Chapter 31 #2
The young man staggered back a step, and the blade fell away from Elspeth’s throat. The child cried out and stumbled toward the wall, pressing herself against the cold stone, her small body shaking with sobs.
“Ye raised me,” he said, his voice cracking. “Ye told me ye loved me. Ye said ye were the only one who cared, the only one who wanted me, the only one who saw me worth.”
“I lied.” Alistair’s voice was emotionless. “I have always lied. Ye were a tool, boy. A weapon. And now yer usefulness has come to an end.”
The young man’s face crumpled, and Rowan watched as years of manipulation and abuse and twisted loyalty collapsed in on themselves like a house built on sand.
“Ye told me Rowan hated me,” the young man rasped, tears streaming down his face now, unchecked and unashamed. “Ye told me he sent me away because I was weak, because I was a burden, because he couldnae bear to look at me after the plague killed everyone else.”
“I lied.”
“Ye told me that me maither didnae want me, that she abandoned me because I was cursed, because I was bad luck, because I brought the plague upon our family.”
“I lied.”
“Ye told me…” The young man’s breath hitched, and he pressed his hand to his mouth.
A sob escaped despite his efforts to contain it.
“Ye told me I was worthless. That I would never be anythin’.
That ye only kept me alive was because ye were kind, because ye were generous, because ye were the only person in the world who could ever love me. ”
Alistair said nothing. He only stood there with the knife still pressed to Sorcha’s throat, watching the young man fall apart with an expression that might have been boredom or might have been contempt or might have been nothing at all.
The young man’s eyes found Rowan’s, and in them, Rowan saw the truth.
Gordon. Me braither. Alive. He has been alive all these years.
The realization hit him, and he staggered back a step, his sword lowering slightly.
His brother. His baby brother, the boy he had mourned, the boy he had buried in his heart, was standing here in this dark and crumbling place with a blade in his hand and tears on his face.
Alistair kept him hidden. He lied. He has been manipulatin’ him all this time.
“Gordon,” Rowan said, and the name came out rough, broken. “Gordon, it is me. It is Rowan. I didnae ken. I didnae ken ye were alive. I thought… I was told—”
Gordon’s eyes went wide, and the knife slipped from his hand and clattered to the stone floor. “Rowan? Rowan, is it truly ye?”
But Alistair was not finished. His face twisted with rage, and he raised his knife, ready to slit Sorcha’s throat, ready to kill, ready to destroy everything Rowan loved because he could not have it for himself.
Rowan saw the movement and acted before he could think. He drove forward, his sword cutting through the air, and struck Alistair’s hand hard, sending the knife spinning across the floor.
Alistair cried out and stumbled back. Sorcha fell to her knees, free at last, her hands still bound but her throat free of cold steel.
Rowan did not hesitate. He drove his sword forward, and the blade sank into Alistair’s chest, deep and true. He watched the light fade from his uncle’s eyes.
Alistair fell to the floor, his blood spreading across the stone in a dark, spreading pool. Rowan stood over him, breathing hard, his sword still in his hand and his heart pounding in his chest.
It is done. He cannae hurt them anymore. He cannae hurt anyone anymore.
He turned and fell to his knees beside Sorcha, his hands shaking as he reached for the ropes binding her wrists.
His fingers fumbled with the knots, and he cursed under his breath.
Then the ropes fell away, and she was in his arms, and he was holding her so tightly that he feared he might break her.
“Sorcha.” His voice was rough, broken. “Sorcha, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I shouldnae have left ye. I shouldnae have—”
“Ye came back.” Her voice was muffled against his chest, and he could feel her tears soaking through his shirt. “Ye came back for us.”
“I will always come back for ye.” He pulled back and looked at her face, at the blood on her throat and the dirt on her gown and the tears on her cheeks, and he thought she had never looked more beautiful. “I will always come back for ye. I swear it.”
Behind him, he heard Elspeth’s sobs, and he turned and opened his arms. The little girl ran into them, clutching him around the neck and burying her face in his shoulder.
“Da,” she wept. “Da, I was so scared. The bad man had a knife, and the boy had a knife, and I thought—I thought—”
“Hush.” He pressed his lips to her hair and held her close, one arm around her and the other around his wife. He felt tears well up in his eyes. “It is over. It is all over. I have ye. I have ye both.”
Gordon stood away from them, his hands hanging at his sides, his face pale and his eyes hollow. He looked at the body on the floor, at the blood spreading across the stone, at the family embracing in the center of the room.
“I didnae ken,” he mumbled. “I didnae ken any of it.”
Rowan looked at his brother and saw the years of pain, loneliness, and manipulation written all over his face. He saw a boy who had been told he was worthless, who had been raised by a monster, who had been turned into a weapon and then discarded when he was no longer useful.
“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.
Gordon stared at him, his tears falling faster. “I held a knife to her throat. I threatened to kill yer daughter. How can ye—”
“Come here, Gordon.”
Gordon crossed the room on shaking legs, and when he reached them, Rowan pulled him into the embrace.
“I have ye,” he said, his voice breaking on the words. “I have ye, Braither. And I am never lettin’ ye go again.”