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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 14, 2009 0:19:05 GMT -6
Though Maciael had more power, the youth knew the ramshackle pathways like the back of his hand. Even as Maciael watched, the boy’s diminutive form ducked around the far corner of the building and out of sight. By the time Maciael came around, the boy was about to disappear around another corner in the tight warren of buildings. The sounds of the street party faded into the distance as Maciael twisted and turned through the dark alleyways. Bands of moonlight shone sporadically down between the buildings, leaving Maciael sometimes feeling his way through pitch-blackness. The smell was terrible. He did his best to avoid the scattered refuse, while keeping a breakneck pace. Rounding one corner, his knee crashed into a pile of old debris and sent it clattering in the darkness. It hurt, but he forced the pain out of his mind. The challenge only made Maciael more determined to catch the punk and teach him a lesson.
The boy skipped along ahead, leading Maciael further into the maze. A few times, Maciael was tempted to fly up and over the buildings, but there never was a good opportunity to take flight. Besides, just with the power of his legs he had narrowed the distance between them to a few yards. At last the boy made a mistake. He ducked around a corner, but then his skittering footfalls suddenly came to a stop. Rounding the corner, Maciael was confronted with a narrow gap between three ramshackle buildings. Where Maciael stood there was a shadowy half-light, but further in it was pitch black. Maciael could just make out the golden apple in the darkness. Dead end.
Maciael took a step into the darkness, closing cautiously on the boy. He was well aware that hardened street urchin could easily turn vicious, and was not about to take any chances. But something was wrong. The boy tossed the golden apple back and forth with practiced hands. He appeared neither afraid, nor nervous. It wasn’t until Maciael heard the quiet sound of steel behind him that he realized that a trap had just closed upon him.
Maciael turned his back on the boy, looking for the source of the sound. He suddenly became acutely aware of the enclosed space around him, and the concealing darkness. His right hand instinctively reached up to grab Aduro, only to grasp on air. With a shock, he remembered that he had left it back at the Diluculo manse when he had gone out earlier. Cursing himself, he stepped back out of the dead-end corridor.
A thin pool of moonlight shone down upon him, illuminating the cramped intersection. Even in the wide passage, he could reach out and touch the walls with his hands. The walls rose up several stories on either side. Flight up was out of the question. Around him, each of the three passageways faded into darkness. His head snapped from side to side as he tried to watch all directions at once. The boy was still behind him, nonchalantly taunting him with the stolen fruit. He felt other eyes upon him, but could see no one.
Maciael quickly put his back to the far wall. “Show yourself!” he snarled.
For a moment, the only sound was Maciael’s laboured breathing and the light slap of the fruit being juggled in the boy’s hands. Then a voice answered from the darkness.
“Why Father, what kind of a prayer is that?” The voice was thin and reedy, and the words were tossed out laden with a sneer. A chorus of chuckles whispered on either side of Maciael.
Maciael ignored the golden fruit bobbing in front of him, and strained to catch sight of the speaker. He could just make out the seraph’s shape in the shadows to his right, but the boy was too far to make out any details. None of the chorus was at all visible. Whoever they were, they had obviously mistaken him for one of the local priests. An easy mistake to make; many priests adopted plain habits not dissimilar to that of a novice, particularly in the outreach projects of the lower city. Maciael contemplated revealing his true identity to the petty thugs, but decided that it was better not to give anything away. Given the number of whispered voices in the darkness, his best hope was surprise.
“What do you want? Why would you attack a priest?” He answered, assuming the part they had given him.
The speaker slowly emerged from the darkness. He was a tall lanky youth, with pale white skin, long straight hair, and the fixated look of a hunting predator in his narrow-set eyes. Though young, he was nearly as tall as Maciael. In his left hand he held a thin steel stiletto, which he absently flipped back and forth between regular and reverse grip. He continued to approach until he was within two yards of Maciael’s right side, just out of striking distance.
“Attack?” he asked, feigning surprise. “I see no marks on you. As far as I could see, you were attempting to attack one of ours.”
Maciael turned to the face his attacker. “He took something that belonged to me.”
“Really? What?” The youth pretended nonchalance, but his muscles were tensed and tight. His left hand continued to palm the knife.
“That apple.” Maciael answered, but did not allow himself to be distracted by the discussion. Even without wielding sword and prayer, Maciael was not defenceless. Like all knights of the abbey, his martial training had included hand-to-hand techniques, for just such an emergency. He adjusted his stance to block a left-hand thrust. “The apple?” The youth’s voice continued its flat nasal drawl. “Are you sure it was not a donation? I thought the church has an obligation to feed the hungry.”
“He stole it. But if he’s hungry, he can have it.” Maciael’s tone made clear that the boy was in the wrong, but that he was willing to let it go.
The pale figure set his legs to attack. “You’ve got a purse full of gold and you’re objecting to his lifting an apple? Hardly charitable, Father.”
So that was it! Maciael stood distracted for a moment, realization dawning. He should have been more discrete about his purse back at the square. The young thugs were no doubt hanging about looking for a fat score, and he had provided them with a target.
“It’s gold you want?” Maybe could yet buy his way out of this mess. Maciael reached down to place his hand on his change purse, only to discover that it was gone! He had been so focused on the pale-skinned speaker that he had not even felt it being lifted. He looked down for a moment, stunned.
Maciael should not have taken his eyes off the youth with the stiletto. Too late, he realized his mistake. Even as he lifted his eyes, he felt the blade strike coming in sharp and deadly. It was aimed low, a piercing thrust to the gut intended to break his strength and cripple him. With a cry and burst of adrenaline, Maciael managed to twist his left forearm in the way only to see the steel pierce clean though his arm. Fortunately, he felt nothing. Nothing but rage and a desire to hurt back. Because he continued to hold onto the impaled knife, the youth was momentarily fixed in place. Maciael balled his right hand and put all of his weight behind a punch into the boy’s face. He felt a satisfying crack as it landed squarely. The pale youth released the stiletto as he fell back and lifted up his hands to cover his bleeding and broken nose.
Before Maciael could even pull the dagger out of his arm, the gang descended upon him. The thief lifted the apple and whipped it at Maciael’s head, then lunged forward. Two other small seraphim youth appeared out of the darkness and grappled him from either side. The fruit hit hard, stunning Maciael momentarily. By the time he had recovered, all three had hold of him. Individually, they would not have been even a challenge, but combined, they dragged him down on one knee. They smelled of fear and filth as they pressed in upon him. Their small bony hands beat wildly on his face and body, stinging him and keeping him off-balance.
Maciael tried desperately to rip them off and regain his feet, and then screamed as he felt teeth sink into the soft skin at the base of his wings. His hand shot out instinctively and got hold of the biter’s hair. With a savage yell, he ripped the boy off by the hair and smashed his small head into the wall.
The gang attacked silently, and together. They grabbed his arms and clung on, pinning him in place. The thief leaned heavily on the embedded knife, ripping it out, and sending a massive shock of pain up Maciael’s arm. Maciael staggered down onto both knees, his vision a blur. The pale-skinned leader, having recovered, stepped forward and planted a left hook into Maciael’s face. Maciael tasted blood, and began to seriously fear for his life.
With a huge effort, Maciael managed to throw himself into the wall, knocking the breath out of one of his attackers. His left arm was slick with blood, and slipped from the grip of the others. He stumbled to his feet and ran, but the youth were faster. The smallest could even spread their wings and fly within the contracted passage. Maciael felt their grasping hands landing on him as he ran, slowing his escape and dragging him down again. With effort, he ripped away and stumbled forward, crying out desperately for help.
Unlike when he had been playing lame, the thief evidently had no difficulty using his wings within the tight confines. Using his wings like additional arms, he propelled himself over Maciael’s head and landed at an intersection in front of him. With uncanny swiftness, he reached down and grabbed a fist-sized rock off the ground and readied to throw. Maciael knew how accurate those hands were, and braced for the sharp shock of impact even as he bulled forward. It was no use. The rock slipped past his raised aim and hit him square in the temple, dropping him to the ground.
Maciael’s felt the filthy bodies of the street urchin landing on him, pressing him down. He tried to rise upon his knees, but his legs would not respond. Everything became very detached. He realized that they were beating him down, but he no longer felt the impacts. He remained on his knees, but his head hung down and blood flowed from his mouth. There was a moment of blackness. Maciael found himself lying in the filth of the alleyway. He vaguely realized that he had been kicked in the head and had blacked out. The pale-skinned gang leader was readying to kick him in the face again, but someone was stopping him; talking to him. Maciael could not understand what was being said. Words floated down to him without meaning. He still could not move his limbs. The kick landed hand and sent him back into darkness again.
Michael’s eyes opened again. It was difficult to breathe. Someone was pulling his head up by the hair. His neck was exposed. His body was pinned. Maciael desperately tried to shake the fog out of his mind. A tense debate between the thief and the leader suddenly came into focus.
“…not a priest, I tell you,” said the thief’s voice.
“So?” The leader’s voice was thick and plugged by his broken nose.
“So, given how much is in this purse, he’s from the upper wards, or something. We just don’t need that kind of trouble!”
“Let go my arm.”
“I just want you to put the knife away. Come on, Achnoam. This is our biggest score, ever. Let’s not ruin it.”
“Let go my arm,” the leader’s voice was dark and dangerous.
A high whispered voice broke in from a short distance off, interrupting. “Someone’s coming!”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 14, 2009 21:48:11 GMT -6
The thief cursed. Michael felt the weight upon him lifting as the gang members started to bolt. The leader still held him by the hair. Maciael’s eyes looked up to see the thief removing his hand from the larger youth’s arm as he glanced nervously over his shoulder. Maciael’s eyes locked with the pitiless eyes of the leader. He knew the cut was coming, but was helpless to stop it. The leader’s hand slashed out. It was a hurried swipe, but the blade was honed sharp and it cut through his skin like water. Maciael gasped. The blade ripped under his chin and a great spray of blood frothed out. A moment later, the gang was gone. Maciael lay alone in the muddy alleyway, his body twitching uncontrollably as his lifeblood pooled around him.
Even as his body convulsed, Maciael fought for life. He wrapped one hand over the cut and the other around the back of his head. He pulled his head towards his chest, trying to stop the gushing flow. His teeth were clenched and his lips tightly shut, but a hiccupping grunt escaped from his nose as his body shook. He told himself that he would not die so pathetically: unknown, alone, and wallowing in filth in some abandoned first-ward alleyway. His legs splayed over the ground, trying desperately to regain his feet. He just needed to get back to the square. Someone would take him to some local church or hospice. But his legs would not obey him, and his hands could not stop the bleeding. His fingers slipped over his soaking neck. When he pressed harder, he felt the uncomfortable sensation of his fingers slipping under the gash in his neck and inside his body.
Think! He just needed to think. But his thoughts would not hold together. It felt like his ability to think was pouring out of his body with his blood. All he wanted to do was crunch his body into a ball, over and over. He tried to scream for help, but all that came out was a gurgled moan. His eyes wanted to close, but he forced them to stay open. His vision narrowed and tunnelled. Small objects near to him seemed to develop special significance and importance. The rock the thief had thrown at him lay nearby, a bit of his hair stuck to its top surface. The puddle of water and blood that he lay in had a footprint clearly impressed in its edge. Liquid poured over the edge and fell down into the tiny depression. It was surprisingly beautiful. Colour faded from the things around Maciael. The shadows swelled. His spasming seemed to slow. Inside, a part of him realized that he was dying, while the rest of him stubbornly continued to fight for life.
