"The Ender Eyes"-- A Short Story by Hazel West

Author's Note: So this is a story that I wrote a while back when my youngest brother and I had a little writing challenge where we each gave each other a title and had to write a story from it. This one ended up being a rather Poe-esque horror story, and I thought it would be fun to post it on Halloween.

The Ender Eyes

By Hazel B. West

It was in the late fall, at the end of the year 1899 when I first moved to my great uncle’s estate in the north of England from my lifelong home in London. It had not been my first choice, but my great uncle had recently passed away and bequeathed its upkeep to me, so I felt a good deal of obligation to go up there and at least see that everything was well and good and handle the affairs that had been left.

            Having lived in the city, among many people of my own social class all my life, the move to the North was somewhat of a shock to my system. I had never even visited my uncle at his estate in my childhood and had never ventured farther than Brighton until that point. The town I came into on the train left little to be desired and even less so when I finally found a coachman willing to take me out to my newly acquired estate.

            “Please, I need to get to the Dorian Estate on Ender Moor,” I pleaded with the man who was hesitant. I finally resulted in pulling out my purse to show that I had money to pay.

            He eyed me with not a little trepidation. “No one goes out there, boy.”

            I couldn’t understand what he meant then, but oh, was I to know soon enough. At that moment, however, I was simply confused and rather indignant. “Sir, I have just been left this estate by my uncle who is dead these last three months! I must see to the estate’s upkeep, and I have no other way to get out there. I don’t even know where it is, precisely.”

            The man cast his gaze out to the moorlands to the north and finally consented. “Very well. But we leave in the morning. I ain’t going out there this late in the day.”

            He would take no more arguments, so I was forced to stay in a less than adequate inn for the night and find the man again as dawn rose in a gloomy cloud over the dim moorland and misty hills and valleys.

            As I rode in the cart toward my new acquisition, I couldn’t help a slight shiver than ran through my veins. London may have had the fog of coal and city life, but there was something about the dimness of the moors that chilled me to my very bones. A chill that had nothing to do with the fast approaching winter. Something just did not seem right out here, as if there were an evil on the wind itself.

            I was not the only one to notice, for my driver sat stiffly and alert and the horses too, were constantly skittish. This whole feeling made me even more anxious to be back home in London, but I couldn’t in good conscious leave quite yet. I was a man of integrity, after all, and I would do the duty my uncle wished of me.

            I felt no better when I saw the house. In fact, it almost made me beg an immediate return ride from the man. The place wasn’t very big when it came to estates, but it seemed to lower over the moors in a very dark and foreboding manner. It was made of dark stone, overgrown with ivy and some fixtures were rather crooked with age, giving the entire place a very rakish, evil look. I wondered how on earth my uncle could have lived here his whole life without going mad. But then, maybe he had. I had never known him, after all. Surely, anyone who stayed in a place like this couldn’t have been sane.

            I paid the man and he said something about sending weekly supplies before he dumped my baggage onto the stoop beside me and I was left completely alone, with nothing but the chill, howling wind of the moor for company.

            I carried my things inside, looking around with a depressed air. Cloths were tossed haphazardly over some of the furniture but most of it was left alone to gather dust. I heaved a sigh of frustration and perhaps a bit of self-pity. There were no servants to see to the clean up, or to make me a warm supper, and out here on the Ender Moor alone, I wondered how I would make it through just the time I needed to see to my uncle’s affairs. For surely, as soon as I was done with that, I was on my way back to London, never to return to this desolate, godforsaken place.

            I did perk up a little as soon as I realized there was tea and a pot to stew it in in the kitchen, and the warm drink did a bit to help with the chill of the house, which was almost unearthly frigid.

            But there was not only the physical chill in the house either; there was a chill like the one I had felt on the way here, that went further into my bones, crept down my spine. It was something that was bourn of the howling wind outside that the silent house did little to hide. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I quickly busied myself, trying my best to ignore it. At least I had a lot to do to keep my mind off of it.

