In 2006, Rachel Rossano and seven other authors, two other
veterans and five newbies, began an exciting venture.
They resolved to write eight fantasy novels that begin and ended in the same
place. The characters would be a family of eight siblings. Each writer adopted
a sibling for their own and wrote that character’s story, posting each
completed chapter on a blog dedicated to that character.
Rachel Rossano’s novel following Wren Romany, one of the
middle siblings, took over five years to write. Three years of that time she
was not writing due to pregnancy or newborns. Pregnancy and sleep deprivation
make her brain disconnect. However, once she finished Wren’s story, she
realized she couldn’t leave the world or the characters alone.
Tragedy is part
two of a series of flash fiction pieces that follow Svhen Bejork. This
installment picks up a few weeks after BlondStranger. The third installment is still in the author’s head somewhere.
Wren Romany is
available free at http://wren-romany.blogspot.com/. Currently in editing with the intention of
publication, hopefully it will debut 2012 or 2013. For more information about
the status of the other novels (also available online) go to http://romanyepistles.blogspot.com/.
Tragedy
By Rachel Rossano
Rain pelted my head, ran in rivulets down my face, and
plastered my wool cloak to my back. Frigid moisture seeped through to my bones.
My body absorbed the cold, unable to repel the deluge. My heart declared it
would never warm again.
“Lenora, I can’t feel my toes.” My brother, Ander, clung to
my hand with all of his seven-year-old strength.
I hadn’t the heart to peel my hand free despite the pain.
Mother was gone. In many ways, I was the last anchor he had.
Behind us, our home gave in to the fire with a groan and
crash. The sound tore through my chest, leaving my heart raw and oozing pain
like an open sore. I refused to glance back.
Why hadn’t father listened?
I passed on the stranger’s warnings. The Enforcer’s men grew
bolder with each passing day. Tales of destruction, ravaging, and pillaging
passed from villager to farmer and back, taking precedent over the cost of feed
and the lack of harvest. Additional news of Lord Mynth’s movements and rumors
of strangers appearing in the woods added the undercurrent of tension in every
conversation. Life grew dangerous, yet Father ignored the outside.
“Focus on the harvest. Clear the fields,” he ordered. “Then
we can take time to rest and gossip.”
A sob punched my gut, but I choked it back.
The grain rotted. The barn flamed. The house burned with
mother’s broken body inside as father marched off at sword point to serve the Enforcer.
Now we were refugees, rushing away from home with no hope of
ever returning. I lifted my head to peer through the rain at the barren foliage
around us. Trees rose from the sodden dimness beyond the path. Their branches
reached out to us like hag’s fingers. I push onward, dragging my brother with
me.
Ander stumbled, pulling me down to my knees. Mud soaked my
skirt. It sucked at my legs as I struggled to my feet. Ander rose crying,
whimpering sobs that shook his thin shoulders. I tugged him close until his
sharp edges pressed into my stomach. So young, yet so tall, he resembled father
more each season, except for his hair. He had mother’s hair, straight and
thick. I ran my numb fingers across the slick strands.
“Preserve us! A pair of ragamuffins.” The booming voice
jolted through me.
Indignation rose to the offense. I turned to face the man,
shoving Ander behind me.
He was tall and broad in the shoulders, but not as towering
and solid as Svhen. Rain fell on his bare head, forcing the hair to conform to
his skull.
“Leave us be.”
“Why should I? You are trespassing on private land.”
“Whose?” I didn’t like the way his dark eyes studied me,
almost as though measuring my worth.
“Lord Mynth’s. These woods aren’t safe at night.”
“The valley isn’t safe, we know well enough. I have lived
here my whole life. Do you come from the ruins?”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Aye.”
“I ...” Ander pressed against my back as I spoke. “We need
to speak with Svhen Bejork.”
His thick eyebrows rose and his eyes widened as a grin
pulled at one side of his mouth. “Is that so?” Then he laughed. “That explains
a lot.”
Now it was my turn to frown.
“Come. Bring the shy one too. What is your name?” He
motioned for us to follow and then set off perpendicular to our previous
direction.
I followed him, pulling Ander.
“You will take us to Svhen?”
“Of course. Svhen never looked twice at a girl. Now one
shows up with a kid in tow asking for him by name. Wait until I tell Arthus. He is going to be
sorry he missed this.”
Pressing through the brush, he broke through into a small
clearing. Water fell in heavy streams from the sky. Its path unbroken by the
leaves, water pounded his head and shoulders. Ignoring the deluge, he strode
straight through the tightly woven branches of two bushes on the other side.
“Svhen!”
“Yes?” The reply came behind us.
I turned and came face to face with a looming shadow. He was
taller than I remembered and more tangible. My chin lifted a few inches before
I met his hidden eyes below the hood. I opened my mouth, but no words came. My
chin quivered. I clamped my jaw shut to still it and studied the mud.
“What is wrong?” A large hand, rough with an oilskin mit,
forced my face up. “Lenora, what happened?”
The gentle sound of my name broke through my defenses and
tore them away. A sob convulsed my chest. I couldn’t breathe as emotion welled
up. “Mother ... dead.” I gasped.
“How?”
“Press gang.”
Our guide swore.
“They took your father?” Svhen asked.
I nodded.
Ander’s thin arms cinched my waist, seeking or offering
comfort. Pulling him close, I pressed his head to my middle and let the tears
fall. The swells of ache overwhelmed my walls.
Svhen’s hand caught my head and gently guided it to his
chest beneath the folds of his cloak. I breathed warmth and leather. The steady
of thud of his heart beneath layers of cloth strangely reassured me. I let my
tears fall, soaking his tunic. Ander’s hair tangled in my painful fingers, his
skull firm and whole beneath their span. Visions of my mother’s body pressed
behind my eyes.
“Does that mean you have gained two new pets?” Our guide
asked. His voice was no longer laced with laughter.
“Tourth won’t mind. They are his people.”
“True enough. At this rate they are going to be your people
too.”
“Let Tourth know we are coming.”
The dark man left. One moment he was there, the next the
rain pelted us only the three of us. I drank in Svhen’s stillness, hungering
for peace in the storm.
“We will bring him home.” Svhen stroked my hair. “I will see
things made right.”
(C) 2011 Rachel Rossano
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