“Divio, why have you left me?” he thought. “Why didn’t you follow me? It’s been much more than an hour! Why didn’t you tell Captain Duans? I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want to die. I’m the Knight of the Dawn! The Lord Diluculo! There is so much more that I need to accomplish.” But Divio was not there to answer him.
He suddenly became aware that he body was no longer moving. His body rested motionless on its side, and a great weariness weighed down his limbs. His eyes felt dry, but he could not summon up the strength to blink. Strangely, he did feel a presence near, but it was not Divio. It was someone else. Someone kind, with gentle hands. Whoever it was, wherever they touched him, his body felt warm and comforted. He wanted to relax into that heat. He had not realized how painful life was. It felt so good to leave the ache behind, to allow the warmth to spread over his body. He felt his body uncurling as it relaxed for the last time.
“Yaelwe,” Maciael prayed silently, “I am not worthy so much as to raise the hem of your robe…”
“You can talk to him later. Right now I need your attention.”
Maciael’s prayer was shocked into silence. A voice had sounded in his mind, a young woman’s voice, with a rough earthy tone to it. It was very much the voice of someone living, not a celestial voice from beyond. But it definitely had come from inside of him, not outside.
“Hello?” he thought, completely unsure as to what to say.
“Hello yourself. You think this is easy? Just focus on staying alive for a couple minutes more, alright?”
Maciael realized that his eyes had closed. He tried to open them, but all he managed to accomplish was to change his internal view from pitch-blackness to a reddish haze. In his mind he did not see anything.
“Umm, who are you? Are you a divine spirit?” he hesitatingly ventured.
The thought came back sharp and impatient. “No.”
Though there was nothing in the mental voice that suggested laboured breathing, somehow he knew that the woman was exerting herself, as if he were talking to her while she was lifting up a massive stone into the air. Despite himself, he pressed more questions at her. “You’re not from the afterlife? How are we talking?”
“Look I’m kind of busy saving your life, if you don’t mind.”
“Am I dreaming?”
Maciael felt more than heard the woman’s presence sigh. “You want to be helpful? Help me say this prayer. That was one nasty cut, and you don’t have much blood left.”
Maciael felt the prayer of healing being pressed into his mind. “But I don’t have my sword!”
“You don’t need your cynosure! Do you want to live or not?!”
Feeling completely blown in a crosswind, Maciael simply did as he was told, and added his voice to that of the woman’s:
Complaceat tibi Domine, ut eruas me: Domine ad adiuvandum me respice. Sana Domine.
Three times they repeated the words together, and each time Maciael felt his heart beating stronger as new blood poured into him from a divine source. Then, as they finished chanting for the third time, the world of flesh and pain suddenly rushed back into his consciousness and he cried out. The pain was horrible. After the luscious warmth and peace he had felt, it felt like being plunged in to boiling water.
“Sleep!” the woman’s voice commanded. Thankfully, again he obeyed.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 16, 2009 19:25:50 GMT -6
Chapter 6
When Maciael woke, his head throbbed and his throat felt like it was filled with sand. When he swallowed it hurt. He opened his eyes and found himself still dressed in his soiled black robes, but lying on a small straw cot tucked into the corner of a one-room apartment. The straw was lumpy and smelled of dust. He tried to sit up, but only succeeded in making himself cough, which burned his throat. He grimaced in pain and lay still, his eyes watering.
From across the room he heard light footsteps approaching. When he opened his eyes, a woman’s face came into view above him. It was a young woman’s face, though lined and aged early by hardship. Her cheeks were hollowed by hunger. Wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes and pulled down upon the sides of her thin lips. Her wide, slightly slanted, purple eyes stared down at him, examining him. There was someone wrong about her appearance, but Maciael’s mind was foggy and not thinking straight.
“Thirsty? Here, I’ve got you some water.” It was the definitely the woman’s voice who had spoken in his mind. It was high and sharp, with a rough edge to it.
Maciael tried to nod, and winced again.
“Don’t,” she commanded. “Let me.” Slipping one of her hands under his head, she carefully tipped his head forward and pressed a tip cup to his lips. The water burned as it trickled down his throat.
Maciael studied the woman’s face as he drank. She absently bit her lower lip as she focused on tipping the water into his mouth. She wore no veil or headscarf, and he felt distinctly indecent to have her so displayed, especially when so close to him. He knew he should avert his eyes, but couldn’t stop staring.
When the cup was empty, the woman took the cup away and lowered his head back down onto the bed. “That’s some cut you took. I’m surprised that you made it.”
She had long, straight, silver hair, which she pushed back behind her ear absently as she sat down next to him. As she did so, Maciael realized what was wrong with her. Her wings were removed. As her hair streamed down past her face, it passed between her delicate neck and the stump of her right wing.
“You’re…an angel,” Maciael managed. His voices sounded pained and raw.
The woman pulled her hair forward to drape it over her disfigurement. “You don’t say.” Her voice was hard and defensive.
Maciael immediately felt sorry for his outburst. Whoever she was, the woman had just saved his life. Still, it took a particularly horrible crime for someone to be sentenced with severance. Some argued that it was a punishment worse than death. Angels were the lowest caste in seraph society, below even the servant cherubs. Reviled by good society, those who did not take their own life eked out a meagre existence, condemned to live out their remaining life in the lowest ward, or worse, cast out of Heaven entirely. Maciael tried to imagine what kind of hardened criminal saved random strangers on the street, but couldn’t make sense of it.
She tilted her head and examined under his chin. “You got a bright red line, all right. Going to leave a pretty good scar. All in all, though, I’d say you’re pretty damned lucky.”
Maciael’s head was spinning with questions. As the woman shifted to get up, he reached out and grabbed hold of her arm, holding her back. With an effort, he grated out, “Who are you? How…?” He rubbed his other hand on his forehead, at a loss for words to describe how he had heard her speak inside his mind.
She settled back down, but her face remained guarded. “You know, a thank you might not be out of place. Do you know how much work it was dragging your sopping carcass in here and getting you up on the bed?”
“Thank you. I will repay you, I promise.”
She laughed then, a brittle sharp bark of a laugh that was more scorn than pleasure. “Sure you will. Listen, you don’t owe me anything, all right? Let’s just leave it at that, so that nobody’s embarrassed later. But do you want to tell me what you were doing that got you lying in a pool of your own blood in the alley outside my house?”
“Attacked,” Maciael managed.
“Yeah, I figured that. You piss somebody off or something?”
“No.” Maciael tried to think of a simple way to explain how he had gotten into trouble, but gave up exhausted. He closed his eyes and concentrated on shallow breathing, trying to ignore the pain throbbing his head. When he finally opened his eyes again, he realized that he had kept hold of the strange woman’s arm. For a moment, he saw her gazing down at him with compassion and sympathy, but when their eyes met, her eyes turned cold again.
“Okay,” she began. “You need to eat something if you don’t intend to die just yet. I’ve got some soup in the kettle. If you don’t mind, I’m somewhat attached to my arm?”
Thus prompted, he let her go of her, though not without a strange sense of loss. The small woman got up and walked the short distance to the room’s tiny kitchen. Though clean enough, the surroundings were nothing if not meagre. The whole apartment was little more than a dozen feet across. The ceiling and walls were uniformly built from wide wooden planks, the edges of which often meandered apart. A single window sat in the corner next to the wood stove, and a bright beam of sunlight cut a dusty swath through the air of the room to illuminate one side of the angel’s body.
The woman clattered about getting the soup. She wore a faded wrap and ankle-length skirt over her small, but surprisingly muscular, frame. The cloth looked like it might have once been bright and beautiful, but the print and colours had faded with time and use. On her feet she wore plain brown leather sandals. Her arms were bare, save for a pair of steel bracelets on her left arm. As he watched, he saw her lips moving, as if she was silently arguing with herself.
Returning with soup and water, she placed the fare on a small table next to the bed and then set about propping Maciael up with a second pillow. It hurt like hell moving, but once he was settled it felt much better eating. She sat in front of him and slowly ladled the broth into him. It was little more than warmed salt and water, but as he took it in, he felt his strength returning. More importantly, however, she talked to him as he ate.
“You probably guessed I don’t get many visitors. All this...finding you outside, and everything…has been a bit overwhelming. Most times, seraphim don’t talk to, or even notice, angels much. But seeing as how we’re likely stuck with each other for a bit, I might as well introduce myself proper. My name’s Shaiah. This is my home. It’s not much but it does the trick. You can stay as long as you need to. Most days, I’m out anyway, so I wont be bothering you.”
She scraped some dribble off his chin with the spoon and pushed it in Maciael’s mouth, making him feel like a child. “What happened last night is called a spirit-link,” she continued. “It’s a deep kind of communion that allows messaging without speaking. I used it because you were basically gone and weren’t responding to my voice.”
Shaiah paused to get the cup and help Maciael drink some more water. He gently raised his arm and wrapped his hand around the dented tin, accidentally touching her fingers. “I can manage it,” he mumbled hoarsely.
“You should conserve your strength,” she argued. They compromised and poured the cup together. There was an awkward pause. After a moment, she detached herself and continued, somewhat brusquely, “I’ll say one thing, you’ve got a lot of power in your faith. I was impressed with how you came roaring back form the brink.”
“I’m pretty stubborn.” Maciael managed a weak grin.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 18, 2009 23:23:44 GMT -6
“Obviously.” The soup finished, Shaiah paused for a moment before leaving him, her hands holding bowl and cup in her lap. She looked like she wanted to ask him something, but after a moment’s hesitation, she appeared to change he mind. Instead, she simple asked, “Feeling better? Or would you like some more?”
“Better,” Maciael breathed. Suddenly he felt exhausted just from the effort of talking.
Shaiah set about getting him settled back down flat. “You’re pale as a ghost,” she said. “Get some sleep. I need to step out, but I’ll be back later.”
Maciael barely heard her. Already his eyes were closed.
*****
The next time Maciael opened his eyes, it was dark. He experienced a moment of disorientation and panic, as his mind tried to make sense of where he was. Everything was strange and unfamiliar; the sounds, smells, and even the press of the hard cot into his back. He almost called out for Divio before memory returned.
Maciael reached up and ran his fingers along his neck, tracing the ridge of the scar. A swell of rage rushed through him at the memory of the back-alley assault. When he recovered, he would bring a contingent of Diluculo troops down to the slums and find clean the place out. He knew that the thief had named the one who had cut him, but for the life of him he could not recall the name. Still, he would know the scrawny youth when he saw him. And he would find him, it wouldn’t matter how far the rat tried to burrow down into the warren that was the lower ward. Maciael would burn him out if he had to, and there would be justice.
As he lay in the dark, Maciael imagined how his conversation with the King would proceed. Given the favour that his Grace had just bestowed upon Maciael, there was no question that he would be shocked and outraged. Perhaps the event would even impel the King to take action. Should not all parts of Heaven be safe for its citizens? If more security and stronger penalties for law-breakers were needed, sobiet. The lowest ward had obviously been allowed to run out of control for too long.
Thinking about the King reminded Maciael of the King’s order that he give up his knight’s vows, however, which did not sit well with Maciael. The situation in the alley would have been entirely different had he had Aduro strapped to his back. Without it, he would be vulnerable other attacks, and denied the most important defence: the threat of retaliation. Though the dangers of the King’s court were not as primitive as he had encountered in the back streets of the lower ward, they were no less real or deadly.
