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Chapter Four: Fall, Eric
Eric de Clermont, turned on a battlefield, was born in a cave.
The world had been loud and bright and terrible in those first moments of his new life. Wracked with anguish at the loss of his young wife. Filled with rage for his new father, and resentment for his father's stern mate, Eric came into the world fighting against his right to be alive.
But Hugh had been patient.
Patient and kind and forgiving. He had explained this new world to him and the role he would someday play in it. He taught him how to see in the too bright sunlight. How to hear when the world became a deafening roar. How to walk without running. How to touch without damaging.
He taught Eric how to live. He took a young gall óglaigh named Sorley and helped him rise above his grief. Deftly guided him as he carefully transformed into someone else. Someone terrifying and new. And he sat with him in his grief too. Mourned with him for those he left behind — the recent dead and those still living.
He would never return to his home in the Hebrides. He would never join his young bride in the afterlife. He would never be able to tell his story to the family and friends he had who were still living, waiting for him back in his island home. Lindon would never hear from his lips another wry greeting. Bróccin would never again clap him good naturedly on the back. His birth father would never see the young boy he'd sent off into the world return home as a man of honor.
Sorley of the Clan Maclean would simply disappear. Another casualty of war and the callousness of Norman nobility.
He was a quick learner.
He had impeccable control, and a natural cunning that lended itself well to life on the other side of death. They taught him to hunt, and he did it well. They taught him restraint, and found it came naturally. As young vampires went, Eric's upbringing was one of ease and a mild temperament.
On his hundredth day, Eric and his new fathers departed from their home at the mouth of the cave, never to return. It would be many years before he saw Scotland again.
Straight on to France, they rode through the dark of the morning. The small family moved quickly by the shadows of the night. In less than a week, they crossed tumultuous waters to be greeted on the coast by a party of men.
Black cloaks on black horses.
In less than a month, their party crested a great hill that overlooked a prosperous village on the outskirts of Auvergne. A large seven towered chateau was tucked deep into the landscape there, overlooking the territories that surrounded it on all sides.
This was their destination.
Sept-Tours.
His new ancestral home.
Eric had known enough from his last days of feeding from his father that this was not a place Hugh de Clermont was meant to be. Not a place the older man wanted to be. He knew that they were not welcome here.
But Eric had been told his rebirth was one of significance.
Had been told that his presence proposed a shift.
Though a shift in what, toward which direction, and for whom were all questions that Hugh had deftly evaded answering with any clarity. Fernando, who had always been a bit begrudging in his dealings with Eric, during his early days in the cave, had grown closer to him in their travels.
He had also grown more silent and far graver too.
They were here, at the invitation of another. On the command of someone Eric was not meant, in any capacity, to defy. In his father's hand was a coin. And in Fernando's was the hilt of a hidden blade. Eric knew not for whom it was meant. He only knew that Hugh had spent many an evening whispering quiet warnings to his mate. Arguing his case for continued peace, and his assurances of mercy.
Fernando never seemed quite convinced.
Eric knew not what to make of the odd behavior of the two men who'd raised him in this new life, but he knew enough to know that it was best to be on his guard.
When they rode through the high gates of the impregnable chateau, they were met by the hooded figures of a clan of men. Just steps behind them, the narrowed eyes of a group of women. Hugh and Fernando bent the knee. Eric reluctantly followed, mind flashing to the last time he had bent his knee for a man he soon found to be unworthy, premature in his hasty pursuit of some fantastical idea of honor and bravery.
His father's coin was passed into the hands of the tallest of the men, who stood stern above their small party.
After a long moment's pause, and a few murmured words from Hugh, the man called for them to rise.
Eric watched this new man's gaze linger on his father for a while longer. An unreadable expression on his face. His eyes passed deftly over Fernando as though he'd not seen him at all. When he landed on Eric, the weight of his gaze settled down on the fledgling vampire's shoulders like that of a boulder. He could feel it pressing down on him as though intent on bending his spine. Had he been made of lesser stuff, Eric supposed he would have felt cowed in the presence of this prominent man. Succumbed to his urge to shrink, to bow, to step away from him. But there was no Eric de Clermont, son of Hugh, without Sorley, son of Ragnall, descendent of the fighting clan Maclean. And if Sorley would not cower before one such as he then neither would Eric do such a thing.
Under the heavy weight of this new and unsettling gaze, he planted himself more firmly where he stood. His feet were steady, legs strong and balanced. And Eric knew, as he knew himself, that nothing could knock them out from beneath him. The ground beneath him was his to command, and not even the strongest of winds nor the fiercest of enemies could move him without his permission.
Not even the man who stood before him.
He raised his chin ever so slightly higher, eyes locked on the other man, while he suffered his appraisal.
