Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own any of the characters named in this story. Blah blah blah, you know it all anyway. The characters in this story belong to David and Leigh Eddings; the song belongs to the great REM. Yesh.
**A/N: I know, I know, I should really be working on The Rings of Zemoch, but this came to me suddenly and I couldn't resist writing it… The song is REM's fantastic one, 'Losing My Religion'. R+R if possible. ^_~ **
~*~
"Life
Is bigger.
It's bigger than you
And you are not me.
The lengths that I would go to
The distance in your eyes,
Oh no, I've said too much
I set it up…"
The deadly Lochaber axe swung, hacking into the chest of one of the mounted opponents. For a moment the dead man hung on the axe blade, which was dug deep into his body through his ribcage, but the owner of the axe lifted a foot from his stirrups and kicked him free.
In that instant he was unguarded.
A man rode up, wielding a deadly broadsword. There was a cry of warning from one of the knight's comrades, but it was too late. Sir Bevier caught sight of the cruel glint in the eyes of the sword-wielder, before the blade pierced his chest, cutting a deep wound. Someone yelled in grief, and the sword-wielder fell, lacking a head, but, with blood spurting, the Cyrinic dropped from his saddle.
~o~
"That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight
Losing my religion…"
"Choir boy!"
The taunt stung Bevier right to his heart. He sat alone in a corner of the room, apart from the other novices. It was always like this.
"Go join a monastery!" the jeering boy said. "There's no place for priests in the Cyrinic Knights!" The boy's friends laughed, cruelly, mocking.
It would have gone on, had the Preceptor not entered. The novices all stood up straight and looked attentive. Bevier picked himself up and joined the line of his classmates at the end. Last, as usual.
It was at times like this, that he seriously considered giving up his faith. Becoming a Cyrinic Knight meant the world to him. But how could he do it if his classmates wouldn't accept him…?
~o~
"Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no, I've said too much
I haven't said enough.
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing.
I think I thought I saw you try."
He rode his horse furiously at the target.
It was his fifth try that day. The Preceptor only allowed six tries. If you missed six times, you were sent back. It wasn't so bad, Bevier supposed, if it wasn't for the fact that all eleven of his classmates had hit the target that day.
He shifted the lance's weight, pulling the heavy tip up slightly, aiming it. His horse picked up speed. Usually, there would be chants and cheers from the onlookers. At least, there had been for the other boys. Not now.
As he rode, thought flashed through his head in the few short seconds before he reached the target. The earlier words of his Preceptor stuck there.
"Bevier, you're well behind the other boys. If you can't keep up with them, I'm afraid you'll have to leave…"
Grimly, Bevier gritted his teeth and dug his heels into his horse's flanks. The target was coming up at an unbearably fast speed. The lance thudded onto the edge of the target; the sandbag swung around and slammed into the back of Bevier's head. At that moment, his horse, a nervous, new creature, stopped dead.
The young novice flew over the head of the horse, turning a half-somersault and landing with a thud on his back in the dust. From his watching classmates he heard sniggers and chuckles. As he struggled for breath, he felt tears sting his brown eyes.
"Bevier, are you alright?" the Preceptor asked, hurrying over. Hastily, he scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and sat up with a barely audible gasp of pain. "Bevier, you'd better go in for the day. Come on." He took hold of Bevier's arm and helped him to his feet. "Go in. You're not missing much."
But the words of earlier still stuck in the mind of the novice.
"No, sir," he gasped, "please let me try again." His classmates sniggered and jeered, but were quieted instantly by a glare from the Preceptor. The veteran knight nodded.
"Very well, Bevier, but only once more." He whistled piercingly through his teeth, and Bevier's horse trotted up. "Mount up!" he commanded. Bevier did so, and moved the horse to the start point. The Preceptor handed him a fresh lance.
He urged the horse forward, praying silently. If God would only allow him this small victory…
The target, battered, and with the paint cracked, came ever closer. Please, God… Just this one… Please… Bevier was unable to stop himself closing his eyes and waiting for the heavy thump of the sandbag on his back.
There was the jar as the lance hit the target, and he steeled himself, determined not to fall again.
The blow never came.
