* * *
Smaragaid sipped the distill-laced grog he'd mixed up the other day. The influx of heat raised him out of the terrible apathy he'd been sinking into. Damn, but firey distills were good stuff.
Over a year since Lady Sariell had left him with the delegation. Why hadn't she summoned him home yet?
In the beginning, his service had kept him from running back to her. She wanted him to be here, and he would not disappoint her.
Then it was the killing. You didn't hunt Britons and Norse in the Bog. The kind of killing you did in the Bog was secret- there was no room for praise there. Especially not to the thralls who did the dirty work. If he killed anyone, it'd be other thralls commanded to kill his lady.
Even killing lost it's draw after a while, though. So he'd turned to his alchemy and discovered the little vials of distilled elements. Good, good stuff. They kept him going through the long weeks, and they'd keep him going for maybe another year.
Maybe not, but that wasn't worth thinking about. Just like the way they wore off quicker now wasn't worth thinking about.
The End