J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [726]
wahlker (n.) An individual who has died and returned to the living from the Fade. They are accorded great respect and are revered for their travails.
whard (n.) Equivalent of a godfather or godmother to an individual.
Some things are destined to be—
it just takes us a couple of tries
to get there.
PROLOGUE
THE BLOODLETTER’S WAR CAMP,
OLD COUNTRY, 1644
He wished he had more time.
Although for truth, what would that change? Time mattered only if one did something with it, and he had already done what he could herein.
Darius, begotten son of Tehrror, forsaken son of Marklon sat on a dirt floor with his diary open on his knee and a beeswax candle in front of him. His illumination was naught but the small flame that swayed in a draft, and his room was the far corner of a cave. His clothing was made from rough, battle-ready leather, and his boots were of the same construction.
In his nose, the stench of male sweat and pungent earth mingled with the sweet death-decay of lessers’ blood.
Each breath he took seemed to magnify the stink.
Flipping through the parchment pages, he went back in time, reversing the days one by one until he was no longer here at the war camp.
He longed for “home” with a physical ache, his sojourn in this camp an amputation, rather than a relocation.
He had been raised in a castle where elegance and grace had been the very fabric of life. Within the stout walls that had protected his family from humans and lessers alike, every night had been as warm and rose-scented as those of July, the months and years passing with ease and leisure. The fifty rooms through which he had oft wandered had been appointed with satins and silks, and furniture made of precious woods, and woven rugs, not rushes. With oil paintings that glowed in their gilt frames, and marble statuary affecting dignified poses, it was a platinum setting to anchor a diamond existence.
And so it would have been unfathomable then that he would ever find himself where he was now. There had been, however, a vital weakness in the foundation of that life of his.
The beating heart of his mother had given him his right to be under that roof and held within that cosseted hearth. And when that loving, vital organ had stopped within her breast, Darius had lost not only his birthed mahmen, but the only home he had ever known.
His stepfather had cast him out and relegated him herein, an enmity long hidden thus exposed and acted upon.
There had been no time to mourn his mother. No time to puzzle over the abrupt hatred of the male who had all but sired him. No time to pine for the identity he’d had as a male of good breeding within the glymera.
He had been dropped at the enterance of this cave like a human who had succumbed to the plague. And the battles had begun afore he ever saw a lesser or began training to fight the slayers. In his first night and day within the belly of this camp, he had been attacked by fellow trainees who viewed his fine clothing, the only set he’d been permitted to take with him, as evidence he was weak of arm.
He had surprised not only them, but himself during those dark hours.
It was then that he had learned, as did they, that although he had been reared by an aristocratic male, in Darius’s blood were the components of a warrior. Indeed, not just a soldier. Nay, a Brother. Without being taught, his body had known what to do and had responded to physical aggression with chilling action. Even as his mind struggled with the brutality of his deeds, his hands and feet and fangs had known precisely what exertion was necessary.
There had been another side of