            The solicitor was coming in a couple days to help me sort out my uncle’s affairs, and I had to find the proper paperwork before then so that I could see about the selling of the estate—though honestly now I didn’t know why anyone would want it. I spent the rest of the day looking through my uncle’s study, finding everything to be in a terrible mess, almost as if it had been tossed about. It took me longer to sort through things than it should have, and by the time I had put it into some semblance, I was ready to make myself a small supper and retire to bed, weary from my journey.

            My first night at the estate gave me some realization as to what it was really like there out on Ender Moor. The wind that howled across the barren hills constantly, only seemed to pick up its tune with more gusto as a harmony of wails came along to accompany it. I lay in my bed, shuddering uncontrollably. No matter how high I built the fire in the grate, I could not seem to get warm. The heat only seemed to be torn away by the wind and the desolate wail of it pierced something in my brain that made me instantly uneasy.

            Night birds of the moor sang unearthly songs, and there were howls of unnamed beasts that I was certain must be from another realm entirely. I had heard many stories of the northern moors, the otherworldly creatures that were said to roam them, why you should never go out on the moors at night—truly child’s stories, of course, but being here now, I was almost willing to believe. Or at the least understand how they came about.

            Needless to say I got little sleep, if any, and went back to my uncle’s study as soon as I had a pot of tea. Putting my mind to work again seemed the best thing, and I reminded myself that the sooner I got everything seen to, the sooner I could make it back to London and my comfortable flat and society as a whole.

            By the end of the day I had finally found everything I needed for the solicitor when he came tomorrow, and I was just tidying up the desk when I saw a book had fallen to the ground underneath of it. I bent to pick it up, seeing it was a plain, black journal that looked well worn. I flipped through the first couple pages and saw neat crimped handwriting that I had come to realize was my uncle’s. I tucked the book under my arm as I left the study, curious to see what my uncle may have written about out here in seclusion.

            I ate my dinner and went to bed, that second night, gladly taking my uncle’s journal with me to distract myself with what would likely be another very long night. The wind had picked up again and I knew sleep would likely be futile.

            I lit a lamp beside the bed and took up the journal, flipping to the first page. It was mostly just an account of day-to-day things, and I was somewhat surprised to find that my uncle was a bit of an amateur naturalist. The book contained his observations and some sketches of his findings. I suppose that if nothing else, the moor seemed an adequate place for someone with my uncle’s hobbies to live for he seemed to always find and record something different every time he made a trek out in the hills.

            I read happily for a while, feeling that perhaps the moor was not as sinister as I had perceived it to be, until his descriptions started to become a little strange.

            There were still the observations of birds and plants and other wildlife, but he kept mentioning something watching him. He never said someone it was always something. For some reason that choice of phrase sent a chill up my spine and made me feel uneasy. I wanted to stop reading, but found that I couldn’t.

            I turned the page and the first entry simply said: The Eyes are watching.

            I quickly read on with a few more descriptions of plants, but my uncle’s writings seemed short and abrupt as if he weren’t interested anymore. His handwriting started to get more and more erratic, hard to read, scrawling all over the page instead of staying in neat, precise lines. Some of it, I could hardly read, but most of it was the same sort of thing repeated over and over again:

           

They follow me wherever I go, it does not matter how far, I cannot escape them. Even in the house I am not safe. They are always watching. The Ender Eyes are always watching.

            His handwriting devolved even more to the point that it wasn’t even writing anymore, it was just scratches. Then as I turned several more pages, I saw the erratic scratches start to take a shape. A shape of two eyes.

            They were crudely drawn, but there was an intensity in them all the same. Something that told of wicked intent. I flipped several more pages and they were all filled with sketches of the same pair of eyes, big, small, all over the spread pages until they filled every corner, and then they just stopped.

            I hadn’t realized I was clutching the book so hard until I managed to pry my hands from the cover, my breath catching in my throat as I carefully closed it. I was left in no doubt now that my uncle had been very ill when he died. The solitary lifestyle had surely driven him mad, and I was even more determined not to allow the same thing happen to me.

