Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own any of 'em, except Veris! It's been a
long time since I wrote anything on this story. I'm a little rusty, so
bear with me. But I won't give up writing if you don't give up reading! ;)
Chapter 16: Synchronisties
She wanted to think it was a dream.
It would have been easy to dismiss it as such; moments of cognizance came and went, dream-like, and the events flowing around her seem disjointed and unconnected to her. Time had little meaning to her, and the setting presented before her seemed to change constantly.
She most often found herself looking at the world from horse back; how she came to find herself there, she had little idea. Woods and hills and towns melted into one incomprehensible stream over the bobbing of her mare's head, and horse hooves hitting the firm-packed earth in a deliberate gait sounded constantly in her ears. Ash's pale face came and went, wearing the same stony expression every time: jaws tight and eyes thin, as if he were reigning in his patience with extreme effort.
Although there seemed to be little meaning to it, it could have been a dream she was having.
And yet, there was some small part of her that stubbornly refused to believe that. There was the vague memory of something unpleasant, something she could not quite recall, that seemed to have begun the entire sequence. Try though she might, she could not bring it back.
Every time she tried to concentrate on something, consciousness faded and she slipped back into the grip of whatever sleep held her, only to faintly and bemusedly come to herself to find everything had, once again, changed all around her.
Occasionally, she seemed to - there was no other word for it - overhear thoughts that distinctly felt as though they were not her own. They echoed in her mind from a source she could not pinpoint, and expressed feelings that were alien to her.
Those thoughts communicated age and consciousness that were startling to her.
Time moves, she managed to catch this thought clearly once or twice, and I must hurry before the Black Knight finds a way to get in my way.
Another time, faced with a crowded market full of what looked like common townsfolk, she remembered hearing somewhere in her own mind the scornful thought that:
These small cogs in the mechanism are hardly even useful as tools. Like ants in the dirt, milling about with such small purpose.
Had she always had thoughts like this? Somehow she didn't think so.
Nothing made sense. Occasionally she thought to turn to Ash and ask him what was going on. Ask him why she could remember his name and not her own. Whenever she grew frustrated enough to start to do this, however, purpose slipped away from her and she found herself once more floating, inert, unable to make her mind and her body connect.
Gradually, she began to realize she was not going to wake up from this dream. That something was standing between her and consciousness, keeping her from waking.
Somewhere, deep within, a spark of rage came to faint life and began to burn with a single-minded intensity that slowly grew brighter and brighter.
* * * * * * *
Ashuram had lost track of the miles they had covered, but not the days. He kept careful count of those, tallying them with shallow hatch marks on a piece of leather cut from his sword belt. He did it every night before turning in, making the mark carefully with the end of the Elven sword. There were exactly thirty-eight pale, neat slashes on the dark leather.
In Smithshire, he had bought some news boots. In Brandywine, they had stopped to have a Ferrier repair one of the mare's shoes. Past Iron Town, they had traveled through a pass in the mountains, stopping one night to dine with a band of loud-spoken gypsies who tried very hard to get him to gamble. The miles had gone slowly.
And still no break in the Witch's vigilance. She did not sleep. He never witnessed her in any state except complete, alert composure.
It really grated on him. Even Wagnard, possessed by a Goddess, had slept occasionally. Karla simply existed, driving them on towards Valis with a seeming tireless tenacity, making no secret of the fact she considered his need for sleep one of the many weaknesses of humans. She allowed them to stop every evening so he could sleep, although he suspected if she were truly in a hurry she could simply make his body move without his will behind it.
She had already demonstrated this ability several times, much to his simmering, impotent frustration. Karla was in control, and she would have things the way she wanted them. This in no way endeared the Witch to him; he hated not feeling in control, and she knew it. She never failed to remind him that she had the upper hand at any opportunity, and took a rather petty pleasure from needling him.
Occasionally, when he felt he could not stand it, or her magics went too far, the Elven sword would flicker to dull, faded green life, and she would back off slightly. It never came to green brilliance as it had with Veris, but it was enough to make the Witch uncomfortable. That was enough for him.
The thirty-eight days had gone by almost silently. Ashuram had made the decision to talk to the Witch only when he absolutely had to, and he kept by it. Many days he said nothing at all.
He merely watched, and waited, and found that his right hand nearly always rested on the hilt of the Elven sword.
If there is one thing I have he thought to himself grimly, it's patience.
