Nameless

By Morgan J. Muir

From a desperate mother protecting her son from dream demons who would steal her son's magic, to a warrior willing to sacrifice his life's work to be with the woman he loves, Nameless will take you on a magic-filled journey with stories of Motherhood, Loyalty, Fate, Courage, Determination, and Hope.

The Mother and her Son - a mother spends a night protecting her son, and fighting both the forest's demons and her own. This story first appeared as "Nadir" in "Beyond Instinct"

The Warrior and his Lady - a King's Elite must choose between his magically-binding oath to his traitorous king or the woman he loves.

The Girl and the Stone - an abandoned slave-girl magically bound to obey must fight for her chance to survive amidst a dragon-ravaged war camp.

... and more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan J. Muir
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733890670

Morgan J. Muir

Morgan lives in Utah with her three children, five cats, and wonderful husband, and a dog. She has been telling and writing stories for as long as she can remember, and can usually be found with a notepad of some sort within reach to either write down or draw her ideas.

Book preview

NAMELESS

A SHORT STORY COLLECTION

The Mother and Her Son – A short story of Motherhood

Formerly titled Nadir

The Warrior and His Lady – A short story of Loyalty

Formerly titled Heartfelt

The Man and the Train – A short story of Choices

Formerly titled Burdened

The Letter and the Box – A short story of Fate

Formerly titled Please (Come with Me)

You and Me – A short story of Courage

Formerly titled Control

The Watchman and the Mist – A short story of Determination

Formerly titled Once More

The Girl and the Stone – A short story of Hope

Formerly titled Nameless

1.

The Mother and

Her Son

A SHORT STORY OF MOTHERHOOD

Previously titled Nadir

For Danielle & T.

SHE HISSED AS SHE SWUNG her dagger at the gleaming teeth that threatened her at the edge of darkness. The creature growled and shuffled back, and she lunged again, half-hoping to scare it off, half-wishing she could kill it. They sorely needed the meat, and at this point she didn’t care what kind it was. The knife caught, and the creature in the darkness yipped and darted away. She remained crouched, scanning the trees illuminated by the soft, flickering light of the campfire behind her. A gentle breeze carried the whispering of the forest around her and filled her nose with the rich scent of life on the ground. Longing for the clean, floral scent of the treetops filled her. She shoved the feeling bitterly aside.

Returning to the fire at the mouth of their small cave—home for the night—she sat on the dirt beside her young son, certain he was asleep. The adrenaline that had fueled her drained away, leaving her exhausted. She took deep, steadying breaths to slow her still-pounding heart. The smells of damp earth and old leaves mingled with the sweet smoke of the fire that stood between them and the dark, starlit forest.

An ache in her arm drew her gaze, and she found a gash running the length of her bicep, bleeding sluggishly. Stupid of you. Wearily, she moved toward the packs that lay as far back in the cave as she could put them and rummaged for the water bag. She sucked in a breath through her teeth at the sting of the water as she washed the wound. Let’s just hope it doesn’t fester, she thought, dressing it with a sweet-smelling leaf from home to cool the burn before binding it with a ragged strip of cloth from her shirt. Leaning back against the cold wall of the cave, she cast her senses out again, searching for the dangers in the ether around them. Methodically, she checked the web of nets she’d placed there to guard their dreams. Leaving the safety of the clan had been a terrible idea. A terrible, desperate idea.

The child beside her stirred, cocooned in his favorite blanket. The blanket had once been sky blue and the softest weave she’d ever felt. Now well-loved, it lay limp, tattered, and dirty.  She hoped that someday soon she’d have the means to repair it. He reached out his tiny hand for his mother, always so certain she’d be there. His simple faith in her never failed to touch her heart. Moons above knew she did her best. Or tried to. She failed more often than not. Taking the small hand in hers, she gave it a reassuring squeeze. His perfect, small fingers curled around hers and tightened reflexively. Pride, both poignant and sweet, made her smile at how much bigger his little hand was now than it had been as a tiny infant, barely large enough to wrap around one of her fingers. Now he held three of her fingers comfortably and tugged her hand toward his chin.

The flickering light from the small fire glinted off his soft, golden hair. The rich, shining yellow was from her, but the boy’s hair held the same perfect little curl which she had so loved in his father. She gently tucked a stray lock behind his long elfin ear, another trait of his father’s. She loved the shape of it, both like and unlike her own, with its elongated arch and elegant curve. It was, however, the single most effective barrier to taking him home to her people, and it galled her. He would have fit in so well with the children in her village. He had the right coloring; he was bright and spunky and intelligent. Even his magic was impressive. But the ears clearly marked him as one of the forest clan. Her people would be worse to him than the chancellor had been to her.

And so they had remained with his father’s people after her mate’s death, far longer than they should have. Because she could handle the persecution, and her son was happy. What did any hardship matter to her, so long as her boy was safe and happy? The logs shifted in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks which the boy manipulated from his dreams. The sparks spun and swarmed, swirling about first as a school of fish and then a cavorting flock of birds, before fading. Her senses twitched as things in the dark brushed against her ethereal nets like leaves in a breeze.

The fire needed more fuel. She gave her son’s hand a quick squeeze before pulling gently from it to feed and stir the flames. The sounds of the forest outside their tiny cave unnerved her. Her past self would have laughed at the thrill of the danger, the challenge of it. But spending the night on the ground was a game for the young. Now she had a child to care for, and that fact alone changed everything. One hand moved to the hilt of her long, curved dagger as she managed the fire with the other. The whispering of the leaves rose and fell with the passing of the breeze, masking and muting the movement of wildlife. A tug at the ethereal nets drew her attention, but she saw nothing. Her son’s dreams remained safe.

Forcing her breath to remain slow and steady, she untangled a stick from the wood pile and began to peel the bark. The smooth hilt of her dagger fit against her palm, comfortable as an old friend, as she cut into the tender skin of the wood. She almost wished she’d had the courage to draw it on the chancellor. Her lip curled at the bitter taste that always formed at the thought of the slimy, vine-rotted, worm-eaten leaf-maggot of a creature. If she had simply allowed her rage to spill over at his first insult... The knife peeled away the flesh of the twig in a single, smooth stroke. Or at the continuous mocking of her in her mourning. She slashed at the end, deftly creating a sharp tip. But did she truly regret not doing so? Her mate’s ideals of keeping the peace remained firm in her soul, and she’d walked away. Every time. In the end, the chancellor’s ultimatum had driven out the two of them.

No, she corrected herself. Not us. Me. With a sigh, she shoved the stick deep into the flames. Leaned her head back against the stone wall, she closed her eyes to still the pressure gathered behind them.

She woke with a gasp, her heart pounding. Idiotic fool! Clutching at the knife she’d let fall to the dirt beside her, she took a frantic glance around. The fire was low, but still going. The boy continued to sleep, exactly as she’d left him. The darkness beyond remained still and silent, though the air felt darker, full of the wet scent of impending rain.

Images rose before her eyes of what might have been. Incompetent. The boy missing. Incapable. A predator standing between her and her son. Worthless. Her son’s body torn and bleeding. Nothing you do is good enough. Her son dead in her arms from her mistake, her weakness, her poor decisions. You will never be good enough. The deep