Maciael licked his lips, and then realized that he was desperately thirsty. Gingerly, he rolled over on his side, being careful to keep his head as still as possible. Thankfully, other than some mild nausea, he felt fine. Shifting to a sitting position was tougher challenge, but he managed it. With his eyes now accustomed to the darkness, he could see the tin cup sitting on a small wooden table next to the window. It wasn’t more than five steps. He licked his lips again, and pushed himself up. Immediately, he realized that standing was a bad idea. His head throbbed and the room tipped alarmingly. Closing his eyes, he unfurled his wings to steady himself, only to have them bash into the walls on either side of him, further upsetting his balance. He felt on one knee, then on all fours as a sharp shock of pain and nausea crippled him. Before he could stop himself, he vomited the liquid content of his stomach on the hardwood floors. The acid burned his throat. He could not take the pain, and for a minute he just knelt on hands and knees, his head hanging down limply, tears streaming from his eyes.
With great effort, Maciael climbed back up into the dirty cot and lay back, trying desperately to catch his breath. He felt useless and pathetic, but he could not stop crying. His lips quivered and his breath came in hiccups. The whole situation was humiliating. He loathed himself for his defeat and weakness. He could not even stand to get a glass of water. There, in the darkness of the shabby room, he resolved he could never give up his holy power. He needed it. He needed to be able to protect himself, and strike out against his enemies. Never again would he allow himself to be exposed to danger without the ability to strike back. He rubbed the welt again with his index finger. It was huge. Even without seeing it, he knew it would be clearly visible to everyone he encountered. It would be like a public notice that he had been bested by a filthy group of teenage thugs in the lower wards. Would not his enemies consider him weak now too? Lying in the dark of that small room, he resolved that he would need to find a way to follow the King’s command, or appear to do so, while retaining his ability to wield prayer.
Maciael quietly offered his allegiance and service up to the Sky Father, using the words of the noviciate creed to centre himself, and immediately began to feel better. He felt in his heart that he had made the right decision. But, even as he prayed, his thoughts became distracted by a swelling light underneath the apartment door. Moments later, Shaiah shouldered open the door with a creak of hinges and stepped back inside.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 22, 2009 2:37:52 GMT -6
Shaiah was dressed in a dusty old grey cassock several sizes too large for her small frame. In her right hand she carried a small glowing lightstone on a chain. Its warm glow filled the room as she entered. Maciael wondered if she had visited a church to get it blessed, or if she had done it herself. He realized that he knew so little about her. She clearly had an extraordinary understanding of prayer, for Maciael had never even heard of a spirit-link, never mind trying to master it. Where had she gotten such knowledge?
More pressing matters needed to be attended to, however. Raising his arm, and pointing vaguely over the side of the bed, Maciael wheezed out, “By the bed. Vomit.”
She clearly was not impressed, but got down and cleared up his watery throw-up without a word. Maciael watched until she was finished, and then asked for water.
“Listen,” she began, as she handed him the cup, “I’m going to give you a pass because you’re sick and all, but you really are going to need to work on your basic manners.”
“What?” Maciael finished the cup, and looked up at her confusedly.
“Don’t give me that look. I’m just saying that a little please and thank you is in order. You puke all over my floor, and then act like I’m your servant, well, that can make the wrong impression.”
Maciael was taken aback. Had she just reprimanded him? No one spoke to him like that. He felt his temper flaring, but held it in check. She was an unusual woman, and obviously just didn’t realize the nature of the situation.
“Shaiah,” he whispered. “I should tell you who I am.”
She fixed him with a “go on, surprise me” look that was quite infuriating.
Maciael opened his mouth to set her straight, but suddenly realized that he didn’t want to give up his anonymity. If he announced himself to her, she would treat him with the respect and deference that he was accustomed to, yes, but would probably also become a lot more careful about what she said and did around him. She might even refuse to talk about her clearly troubled past, or her ability to wield prayer. Besides, there was something else holding him back. Something else would be lost between them once he was Lord and her outcast angel again. Something he could not quite articulate.
“My name is…Adon,” he said, using his father’s name. “I’ve been a novice with the Daurican Abbey, excuse me, the Abbey of Rising Lights – as its now called – for about twenty years,” he said, creating his new identity as he went along. “Mostly I live in silence, as a recluse there. I sometimes forget my manners, but I do appreciate everything that you have done for me. I would not be alive, but for you.”
As he finished speaking he reached out and gave the empty cup back to her, making contact with her hands. His honeyed words seemed to do the trick, for she looked at him with confusion for a moment, and then became apologetic. “That’s alright. I’m sorry. I’m also not used to company, and I’ve got a bit of a temper. We’ll just put it behind us, okay?” Changing the subject, she added, “More water?”
“Please.” Shaiah fetched another glass of water while Maciael struggled back into a sitting position. When she returned, she eyes him suspiciously. “Is that how you lost your lunch?”
Maciael smiled wanly.
She put the cup into his hands. “You really shouldn’t push yourself. It’s not good for my floors, or the smell in here.”
Maciael started to object, but then saw that she was smiling. “You wouldn’t want it to smell too nice. You wouldn’t fit in, down here—I mean, here in the wards,” he quipped. Maciael cursed himself inside for the inadvertent slip, but Shaiah didn’t appear to have noticed.
“Aint that the truth!” she replied. “Folks just don’t seem to get that garbage and filth don’t pick up themselves. But it’s not all their fault. There are some decent folks about, but the damn King keeps cutting services to the lower ward. I can’t remember the last time a garbage collector came by this area to take anyone’s junk away.”
Maciael felt himself bristle inside at her treasonous words, but forced himself to remain impassive. He took a long slow drink of the warm water. It still burned as it trickled down his parched throat, but all the same it felt good. Finally, he took a deep breath and calmed himself. He needed to remember that he was not Maciael Diluculo, the King’s champion, now, but merely the humble Novice Adon.
“Thank you.” He handed the empty cup back to her. “Have you got any food?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I thought you might be hungry, so I picked up a few things.” From concealed pockets within the old cassock she produced a small loaf of bread, cheese, and a pair of golden apples, along with a foot-long strip of smoked sausage. Her small fingers were quick and dexterous, and the food seemed to appear on the table next to the bed like magic.
Maciael stared at the small angel in amazement. Shaiah winked conspiratorially, then stepped away to hang up the lightstone from a hook in the wall, and refill the cup of water. Something about what had just happened didn’t sit right with him. He studied her lithe and surefooted movements as she walked across the room. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted, however, as she began disrobing right in front of him.
“Shaiah!” he whispered frantically.
The angel turned towards him, her arms holding either side of the cassock open and revealing the clothing she had been wearing when he first saw her underneath. He breathed a huge sight of relief. Still, the whole situation was incredibly awkward.
“You really should dress more appropriately,” he said, defensively.
Shaiah made a face. “You mean, cover myself like a proper seraph woman.” He voice dripped sarcasm. “I’m an angel, remember? No one sees me anyway. It’s one of the few benefits. It’s like I don’t exist.” She shrugged out of the cassock and hung it up on a hook by the door. “So, the way I see it, the rules don’t apply to me. Why should they?”
He had no answer for that, other than the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Returning to the bed, she shooed him over next to the wall. As she sat down on the edge of the cot, Maciael looked around and realized that there wasn’t a proper table and chairs in the room. The bed was also filthy, mostly from the mud and dirt that had caked his robes. He felt filthy, and wondered just how disgusting he looked. Somehow, he would need to bathe and find some clean clothes.
Shaiah produced a thin dagger from under her wrap and began to slice the food into bite-sized pieces. “Slowly!” she commanded, as she passed the first piece of bread to him, absently pointing the knife at him for emphasis.
The food tasted delicious, but it was painful to swallow. Shaiah needed to refill the cup several times, as the only way he could get anything down with by washing it down with copious amounts of water.
Shaiah ate sparingly. Maciael found himself fascinated by her crippled body. What she had said was true. Angels were more than ignored; they were shunned. Not only because of their crimes. It was disconcerting just looking at a seraph so broken. Small wonder she had a habit of draping her long white hair over the stumps of her severed wings like a curtain. He wondered what it was like to live a half life. He wanted to ask if her wings ever hurt, or if she sometimes accidentally found herself trying to fly, but knew that such questions were insensitive. To make matters worse, she might once have been quite beautiful. Her body was small and compact, but well proportioned. Under the dirt, her features conveyed an impression of compassion and quick wit. He tried to imagine what colour her feathers had been.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, to end up…like that.” He pointed uncomfortably at her shoulder.
“Ah.” She looked away from him.
“That is, if you are willing to talk about it. I suppose it’s not my business…”
“No it’s alright. We need to talk anyway, about what happened last night. On account of the fact that it can’t have ever happened.”
“Pardon?”
Shaiah occupied her hands preparing the food. She spoke with quiet sincerity. “Obviously, you know that prayer like that—bringing someone back from nearly dying—is something that mostly only those in the order can do. Now, I know it doesn’t look like much, what I’ve got. But I’ve got a decent enough life here. I get by. And the harsh truth is that mostly I’m still here because I’ve been forgotten. So, what I’m saying is, that better not change.”
“I see,” Maciael answered, not at all sure that he did.
“You want to know me? Well, there’s who I am, and there’s who I was. Before Cracovia took power, I was one of the Queen’s mystics. Queen Daurican, the old Queen. I wasn’t anyone high up or important, really, but I did live in the palace. Mostly I just prayed a lot. When the attack came, they killed all the important people and then rounded the rest of us up. I was just a kid, and I didn’t know anything, so after a couple of months they excommunicated and severed me. That was it. Basically, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Maciael stared at Shaiah in shock, the food forgotten in his mouth. He hadn’t been present for the palace uprising. He had been at the floating fortress, Enoch, decapitating the ruling family of House Exonsis, one of the minor families that had unwisely chosen to support King Daurican. But his father had been at the palace. Had he not died in the attack, he might well have been the one to carry out her sentence. Adon Diluculo had been adamant that everyone involved in the old regime be silenced. He had argued strongly and persuasively that the swath be cut wide, so as to prevent any potential future rebellion against the new Cracovia order they were creating. Everyone involved understood the necessity of some innocent victims. It was, frankly, surprising that Shaiah had been allowed to survive at all.
Shaiah paused. Her eyes looked down, lost in terrible old memories. Maciael did not know what to say.
“But that was ten years ago,” she continued, at last. “Really, it is almost like someone else’s life now. I’m not the naïve young girl that I was back then. Down here, you either grow up fast, or you don’t make it. I’ve learned how to survive. Mostly I get by on my wits, and with my quick fingers. But prayer doesn’t hurt.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 23, 2009 0:33:35 GMT -6
The coin dropped. “You’re a thief,” Maciael managed, around a mouthful of apple.
Shaiah lifted her head, her violet eyes sharp and defensive. “I survive. What would you have me do? I can’t work. The church won’t care for me. No House will have me. If I were to drop dead on the streets, no one would even notice.”
Maciael digested her words even as he cleared his mouth. “I meant no offence,” he said. “It’s just that…what if you get caught? You probably wouldn’t get a hearing. And even if you did, the King’s penalty for stealing is to lose a hand.” He neglected to mention that House Diluculo had always advocated for stricter penalties for lawbreakers. Curiously, he was not offended by her illegal actions. Even a day prior, had someone told him of her circumstance he would have had no sympathy. But something had changed him. She was obviously a decent person forced into hard circumstances.
Shaiah held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers in front of his face. Her impish grin was charming and mischievous.
“But surely you’ve had some close calls,” Maciael insisted. “Without wings, how can you get away?”
She flicked her wrist dismissively, turning back to the food. “Pheh. It’s easy to disappear once you know the ward. Maybe you didn’t notice that once you get into the alleyways, there’s no room to fly. You might not think it, but wings can actually be a liability when trying to get into some places.”
