The Medallion
A Blyssfully Abnormal Short
by
A. Maire Dinsmore
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or
locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © Blysster Press
Cover Art and Design by A. Maire Dinsmore © June 2013
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Blysster Press at
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ISBN 978-0-9883734-7-1
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A sudden, low rumble echoed across the black and gray clous, seconds before they opened up and a heavy sheet of rain fell. Trin shot an equally dark look upwards through the drops falling against his face, grumbling a low curse at the unexpected and unwelcome change in his luck.
Reaching behind him, he managed to lift the patchwork hood of his homemade coat without disturbing the quiver of arrows slung across one shoulder. The accompanying bow lay in his lap, one hand, as always, at a light rest on the carefully cleaned and polished wood.
Another rumble, louder this time and accompanied by a heart-stopping crack, was preceded by a bright flash of light that lit up the forest floor. Crouched in the crevice of a jagged cliff-side, Trin was unprotected from the elements, but hidden from the sight of anything approaching from below.
He could hear muffled shouts from the encampment on the plateau above and knew the caravan would be packing up to make a retreat to what remained of the thick groves of trees. Rain brought out more than the grazing animals seeking fresh water, it stirred forth the predators and other nasty things of the woods, things Trin's arrows would do little more than annoy.
Securing the bow around his body as he rose from his spot, Trin stretched his joints, grimacing at the pain and creaks that now came with his movements. Age was setting in and simply ignoring it wasn't doing the trick anymore.
Using the natural cracks and juts of rock to secure his fingers, Trin began the careful climb. It was much more precarious now that it was wet, but he felt no fear as he lifted himself away from the ledge, his body soon suspended over empty air. The heavy drops slapping against his face were distracting enough, but an acrid taste of electricity hung heavy in the air, leaving an uneasy feeling in his stomach. A feeling which seemed to weigh him down as he climbed; his muscles began to quake before he was halfway to the top.
Stretching his arm until he thought his shoulder was going to pop, Trin wedged his fingers into a tiny space and clenched his teeth against the yelp of pain that threatened to burst out. He could feel the precarious grip slipping, but before he could adjust accordingly he heard the scream, a familiar tone of voice in a terrified sound, echoing off the rocks.
"Grace!" He whispered once, before the realization sank in that he was falling.
Trin closed his eyes, hearing only the sound of his body plummeting towards the rocks below.
Instinct kicked in, he shoved a hand beneath the collar of his shirt and clutched the amulet which lay in the mat of his chest hair, soaked with a mixture of sweat and rain. He'd been told as a child it would keep him safe, though he'd never needed to test the myth until now.
Grunting hard, Garrett's body gave a vicious jerk in the chair. Across the elaborately-laid table, his wife peered at him with a worried expression, her mouth set in a perfect 'O' of shock and fright half hidden by manicured nails and slender white fingers.
His head snapped up, a wild expression replacing the look of anticipation he'd bore when opening the anniversary present Fiona had passed across the table. The ribbon and velvet-lined box lay discarded before him, dropped in a half-eaten slice of cheesecake, strawberry glaze staining the delicate fabric. In his hand Garrett clutched the antique medallion which had rested inside.
"Garrett?" Fiona whispered, leaning forward. "What's wrong, don't you like it?"
An assault of scent hit her; the sharp, sickly-sweet smell of sweat radiated off of his body like he'd just come in from running one of those damn marathons he used to fiddle around with before they married. Fiona swallowed, pressing her fingers harder against her mouth, as if the cool touch would alleviate the stench.
Wild eyes turned to her at the sound of her voice and Garrett's expression was as if he was seeing her for the first time; a mixture of confusion and fear lay across his visage that Fiona had never seen on her husband's face before.
Shock spurred the normally meek woman into action and she reached across the table to smack him.
Anger flooded his features. Garrett's hand raised to return the favor, his fist opening and the medallion falling to the table.
Pain and light burst into his skull with such savagery that Trin never thought to hold back the scream which erupted from his lips. A fire and panic coursed through him as he struggled to move, his frustration building as he fought against restraints.
"Trin, ease yourself." The voice was soothing and filled him with feelings of comfort and love; it tasted of magic and familiarity. "You are broken and must heal."
"Graeme." Trin winced at the way his throat protested when he spoke. "I live?"
"In a fashion." The old man shuffled from around the sentry's head and peered at Trin. Graeme swayed there on his feet before dipping his head and turned his attention to the taut cloths holding down Trin's limbs.
Frowning, Trin lifted his head, this time ignoring the pain and squinting hard at the healer.
"What is it?" He demanded. "What's happened?"
"Grace does not."
Trin blinked at the three words and for a long moment did not comprehend what they meant. Grace does not. . . Grace did not what? When it dawned on him, Trin wished he could have lived in ignorance forever—he lived, but Grace did not. Oh, how the pain of his body paled in comparison to that of his breaking heart!
But the stony, stoic Trin simply stared at Graeme and nodded. He would not let the pain out. That was how the demons got inside, when you let weakness out. His father had taught him that.
"Can I bring you anything?" Graeme asked in a low voice.
The final kiss. The last breath. Grace. Trin only shook his head, his pride unable to ask for the release his heart wanted so bad. When Graeme turned away, Trin lifted the fingers of his hand and called out to him in a weak voice.
"Wait, did they. . . did they find my medallion?"
Trin's heart sank again at the hesitation in Graeme's expression, watching as the medicine man reached into his cloak and pulled out two pieces of metal.
"It's been damaged," the old man whispered, laying the pieces in Trin's good hand before slipping out of the wagon. Unable to lift his hand to his face, Trin used his fingers to "see" the damage and felt a moment of relief when he realized it could be easily fixed; it wasn't broken at all in fact —it was made to pull apart. Each half could be given to lovers during a separation and then joined when they again came together. It was a hunter's totem, worn by the men who left their wives for months at a time to provide for the clans, and passed down for generations. So old its magic had long been forgotten by all but those who still possessed them.
The noises outside the wagon reduced to a muted rumble in the back of his mind, sounds he could easily ignore as they held no importance to him. Instead of staring blankly at the wood-slatted ceiling, Trin closed his eyes and lost himself in the movements of his fingers. The medallion gave Trin something besides the pain at the death of Grace to concentrate on; he kept moving the two pieces in his palm with the pads of his fingers, trying to fit them back together with a combination of touch and memory.
Outside the door he could hear a familiar and unwelcome voice, accompanied by a pounding on the side of the wagon so hard the whole of it swayed on its wheels.
"Damn it, Hugo," Trin muttered, lifting his head to peer with expectant aggravation at the doorway.
He felt, rather than heard, the click of the two pieces of the medallion fitting together as the door flung open.
"No, he's fine now. Thank you." Fiona gave the manager her best smile and refused to look away until he gave her a small nod and shuffled off with the barest of glances toward her husband.
Moving with her usual, practiced grace, Fiona returned to her seat, though she wanted to drop into it. She leveled a narrowed gaze at Garrett and hissed, "There, are you happy now? We've had to order the second most expensive bottle of champagne to appease them."
Garrett blinked at his wife, his rigid body trembling.
"And don't think for one second you're getting a drop of it," she continued with