Dorran ducked under one of her moves and came up lithely beneath her sword, drawing his low and cutting upward to tap against her ribs. She gasped, but before she could pull free and employ a counter attack, he reached out with his free hand and closed it over her right fist while it still gripped her sword.
A gentle jerk of her arm, and he pulled her almost flush against him. Brienne’s heart, which was already dancing in her chest, leapt into her throat and she gasped, blinking the sweat out of her eyes as she tried to read the expression on his face.
Those amber gold eyes of his darkened to ruby, and his expression softened. He said something in his foreign language, his tone languid and soft. Brie nearly melted in his arms. Gods and goddesses of Eile, she wanted to kiss him. Here was a man with the skills of a warrior, something that should have cast fear into her heart. But this man, stranger though he may be, handled her gently. He did not belittle her, or force himself upon her. He listened to her when she spoke, and he possessed a rare patience she had never seen in anyone before. Her experience with men should have had her shrieking and clawing at the fingers wrapped around her wrist, but all she felt was peace and a low-burning desire.
Before she could do anything extremely foolish, Dorran released his grip and gently drew her away from him.
A smile turned the corners of his mouth, and he ducked his head, a bow of recognition from one excellent fighter to another, perhaps.
“I–” Brienne stammered, dropping her makeshift sword to the ground and frantically brushing the loose strands of blond hair behind her ears. “Thank you. For sparring with me,” she managed at the end. “I, uh, needed a good bout of swordplay. I’ve been growing soft.”
She smiled at him, meeting his eyes, and brushed one last lock of hair away from her face. In the process, her palm met a smooth patch of scar tissue, and all the giddy joy she’d absorbed from their workout vanished only to be replaced by cold, empty reality.
It was so easy to admire Dorran’s fine form and imagine forbidden trysts when she forgot about her own blemishes.
“Thank you, again,” she muttered, breathlessly. “How about we get that boar over a fire? It would be nice to eat before dark.”
She didn’t wait for Dorran’s reply. She turned and walked away from him, the heat of his gaze upon her back like the warmth of the sun burning through the chill of a mid-winter day.
Chapter Seven
The next few days passed in a slow turn of time. Brienne, Dorran, and Mynne moved farther away from the heart of the Morrigan’s realm as they followed the game trails deeper into the mountains, heading ever northward. It was not yet mid-autumn, but a dusting of snow greeted them two weeks after leaving the small village where Brienne had taken on the burden of delivering Dorran to the passage into Firiehn.
Midway through one particularly frosty morning, Brie crested a rock-strewn trail to find a fresh patch of snow gathered in a small meadow. She squinted against the bright sunlight pouring through the mixed conifers and golden-leafed cottonwoods, her breath misting on the air. The snow had spilled down a steep granite slope, and like fine sugar it glittered where the sun struck it.
The sight brought a rare smile to Brienne’s lips. Perhaps it was the clean, untouched beauty of it, or the way it sparkled in the sunlight. Without a second thought, she descended the trail and moved toward the drift, forgetting her travel companions for the moment.
When Brienne did glance over her shoulder, she found Dorran standing at the rise in the trail, Dair’s reins loose in his strong fingers. His face was expressionless, but striking in the way it always seemed to her. Like the snowy scene, she found him beautiful in a stark, unhindered way. Like the mountains they traversed, he was silent, but his aura so overpowering he didn’t need words to announce his presence.
“Looks like winter has found these mountains early,” she said, rising to her feet once again. “I hate to blemish it, but the trail awaits on the other side.”
She gestured to the edge of the snow patch, some fifty or so feet away. Dorran nodded at her, and she turned to continue on, both relishing and regretting the crunch of her boots through the white powder.
Just as she was about to step back down onto solid ground, something cold and wet smacked her in the back of the head. Shocked, Brienne lifted a hand to her hair only to find flecks of snow stuck there. Confused, she cocked her head to the side to search the tree branches above. Had some accumulated snow fallen from there? But the conifer limbs were free of white.
