Battle of the Kinfolk. #4
I scanned the scene, finding nothing but the injured and dead strewn across the sands. I imagined it wouldn’t be long till there were no survivors at all.
Finn drew Jane close, wrapping an arm around her trembling frame as she rested her head upon his shoulder, her auburn hair soaked through to the scalp.
“Regina’s forces are faltering,” I heard a familiar voice call out from behind me.
Elizebeth waded through the sands—her armor dented, skirt shredded, skin mottled with blood and guts. Her purple palms remained splayed, poised for any possible attack. I mirrored her stance, not wanting to feel falsely safe and let my guard down.
“One final push and I pray Regina will fall from grace,” Elizebeth said, voice cracking in slight relief.
Jane sighed, her eyes as rosy as her lips from all the tears she’d shed.
Elizebeth looked her way, offering a reassuring smile.
With sadness in her eyes, Jane met her gaze. As the corners of her mouth began to pucker, something around Elizebeth’s neck snagged her attention, halting her grin.
“Where did you get that?” Jane demanded, pulling away from Finn’s embrace to study the shiny pendant hanging around Elizebeth’s neck.
For a moment, Elizebeth looked stunned, as if taken aback by the witch asking for a jewelry recommendation amid the chaos of war.
“My father gave it to me,” she said plainly, returning her gaze to the sea—focused on defending Lyonesse from any invaders.
“Has your father visited the Anchor recently?” Jane pressed, now reaching for the lump of gold.
Elizebeth stepped back, trying to avoid her curious fingers. But this made Jane even more suspicious.
Stomping her foot firmly into the sands, Jane said, “Your father stole that from me!”
A sharp gasp escaped me, and I clasped a hand over my mouth, as if the truth might come tumbling out. What I’d suspected the night before in the Anchor was true—Jane was Elizebeth’s daughter.
Finn looked at me, confusion etched across his sweaty face as he tried to understand what was unfolding.
Elizebeth took a step back, putting distance between them. “It’s a family heirloom—I’ve had it all my life,” she said earnestly.
“Liar! That’s mine,” Jane spat, her pretty face contorting in a way I’d never seen before.
No longer reaching for the chain, she grappled Elizebeth’s neck, desperate to reclaim what she believed was hers.
They struggled for a moment, and just as I was about to scream the truth to stop the tussle, Finn pushed himself between the witches.
He pulled Jane away while she turned bright red with anger—just like Avice did when she was enraged.
“I’m certain that’s my locket—the one my mother gave to me,” Jane cried, her face twisted in distress.
Finn held her, trying to comfort her as she tipped between sorrow and fury.
As Elizebeth processed Jane’s anguish, her expression shifted from enraged to dumbfounded—a bewildered look in her eyes as she took in the whole of Jane, scanning her from head to heel.
She faltered, hands flying to her mouth, breath hitching in her throat—and I knew the truth had struck her like a lightning bolt.
Slowly, she edged toward the furious witch.
“Did your locket have hair tucked inside?” Elizebeth asked, clutching the pendant with both her purpled palms.
For a moment, Jane said nothing, as if she were unable to hear Elizebeth over the anger thrumming in her ears—but gradually, her scowl softened.
She shrugged out of Finn’s grip and approached tentatively.
Carefully, she pinched Elizebeth’s auburn strands between her fingertips, analyzing the color and texture—like she needed to be certain, like she couldn’t afford to be wrong.
She looked up, chin trembling, and met Elizebeth’s eyes, now filled with unshed tears.
Without a word, they fell into one another’s arms, holding tight—like they’d saved up all the embraces they’d longed to share over the years and were giving them now.
I couldn’t tell whose head was whose as the strong winds interwove their identical hair.
For a while, they stayed like that—in a silent hold. I imagined there were no words that could express what they were feeling in that moment.
Finn watched on, a pleased look brightening his eyes. He glanced to me, giving a nod as if their reunion brought him joy.
Though I was glad for them, too, my stomach churned.
He didn’t know they were Avice’s family. And if he learned of their connection to the Lord of the Wetlands—and how that man had sacrificed both of his daughters, and even Jane, to protect his pride and elevate his status—I feared Finn would stop at nothing to see him dead.
A loud trumpet tore my attention from the reunion, directing it seaward.
The soldiers were returning to the shore.
Through my tunic, I clutched my locket. Jane had found her mother. She didn’t need the memento anymore. But I did—I was still waiting to be reunited with my dearest friend from the Headlands.
Desperate to see Bash, I analyzed the tumult unfolding at sea, where storm winds whipped the waves into a thrashing frenzy.
