The Seed – Part 3
by KM Scott
To BC – Happy Birthday and many more!
"Where's Gerald?" Arnold asked, gently nuzzling the incomparable softness under his cheek. Helga, situated on the table with the wounded boy's head on her stomach, smirked at him.
"You're thinking of him? Maybe you've lost too much blood, Almond-head."
Arnold closed his eyes and savored the appellation. It was a name that harkened back to their childhood, from a time when she was absolutely merciless to him. Her attitude toward him had changed over the years, obviously, but the name stuck. The sting had worn off, and he'd become comfortable with it. Today, right now, it was music.
The impact of seeing Helga for the first time in five years hit him so viscerally as to seem almost physical. His eyesight hadn't really fully returned until a few minutes after he fully woke – her very scent played havoc with his senses after the cold, empty black finally drained out of his world, freeing his conscious mind from the formless nightmare that infected him more than a day earlier. He felt warmth, peace, and excitement, a potent combination of emotions that he knew could only be elicited by the gypsy girl he'd come to feel so strongly for.
"He's in the bedroom," Helga answered. "I don't know how much you saw, but he was pretty badly injured. But, Monsieur Born-of-the-Blade just had to ride out to Redstump, or somewhere, and form a militia or something."
"How'd you get him to stay?"
"Sleeping spell," she chuckled. "One does not argue with Helga Pahtachi."
Arnold growled in satisfaction and nuzzled her again. She ran her hand along his face, his forehead, relishing his feel and promoting his comfort. She absently felt the little bald spot just at the peak of his natural part in the center of his head, gingerly tracing the scar, long since healed, which remained.
"Where's your cap? That blue one?"
He shrugged, his lack of strength making the gesture an effort. "Must've lost it back in Balmoral." He opened his eyes. His face began to slowly fall. "Balmoral …"
Helga gently enfolded him her arms. "Sh-shh, now, now," she whispered maternally. She could feel Arnold's chest shudder with a sob, which was answered with a spasm as he reacted in pain from the fresh sutures on his side. "Quiet, now, Arnold. Calm your soul…"
There was a jumbled mass of dark and bloody images flooding into his mind's eye, confusing and horrid, barely-remembered yet unforgettable memories of slaughter, terror, and pain. The shock of what he had seen, of the ordeal he himself had endured, coupled with the missing patches of memory, made for a waking nightmare. It was just as these terrible thoughts began to assault him that they quickly were subdued – not gone away, necessarily; rather, it was if they had been transported – ishoved/i – somewhere into his subconscious, a distant rumbling in his mind.
He lay staring at nothing as he emerged from the murky depths of his faded anguish. Then he glanced at Helga.
"Did you…?"
Helga nodded. "I … I couldn't see you in pain. It'll wear off, I promise."
Arnold weakly smiled. She hadn't used a full-on forgetfulness spell on him, at least. "What bit me?" he asked wistfully.
"An irg-wraith. And you need to stop thinking about it."
"Is it out? The squid thing?" he craned his head to look at his sutures. Feminine hands gently pulled him back down on their owner's stomach.
"Of course it is. You're very fortunate Gerald brought you in time. He's a brave man."
Arnold nodded. "None braver."
"Yes," she began stroking his hair, "and I've heard him tell me a story. A story about a very silly youth, head shaped like an almond, what got himself involved with a clan of charlatans. You hear anything like that?"
He looked up at her. "What, now?"
Helga looked to the ceiling in mock recollection. "Some band of fools called the Lumasi. Exposed as frauds years ago, yes indeed. One of these bumblesomes apparently told this lost fawn that he was some sort of mystical blacksmith. That he was supposed to forge a sword that would … oh, I don't know, really, save the world or something." She fixed a stare at him. "Any of this sound familiar?"
Arnold only stared back at her, perplexed, until the memory slowly dawned on him. "Uh … well, there was a fellow who came to town about two weeks ago. He was … I think he was going to work at the temple. A curate, or something." He adjusted his head for comfort. "Yeah. He had said that a sword was needed to fulfill a prophecy."
