The fort stank as it always did. Wet, freshly cut timbers, rotten apples, sweat, urine and Eirwen. All of these smells hit his nostrils, moist and unpleasant. He slogged through the thick, dark muck of the yard, not bothering to avoid the puddles. He was filthy enough from the labor at the ditch and was likely to be far more soiled before he was done here. It was possible he would be completely covered in mud before the day was out, buried in a rank grave.

He paused. Padric was not afraid to die. It would certainly put an end to his shame, his anger, his hurt. He was more afraid to simply do nothing, to walk away and continue to carry the crushing weight of his failures. He could brain Eirwen’s new lover, his maul scattering pieces of the fool’s skull into sticky, broken pottery. It was a sweet thought, but the balm of his enacted vengeance would be fleeting. Afterwards he would have to make a choice. Flee and be hunted, bringing worry and shame to his family or stay to face the knives of those seeking a blood debt and the fines that would ruin his kin. Warriors rarely had family, but they always had friends. Either path brought sorrow and hardship to those he cared for; the people who cared nothing for the color of his hair and who endured the same gossip it created.

Fae-friend. Piskie kissed.

Padric did not care for himself, but he did care for his family. He would not let his selfish fury destroy them as well. But more than that, he would not make the villagers right. He would not be remembered as a killer, a madman, and the doom marked son that brought ill luck to his kin just as everyone said he would from the day he was born. Dead or alive, Padric could not bear their hearthside prophesies to come true by his own hand.

Padric emerged from his brooding and found his eyes staring straight at a discarded coin lying in the mud. He stooped and pinched it from the mire, careful to keep his skinned knuckles from touching the muck. It was one of the tin pieces used to pay the garrison of the fort. All but worthless to them, but a welcome find for Padric. He had seen only a few coins in his life and held fewer still. He gave it a halfhearted rub on his jerkin to clean it and held it up to his nostrils, breathing deeply. Padric knew the scent of tin from the village foundry and from his father’s tools. It was strange that this small piece of the same metal would smell so differently. It was repulsive and comforting, alluring and venomous. Just like her.

He made for the cider house.