* * * * * * *
The rainy season had come once more to Valis, bringing with it the last vestiges of cold mountain air before Spring would truly begin. Everything was damp and chilly, sending people inside and keeping them there. The city had turned grey and quiet, and would remain so until the sun came out again.
Parn sighed, and turned his gaze from the cold view out his window and back to the warmth of his chambers. There was a fire burning brightly in the large fireplace, hissing and popping merrily. That, along with the torches burning along the wall, gave the room a cozy atmosphere if not necessarily a brightly-lit one.
He rested his chin on his fist and considered the room. He was back in his old chambers in Valis, which the Princess had been thoughtful enough to keep ready in his absence. They had not changed, although it seemed like it had been another lifetime ago that he had sat in front of this very fireplace.
He had been much younger then, in a fever of anticipation for the coming conflict with Marmo. It seemed like he had scarcely been old enough to grow a beard, although he knew better.
He remembered watching Deedo sleep on the couch he now sat upon, stretched catlike by the fire. He remembered trying to sneak the white rose by her hands without her noticing and the recollection caused a rueful grin to pull at the corners of his mouth. Nothing got past Deedo, he had come to realize.
Parn fingered the thin silver ring he wore on his left hand, fingers tracing the Elven runes woven there. He wished Deedo were here now, but she was gone - back to her homeland for a brief visit to see how the clans were faring, she had said. Brief, he knew, in Elven terms, meant he missed her far longer than she probably realized. Time moved differently for the Elven race, and he had not heard from her in weeks. She could be back in Valis tomorrow, or he may not see her for a year. That was how it went with Elves; they were creatures outside of time.
Or so he kept telling himself.
He was trying hard not to take her absence personally. The truth was, she had left after a complicated and frustrating argument between the both of them, without much explanation as to why she was going.
Things had always been a little awkward between them, because of their differences - because he - like all humans - was so young, yet aged so quickly without the benefit of gaining experiences like Elves did. After the war had ended, however, and they had gone adventuring together, there had been a long period of wonderment between them, of quiet happiness that had felt as though it would never end. He stifled another sigh. He felt her absence keenly, especially since it had been so long since they had not been side by side
Yet even Parn had to admit they had not been getting along as well lately. Since returning to Valis, Deedo had been prickly, tense and tightlipped. She had begun taking longer and longer walks in the gardens and deep forests around the castle, and had not appeared at the ball held in their honor to welcome them back.
At first, Parn hadn't really noticed. Since the war was over, he'd fallen into a bit of a strange state. The hero's welcomes and the banquets in their honor were getting few and far between. He and his friends were a common sight now in Valis, and people no longer stopped them to thank them for their efforts in ending the war. Gradually a quiet depression had fallen over Parn and he found himself missing the excitement and glory of the days when he and his small group of adventurers had actually had something useful to do, instead of acting as decoration at important meetings and state dinners. There'd been a point where he had simply refused to appear in public life at the palace, because he couldn't stand to feel like part of the scenery.
When he had finally realized something was bothering Deedo, she evaded his questions and seemed to withdraw into herself. They went for days without speaking, when only months earlier they had shared every thought between them. Even Parn could see that the breakdown in communication between them could surely lead no place good, and he eventually grew impatient with her unwillingness to talk to him about what was bothering her.
She'd gone after he'd told her so. Parn bit his lip and rubbed his brow with a finger. He had to admit, looking back, he hadn't really chosen his words all that carefully or with any particular grace - he had little skill in that department. He wondered now if perhaps he'd said something that had cut her deeper than he could have realized. He certainly had been more than a little selfish lately.
Thinking about it now, while she was not here to agree or disagree, was fruitless, he told himself at last. To distract himself, he picked up the rag lying near his boots, pulled King Fahn's sword from its sheath and began to polish it with neat, practiced strokes.
The sword, under his hands, seemed to hum faintly and give off just the slightest pale glow. Yesterday when he had touched it, it had responded similarly. Parn frowned thoughtfully at it. The sword seemed restive, if such a thing were possible. After the battle on Marmo, it had seemed lifeless, as though it had fallen into a deep sleep. Now, however, he could sense life in it again. There was something different about the sword, as though once more it was quickening.
