K. L. Nofziger

Prologue

Before the Leap

October 25, Present Day

Hartford, Connecticut

My windshield wipers whip desperately at the heavy rain. Smearing away the blurry images, they help me see the gloomy sky and the bright brake lights of the timid drivers inching ahead. It’s falling so hard I turn up the volume. Plugged in through an auxiliary cord, my smartphone plays Savage Garden’s I Knew I Loved You on repeat. It was playing on the radio last week at work. Since then, I play it the whole drive everyday through Spotify. Helps make time fly by as I get off I-84. 

I turn left onto Farmington Avenue. 

My eyes flicker back and forth from the left side and what’s ahead of me. 

Sigourney, Imlay, Laurel, South Marshall, Forest…

I pass the large, dense shadow of a house behind the trees daily.

The Mark Twain House.

I’ve read his more underrated work, Connecticut Yankee and A Tramp Abroad, in school. I’ve lived in Hartford for four years, working on a currently obtuse piece of a dissertation at the University of Connecticut, yet I’ve not explored the historical estate of the father of American Literature. Literary appreciation is customary when you spend most of your time with your nose in a book. 

Though I’m not an extreme fan of Twain, my passions are reading, research, and writing so, as a former English major—now grad student—it’s deemed obligatory for me to see that sort of place. 

While I tell myself that off and on, there’s something about that house that flickers a sense of otherworldly curiosity. More unsettling than disturbing and I never understood why. 

It’s this feeling that flares restlessness but catalyzes the adrenaline I need for the Jiu Jitsu class after work. 

Five years ago, the pressure of a supremely independent education went from mentally overwhelming to physically crippling. The strain of my first graduate semester took such a toll that I had kinks in my hands. Dr. Thomas Reinhurst, my thesis supervisor, noticed this and said I should find a constructive escape to counteract mind over matter. In other words, release the mental impact of stress with the exhaustion of exercise. 

Since my only option was and is currently to get a solid job as a professor, to avoid the starving writer cliche, I took his advice. When I asked for suggestions, he had said, “An outlet that requires a lot of aggression and punching something incessantly.”

Turns out violence was and continues to be the answer. 

He prefers the term, assertive defense. Tell that to my sensei when I gave him a bloody nose during my first-class instruction.  

I’ve been in the advanced class ever since and just received my black belt this past July.

Although I’m no longer classified as a jiu-jitsu student since this summer, and his classes are always full in the fall, Tony asked that I contribute as a teaching assistant with his kito-ryu class. I excelled in the basics of that specific old-school form, so there was hardly any adjustment. 

It also provides a more hands-on approach on how to teach as an assistant professor next year. 

Through the side view mirror, I glance once more of the high Gothic-styled estate. The house might as well have eyes like a painting watching me as I pass. That sensation forces my reluctant curiosity to linger, like when you hear the expression, the hills have eyes.

However, Reinhurst assigned me to take a tour this Saturday, not only to settle my fixation, but to graze the grounds to spark some incandescence for my dead-beat analysis on paper. 

My specialization is French history, with the Matter of France at the core. From studying the Chansons de geste as a general elective, I became thoroughly fascinated by the complex transitions of French society through these poems, and especially the influence it has brought on fantasy literature. The stories begin with historical epics of feudalism, heroism, and crusades, then progress with embellishments of giants, magic, and monsters. 

Money and urban life elements morphed hand-in-hand with medieval court culture motifs like love, chivalry, and the female role. The distinctive differences from centuries past leave us with insurmountable controversy and fascination. Songs of heroic deeds is the rough translation and, with the poetic rhetoric and mostly violent details, it certainly fits. Those who wrote them wanted great men to be remembered, be legendary, even if they had to record incidents with mythological creatures. They lived life with such fervor so they wanted to amplify it. 

As of late, my thesis has been to use French history to tap inside the French mentality. I want to define its originality and what formulates the stigma of acting and being “French”.

After reading and evaluating original texts in la langue de l’amour, extensive research from various established libraries, and making countless notes in my worn-out, annotated copies, I’ve come to nothing. But my teacher expects a full report about touring the American satirist’s home for no other incentive than this argument: Twain contradicted the Church just as much as he bashed romantic idealism. Evaluation always leads to comparison.

I turn onto Sisson, down the long road of New Park Avenue, and finally Oakwood. On the right of Tolles is T. & J. Defense Arts. 

I park as close to the entrance as I can get. 

With my black gym bag, I haul ass out of my Toyota Avalon and jog through the heavy rain.

It’s Thursday but rush hour won’t hit for another hour so it gives the class more room in the main area. 

Very spacious, this area has gray walls with black lower padding and the gym’s logo displaying its namesake. Against these walls are three sub-areas with hanging punching bags, with a blue-padded pole standing in the center of the room. Straight ahead there is a wrestling ring for grappling, sparring, and boxing. Within a black-edged frame, giant powder blue squares are wrapped in steel gray symmetry on the entirely cushioned floor. 

Patting myself down from the water remaining on my skin, I head left towards the ladies’ showers. I change into my signature white gi with matching pants and black belt. Then I pull my layered hair up in a ponytail, hang my clothes and bag in one of the lockers, and spin the combination of the lock. 

Walking down the hall, the entryway of the gym comes into focus when an arm wraps around my throat. I grab the thick forearm and wrist to pull down. With their hips aligned with mine, in a swift motion, I squat and throw my attacker over flat to the side. On the floor, lies Jay Cunningham with his entire limb locked in my stiff grip. 

I drop it in a huff. “Seriously, Jay? What is it with you and that move?”

The “J.” in T. & J. Defense Arts, and Terry Crews’s doppelganger, just laughs like he does every time and springs up towering over me. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep you on your toes. It’s good for you. Besides I wanted to see how you’d do this time since we’re going to use some extra padding.”

He answers my miffed expression by tugging on his blue gi, showing black thick material. 

“Is that leather?”

“Leather plush covering.”

“Covering what?”

“Plate Mail. Like chain mail.” He looks like a giddy child. “See, underneath this, is the same kind of material used by knights and soldiers. It’s steel and iron welded together and it’s ridiculously heavy.” Jay chuckles. “I did a before and after on the scale, and I gained almost twenty pounds with this sucker.”

Nodding along, I say, “Well, that explains it.”

He ducks his head a little. “What?”

“Ah, you just seemed a little heavier than usual.”

Jay does a mock-offended face. 

I smile, then nod at his chest. “So, wait, this material is strapped around your entire chest?”

“And from the waist to mid-calf. We just got this stuff this morning and we haven’t given the students the opportunity to get into real kito-ryu, you know, with actual armor until now.” He says it while making air quotes with his middle and index fingers. 

“I see. Do I have to wear this stuff?” We continue down to the main gym.

“Actually, not really. I mean it’s more for Tony and I to test the students on how much strength they can handle going against a heavier opponent.”

“Jay, you’re a brick wall. I don’t think you need this armor.”

Jay pats me on the back. “As much as I appreciate the flattery, Viv, Tony insisted.” He pulls me into a brotherly side-hug, leisurely trudging us along. “Plus, I’ve been dying to test this stuff out,” he adds before belting out a laugh. “Man, I feel like black Superman. Minus the underwear over the tights, of course.”

Shaking my head affectionately, I reply with my arm around his wide waist. 

Throughout the next hour, I instruct by example some advanced takedown, grappling, and striking techniques while each student is seran-wrapped in a leather-cushioned steel suit. It’s interesting to see how some appear sluggish and others unaffected which means I have to check that they’re wearing the extra weight under their kimono and pants. 

For the remaining thirty minutes, Tony, the other owner and “T.” to the gym’s name, has the students focus on striking. It’s simple yet agitating when he splits the class into three groups—one for each of us—and my group has one particular student giving attitude, while antagonizing others in the group. During practice, this student, Derek, shows too much aggression and offense as well as tweaking my instruction, and in turn Tony’s. Two of the others he’s partnered with have been rubbing and stretching their jaws. Another had to sit out because he made a too-harsh strike on their calf resulting in their head unnecessarily slamming onto the mat brutally. 

From the corner of my eye, Tony signals me over to him.

“Guys, why don’t you take a couple-minute break, okay? I’ll be back.”

Derek lightly scoffs. 

My jaw clicks as I pass him.

Tony has his hands on his hips, watching his group practice transitioning between striking and grappling. His eyes continue observing as he speaks.

“What’s going on, Rousseau?”

Though Jay and everyone else calls me by my name, Tony always insists on calling everyone by their last names. He butchers the proper French pronunciation but I’ve never corrected him.

“Nothing, just one of the students is a bit too aggressive.”

“It’s Green, isn’t it?” Tony twists his hips toward me as a way to provide his full attention without moving from his current spot. As a former MMA Heavyweight Champion, Tony Gennaio is just as strong as Jay though more flexible and slightly shorter. He flicks a glance at me to see my blank face. “You know, Derek?”

“Oh. Yeah, unfortunately.”

He twists his hips back to resume facing his portion of students and tilts his head closer to mine. “Listen, this hasn’t been the first time he’s gone too far. He’s been frequently ignoring instruction. So I need you to put him in his place with any means necessary. He signed the paperwork so we’re not responsible for any injury he gains or inflicts. But you know we have the right to kick him out if he gets out of control.”

“Honestly, Tony, I don’t think putting him in his place is going to work.”

“Maybe. But at least he’ll learn something when he’s booted out the door.”

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Okay, boss.”

“Thank you.” Like Jay, he’s just as physically affectionate and rubs my shoulder. 

When I return, there is a space barrier between Derek and the other remaining able students of my group. In the gathering two students, Mike and Raj, murmur intensely to each other as the rest float around them with flicking glances at Derek.

Raj cuts off the whispering when he sees me. He separates himself from them. “Hey, Viv, can we talk after class?”

Folding my arms, I play dumb and incline my head. “About what?”

He rubs his neck in an anxious gesture. “I think I should train in a different class. Something more one-on-one. It’s just a bit overwhelming,” he replies lowly. Raj is such a nice guy but he’s totally lying out of his ass. He’d do anything to avoid conflict with another person. Oh, the irony. 

Yet Tony suggested last week to me that he should consider more with Jay outside of class for the first-degree black belt test. Raj has incredible instincts and keen observation. Even with my advanced training, it took me almost five years to go from a white belt to a black belt. And it’s required I maintain black belt status for an additional five years minimum. 

 “Look, if you feel this way, you’ll have to talk to Tony since he’s your teacher. But, Raj, you need to really think about why you want the switch and if it’s really worth it. Anything else, we can deal with after. Okay?”

Before he can protest, I make a speedy escape by addressing my group. “Okay, everyone, I have a proposition for you all. There is no pressure, no assessment, and this isn’t a test. It is a mock exam that I was required to do with both Tony and Jay so they could measure how far I’ve come and what experience I have more to gain. I would like a challenger to go up against me and use their skills they’ve obtained so far in this class.” For a moment, I pause to let my words sink in, making a quick appraisal of their expressions. 

“The option of using the armor you’re wearing or not is up to you. I want you to keep in mind that I have a little over a year extra in experience and rank than all of you. This means you will give all you have within the defensive conduct and discipline you’ve studied in jiu-jitsu. However, my experience doesn’t mean I will go easy on you.”  

Pacing, I fold my hands behind my back. “This practice match against me is to help you. So, who would like the chance?” Half of them avoid my eye. “Keep in mind, you’ll have to train with your sensei like this sometime down the road when it will actually count.”

A hand shoots up in my right peripheral. It’s Derek’s.

“Are you asking a question or volunteering?”