"What sort of prophecy?"
He shrugged. "Oh, the standard type."
She raised an eyebrow. "The 'standard type' of prophecy? What does that mean? What was it?"
"It was a while ago, Helga, I don't remember. Not the whole thing."
"Then what do you remember?" she insisted.
Arnold sighed. "That … he … he presented me with some kind of cloth, a holy text on cloth or something. He said that he needed a special sword. I said that I lived with a blacksmith and that he should come by and see our place."
"And?" Helga pressed.
"Well," he continued, "he looked through our stock and said that they were all great blades, but we didn't have the one he needed. He told me it had to be specially made to fulfill the prophecy. Father was reluctant to make it-"
And here, Arnold's voice fell as Helga's eyes narrowed. "So … so, I, uh … I thought I'd make it myself. Fifteen years around a smithy," he grinned a sheepish grin, "that should've taught me something."
He could see the myriad emotions running through her eyes. Having been used to the fire and passion (especially recently) that usually stormed forth from the woman, he was quite surprised when her next words were spoken in a restrained, almost motherly, tone.
"Arnold," she started slowly, "why do you suppose your father didn't forge the man a sword?" Arnold opened his mouth to say something, but she continued. "He didn't make the sword because he knew the man was a charlatan. A brigand. Some holy man comes talking about a prophecy, convinces some gullible simpleton into doing what he wants him to do, and when said simpleton performs this service, what happens?"
Again, Arnold's response was lost to Helga's apparently rhetorical conversation. "Understand that when I say 'gullible simpleton', I don't mean your father. He's smart. He knows that the priests and the sorceresses control the courts. Bringing a holy man in front of a judge – even if it's a scheming Lumasi – is about as smart as punching a lion in the face. You'd lose. You'd spend all that time making a sword, and then you'd get nothing in return for it. Your father's steel, his tools, time he could have spent on paying customers - all used and wasted, and for what?"
"Look, Helga …" Arnold started to argue, but the cogs were turning in his head. He sank a little, even as he was lying down. Helga's maternal approach seemed to be working.
"He … he said he needed a sword. I just wanted to help," said Arnold, quietly.
Helga smiled a small smile. "You always do, Almond-head. You always do."
"Why do they want me? The Seed – why are they chasing me?" Arnold asked. Helga shrugged. "I don't think they do, Arnold. I think Sir Tall-Hair was taken up in the excitement and figured you were being chased, instead of just attacked like everyone else in town. He's a brave man, to be sure, but …" she looked at him conspiratorially "… he does have his superstitious side."
Arnold considered this. "Yeah. Yeah, well … after Phoebe…"
Helga smirked in agreement. Then her face fell. "Phoebe …" A slow and unwelcome mood took her, unnoticed by Arnold, and her shoulders sank as a sad realization dawned upon her mind.
He glanced into her blue eyes again. "So, what happens now?"
"Well," said Helga, as she maneuvered out from under him, "now you get some rest. And be ready for a big breakfast tomorrow. You need to build up your strength."
She produced a downy pillow and placed it under his head. "Thanks," he cooed, "but this isn't as nice as the other one."
"The other one needs her sleep, too," she said as she turned to her kitchen. She stopped short when he seized her hand in his. "Helga," he implored, "What's next?"
She hesitated. "It depends on what Gerald wants to do. If he's healed up enough to ride, then perhaps he can find a safehaven for both of you –"
"That's not what I mean and you know it," he firmly cut in, pumping her hand in emphasis.
"Let's say I don't," she replied evenly. Arnold attempted to sit up, but couldn't find the strength. His hold on her hand, however, remained.
"Will you come with us?" he asked, and then, with a deeper passion, "Will you come with me?"
Helga fell silent, an action unfamiliar to her. It was ironic, funny, and amazing to her, how much this man had come to mean to her over the years.
She pulled her hand away.
"You can't ask me to do that, Arnold Klyner. And you know that."
