To Brave the Dark
Warnings: Spoilers for the end of the book.
Ratings: PG-13
Notes: Written for Yuletide 2009, for corbeaun.
Disclaimer: This world and its characters belong to C.J. Cherryh. No infringement is intended, nor profit being made.
Summary: At the end of the battle, as the Shadows are dispersed and the enemy is vanquished, Cefwyn Marhanen fears for the friend who saved them all.
There was shadow, rolling across the edges of his sight, and a wind that wailed and gibbered and seemed to laugh. There were men, screaming and striking out at nothing he could see. He grit his teeth, and faced forward. He could do nothing against the wind. Nothing against the dark. Nothing to fight against what loomed behind Aseyneddin's army, except trust to Tristen. He wished, raging at the futility of his wishes, for his friend's success. And feared it, for what victory might cost.
If he saw his friend, his friend, again, would he meet Tristen's clear gray eyes? Or something darker, something so much older and less innocent? Or, pained thought that he could not banish, would Tristen leave his life as suddenly, as shockingly, as he'd entered it?
He doubted. And ached with that doubt, as he pushed Kanwy forward, mechanically striking with sword and shield against the press of battle.
And then, over the clash of arms and the wind's dark howl, he heard Uwen Lewin's son cry out, stricken, and the scudding dark was gone.
The wind, the mad, shrieking wind, stopped.
And for a moment, Cefwyn heard only the thud of his own pulse in his ears, and the sharp, scattered sound of debris falling from the air, striking armour. It was as if the whole battlefield. . . paused.
Tristen, he thought, anguished, Uwen's cry ringing in his ears. Grimacing, he made himself raise his sword again, hammering it into the shield of one of Aseyneddin's men, who seemed now bewildered. Lost.
He hadn't time now to see what his friend had done to so grieve his man. The battlefield had snapped into an abrupt and terrible clarity, hard-edged and brilliant under the high, pearl gray skies. The shadows now were honest things, and the fight was shifting to his advantage.
"Advance!" he roared, sending Kanwy towards the tangled knot of black banners. "Sound the charge, for Ylesuin, and the Lady Regent!"And oh, the enemy had faltered, was falling in on itself. His own banners, blood red and ragged from the swirling winds, no longer shone with Tristen's eldritch light. But they were a brave sight still, surging forward, his men behind them yelling now in triumph. The Marhanen Dragon, bold against the sky, the Wheel and the Eagle right behind it, the White Horse billowing at its side.
Tristen's black banner was nowhere to be seen.
But there was Aseyneddin's banner, which he knew, utterly, irrationally knew, belonged by rights to Tristen. And he felt a reckless sort of joy winging up in his heart, at the prospect of tearing it out of usurping hands. As if he could tear Tristen away from whatever threat held him from his side. As if he could.
The day, and it was honest day now, if a clouded one, was won. Cefwyn wiped sweat from over his eyes with a hand that hardly shook at all, and felt the grit of dust and windswept grass that stuck to every bit of exposed skin. Umanon and Cevulirn, not far from him, seemed calm, though there was a wildness to Umanon's eyes, and Cevulirn looked long and hard at the darkness beneath the trees.
"My lord," he heard, and found Idrys at his side.
"Master crow." His voice creaked. "Is there any sign of him?" No need to say who he waited for. All who'd fought on the field knew who had snatched this victory out of the dark. And none had seen him since.
"No. Lewin's son is still looking." By Idrys' direct stare, he had more to say. Cefwyn felt a stirring of protest.
"You were wise not to look for him yourself."
"The man saved us all!" Cefwyn snapped, impatient with Idrys' cautions. Afraid they might be needed.
"The Man. I think we've all been shown the truth of that, at this point. My king, he saved us, yes, and none here would deny it. But he is powerful. And how could he not have come into his memories after that? He will not be Tristen anymore. Would you take Barrakketh into your heart? He is a danger, my lord king. You should not keep him close."
The protest coiled tighter, and Cefwyn knew it burned in his eyes. But Idrys, loyal Idrys, would persist in seeing every threat. And guarding against every threat. It was a protection, one a king could not afford to discard.
