Disclaimer:
Yes, Lodoss STILL isn't mine; neither are Ash, Woodchuck, Karla and any of the
other characters we all know and love ('cept Veris, of course….).
Chapter Nine: Two
Sides of the Same Coin
Woodchuck
hated the color purple. He also hated
shopping and actually paying for things, especially when it was so much easier
to steal them.
What
he hated most, however, was that his body was no longer under his control. He was like a passenger, stuffed back into a
remote dusty corner of his own mind, forced to watch as someone else used his
arms and legs, spoke with his mouth, saw with his eyes, pissed with his-
If
he could have chuckled to himself, he would have, albeit wryly. He suspected the mage inhabiting his body
hadn't been accustomed to being in a male body when she chose him. He occasionally saw himself doing things
that, were he more in touch with his own thoughts for longer, he might actually
feel some embarrassment about. However,
his consciousness was quite finite and he wasn't permitted to pull it together
for very long before Karla scattered it again, as though she were shooing a
pesky fly away. Moments that he was
actually allowed to think lucidly about his situation were rare.
However,
they were less rare lately. The Witch
seemed distracted, less intent on keeping total control of him. He knew she was thinking about something
else, something further away that required her powers to keep track of. While she was so occupied, he thought
quietly to himself in the back of his mind so as not to attract her
attention. When she realized his
consciousness was alert, she'd invariably put it back to sleep.
The
Witch was shopping again. She couldn't
seem to resist, although he really had to wonder how many black and purple
cloaks one mage could stand to have. After the thousands of years she'd been alive, he would have thought she
would have tired of those particular colors. He certainly was. Cloaks were
one thing, anyway, but he was entirely sick of purple underwear.
She
was thinking about something now, quite intently, and he felt her power flicker
the slightest bit as she reached her consciousness out beyond his own
comprehension. He listened hard to her
thoughts; sometimes, just by sheer concentration in the brain they shared, he
could pick out what she was thinking about.
He
only could make out one thing. Alania. Gods, not that country again. Give him city folk over farmers any day of
the week. Farmers didn't know a thing
about gambling, and they always banded together in droves over the slightest
little provocation… That
kid-turned-knight – Parn, was it?- he'd been a farmer. Hadn't he? Woodchuck couldn't always remember what had happened to him before Karla
had taken over. It frustrated him, but
his memories were hazy. He couldn't
remember if anything had happened to him in Alania to make him feel that way
about it. In fact, he had no idea how
long he'd been a passenger in his own mind. Time didn't make sense anymore, not since the circlet had found his
forehead.
The
Witch was trying on a new cloak, looking at herself –him– her…them in the mirror appraisingly. She moved his hips from side to side
slightly, studying the effect.
Gods, it was one thing to be possessed by a mage thousands of years old, but did it have to have been a woman?? Fate certainly did have a way of playing the best tricks. He was paying for all his sins a hundredfold. Whichever Goddess or God that was overseeing his role in history – if they cared, that is- was no doubt having Him or Herself a grand old snicker at poor Woodchuck's expense. Yare yare, he thought in exasperation. At least Karla didn't make him wear dresses or dance in public.
I heard that, the Witch's dry voice scratched in his mind. It was so strange to have another voice in his head, like an itch he couldn't reach or pinpoint. He couldn't even clutch his head melodramatically and shout for the voices in his head to shut-up.
Since you've decided to occupy my brainpan, I don't see how you could help it, he thought back. Purple is so OUT this year, my dear. If he could have grinned, he would have. At least he hadn't forgotten how to be a smart-ass.
Laugh as you will, she replied, her whispery, everywhere-voice answered without a trace of amusement. I'm almost done with you, anyway. Your usefulness is dwindling. At that, she sounded quite satisfied with herself. Woodchuck, however, felt a twinge of fear. Was she thinking of killing him? His consciousness beat a hasty retreat, dwindling to a dull flicker.
That's better. The mental smile the Witch gave him was full of teeth, and he cowered.
* * * * * * *
Ashuram
woke from strange dreams filled with
purple eyes suddenly, disquieted. It
took him a brief second to get his bearings, and he took a deep breath to calm
the quick tempo of his heart.
He
opened his eyes to find sunlight streaming brightly into the infirmary, and he
guessed it was already late morning. He
had slept hard, and he felt well-rested and hale. Ashuram stretched mightily, realizing that the bone-deep aches in
his body were all but gone.
"I
don't care how late in the day it is," the Healer's voice floated to him from
nearby, and he paused to listen. "He
needs to sleep as much as he can and I won't wake him up."
