by Eliza Knight
He was still here, living and breathing. He was still walking around on his own two feet. Still handsome in the face. Still able to speak coherently, even if he didn’t want to.
But he couldn’t replace what he’d lost.
What he’d lost would irrevocably change his life, his entire future. It made him want to back into the darkest corner and let his life slip away, to forget about even having a future at all. To give everything he owned to his brother and say goodbye. He was useless now. Unworthy.
Niall cleared the cobwebs that had settled in his throat by slinging back another dram of whisky. The shutters in his darkened bedchamber were closed tight, the fire long ago grown cold. He didn’t allow candles in the room, nor visitors. So when a knock sounded at his door, he ignored it, preferring to chug his spirits from the bottle rather than pouring it into a cup.
The knocking grew louder, more insistent.
“Go away,” he bellowed, slamming the whisky down on the side table beside where he sat, and hearing the clay jug shatter. A shard slid into his finger, stinging as the liquor splashed over it. But he didn’t care.
This pain, pain in his only index finger, he wanted to have. Wanted a reminder there was still some part of him left. Part of him that could still feel and bleed. He tried to ignore that part of him that wanted to be alive, however small it was.
The handle on the door rattled, but Niall had barred it the day before. Refusing anything but whisky. Maybe he could drink himself into an oblivion he’d never wake from. Then all of his worries would be gone forever.
“Niall, open the bloody door.”
The sound of his brother’s voice through the cracks had Niall’s gaze widening slightly. Walter was a year younger than he was. And still whole. Walter had tried to understand Niall’s struggle, but what man could who’d not been through it himself?
“I said go away, ye bloody whoreson.” His words slurred, and he went to tipple more of the liquor only to recall he’d just shattered it everywhere.
Hell and damnation. The only way to get another bottle would be to open the door.
“I’ll pretend I didna hear ye just call our dear mother a whore. Open the damned door, or I’ll take an axe to it.”
Like hell he would. Walter was the least aggressive one in their family. Sweet as a lad, he’d grown into a strong warrior, but he was also known as the heart of the Oliphant clan. The idea of him chopping down a door was actually funny. Outside, the corridor grew silent, and Niall leaned his head back against the chair, wondering how long he had until his brother returned, and if it was enough time to sneak down to the cellar and get another jug of whisky.
Needless to say, when a steady thwacking sounded at the door—reminding Niall quite a bit like the heavy side of an axe—he sat up straighter and watched in drunken fascination as the door started to splinter. Shards of wood came flying through the air as the hole grew larger and the sound of the axe beating against the surface intensified.
Walter had grown some bloody ballocks.
Incredible.
Didn’t matter. What would Walter accomplish by breaking down the door? What could he hope would happen?
Niall wasn’t going to leave the room or accept food.
Niall wasn’t going to move on with his life.
So he sat back and waited, curious more than anything as to what Walter’s plan would be once he’d gained entry.
Just as tall and broad of shoulder as Niall, Walter kicked through the remainder of the door and ducked through the ragged hole.
“That’s enough.” Walter looked down at Niall, his face fierce, reminding him very much of their father when they were lads.
“That’s enough?” Niall asked, trying to keep his eyes wide but having a hard time. The light from the corridor gave his brother a darkened, shadowy look.
“Ye’ve sat in this bloody hell hole for the past three days.” Walter gestured around the room. “Ye stink of shite. Like a bloody pig has laid waste to your chamber.”
“Are ye calling me a shite pig?” Niall thought about standing up, calling his brother out, but that seemed like too much effort.
“Mayhap I am. Will it make ye stand up any faster?”
Niall pursed his lips, giving the impression of actually considering it. “Nay.”
“That’s what I thought. But I dinna care. Get up.”
Niall shook his head slowly. “I’d rather not.”
“I’m not asking.”
My, my. Walter’s ballocks were easily ten times than Niall had expected. The man was bloody testing him to be sure.