Whatever this new figure saw in him must have measured up to some invisible standard, for he was met with a large and knowing grin. Hard eyes softened into kindness. A strong hand extended out for his own. Eric glanced at his father and watched him give the most imperceptible of nods. He extended his hand and raised his eyebrow as the other man locked his forearm in an unbreakable hold. Eric clasped his forearm just as tightly and watched as the man's already wide smile stretched wider still.
A hearty chuckle.
A nod of approval.
"Welcome to Sept-Tours, my boy," the prominent man said. His voice, like a thunderclap in the dark silence of the night. "I am your grandfather, Philippe."
They stayed long enough for him to be accepted by each of Hugh's many siblings, as well as the children of Ysabeau. And then after the formality had been observed, they were kindly escorted to the border by the same cloaked regiment of Philippe's men that had met them on the coast. And they were reminded, as a family, that they were not to return.
An offer had been extended to Eric early on; Philippe had made it clear that he was welcome to stay in France as a recognized member of the family should he so choose, but the offer had fallen on deaf ears. He prided himself on his loyalty in his first life, and he'd carry that loyalty into his second life too. Where his father went, Eric swore he would follow until such day that Hugh de Clermont was welcomed back into his family's fold.
Philippe had begrudgingly accepted this, and Eric thought that it earned him the slightest of modicum of respect from the ancient man. Though, he supposed, if it had he would never truly know. His new grandfather was not a man of transparency. The few words he had to spare for another were often invulnerable ones on the best of days. And Eric was quickly learning there was little room for much else when it came to a man such as him in a family such as this.
And with that, Eric Ragnall Sorley de Clermont was cast out into the world by his grandfather. Sent to explore its many wonders under the watchful eye and continued tutelage of his father, Hugh. And that was how he would remain until such time that his father's exile had ended. Until such time that Hugh and Fernando were forgiven for their defiance. Until they had paid penance for the sins they committed against this family for the life they had wholeheartedly succumbed to, and a love that had been beyond their want for control.
There was a freedom in exile, he found soon enough.
They traveled the expanse of the Iberian Peninsula. Finding lodgings throughout the kingdoms there. He experienced the world from the safety of the homes Hugh and Fernando had collected in the many centuries they'd walked the earth. Down into North Africa, in the lands of the Almohad kings, Eric learned of the far reaches of other worlds. On to Sicily, they'd spent many years traveling the breadths of the Holy Roman Empire, and later spent near a decade resting along the shores of the black sea.
He'd met an unkindness of witches. Bands and bands of eccentric demons. And his fair share of vampires, both friends and enemies.
By the approach of his first fifty years, Eric could claim a breadth of knowledge that would have astounded him as a young human, a man who had only ever dreamed of returning home to the Hebrides.
They had played host to his Uncle Matthew, who was sharp edged and cunning. It was he who had shown Eric a side of the world Hugh would never have otherwise allowed him to see. Eric found a different kind of freedom in his uncle's company. One that Hugh had been wary of but had reluctantly allowed. All the while, educating his son on the significance behind his uncle's black eyes, and explaining yet another familial burden.
Matthew's secret was the first secret he'd been entrusted with as a de Clermont. And it was not one he took lightly.
When Matthew had gone, they'd stumbled on Frejya and boarded with her for a while before she impatiently cast them off on an ill-tempered whim. Hugh had taken his sister's dismissal lightly and in good humor.
They simply moved along. Wandered to other places. Parts yet unknown to the young manjasang.
A decade later, he witnessed a new side to de Clermont frivolity. Eric had always been a humble creature, a man of simple means. Well off and comfortable all his life, he'd never tended toward excess. Traveling with Hugh and Fernando, as a member of a very old and powerful family, he had discovered excess upon excess.
Too much for him.
On this, he and Fernando had quickly come to agree. And they had thought Hugh to be the far worst of it. That is... until they hosted Verin. He still cringed at the memories. At the frivolity and expense.
It had been a difficult awakening to realize Hugh was the frugal one in the de Clermont family, rivaled only by the likes of Baldwin, unless the latter was on a path for war.
With only four more years before his eightieth birthday, he found there was even more of the world left yet to see, and a restlessness overcame him. A desperate desire for something more.
That was when the letter came.
The letter that changed everything and set him back on the course he was always meant to be on, his thoughts on the matter be damned.
A black cloaked messenger on a black steed.
A carefully concealed coin hidden in a firmly pressed seal.
Philippe de Clermont waited for no man. Young Eric had finally been called to heel.
The first time Eric and Hugh fought, it was about whether or not he owed Philippe his loyalty. In Eric's opinion, the answer was a resounding no. But Hugh, in his quiet, calculated way, had assured him that not only was he to act as a loyal member of Philippe de Clermont's clan, but that he would come to care for the man too. In his own time, in his own way.