She twisted her body to glance back at Dorran. His expression was blank, his mouth tilted in a slight frown. She narrowed her eyes. His were flickering, like wildfire reflected on the surface of a black lake. Anger? Confusion? Oh no. Amusement. Barely restrained amusement. He hadn’t . . .
Somewhat flabbergasted, Brie ignored what her instincts were suggesting and shrugged, ready to continue on their journey.
The second snowball hit the same moment her boot sunk into the snowpack. This time, she whirled around fast enough to catch her companion in the act of trying to straighten before getting caught at his game. And this time, it wasn’t just his eyes that danced. His mouth curved into a mild, predatory grin, one that tugged at her heartstrings and pulled her knees out from under her.
Very slowly, he wrapped the horse’s reins around a nearby oak limb and tensed, as if ready to spring at her. For several long seconds, they held one another’s gazes, each one waiting for the other to make a move.
Dorran was fast, but Brienne caught the twitch in his muscles before he dove for the snow, and she ducked behind a fallen tree, gathering up a handful of white powder along the way. She quickly packed it into a ball, then peeked above the tree. Dorran was still gathering up his own snow. Good. She aimed and tossed the projectile, catching him on the side of the head. He grunted, and one foot slipped out from beneath him, but he caught himself before falling completely. It was enough, however, to give Brienne time to form another few snowballs which she easily pelted in his direction. One hit his shoulder, the other the side of his thigh. She had to fight against a laugh of pure delight as he growled in frustration.
That’s right, she thought. You picked a fight with the wrong person.
She was winning this little war he had started, but her small victory dance was short lived when he came leaping over the fallen tree, a clump of snow in each hand. He twisted in midair, like a berserker warrior giving in to his riastrad, and flung the snowballs at her. One hit her smack in the center of her chest, the other her abdomen.
Brienne squawked and leapt to her feet. Not a scream of fury or fear but a shout of pure delight. She bolted for a nearby tree, a living one this time, scooping up snow just as she ducked behind it. She hadn’t run far, but the adrenaline of the fight had her heart pounding, and her breath coming in short gasps.
What are you doing? Your emotions are flitting around in your head like angry hummingbirds. I would think you were under attack, but you do not feel frightened to me.
Mynne’s question was so sudden, she almost screeched in surprise, but caught herself just in time.
Dorran has initiated a snowball fight. I must protect my territory! she retorted, feeling like a small child lost in her game.
And then, her spirit guide sent her a few more words, their arrival tainted in shades of wonder and joy. You are laughing.
And that brought Brienne to an abrupt halt. She forgot about the fight and the fun. But it was Dorran’s spontaneous playful attitude that had done this. He had made her forget her sorrow, her fear, her anger. For a few glorious minutes, she had stepped away from the shell of black despair which had defined her life for so long and allowed her heart some freedom. Not just smiles this time, but real, genuine laughter.
A wet splack against a pine trunk beside her head snapped Brienne’s attention away from her inner musings. She blinked several times, and Dorran came into view. He stood five feet before her, holding up a snowball, a dark brow arched over one eye.
She allowed herself to smile again; allowed that frivolous joy to spread throughout her being and chase away the shadows of her demons. She shook her head once, lifting her empty hands.
Dorran seemed struck by something, for he did not move and the playful lilt to his mouth melted away. He became very serious again, but his eyes darkened to a deeper shade of scarlet this time instead of their usual citrine. Brienne didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t take the time to ponder over it. As soon as he lowered his arm, she collapsed to the ground, scooped up one of the snowballs she’d dropped there earlier, and flung it at him with all her might. The white sphere of snow hit him square in the chest.
This time, it was Dorran’s turn to blink. And this time, Brienne released a peel of laughter. And it was as if the floodgates had opened. No, they had burst from their hinges. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed as if she would never stop. And perhaps, she wouldn’t. Her body, her spirit, had been so deprived of such a joyous action for so long, it reveled in this release of delight and brightness.