“Last time I checked, I was the eldest,” Niall said.
“Ye might have been born first, but ye lost your mind some time ago, which makes me the better fit for making decisions.”
Niall hiccupped. “And what decisions would ye be making, wee brother?”
“Getting your arse up. Getting ye cleaned up. Airing out the gongheap.”
“Doesna smell so bad in here.” Niall gave an exaggerated sniff, refusing to admit that Walter was indeed correct. It smelled horrendous.
“I’m gagging, brother. I might die if I have to stay much longer.”
“Then by all means, pull up a chair.”
“Ye’re an arse.”
“No more so than ye.”
“Not true.”
Niall sighed heavily. “What do ye want? Why would ye make me leave? I’ve nothing to live for anymore.”
“Ye’ve eight-thousand reasons to live, ye blind goat.”
“Eight thousand?”
“A random number.” Walter waved his hand and kicked at something on the floor. “Ye’ve the people of your clan, the warriors ye lead, your family. The woman ye’re betrothed to marry. Everyone is counting on ye, and ye must come out of here and attend to your duties. Ye’ve mourned long enough.”
“How can ye presume to tell me that I’ve mourned long enough? Ye know nothing.” A slow boiling rage started in Niall’s chest. All these men telling him how to feel. All these men thinking they knew better. A bunch of bloody ballocks!
“Aye, I’ve not lost what ye have, brother. Ye’re right. I dinna know what ‘tis like to be ye, either. But I know what ’tis like to be the one down in the hall waiting for ye to come and take care of your business. I know what ’tis like to look upon the faces of the clan as they worry about whether they’ll be raided or ravaged while their leader sulks in a vat of whisky and does nothing to care for them.”
Niall gritted his teeth. No one understood. And he didn’t need the reminder of his constant failings.
“Then take care of it,” Niall growled, jerking forward fast enough that his vision doubled. “Ye’ve always wanted to be first. Ye’ve always wanted what was mine. Go and have it. Have it all.”
Walter took a step back as though Niall had hit him. “How can ye say that?” Even in the dim light, Niall could see the pain etched on his brother’s features. Aye, what he’d said was a lie, but it had made him feel better all the same.
“Ye heard me. Get the fuck out.” Niall moved to push himself from the chair, remembered too late how difficult that would be, and fell back into it. Instead, he let out a string of curses that had Walter shaking his head.
“Ye need to get yourself together, decide whether or not ye are going to turn your back on this clan. Do it for yourself. Dinna go down like this. Ye are still Sir Niall fucking Oliphant. Warrior. Heir to the chiefdom of Oliphant. Hero. Leader. Brother. Soon to be husband and father.”
Walter held his gaze unwaveringly. A torrent of emotion jabbed from that dark look into Niall’s chest, crushing his heart.
“Get out,” he said again through gritted teeth, feeling the pain of rejecting his brother acutely.
They’d always been so close. And even though he was pushing him away, he also desperately wanted to pull him closer.
He wanted to hug him tightly, to tell him not to worry, that soon enough he’d come out of the dark and be the man Walter o
nce knew. But those were all lies, for he would never be the same again, and he couldn’t see how he would ever be able to exit this room and attempt a normal life.
“Ye’re not the only one who’s lost a part of himself,” Walter muttered as he ducked beneath the door. “I want my brother back.”
“Your brother is dead.”
At that, Walter paused. He turned back around, a snarl poised on his lips, and Niall waited longingly for whatever insult would come out. Any chance to engage in a fight, but then Walter’s face softened. “Maybe he is.”
With those soft words uttered, he disappeared, leaving behind the gaping hole and the shattered wood on the floor, a haunting mirror image to the wide-open wound Niall felt in his soul.
Niall glanced down to his left, at the sleeve that hung empty at his side, a taunting reminder of his failure in battle. Warrior. Ballocks! Not even close.