            A bang made me nearly jump from my skin. I whipped my head around to see that the shutter on the window had been blown open with the howling wind that had only seemed to gain in intensity in the last few minutes. I leapt out of bed, shivering in the rush of cold air and ran to latch it tightly once again.

            As I leaned out the window to grab the errant shutter, I gasped at the biting chill of the moor wind that cut through my nightclothes. I finally snagged the shutter and was about to duck back inside when I caught something out of the corner of my eye.

            I whipped around, just in time to see what looked like two glowing orbs hovering over the moor, but as soon as I focused on them, they disappeared. I stood frozen, breath catching in my throat, before my senses came back to me and I ducked back inside, slamming the shutter closed behind me and latching it tight.

            What could that have been? My mind was filled with the horrifying sketches my uncle had made, but surely I was just seeing things. Probably due to the lack of sleep.

            Of course, now, I had even less desire to sleep than I had before. I stayed in bed, shuddering as I listened to the wails of the wind and the moor creatures until the dawn brought some thin light to the world.

***

The solicitor came at around ten a.m. and I felt that I had never been so glad to have another human being around. His presence instantly made the house seem less despairing and I fear I may have come off a bit too enthusiastic as I ushered him inside to the study and poured some tea for the both of us, but we were soon seeing to the business, and I had almost forgotten the terrible night that I’d had.

            But as we were wrapping up our discussion, and the solicitor was getting ready to leave, he said, “I am terribly sorry to hear about your uncle, by the way. It was a terrible accident.”

            I must have shown my confusion because he looked slightly taken aback. “Don’t you know?”

            I shook my head. “I’m afraid I was never given details,” I admitted. “I was never truly close to my uncle. I never even met him.”

            “Oh, well, they found him on the moor, drowned in one of the bogs,” the man said grimly. “It is a wild and dangerous place. You would likely do well not to wander too far from the estate.”

            Something cold crept up my spine at that news as I thought of all the nature observations my uncle had made, which must have caused him to wander the moor at length without a problem before he had simply become obsessed with the entity he called ‘The Ender Eyes’. But surely, he had just been turned to madness by solitude and old age and nothing more, forgot where he was going, and met his unlucky end in a bog he didn’t remember being there.

            “Thank you. I truly have no intention of wandering, or staying here for longer than needs must.”

            I saw the solicitor out, pulling my coat around myself in the biting wind. There was a nagging on the back of my neck, the kind that you feel when you know someone is watching you even if you can’t see them. That thought sent a shudder through me, and I found myself trembling, looking over my shoulder.

            “Are you quite alright, Mr. Dorian?” the solicitor asked me, a concerned look on his face.

            “I’m fine. It’s just very cold here,” I assured him.

            “It is that,” he replied. “But don’t worry. Two weeks at the most and we will have this all sorted out, then you can be back on your way to London.”

            I didn’t want to stay there two more days let alone two more weeks, but there was little I could do. Still, I felt a certain despair as I watched him drive away, leaving me alone once again.

***

That night, exhausted, I fell into a stupor in the library, unable to stand the thought of going to my bed again. But my sleep was not comfortable at all, interrupted by the howls of the wind that sounded more human than not, and the constant feeling of unease that had followed me all day without relent or explanation. I simply could not shake the feeling that there was someone, or indeed, something, observing me even though I could not see it, and rationality told me the idea was ridiculous.

            I was brought awake from an unknown interruption to my comfort. My hands shook, and I noticed the fire had gone down, but there was no more wood beside it. Terror overtook me as I realized I would have to step outside if I wanted more wood. I almost refused, but then thought how silly that would be, to freeze to death just because I was unnerved about my strange surroundings. So I grabbed the bucket and went outside to the woodpile just out back of the kitchen.

            The wind nearly froze me but I managed to heave several logs into the bucket and bring them inside before going back for more. I stacked a good amount in the kitchen that should last the night and went to retrieve one more bucket for good measure.

            I glanced out over the dark moor as I straightened up to head back inside and a cry caught in my throat.

