The Talking Sword – Post 3

The trip back to the house, the house she had grown up in, her empty house, passed in silence. The world rushing past the windows was blurry with tears she was trying not to cry. Most of the well-wishers who had come back to the house after the funeral for tea and coffee were still there, standing around in small groups or perching uncomfortably on the furniture. Her aunt pushed a plate of small sandwiches into Dawn’s grasp and fluttered her fingertips at the room in general.

“Go pass those around, and make some conversation. It’s as quiet as a tomb in here.” Suddenly realising what she had said, her hands went over her mouth and her eyes popped wide. “I’m sorry Dawn, it wasn’t supposed to sound like that.”

Dawn glared at her briefly before moving to mingle with the people crowding the living room. Most of them she knew. Some were relatives and cousins, some old family friends. Standing near the front door were three men she didn’t know.

“Hello” she said as she marched up behind the plate of sandwiches, “Were you friends with my father?”

The tallest stranger turned to her, revealing a horrific scar as long as a thumb on the left side of his face, a slash of puckered pale skin stretching from his cheekbone to the corner of his eye.

“We served together for a while.” It wasn’t really an answer. “Let me guess. You are Dawn?”

“Yes. You served together? Were you in the army or something?” Dawn was puzzled. She didn’t know her father had been in the army.

“Something like that.” His voice was very deep and sounded vaguely foreign. Dawn noticed that while his right eye darted nervously around the room, his left eye remained still.

 “Well well well. Here’s trouble.” Her grandfather’s voice sounded behind her, close enough to make her jump.

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