“Question. Shouldn’t we be doing this with Tony or Jay, the actual masters? Aren’t you a student yourself?”

The usual buzzing of students wrestling and grunting, as well as striking and kicking, starts to die down. Between Jay and Tony, Jay is the more vocal one, always encouraging and coaching as they practice. Now, not one utterance comes from him, and I sense him watching about ten feet away. 

“To address your question, Derek, we’re all students here, even your teachers. However, I am a first-degree black belt which makes me eligible to teach you all as brown belts. I assist your teachers under their watchful eye because they asked me to. Which means unless they state otherwise you keep your mouth shut and do as I say.”

He smirks. I smile shrewdly back.

“Now since you have the confidence to question my authority and that of your sensei, I am giving you the chance to redeem yourself and be the challenger.”

Derek stays where he is. With a remote expression, he tilts his head. 

“I insist. The practice match ends when one of us taps out…or when the masters say so.” I say the last part loud enough so Tony and Jay understand for precaution. “So. Whenever you are ready, we can begin.”

The students scatter to make room, as I stay put, for what I expect to be a grudge match. 

This man has nothing against me personally. It’s my age and my sex. Derek is at least in his early thirties and, after a few classes, I’ve concluded he has the manners of an ape in heat. In the first class, he refused to practice with one of the female students. At the time, I assumed it’s because he’s twice her size and he didn’t want to hurt her. It’s common for male students to feel anxious training with women. Stereotypically, we are considered the weaker sex. 

But during the third class, I discovered Derek to be anything but honorable and discreet. The same woman he refused to practice a takedown with, Annie, he asked her out, slept with her within a two-week period, and then made comments about opening her legs for more important matters outside the gym. After that, Jay said she canceled her classes and gym membership without an explanation. Nothing more was said.

Derek’s entire stance changes as he glances left and right at the students. His eyes glare hard but he renders quietly over to me. He halts two feet away, continuing to stare down at me. Like most neanderthals, he thinks size and strength overpowers agility and prowess. With a boy’s mentality, Derek believes physical intimidation is enough to get the supposedly weaker opponent to back down. 

To keep eye contact, I raise my chin. People like him don’t scare me anymore. By the time I completed my first year of jiu jitsu, Jay taught me that fear is a state of mind. If willing enough, I can overcome it with my senses and instincts. Then, when necessary, I become fear incarnate with my mind and body.

Finally, Derek speaks, “Let me take off this extra weight first just to make things a little easier.”

“It won’t make a difference. I already flipped Jay when he had that on before class. And you’ve been wearing it without a problem during class.”

“Fine.” His nostrils fluster like a bull preparing to charge.

“Let’s go towards the right side to have more room.” Turning my back, I predict he will make the first move. Aggressors always make the first move. They initiate the fight to assert dominance. 

The mat dips ever so slightly like a mattress. I can sense his every step. He attempts to stalk like a big cat before it pounces on its prey. If he’s smart, he will wait until I face him. But, again, like a neanderthal, he doesn’t think. He acts on impulse. 

Derek wraps his left arm around my neck. Constant and dominant on his right side, he intends to manipulate my left side holding his arm. With the standing rear choke, I throw him down on the mat without much strength in the arm lock. 

By any means necessary, Tony had said.

Well, I must see how far Derek will go for me to teach him a lesson.

While I am right-handed, he doesn’t know that I’ve spent an equal amount of time training with both sides. 

Derek disbands the hold, twisting my right forearm. 

He forces my entire body to rest on his, with my back to his front. In a headlock, he restrains me further by wrapping his long legs around my knees. Like an Inquisition torture rack, he stretches me and pulls my limbs to induce pain in my joints. 

Derek thrusts upward so his pelvis nuzzles against the small of my back. A smug snicker reaches my ears as he grips my ponytail with one of his hands. 

Through grinding teeth, I take a quick breath and press further into his obvious arousal. 

In response, Derek lets out a surprising breath and I’m loose. My short, limber legs slither out. Knees inward, I summer salt. My hands land on the floor space around Derek’s head while the balls of my feet land on the mat. 

Immediately, I slide to his left side and use my right arm to get under his own.

Quickly swinging my right leg, I lock his shoulder between my thigh and ribs, trapping him with a knee at his head. 

His face is a light shade of pink from the exertion and a vein protrudes from his brow to the edge of his buzz-cut hairline. 

Derek struggles under my hold. Five seconds pass, he refuses to look me in the eye.

His face is beet red now. I mutter, “Tap the mat, Derek. You can’t outsmart the teacher.”

“Bullshit,” he spits out. He’s scraping at my legs and back.

With a grunt, my knee presses further under his ear. “You have two options here: tap the mat or pass out. Because you don’t have the strength—or the oxygen soon enough—to keep at this.” 

Letting out a few deep puffs of breath, his frantic movements start receding. 

By the sensation of his left arm slowly rising, I anticipate his acceptance. 

Instead of hearing a pat against the synthetic mat, a blow slams into my left thigh and another to the side of my skull.  

The pain hits as hard as the landing on my back. Still conscious, I pay no attention to the response of the students. 

Forcing my eyes open, I see Derek over me. 

He’s no longer a jiu jitsu student. 

It has to end my way.

Going straight for the throat is his next intention: that’s always the next move. It’s an impulse, a last resort, because he’s in survival mode. Panic over security. Body over mind. The worst part is he shows it in his movement. Rather than smell his fear, I see it. 

Between my legs, his foot compresses into the mat. He skids his body over to shift his right arm under my body, trapping my left arm around my neck. 

Just before he places his weight to choke me, my hips swerve my rubbery legs. My arm slides free under his armpit, followed by my throbbing head to carry out a brabo choke. A hand clasped around my elbow, I cradle him down. He’s stuck. 

For a second, I see Jay coming towards us.

I sneer, “No, we’re not done. I have this.” Jay stops with a hard resolute look.

Before Derek can react, I push the ball of my foot below his ribs. His heated breath stifles through my kimono’s sleeve. “Unless you tap out, Derek. Huh? Do you?”

“Fuck you,” he rasps. 

“Fine,” I mock. I force my foot deep enough to move him flat on his back. For another quick second, I break my hold to catch and twist the spare fist coming for my head. He grunts in pain and whips over to grab his twinged wrist and knuckles. 

I have to wound him more. Whether it be his face, his pride, or both, I have to hit him where it hurts. 

I’m on my feet. 

Flat and one with gravity, my left foot is forward with the weight of my leveraged right. 

Spinning my bent leg, I transfer the weight to extend the other. 

My foot swings across his nose like a hard slap and he’s back flat on the ground. 

The adrenaline crashes as my heel lands perfectly on the mat. The pain tugs my thigh with each limping step. Then I go to my knees to find him still conscious.

I take the wrist of his slack hand to tap him out.

He groans, blinking as he clears his vision.

“Guess what, Derek?” I ask with an erratic breath. “You failed right from the start. Never use jiu jitsu for offense.” My voice is hoarse so I clear my throat. “What happened in this match makes you a reason we study this. And that little piece of…sexual thrill you got out of it,” I pause, huffing out another breath. “Clearly, you aren’t cut out for this gym. I suggest you don’t come back.” One final breath expels through my nostrils as I tighten my loose ponytail. “Unless you want a broken jaw to go with your new nose.”

Dripping from his nose, he spits out some of the blood seeping through his lips. 

Mutely, I gesture for Jay to come over. He hurries, then gingerly hooks my arm around his neck. Encircling my waist, he lifts me up. 

Directing me to the women’s locker room, I refuse to make a sound until I’m set down on a bench. 

Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I moan, gripping the long seat’s edges framing my thighs. Jay gently moves my chin. While applying pressure, his fingers trace the tender area above my neck and behind my ear. He turns my head back and urges it down so I’m looking into my lap.

I chortle lightly. “Maybe I should have worn that armor.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have stopped Green from doing this.”

“Does that mean something’s wrong?”

“Other than a big bump by morning, no. You’ll be fine with ice and some pain killers. However, Green is another story.”

He releases my head and sits beside me. “Mm. What’s going to happen to him?”

“Other than having his ass handed to him by someone half his size? Who also happens to be a girl? Not to be sexist, Viv, but I think, in his head, he’s suffered enough.”

“No offense here.” When I stretch my legs, a tender pull sounds in the back of my left thigh. My face scrunches while letting out a small whine. “Just soreness.”

“Shit, your leg. Come on, let’s have a look at it in the exam room.” The gym has a regular sports physician on call if not on duty.

I stop him with a halting hand. “No, Jay. I don’t need a trip to the nurse’s office. While I appreciate it, I’ll be okay.” I pause until he sits back down. “I have an ice pack and some Advil at home. I’ll be fine,” I reassure him.  

Someone comes into the locker room. It’s Tony holding a plastic bag filled with ice.

“Hey. How is she?” he asks Jay as he hands it over.

I interrupt, “She is fine. Just sore and tired.” His eyes become alert. 

Jay answers his alarm, now standing. “No obvious signs of concussion, just bruised and odds are some muscle strain in her neck.” Being the protective older brother I’ve never had, Jay’s expression becomes calculating. “What about Derek Green? What did you do with him?”

With folded arms, he begins, “For starters, I helped the bastard get up and to the locker room. Then I told him he didn’t need a demeaning lecture, since Rousseau humiliating him was punishment enough.” Tony redirects his gaze at me, as if seeking approval. “However,” he continues reluctantly, “I gave him the option to come back, once he heals, if he’d like to continue training.” 

“You did what?! Tony,” Jay bellows, “he assaulted Vivienne. He went to vicious lengths to beat her. By trying to literally beat her.” 

“I know that and she took care of it. As she was trained to do.” 

“Yeah, and what if she didn’t, huh?” He flicks a relenting look at me. “I’m sorry, girl, but when you hit the mat, I thought you were out cold. Scared the hell out of me.”

I replied, “Well, I wasn’t. I’m okay.”

He laments, “You keep saying that, but what if you weren’t?”

“Then I guess one of you would have finished the match for me and then kicked his ass out.”

Jay opens his mouth but I override him. “Jay, stop, okay? You know if I was a man, you guys wouldn’t be coddling me like this. I know you mean well but don’t make this a big deal. Derek is just an ignorant, misogynistic idiot. A cliche that is so overdone. But all things considered, he’s harmless.” Tony lifts a brow to the ice pack resting under my thigh. “The point is I’m fine. Yeah, a couple bumps and bruises, but I took Derek down the right way. Well, almost. Because you and Tony taught me well. That’s all that matters, alright?” I address Tony. “Now, what did he say when you told him he could come back?”

Before answering, he rubs his eyes and then holds the bridge of his nose. “Well, he looked shocked, then I punched him in the face.”

I don’t react, but Jay does. “I know we are trained not to embrace violence, but,” he falters, as his look goes from expressionless to surprisingly exuberant. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Why didn’t you say that first?”

“You know me. I always save the best details for last.” Tony finishes, “I told him that right hook was for you. And I hope that he learned something when you show disrespect, regardless of who’s the teacher or student. It wouldn’t’ve mattered if you were a woman or not. He fought dirty. What he got from you was nothing compared to what he really deserved.” Tony pats Jay on the shoulder. “Besides, we protect our own as much as ourselves.”

“Damn straight,” Jay agrees with a smile. 

Touched, I smile too. Being the only child sucked growing up, but it does have benefits. I got to choose my brothers. I place the ice on the bench. Before I am completely standing, Jay gives me a bear hug. Then Tony follows with a slightly lighter embrace. 

“Tornado kick? Really? Where’d you learn taekwondo?” Tony asks curiously.