When he considered lying down on the ground and licking the whisky from the floor, he knew it was probably time to leave his chamber. But he was no good to anyone outside of his room. Perhaps he could prove that fact once and for all, then Walter would leave him be. And he knew his brother spoke the truth about smelling like a pig. He’d not bathed in days. If he was going to prove he was worthless as a leader now, he would do so smelling decent, so people took him seriously rather than believing him to be mad.
Slipping through the hole in the door, he walked noiselessly down the corridor to the stairs at the rear used by the servants, tripping only once along the way. He attempted to steal down the winding steps, a feat that nearly had him breaking his neck. In fact, he took the last dozen steps on his arse. Once he reached the entrance to the side of the bailey, he lifted the bar and shoved the door open, the cool wind a welcome blast against his heated skin. With the sun set, no one saw him creep outside and slink along the stone as he made his way to the stables and the massive water trough kept for the horses. He might as well bathe there, like the animal he was.
Trough in sight, he staggered forward and tumbled headfirst into the icy water.
Niall woke sometime later, still in the water, but turned over at least. He didn’t know whether to be grateful he’d not drowned. His clothes were soaked, and his legs hung out on either side of the wooden trough. It was still dark, so at least he’d not slept through the night in the chilled water.
He leaned his head back, body covered in wrinkled gooseflesh and teeth chattering, and stared up at the sky. Stars dotted the inky-black landscape and swaths of clouds streaked across the moon, as if one of the gods had swiped his hand through it, trying to wipe it away. But the moon was steadfast. Silver and bright and ever present. Returning as it should each night, though hiding its beauty day after day until it was just a sliver that made one wonder if it would return.
What was he doing out here? Not just in the tub freezing his idiot arse off, but here in this world? Why hadn’t he been taken? Why had only part of him been stolen? Cut away…
Niall shuddered, more from the memory of that moment when his enemy’s sword had cut through his armor, skin, muscle and bone. The crunching sound. The incredible pain.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memories away.
This is how he’d been for the better part of four months. Stumbling drunk and angry about the castle when he wasn’t holed up in his chamber. Yelling at his brother, glowering at his father and mother, snapping at anyone who happened to cross his path. He’d become everything he hated.
There had been times he’d thought about ending it all. He always came back to the simple question that was with him now as he stared up at the large face of the moon.
“Why am I still here?” he murmured.
“Likely because ye havena pulled your arse out of the bloody trough.”
Walter.
Niall’s gaze slid to the side to see his brother standing there, arms crossed over his chest. “Are ye my bloody shadow? Come to tell me all my sins?”
“When will ye see I’m not the enemy? I want to help.”
Niall stared back up at the moon, silently asking what he should do, begging for a sign.
Walter tugged at his arm. “Come on. Get out of the trough. Ye’re not a pig as much as ye’ve been acting the part. Let us get ye some food.”
Niall looked over at his little brother, perhaps seeing him for the first time. His throat felt tight, closing in on itself as a well of emotion overflowed from somewhere deep in his gut.
“Why do ye keep trying to help me? All I’ve done is berate ye for it.”
“Aye. That’s true, but I know ye speak from pain. Not from your heart.”
“I dinna think I have a heart left.”
Walter rolled his eyes and gave a swift tug, pulling him halfway from the trough. Though Niall was weak from lack of food and too much whisky, he managed to get himself the rest of the way out. He stood in the moonlight, dripping water around the near frozen ground.
“Ye have a heart. Ye have a soul. One arm. That is all ye’ve lost. Ye still have your manhood, aye?”
Niall shrugged. Aye, he still had his bloody cock, but what woman wanted a decrepit man heaving overtop of her with his mangled body in full view.
“I know what ye’re thinking,” Walter said. “And the answer is, every eligible maiden and all her friends. Not to mention the kitchen wenches, the widows in the glen, and their sisters.”
“Ballocks,” Niall muttered.
