Breaching the hill, Thistle looked out upon the battlefield. Mangled carnage lay strewn across the valley and massive face of the mountain range. In the wake of the grief stricken past weeks, she felt numbness at the sight.
Thistle stumbled down the dry gravel of the overhang, curls falling from the leather tie that held them at bay. A bitter winter wind swept down the barren strait. The closer she came to the mountains, the more remnants of battle piled up. She tripped over the hewn body of a dead horse, its tongue lolling from its bloodied snout. Thistle brought her hand to her face, finding that her cheeks were cold with tears she hadn't realized she had shed. Gray twilight fell, the clouds hanging heavy in the sky overhead.
Through the deepening blue shadows, she spied activity at the root of the mountain. Thankfully the gathering dark made it difficult to get a good look at the dismembered bodies around her. She breathed strongly through her nose. Blood and smoke was thick in the air. She knew if she inhaled through her mouth, she would be tasting death for weeks.
She froze. Striding through the dark appeared silhouettes of heavily armored men holding torches. Not watching where she was going, she tripped and tumbled hard to the slick ground. She stood, gasping as she desperately rubbed her hands on her homespun gown. It had not rained that day. The only thing that could be dampening her hands from the earth was blood.
"Who goes there?" A threatening, gruffly accented voice cut the dense air.
Thistle's eyes widened as the light of the torch drew closer, her pupils dilating in the faint glow. She clutched her cloak around her, grasping the short knife at her waist.
"Answer quickly or risk death." The voice rumbled.
Fear turned to adrenaline in her veins as the figure came into view. Thistle squinted, hardly believing who it was before her. The Clansman she had met on the road, his face smeared with blood and soot.
"Varin Bonetalon?" She breathed the name of the man who had saved her from the giant.
He held a stone hammer in his free hand ready to defend himself. As he took her in, his arm dropped in surprise.
"Lass?" he choked, "Gods. What are you doing here?"
"I am seeking my father. I was told I would find him here-"
"It is dangerous for you to be out here alone, girl."
Varin held her gaze with weary eyes. The blue tattoos on his scalp were barely visible under the red stain of other men's blood, his sandy hair shaved into a long braid running down the middle of his scalp was black with gore. Thistle's stomach turned at the sight of him and she was glad he saw her as a friend.
"I- I did not know of the battle until yesterday," she stammered, "By luck, I made it unscathed past the remnants of King Gendall's army. I hid in a tree top last night."
"But your father?" Varin asked, reaching out and gripping her arm as she swayed with exhaustion, "Who is the man?"
Thistle gave a weary, close mouthed smile. "My mother told me on her death bed. I seek someone named Roark. Do you know of him?"
Varin's face remained staid as he studied her. "Aye lass, I can take you to your father."
Thistle let out her breath but still felt wary. She wondered if the barbarian would claim her as his own. She had never heard the name Roark. Varin was the only one of his kind she had ever met. But without this stranger, she would be an orphan.
The memory of her mother's face lying gaunt and pale on her pillow, her hair dull about her head, rose up and left her aching. It had been a fortnight since Lirare had breathed her last and still Thistle felt she was merely waiting for her return in the wood.
Varin snatched her hand and led her through the carnage. They approached a nearby group of Clansmen searching through the dead.
"I must return to the mountain," Varin announced, taking the reins of a horse from one of the warriors.
Without warning, Varin hoisted Thistle by the waist onto the animal. Mounting the horse behind her, he gripped the reins and spurred it towards the shadow of the mountains.
"I can't promise you we'll reach him in time," His voice cracked as he spoke, "He's been badly hurt."
Thistle's stomach dropped. So it was as Meridun had feared at her daughter's death bed.
Varin halted the horse before a tent pitched among the languishing bodies of the wounded. Dismounting, he helped Thistle to the stony earth. The Westward Mountains loomed over her like the dark dread that lay on her heart. Varin took her hand and led her towards the dark blue folds of the tent.