            Two glowing orbs, like the ones I thought I had seen the night before, stared at me through the darkness. The eldritch light felt as if it pierced into my very soul, freezing my heart in my chest. I stumbled backward, gripping the door with white fingers before I finally forced myself inside and slammed the door behind me, barring it against the night and whatever unholy thing resided in it.

            It was a while before I realized I was crouched on the floor, panting with terror, my body freezing and in shock. As soon as my senses started to return, I pulled myself shakily to my feet and hurried back into the library where I piled as much wood as I could onto the fire until it was roaring with warmth. Even that didn’t stop my shivering though, because I realized it wasn’t all simply a result of the cold.

            Oh, how I wished I had never come out here. Surely this very house itself was making me as mad as my uncle had been. I could not truly believe that I had seen the same thing he had, or that it was anything at all. Surely it was not some otherworldly entity with malicious intent, but simply a product of the atmosphere or luminescent insects. There were such natural phenomena that could be explained by science, after all.

            But yet, I could not truly believe my own reassurances, because there was no accounting for the way I felt as if something was watching me, just as my uncle described, nor the pure animal terror that had come over me both times I had seen the orbs.

            I sank into the library chair and watched the fire until it burned out and then piled more wood on. One thing I knew was that I did not want to be left in the dark and the cold.

***

The next day, I went through the house and shuttered all the windows. I didn’t care if it made the house even more dour than it already was, I didn’t want to see outside. I couldn’t stand the thought of glancing out onto the moor and seeing those lights again.

            I busied myself cleaning the house, cataloging my uncle’s belongings, and that night I returned to the bedroom to sleep, and managed to fall asleep through pure exhaustion.

            The Eyes were in my head.

            I shot up from the bed with a cry, looking around for the source of my horror, but saw nothing, only the firelit glow of the room, as the flames cast dancing shadows on the walls. Still, I had seen the Eyes.

            No, they were just lights, I tried to tell myself. They were not the Ender Eyes my uncle had written of.

            And yet, whenever I tried to close my eyes there they were, glowing intently behind my eyelids, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

            Another sleepless night, more work the next day. I sat down to figure up some of the finances and paperwork and tried to focus my mind on that.

            I was able to work for a while, but I was so tired, that my mind drifted off and I startled myself by almost falling asleep at the desk. I shook myself and rose to get a fresh pot of tea when I happened to look down at the papers I had been working on.

            Two eyes stared back.

            I gripped the back of the chair in horror. My figures had turned from numbers into scratches that resembled the eyes that had covered the latter pages of my uncle’s journal. Quickly I snatched the paper from the desk and threw it into the fire, breathing heavily. I tried to calm myself, pressing my hands against my eyes, assuming this was all just the result of sleeping so poorly.

            But the Eyes were staring right back at me in the darkness of my own mind.

            I blinked my eyes open again with a cry. Would this torment never leave me? I must find a way to rest, for I knew the lack of sleep would only make it worse.

            That night I took some laudanum in the hopes that it would make me drowsy enough to sleep and it did, but it also made it impossible for me to wake from my nightmare. The eyes haunted me continuously, I could not escape them. I tossed in my bed, unable to move.

            I woke on the floor by the window, which was open and horror struck me at the thought of what I might have done had I not woken. Would my madness cause me to throw myself out onto the moor? Was that how my uncle had perished in the bog?

            I vowed never to take the laudanum again. It hadn’t helped anyway. I knew the only thing that would help was getting out of that house, away from that haunting moor. I made my decision then to write to the solicitor and tell him I could not stay another day. I would have to handle the affairs long distance from back in London.

            I went to my uncle’s desk and took up pen and paper, writing as quickly as I could. I blinked tiredly, my body, my mind, so exhausted…

            I came to, scratching my pen against the desktop. I looked down in horror as I saw that I had sketched more of those terrible eyes onto the paper before covering the entire thing and moving on to the desk itself. I had dug the pen into the wood, making crude outlines of the two eyes staring back at me.

            I leapt up, throwing the pen away from me and fled the study entirely. I ran to my room to pack my things. I didn’t know how to summon the coachman at short notice but I didn’t much care. I would walk from the house to the village if I had to, but I was not staying here another minute.

