“My wife would agree with you, brother. But I cannot.” Eubar shook his head, wiping froth from his beard and setting the tankard to the table.
Varin scoffed, pacing before the table in Eubar's home. “How can you say that? You saw the White Horn taken by Gendall. Are the deaths of our parents nothing to you?”
Eubar sighed and leaned forward on his elbows. “I never said that. But I have my daughters to think of now. If peace is possible, should we not pursue it? Thistle wants the same thing, I can sense it in how she speaks. Would you lead any different?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, if you were chosen. If the spell in the King's sword shone for you-”
“It wouldn't,” Varin cut him off with a glare. “But if Roark were here, I believe he would gather his people and build their strength. Then attack.”
“To what end?”
Varin shrugged. “An eye for an eye. I want Gendall's outlying lands and the Collach Highlands for our people.”
Eubar stared at him, his eyebrows raised and mouth tight in thought. Rising to his boots, he let out an uneasy laugh. Eubar clapped Varin on the shoulder and led him towards the door. “I don't want to hear such talk. Not so soon after the blood of our warriors stained the treeline of these mountains.”
“You've grown soft with age, brother. There was a time when we first arrived at the Collachs that you would have agreed with me.”
Eubar opened the front door and gestured towards the hall. “Not soft. Wise. I want to live to see my great grandchildren. Something father will never do. Good night, Varin.”
Striding down the hall towards the White Horn, Varin pulled his heavy leather hood over his head and hitched his bow on his shoulder. He needed to get out of the mountain. The storm that had raged for several days had finally abated. The great hall was already neatened after the feast from the evening earlier.
Varin savagely kicked a discarded tankard that had been overlooked by the servants. The potion Thistle had taken certainly did leave an impression on the Woodlanders. They seemed even more passionate about creating an alliance with the Clans. No doubt she would be traveling to the Woodland come the thaw. The thought made him sick.
He strode out into the icy courtyard beyond the White Horn and breathed deeply. The cold invaded his senses, leaving his mind blank. Erasing the image of Thistle's cornflower blue eyes as they followed him the night before, he climbed up the eastern peak.
When he was a boy, the hunting had been good for Silverback Geese that time of year. The hardy birds survived in nests built into the sheltered cliff sides. His father had shown him where the best roosts were located. When he first went, he tried to steal eggs. His father had slapped his hand with the flat of his knife. He said that if Varin really wanted something, he would have to earn it. A year later, both his parents were dead at the hands of Gendall as the King stole their home.
He hissed as his foot slipped on a ledge and he jammed his knee into an outcrop. Holding his breath as the sharp pain faded, Varin snarled. He could never assist anything that promoted peace with the Woodland. Even if Thistle begged him.
“Help!”
Varin straightened and pulled back his hood. The wind howled in the glacier canyons below, the sound he had heard could be just that. He took another step forward, gripping the frosted edge of granite crag.
“Someone!”
Hoisting himself up the rock face, he reached the flat plateau at the top. A flock of geese flew off into the gray in a flurry of bone white wings. A pained grunt sounded on the other side of the drop off. Varin inched close and looked down the sheer face.
It was a miracle the man hadn't fallen to his death. He clung to a crack in the mountain with large, bare hands, the knuckles white and fingertips turning blue. He looked up at Varin with wide eyes, his visible breath coming fast. Varin almost chuckled. It was one of Gendall's bastard sons, the giant one called Sathal.
“How did you get down there, Woodlander?” Varin crowed as he crouched.
“There were nests, I thought I would get some eggs,” the man panted.
“Well now. Should I be surprised at finding a Woodlander trying to snatch what doesn't belong to him?”
“What does that matter? Help me, man!” He roared, a cascade of pebbles scraping under his frantic boots.
Varin paused. He could just leave the man to hang there. The Woodlander wouldn't last much longer by the looks of his hands and he wasn't born to these mountains. He didn't know the tricks and methods to survive such a predicament on his own. One less Woodlander. Varin rose to his feet and took a step back.
“Wait- What are you doing? Please!” Sathal Bron begged.
“You wouldn't help a Clansman in such a fix, I suspect,” Varin reasoned out loud, more to himself.