The sword was magic, and Parn was the first to admit that such things were far above his understanding. If Deedo were here, perhaps she could explain. She was tuned to such things, being an Elf, and would understand the spells that brought the sword to life and made it sleep again
He gave the blade another pensive swipe with the soft rag in his hands, looking at his reflection in the bright metal. Nothing new there, except a few scars and the shadow of a beard along his jaw. He reached a hand up and rubbed his chin, producing a scratchy sound and decided he ought to find a razor. He could probably borrow one from Slayn, he thought absently.
His reflection looked older, he thought objectively. Not so much like a kid's face anymore. He halfway looked as though he were the kind of person fit to wear a sword like King Fahn's. If he let his beard grow in, he might wind up looking like King Kashue, he considered, but the hardness around the mercenary King's eyes were absent from his face.
Parn looked down at his hands, wrapped around the hilt comfortably. They were brown and lean, smooth save for the puckered scar on his left hand that ran between his ring and middle finger all the way to his wrist. Parn ran a finger along the white, uneven skin, an uncharacteristic frown making a deep shadow between his brows.
That was a souvenir from Lord Ashuram, that scar. It had taken months to heal properly. Parn did not have to look to know the other souvenir left over from that fateful fight - King Beld's sword - was hanging in its case against the far wall. The case stood out of sight of most of the room, half hidden in an alcove, but if he craned his neck he could probably see it. He refrained. He had purposely asked the Princess to keep the dark sword in a place close enough that he could keep an eye on it, yet in a place where he did not have to look at the damn thing all the time.
The dark sword gave him the creeps. Although he had held it - even wielded it, in that panicked jump to save Deedo - the thing made his blood run cold. A slow shudder of horror crept over him every time he cast his eyes towards it. As soon as they had got to Valis, he had promptly put it in its sheath and stored it in the alcove, so he would no longer have to have it near him. He had felt a great sense of relief to be out of proximity to Soulcrusher. He could still remember the way the Black Knight had looked wielding it, crimson witch-light reflecting madly in his flat black eyes as he had advanced on Parn. Parn's left hand slowly made a white-knuckled fist.
The sound of someone clearing their throat softly made Parn nearly jump. He looked over his shoulder to find Etoh standing in the doorway to his chambers, the firelight casting a grey shadow over his white cleric's robes. His face looked round and cheerful as ever, and under the Princess' determined attention, his full cheeks had acquired what seemed to be a permanently rosy glow as thought he were always slightly embarrassed.
When he saw he had gotten Parn's attention, he gave a sweet grin.
"Etoh," Parn acknowledged, unable to help smiling back. There was something infectious about his friend's unfailing good humor.
"What are you doing in here, sitting in the dark?" Etoh inquired. "Not moping again?" He kept his wide smile so Parn would know he was joking.
"Who's moping?" Parn grumbled, only mustering slight indignance. "I'm cleaning King Fahn's sword."
Etoh rolled his eyes.
"Can it get cleaner?" He obviously expected no answer, because he continued, "Why don't you come downstairs and join us at the table for some hot cider? One of King Jester's envoys has promised to tell some tales this evening."
"I'll be down.after awhile," Parn said, looking around the room and suddenly unwilling to leave the comforting dimness for the brightly lit dining hall. Even here, in his chambers, he could hear voices carrying, lifted high in laughter and merriment. Valis had become a land of happiness since the war had ended.
"Parn, you know, allowing yourself to laugh a little won't keep her away any longer," Etoh said lightly. Parn looked up at his friend quickly, but the smile on Etoh's face was the same. Parn resisted the urge to sigh glumly and rest his chin on his fist.
"I know," he said. "And, I will be down. Just a bit later."
Etoh advanced into the room, smile faltering and a concerned look coming into his washed-out blue eyes.
"What's really the matter? Do you want to talk?"
"What, you mean besides Deedo having left?" Parn asked dryly, which was unlike him. He shrugged. The brightness of the sword in his hands caught the corners of his vision and he looked down at it.
"I've just been thinking about this thing," Parn said, gesturing to the sword. "It's been acting funny lately." Etoh immediately frowned.
"What do you mean, 'acting funny?'"
"Well, just look at it. It's glowing. And.it seems alive. I don't know, my friend; you know I don't understand magic. Maybe you can tell me what's going on." Etoh came over to study the sword, brows drawn.
"I see what you mean," he said eventually. "Could it be that it's woken again?" Parn shrugged again.
