Merry early Christmas everyone! My first semester at John Carroll was amazing, and my studying paid off - I will continue to be eligible for my scholarship. Next semester includes a Fiction workshop class! I'm so thrilled! Break has been great so far. I love writing this story, and I love all my readers. The response to this story has humbled and inspired me, it really drives home that my efforts are not in vain. Please, enjoy your well-deserved present.
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Inspired by Ocarina of Time
Chapter Fifty: A Life Owed
The rain poured down, relentless, making the ground slick under the feet of the Falcon's Sixteenth. Mid-afternoon, the sun hung six hands high from the eastern horizon.
"Isn't it time to be packing up and leaving camp?" Eller wondered aloud, eying his fellow soldiers. "Where's the Captain?"
The others quickly discovered Captain Keen hadn't been seen since breakfast.
"No, not since breakfast. He went into his tent when it started raining." Rana said, and Lieutenant Muiren settled his helmet further onto his head with a frown.
"I'll see to him, lads. Have a care and take down the tents." He squared his shoulders as he strode to the officer's tent, and ducked inside.
It was worse than he'd thought.
Keen leaned against the tent pole, knees drawn up to his chest. He had his chin on his knees and his arms wrapped protectively around himself, hands clutching his biceps so tightly his knuckles were white. His eyes stared sightlessly forward.
"Captain Keen?" Muiren tried, "We need to leave, Captain."
"I can't go out there, Muiren." Keen replied dully.
"Whyever not?"
"Because if I go out in the rain, I'll be back there again. It was their favorite thing to do to me. The drowning. The men shouldn't see me like this. Bad enough that we're going to lose the war. It would be bad for morale."
"They've seen you worse." Walden Muiren assured his friend, his captain. "We need you now. When the war is over, we'll find a way to help you. But we need you. Now."
"The war waits for no one." Keen said with a deranged smile, and leveraged himself off the ground. He stumbled out of the tent. Keen made a harsh noise as cool raindrops hit his face, then crammed his helmet onto his head roughly, leaving a hand on the crown as if the action soothed him.
When he noticed his men staring at him, he reached for his composure, spine straightening.
"Pack up. We're moving for Scena within the hour!" Keen barked, and the men saluted crisply, fists over their hearts. They looked relieved.
Muiren shook his head and started pulling tent pegs up, mentally readying himself for the troop's new mission. After the resounding defeat at the Crowfield, the Falcon's Sixteenth were being punished for unofficially surrendering to the enemy. But their skills in battle, tracking, and ability to survive suicide missions had made Keen – and the troop – too valuable to demote. So they were back where they had realized their full potential – deep behind enemy lines, with an official mission this time.
A double agent in the employ of the South had let slip that three very important figures in the Southern leadership were all traveling from Crimen to Kelyeso. They were traveling with a small entourage to avoid attention. These very important people would pass near Scena, a small fishing town on the shore of the northwestern finger of Lake Hylia.
General Justice had died in Briarsedge. The Falcon's Sixteenth had had their command changed to General Hardies, who'd been dealt a nearly mortal blow at the Crowfield and was still recovering in Plains Province. So now, General Adrewiss had ordered the Wolf and his pack of nine to ambush and kill the VIPs in Scena.
This would make it the eighth suicide mission the Pack been assigned. If they hadn't died yet, they probably wouldn't now.
The day was hot, stifling humidity pressing against Ganondorf's dark skin, keeping the sweat on his brow from cooling. Thoughtlessly, he ran his magic through his veins, into the capillaries close to the skin. It was not an actual cooling spell, per se. He was merely utilizing the natural cooling properties of Gerudo magic.
He was tired, from a long day's travel, from the distinctly unpleasant after effects of traveling via leyline, and from maintaining the illusion spell meant to disguise his entourage of guards as a caravan of wounded soldiers heading for kinder climes. With him were Duke Benyamin from Drought Country, and Hansellen, the second son of Duke Hansel of Lakeland Province. The three lords were spread out amongst a mounted escort twenty-five men strong.
Ganondorf's trip from Crimen had been long, but safe. Crimen had fallen to the South long ago, its citizens now eager for freedom, its wealth making the end of war that much closer. The conflict that had started the civil war had started in the depths of Imally Province, and the North had focused on that Province of the most unruly and defiant of dukes, Fran the Bastard. While the Hylian King's attention was on Imally, Lake Hylia had quietly done away with the King's watchers, and begun seeding every field left to pasture in anticipation of conflict closer to the Northern border. Lakeland Province had been next. Only Crimen had resisted. Drought Country was won easily – the land too poor to waste soldiers on.
As for securing the borders of Imally, long overdue, that goal was within sight but not quite within reach.
Ganondorf knew, objectively, that the South would win. It was a matter of resources and manpower, of loyal civilians willing and motivated to sacrifice time, effort, and material goods in order to secure their liberty.
These Northern soldiers had better training, yes. They had the battle mages. The cannons in force. But the common soldiers, the footmen and pikemen, had no cause to inspire them beyond bringing in an income.
Until that damnable Wolf had come onto the stage of war. The Wolf of the North, and his pack of nine. The Wolf was just a man, he would die just as easily as any other. Yet he did not perish, not in Ballyn Fields, not on the Crowfield. Not on the supposed gross of suicide missions it was rumored his pack had carried out. He seemed able to slip into the heart of the South without being noticed, able to inspire armies to fight battles doomed to fail.
It was just as well the South had their own champion, silent in the North. Even now Link was carrying out his mission to bring the Hylian crown to its knees, cunning and amiable as he was. Six blood sacrifices to win the Triforce, and with it, the key to punishing the Hylian King. The Gerudo blood had come from Ganondorf, the Sheikah blood from Aru before she had joined the war in the South. The Hylian blood had come from Ferrick Rauros. It was up to Link to gather the Goron, Zora, and forest child blood.
The road that followed the shore of Lake Hylia grew steep as it climbed a high hill. To the right, the hill cut away to reveal a cliff face that looked over the clear blue waters of the lake. To the left was a small, dark stand of trees meant to serve as a windbreak for the planted fields that littered this part of the lakeshore.
There was some commotion from the vanguard ahead, who had stopped abruptly. The group of twenty guards, all on horseback, compressed as the middle and rear caught up to those in front.
"Is there a problem?" Ganondorf asked Lord Hansellen in front of him. The young man looked nervously at the Gerudo king.
