A Nymph Without Mercy

She accused him of unkindness when she was the one who would toy with his heart!

He did not know that a girl could cry so prettily. He had seen pillaged villages after the cusp of war had ravaged them, and the guttural sobs that the fresh widows had emitted left them red faced and oozy.

But not the maiden he had left behind.

He had not even asked her name—she had been forced to supply it in a whisper he had almost ignored.

She was pale and tragic and left him nearly breathless as he witnessed her despair.

And just as oddly, he almost wished he could do something to alleviate her pain.

Garrick had expected to feel relieved as he mounted his horse and left her there, sobbing as she was as she knelt against the towering birch, the perfect picture of maidenly piety.

He was never one for empathy. The men he had killed—and a few women too if truth be told—meant little to him. None were pure or worthy of his compassion, so it seemed absurd to waste his own emotions by allowing himself to feel for them. Whether they had crossed him due to insult or because of some misguided treachery against a king he felt no loyalty to, the coin was good and the work tested his skill and ingenuity.

And he did so like a challenge.

But as he rode farther away until he could no longer hear her, he found that he left a piece of him behind.

Which was absolutely ridiculous.

Garrick was not a romantic man. He had long since given up any idiotic notions of love—being scorned by every woman he had met made that particular lesson easy to learn, yet no less disheartening.

She called him her bond-mate. She was too practiced, too perfect for him to be her first victim. She knew just how many tears to let fall to arouse a man’s pity, and enough girlish naivety to make him crave to protect her. But surely it was all a farce and he was not one to be made a fool.

Especially when she tried to convince him that she was in fact the nymph he had called her.

Ridiculous.

So true to form he had been gruff and surly, even as he firmly tamped down the immediate regret that followed as her face crumpled from his rejection.

Oh yes, she was very well versed in the art of manipulating men.

Then why was he tempted to believe her?

A part of him, long buried by the pain and rejection of his own, thought her genuine. It cried out with abandon that he had left a piece of his very soul at the foot of that wild birch and he was making a dreadful mistake in leaving her.

He shook away such thoughts.

She had a family. She would explain to them the circumstances of her injury and everything would be righted.

Perhaps if she showed signs of bruising, of some form of abuse that she suffered at their hands, he would be more inclined to believe they would spurn her for having been in contact with him. But she was well cared for—better than any princess in any of the kingdoms he had visited. The silk alone...

He groaned as he recalled that the softness of the silk dulled in comparison to the small bits of flesh he had allowed himself to touch. He could tell from her expression that he had slighted her when he merely deemed her pretty. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld—but he would not appeal to her vanity by fawning over her like some love-sick boy.

And so he left.

He left her and he would silence any protest within his mind by focusing on the task before him.

Monavyn was not a large kingdom. Its wealth came mostly from the fine wools that were traded feely amongst its neighbours. Garrick did not know precisely why he had been called to dispense with this particular nobleman. Perhaps he had begun brewing unrest throughout the court, demanding his serfs expand the pasturelands, regardless of whether or not they were his. Perhaps he had encroached too far and the plump and jolly king had done nothing to censure him, so Garrick had been called to right the injustice of those he had wronged.

Garrick did little to question the reasoning behind the commission. So often the reason was insipid and stupid, and enquiring only resulted in his further disgust with those who claimed the right to rule. But even so, assassination in an abstract manner did save lives—or at least, whenever Garrick’s conscience was prickled he reminded himself thusly. Should both kings attempt to reason amongst themselves discord could be the ultimate result which inevitably led to war. By quickly and quietly dispatching with the offending party, such an event would be circumvented and trade could continue unimpeded.

It mattered little.

But focusing on his charge steadied him, and it was with renewed purpose that he coaxed his horse back toward Wemble Road.

The sooner he was away from the cursed forest, the better.

He could do without meat for a while longer, and he was determined to travel far away from this place.

He did not stop for a morning meal, but instead fumbled through the saddlebag until he grasped a biscuit.

His stores were sadly low, and losing one to the girl had not helped matters.

The feeling of shame at leaving her flared anew, but he ignored it. He did not have much to offer her as it was. He gave her what food he could spare, a strip from his own tunic for a bandage, and even a handkerchief! Nothing else could possibly be expected of him.

Some could even have called him gallant for his efforts.

He scoffed openly at that.

Perhaps not gallant. But he had not taken advantage of her vulnerability, nor had he made her suffer too long in his presence—and certainly that counted for something.

Though he was loath to do it, he raised the faceplate of his helm so he could quickly devour the biscuit. He would have liked to have taken his time so as to better have appeased his stomach, but his discomfort at allowing his face to be exposed overrode any such attempt at gentility.

He shook his head ruefully. No one would confuse him with a gentleman.