            As I came into the room, a cold wind shocked me and I looked to see the window shutter had flown open again. I hurried to close it but as soon as I looked out toward the open moor I saw Them.

            I let out a scream of terror and fell back against the wall, cowering into a corner. I could not stop seeing the Eyes. They were always watching me. It didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t stop seeing them!

            “No!” I screamed, tearing at my hair in pure terror. 

            I was too petrified to move, I could do nothing but sit there and tremble, not knowing how much time had passed, when I next became aware of my surroundings, it was only to find thousands of eyes staring back at me from the wall, from the floor, from the bed.

            I screamed, looking down at my hand and seeing a knife that I must have used to carve them there myself, all around me. Just the sight froze me in horror and I could not move. All I could do was scream.

            I was barely aware of other voices coming towards me until I spun around to see three men, the coachman, the solicitor and another, standing there in the doorway of the room.

            “The Eyes!” I screamed, trying to warn them away, as I held the knife in my trembling hand. “They are always watching! I can’t get away from Them!”

            “Saints preserve us,” said the coachman as he crossed himself and then made some other gesture.

            They drew me from my corner, telling me they were taking me out of there but I could hardly hear them. I was not consoled. I knew it wouldn’t do any good now. The Eyes already had me in Their thrall.

            “Just like his uncle,” the third man said grimly, shaking his head.

            They dragged me outside as I continued to scream. I didn’t want to go out on the moor, I couldn’t go there, the Eyes would see me. I tried to tell them that but they wouldn’t listen.

            “Get him into the cart. The doctor will sort him out once we get back into town,” the coachman said as they manhandled me out the door.

            I looked around, short of breath, terror clutching my heart as I waited for the inevitable. And then…

            “There!” I cried, pointing a shaking finger toward a spot on the moor. “There They are! The Ender Eyes!”  My voice trailed off. I could scream no more, I could only stare into the unnatural glow that was all I could see now. The infinite depth of the soulless orbs pierced into my being, locking me into an inevitable knowing terror, and I knew nothing else.

            Just the Eyes.

Copyright 2018 by Hazel B. West

"A Promise"-- Short Story by Hazel West

So, I know I haven't posted anything in a long time, and I think I'm going to have to admit to the fact that I'm going to put The Voices Beneath on hiatus for the rest of the summer as is the way of television ;) I just really don't want to rush through the rest of it, so I'm going to work on it in the next couple months and start it back up as a serial in September. Until then, next month I'm going to post the current challenge stories, and I'm thinking of having another mini challenge that I will let you all know about soon.

But since I felt bad for not posting anything, I thought I'd post this short story I wrote. I originally wrote it a while back from a friend's challenge to write something to make her cry. So yeah, sorry, it's a sad one, but I hope you all like it anyway. I wasn't entirely unpleased with it ;-)

A Promise

Colin allowed Neil to put his armor on. He always did it to make sure his little brother was properly protected. Colin suffered him to do it even though he fidgeted at the overprotectiveness Neil always showed him. Ever since their father had died, Neil had taken his place and been almost intolerable.

            “Neil, I’m already fighting,” he had said on many occasions. “I’m already in harm’s way, one bad blow and it’s not going to matter how tight my armor is.”

            To which he would always reply, “Just let me have a little peace of mind at least, Colin.” And then Colin would be forced to shut up until he was done.

            But apart from everything, he did still love his big brother, even if he was trying sometimes, and he would die for him as soon as Neil would do the same. But for some reason, Neil didn’t seem to see it that way, and he would never have allowed it. That had been the main fight between them. Neil insisted that because Colin was younger he didn’t have to watch his brother’s back, but Colin knew that wasn’t true. Sometimes the little brother had to look out for the bigger one too.

            That day, as the enemy approached and Neil got ready to lead his men into battle, he took Colin by the shoulders and looked him in the eye as he always did.

            “Stay in the back, little brother,” he said.

            And as always, Colin glared and shook him off. “No. I fight beside you.”

            And Neil shook his head. “No, stay in the back. No matter what happens. Stay there.”