"I don't think so, no. There's a few trees down, blocking the road. Must've fallen during yesterday's thunderstorm."
"I see." The king said, and patiently settled himself in the saddle as he waited for the vanguard to reopen the path through Scena's hils. The mounts of the two Lords and those of the guards shifted uneasily, snorting and flicking their ears.
There was a tremendous, creaking crash from the rear as another tree fell from the dark thicket of woods, blocking the way back.
"What on- ah!" Hansellen began, then gurgled as an arrow took him in the throat, burying itself in the small gap between light mail and his helmet.
Ganondorf met the man's eyes as the nobleman clawed at his neck, blood gushing slippery through armored fingers. His eyes unfocused, filming up, and slid slowly off the saddle onto the ledge close to the cliff edge. The King stared for a moment, then roused, drawing up his magic to shield himself, right hand reaching for his blade. He grimaced – travelling through the leylines hadn't drained his magic, but made it finicky and elusive – he could feel how weak his concentration was.
The sound of the bewildered troop was abruptly cut as a barrage of arrows whistled through the air, slowly picking off men one by one. Arrows meant for Ganondorf ricocheted off his magic shield, several striking men around him.
Enough. Ganondorf traced the arrows, looking for the archer likely hiding in the forest. When he found the source, he exhaled forcefully into his left palm, letting a small flower of fire blossom in the center, growing slowly. He raised his hand, palm up, and with pursed lips he blew the fire construct towards the hidden archer towards the rear of the wooded patch.
Fire rent the earth, shaking the ground nearby. Some of the dirt and rock by the lip of the cliff tumbled down to settle on the scree at the base of the cliff. Trees and branches crashed down, showering the path, guards on horseback, and corpses with leaves and tree nuts. The horses screamed, eyes rolling in fright. The Gerudo king's mount reared, and the man fought to stay in his saddle.
The barrage of arrows continued from the far end of the trees, and Ganondorf heard the guard commander order some of his men to attack the archers there. Ganondorf breathed in deeply and cast the same fire flower spell as before, sending it out to the other end of the thicket. But the spell construct seemed to bounce off an invisible shield, and rebounded instead directly into the charging trio of guards, who died in a screaming blaze along with their horses, the flames so hot all but bone was seared away.
Ganondorf drew a second shield layer around himself, further strengthening his protection. He looked frantically around himself, trying to calm his steed as his horse backed up and scuttled sideways, shaking its mane in agitation. What had once been a formidable troop of twenty-four mounted soldier escorts, now remained only six a-horseback, clustered around the King.
"Duke Benyamin is lost, my lord!" A soldier originally posted in the vanguard yelled, sword drawn.
There was a disturbance from the wasted rear portion of the woods. A man in Northern grey-blue loped down the hill, weaving through the remains of scorched and fallen trees, directly for Ganondorf. At the same time, balls of fire were flung at the remaining guards, herding them into place so the last archer could take a better shot. An ingenious ambush.
The Northern soldier drew his sword as he closed in at a run. The closest guard lashed down with a spear, but the assassin deflected the spear tip and slashed at the side of the guard's saddle girth, then cut the tendons in the horse's rear leg. The guard squawked as he and the saddle slid off the injured horse – an arrow then took him through the eye.
Ganondorf pulled his magic tight – and the assassin slipped through the barrier as if it wasn't even there. Too late the king reached for his weapon, and managed to catch the incoming blade with the metal bracer strapped to his forearm.
He dropped the shields in favor of hurling a flurry of wind-blades at the assassin, who shrugged them off easily, yanking his sword back for another strike, which Ganondorf trapped between his bracers, arms crossed. An arrow caught Ganondorf in the shoulder – he ignored it. The Northern soldier whipped out a long knife stained with purple fluid with his spare hand and sliced the sword-belt from the king's side, blade and sheath falling to the ground where it was kicked away.
Ganondorf released the sword, striking out with his bracers, looking around him frantically. So few guards left…
The attacker's sword cut open the horse's side, it screamed and bucked. As the wounded Gerudo king clung to his steed's back. He was on his own – the guards were too busy fighting for their lives.
Ganondorf looked at his opponent – struck by the grim grin, the crazed blue-gold eyes. Remembered the varied descriptions of the Wolf of the North. How the only thing people could agree on was the wildness in the man's eyes.
The dark-skinned man struck his enemy's head with his bracer. Again. Again. He ripped the helmet off. No point in magic, just brute force. Ganondorf struck again – the assassin narrowed his eyes, grimacing, and buried the poisoned knife into the king's belly, right through the heavily magicked armor, twisted the blade and ripped it out sideways.
Ganondorf shrieked in pain, and got a final blow in to the Wolf's temple, who collapsed like a marionette with his strings cut. As the man fell, the Southern lord got a good kick in. An arrow narrowly missed him – he painstakingly pulled his shields up once more.
"My Lord Ganondorf!" A guard yelled, riding up, caked in blood and dirt, "We must go!" The soldier's eyes widened when he saw the blood from the deep gut wound, the injured steed of the Duke. A second solider helped the king off his horse and onto the first soldier's, who kicked his horse into action and galloped up the hill, vaulting the fallen trees and down the unimpeded, open road. They left the last two soldiers to keep the ambushers busy and prevent a pursuit. Ganondorf knew those guards were as good as dead.
Every bump in the road was agonizing, every lurch and sway brought dark spots to the Gerudo King's eyes. Finally, blessedly, he passed out completely.
The Gerudo Duke had escaped.
Muiren looked up; quickly slitting the throat of the man he'd been distracting and letting the bleeding body fall to the ground. He ran when he saw how the Captain wavered, and caught his commanding officer under the arms as the man folded up and collapsed.
"Not again." He exclaimed, letting Smek take out the last soldier with a focused blast of fire. The Southern soldier screamed over the roar of flames, then went silent. Muiren ignored this, picking his way through corpses and fallen branches to his fallen, bloodied captain. With all that blood, he couldn't tell whether there was a bruise or a laceration on his right temple. A laceration, bleeding sluggishly under his finger, heartbeat strong when Muiren checked for a pulse. Keen stirred, eyes flickering.
"Captain?" Muiren asked softly. Keen grinned weakly up at him, regaining consciousness briefly.
"Hey." He said.
"It's good to see you're still with us."