The man's expression blanched. “You really are going to leave me. So it's true what they say of you people. Just as my brother said before he was murdered by one of your kind.”
"What of my family?” Varin demanded with venom. “As your king took our home, my father was slain in the great hall where you feasted last night! And my mother poisoned herself before she could be taken alive!”
“It seems you have your mind made up then,” Sathal winced as he reset his grip, blood seeping in between his fingers. “If you will go on your way now so I can make peace with my gods in silence.”
Varin laughed and turned, at peace with his decision to let the Woodlander die. He made it halfway across the plateau.
“Barbarian!” Sathal yelled, the accusation echoing up toward Varin.
Varin growled and turned back towards the cliff. He had been called that one too many times in the Collachs. He wasn't about to let this thieving, bastard Prince tell such tales of him in the afterlife. Flinging his bow off his back, he flattened himself to the plateau. He held out a hand towards the man without looking at him. Sathal didn't need an invitation. Palm slippery with blood, Varin howled as he pulled Sathal up towards the edge. Sathal grabbed it with his other hand and the two of them were able to hoist him to safety.
Snow drifted down on them where they laid on their backs, fresh bird droppings sticking to their fur lined coats. Sathal sat up with a huff, perching his arms on his elbows. He rubbed a hand over his bald head and glanced over at Varin.
“You didn't have to do that. You are right. I would have left you hanging.”
Varin smirked. “I wouldn't have been stupid enough to fall off the edge of a cliff for the sake of a couple of eggs.”
Grunting to his feet, Varin brushed the refuse from his clothes. Sathal picked up the bow from nearby and handed it up to him. Neither of them made eye contact. Wordlessly, Varin took the weapon and strode towards the White Horn, not in the mood for hunting anymore.
“I apologize.”
Varin halted and glanced over at the man. Sathal sighed, letting his head fall. Varin narrowed his eyes at him. “What did you say?”
“Your parents. What happened to them. You saved my life, the least I can do is offer my apology in return.”
The statement was repulsive to him at first. Varin peered up into the gray, wondering if having a bad name in the afterlife wouldn't have been so bad. Maybe he could shove him off the edge again and this time he might not catch himself. Sathal stood, adjusting the hood of his cloak over his head.
“I know it's not much. But it's the most I'm able to do right now.” Sathal growled, his gaze flitting up from the ground.
Varin jutted out his jaw. Though he hated him for what he was, something about Sathal felt familiar. If he had been a Clansman, they probably would have been close. They both were clearly too proud for their own good. “Then perhaps the most I can do right now is accept it.”
“Good then.” Sathal nodded sharply.
“Good.” Varin turned and left first, his head spinning with the contradictory afternoon.
In the wee hours before dawn, Thistle awoke. Blinking away the sleep, she held her breath. Somewhere below her chambers, the familiar clang of metal in the forge rang out. Rubbing away the sleep, she sat up. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she wrapped her shoulders in a dark red cloak.
When he couldn't sleep, Varin would inevitably be drawn to his anvil and hammer. His metalwork wasn't delicate. Axes and swords with deadly edges and strange runes in Clannish. When he was bent over his work, he reminded her of an ancient sorcerer immersed in a cloud of magic. But Varin Bonetalon was certainly all flesh.
The door to the forge was open a crack revealing him bent over an anvil. Firelight skimmed his knotted arms exposed from a sleeveless homespun shirt and heavy leather apron. His hair was tucked into the rough braid he favored. With more force than necessary, he hammered a hot red shard of metal.
It had been a day since they had last spoken. These dry spells between them were becoming more frequent. Thistle knew her actions hadn't pleased him of late. It seemed like ever since she had come into her own among the Clans, she could never do anything right in his eyes. It angered her. Though she had no intention of apologizing for doing what she thought was right, the distance between she and Varin was confounding.
Her eyes widened in the weak light as she drew closer. The door creaked as she accidentally brushed it. Varin straightened, tightening his grip on the hammer. His gaze sprang to the door. Thistle froze, feeling foolish for being caught spying. He dropped his arm, running a rough hand over his beard.
"Thistle," he growled, looking towards the bellows. "You should be abed."
