Prologue
The rhythm of horse and rain reverberates through the night. Man and horse speed off together in hypnotic gallop, piercing through the thick darkness. An iron clad soldier rides upon the quick steed. Puffs of white blow from each other's noses from the cold. But he does not care, and it seems that the horse knows that, and it does not care either. And they keep on with urgency.
He had to make it there, he thinks to himself. His numb hands still hold tight to the reigns as he also holds a sheathed sword in one hand with tight grip, the sword being a message to deliver in itself. Soldier and horse are one, now a dark blur rushing through the forest. They weave through sparse trees, the trees seem to give heed to them and seem to make way for the rider's course. The night sky is muddled with clouds, rolling with black and gray. The rain stings as it pours down on the rider's skin. What am I going to do when I get there, he keeps on thinking to himself. Intermittent crashes of lightning illuminate the phantom rider and horse as they speed along. Thunder encroaches upon them, giving a foreboding sense.
Still the rider spurs the horse on with cries and strikes. Rider and horse amble forth in a liquid motion; they are only arms, legs, and hooves and for a long moment, they do not have to think of where they were going or why. It seems as if instinct or fate perhaps is pulling them forward. Before he realizes it, they go beyond the forest and finally come upon the village of Truce. Hooves click on the cobblestone streets, only the pale yellow light of street lamps to guide their way. His speed does not slow.
Finally, he comes upon his destination. He dismounts, leaping off the horse even before it slows to stop. He runs to the door of the house, slamming it open. The slam of the door and thunder of the storm mix in one sound. He stands at the doorway, peering into the dark room dimly lit by a candle. Cries of a woman, cries of pain come from upstairs. He hastily ascends. He stumbles through the only door in the hall which is limned with light. There he finds a woman lying on the bed, legs propped up in the throes of child birth. Another candle is propped up on a shelf, dimly lighting the room. Two figures are tending to her.
An older woman is by the bedside, holding the other's hand. She is the first one to notice him. She gives a concerned look, attempting to discern his face in the dark. The other figure is presumably the village doctor which is too busy in tending the woman to notice him. The soldier stands in the dim room, staring at the bed. He almost forgets why he had come, why he was holding that sword in his hand. The woman is now breathing in an out so fast she almost inhales the breath she just exhaled. Her whole body glistens with sweat every time the room is lighted by a flash of lightning. Rain strikes and rattles the window. Bestial moans come from the woman as she pushes. Moans of pain she can not stand, as she pushes and pushes. The doctor then notices the man who has been standing there for sometime but just gives a quick glance and continues. Oh God, oh God, the soldier is thinking.
None of the three are speaking a word to each other, and an uncomfortable heat permeates the air. The woman who is the only voice in the room, gives one last, good push and her moans are overshadowed by an infants high pitched shrill. The woman's moans turn from cries of anguish to ones of relief and joy. The doctor wraps the baby in a white sheet and places the boy in mother's arms. The mother smiles down at the baby, whispering affectionately. That is when the woman and the doctor turn to him. They still say nothing, lips parted but no words can be conjured.
Then the mother looks up. She looks deep and concerned at the soldier, who is outside the circle of the candle's light. She tries to discern his face amid the darkness, then her eyes fixate to the light. She recognizes his soaked armor, his shortness of breath. She recognizes his unbelieving gaze at her and the child. She then recognizes who he is. Her face contorts in a concerned and fearful shape. Her skin tingles in that scared, apprehensive way and a heat overcomes her and she sweats still after sweating so much already. She recognizes the sheathed blade in his hand, as he stands there limp from being soaked and from disbelief. She shuts her eyes tight and cringes.
"Where is he? What has happened to him?"