The walls of his cell exploded inwards, punching his ears with concussive force, showering him with grit and burning dirt. The Earth was on Fire. Burning. Smoking. A great hole gaped where once stood a rarely seen wall, protected by darkness. Figures stood in the fissure. Squat of body, wiry of limb, flat of head, pointed of ear. Not his cousins. His brothers! Saviors silhouetted in the magnificent glow of violent firelight. Light! Constant, steady and painfully bright. He wept. He was free and a new day could begin. Another chance for conquest and vengeance. To burn. To burn it all and never stop until his King was back on the throne. He smiled and his atrophied voice was a croak.

“One.”

O NE

ONE

Padric let his knuckles bleed and cursed his small hands. He dipped his injured hand back into the frigid creek and tried to watch his blood mix with the water, but the current was too fast. Even this small creek cared nothing for his tiny contribution. Padric spat in spite and gave a snort of self-mockery when the flowing water also overcame his foamy expulsion. His hand started to go numb, but he did not remove it, hoping the water would cool his anger as well as his pain. He knew it would do neither.

The betrayal of his hands was an old hurt. Familiar and constant, even predictable. Today, it was a welcome distraction from the rage that had been building for some days, threatening to boil over and tempting in its promise of relief. So far, Padric had resisted. He feared what would happen if he lanced the poison within and exposed it to the village. Mostly, he feared himself. There was murder in his heart. He did not want to kill Eirwen, but even his small hands could complete that grisly work with confidence if fueled by the torment in his head.

Eirwen’s callous disregard did not deserve such a punishment and Padric could think of what others would say if they knew his feelings, but the dark thoughts in his head were ungoverned by the opinions of others. In truth, Padric could think of no crime of either the law or the heart that would merit the killing of a woman. He remembered the widow who had given her daughters over to the gruagach last year. Even she was spared by the village council. Sent to the Knucklebones, of course, but still alive. Padric was not vicious or violent by nature, but the fire of passion burned the brighter when lust turned suddenly to hate. At least, that is what he told himself.