boots, and the faint yellowing of old bruises. Bruises her brother inflicted on him.

“You can’t keep doing that Garmer! You can’t hit girls and you’re four times her size. If you want to fight so bad go to The Ruined Tap.” A sneer twisted smile spread on the boy’s face. “Oh, I get it, you won’t do that because you can’t win if it’s fair. You can’t be mister big bully if it's not little kids too weak to fight back.”

She closed her eyes. “No! Don’t taunt him! He’ll just hurt you again!” she inwardly screamed. “Run! It’ll be ok, I can handle him myself.” The words didn’t come. She couldn’t make them. She knew what was to come as soon as they were alone again. Bile rose in her throat as the disgust of feeling so…unclean…used began to overwhelm her. She wanted to keep her eyes closed. She wanted it to stop. She wanted to no longer be there, if she wasn’t her brother might stop. There was the vial in her jewelry box. An icy chill settled in her stomach. It was her fault and she could only watch.

The bully whirled on the boy and in a few strides was on him. In the distraction, Karolina started to crawl away, pausing only to reach for the remaining cakes. The fall had been too much for the tender delights and they crumbled at her touch. She turned her tear-stained face up at Eorrid who still stood there, trembling, but doing nothing. The pained look of confusion and betrayal was more than Eorrid could take. She could no longer hold back the tears.

Her brother’s balled up fists flew at the boy, who nimbly ducked under them and kicked him in the shin. The only acknowledgment her brother showed was a tightening around the eyes right before he grabbed the boy by his head and drove a knee into his stomach. The boy’s feet left the ground as all his breath burst through his lips. He reached up and grasped his assailant's wrists and dug into the soft flesh with his thumbs. The muscles in her brother’s jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth. He swung the boy into the stone wall. There was a snapping sound. He dropped him. The boy lay there, crumpled up. Her brother turned back to her friend, still trying to crawl away, back to her parents’ bakery.

Karolina gasped, her eyes darted between her brother and the broken boy, his fingers feebly looking for purchase on the wall. Her lips began to tremble, her face contorted with conflict and tears flowing anew her quaking voice called, “Feagrim! Hero! Help!”

The boy stirred where he lay at the base of the wall. He clawed at the wall and drug himself to his feet. He saw Karolina trying to get away. He took a few uncertain steps. Her friend hung her head and wept.

The heart in Eorrid’s chest pounded and not for the first time she wished that things had been different. Her eyes were riveted on the boy. This ‘Little Hero’ as so many in the town called him. Oh, how she wished for just one day to spend with him; to soothe as many of his hurts as she could. She had to find a way to apologize for her brother and make it right.

Her brother was nearly upon Karolina, crushing the remnants of the cakes into unrecognizable stains. The boy, staggering, rushed her brother, seized him by the belt, and wrenching backward made him trip. The boy fell with him and landing on top, grasped a stone from the ground and smashed her brother in the temple with it.

The delay was enough for Karolina to regain her feet and limp away. Seconds later they heard her calling for her mother.

Eorrid tried to back away and leave as well, but it was as if her feet had grown roots. She looked down and the ground undulated, becoming clawed, thumbless hands that scrabbled at her shoes and ankles. She struggled at them, but only fell backward. More flowed from the ground under her, pawing at her legs tugging her hair, and pinning her arms. From the ground, she saw her brother push the boy off and dropping a knee on his chest began to methodically bludgeon his face. The boy’s legs thrashed and jerked with every hammer-handed thump. She couldn’t watch anymore, but she couldn’t shut out the awful sound. She struggled to free herself but strength had fled.

Then there was silence. Then heavy footfalls. Her brother’s large hands tenderly picked her up. She squeezed her eyes shut. He shook her gently at first, then violently until she felt her neck pop. She opened her eyes to the cold, hungry eyes of her brother. A thin trickle of blood, already drying, wound its way past his ear and down his chin. Spatters of blood mingled with the mud.

“Your brother had to protect you again. We’re family, we have to look out for each other. It’ll only be the two of us soon. It’ll be just us.”