Thistle's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the tall, road weary form of an old friend. She had not known where the loyalties of the mage Avol Redeyed had lain when he would visit her mother. She should have known better, the magician's fiery temperament spoke of the western Clansmen. It had been a year since their last meeting.
The mage's scruffy face was stained with ash, his alert dark eyes shining like black pearls. The corner of his mouth turned down. He didn't appear shocked to see her there.
"So she told you?" His voice soft with fatigue and emotion.
Thistle glanced at the grand tent behind him. "Lirare told me I could find my father here. Where is he?"
Avol passed a look to Varin who turned away. The Clansman's expression was uncharacteristically vulnerable.
"The King is near death... I'm afraid." Avol reached forward and set a heavy hand on her shoulder.
Thistle breathed deeply, her dark brows furrowing in thought, "King? I seek my father, a man called Roark."
Avol nodded solemnly. "They are one in the same. Roark Blackhelm, the last of his kinsman."
Though most titles meant nothing to Thistle, the concept of a King was not lost to her. Avol bent to her level. His eyes burnt through her. "Would you see him? You have traveled far. He would not know the difference if you chose not to do so. Your mother will understand. It will be painful for her to hear of this-"
"She's dead." She exhaled heavily, the words leaving her hollow and trembling.
Avol stared at her. Heaving a breath, his face fell. "How?"
"There is a growing evil. You must have felt it taking root. It's slowly killing our wood. Mother was tied too firmly to the earth for her heart not to be poisoned. She faded like leaves in the cold."
Avol stepped back, running a hand through his beard as his eyes gleamed with tears in the torchlight.
"So you see, Avol," Thistle explained, "There is nothing else left to me but the stranger dying in that tent. Whether he is a king or not, he is my father and the only living part of my mother left aside from Meridun. I have no choice, it is my fate."
Avol's mouth turned to a hard line as he gazed at her. "Wait for me out here."
Avol sat her at a stool by the door of the tent. Thistle shivered violently as the exhausted warriors passed by without a glance at her.
"Here you go, lass." Varin appeared before Thistle, wrapping a heavy blanket around her shoulders and cupping her hands around a steaming mug. "It's watered mead. At least it's warm and will steady your nerves."
Thistle nodded as he crouched on the ground beside her. Tipping the cup back, she took a deep drink. The liquor was as numbing as the grief. She glanced over to see Varin sitting with his chin resting on his folded hands.
"What kind of man is he?" Thistle inquired, torchlight flickered off Varin's tattooed scalp.
"A good one. A good leader, warrior, king…and a good friend."
“When Avol said he was the last of his clan-”
“The very last Blackhelm and seeing as he had no issue of his own. Well...no children that we knew of until this day.” Varin scoffed, eyes on the smoky horizon.
Thistle nodded. Grief over this unknown parent welled in her as strongly as it had when her mother took her last breath.
"Now mind you, lass. He can be as stubborn and stupid as an ass." Varin chuckled dryly. "But I will never bow to another as long as he breathes."
The tent flap brushed aside, Avol holding out a hand to Thistle. Nodding her thanks to Varin, she gave him the blanket and empty mug. The mage led her into the dark interior of the tent.
The wide space was laid out with furs beneath their feet. A few torches burnt dimly by the cot at the end of the room. She heard labored breathing but could only see a deeply shadowed form. Wide eyed she looked back at Avol.
"His wounds are severe. But he is still aware of his surroundings. I have done my best to explain to him your identity." Avol explained, giving her fingers a squeeze.
"Girl," A voice demanded wearily from the cot, "Come here."
Releasing Avol's hand, Thistle cagily made her way across the furs. Damaged armor from the battle lay nearby with a large sword tainted black with blood.
She reached the side of the cot. The man lay on clean, white blankets, his chest bandaged with linen. Dark blots of crimson stained the dressings. His skin pallid from a heavy loss of blood. Wearily, he opened his eyes.
