Book 1. Medieval Infidel. Act 3. A Mother scorned forgives Not

Prologue

The gentle sound of rain hitting foliage and dry earth competes with the wind. The rustling leaves and their soft sighing sound move through the windows, inviting a cool breeze from the dark, dimming green sky.

“Your stories are thematic…like the quiet calm before a terrible storm,” the tall young woman twirls the prisoner’s long, wild hair between her fingers.

“I have noticed you have not eaten,” says the blindfolded prisoner. “I would have fed you…” the prisoner rattles the chains shackled to the stumps of his arms.

“You are very kind…quite the opposite of what I heard about your kind,” the veiled woman plays with the prisoner’s ear. “I should prove a dreadful hostess were I to neglect you. You appear to be enjoying my cooking.”

“We worship refined and cultured cuisine,” the prisoner smiles.

“Infidel,” the hazel-haired woman giggles. She then reaches for a bowl of thick soup, brimming with beef shanks and bones full of marrow. She punctures the marrow with a two-tined fork, scooping the treasure inside. “You fancy a bite?” she asks.

“I won’t be able to hold you if you faint from hunger.” The blindfolded prisoner shakes his head lightly as she teases his lips with the marrow. The aroma of sweet onions, peppercorns, and beef makes his mouth water, and he cannot afford to deny.

The tall young woman belches loudly, her already rosy cheeks blushing, her hand too slow to cover her mouth. She sees him smile beneath his blindfold and playfully slaps his cheek lightly. She reaches for another plate. “Very cheeky of them, they left us none of my favorite.” She pulls a different plate of stir-fry noodles with sparse meat and vegetables. “They singled out the meat as well.”

Rain drums against the wheat-and-rye thatched roof. Outside, the surviving livestock stir in the rain. The small number of pigs grunt in unison, making soft splashes in the mud, whilst the chickens make low clucks.

“Your simple home reminds me of someone,” the prisoner says, “You worship the Ironsnow?”

“Aye, my mother taught me before she left.” The woman finishes her thick soup, stifling a burp. Her eyes drift toward the altar of the carved giant wooden bear, its paws embracing an intricate figure of a little girl. “The gods are dead, yes, but there’s no harm in remembering them.” She then turns her head. “How did you know I have her altar?”

“Which Ironsnow do you venerate?”

The woman exhales after washing her supper with mead. She then raises a brow, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “I do not seem to recall any other Ironsnow save the Mother Bear herself.”

The prisoner shakes his head.

“You owe me a tale then,” the tall young woman playfully stretches his ear as she leans closer once more.