He blinked at her, confused. "But … but I thought after …"
"After what?" she said, turning away from him to straighten the room. "After our little meeting on the table there? Alright. I'll say I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Arnold," she turned towards him, gathered some potions, then quickly turned back to avoid seeing his reaction.
"I was being a tease and a temptress. I should've just healed you and been done with it. I enflamed something in you and I'm sorry. It's just best that you go back to sleep and forget about this."
Arnold shrank where he was on the table, the bliss on his face totally wiped away and replaced by a look of stunned pain. "I don't understand," came his whispered reply.
"You do," said Helga, "because I made it clear to you five years ago." She stood to her full height, hands on hips to emphasize her point – though she still avoided looking him in the eye. "I am a priestess of the Scinta. I foreswore carnal connections when I took my oath. I told you that Arnold; I told you what would happen if you didn't make a decision. And you didn't. So I had to make my own."
Arnold, for all he had to endure over the course of his young life, was not a bitter man, but here, in the home of the one who he'd dreamt of for years – here, he found himself biting back bile and rage. Words he'd tried never to use in polite company came flooding to his mind, words spitefully blasting the twisted old crones who founded the Scinta sisterhood. Words about the silly, stupid, inhuman notion of denying oneself love due to the superstition and fear of 'losing the magic', or whatever the hell they called it.
Words about how he wasn't ready for marriage five years ago. Especially when Helga was so dedicated to the destruction of those who'd butchered her tribe years ago. But now, now it was different. Now, things had changed. And she was saying it was too late.
Striving against his emotions, he kept his words brief. "I'd heard about the bandits."
Helga blinked. "You … what?"
Arnold sat up straight, grunting under the strain. "I said I heard about the bandits. Grand Vahrsus and his blood clan."
Helga held her position, but something about her changed, faltered a bit at the mention of the name. Grand Vahrsus was nothing more than a standard, bearded, bloated animal, the leader of a clan of bandits that one would hear about and promptly forget, as they were nothing more than thugs that assaulted tiny merchant convoys, their strength coming more from numbers than skill.
One day, more than twenty years ago, Helga's family was in one of those convoys.
She'd nurtured a hatred of the murdering bastard ever since she'd learned his name, something Mother Bliss had tried to keep from happening. But it was inevitable, and she had dedicated part of her life to finding him and his bandits, and destroying him.
It was blood for blood, of course – vengeance was a part of it, how couldn't it be? – but it would also benefit the common good. No child would be left without family because of Vahrsus ever again.
There was nothing in her life that would sway her from her mission. Or so she thought. As her feelings grew stronger for Arnold, she found that, upon reaching her early twenties, on the verge of becoming a priestess, she had come to a crossroads. She could either pursue the path of the Scinta, which would empower her to destroy Vahrsus, or bond herself to the love of her life.
He was not ready, he told her. And she waited. But she couldn't wait long. And so, under the tutelage of Mother Bliss, she chose to join the Scinta, to eradicate Vahrsus.
And she had succeeded.
"He's gone, Helga," said Arnold. "He's never coming back again – you made sure of that. You don't have to live this life anymore."
She and gave him a hard stare. "You presume to tell me what kind of life I can live years after you left it? This is my life, Arnold, the life I'm proud of, that I've lived the way I've wanted. You could've been part of it, but you chose against that."
"Helga, things are different now!" he'd nearly yelled, but his voice failed him. "I'm different…." he paused to catch his breath. "I need you."
Helga shook her head. "No, Arnold, I don't think so. I think that you're tired and randy. And that you need to find yourself a proper wife." Her voice wavered a bit as she began blowing out candles. "Most importantly, you need sleep."
Arnold scooted forward in attempt to get off the table, to walk to her. "Helga, listen-"
"Sleep," said Helga. She'd moved into position to catch him as he fell backward, dead to the world. She gently lay him down on the pillow and covered him with a blanket, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead.
That part of her life was over, had been over for years. And it was self-destructive to delude herself into believing otherwise. She blew out the rest of the candles and settled into a chair at the back of the room, away from the sleeping Arnold.
The tears began to flow only after she had covered herself with the comforter.