“I dabbled a little while I studied abroad,” I say, then I give a playful shush with a finger against my lips. Trevor was a great teacher.

“You need a ride home?”

“Nah. You know it’s just five minutes. I’ll text if something’s up, okay?”

“No, you call. And it better be because you want us to meet you at the emergency room,” Jay says sternly.

“Okay, I will,” I respond consolingly. “Now let me change so I can take some pills then go to bed.”

“Eat something with those pills,” Jay orders before Tony ushers them out. 

“Feel better, Rousseau,” Tony says lastly.

“Bye, guys.”

Thanks to the baggy pants, I was able to get out of my training gear and shimmy into my regular clothes—comfy yoga pants and a navy blue long sleeve—with little difficulty. Putting on my shoes takes a little longer. 

My gimp is less prominent, but it makes itself known every step I take. At least the rain has stopped. 

The short ride home is silent. Though it’s coming up, I’m too exhausted to look over to my right at the Twain House.

When one drives the same route incessantly, the details of the passing surroundings are too fuzzy to recall. Yet one manages to get to their destination in no time. 

Because it is significantly cheaper, I live further from campus. Meanwhile, I don’t have to worry about running into other students. It’s less stifling and I can separate myself between training, work, and class. Three separate places for three different purposes. 

My apartment complex is a series of duplexes with a New England Brownstone touch and an update needed here and there. But everything inside works and rent is practically dirt cheap, for Connecticut, so I don’t complain. 

Inside, I place my keys on one of the rings next to the door frame. My roommate isn’t home because her keys aren’t dangling there. She never seems to be when I am. I don’t mind since I prefer the solitude and she’s always reliable with bills. If we need anything from each other, we text.  

Being the middle of October, it’s dark anytime past six so I flick the kitchen switch. Where the tea kettle rests, I turn the burner on. It’s full because Angie always has it ready before leaving to go God knows where. 

In the freezer, I take one of the ice packs then head upstairs. To get upstairs, I pass the living room which occupies a TV stand with no TV, a standing lamp, a coffee table and two arm chairs with a side table between them. 

Taking the stairs one at a time, the pain becomes a dull ache. Likely, it will worsen in color and tenderness by tomorrow. Better put some extra Advil in my purse for the coffee shop, I note to myself.

Straight down the hallway is my room. Before opening my door, I flick the light switch. 

It’s large enough to fit my queen-size bed, two bedside tables, and an espresso wooden dresser with the standing shelves and desk to match. There’s also a closet where its length extends my bed. 

A few family photos are tucked along the frame of my vanity. As for the rest of the family sentiments and mementos, I left those to my parents’ disposal. My laptop and phone are all the technology I need, so I choose not to have a television in my room.

Apart from my bed, my secretary desk is by far the most animated of my furniture. As a writer, it’s natural to have it be used more than the rest. A printer nests underneath at the left end. 

Below it, I have a rolling file cloth bin filled with books as well as literary and travel magazines. On the top grain, an organizer cups my edited drafts and notes in folders. Nestled against it is a snuffed-out Frasier fir candle. An empty yellow teapot and matching mug are perched on coasters next to a 365-day Writer’s Digest calendar. The center is an empty space for my laptop. It isn’t there now because I fell asleep with it last night watching reruns of Buffy. A few papers lay scattered over my dormant, slim computer. 

As I change into my shorts and oversized hoodie, I ponder. These last five years have been satisfying. Though I am at a stalemate with my dissertation, I’m content with where I am now. Sure, I get restless, even lonely, from time to time. But, eventually, I know everything will turn out the way it should. 

And no stack of papers or aggressive prick will break me. 

While gathering the papers from my bed, I remember the Advil. Once they’re placed into my portfolio, I grab my tote hanging on the back of my chair and head to the bathroom. Inside the medicine cabinet, a big Advil bottle with a press-down seal lid rests on the bottom shelf. It’s full which means Angie bought a new one. This woman must be a mind reader because yesterday the bottle was down to two gel caps. 

Thank you, Angie.

Before putting a few into the little pill box from my purse, I pop two in my mouth. I’ll likely need them for Saturday’s tour. Before bringing my mug and teapot with me downstairs, I set my ice pack on one of the coasters. 

Like clockwork, the tea kettle begins with a soft whistle as I reach the bottom of the stairs. 

Ignoring the tugging in my thigh, I place the porcelain on the counter. Burner turned off, I flick open the spout cover and pour steaming water into the teapot. One black tea bag with some sugar, I grab a mug. 

More to prevent it from spilling than for easing my leg, I head back upstairs slowly.

The tea sits on the left bedside table since I sleep on the left side of the bed. Before I hop under the covers and get comfortable, I close my door to take a look at the bruising with my full-length hanging mirror. 

Yep, it’s starting to produce some watercolor to my fair skin. The hit I took was pretty high up, almost to the base curve of my ample backside. Lightly, I press the ice pack against my thigh.

I hiss. Nope, too cold. I’ll just let the painkillers do their job. Instead, I hold it against the bump. It stings but at the same time, some relief forms from the frigidness. 

Before getting myself situated in my bed, I pour some tea into the mug and plug my phone into its charger. Then I flip open my computer to Netflix, ready to begin season four. 

While resting upright against my pillows, my hood keeps the ice pack from falling off down my back.

Before I doze off, I manage one episode and a full cup of tea.

************

I’m underwater. Swimming, the ripples from my feet disturb the wet sand. Crossing the rocky bottom of the riverbed, the affected dust seeps through the dormant current. I graze the surface before emerging. 

My toes gently press into the softened pebbles and stones blanketed with moss. The water vibrates, signaling my rise from the deep. I stand with my palms petting limitless liquid.

Naked, I feel the polarities of warmth below, and coolness above, against my skin. My hair is drenched, heavily clinging from my ribs to the curve of my neck. 

Forestry engulfs the river like the Colosseum with a stream as its entry and exit. The sun is nowhere in the sky. Blue and white are swirling slowly above me. 

A movement derives from another side of the river. Large, definitive steps cause steady splashes. It’s getting closer. The sub waves brush my legs as I turn.

It’s a man. A naked man. 

The water swallows him from the abdomen down and the remainder of his body is untouched. He looms over me, projecting a valley of abdominals and a wide, mountainous chest dusted with translucent hair. His arms flex as they meet his shoulders. 

His face is striking. His stubbled jaw and chin are as sharp and prominent as his cheekbones. Strangely, a little delicate too. Hues of short honey wheat hair flow with the breeze on the top of his head whereas the sides of his skull are cropped. A broad forehead and eyebrows to frame expressive eyes. Full of intensity, his stormy blue irises have tiny cracks of lightning around the pupils. 

Frowning, his lips mirror his eyes. 

He stares at me, searching for something. 

Affirmation. Assurance. Possession.

Those reflections are active when a hand grasps my forearm. He encourages me to move closer against his hot skin. His arm glides under my ribs and tightens around my waist. In response, my own hands grip his shoulders.

The man in question cups my neck with his other hand and his thumb lifts up my chin. His lips are firm but soft. The kiss is slow and easing. It progresses naturally as he rubs his mouth against mine. Like sipping, he traces my lips carefully with his tongue before dipping the tip inside. 

Excitement grows between my legs so suddenly that I hitch a breath into his mouth. He migrates his hand down my backside to lift my leg and elevate my groin with his. 

My moan makes him bold enough to take control of the kiss. He tilts his head and clutches a handful of my heavy hair to keep me in place. 

As leverage, I bounce against the river bottom to wrap my legs around his hips. 

Someone is watching us. Distracted but not enough to pull away, I tilt my head so he nuzzles and nips at my neck. The sensations dull as I see another man at the edge of the stream. 

Leaning on a thick wooden stick is an elderly man with snow white hair, thickly furrowed eyebrows and a matching mustache. He stands in sage-colored clothes, staring decidedly at me. 

Before I can ask who is across the way, I wake up.

My pulse and my heart race in synchronized rhythm. 

Morning light is peaking through my window blinds above my desk. My phone reads that it’s barely ten a.m. and there are three notifications. One is a reminder to myself about the gas bill due this Monday. The second is a text from Angie also reminding me of the gas bill and that she sent her half through the Venmo app. The third is another text from Reinhurst saying he called ahead and paid for my admission into the Mark Twain tour starting at noon tomorrow.

Then I recall my dream. 

It appears my curiosity is now worming its way into my dreams. This time with Mark Twain preventing me from enjoying myself with someone, even if it’s during REM cycles. I sigh, setting my mild irritation aside. 

Usually when I wake up, I can’t fathom an inkling of what I dream. However, the reaction and aftershocks would remain, my heart and my pulse escalating. In other occurrences, my hands would shake or I’d wake in a pool of sweat. Sometimes, I’d jolt out of sleep with tears in my eyes, if not already streaming, down my face.

But this time, I remember everything. I remember him vividly. 

I’ve never seen him before in my life, I’m sure of it. I’d never forget a man like that. In the dream, he oozes power and strength. I felt protected. Safe, secure, and severely attracted. Trying to reminisce about his touch and the short intimacy only stirs up my annoyance. 

So I get up and get ready.

The liquidated ice pack still lies in my hood so I discard it on the bed before using the bathroom and hopping into the shower. 

Friday is one of two days in the week I have nothing going on. So on this day, I take great pains to be productive but relaxed. First, I do a quick scrub with my dry hair hoisted in a high messy bun. Hobo chic with some effort is today’s outfit style. Once ready, I stuff the portfolio into my tote along with my laptop. I’m out the door and head for Cafe Italiano a half an hour later.

It’s before noon and as usual the cafe area has a few patrons scattered and multiple tables vacant. Shaun is working at the register counting bills. I set my stuff down at the nearest table to his station and greet my favorite barista. 

Being a man of six-foot-seven, you’d believe him to be a bouncer rather than a guy frothing milk behind a coffee counter. If it weren’t for the man bun and matching beard, I wouldn’t have pegged him for a hipster. Hell, even a people-person.

His concentrated frown flips to a designated meet-and-greet smile. “Hello, how are you—” When he sees it’s me, his demeanor becomes genuine. “Hey, what’s up, Viv?!”

“Oh, come on, you already know the answer to that.” In spite of my sardonic tone, I can’t help my grin. His smile is infectious. “Same position with the paper, the job, jiu jitsu, yada yada.” I roll my eyes for mild exaggeration. 

“Well, it’s always good to ask, Viv. Like bartenders, we, baristas, hear fascinating stories from people everyday. You’re a great example. So, what do you want today?”

His incessant positivity is incredible. “I’m gonna need a strong, ginormous, imported beverage.” I pause for effect. “So a venti americano, extra shot, please.” 

“No flavor, no sugar? That’s not like you,” he teases. 

“Maybe not being the same me so much could be good,” I murmur as I glance over at my stuff. 

“Whoa, what happened to your neck?” His tone is concerned. He takes my debit card to swipe. 

Reflexively I pat my neck. “What?” 

“It’s all bruised in the back. How’d you get that?” 

I swallow at yesterday’s brief memory. My hand still covering the spot, I reassure him. “It’s nothing. Things just got heated at jiu jitsu. It was a practice exam.” 

Shaun hands back my card. “Doesn’t look like an accident, Viv.”

“It wasn’t,” I answer honestly, then added, “He fought dirty but I took care of it so it’s all good.” 

He drops some ice then pours over the extra shot, but holds my attention with his leafy green eyes. “I hope so,” he utters. “Was he huge?”

“Compared to you, he was a weakling.” 

Still staring, Shaun pours the drink into my cup. “Viv.”

