One month earlier

One Month Earlier,

         Entering his home that evening the man took care to close the front door quietly.  It had been a long day and ever since his son had taken ill the work down at his forge had fallen solely on him. It amazed the man at how much he’d come to depend upon his son being right there next to him while he worked. The boy’s strength and extra pair of hands had made a world of difference in how quickly the work got done. It also lightened the load that the man had to do immensely. Only now with his son feverishly ill did the man realize, how exact a difference the boy made.

         Sighing the man slipped off his boots leaving them by the front door, the man decided he’d bath tonight rather than in the morning. His wife tolerated him being a bit rank only to an extent and the man did not wish to cause her undue penance. Their son being ill already made her day all the more difficult as his, in a different way yes, but no less difficult. The man didn’t fault his son for being ill though. A man had no real control over when the sickness took him or not, and the boy had earned a brake. He thought. Passing the kitchen the man breathed deeply the smell of the still warm stew and freshly baked bread from earlier, He’d have himself a bowl shortly and then go clean up before turning in for the night but first he’d look in to see how his son faired. The door to the boy’s room remained ajar, so the man walked up to it to take a peak.

         The sight that met the man’s eye stung almost. On his back and breathing hard the poor lad looked a wreck. His complexion still looked ghostly white, with yellow brown bruising under his eyes and about his mouth a caking of dried drool.

         “My poor boy.” Said the man taking the damp rag from the boys forehead and wiping the boys face trying to be gentle as a father can. Cooling the cloth in a bowl of cold water sitting on the bedside table the Man replaced the damp towel upon his sons brow. For a while he just watched as his son lay asleep. The cool towel seemed to help. The boys breathing became calmer and he ceased the brief spell of moaning that had begun just before the Man replaced the cloth.

         “Get well soon my boy, be strong and fight it off.” touching his sons shoulder the man left then. A tear fell from his eye which he quickly wiped away. It hurt to see his son like this. It hurt in a way that no wound to his body could.

         The boy was strong though. He would win the battle with the beast that plagued him now. He would, his son was stronger than any monster. He would be victorious, Just like his father.

         The mans father had been weak he’d given in and then it had fallen to him to be stronger than them both, and do what his father couldn’t.

         He’d prepared his son for this challenge. He’d drilled into him exactly what he would have to do in order to over come this disease. Yes , his son had been ready. He would prevail in the end. He was ready.

         Heading to the kitchen the man had his supper of warm beef stew and fresh baked bread, then taking soap, towel and a clean set of cloths he headed down to the river and took his bath.  After bathing he dried himself off, dressed and headed back home to lock up before turning in for the night.

         Entering the house the Man went about locking the doors and putting away his soiled cloths and towel in the laundry basket. Then as he was about to go off to join his wife in bed, he passed the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks.

Creak. Ronk Creak. Ronk.

                  The sound made him jump and turning about he looked over the kitchen scanning for the source of the sound. Seeing a figure in a rocking chair, by the dieing fire the man calmed down.

         “Who are you Madam?” He said coming over, for it was an older woman who sat there. “And what are you doing in my house?” Taking in the old ladies appearance the man observed that she wore an old fashioned floor length dark green dress with a white apron on over it, that set off her snow white hair which she wore up in a loose bun while more length cascaded down her back in waves. Her features while baring wrinkles and the signs of age that only an elderly woman can for all their weathered appearance looked still sharp, and striking. Her nose while pointy did not appear overly large or small, and gave her face an angular appearance when combined with high cheek bones, and a prominent chin. She sat upright, and in her worn bony looking hands were a pair of knitting needles working on what looked like the beginning of a scarf. The origin of the yarn she worked with was a wicker basket that opened on to ends. Only one end was open now, and the yarn came in a steady procession from it’s depths as it got used up. Her eyes were a sharp piercing kind of cold steely grey, and sharp as they were they looked tired.

         The woman did not speak but only continued her knitting and rocking staring into the dieing fire. Thinking she might be hard of hearing the man made to repeat himself a bit louder, but then she spoke.

         “Thomas, come and sit down, I have news that should not be taken while standing.” How did the woman know his name he certainly had never seen her before or at least he thought he hadn’t. Coming over he asked his first question again.

         “Who are you madam?” He said again. “And how do you know my name.”

         She didn’t speak until he was about to do so again. “Does a woman not know her offspring?” The woman looked directly at him. “I tell you she knows her child, but has it been so long that her child has forgotten her?”

         The man called Thomas could only stare. As the realization of who it was before him stole the strength from his legs making his knees tremble.