"The Gerudo King – where is he? Did we get him?" The Wolf asked, struggling to get up from where Muiren was supporting his head.
"He got away."
Keen cursed, flopping back onto Muiren's lap.
"Two of three isn't bad." He grumbled, "I got him in the gut, with Assassin's joy on the blade."
"What were you thinking? That stuff's just as dangerous to the user as the victim-"
"And entirely magical. It's never done anything to me, not one bit."
"All right." Muiren allowed.
"I doubt he'll last long." Keen rasped, struggling to stand. "Bleed out in thirty minutes. There's no healers of caliber here for leagues that could counter the poison." He put a hand to his head and winced. "I should be fine." He staggered a little. "Put me down. Need… to clear my head." Muiren obeyed, lowering Keen onto his rump in the middle of the dirt road.
Lieutenant Walden Muiren wiped bloody hands on his trousers, ignoring the laceration in his side, and began to assess the casualties.
Nine against twenty-eight.
The Gerudo Lord had taken out the rear base of the Pack – Wask sidled up to Muiren from the trees.
"Rana's dead." The bandy-legged soldier muttered, tears and muck on his face. Wask had been safe in the front base under Muiren's luck. "Gonar, Benlar, Hest. All gone." He wiped at his eyes. "Eller's burnt badly, but he's hanging on to life."
Keen-eyed Rana. Rambunctious, cheerful Hest. Flat-voiced Benlar. Pious Gonar clutched his prayer beads even in death.
"Smek." Muiren said as the sweet-faced man who had gathered up the six healthy horses handed the reins over, "Burn them all. We can't leave our comrades here, or leave any evidence."
Smek nodded absently, raising a hand and channeling fire at the corpses. He had killed his fair share of guards during the attack, his powers honed to a level he couldn't have dreamed of before Keen joined the Falcon's Sixteenth. Before he could barely light a candle. Now, he let tears roll down through the soot on his face as he incinerated the bodies of enemy, comrade, and horse to a fine ash, burning so hot not even bone was left. His control was fine enough that the fire didn't scorch the ground below.
Apparently Muiren's luck was not strong enough to save half of his troop. But now a wind stirred, blowing the ash into the woods and scattering it. This part of Lake Hylia Province was beautiful. It was a good place to haunt, even if it was in the South.
Smek stood, having gathered himself, and he and Muiren returned to their Captain's side, who appeared to be awake again. He was blinking rapidly, an expression of confusion on his face, likely concussed. Muiren sighed.
"Captain," he started.
"Yes, Wald?" Keen replied, slurring his words slightly.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" It was three.
Keen squinted with some difficulty.
"Can't count that high. Am I concussed, or is it incredibly bright out here?"
"Concussed, I would think." He laughed, a little hysterical. "We have to-" Muiren swallowed roughly, grief welling up. Half the troop… Half of the Falcon's Sixteenth was dead. "We have to leave now, Keen."
"Help me, I'll need it." The Captain said sharply, and his second-in-command obeyed. Wask used his mind-voice to snap Eller out of the shock of his burns, and eventually Eller was able to leave the site with the supportive help of Wask and Smek, fading into the cover of the trees, where their camp and supplies were hidden.
The relative peace of Jon's duties was shattered by men on horseback, led by a local farmer. Then it was all shouting and blood, as Jon and the horsemen got the patient onto the operating table.
Jon cried out for Yelen, and she went pale under her tawny southerner tan, when she saw the deep gut wound, and the man's grimacing face.
They cut the armor and his shirt off, and it was even worse than Jon had thought, the blood tinged almost purple with poison. Yelen smeared a finger with the blood, held it to her nose and sniffed deeply.
"Now, would be the time that mamba venom would be useful, my boy. I know the antidote to Assassin's Joy. Few do." She muttered. "I have an arrow to cut out, and entrails to sew. You'll have to make the potion yourself. It's not difficult – one measure mamba venom, another measure of honey, and ten measures of distilled pure spirits. Mix them together, then light it afire. Sprinkle an equal pinch of salt and star spice into the flames. Then bring it here once the flames have died down."
Jon hurried to obey. The mamba was not happy in the slightest, and he barely managed to avoid getting bit. His hands knew what to do by now, so he doled out a blob of honey , then poured in a measure of clear alcohol, and lit it with a spark of magic. In went the salt and costly star spice. He waited patiently for the fire to extinguish itself, then poured the resulting clear, shimmering liquid into a flask.
When he returned to the operating table, he found Yelen still stitching sutures, her fingers burnt raw and shiny.
"It's the poison," she said in explanation with a nod at her hands, "What it does to a surgeon is almost as bad as what it does to the victim." She took the flask from her apprentice, slathering her hands with it and applying a splash to the open wound, which was only sluggishly bleeding. There was no need to worry about the man bleeding out, as his right hand was hooked up to a blood restorative amulet just before going into sleep-numb.
Jon reached in beside Yelen after coating his own hands with the potion, and began taking the blood vessels Yelen had clamped to keep the blood from gushing out, and fusing them together one by one. Pain jagged up through his hands, through his veins to burn in his navel, where his magic was anchored. He moved on to a slick piece of entrail. There was something in the wound that kept fighting him, draining his reserves quickly. Jon ignored the difficulty and kept pushing his magic through the torn flesh. Warm wetness seeped out of his nose and ears, the air ringing, tinny in his inner ear. Something ripped inside.
His legs gave out from under him, and he threw everything he could into the spell as he fell into the quiet stillness of death.
He lingered in that quiet place, waiting.
Life rushed back into him, and he jerked where he was on the stone floor, eyes widening as he gasped for breath.
"You overextended yourself, lad." Yelen said blandly, not even bothering to look at him as she working. "I've told you before, don't. Although…" She paused for a moment to check the piece of intestine he had healed. "Healed perfectly," The old healer woman said grudgingly, "As if it had never been cut. A university-trained doctor couldn't do better."
"I suppose using up one's life through magic makes the spell more potent." Jon said, crawling to his feet and beginning again on the next laceration, keeping his magic at a low boil rather than shoving all he had in. "Does he really need his appendix? It's sort of half-severed."
"If it's in there, he needs it. Fix it."
The little wormlike organ looked rather sad, so Jon took a deep breath, took hold of his power, and yanked the magic out of his navel and out through his hands, into the slashed appendix.