In the firelight, his eyes were the same shade as her own. His black curls were as wild. Despite his condition, his face still held a stubborn pride that she knew her own expression possessed. He lifted a hand toward the wooden stool near his head. Thistle didn't speak but obeyed his direction. Her eyes dropped under his scrutiny.
"So it is true. This is not the end of my clan this night."
Thistle's eyes met his once more. "Mother said you deserved to know of me."
His mouth tightened, though she was unsure if it was for grief or pain. "Your mother meant more to me than any other woman I have ever known. Last we met she said we would have been happy if I had been brave enough to choose a life with her."
"You visited her this past autumn, did you not?" Thistle asked quietly.
His brow furrowed. "How did you know?"
Thistle shrugged and reached into her cloak, pulling out the ornate pipe from her pocket. Roark's eyes widened as he reached out and took it from her fingers. "You forgot it on our mantle. I guessed it was yours when she told me about you, but after…I mean she told me before..."
"Before she died." Roark finished her sentence, studying the pipe gravely. "Avol told me.”
Thistle did not reply but could only nod in response.
"And now you must sit at the death bed of your father as well." Roark's hand lifted, cupping her cheek with his rough fingers. Thistle swallowed back a sob. "You weep for a man you have never known. I should be the one mourning that I will never know you better," he spoke quietly.
Thistle shook her head with a sniff. "I have been blessed in a way my mother never was. I have met my father."
"What is the name your mother gave you?"
"Thistle," she replied with a shaky grin. "She said it was for the beauty of the thistle plant in the season when I was born. But all I could see were the thorns at its base. I believe my birth gave her more pain than pleasure."
Roark sat up, his face fierce. "That is not true. The thistle is the strongest of blossoms, the thorns defend it from its enemies. After this evening, you must continue to fight. The world grows dark, daughter. I am heartbroken that I will not be here to keep you safe."
His face fell, stricken with pain. He collapsed back into the cot, writhing for a moment. Thistle stood, clasping his hand to her. Avol appeared at her side.
"Call for Varin," Roark demanded of the Mage, gripping his daughter's hand.
Avol obeyed, bringing in the large Clansman from outside the tent. Varin was quickly at his King's side, kneeling beside the cot next to Thistle.
"Yes, my Lord?" Varin bowed his head, his voice unwavering though his shoulders trembled.
Roark loosed his daughter's hand and laid it on the man's arm. "Dear friend, I will not last the night. You must promise me. Guard her, my family's legacy is all that is left to me."
Varin looked up, meeting his gaze.
"Here is one whose worth is more precious than any treasure my fore fathers could have imagined." Roark's voice started to fade. "The last of my Clan, my daughter."
Varin nodded wordlessly. Satisfied, Roark laid back on the cot. Closing his eyes, he lasted a few more hours but did not speak again.
Roark opened his eyes. The fierce dawn burned through the shadowed eaves of an ancient wood. He paused, the sound of a river echoed towards him. His boots sinking into the mossy earth thick with pine needles, he made his way through the spring wood. The chill of the dark night subsided.
He felt like he had forgotten something. As though a passing dream lingered on the edges of his consciousness. He could remember the gleam of firelight, the sharp brightness of a girl's blue eyes and the haunting grief of dear friends whose names he could no longer recall.
There was a realness to the sound of that river water. Above his head a thrush sang out as it flickered from budding branch to branch. It was a spring like none other he could remember.
A rustling came before him. Roark stood still his tracks as a figure appeared up from a river bank. It was a girl, bare foot with her arms heavy with water buckets at her sides. She halted, a shard of sunlight revealing her face. The light caught the surprise in her wide green eyes, her mouth parting slightly. The image shot through his very being.
He approached her where she stood unmoved. A breeze caught her rich brown hair, dusting it off her shoulder. He reached out and took one of the buckets from her hands. He could not remember who she was but he knew her. Without a word, she took his arm with a serene smile as they started towards home.
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