She
was talking about him, he had no doubts. He could hear other voices answer her, perhaps two or three, but he
could not make out exactly what they were saying. It sounded as if whoever the Healer were talking to stood outside
of the house.
"No,"
the Healer replied firmly. "I know
you've come a long way, but I'm not going to drag him out here just so you can
get a good look at him." Another pause,
and she interrupted, "we are civilized, after all, and once he's up and
about you can make your introductions like you would to anyone else."
Curious
townsfolk, it sounded like. Just as the
Healer had predicted.
"What? No, he said he was born in Kanon," the
Healer said. "He could be, but Goodman,
you know it doesn't-" She was
interrupted by a man's voice, low and vehement.
"We
all lost loved ones in the war," Healer Veris' voice said, and there was
a crisp undertone to her words despite the obvious sympathy in them. "Even were he Marmoan, Goodman, that wouldn't make a difference. The war is over."
Ah
ha. Apparently the village of Vesper
could still smell battle fires burning.
"Why? Because it's my job, that's why. I'm sorry, friends, but I'm going to have to
get back to work."
"If
you're harboring a Marmoan, we'll find out soon enough," a man's voice came,
aggressively loud, and Ashuram thought it was for his benefit more than the
Healer's. "We won't tolerate them in
Vesper."
"You
surprise me, Goodman," the Healer's voice came, slightly scathing and quite
reproachful. "Vesper has always been a
welcoming village. You ought not to condemn
someone you don't know."
Ashuram
could not resist a smirk. If the
townspeople knew exactly who he was, they would want to do much more than
simply condemn him. Burn him at the
stake, more like. He wondered, briefly,
if that would actually kill him.
"That's
all I've got to say on the matter," the Healer said with finality. "I bid you all good day. Come back when you've got a matter that I can
help you with!"
He
heard the front door slam with some force, and the Healer muttered something to
herself that he could not make out. Interesting.
Ashuram
decided he'd slept all he wanted to, and threw back the covers. He swung his feet over the side and stood
up. Moving his arms and taking a few
steps experimentally, he realized that he was close to completely Healed. His full strength was not recovered, but
that would come back soon enough. He
looked around for his shirt to pull on. Not finding it, he decided not to bother. Bare-chested, tangled hair spilling past his shoulders, he wandered
out of the infirmary on bare, silent feet.
The
Healer stood with her back to him, halfway between the kitchen and the front
door, obviously lost in thought. Her
reddish hair, as usual, was pulled back tightly in a long braid that hung like
a rope down her grey-robed back.
"Healer,"
Ashuram said quietly, mostly to announce himself. The Healer spun, startled, hand going to the sword on her hip in
the gesture that laid bare her military training and contradicted her Healer's
robes so completely. Her wide eyes
narrowed slightly.
"Ash,"
she acknowledged. "You startled me."
"That
wasn't my intent," he assured her somberly. Jumpy, aren't we Healer? "I
heard voices."
"Ah
yes," the Healer replied, and her face took on a rueful expression. "The curious villagers that I mentioned."
"I
have the feeling they will be glad to see the back of me," Ashuram said. It wasn't quite a joke, that wasn't his
style, but his thin lips twitched upwards at the corners sardonically.
"Well-"
The Healer began, spreading her hands in front of her. She paused, as if considering how best to
assuage his feelings. Did she think the
opinion of small town farmers bothered him?
"Well, they take some time to warm up to strangers. That, and they think you're from Marmo."
"I
am."
The Healer's eyes grew wide.
"I…I
thought you said you were from Kanon," she replied, looking disconcerted.
"I
said I was born in Kanon," he corrected her impassively. "When Kanon was invaded, I joined the
Marmoan army. I've lived in Marmo
longer than I've lived in Kanon."
"Ah," the Healer said. It was obvious she was struggling to keep her composure, but her face remained remarkably calm. Although if you knew who –what- I am… He suppressed – just barely- the urge to chuckle ironically. Poor little Healer: what conflicts she would have with her office if he were to tell her. He debated it briefly.
The
Healer took a deep breath.
"Right,"
she said briskly. "As far as I know,
it's still no crime to be from Marmo-"
"I fought for Marmo in the war," he added somberly. "I was a general in Lord Beld's army." He saw something close down in the Healer's eyes, her gaze gone chill as she regarded him. How far could he push her, he wondered?
"Why tell me?" She asked at last. "It can't make a difference, I'm a Healer. Even if you were Lord Beld himself I'd have an obligation to Heal you."
"You should know," he answered simply, and he realized he wasn't telling her merely for the sake of watching her struggle with her consciousness (although that might have been amusing), or because he enjoyed being pettily cruel (which he sometimes did). It was more because it was who he was, and he would not hide it. Especially not from a Healer so bent on sticking to her noble oath.