"At first I thought it was just wishful thinking on my part," he confessed to Etoh. Etoh, who knew Parn better than most and might understand the Knight's impatience with civilian life, nodded.
"It would be nice to have a quest again," Parn continued, and even he could hear the longing in his own voice. "But I don't know why the sword would come to life again so soon after the war."
"Well, the war may be finished, but that doesn't mean that Marmo was completely defeated." Etoh tapped a finger thoughtfully against the couch as he spoke. "I mean, the Witch has still not been found."
The two of them shared a grim look, each thinking the same thing: that their friend, Woodchuck, had not been spotted since the Witch had taken control of him. That was a sobering reminder of things left unfinished.
"You don't think she's back to her old tricks?" Parn asked dubiously. One of Etoh's eyebrows arched expressively.
"Back? I hardly doubt she ever left," he replied. He frowned again thoughtfully and half turned to look at the alcove across the chamber.
"What about that one?" He asked, turning again to look at Parn, gesturing to the dark sword. "Hs it been acting funny lately as well?" Parn's dark blue eyes looked troubled.
"I don't often go near enough to find out," he said, rising, "but perhaps we ought to have a look."
Parn strode over to Soulcrusher's glass case, and unlocked it. He pulled the glass open and reached for the dark sword. Just before taking it in his hands, he hesitated. Then, before he could let his unwillingness to touch it get the better of him, he took the sword in his hands, feeling the familiar oppressive weight of the thing. He could not help the grimace he made as he felt it once more in his hands.
There was something that just felt wrong about this sword, something that made it feel as though it might twitch in his hands or otherwise rebel against him in some way. The sword felt sentient, and demanding - as though it hungered, and he were simply something in the way. It gave him gooseflesh.
"Parn?" Etoh called.
"Yes. Sorry. The blasted thing just creeps me out." He took the hilt and drew the sword quickly, as if to get it over with.
His face was bathed in a harsh, yet relatively weak, purple light. Parn blinked in surprise, looking down at the sword in his hands. It definitely seemed to give off a feeling of life, and of some kind of power. It did not so much hum as seem to growl, low and deep just beyond the range of his hearing.
"Oh Marfa," he found himself saying, looking down at it, "what does that mean?"
"It means," Etoh said, sounding serious, "that I think we had better send word to Slayn. If anyone knows what's going on, he will."
Chapter 16: Synchronisties
She wanted to think it was a dream.
It would have been easy to dismiss it as such; moments of cognizance came and went, dream-like, and the events flowing around her seem disjointed and unconnected to her. Time had little meaning to her, and the setting presented before her seemed to change constantly.
She most often found herself looking at the world from horse back; how she came to find herself there, she had little idea. Woods and hills and towns melted into one incomprehensible stream over the bobbing of her mare's head, and horse hooves hitting the firm-packed earth in a deliberate gait sounded constantly in her ears. Ash's pale face came and went, wearing the same stony expression every time: jaws tight and eyes thin, as if he were reigning in his patience with extreme effort.
Although there seemed to be little meaning to it, it could have been a dream she was having.
And yet, there was some small part of her that stubbornly refused to believe that. There was the vague memory of something unpleasant, something she could not quite recall, that seemed to have begun the entire sequence. Try though she might, she could not bring it back.
Every time she tried to concentrate on something, consciousness faded and she slipped back into the grip of whatever sleep held her, only to faintly and bemusedly come to herself to find everything had, once again, changed all around her.
Occasionally, she seemed to - there was no other word for it - overhear thoughts that distinctly felt as though they were not her own. They echoed in her mind from a source she could not pinpoint, and expressed feelings that were alien to her.
Those thoughts communicated age and consciousness that were startling to her.
Time moves, she managed to catch this thought clearly once or twice, and I must hurry before the Black Knight finds a way to get in my way.
Another time, faced with a crowded market full of what looked like common townsfolk, she remembered hearing somewhere in her own mind the scornful thought that:
These small cogs in the mechanism are hardly even useful as tools. Like ants in the dirt, milling about with such small purpose.
Had she always had thoughts like this? Somehow she didn't think so.
Nothing made sense. Occasionally she thought to turn to Ash and ask him what was going on. Ask him why she could remember his name and not her own. Whenever she grew frustrated enough to start to do this, however, purpose slipped away from her and she found herself once more floating, inert, unable to make her mind and her body connect.
