Seed of Scorn

by Aaron-Michael Hall

  “I’ll never tire,” he whispered.

  He kissed her cheek, and then went to the basin, splashing water on his face. He was overwhelmed by their lovemaking. Though he couldn’t become part of her, he considered it no less.

  As Dalia replaced her dress, he fastened his tunic, taking a seat beside her.

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  “Yet another blessing that I don’t deserve, but willingly and graciously accept. Are…are you certain that it’s my heart you wish to share?”

  “Are you reneging on what you’ve said, Lord De Braose?”

  He chuckled. “Never.”

  “There’ll be much talk in the citadel soon,” she said.

  “Let them talk. There’s nothing that could dampen my mood this day.”

  “Nor mine.”

  “Dalia, could you…I mean, would you consider accompanying me to my home for evening meal? My father would be delighted to meet you.”

  “Your father? You’d want him to meet me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve already told him about the beautiful woman who’s stolen my heart.”

  “I’m human, Beilzen, and once spoiled. Your father might not be pleased about the development of our relationship.”

  Beilzen turned her to face him. “Truly? I’d alter nothing if given the opportunity. I’m the one lacking, and you love me in spite of that. My father is Nazilian, but he’s never regarded humans as less. He loves me, he loves my son, and he’ll love you, too. We haven’t merely grown close, Dalia, it’s far beyond that. When I introduce you to Perrin de Braose, I’d like to do so as my pledged or promised, either way you’d want to refer to our betrothal.”

  “Promised?”

  “If you feel me worthy, yes. It’s difficult, I know. I’m a man, and yet I’m not. Even with what I lack, I promise to do everything within my power to ensure your happiness.” He held her hands, not turning from her eyes. “You deserve more than I’ll ever be able to give, and if there’re other means of providing you physical pleasures, I’ll learn them. Please, would…would you honor me by becoming my wife?”

  “You want to marry me?”

  “You’re asking as though it’s an impossibility.” He smiled. “I thought having a family, and a wife to share my life would never come to pass. Even before my…mistreatment, no one accepted my offer of pledge. Now, I understand why.”

  When a look of incredulity crossed her face, he gently squeezed her hands.

  “If I’d married then, I wouldn’t be with you now. You were worth the wait and the pain of those rejections. Dalia, I—I understand if you don’t accept, and I won’t rush your decision. No matter what you decide, I’ll still love you. I know that I can’t please you like a man should, not completely. I promise—”

  “Yes,” Dalia interrupted.

  “Yes?”

  “I want to marry you, Beilzen. Manhood doesn’t lie between your legs. It’s found in your heart.”

  Beilzen felt lightheaded. “Are you another gift from the Guardians?”

  “I’m your promised, Lord De Braose, and soon to be your wife.”

  Healing

  He stood, adding more wood to the hearth. The chill of the cold season was nigh. He could feel that early chill in every part of him and still sweat beaded his brow. The goose prickles raised on his arm as the coolness of the season washed over him. However, the chill he felt within was even more overwhelming. That loss—that emptiness couldn’t be soothed. No matter the amount of wood tossed within the hungry orange and yellow spikes whipping out at him, that loss was interminable.

  He walked to the shuttered window, noticing the condensation forming in its corners. The light of the noonday sun dotted the room, as its warming rays attempted to penetrate the heavy wood blocking its path. He squinted when one luminescent beam stretched and met his face. Danimore reached out to a clinging droplet, allowing it to adhere to his finger. He observed that drop roll and shift with the movement of his hands. The coolness caused a shudder, though he didn’t know why. He clasped his fingers around the drop, leaving only the remnants of moisture behind.

  Glancing over his shoulder to his bed, a wistful smile found his face as he reached for another drop. Each one identical, yet different from the last. Each representing an opportunity that he hadn’t taken.

  “Choice,” he whispered.

  Since the death of their son, it was all that occupied his thoughts.

  “Choice,” he repeated. Had he believed more in Nikolina’s lies than the fear of his wife? He asked that question repeatedly. It would forever plague him though he knew the truth—a truth that mattered little now. He hadn’t trusted in Nikolina more than his wife. It was his honor and the need to make right the wrong he’d done. It wasn’t wrong. Howbeit, there was no right of it, either.