“Does it really matter? Most men are significantly bigger than me. You know this, you see it. Look, I handled it. Call it an occupational hazard.” Meek defense starts to boil over. “When I first started, I ended up giving a bloody nose to my sensei.”

“But that wasn’t your intention, was it?” 

“No,” I digress. I drop my cupped hand. “Like I said, I’m okay. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten bumps and bruises.”

“I just don’t like seeing my friends banged up, especially from a hobby that could kill someone.” He releases a deep sigh. “But if you say so.”

“I do.” To dial down the serious and somewhat dark mood, I redirect. “You know I think you’d be good at Jiu jitsu. You always ask me about it. And it’s not as life-threatening as you think when you have the right teacher. You’ll have yours truly to help.” I attempt a cute smirk. 

His big grin comes back in a flash. “Nah, I don’t need it. It’s interesting when you talk about it. And I’ve done some stuff like that for some time.” He stretches over to my side of the counter to place my coffee in front of me. “Besides, like you said, I’m not exactly the slightest guy out there.” He gestures, dusting imaginary lint off his black shirt-cladded chest. 

My lips twitch. “Oh, I know. I see it firsthand every time we workout. People gawk at the Viking hipster. It’s kind of hilarious how the occasional bodybuilder visibly shakes at your mighty presence.” About a year ago, I met Shaun at the gym when I was setting up the squat rack next to his. He helped me adjust the weight even after I almost dropped one on his foot. We’ve been friends and gym buddies ever since.

“Hey, hipsters need to hit the gym too.” 

My mind backtracks. “Wait, what stuff have you done? You studied martial arts? You never told me.”

“Not martial arts exactly.” He looks over my head. “I’ll tell ya some other time. Cutting close to lunch rush.”

“Gotcha. I’ll hold you to that.” With one hand, I pick up my coffee and I answer with his signature handshake of cuffing elbows then slide using my other. 

************

The lower right-hand corner of my laptop says at least two hours have passed. 

Listening to Leah’s symphonic metal edge to maintain concentration has been for nothing so far. Reviewing notes and skimming PDFs from the UConn’s academic archives have just brought me in circles or to dead ends. Again. 

I take a minute from the screen to rub my eyes. Once the phosphenes disappear, the strain subsides too. 

As my sight refocuses, I assess the cafe. My line of vision links with a man’s for a second. The brief eye contact causes a double-take from me. 

His expression crosses between unreadable and indifferent.

Immediately, I assume he’s zoning out so I just look away. 

Then just to check, I glance back.  

This time I know he’s looking in my direction because he smiles directly at me. The man in question isn’t leering or trying to engage per say, I believe. Yet strangely his vibe feels like a brief hello from a friend passing by. 

With no recollection, I briefly reciprocate and get back to my research. Taking a lazy approach, I go on Wikipedia and type in Matter of France in the search box. At the extended webpage, I scroll to the bottom to the notes and external links sections. I copy the name and title of the references that jump out at me. In a new browser, I head into the JSTOR database to paste the source. Hopefully, a new link will lead to something other than a labyrinth.

************

The man who smiled at me is no longer at his table. Inspecting the area, I notice the stranger talking to Shaun. For a brief moment, they exchange words as he froths a to-go cup. He hands it to the man, then they cuff elbows and slide. 

Weird. Shaun only does that with his friends. He and I have completely different circles of friends so it would be rare for us to have a friend in common. 

He eases toward the door in a leather jacket, faded jeans and chucks. Some light pours onto him, reflecting on a square pendant with an obsidian background and a golden eagle at its center.

I tilt my chin in brief contemplation. Interesting piece. At first glance, it appears Roman as the eagle was the insignia but the singular design leans more towards Greek origin. It looks upward with its wings pointed downward so it’s possibly Visigoth or Ostro. Their military wore this as a badge of honor so he must be in some kind of brotherhood or something, I’m assuming. 

Cool. 

Plus, he’s kind of cute in a scruffy, lazy-metro kind-of-way. 

Smiley Man is out the door so my attention retracks back to the chapter of Peter Jeffrey’s dissection on the Matter of Rome. Like a horse, I sputter out a breath before downing the rest of my coffee. 

The headache decides to return. I forgot my water so I twist back to retrieve the gel caps.

************

Hour number four just came into effect. For the last two, undergrads slowly infiltrate tables, meaning that’s my cue to exit. I do the last stretch of many already done today then collect my things. 

Shaun is doing his usual routine of post-rush cleaning. He’s refilling a syrup bottle, when I ask, “Hey, who’s that guy you were talking to earlier?”

Without turning away from his task, he replies, “You’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

“You know, yay-high, beard, leather jacket. Wearing some kind of long necklace. Basically a shorter version of you.”

“Oh, you mean Mike? He’s a buddy of mine.” Shaun begins maneuvering pastry displays to wipe down the counter. “He’s a good dude. Why?”

“Just wondering.” I hesitate. “He kind of…looked at me funny.”

“Funny, how?” His voice is neutral but I definitely have his attention. 

“I don’t know. Like he didn’t do anything weird but just…smile at me. As if he knew me or something.” 

“Oh.” I couldn’t tell if Shaun seems relieved or disappointed. “Well, maybe you’ve seen him here before. He’s a regular here when he’s not traveling for work.”

I shake my head, confused. “No, I’d think I would remember him. What does he do?”

“He’s a resident archaeologist at NYU.”

“Oh. So, why’s he here in Hartford?” 

“He pops in to catch up with me.” Shaun shrugs his shoulders. “We went to school together. Mike’s family is here too. Could be either or all the above.” 

“So, you met him at UConn. Okay.” My curiosity grows. “How old is he?”

His lips curve. “Same as me, thirty. Viv, why don’t you just give me permission to throw your number his way so you can continue this interrogation with him?” 

My nose scrunches in mild annoyance. “I’m not interested in him, Shaun. I’m just curious why someone would look at me like that when we’ve never met. It irked me a little, alright?”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” 

I shift to the side so a girl with a braid and beanie can order. “Listen, it’s getting crowded so I’ll see ya later. We still on for the gym Monday?”

“Duh. I’ve never missed leg day in my life.” He looks at me with furrowed scrutiny. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

I turn my head to give him a pointed expression. “Yes, I’m okay, Shaun.” I proceed to the door, rummaging for my headphones in my tote pocket. 

“Really, ‘cause you didn’t bid farewell properly,” he teases. 

He manages to get one corner of my lips to perk up as I exaggerate a breath. 

I backstep to cuff-and-slide his hand and arm with mine. “Bye.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a shit Boston accent? Why do you enunciate your R’s?”

“Goodbye, Shaun.” Hefting my satchel onto my shoulder, I head home.

Chapter One

Hard Revelations 

22 December 469

Cadabyrig, Logres 

War. We are going to war. 

“Virago, sit. Take your new place in the circle.”

I’m fourth rank. I’m not supposed to be in the circle.

You are now by unanimous vote. You have been promoted to third rank where Knox once stood as. His words deafen my ears from hearing the sounds of quickening feet. However, they draw me to the floor as the vibrations come closer. 

Cal laps up shriveled pieces of lettuce with his tongue and nabs at a thin carrot. Before he snatches a slab of meat, there sits Liusaidh on her knees and slides it back onto the plate out of his reach. She makes a scoop with her long, thin fingers. 

I’ve dropped my dinner. 

Where did she come from?

“Virago, please. The rotation call will sound soon and we must solidify some strategies for the campaign.” I need all the expertise I have, he had said.

Campaign. We are going on campaign.  

“Don’t just stand here. Get over there, you fool,” Liusaidh whispers at my feet, shoving the wolf’s muzzle from sneaking any more food scraps. One of her hands cuffs my heel, urging me forward.

My stomach is in knots, yet I maneuver around the stable girl and the eager wolf. These men watch my every move. I can feel their stares as I circle this throne arrangement towards the quadrant closer to Riothamus. Between Blair and the open seat, I slip in and sit on the pelt. Cool shivers rush down my back, despite the warmth underneath me and the fire in the center. My fingers clasp the edges of the armrests while I try to keep my breathing even. 

Appeased, Riothamus resumes, “Now, as I said, we will arrive at Danabyrig just as winter ends. We will then assemble in a fortnight or later depending on the severity Ambrosius discloses. At least two enemy tribes have aligned and attacked our ally in Deira. Their neighbors, the Brigantes, occupying Derventio have yet to be invaded. Ambrosius received a warning from them that Saxonii will come back for more when spring begins. For the last week, the Parisii have been replenishing what is left of their final harvest. 

“There are two forts once occupied by the Empire that we will use. If not at Derventio as a whole army, we will also set up base camp at Eboracum. It has been some time since it was active, yet it will provide shelter and protection for our soldiers.

“As most of you are aware, no high ranks will proceed into battle. All will execute my orders and keep the higher ground. Only dire circumstances will permit any of you to leave your intended positions.”

Though I focus on Riothamus, his assertive, stately voice turns indelible. He might as well have marbles in his mouth. The tribal name-drops and latinized locations are all gibberish to me, none that I instantly recognize other than Eboracum. That will be modern day York or Yorkshire. 

The rest of his strategy excerpt is too much to dissect, even as he begins to list off our initial duties. Words like rank, post, and northside jump at me as if in emphasis. Internalization dueling against inner serenity will do that. 

Likely, he will reiterate my orders when we arrive to Ambrosius’s neck of the woods.

My pupils are like a pencil, tracing his profile. Shading every detail, every line, and every dip and angle, of his formidable disposition. I zero in on his mouth, when he pauses to lick them.

They might not be blood brothers, but they sure have a distinct likeness when put side by side.

Oh, God, Ambrosius. What am I supposed to say to him? On Samhain, we made no promises but the incentive was there. Yet so much has happened in mere weeks. 

Hell, in a matter of seconds. 

I veer to the hearth, but listen with sincerity to my almost lover. My sovereign, I amend while trying to clear my head.  

“However, like previous campaigns, one must stay behind to stand as Regent.”

“Protector.” The presumably corrected word for regent comes from unassuming, and visibly dismal, Torryn. 

“Yes, protector.” How Riothamus says that word comes off wistful, but more tiresome. But what startles me is his usual stolidity in place while his fingers drum on the armrest. It almost feels like a drum roll. A bit prophetic, I muse morbidly. “Torryn will stand in my place here while we are gone.” 

My gaze whips to the reserved face of my superior. Next to me, with his chin propped by a fist, Torryn stares unwaveringly at the lively flames. I catch the active veteran’s other hand clench so intensely that, the longer I stare, it shakes. 

“In my name, he will oversee all my responsibilities, be it disputes, distribution of supplies, the law and all. He knows it all as much as I do. Torryn will ascertain that Cadabyrig remains strong, prosperous, and protected. No one will dare touch this fortress and the territories bound to it.”

Wait, this is good. That means he will stay here with Kenna. A little subdued for a temporary substitute, but Torryn would be the best choice. Sone is too headstrong and restless as Theoden is too much of a hothead and partial to severity. Neither have a neutral mind or a solid conscience to reign fairly over others. 

Speaking of others, the other ranks’ faces either show solemn indifference or sturdy resolution. It’s frightening how easily they succumb to the near future. 

Unless they’ve been given more time to digest. 

My examination flicks back to Sone through the corner of my eye and we instantly link.  

Sone looks at me as if I were a stranger and a crack forms in my heart. Why didn’t he warn me of this? How long has this decision been debated over? No lies, no secrets, we promised each other, and yet here we are to discuss our parts to play in this sick game of blood and battle. 

Third Rank of Special Forces, I acknowledge with a gulp.  