Maciael was reminded of the attack that had almost killed him, and how he had been unable to use his wings. He nodded. They ate in a companionable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.
Something was still bothering Maciael. “Did you say that your prayers actually help you steal? That doesn’t seem right to me. And didn’t you say you were excommunicated?”
Shaiah shrugged. “Don’t ask me to explain it. Obviously Yaelwe still hears me…lucky for you. Speaking of which, I should probably see if I can get you some more healing, so that you can get back to the abbey. The fathers there are probably looking for you, you know.”
Maciael started. “Oh! Umm, no,” he stuttered. “I’m sure it’s alright. I…umm…well, like I said, I’m mostly alone back at the abbey. I don’t think anyone will have missed me just yet.” He cringed inside at how awkward that had sounded. More confidently, he continued, “But some healing would be appreciated.” As an afterthought, be added, “Thank you.”
“Okay,” she answered, measuring him carefully. “But this needs to be just between us, understand? If anyone were to find out that I can still wield…”
Maciael solemnly touched fingers to lips. “You have my word. I am forever in your debt, and swear that I will keep your secret.”
“You swear it?”
“I swear it.”
She nodded. “Okay then. Get comfortable, while I clear up this mess.”
Maciael eased himself back down on the small bed and quietly watched her as she wrapped the remains of the meal away. With a small cloth, she gathered up the cores and crumbs and flicked them out the corner window. Then she returned to the bed and took his hands in hers. Her palms were rough and calloused. Her grip was firm and comforting. The lightstone’s glow had already started to fade, and in the gathering gloom her eyes seemed swell as she quietly sang the prayer of healing into him. A pale glow shimmered around the two silver bracelets on her wrist, and then spread, tendril-like down her fingers and across to her other hand. Soon her hands shone bright white as they held his. Maciael closed his eyes and let the words carry him away:
Miserere mei Domine, quoniam infirmus sum: Sana me Domine, quoniam conturbata sunt ossa mea. Et anima mea turbata est valde: Sed tu Domine usquequo. Convertere Domine, et eripe animam meam: Salvum me fac propter misericordiam tuam. Domine Deus meus in te speravi: Salvum me fac ex omnibus persequentibus me, et libera me.
Maciael felt completely calm and peaceful, as if the prayer were a calm wind breathing new life into him. He opened himself to it, breathing it in to his flesh and bones. He felt Shaiah’s presence there with him, as if they flew together in a beautiful dance. Her voice was soft and delicate, but somehow was filled with Yaelwe’s strength.
But even as Maciael rested within the prayer and allowed it to overtake him, it suddenly felt like there was a break in the sound. He felt a pulse, and heard someone laughing for a second. Even as his mind tried to make sense of what was happening, there was flash of light, and suddenly a vision appeared before him. He was in the palace, in some kind of communal living quarters. A young version of Shaiah sat not two yards from him. She was whispering with a friend, and both of them were laughing. The sound was disconnected from the images, like an indistinct echo. Her friend was clothed like royalty. Shaiah, though dressed with simple elegance, was radiant. Her wings were long and graceful. Her feathers were brilliant white, and seemed to shine with an inner light as she moved. Even as Maciael watched, the girls’ expressions changed. The door to the room was ripped open and two armed knights stormed in. Shaiah was forced to lie face down on the ground, even as the other girl was taken away. Shaiah covered her eyes.
The scene shifted. They were in a prison cell. Shaiah was chained to the wall with a steel ankle bracelet. Her clothing was in tatters. Her eyes were terrified, and she cringed in front of a tall seraph holding a barbed blade in one hand. The other held her by the chin. Nearby a small table held a collection of vicious-looking implements. Maciael watched in horror as she begged for mercy, even as the man raised the blade up to her face. Before the cut landed, however, the door into the cell opened and Feivol Kovensis hobbled in. The future King’s secretary looked at the girl momentarily, and then summoned the torturer away. A moment later, the door slammed, casting the cell back into darkness.
Maciael tried to escape the images, but they pressed in on him against his will. A third vision appeared. Shaiah stood head down within a small plain courtroom. Her wings were bound and her ankles manacled. Palace guards, now wearing the green and silver colours of Cracovia, surrounded her. Before her sat Kovensis. He held a quill in his gnarled hand and a large accounting record lay open on the table between him. A scribe read out charges against her, and Kovensis blandly asked her a question. She mumbled a response. Kovensis coughed, then asked again. The old seraph’s words echoed into Maciael’s ears. “Death, or Severance?” Shaiah answered more clearly, though tears poured like rivers down her face. The secretary nodded, and made a note in his records.
A final image forced itself upon him. A cold-faced soldier carried Shaiah down to the lower ward and deposited her on the ground. The stumps where her wings had been severed were red and covered with oozing scar tissue, evidently cauterized with hot metal to stop the bleeding. Shaiah kneeled in the dust, her arms wrapped around the torn remnants of her clothing. She looked up at that sprawling lower city with round, frightened eyes. A moment later, the soldier tossed down a small cloth sack beside her. She looked up to him, confusion written on her face. He held up his hands, and though Maciael could not make out the words, he meaning was clear enough. It was a small act of kindness, his providing her with a few of her effects, but he wanted no thanks. He wanted nothing to do with her. Her shaking hands drew open the small bag. Inside, lying on a bed of cloth and next to a plain pair of sandals and a few coins were her silver bracelets. Her cynosure! She reached out her weak and shaking hands to touch the soldier, her eyes overflowing with thanks, but he was already gone.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 23, 2009 23:19:59 GMT -6
The images poured into Maciael’s consciousness in an instant, and then were just as suddenly gone. He was back in the dimly lit apartment, staring up into Shaiah’s eyes. The angel pulled her hands away as if burned by his touch, shock and fear in her eyes.
“What just happened?” she breathed, pushing herself away from the bed.
Maciael’s mind was racing, still trying to absorb the images. His head was aching. He sat up and pressed his hands to his temples.
Shaiah backed across the room. “What did you do to me?”
“I…” Maciael’s words trailed off. He had no idea how to answer her. He looked to her. “I thought it was you. I saw…”
“I know what you saw! I felt you…pulling those memories out of me! You had no right to do that!” Shaiah stood were her back pressed against the far wall, visibly shaken. “You had no right,” she repeated in an anguished voice.
Maciael realized that he no longer felt weak. In fact, he felt great. He raised his hand to his throat and ran his fingers along the skin of his neck, but felt no scar. Gingerly, he raised himself up to stand next to the bed.
“Shaiah, I didn’t mean to do anything to hurt you,” he said. He took a step towards her. There was no dizziness. No pain.
She held up her hands as if to ward him off. “Who are you?” she demanded. She pointed a shaking finger at him. “I don’t believe that you are a novice at all. What’s going on?”
“Shaiah, please. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Maciael took another step towards her, more confidently this time. He gently stretched his wings and smiled.
The knife appeared in her hands. “Not another step!” she shouted. “I felt how powerful you are. You just stay back.” She began inching towards to door.
“Shaiah, don’t be ridiculous, It’s me. Put the knife down. Don’t you see? You healed me. I’m healed!”
“It’s you? Who the hell are you?”
Maciael stood in the centre of the room. Now that he was standing, he realized just how tiny the angel before him was. She could not have been over five feet tall. In the small room, he towered over her by at least three hands breadths. It would be an easy matter to grab the knife out of her hand and subdue her. But what would that accomplish? He sighed, and decided to tell her the truth.
“You’re right,” he began. “I’m not a novice, I’m a knight. My name is Maciael Adon Diluculo. Adon was my father’s name. I’m the Lord of House Diluculo, and the King’s Champion.”
“Shaiah’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a liar.” Her muscles were coiled and ready to spring.
He reached a hand out towards her. “I’m not a liar. I can help you. Listen, I don’t know why I didn’t tell you the truth the first time…”
But before he could finish he sentence, Shaiah struck. With a shouted prayer, “Luminarium!” her hand suddenly erupted in radiant light. Maciael covered his face against the light and stumbled backwards, blinded. The next moment, he heard the door creak on its hinges, and then the light patter of her racing feet as she scampered down the hall outside.
“Shaiah!” he called, even as he stumbled forward blindly. “Shaiah wait! Wait!”
By the time his eyes cleared, she was long gone. Maciael raced out of the room, down a short flight of stairs, and out into the alleyway. The night was warm and clear, and moonlight lit up the ground around him. There was, of course, no sign of her. A few quick steps took him to an open space where he could spread his wings. Seconds later he was aloft, searching for any sign of her. Reckless and desperate, he called out for her as he flew over the ramshackle buildings, but it was hopeless. The first ward spread out beneath him like an endless rat’s nest. There were a million places where she could hide and never be found. After half an hour’s search, he returned to the apartment, determined to wait her out. But in his heart he already knew that she would not return.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 28, 2009 23:25:06 GMT -6
Chapter 7
Borelin slept in the cot next to his charge, hovering near like a dagger-toothed scorpit guarding its young. He had strapped the wing harness back in place and slipped Rook back into his undershift to hide the wings, but was not at all reassured that the lad’s secret was safe. He repeatedly got up and tugged at the curtains, knowing that the effort was futile but wishing that he could entirely enclose the boy from view.
To make matters worse, Otal snored. Loudly. Borelin slept fitfully, grinding his teeth at the noise. It felt like he barely got three hours sleep a night, which did nothing to improve his mood.
Clara kept encouraging him to go out get some air, but Borelin was having none of it. When not patrolling the end of the bed tugging on the curtains, he sat in the chair next to the bed, one calloused hand gently placed upon the boy. A continuous stream of muttered prayers escaped his lips. The ellit flapped about and squawked within its box on the bedside shelf, perpetually hungry. Every time he fed it, Borelin grated his teeth at the noise, knowing that the room’s inhabitants were dying with curiosity to see the bird. On the first morning, one of the nurses had in fact bustled into the stall all smiles and cooing inquiry, only to be sent packing when Borelin rose up menacingly told her to mind her own business.
Jaime and Alleigh, the two young nurses, were quite clearly terrified of him. In turns they would come and hover at the end of the stall, politely suggesting that they would like to tend the boy. But Borelin saw the dazzled fascination in their eyes, and their furtive glances at the sleeping lad. He didn’t need two starry-eyes girls swooning around because a seraph had miraculously fallen into their infirmary. Only Clara was allowed in, and even then Borelin hovered about peppering her with questions until the chaplain lost her patience and sharply commanded him to go stand at the end of the bed while she performed her examinations.
Otal, the other invalid, was a different kind of complication. Evidently, he was something of a town drunk, and was regularly hauled into the infirmary to be dried out. On this visit he had the added complication of a cracked rib, due to his having fallen off a balcony or something during his most recent binge. He was a big man, and quite loudly vocal about his various complaints. Borelin listened idly to the man’s grousing, increasingly inclined to give the man a good slap upside the head. Living a dry and ascetic life himself, he had no sympathy for the man’s situation. He wasn’t even sure that the church should be inclined to open its doors to someone who so routinely abused the demon drink.
To make matters worse, Otal was quite vocal about his interest in Borelin, Rook, and the bird. As Borelin well knew, northerners were universally friendly. Their drunks were no exception. Otal called out repeatedly, introducing himself over the hanging curtains. Borelin remained steadfastly silent, which clearly offended the drunk but sadly didn’t seem to have any impact upon his continued sociable efforts. More than once Borelin heard scuffled activity in the big man’s stall and moved sharply to intercept his approach. Had it not been for the gentle restraining efforts of the girls, and his debilitating injury, Otal would certainly have made his way over to Rook’s stall to sate his curiosity. Which, Borelin reflected, would likely have resulted in the man receiving a second cracked rib.
