"Regret" by Sabrina E G Withers

I am writing this in the hope that because it is written you will read the words and understand them, not just shrug them off. I heard once that the surest way to regret something is to put it in writing and I hope I will not regret this. You have asked me often as a friend to explain the circumstances of your father’s death and you never paid heed to my answers. Now as a friend, I will tell you why. You wish only for revenge. I too wished revenge, but I pray that you read all I have to say when I explain why, when I had the choice, I let your father’s killer get away.

You were told of your father's death but not how he died. It is hard for me to finally talk of this for I was very young, barely old enough to join the guard. You must understand that your father was the icon of the watch, a hero of the unrest, but I saw how he truly was. Your father could be a drunkard and a fool, but I loved him like a brother.

There was a bar on the wrong side of the conflict. He took it as a challenge to go and much to my older self's shame, I went with him. He was drunk before the evening was done and I, well, I was unused to drinking and had succumbed to unconsciousness well before then. I remember waking up and being carried back through the trees slung over his shoulder. All I could see were his boots one, foot passing the other, before blacking out again.

Why am I telling you this? Well, I need you to know that he was a good man. He took care of me but he was not perfect. Everyone makes mistakes and I truly believe that he never meant to. I am sorry, I am getting ahead of myself. Suffice it to say that even he had weaknesses.

There was a skirmish shortly after in which I was injured. Your father fought his way past every one of those standing between me and the medics. Once he knew I was going to be all right he went returned to the fray. Night fell and the sounds of fighting waned. I slept, as we all did, hoping that that was the end of it. To this day I do not know what woke me. The silence in the dark was eerie as if something had swallowed all the world's capacity to speak. I looked over to find your father gone and dread filled me. I staggered from the bed and out of the house the guard had commandeered, ignoring the family members who watched me in fear. A fear I shared though I knew not its source. I could see horses in the distance. Riders of the mounted watch, they seemed intent on a lone figure walking calmly through the trees. Then, I saw your father. He was in-between the two, sword drawn waiting for the man's advance. I ran for all I was worth but I had no weapon. It lay forgotten by my bedside.

The man your father was facing was old and weather beaten, all dressed in black. He stopped advancing as the riders sped past him, trying to drive him away. He simply dodged their every blow. Then calmly he pulled something from a pouch by his waist and lifting his hand in front of his face, blew the contents towards your father.

I know that the next part of my story will be hard for you to understand. I am still not clear myself on what it was I saw. But that does not mean it did not happen, that your father is not dead.

Three silver pellets flew through the air their pace sedate as if they had no need of haste. Had you wanted to, then you could have walked straight towards them and simply stepped aside when they approached you. Your father did just that. The first two he side stepped as if they barely mattered. But then he fell. He must have hit a root or some other such thing. I know not, but I was by his side before the third pellet reached him. It simply floated down towards his chest and bounced across it three times. At each spot it touched him a glowing circle appeared and then faded. His hand caught hold of my shirt as he tried to look at me and then he was gone.

When I looked up I saw his killer watching me. He made no attempt to do the same to me, he simply sighed and turned away, walking back the way he had come. When the riders of the watch returned they did not see the man stride past them.

I tracked the man myself when the battle was over. I followed the trail even when the guards' bloodhounds had given up hope. All I wanted to was kill the man who had orphaned a six year old boy. It occurs to me now that the man never covered his tracks but lead me all the entire way, as if he knew that I was coming.

It was in a small cove by the sea that I finally caught up to him. With my goal so close I did not know how to proceed. I merely stood at the top of the hill looking down at the hut for what seemed like hours. My vigil was interrupted by a young woman who was on her way to the hut. She saw me and she called me over. I can not explain why I did not just ignore her and leave. Why I did not come back in the darkness of night and finish what I had started. I suppose, part of me was curious. I wanted to know who this man was before I destroyed him.

She led me down the path, neither caring who I was nor what I was doing there. Had she known, I doubt I would have made it far down that path. Inviting me in, she presented me with a drink, apologising for the absence of better fare. It would have been better if my brother was here, she said to me sadly.

I can see you asking me why I mention this, why, indeed. It did not seem important to me then. But it is important to me now.

I asked if he had died in the unrest and she replied quietly that it had been a guard who had killed him. I would like to say I felt sympathy then but I did not. My revenge was too close, my heart too dark.

I still remember the moment that your father's killer entered the room, the smile on the woman's face as he entered, his laughter at her greeting. The look in his eye telling me he knew who I was. Yet, he did not throw me out did not threaten me, he simply sat and drank with me. When we were done, he sent the woman to the village for some supplies, telling her I was invited to dinner. I swear as she walked through that door I was still going to do it, still going to kill him. But then he spoke to me. His first words directly to me.

I suppose you want to know why, he said. He was right. They were the words I wanted to hear. So he told me, as simply as that, laid down every thought every action. When he was done he looked at me and smiled sadly. I am ready, he said, ready to die. But I could not do it. I could not orphan a daughter in order to take revenge for the loss of a man who had himself killed somebody's son.

Wait, please read on, even though I know these words will pain you. I never want to take away the image you have of your father. He was that image to such a great degree. But he made a mistake. That night in the bar he had become too drunk, had tried to seduce the wrong person. He had not known when to stop, until it was too late and he had killed the man protecting her. If you wondered why I never told you before, now you know.

Why do I tell you this now? Because you have reached the age that I was when I began the hunt and I can see the darkness growing within you. You want that revenge without considering what it could mean or even if it is worth it. You are about to marry my daughter and I needed you to know. I needed you to understand that she knows nothing of what happened that day. She holds no blame for it. She should not have to suffer for her grandfather's actions.

He looked at the words he had written, rereading the final phrase. Solemnly, he rolled the quill between his fingers his thoughts heavy. Angrily, he tossed the pen aside and crumpled the parchment, throwing it into the fire to join his other smouldering attempts. Taking a few calming breaths, he retrieved his quill and sat down again. A deep sigh left him as he pulled forth a fresh sheet of parchment. Looking across to the door behind which his wife slept, he dipped the quill into the ink pot on his desk and started again.

You once asked me who killed your father...