Gradually, she began to realize she was not going to wake up from this dream. That something was standing between her and consciousness, keeping her from waking.
Somewhere, deep within, a spark of rage came to faint life and began to burn with a single-minded intensity that slowly grew brighter and brighter.
* * * * * * *
Ashuram had lost track of the miles they had covered, but not the days. He kept careful count of those, tallying them with shallow hatch marks on a piece of leather cut from his sword belt. He did it every night before turning in, making the mark carefully with the end of the Elven sword. There were exactly thirty-eight pale, neat slashes on the dark leather.
In Smithshire, he had bought some news boots. In Brandywine, they had stopped to have a Ferrier repair one of the mare's shoes. Past Iron Town, they had traveled through a pass in the mountains, stopping one night to dine with a band of loud-spoken gypsies who tried very hard to get him to gamble. The miles had gone slowly.
And still no break in the Witch's vigilance. She did not sleep. He never witnessed her in any state except complete, alert composure.
It really grated on him. Even Wagnard, possessed by a Goddess, had slept occasionally. Karla simply existed, driving them on towards Valis with a seeming tireless tenacity, making no secret of the fact she considered his need for sleep one of the many weaknesses of humans. She allowed them to stop every evening so he could sleep, although he suspected if she were truly in a hurry she could simply make his body move without his will behind it.
She had already demonstrated this ability several times, much to his simmering, impotent frustration. Karla was in control, and she would have things the way she wanted them. This in no way endeared the Witch to him; he hated not feeling in control, and she knew it. She never failed to remind him that she had the upper hand at any opportunity, and took a rather petty pleasure from needling him.
Occasionally, when he felt he could not stand it, or her magics went too far, the Elven sword would flicker to dull, faded green life, and she would back off slightly. It never came to green brilliance as it had with Veris, but it was enough to make the Witch uncomfortable. That was enough for him.
The thirty-eight days had gone by almost silently. Ashuram had made the decision to talk to the Witch only when he absolutely had to, and he kept by it. Many days he said nothing at all.
He merely watched, and waited, and found that his right hand nearly always rested on the hilt of the Elven sword.
If there is one thing I have he thought to himself grimly, it's patience.
* * * * * * *
The rainy season had come once more to Valis, bringing with it the last vestiges of cold mountain air before Spring would truly begin. Everything was damp and chilly, sending people inside and keeping them there. The city had turned grey and quiet, and would remain so until the sun came out again.
Parn sighed, and turned his gaze from the cold view out his window and back to the warmth of his chambers. There was a fire burning brightly in the large fireplace, hissing and popping merrily. That, along with the torches burning along the wall, gave the room a cozy atmosphere if not necessarily a brightly-lit one.
He rested his chin on his fist and considered the room. He was back in his old chambers in Valis, which the Princess had been thoughtful enough to keep ready in his absence. They had not changed, although it seemed like it had been another lifetime ago that he had sat in front of this very fireplace.
He had been much younger then, in a fever of anticipation for the coming conflict with Marmo. It seemed like he had scarcely been old enough to grow a beard, although he knew better.
He remembered watching Deedo sleep on the couch he now sat upon, stretched catlike by the fire. He remembered trying to sneak the white rose by her hands without her noticing and the recollection caused a rueful grin to pull at the corners of his mouth. Nothing got past Deedo, he had come to realize.
Parn fingered the thin silver ring he wore on his left hand, fingers tracing the Elven runes woven there. He wished Deedo were here now, but she was gone - back to her homeland for a brief visit to see how the clans were faring, she had said. Brief, he knew, in Elven terms, meant he missed her far longer than she probably realized. Time moved differently for the Elven race, and he had not heard from her in weeks. She could be back in Valis tomorrow, or he may not see her for a year. That was how it went with Elves; they were creatures outside of time.
Or so he kept telling himself.
He was trying hard not to take her absence personally. The truth was, she had left after a complicated and frustrating argument between the both of them, without much explanation as to why she was going.
Things had always been a little awkward between them, because of their differences - because he - like all humans - was so young, yet aged so quickly without the benefit of gaining experiences like Elves did. After the war had ended, however, and they had gone adventuring together, there had been a long period of wonderment between them, of quiet happiness that had felt as though it would never end. He stifled another sigh. He felt her absence keenly, especially since it had been so long since they had not been side by side
Yet even Parn had to admit they had not been getting along as well lately. Since returning to Valis, Deedo had been prickly, tense and tightlipped. She had begun taking longer and longer walks in the gardens and deep forests around the castle, and had not appeared at the ball held in their honor to welcome them back.