Rook woke after sundown. His eyes fluttered open and he slowly tilted his head towards Borelin. Borelin leapt up and took the lad’s hands. Rook winced and licked his lips. He whispered something, but Borelin couldn’t make it out. He got down on one knee and brought his ear close to the lad’s lips.
“Sorry,” he said. “Try again?”
“Am I fixed up?” Rook repeated.
Borelin nodded. “Yes. I think so.” He prayed it was true.
“Now can I have some ice cream?”
Borelin pulled his head back and smiled down at the lad. “You know it.”
For the first time, Borelin called out for assistance. By Sheil’s law of mischief, however, neither of the girls turned out to be in the infirmary. His shout prompted a muffled squawk from Storm’s box, and then a rumbled answer from the drunk.
“Girls’ gone for dinner, buddy. What’s up?”
Cursing their incompetence, Borelin turned back to Rook and promised he would be right back. Rook smiled, then closed his eyes again.
Borelin swept past Otal’s stall as he hurried off to find Clara.
“Buddy. Your boy okay?”
The question brought Borelin to a stop. He closed his eyes and massaged his temple before turning on the prostrate man. “Otal, isn’t it?” he sighed.
“You got it.” The man smiled broadly. “I’ve been trying to introduce myself all day. What’s your name? I don’t think I know…”
“Listen Otal,” Borelin interrupted. “Who I am, and what I’m doing here is my own business. I’m not interested in chatting, or getting to know you, or passing the time. You want to do me a favour, just mind your own business.”
Otal blinked, his smile collapsing into a look of startled surprise. “Okay, bud. Umm…whatever you say.”
Borelin nodded savagely. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
As he stormed off, he heard the big man wondering aloud what kind of serpent had got up his ass. Borelin hoped that would be the end of the efforts at cordial relations.
He found Clara in the attached residence, her head buried in the pages of a book. In his haste, Borelin burst in upon her and found her unveiled. She stared up at him in surprise. Hers was a kindly round face, with full lips beneath a small button nose. Brown, shoulder-length, hair contrasted sharply with her pale skin. Borelin immediately put his head down and covered his eyes with his hands.
“Sorry! I should have knocked.” He turned away, mortified.
Clara scrambled to get fully dressed. “Is it the boy?” she asked.
“He’s up.” Borelin paused, somehow embarrassed to report, “And I promised him ice cream.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Mar 2, 2009 23:58:06 GMT -6
As it happened, Clara did have a small block of ice cream, being a fan of the popular sweet herself. She brought it in from the ice pantry, and Borelin broke off a few slivers for Rook while Clara put together a small meal. Under her veil he could see that her cheeks were flushed a deep red. An awkward silence stretched between them.
“Let me get you a bowl for that,” she said.
Borelin looked down and realized that he was holding melting ice cream slivers in his hand. “I…umm…thanks,” he mumbled, dropping the flavoured ice into her proffered bowl. He stood about, generally getting in the way, feeling like he should leave but somehow rooted in place. They kept accidentally bumping into each other in the small kitchen. Borelin tried not to think about the softness of her skin where it had pressed against him.
They went back to the infirmary together. Mercifully, Otal was sleeping and the girl had not yet returned, so they were able to attend to the lad without interruption. Rook was clearly nervous around Clara, particularly when she moved towards his leg. His golden eyes observed the chaplain’s every move, and he kept squirming away from her as far as the bed would allow. He wasn’t even able to eat the food that they offered him. Borelin laid a firm hand on him, and reminded him that the chaplain had saved his life.
“God, Clara, how much does the lad remember of the surgery?” Borelin whispered, pulling the chaplain aside. “Didn’t you give him something to help him sleep or dull the pain?”
Clara looked defensive. “I gave him enough icethorn oil to sedate a fully grown man, but it didn’t seem to affect him. I’m a country chaplain, Borelin. I don’t know the first thing about seraphim!”
Borelin blanched. “He wasn’t sedated?”
“You really don’t want to know…”
“Yaelwe give me strength! No wonder he’s terrified of you!” Borelin’s voice rose in volume as the thought of what the lad had endured sank in.
Clara placed a restraining hand on his arm. “He’s alive. His body is tougher than it looks, Borelin. And his faith is strong. You’ve done well with him.”
Her words cut to the heart of the matter. Borelin did blame himself for everything that the lad had gone through. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and placed his hand over hers, accepting her kindness. “I’m just on edge, Clara,” he said, lowering his voice again. “Being in town puts me on edge. How soon will I be able to get the lad back to the farm?”
Clara turned back to the boy and examined him again. “With luck, and prayer, we’ll have you both on your way in a week to ten days,” she said.
“Ten days!” he exclaimed. “We can’t stay that long!”
Clara turned and fixed him with a look that brooked no dispute. “My interest is in seeing Rook properly healed. He will stay here, rest, and recover for as long as needed.”
“Clara, I’ve got a farm to tend.”
“That is not my concern. If you need to leave for a day, I’m sure we can manage.”
Borelin subsided grumpily, knowing that he was on the losing side of the argument. Clara collected the chart she had begun on the lad, and made a few notations.
“Mother Clara!” Otal’s voice rumbled over from his stall. Evidently Borelin’s shouting had woken him. “I’ve got this pain…”
Clara turned and silently left them, leaving Borelin with the distinct impression that he was in trouble. He scowled and turned back and returned to the lad’s side.
Rook reached out and pulled Borelin close. “I think she’s kind of scary too,” he whispered.
Borelin felt the sour furrows melting off his face. He chuckled and patted the lad’s hand. “Mother Clara is a good woman, lad. Don’t you mind old Borelin.” He picked up the bowl that lay next to the bed and offered to the boy. “What this? Your ice cream is melting.”
Rook plucked up one of the slippery icicles and began contentedly slurping away, getting sticky cream all over his fingers.
“I hear you were very brave during the surgery.”
A pained look flit across Rook’s face. Around a mouthful of ice he replied, “I tried to be.”
“Oh, you were! I’m very proud of you.”
The praise elicited one of Rook’s luminous smiles. As always, Borelin felt himself melt inside at the sight of it. “Well,” he continued, “it looks like we’re going to be staying here for a bit, lad. The chaplain says you’ll probably need to stay for a week or so.”
Rook got impatient with sucking on the treats and started crunching them between his teeth. He nodded. “Do you think I’ll be able to go to chapel?”
“Well…” Borelin began cautiously, “I suppose you and I could visit the chapel when you are up and about more.”
The boy was clearly not put off the scent. “No. Not like back home. I mean, when all the people come, and say the prayers together. You know?”
Borelin did know, and though quietly proud of the lad, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted Rook mingling with the folk of the town. Instead of answering, he said, “Would you listen to that? Sounds like Storm’s hungry again.” It was true enough. The ellit’s box was beginning to make the muffled thumping sounds that preceded a next bout of incessant chirping.
“Oh, can I feed him?”
Borelin brought the box over to the bed and fished out the dwindling remains of the icewyrm from his coat pocket. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. This stuff is awful and you have to chew it well before giving to the chick, else it might choke. And Storm pecks pretty hard with his little beak. You’re likely to get bit feeding it.”
Borelin put the lid aside and brought the noisy bugger out onto the bed. It was amazing how much it had grown already. Storm was now about the side of one of Borelin’s hands, and its white feathers puffed out all around it, further increasing the impression of size. He carefully placed it into Rook’s eager hands. While Rook cradled the bird, Borelin showed Rook how he chewed the raw meat. Then he took Storm back and pushed the food into its mouth. Storm had by this point gotten familiar with the process, and strained its head up at him and opened its mouth as wide as it possibly could. Rook watched the whole process with rapt attention, and then insisted and doing it himself.
Rook didn’t like the taste of the raw meat, and did get pecked a few times. He managed to get a small portion of mash into the bird, but soon was so nervous of being bit that he would yank back his hands in fright every time the bird made a lurch at the food. Storm became increasingly impatient, and the volume of the bird’s complaints got louder as time went on. Borelin let the painful process go on for as long as he could stand, and then took over again. Rook seemed pleased enough. He watched the feeding with wide golden eyes, sucking on his stinging fingers.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Mar 4, 2009 23:58:40 GMT -6
Time passed slowly. Both Rook and Storm slept a lot, and without his usual work and farming activities Borelin wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He pilfered an old copy of Holy Scripture from the chapel proper, then sat himself in the chair next to the lad and began to read it. The girls returned for a short space, but they gave Rook a wide berth. Between verses, Borelin thought how he was going to manage things over the next ten days. He had some coin, but not really enough to pay for an extended stay. He and the lad would both need a change of clothes. He assumed Clara would allow him to stay on in the infirmary. Otherwise he’d have to rent a room in town. He shouldn’t impose upon Clara to feed him either, which meant he’d be paying for meals. And the dogs would need to be fed. The whole excursion was adding up to set him back a fair sum.
Of course, he shouldn’t complain. Notwithstanding Clara’s self-depreciating comments, it was obvious that she had done well. Before falling back asleep, the lad had eaten all of the light dinner Clara had prepared for him. He had more energy that Borelin had seen in him for days. One shouldn’t count coppers in times of trouble, but focus on the things that really mattered.
Besides, it wasn’t like Borelin was destitute. He lived frugally but was not without resources. Before he had arrived in the remote northern town he had sold his armour, along almost everything precious to him. The total sum had been enough to get the farm started, pay well for the help he needed, and had still left a small fortune to be squirreled away. Borelin had hoped to gift it to the lad when he was grown, but if he needed to break out a few silver to get them through the current crisis, sobeit.
Borelin became aware that both nurses were standing at the end of the lad’s cot. He pretended to be absorbed in his reading, but they didn’t leave. Finally, he lowered the good book and looked up.
The one named Jaime appeared to have agreed to be their spokesperson. “It’s important that we examine the boy’s injury before leaving for the night,” she said. She was a tall local girl, with blue eyes and a speckling of freckles over her nose. Under he veil, her jaw was tilted up and her eyes flashed with a determined look.
With a scowl, he replied, “Clara can do it.”
“I’m sorry, but Mother Clara is out doing a house visit this evening, and will not be able to attend to him.”
“She didn’t say anything to me.”
“Maybe so, but it’s true anyway,” she answered, tartly.
Alleigh put in, kindly, “It’s so important that the...umm…your boy’s progress is regularly checked. There are a number of ways that his healing could be set back if not watched closely.”
Borelin sat in the chair, one clutching Holy Scripture, the other placed protectively on the side of the bed. “He’s sleeping,” he argued, obstinately.
It wasn’t much of an argument. Alleigh immediately replied, “Oh, we don’t intend to wake him. He needs his rest.”
Naturally, Storm decided that this particular moment was when he suddenly needed to be fed. At Rook’s request, Borelin had left the box next to the boy. Now it drew all eyes by wobbling to life. Borelin rubbed his temple, which had suddenly started throbbing.
“Alright. Do your job,” he acquiesced. “But don’t wake the lad. And there is no need for the both of you to examine him.”
Jaime’s jaw went up again, and it looked like she was going to challenge him, but Alleigh quickly agreed. “Of course. Of course. I certainly don’t mind if Jaime does the exam. Thank you.”
She quickly retired, leaving Borelin with an angry nurse and a noisy bird.
Jaime moved to the far side of the bed and set about her business. After a silent minute under Borelin’s vigilant eyes, she motioned to the bird and grumbled, “If you don’t want the boy to wake, you might want to feed it.”