Eric had sneered at such an absurd idea. Had questioned the sanity of the man who'd raised him. Refused, adamantly to answer the de Clermont sieur's call.
It was the first time Eric had seen his father as the man he was to the rest of the world. The crown prince, not the wandering exile. The heir of Philippe, not the peregrine man with an illegitimate family. It was the first time he understood the firm grip of the invisible hand that moved the world. The dark flash of warning in Hugh's eyes. The speed with which he moved. The flash of pain as his teeth pierced the skin of his throat and demanded obedience.
It was not the first time he'd been in this position. Eric had been a young vampire once. By all accounts he was one still. But he'd been such an easy-going child that he was unaccustomed to discipline like that which Hugh had swiftly dealt.
By the end of their ordeal, the matter had been settled.
He would take the coin from the letter. He would cross back into Philippe's territory. He would bend the knee. He would do as he was commanded. Disobedience would be disloyalty. To defy Philippe was to defy Hugh. This had grated Eric down to his very last nerve, but there was no way around it.
Fernando had watched the exchange, unmoved by Eric's attempts at defiance. Unconcerned by the savagery of his mate. This was the way of things, and it was high time Eric was educated in the matters of the world he would someday rule.
Hugh had chosen his fate.
Fernando had as well.
Eric had been born into a chasm. A child of a rift that had begun centuries ago, long before the human Sorley had even been born. Neither man would allow him to make the mistake of fighting their battles for them. He had a family larger than only the two of them. A grandfather who was prepared to give him the world in all its terror and glory. He would not squander it. Not in some misguided attempt to remain loyal to only them.
These matters were far too complicated for such folly.
They accompanied Eric to the borders of Philippe's territory.
From there he rode on to Auvergne alone.
Hugh and Fernando moved along into the Kingdom of Navarre. Set up their home once again amongst the trees. La Ithuriana sat tucked carefully into her lonely hillside, quietly awaiting the return of her long absent stewards. Sturdy and warm as the day she was built on the solid mountain ground. Just miles from the French border, the two men brought order back to their old home. And took back control of the Way of St. James. Regained their power over the pass that led from France into Spain. Hugh made himself indispensable to the king, and Fernando cast his network of influence wide as he had always done when he arrived somewhere new.
The two men set about an age-old routine. They carefully respected the circumstances of their exile, while simultaneously making themselves impossible for Philippe to ignore. If he was going to call on their son — if he was going to bring Eric to heel among the rest of his family — then they were going to be there, strategically placed right on the periphery of every move Philippe attempted to make.
It was what Hugh had been raised to do — what he came by naturally — this strategic game they deftly played. It would have been far more of a disappointment to Philippe if they hadn't taken the bait at all.
Moves and countermoves.
This was the de Clermont way.
The pass was cold and unforgiving this time of year. Though the elements did not affect Eric so much these days. He and Balder had escorted the last of the pilgrims into la Colegiata de Santa Maria so that they could hunker down, safe from the falling snow. The monks on the French side of the pass had informed them that no others would be permitted to travel through until the following spring. This group was the last until such time as the snow melted.
Balder, a fellow knight of Lazarus, was a stern companion but one he enjoyed the company of, nevertheless. They'd served out the last year together, ferrying travelers across the perils of the Pyrenees. It was not particularly taxing work for either of the men. Balder being older than Eric by a decade or two, and both of them hailing from frigid northern climates, their assignment was an easy one if not one of minor inconvenience.
They'd been inducted into the knights at the same time.
Balder, eager to escape any promise of loyalty to his less-than-favorable sire, sought a life of service as one of Philippe's fighting men. A Templar for life, he would obey none other than the Grand Master of his order. Eric, on the command of his grandfather, had agreed to join the order out of an obligation to his estranged family. It was the first of many responsibilities he would carry on his shoulders in the long lifetime to come.
Their work in the pass was a far cry from the holy land. This was their trial run. A test of their make and matter. An assurance of their quality, and the trueness of their word.
Here, strategically placed between Hugh and Philippe, they acted as guardians of Christian pilgrims by day, and messengers between father and son by night. They were the ears for Philippe's network of spies. And they were an assurance to the Pope that he still had influence over Philippe and his order of fighting men. Through the monks, the Pope watched Philippe. Through Eric, Philippe watched Hugh and vice versa. Through Balder, Philippe watched Eric. Through Eric, Hugh watched Balder. And so on.
The network was vast.
The webs of deceit and information warfare were woven tight. And despite it all, Balder and Eric somehow became even stronger friends.
It was tedious. It was frustrating. It was, well—
Eric leaned lazily against the base of the tree that sat in the little courtyard of the monastery, casually watching the comings and goings of the monks and the pilgrims that would hunker down there during the snow filled months of winter.