Knowing Sone, I can forgive him for choosing his sovereign over me in this covert decision. Even more so with Riothamus. Such an underhanded action is expected from the warlord. It’s not the first time he has sprung up a new course of action and then cornered me to follow orders. He saw what I could do and wanted to use it for the sake of his soldiers and his people. 

Yet a surge of betrayal presses into the aortic crack and creates a gaping hole. To feel hurt, by the one man I anticipate to do such a thing, makes this whole situation exponentially worse. This is by far the worst thing he has ever done to me.

And I know why he’s done this: to make sure I’m within reach. I won’t be some ominous soldier in special forces. Delegating half of the branch will ensure my safety as much as access to his bed. 

How could he be so impulsive with this decision? He’s overestimating the results of my methods. His confidence in me is too early to call. The initiates have a fighting chance, yes, but I’ve no idea what Saxon tactics entail and my men have no field experience. Well, that I know of. Two additional months isn’t enough to dive into the rigorous upheavals of war. 

Sire has plans for you. Sone’s words rise from the abyss of my memory. He said that with such absolution on the day of acknowledgements. The day I was officially introduced as a fourth rank. I knew my position would be short-lived once the time to fight would come. I’d take orders under special forces, being a faceless soldier and assist as a healer. But never did I anticipate such an escalated series of events. 

“…each ally will extract a portion of their own soldiers to replenish any onslaught. It was confirmed by messenger this morning. As for Gwynedd, she will return from her lands with whatever reinforcements her brother can spare upon departure.” 

My eyes flash back to Riothamus. 

What did he say? Gwynedd is coming with us? 

If he expects me to converse strategies with his wife while being his lover, he has surely lost his mind. She could literally have me killed, if not by her own hand, before we reach Danabyrig. He’d reassure that she wouldn’t touch me but somehow I doubt that.

No, I can’t accept this. I won’t do it. 

I will not risk conflict amongst ourselves if I’m to be responsible for the lives, or deaths, of a thousand souls, if not more. 

It’s one or the other: my duty or him. 

The legions must come first. So unless he rescinds the promotion, we can’t be together. 

My heart drops into my stomach again, exacerbating the knots. 

It’s too much. It’s incredibly unfair. I’m by far the youngest and most inexperienced. Observation alone confirms that. With each scar and line on every rank, they showcase their exposure and exploits. Age is superficial for these skilled killers.

Along with them, Riothamus has had years to adjust, but I haven’t been exposed to the fatalities of war. Whatever the number of conflicts he endured, he had no choice but to suck it up and develop a thick skin, while in the process of developing an even thicker skull. His intent is that I follow the same course.

My gaze shifts to the wooden beamed ceiling. Now would be the time for a sign, I pray to the big man above. At this point, it couldn’t hurt to reach into the unknown. 

This whole existential escapade is one giant leap of blind faith. 

“If nothing further needs to be addressed, then you are all dismissed for dinner.”

One by one, they extract themselves from their designated seats, not waiting a moment longer to leave the intense atmosphere for the comforts of a warm meal and full belly. I don’t blame them. The room reeks of foreseen sorrow and carnage.  

Sone is the last to leave, lingering at the door frame. He frowns at me remaining in my new seat of power. Rather than reassure him, I look away. I don’t have the patience to deal with him right now. An interrogation will be scheduled for another time. 

“Sone, leave us. Please.” 

His footsteps are heavy but glacial. Riothamus doesn’t speak right away. He’s waiting for Sone to be completely out of earshot. I don’t know why. He’s the one who wants everyone to know we’re together. Well, once I say yes. My decision was supposed to be a foregone conclusion. Not anymore.

“Will you ease my worries and take the seat beside me?” Without waiting for a word or action, Riothamus takes Blair’s seat. Leaning over the armrest, his breath brushes my face. “Give me your answer?” He draws closer, each syllable becoming a scorching wave like the flames at our feet.

Eyes fluttered shut, I ask evenly, “When was it decided that I take Knox’s place?”

A few centimeters from my neck, he halts. His cheek, even the edge of his beard, grazes my jawline. It’s cold. “Moments before your arrival.”

“You didn’t think to consider my input on this decision? Don’t I get a say in this?”

He pulls back only to closely examine me. Looking in my peripheral proves that. “The decision wasn’t solely mine.” He’s telling the truth. “You know the terms of this circle.” 

“Terms that apparently don’t apply to me,” I state with a small voice. “Otherwise, you would have summoned me earlier.” His masculine scent fleetingly distracts my anxiety. Frosty air worms through pine and juniper. It hadn’t been long since he came in from the cold, I reckon. Nor had my promotion been a lengthy debate. “I need to get my dinner and think this over.”

Before I can stand, he cuffs my forearm. I neither react nor meet his eye. There is no urgency or panic in his touch or his voice. “Come to my quarters. Just before the retirement call. We shall have absolute privacy. I expect your answer then.”

Same to you, I declare inwardly. 

When I don’t vocalize this, he gently squeezes my arm. “Fine. We can talk then.” His hold slides up to my wrist and over my limp hand. Drone-like, I say, “You need to let go. I dropped my rations, remember?” 

His answer is lifting my fingers and rubbing his lips over my knuckles. An involuntary shudder glides down the left side of my body. “Look at me, Vivienne.”

I swallow, but turn my chin to him. He scans my face then swoops in for a kiss, using his other hand to hold me in place. As if to persuade me, to remind me of our bond, he urges my mouth open and loves every inch inside with his tongue. Mine instinctively strokes his, and when our lips slide over each other, a whimper slips out of me. The tip of his thumb brushes my pulse. 

Easily coaxed, he knows the effect he has on me. It didn’t take much time in his company to figure that out. My face may have given away my misgivings, possibly my decision.

All the same, I can taste his desperation as much as his desire. It nearly has me clinging to him, ready to climb into his lap. Riothamus forcibly breaks the kiss before I give in. Unsteadily, he says, “Go then. I will see you later tonight. I will make you understand then.”

I already understand your reasons. I just won’t accept them when we speak.

As I rise from my stone throne, he keeps us connected through our fingers. Like getting out of a warm bed on a frigid morning, I pull away by sheer willpower. He must not see how stirred I am. He will do whatever it takes to convince me, to keep me. The mission to do so has already begun. 

Without looking back, I maneuver out of the circle and out of sight. By hearing his claws scraping the floor, I know Cal follows loyally behind. 

Within seconds, the wolf leads me back to the short queue of soldiers waiting to retrieve their final daily rations. He looms around the room with his tail swaying, searching for fallen scraps, while I’m in line. Whether or not Liusaidh conserved my food through the five-second rule, I need to eat something. Even though meager sustenance is the last thing I want.

Not much time passes before the soldier in front of us accepts his dinner with vocal gratitude and vanishes into the second room. Cal immediately comes to heel. We’re next and whatever gaily reply Willa has in mind is shut down by her concerned lour. “Virago, is everything well with you?”

Coming from her, it’s a bit strange to hear her say my epithet. Then I understand why she addresses me so formally, due to the growing line of soldiers behind us. Lightly, I say, “Yeah, sorry, uh, I dropped my food. Liusaidh took it away.”

“She likely gave it to the cats. Not to worry. Let me just resupply the stew pot. I shall return.”

I nod, not that she sees it. She disappears around the corner of the cookhouse holding a bulbous pot by its handle.

I should have passed on the stew. She wouldn’t have left me with my thoughts, inadvertently reminiscing the sensations that washed over me only moments ago. His touch, his skin, his lips, his every mannerism. His inferred reasons for the impulsive intimate exchange. 

Third Rank. Special Forces. Leader of a thousand soldiers.

Too many factors wager in my mind. No matter what, we both lose. One will resent the other. Either I be with him or fight under him but not both. It’s impossible. The pending rejection will make him hate me, perhaps have me lose any chance for coming together, down the long run. But he will understand. Begrudgingly so, once he reigns in his temper, that is. He is a sensible and compassionate man, I know that much. 

Now it hurts to swallow as if the walls of my esophagus are lined with sandpaper.  

Oh boy, there’s no way I’m going back there to eat. Riothamus will watch me, searching for any sign of my decision. Expectations will be met and desires will be denied. Again. 

It’s become an incessant pattern between us. One that is unintentionally cruel. 

What is worse? The frightened faces of fallen men? Or the despair of an untouchable yet exceptional one? His value is singular and partial to me which solidifies my decision. 

The wolf’s wet nose pokes at my hand but I ignore his demand for attention. 

The twisting and churning in my gut rises into my chest then in my throat. I clamp a hand over my mouth. 

I’m going to be sick. 

“Virago, where are you going?” Willa’s voice carries far alongside the line of curious eyes. 

Straight for the hall’s exit, I sprint around incoming centurions and leap sideways into the winter night.

Around the corner, I lean against the wall, with a hand bracketed over my head, and wretch the entire contents of my stomach. Not much is accounted for which enhances the gagging. Cal whines as some bile manages to heave out of me. 

Blindly, I outstretch for him as I drop to my knees. My hand makes contact with his fur and feels him lie down with his ribs against my calf. 

Abruptly, I feel like I’m suffocating, clawing apart my fur collar and airing out my neck.

“Vivienne, are you well?” I should have known Sone would keep an eye on me.

“I’m fine,” I rasp out, then expel a throaty cough. 

“No, you’re not. Come on. Let’s head back inside. You need some food and drink.”

I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “Did you follow me?”

“I stayed behind to see how you were, yes. Then I saw you run out of the hall.” The Scots-Gaelic accent projects to my ear. Through bleary slits, I see he’s on his hunches. “What happened?”

“What does it look like?” I croak smartly. “I just vomited.” 

“No, why did you stay behind with Sire? What happened to make you ill?” Though he speaks gently, it sets me off.

Feebly, I inch away and glare at him. “None of your business. None of you said anything about my new position, no explanation whatsoever, so I owe you nothing in return.” It seems all my strength spewed out of me too, not just my lunch. “You kept this from me. For how long, Sone? Sire has plans for you, you said. How long were you all debating about my place here, huh?” My voice cracks even when I squall. “Were any of my decisions even mine? Or did you all just agree behind wandering eyes?”

“Lower your voice, soldier,” he commands lowly. 

Though I obey, my Latinized cathartic rant doesn’t falter. “Don’t you dare try to pull rank on me, Sone. Not after what just happened back there. I deserve to speak my peace.” Cal rises, so I displace some weight on his back to stand. He shields my legs with his long body. “You’re supposed to be my friend. To prepare me–warn me–for this sort of thing.”

“And whatever for?” Sone straightens too, cutting me to the quick. “So you can argue your way out of it? You and I both know no one else can take Knox’s place. You are the most suitable choice. Your decision means nothing.”

“But my decisions on the battlefield do? When I decide which legions charge and die, and the others that stay put to live another day?” I fire back. “Are you insane?”

Confusion pushes through the scowl on his face. 

Right, they’ve no idea what insanity means. “Perdidisti sensum tuum?” Have you lost your senses?

The scowl deepens when he has us nose to nose. “You will follow Sire’s every order and tactic, then authorize or fall back your legions,” he replies evenly. “You will come to terms with his decision. You took an oath to him.”

“Without much of a choice.” 

“You were given his protection so you don’t get one.”

“Bullshit,” I hiss. “I saved his son’s life. That is a debt. I saved your life so you owe me too.” A dose of hurt flashes through his green-to-black gaze, distorting his intimidating disposition. “You don’t need to repay me by saving mine. I want an explanation. Some answers.”

“I can’t,” he stresses through clenched teeth. His eyelid twitches then smoothes a hand over his features. As he returns to his full height, the fingers shake from repressed anger. I know the feeling all too well. “Nor will I. Your demands haven’t changed and will remain unknown until Sire decrees otherwise.” 

