The lasses who had once giggled whenever he offered them a dazzling smile, now looked away. At their feet, their hands, the bloody floor; anywhere but at him. Thus he took to wearing a cowl, slung low over his face in order to keep his horrid visage in shadow.
The reaction was the same with everyone, save for Raibeart, Colyne, and his cousin Lachlan. “It makes you look fierce,” Colyne told him.
“Aye,” agreed Raibeart. “One look at you and the enemy will run the other way. They will be thinkin’ ’tis a demon come to take them.” They were twelve and nine, respectively. No one had ever taken the time to teach them to think before they spoke.
Black Richard knew the words were not said to injure or cause him more pain. Nay, the young lads meant well, for they were naught more than innocent boys, romanced by all the stories of battle told to them over the years.
Still, he could not help but feel disgusted with his own reflection.
Soon, his people began to rebuild what was left of his keep. Or at least they tried to. With very little coin left in their coffers, all they could afford to do was repair the northern portion of the keep and roof. Now, Black Richard and his brothers were forced to live in a small fraction of what had once been a grand and beautiful place.
Black Richard thought the structure was much like himself. Half destroyed. Half of what it had once been. No longer the same and it never would be. Nearly everyone he had once loved was now gone. His parents, four of his brothers, his stepmother, and nearly half his clan. Two of his sisters-by-law, overcome with grief at losing their husbands, had returned to the families and clans from whence they came just days after the battle. He could not blame them for needing to be away from this place and the memory of the past few years in an exile of sorts. Black Richard, wounded, out of his mind with fevers, was unable to offer them any solace or comfort. Eventually, his remaining two sisters-by-law would leave as well. Though he had to give them their due for at least trying. Starvation was a grand motivator.
One day blended into the next. All the while his fury burned. Slow, like the hot embers in a hearth, all it would take to set it to full flame again was the slightest breath set upon it. Fury over the loss of his father and brothers. Innate fury over the senseless deaths and destruction, it burned to the point his guts felt afire.
Eventually, he was moved back into his old bed chamber. The faint smell of smoke still lingered though the women folk did their best to avail the keep of it. Sage was burnt to the point of nausea.
For weeks on end, he sat alone in his room, in the dark. He would not allow anyone to light a candle in his presence, for he didn’t want any light to shine on his affliction. And an affliction it was.
Refusing to meet with his counsel, or the warriors left after the battle, his people left him alone. Meals were brought to him by Colyne and Raibeart. He ate very little, choosing instead to drink his pain away. While his wounds no longer hurt, there was still a deep-seated pain in his heart, for he had not been able to save his father or brothers that ugly day. And he hadn’t died as he should have; with honor.
He’d never been one to wallow in self-pity before. Not even when he had received word of his own mother’s passing. Ten years old he had been, recently sent to foster with the MacDougalls. Although he had never been his mother’s favorite child — that had been reserved for his oldest brother, Cullom— he had the hope that only a ten-year-old lad could have, that someday he would be good enough to earn his mother’s love.
But now, as a grown man, he wallowed in self-pity like a pig in mud. He savored every bitter moment of his loneliness, grief, and anger. He wallowed for many reasons. For the loss of the man he admired most in this world; his father, Galen. For the loss of his brothers and friends. He also mourned the loss of his own self, the man he used to be before being disfigured to the point he frightened people.
After a few months of basking in the glory of self-hatred, guilt, and grief, his cousin, friend, and first in command, Lachlan MacCullough came to visit. ’Twas a gray, dreary, and cold summer afternoon when he entered Black Richard’s room without invite or permission.
Lachlan was a tall, muscular man, with dark blonde hair and peculiarly dark brown eyes. So dark, they appeared almost black. Their mothers had been sisters. But where Lachlan’s mum had been kind, loving, and generous, Black Richard’s mum had been hard, cold, and distant.
Black Richard scoffed when he saw his friend’s smile and chose instead, to turn back to his dark mood and even darker shadows in the corner of his room.
Lachlan took the chair directly opposite him. For a short while, they sat in silence. Richard continued to ignore him, but he could feel Lachlan’s eyes boring into his skull.
“Are ye done?” Lachlan asked.
“Done with what?” Richard asked, his tone harsh, his words clipped.
“With hidin’ away in yer room, lost in whatever black abyss ye’ve tossed yerself into.”
In no mood to discuss anything, let alone his foul mood, Black Richard glowered at his cousin. “Leave me,” he ground out.
Lachlan, unfazed by Black Richard, chuckled. “I think nae,” he replied. “The clan needs ye. Now more than ever.”
’Twas morbid curiosity alone that made him ask what he meant by now more than ever.
Lachlan gave him a look that said he questioned Black Richard’s state of mind. Puffing out his cheeks, he let his breath out in a rush. “In case ye have forgotten, ye are the chief of this clan now.”
“I was never meant to be chief,” Richard reminded him. His brother Cullom, the first-born son, was to have held that title. But he was now dead.
“Be that as it may, lad, ye are the chief now. And it is high time ye started actin’ like one.”
Never had Black Richard possessed the desire to be chief. He was fifth in line, and the thought that he might someday hold that position had never occurred to him.
After the first attack — the one where half the clan was slaughtered and their ancestral home taken from them by Maitland Chisolm — Richard had returned home at the behest of his father. Not their ancestral home or MacCullough lands, however. Nay, they were given a place to live by the MacCallum clan, their friends and allies for decades. The MacCullough clan had gone from more than five hundred strong, to one hundred and seventy-eight left, including his father and brothers. Now, they numbered one hundred and seven.
“I have no desire to be chief,” he told him. Silently, he wondered why it made is gut roil to say it out loud.
“Yer father would be rollin’ in his grave to hear ye say such,” Lachlan said.
And there was his answer. If his father could see him now, he would undoubtedly be ashamed.
“It matters not what ye want. Ye are now chief. ’Tis up to ye to bring this clan together, to help rebuild all that Maitland Chisolm destroyed these past years.”
He knew that Lachlan spoke nothing but the truth. Colyne and Raibeart were far too young to take their father’s place. There was no one but Richard now.
“Since yer father’s death, it has been me and Donald holdin’ this clan together,” Lachlan said, leaning in close and speaking in a low, most serious tone. “We have done all that we can, Richard. We have brought everyone back from the MacCallum holding. Anyone who is left anyway. They worry we will not have enough food to see us through the winter. They worry the MacRays or the Farquars will attack us next.”