Bardon carried a lifetime of regret on his shoulders. Over the course of a day out in his field, harvesting or spreading seed, it worked its way down his spine and into his forearms, his biceps, his chest. By the time he was finished, he was drenched with the stuff.
And so he and his wife would part ways, a thin smile on her lips after they kissed, and he would tromp down to their town’s inn. It was a small place, with a low, sloping roof, thousands of boots’ worth of dirt caking the floor, the smell of sweat and old ale making the air stifling.
Bardon loved it. He would settle into his stool at the bar, worn down enough that it was perfectly modeled to him, and the inn keep Terran would give him that smile and slide two shots of brandy his way. Bardon plucked up the first glass and took a long, much-awaited breath in through his nostrils. The heady scent worked out the kinks in his back, his arms, his mind. A drink like this, two, even, could bury even the loudest memories.
Bardon raised the glass to his lips, anticipating that relief, until he was thumped in the back by a meaty hand. The shot flung out of his hand, glass shattering into tiny pieces, brandy spilling across the well-polished cedar bar, which dripped quietly as Bardon turned to look at the intruder.
“Stormfist!” slurred a big man with huge shoulders. “It’s Ironeyes! Don’t you remember me?” the man stumbled into a seat beside Bardon, shaking his head with the dumbest grin on his face. “My brother, weren’t those the times. You remember them? Years adventuring, serving king and country.”
Bardon eyed his once-friend. The awards lining his vest, once shining gold, were now worn and showing the tin beneath. His jacket was stained with mud, alcohol, and no doubt bile. Ironeyes himself had three weeks worth of beard sprouting from his chin in all directions, and red-rimmed eyes worn tired with the horrors they had committed. For “adventure”. For “the king”.
Bardon stood, scooped up a rag, and started wiping down the bar.
“Aye, what’s the matter?” called Ironeyes. “Aren’t ya tired of sitting in this worn down, good for nothing town? Wasting away?”
Bardon glanced at the inn keep, who shook his head. Bardon would not put up with this fool and all his antics. A fist solves problems, but it creates all the more. Bardon cleaned the brandy, picked up his second glass, and walked away. He could salvage one drink, at least.
Ironeyes caught his sleeve. “Oy, listen to me for once, will you? I didn’t come ‘ere for nothing, mind you.” Bardon stopped, and Ironeyes stumbled up to standing. His gait was sloppy, his eyes watery and pleading. When Bardon didn’t leave, the man leaned in at a conspiratorial distance. “Another job for us. I know, I know it’s been years since I’ve seen you, but you remember our glory days! It’s one month, one trip. You can leave this rotten, stinking life behind, and travel with me again! What treasure! What—”
Bardon clapped him alongside the head. Ironeyes fell into the bar, almost cracking the thing, and collapsed to the floor. Bardon stood over his once-friend. “You’re a mess,” he said in a hard whisper. Bardon set his glass on the bar and turned round to leave.
Ironeyes tried to stand, but he slipped and fell over again. Bardon stopped, breathing in through his nose, feeling all those regrets build up in his fists. Feeling the hate of betrayal, and all that time he had spent wishing that Ironeyes hadn’t turned out to be a selfish, money-loving monster instead of his friend.
He had long used that hate to fight. Pummeled their enemies into mush for looking at them wrong. Stormfist, they had called him. Ironeyes wanted that man, that monster back. So Stormfist it was that turned round, fury in his mind, his eyes, his fists.
And there he saw his friend for the first time. Broken. Tears in his eyes. Hand over his cheek, struggling to stand because he was so drunk. Not Ironeyes, but Arthur. Arthur Bermingham, orphan and vigilante.
Hatred is a powerful thing. Regret, even stronger. But it was loyalty, pity, and concern that won out in the end. Bardon held a hand out to his friend. “Get up, Arthur. No more adventures. Let’s talk.”
It's been quite a while since a posted, but I hope you enjoyed Stormfist! This short story is fresh off the press--written just this month in my writing group.
Thank you for reading! I've been hard at work on Peacemaker, massaging the outline and its sequel until they're perfect. Lord willing, I'll be able to write Draft 3 this year. We'll see!
If all goes well, I'll be back next month. Cheers!