He opened his eyes. The target was swinging around, a mark in the dead centre that hadn't been there a few seconds before.
His horse turned to avoid the fence.
Someone was applauding.
Bevier looked straight into the eyes of a boy he barely knew, a boy who was the only one applauding his progress. His other classmates glared at both Bevier and the strange boy, but the stranger continued to clap, a small, even friendly smile on his face.
~o~
"Every whisper
Of every waking hour I'm
Choosing my confessions,
Trying to keep an eye on you,
Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool, fool,
Oh no I've said too much,
I set it up."
He watched her walk slowly across the ballroom floor.
He watched her tap a young man on the shoulder.
He watched her ask him to dance.
He watched him agree.
All the while, watching.
Too afraid to ask her.
Too afraid to say anything to her, although he had planned what he would say over, and over, and over again, right through the day and through most of the night.
He watched as she and her dance partner vanished into the crowd, and although he tried to keep watching, they were soon lost from sight.
The only one not dancing that night was him. But how can one dance if one does not have a partner…?
~o~
"Consider this,
The hint of the century,
Consider this,
The slip that brought me
To my knees failed.
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around,
Now I've said too much.
I thought that I heard you laughing,
I thought that I heard you sing,
I think I thought I saw you try…"
Bevier's eyelids fluttered.
Tynian blinked. "Bevier?" he asked quietly after a second. "Can you hear me?"
His companion and friend groaned softly. Tynian took that as an affirmative.
"You took a pretty nasty injury," he informed the semi-conscious Cyrinic. "But I think you'll be alright."
Behind him, the door opened.
"Is he awake?" There was a noticeable note of concern in Sir Spawhawk's voice.
"Sort of," Tynian replied. Sparhawk walked over and looked down at the injured knight.
"It's a bad wound," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he slept for a good few weeks. It's only been seven days, Tynian. Don't get too worried if he doesn't wake for a while."
"I won't," Tynian replied. "I think he'll be alright, though. I bet he's had worse than this…"
~o~
"But that was just a dream,
That was just a dream.
That's me in the corner.
That's me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it.
Oh no, I've said too much.
I haven't said enough.
Bevier, almost a full knight now, watched as they exchanged kisses.
That was all he could do. Watch.
He had been to afraid, too shy to go and confess his feelings to her. Now he had to smile and be friendly to everyone, because it was his best friend's wedding, and it was his duty to be happy.
He knew, in his heart, that it had only been a dream. Since that night she and Bevier's friend danced, they had been in love.
But Bevier had loved her since the day they met.
Fifteen years ago to the day. He was five. She was three. And he had known, even then, that he was in love.
But now she was happy. With his best friend. The same friend who had applauded him, that day on the practise field. Bevier could never forget that day.
He could never forget her, either. Her, with her coppery hair, bright green eyes, fair skin with just a few freckles at the base of her delicate nose. Full, pink, soft lips. She had always been beautiful. Bevier had always dreamed of her, and in his dreams she kissed him, as she was kissing his best friend.
Bevier's heart was in tattered shreds. It would take some repairing.
~o~
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing.
I think I thought I saw you try."
"Sparhawk! He's awake!"
Sparhawk whipped around from his position at the window and strode to the bedside of his friend. Bevier's eyes were open, pain-filled but clear and rational.
"Bevier," the Elenian Champion said, very quietly. "How are you feeling?"
"Not so bad," the young Cyrinic replied, trying to sit up. Berit, the second Pandion in the room, put his large hands on Bevier's shoulders and pushed him firmly back down.
"Stay lying," Berit instructed. "You're not healed yet."
Bevier lay back, remembering the dreams he had had. Memories of his novitiate, mainly, his time studying in the Cyrinic chapterhouse.
Memories of the girl he had once loved.
That was over now. There was no need to dwell in the past. He hadn't seen her since the day of her wedding. He hardly ever thought about her, and even when he did, it was only in fond recollection of the days they spent playing together as young children. He knew that the notion of him and her being together had always been a vain hope, a fantasy, a dream.
And after all, there's no point dwelling on dreams.
"That was just a dream
Just a dream
Just a dream
Dream…"
~*~