            “Why?” he asked this time. He had never asked, knowing it was too painful a subject after their father had died, after Erik…the brother who was even younger than Colin had been slaughtered. Colin knew why, but he still thought it unjust to not only keep him from protecting his last living relation, but also keeping him from his own revenge for those they had loved and lost.

            Neil’s face was dark. “Do not ask me that,” he whispered hoarsely. “You know…” he stopped, choking.

            “Neil, you can’t do this alone,” Colin pleaded, putting a hand on his brother’s wrist. “Please, don’t burden yourself so.”

            Neil grabbed his arms desperately and yanked him forward. “Don’t you see, Colin? I can’t lose you too. It would kill me. Please, just… just do what I say. I…I can’t do it. Not again. I can’t bury another brother.”

            Colin saw the anguish on his brother’s face, but still he had to say, “Neither can I.” But, as always, he complied and hugged his brother tightly before they went out, he to the back row of soldiers and Neil on his horse to the front. And then it was only a matter of waiting for the enemy to come and the fight to begin. And torn between the love he felt for his brother and need to make him proud, and his own pride that would not allow him to stay away from the fighting, he waited, sword ready, though he knew he wouldn’t probably even meet an enemy soldier that day.

            But today was different. The opposing army was bigger, fiercer. Mercenaries had been called, large, angry men from the north, and Colin felt his hand tighten on his sword hilt as his stomach knotted with trepidation. He had a horrible feeling that something was going to go wrong. Perhaps he would fight after all that day. For some reason that thought did not sit as well with him as he thought it would.

            Neil was at the head of the men, shouting orders, and in that moment the enemy charged and gave their warriors little warning. Colin tried to see over the press to the front of the line, and his mounted brother, but he was shorter than most of the warriors and could only hear the horrible clash of metal and screams of dying men.

            He ran forward, pressing the men out of the way, but didn’t get very far. Only enough to find a vantage point among them. He caught sight of Neil, swinging his sword left and right from his mounted position and shouting orders as the men forced a shield wall and held off the opposing army with all they had.

            And then suddenly, there were three men going after Neil and Colin tried shouting to him, but he could not be heard above the roar of battle. He fought to get forward, but he was stuck fast between the men who were just waiting for their turn to get at the enemy. Neil had his sword raised, ready for the fight, when one of the men stabbed his horse in the flank at the same time he took Neil in the side and he cried out as his horse bolted, and Colin couldn’t think another minute. All he knew was that he had to find his brother and protect him as he knew he was meant to. He shoved his way forward, a new burst of energy surging through his veins. He screamed out war cries, and like a swimmer breaking the surface, he thrust out of the throng and nearly fell into one of the huge warriors of the opposing side. Colin didn’t think, just stuck his sword into the man’s chest with a scream and rushed off into the direction he had seen the horse take Neil. He heard several of his comrades shouting his name, but he didn’t look back, and no one paid any attention as soon as he was out of the throng.

            There were more bodies littered around there. Everyone seemed to have scattered after the initial onslaught. He ran another warrior through, and then whipped around, catching sight of the horse his brother rode. His heart clenched in his chest as he saw a limp figure lying beside the dead beast. He stumbled as he ran toward it, falling to his knees.

            “Neil!” he choked out and gently touched the shoulder, flinching as he turned the body over quickly, seeing it flop lifelessly. He gasped and vomited into the ground as he saw the face smashed in. He could not longer recognize his brother’s features, but the golden hair was his. Colin choked on a sob. Maybe it wasn’t Neil, it could be anyone, but his hand was clutched around an amulet he always wore, torn from his throat, maybe for Colin—it had been their father’s. He sobbed as he pulled it from Neil’s stiff fingers and looped it around his own neck.

            “I’m so sorry, brother,” he whispered. “I wasn’t there.”

            “Colin!” Hogan, one of the house warriors ran up to him and hauled him to his feet, stopping only a moment as he saw Neil’s lifeless body. “Colin, come, it’s not safe here.”

            “They killed him,” he whispered. “They killed him! I’ll kill them all!” He jerked away from Hogan, but the older man held him tight.