Dorran approached, smiling, offering a hand of peace. She took it, still chortling, and he joined her. For a very long time, the two of them stood in that meadow, laughing like children who had never known hardship or sorrow, and by the time they were ready to move on again, the sun was dipping low in the west.
***
Despite the joy from earlier in the day, Brienne slept fitfully that night, the shadows she had thrown aside creeping back in to haunt her. Perhaps it was their way of reminding her that, no matter what, she would never shake her past, never quite banish that which had formed her into who she was now: A woman scarred not just by flames, but also, by darkness no fire could ever burn away. And so as she slipped into deep sleep, Brienne found herself back in that war camp where the bodies of those tortured stood tied to trees, the life slowly seeping out of them as their wounds bled and festered. The screams of the new victims the Morrigan and her generals tormented for their glamour piercing the air ... The acrid stench of burning flesh, bone, and hair ... Moans of pain and sorrow so deep it threatened to squeeze her heart into pulp.
Brienne gasped, her eyes burning with tears against the smoke and agony of such a dismal place. Cold, so deep she felt it in the marrow of her bones, made her slow. She cast her gaze around, dizzy with fear and sickness, only to find Mynne, a pup no more than a few months old, shuddering in fear amid a circle of black and red cloaked Faelorehn men. Her russet ears pressed flat against her skull, scarlet ribbons streaming from empty eye sockets.
“No!” Brienne screeched, crawling toward her spirit guide, her only friend in the world.
But she could not move far. Shackles, rusty and stained with grime, encircled her wrists and ankles, while heavy chains secured to nearby stones weighed her down. A low, guttural chuckle sounded from behind her and Brie froze, fresh horror rushing over her already exhausted nerves.
“My benevolent mistress has finally given me the award I so desire,” Raghnall breathed near her ear, his hot breath like acid burning her skin.
A rough hand grabbed her chin and jerked her head around, the recent burns marring her skin flaring in agony. Cold blue eyes regarded her, but all Brienne could focus on was the scar bisecting his face and the mind-numbing pain coursing up and down her right side.
“If you thought your life was miserable before ...” Raghnall crooned as he stood, reaching up to unlace his trousers.
Brienne squeezed her eyes shut and cried out, thrashing against the manacles. She screamed, and didn’t stop as the Morrigan’s general groped at her with rough hands.
Brienne!
Nononononono!!!!
She sobbed, pulling at the metal cutting into her flesh as she tried desperately to fend off her rapist.
Brienne! Awake! You are dreaming!
She recognized Mynne’s words, but they could not pull her from the nightmare.
Raghnall’s hands continued to pull at her, trying to tear off the thin clothing and filthy bandages she had been forced to wear after her transgression against the Morrigan.
Brienne!
She kicked and punched the air, and soon those strong hands were no longer holding her down but drawing her near.
Nooo!! she screeched again, her voice fighting against her closing throat.
“Shetha, laina mehr, shetha anet,” a deep, familiar voice whispered against her ear.
No cruel tone this time. No promise of violence or violation. Unfamiliar, foreign words in a voice she now knew so well.
Those strong hands and arms were gentle, but firm, pulling her flush against a great source of comforting heat.
“Meht tal syra, coriehl mehr, meht tal syra. Ne tath auch neth ent dormen ulc.”
Brienne came awake, sobbing her fear, her heart racing as she drew in sharp breaths against the suffocating terror. But she was no longer in that terrible place, and it wasn’t Raghnall who held her captive, but Dorran cradling her in his arms. And he was trying to soothe her, not force himself on her. Rocking her and crooning gently to her as the horror shook free of her senses.