My sight glazes. “What did you say?” 

Sone neglects the hollow question. “Until we leave for Danabyrig, you answer to me, Virago. You have gone too far so stand down. Now.”

Though hardly moving, my lips hum from the vibrations of my tongue. They stutter the frosty smoke of my breath. “So, you have been keeping secrets from me. Just not yours. Who else knows about my origins, Sone? My past with Riothamus, hm? Willa, Kenna? Fuck, does his wife know? Gwynedd?” High over his head, the torch illuminates the surprised look. “Oh, yeah, I know all about Gwynedd, no thanks to you.” 

Cal whines again then gurgles under my palm. I clasp his snout then rub his cheek.

“So…everyone knows but me? The one who deserves to know. The only one.”

“Vivienne,” he starts.

“No, I need to be alone right now. Because unless the next thing you wish to say is an explanation, I don’t want to hear it. And the last thing I want is to sit across from you. From anyone in there.” Just as he closes in, I say on a choked plea, “Please. Don’t follow me. Leave me be. Please.” 

When I turn away, I discover we have an audience. The few onlookers watch without bothering to hide their interest until I throw a menacing stare. They jolt and avert my face, returning to their own business. 

I scratch my philtrum then choppily trudge away from Sone and the long hall. The more my anger brews, the faster my heart races. I must abort before it bursts out of my chest.

“Vivienne.”

Yet against my better judgment, I stop with my back to him.

“I’m sorry.”

My vision turns glassy so I try clearing them as my throat constricts. “Me too.”

Adrenaline kicks in, driving me from a sturdy tread to a thumping run and the wolf follows suit, sprinting beside me. Wide-eyed residents are no more than foggy apparitions as we dash past them. After hearing that verbal slip, nothing can touch me at this rate. Not fear, not pain, not heartache, nothing. But tears are master escape artists. Emotion may be stalled but its bodily effects will run their course without delay. 

And here I was, enduring the hypocrisy of my secret as it eats at me like a parasite. It’s partially my fault, I suppose. Kenna said that my eyes say more than my mouth reveals. I provided no information to my comrades–well, the kind that they would believe–so they excluded me. She was right about another thing: they still think of me as an outsider. None of the ranks trust me, plain and simple. They utilize me, but they don’t rely on me unless Riothamus tells them to. I have no proof of this assumption yet it’s evident in their idiosyncratic natures. 

Fletcher is a jovial soul but has never been explicit in conversation other than about cataphract training. 

Illeron is meticulous and encouraging, even kind, but has yet to share anything personal about himself. He said if I wanted a confidant–another friend–all I had to do was reach out for which I’ve attempted only to fail.

Calculable Calder is patently pragmatic with informative disclosure, depending on the questions, but he’s a good egg.

Blair keeps to himself, not just with me but with everyone else, preferring the company of his brother during meals. 

Like the Tatum brethren, I’ve yet to see Kellan and Blathair when they weren’t practically glued to the hip. Or weren’t keeping a distant eye on me. But I expected their hovering suspicion to last longer. Their surveillance is likely still active. 

Torryn is…well, Torryn. 

And forget the whole of the infantry branch. I’ve neither the reason nor incentive to speak to any of them. They haven’t exactly been the most cordial bunch of individuals towards me. That partly could have been my fault too. 

First impressions are pivotal here. They gave me opportunity and security but took away control and identity all the same. 

Is my friendship with Sone even real? Or was he instructed to get close for answers, using our savior bond like a fish on a hook? What about Kenna? How much does she know? She’s the one other person who I spend a great deal of time with; someone I thought I could trust. Could she have been supplying Riothamus information all this time too? The morning after my beating, her timing had been impeccable just when he was about to give in. 

They live in a world where loyalty is above everything and they’re willing to die for it.

However many circuits, be it one or five around the fortress, I have no idea. Cal keeps up the whole way, feeling his streamline body close. Like a sputtering engine, my breath chugs out in white smoke and the lactic acid elevates high as oxygen depletes. Tingling spurts across my face like sprays from a waterfall. 

A heavy exhale snuffs out of my nose and the destination unveils. Everything turns fuzzy as I reach the stables, forcing me to slow down. A dry coughing attack has me bend over with hands on my knees. 

I stagger to the first post that meets the water tray’s edge and dive my face into the rectangular pool, managing a few slurps of water. The icy liquid shocks and sedates me in seconds, forcing me to jerk back up and gasp. While I catch my breath, I wipe my eyes, along with the few hair strands sticking to my cheeks and the droplets at my chin.

Another cough scats through before I come face to face with a sandy mare. Her response to my presence is quirked ears and her jaw rotates hay to the other cheek. “Hey, Laelia,” I mutter with recognition. 

At the other end, Pro’s open stall appears empty. He’s probably sleeping. No one takes him out at this time nor is anyone allowed to take him, period. If I find it empty, it would be because Riothamus borrowed him and he couldn’t have in the last five minutes. Though he has yet to use my horse. He has the massive black Shire in the enclosed stall parallel to Pro. 

As predicted, there he lies in the hay with a fur blanket over his grooved back, reclining against the bales. Like an alert dog curled in front of the fireplace, my horse raises his head at me with his bulging marble eyes and gently snorts, even adjusting his position to sit up.

Drawing back from the barrier, I circle around his side knowing that he’s carefully observing my every move. When I slump against the pelt covering his round, hot belly, English slips out of me. “Though I appreciate the gesture, don’t move on my account. Go back to sleep.” I stroke his strong neck, reassuring him to set his long head back down. He does so with a lengthy sigh. I leave him be after an affectionate pat on his shoulder then prop up my knees to support the weight of my forehead on my bracketed arms. 

Stealthy Cal licks my ear then slides down beside us, intentionally connecting our bodily warmth. His muzzle rests on my foot. Woman, canine, and equine forge together in one narrow stall.  

The self-demand for woeful sobs has left with the adrenaline leap. All that is manageable is an ache behind closed sockets with two more tears. The strain in my throat and the tightness in my belly won’t subside. However, the silence I crave doesn’t last when booted feet crunch toward us. 

Not bothering to look up, I grumble, “I said not to follow me. Do I have to escape the fortress to get a little privacy?”

“If it’s privacy you wish, I’ll oblige you.” Taking a peek at the half-calf boots is for the sake of validating the presence of another. The voice is distinctly recognizable and most unexpected: Coinneach. It excites Cal, scrambling to greet. “But if you are thinking of leaving, ma’am, I shall be forced to come after you before Sire does. Better me than him, you know.”

In this case, I’d have to agree. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Indeed.” Manly good humor and a wolfish whine are heard. The animal has him nearly tip over from shoving front paws first. 

“Cal, down. You can give him your love while on all fours.” He settles some, his affection with the same enthusiasm. I rub the corner of my eye while avoiding Coinneach’s. Despite my frigid cheeks, blotches of heat flare over my face. “I wasn’t serious about leaving. It’s just that there aren’t many places to go where I can be alone to think. Zath is still in our quarters so I can’t go there for a while.” 

Coinneach lowers to his hunches, appeasing the animal with pets and scratches. “You can order him to go. You have that authority.” Now, he’s just yanking my chain but oddly it calms me. 

Though giving his knees an acknowledging look, I counter back, “He lives there too. I won’t force him out just because I can.”  

“Selfless and humble you are, ma’am. Well, you picked a good place. Horses make the best company. Silent company, that is.” With a final stroke over the wolf’s crown, he stands. “I’ll leave you then, Virago.”

“No. No, it’s okay. You were already here. I won’t make you go, unless you want to. I’m assuming you haven’t gotten your dinner yet.”

“No, but I can wait a little longer. Hoards of hungry men are crowding the cookhouse at this time, I suppose. Willa will have some scrap for me, I’m sure.” He uses the grain of the stall to slide down to the dry hay floor and mirrors my sitting position. “Something troubles you, then.”

“Many things trouble me but I manage them everyday. It’s something else entirely that terrifies me. You’re going to find out eventually so I should just tell you.” What is worthy of a direct answer is a direct gaze. There is steady preparation in his handsome face. “We’re going to war. At the end of winter, we head for Danabyrig to meet with additional forces.”

Lounged against the post, Coinneach is slack and appears deceptively at ease. “It was bound to come. It’s been at least four springs since the last one.” Naturally, he would anticipate such an event. How many has he seen and survived exactly?

The thought that he, or anyone that dwells within these walls for that matter, witnessed and partook in such gruesome acts of humanity has my eye twitch with imaginable horror. To add another layer, I think on it again and that stroke of terror hits. The jolt that has one shaking, alert, and paranoid. A sudden need for the light in pitch blackness or the demand for a weapon or camouflage if not an abled protector. For however long you may know someone, there are no limits to what one is capable of when put into such a position. 

No time for logic or mercy, and especially none for remorse. 

With more on the tip of my tongue, I shudder with fixation on him. “Yes, I guess so. Kellan briefly mentioned it the other night. In the east.”

“Yes. It wasn’t a lengthy event, but it was far from uneventful. We lost several legions as did the enemy but they also lost a leader. We didn’t, praise be to God. There were two, you see. Brothers, I believe, that were from the mainland. Victory was never declared that I know of.” The summarized outcome is heard but barely retained. “What is it? There’s more?”

By his cautious tone, I haven’t masked the mindless despair. I’ve driven a hole through him, seeing my former almost-lover as nothing more than a lively, upright effigy. “The day we officially march, I will no longer serve under Sone, but rather as third rank of special forces next to Blair. I already knew I wouldn’t stay behind with the other fourth ranks, but I had no inkling that Riothamus would put me in this position.”

“Put you? Aren’t you pleased?” There is surprise, possibly excitement. I’d prefer a reaction more pessimistic or deprecating, so that I’m not the only one who wrestles with disagreement.

“No,” I state thickly, “far from it. I’m not ready for this, Coinneach. I barely manage sixty novice cadets and he wants to give me a thousand under my command.”

“Fear not, Sire will direct you and your legions. Besides, it is an honor to receive.”

Fruitless to utter, I petulantly say it anyway. “Then you take it. I don’t want it. You certainly have more field experience than I do.”

“But not the skill set,” he contradicts.

“Forget about skillset. I don’t want this. I’ve already got too much to deal with.”

“Ponder it as a larger purpose. We do not leave until winter’s end, no?”

“No. I-I mean yes we don’t. But that’s not enough time to prepare. This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I stutter at first, then hold off to catch my breath as an instantaneous gust of wind tries to take it. “I was supposed to learn, train, and heal, that’s it. And then those duties extended to Riothamus. To protect him with my talent and skills. That takes priority over anything else. Nothing was said about participating in war, watching soldiers march to their death from the high ground.”

That faint, fuzzy feeling returns, having fatigue drop my face in my hands. No headache compares to the dread scoring through my bones. To knead it away from my brow bone and sockets seems superfluous.  

“Surely, you have anticipated that when you were assigned to Fletcher, you would be trained for future battles?” 

Yes, I’m not that dense or naive, I almost snap at him. The eye roll is inevitable, however. “Well, of course, I mean, I knew the reason behind my assignment. But the outcome behind it wasn’t meant to happen so soon.” Without meaning to jump at his throat, I reiterate, “That was never the plan–the plan was to learn my purpose and figure out why I’m here.”

“Aren’t they the same?” 

“No,” I say with a resigned huff. Pro’s breathing is a bit heavier against my buttocks. In my peripheral, he’s woken up but stays lying down. He senses my ill-ease so I reassure with a series of one-way, steady strokes down his neck, following the stiff direction of his short hair. “I’ve found my purpose but not the reason behind my arrival here in Logres.”