         “Mother.” He said, the word sounding strange to him as his knees gave out for the shock and he sat down with a thud, in the chair opposite the old woman. He had not expected to see her again, not in this life anyway. “I thought you were…”

         “Dead?” she cut him off, “Yes so did  the doctors and the under taker who pronounced me so.” She paused in her knitting seeing something distant in the past perhaps. “I thought I was too, but then I found a reason not to leave just then.”

         The man called Thomas could not believe what he was hearing or seeing. He’d seen her lifeless body he’d heard her take her last breath. Her dieing wish had been, “Forgive him Thomas He‘ll understand it some day.” She hadn’t been talking to him though she’d been talking to the dead man who had been Thomas’s father and the one he’d been named after.

         “I think you know what I am here for.” She continued, after letting him soak in the previous statement. He knew all right but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

         She took his silence as an affirmation of the fact. “His time has come Tom, just like yours did, and I must know what you intend to do if he chooses differently than you did.”

         This angered the man called Thomas. Mother or not what right did she have to meddle in his affairs. His son knew what was expected of him. He’d been trained on what to do. “What I do is my own business.” He said standing up. “And I don‘t have to listen to this, or tell you anything.” He turned to leave, and suddenly the room went colder than the outdoors in the heart of winter.

         “Yes.” Said the woman. “Actually you do.” When Thomas reached the doorway to leave the kitchen he couldn’t open it for the life of him, and it had been open when he entered. “What witchery is this?” He sneered at the old woman who sat calmly continuing with her knitting.  She acted like she hadn‘t heard him.

         Looking up from her knitting she indicated the seat again “Please sit, I have not given you the news yet.” Try as he might to open the door it refused to budge, and so grudgingly the man called Thomas came and sat down again.

         “You‘ve  known this day would come for him as it came for you, and like your father, I respected your decision.” She paused. Setting her knitting in the basket she removed a parcel from it resting it on her lap. “We respected your decision, but you didn‘t respect your fathers.” Thomas made to speak but she ran his words over some how.

         “You were young. You didn‘t understand the full measure of your actions until it was too late. You are older now, you know the consequences. And had he not forgiven you in the old way with his dieing breath they would have exacted justice in their way.” Thomas kept trying to say something but every time he tried she ran him over with another statement.

         “Now it is Danuel’s turn to choose. But unlike your father he doesn‘t know the way to forgive and they will not be swayed a second time.” She paused a minute and began unwrapping the Box shaped parcel. “If you fail to respect my grandsons choice and do as you did to your father then they will come and they will take what you took from both of them.” Having unwrapped the package now she placed it on the small table next to the rocking chair.  Tucking the stray yarn into the basket she closed it. Picked up a grey hooded cloak that Thomas hadn’t noticed before and stood up. Arranging the cloak about her shoulders she raised the hood and picked up her basket.

         “Dan will choose as I have done.” Said Thomas standing up too. “He knows it‘s expected of him I‘ve taught him what their kind are.” The woman looked at him levelly.

         “Even so my son will you respect his decision even if it is not what you expect.” Thomas Sneered once more.

         “I know what he will choose, and I respect his choice to do as he has been taught.” The old lady looked saddened.

         Looking beyond Thomas the son to the box on the table she spoke as if to Thomas Senior. “He has not changed Tom,  but even so, there is still time, and who knows maybe you can succeed where I cannot.” Turning back to Thomas Junior she said. “Good bye my son, I pray you are strong enough to stay your hand, because if you are not able to they will not either.” walking from the room then Thomas followed her retreating form. vegly realizing the kitchen door was wide open just as it had been when he came into the room Thomas decided to stop and confront her; he didn't have to take her excenticies in his home. Following her he looked to see if she was leaving through the front door, but there was no one there and the door was bolted and shut up tight just as he’d left it.

         Returning to the kitchen he saw one thing that affirmed that this had not been a dream. The box she’d left, it was a nondescript wooden creation with proportions twelve by twelve by ten inches. At first Thomas thought he should just dispose of it right off, but curiosity won out. Lifting the lid he looked inside.

         The box had a single dagger, lying atop ashes. The Blade looked familiar and in need of cleaning it was tarnished and crusted with some kind of rust that made Thomas believe the blade to be steal at first, picking it up he brushed his hand over the hilt.

         He recognized the insignia on the crossing point of the hilt. It had been his fathers made of silver, and it had been the blade which he Thomas had used to kill Thomas Senior. Chilled Thomas junior looked back into the box. Only to jump back in fright, blood crusted silver dagger still in hand. The Ash had reshaped itself and was now in the form of a human skull! Written across the forehead in a spidery scrawl were the words.

         I FORGIVE YOU SON.