It was true, the volume of the chick’s demands were increasing. Borelin had no desire to embarrass himself by putting the feeding ritual on display, or to satisfy the girl’s curiosity, but knew she was right. Pretty soon, Rook would wake from the racket. He got out the last of the meat and popped a fleshy pink morsel into his mouth. Jaime pretended not to be watching him, but Borelin knew better. He brought out the bird and put his back to her in order to get a modicum of privacy.
For a few moments, Storm commanded all of his attention. When he looked up, the nurse was standing back at the end of the stall, regarding at him steadily.
“Why are you so angry?” she demanded.
Borelin put the bird away, but didn’t cover it just yet. Storm wobbled about, futilely flapping its undeveloped wings and pecking at the straw. He looked back to the nurse. “I’m not angry.”
The woman gave him an incredulous look. “You do realize that we take care of people here? Including children. Do you think you are the only one who can look after him?”
Borelin was about to respond that taking care of Rook was not exactly the same as taking care of a local brat, but bit his tongue. Instead he said, “I’ve been doing alright for the last ten years.”
“Oh have you? You know there’s more to raising a child than feeding and sheltering them from harm. Which, I might add, you haven’t done quite so…alright.” Her veil waved side to side as she spoke.
The words stung. Borelin rose up to his feet in anger and took a step towards the young nurse. Jaime backed away, her eyes wide with fear. For a moment they stared at each other. Then she turned swept out of sight. Borelin’s blood was racing. He stood next to the bed clenching and unclenching his fists. Now that she was gone, all of the comebacks that he should have said to the girl raced into his mind. But by the time he collected his thoughts enough to step out and confront her, he was only in time to see Jaime storm out of the door at the far end of the infirmary, Alleigh close on her heels and placating. Alleigh turned back to close the door and fixed Borelin with a look of exasperation. Then the door was shut and they were gone for the night.
“Hey, Buddy!”
Otal’s curtains were pulled back to the wall, and he tilted his head towards Borelin.
“Buddy, I’m talking to you!” the big man persisted.
Grudgingly, Borelin turned his head and made eye contact.
“Them girls are angels. They don’t deserve the way you treat them.”
Otal’s criticism gave Borelin a new target for his frustration. “All I’m asking is to be left alone!” he seethed. “Is that too hard for you people to understand?”
Borelin’s words made no impact on the man. “I know who you are. You’re that hermit lives up north away.”
“That right. Up north. Alone. And that’s the way I like it!”
“Well, maybe you haven’t noticed, but you aint alone now. You’re in our town. And seeing as how you’re here, you better start showing a little respect. Starting with the girls.”
“You think you can lecture me on how to behave?”
“Well someone damn well better do it. I been lying here all day listening to your huffing every time the girls even look your way! You, and your boy, and your god damned noisy bird. I’m sick of it. Tomorrow, you can find some decency and treat the girls as they deserve, or you’ll be answering to me. Got it?”
The threat was almost comical, coming from a man with a bandaged chest, but Borelin was in no mood to see the humour. He put his head down and spat out, “You’re a drunk. You’re in here because you got pissed and fell off a balcony.”
Otal’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. His face turned beet red. Drawing in a breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Then, with a grunt, he pushed himself up to his feet. Borelin got a good look at just how big a man Otal was. He towered over Borelin by at least half a foot. His bald head looked like a small anvil, with an massive jaw that was further exaggerated by a pronounced under bite and crooked teeth. He left the impression of not having a neck, as if his head was attached directly onto his broad barrel chest. His arms were thick with bulging muscles and covered with coarse black hair. Borelin figured that Otal had about fifty pounds on him, if not more.
Blowing air out of his nose, Otal stepped up and planted himself in front of Borelin. His eyes flashed with fearless challenge. “Maybe you want to say that again?” he rumbled.
By this point, Borelin was too angry to think straight. “I said you are a drunk. But what I should have said that you are a drunk and an idiot. You’re going to try me with a broken rib? Go ahead.”
With surprising speed for such a big man, Otal hauled back and planted a fist square in Borelin’s face, sending him sprawling back into Rook’s curtain. With a cry that was more bestial than human, Borelin picked himself up and barrelled into the big man, only to receive one of Otal’s massive palms in his face. They struggled a moment, and Otal landed a couple of right-hand shots to Borelin’s stomach which might have dropped a lesser man. Even after ten years Borelin could take a hit. In answer, Borelin leaned in and rammed his knuckles at Otal’s windpipe, but with Otal’s hand in his face he missed and merely landed a glancing blow on the big man’s chin. Otal’s head snapped aside, and then whipped back forward, angry. He shifted his hand to Borelin’s hair and then dragged Borelin’s face down towards his rising knee. The exertion brought a grunt of pain from his lips even as Borelin responded by grabbing the big man’s leg. Instead of being having his face smashed in, Borelin hauled the leg up and threw his weight into Otal. Otal toppled backwards. The next moment they crashed down onto the floor, Borelin head landing heavily upon Otal’s stomach. Otal’s chest crumpled unnaturally, and Borelin heard a sickening crack. Immediately, all of the fight went out of Otal. He grabbed his chest and writhed in pain. Borelin rolled off and climbed slowly to his feet.
“Borelin?”
Borelin’s head whipped around at the sound of Rook’s frightened voice behind him.
“What’s going on?” The lad was staring wide-eyed at the two men, concern written all over his face.
Borelin was immediately ashamed of himself. He looked down at the broken man lying at his feet and his shoulders drooped.
“I…” He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? He had lost his temper and had acted badly. Now had hurt someone. Nothing else really mattered.
“I’m sorry Rook. We were fighting. You shouldn’t have seen that,” he said.
Borelin stooped down and helped the groaning man into the nearest cot, which was incidentally the one right next to Rook, where Borelin had slept the night before.
“Sorry,” Borelin mumbled, as Otal closed his eyes and breathed shallowly. The big man’s eyes watered from the pain.
Not knowing what else to do, he stood and began to shift the curtain back into place.
“Don’t close it,” Rook said.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Mar 9, 2009 22:50:27 GMT -6
Borelin stepped back and sat down heavily on the edge of Rook’s bed, staring at the injured man. Borelin felt something wet on his face, and realized that his nose was bleeding. He wiped it dry with his hand. For a minute, the only sound was Otal’s laboured breaths.
Finally, Rook’s small voice piped up next to him. “Why were you fighting?”
“I don’t know.” Borelin muttered. His reasons seemed to have disappeared along with his anger.
Otal gingerly lifted his arm to wipe the tears from his face. “I do,” he rumbled. “You’re old man was just trying to protect you, kid.” He paused to draw a breath, and then continued, weakly, “He’s so worried about you, he can’t think straight.”
Borelin felt a rush of heat to his stomach at Otal’s kind words. Otal turned his head towards Borelin and then two men made eye contact. They silently regarded each other for a long moment. To Borelin’s surprise, a broad sheepish grin spread across the face of the fallen giant. He grunted, trying unsuccessfully to keep from smiling himself. He felt a strange kind of kinship for the big idiot bloom within his chest.
“You’re one hell of a fighter,” he managed.
“Buddy, you aint seen nothing. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”
Borelin didn’t know what to say to that, so instead he said, “My name’s Borelin.” Tipping his palm towards the lad, he added, “and this is Rook.”
“Hi,” Rook volunteered. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t you worry about uncle Otal, kiddo. It’ll take a lot more than a fall to keep me down.” He winked at the lad good-naturedly and flexed his bicep for the boy, then was wracked by a fit of coughing.
“Is there anything I can get you, Otal?” Borelin put in.
“A cup of cold water would be nice.”
Borelin got up and walked to the end of the infirmary. There, the nurses had a small station stocked with medical supplies, and at it was a large earthen jug full of clean water as well as a few wooden cups. Borelin grabbed the largest one and headed back with it. Apparently, Rook had taken an immediate interest in Otal, and was chattering away. Returning, Borelin caught the exchange.
“…and so I tried to save them both. But, when I was bringing the second egg down, a cold wind, like with snow, blew up the tree. And it was a sunvane, so the vanes suddenly started to close up, and I had to move my hands, ’cause I didn’t want them to get caught. You know? But it was windy and cold and I slipped and fell. And that’s how I broke my leg.”
Borelin grabbed a pillow from the next bed, and helped Otal shift into a slightly raised position so that he could drink the water.
“Thanks, bud.” Otal took a slow drink, while Rook prattled on.
“So I couldn’t get home, ’cause I couldn’t walk. But one of the eggs was still alive. Like, one of the eggs broke when I fell, but the other one… I had already put down at the bottom. You know? So it was okay. I was really scared about the storm. It was really bad. And it was really cold. I thought that the egg would get frozen and die, and I was holding it, like to keep it warm? And then it just got darker and darker, and I was really scared. But Borelin saved us.”
Borelin didn’t mind the lad’s chatter, on account of how it saved him from having to do any of the talking, but could not help putting in, “If you had come home at the first sight of a snow storm, nothing bad would have happened, would it?”
Rook looked suitably abashed, until Otal asked, “Who’s ‘us’?”
Rook’s golden eyes sparkled. “Me and Storm! He’s my ellit. We hatched him, right out of the egg! He’s right here in this box.”
A muffled rejoinder emerged from the bird’s crate.
Borelin was uncomfortable with all of the disclosure, but said nothing. ‘In for a copper, in for a crown,’ he thought.
Otal appeared to take a keen interest in the situation. “So that’s the noisy bugger who’s been making that racket all day,” he said, grinning ear-to-ear.
Rook nodded in agreement. “He’s noisy when he’s hungry. And he’s hungry a lot. Do you know what he eats? Raw meat!”
Rook launched into a rambling and lengthy description of what it was like to feed the bird, while Borelin sat by feeling increasingly uncomfortable. More than once, he tried to curtail the lad’s prattle, but Rook seemed to have a great deal of energy, and Otal was far too good an audience. He smiled, nodded, hummed, and grunted enthusiastically as the boy chattered away. He asked questions when the boy paused, and volunteered bits of information about the eating habits of ellits. Apparently, there was more to the man that just being a town drunk. Simply by his size and fighting ability, Borelin had begun to wonder about the man’s history and character. Now, from his comments, Borelin gleaned that Otal had spent a fair amount of time out on the plains hunting. He filed the information away, silently determining that he needed to learn more about the big man.
Borelin had stopped paying much attention to the exchange between Rook and Otal, but he lurched back to full attentiveness as the conversation veered into dangerous territory.
“…I always wanted a bird for a pet,” Rook was saying, “and Storm is kind of like me. He can’t fly yet either. So it’s perfect.”
Borelin put his hand in the way between the lad and the big man, as if he would stop the sound with his body. “Rook!” he exclaimed. “That’s enough!”
The lad turned a confused face towards Borelin. “What did I do?”
There was no way to explain the danger to Rook in front of Otal. Instead, he just stood up and started to close the curtains. “Okay, you’ve been up long enough. You need to get your sleep.”
“But…” Borelin gave Rook such a withering glare that the boy’s voice faded away.
Before stepping behind the curtains, Borelin turned to Otal. A storm of words flew through his mind, but there was no way to discuss the issues without making the lad’s inadvertent disclosure worse. He stood with his mouth open for a moment, and finally settled on, “You are welcome to sleep here tonight if you wish. I’ll just take the cot across the way.”
Otal merely nodded.
Behind the cover of the curtain, Borelin shared a whispered exchange with the lad. “Rook, we hardly know Mr. Otal. You can’t just go telling him everything about yourself.”
“But I didn’t! And, anyway, it’s not mister Otal, it’s uncle Otal. I think he’s nice.”
“We don’t know him. Now, I don’t want you to talk about your wings with anyone here!”