He made a strange gurgling noise, and sank to his knees, pressing his forehead against the table leg as the dark edges of his vision rushed in and blotted everything out. When he could, he stood again, and continued, coaxing the sewn-shut organs to heal together again.
"For heaven's sake, child." Yelen said in exasperation, "You're bloodying my floor, and getting your clothes dirty. I'm glad you don't loose your bowels and bladder like most when you die, or it would be much worse. Sit in a chair while you heal, and seat yourself firmly."
"Yes, Yelen." Jon said with the slightest twist of a smile. They ended up loosely tying him to a high backed chair, and it wasn't until the patient's innards were restored that Jon allowed himself to stop draining his powers fatally.
All that was left to close was the tattered edges of the wound that they had widened to reach the patient's organs. Jon reached for his power, and found nothing to draw on.
He panicked for second. What had happened? Even draining himself fatally, there had remained dregs of magic.
No, wait – there. There it was. Only a tiny seed, growing steadily with each breath, if slower than he was used to.
"You've done enough, my boy." Yelen said as she made the final suture to close the edges of skin together, and then rubbed feeling back into her arthritic hands. She slathered on a final coat of the antidote potion, and covered his hands similarly. "It's been twelve hours of work."
Jon boggled. He hadn't noticed a third of the day gone by. He, whose innate ability was timesense!
"Really?"
"Yes. I've felt the time passing, but I'm sure dying several times messes with one's sense of time, individual magic or no." She said wryly.
"Still." He said, shaking his head ruefully, "I need to find the limits of my… thing."
"The limits of your inability to die?"
"Yes."
"Can't say I'll be able to help you. 'Do no harm,' my lad."
"Yes, Yelen."
"All done in here for now, Healer Yelen, Master Kilresey?" Elys asked, poking her head into the operating room.
"Yes, thank you, child." Yelen said gratefully. "We'll keep him in sleep-numb for the night. Continue feeding the blood restorative system more of those red packets from the third cupboard to the right in the stock room."
"Yes'm." Elys said, bobbing her head. Yelen stretched her back out with a shuddering groan, one hand aiming for the ceiling, the other pressed to the curve of her lower back.
"Bed for both of us, I think. And soon." She said as she straightened, taking out a slate and chalk and writing down instructions for the nurses. "Just make the morning rounds as usual. Be a dear and wake us in eight hours, hm, Miss Elys?"
"Yes, Healer Yelen." Elys said dutifully. Yelen nodded, and left for the washroom. Jon followed. They wiped their hands slick with potion and gore off on a towel, then took turns rinsing water over the other's hands, the soft lye soap harsh on tired skin. Jon cleaned the blood off of his face and out from his ears, wincing at the soreness he felt there.
That taken care of, Yelen headed to her bedroom, while Jon shimmied up the ladder into the attic, a low-roofed room under the eaves. There was a mattress stuffed with straw there, a trunk for his possessions, and a rickety chair and a light stone lamp to read by. There wasn't room for much else – the spaces too narrow for a person were stuffed with burlap bags of bandages and sheets. The thatch smelt musty but kept the damp out. Jon stripped out of his clothes, pulled up the thin summer quilt, and was out like a light as soon as he put his head down.
For once, he dreamt rather than relived the memories of another life. No glass towers, blaring lights, cacophonous music.
It still wasn't the kind of dream Rick had spoken of experiencing – bits of muddled-nonsense and emotion. Jon was there in the corridor that sat somewhere between his mind and his soul, the hallway with two doors. One led to the Monster's room, the other belonged to the Dreamer.
It was a dark space, without windows. Behind him loomed a door that wasn't there, coming from the direction of the waking world, of control. The air was thick and oppressive, neither hot nor cold but utterly dense. It wasn't until something rattled that Dark/Jon noticed the Dreamer's door was open.
"Hey there." The Dreamer said in a cheerful voice.
"It's so dark in here." Dark said.
"It's your mind, do something about it." The Dreamer sounded amused. Dark frowned.
"How?"
"It's a metaphor. You're feeling mostly negative thoughts these days. What did you expect your mind would be like?"
"What? Metaphor?"
"Christ Almighty. This again." The Dreamer complained in a defeated sigh, then added sotto voice, "Anasi, bro, why did you drag me into this place? I was going to be a pediatrician… Kid, think something happy, like that boyfriend of yours." The room went pitch black. "Okay, maybe bad connotations there. Moving on. Happiness, lad."
Dark pressed his lips tight and thought of his fourteenth birthday, of how he had saved every rupee from holidays, birthdays, best of class, and treasures in the trash heap, for years to buy a good sword so when he came of age and was shipped out, he could live longer and thus keep Rick alive as well. Rick had taken Dark to the smithy, and told him, the best magic can't make, just pick one.
There's no way you have enough for that, he'd replied, but Rick had grinned down at him, back when the blonde boy hadn't yet hit his growth spurt. Rick had always been an early bloomer.
You've been saving too. Together we have enough for the best this smithy has.
And they'd had enough. That sword served as the marker for Rick's grave now, coin half dangling from it. It hurt to think of that loss still, but Dark found a little bittersweet peace in the fact that if the gravesite were disturbed someday, once the flesh had left the bones and gristle, that Rick's soul and Rick's bones would rise and defend the sacred site as all good dead soldiers must. That's all Rick had ever wanted, to be a good soldier.
When Dark was done wiping tears from his stinging eyes, the hall was candle-bright.
"Good to see that worked." The Dreamer gave a jaunty wave from where he was braced against the Monster's door, keeping it from slamming open. The Dreamer was tall and lean, short hair a jetty black that was neatly combed and parted to the side. His irises contained the same strange brown-gold banding found in polished stones of tiger's eye. He wore blue denim trousers and a loose red jumper with a hood. Upon the front of the jumper was emblazoned the cryptic legend: 'UW: Madison. Go Badgers!' Clothes such as Dark had never seen before.
"Who are you?" Dark asked weakly, "Really."
"Myself." The Dreamer said in reply.
"Give me a name."
"Tom."
"You're lying."
"I did. I am myself." The Dreamer smiled, almost a smirk. "It's not that simple, kid. You think a soul needs a name? The mind and soul thinks of itself only as me. Doesn't everyone wish for a name that they feel fits them better than the one their parents gave them? Like you; be you Dark of the Weaver clan, or Jon Kilresey. Isn't that so? We are merely ourselves in the end. But just as a name lives on in memory longer than people's recollections of that person's significance, so the soul itself cannot speak its name after death."