"And how do you know Orson and Shiriss?" She asked curiously after a moment. Ashuram smiled thinly.
"Our paths have crossed," he said. Dragon flame everywhere…
"They're still alive?"
"As far as I know," he answered truthfully. Mercenaries were notoriously hard to kill.
They stood regarding each other for a moment, the tension palpable.
"Perhaps you ought to keep what you've told me to yourself," the Healer advised him at last. "The villagers are already suspicious of you, and I don't know what would happen if they knew what you've told me. I've never seen them so willing to jump to conclusions before."
"They could not harm me," Ashuram said, with complete and unaffected confidence. The Healer raised her eyebrows, looking skeptical.
"Mighty sure of yourself, aren't you, general?" She asked him, mocking him slightly. "Let me say from a professional point of view that I don't want to see my Healing go to waste or have to repeat the performance, so keep mum." It was not a suggestion this time.
Ashuram regarded the Healer curiously for a moment. He found himself wondering, with sudden insight, what kind of lieutenant she would have made. He certainly would have had a lieutenant flogged for such impertinence.
But that was neither here nor there. She was a Healer, and she had Healed him. He owed her, at least, for that.
"Very well," he replied. The Healer smiled for the first time all morning, her hard features softening.
"Good," she said. "Now then. I drew some bathwater for you a few hours ago, and it should be warm by now. I'm betting you could use a bath." Goddesses, a bath. The very thought made him realize just how filthy he felt. To be clean again….
"I would like that," he said.
"You and me both," the Healer replied, green eyes sparkling mischievously. "Come on, it's this way."
The bathtub was at the back of the house, an old copper cauldron-looking thing that she had built a fire under to keep warm. It was in a large, screened-in room that was slowly filling with steam.
"The blacksmith's boy left you some clothes to borrow after you're clean," The Healer said, putting a folded pile of clothes just inside the bathroom. "He's about your height so I expect they'll fit."
"I thank you," Ashuram said, and found he genuinely meant it. The Healer smiled again and left, sliding the screen shut behind her.
Ashuram slipped out of his grimy, threadbare pants and into the water, which was just warm enough to be pleasant. The water stung briefly across his ribs and chest, but he did not really mind. He sank into the water up to his neck with a long, heartfelt sigh of contentment. He tried to remember how long it had been since he'd actually been clean, and gave it up as a lost cause.
The soap that had been left for him was lavender-scented. As he scrubbed at his skin with it, he remembered the days in Lord Beld's palace. He had never bathed himself; bath girls were expected to do that for him. There were always two or three of them in his private baths. He had never bothered learning their names. They hadn't really spoken unless he had spoken to them first, although occasionally they did relieve other needs as well, when he had desired it.
He scrubbed his hair and body almost violently, dead skin and dirt scarting off in the soapy water to make a pallid cloud that floated towards the surface. When he was finished cleaning, he simply soaked, leaning comfortably back against the tub, his eyes closed.
* * * * * * *
When Ashuram was clean and dressed – in clothes that for all their simplicity and roughness fit adequately – he pulled back his still-dripping hair and found the Healer working in the barn. She was humming to herself, a low sort of tuneless drone as she swept the aisle. This time, Ashuram let his feet make a noise on the barn floor to announce his presence. The Healer stopped humming abruptly, and looked up at him.
"Well, you look human again," she commented drolly, with a half-smile. "Less like walking death." He let one of his eyebrows lift dubiously. "At any rate, you're very welcome," she continued when he said nothing. "If you want to help, there's another broom over there against the wall."
He didn't really want to help, and he certainly was no page to be sweeping the floors of a country barn, but he took the broom and began sweeping efficiently, if for no other reason than it felt good to move his body.
The last time he'd swept a barn floor had been when he was fifteen. He remembered now why he had hated being a page. He had not liked sweeping barn floors then, and he certainly cared no more for it now. At least there were no fist-sized island spiders here as there were in Marmo. They were big as mice, those things, and not even a sharp whack with a broom would kill one.
He realized suddenly he was sweeping by himself, and looked around all at once. The Healer had ducked out while he'd been lost in his thoughts. Her broom had been placed carefully against the wall. Now, what…? He knew he owed the Healer a debt, but if she expected him to simply do chores like some sort of servant, she was sadly mistaken. He was about to put his broom back against the wall, when he saw the Healer coming back from the house, carrying a tray that looked laden and heavy. Her shadow darkened the barn door a moment later, and in she came, her thick walking shoes clacking against the barn floor.
"I brought some lunch," the Healer said. "I'm sure you're hungry." On cue, his stomach growled demandingly.