Men who could swim struggled against the deadly current, clawing their way toward the shore.
I prayed to the gods to reveal Bash among the bobbing heads, yet he was nowhere to be found.
My stomach churned violently, threatening to empty itself, and my heart thudded with such force that I feared I might be sick.
Then, a flash of white amid the dark waves caught my attention—it shone like a promising beacon in the gloom.
My eyes locked onto the figure as it neared the coastline, but my fleeting relief quickly evaporated.
It wasn’t Bash; it was Fletcher. Crawling from the sea, his legs buckled as though he’d never walked on land.
With desperate determination, he clawed his way across the charcoal beach, dragging himself to safety before collapsing among the hundreds of wounded and dead.
“Where’s Bash?” I demanded as I loomed over him.
Fletcher responded with a splutter as he flipped onto his back, coughing up seawater.
Shielding my eyes from the overcast sky, I scanned the vicinity in desperation—yet all I saw was death.
Something tugged at my breeches. Glancing downward, I saw Fletcher struggling to rise.
I knelt beside him, gripping his shoulders as Finn came to our aid and seized his waist. Together, we hoisted him onto his unsteady feet.
His signature cap was gone, his white hair plastered to his forehead, exposing the leathery scar he always sought to hide.
“Where’s Bash?” I asked again, pulling at his blood-stained tunic.
He still didn’t reply. Instead, his lower lip trembled like the storm-tossed masts of the ships.
“Where is he?” I pressed.
He shook his head, tears welling in his eyes.
For a moment, I refused to believe what his silence was telling me.
But when the realization hit, I ran across the beach and plunged into the sea, each crashing wave drawing me deeper. I waded through the water in a feverish search for Bash, expecting to find him hiding in the blue depths.
“Niamh!” Fitzroy’s voice thundered from the shoreline. “It’s not safe!”
Breaking waves toppled me, and the undercurrent dragged me beneath the surface. I thought I’d never summon the strength to break free, when suddenly, something caught my breeches and dragged me back to shore.
A rough tongue frantically licked my mouth and nose until I bolted upright, spluttering the water I’d inhaled. Before me sat Dog, her amber eyes brimming with sympathy. I leapt forward, burying my face into her fur as I cried out in anguish.
Fitzroy soon appeared beside me, scooping me up and helping me inland. I collapsed against him; the agony in my chest was even sharper than the sting of the arrow—and still, I couldn’t accept that Bash was gone.
Though Fitzroy tried to comfort me, I pushed him aside. “Go find him, please?” I begged, my voice breaking. “Get out there and find him.”
Before he could answer, Fletcher clutched my shoulders, giving me a firm shake.
“He’s gone, Smith,” he declared. I shook my head in denial, but Fletcher gripped my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “He’s dead.”
The words struck me like a blow, and in a burst of grief, I punched him in the stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs.
Fitzroy restrained me as I lashed out, furious that Fletcher was still here while Bash was gone.
“He wouldn’t have returned to shore without you,” I spat, breaking free from Fitzroy’s grasp. “How dare you not do the same for him?”
Fletcher nodded solemnly, as though he knew I was right.
I turned to Fitzroy. “You saved me. You can save Bash,” I pleaded. “Please, I’ll do anything—just find him.”
“He’s dead,” Fletcher repeated. “I saw his insides spilled across the deck.” His eyes widened, haunted by the memory. “I held him in my arms as he took his final breaths. He’s gone.” He stared vacantly, his eyes unfocused and distant, as tears welled and spilled down his cheeks.
Glancing at his trembling hands, he cried, “Oh gods!” recoiling at the sight of blood staining his skin.
“I cannot bring people back from the dead, Niamh,” Fitzroy murmured, gently stroking my arm.
I shrugged him off, rejecting his consolation as I succumbed to overwhelming heartbreak. Collapsing onto the sands, the pain consumed me—I hoped it would kill me.
Through my tears, I noticed the daylight waning. Lifting my gaze toward the sky, I saw the white dragon overhead. For a fleeting moment, I caught sight of Regina looking down at me. From this distance, I couldn’t be certain, but it seemed she was grinning.
Rising unsteadily to my feet, I screamed at the clouds—my lungs and throat burning with the force of my anguished cries. Raising my purple palms, I felt magic surge within me—fueled by rage and grief, desperate to be unleashed.
Margaret lifted her hands aloft and intoned, “Leohtes slaege’n punores hreosung, purh’th lyft, ette storma fleoge.” Lightning strike and thunder roar, through the air, let a tempest soar. Her spell crackled through the skies, summoning a fierce storm.