  “You took me…all of me,” he lamented, fighting against the forming tears. But it was more than that. More than the violation Nikolina committed. She took their son…his first.

  He sat by the hearth, attempting to remove the chill from his body. That chill that he couldn’t seem to warm, no matter the heat that surrounded him.

  Zeta hadn’t left him, but she wasn’t there with him either—not emotionally. She remained in their chamber, only moving from the bed when Brahanu or Thalassa visited. He couldn’t remember the last she’d smiled. Even having Ayrmeis at her breast did little to relieve the ache she felt—the loss. She loved him, and that made it all the more difficult. Except for his coloring, Ayrmeis appeared Nazilian…just as Godfrey had.

  When he heard a soft moan, he gazed across the room. He wanted to go to her—he needed to, yet he didn’t move. Danimore stared over at the bed where Zeta lay. Her thick, red hair lay across her bare shoulders with the covers resting just above her breast. He smiled, thinking of the first time they’d lain together. That night, he’d realized the comfort she brought to him. Everything seemed a distant memory. The heartache they endured then was infinitesimal compared to now.

  He took a deep breath with the recollection. This, all of this he’d done to keep Raithym and Zeta safe. Never could he have known the sacrifice that would be demanded.

  “Godfrey Jansen Benoist,” he said, mournfully. “My firstborn son.” His head lowered as the tears fell freely. He didn’t know how long he’d sat there nor did he care. This was the first time that he’d truly released the anguish he felt. He needed to be strong for Zeta, but he was not. He was not. His heart had broken into a million pieces, and he knew not how it would ever mend.

  “Dani?” Zeta said in barely a whisper.

  His head snapped up. When he saw her hand raise, he was quick to her side.

  “Zeta?”

  “Dani…please…please,” she said, blinking languidly.

  He slid her hair from her face, kissing her cheek.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “Dani—”

  “I love you, Zeta. Please forgive me…please,” he pleaded, burying his face in her shoulder.

  “I don’t blame you, Dani, not anymore. The fault was mine. Godfrey would be with us had I—”

  “Don’t, Zeta, please, don’t. You’ve done nothing wrong. I was foolish and didn’t heed your warning. This is why—why she was able to use me so. Forgive me. I only wanted to free us from her scorn. I didn’t know; I couldn’t.” He wept.

  She raised up, embracing him. The pain she felt was unbearable. The Guardians had healed her womb, yet that did nothing to dull her pain. She wept, thinking of her son—thinking of Danimore’s first true son. No longer could she give this to him. Nikolina would birth his child. Nikolina, Zeta thought as her eyes clenched shut and she held Danimore tighter. After raising his face to hers, she lowered to the bed, moving the blanket aside.

  He shook his head, trying to cover her nakedness.

  “Yes, Dani. I need you to be a part of me. I need your child growing within me.”

  Danimore nodded, although he was grief-stricken. He leaned down, te
nderly kissing her lips. Not since before Godfrey’s birth had they been intimate. He forced back his emotion, kissing between her breasts and down her stomach. He prayed that his body would respond to his wife’s desires. He prayed.

  Insight

  “To think your opponent can defeat you is to admit limitations within yourself. Once your mind believes defeat is possible, it will undermine your body, allowing that defeat to come to pass.”

  Wosen’s expression was puzzled as he crossed his twin blades down in front of him. No longer did he relax from his defensive posture. That mistake had cost him in their last session. Symeon came on strong, noticing the relaxed demeanor, and Wosen’s bruises were still evident from that lesson.

  “I don’t understand, First Chosen. Didn’t you speak the opposite not long ago?”

  “You hear only half my words, young Wosen. Confidence in your fighting prowess isn’t the same as invincibility.”

  “How am I to believe that I’m superior while admitting my weakness?”

  “There will always be someone who can defeat you, Chosen of Nazil. However, he’ll have to prove that skill in battle. The victory shouldn’t be handed to him as you wage a battle within yourself. A loss could mean your life. Here, in the practice chamber, such dangers do not exist. On the field of battle, the opposite is true. Always fight and defend as if losing means death. To do otherwise is foolish. Know that you can only truly lose once. Let one blade slip through your defenses, and Wosen Neufmarche is no more.”