A few moments later, he found himself sitting on a hay bale, eating stew and bread that seemed like the best thing he'd ever tasted. The Healer obviously knew what to do with herbs besides using them to heal. He had a brief moment of repentance for his earlier assumption that she had merely left.
As he ate, she spoke to him.
"You seem to be doing much better today," she commented. He nodded.
"I feel much stronger," he agreed.
"How long have you been in Alania?" Healer Veris asked him. Her green eyes were curious.
"Since the day you found me," he replied. "I don't remember exactly."
"Before that, Marmo?" She pressed. He paused in eating to regard her briefly. She seemed quite determined. He nodded deliberately.
"How long did you live in Marmo?"
"Fifteen years," he answered. He supposed he had opened the door for her to ask by volunteering information about himself earlier. No help for it now. "When Marmo invaded Kanon, I joined the Marmoan army." He nearly smiled ironically. It was either that or become a slave, and I'm not much good at that.
"The invasion," the Healer said, with a not-quite-concealed trace of bitterness. "Marmoan army Orcs burned my village. They killed my parents."
"A shame," Ashuram said, and it was a genuine if subdued sentiment. They had done that everywhere. His own village had been burned to the ground, although his parents had long since been past caring by that time – they had died when he was too young to remember them.
The Healer seemed to force herself to move on to another topic.
"So, from Marmo to Alania," she said. "How did you get here? And why Alania? Why not Kanon?" She paused and narrowed a hard malachite gaze at him as something occurred to her. "The Marmoan army still stands in Kanon, although Marmo was defeated in the war. Do they plan to move again? How do I know you're not a spy?"
Ashuram snorted. It was a little late, he thought, to be asking such questions. Besides, he knew nothing of the movements of the Marmoan army in Kanon. Well, very little at any rate. He told the Healer so. He'd been too busy trying to send Wagnard to hell on the end of the Demon Sword. That part he kept to himself. She shook her head stubbornly.
"You did say you were a general, after all," she said. "Why wouldn't you know? I don't want my village burnt down around my ears again." The Healer leveled a stony glare at him. Really, he thought, almost amused, there was not much she could do about it if he were to tell her the Marmoan army was on the move again. He doubted that they were, however. There may have been legions left, but without Lord Beld or the Black Knight to lead them, he doubted they would venture very far from their safe haven in Kanon.
Ashuram gave the Healer a measuring look. She was no threat to him. Healer Veris was competent and forthright, but after all, she was only a small-town Healer curious about the stranger passing through. She could not harm him – more, he sensed she probably wouldn't even if she could. The Healer's oath and the honor he sensed in her prevented that. Honor was something even he could understand, was something that Wagnard had often, subtly and contemptuously, derided him for having.
So he told her. Not the whole story, of course, but enough to alleviate her curiosity. It felt somehow relieving to share the tale with someone at any rate, to finally be able to look back on it and realize he was no longer struggling merely to keep breathing, to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
"Your luck is incredible," she said with a disbelieving headshake when he was finished. "The Goddesses favor you, man. Maybe it's the pendant you wear that brings you such luck." Ashuram felt his face go blank, but the sharp pain that came with being reminded of the pendant and all that it stood for was diminished this time to a mere dull ache. He reached up to touch it thoughtfully.
"Maybe," he said dubiously.
* * * * * * *
Sometime later, towards evening, Ashuram found himself alone in the barnyard, the broom handle in his hands. In the waning light, he found himself going through the motions of the old sword katas he used to do to stay supple.
The broom handle was about the right width but much too long to simulate a sword. Never the less, he closed his eyes and moved through the ancient sword forms reflexively. He still didn't have all his strength back, but the feeling of exerting himself, of controlling his body as it went through the graceful forms of each kata, delighted him.
It was such a far cry from his condition in the last…. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? He found he couldn't really remember. At any rate, he was well enough to swing the hook with carefully managed force, battling the stiffness of his joints to move fluidly from one stance to the next. Soon enough, a thin film of sweat was cooling on his brow, and he closed his eyes against the icy evening breeze that blew against him.
"Here," the Healer's voice came to him, and he opened his eyes abruptly. He had not heard her approach. In her hands she carried two bokken, the wooden practice swords every swordfighter has practiced with at one time or another. She tossed one to him, which he caught easily, and stood looking at her with raised eyebrows.
The Healer smiled, unbuckling the Elven sword and leaning it carefully against the barn.
"I saw you going through the forms. I haven't had anyone to practice with in a long time, and thought you might want to spar. That is, if you're up to it." The last was spoken with raised eyebrows, the question obvious. She gave him a spare glance, one that looked halfway between challenge and professional concern for his health.