He casually toyed with a bit of straw he'd plucked off a supply cart the monks had unloaded outside of the stables, twirling it between his fingers a few times before sticking it contemplatively between his teeth. His thoughts were on his journey home.
He'd written to his father weeks ago, telling him of his plans to return. Now, as he looked up the road he'd traveled for the better part of the year — the one that linked the kingdoms of France with the Kingdom of Navarre — he knew that it was time to go.
Another fellow knight, Guillaume, had bunkered down on the other side of the pass, to warn off travelers from attempting the perilous trek before the knights returned to see them through. Eric and Balder, had crossed back over the border to Navarre. Balder, on the command of Philippe. Eric, to find a moment's peace away from his grandfather's watchful gaze.
"You know," Balder said, appearing behind him and casually perching himself on a giant boulder that sat off to Eric's side. "That tree can stand all on its own. It doesn't need you to hold it up."
Eric shot his brother knight a wry look but didn't budge from where he leaned. He kicked a foot back to brace himself more comfortably against the rough bark and pulled the straw from his mouth. Studying it for a moment before pitching it away.
"Heading home this evening," he said to Balder.
The other man nodded, turning his head to watch the pilgrims begin their afternoon ablutions. Listening to the quiet of the windswept mountainscape. Somewhere deep inside the monastery the monks began their ritualistic chants.
"Storm's bound to roll through before nightfall," Balder told his comrade, though the young de Clermont already knew.
Eric nodded and shrugged, looking up at the sky which had darkened into a deep craggy grey. The clouds loomed like a reckoning. Low and angry, they consumed the high peaks of the Pyrenees with insatiable haste.
With them, the unforgiving ravages of winter would descend upon the mountain. The coming months would be harsh and maddening. He'd always wondered at the reason monasteries were built on the sparse edges of human civilization. In his last fifty years, Eric now knew. Humans, in the absence of immortality, often tested their faith eternal by placing themselves directly in nature's all-consuming path. To succumb to the madness brought on by nature's savagery, only confirmed the righteousness of those others who had yet to fall. To maintain one's own sanity, one's own steadfastness, only made an individual that much more holy in the eyes of others. Only reaffirmed that they indeed were in possession of the much-desired favor of their God.
He turned away from the sky with a grimace. Shooting another skeptical look at Balder. Life on the other side of death had taught him one thing — nature would test you whether you got in its way or not. There was no reason to go provoking what was coming for you anyway. There was no reason to incite the wrath of an already vengeful god.
"You are more than welcome to join my family at La Ithuriana until spring," he offered again. "We've more than enough room."
But Balder was already shaking his head with a wide toothy grin. His shorn hair stark against the bleak winter landscape. His dark eyebrows in a constant state of furrow that did not match the light look he spared Eric now.
"I'm not meant for civilized society, brother." Balder said. "I'll take my chances in the pass. Keep the monks from sacrificing the pilgrims in a fit of snow induced rage."
Eric studied him a moment longer before conceding with a shrug. "Suit yourself then," he said.
He kicked off the tree and extended his arm to his fellow knight. Balder stood and clasped his forearm in warm farewell.
"I'll be off," Eric said and jerked his head the way of the stables.
"Give my regards to your father," Balder nodded.
"Aye," Eric said. "I will." Then he gestured around him with a dark glimmer in his eye. "Try not to lose yourself in the disparity eh. I expect to find the same number of pilgrims in the spring that I left here in the fall."
Balder's grin was a sharp one, but he said not another word.
Eric snorted and shook his head, turning away from the other man, his feet crunched loudly and purposefully on the frosted gravel that led from the courtyard to the stable.
He nodded at the monks who lingered about, working the land and completing their chores. They bowed and murmured their varied "my lords," "my lord de Clermonts," and "good sirs," as he strode purposefully past.
Balder would stay in the monastery until the following spring. He was a solitary man. A quiet one. More accustomed to the wilds of nature than the four walls of a sturdy home.
Eric had let the matter rest. Just as Balder preferred the freedom of the outdoors, Eric preferred the freedom of far-off places. It was easy to feel stifled staying in the same place for too long. He was ready to be far away from here for even the shortest span of time. And though the village of Roncesvalles was a far cry from the black sea, it was at least somewhere other than the same road he'd traveled over and over again for the last year.
He was going home.
An old tether, right at the very heart of him, gave a small jolt when he mounted his steed. He brought his hand up to scratch absently at that long-forgotten place in his chest but he paid it little mind. Eyes forward, Eric clicked his tongue. Urged his horse down the path that led on to La Ithuriana. Back down the mountain, to his family and a much-needed reprieve. Eric was suddenly all too aware of the long exhaustive stretch that was the eternal passage of time. Thoughts straying once again to his near insatiable desire to roam, he found suddenly, inexplicably, that there was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.
