Weeks had come to pass. As quickly as summer, full of heat and storms, had danced in, she fled the stage, making way for a darker, more somber sister. The season was quickly cooling, giving in to the cheerful autumn. The lush green of the trees was turning ablaze. Already the foliage donned dresses of fire: gold and cinnamon, crimson and rust. The humidity of the air was considerably low, and it was cool, with breezes caressing the places around them.
Lethe knew that weather was a fierce and fickle mistress, striking with fury or sweetness whenever she pleased. With the onset of the fall, she decided to show Muarim what she considered to be the greatest sight in all of Gallia, the Point. If winter frosts or ice struck early, it would be impossible to get there.
The path to the Point was craggy and steep, with narrow ledges and fallen debris everywhere. They had left at late afternoon. It was close coming upon sunset as they arrived to the top. The top of the Point, in contrast to the path there, was flat and smooth with little besides slate and a few tough mountain shrubs.
Lethe walked to the edge of the top. As Muarim peered over, he was stunned. They were thousands of feet above the foot of the rock. Seas of fire seemed to wash around the stone colossus, barraging it with tiny leaves and branches.
"I didn't there was a place anywhere with a view like this."
"The best part is the sunset, which is going to start soon. The sun is getting very low in the sky."
Indeed, the blue of the sky was darkening, and clouds which bedded around the glow of the great sun changed into sleeves of light pink and rose and lavender. An astral orange crown rested around the steadily declining sun, readying for a bed under the horizon.
The air high up was more brisk than the sheltered climate of the forest. Lethe gave a small shiver. She felt something being set on her lap. She looked down and saw a small box tied with string and a bright blue paper.
"It's a thank-you gift for showing me everything."
"A gift? Really? For me?" She was flattered. She rarely received gifts, at least not on a personal level. Eagerly, she sliced through the string and paper and opened the box.
Inside the little brown box was a scarf. She reached in and brought it out. It was one of the expensive ones being sold at the store where she purchased her new gauntlet. It was a deep purple silk, softer and shinier than anything she had ever owned. The edges were embroidered with tiny stitches of silver thread, and the ends each had five brilliant silver bells sewn on, each with a low, melodic chime.
She didn't have anything to say.
"Lethe?"
She ran her hand over the rich, delicate fabric. "I...it's...pretty," she murmured.
Muarim smiled. "It will look even better on you, I guarantee."
Lethe untied her green scarf and let it fall to the ground. She pulled the new one around her neck. The fabric was so soft and slippery that she was having troubles tying it. She felt Muarim's hand on the back of her neck. He expertly took the ends of the scarf and tied it snugly, but not too tightly.
"Ah, I was right. That color is the exact color of your eyes."
Lethe touched her neck where his hand had been. She reached into the scabbard where her dagger slept and pulled it out, examining herself in the mirror bright metal. He was right. The vibrant violet scarf was the tone of her eyes. It even mimicked the shimmer of them almost perfectly.
"This scarf is wonderful. It's a lot nicer than my old one."
"I'm glad that you like it," he replied. "I thought of you when I saw it."
Her heart started to pound, though she scolded herself profusely at getting flustered. Dammit. I'm one of the highest in Gallia's army. Nothing's supposed to phase me. At the same time, however, another side of her was enjoying the giddy, helpless feeling which had never been invoked like this before.
Muarim's gaze had returned to the sunset. The sounds of the wind tumbling over the rocky landscape of the sky created its own aria of night music, the velvet voices caressing all which they passed. Lethe watched him. He was relaxed, the normally tense sinews of his arm resting. His face, however, told another story. The ghost of a smile still haunted his lips, but the pain that lurked behind his eyes were more tangible than ever.
She inched closer to him. The sun was very low in the sky now, with only a bit more than a sliver shining.
He didn't notice. He was entrenched in a foreign thought.
"Muarim," she said, in a voice that was so soft she scared herself. Being quiet was not her forte.
He turned his gaze to her.
She wrenched her fingers together and bit her lip. It was hard work to be a tactful speaker.