He continued whispering those words in her ear, over and over again, calming her heart and her mind. His large hand, gentle and warm, smoothed the hair from her damp brow and as she stopped trembling, she allowed herself to sink into his welcoming warmth. After all she had endured the past two years as Raghnall’s slave, she should have shied away from men for the rest of her immortal life. But Dorran had the opposite effect on her. He drew her in the way a warm bath beckoned sore muscles after a long day of fighting. And not just her body, but her soul as well. He offered that light, that fire she sought to burn away the broken, infected parts of her.
Brienne pulled in one more deep breath, the last of her tremors fading away as she released it. She had fought so hard in her dream that she was now utterly exhausted. But instead of being afraid to sleep again, she was at peace, for Dorran was there, keeping her safe from any lingering nightmare that might try to creep up on her before the dawn.
***
When Brienne woke in the morning, it was to find Dorran’s arms still wrapped around her. His breathing was deep and steady, his warm breath tickling the back of her neck. She shivered, but this time not because of her fear.
She reached out with her mind to Mynne, but her spirit guide was also still fast asleep. No surprise there. The wolf was probably worn out from the uproar the night before. Biting her lip in slight shame, Brie blinked her eyes several times to clear their bleariness. The sun was not yet up, and although the fire had burned out in the night, she was blessedly warm. Thanks to Dorran.
A slight shift of his thigh caused it to brush up against the back of hers, and she tensed. His arms tightened ever so slightly around her, and the rhythm of his breathing changed. He was awake now, she could tell without even turning to look at him.
“Brienne?” he murmured against her ear, his tone as tender as his touch.
Tears welled in Brie’s eyes, and before she could stop herself, she gasped, “Forgive me, for last night. I hope I did not hurt you.”
She did recall thrashing, for the dream was not a new one. She had had it several times, and always she woke in the morning with fresh cuts and bruises, a sore throat and Mynne gazing upon her with pity and sorrow.
Dorran said something else, his mouth pressed to her hair. She imagined he asked her what had happened to bring on such a horrible nightmare. What had happened in her past to haunt her soul so terribly. Brienne’s sensible side was positive he asked no such thing, but for so long she had only Mynne to talk to. She had no friend, no companion to share her darkest secrets with and her spirit needed so badly to cry out.
Just as she had told him about Mynne’s blindness, she now told Dorran the story of her sad past. In soft, choking sobs, she relayed to him how she had refused to destroy the protective geis surrounding the Weald and how Cernunnos had gifted Mynne to her i
n gratitude. About how, upon returning to the Morrigan’s realm, she was punished for her disobedience, given over freely to Raghnall who ordered Mynne’s eyes cut out as he raped her after branding her in the fire. How she had endured his abuse for two years before finally gathering enough courage to run for her life. She released her pain and anger into the world, and he took it in, burning it away with that brilliant fire of his as he stroked her hair and spoke soft, unintelligible words.
Eventually, Brienne cried herself back to sleep, the warmth and presence of the cru-athru man easing her spirit. When she woke again, Mynne was standing over her, and she was cold.
Where is Dorran? she sent, her thoughts sleepy.
He has gone to look for breakfast, her spirit guide returned.
For once, Mynne’s words weren’t tainted with irritation or mistrust. For once, Brienne thought she detected respect in the wolf’s regard.
Are you well? she asked, her rusty colored ears pressed back in worry.
Yes, Brienne responded. I am well.
Perhaps, Mynne sent, her thoughts hesitant. Perhaps, he could use my aide.
Brienne blinked up at her, but the blind wolf only sniffed out a breath before turning to trot away into the woods.
Chapter Eight
Dorran returned with a few wild herbs and some edible roots, Mynne close on his heels carrying a makeshift sack filled with mushrooms and wild onions. Brienne resisted the urge to tease her spirit guide about her sudden change of heart, partly because it might alter the wolf’s mind right back into cautious indignation, but mostly because Dorran deserved this newfound respect. In Mynne’s eyes, he had done something for her friend no one else had been able to do: He brought her peace and comfort, a shield against that which would cause her pain and sorrow.
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