Chapter 23: The truth comes crashing down (2)

Now throw those wings away/ The sky is so far from earth/Remember me my son/When light fades/Sometimes truth chains our dreams/And we are crushed by the burden of time/While our aimless life/Flows towards the dark/Hope/Lifelong hope/Cruel sad joke/Die by hope.
(Macbeth - Lifelong hope Lyrics)


Red pain flickered on the edges of Eireannan’s vision. Blood trickled steadily under his shirt, where Saidan Dathrothan’s blade had sliced across his ribs. He stumbled and faked he had stopped to look over his shoulder, searching for any signs of pursuit. Likely, no one had followed them. Chaos reigned over the Scarlet Bastion as they had made their escape.
Only a little more now. Light Hope’s chapel was just across the hill. And it was dawning. Suddenly he wanted to laugh.

They all looked worse for the wear, yet it was more than he could have expected under the circumstances. Garon and Tjolme both had cuts and bruises and breastplates significantly more battered than before. Haldan had taken some tumbles as well, though less than the rest – and now he was loaded with all the papers they had managed to salvage from the burning archives.

To his right, Lainné stopped constantly to peer around – for the same reasons as he did, Eireannan suspected. After such a fight it was a wonder she could stand.
He had stopped her almost forcefully from healing him as they had cut their way out of Stratholme. For once the woman had seen reason. His wounds were not truly life threatening, and she was ready to fall on her face from exhaustion, a risk none of them could afford.

He missed a step again and glanced sideways towards Lainné, hoping she hadn’t noticed. He was aware of the searing pain of the wounds in the distant, out of body way which came with long years of discipline. A corner of his mind told him he bled too much, but he shut it down, mercilessly. Bring them all to safety first. There would be time for mending wounds afterwards.

The landscape ahead seemed to blur in the morning light and he had to blink several times to clear his vision. What had he been thinking of before? Lainné. She deserved the truth and he had sworn to himself to tell it all, if they escaped from Stratholme…

“A gold coin for your thoughts”…

Lainné breathed hard but somehow she was smiling. No to him, to anyone in particular. That night hadn’t changed anything. He still ought to found a way to see her safely away. The Vale of Stranglethorn wasn’t far enough for that matter.

He grimaced.

“They aren’t worth a copper.” Eireannan paused thoughtfully. “I need to tell you something, though…” His boot caught the edge of a rock and he slipped. Lainné’s arms wrapped around his middle in the space of a breath, even if she was in no condition to support him. He gazed down at her – she wasn’t smiling anymore. Haggard eyes in a face much too pale fixed him with shattering intensity.
Light Hope’s chapel was just over that hill, really. Why did she look so worried? – no, on the brink of panic…why…

The world tilted violently. He wasn’t aware that he was falling. Not until his head connected hard to the rugged ground at any rate.
Light wavered…diminished…died…Darkness claimed him…

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The first thing Eireannan became aware of was warmth. Sweet, pleasant warmth wrapping him tightly, like a protective cocoon. Memory unfolded too fast for him to savor the feeling. He opened his eyes - and blinked, trying to adjust to the light of day that angled abruptly between the tent flaps. The hand he lifted to shield his face tangled instead in something silken. Lainné lay to his left side and she moaned as he moved, then shifted to look at him, dark eyes wide and glossy.

“Eirean”, she cried, before pressing her face hard against his shoulder, words lost in a whisper his ears couldn’t catch. His fingers instinctively stroked her hair, trying to put some reassurance into the gesture – he doubted he could speak in that very moment.

“Well, good morning, sleeping beauty…”

The sound of that ragged voice made him jump, halfway sitting before he could even look around. A swarm of angry locusts seemed to take flight inside his head and he pressed a palm against his forehead with a groan. Lainné clang to his side, worriedly, trying to push him back down on the blankets – but he struggled to sit, glancing from his own barely scarred hands to the man perched on a stool in front of the tent’s entrance.

“Can’t say I’ve been bored though…sister Mayhrin here and I talked a lot…about herbs, mostly…”

Lainne turned around, to look angrily at the man, as he rose from his stool and moved closer. He must have been at least eighty, with receding white hair and a lined face, yet he stood straight of back. The rasping voice continued, casually ignoring Lainne's glare and Eireannan's shock.

“And what do I hear? Saidan Dathrothan possessed by a dreadlord? That is a terrible blow for the crusade. Rotten from the inside, like an apple..." He chuckled. "This attempt was madness, though. Sheer madness...and yet no less than I expected of you..."

"Father Marcus", Eireannan breathed. Jolts of pain danced in his skull and he resolved to keep his head steady. It was hard to believe there where so many places in his body that could hurt.

“What where you trying to do, lad? Kill yourself? You’re lucky this young woman is so skilled. I wouldn’t have spared such effort on you, though. Morons deserve to die…!”

“You have no right to talk to me so”, Eireannan grated. Unluckily, he moved at the same time and the flashing pain that exploded in his head could have rivaled fireworks. He toppled forward, clutching his temples with both hands and making obvious efforts not to cry out.

“Just because you’re not my apprentice anymore, doesn’t mean I will not call you an idiot whenever you act like one…Be grateful there aren’t any floors to scrub around here…”

The words made Eireannan’s head come up despite the nauseating swirl inside his stomach. The little color he had regained drained from his face in the space of a moment.

“Father, don’t”. He sounded pleading, desperately so. The elder man snorted and waved away the words, sounding rather concerned than embarrassed.

“I’ve already told her the whole truth. Did you ever intend to?”

Slowly, he dared turn his head towards her. Lainné busied herself with smoothing unnecessarily the edges of the blanket. She didn’t seem angry, yet she didn’t look at him either.

“Lainné?”

No, no wound of the body could compare to the festering plague in his soul. At times he succeeded to ignore it...for an hour…for a day. The loss was always there, an awfully hollow spot in the back of his head, so much like the dull ache following an amputation.
He pushed the pain away, wrapping it into a tight bundle he could look at in a detached manner. A simple focus exercise he had learned during the first years of training. That pain was no longer his, yet still spanned his awareness, a mass of raw feelings too deep to be touched.

Panic seized him by the throat as he realized tears were streaming down his face. Hot white anger suddenly turned into a pitiful struggle to swallow the sobs that threatened to tear him apart. Lainné kept her face down, so he couldn’t see her expression, while the elderly priest watched him with a hint of compassion in the blue, sharp eyes. Finally he gave in and started to cry.