Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

40 The Book

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    Ahh, the stink was gone. Damn all that bloody cold water though, his nuts felt more like balls of ice and hurt up into his kidneys, kind of like an arrow in the lower back with less blood all over. The blood he washed his off his body and clothing had tinged the river water but now it was gone for good. Forgetting your sin worked better without blood on your hands. The leathers were soaked through, but he couldn't imagine bathing nude what with the company so close by. And talk of company, Avétk realised with a shock the Apprentice sat at the edge of the river watching him.

    'Denir, is it?' he asked.

    'Yeah,' she called. That dark hood covered her features, but he could feel her eyes on him.

    'Where we headed?' The sun would soon peak over the horizon and melt the ice in his balls. He wanted to light a fire, but that would be foolish.

    The hood moved and she glanced behind her to where Ketiya lay snuggled against the lordling. The cowl shifted position, pointing at the Mage. She was reluctant to share with him, but he had learned a thing about silence. Silence had its own gifts, it could make you seem wise, it could open a closed heart, it could put a cold blade to a point. It was like a spell, except so much easier to make. The only challenge wasstaying silent long enough to get the the thing you wanted. Denirya seemed brash and filled with fettered wrath. She would give in to his silence, he knew. So he kept his eyes on her as he waded out of the water, then plopped down at her side, his trousers squelching.

    'North,' she muttered. Yeah, that had been obvious.

    'You know that's not what I meant,' he said.

    She grunted and leaned back on her arms. The woman loved that coat of hers, with the dark hood always covering her face. But Avétk was past judging such things. After all, he preferred his expensive leathers and decorated axe. Some might have called her a witch, and in fact she was, but to rule a person wicked for their clothing was, in his mind, unfair. The sign was in the eyes, not the clothing. The eyes are windows to the soul. He tried to recall what her eyes had looked like and could not. Was that the purpose of the dark coat? He wanted to ask, but the silence brought forth more interesting things than questions would. Instead, he watched her.

    The sun rose behind him, and the warmth felt so good on his aching kidneys. Dear Fathers, that was amazing. The air became warmer, nature awoke around them, and his silence endured. At last, she spoke.

    'Why do you do this, Warrior?'

    'What?' he asked without thinking. So much for the silence.

    'The fighting, the blood, the thing with the girl child...'

    He scratched at his growing beard and recalled he'd need to trim it soon. 'Why do you ask?'

    A sigh puffed from beneath her dark hood. Again she turned and watched the others. They all slept. Even the Mage's eyes had closed. With one swift motion, she threw the hood off. A frown creased her brow, and her blonde plait swung behind her back. She bit her full lips and met his eyes. And by the Immortals, those eyes told a tale. They were, at first glance, green, but cracks ran through the irises, and at the center of her eyes there was the slightest hint of hazelnut. 'It's just, I've never seen someone kill the way you did back there. She shook her head and looked at the river. 'I don't mean the ruthlessness or the violence. That's nothing new. I mean with such a lack of... of fear, emotion. It was as if you were numb.'

    Again she met his eyes. 'But I saw you with the girl child, I saw the raw emotion there.' She picked at the grass. 'I suppose I envy you. How do you kill so mercilessly and love so deeply?'

    Love? His heart hammered in his chest, and he imagined Emeline's perfect face. Yes, he loved her—this near stranger had seen straight through him. There went his belief that he no longer had a heart to love with or to care. After all, when the curse burned inside him, nobody mattered. But then, that was different now, wasn't it? Emeline mattered. She would always matter. Avétk struggled to find the words to explain to her.

    The Apprentice pulled her knees up and hugged them. So full of anger, but so full of pain. Perhaps they were connected. Again, he wanted to ask, but instead he answered her. Maybe his pain could guide her somehow. Mamma's lessons about storytelling resurfaced, and he gathered his thoughts before he spoke. Talking without thinking led to foolish jabbering.

    'You know I'm cursed, right?' He was nearly too afraid to look for her reaction, but he did, and she nodded. There was no hate there, no hate for him anyway. 'It happened when I was nine. I fell, in the Gruwoud, pain coursed through my veins and throbbed in every cell of my body, every limb, every hair. What was real and wasn't became unclear. There were sounds and faces and... it was the most terrifying night of my life.' Goosebumps rose on Avétk's arms, he told himself it was the cold leaving his body and half believed it. 'I killed my best friend after that. I remember each detail, the purple and pink hues of his intestines as they spilled from his body, his eyes glazing over with death, the grey hue of his skin...but I feel none of the ache I should. As if I was watching from a distance while a lamb is slaughtered for dinner.'

    The Apprentice held herself with one arm but watched him, listening intently.

    'The village I lived in, they—the townspeople, they banished my mother and I to the Gruwoud Forest. I was furious. After that, the anger and the curse tinged all my thoughts. I hated the villagers, and I hated myself even more.' He paused, the pauses were so essential to good storytelling. The sun had dried the material on his back, so he turned to face the river and shuffled a bit closer to the Apprentice.

    'And?' she said.

    'I believed I had no heart,' he said. The river water lapped at the rocky riverbed. 'Thing is, when you cling to hurt and anger, it's as if you've swallowed a boulder. And gods damned, that boulder drags your soul into an abyss of numb hate.'

    'Mmm,' she said and threw a pebbled at the waters.

    'The longer you wait,' he said, 'the harder it is to pull yourself onto the banks of those deep waters, the harder it is to recall what it means to feel or care.'

    Denir's silence was more than silence. A tear streaked down her cheek and she swiped it away.

    'For the longest time, I was drowning. I suppose you could say the only thing I felt was my blade splitting skin, and even that was like the song of a ghost in the night. But then I found this child. There's something about her, something other-worldly and undeniably attractive.'

    Why in the Fathers' names was he telling Denirya this? He'd barely acknowledged this to himself.

    She smiled at him, her arms folded over her knees and her chin resting atop it.

    'Having her near, it's been like a fire slowly kindled. Now the flame burns in my chest, this consuming passion, and I owe it to her. I owe my life to her. No, more than my life—what is it worth to feel, to know you are truly alive?'

    'That's beautiful,' she whispered. She frowned at the river waters. 'The Fathers must hate me.'

    A snort came from behind them, and Färin sat up looking confused, a streak of drool down his cheek. Ketiya stirred too. Avétk and Denirya looked, but Avétk spotted something in Denirya's eyes. There was something about this man. He looked closer. Yes, a spark in her eyes when he watched Färin. Maybe the man would save her from her pain. Maybe he could light a fire in her too.

PS

Thanks for reading people. I've been brewing over this chapter for so long I feel guilty. Maybe I overthink my writing. I must also admit that I've been unwell for almost a month, and dear @Mvondel inspired me to finish this chapter. Thanks hun! Please continue voting and commenting. Not only does it make my day, but it pushes the ratings of my book, which means more people will read it.