He took his hand from the water, closing the cold, swollen fingers into a fist. He watched as the blood welled up once more on his ragged knuckles, then shook his hand, ridding it of droplets both clear and crimson. He thought of returning to the border ditch, but tarried by the creek instead. The prospect of going back to the company of his father and the other men was not a welcome one. No matter that he was a man grown, Padric always felt the fool child around his father. There was no task Padric could perform for the benefit of the clan that his father could not do with greater ease and greater haste.

He had been sent to gather more spades and was happy to get away, for the tedious labor did nothing to distract his mind from Eirwen. His thin fingers and narrow palms had lost their grip on the hafts of the tools as he was backing out of the small stack stone shed. Foolishly, he had tried to carry four in each hand; to avoid the embarrassment of a second trip. His father could have handled five, maybe even six in each of his meaty clutches. Three was pushing it for Padric. His overzealous efforts were rewarded with nothing but an awkward juggle for control of the heavy tools which Padric quickly lost, but not before he had managed to rake the back of his left hand against the rough stone of the shed wall. He made two trips after all.

After giving over the second bundle of tools with as much pride as he could muster, he mumbled some excuse and headed for the creek. He felt the eyes of the men on his back as he stalked away. He could almost hear the shake of his father’s head.

He was such a failure. And it did not matter if his father or the other men thought it. Padric thought it of himself. His only real accomplishment was winning the affections of Eirwen, but even that prize had vanished in the time he had been away.

Two months!

The thought of how quickly her feelings fled set his teeth to grind and sent his mind skulking into its darkest corners where schemes of blood and vengeance squatted in wait. He could escape in the mundane tasks of his daily life for only so long before some unexpected thought of her sent him seeking out those black fantasies in order to calm his anger and comfort his pain. But the more he thought on them, the more difficult it became not to act upon them, to bring them forth from his wounded heart and cast them in her face.