            “Colin, it’s suicide!”

            “I don’t care!” Colin screamed. “My brother is dead! I have no wish to live anymore.” And he slammed his head back into Hogan’s face and ran away, his sword held above his head as he screamed for vengeance.

            The enemy did not know what hit them. This young dark-haired demon flew at them with all the rage of a berserker, curses of revenge on his lips. Everyone he faced fell, even the greatest warriors. He took wounds but didn’t notice. He didn’t care. He didn’t plan on coming out of this fight alive; all he wanted was to kill the scum who had slaughtered his family. He was the only one left to avenge them and, as was his right, he would do so.

            And then there seemed to be no more enemies in front of him. He spun around, looking left and right, but they were all subdued, or running away. This angered him. How dare they run? He was not finished with them yet!

            “Get back here, cowards!” he screamed, starting after them. “Get back here you scum, you’ll pay for this! You’ll pay for it all! My sword has not drunk enough blood to repay your foul deeds yet this day!”

            Then a spear lodged itself in his thigh and he went down, trying to struggle back up, but found he could not. The moment he rested, the moment the sword left his hand, he felt all his wounds, and realized he had gone too far already. He sobbed in grief, for his brother and the fact that he could not fight another moment.

            “Come back!” he sobbed. “Come fight me. I’ll fight you lying here!” He threw his sword at their backs but none returned, and he simply lay there and cried.

***

Neil opened his eyes blearily and hauled himself into a sitting position. He remembered being hauled from his horse by the warrior and having lost his sword when his horse dumped him, he had been forced to use a rock to smash the warrior’s head in. After that he had tried to get back to his men, but had been weakened by the loss of blood from his wounds and fell into a stupor before he could call for help. He now looked around, seeing that the enemy seemed to have retreated. He was shocked, he had been sure they would never last the day out. He quickly ripped the tail off his tunic and stuffed it under his armor to stop up the wound in his side the best he could before he could see a healer. He crawled to a spear lying close by and used it to push himself to his feet.

            He made his way back to his men and called out to them, but no one seemed to hear him. They were sorting through the wounded and dead, picking their own out from among the far greater number of the enemy. Finally he came upon Hogan.

            “Hogan!” he called. “What happened?”

            The warrior spun around, surprise on his face. He hurried over to the wounded man and steadied him with a hand to his shoulder. “Neil, I thought…you’re alive. I thought I saw your body, by your horse…”

            “That was an enemy,” Neil replied already looking around. “Where’s Colin, is he all right?”

            Hogan was forcing him to sit down. “Colin won the day for us. He fought so fiercely that he sent the enemy into retreat.”

            “How?” Neil asked, not wanting to sit. He groaned as he stood. “Where is he Hogan? Tell me!”

            “I don’t know,” Hogan said quietly as Neil started off across the field. “Neil, he…he thought you were dead. He wanted revenge.”

            Neil stopped, his breath catching in his throat and then he suddenly took off into a staggering run as Hogan called after him.

            Neil looked frantically around the field, calling his brother’s name, asking everyone if they had seen him, if he was wounded—dead—but no one had seen him after the retreat.

            Finally he went down to the beach where the enemy had disappeared into their longboats and saw several bodies lying there. One dark-haired and small. Neil forgot his wound and ran, calling out to his brother and nearly bit his tongue in pain as he jarred his wound, falling to his knees beside Colin’s body. He gently gathered him into his arms and brushed his hair away from his bloody forehead.

            “Oh Colin, little brother, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

            Colin’s eyes fluttered, giving Neil an inkling of hope. “Col?”

            “N-Neil?” Colin asked, and then his eyes opened wide. “Neil? Am-am I dead?”

            Neil’s face broke out into a grin and he stroked his brother’s cheek comfortingly. “No, no, brother, you’re here with me, you’re going to be all right!”

            “B-but you were dead,” Colin protested, trying to make sense of it all. “I saw you. I, Neil, I didn’t want to-to survive the battle.” He choked on a sob as he clutched at his brother’s cloak, feeling every wound he had sustained. “I’m so sorry, Neil!”