"Every time that I see you...you seem sad. Like right now. I can see that you have something hurting you."
His face expressed faux confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm very happy to be here. It's a beautiful night." His words didn't faze her; she knew that he knew what she was talking about.
She frowned. "Please...don't lie to me. Whatever it is that haunts you, you can tell me. I will not judge you." Her eyes closed as she turned back to the darkening sky.
He said nothing and didn't move from watching the skies. In a few minutes the sun had set completely and a huge globe of an orange harvest moon filled the sky, surrounded by waves of milky white stars.
An abrupt voice, low and lugubrious, pierced the silent night air.
"Her name was Marcella. We had many child slaves in the house, but Marcella was different. She had always been very weak and had a half-lame leg that plagued her badly. The master of the house knew she was born with it and she could do nothing about it, yet she was forced to work as hard as the rest of the serving girls."
"One winter Marcella got very sick, and her leg got worse. She could barely make her rounds. The slower she worked, the harder they pushed her. She would go to bed, exhausted, some nights barely breathing. She never complained. She always had a smile, even after they hit her. She loved living, even if everything about her life was miserable."
"One night, the foreman was angry. About what, I don't know, but he was known as a gambler and probably misplaced a bet. He was an evil, hideous beorc and his treatment of us was worse. Marcella's chores were not close to being finished at the end of the day. He hit her again and again, trying to make her work faster, but she was too weak and fell over, enduring the blows."
"Enraged, he took his whip from his pocket. I...I couldn't stand by and watch any longer, pretending to be oblivious. I ran over and cracked his arms with my hands. It was like snapping twigs. I remember him running away, and I stood there with his blood all over me."
" I didn't feel sorry. I refused to apologize or even give words to the dastard I crushed. What I did was unforgivable anyhow; had I begged for mercy, I would have still been punished. I was silent. They punished me."
Muarim unwrapped the white cloth at his waist and pulled off his shirt, exposing his back.
Lethe was horrified, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle her cry of surprise. The tan, muscular back banded with vibrant forest green stripes was badly marred. Sick, angry lashes of scars covered everywhere, engulfing the flesh. Ancient canyons displayed where he had been hit. The surfaces of each wound were dark, traces of where blood had wept.
"They beat me. They beat me more badly than anyone before me. They wanted me to scream. To cry. To beg for mercy. I did not open my mouth. They kept hitting me. Normally they would stop after a few lashes to keep the offender in working shape. I was not so fortunate."
"When they finally let me go, I was almost in shock. My entire back was covered in blood, and I could barely stumble back to my quarters. The other laguz helped to clean me up, but I had lost a lot. Every breath hurt me. I coughed up blood for three days afterwards. Work was excruciating. All my energy was gone."
"And though I had survived, Marcella had not. She disappeared. And my ears bore witness to the drunken brag of the foreman." He wrung his hands. "I should have killed him. I should have snapped his neck like I snapped his arms." He redressed, tying the white cloth tightly around his waist. "I could have killed every beorc in that house easily, but I didn't. I was so close...but I didn't. I didn't because I knew Marcella wouldn't want me to. She couldn't stand the idea of death."
Muarim's eyebrows were deeply furrowed, and Lethe could see the reflections of tears in his eyes, though they never spilled. His arms were tightly crossed again, his back trembling softly.
Lethe felt a tear roll down her own cheek. She didn't vocalize anything this time, though. She had nothing to say.
Muarim felt small, slender arms wrap around him. Lethe leaned against him, still silent, her head resting against his shoulder. He returned her embrace, drawing her near. Her skin was cold from the mountain air, but as soft as velvet. He could feel the outlines of her body, muscle and flesh and bone, in his arms, against his chest.
Peace. His emotions had exhausted him. He was bare now. Unshielded. Nothing to hide. Nothing to hide. Nothing to hide.
Lethe had never been so close to anybody before this moment. It was exhilarating. She had trekked across countries, fought countless men and learned everything about Gallia, and yet...none of it seemed to live up to the feeling that echoed through her now.
The moon stood its sleepy watch over the valley, encircled by millions of stars.