“But… what about Mother Clara. And her helpers?”
Borelin felt increasingly flustered. “You don’t need to talk to anyone about them. It’s…it’s private.”
“But why?”
“Because I said so. Now don’t argue!”
“But…” “Not another word. Now, this conversation is over. This is for your own good. It’s time to go back to sleep. You need your rest.”
Rook lay in the bed sulking for a few minutes. Borelin sat next to him, trying to think of something to change the mood, without success. Finally, his eyes fell on the book of Holy Scripture. He reached out to it like a man reaching for a safety line in a snowstorm.
“Would you like to say evening prayers with me?” he asked, gently.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Mar 11, 2009 22:22:01 GMT -6
Thankfully, the lad did. The old familiar responses seemed to mend the hurt between them both as they read the verses together. Soon, the boy was sleeping contentedly. Borelin offered up a silent prayer of thanks for Yaelwe’s guidance, then turned away to get some rest.
Once again, Borelin slept poorly. Because Borelin had aggravated Otal’s injury, the big man was not able to stay asleep. He would doze off, but when he started snoring his loud sucking breath would aggravate his chest and tear him back awake. Then he would lie across from Borelin panting and moaning pathetically. Borelin wasn’t sure which was worse, the snoring or the groans. The snores were loud and obnoxious, but listening to the man writhe in the darkness felt like a knife to the heart. Each time it happened, Borelin was forcibly reminded of how he had lost his temper and hurt the big idiot. It got so that he couldn’t even close his eyes, knowing that the process was about to repeat itself. He covered his ears with his hands to no avail. He wondered how Rook managed to sleep through the racket, but the lad seemed to have no difficulty. Layered within the clamour was the light whistle of the lad’s sleeping breaths, like a twisted parody of a wind ensemble. After what seemed like hours, Otal settled into a sort of shallow whimpering snore, and Borelin managed to fall into a light doze. Moments later, the sun was shining through the windows and Borelin’s eyes snapped open.
For a blessed minute the infirmary was perfectly quiet. Otal’s snoring had subsided and Rook slept peacefully. Borelin lay on the small cot and yawned, breathing in the momentary peace and willing himself to fall back asleep. But though he was exhausted, years of rising with the dawn kept sleep at bay. His mind automatically ran over all the things that he should have been doing: stoking the fire, clearing out the snow from the stairwell, feeding the dogs, stirring out the bolocs. All the simple tasks that made up a comfortable routine, now denied to him.
Borelin gave up the attempt to rest any further and set about getting dressed. At least he could perform morning prayers. Taking up the Scripture, he quietly left the infirmary and proceeded to the chapel. The circular room was a patchwork of light and deep shadow. Bright beams of sunlight poured in from high windows worked into the vaulted dome ceiling. The walls were cast into darkness, and the wooden iconostasis surrounding the holy fount glowed with reflected light. After kneeling and pressing a kiss to Yaelwe’s robes at the greeting statue, Borelin took a seat on a bench near to the heart of the chapel. For a minute he merely sat quiet, the Holy Scripture held in his lap, allowing the warm and pungent air of the chapel to soak into his skin. Before him, an icon showed a great seraph pinning down a writhing demon with his foot, a flaming sword held up in his right hand.
“That’s the strength that I need, Lord,” he muttered. “I fear that I am not worthy of this path that you have set for me.”
Ten years to learn how to care for the lad, and still he felt like he didn’t have the first idea what he was doing. What did a soldier know of child rearing? His tools were muscle and iron, not words and emotions. Not for the first time, he wondered if it would have been better to find a woman who might have helped the lad grow up right. But when could he have done any courting, even if he had that other courage? And what woman would have wanted to live in such desolate isolation, with him? If only his mother…
With a determined shake of his head, he forced those thoughts out his head. He would not let his mind wander into such dark places. Getting down on he knees, he opened the Scripture and began to work his way through the comfort of the morning forms.
Open thou my lips, O Lord, to hail the dawn of your glorious light Come, let us sing unto the Lord; rejoicing in the power of his hands We rejoice this day and always in the God of our salvation Let us bow before him with thanksgiving and show ourselves glad in him with dance and song…
His low chanting echoed around the chamber, almost as if a second version of himself sang the words back at him. When he was at last done, Borelin felt heartened. He rose to his feet, stretching a slight ache out of his knees.
“Yaelwe’s will shall be in this, as in all things,” he reminded himself. With a final murmured, “Sobeit,” he turned and made his way slowly out of the chapel.
On his return to the infirmary, Storm was beginning to move about within his crate. He needed to feed the bird before it got roused up and started hollering. Unfortunately, this task was complicated by the fact that he and Rook had used up the last of the icewyrm the previous night. He had nothing to feed it. Borelin considered asking Clara for some feed, but quickly decided against bothering the chaplain, the awkwardness of their last encounter still fresh on his mind. Instead, he simply hefted the crate and headed outside.
The sky was clear of clouds and the sun shone down brightly, causing the snow cover to sparkle. Nestled as it was within the heat of the sunvane forest, the town’s air was so warm that Borelin unbuttoned his overcoat and tucked away his gloves. The silverback team stood and stretched on his approach, reminding him that he needed to feed them as well. He checked his coin purse and decided that he had enough to get everyone fed, though barely.
Despite the early hour folks were already starting to stir. On the main street mothers marched industriously between merchants, gathering fresh bread and produce for the morning meals. Shopkeepers swept out doorways, wiped down counters, and looked up at the sky to see what the weather might hold. Everywhere, the residents tossed friendly greeting to each other. Borelin tried not to draw attention to himself, painfully aware of the rising chorus of muffled squawks that marked his passage. A young pair of girls raced past him as he mushed the team slowly towards the main road, probably sent out to get some exercise by a busy parent. They shrieked playfully and scampered off, leaving Borelin with the distinct impression that he was the cause of their mirth.
Borelin wasn’t about to return to the overbearing kindliness of the Corkrams, so settled on the local butcher. If he needed to pay a little extra, sobeit. The shop was a squat one-story building built out of unfinished logs and painted a bright red. A large iron sign hammered into the face of the building simply announced it as “Butcher.” The proprietor, who went by the name of “Pal,” was a short burly fellow with a waxed moustache and short-cropped curly brown hair. Borelin knew him, on account of his herd back at the farm, and his consequent need for butcher’s services. He slid up at a respectful distance and walked over to make his purchase just as Pal opened the door for business.
“Greetings, Hermit. What brings you to town?” Pal always carried a large, thoroughly stained hand cloth with him wherever he went. It was either tossed over his shoulders or he was wiping his hands with it. Now, it was in his hands.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Mar 14, 2009 22:53:41 GMT -6
Borelin shrugged, and avoided the question. “Just in for a couple of days. I’m going to need something for the dogs, if you have any bones and scraps. And umm…” He paused, not quite sure how to introduce the subject of Storm’s dietary needs, and then continued, “you wouldn’t happen to have any icewyrm, by chance?”
“Icewyrm? Sorry, I just have local fare. Something like that, you’d have to get from an ice walker. They come down from the sheet, once and a while, to sell and trade. Say…what you got in that crate? Quite the racket.”
“Indeed.” Borelin hefted the crate onto the counter and lifted the lid to allow Pal to take a look. Storm immediately stretched its neck up towards the open air, with its beak open as wide as possible in the hopes of food.
“It’s an ellit. An ellit chick,” Borelin explained, as the butcher cast a curious gaze over the edge of the crate. “I got some icewyrm from the Corkram’s yesterday, and it seems to have a bottomless stomach for the stuff.”
Pal peered over the edge of the crate and stared at the wobbling ball of white feathers. Curious, he reached a calloused hand into the crate to touch the bird and was rewarded with a sharp peck on his fingers. Storm made a strange hissing noise.
“Ho! Ho!” The butcher smiled, withdrawing his hand. “Wild thing!”
“That’s new,” Borelin muttered.
Pal and cast an appraising eye over Borelin. “You taking up hawking? Ellit’s are a dangerous bird.”
Storm, realizing that no food was forthcoming, went back to complaining, loudly. Borelin replaced the cover. “It’s a long story,” he said. “The thing is, it’s going to keep up this racket until I can find something to feed it. Do you have any kind of soft meat? Maybe something with a lot of fat.”
They had a hard time finding something that might suit, on account of how most of Pal’s meat was dried and salted, but eventually they settled on morroth liver and kidney. The gigantic morroths roamed the frozen plains in isolation, fearing no beast but man. Even the town’s hunters treated them with utmost caution, for to be caught within their massive jaws was instant death, ripped apart by rows of six-inch teeth. The organs too was enormous, each weighing in at near a stone. Fortunately, they were generally unpopular cuts. Pal ran them through the mincer and wrapped them up while took a handful and fed the hungry bird. At least he wouldn’t have to wear out his jaw further.
As Pal handed over the dog’s scraps, and received the balance of Borelin’s remaining coin, Borelin casually asked, “Pal, you know a guy named Otal?”
“Otal? ’Course I do. Why you ask?”
“Oh, I just stopped in at the chapel and I met him. He made…and impression on me. Was wondering what you could tell me of him.”
Pal snorted. “If Otal was visiting the chapel, hopefully it will do him some good. Lord knows he needs it. He’s been causing all kinds of trouble around town ever since his troubles. You want my advice, stay away from him. He’s been known to go off on people without warning. One minute he’s perfectly cheery. Then next, he’s taking your head off.”
The two walked men to the door of the shop, Borelin carrying the now quiet crate. “His troubles? What kind of troubles?” Borelin pressed.
“Well, I wouldn’t speak of it, except that its such common knowledge in town,” Pal answered. “But here it is. Otal’s a big man, as you no doubt noticed. Used to be one of our best hunters. Anyway, six months back or so, something went real wrong with the hunt. I don’t exactly. Nobody knows, exactly. But my guess is that they met up with something real bad out there, ’cause half of them didn’t come back, along with the whole pack of silverback they took with ’em when they set out. Otal was one of the survivors, but he wasn’t the same. If you ask me, he got the brain frost.”
Borelin had seen soldiers lose their minds because of overexposure to the cold. He nodded.
“Since then, he’s just been a danger to himself and everyone else around him. Mostly he’s been drinking himself stupid in the great hall. He ran out of coin a while back, so now he just wanders around begging and getting into scrapes.”
“Sad tale,” Borelin said.
“True enough. And I believe that there’s some things out in the fields that no one should have to face. But, all the same, we have to deal with the situation. Like I said, he’s a danger to the town. You know, I’ve got kids! I can’t have a brain-damaged giant of a man lumbering around town picking fights at random.” Pal paused, obvious surprised by his own language. He flashed an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. As you can see, it gets me a little worked up.”
“That’s alright,” Borelin answered. “You have every right to be concerned for your family’s safety.”
“Exactly! So a few of us went to the Chief and asked him to do something about the situation. And he might of, except that Otal took himself out of commission. Up on the Helsfeld’s landing bashing on their door and begging for a handout, he slipped and fell down the stairs. He’s been with Mother Clara ever since. The immediate problems gone away, so everyone’s forgot about it. But I keep telling folks that Mother Clara, bless her soul,” Pal raised fingers in front of his lips, “or one of the nurses, is going to get hurt one of these days. And even if they don’t, he’s not going to stay injured forever. His body is still strong as ever, it’s his mind that’s wandered.”
