Page 23 of The Guardian
Chapter Eight
Hendry dismounted with a curt nod to Tobin, handing over the reins without a word. His boots scraped against the stone of the courtyard, echoing like judgment in his ears. The sound of life around the keep, voices, footsteps, even laughter all felt strangely hollow. As if the world hadn’t noticed something inside him had cracked open and begun to bleed.
He didn’t speak or look at anyone.
With shoulders tight and fists clenched, he stalked to his small cottage that was tucked just far enough from the main hall to be left alone. Once inside, he shut the door with more force than needed and slid the latch into place.
Cold met him like an unwelcome hand on his skin.
No fire glowed in the hearth. Of course not, Tobin had been away. The air was damp and still. Somehow more silent than the world outside, as if the walls themselves refused to offer comfort.
He crossed the room, pulling out a chair at the worn wooden table and dropped into it like a man whose bones had turned to stone. Reaching for the half-full bottle of whiskey, he didn’t bother with a cup. No ceremony. No pretense. Just pain. Drinking straight from the bottle, he let the burn sear its way down his throat. It settled hot and hollow in his belly like everything else inside him.
Another swallow. Then another.
Finally, he set the bottle down with a dull thud and just sat there, staring blankly into nothing. His vision blurred, not with tears, but with the haze of exhaustion that comes when a man has carried too much for too long. Outside, life continued: boots scraping, the clang of practice swords, the rise and fall of voices.
But inside his home, time had stopped.
This was a day of endings.
Three men would die at dawn, their crimes unforgivable, their fates sealed. And Hendry…he would be the one to see it done. He had already chosen the manner.
Hanging.
Not quick. Not clean. It was fitting.
A slow, gasping death.
It was what it had felt like, walking away from Ailith.
That same choking sensation. As if his lungs had collapsed, and his soul had been sucked out through the wound she’d left behind. He’d thought himself hardened after all these years. But seeing her again, touching her, tasting her, had brought everything back.
Only he wasn’t able to lose himself in her. He’d asked the question he’d been wanting to ask, and her reply had shattered something he didn’t know was still breakable.
She’d believed the worst. That he would betray her. That his love, which had burned for her through every day of absence, could be so easily sullied.
He took another drink, the whiskey now dulling the sharpest edges of memory.
He remembered the day he returned. He’d been tired. Yes. But hopeful. Ready to see her. His mind had played the scene a hundred times. A thousand times.
He’d bathed, changed into clean clothes, and prepared to ride out and find her. His heart had beaten like a war drum in anticipation of being with the one he loved.
But fate had a cruel sense of humor.
Liam had pulled him aside. The archer’s usual easy grin was gone, replaced by something taut and nervous. Hendry had assumed someone, perhaps one of his parents, had died.
“Hendry…” Liam had said quietly, voice lined with sorrow. “I dinnae ken how to tell ye. Ailith… she married Brant. A fortnight past.”
The words hadn’t made sense at first. Not to his ears. Not to his heart. It was like being struck in the chest but feeling nothing until the breath refused to come.
He didn’t remember leaving the keep. Only the feel of the reins in his hands. The rhythmic clop of hooves. The path through the forest. He remembered seeing Brant first, standing outside the cottage. Then Ailith had stepped out, her gown catching the sun like spun gold.
They stood together. Close. Familiar.
And when Brant pulled her into him… when she leaned her head against his shoulder… Hendry’s world unraveled.
He didn’t confront them. He couldn’t. His mouth wouldn’t have been able to form words and deep inside, he understood that his soul couldn’t bear to hear any explanations.