His welcome came in the form of a warm embrace and a smile spared only for him. Never let it be said that Hugh de Clermont was not a good father to his only son. He was often flighty and possessed of far too many thoughts and ideas than one mind could hold, but he was wise and strong and empathetic to a fault. He could reduce you with a look whether in loving or in scorn, and Eric had missed his father terribly in their most recent moments of separation.
He had of course spent years apart from his father before. He had seen and lived a life independent of Hugh and Fernando, but they'd always been there on the periphery. Pillars to reach for when his mind succumbed to the storms of grief that sometimes overcame him.
And never before now had he felt so conflicted. So thusly torn in the loyalties of his mind and heart. His time with his grandfather had taught him many things. His time with his extended family had taught him many more. And there was nothing more challenging to Eric's own sense of self than the discovery that he actually liked his grandfather quite a lot. That they got along well. He had even begun to trust the man. Felt the unforgivable urge to confide in him. It had unsettled him, this growing relationship with the man who had rejected his own father so. And even worse yet, was the knowledge that his father would rejoice and encourage this turn of events. That his father wanted him to embrace the man who had exiled him for loving Fernando.
When he'd arrived it was to the warm welcome of the stablemaster who gladly took his reins. The curtsies of maids, both vampire and human, and the deep bows of footmen and tradesmen who meandered and bustled about. He strode confidently from the stables and took the steps that led to the great oak doors of La Ithuriana two at a time.
But before he reached the top, the massive doors were thrown open with inhuman force, and he was met with the most welcome of greetings.
His father stood before him, tall and regal as anyone ever could be. With his deep-set eyes and rumpled tunic, the smile he spared his son was tired and wan and meant entirely for him. Hugh had clapped a hand down onto his shoulder in welcome, drawing him into the warmth of their home. He pulled him in, close to his side. The older de Clermont guided his son further into La Ithuriana, toward his private study where they could speak for the first time in far too long without the lingering presence of others.
"I saw Matthew in Leon," Eric said, accepting the goblet of blood his father passed into his hands.
"Oh?" Hugh asked, raising a dispassionate eyebrow. "Recently?"
"A few months back," he said with a shrug. "He brought news of Bertrand and Miriam."
"Ah," Hugh said. This time turning away from his son completely to tug at a scroll that sat high on a shelf.
"They sail for Marseilles. They should pass through here in the spring once the snow melts in the pass."
At this Hugh did look up, his eyes giving way to his small smile. "Good, then," he said. "We'll look forward to their arrival."
Eric nodded, studying his father carefully. He seemed more absent than usual. And Fernando, who typically made an appearance by now, seemed to have made himself scarce. Eric knew with little doubt that he was here somewhere, in the large network of rooms that made up La Ithuriana. He'd seen his stepfather's favored steed in the stables, and he'd caught the barest of his scent in the entry, mixed with another. Younger, human, and far more intriguing than any other he'd ever smelled before.
"What news of my brother?" Hugh asked, pulling Eric from his reverie.
"He is well," he said and paused. "His eyes remain dark."
He said it lowly, as though he was confessing to his father the gravest of sins. Hugh stared back at him, wary, before dipping his head down in an understanding nod. Hugh brushed his son's fears aside with a wave of his hand. Blood rage was not yet a burden that Eric needed to bear. His knowledge of its existence in Matthew was dangerous enough as it was. Hugh gritted his teeth at his father's recklessness but kept his opinions to himself. It had been trouble enough to get Eric to fall in line with Philippe's order of things. Hugh's discontentment with his father needed not be expressed so explicitly to his son in this moment of all moments.
There were far more important matters at hand.
"Father..." Eric started and trailed off. "Where is Fernando?"
Hugh, who had been staring deeply into his own goblet of blood, looked up at Eric's question and fixed him with a slight frown.
"He is around," he said and waved his hand imperiously about him as though to indicate a general direction. Eric raised a skeptical eyebrow at his father, but he held his tongue. Choosing instead to move over to the open window that overlooked the grounds.
Snow had not yet fallen on La Ithuriana, but he could see the tell-tale frost that harbingered the coming of winter. He closed his eyes into the cold breeze that wafted in to welcome him home, a stark contrast from the heat of the fire that blazed inside his father's study.
"After I sired you, I paid a visit to the old midwife who lived in your village," Hugh said.
Eric turned away from the window to look at his father with a confused smile on his lips. His eyebrows had furrowed in a good-natured fashion, as though to ask the older man why the sudden turn, and why this subject of all the things.
"As you know, I saw your interactions with the old woman when I took your blood," Hugh said and gestured for him to sit.
Eric did as his father bade him, still watching him curiously after he'd finally sat down.
"I'd heard the fortune she read in your tea leaves," he said.
