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Moon added some small branches to the fire and took a light pull from a leather-bound flask. He smacked his lips as the fiery liquid slid down his throat. Moon loved his ale, but also had a taste for the strong spirit distilled from barley.
His father had always claimed the stuff could rot the inside of a man’s head. Maybe that’s why he has this pigging thing growing inside his skull. Moon didn’t remember his father with any fondness. Racvir was a red-bearded bull of a man reputed to be the best swordsman in the mountains. He had walked away alive from a dozen single-combat challenges until meeting a better bladesman two winters ago. Moon hadn’t witnessed the duel, but those who did said it lasted almost half the morning, both men cut in several places before Racvir was pierced through the throat.
Unlike other fathers, Racvir hadn’t tutored his son in the way of the blade – Moon mused that was probably why he had decided to take up the axe – nor had he taken him hunting. Moon had taken the fearsome black-bladed axe from a giant warrior he slew in single combat. The man had slipped on a patch of ice as he swept the axe at Moon’s head. The younger man had stepped in and skewered him with his sword.
Moon’s skills were innate. Fighting, and skill with arms came easily to him. His enormous size and prodigious strength were a great help, but he was no lumbering slow-witted giant. Opponents over the years had paid the ultimate price for underestimating the speed, balance and dexterity of the black-bearded one-eyed behemoth.
Moon’s father hadn’t been overtly cruel. He had simply ignored him. There had been no rough and tumble play between father and son when he was a boy, and as he grew into a man, Racvir always left a room whenever Moon was present. He had grown up as a lonely child, sullenly observing from a distance other boys learning the way of life in the mountains from rough, gruff, but loving fathers.
A great envy had grown in him, eating away at his soul like a malignant cancer. This manifested in fights with other boys. Not the usual harmless scuffles between boys discovering and exploring their strengths, but brutal assaults, as young Moon usually left the others bleeding and senseless.
As he grew older and significantly bigger than his peers, they had walked a wide path around him. The escapade with the bear brought awed respect and fear, and he grew into a man alone.
Always wondering why his father hated him so, his mother had provided the answer on her deathbed. The coughing sickness had stripped her down to the bone, and Moon had knelt by her sick bed, holding her hand as the end drew close.
She had gripped his hand with feverish strength and looked up at him, pain evident in her eyes. “Forgive me my son, I have wronged you greatly.”
Moon had been shocked. “Forgive you mother? You haven’t wronged me. Hush now and rest.”
But she had been insistent. “No, my son, there are things I must tell you, before I take the long journey... Your father wasn’t your father.”
“What do you mean…my father… wasn’t… my father?”
“Your real father was a lowlander. I caught his eye at the summer games. A wandering warrior… like you he was a giant of a man…you are his image except for your shaven head and…that missing eye.” She smiled wistfully as a tear trickled down the side of her face.
“We were both so young and full of life. Young, strong, and proud, and determined to take our pleasures.”
Her eyes sparkled at the memory. “We wandered off to a quiet meadow and lay together. What a man he was, what a night. So strong, so…virile. I was with child when I knotted the braid with your father…Racvir. When you were born, he took one look at you… and he knew. I confessed to him… but he was a proud man and wouldn’t throw us out, for all would know his shame.”
She slipped away quietly sometime later as Moon knelt by her bedside.
Early the next morning, Moon washed her body, and brushed her long thin white hair. He dressed her in her favourite dress, and wrapped her in a white cloak, then he built a small pyre in front of her cabin and sent her spirit to the halls of the dead.
An owl hooted in the cold-night stillness. Moon took another pull from his flask.
He had been shocked by his mother’s revelation, but understood a lot more. Racvir must have been torn. Bringing up another man’s child must have been difficult, but he had done his best and provided safety, food, and warmth. Though he couldn’t bring himself to show affection and was remiss in other duties, he was never cruel nor did he beat him.
Moon wrapped himself tighter in his blanket. He had to get some sleep. He had some hard riding to do in the morning.