17th February 1103

Steen awoke with a gasp, taking breath after panting breath his heart pounding against his ribcage like a blacksmith’s hammer clanging on the anvil.

He took in a shuddering breath, willing himself to stay quiet so as to not wake his sleeping wife. Hepsie was exhausted these last weeks and he did not want to rob of her of much needed sleep. His tiny Hepsie shouldered the worries and hurts of so many, day after day and he was concerned about the strain it was putting on her.

He tiptoed across the chilly floor, quickly peeking in at Thaell. The lad was making little snuffling noises, his blanket clasped and twisted in his sturdy hands. He was a big boy, Hepsie said bigger than the King’s son though he were many months younger. Steen felt a swell of pride, his boy, bigger and stronger than the son of a King. Who would have thought it.

He shivered as he crept into the main room, inching the door shut behind him so as not to start up the dreadful symphony of creaks and screeches that it usually made. He carefully lit a candle, the room filling with the meaty scent of burning fat. The coals of the fire were still warm and Steen sat gratefully with his back warmed by the faint glow.

He tried to remember what had made him wake in such a panic. Was it a nightmare? He certainly couldn’t remember a thing of it, though it had felt like a nightmare when he awoke. The room had tilted and spun madly, a clutching, clenching feeling in his chest, his mouth dry, his skin pricking with sweat in the freezing air of the room.

There was a faint scratching at the window. Steen turned as a reflex though expecting to see nothing more than a stripped tree branch tapping against the glass. He was horrified instead, to be gazing at a pallid face peering in at him from the gloom.

He gulped in shock, and without thinking threw himself to his feet and careened across the room and out the door. The only thing in his tired mind was his soft, sleepy wife curled up warmly in the bed and his sturdy son tangled in his blankets. They were just in the next room.

The heat of his body was instantly quenched as he plunged into the outside air. The cold hit him like a hammer, his body resonating in shivering vibrations, his teeth chattering with the force. He glanced around the small garden, cursing his bare feet, his toes curling under as they came into contact with the icy ground.

“Come out yew, I saw yew I did!” he called out trying to sound confident, but his voice was weak and reedy, trembling from the cold.

He gazed around blindly as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. It was a frigid night, the blanket of clouds drawn back from the sky so that the Earth was exposed and shivering in its sleep. In the small, frozen pond, fish hung in suspension, their frigid blood freezing in their veins, their cold, dead eyes open and staring. The figure was there, at the edge of the clearing, beside the pond, its icy surface glowing faintly in the moonlight.

“Who are yew?” he called nervously.

“Don’t yew know me boy?” the figure rasped, turning to gaze at Steen over one shoulder. The stars hung faintly above, scorching white sparks flown into the air as the hammer struck.

“Papa?” Steen asked, his voice full of wonder.

How could he be? His old Pa, here, on Mhalwae. Weren’t they back at Branwhuld with the girls?

“What are yew doing here? How did yew get here? Is it really yew? Where’s Ma?” the questions rolled off his tongue like thick drops of water sizzling as they fell on the festering hot metal.

He reached out towards his father, desperate to feel those strong blacksmith’s arms squeezing him against his laughing chest.

“No,” his father’s voice rang out harsh and clear, “don’t yew go touchin’ me lad. Not now.”

“What’s wrong Pa?” he peered at his father in the darkness and could make out the blackened bumps and welters that engulfed one half of his face, “Pa, what’s happened to yew? Are yew alright?”

“Yes an’ no my lad, yes an’ no. But it’s not a tale fer now. We ain’t got that much time. We’re just passing through we are.”

“We?” Steen followed his father’s gaze to the garden’s edge, where a demure figure was standing beside Hepsie’s herb patch.

“Ma,” his voice caught in his throat and he tensed his muscles ready to run to her and fall at her feet like a child with a scraped knee. It had been so long.

“No lad,” his father’s deep, croaking voice held him back, “she doesn’t want yew to see her like this. Now listen to me lad. I have some important things to be sayin’ an’ then we have to go.”

Steen nodded slowly, though he didn’t think he understood what was happening here.

“Yew’ve always been a good lad Steen, a fine lad. Dependable and responsible and all that. A son to be proud of.”

A son, he had a son too!

“Pa, I didn’t tell yew! Me an’ Hepsie had a boy, a good strong lad. His name is Thaell. Would yew like to see him?”

“We already have lad, he’s a fine, strong lad isn’t he. Now yew need to listen to me.”

“Steen lad, yew’ve got to be takin’ care of them. They’re going to be needing yew like never before. I know we can trust yew, yer a good lad. Keep em’ all safe won’t yew?”

“I… I don’t know what yew mean Pa,” Steen shook his head in confusion. It was all too cryptic.

“Don’t yew worry yer head about that now. Yew’ll be knowing soon enough my boy.”

“Now lad, I’m sorry to say it but we must be going.”

His father lurched towards the gardens edge, stumbling and limping his way down the small incline to his mother. His walk was all wrong. Drig Cade had always walked tall, towering above normal men, his back only slightly bowed from years of pounding metal against the anvil. Now he was hunched and shambling, his feet making wet crunching noises on the icy ground.

“When will I see yew again?” he asked, and was surprised to hear his voice was thick with tears.

“Not fer a good long time lad. But yew’ll see us again one day. Until then, don’t yew go forgetting how proud we are of yew an’ how much we love yew.”

“Goodbye Steen,” his mother called shyly.

Steen blinked and they were gone, the garden empty. All that remained was him, his skin flecked with goosebumps, his hands trembling in the darkness and the rustle of the wind in the tree branches.

He awoke in his bed, his heart banging against the hard bones of his ribs, his breath coming in great panting gulps.

“Pa,” he groaned, clutching hard with his hands trying to hold onto whatever it was that was disappearing like a rapidly cooling flame.

“Steen, what are yew doing?” Hepsie squeaked, “yer hurting me.”

He unclenched his fists, feeling the warm curves of his wife’s body beneath his grasping hands.

“An yer absolutely freezin’!” she shivered against him.

“Sorry love,” he murmured into her dark hair, feeling his senses returning, “I just a nightmare is all.”

“Yew ain’t got a fever have yew,” she gently kissed his clammy forehead, “No yew ain’t hot at all. But yew sure are cold. Come on lad, snuggle up to me now an’ I’ll warm yew. Even yer feet if yew must.”

“I love yew Hepsie,” he mumbled as he drew her warm body to his, pressing his face into the warm nook between her neck and her shoulder.

“I love yew too yew big goosechild. Even if yew have the coldest damn feet on this island.”