Eric struggled to recall what his father spoke of. His human life came and went in waves of clarity and an abundance of blurs. Time was an odd concept for him still, but he was assured that his memory would sort itself out when he was older. Not yet having seen a hundred summers, Eric had a while yet before he fully reconciled his thoughts on the concept of eternity.
"And the words she spoke at your handfasting..." Hugh said, trailing off a bit and studying the young man before him.
Eric's eyebrows shot high into his hairline. Like a dream, his memories of the old midwife came hurdling back to him. Sitting beside the fire in her hut and listening to her ramblings in a state of respectful disbelief. Handing her his items to weave into cords for his handfasting ceremony with—
He sucked in a sharp breath and turned his face away from the memories of Castle Sween, and the little village at the edge of the woods, and—and her.
It was not enough to escape the onslaught though and he gritted his teeth against the unwelcome reminder.
"Why do you tell me this now?" Eric asked his father.
Hugh placed a chest on the surface of the desk that stood between them. Pushing it gently in his direction.
"Because there is something I must tell you," Hugh said. "But first, I think it's time that I give you this."
"What is it?" Eric asked.
His fingers carefully tracing the smooth wooden surface. He unlatched the cold metal clasps, studying his father carefully as he lifted the lid. Hugh gestured for him to look and see. Eric studied his father a moment longer before lowering his eyes down to the contents of the chest. He faltered.
A small dagger. A letter addressed to his birth father, still sealed and never to be read. And a small length of handfasting cords, frayed and faded with the passage of time. A thin golden chain, that your marriage be one of longevity. A sharp tug in his chest forced Eric to close his eyes. The long-forgotten scent of a young flame. Her face glowing bright in the light and shadow of a darkening wood. He gritted his teeth and opened his eyes. His fingers ran over the worn strap of brown leather. That you remain grounded as you step forth into the future as one. His lips pressed into a thin line to stave off the ghost of honeyed mead that he had once tasted on her lips.
He let out a small, wounded sound that he long thought he'd forgotten how to make. He dropped the cords and looked up at his father. Face twisted in the pain of memory, and the sting of gratitude. He didn't want these memories. He didn't want to think about— he shook himself. Clenched his fists a few times to regain his sense of control. A small part of him hated that he could never let these things go. That he would never let them go no matter how they pained him. He couldn't fathom how he'd gone so long without remembering them. But another nail drove itself into the coffin of his eternal life. This was eternity — holding tightly to these things. This pain that he felt would forever exist in his mind and memory. And he savored it. Hated himself for savoring it. He— well he—
Suddenly drowning in the waves of his own memory, Eric could not breathe for the thought of Malvina.
Bitter tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he looked up at Hugh. His father regarded him, the look in his eyes abundant and knowing. This feeling— this contradictory feeling. Of fullness. And emptiness. Of pain and the dull seduction of all the things he wished to numb. Hugh de Clermont knew this feeling. And he knew even more that he could no longer spare it of his son.
Eric looked back down at the cords he'd dropped in his grief. And carefully caressed the dried petals of the small chain of blue flowers Malvina had woven once. The flowers he had once given her as a gift to show her his favor. Someone had taken the time to carefully dehydrate and preserve them. He glanced at his father in silent thanks.
Blue, Beatrix's voice sounded in his mind, for patience.
Green, he noted the stems, for luck.
Luck. The word was bitter on his tongue. And he had to swallow back his ire at the old midwife's poor choice of words. There had been no luck for his Malvina. There had been no—
"Why now?" His voice was the texture of gravel.
Eric did not look at Hugh as he asked this bitter question.
"Grey," Hugh said, walking around the desk and perching himself on the edge next to his son.
A strong hand came down to rest on the back of the boy's head. Fingers dragging comfortingly through his lion's mane hair before drawing back and tapping the boy's chin.
A silent command for Eric to look at him.
The stubborn set of his jaw, the flash of grieving eyes, Eric did as his father bade him. Waiting. His shoulders were set with an impatient edge. Hugh smiled down at him, solemn and wise.
"Is to return."
He watched as his son's brow furrowed low. Confused. The older man brought his hand down to the handfasting cords, drawing his fingers gently over the grey strip of linen braided into the pattern there. Eric's eyes followed the movement, uncomprehending.
"It is to return," Hugh said again. "Without repercussion."
Beatrix had been a witch. The village had always had its suspicions, but it took fifty years and a new father to confirm. Hugh had known the moment he saw her in Sorley's memories that Beatrix was who she was. That she was a witch and that she had seen something significant in Sorley's future.
And Hugh, being a man of significant power and obligation, took it upon himself to know what she knew.
Eric had stared up at his father in a state of disbelief. Unable to comprehend the complicated tale Hugh had spun.
Hugh had gone to her, while Sorley passed his first nights in the cave. Left in Fernando's care, Eric had been nurtured into the world not only by Hugh as he had long thought, but first by Fernando.