At first, Parn hadn't really noticed. Since the war was over, he'd fallen into a bit of a strange state. The hero's welcomes and the banquets in their honor were getting few and far between. He and his friends were a common sight now in Valis, and people no longer stopped them to thank them for their efforts in ending the war. Gradually a quiet depression had fallen over Parn and he found himself missing the excitement and glory of the days when he and his small group of adventurers had actually had something useful to do, instead of acting as decoration at important meetings and state dinners. There'd been a point where he had simply refused to appear in public life at the palace, because he couldn't stand to feel like part of the scenery.
When he had finally realized something was bothering Deedo, she evaded his questions and seemed to withdraw into herself. They went for days without speaking, when only months earlier they had shared every thought between them. Even Parn could see that the breakdown in communication between them could surely lead no place good, and he eventually grew impatient with her unwillingness to talk to him about what was bothering her.
She'd gone after he'd told her so. Parn bit his lip and rubbed his brow with a finger. He had to admit, looking back, he hadn't really chosen his words all that carefully or with any particular grace - he had little skill in that department. He wondered now if perhaps he'd said something that had cut her deeper than he could have realized. He certainly had been more than a little selfish lately.
Thinking about it now, while she was not here to agree or disagree, was fruitless, he told himself at last. To distract himself, he picked up the rag lying near his boots, pulled King Fahn's sword from its sheath and began to polish it with neat, practiced strokes.
The sword, under his hands, seemed to hum faintly and give off just the slightest pale glow. Yesterday when he had touched it, it had responded similarly. Parn frowned thoughtfully at it. The sword seemed restive, if such a thing were possible. After the battle on Marmo, it had seemed lifeless, as though it had fallen into a deep sleep. Now, however, he could sense life in it again. There was something different about the sword, as though once more it was quickening.
The sword was magic, and Parn was the first to admit that such things were far above his understanding. If Deedo were here, perhaps she could explain. She was tuned to such things, being an Elf, and would understand the spells that brought the sword to life and made it sleep again
He gave the blade another pensive swipe with the soft rag in his hands, looking at his reflection in the bright metal. Nothing new there, except a few scars and the shadow of a beard along his jaw. He reached a hand up and rubbed his chin, producing a scratchy sound and decided he ought to find a razor. He could probably borrow one from Slayn, he thought absently.
His reflection looked older, he thought objectively. Not so much like a kid's face anymore. He halfway looked as though he were the kind of person fit to wear a sword like King Fahn's. If he let his beard grow in, he might wind up looking like King Kashue, he considered, but the hardness around the mercenary King's eyes were absent from his face.
Parn looked down at his hands, wrapped around the hilt comfortably. They were brown and lean, smooth save for the puckered scar on his left hand that ran between his ring and middle finger all the way to his wrist. Parn ran a finger along the white, uneven skin, an uncharacteristic frown making a deep shadow between his brows.
That was a souvenir from Lord Ashuram, that scar. It had taken months to heal properly. Parn did not have to look to know the other souvenir left over from that fateful fight - King Beld's sword - was hanging in its case against the far wall. The case stood out of sight of most of the room, half hidden in an alcove, but if he craned his neck he could probably see it. He refrained. He had purposely asked the Princess to keep the dark sword in a place close enough that he could keep an eye on it, yet in a place where he did not have to look at the damn thing all the time.
The dark sword gave him the creeps. Although he had held it - even wielded it, in that panicked jump to save Deedo - the thing made his blood run cold. A slow shudder of horror crept over him every time he cast his eyes towards it. As soon as they had got to Valis, he had promptly put it in its sheath and stored it in the alcove, so he would no longer have to have it near him. He had felt a great sense of relief to be out of proximity to Soulcrusher. He could still remember the way the Black Knight had looked wielding it, crimson witch-light reflecting madly in his flat black eyes as he had advanced on Parn. Parn's left hand slowly made a white-knuckled fist.
The sound of someone clearing their throat softly made Parn nearly jump. He looked over his shoulder to find Etoh standing in the doorway to his chambers, the firelight casting a grey shadow over his white cleric's robes. His face looked round and cheerful as ever, and under the Princess' determined attention, his full cheeks had acquired what seemed to be a permanently rosy glow as thought he were always slightly embarrassed.
