David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

When it was over, the girl slid off him and lay on her back, giggling into her fists. She began singing a quiet tune, one her mother had most likely sung to her when she was just a babe. The innocence in her voice was enough to remind Patrick of how youthful she really was, forty-nine years his junior. He rolled away from her, slipping his feet over the side of the bed. The elation of the lovemaking faded quickly, his constant physical torment seeping back into the hidden chambers of his body. He dropped his head into his hands, stroked the knobbiness of his eyebrows, and abruptly stood. His sudden ascent from the downy mattress brought a surprised yelp from the girl, but she went right on singing a moment later.

Patrick wandered across the room, eyes downcast and gait lurching, and poured himself a glass of wine. He reached for the water pitcher next and splashed some water over his face. It was warm and not at all refreshing. He wiped the water off his flesh with an old tunic that was draped over the side of the basin. His fingers brushed the lumps above his eyes, his wide jaw, and the nonexistent slope of his sunken chin. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer to Ashhur before finally lifting his gaze to the silver mirror hanging above the basin.

He stared at his ugliness head-on, ignoring his misshapen face, the welts covering his mottled skin, and the hideous, fang-like appearance of the crooked teeth in his much-too-wide mouth. What mattered was atop his head, the thatch of blood-red hair that coiled at odd angles like the tentacles of a sea beast. He leaned in closer, observing every strand as he worked his fingers through the untidy mop.

“Come on,” he muttered, turning his head from one side to the other, frantically searching for a single strand of gray. His younger sister Brigid had told him she’d found her first silver mere moments after lying with her husband for the first time. Patrick didn’t know how many times he had lain with a woman, but it had to be over a hundred by now.

Perhaps you simply haven’t met the perfect someone, a girl who will love you completely in return.

Brigid was fond of saying that each time he complained about his dilemma. Patrick glanced over his knotted shoulder, watching the young, naked girl roll back and forth on the bed, knees held to her chest. She was certainly beautiful, but Brigid was right. She wasn’t the perfect one for him. How long will I need to search? he wondered. How long will this go on?

Forever was the answer that trickled into his head, for he knew no girl could truly love him, not with his twisted spine, hunched back, monstrous hands, uneven legs, and repulsive face. He was an immortal monster who wished for mortality, who loved his family and his god and wished to experience life , not the repetitive droll of agelessness that had beleaguered him ever since his eighteenth birthday, the day his body had stopped growing. The way he understood it, only the love of someone other than Ashhur could cure him of this plague called forever . He wanted to grow old, to grow wise, and eventually to die a natural death. It was all he dreamed about.

The girl on the bed continued her repetitive swaying, the song on her lips much louder now. Patrick turned away from the mirror and faced her, and the expanse of the stone floor between them seemed like a thousand miles.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

The girl stopped her rocking and sat up on the bed. She caught sight of him in the flickering light of the candelabra and grimaced for the briefest moment. It was a look she smoothed away as fast as she could, with a quick shake of her head. The smile that stretched across her face was genuine, but he sensed the repulsion hidden beneath it. She deliberately slid her legs downward, parting them somewhat, and arched back her shoulders.

“I was quickening the seed,” she replied almost sheepishly, which sounded outlandish given her pose. “I’m going to have a child of a First Family.” She stroked her stomach, which shimmered with moisture. “I can feel it working already. In here.”

Patrick laughed, holding his deformed face in his hand.

“What you’re feeling is most likely indigestion from the shrimp we ate earlier, or maybe a bit too much of wine. Either way, you aren’t with child. Not mine, anyway.”

The girl looked confused. “Why is that, sir?”

“My seed is as ruined as myself, I fear. I can have no children.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m sixty-five years old. I have bedded many women, and none of them have quickened.”

“Oh.” The girl’s lower lip quivered. She looked like someone who had just stepped in a pile of manure. “I didn’t know.”

Patrick limped toward her and hunched down, getting on one knee and taking her hand in his. She recoiled once more but did an admirable job of keeping her composure.

“Was that why you came here?” he asked. “To beget a child?”

The girl nodded.

He frowned. “You might have told me so. I would have been honest with you.”

“But I thought,” she said, her voice shaky, “I thought you’d be insulted, sir.”

“Ha! Look at me, girl. Take a good look. I’d have bedded you even if you were only doing it to take revenge on a jilted lover. Trust me; in matters of sex, I’m not picky.” He leaned back and held his arms out wide to prove his point. “I can’t afford to be.”

That elicited a laugh from the girl. She brought her fist to her mouth and sucked on her knuckle for a moment before saying, “I apologize for exploiting you, sir.”

Patrick guffawed. “Really, there was nothing to exploit. I enjoyed myself. Did you?”

The girl shrugged. “I suppose so, sir.”

Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Fantastic. Glad I could be of service, Bethany. And stop calling me sir . That is a knight’s title, and in this world knights only exist in the Wardens’ stories. Just one person here calls himself that, and if I’m being honest, that man is something of a prick.”

“Um, my name’s Brittany, sir…sorry…what do I call you?”

“Patrick is fine. It is my name, after all. And I apologize for forgetting yours.”

“’Tis all right, sir. I mean Patrick.”

Patrick rose unsteadily to his feet and grabbed the gray hemp shift the girl had been wearing off the floor. He tossed it to her. “You should get dressed. I’m sure your father is quite worried about you by now.”

Brittany slipped the shift over her head, gradually covering up that wonderful body of hers. She seemed relieved to have an excuse to leave.

“You’re right, I should be getting home. But don’t worry about Father. He’s most likely at temple praying. He and Mother do that every night. It’s only just dark, and they don’t usually get home until later in the evening.”

“Of course they don’t,” said Patrick.

Hurriedly, Brittany gathered up her sandals, slinging them over her shoulder. She breezed past him, but Patrick seized her arm lightly, stopping her in her tracks.

“Do you think you could ever love someone like me?” he asked. He knew how pathetic the question sounded, but he needed to ask it.

Brittany lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“I thought not. Good night, Brittany.”

“Good night, Patrick,” she replied, and hastened for the exit. Her footfalls were already halfway down the hall when the door to his room slammed shut.

“By Ashhur,” he muttered. “At least she was a good lay.”

He immediately regretted his words and offered a silent apology to his god. A chill came over his naked body as he thought again of how the girl had called him sir . He was a good man-Ashhur insisted he was-but was he truly noble? Could he be noble? He had his doubts.