XXIV. The Bloody Sword

Soren did not know what to do. His weeping had ceased, and all thought ended with the tattered, bloodied gown he held in his hands. There was nothing else.

He felt tired.

He stood, gently holding the gown in his hands, and saw nothing of interest in the room. The silence around him continued. He saw another entryway which he had not noticed earlier. He entered it, and saw a bed, covered with a red linen blanket over plain wool sheets.

He sat upon the bed. He heard a noise like something falling in the other room, but he did not care.

He stared at the gown with a mute, blank expression. He called upon a memory, any memory, and recalled the metal blade which she held. And he felt nothing.

He set the gown down, across from him on the bed. He lay down next to the gown.

And he felt tired.

There was no desire in his body to sleep, yet he could scarcely keep his eyelids open.

There was no desire in his mind but one, and he saw the darkness beneath his eyelids as a blanket of soft, green grass he could rest upon.

He fell asleep.

***

Soren opened his eyes, found himself in a silence that was totalizing, as blades and hammers and axes clashed around him.

An iron helmet was upon his head, the visor narrowing his vision as a man in armor colored like bronze raised a sword against him. Soren dodged the strike, incanted a spell of force, sending the soldier backward a few feet. He had but a shield in the other hand.

He looked round, saw towering plumes of smoke rising in a distance across the melee upon the plain. Fires burned in patches across the ground, the sun was setting, and the high wall of a castle fired arrows, some striking the ground with explosions which set other soldiers on fire, and they could not put out the fire even as some rolled against mud.

Next to him a war hammer fell upon the helm of a man, and the helm dented into his skull and a surge of blood fell out from the helm while an extruding eyeball dangled as he collapsed upon the ground and breathed no more.

Across from him a sword slashed another man’s abdomen, and his viscera were exposed, and fell out of him.

And Soren heard his own fierce breathing, looking upon the men on the ground, friend or foe for it did not matter to him, and he did not see a wound he could mend upon any of them, for they were beyond all measure crushed, slashed, dismembered, impaled, burnt, beheaded—

He felt a sharp sudden pain as a woman in red and gold armor erupted out of a maelstrom of bodies. He bent over as he gnashed his teeth in pain, and saw the red hilt, the inlaid vein of gold running up the blade.

And he looked up, and saw all the bodies around him had vanished, and there was nothing but blood in splotches across the grass.

And he saw her face.

Skin the color of cocoa. Deep blue eyes, crystalline in the blood of the sun. A proud, stalwart nose. Lips shaded a warm pink.

She seared him with her glare, her fury in her brow—

From her head held aloft at her side, cradled in her arm.

Soren stared at the blade, felt as if the wound were grinding against it, felt sick—

He gripped the blade as he looked upon her, mustered the strength to speak, and said,

“Do… do you think… I don’t know what this feels like?”

Blood escaped from his mouth. Her glare did not relent.

“I had… many… sleepless nights before… you went away.”

He pulled himself forward upon the blade. Her glare fractured for but a moment.

“And I had… ever more… afterward.”

He pulled himself forward groaning as blood dripped steadily from his chin. Her brow began to twitch.

“But I… I have… been seen… and I know… that is not enough.”

He pulled himself forward the blade cutting into his hands.

“What little… I have… to offer.”

He pulled himself forward and felt sick with the taste of iron.

“But… what little… I have… I give it all… to you.”

He pulled himself forward. Her brow contorted with fury and anguish.

“Everything… everything… if you… will still...”

He pulled himself forward standing before her body.

The crimson armor stood stalwart with her, inlaid with gold veins through the center of each piece. He stood. Panting, vision fading, before he saw her face again—

As angry as she had ever been, while her brow was raised in pain.

“But… one thing… have no… right… to ask… but…”

He reached for her head, hands trembling as he felt her cheeks.

He waited.

And her glare did relent.

“Thank… you.”

And he took her head, gently, and placed it upon her neck. He saw his blood upon her cheeks, and her fury and anguish fixed while her glare did relent.

And he could not help a slight smile as he brought his fingers to the seam of her neck.

“Never… done this… before…”

Soft, silvery light glowed beneath his fingers, as he focused, incanting under his breath, tracing the seam around the neck, over, and over again and while the timbre of a small altar bell sang; caro coalescat—

He looked upon the scar where the seam had been, smiled before groaning, coughing up blood which fell upon her face.

He began to wipe away the blood on her face.

“Apo...logies…”

And unable to muster strength he felt himself falling against the sword—

And he felt a firm grip on his arm as his eyes creaked open once more.

And her fury did relent.

She pulled him close and held him. He felt her hands wringing the tunic around his back. She pulled him closer and whispered into his ear with her strong, alto voice—

“Thank you, my lily.”

And the pain receded from his wound, as he shut his eyes, nestled into her neck, and felt her bare hand upon his head.

He fell asleep.