Page 12 of Steel & Surrender

Greig’s mood had been dark for a while now, but his brother’s loss just made his unhappiness all the sharper. This morning, he’d hoped a ride out on Tàirneanach might ease the tightness under his ribs. That it might shift the boulder that sat in his gut. But it hadn’t.

If anything, being alone upon the hills had only stripped away the distractions, leaving him with the full ugliness of his thoughts.

And as Greig walked home in the rain, its fury battering against him, he wondered what the point of anything was. The question haunted him now, circling endlessly in his mind like a crow.

This thought was his bleakest yet.

He thought of his family, of those who served the Macleans of Duart. Would any of them miss him? He imagined not. What use was a broken heir who could barely walk without a stick? Even his two closest friends, Craeg and Ailean, wouldn’t grieve him for long. They’d both found their paths in life, but he’d been poor company for a while now. Glowering and grumpy. Sharp-tongued and bitter.

A burden to everyone around him.

Perhaps it would be better for everyone if he simply disappeared.

His heart kicked hard.

He’d never considered the idea of taking his own life.

To him, it signaled weakness. No matter how hard things got, one didn’t give up. Or so he’d once thought.

But he had given up, hadn’t he?

Each day since the battle had carved something from him—his strength, his pride, his future—until he scarcely recognized himself anymore.

His existence had no meaning, and Alistair’s death had been the final straw.

His younger brother had been everything Greig no longer was: charming, whole, easy with people, beloved. It should be Greig in that grave beneath the yew trees, not Alistair.

What would he do? Throw himself off the cliffs outside Duart? Slash his wrists with his own dirk? Walk into the sea and let the icy water drag him under? But even as he considered ending things, his pulse hammered.

No, it wasn’t as easy as all that. For all his misery, some stubborn part of him still clung to life.

A memory stirred then, of his mother weeping helplessly over Alistair’s body when they’d brought him home. He could still hear the sound she’d made—that raw, broken keening that had seemed torn from the depths of her soul.

Did he want to hurt her like that again?

Did he want his father to bury another son?

Did he want Davy to carry his coffin too?

No.

Accepting this was like swallowing a bitter plum, and he trudged on, each step harder than the last. Despite that he leaned heavily on his stick, his injured leg throbbed with each stride.

Rain streamed down his face, but slowly his breathing steadied.

Then, through the curtain of rain, he spotted Duart in the distance—the dark bulk of the castle rising above the village, smoke curling from hearth fires below. Home. His family was there. His people.

They were grieving too. Even the villagers looked hollow-eyed these days. And whether Greig liked it or not, they would look to him now.

He straightened a little at that thought, tightening his grip upon the stick. The darkness still lingered inside him, deep and hungry, but he would not let it devour him today. He could endure a while longer. He had to.

Jaw set, he took a fork in the track and led Tàirneanach toward the village.

His horse needed the smiddy.

The forge sat on the southern edge of the village, a low, long, windowless building next to a bothy where the blacksmith’s family lived. And as he approached, he heard the rhythmic clang of metal striking metal.

The sound carried across the damp air in steady, relentless beats. Smoke curled from the forge chimney, and Greig inhaled the scent of burning charcoal and scorched iron.