Marcus sat by the river bank with a fishing rod resting in his hands and a long blade of grass fixed between his teeth. He turned to watch as his son sat beside him with heavy bags beneath his eyes. Marcus moved to shield him from the glare from the morning sun.
“Not used to waking up at dawn anymore?” Marcus chuckled, passing him a mug of coffee.
“What makes you think the fish aren’t still sleeping?” Wiccer said, taking a sip from the mug and frowning from the lack of cinnamon and sugar.
“Believe it or not, it was your mother that got me into fishing. Your great grandfather taught her the secret of fishing at daybreak. She fished every morning. Even when she got sick, she still fished,” Marcus grew silent, remembering Vivian.
Wiccer let a moment pass between them, taking in the silence, before speaking again, “I was too young at the time, but how did you deal with losing her?”
“I never did. Avren took care of me. He became the man of the house while I wallowed in depression and self pity. I had to shut out all the love I had for your mother to move on. I don’t…I don’t take death very well.” Marcus let out a sigh, “I know you see me as this great commander and strong figure, but when your mother died, when the baneblood sickness wilted her body to a shell, I just couldn’t handle it.”
“Father…”
Marcus choked, closing his eyes tightly, “When Avren fell, I shut you out. I reverted to the same weak-minded man I once was. Wiccer, in many ways you’re a stronger man than I am.”
Wiccer paused, but tried to lighten the tension that hung in the air, “I’ve decided to take your offer. I want to join Long Whisper’s ranks. Avren wanted me to not be blinded by hatred. He wanted me to be a stronger leader.” Wiccer nodded to his own words, “I want to be that leader.”
Marcus grinned as a low laugh escaped him, “Well, for your first duty, why don’t you brew me another cup of coffee.”
Wiccer laughed, taking the mug and walking across the field back to the cabin.
Marcus turned back to his fishing line. From the corner of his eye, he saw a large object floating downstream. At first he could not make out what it was. A villager’s laundry gone rogue? Perhaps a river-trader’s boat had lost some small cargo? As it drew closer his eyes widened. It was a body. Lifeless and bobbing with the ebb and flow of the river. Marcus tossed his fishing rod aside and leapt into the water. He pulled the battered body to the shore, “Wiccer, hurry! Come back!”
Wiccer ran to his father’s side as Marcus felt for any signs of life.
“Wiccer, fetch the medical supplies, this elf is still alive! Wiccer?”
Wiccer stood utterly frozen as he looked down upon the broken body of the elf that had caused him so much misery and strife.
“Wiccer?!” Marcus yelled, hoping to snap Wiccer out of the trance he was in, “Son?”
“Let him die,” Wiccer said, with no hint of emotion or pity.
***
Elucard gazed at the old willow tree. The dry, leathery bark had moss sparsely growing on its north side. Its leaves drooped, providing a small shelter from the blistering sun. The water from the small fishing pond gently caressed its roots.
Stolen story; please report.
Jetta sat on a low hanging bough, beckoning Elucard to sit by her. Her blue summer dress waved in the breezy air. White lace hemmed the end of her seams. Her auburn hair was tied into a loose ponytail, complete with an adorable yellow ribbon.
“Elucard, come sit with me. It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?”
Elucard cautiously stepped closer but stopped just short of his lifelong friend. She called out to him again, her voice softer, almost a whisper.
“Elucard, come sit with me. It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?”
Her voice was scratchy and labored as she spoke again. It was as though only some of her words were vocalized, while others were nothing more than gargled chokes.
“Elu – come – with. Beautiful day – think?”
Elucard gasped in horror and stumbled backwards as a thin red line spread across Jetta’s throat. Blood seeped from the thin wound slowly at first, but soon the blood was gushing forth, tearing the pulsing wound wide open. Her eyes grew wide and she teared up, reaching forward—yearning for her friend.
“I’m sorry Jetta! Please, stay with me!” Elucard shouted as he ran to catch her falling body from the tree branch. However, when she collapsed into a heap in his arms, her lifeless corpse wilted like a flower and turned to ash, sending fragments of her broken body floating in the air like a fine smoke.
Elucard choked up as hot tears bubbled in his eyes. His hands tightened into fists. An unfamiliar voice echoed within his scattering, dreary thoughts.
“His fever is spiking.”
Marcus lifted his hand off of Elucard’s clammy forehead. Moans shakily escaped the dying elf. Wiccer hurried to give his father a washcloth, freshly drenched in ice water. He sneered at the battered elf’s body, squirming about in the bed.
“Father, we should just let him die. He doesn’t deserve our help!”
“Wiccer, we talked about this. We are not executioners, we are men of law. By Jedeo’s blade, we shall not let him die until we have healed him and brought him to justice.”
“He assassinated King Jaelyn! He had Avren killed! My brother! Your own damn son!”
Marcus snapped his head at Wiccer, his eyes flaring, “You think I need you to remind me of that? You think I don’t want to break this elf’s neck?”
“No,” Wiccer spoke quietly, avoiding his father’s gaze.
“Louder!” Marcus commanded.
“No!” Wiccer shouted instinctively as if he was a White Cloak once more.
Marcus let out a labored sigh. He, too, had fought the urge to let Elucard die. But he knew that this could be the opportunity he had been waiting for – a chance for Long Whisper to be rid of the Black Rabbit menace, once and for all. To that end, Elucard could yet prove to be an invaluable ally.
“Wiccer, the truth is…” He began. He knew that telling Wiccer his plan would not go over well. He knew that it was taking every fiber in Wiccer’s body to restrain him from killing Elucard, but he also knew that his son trusted him above all else, “The truth is, I have plans for Elucard beyond bringing him to justice.”
Wiccer shook his head. He had suspected as much.
“Wiccer, the elf’s been ripped apart for a reason. Maybe the Rabbits turned on him. Perhaps he could be convinced to side with us. He owes us his life,” Marcus said, mostly attempting to persuade his son to join his cause, and partly to convince himself that he had not lost his mind.
“I can’t believe you. I can’t – I can’t even talk to you right now!” Wiccer began to pace around the tiny bedroom. His brother was dead, his cloak stripped from him, and his life was in shambles all because of Elucard. Now his father was telling him that they – no, he, had to save Elucard.
“We’re out of Sunwart Root. We could also use some more bandages,” Marcus spoke quietly, as if ignoring Wiccer’s anger, “Head to the old guild hall. It’s a military outpost these days. Tell them that you’re my son. Get Sunwart Root for his fever, bandages, and try to scrounge up some dullweed for his pain.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t want him to suffer…” Wiccer mumbled under his breath. His father didn’t seem to catch the comment.
“We went through a week’s worth of medical supplies in three days, make sure to pick up double. Take the cart, but do not tell them who we are treating!”
Wiccer curled his lip defiantly at first, but then nodded when he met his father’s stern gaze.
“Make haste, boy.”