He had no memory of this. He had no—
Hugh had gone to Beatrix. The midwife with the milk blind eyes— the most renowned seer north of Hadrian's wall. And she had known to expect him. Had sat waiting for him on her front step, with all of Malvina's salvaged belongings. A dagger that had not burned in the fire that ravaged Ailios's hut. The one he'd gifted her when she was a maid at the Castle Sween. The letter he'd entrusted to Beatrix in the event he fell in battle and left Malvina behind as a widow. The one that asked his father to care for her in the event that Sorley could not. And lastly, the cords that had fasted their hands on the night they were wed.
These were the remnants of his past life.
These were the last vestiges of Sorley and Malvina.
Right here, locked carefully away in a small wooden chest, the last moments of his human life survived forever. Safeguarded by his father until such a time he was ready to see them, and feel them, and cherish them in his grief.
And now—
Now Eric was staring at a door.
He could feel the weight of his father's presence at his back, though he knew that if he turned he would not see him. Could feel the weight of Fernando's displeasure behind Hugh, standing nervous and ready, in the stairwell down the hall. Preparing for the worst. Preparing for the moment Eric lost control of himself.
But he didn't feel as though he'd lose control. He'd not had a problem with restraint in the past. And he couldn't imagine himself causing harm to someone he loved. Someone he swore to protect. Someone who—
As though of its own volition, his fist came up to knock at the door. The sound of it was gentle. Timid. So unlike the man he knew himself to be. The rap of his knuckles against the solid wood ricocheted off the walls of the frozen corridor.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Eric couldn't remember the last time he'd trembled so.
And then the gentle sound of timid footsteps. The slow turn of a latch. The creak of an old hinge.
Suspended in darkness, frozen in his growing anticipation, nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met him when she opened the door.
Nothing in the world could have possibly prepared him. Not for her.
Left to her own quiet company, Addison sat in a cozy chair by the hearth in her chambers. Wrapped up in a fine golden dressing gown, decorated with patterns of rich green and brown vines, she could almost convince herself that this was a life she'd always been meant to live. Drowsy but unable to sleep, she ran her fingers lazily over the fine silk fabric and allowed herself a rare moment to think.
She hadn't known what to expect when she arrived here in history. Hadn't known what to think about the easy trust Hugh had fostered in her from the moment he'd pulled her up from the hard cobblestones. Certainly, hadn't known what to do when Fernando asked her to be his daughter.
It felt too good to be true.
It felt like there was an inevitable twist waiting just around the corner to jar her out of this reverie.
Addison liked the home she found here at La Ithuriana. She liked the gardens, and the mountain views. She liked the people. And she could even stomach the food.
She felt safe for the first time in a long time.
Things were going well.
Too well.
Too—
She was startled out of her reverie by a knock on her door.
Addison sat up and stared in the direction of the sound.
Jacqueline never knocked. And no one else ever seemed to visit her here. After dinner, she always parted ways with Hugh, Fernando and Idir, to ready herself for another night of peaceful rest. And they never called on her again until morning.
But now—
Wrapping her dressing gown tight around the shift she was wearing, suddenly self-conscious about being exposed in front of these men, even though she was far more covered than she'd ever been back in the twenty first century, Addison stood.
She made her way to the door, where whoever knocked seemed to have fallen silent as they waited for her to answer their call.
The little spool of thread that resided low in her belly seemed to come alive once again. Spinning wildly outward. Tugging her ever forward. Guiding her. She felt as though she was seeing things from afar when her hand reached out for the latch on the door.
Time was an odd thing Addison would decide later. In the coming weeks and months that she would spend cloistered away, safe behind the walls of La Ithuriana, she would settle on this notion resolutely. Her first two weeks in the company of strangers had passed her by in a blur. It felt like yesterday that she'd arrived here at her new mountain home. Only yesterday, that she'd landed face first in the courtyard and been hefted into the kind and capable hands of Hugh. It felt like only yesterday, and yet the tally on the wall under her bed told her otherwise.
It had been weeks.
Now though, in the seconds it took for her door to swing open wide, Addison felt time slow down to an infinitesimal crawl. It inched along between who she was now and who she used to be. Stretched her across eternity and laid her bare for all to see.
He was standing there.
Stood before her as though he'd never gone away.
And suddenly Addison couldn't remember where she was or when she was meant to be. Her mind could not separate the sturdy roof of her new home from the dark canopy of ancient trees. Couldn't separate the chair she'd previously lounged in, from the raised roots of their favorite tree. Could not separate her full belly from the hunger she felt last fall, well into spring.
The space between them had stretched long and wide in this slow passage of time. Mere seconds manifested into years. How long had it been? How long? She took a step. Just one step. And she marveled at how the space between them seemed to stretch even farther still. As though the universe was trying to keep them away from each other. As if it somehow still had other plans.
