A Dutiful Son

The winter sun rose as high as its wont in the hoary blue of the noon-day sky. Corrac shrugged deeper into his furs, his already broad shoulders afflicted with the dry chill. The warmth of the hearth-fires reached not to the lower halls of the keep; the entrance halls, the storage rooms and dungeon cells. Corrac’s empathy went to whichever poor souls found their way to the embrace of Fulcairn’s gaol in the winter, for they would get none from the place itself. He suspected it had been a design of convenience by his ancient forbears. If one had the poor sense to be detained in the harshest of seasons, theirs would be the harshest of punishments. Haelyn forbid such a thing should pass so soon, but on his father’s death and his own ascension, Corrac intended to build a furnace in the gaol. No one should be punished for a crime they have not been proven to have committed.

Another weight, however, rested heavier upon his heart. It concerned his brother. In all of the ten years since Cathal’s birth, Corrac had known this day would eventually come. It had been the proscribed four generations after all, and as heir to Wilder’s Gorge, he himself was too important. Young Cathal had been marked for this duty upon his conception, and there was little and less anyone could do to alter the course of the boy’s life.

Corrac nodded to Finn, one of his father’s veterans, as he exited the keep and entered the castle bailey. He could already hear the pounding of hooves from the training grounds. His boots crunched into the fresh, dry snow that dominated the earth beyond the reach of the keep’s polished wooden floor. Winter was Corrac’s favourite season. Everything was clean and crisp and dry. People joined together in alliance against nature itself. It was in winter when Wilders were most truly Wilders. Corrac, despite his dearth of years, knew his people and he loved them best when they truly loved each other; no one could do without their fellows when the sun waned and the ice goddess scratched at the threshold of every home.

He waved jovial greetings to each servant and tradesman he passed as he crunched down the path to the training grounds. Upon arrival, he spotted his little brother, young Cathal, riding at the quintain atop a shaggy pony matched to his diminutive frame. Cathal was hunched intently over the pommel of his saddle, a waster clutched cross-body in his right hand. Corrac watched the boy as he closed on a straw effigy and lashed out, backhanded, the wooden blade forcing a blast of hay into the thin air.

“Ho! Cathal!” Corrac cried, clapping his big hands together. “A mighty blow!” The proud grin his little brother flashed in his direction melted his heart. Cathal was, in truth, the best of them, Corrac thought. Corrac, the heir apparent, knew the people loved him. Knew his father favoured him best. Cathal was not as clever, nor as wise, nor would ever be the horseman or huntsman Corrac was. But, deep within his soul, Corrac knew he was harder, less forgiving than Cathal. A darkness, speck of a mote though it may be, lived within him that he had never seen within his younger brother. And, though he was destined to be the Baron Fulcairn, he thought: It should be Cathal.

His little brother reined up to the fence around the riding arena and dismounted, leaping from the saddle and over the fence’s heavy timbers to lock Corrac in as strong an embrace as his pre-adolescent arms could manage. Cathal, since he could lift his arms, had always been a hugger. Corrac laughed, delightedly.

“Did you see, Corrac! I KILLED him!” Cathal said, between heavy breaths.

A tinge of guilt and sorrow sliced through Corrac as he held his little brother in his arms. That the world was such a place as boys of ten had to learn to strike down their fellows. Someday, Corrac vowed, he would do all he could to change that.

“I saw, Cathal. You rode well!” Corrac set his brother down and lay a hand on his head. “I have some news, for you,” he called to the master at arms, “Sir Hargil, I must speak with my brother. Perhaps you could carry on later?”

The steel-bearded old knight, who leaned against the fence on the other side of the arena nodded. “As you wish, master Corrac.”

***

Cathal sat on the inner edge of the keep’s north wall, munching on a jumble of frostberries he held in an already stained fist. frostberries were not his favourite, but he liked them plenty all the same, and there were not many others to choose from in the cold, Wilder winter. His brother Corrac sat beside him, his bulky frame warm and assuring. Corrac picked a berry from Cathal’s palm and popped it into his mouth.

“Hey!” Cathal cried, in mock anger, then laughed.

Corrac smiled back at him and raised his eyebrows. The heir to Fulcairn was, to Cathal, the perfect specimen of a young lord. Tall, strong, kind but stern, wise beyond his years. All that Cathal wished to be lived in his brother.

“What’s your news, Corrac? Is mother feeling better?” Cathal asked, hopeful.

Corrac’s face darkened slightly and a thin tension showed in his cheeks. He placed a large hand, already rough from fighting on Cathal’s shoulder and Cathal was pulled into a gentle half-hug. “You know of the Yngvi, brother?” Corrac said, his voice graver than his expression.

“Aye! Our friends in Rjurik from all the way back to Deismaar! They’re a great house in the north!” Cathal’s voice was full of learned pride.

“Then you know of our pact with them.” Corrac replied.

“… I think, yes,” Cathal said, “every two generations we send a Fulcairn north to live with them, or they send an Yngvi south to stay with us, depending on whose turn it is. I don’t know why. I’m not sure I’d want to go, if it were me.”

Corrac’s grip tightened somewhat at the last. Cathal looked up at him to see a single tear rolling down his mighty brother’s cheek, dusted with a youth’s fresh growth of fair whiskers. “It’s been two generations Cathal,” tension started to form in Cathal’s chest, as though his heart had been gripped and whoever did so had slowly begun to twist, “Father wanted to tell you himself, but I asked him that it come from me. It’s our turn, and as the second son, it falls to you to go north. I’m sorry, Cathal.”

A wave of anxiety washed through the boy’s small frame so quickly he shivered. Tears threatened to form, but he beat them down and set his small jaw. He looked out over the yard, the people. Daffyd, the Houndmaster was coursing two young cairnhounds about the yard, calling after them authoritatively. He was a stout man with long, thick arms, and black, thinning hair. As the Houndmaster neared his usual resting spot; a bench propped up against the keep’s outer wall, directly below the two of them. Cathal casually reached out into the empty air and loosened his fingers, dropping the fistful of berries directly on to Daffyd's bald spot and causing them to spatter blue juice all through his hair.

“HAHA!” Cathal laughed as Daffyd cursed.

Corrac stood, somewhat perplexed. “I… I…” he stammered.

“I’m sorry Master Daffyd!” Cathal said, standing as well, and still laughing. Daffyd ceased cursing and stared up at him, “I’m being sent to foster in Hogunmark. With the Yngvi! I couldn’t pass up such a last opportunity!”

“Good riddance you little brat!” Daffyd boomed and stomped away.

When Cathal turned back to Corrac, he could not tell if his big brother meant to clout him or give him a hug. Perhaps both.

“It’ll be alright, Corrac! It’s an adventure! I’ll learn to sail a longship and swing one of those big swords they use! I might see a druid! Can you imagine? A real druid!”

Corrac knelt, a sad smile crossing his perfect face and took Cathal into a tight bearhug. “I’ll miss you, little brother. Even if you are a bit of a pain in the backside.”

Cathal smiled and buried his face in Corrac’s big shoulder. He was scared, and sad, but he would not let Corrac see. He did not want Corrac to be sad, or to worry after him. He would miss his family. His mother, still sick; he would have to tell her he loved her before he left.

“I’ll miss you too, Corrac. And don’t worry. No matter what happens, I will do my duty. I promise.”