"So am I possessed, then? If you're dead and a soul."
"Actually, we're the ghost. You and I, we're just using this body."
Dark frowned.
"But I was born! I remember my childhood! This is my life! Never did my parents mention any change, any person besides myself when I was young."
"You are me, Dark. Only with different memories. There was only so much I could do, when this body was young. The owner of this body - you call him a 'monster'? – he creates chaos wherever he goes. He was born this way for a purpose. It was all I could do to keep control away from him. That's how you came to exist."
"And yet sometimes I lose control…" Dark said flatly, mind churning furiously, "Not doing your job properly then, are you?" The Dreamer's face darkened.
"Watch your tongue!" He spat, "You don't know anything about me! You are not my concern. I am only here for him. The reprehensible things that man has done are beyond forgiveness, and you dare question me when at every hour of the day, I work to keep him from plaguing this world further? You-"
And the Monster pounded furiously on the door the Dreamer was leaning against, shaking it violently. The Dreamer's banded eyes went wide, and he braced himself against it. Dark found himself moving over to help keep the door shut, bracing his legs as he leaned against it bodily.
"WILLAM!" The Monster howled, his fists drumming a thunderous tattoo on the wooden door that locked him out. "Willam Firstman! Let me out, you fucking coward! When Kamiarn finds out what you've done, she's going to destroy you, Demonchild! But not before tearing apart this cursed country looking for me!" He continued his poisonous ranting for a long time, until the pounding slowed. The din eased to make the Monster's labored panting audible.
The Dreamer spared a hand to wipe sweat from his face, tired. The Monster gave the door a final churlish kick, and subsided, breathing heavy on the other side of the door.
"Go on, kid." The Dreamer said dully, looking at Dark with flat, dead eyes, "It's dawn already. The healer woman is calling for you." He let his legs weaken, and slid slowly down the door until he was sitting propped against the door. The Dreamer twiddled his fingers slightly, and a heavy bolt appeared to keep the rough door shut.
"Kamiarn…" The Monster whispered quietly, voice choked. Dark could not tell whether the creature was sobbing or merely exhausted. "Kamiarn," The thing said again, and Dark closed his eyes, turning for the doorway that led out of the space behind his eyes, to the waking world.
Jon Kilresey opened his eyes. It was close to dawn, and there was a long day ahead of him.
"Jon?" Yelen's voice warbled from the bottom of the ladder to the loft, "Come have breakfast while it's still hot."
Bleary eyed, he dressed in fresh clothing and clambered down the ladder and into the cramped kitchen in the back of the cottage. There was a badly-beaten table that had originally been used as an operating table until one of the legs got too shaky and had been retired to serve its duty in the kitchen. Yelen insisted on keeping the food preparation, medical operation, and chemist areas separate, so the cottage had two hearths that fed a single chimney. The chairs were mismatched, the seats padded with woven grasses.
Yelen herself sat at the table nursing a cup of bitter coffee, as Elys Tedal stirred something in a pan held over flames. She moved aside a little so Jon could access the tea kettle and pour himself a cup of black tea. After adding a little lemon juice into it from the bottle in the chilling cabinet, he took long, grateful gulps of the hot beverage from his cup.
"What're you making, Miss?" He asked hopefully, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder, oddly coy.
"Honey-spiced rice congee. And raisins in yogurt." She replied, turning back to the cooking porridge. Jon devoured up his breakfast when it was set before him, and drained the cup of tea. When he was finished he washed and dried the dishes himself, then replaced them in the proper cupboard. Jon went to pour himself more tea, filling a second cup for Elys, who was devouring her portion of the porridge and yogurt.
"How do you like your tea?" Jon asked quietly.
"A dot of cream, two sugars, please." She said through a mouthful of rice congee. Jon fixed his cup with a little lemon, and prepared Elys' tea to her specifications. She took it carefully, so as not to spill it.
"The meal was delicious, Miss Tedal." He said, sitting beside her and wrapping his hands around the hot steaming cup. "Thank you. But honey? Spices? Raisins for breakfast? What's the occasion? If you don't mind me asking."
"Well, Healer Yelen has agreed to take me on as a trainee nurse. I like nursing more than baking and selling vegetables, and I can still garden, so I think it's a good job for a girl in my situation." By situation she meant that her parents were still stuck in a warzone, and hadn't been heard from in months.
"Congratulations," Jon approved, raising his tea cup as if to toast her. "I hope you enjoy reading, you'll be doing a lot of it in the future." Elys nodded and smiled with the grace and warmth of a well-brought up lass. "And your cooking is quite good, so I'll wager you'll find chemistry far easier than I did."
"You're not that bad anyone, my lad." Yelen smiled crookedly, "Although you had me worried for a time."
"More importantly, though," Elys said after Yelen's joke, "We identified the patient that came in last night. It was the Gerudo Duke, Ganondorf, one of the Southern Lords, Jon."
"What, really?" Dark blurted, shocked. He drank deeply from his cup as if to fortify himself.
"It's such an honor to help him," Elys continued brightly, wide brown eyes excited, "Him being one of the best minds of the war."
"I… wow." Jon said with a disbelieving shake of his head. "I can hardly believe it. I couldn't tell from last night."
"Yes, well, most people don't look like themselves when they're bleeding out, Jon."
"Fair enough, Yelen." He replied.
"The Duke will make a good recovery, but he'll need to be cared for at all hours for at least a week, Jon." Yelen took a final slurp of coffee and set the cup down. "I'd let Elys do it as she's our best volunteer nurse, but you know the right spells and she hasn't learned them yet, so it will be your task to care for him, lad."
"Yes, mum."
There was indeed much to be done for Duke Ganondorf, as Yelen had said. The man had not yet woken, so Jon took care of feeding into the man's veins a combination of saline solution and the same antidote that had been used liberally from the man's surgery. Ganondorf was taken off blood packets, which left Jon to regularly replace (and dispose of) the little pot full of gathered urine and feces that magically kept the man from soiling himself and the bed.
After the odious and hated pot was dumped out, scoured with sand, scrubbed clean and left in the sun to dry, Jon returned to the well-lit surgery room. There were large glass windows on three sides of the windows. Glass panes like these were expensive in the South, and impractical as they kept heat in, but the surgery room had to be pristine, and there was only so much spells could filter out of the outside air. Light stones in lanterns hung from multiple points on the ceiling, to illuminate whenever sunlight wasn't enough.