  With that, Symeon turned, moving away. Wosen ruminated on his statements, digesting both their truth and wisdom. As he lowered his blades, Symeon spun around, advancing furiously.

  Wosen barely managed to bring his right sword up to parry, staggering back at the fierceness of his attack. Symeon pressed forward, completing a combination of moves that kept Wosen on his heels, slicing wildly to avoid a direct hit. Symeon thrust with his dagger, causing Wosen to bring his left sword up, while shifting sideward. Before he could repost, Symeon’s sword half-sliced in a feint, eliciting the expected response from Wosen that allowed Symeon to wrench his sword away while coming up with a knee, knocking Wosen more off balance and grasping his chest.

  Wosen tried to recover, bringing his right blade back up to parry the oncoming sideswipe. The move came too late. Symeon easily batted the sword away, and then clutched a pressure point on Wosen’s wrist, forcing him to drop his remaining blade. Edging his dagger against Wosen’s throat, Symeon locked eyes with him, standing a hand’s breath from his face.

  “You’re dead, Sir Neufmarche,” he declared in a penetratingly deep tone. “Loss is death. Never relax your guard, not even with me.”

  Wosen’s eyes widened, straining to keep his throat free from the not-so-dull blade. The sting of a small cut from the honed edge had him sucking in his breath. They usually used blunted practice swords to spar. This lesson, truly, he’d never forget.

  Before he could respond, a knock claimed Symeon’s attention. Wosen almost sighed with relief, but Symeon edged the blade closer, never relinquishing his hold or his stare.

  “Enter!”

  “Afternoon, Sir Yego. Fáelán is—” Beilzen stopped, noticing their position. He glanced from one to the other, pushing Fáelán slightly behind him.

  “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt your practice. Shall we return later?” he asked nervously, uncertain how to interpret the seemingly dire scene.

  “No.” Symeon retracted his dagger from Wosen’s throat. Wosen reached up, wiping the blood oozing from the wound. He took a step back, exhaling as if it was the first breath he’d taken in many long moments. Indeed, it might’ve been.

  “Sir Neufmarche, replace your swords and return to your duty. Be ready on the morrow. I’ll also use two swords.”

  Wosen bowed, following his instructions. “Thank you, First Chosen, I look forward to our next session,” he said, leaving the practice chamber.

  “Young lord de Braose, do you think to best me this day?” Symeon asked.

  Fáelán came forward, drawing his wooden sword. “I’ve been practicin’, Sir Yego.” He smiled. “Dada couldn’t stand against me.”

  Beilzen shrugged. “Indeed. Fáelán is becoming quite formidable.”

  “Of this, I know. However, we need to work more on his agility. Young Fáelán is a fine warrior and will do Nazil proud.”

  “As always, your words are much appreciated, Sir Yego,” Beilzen said. “I’ll leave you now to your training.”

  After inclining his head, Beilzen exited the practice chamber, noticing Wosen leaning against the opposite wall. As he began to approach, Wosen turned, hurrying away.

  “Sir Neufmarche?” Beilzen called out. “May I have a word?”

  “I’ll be late for my duty, Beilzen. What do you want?”

  Beilzen cleared his throat, contemplating not only what to say, but how to say it. “May I accompany you to the guard’s tower as we talk?”

  “Come,” Wosen said reluctantly, continuing down the corridor.

  “Yes, well,” Beilzen began, struggling to keep up. “I wanted to apologize and thank you for your counsel.”

  “My counsel?”

  “Yes. When you brought Fáelán to the gardens. I was in the midst of explaining my…my past and deficiencies to Dalia, but I appreciate your concern. She’s a remarkable woman, and I truly love her.”

  “That feeling is mutual, I’ve heard,” Wosen said, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

  “You’ve heard true. The Guardians are good, Sir Neufmarche.”

  “Guardians?” he asked, halting.

  “Yes. Dalia and Fáelán are but two of the blessings they’ve bestowed upon me.”