Thistle pushed the door open as indignation sparked in her belly. “What makes you believe you can order me about like a child?”
Varin scowled. “You're more like a stubborn old woman.”
Thistle swallowed back a smile. Noticing it, Varin gave a weak grin and set down the hammer. Rubbing the back of his neck, he walked around towards the other side of the work table and leaned against it.
“We haven't spoke since Avol's return,” she ventured.
Varin nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. “I noticed.”
“Are you still upset with me? For the Woodlanders-”
“No. It's not my place. I see that now. I've always been a bit...impulsive. If I think something, I'll say it. It's a fault.”
“But it's not, its one of the things I value in our...friendship.” Thistle let the word loose, hoping he felt the same.
Varin peered up at her. “I'm glad you see me as a friend even when I've been stubborn.”
“Pigheaded is more like it.” Thistle grinned.
“Perhaps that's why we get on so well. We're two of a pair.”
She snorted, wrapping her body in the cloak despite the warm air in the smithy. She was suddenly aware of how late it was and how alone they were. Thistle wondered if this was the appropriate time to talk about the nature of their relationship.
“The Woodlanders,” Varin spoke up, “I wanted to say, if you believe finding a way to bring peace with them is the best thing for our people, I will stand beside you. I just hope you are able to do so without losing your self-respect.”
“What do you mean?”
“A marriage to the Woodlander prince would be unthinkable for you.” Varin shot a glare past her shoulder with a heavy breath, “I can't think of anything worse for the daughter of Roark to do. Or any woman of the Clans with any of them.”
“I understand, I would prefer to avoid a union with him as well. I'm trying to devise a treaty that will keep me from such a decision. But what made you change your mind about finding peace with them?”
“I have spent a life fighting and killing Woodlanders.” Varin's mossy stare hardened and Thistle looked away. “Their blood used to be the only thing that helped me forget. But being here in the halls where my father and mother used to live, nothing helps. Perhaps the only way I can find peace within myself is when the Clans and the Woodlands find peace.”
He turned towards the heavy vat of water nearby. Picking up the ax head he was working, the metal sizzled as he dipped it in. Steam drifted towards her through the hot air. Thistle edged further into and room and settled herself against the edge of a short wooden table. “Is that why you can't sleep? I've heard you in here before in the night.”
Varin walked towards the bellows. As he pumped them, the fire roared to life, revealing his tattooed scalp and arms slick with sweat. “Perhaps. The ghosts of this place...it makes me want to leave for good and make a living in the mountains.”
Thistle stiffened, her mouth drawing into a thin line. The thought of him leaving made her panic. Varin noticed her pained expression. “Don't worry though. While you live here, I will stay by your side.”
Thistle nodded, exhaling. “Come spring, will you travel with me to the Woodlands?”
Varin paused and leaned against the forge. He approached the anvil and picked up the hammer, swinging its weight around in his grip. “I don't know. I need time to think.”
Thistle rose and approached the man, “Varin. I need you there. Please.”
She laid a hand on his forearm. He turned his narrowed gaze on her. "You best be getting some rest. The Woodlanders wish a meeting tomorrow before they leave, or so I was told.”
He turned away, his absence leaving her cold. Deflated, Thistle started to obey but paused as she reached the door.
"I will go to bed when you go to bed," she announced, returning to the table where she had been sitting.
"Thistle…" Varin growled, tossing her a threatening glance.
Thistle ignored him, gathering her bare feet up under her nightgown as she pulled herself onto the table. Varin studied her with a smirk. Sighing he turned toward his work as she lay down. Soon the warmth of the room and the consistent pounding of metal lulled Thistle into a light sleep.
Through the ebb and surge of dreams, she was being lifted by strong arms. The metallic smell of sweat and smoke invaded her senses as she tightened her grip on the rough fabric of a shirt. She was lowered into her own familiar bed. Before drifting into slumber once more, he gently brushed her loose curls from her face. He breathed a strange word in Clannish with which she was not yet familiar.
As the door closed behind him, a strange absence filled her belly. The clang of the forge echoed once more and Thistle found herself wishing he had remained and held her till she slept once more.
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