Ganondorf was given his first daily wash, and then his sutures were smeared with herbal ointment. Finally, Jon began to tend the minor injuries he and Yelen hadn't healed the previous night. A balm that contained witch-hazel and oil infused with yarrow was applied to the Duke's bruises and the shallow dent that had once been a horrid arrow wound. Jon cleaned any remaining cuts and used a spike of magic to heal them completely. The stitched abdominal wound would have to wait for another several hours.
Jon took the moment to examine his patient, who lay stretched out on the surgery table, a pillow filled with sand serving to support the man's neck and head, a sun-warmed blanket covering him.
Ganondorf didn't look like the enemy Jon had so often imagined. He didn't look like a hero either, or even a king. He was tall and broad with muscles, yes, but his skin was a burnt sienna hue, weather-beaten into leather, marked with lines that spoke of grim frowns, focus, and there was a network of fine wrinkles around his eyes. The man's hair was dark, with a reddish shine in the sunlight, he had fleshy lips, and his large nose was hooked and flattened slightly by multiple breaks in the cartilage.
Jon let his power loose to cloud around his patient, quietly and subtly enhancing the man's natural healing capability. The Duke of the Gerudo Province stirred slightly, muttering something brief and incomprehensible under his breath, eyelids flickering. The apprentice healer touched the older man's forehead and put him into sleep-numb once again. He then finished the healing enhancement spell, and looked for Yelen.
She was tending the garden with Elys, but he could tell the two women had been doing their rounds – they smelled strongly of the liniment used to soothe Amuel Barkbourn's wrenched back – it was a sharp, powerful odor.
"How is our latest patient, Jon?" Yelen inquired, not looking up from the oregano she was harvesting.
"He looks well. Nearly woke up a bit, so I put him in sleep-numb – didn't want him to strain those stitches."
"That's good and well. And a wise decision. I think this evening we might be able heal the gash up halfway. Be a dear and hang these herbs in the chemist's room?"
Jon took up the herbs and flowers his Mistress had indicated, twining the stems together with twine and hanging them from hooks on the ceiling. He then returned to the surgery to keep watch over the wounded Duke.
After three days Duke Ganondorf's gut wound was healed and the sutures were taken out. He made several attempts to wake up, only to be sent to sleep again. A nutritious potion was added to the regular infusion of saline solution, but the Gerudo man would have to wake eventually or he would starve and sicken.
The first time Ganondorf awoke, he was not fully conscious. He groaned deeply, looking around himself blurrily. Yelen grasped his searching hand, and told him he was safe, that he had been sick, but was better now. That seemed to comfort the man, and he dozed off not long afterward.
Jon was alone with his appointed charge when the Gerudo king regained both consciousness and lucidity with a low grunt.
"Oh, hello. Welcome to the world of the waking, your lordship." Jon said, not bothering to turn around from where he was cleaning one of the surgery room's large windows.
"And what are you supposed to be?" The older man said slowly, voice a little rough. Jon grit his teeth – he hated people who talked down to him, especially now that he was out of the army.
"Jon Kilresey," He replied, forgoing the honorific in his annoyance. "Apprentice to Mastery-trained Healer Yelen Hodas of Thrim."
"I said what, not who." The man replied, rolling onto his side. He's still under the effects of the pain ball treatment, Jon had to remind himself, and vigorously scrubbed at a smear with a solvent-damp rag.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"What race are you?" The dark-skinned man persisted.
"Elvish." Jon bit out.
"Clearly not. No elf, or Hylian for that matter, has three minds, two souls, and one body. I've never seen a Demonchild like you before."
"That doesn't sound very flattering, sir. And yes, I'm aware I'm unusual."
There was a long pause from the patient. Jon took the moment to swap his current, dirty rag for a fresh one.
"What do you have me on?" Ganondorf asked quietly, somewhat sheepish, "I'm not normally this rude to those whom I owe my life to."
The apprentice healer calmed down a tad, mollified.
"I gave you a level five pain ball. And actually, I think you owe me four lives. Or maybe five. I sort of lost count towards the end. Let's make it four." The last window clean, Jon turned around to look at his patient.
"What are you—Din above!" Ganondorf boggled at Jon. "I thought Link looked…" He shook his head. "Thereo claimed he was a faithful man to his wife, yet it seems he sowed his wild oats quite widely. My boy has his eyes and hair, something about the hands, but you…"
"Everything but the eyes, I know." Jon said despairingly.
"Yes. I've never seen such eyes."
"You knew him?" Jon still wasn't sure he was the son of Hyrule's most famous hero – something inside rebelled at the thought – but even so he wanted to know more about the mysterious immortal. So many people in his life had spoken of Jon's likeness to the thin-faced, solemn image of the Foreigner passed around. Twice his bloodmother had had to undergo the shameful truth spell and declare she'd never slept with the Hero knowingly – lessening his clan's standing in the strict customs of Patcheem.
Even Rick had been fascinated by the hero, although to be fair, he'd only gotten interested in the subject because of his bondmate's close resemblance.
"I did." Ganondorf admitted. "But it is a long story, and there is always work to be done if one is an apprentice. And we are strangers."
"It took a costly toll, healing you, my Lord." Jon replied with a lackadaisical shrug of a shoulder, taking a seat. "My magic's run dry for now."
"Draining all your magic is fatal. Everyone knows this. Why do you think most people are afraid to use theirs? You might have minimal reserves, but I doubt you've lost it all."
"Not much is fatal for me." Jon shrugged again, the movement running down his arms as his hands spread open. "You said it yourself – I'm not normal."
"I didn't know quite how much." The Duke grumbled.
"Most of our patients are stabilized, and Healer Yelen is teaching our new apprentice nurse. I'm to look after you for the time being, and also to entertain you. Since you must have five days of bed rest before you can get up and move about. What else is there to do but talk?"
"Very well." Ganondorf said gravely, "I wish to know more about the apprentice to whom I owe my life four times over."
"Must I start?" Jon inquired, and the man nodded.
"Youngest first." The swarthy king said with a slight smile.
