I prayed it would rain.
The sun bearing down on my exposed neck was meager recompense for the hefty burden I was about to deliver. My armor, a showy regalia meant to declare my station, only helped to bake me within its confines, yet its heat paled in comparison to the scorching flames of a father’s glare. Were it not for the decade of life spent staring down hell’s gates on the battlefield I may have withered on the spot, but withering here felt unworthy. Standing before a humble dwelling in a dusty plain with hardly another house in sight, I eyed the man occupying the house’s doorway, “Sir, I ask again, is this the home of Luetin Vaner.”
“And I will tell you again, sir, that is none of your concern. I don’t recall asking any soldiers for aid and I won’t be inviting any into my home no matter the rank,” my opposite rejoined, folding his sinewed arms while his eyes swept over our group.
The man, a rugged trunk of a man, planted himself in the doorway of his home as effectively as a palisade. He could have easily been mistaken for the door itself for as unmoving as he remained after our exchange. My men, the few I brought on the journey, shifted uncomfortably nearby, some clearly on edge. They’re fighters after all. Diplomacy was for those who sat for their pay, yet I was not eager to escalate to violence against a single, undeserving man.
A man of the cloth had been among those to travel with us and this moment seemed more suited to a man of words over action. “Priest,” I barked, more gruffly than intended, watching the doughy man flinch as I turned in his direction, “it would seem your honeyed tongue is required to ease the situation.”
“There is nothing to ease other than your way on back to where you came from,” the man in the door spat, “we have no need of a priest unless he’s here for your last rites.”
Honed metal rang out as a few of the soldiers responded to the threat with drawn blades. “Stand down men,” I tried to assuage my men but saw their eyes bearing down on their insulter, “the first man to draw needless blood will find himself scourged within an inch of his life.”
My threat carried the weight required and the men returned their swords to their scabbards. “I don’t know why you seek to provoke us-”
“I am not the one bearing arms at a man’s door.”
“To which you are correct, but we would not make this journey unarmed. These weapons are not bore against your house. We wish only for a word.”
“The church and the state standing at my door as one seeking only words? You’ll have to forgive my unbelief,” the man scoffed, throwing his arms wide, “there is nothing here for you.”
“B-but,” the priest finally stammered, fingers rolling the hem of his sleeves on his flowing robe as his mouth gasped like a dying fish.
An exasperated snort leapt from my throat, the cloth is useless! The absurdity of it all was wearing down the last of my patience, and I set my attention squarely on the man blocking our progress. He, along with his taunting smirk, hadn’t moved from the doorway, arms still spread as if appealing to a higher power. Resigned to my duty, I drew in a steeling breath, it had come time for action.
Murmurs swept through our traveling group as I began my march toward the house, dust trailing in my wake. A sense of apprehension overtook the man’s haughty air, his eyes darting between my face and sword, his arms retreating in defense. The separation between narrowed to within an arm’s reach and the man burst into action, a muscled arm lunging for my head. It only took a backhand tap to deflect the errant blow, my feet moving without thought to prepare for the follow-up strike. Another lunging blow with the opposite arm came flailing soon after which I caught at the man’s wrist and twisted. The simple move threw the man forward to protect his joints and a kick to the back of his leg sent him to a knee. Standing behind my subdued opponent, I leaned down to speak, “I’m not going to bother asking for your name,” then to my men, “someone come and restrain this man, but make sure no harm comes to him.”
I relinquished my grip on the man to a pair of brave men and turned for the door, the man’s voice roaring out as I stepped inside, “Gracia! Run!”
The lack of bustle once I closed the door to the man’s incessant yelling was unnerving; a quaint kitchen greeted me with ample sunlight, the scents of worn woods and pungent spices, and a growing weight on my shoulders. My gloved hand brushed over the tabletop as I strode past, it’s imperfections noticeable through leather. A door had let me into the house but now I faced a space divided by hanging curtains of various colors from a faded meadow. Brushing aside a fabric wall, I laid eyes upon a young woman, Gracia I assumed, and a babe suckling at her breast.
Her hickory eyes, wide with fright, were a piercing reminder of my own wife’s, my head turning away out of reflex. “I did not mean to catch you unaware in such a state,” I offered with an edge of nervousness in my voice that caught me by surprise, “but I need to have a word with you.”
The rustling of fabric drew my attention back to the woman, a small blanket now draped over her shoulder, concealing her child. “Why are you here?” she ventured, her body slowly contorting to shield the child from view, “What do you want with me?”
“Gracia,” i began, settling onto a stool while trying to gauge her reaction to the name, “the news I bring concerns your entire household, and it centers around your young one there.”
“What?”
The question hung in the air like smoke, and the more I took the sight of her in the more it stung my eyes. All I began to see was my wife with our firstborn, an image etched in my memory playing out before me anew. It would have been easier to march back outside and deliver the news to the screaming man than to his wife, her expectant gaze melting my voice into the pit of my stomach. “What does this have to do with my son?”
It took several deep breaths before I could meet her gaze fully, and, as I opened my mouth to speak, another voice called out, “He will have a great role to fulfill someday.”
“Great role?” Gracia pondered aloud as she stared at the short-winded priest, sweat dripping from his chin.
“Yes,” the priest breathed, laying a hand on my shoulder, “the seers all speak of it.
“What does all this have to do with us now?” she inquired as her brow began to furrow.
“He needs to be prepared for his role,” I finally found my voice, “and that will take time.”
“So what are you saying?” her response was more apprehensive and her expression softened.
Stepping forward and dropping to a knee, the priest looked into the fearful eyes of a mother, “Sweet dear, it means that, in time, you will give up your son for the greater good of all.”
The sound of her breath catching in her chest sucked the air from the room so quickly I felt my chest clench. On instinct, I moved to kneel next to the priest, removed a glove, laid a hand on Gracia’s knee, and did my best to sound comforting, “but that time isn’t now. We’ve come to prepare you for the time when we come to prepare him.”
Tears streaking down her face were poison to my resolve and it took the priest shaking my shoulder to break me from the dreadful spell of her sorrow. Our trek from the house was swift and just as quickly forgotten, the sound of the restrained man’s shouting an unwelcome but necessary return to the business at hand. “Release him,” was my simple order to the pair holding him before addressing the rest of the traveling party, “we make for the capital as soon as we’re ready.”
My horse awaited, the beast of burden shifting slightly as I clambered into the saddle, grasping hold of the reigns. I raised my head and stared into the endless expanse above. My burden hadn’t been shed, only shared.