“Your memories,” he links with a nod. Meager sympathy etches around his features. “They still have not returned.”

“No, not many of them.” No is becoming an incessant response in this life, or whatever the label for this experience may be, especially since most aren’t used to saying it. With one raised brow, I mentally recap, or hearing it like some warlord I’ve inexplicably entangled myself to. 

Coinneach licks his lip, more out of confusion from the look of him than by the moisture-absorbent cold. “So, forgive me if I don’t comprehend: if you believe your purpose is not to lead, then what does it have to do with Sire? Do you know of his fate?”

Be it superstition or shared intuition, I won’t drag another person into my afflictions from that night. Prophecy has no probability and more than one was thrown at me, even literally with the apple skin over my head. I believe what’s right in front of me is real; that is all I’m certain of. “No more than I know of mine.” Using his forehead as a focal point, I fib, “I only mean that he is the priority to protect. Without him, who knows what would become of us, this fortress, his territories, his allies, and the rest. I can’t dedicate myself to his safety if I’m preoccupied with a thousand others. No offense, but he is worth a thousand of us.”

If you believe in it—if there is some truth to it—I believe that all prophecy tells us is how to take charge of, if not change, your elusive future. The foreseer provides a plausible outcome to ensure you either sanction or alter it. 

Have I already done that? Altering this point in time by my very presence alone?

“I won’t argue with that. All the soldiers here have made peace with their worth.” Like any friend would, he softens the tension with a fraternal pat on my hand and a small humorous sound. “But rest assured that Sire is quite capable of taking care of his own hide. You may be faster but he’s stronger and more cunning.”

“For now. You forget that nothing lasts forever and I’m a healer. I’ve treated him a few times already.”

“And?”

There’s no sense in worrying him or anyone else under his command. Plus, Riothamus would likely be pissed if I shared any shortcomings he’s had, regardless of how minor they were or relevant to his longevity. Dangling over my knee, I wave a dismissive hand. “He’ll reach full recovery. Just customary injuries that all you soldiers get from time to time.”

That appears to satiate any anxiety. 

“It’s not uncommon to doubt yourself, Vivienne. I may be a humble soldier, but in the time that I have been one, I’ve concluded that very few can provide that sort of leadership and you are one of them. Sire chose well, though you may disagree.”

“Your assessment of me is based on training recruits. I know nothing about tactics and strategy.” 

“You don’t have to. That’s why we have our superiors, our second ranks, to decide how and when to act.” His look poses begrudging recognition. “And Rhys, Dagen, and the mercenaries. They may be of a simple nature, but they’ve encountered enough in the empire to know what conquers and what fails. You will merely become familiar with each standard of attack as any soldier would.” Okay, that does take some of the pressure off. “Who will stay behind in Sire’s place?”

“Torryn,” I disclose pensively. “But by the look on his face, he was far from happy and will try to sway Riothamus so keep that information to yourself.”

“I promise.” He places a hand over his heart. “There’s something else. What is it, Vivienne?”

Damn, this transparent face.

Distorted, I shove a hand over my face to wipe it away, like dust off a mantle. “You don’t have to listen to me complain, you know. We could have sat here in privacy, me here and you wherever you were before I came over. My worries aren’t your problem. How we made amends before doesn’t entitle me to your sympathetic ear.”

“I may have wanted your body but I wanted your company as well. I still do.” Which part? “Friends confide in one another. And it seemed with the way you charged across the way faster than any horse here, I believed you could use one. You appeared as if you were running towards something, rather than away.”

“I suppose I was. I just have no idea what it was. Running clears my head.” Or at least distracts me from stress. 

“You tire faster in the cold.”

“I am aware.” I still don’t trust you, Coinneach. 

Propped by his boot heel, his foot absently taps the air. “I can only imagine how trying your duties may be, Vivienne. How do you sleep?”

“Very well to my surprise. Cal keeps me warm too.”

He straightens one of his legs and props his arm on the remaining bent one. “If there is a night where it isn’t and you prefer other company, don’t hesitate to come to me. I will take away your troubles. Distract you and ease you. And please you.”

So much for wanting just my company. “Coinneach—”

He stops me with a gentle open palm. “It is only an offer, Vivienne. One that will always be open to you and only you. No matter when or where. You are wary and have no lover.”

“How do you know? I could already have one in secret.”

“There is no reason to hide such a thing. Unless, you’re ashamed. Or they belong to someone else.”

“You already know that I don’t share.” Yet, I almost broke that declaration lying with another woman’s husband. My eyes shift for a second at that. “As for shame, I would have none for the one who lies in my bed. If he has a good heart and a good head on his shoulders,” I say before a hard swallow, “and unattached, that’s all that counts.” 

“Still as loyal and forthright as ever.” Am I supposed to take this as a sign? To give myself permission to let Riothamus go for good without guilt? It doesn’t make my decision for the upcoming rendezvous any less heartbreaking. 

“Depends on the person. Either I am committed or not at all. I don’t use men for pleasure then set them aside, only to use them again whenever the need comes. You, men, do enough of that as it is. Again, no offense.”

“I cannot be offended when it’s true about most.” He allows a smile, then instantly sobers. “I’m not like the other men, but I acted like a lesser one. I never apologized for undermining you the way I did. I only wanted to help, so I’m sorry.” He softens again, his eyes oddly bright like a cat under moonlight. “I stand by my pledge to you. I’ve only been with one other woman. She was mine and I was hers.” Brina.

“Was your arrangement the same as what you’re offering? I’m assuming you mean Brina.”

“Don’t be coy, Vivienne. You’re too clever to act like such. You know very well I mean Brina.” The words are harsh but his execution is rather saucy even for him. Every time we were together, he always had a sharp edge about him. It was exciting and fresh. A good quality in a decent man.  

“I didn’t want to be presumptuous, that’s all.”

“Yet you still tease me. I’m not the most keen but I’m not stupid either,” he retorts with a smirk. I match it. “But no, our arrangement was not the same. We were devoted to each other. Until I broke it. I wasn’t happy anymore. It was an overreach to believe we wanted the same, simple life. A foolish error on my part. Brina would rather be in your new stead if she had her way. She is adequate at best with a bow but believes a little too highly of herself.” 

Brina with a big head? Shocker. “You’re saying she ruined you from achieving any happiness?”

“Happiness is no more than a miracle in these times.”

“I never anticipated you to be a cynic, Coinneach.” He stares at me blankly. “A naysayer. Rather than hope and pray for better, you would settle? For what you can get?”

“You spoke of incoming war. It is fortuitous. If I had a woman waiting for me only to possibly find that I would never return, I’d rather have no ties. Looking beyond the veil, I wouldn’t want to see her pained and alone. Family accepts and supports the risk of serving under Sire. They have since they settled here. A woman’s love is a risk in itself. Others can do it. My comrades have wives, dedicated lovers, even both.”

Don’t you want a family of your own? I want to ask him, but then that would inadvertently bring expectations I’ve no intention to fulfill. Not with him, anyway.

“You could always bring your woman on campaign. Make some use of her while keeping her close,” I suggest.

“I already contemplated that option. What would happen to her, should I die in battle? Who would protect her?” His voice goes dull, past the point of defeat since he probably already had this argument in his mind. 

“Ever considered teaching her ways to protect herself? She can learn a lot in two months’ time.”

“Only if she had your aptitude.” He inclines his head, a partial bow. “Or she was already a soldier-in-arms.”

Riothamus isn’t the only one who seems to have an answer for everything. More out of cynicism, I note. 

When I cross my legs, Cal slouches until his head falls in my lap. Automatically, my hand lands on his pelt, gently massaging the muscle underneath. 

“You would be content that you have me and I have you but without promise? I bed whoever I want while bedding you whenever I please?” One of my eyes nearly winks when I look at him with comic scrutiny. “You and I are more selfish than that.”

“Ah, but what a pair we would be.”

We would, I agree mutely. 

Yet no way could we work. It would be wrong somehow. “Thank you for your offer, but—”

“I don’t need an answer. You need only come to me and say you want it. And I will give my body to you, whether it be for one visit or countless. No further expectations will tie to it other than that no one will have me but you. Until you say otherwise.”

“Until I…release you? Even when I haven’t made a claim? What if I come to you to talk?” I shrug my shoulders. “Only talk as friends do?”

“Words with me are always promised.”

Uh-uh. Nothing is ever truly one-sided. “What do you want in return? Really? This offer cannot be so selfless.”

“I have my sword, my armor, my family, and my sire. What I don’t have is the comfort of a woman. In my bed. And I choose very carefully.”

Oh boy. “Don’t waste your hopes on me, Coinneach. With my responsibilities, I’m afraid I’m not meant to be a wife or a mother. Make this offer to someone else. You won’t be able to convince me of such expectations. I’m stubborn like that.” Not even your warlord, the most powerful man within a hundred-mile radius, can persuade me. 

Suddenly, I wish I had less willpower, that I could be more vulnerable and foolish, and accept his proposal. But I’m too scared to let down my guard and I’d be too guilt ridden if I lead him on. Too much is at stake for me to open my legs for any man. I won’t hurt Riothamus more than I have to nor will I do the same for Coinneach. 

They both deserve better than the fates they were given. 

“Is there someone else?”

“No.” Not anymore after tonight.

“So, you haven’t considered another? Not any one?”

“Now’s not a good time to consider a lover.” For me, there may never be. 

“That wasn’t a no.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

Coinneach stares down at the thin sheet of snow. Back and forth, he easily sweeps it over the short grass with the arch of his boot. Any precipitation that gathers just slides right off the sturdy leather. “You can have anyone, Vivienne, with your clever tongue and womanly form alone. Your rank and skills make you the most sought after. I won’t lie to you. I’m sure Sone has informed you too. He’s honorable but plainspoken like that.” His foot halts. “Is it him you’re considering?”

Our eyes connect. “No.”

He assesses me for a few seconds before leaning back. “Good. You would be disappointed. He has been claimed by another who is already claimed to someone else.”

Another fucking secret. As I reign in my temper, I mumble, “Sone has a lover? Who’s married?” We are both at fault: I never asked Sone and he never shared.

“It is common knowledge though not discussed. Out of respect.” So, there are those who judge the bedside choices of higher ranks. “I fear I’ve shared too much, Virago. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want you to know.”

“Neither do I.” Secret for secret, I suspect.

Cal perks his ears then lifts his long muzzle in the air.

Corralled beside Pro, the horses whip their majestic heads up towards the far right. 

Crunch. Crunch. Thud. 

“It’s dark. Time to leave the horses to rest. Take your speech elsewhere. This isn’t the hall.” The pinched but fatigued voice belongs to Liusaidh. Her tall, waifish form materializes around the bend, with her signature frown in place. It deepens when it zeroes on me. “Oh, good. Now, I won’t have to search for you. Willa sent me with your rations you left at the cookhouse.” 

The woman reveals my covered plate from under her pelt lined cloak. “Thank you, Liusaidh.”

She says nothing more, but she doesn’t need to. Her glare says it all.

“I better go before she berates me all the way to the hall.” Coinneach rises to his feet and presents his hand to me. “She may be slight but she has quite a bellow. More powerful than any mother.”

A whispered chuckle comes out of me and I high-five his hand away before I stand.

“I’m not hard of hearing, Coinneach.” Despite her volume, her holler holds no hostile merit. She sounds a bit bored in fact.

“Forgive me, Liu,” he calls back, then throws a big grin at her. “You know I only tease my friends.”

