53 Ashan 717
When he was a boy and all the world was new, Malcolm had played by the sea. He had always respected the power of the ocean, taken by its crashing roars and untamed beauty. Toes lost in the sand and with the sun on his back, time had made him brave, until one day he got his toes wet. Back and forth he had run to and from the sweeping waves, flirting with danger, tempting the water gods. Years passed and having played this game many times, he had become bullheaded, and waded into the tide, belly sucked in as the cold water wrapped around him, exploring the shape of him, familiar, her’s was the touch of a lover. Just as he knew the beaten tracks to the shore and every colour of the shells that littered the sand, so too did the water know him. They tested each other, and the boy who had once harboured such a profound respect for the ocean, dropped his guard, and in the blink of an eye, was taken.
The struggle that had ensued seemed to last a lifetime. Never had he felt so helpless, so alone. He watched the beach grow further and further away, even while the sea thrashed in a bid to throw him back against the sand, hidden undercurrents dragged him, kicking and fighting for his life, out towards the deep blue. Adrenaline and the will to survive had saved his life that day, but as he stumbled, shaking and weak from the arms of the ocean, he feared even the salty foam the clung to his ankles, and hurried up the beach, afraid the water would take him again.
Riding home, Malcolm hadn't trusted any stranger on the road, and like a newborn calf, flinched at the unknown smells, sights and sounds. Determined to escape the clutches of the mountains at his back, he had galloped the horse without rest, the pair of them painted with sweat and dust. Never had he been so happy to see the little house on the hill, and as he walked the familiar drive, the gelding stopped and lowered her head, knees buckled as she shook and bowed to meet the earth. Malcolm dismounted, taking the reins and pulled them over her neck. Home, she had collapsed in the shade of the trees that lined the entrance to the drive, and refused to move another inch.
Leaving the animal to rest, Malcolm continued up the drive, looking back as if he had expected to be followed, his freedom still tentative and new. Beneath the dirty shirt, stained with sweat and blood, the left side of his ribs were black and blue, and the fabric clung to the sticky cuts on his chest. He had been marked, once for every one of Yoreth’s men present, and three times by the man he had raised from a babe, one he refused to call son.
The door to the house was locked, but the bathroom window where the bandits had broken in during the night Malcolm had been taken remained unlatched. He pulled himself in through the window and winced as he got to his feet, his lower left rib giving him hell. The shelves in the bathroom and kitchen were empty, and were it not for the neatly folded washing on the living room table, Malcolm might have believed thieves had been since that night.
He went through the house room to room, and sat down after fetching a drink of water. The sheets still smelled like Elyna, and as he sunk back against his pillow, he felt nauseous and weighed down by his guilt. Malcolm had promised to be around this season, and though the option in the end had been out of his hands, his added betrayal, the night he had spent with the slave woman, played in his mind.
It would have been easy to close his eyes and rest, slip away and sleep until her return, but their missing belongings suggested that may not be anytime soon. Malcolm got to his feet and moved through the living area to the front door. Hopeful, he would head to the barn to see if one of the mares had been left behind, a fresh set of legs to carry him to the city.
