After the Battle I

Malthrig sat on the ground next to the dying boy.

The lad's face was pale and drawn, and his breathing was more
labored now. The old man gently wiped his face with a cloth
that was dampened with the last of his water from his flask.

"Lad, ye need to save your strength. Don't talk", Malthrig
said gently.

They had been in a group defending Dun Crauchon from an invading
force from Albion. One moment they had been patrolling along a
treeline, and the next a Minstrel dressed in blue chain sped
swiftly into their formation, followed by several Armsmen and at
least one caster. The fight was quick and bloody, no quarter
asked or given- when it was all over, Malthrig, an old and very
tired Hero, was the only one still standing. He had found all
his comrades dead, save one- the quiet lad who had worn his lady's
scarf around his arm as a token of her care for him; a talisman to
ward off harm...

The old veteran shook is head slowly in sadness.

The lad coughed, and smiled weakly.

"Save it for what, friend? I will not be with you to see the sun
set".

Malthrig knew that he was speaking the truth- his wounds were
beyond remedy; and there were no Naturalists alive in the area to
aid him.

"Tell me more about her, then". Malthrig nodded at the scarf,
still tied around the boy's arm. His eyes were filled with
compassion; more than one Hibernian lout had mistaken that for
weakness, and had quickly learned that the old man was as swift to
volcanic anger as he was to easy friendship.

"She did not want me to join my Guild, you know. She knew their
reputation as aggressive fighters..." the lad's face clouded with
a blossom of pain, and the old man could do nothing more than to
pat his face with the moistened cloth, and bunch up the cloak he
had fashioned into a pillow for the boy to make him perhaps a
little more comfortable...

He continued.

"Elasia did not want me to leave her. She wanted me to become a
merchant, and to settle down each night by the hearth with her,
and listen to her play her beautiful music upon her harp..."

Malthrig looked around the area quickly in the fading sunlight.
He knew his life was in danger, but he would not leave this boy
to die alone.

"She sounds like a fine lady, lad", the old Hero said.

"Aye...she had many suitors, but picked me...I never understood
what she saw in me..."

Malthrig took the boy's hand in his and squeezed it.

"She saw a handsome and a caring man, and a brave one. No mystery
there."

The lad smiled slightly and feebly attempted to grasp Malthrig's
hand tighter.

"And you, friend? Do you have a lady awaiting you..." the boy's
words trailed off into weak coughing.

Malthrig's eyes were covered with pain. He was glad the lad had
not noticed, and looked away quickly as his eyes filled with water.

His dear Finnleigh...in his mind he saw her again as she was when
he was a lad, her laughter and that smile that never failed to
kindle his love for her. He remembered their wedding eve, the
look of her body as her dress fell to the floor...the happy days
afterwards, the excitement of her pregnancy, the feel of the baby
kicking in her stomach...and the agonizing grief as the midwives
told him that she and his son had died in childbirth.

He had never remarried, he had lost himself in the ranks of the
Hibernian army, fighting, fighting the enemies of the Realm, but
the real enemy being the hole in his soul, the pain that would
spring upon him even years after her death and physically beat
him to his knees in torment as he remembered...

The old man smiled to the lad, a tear gleaming on his cheek.

"Aye, she is as beautiful as can be lad, I dare say as beautiful
as your lass", he chuckled as he held the boy's hand tighter in
his.

The lad smiled weakly and nodded, and swallowed hard to clear his
throat. "I am glad to hear that, friend...give her a kiss for me
when you see her, would you?..."

Before the old man could reply, he heard a soft sound behind him.
The blood froze in his veins as he turned slowly and looked up.

The Albion Scout had nocked an arrow and was standing thirty feet
behind him, sighting down the barbed shaft that pointed directly
at his chest.

Malthrig looked into the Scout's eyes.

The Scout blinked, and looked into the old man's eyes.

Malthrig, gripping the cold hand of the boy who should have been
his son, waited.