We're older. I lived on Vanity for almost one hundred years, and have existed on this world for at least ten thousand years. The Dreamer commented idly, and the Monster gave a snort, not to be excluded. He's older too, the Dreamer chuckled.
Not helping. Jon told them both, and ignored any replies.
"All right then, my Lord," He acquiesced, "Let me begin with where I was born, in a military settlement named Patcheem..."
Link rubbed his hands together, shivering in the cave he had been imprisoned in. The water itself was warm enough, heated by runes carved into the underwater cave walls, but this dry cave had a narrow shaft to the surface that let in cold mountain air from above.
Small blue light stones set in the walls provided hazy light which reflected dancingly off the water filling half the cave cell. The reflections shattered as Ruto surfaced out of the only viable exit to the prison – a long passageway filled with water.
"I've brought you your dinner." She announced; slapping a small net down at Link's feet. She reached up onto a protruding rock and hauled herself onto the dry part of the floor.
"Thank you, Ruto." He said, opening the net and smiling when he saw it was not cavefish today, but cave shrimp. She had thoughtfully killed them before giving them to him, but had not removed the head, tail, or sand vein. He pulled out his pocket knife – Link had been allowed to keep his bottomless pack, but not his saddlebags, which meant his good boots were gone, and so was his headrest and blanket. Link flipped the knife open, and began to clean the shrimp. "You said you were to speak to the Prince's council today?" He asked – the five Zora who advised the ruling Prince were the ones with the true power among the Zora people.
"I did." She responded, "The High Priestess is ill – I will replace her when I reach full maturity. So I have influence. But they won't listen to me!" Her tail gave the stone floor a good meaty smack in frustration.
"They said they wouldn't kill me." Link pointed out, "At least there's that."
"But they won't let you leave! I will not bring shame upon the line of priestesses by failing to repay you. The council thinks of nothing but the One Water, and we are left to idle in the shelter of the Cavernous Realm, stagnating, diminishing! Once the Pearl were the rulers of the entire Sourcewater, but now we hide in these caves, growing cave-pale from lack of light."
"I've heard of the One Water before. What does it refer to, Ruto?" Link's hands were busy starting up his stone-cooker as he spoke.
"It is the cycle of existence, and of fate. The world began from nothing, and returns to nothing. From nothing the world will come again, and so will be destroyed. Any attempt to escape fate will only bring it to you faster. So fate must be accepted – nothing is within our control but our own will, and acceptance of the One. Death is not to be feared, as it is a temporary state. We are reborn just as the world will be in the next beginning. So the lines of priestesses have spoken, and those who listen are enlightened." Her tail slapped again, "But the Council has forgotten the way of will, and remembers only acceptance of the One. They reject contact with the outside world, preferring to do nothing more than bicker about philosophy, and tend to the fish and weed farms."
"So shake them up – use your will on them. You're certainly stubborn enough to succeed."
Ruto looked shocked, her over-sized black eyes growing even wider.
"I can't do that! Only the High Priestess-"
"Yes you can." Link interrupted, "You'll be ready for being High Priestess in what, three years?"
"But-"
"Ruto." He scolded, "You can outrun seventy Conch Zora, and then survive walking through the Geyserland, but you can't assert yourself around stale politicians? Please."
"Women are supposed to be subservient!" She hissed.
"And who tells them that? Men!" He snapped back.
"I don't see why you care – you're male!" By now she was so livid her skin was flushed deep blue-violet.
"Half the time I don't feel like it." Link confessed, stopping the fish-girl in her tracks.
"What?"
"I—does it matter?" He pulled his cap off and scratched the back of his head, fingers tangling in the stringy braid he had messily woven days ago. "My people are mostly women. Technically I'm an elf – but I don't like Hylian men, I don't want to be like them. But I'm not like the King, either. All my good friends are girls, they make sense. I don't hate being a boy, but sometimes… Women are so much subtler and smarter. I can't understand why Hylian and Sheikah women - and Zora females, for that matter – why they let men tell them what to do. Gender is such a stupid thing. I don't understand why people put so much stock in it."
Ruto stared at him, her large black eyes wide at the revelation.
"In my people," She said slowly, "When the male population grows less than that of females, the aggressive females become male. It is a permanent change. I would not be High Priestess if I became male."
"What would you be?"
She snorted. "Second in line to be Prince."
"And it's the Prince's council who has true power." Link summed up. Ruto nodded. "Tell me Ruto," he said, eyebrows raised as he thought carefully, "Is the council given that power legally, or only by tradition?"
She grinned, revealing rows of peg teeth. "I know you now! You are no messenger, Link Forrester! You are a trickster, like the Octopus from Sanri's tales."
"I'll take that as a compliment." He winked at her mischievously. She giggled, a bubbly ringing that echoed through the small cave. "The problem with people who set themselves in stone is that they seem immoveable to those who want change. So you have to act like a river-" He paused meaningfully, like a teacher baiting a student to finish the flow of logic.
"A river flows around an object, wearing away at the stone as it undermines the sand the stone rests upon." Ruto said with relish.
Link nodded approvingly. "Water isn't always liquid. Heat it up and you get steam, cool it, and it hardens to ice."
"I know that. What are you trying to say?"
"Of all the elements – fire, air, earth, and water – water is the most changeable. You should be able to outmaneuver the council if you keep your wits about you."
"How?"
"Until I can leave here, I'm going to teach two things every self-respecting woman ought to know – how to lie, and how to get your way around others while making them think it their idea."
After so many missions deep in Southern territory, Arrant in Plains Provence seemed like an entirely different world. What was left of the Wolf's Pack had been declared 'heroes of the realm' for taking out two important Southern leaders, and maiming another. The Pack had then been sent from the command camp on the Plains/Imally border to Arrant to recover. The army had even let the Pack stay in a nicer inn called 'the Red-Winged Blackbird' instead of housed in tents or the permanent barracks.
"No more suicide missions." Keen said with a disbelieving shake of his head.
"Really?" Muiren seemed surprised. Captain Ferrick Keen just nodded.
"We're 'too valuable to lose,' is what the upper ranks said. There's some talk about getting us knighted or something equally ridiculous."
Now it was Muiren's turn to shake his head. He ran fingers through his short head of pale blonde hair, standing it on end. It was strange to see him and the remnants of the troop clean and fresh after months of filth and blood, Keen reflected sourly.
