What Remains of Men

What Remains of Men

The rain was drumming on his hood, clouding his vision and thoughts. He continued aggressively, but methodologically to sharpen his knife. Drawing the whetstone down over the blade that was at risk of rust. When he found the knife, it was no more than a dull paring knife that at best could cut rotten fruit. But to him, this solitary knife was the path to revenge and salvation. The dull slick sound kept his mind occupied. As Father Cain whispered his prayers into the night, Rowan sent hissed, scraped steel whispers that only the darkness understood.

This moment of relief of not having to relive the past that always danced at the blackest edges of his mind was disturbed. Finn wore a restless path through the muddy clearing, pacing beneath the dripping pine trees as he whispered to himself. Rowan tried to focus on the steady scrape of whetstone against steel, but Finn’s constant murmuring threaded through the rain like a mosquito by his ear. Rowan let out a slow breath and lowered his knife.

“Boy, if you do not do something useful instead of talking to yourself, we will leave you behind,” he threatened for the tenth time of the day “Earn your keep,” Rowan’s voice was deep and rough as gravel. He could no longer remember when that stern tone had stopped being an act and become his own. In his clan, boys were expected to become men long before their beards had grown, and if you pretended to be strong long enough, eventually you were.

But now there was no clan. No boys dawning the appearance of men. No men to smack them on the back of the head. No women to bake bread and watch their babes run about. No Elspeth or his own babes. King Cedric had plucked them out of his life as easily as petals on a daisy. To Rowan, each petal had been his wife, his son, his daughter, and the quiet life they had built together. Now all he held was a bare stem, but his pain would finally be vanquished tomorrow.

Fearful of being left behind, Finn snatched up his oversized bow and shakily drew the string taut, loosing an imaginary arrow into the darkness. At least now he had ceased his nervous chatter. Rowan rubbed the back of his neck and tried to conjure up some words to inspire courage and stillness in the boy’s heart. With no clan around, there was no one for Finn to perform an act of bravery for. Rowan now understood the importance of the invisible masks they used to wear, it helped keep you alive. Putting down his whettstone and knife, he lumbered over to Finn.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he yanked the bow out of Finn’s not yet calloused hand and flipped it, shoving it back to him.

“I-I’m sorry,” Finn squeaked.

Rowan did not know how many seasons had passed this boy, but he still looked as though his mother should be tucking him into bed. Rowan gave him one solid thunk on the back. That was the extent of reassurance he could scrape together.

Father Cain’s sing-song voice rang out into the night. “Dinner is ready!” piercing through the muffling rain. Rowan lifted Finn to stand by the back of his shirt and they made their way to their shoddy campfire that was crackling under a woolen cloak stretched between two trees.

“Tell me, how are your souls tonight?” Father Cain had his robes tied up towards his waist, yet they still grazed the mud somehow. Rowan groaned, Father Cain was always incessantly asking about the state of affair of their souls. Just as Rowan was forming a mocking remark at the tip of his tongue, Finn’s shrill voice cut him off.

“Father, I must confess that my soul is weary and at an unease about the battle tomorrow,” Finn already had his hands in prayer position, hoping for Father Cain to wash it all away with the rain.

Rowan gritted his teeth. “I told you the more you speak of it, the more you will think about it. Shut up boy and eat your damned food,” Rowan dropped heavily with exhaustion onto a tree stump. Finn loosened his hands and rubbed them onto his weathered pant legs.

“Do you think perhaps calling him ‘boy’ does not help?” Father Cain smiled as he poured their soup into makeshift bowls of carved bark.

Rowan cracked his fingers. “He is a boy, his stones have not even dropped yet,” he greedily grabbed a bowl from Father Cain.

“Yes they have!” Finn blurted as he gingerly took his from Father Cain.

“That may be so,” Father Cain replied, not signifying who he was agreeing with, “but words of encouragement for what lies ahead tomorrow is of great importance. We have not been running ourselves ragged these last few weeks tracking the carriage for us to not have some mercy and kindness towards each other. The Lord does not keep count of how fiercely a man speaks, but on how he carries the burdens of those beside him,” he sat down on another stump.

Rowan was glad the haze of the rain shielded the rolling of his eyes.

Father Cain looked at him expectantly, nudging his head towards Finn. Rowan gripped his bark bowl roughly and it split at the edge.

“I am not going to coddle the boy priest. If you are so concerned about him, you can rock the babe to bed tonight,” standing, Rowan stormed off, thunder crackling in his wake. He found a dry enough tree to take shelter under and hungrily slurped his soup, that was more rain water than ingredients at the point. He could see them in the distance huddled together by the warmth of the fire. Why was he the one who was supposed to comfort the child? He remembered holding his own wee ones, vowing to always keep them safe. But that was not the way of the world. In the end, you could only live long enough to keep yourself safe.