Cefwyn swallowed his anger. And if his voice was cold when he answered Idrys, it was not angry.
"He is my friend, master crow. He has earned, three times over, our gratitude, and proven his friendship. I will not send him away." If he was not lost already. If he had not left him in the dark.
Idrys looked steadily at his face, not fooled. "Love him all you want, my lord king. I can not stop you. But do not trust him."
Cefwyn set his jaw, aware of the southern lords, just out of earshot. Of Ninevrise's banner, coming up the hill to join them. "Idrys," he said, as his adviser turned away. "I do hear you. But I will trust him."
"And if he is, in truth, Barrakketh, and not the innocent you trust?"
Cefwyn looked to the field, where the wounded cried for mercy on the blood soaked ground, and soldiers moved, gathering comrades, sitting by the dead. Beyond a point, sharply defined by wind-torn sod, there was no movement but the flapping of crows. No sound but the birds' cold cries. There were no wounded there.
"Tristen . . . " he started, and had to swallow, his throat dry. "If Tristen is not Tristen, than I much doubt he will come back at all."
That possibility of loss sent stark terror shivering down his spine, and Cefwyn leaned, as imperceptively as he could, against Kanwy's shoulder, needing his strength to keep him standing.
A king could not collapse on the field of victory.
There were things to see to. Prisoners to be dealt with, those few of Aseyneddin's men who had not fled outright, or died on the field. But Cefwyn felt no great urge to attend to them, just yet. Idrys would take care of things. The southern lords' captains would help him.
Pelumer had come, late, and dark eyed. Cefwyn didn't want to speculate on what he'd found in the woods. But his banner stood now amongst the other lords', and his men had helped round up the routed Elwynim.
Ninevrise said that Sovrag was alive, as well.
They only lacked for Tristen.
There were riders coming up the hill. Cefwyn realized he was staring at them only when the men around him began to stir, uneasy. They were so black, horses and riders all, stark and unearthly against the pale sky. His breath caught. Men raised hands to make signs against harm, and stopped, unsure of their potency, after meeting with real Shadow.
But he knew those horses, as he knew his own. And as they crested the hill and came near enough to see, there was Uwen's blue Cassam, and there, oh there, was Tristen's black Dys, carrying Tristen back to him.
He looked so very tired, somehow thin, insubstantial. His black armour sagged on his tall frame, laces torn, pieces ripped loose. Cefwyn felt a chill shake at his bones. He looked . . . ghostly. His face was still. Remote.
Please, he found himself begging of gods he'd never quite believed in, please let him come back to me.
Hands were on weapons at his back -- instinctive fear. He wanted to stop them, but found himself frozen. Doubting, and hating himself for it.
The dark rider raised a hand then, barely shoulder high, in a move that spoke not of threat, but of exhaustion, and pain.
"Cefwyn," he heard, and gods it was Tristen's voice, so tired and so pure, and Cefwyn trembled in relief, in a joy so all encompassing he felt he must show it for all to see. And he should not. Should not.
He moved, to conceal that secret joy, and shrugged off Idrys, when Idrys would have held him back, suspicious as he always was. But it was Tristen. It was Tristen, and Cefwyn would not doubt him.
He slid from Dys's back, tattered armour rattling, and Cefwyn fought the urge to run to him like a child, like a lover. He walked up and took his hand instead, so carefully. It felt blistered. The gloves were singed away. The black armour, close up, looked almost melted, but felt chilled to the touch, and Cefwyn shuddered.
"I lost my shield," Tristen told him, sounding impossibly young. "And my helm, I don't know where, my lord."
Cefwyn couldn't stand it, that lost note in Tristen's voice. He was standing so close, but sounded so far away, like he was finding his way back from some great distance. From some dark, cold place.
Impulsively, he hugged the armoured form tightly. As if he could hold him here, with him, and keep him warm.
"Gods," he breathed, Tristen's dark hair tickling against his lips. The smell of him, of sweat and armour and singed leather, grounded him, it was so real. Tristen's hands came up to grip his arms, and Cefwyn felt truly whole for the first time since the Shadows rolled over the field.
"You fool." He did not know then, whether he meant Tristen, or himself. "You great fool."
fin