Brambles pierced my left arm as I leaned against the bush to avoid being seen. The flint handle of my blade was slippery in my grip, and my fingers ached from clutching it—an ache I barely registered as I fixed my glare on the shadowed face of the barbarian. My mother’s murderer.
The thin, taut layer of flesh that stretched across his cheekbones was almost translucent. The orange flames from the fire he had kindled reflected upon his face, leaving gaping black concaves where his eyes bored into his skull.
He tugged at the woven shawl tucked around his sharp shoulders. I adjusted my dagger.
It had been less than five hours since I’d found my mother lying dead on the floor of our home. Her nose was crooked from a punch to the face, and her leg rested at an unhealthy angle, but the worst wound was the one I couldn’t see. The one she’d suffered internally. The one that had stopped her heart.
And why did the barbarian kill her? For the newly woven shawl on her loom? For the bread she’d brought fresh out the oven? Or simply for the thrill of it?
Narrowing my eyes at the murderer by the fire, I considered what it would take to skin a person. Would their flesh come apart from their insides with the same ease as an ox? Not his, surely. It was so thin, it would tear. Fire would be more effective—a singe would set him singing.
I wanted that. For him to suffer. But at the thought of it, my mouth filled with bile.
A few twigs snapped as I rocked on my heels, considering my next move. My noise blended with the ambience around me: the crackle of the burning firewood, the rustle of nocturnal creatures in their burrows and treetops, the low hoos and hisses of owls warning intruders to leave their territory.
The barbarian’s scowl deepened, and I retreated further into the bush as he moved to shift the fire. I fiddled with my dagger, aware that I was stalling. But nothing, not circumstance or feeling, made this moment worse than the next.
If he’s going to die, he has to die now, I told myself. So, I leapt out from my hiding place and enacted swift justice. His blood coated my hands with warmth and shone amber in the firelight.
“You deserved that,” I said aloud, wiping my hands on my mother’s shawl. But strangely the chasm that had opened in my heart when my mother had died felt significantly deeper.
Deborah Rose is the Managing Editor for Hey! Young Writer and assisted in starting this amazing blog but now spends most of her time helping our founder, Alee Anderson, with her ghostwriting business. She is the author of two middle-grade, fantasy novels and a fan of all things history related! You can follow her on Instagram at @deborahroseintheforest or visit her website, deborahrosegreen.co.uk to read more of her writing.
Featured image by Malte Schmidt.