When he swallowed the last of the dry biscuit and took a swig of his flask—he most certainly would drink spirits in the morning, gentility be damned—he was entirely unprepared for his horse to suddenly rear. It was only his experience with the beast that allowed him to keep his seat, his thighs gripping firmly to keep from flying onto the ground below.

There was someone in the road, a bow stretched taut and pointed directly at his heart.

“I shall kill you for what you did to her, you filth!”

Conceivably he should have been frightened. The man—though Garrick had to assess him thoroughly to make such a determination—did indeed appear furious. He was not dressed as other men, and Garrick was vaguely aware that the same unearthly quality that surrounded the girl held true to the male before him. His hand did not tremble as it held the arrow steady, all the more concerning that he was perfectly serious in his declaration.

But fear was far from him. His blood sang at the prospect of distraction, the lust for violence—to feel anger instead of the accursed shame and compassion that the girl inspired a ready consolation.

Garrick dismounted, though he knew his height gave him the advantage should he choose to charge. A quick slice with his broadsword would have proved sufficient, and he was fairly confident he could deflect any attack should the man choose to prove so discourteous.

“I regret to inform you that I know not to whom you refer. Have I wronged some lady of your acquaintance?”

The man’s eyes narrowed in anger. “She was to be mine. We knew each other as seedlings, and you took her from me!”

Seedlings?

Garrick could not help but laugh.

“I am not certain what pretty games you played as children, but I can assure you I did nothing to any lady. There was indeed a maid that I helped in the woods but I made no claim on her.”

His fingers twitched even as he debated whether or not to draw his sword or make use of the rope hanging from his horse’s side. So many dismissed the object as a lead, obviously ignorant that a well trained beast would not wander from where its master had left it. But so much the better, as few expected it to fly from the saddle and embrace their necks in a deathly embrace.

For the first time the man’s anger seemed to bubble into rage, his hands finally trembling slightly as he drew a hiss of breath. “You did not claim Mairi? You bonded with her!”

Garrick shrugged, even as he ignored the way he relished the confirmation of her name. She had uttered it so lowly before that he had to guess that he had heard correctly—and he had not been about to ask her to repeat it. “So she also stated. But I made her no vow so I fail to see the issue.” His head cocked slightly his finger gliding knowingly to the hilt of his blade and drawing it from its sheath quietly. So blinded by his temper the man did not appear to notice. “I take it you are her lover then. I can assure you, she is relatively unharmed and will be glad of a familiar face.”

He ignored the ache that accompanied the words, as he absurdly realised he found the idea of her with this man to be distasteful. He was not jealous.

“She was to be my bond-mate, but you had to interfere!”

Garrick’s patience waned. “You so readily make accusations, but I fail to see the injustice. She is, as I said, awaiting her family in a small glen not three miles from here. If you would just...”

The man scoffed. “You are a fool. You would mistake my Mairi for a lowly maiden? She is a nymph, the purest and loveliest of them all. And you ruined her with your touch.”

That was quite enough. With a large swing of his arm he burst forward, slicing his sword through the air as an arrow skilfully shot toward his heart harmlessly fell to the ground below. Garrick raced forward, his hand clenching around the man’s neck as he pushed him back against a tree. “Yes, I spoiled your maid with my monstrous touch. I kept from her dying in the woods alone. Perhaps you should not be so quick to pass judgement.”

The man choked behind his hand, though to his credit he did not struggle or beg for release. His eyes were still narrowed, though Garrick could plainly see that his words had resonated all too strongly.

Good.

He was not solely to blame for the accident.

No clan in their right mind would allow a beauty such as the nymph—Mairi—to traverse the forest alone. Despite his appearance and occupation there were far worse men in the world than he, and he refused to be bullied about.

He was not a boy any longer.

His grip tightened slightly. “I do not take kindly to being threatened, even by her kin. She will heal, and she shall return home, and I am certain even, to your bed.”

His heart clenched at the suggestion, but he fiercely shoved away such weakness. This man had more claim on her than he ever would, and that was as it should be.

He would not pretend he was worthy of her. Already he had stolen too many touches, and her family had a right to be angry.

“If I release you will you swear to leave? Return to her and leave me in peace?”

“You understand nothing! According to nymphlin law she was yours by right and yet you abandon her! You have already proven yourself undeserving. The only way I can hope to free her from your bond is for you to perish!”

Garrick’s eyes narrowed. “You are serious. She too tried to weave a fanciful tale of magic and bonding, yet you appear as deluded as she is!”

He would never admit it to this man, but already a niggling of doubt had begun to form in his mind. For one who had suffered an injury to concoct such a tale would not be unheard of, but a grown man to also participate...

No. He was a rational being, and to believe such a fantastical story was lunacy.