For this night, it was just Muiren and Keen eating together at the inn. Smek had left to find a leyline station to send a message to his fiancée, one Miss Susa Farrow of Pell in the Province of the Crown. Eller was still recovering from burns on his head and face, his neck, and down his shoulder and side. Remarkably, Wask had taken on the burden of caring for the giant man entirely of his own will, displaying a gentleness that seemed out of character on the usually irritable and snappish man.
A rather curvaceous barmaid set down two cups of hot tea on the corner table the two soldiers were sitting at.
"Cook's almost done with your dinner, sirs. I'll be back soon." She said with a slow smile, sashaying her way around the tables to the inn's bar, packed with customers.
Keen sipped his tea carefully, then set it down to let it cool further after he burnt the tip of his tongue.
"We're to have a bonfire night tomorrow." He muttered. Wald Muiren looked up, raising an eyebrow in query, drawing an explanation from Keen. "It's a Patcheem tradition. When a good soldier falls, it's customary for those who knew him to build a bonfire, and speak of their life. They drink to his memory, and then stand vigil until the fire has burnt itself out."
"That sounds perfect." Wald said with a melancholy twist of his lips. Both men went quiet, lost in thoughts. There was too much background noise for the silence between them to grow uncomfortable. The barmaid swooped in, laying down the meal they'd ordered, one dish at a time.
"Two rabbit stews, bread, grapes and cheese." She said, laying a mug of wine down in front of Keen. "Wine's on the house." The maid said with a smile and a wink. Keen smiled politely back at her. "Let me know if you need anything else, sir."
"Thank you, we will." He replied softly. She flicked a wheaten lock over her shoulder, regarding the soldier for a long moment before returning to her duties. Keen waited until she was gone before he pushed the wine over to his second-in-command.
"For you." Keen told Muiren.
"Why?" Was the perplexed reply.
"I'm not old enough."
"Of course you are, you couldn't be a day younger than twenty-two-"
"Wald, I'm fifteen. I lied about my age so they'd let me out of Patcheem early."
"Then how do you look so old?" Muiren asked, mind unable to accept this new information.
"I've always been an early bloomer. I think it has something to do with my problem with magic. Maybe even time doesn't work right on me."
"That's absolutely insane, Ferrick." Muiren blurted, then appeared ashamed. He took a healthy swig of wine to gather his wits.
Keen grinned crookedly. "When have I ever been known for my sanity, Wald?"
Suddenly certain observations Muiren had made made sense. The rapid mood swings, the restless melancholy, the lingering over painful issues. The impassioned declarations. The lack of regard for his own life.
"Born early too." Keen added around a mouth of stew, "I was born in nine months, not twenty. My bloodmother was so happy to get me out of her, she cried for joy. I don't think she ever really looked at me again, after the first time she saw me. My voice cracked when I was nine. Dark was actually older than me, but he was such an old soul it didn't really matter that I looked old so soon."
"Hmm." Muiren said, and finished his meal in silence, mind whirling with thought.
Keen methodically emptied his plate, then scraped the stew bowl clean. He knocked back the dregs of his tea, then said quietly to Muiren,
"After all that's happened, you think I'd be able to keep my mind straight, after everything…" his velvety voice went rough, "…All the men we lost. And now, Wald? I just want to live. Hell of a time to want it, but there you go." Keen stood abruptly.
"Hey. Where're you going?" Muiren asked in confusion.
"I'm going to buy that serving girl a drink, and see where I can go. It's been a long time since I've had romantic company."
"You're underage!" Muiren hissed, grey eyes wide. Keen laughed loudly, and sat down.
"Wald, how many girls – or boys for that matter – have you been with?"
"A few. Two local lasses back in Stonewall." Wald flushed. "Not often."
"Then you won't know what it's like to be married, or properly courting. There's no age of consent in Patcheem. Pair-bonds are encouraged to fool around with each other. It strengthens the bond and keeps the girls from having babes too young. And bondmate's are as good as married – they sleep in the same bed, share chores, and money. My own clan was happy to send me to Dark's bed with his clan as early as they could. But that's beside the point. Sometimes intimacy is not about the sex. It's about being alive, sharing comfort. I could use that right now. I'd rather not find a willing lad, but that maid – was her name Amie? – she seemed nice." Keen nodded to Wald, "So I think I'll give it a go. I'll see you tomorrow morning, Wald. Goodnight."
Keen stood, and made his way over to the barmaid Amie, who was standing at the bar. They shared smiles, and sat at the bar together, talking quietly.
Wald didn't know why he was watching the two, feeling that he shouldn't stare. But as he drank his wine slowly, he found his wandering gaze inescapably drawn toward the couple. He watched as Amie slid closer to Keen on the wooden bench, and before long the girl was leaning against the soldier, blonde head on his shoulder. Soon after, Keen wrapped his arm around her waist as he ordered another drink for his nightly companion.
Two men stumbled into the crowded tavern and sat down at Muiren's table. It was only polite to introduce himself, and before long Muiren found himself deeply involved in a card game, using pistachio nuts as currency.
The hour grew late. Muiren ordered another cup of wine, and once it was empty, he excused himself from the game and found the room he shared with Keen in the back of the tavern. He knocked cautiously, and when no one responded, he let himself in.
Keen was sleeping on his back, with the barmaid's head tucked into his shoulder. The pair had had the decency to dress after whatever they had done that night, and pulled the blanket high. There was a peaceful cast to Keen's strong features, and Walden Muiren found some small, suspicious part of him relax at seeing his dear, grim friend find some measure of happiness after all that had happened.
Muiren changed into his sleeping clothes quickly, and followed Keen and Amie the barmaid into a deep sleep.
1. There are three wards of a medieval military formation: the front 'vanguard', the middle, and the 'rear'.
2. I had to rewrite the fight scenes at least three times before I was satisfied.
3. Killing off half of the Falcon's Sixteenth was a snap decision I made while writing this. I didn't like it, but it felt right. I spent a couple hours frantically trying to decide who the story could live without. This is the result. God, it hurts.
4. Chapter Fifty-One will be entitled: Tales to Tell.
5. Merry Christmas everyone! I have an extra present to you all. I wrote a short story called 'Exodus' that recounts part of Kattala's childhood travels. You can find it on Fictionpress at this link (just remove the spaces) http : / / www . fictionpress . com / s / 2981241 / 1 / Exodus_A_story_from_Soul_Weaver
As always, please review!