The moist warmth of her brother’s breath intensified the sickness she’d been feeling. Inwardly she begged for someone, anyone to come and stop her brother. Her eyes reflexively flickered to the boy on the ground. Despite the pummeling of her brother, he was still clinging to consciousness. His breathing was ragged and he coughed. Oh, how she wanted to help him! In horror, her lips defied her will and the words slipped past them. Feagrim lifted his head, blood drooled from his mouth. His nearly lifeless eyes met hers. Terrified, she jerked her eyes back to her brother, his cheeks and brow flushing red.

“Don’t you owe your brother some gratitude for all he’s done? A little respect? Shouldn’t your brother be your hero?”

There was movement behind her brother. Feagrim had somehow pulled himself to his feet. She didn’t dare look directly and instead tried to focus on one of her brother’s eyes.

“Hasn’t the hero protected you all this time? Doesn’t the hero deserve a reward for saving you all these times?” At those words, the one dubbed “Little Hero” faltered. Her eyes flew past her brother and met Feagrim's. She watched as his expression of determination faded, clouded in sad futility. Finally, his shoulders slumped. He reached for a wall for support and slowly lowered himself to the ground and became still. Her heart froze in her chest.

Her brother jerked the cloth of her dress, the fabric tore, and the sound of ripping cloth echoed, almost making the air ripple. He pulled her close, his merest touch made her skin writhe. There were only a few layers of cloth between them as he ground his bulge into her belly.

“Yes. it’s time to show your hero brother some gratitude.” He jammed his leg between her thighs and shoved her roughly against the wall. Pinned, she was too weak to resist as his hands pulled her dress away.

“Yes, gratitude for your brother.” He pushed her thighs out of the way. She could feel his scratchy hair. No! I don’t want this! Feagrim, Hero, I beg! Please! “There’s no other hero for you…” he trailed off as he was about to lean in.

“No…I don’t want this…Hero…I beg…”

“Eorrid. Eorrid!” She was being shaken. Her eyes flew open to take in the hooded man looming over her, backlit by the embers of their low fire. Her insides were still clenched in their futile attempt to ward off the invader. She could taste blood.

“It’s Asbjorn. You’re safe. Just a dream.” The waterskin sloshed as he handed it to her. Sleep and dream still muddied her eyes and numb fingers fumbled at the stopper.

“Good. Drink a little. I’m still on watch. There are a few hours left before first light. Go back to sleep if you can.” He stood, and on silent feet disappeared into the trees.

She gulped at the cold water and regretted it, nearly retching. But the water was good and her stomach settled. The nightmare flashed before her eyes once more. She pined over the defeated look Feagrim had at her brother’s words. He’d never protected her, and he’d never saved her, but he’d always been there. It didn’t matter how many times her brother crushed him. He still took a stand. As much as Dawnwick could, it cared for Feagrim in return, and she could not. When she tried, her brother would fly into another jealous rage. Even Auntie eventually gave up trying to keep her brother controlled. By then she knew how to protect herself from his ravages. Guilt welled up. She looked where Feagrim lay. Flickering embers reflected in his eyes. He was watching her. Self-conscious, she tugged the blanket closer. When she looked back, his eyes were closed again.

It was her fault, wasn’t it? Couldn’t she have done something, anything? Yet, here they were. Driven out of their homes and the places and people they knew. Worse, she was in the place Eadryth was meant to be. She looked again at the satchel, so carefully provisioned to be the perfect addition to the pack Feagrim carried. It held more than just tangible things. It carried hope and desire. A greater weight she’d never carried. Maybe it was penance.

There were others more deserving to be at Feagrim’s side. Yet. She’d forgotten the touch of kindness until he'd brought the memory flooding back. All she'd known was the brutishness and abuse of her brother. She wondered if the agony she saw in her dream was really something that he felt. Just thinking about it brought waves of sadness. It must have been years and years of futility and frustration he endured. Oh, Gods! Feagrim all this time! She looked at him again, and through the tears watched as he squirmed and grunted in his sleep.

“Oh no!” she whispered to herself, “not you too!” She dashed the tears from her eyes and scrambled to his side. Not knowing quite what to do she kneeled by him, and gingerly reached out a hand. He was hot. Feverishly hot. She pulled his head into her lap and wet a cloth with the waterskin. She cooled his forehead and neck with the cloth. Many minutes passed before he lay still. Not long after, the patter of the first raindrops came to their ears.