Disclaimer: The books Sabriel, Lirael, and Abhorsen belong to Garth Nix.
Set during the third night at Holehallow, in Chapter XV of Sabriel
Canon pairing of Touchstone and Sabriel
Credit where credit is due, inspiration could not have been found without the help of Katia-chan. Thanks!
Courage
Laughter on the evening air, bright and crisp.
Footsteps on stone, a pair of boots crunching over the grass. Quickening—urgent murmurs, a conversation cut short dismissively. The footsteps came closer.
"Mother does not listen. Something is amiss with the Great Stones. You have always trusted me; when have I ever given you reason to doubt? Please help me convince her, the matter is urgent."
A whisper that something was truly wrong.
The sound of echoes, water lapping in a place vast, deep, and still. A hopeful gasp, turned to a final cry of agony. A death wail.
And the scent, the scent of blood—
He stared into the fire, silently mesmerized.
Two hundred years was a long time. Two hundred years, and they were still paying for his mistake. Mogget had been correct in renaming him Touchstone—a fool's name. He was no longer worthy of being a royal guard, of being a bastard, half-royal child. He had no honor left.
His memory was returning. Even more haunting than the images of that night—to him, two nights ago—was the realization that all of it was his fault. He ought to have known, should have understood what had been disturbing him.
The flickering light of the flames did little to lift his spirits, and even less to chase away the chill deep inside him.
The Abhorsen slept opposite him, the fire a wall between them. She had woken a while ago, and realized something was wrong. But he had pushed her away with that word she so hated, milady. He thrust it between them as a shield, though whether to protect himself or her, he was not certain.
Two days or two hundred years… either way, they were still dead, and it was his fault.
Their ghosts did not haunt him as much as did the thought of Rogir, not yet dead, and his twisted ideas. If he only knew how, Touchstone would destroy the fallen man at the first opportunity. Taking responsibility for the task was a heavy grief, but a simple enough chore. He did not lack the courage to defeat this demon.
The inner demons, however, were another matter entirely.
Touchstone could accept responsibility for the death of the royal family. But the courage to live with himself was denied to him.
Not knowing what to do, he stripped himself of his honor and dignity, lowering himself to be the Abhorsen's servant. Help, he had said, is for equals. He could not come to terms with the consequences of his actions; he could not face himself as a man who had made a mistake. So in order to function, he had to be less than a man, had to lose all honor.
Sabriel did not understand. But he did not want to enlighten her.
She was a strange young woman. Too young to be Ahhorsen, too old to be a schoolgirl. Too foreign and ignorant, yet too competent dealing with the Dead. Too caring one moment, too frustrated the next. She wanted to know everything, but only wanted to save her father, not realizing the larger, darker, more-tangled web. She seemed to earnestly want to try her best as a responsible Abhorsen, yet denied herself the title.
She genuinely wanted Touchstone as a friend, a companion. But he shoved her away with his inept servile attitude, which vexed her greatly.
But she did not understand. Even if the Abhorsen was going to be drawn into the whole mess inevitably, he did not want to be accountable by involving her even more with him. His troubles were his own—he would stand alone and face them like a man.
The crackling of the fire mocked him.
The will to live is the heart of all existence. But Touchstone could not find the strength of will within himself to continue to live as a man. If only he could find a bit of faith in himself…
His eyes strayed toward the blanket-shrouded figure behind the flames.
He clung to his doubts, finding them much more reassuring. To believe in himself was risky, chancing that he would be blinded again, that he would hurt himself and others and her. At least if no one trusted him, he would drag no one else down with his mistakes.
The Abhorsen, however, tenaciously continued to trust him. So he pushed her away, refusing to give her information or companionship.
To use her faith to help ease his burden sorely tempted Touchstone. But he denied it.
Surely, the fact that he did this out of some sort of love for her, and that her gestures returned it, was reason enough to give in. Yet he could not find the strength to let her get close.
To stand alone and face one's own demons requires a courage, a courage he lacked. Another option, one seemingly easier, was to let Sabriel share the burden. He could allow her to try and help him, even knowing that she would be hurt.
Perhaps that, too, is a form of courage.
But it was another courage he lacked. He couldn't find the strength to let her trust in him, to confide in her, and let her find pain and sorrow through him. One day, maybe, he would find the faith in himself that he needed, and one day, he would set the doubts aside. One day, the fact that he loved and was loved in return would be reason enough to trust and let himself be trusted. One day, he would find the will to live with himself, to forgive mistakes, to be a man.
But the courage, whatever the form, was missing now. So, alone and haunted, he stared at the embers of the campfire, unable to sleep.
…
End
…
-Windswift Shinju