She does a once-over of his person before giving a good-natured smile, melting her usual prickly disposition. “Go on now. I do not care what your ranks are. It won’t be long until the retirement call. You will catch your death out here.” 

“If you insist, stable girl.”

Her rebuttal is a slim fist to his chest. He hardly moves an inch. Liusaidh doesn’t need to aim high as she’s almost as tall as him. He has her by two inches at best.

“There’s no need to assault me, Liu. I’m going. To the hall. Right now.” The charm oozes out of his pores, that his demeanor borders on falsity compared to our candid exchange. No better or more genuine, it’s a facade one shows to a little sister or a chastising mother. Nothing too serious or intense. 

Liusaidh must know only this side of him. Must be a nice change of company compared to serving off-duty soldiers in the hall. 

Must also be nice to live in blissful ignorance. In this time, women have a pension for it and I wish I could be that nescient. I would be too occupied with healing, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of my children as we, women, are genetically ingrained to do.

Would it make things easier? Most likely. Would I want that alternative? Probably not. Either way, I wouldn’t be happy. I’m not happy now and I probably never will. 

I need to accept that. The idea of happiness is no more than a myth in this primeval world. You’re too busy trying to stay alive to aim for such an immeasurable state of being.

“I’ll leave you to your meal then, ma’am.” Coinneach dips his chin to me, disclosing a warm glint in his eye, reminding me of what could be. “Until we speak again. Sleep well, Virago.”

A tight lipped smile is all I can muster. “You too.”

He squeezes Liusaidh’s shoulder as he passes. Her eyes follow him until he’s out of plain sight. Perhaps I’m romanticizing things but I sense a source of longing in her aura. In her profile, her twitchy fingers, the tilt of her braided but wily blondish-brown hair. An aura I can identify with but unlikely to act upon. Not without consequence, that is. 

If I can’t have a life—a true, honest one, that is—with Riothamus, then I don’t want to aim for happiness at all. I can’t marry him, have children with him, or live an ordinary life beside him with a simple livelihood. 

I can’t even love him properly. The kind of love he deserves. 

The lump I swallow might as well be a dense stone. 

“That means you too, Virago. You should be in the hall by now.”

I glance at the covered, outstretched meal. “Don’t tell me where to go and what to do. You’re not my mother or my superior. If anything, I tell you what to do if it suits me.” Not that I have the inclination or energy for it. 

She flicks her wrist impatiently, causing the cloth to partly shift. “I’m not one of your soldiers. You’re in my home so leave.”

Enough of this. 

Two steps forward, I grab at the knot of her cloak and yank her to my eye level. “You will not speak to me that way, do you understand? I am a high rank and a person just like you. Be it day or night, active or off-duty, you will show me some respect. That is how it’s returned.”

“You don’t respect me. You don’t know me.”

Her cold, skinny fingers scramble over my fist, while the other holds onto my plate. Her dark-wooded gaze leaps between my face and my hold over her. 

They all talk a big game until they must partake in it. “I know enough that you resent your way of life. And instead of doing something about it, you bitch and whine, and take it out on others. So, why don’t you get out of your own way and get out of mine?” 

Her debilitated struggle is futile, but rather than give her something to cry about, I let her go. She catches herself, still keeping my dinner in hand. Interesting; most would have dropped it by now. “For an outsider, you demand too much and continue to demand more. You have poor Zath to serve you–”

“I never asked for any of that–”

“You work under Priestess,” she continues smoothly without wavering. “You get to fight. And it isn’t enough, is it? You have to take your solitude here in my home.”

“The stables are Pro’s home. Your home is above his.”

If my conscience was replaced by the rush of the kill, I’d snap her like a twig. She would stop buzzing in my ear. Good god, listen to yourself. 

Mentally counting to five, I shut my eyes on a deep exhale before I start over. “I’ve no interest in taking over your home. I wanted solace in a friend and happened to find it here with Pro. You would deny me the comfort of my horse?”

“How much time could you possibly need?” 

“You spend everyday with these creatures, you tell me.”

The snappish stable girl lifts a curious brow. “Now, you ask for my expertise.”

And she accuses me of being entitled, I muse aridly. “Not everything I ask is an order. I’m not your enemy. I have nothing against you. Your attitude is what I have a problem with. With hostility brings more hostility. It’s a fair exchange.”

“Is this how you speak to Sire? It is no wonder you were punished before Samhain.”

And there’s another jab. There is no point in asking. Either she saw me being dragged out of there that night and made assumptions or asked around. “You should see it as a lesson of what could be done to you if you speak to a high rank like that again. Though I regretted it and made amends, I was still reprimanded. No one is spared, not even me.”

Liusaidh’s mouth slacks and a spark of anxiety has her fluttering her dark lashes. 

Renewed with mental fatigue, I sigh heavily. “I have no more fight in me tonight, so provoking me will be a waste on your part.” I take my dinner from her and go around her back to the way I came. “Thanks.”

“How do you do it?” There is a hint of venom in the question but some mystified wonder too. 

Why not? I’ll bite. “Do what?” At least, she shows every side of herself. What I see is what I get.

“Advance. Despite your coarseness and gall, you manage to advance from outsider to high rank. Somehow untouched. Sire is more merciful than I imagined.”

Cal gets nosy at my plate, so I lift it over my head as I look to Liusaidh. “You find it inconceivable that I defeated him without so much as a scratch on me? Where have you been? I’m just as skilled as he is.” Though his exposure and experience do pose some intrigue. “For the most part. Obviously, you weren’t there on the first night of Samhain.”

“No. I was forced to prepare and serve the lot of you.”

Supported by my hand, I set the plate on my shoulder. “You say it as if I made you.”

“Sone gave the order to Willa to give to me. He is your commander, so you might as well have. You’re all the same.” 

“Take it up with him then because we are not all the same.” Cal butts my thigh for which I wave him back. “I was on active duty too. We can’t always get what we want.”

“I would give anything to have your duties,” she admits with a frosty exhale. “They were handed to you and you take them for granted.”

“You know as much about me as I do about you. So stop whining. You want to be like me, do something about it. You should have recruited yourself back in Octobris. Taken the initiative to apprentice a healer, learning about salves, herbs, and wound treatment. Or at least pick up a sword and learn to defend yourself.” 

Wasn’t she listening during the acknowledgments? How can she not know that most started with nothing? Came from nothing? 

“I acquired these posts because of what I had to offer. Riothamus wanted me to train his cadets because he wanted them to fight like me. So, he made me fourth rank. I picked up a bow and discovered I have an eye for accuracy, precision, and speed. Torryn put me in special forces under Fletcher. Those positions were handed to me fairly.” The wolf nudges me again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I slip two fingers under the cloth, unveil a piece of chicken and give it to him. “Here, happy?” He accepts it eagerly then walks away to trail a scent around the corner.

Once I reinsulate my food, I switch back to Liusaidh to find that distinctive look again. The one where they stare as if I’d grown two heads. Oh, I spoke in English. It must sound harsh or frightening, even to the most outlandish speaker.

Whatever. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. “As for apprenticing Kenna, I will give you that one. I didn’t have to do or say a thing. I took advantage of her interest in me and accepted her offer. Wouldn’t you rather learn and work for her than do hard labor?” 

“Took the easier passage, you did.” 

“Doesn’t mean I avoided hard labor altogether. You have no idea what I go through everyday, what my mind and body endure to get through each day, so stop pretending you do. If you’d like to know, all you have to do is ask. Nicely. I’m not a bad person, Liusaidh. But I can be a nasty one when the time comes. I’m a soldier whether we like it or not. And a lethal one at that. That’s another reason why Riothamus placed me among his ranks.”  

“But that’s not why he keeps you closer than the others.”

My eyes flare. “All of his ranks are within close reach. As they’re supposed to be.”

“You more so than others. I’ve seen it.” 

“So, what if I am? I’m a healer too. Sometimes, our high king needs attention and it’d be disrespectful to refuse his summons.” Unless she peeked inside his quarters while he and I groped each other, it’s no better than speculation. “You know, for a while there, others accused me of causing trouble and yet they’re the ones who’d get in my face, threatening and insulting me, telling me what to do. As if they have the right. Liusaidh, I’m warning you right now: I don’t initiate conflict but I do retaliate and for good reason.” 

“You’re hiding something, I know it,” she accuses. “Everyone knows it.”

“Of course, they do. I’m an outsider who knows things that they don’t,” I counter back drily. “You were all outsiders once. And if you were born here, well, good for you. Either way, at least, you all know where you came from. Remember your lives since your first memory. Imagine being an outsider in your own mind, with your senses. It’s quite lonely. Frightening too. To never know what you’re entirely capable of.”

A smidge of guilt wrinkles her flawless, oval features. 

“Do you know what’s worse? Knowing that the few pieces of yourself…are dangerous.”

Her dark eyes turn owlish, then unsteady.

I give her a condescending smile, startling her as if I were about to strike her. “If you’re going to scare someone, spewing accusations, you need to improve on your execution. Surely you can do better than that.” I whistle for the wolf.  At the piercing sound, she startles again when the stealthy beast materializes, speeding right past her. “As long as Riothamus knows everything about me, everyone else can mind their own business.”

Wide eyed, she stands there rigid.

“What? You wanted me to leave, didn’t you? Where I go, Cal does too.” Is she trembling? Following the restrained terror on her face, I see Liusaidh has linked with the wolf’s glowing yellow stare. One caress from me and Cal drops the unspoken challenge. “What, you thought I was going to call him on you? He’s not that tame and I told you I’m not a bad person. But you shouldn’t stare at him like that. He can smell fear as much as a challenge. A challenge is as good as any threat. He doesn’t know the difference.” 

Her response is taking the side hems of her cloak and gathering them around the length of her body. As if that would protect her from his jaws should he choose to attack, or any wild animal, for that argument. 

I can have her put her hand in his mouth another time. Liusaidh is no more than a nuisance. Another pain in the ass in this fortress, but a harmless one and the wolf knows that too.

“Besides, if I was going to hurt you, let alone kill you, I wouldn’t send my wolf to do the dirty work. That is what makes me lethal, stable girl.” I am so full of shit. Taking advantage of a wolf’s survival instinct as a weapon wipes my hands clean of murder. I have self-control; Cal doesn’t. He can’t help protecting his own. “Also, you should know wolves go for the throat, not the legs. And they usually have no interest in hunting people. Unless you give them a reason to.”

She visibly calms down to appear disgruntled. She swings her jaw left and right before saying, “I wondered what else was it you had that others didn’t.”

“I already told you my skills. How many can say they have all those?” 

“Then I realized it once you brought that beast here.” She reveals, “Resourcefulness.”

Huh, that’s one way to look at it; resourcefulness is adjacent to survival. 

“You’re right. Hm, you’re not as much of a loss cause as I thought. There’s still hope for you yet.” Stepping backwards, I assert coolly, “Stop trailing me. The only one allowed to do that is him.” I point my chin to Cal, who follows me attentively. “If you want to know more, make yourself known and just ask. Otherwise, stay away from me. I won’t be good company for the next few days.”

Somewhat dumbfounded, I wonder why is it that I always seem to fall on the receiving end of people’s intensities? All I’ve done is simply exist and obey. For any I’ve afflicted, I declared my remorse and paid my dues. That should be the end of it but apparently that too doesn’t apply to me.

Before Liusaidh can think of another retort or dig, I turn my back and march towards the place that’s the closest to a home I’ll ever get in this world.

My appetite surfaces from the depths of stress, making my stomach cramp with hunger. Out of necessity, I listen to it and will eat in solitude back in my quarters. Zath should be working the second shift in the cookhouse by now.