Dark Warrior (Warrior 2)

“I left berries in a broken crock near the door and I will carry this bucket of water to the castle for you.”

She pointed to her chest to let him know that she could handle the bucket.

“I will take care of it.” He picked up the bucket. “You should rest; you have been through much and unfortunately it is not over yet.”

She attempted to motion that at the moment she was granted a reprieve and she intended to enjoy it.

“You are a courageous woman.”

She shook her head and motioned that she had no choice.

He stopped by her side. “You chose to survive instead of surrendering and that is courageous.”

She wished she could discuss his remark for she and her father had shared endless conversations on strength and survival, and she missed such stimulating conversation.

“I will not be long.”

He seemed reluctant to leave her so she tried to convince him that she would be fine and that he should not worry.

“I will not be long,” he repeated gruffly and then marched off.

He worried about her, she knew, but then he was her responsibility too. He put himself in danger because of her. Magnus had requested help of the Dark One, who granted him this favor.

She wondered if Magnus knew Michael’s true identity. On second thought, she doubted if any knew the Dark One’s identity. Michael would not allow that. It would increase the terrible danger of the people he rescued.

She returned to the castle, entering through the door and closing it behind her as though she could lock out the world. She busied herself with cleaning the large table in front of the fireplace and clearing away as much debris as she could. She then took the cauldron off the hook in the fireplace with plans for Michael to carry it to the stream for her to scrub.

She was about to clean the area around their sleeping pallet when she suddenly dropped down to sit on the broken bench at the table. The bench was missing one leg but if she balanced herself carefully the bench remained sturdy.

Was she attempting to find balance and a sense of sanity by treating this ruined castle as her home? This place was as battered as she, and perhaps in repairing a few things she was repairing herself.

She stood and the broken bench toppled over.

She could topple that easily if she did not remain balanced in strength, thought and conviction, as her father had often cautioned.

Mary walked out the front door, looked around at the beauty of the lonely valley, and walked to the stream where she stood, hugging herself.

She wanted to cry out of frustration, out of despair, out of fear for all that had happened to her, but she did not. She just held it all back.

She was not aware of much, looking out over the water, until the first tear rolled down her face, followed by a flood of tears. Michael came up behind her, turned her around, and hugged her tightly in his strong arms. Then she was aware only of the comfort he gave.

Her tears continued, wetting his black robe but he did not let go of her; he held her firmly. And when her soft tears turned to sobs, his hand stroked her back.

“Cry, Mary,” he encouraged. “You have the right.”

She pressed her face to his chest and wept in the safety of his arms.Chapter 9When Mary’s tears finally subsided the Dark One wiped her face dry with the sleeve of his black robe.

“I had expected many tearful episodes before this. With all you have been through, shedding tears is natural.”

She did not agree and expressed herself by shaking her head vehemently.

“Sit,” he said, releasing her hands. “We will talk.”

She shook her head again, reminding him that was not possible.

“Have faith, Mary.”

He sounded like her father who had repeatedly cautioned her to have faith. In what should she have faith? She had been robbed of her family, of her life not once but twice now. With no one finding her after ten years she had thought her nightmare had finally ended, but perhaps she had finally woken up. So what about faith? Where was it? She stared at Michael, draped in darkness, and then slowly reached her hand out to him.

At this moment he was the only thing she had faith in.

He grasped hold of her hand and gave a reassuring squeeze before helping her to sit near the water’s edge. He looked around and grabbed hold of a good-sized stick before sitting down beside her.

He broke the stick in half and handed her a piece. “Your voice.”

She smiled, taking the stick from him, and cleared the ground in front of her with the brush of her hand. And wrote, grateful gift.

“Tell me what you would like to discuss.”

Many things, she wrote quickly.