When he saw he had gotten Parn's attention, he gave a sweet grin.
"Etoh," Parn acknowledged, unable to help smiling back. There was something infectious about his friend's unfailing good humor.
"What are you doing in here, sitting in the dark?" Etoh inquired. "Not moping again?" He kept his wide smile so Parn would know he was joking.
"Who's moping?" Parn grumbled, only mustering slight indignance. "I'm cleaning King Fahn's sword."
Etoh rolled his eyes.
"Can it get cleaner?" He obviously expected no answer, because he continued, "Why don't you come downstairs and join us at the table for some hot cider? One of King Jester's envoys has promised to tell some tales this evening."
"I'll be down.after awhile," Parn said, looking around the room and suddenly unwilling to leave the comforting dimness for the brightly lit dining hall. Even here, in his chambers, he could hear voices carrying, lifted high in laughter and merriment. Valis had become a land of happiness since the war had ended.
"Parn, you know, allowing yourself to laugh a little won't keep her away any longer," Etoh said lightly. Parn looked up at his friend quickly, but the smile on Etoh's face was the same. Parn resisted the urge to sigh glumly and rest his chin on his fist.
"I know," he said. "And, I will be down. Just a bit later."
Etoh advanced into the room, smile faltering and a concerned look coming into his washed-out blue eyes.
"What's really the matter? Do you want to talk?"
"What, you mean besides Deedo having left?" Parn asked dryly, which was unlike him. He shrugged. The brightness of the sword in his hands caught the corners of his vision and he looked down at it.
"I've just been thinking about this thing," Parn said, gesturing to the sword. "It's been acting funny lately." Etoh immediately frowned.
"What do you mean, 'acting funny?'"
"Well, just look at it. It's glowing. And.it seems alive. I don't know, my friend; you know I don't understand magic. Maybe you can tell me what's going on." Etoh came over to study the sword, brows drawn.
"I see what you mean," he said eventually. "Could it be that it's woken again?" Parn shrugged again.
"At first I thought it was just wishful thinking on my part," he confessed to Etoh. Etoh, who knew Parn better than most and might understand the Knight's impatience with civilian life, nodded.
"It would be nice to have a quest again," Parn continued, and even he could hear the longing in his own voice. "But I don't know why the sword would come to life again so soon after the war."
"Well, the war may be finished, but that doesn't mean that Marmo was completely defeated." Etoh tapped a finger thoughtfully against the couch as he spoke. "I mean, the Witch has still not been found."
The two of them shared a grim look, each thinking the same thing: that their friend, Woodchuck, had not been spotted since the Witch had taken control of him. That was a sobering reminder of things left unfinished.
"You don't think she's back to her old tricks?" Parn asked dubiously. One of Etoh's eyebrows arched expressively.
"Back? I hardly doubt she ever left," he replied. He frowned again thoughtfully and half turned to look at the alcove across the chamber.
"What about that one?" He asked, turning again to look at Parn, gesturing to the dark sword. "Hs it been acting funny lately as well?" Parn's dark blue eyes looked troubled.
"I don't often go near enough to find out," he said, rising, "but perhaps we ought to have a look."
Parn strode over to Soulcrusher's glass case, and unlocked it. He pulled the glass open and reached for the dark sword. Just before taking it in his hands, he hesitated. Then, before he could let his unwillingness to touch it get the better of him, he took the sword in his hands, feeling the familiar oppressive weight of the thing. He could not help the grimace he made as he felt it once more in his hands.
There was something that just felt wrong about this sword, something that made it feel as though it might twitch in his hands or otherwise rebel against him in some way. The sword felt sentient, and demanding - as though it hungered, and he were simply something in the way. It gave him gooseflesh.
"Parn?" Etoh called.
"Yes. Sorry. The blasted thing just creeps me out." He took the hilt and drew the sword quickly, as if to get it over with.
His face was bathed in a harsh, yet relatively weak, purple light. Parn blinked in surprise, looking down at the sword in his hands. It definitely seemed to give off a feeling of life, and of some kind of power. It did not so much hum as seem to growl, low and deep just beyond the range of his hearing.
"Oh Marfa," he found himself saying, looking down at it, "what does that mean?"
"It means," Etoh said, sounding serious, "that I think we had better send word to Slayn. If anyone knows what's going on, he will."