  Wosen eyed Beilzen warily, and then continued. His pace was slower now, considering his awkward gait. Wosen recalled what Hushar had spoken to him about the Guardians. It was through her influence that he’d called out to them during his escape, and sought out the Protectors. That time seemed so long ago.

  “Their forgiveness is endless,” Wosen said. “As are their blessings.”

  “What about your forgiveness?”

  “What?”

  “Of me, Sir Neufmarche.” Beilzen upraised a hand, stifling any forthcoming retort. “I realized that such forgiveness isn’t easy. Some would find no room for forgiveness for such transgressions, but I hope you will in time. It may mean little, but I never despised you or Hushar. That person, no, that creature wasn’t who I was or am. I’ve always been considered as less, and tried desperately to alter such perspectives. There was no right of it, and I’m ashamed at what I’ve done…what I caused.

  “I allowed the Cha’s teachings and promises of status to turn me from what I’d always knew. I thought in order to acquire what I desired, I needed to become what others wanted me to be. Who I am is incongruous with who I attempted to become. It was madness, Sir Neufmarche, and I pray in time that you can forgive me. If you can’t do so for me, do so for yourself and for Fáelán.”

  When Wosen met his eyes, Beilzen nodded.

  “Fáelán loves you. When no one else cared for my son, you did. He told me about your first meeting. When you had nearly nothing, you gave to my son. Not only the food from your mouth, but the honest love from your heart. He cherishes you and the name you’ve bestowed upon him. Forever I’ll be grateful for what you’ve done for both him and me.”

  Wosen stood silent, vividly recalling every aspect of his capture. He’d also committed vile acts of which he was ashamed. So vile were some that he’d nearly killed his father. Even after such offenses, Hosdaq, Hibret and the Bandarians forgave him. As he looked down at the liveries he wore, he had to admit, if only to himself, that Brahanu and Julaybeim forgave him, too. He didn’t deserve it, but he was humbled and grateful each time he thought about it.

  Wosen, no one knows what causes us to act in ways contrary to our nature. My mother would say such things only occur during the Guardians’ merge. For it’s at that time their eyes aren’t fi
xed on the lands, he muttered, just as Hushar had spoken to him as he lay healing in their cell.

  “Pardons, Sir Neufmarche,” Beilzen said.

  “It’s nothing. We all commit acts that are antithetical to our true nature. I shouldn’t judge so harshly when I’m guilty of the same.”

  That put Beilzen back a step. “I intended to apologize for my wrongs, not remind you of your own past mistakes. Forgive me. I’d like for you to remain a part of our lives. Fáelán loves you, and you’ll forever mean much to him.”

  “I feel the same. Hibret and I were going to keep him as our own,” Wosen said, casting a look his way. “When Draizeyn forced me to lead him through the Dessalonian Woods, Fáelán was the only one who offered me kindness. I searched for him after the war, and knew that he’d always have a place in my life. Even if he’s not my son, I’m gladdened that he’s happy, and you’ve given him a family to love.”

  “Your words are most kind, Sir Neufmarche, as is your affection for my son. For him to have all of us now is a remarkable blessing.”

  “Wosen.”

  “Pardons?”

  “My name is Wosen. There’s no need for you to continue addressing me as Sir. You are a lord, and an important man to the Zaxson and Nazil alike.”

  “Sir Neufmarche, I wouldn’t cause offense by addressing you in the familiar. You are a Chosen of Nazil, as was your honorable father, and I’ll offer the proper respect for such a position.”

  Wosen halted. “And you are a Chancellor of Treasury and Fáelán’s father. As such, I’d like to consider you a friend. It’ll take time, but that’s my desire. Not only for myself, but for Fáelán most of all.”

  Before Beilzen could respond, Wosen shook his head.

  “No further words are necessary. If you’d excuse me, I need to see Hushar and then I must begin my duty.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rediscovered Path

  Aizen smiled as Droxahn gripped his hand, walking down the corridor. With the recent revelations and possible difficulties they’d soon face, he enjoyed the serenity she’d brought to him. Gazing down at her from the corner of his eye, his smile broadened, considering some aspects of his future that he hadn’t in the past.