WeatherMaker Hearts Desire Prologue

Many miles away from home, Alastor tossed his head, neighing excitedly and prancing on the spot. Farrell pulled back the reins sharply, turning his horse back to the army that stood ready and armed behind him. He raised his sword, signalling for the men to sound the charge.

The army tore forwards across the plains, Farrell leading the way as his men descended upon the town. His army had sown confusion; their enemy was caught off-guard.

Their forces divided as they wove through the streets of the town, slaying their enemies.

Brice urged his horse onwards, swinging his sword at the men on the ground around him. One of the enemies before him appeared wielding fire. His horse reared, startled by the burning torch the man held. Brice fell from the saddle; he rolled and quickly rose to his feet, lifting his sword high and ready to strike.

He fought in close quarters, slaying easily the poorly trained soldiers. Brice stood tall and proud, fighting with all the grace and speed of one born to be a leader and a true soldier. But he saw something strange then, a figure in the mass of people that fought around him. A person in a mask. A mask with hollow eyes and a pointed beak. A crow mask.

Brice pulled back in confusion, hesitating for a moment. The figure moved towards him swiftly, taking advantage of this.

Brice felt an excruciating pain then, a long knife driven through the centre of his naval, piercing him right the way through.

The battle had ceased, and Farrell rode around the men as they milled aimlessly about in the aftermath of the fight. He saw surviving prisoners being rounded up and put in chains, the last remnants of the enemy they had fought and defeated, once again victorious. But something was wrong.

‘Where is Brice?’ Farrell asked Arlen who appeared beside him.

‘I don’t know’ Arlen answered, sitting atop his horse and gazing around.

‘Sir!’

Farrell jerked on Alastor’s reins, turning his horse towards the voice of the soldier that had spoken.

‘We’ve found your brother….he….he’s……’

Farrell’s eyes flashed as the man on the ground began to stammer and mumble incoherently. He kicked his heels hard, sending Alastor into a canter, swiftly followed by Arlen on his own horse.

The two of them found Brice soon enough, surrounded by several of his own men. Farrell leapt down from his horse, striding towards the still figure that lay on the ground.

The world suddenly went cold, as Farrell stared down at his brother’s lifeless body.

Farrell very slowly knelt down, reaching shaking hands towards Brice; he cupped his face, his tears falling onto his cheek.

But Brice was already stone cold.

The funeral was held that very same day, within hours of his death. Farrell walked slowly behind Brice as he was carried on the stretcher. After him Arlen followed.

Alice wailed in despair as her son helped carry her forwards. Gracie, just turning old enough to begin to understand death, grasped onto her mother’s skirt silently, as she was led by her son.

Brice’s body was lowered into the grave. Shawn held his mother around her shoulders as she bawled into a handkerchief. Farrell threw a handful of petals over his brother’s body, before the earth was piled on top of him. Beside him, Arlen was praying.

Later that day, long after the sun had set, Arlen and Farrell quietly met with Alice in her home.

‘I have a lot of money’ Farrell said to her in a husky voice. ‘I will give you any amount you need to survive.’

‘Thank you’ Alice sobbed, rubbing her sore red eyes. ‘Thank you…’

‘I will support you through this’ Arlen told Alice. ‘No matter what time of the day or night, if you need someone to talk to, I will be there.’

Shawn placed a small tray of food upon the table for the brothers to eat, but like himself and his mother, they had no appetite, and the biscuits grew stale.

‘How is Gracie?’ Arlen asked. ‘Is she well?’

‘She is well enough…considering’ Shawn said, speaking for her mother who was too grief-stricken to answer properly. ‘She is in bed now, though I doubt she’s sleeping.’

Farrell rose from his chair and walked out suddenly, without another word.

Arlen turned his head towards Farrell as he left the room, eyes wide and uncertain. He rose quickly; the chair he sat upon fell back, clattering to the floor.

Arlen ran outside after Farrell, calling after him as he strode forwards.

‘Farrell wait!’

Farrell halted in his footsteps. The black of the night was closing in around them; the clouds were heavy, blotting out any sign of the stars, and hiding away the light of the moon.

Everything was black, and cold.

Arlen watched his brother, tears in his eyes. He drew a deep breath, staring at Farrell’s back as tears ran down his cheeks.

Farrell waited a moment longer, before walking on. He didn’t even turn around.

Back at home, Ramana waited for her husband’s return. Still dressed in black, she waited for Farrell to come home.

It was well past midnight, and he had not yet returned. She began to worry.

Ramana stood by the tall window in the upstairs part of the house, drawing back the curtains slightly and staring out at the heavy black night that stared back at her. Her daughter appeared beside her.

Amaia stood by her mother’s side, together staring out into the nothing.

They waited.