“Ye’re still handsome. Ye’re still heir to a powerful clan. Wake up, man. This is not ye. Ye canna let the loss of your arm be the destruction of your whole life. Ye’re not the first man to ever be maimed in battle. Dinna be a martyr.”
“Says the man with two arms.”
“Ye want me to cut it off? I’ll bloody do it.” Walter turned in a frantic circle as if looking for the closest thing with a sharp edge.
Niall narrowed his eyes, silent, watching, waiting. When had his wee brother become such an intense force? Walter marched toward the barn, hand on the door, yanked it wide as if to continue the blockhead search. Niall couldn’t help following after his brother who marched forward with purpose, disappearing inside the barn.
A flutter of worry dinged in Niall’s stomach. Walter wouldn’t truly go through with something so stupid, would he?
When he didn’t immediately reappear, Niall’s pang of worry heightened into dread. Dammit, he just might. With all the changes Walter had made recently, there was every possibility that he’d gone mad. Well, Niall might wish to disappear, but not before he made certain his brother was all right.
With a groan, Niall lurched forward, grabbed the door and yanked it open. The stables were dark and smelled of horses, leather and hay. He could hear a few horses nickering, and the soft snores of the stable hands up on the loft fast asleep.
“Walter,” he hissed. “Enough. No more games.”
Still, there was silence.
He stepped farther into the barn, and the door closed behind him, blocking out all the light save for a few strips that sank between cracks in the roof.
His feet shuffled silently on the dirt floor. Where the bloody hell had his brother gone?
And why was his heart pounding so fiercely? He trudged toward the first set of stables, touching the wood of the gates. A horse nudged his hand with its soft muzzle, blowing out a soft breath that tickled his palm, and Niall’s heart squeezed.
“Prince,” he whispered, leaning his forehead down until he felt it connect with the warm, solidness of his warhorse. Prince nickered and blew out another breath.
Niall had not ridden in months. If not for his horse, he might be dead. But rather than be irritated Prince had done his job, he felt nothing but pride that the horse he’d trained from a colt into a mammoth had done his duty.
After Niall’s arm had been severed and he was left for dead, Prince had nudged him awake, bent low and nipped at Niall’s legs until he’d managed to crawl and heave himself belly first over the saddle. Prince had taken him hom
e like that, a bleeding sack of grain.
Having thought him dead, the clan had been shocked and surprised to see him return, and that’s when the true battle for his life had begun. He’d lost so much blood, succumbed to fever, and stopped breathing more than once. Hell, it was a miracle he was still alive.
Which begged the question—why, why, why…
“He’s missed ye.” Walter was beside him, and Niall jerked toward his brother, seeing his outline in the dark.
“Is that why ye brought me in here?”
“Did ye really think I’d cut off my arm?” Walter chuckled. “Ye know I like to fondle a wench and drink at the same time.”
Niall snickered. “Ye’re an arse.”
“Aye, ’haps I am.”
They were silent for a few minutes, Niall deep in thought as he stroked Prince’s soft muzzle. His mind was a torment of unanswered questions. “Walter, I…I dinna know what to do.”
“Take it one day at a time, brother. But do take it. No more being locked in your chamber.”
Niall nodded even though his brother couldn’t see him. A phantom twinge of pain rippled through the arm that was no longer there, and he stopped himself from moving to rub the spot, not wanting to humiliate himself in front of his brother. When would those pains go away? When would his body realize his arm had long since become bone in the earth?
One day at a time. That was something he might be able to do. “I’ll have bad days.”
“Aye. And good ones, too.”
Niall nodded. He longed to saddle Prince and go for a ride but realized he wasn’t even certain how to mount with only one arm to grab hold of the saddle. “I have so much to learn.”
“Aye. But as I recall, ye’re a fast learner.”
“I’ll start training again tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“But I willna be laird. Walter, the right to rule is yours now.”
“Ye’ve time before ye need to make that choice. Da is yet breathing and making a ruckus.”