“Can you not feel her? Even now. A part of your mind must be aware of her despair, her loneliness. That you alone have caused. Should you not then sacrifice yourself that she might be free? Free to return to her home, to her father, to her tree...”

To me remained unspoken but both men were fully aware of its presence.

“You would ask me to allow you to kill me,” he sneered. “Have you any certainty that by doing so she would be accepted back into whatever kingdom you hail from?”

He blanched, and were those tears in his eyes? “I must try.”

Garrick scoffed. “You fill me with every confidence. So, you would have me believe that she spoke truly—that she is my bond-mate from now until eternity, simply by a brush of my fingers?”

Said fingers tightened around the man’s throat, and he croaked audibly. “Yes.”

He released him.

Perhaps it was weakness on his part to allow a man to live who openly confessed to wishing for his demise, but as he stared at the long-haired male he knew that if he ever possessed the love of a beauty such as the one he left behind, he too would do all he could to keep her.

But such was not to be, no matter what the law stated from whatever civilisation they hailed from. He resolutely refused to entertain the notion that they were from an entirely different race altogether—it was plausible that they were from a secluded land that practiced such absurd marriage laws that by his offering of aid a poor girl had become his bride.

That did not mean he had to participate.

The man—or was he too a nymph? Garrick could not help but scoff at the very idea—rubbed at his throat, his eyes wary but still tinged with anger. He watched him carefully, certain that if he reached for another weapon he would be forced to dispense with him completely, compassion be damned.

“Go. I have work to do and have no intention of caring for your lover, regardless of your ridiculous customs. Speak to your king and I am certain he will be lenient.”

Of course, he could be certain of no such thing, as every nobleman who considered himself an almighty authority each had their own particular amount of idiocy. Sometimes it was conceit, sometimes it was an overactive sense of generosity that made them an easy target for swindlers and conquerors, but regardless, the result was the same. Men served them either out of misguided loyalty or of fear, but not with the blindness that they were somehow any more capable of ruling a kingdom.

“Mairi must be avenged!” But even as he spoke the man seemed weary, the pain and rage fleeing with only a deep rooted sadness in its wake.

“What is your name?” He was not certain why he inquired; it was not as though he would ever see the man again. But he had found that sometimes people were more malleable when their names were used, and he simply wished to go on his way—preferably without this man following and threatening him again.

“Raghnall, not that you deserve to know it.” He tried to sound spiteful, but by the way he grimaced he too realised he merely sounded defeated.

“Raghnall, have you ever killed a man?”

He had the audacity to look offended. At what point did the suggestion of sparing lives become an insult? Garrick might have been callous over the right of another to continue breathing, but that did not mean that a green, fresh youth should be ashamed of his lack of experience.

Although now that he considered it, perhaps indeed it was.

“I am well trained with a bow.”

“That was not my question. Killing a man changes you, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. If you think me heartless and foolish, I can assure you that my occupation has merely encouraged such propensities. Do not be so quick to wish it for yourself, even for the sake of a maiden.”

At the mention of Mairi, Raghnall’s shoulders drooped and he leaned against a tree, apparently in need of its support—the very same that Garrick had used so recently to subdue him.

“She will be so alone. The elders have forbidden us from contacting her, even for a moment. And if you will not tend to her...”

He sighed, wishing for nothing more than to once more be on his horse and miles away from this forest—and most especially its inhabitants. “You would truly prefer she be wed to the likes of me than to know she is alone?”

Raghnall glanced at him, and there was no mistaking the resignation and disgust that crossed his features. “Yes, for I love her. She will die on her own. At least with you she might live.”

Garrick stared at him a moment longer, considering. He had assumed that by leaving her she would come to her senses and return to her family. But if they would reject her—as evidently they would—he had left a delicate girl completely on her own, with nothing to hunt with or use for shelter.

“Life with me might be worse than death.”

Raghnall flinched. “I cannot believe that. Edlar... a friend saw what you did for her—how you cared for her throughout the night. You are capable of kindness.” He hung his head, “I would beg you to be kind to her. She is sweetness itself and she does not require a harsh hand.”

Garrick’s ire prickled at the assumption, everyone always so quick to believe him capable of harm simply for the sake of inflicting it.

“I shall consider it.”

He did not wait for a response. His mind reeled and he felt some corner of his mind ache with pain and misery, and he knew not how to quiet it. He mounted his horse and when he turned to ensure the stranger had not deceived him and was not even now determined to shoot an arrow through his heart, he discovered that the man was already gone.

And when he urged his horse on with a firm kick he found that instead of heading toward the road toward Monavyn he was returning to the small glen.

But when he arrived the little nymph had gone.

And he had no idea how to ever find her again.