Page 3 of Rise of a Fallen Man

“Go, I said,” she snarled, wiping her lips with her handkerchief.

Bright red stains bloomed on the beige linen of the handkerchief. My fear turned into a lead-heavy ball of dread in my chest.

“Go, Salas.” She waved a hand at me, looking deadly tired. “Just go, will you? I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Her voice turned soft. Pleading. I’d never heard her speak like this before, and it terrified me even more.

I turned on my heel and ran.

DURING THE LONG MONTHSof Mother’s sickness, her body lost most of its bulk. The strong, solid woman I knew most ofmy life had melted down to just a wick of her former self. She’d turned thin and frail. With her skin paled, she’d look like a ghost if it weren’t for the feverishly bright red spots on her cheeks.

As the village’s healing witch shook her head, talking to my father in a subdued voice, I gathered the bloodied pieces of cloth from around Mother’s bed, then gave her a clean one.

“Salas,” she said, her voice sounding like a rustle of a breeze in fallen leaves. I had to lean closer and strain my hearing to catch her words. “Bring me a piece of paper and a quill. I need to write a letter,” she explained, answering my questioning stare. “I’ll be gone soon—”

“No, Mother,” I interrupted her. She was weak. She might look like a corpse already, but my childish optimism still made me believe my parents were invincible. They had to be. She and Father were my world. What was life supposed to be without one of them? “You’ll get better.”

She lifted a hand, stopping me while fighting another bout of a body-shaking cough.

“I will be gone soon,” she repeated after the coughing fit had finally subsided. Every word was a struggle for her, and I didn’t interrupt her this time, not wishing to force her to repeat. “I’ve been trying to make sure that you’re taken care of. You and your father will be alright. I promise.”

My wishes and prayers for Mother’s life proved useless. She died, no matter how well father and I took care of her.

It was a sunny but frigid day when she passed. The weather remained freezing the day of her funeral too. The villagers had to burn bonfires for the entire night prior to thaw the ground enough to dig a shallow grave.

The priestess of the Great Goddess Nus said a few words over the casket. She spoke about Mother being a well-respected woman, an honorable business owner, a long-standing memberof the Blacksmith Guild, a wife, and a mother, survived by her loyal husband and son.

Father stood by the gaping hole of the grave, silent and grim. His eyes remained dry. He didn’t cry. But a ripple ofreflectionran over his large body with a shudder now and then.

I’d cried so much in the past few days, I had no tears left either. They just burned now in my chest like a ball of inextinguishable fire.

I held Father’s hand in mine, watching thereflectionmomentarily discolor them both into the grays and browns of the surrounding landscape.

Father was scared, and so was I. What would happen to us with Mother gone?

Her younger sister came down from the mountains for Mother’s funeral. She glared at Father and me from across the open grave.

My aunt was a tall, broad woman, just like my mother. The similarity between them was so strong, it made my heart ache.

While the priestess spoke, the aunt sobbed, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. After the priestess had finished and the first shovelfuls of dirt hit the pinewood lid of Mother’s casket, the aunt left, not sparing me or Father another glance.

People came by to offer us their condolences and to shake Father’s hand. Eventually, everyone left. Only Father and I still stood over the freshly filled grave. Frost in the air bit my face. Cold wind seeped through my coat and woolen pants.

“Let’s go home, Father.” I tugged at his hand.

He squeezed my fingers in his. “That house is no longer ours, Salas.”

With a shiver running through his body, his skin and clothes changed their color,reflectingthe frozen hill and the black stones of the cemetery. He turned nearly invisible, blending into our surroundings to hide from the world. Now that it was justme and him, he no longer had to keep his fear at bay, and the fear urged him to hide.

I’d rarely seen Fatherreflectbefore. Granted, when Mother was alive, he had fewer reasons to feel fear or shame that causedreflection. But I alsoreflectedfar less than other children did. Mother had wondered if I was less sensitive than most. But Father had told her that the men in his family generallyreflectedless than normal, even when they were genuinely scared.

Now Father must be terrified, turning practically invisible against the bright winter day.

“Why can’t we keep the house, Father?” I asked, squeezing his hand tighter.

His broad chest expanded with a deep breath as he took control of his emotions once again. Thereflectionpassed, allowing his image to solidify again.

“Your aunt owns both the shop and the house now. Like the law says, ‘the next living female relative...’” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s always hated me. Their whole family does. Your mother came from a well-to-do family up in the mountains, Salas. And I was a nobody when she met me, the fifth son of a goat shepherd with nothing to my name. My parents couldn’t even scrape enough for a dowry. But your mother married me, anyway.”

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