Borelin nodded, feeling a clench of concern for Rook in the pit of his stomach. “Thank you,” he said, pushing the door open with his shoulder. “And thank you for the help with the…umm…bird. If you don’t mind keeping this between us? I’d prefer to keep a low profile… ”
Pal didn’t get an opportunity to answer, however. As the butcher’s hands pulled back in surprise, Borelin suddenly felt himself being wrenched around by the shoulder. He found himself confronted by a large, red-faced man who he did not even recognize.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Mar 15, 2009 23:48:14 GMT -6
“Hey, you!” the man shouted, getting right up in Borelin’s face. Borelin had placed the wrapped meat on top of Storm’s crate. Because of the force of the man’s assault, Borelin watched helplessly as they tumbled off and landed in the snow beside them. “Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”
Borelin stared at the man in confusion. “I’m sorry. There must be some mistake…”
Of about middle years, the man accosting Borelin was not large, but he had a wild unpredictable look in his eyes. His bulbous nose and flushed cheeks were covered with the tracing of broken blood-lines. “No, there’s no mistake,” he snapped. “You think you can come into town and threaten my wife? She was in tears last night because of you!” Pal’s voice piped up behind Borelin. “Hans, what’s going on?”
Hans turned to the butcher. “The hermit here brought a sick boy into town a couple nights back. The kid was almost dead when he arrived at the chapel. My Jaime’s has been taking care of the boy, and he’s been getting better. And then yesterday, this guy goes and almost attacks her, wants her to stay away from him!”
Borelin felt his heart lurch. “Now, just a minute…”
A few passers-by, seeing the altercation, began to wander over to find out what was going on.
“No! You wait a minute!” Hans jabbed a hard finger into Borelin’s chest, forcing his to step back. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on over there. I’ve never seen my wife like this. For the last few days she wont even talk about what’s going on. And then last night, she just sat there…shaking!”
Not wanting to run into Pal, Borelin had stepped back beside the door into the butcher’s. Now Pal turned to him and asked, “Wait a minute. You said you were at chapel. And what’s this about an injured boy?”
Borelin looked back and forth between the two men, anxious about the growing crowd behind them. Despite the fact that it was cold enough outside to see his breath, he felt himself sweating. “I…umm…that is…” he stuttered. All he could think of was how the secret of the lad’s existence was unravelling.
“Sir, I didn’t threaten your wife,” he managed, at last. Had he? He couldn’t even remember exactly what he had done.
Hans took another step forward and pushed Borelin again. “So now you’re calling me a liar?” His jaw quivered with barely contained rage.
Borelin’s back hit the wall behind him, and his head cracked against the iron butcher’s sign. “Ow!” He winced at the pain, and felt a hot flash of anger. As the crate was still in his hands, he jammed it into the man’s chest, and barked out, “That’s enough!” Storm let out a muffled squawk. Over at the sled, Rand, catching Borelin’s anger, stood up and let out a menacing growl. Soon all of the team was on its feet.
All residents of Crainil had a healthy respect for the protective instincts of silverbacks. Those closest to the dogs took several quick steps away, even as more folks were drawn to the developing spectacle. Hans’ head whipped to the dogs, and then snapped back to Borelin. A touch of fear crept into his eyes, dampening his aggression. He took a step back, throwing up his hands in frustration.
“Listen,” Borelin began, willing himself to speak calmly. “I apologize if I frightened your wife. I’m sure that she is a good woman, and I am in debt to her for her good work and caring.”
“Damn straight you are. My Jamie has the heart of an angel!” Turning to the crowd, he added, “And you all know it!”
“She’s a good woman,” Pal answered. He reached out and put his hand on Hans’ shoulder in support.
Borelin’s arms were tired of carrying the crate. He put it carefully down on the ground, and set about collecting the fallen meat as he tried to collect his thoughts. Seeing no further threat to Borelin, the dogs subsided. A silence stretched. Borelin kept hoping that the crowd might disperse, but no one moved. His skin crawled with the feeling of every eye upon him.
Finally, the butcher cleared his throat. “I know a bad wind when I smell it. Hermit, you haven’t been honest with me. Hell, like as you haven’t been honest with any of us.”
Borelin lifted his eyes and looked around him. Every face was lined with distrust and suspicion.
“Maybe we can go inside to speak about this?” Borelin asked.
No one moved. Pal crossed his brawny arms and breathed out a long jet of steam.
Borelin was cornered. “It’s true that I brought a lad into town with me,” he began, reluctantly. “He was seriously injured. Thanks to the good work of Mother Clara, and your wife Jaime, he’s recovering in the infirmary. That’s why I am in town, Pal. Just for a few days, and then I plan to be on back my way.”
The butcher’s forehead was a gathering of furrows. “You got a son, hermit?”
Borelin flushed. “No! No, I…listen, it’s a private matter.” Seeing both men’s eyebrows rise in unison, Borelin realized that his relationship with the lad could be mistaken for the sort of male relations prohibited by the church. “It’s not like that! There’s nothing inappropriate about it!”
Straightening, he looked from one troubled face to the next, seeing the distrust in their eyes. Borelin coughed nervously, aware that his nerves were not helping matters. His words were slow and lurching, torn from him against his will. “I’m his guardian. He came to me as an infant, and I have raised him. At the farm. He fell and broke his legs. That’s all. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to him. He’s lying in the infirmary with a cast on his leg, alone with Otal. Please.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Mar 17, 2009 22:58:47 GMT -6
Chapter 8
“Can a man get no privacy with you people?!” Borelin burst out. He realized that he was being unfair to Clara, but he no longer cared.
Borelin paced back and forth in the chaplain’s sitting room, too agitated to sit still. Clara sat in one of the well-worn stuffed chairs that cluttered the small room, watching him. The chaplain’s taste ran towards simplicity and comfort, and the room showed her preference through functional, unornamented tables and chairs, a well-stocked stone fireplace, and plain woollen tapestries insulating the walls. The stone floor was swept clean of dirt and debris.
“It’s a small town, Borelin,” Clara answered. “Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
Borelin had managed to walk away from his assailant, but not before becoming the central focus of the town’s attention. Even as he rode away, he had heard loud conversations break out behind him. More than a few of them had followed along on foot to the chapel, possibly for no better reason than they were curious about his business. Seeing them coming down the street, Borelin had rushed inside and had thrown one of the cots against the door, barring entry. He had turned to the room and commanded that no one was to open the door. Then he had raced off and quickly told her what had happened.
“Well, I’m not from town!” Borelin snapped. “There’s a reason why I live alone out on the plain. You know damn well that I can’t have people sticking their nose into my business.”
“Borelin, calm down. Getting panicked will only draw more attention to you. There’s nothing that the residents enjoy more than drama. If you don’t give them any, they move on to the next petty crisis.”
“I can’t help it! Half of them are coming here, and then what? What will I say? I’m not good at speaking at the best of times!”
“First of all, how can you be sure they are following you? Perhaps you were just imagining things…” The answer came in an insistent banging that suddenly started up, coming from the direction of the infirmary. Mother Clara’s face took on a confused look. “Why is someone banging on the door?” she asked, confused.
Borelin turned to the chaplain and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Umm…I barred the door.”
“You what?!” Clara was immediately on her feet.
“Clara, I didn’t know what to do. I panicked!”
But the chaplain was already heading out the door. Borelin followed sheepishly. The banging got increasingly louder as they approached. In the infirmary, the nurses appeared huddled together over near to Otal and Rook, staring wide-eyed at the barricaded door. Their eyes snapped to Borelin and Mother Clara.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Mother Clara exclaimed, taking in the situation. “Borelin, do you know what you have done?”
Borelin hung his head and said nothing.
Clara wheeled around, pointed at the door and continued, “If there was any doubt in anyone’s mind as to whether or not there was anything exciting or secret going on, you confirmed it for them with that little stunt!”
Someone threw a shoulder into the door and knocked the cot back a few inches, allowing the door to be wedged open. Hans’ ruddy face appeared in the doorway, and called out, “Jaime, answer me! Are you okay in there? What the hell is going on?”
Hans’ eyes cast across the room and locked on Clara’s. “Mother Clara…” he began, but she cut him off.
“Hans, move away from the door. We’re going to get that cot out of the way, and open the door right now.” Over her shoulder, she said merely “Borelin.” but her tone was such that Borelin wasted no time clearing the blockage from the doorway.
Moments later, a dozen people had stormed inside. Jaime ran and embraced her husband. Borelin clenched his fists in helpless rage as the Crainil residents’ eyes swept over the room and found the boy. Several of them began speaking at once, echoing Hans’ demands to know what was going on.
Mother Clara held up her hands for silence, but no one seemed to pay her any attention. Several of the women began to move down the isle towards where Rook lay, helpless. Borelin wanted to bar their way, but stood rooted in place, far too aware of the disaster he had created by his last impulsive action. He looked over to Otal, helpless and defeated. Their eyes met, and to his surprise the big man winked at him. Borelin blinked in surprise, totally lost and confused. Was the crazy giant actually enjoying the spectacle? The next moment, however, Otal got up from the cot where he lay and stepped into the path of the swarming ladies. His face was transformed into a dangerous scowl. He carefully crossed his massive arms in front of his chest, grunting as he did so in a way that could easily have been mistaken for a silverback’s growl. The women scampered back to the main group.
Clara was still calling for quiet. Finally, the noise subsided somewhat. “Alright,” she began. “What is going on? Why are you all charging into my infirmary? I have sick people here, in need of rest.” For emphasis, she added, pointedly, “Not excitement.”
The group, confronted with a simple question, appeared to have no ready answer. There was a shuffling of feet.
Turning to Alleigh and Jaime, Clara added, “And why are you two cowering like someone has a knife at your throat? There is no danger here.”
Alleigh lifted a finger and pointed a pudgy finger vaguely in Borelin’s direction. “Well…ahh…we were a bit worried about getting in trouble.”
“Getting in trouble?” Clara’s tone made it abundantly clear that if there was anyone they should worry about getting in trouble with, it wasn’t Borelin. Alleigh appeared to shrink into herself.
Hans found his voice. “The hermit said that he had a boy here, who was hurt. We came to see that the boy was okay. And to find out what hermit’s business is with him. He’s obviously up to something!”
A rumble of murmurs echoed from the group.
“He’s obviously,” Clara’s scorn was clear and palpable, “concerned about his injured boy, as he should be. As anyone one of you would be!” She turned and pointed at Rook. “You can see him, there. Sick…and recovering, so long as he is allowed to rest properly.”
Someone in the crowd spoke up. “But why was the door blocked?” The question was echoed by several outraged residents.
“He’s a hermit, for Yaelwe’s sake!” Clara answered. She took a calming breath, and then continued, “If you gave it a moment’s consideration, I think that you would realize that he’s not accustomed to crowds of people pressing into his private affairs. With you, Hans, accosting him in the street, and the rest of you chasing him across town, it’s no wonder he’s terrified.”
No one seemed to have anything to say to that. Borelin again felt the press of their eyes upon him. He wasn’t sure which he like less, their fear or vague sympathy. All he wanted was to be left alone.
After a lengthy pause, Clara spoke again. “Alright, you’ve had your show. Now, if you don’t mind, this is my infirmary and I have a patient to treat. And my nurses have jobs to do.”
With a few grudging apologies, the group filed back out of the infirmary door, and started chatting outside. After a minute or two they appeared to disperse back to town. Clara immediately gave both nurses a series of strenuous chores to occupy their attention. To Otal, she said curtly, “You need to get back to bed. Your own.” She pointed to the cot where he had lain when Borelin first entered the infirmary. With a broad grin and another playful wink at Borelin, the big man hobbled over and lay down.
“Thank you,” Borelin muttered.
“Oh, it’s not over,” the chaplain said in a low voice. “Now they’ll go to Chief Gruuta. You’d better start thinking, because very soon, you are going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
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