Spotting him from beyond, Father Cain made his way towards him. Rowan thought of running, but that it would be a cowardice move. He stood there and impatiently waited for the priest to leisurely stroll over.

“How was the soup? Must have not been too tasteless seeing you ate it all. Thank you for enjoying this humble meal,” he bowed his head toward Rowan.

Rowan shoved the bowl towards him. “Do you really think he will grow if you keep coddling him,” more of a statement than a question.

Father Cain raised his head and looked at him. “I know you are hurting, having lost everyone you loved and then some. But the lord teaches us-“

Rowant cut him off, spitting on the floor. “What do you know of love and loss priest? You are destined to roam this land alone, never taking a family, never having love,” he crossed his arms, thinking this would stop the father from talking.

“You think I never did, nor now know or have love? King Cedric razed my village into ash when I was a wee one. My whole family perished. The church took me in and taught me the scriptures. They are what saved me,” Father Cain took a cleansing breath. “I know when you look at Finn he reminds you of where you came from. But that could be a window to remember the beautiful memories of your past. Look unto it with love and reverence, not spite and shame. What seems cruel always serves a higher purpose in his design.”

Just as he placed his palm on Rowan’s shoulder, Rowan jerked back as if scalded by hot tar. “You know nothing priest,” he rasped.

He looked towards the fire, Finn was gone. His eyes started darting, searching and his chest heaving. “What did you say to the boy?” He accused Father Cain.

“Finn!” he cried out, running to the camping ground. To track him like the skittish hare Finn was, was the only way. Following the messy footprints, by the gods Finn would make a dreadful spy. At the edge of a cliff with roaring waves below, he found him standing there under the sharp glow of the moonlight, the soft drizzle of rain looming into a downpour.

“Finn, get over here now,” he snarled, but stopped walking, for as he did, Finn took another step closer to the edge. He heard Father Cain huffing before he appeared next to him.

“How is your soul tonight?” Father Cane asked him with eyes that stripped a man bare of even what he did not know. Rowan had not even heard Father Cain approaching. Why did he insist on this never ending question? He whipped his head back toward Finn.

“Why? You don’t want me. No one wants me. I am nothing more than a burden!” Finn cried facing forwards to the cliff.

“That is not true, you are from my clan, so come here now!” Rowan yelled, voice was laced with a tone of a man who has seen this sort of haunting despair before.

“Hah. You want me as a clansman? I heard you speaking to the villagers we passed on the road, begging them to take me in, offering them coin,” Finn laughed, though his voice trembled beneath it. “You despise me. Why should I wish to remain at your side when the sea itself seems eager to welcome me?” Finn stepped closer to the edge.

“You have to stop him,” whispered Father Cain calmly.

Rowan sneered at him. “You are the one with all the pearls of wisdom, you stop the mad man.”

Father Cain gave a half smile. “Intriguing you decide to call him a man when he is in peril. He is of your clan, I will not be involved in his demise,” he took a step back.

“Finn, you…you remind me of Edwin, my boy. Everytime I look at you I remember the son I could not protect. He carried the weight of fear in his heart, but he somehow believed there was goodness in this blasted world, like you. If I can make you into a man, you will not need me to protect you…to fail you,” Rowan bit his lip until he tasted blood.

Finn took a solitary step backwards and turned his head to look at him.

“I do not despise you, nor do I love you. But I promise to be by your side,” Rowan was wringing his hands and could swear he saw a flash of Edwin’s eyes passed through Finn’s. Finn took a few steps backwards, facing Rowan. This child was not of his blood, but something was stirring in his heart. He tried to push it down, to pull back his anger. But he settled on both swirling in him, each wave crashing and replacing the other. Finn walked towards him and Rowan offered him his hand.

“Brothers?” He asked.

“B-brothers,” Finn stammered. His face a wonderment of hope and loss. He turned back to Father Cain, but he had vanished. His footprints washed away by the rain that had stopped.

“Tomorrow we take on the carriage, there are only a handful of them. You stay far away and shoot. Even if I am injured, you stay back. If they spot you, you run. Can you do this?” His eyes softly scrutinized Finn.

“Yes, I will stay back and shoot,” he held an imaginary bow.

Rowan did not know if the day to come was finally his death march. He was set on dying the next morning, but now with Finn by his side, he wondered, what would tomorrow hold?

“You know, we should follow the carriage some more and not be hasty. Gather more intelligence," Rowan thought out loud and Finn’s face beamed at him as bright as the nightly moon.

Silently, he apologised to Edwin, Lyanna and Elspeth. They might have to wait for him a little while longer.