            Neil held him tighter. “Shh, it’s all right, don’t give up, it will be okay. Everything’s going to be all right.”

            “Neil,” Colin pleaded, clutching his cloak tighter. “I—I can’t, please,” he choked on another sob and Neil felt tears slide down his cheeks as he realized he was losing him. And he couldn’t.

            “It’s all right,” he whispered finally, planting a kiss on his brother’s forehead. “Just close your eyes, little brother. Sleep. I’ll—I’ll be there when you wake up. I promise.”

            “Promise?” Colin choked out.

            Neil nodded against him. “Don’t I always keep my promises?”

            Colin nodded against his chest and then closed his eyes, slumping instantly. Neil held his limp form in his arms, clutching him tightly to his chest, as he sobbed, before he gently lay his brother down and fell beside him. His wound might not have been irreparable, but he had no will to survive it. He clutched Colin’s hand tightly, setting his forehead gently against his, and closed his eyes, allowing the encompassing darkness to take him.

***

Hogan had followed Neil but held back as he watched the two brothers meet for the last time. He felt the pain in his own chest, knowing that he was watching the passing of the last of the village’s chieftains. When neither stirred for a long time, he approached slowly, calling on several warriors to help bear them back to the village. He went to Neil first, seeing instantly that he was dead, limp and cold, but when he went to Colin, he still felt warm under his touch and as he put a hand to the boy’s throat, he felt a weak pulse.

            “Colin still lives,” he told the others urgently and then took the boy up into his arms and carried him back to the longhouse himself while his older brother was bourn back on a bier.

            Before he got back, Colin stirred and began to come around again. Hogan looked down to meet his eyes as they opened. He looked confused.

            “Where’s Neil?” he asked. “He—he said…” he looked around further. “I—I’m not dead, am I?”

            Hogan smiled at him. “No lad. We’ll get you patched up.”

            “Where’s Neil?” he asked again.

            Hogan didn’t answer. Colin struggled from the warrior’s grasp. “Hogan, where is he?”

            “Colin, don’t—” Hogan tried but Colin twisted in his grasp and saw the warriors bearing the bier.

            “No!” he screamed, tearing himself away from Hogan. “No! Neil! Stop!”

            He stumbled over to the bearers and commanded they put his brother down. He fell on his face, and drug himself the rest of the way to Neil’s body.

            “Neil?” he pleaded, hesitant to touch the still face, but brushed his fingertips against it, finding it unnaturally cold. “Neil?! Someone help him! Please!”

            “Colin,” Hogan tried, reaching out a hesitant hand to the boy. “There’s nothing we can do now. He’s with the rest of your kin now.”

            A choked whimper escaped Colin’s throat. “No,” he said. “No, he promised…he can’t…”

            “I’m sorry, Colin,” Hogan told him, grief in every line of his figure for the last surviving brother.

            “No, Neil…” Colin tried, but his grief choked him and a broken sob escaped his throat before a scream of anguish tore out of his chest, causing Hogan to grab him and hold him tight against him as if fearing he would fly apart.

            The pallbearers silently took up Neil’s body again and carried him into the longhouse to dress for his pyre. Colin allowed Hogan to see him back as well, and the healer to dress his wounds, but he felt nothing. There was no wound that could pain him more than the loss of his brother.

            Later that night they all stood out on the beach and watched as Neil’s deathship sailed, burning, out on the ocean. Colin watched, dry-eyed, his grief too deep for any more tears, an empty, hollow ache the only thing he had left.

            Hogan stood beside him, looking out to the blazing ship as well. “You won the day for us, Colin. You have won the respect of every man here as our new chieftain. Your father would be proud.”

            Colin didn’t turn to look at him. He only replied in a flat voice devoid of all emotion. “Do you think I care a wit for that, Hogan? It doesn’t matter how much blood I spilled in vengeance. I am still all alone in this world.” And then he turned and limped back to the longhouse, indeed very much alone with only the hole of his grief for company.

Copyright© 2014 by Hazel B. West