25th December 1102

The first flakes of snow were spiraling down from the thick, grey morning the air filled with the sound of the hushed thud as they hit the ground. Radomir felt them, chill kisses that sizzled, melting instantly on his hot, red face. The waves slushed icily up onto the beach, engulfing sand that was mingled with soft, white flakes.

And there she was, her cheeks flaming red, flushed with the cold, her feet making soft, crunching noises on the newly fallen snow. She was wearing a sack-like cloak made of rough material which billowed around her legs as gusts of frigid wind sent the snowflakes careening through the air.

Radomir strode forward, his huge feet clumping monstrous footprints into the snow, his hulking shadow running beside. He had caught up with her awkward, hurried gate in no time, his hand roughly grasping her arm as she squeaked in fright.

His strong fingers were digging into the soft flesh of her chubby arm as he spun her around so that she skithered and stumbled on the slippery grass. He could picture the oval row of bruises that would soon adorn the smooth, pink skin there, the fingerprints of his rage.

Her face was not fearful as he thought it would be. He had wanted to intimidate, to frighten her. He knew that she had hidden the filthy bastard and she would tell him where or so help him…

But her tiny face was scrunched up in defiance, her eyes squinted angrily, her small fists clenched into balls by her sides. He could have crushed one into a pulpy mess within his big meaty hand. Her round chin was raised high, so that, though she were small she still managed to scowl down her upturned nose.

“Don’t you dare touch me again, “ she hissed through her teeth, “you have no right.”

“And you have no right to hide the man who raped my wife,” he spat, towering above her, the dark smouldering rage that was boiling in his belly flaring, tiny sparks spitting and sizzling the soft flesh.

“Where is he, where is the priest” he growled through teeth so firmly champed together he could almost hear them cracking.

“Radomir,” her face went suddenly soft and compliant, her golden brown eyes gazing up at him in pity, “I don’t know.”

The chill wind could not cool his rage but only served to fan the flames higher and higher.

“I know you do, so tell me where he is,” he barked.

He could feel it, roiling acid in his gut, spouting great gouts of fire that were blackening him from the inside out.

“Radomir”, she replied reasonably, her voice taking on a soothing lilt, “calm down, I know you’re angry but you don’t know that he did this. And if he did, he will be punished. But not by you.”

“Tell me where he is!” he shouted, the anger rolling up and bursting from his throat in roar of heat.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” she replied calmly.

“You lying bitch,” he spat, the filthy taste of bile clogging the back of throat.

“Don’t you dare call me that,” her anger rose up, her face twisting into an ugly scowl, “what gives you the right you big brute? You will treat me with the respect I deserve.”

Radomir felt his throbbing fingers curling instinctively into a fist, a meaty, great fist that could smash the fine bones beneath the chubby layer of fat that lay above them. He held his arm straight and trembling beside his inflamed body, his fingers digging so deep into the calloused flesh of his palm that a deep pulsating pain was traveling up his arm.

“Tell me where he is,” his voice was ominously low, rolling like thunder, resonating in his head and making his teeth ache.

“I don’t know,” she hissed.

“Tell me where he is,” he howled, his voice terrifying and strange even to his own cowering ears. It echoed off the cliffs, ringing through the cove so that there seemed a thousand enraged voices all crying out for vengeance together.

“Tell me where he is you little wretch,” he snarled, “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to make him suffer. I’m going to cut him in a hundred places till he oozes blood and begs for death. I’m going to slice off his balls and feed them to him.”

It was all coming up now, the molten rage that was oozing from his every pore, searing and satisfyingly hot, his ears ringing the sound of the snow muffled and far away, his vision blurring with hatred.

And his arm, fist clenched so tightly it was beginning to go numb, all the while rising unbidden, buoyant like hot magma, rising up to meet her soft, woman’s face.

All of a sudden it cracked out towards her like a lightning strike, flashing white heat, waiting for the satisfying crunch. But the pain was in the wrong place, a hot sting on his cheek, not a thumping ache in his fist.

Her tiny hand had flown up, quick as a dart, through the air, smacking against his throbbing cheek, so hard that it sent him reeling backwards, his feet stumbling on the ice.

“Don’t you dare,” she snarled, “don’t you dare hit me Radomir. I’m not afraid of you. You are nothing. And if you try and touch me again my husband will beat you into a bloody pulp.”

All the rage that was holding Radomir up suddenly collapsed, the hot surge of anger subsiding, cooling brittle and glassy in the cracks it had made as it forced its way to the surface. Deflated, the tears came, hot and salty, rolling down his face. He turned away in shame.

“He will be punished for what he did Radomir. Just not by your means.”

Moraghdu, Tadhgar