Ran and ran and ran until he saw the forest in front of him again, and the black-clad man staring at him with both shock and awe.

"You're-" the man started.

"Can you help him?" James demanded, cutting the man off. "My brother. He's hurt. Can you heal him?"

"I- yes. I've been trained in the healing arts, but-"

"Do it," he said.

And then: "Please."

Once he was sure Henry was safely in the man's care, he turned and ran back to the house. The soldiers had fanned out in search of him, while the two wounded were being frantically patched up by another. I did that, he thought, almost giddily. I hurt them back for hurting my brother.

He could have chased down every single one of the soldiers and cut them to pieces, but there was something - someone - more important.

He vaulted over a windowsill, landing with a thud in the kitchen. He could hear his sister's voice from here, filled with fear and anger and indignation. And then a man's voice, cutting over hers. A scuffle, and then a scream.

He charged forward, feeling as though his rage had filled every bit of his body, spilling out through his skin. It tinged his vision red and made his hands burn with the need to hurt someone in retaliation. The door crashed down with one kick. He jerked to a halt.

There was a man standing in front of him, an ornate knife in his hand. It was covered with gold filigree and encrusted with large gemstones. Most importantly, though, its blade was soaked with blood, filling the crevices of its etching and dripping from the wickedly curved tip. The man himself looked like the knife, richly dressed, but cruel. His face, with sharp features, could have been handsome if it had not been snarling like a dog.

The man only had his attention for the barest of moments before James turned to see his sister. Her hair was bedraggled, and clumps of it were on the floor around her. Her hands were tied behind her, and her simple dress was in tatters. Blood welled up where the knife had cut through cloth and skin. And the cut on her throat, still gurgling and foaming with her lifeblood-

"I am going to kill you," he growled at the man.

"You can't!" the man laughed, raising both arms in a shrug. The movement splattered some blood across his cheek. "My father owns this piece of land, you see, and that includes everything in it."

"You can't own a free person-"

"Who says you can't?" The man waved the golden knife in James' face. "This says I can. Those men outside say I can. And if I want to own your sister, I can. She could have been my concubine, you know. But she spit in my face when I offered. So I said, 'if you want to act like a bitch, I'll put you down like one'." The man laughed again. "But it's more like a piece of ham, with how I carved her up!"

Something inside him snapped.

His fists clenched, and then he was on the man. He was anger, he was fury itself. Kicking and clawing and punching and biting, bringing the man down and smearing his fancy gold-weave shirt with his sister's blood that had pooled on the ground. He broke the man's nose and felt no small measure of satisfaction as crimson sprayed. His hands moved of their own volition, striking the man on the face, on the chest, and on the forearms the man had raised to shield himself. He could feel bone fragmenting under his fists, splintering like a log under his axe. His muscles burned with exertion, his skin raw with the impacts, but he could not - would not - stop.

He was a hurricane, raining down blow after blow, fueled by grief and anger and all the emotions he could not name, could never name.