Borne of Fire

Chapter 2

The inclement weather along with the hour meant that not many people were about in the village of Brookdale when Randyl returned home. Most of the stone built houses had a small amount of light coming from somewhere within, either from a stove or fireplace, perhaps a torch flickered gently from where it perched in a wall sconce but otherwise the village was desolate. In fact, he made it home without encountering a soul. Even the tavern looked sedate when he passed by. A mix of snow and rain had started falling again.

As he reached his family's home he could see his mother through the kitchen window. An exaggerated look of frustration thrown his way told him she was waiting for his logs.

"You'll never guess...." was as far as he got after he walked through the door before his mother was handing him the flint.

"I don't know where you've been Rand, but I bet that Kinross boy was involved wasn't he?" Clarissa Jeroll asked rhetorically, pointing a wooden spoon at him sternly. "We need that wood and we need that fire going now, Rand. Your father's at the village hall and will no doubt be half froze to death when he gets home." She sighed, her expression softening as she looked at Rand in his bedraggled state, drops of melted snow falling from his mop of hair onto his square shoulders. Sometimes she forgot that he was still really just a boy regardless of the size of his chest or the strength in his back. "I've just about been able to make supper with what we had left," she continued, "but we've nothing to heat the house except what you've brought so I hope it's a lot." Her eyebrows raised as she smiled hopefully.

Randyl was smart enough to know when to bite his tongue and so returning her smile he nodded his head quickly and carried his sack to the fireplace, shrugging it off with relief.

His mother was a warm and kind woman, well respected and thought of in Brookdale and Randyl loved her dearly. The warmth she expressed hadn't always been as forthcoming however - his father had told him many tales of a fierce young girl who one day had turned up in their village. With only one parent, and him suffering with black-lung, she had been forced from an early age to play both carer and provider. As proficient with a bow and arrow as with a pot and ladle, Jonathan Jeroll unashamedly admitted to falling in love with her the very first time they met. Although her youthful ferocity had waned as she took on the role of wife and mother, aspects of the girl she once was could still be seen coming to the fore. On occasion she would go on a hunt with Randyl's father and often, though perhaps not as often as she would like, she could be found practising blade work instead of needlework. In all her works, however menial, she displayed the same steely resolve so evident in her son.

Randyl knelt before the fireplace striking the flint and stone together, coaxing a spark to light the kindling gathered in the fire pit. He realised as he did this that his body was relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever, but in reality couldn't have been more than an hour or two. The familiarity of the task accompanied by the rhythmic repetition of the sound of flint against stone lulled him into an almost drowsy state of relaxation. His eyelids were feeling heavier and heavier after his exertions in the forest earlier.

A tremendous screech and something landed on his back, gripping around his throat, the momentum of it almost carrying him into the soot and dust of the fireplace before him. Instinctively he pushed backwards and stood up, clawing at the thing on his back.

The small thing on his back.

The thing no longer screeching but more squealing in his ear. Squealing and giggling with delight.

It clung onto Randyl's back as he spun and bucked trying to relieve himself of this all too familiar burden.

"Alyanna, you leave your brother alone!" came a shout from the kitchen. "Randyl, stop spinning like that or there'll be an upset!"