Read Online Brigends (The Final War Series Book 1) by Russell Krone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Russell Krone
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Seeing how he didn’t live to see her as an old woman or to view the shame that haunted her, dwelling on such regrets was a waste of energy.
On the foot of the bed was the boy’s shemagh. Zoe picked it up and examined the length. It was fresh, with little evidence of real use. She brought it close and covered her mouth with it, inhaling a whiff of his scent. The coarseness of its material dangled loose and scuffed against her thigh. She didn’t care.
This is wrong, her spirit rebuked.
She folded the cloth and placed it on the bed. Standing vulnerable in her tomb, she admitted to being weak.
She needed absolution. Opening the bulky drawer of the desk, she lifted a thin chain with a lonely metal tag. Placing the strand around her neck, she brought the flat disc near her lips with the worship of a benediction. She kissed it, bestowing its blessing on her.
Zoe went to the one redeeming refuge where she could recover in absolute loneliness, the scalding heat of the shower. There, no one could hear her as she cried, leaning against the stall and letting the water wash the past from her scarred body. Holding the dog tag between her index finger and thumb, she rubbed its scorched surface and chanted, I miss you, John , until his name lost any resemblance of meaning.
Cleaned and recovered enough to function, she wandered the stone corridor unsure of her destination. It was early evening and Agarha’s citizens spent their leisureliness socializing. The children ran up and down the length of the hallway, laughing and hollering. She enjoyed hearing their play; it reminded her of happier times.
Arriving at the big wooden doors, she hesitated. She didn’t understand why; it was a strange feeling. Taking a deep breath, she shrugged off the doubts and pushed open one of the heavy panels.
The glow from the fireplace bathed the study in a golden light while embers in the hearth broke loose and crackled above the dying fire, creating dancing shadows on the ceiling. The quilt of lighted darkness enveloped her as she gently shut the door.
The room was straight out of a Victorian novel, except more hospitable than anything Dickens could have ever imagined. Bookshelves along the walls buckled under the weight of innumerable books. Obscure works of art, ranging from original frescos to Renaissance knockoffs, dangled from the adjoining edges of the cases. In the middle of the room was a large dining table, draped in a white linen cover. On top were stacks of tied leather folders, each containing thousands of loose documents.
Near the far corner, on a raised surface, she found him sleeping soundly in his high-back chair. His elderly body by no means reflected the powerful man she knew him to be.
She sat down on the floor beside the chair. As a child, she would lay her head on his leg and listen to his soothing voice as he read books to her.
Zoe rested her head on the Old Man’s leg and he placed a hand on her shoulder out of habit. Looking up, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Oh, it’s quite alright, Zoe dear,” he said, opening his eyes and smiling. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was beginning to worry.”
“Yeah, I heard you were calling for me. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m a grown man and very capable of taking care of myself.”
“I know, Papa. Are you okay?”
“Of course, you’re home.”
She kept her head next to his leg, paying extra attention not to lean too heavily on the bones.
He had been waiting anxiously for her return, but suddenly lost the urgency when he sensed her sadness. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She lifted her head and shied away, pretending she wasn’t sneaking a hand up to wipe a tear. Leaving his side, she went to the big table. Zoe the Soldier was coming out. He allowed the charade, hoping with patience to learn the reason for her sorrow.
“You were right,” her voice popped. “There is something happening at
On the foot of the bed was the boy’s shemagh. Zoe picked it up and examined the length. It was fresh, with little evidence of real use. She brought it close and covered her mouth with it, inhaling a whiff of his scent. The coarseness of its material dangled loose and scuffed against her thigh. She didn’t care.
This is wrong, her spirit rebuked.
She folded the cloth and placed it on the bed. Standing vulnerable in her tomb, she admitted to being weak.
She needed absolution. Opening the bulky drawer of the desk, she lifted a thin chain with a lonely metal tag. Placing the strand around her neck, she brought the flat disc near her lips with the worship of a benediction. She kissed it, bestowing its blessing on her.
Zoe went to the one redeeming refuge where she could recover in absolute loneliness, the scalding heat of the shower. There, no one could hear her as she cried, leaning against the stall and letting the water wash the past from her scarred body. Holding the dog tag between her index finger and thumb, she rubbed its scorched surface and chanted, I miss you, John , until his name lost any resemblance of meaning.
Cleaned and recovered enough to function, she wandered the stone corridor unsure of her destination. It was early evening and Agarha’s citizens spent their leisureliness socializing. The children ran up and down the length of the hallway, laughing and hollering. She enjoyed hearing their play; it reminded her of happier times.
Arriving at the big wooden doors, she hesitated. She didn’t understand why; it was a strange feeling. Taking a deep breath, she shrugged off the doubts and pushed open one of the heavy panels.
The glow from the fireplace bathed the study in a golden light while embers in the hearth broke loose and crackled above the dying fire, creating dancing shadows on the ceiling. The quilt of lighted darkness enveloped her as she gently shut the door.
The room was straight out of a Victorian novel, except more hospitable than anything Dickens could have ever imagined. Bookshelves along the walls buckled under the weight of innumerable books. Obscure works of art, ranging from original frescos to Renaissance knockoffs, dangled from the adjoining edges of the cases. In the middle of the room was a large dining table, draped in a white linen cover. On top were stacks of tied leather folders, each containing thousands of loose documents.
Near the far corner, on a raised surface, she found him sleeping soundly in his high-back chair. His elderly body by no means reflected the powerful man she knew him to be.
She sat down on the floor beside the chair. As a child, she would lay her head on his leg and listen to his soothing voice as he read books to her.
Zoe rested her head on the Old Man’s leg and he placed a hand on her shoulder out of habit. Looking up, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Oh, it’s quite alright, Zoe dear,” he said, opening his eyes and smiling. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was beginning to worry.”
“Yeah, I heard you were calling for me. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m a grown man and very capable of taking care of myself.”
“I know, Papa. Are you okay?”
“Of course, you’re home.”
She kept her head next to his leg, paying extra attention not to lean too heavily on the bones.
He had been waiting anxiously for her return, but suddenly lost the urgency when he sensed her sadness. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She lifted her head and shied away, pretending she wasn’t sneaking a hand up to wipe a tear. Leaving his side, she went to the big table. Zoe the Soldier was coming out. He allowed the charade, hoping with patience to learn the reason for her sorrow.
“You were right,” her voice popped. “There is something happening at
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