Curse Of Blood: Gods & Monsters

Chapter LII - Brenna

Pitilessly, the wind stabbed at her eyes, dimming them anew before she blinked the brine away. The tears peregrinated wistfully to her lips and collected there like dew till her tongue slipped distractedly over the contours of her mouth. Her gaze, meanwhile, was fixed restlessly to the meadow below — to the man that haunted her past; her present; and even her future. Especially her future.

From this vantage point she knew she would remain undiscovered by him, veiled as she was by the umbral thickets and woodland grove that flanked the hillside atop which the longhouse towered. Below it the farmstead and heathland stretched and undulated as far south as the eye could see. To where the weald stood tall and imposing, like a frowning sentry, enkindled with red embers that glowed crimson beneath the dying rays of encroaching twilight.

The mountain shadows were already slipping quietly over the pasturage, but Brenna hardly noticed the cold that accompanied the falling darkness. She could not even hear the cattle lowing from where she sat, for the wind groaned and whistled lustily through the trees, peaks, and scars.

All the better, she thought, lest he hear the rustle of her skirts or her shallow, anxious breathing. But for the wind, he'd have heard even the heartbeat of the nightjar that had emerged nearby. She was certain of that. Her scent, however, he could not possible detect, unless of course the wind should suddenly alter its course. But for the nonce it blew steadily up the hillside, masking her presence from the man below.

Still and all, it behooved her not to stay overlong. It was utter fatuity to imagine that anything could be concealed from ... a valdyr for long. However, Brenna wanted only this moment to watch him unobserved. To bring to order the calm that had been bestrewn so chaotically when first she'd descried his beloved countenance. It was better this way; she wanted her wits about her and her demeanor composed when she did finally face him. Tonight.

Most of the clansmen, the Greybacks included, had already filled the hall to brimming. Spring was still not fully settled over the land and the nights were yet cold. The fragrant smoke from the roasting meat and hearth fires rose languidly from the louvres in the roof — as did the sounds of merrymaking — and vanished into the greying, gloomy light of dusk.

But Renic and Heida had yet to enter there. Nor had Roth's children. Even the ever elusive wolfhound, Vali, trotted attentively beside them.

Brenna smiled tremulously as Renic knelt beside Finn, the boy talking animatedly as Freki ran circles around them. It had been something altogether fascinating and wonderful to behold: Renic with his nephews. Boys that, by the hands of fate, resembled him as much as if they were the fruits of his own loins.

She wondered if it confused Finn and Freki to see a man — a stranger — so resemble their father. It was only the scars that now distinguished Roth from his brother.

The sound of Heida's mirth recalled Brenna from her reveries. And to her original purpose here. She had only meant to reassure herself that she'd not dreamt him into being — that, in truth, Renic was back from the dead and not just a cruel cantrip of her mind's bedevilment.

No, she could see that he was real. She'd heard his laughter; seen the distinction in the preternatural colors that ebbed and flowed around him; and felt her blood thrum with certainty.

For the time being, though, it was time to go. Brenna stood, careful not to bring attention to herself. Renic was by now dangling Freki from the boy's feet as they walked, the child's giggling piercing as it rang across the vale. The four of them had begun to make their way back to the longhouse, and it was time she too got herself out of the chilling wind.