I have countless unfinished stories, things I pen and abandon more quickly than you can utter Shakespeare’s name. Too lazy to start anything anew or to complete any existing project, I discovered the following tidbit on my hard drive and decided to post it here. It is meant to be a sequel to Season of Rain.

And completely unrelated … I’ve just discovered the old post has a comment from Minnie’s matron of honor. So that’s where it was.

Now for the story:

Rhebok woke to the distant sounds of a battle winding down, flames crackling in the rafters beneath the rains overhead, and a woman crying softly in the dark. The last snapped his eyes open, and he found himself eye to glassy blue eye with the soldier he fought not ten moments before while defending a woman’s virtue, the woman who now shuddered behind him in the aftermath of the attack.

He lifted his head a notch. Dull pain throbbed at the back of his skull, a sharp contrast to the stinging cut just above his eyebrow. He slid a hand closer to his face, felt the wound, and hissed. That cut was going to leave a scar.

“Damned,” he muttered, pressing against the ground. When he lifted his head further, the woman in the shadows suddenly held her breath and whispered.

“Are you well?”

Rhebok eased his own weight off his ribs and laughed grimly. “I meant to ask you the same.” He couldn’t see her, but he could sense her stillness before she gathered her skirts about her and ran fingers through her tangled hair.

“I’m well.” Her tone brought his head around to peer at her in the shadows. Her fair chin jutted out in a show of strength—or rebellion, he couldn’t tell which—her spine upright as she sat in her corner. Her eyes narrowed. “Thanks to you.”

Rhebok grunted. As he puzzled over her response, he noticed her bare arms were pale against the dark and turned his attention to the prone soldier. Cold. She must be cold. And outside would be colder. “No one deserves what he had in mind for you.” He jerked the soldier’s leather bindings off and pulled at the tunic, a tunic he had in his naivété hoped to wear one day, and now no more. He quickly and violently slid the ties from the eyelets and stripped the tunic from the man. “Here,” he said. “You’ll wear this. ‘Tis cold outside.”

The woman sat back and lifted her chin even further. “Where do we go?”

Rhebok clenched his jaw and didn’t answer. He had no plan, none, so he dropped the tunic at her feet and asked a question instead. “What happened? How did I fall?”

The woman swallowed, her pale throat moving clearly beneath her dark hair. Her eyes were locked on the ground at Rhebok’s feet. “He … he struck you.”

His memory was hazy, but the statement felt at least half right. “I had already guessed that.”

“I hadn’t. I thought at first you were one of his and attempting to take a turn. It was I who brought you down.”

Rhebok stilled. “YOU brought me down?”

“Yes. After you brought him down, I grabbed the milk pail and swung it at the back of your head.”

Rhebok’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. He shook himself and focused his gaze on the soldier. No time for questions. He had to plan ahead and strip the fallen man of anything else he might need—anything else SHE might need. That is, if she would accept his help. He exhaled in a rush. “Gods, woman. WHY? I came to help you, not hurt you.”

He followed the question with muttered profanities and bent to strip the soldier of his weapons and light armor. Behind him, the woman pushed the tunic away with her toe and an expression of distaste.

“How could I know you were on my side? You dress in their colors. You came with their men.” She frowned. “Are you a spy?”

Rhebok snorted. “‘Twould be easier if I were. No, I think they would call me a traitor to my kind.”

He examined the soldier’s knife and whistled. Runes. Gems. A light and sturdy build. The excellent craftsmanship indicated that either the soldier came from nobility or that he had at one time stolen from one who did. He pocketed the knife and glanced at the woman.

“My name is Rhebok. I was an Outlander horseman in training before the battle started.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Was? What are you now?”

Grim, Rhebok bent to search the soldier’s small pack and shrugged. “A deserter, I suppose. I abandoned my master to help you.” His calm admission was nothing like the panicked hammering of his heart. They’ll be after him soon.

Her small gasp…

Honestly? I have no idea what happens next. I didn’t make notes while writing this, and I wrote this over two years ago.

Why, oh, why do I get bored with the things I write?!

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