Pain hissed along Lirare's belly. The pulsing sensation sank deeper and she knew this was it. She dropped the water buckets and waddled home, breathing hotly through her nose and pausing to steady herself against tree trunks.
Meridun had said the time was near, though Lirare had insisted it would be another month. The baby would be born at the height of spring when the trees were in blossom, not on the edges of winter. However, mounds of melting snow lined the path home, thistle bushes humming with the first of the finches.
She had barely stepped foot in the clearing when her mother emerged from her house. Meridun, the ancient river goddess, strode forward with her eyes ablaze. Gripping her daughter's hands as another wave rocked Lirare, Meridun breathed in unison with her. Having her mother at her side, Lirare felt more secure.
“I told you, I felt it in the streams as the ice broke. This child is eager to join us,” Meridun laughed softly.
Lirare grunted in reply, her mind focused on managing the pain. “I know. I know, just get me inside.”
It was a quick labor. The sun was setting by the time Meridun cut the cord tying her grandchild to Lirare and put the afterbirth to burn on the fire. As Meridun turned from the hearth, a cup of dandelion tea in her hand for Lirare, her heart dropped to her stomach.
Lirare was sitting up in bed. Pale but alert, her hairline was damp with sweat. Wrapped against her chest, the babe was healthy and strong despite coming early. Meridun wondered if Lirare had the time frame of the pregnancy incorrect. If only to dull the pain of abandonment.
She was watching out the window for him. Still watching after all these months. Meridun knew the man who was the child's father would return. But it wouldn't be for many years.
“Drink this,” she instructed, handing Lirare the cup. “Let him go for now. There are more important matters at hand.”
Meridun ran a finger down the side of baby's face. The child's mouth puckered, she whimpered then fell back asleep. Lirare nodded solemnly, holding the child closer.
“What will you name her?”
Lirare's weary gaze fell on the thorny blooms propped up in a tankard on the hearth. "Thistle.”
Meridun nodded. “It's fitting for the life she will lead.”
One Hundred Years Later
Thistle's mother had never sent her so far from the forest and she was breathless with the thrill of it. Her boots skimmed over the mountain road. It was half a day’s walk till she was home. Her mother had warned her she would have to spend the night in the wild.
Evening fell as the tree-line thinned to a flat, grassy valley. Eerie towers of granite loomed black against the sky. Thistle guessed the rocky plains were the Moors of Eastenwell, isolated from the main roads. Though she knew little of their country, she had heard of the moors.
On winter nights, her mother spun wild stories of spirits lost in the mazes of stone. The wind picked up, gusting between the monoliths. Its chilling cry mimicked a weeping woman. The ghosts of mourning widows, searching for their warrior husbands in the mist. Thistle shivered, understanding where her mother’s ghostly legends had originated.
Peering in the semi-darkness, a jagged ring of standing stones appeared. Thistle stopped under it before it grew too dark to set up camp. Underneath the shelter of a perched stone, she pressed her back to the ancient granite and caught her breath.
Don’t make a fire on the road at night. It’s too dangerous. Not in these strange days. Her mother’s words returned to her.
She didn't know what her mother had meant by these strange days, but the words sounded ominous. Her mother, the immortal Lirare, listened to the earth. Her spirit was sensitive to the groaning of the forest. If there was anything wrong in the outside world, Lirare would know.
But it was growing colder.
Under all her layers, Thistle trembled with the early autumn chill. Summer had yet to give up its ghost and let the leaves fall, but it was growing colder that year than seasons before.
“Perhaps a little spark, just to cheer me up…” Thistle murmured to herself as she retrieved a rushlight and bundle of kindling from her pack.
An eagle’s feather drifted from her mess of curls. As the fire gathered strength, she sat back and studied the feather. The eaglet had sat very well for her while she mended his wing. Lirare received word from a hawk that the King of Eagles needed nursing for his only hatchling. Thistle was shocked when her mother had suggested that she go in her stead. She thought Lirare was finally giving her the independence she had wanted for so many years, but the fear tingling in her mother’s green eyes told her otherwise. Lirare was too scared to venture out of her wood.
Banishing the thought, Thistle tucked away the feather and extended her hands towards the flames. The warmth and the comforting pop of the burning wood lulled her into a light doze.
Thunderous crashing woke her. The violent snap of thick tree branches echoed through the valley. Heart thudding, Thistle leaped to her feet. A huge shape lumbered down the road towards her, its footsteps vibrating through the earth. Moonlight broke the cloud cover and Thistle made out the wart ridden face of a giant, standing at least twelve feet tall.
All she had was her short hunting knife.
Thistle stumbled backwards. Catching sight of her, it slowed to a menacing trot. Rheumy eyes were milky with infection as it bared blackened teeth. She ran towards one of the larger standing stones, its edges craggy with age. The ancient rock sliced open her palm as she scrambled up its side. The giant advanced.
“Finally! Some sport with my supper!” it guffawed. “Climb, little squirrel, climb!”
Thistle scrambled over the top and backed up against the rock face. He reached up, jagged nails and thick fingers grazing the soles of her boots. Her mind raced. Snatching the knife from her side, she stabbed the giant’s hand. It howled, the sight of its blood only inciting its fervor.
“For that, I won’t make this easy for you, little squirrel!” the monster taunted.
Thistle attempted to stab it again, but this time, the beast caught her by the throat. He squeezed, eyes dilating with bloodlust. Thistle’s vision blurred. As she started to lose consciousness, the giant loosed her with a roar of pain.
She rolled off the standing stone onto the damp grass. Gasping, she watched a figure in layers of leather armor and fur chop the giant to bits. She squeezed her eyes shut as the stranger sank the blade of an ax into the giant's skull with a juicy crunch. The stranger jerked their weapon from the convulsing body and wiped the gore from it in the grass.
“Who—“ she tried as her savior knelt next to her, his face coming into focus.
“Easy now, lass. You’ve had quite a tumble.” He laid a rough hand on the side of her face. “Ah, but you’ll live. I can tell. You’re a fighter.”
A Clansman. One of the barbarians from the west. Head half shaved with a tattooed scalp and a beard braided with bone beads, the hulking man was menacing. But not as menacing as the terror that had nearly choked her to death.
Giants and barbarians in one night, Thistle mused as she closed her eyes. My mother was right. These are strange days.
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