His eyes were on her, and Addison couldn't breathe for her want of holding him. Her heart swelled in her chest. Tried to force its way up into her throat. His eyes were the same piercing blue, and she felt— she felt seen.
Seen by him.
Seen for the first time in all the time they'd been parted.
A well of emotion Addison hadn't known she'd been repressing bubbled up inside of her. She hadn't cried for him. Hadn't grieved. How could she have? She didn't know how to grieve in the void that time had left inside of her. She couldn't feel joy back home. Couldn't feel sorrow. And only now was she realizing those emotions had escaped her here too. So caught in the glow of this insulated life she'd been dazedly drifting through, Addison only now realized that she had not truly been living.
She felt herself succumb to the overflow.
Her chest expanded, hot and stinging, with the weight of her emotions. Her skin tingled with the sudden urge to move and move quickly. To latch onto him and never let him go.
"Sorley," she breathed.
A small pathetic sound escaped her. Eyes stinging. Throat burning. She jolted forward. Out of the warmth of her chambers. Into the dark of the corridor. She felt herself teetering on the edge of a vast and uncharted unknown. Pitched herself out, for fear that she'd forever be trapped within. There was a tether between them. She could feel it now, anchoring her to him. Anchoring her resolutely to this great and terrible world.
He didn't remember falling, but he was on his knees. He didn't see her move, but she was pressed against him where he fell. He was holding her in his arms. He didn't need to breathe, but his lungs burned. And Eric thought for the first time in a long time that precious air had been stolen from him against his will.
Malvina.
His Malvina had her arms wrapped around him. Her face was buried in the top of his head. She pressed kisses into his hair before kneeling down and pressing kisses to both of his cheeks. His forehead. All over his face.
She was saying his name. Repeating it over and over again in the kind of elation he did not feel he deserved.
His name— he blinked.
Not Eric, no.
The other one.
"Sorley," she said, and her voice cracked under the weight of it. "Sorley," she said again. She drew back to get a better look at him.
She was crying.
In a daze, he reached up to wipe her tears away. The sensation of the small drops transferring from her skin to his own was an overwhelming one. He felt as though, with one drop, he had been submerged beneath the strongest of currents in the deepest of seas.
"Malvina."
Her name tasted oddly on his lips. He had not said it in quite some time.
Malvina.
Gods, what was it he used to say? Malvina the... fury? Her eyes were dark and flickering, liquid metal glinting at him against the backdrop of the firelight in her chambers.
That was it.
Malvina, the fury.
Her lips were still just as full. Just as rich. Dark berry stains stood out against the glow of her sun kissed face. Hair, long and smooth. Skin as soft as a newborn babe. He ran his thumbs gently over her cheeks.
Malvina, the muse.
He— he couldn't quite reconcile.
Couldn't quite comprehend.
She had been— they had killed her. She was gone. His wife. His young bride... he had failed to protect her. He had failed to— she'd been so young. She should be old now. Or dead. She should be dead. She shouldn't be standing as she was before him. Unchanged by the ravages of time. Unchanged by the violence of the world around her. She was... impossible. She was impossible and she was...alive. She was alive.
He laughed.
Malvina, the living.
By his senses alone, he could confirm what his father had told him only moments before, in the quiet of his study. She was not a manjasang. And she was not a witch. She was just a young human woman. He shook his head, slow-beating heart caught in his throat. Twisted. His gut had twisted. And that long-forgotten tether, anchored deep in his chest, gave the strongest of pulls.
Just as it had when he'd left her. The night he'd left her in a little hut at the edge of the woods. The night they were handfasted beneath the bright light of a full moon at the base of their tree.
"Malvina—" he said her name again, but he knew not what could possibly follow.
She laughed, and he found himself succumbing to the weight of it. Cowed by the sound of it on her lips. She shook her head at him, and the scent of wine and berries and honey cakes wafted over him. He swallowed hard. Trembled when she ran her hands soothingly through his hair. And when she spoke, she spoke the most beautifully jumbled bit of Gaelic he thought he'd never have the pleasure of hearing ever again.
"Gallowglass," she said.
And though he was already knelt there on the ground, he felt something in him falling even further still. She was the light at the end of the darkness in which he had not known he was drifting. An anchor in the tides of time. She was the last breath he took as a knight named Sorley. And she was the first breath he took, now, as someone entirely new.
And Eric thought, not for the first time in her company, that this was everything he could ever need in the world. She had followed him, somehow, into this other more eternal life. And the tether right at the very heart of him would remain there, bolted steadfastly to her. Intertwined with the threads she didn't even know she was weaving around him, body and soul.
He knew, without even a shadow of doubt, that this had all been for her. All of it. Eternally. Forever and a day.