Interesting. Sparring with the Healer. He found suddenly he very much wanted to test his newly-Healed strength against someone else. He eyed her for a moment. For all he knew she was experienced, her arms were slender and her wrists almost delicate-looking. He doubted she was very strong. He wondered if she would be worth fighting simply for fighting's sake. There were so few that were.
"Of course," he said, and bowed to her formally. She bowed in reply, taking her bokken in an easy grip and standing in a low stance.
There was a pause in which the evening hushed around them. They each stood still, waiting for the other to move. The breeze picked at their hair and clothing as if urging them into action.
Then, between one eye blink and the next, the Healer attacked. She gave no warning before whirling quickly and dropping to strike at his legs. He blocked effortlessly. She sidestepped his return parry. She was skilled enough to see that it would be a waste of energy to pit her strength against his when she did not have to, and did not block when she could just as easily evade. The Healer feinted right and brought her bokken up, swiftly jabbing at him. She aimed to thrust into the soft part between his shoulder joint and collarbone, but he knocked the attack away smoothly, and actually had to work to make it look effortless.
After a moment, Ashuram found himself grinning in real enjoyment. The Healer was a worthy opponent. As he had suspected, she was not a match for his own strength, but she was very, very fast. He soon realized it was a struggle to predict what she would do next and found himself anticipating her next movement with curiosity. The mercenaries had taught her well. No movement was wasted, every reaction was fluid, the bokken in her hand moving as naturally as if it were part of her. If he was not quite impressed, it was because he had not yet met anyone faster or stronger than himself – the Healer included. He was certainly satisfied with her ability. Not even Pirotess… He choked the thought off quickly. Thinking of things like that would only distract him.
His stamina was not yet recovered, however, and soon he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his breathing heavy. The twilight was filled with the clatter of block and parry, of small sounds of exertion and the scuffle of feet against the soft earth. He could hear the Healer breathing heavily as well, although she showed no other signs of effort. Her face was a cool mask, the green eyes hard and determined, the mouth a set, emotionless line.
Ashuram decided to end the sparring match before his strength started to wane. Quickly he stepped into the Healer's attack, startling her, and knocked her bokken out of the way with a calculated burst of strength. He hooked his heel behind her ankle and almost gently tripped her.
She sprawled backwards, catching herself in the first awkward movement he had seen her execute, coming to lie on the ground with his bokken resting at the hollow of her throat. She looked highly bemused, looking up at him with some disbelief, her mouth open and breathing hard.
"That hasn't happened to me in a long time," she said ruefully at last, as he took the bokken away and bowed again. "By the Goddess. I never even saw that coming." Even good fighters knew when they were outmatched. She accepted the hand he held out to her and let him pull her to her feet.
"I suspect you could have done that whenever you wanted and I could not have stopped you," she continued, giving him one of her trademark brief, wry grins. Well, yes, he supposed she was right.
"You were quite a worthy opponent," he said, not contradicting her. "I enjoyed that. Perhaps again tomorrow." The Healer nodded, brushing herself off and buckling herself back into her sword
"I am rusty," she said, "and I see I could learn from you. It would be an honor." Ashuram blinked at her, unprepared for this response. She wanted to learn….from him? From a self-confessed general of the Marmoan army?
"Healer, why are you so interested in the way of the sword?" he asked her curiously. "I find it odd that a woman whose job it is to heal is also drawn to the sword so significantly." Somewhat to his surprise, she blushed uncomfortably, her pale skin unable to hide the sudden bloom of color. Ah, there was that look of uncertainty again. Was she ashamed of her love of the sword?
"I suppose it's two sides of the same coin, isn't it?" She said after a moment. "Life, and death, and the ability to hasten both. I love to Heal people, but I also love… I love the thrill of fighting."
Ashuram looked at the woman in a new light, startled by this insight. How odd to have such a contradiction housed in a woman who seemed to live such a quiet life.
"How curious," he murmured. She nodded.
"Yes, it must seem quite bizarre. But don't get me wrong," the Healer added grimly, "I do not enjoy killing. I have never sought to bring it. But the fight, the narrowing of consciousness down to one point in time, the simplicity of swords – that thrill I can't seem to escape."
"Perhaps we are not so different, you and I," Ashuram said coolly, narrowing his eyes in appraisal of the woman in front of him. If she only knew… Something kept him from telling her, some sort of respect and recognition of gratitude made him realize telling her the entire truth would only make her job difficult.
"Perhaps," she replied without conviction, her green eyes luminous in the dimness. She did not quite look pleased by the comparison.
* * *