Page 7 of Highlander’s Evil Twin

“Hiram, behind you.” He heard his father’s voice and as he whirled around, his father somehow lunged forward to jump in front of the forthcoming blade, desperate to save his son. The blade cut deep into his father’s neck and he stumbled, his breath catching in his throat, blood pouring from the wound.

“Father!” Hiram shouted, watching as he bent forward, blade falling, hands trying to stop the blood gushing from his neck. He landed heavily onto the ground, blood choking him.

Fueled by anger, Hiram felt all his energy unite in that single moment and swung his weapon, knocking his enemy’s sword to one side. Hiram felt the moment slow down; it intensified. The man greeted death, his eyes wide, a look of fear spreading over his features. Hiram could hear the man’s heart pumping blood. He struck the man again and again. He lost count of how many times his fist connected to the man’s face. Finally, his sword drew back and he thrust his arm forward, driving it straight into the man’s pulsating heart. Hiram felt the moment through every sinew, through the muscles vibrating, and the sensation of sword on bone as it splintered ribs. He only stopped when the last lifeless gasp was emitted and the man froze, his eyes wide open.

Hiram, dazed and alone, with tears streaming down his face, looked at his father and knew he was too late. His blood soaked into the ground, a red blanket on which to rest. He sank to his knees and held his father for hours, talking to him, begging him to open his eyes. There was no one left to battle, and his father was just one last victim.

“I am so sorry Father,“ he whispered. “I should have been paying attention. Can you forgive me?”

The slight breeze teased his imagination and he wondered if his father could hear his words. But no answering reply came. Hiram had never felt so alone.

How could he bring himself to tell his mother and sister? How could he ever forgive himself? His lapse in concentration had done this and now, the weight of responsibility was truly his. As his father lay cold under a grey, unforgiving sky where the first drops of rain splattered across this deathly scene, Hiram cried...a deep, guttural anguish that echoed all around.

3

In the garden, enjoying the subtle warmth of a subdued sun, Heather listened with intent as Helene stumbled over the words in the book. Her face was pure concentration and she’d been shocked by how quickly the young girl had absorbed so many new words. Heather smiled to herself and felt contented as she listened to Helene’s soft tones, knowing that this could change her future. At first, Heather had read slowly for her, forming each word, explaining what each one meant, and then reading the sentences over and over. She’d seen the light and joy shining from her eyes when she’d grasped the meaning of those words and all that they depicted. Now, Helene was repeating those words, forming them, altering her pronunciation of some and, gradually, becoming involved in the story.

Feeling a little lost and lonely, she had allowed her to stay in her room overnight and they had talked and read. Heather had felt waves of sadness wash over her as she realized the depths of treatment handed out to her from her mother.

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” Heather had asked her.

“I have one little sister, and she’s the one my mother loves,” Helene had commented, in a matter-of-fact way that startled Heather.

“Och no, I’m sure she loves you too,” Heather had insisted.

Helene had merely shaken her head. “No, Miss, she has told me this many a time. It is okay.”

Heather had hugged her close, her heart aching for her and her mind cast back to Bonnie and what she had been like when she’d first come to stay with them. She desperately hoped that Helene’s story would have a different outcome. Heather had smoothed the young girl’s hair, feeling it sticky and dirty beneath her fingers. Appalled, she called for the servant to bring what she needed to wash the young girl’s hair.

There was no mistaking the shock on the servant’s face or the look of disgust. “She’s just a servant.”

“Aye, and she’s a little girl who needs to find the value of being clean. There is nothing wrong with me washing her hair for her,” Heather had stated firmly.

“I doubt her mother would appreciate it much,” the servant told her coldly.

“I do not care all that much,” Heather retorted, and then had clamped her jaw together, feeling a surge of annoyance rising through her. She held it for a moment, then breathed the feeling away. This was not the way she wanted to talk to those who worked here. “So, you know her do you?”

“Aye, I live beside her.”

“So, you know she does not look after this little girl? You have probably heard how she ill-treats her?”

Heather realized immediately that this indeed was the case. The servant nodded, her cheeks coloring, and she bobbed a reluctant courtesy and then walked away quickly.

“Ma’am. I hear someone yelling out at the gate.” Helene grabbed Heather’s arm and brought her back into the present.

She jumped to her feet as the gate creaked eerily on aging hinges. A lone Hiram rode in on his horse. He was battle fatigued. Heather knew instinctively that something was wrong. She ran towards him, her heart in her mouth and the moment her eyes met Hiram’s, sadness pooled in his eyes. She could sense his heart breaking and felt her own emotions rise from within.

“Helene, we will read more later, okay?” Heather turned to the girl, who had run towards Hiram with her. She stroked her soft, glossy hair, and Helene, wise beyond her years, nodded, clasped the book to her chest, and ran back to the servants’ quarters.

“What is it? I know something is wrong.” She searched his features. He looked tired, no, broken.

“It is my father. He has died in battle.” His voice broke and he struggled to hold back the tide of emotion rising within him. “I must tell my mother and sister.” The duty weighed heavily on young shoulders.

“I’m so sorry Hiram. I really am. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a decent man. I have heard many people say how much they respected him,” she said.

Hiram nodded, his eyes filling with tears. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of skin that came from being out too long in all weather. His beard had grown longer too. “I don’t know how my mother will take this. I’m really worried about her. It was not long since Patrick died. She took it so hard.” He swallowed but the lump in his throat would not go away.

“Would you like me to help you with this? I have lost people too and I know how it feels. I am so very sorry, Hiram. I know you loved him.”