Dappled Light:
Duncan struggled awake in the early dawn… aware that nightmares had disrupted his sleep again and again. Like some succubus of myth she'd come to him in dreams and drained him over and over. It was likely only the tension of the past few days and his close encounters with Alisaunne that had caused the dreams… as well as his fear that she was the thing in the shadows combined with his desire for her. He was bone-tired… nevertheless… he wanted to get to the battlefield site and walk the hills one more time.
He was there by mid-morning… a gray, cloudy day that did not offer even the promise of winter warmth. There had been a heavy frost this morning… and his footsteps were visible on the stubbled brown grass. The battle had been in June… and yet he seemed to recall snow. Perhaps it was his own winter of despair that he'd been in… feeling that immortality was only one long battle. He'd recently lost friends in battle. Sometimes it seemed as though he'd been fighting for two hundred years.
Was Darius the light that had come to him… bringing back warmth and hope in a world devoid of both? Like the sun, which marked it's turning on the shortest day of the year… midwinter's day… his birthday… he'd found the days since Waterloo filled with promise. Even the dark days he'd known somehow seemed brighter in light of his meeting Darius.
He lined up by a stand of trees, as he always did and stepped off the distance to the point where he'd met him, heavily cloaked and passing among the wounded… not to kill… but to heal. Almost as if he'd come home, Duncan paused at the spot where they'd bumped shoulders and looked around for anything that would speak to him of that day. Almost by rote he stepped quickly to his right… and stood where he'd laid his friend… where Darius had given him medicine. Here was where he'd stared at the on-going battle and Darius had asked him to consider another way.
"I have," Duncan whispered to the barren field. "I've tried to live a good life, Darius. I've tried to make a difference. I can't be you. I knew it then. Was that why you never trusted me with your secrets?" Staring into the distance across the field, barren of most human life this time of year, he tried to recall the cannon fire that took heads and limbs… the screams of horses plunging in pain to the ground… and the cries of men wounded and dying. Duncan shuddered at the memory of bloodshed and carnage.
Not too far from here the trenches of World War I had snaked across Europe. One hundred years after Napoleon's defeat… warfare had become a deadly mechanized affair. And one hundred years after that? Duncan feared if mankind engaged again in another all-out war, it would destroy itself. With that thought, he turned abruptly to make his way to the small chapel on the neighboring farm… where wounded men had gathered out of the way of the battle… and a French priest had tended to them… an immortal who had no fear of death.
The chapel was part of the battlefield memorial these days. Display cases of equipment, buckles, messenger pouches, and weapons littered the small building. Only here did Duncan note a few other tourists… their gentle patter and laughter in stark contrast to the silence he felt. He wandered among the displays… realizing that if any clue had been left here… it had likely been covered over with paint and repairs. This was no longer the small chapel… it was a museum.
Sighing as he always did when he was here, Duncan stood near where he'd stood that day… the day that Darius in the midst of the wounded had been asked why he did this and he'd tried to explain. We are all of us brothers and sisters. Who then… is my enemy?
Duncan moved closer to where Darius had stood… his eyes twinkling in amusement as if he'd known and understood some secret that even now Duncan strained to understand. He stood in the approximate spot and stared out at the modern museum and the tourists, a few of who glanced at him sharply. Am I blind? Duncan thought. Am I like Ali below the church staring at something that ought to make sense and yet doesn't because I'm not ready to see it? What more must I do?
He closed his eyes to recall the chapel… not as it was… but as it had been. Bare beams of dark wood spanning the heights of the squat Romanesque building… a flagged stone floor upon which men sat or lay. Sunlight had filtered through the narrow windows of leaded glass… creating a kaleidoscope of color across them all.
Now… white paint covered everything. Electric lights hung from the beams, and the glass, shattered long ago by warfare… had been replaced with clear panes that offered slots of glare onto the outside winter day. Duncan sighed. This place had likely been de-sanctified… and yet… it still felt holy… as if the actions of that day nearly two hundred years ago had hallowed this ground in such a way that mere words could never undo it.
It was that way with many battlefields, Duncan knew. The places where the dead were buried become sacred by their death. Abraham Lincoln had understood it in 1863 when he'd dedicated the cemetery at Gettysburg. The actions of those who died here had hallowed the ground far more than any words spoken over them.
Neither Cassius nor Darius traveled much in the modern world. The old Roman historian had remained barricaded in his Paris home for the two hundred years that Duncan had known of him. Darius had remained at his church… at least as far as Duncan had known… and his parishioners never seemed to notice that he never changed. Neither of them could have brought anything here. No… it was something subtler. It had to be. If only he had eyes to see it.
Letting the chuckle well up, Duncan stepped smartly through the entrance to return to his car. It was time to head home. Once more the secret had eluded him, yet he felt oddly comforted that he'd come to an understanding that he'd not had before. When he was ready… when the immortals were ready… the answer would reveal itself.
He returned to Paris, promising himself only a single night in the city, before returning to Italy. Following a quiet and solitary meal at the hotel, he discovered that he was restless and decided to walk for a bit before turning in. He felt like a caged tiger… filled with boundless energy that needed an outlet or he would explode.
His wanderings led him to the Eiffel Tower… lit up like some steel-girded Christmas tree. Around him… street players performed as part of the festivities of the on-coming season. It wasn't carnivale… but it was part of the atmosphere of tourism. Voices rang out in glee… and sang the lyrics of familiar carols in many languages. Duncan laughed joyously at the antics of street mimes, and watched handholding young lovers discover the city and one another.
It was then that he felt her… slipping past in the shadows… a figure swathed in black… calling to him on some basic level to which he felt obligated to respond. He left the lights behind him… and followed her into the darkness.
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