Chapter 11: Highland Roses

The sun had not yet reached its zenith when Saul found himself in the presence of the encampment elders—the High Priestess of the Sisterhood, and the Last Mage of the Horadrim. He had expected their company—and it was with rather a benign smile that he'd inclined his head in polite greeting towards the both of them.

He had, hitherto, stood in silence before the bonfire—he'd crossed his arms stiffly over his chest, and his brows were furrowed deep in thought. Cordelia had known better than to bother him in such times, and she had not made herself visible to him since his return from Charsi's smithy. He rather missed her presence.

When the Priestess and the Mage had begun to make their way towards him, Saul had lifted his gaze—and he'd known, from that moment onwards, that which they expected of him. He would have to undertake the quests that would lead to the undoing of the evils within the Tamoe Monastery—and to the freedom of the Sisterhood.

"Greetings, Master Vyreant." The last of the Horadrim spoke first—and his voice was that of a weary old man's. For a moment or two, the druid thought he could hear but one quality within the aged, raspy cadence—defeat. "I do believe that we have not been properly introduced yet."

He nodded slightly. "Well met, Deckard Cain." Then, turning to regard the High Priestess—"Akara. Good morning."

Akara nodded briefly—then clasped her hands together. And though she chose to remain silent, she watched the druid with rather an intent gaze.

"Aye, well met." Deckard Cain inclined his head gently in greeting. He cleared his throat; and he seemed rather uncomfortable.

But mere seconds had passed; and already, they seemed upon the verge of dispersing, at the lack of good conversation. And yet in his heart, Saul knew that such company would bear grave tidings. Already, he knew that which they sought to speak of—and he supposed that they did not know how to begin.

Saul bit down gently upon his lower lip—he was beginning to wish that the elders would deign to speak. Finally, with rather a bit of a hopeful voice—"Nice weather today." He began, awkwardly.

Half a second later, he cursed inwardly at his foolish choice of words; for the hursh, rumbling echoes of thunder reverberated through the sky. A storm was nigh.

Deckard Cain seemed to sense his discomfort—he cleared his throat, and offered a somewhat small and diminished smile. "I suppose we shan't beat around the bush, Master Vyreant." He began; and Saul noted absently that his voice had gained yet another quality—restlessness. "We now tread upon a darkened path. Every step of ours will bring us closer to our doom. We—yes, I speak of all of us—are on borrowed time. For there will come a day when all will cease to exist; and that day soon approaches, in the shades of the darkness penetrating our Sanctuary. Do you understand?"

Saul nodded simply. And then, sounding much harsher than he meant to—"That much, I have gathered. I have not spent the last few months idle—the darkness has not gone unnoticed." He tensed his shoulders slightly. "But that is not what you wish to speak to me of."

At those words, Akara stiffened—and though her expression showed naught but passive sentiments, her ebon eyes darkened; and yet not in hue, but in depth. She seemed weary, as though the truth weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

She placed a gentle, motherly hand upon Saul's shoulder. "We have news, Saul. And we are going to tell you everything. I ask only that you remain patient—and I ask this, knowing fully well that patience is a virtue you lack." She gave him a crooked smile that did not reach her eyes.

The druid found himself blinking in silence at the High Priestess—then, with something of a faint grin upon his face, he nodded. It was quite a sudden desire of his to prove her theory of his patience wrong.

"Now—" She began, rather stiffly. "—you may have gathered that the forces of hell have begun to pour into the innermost sanctums of our monastery. I can only suppose that Charsi has kept you well informed?" At this, she gave him a look of enquiry—and he nodded his agreement. "Throughout the duration of this—accursed spring, we, that is to say, Deckard Cain and myself, have observed the fading aura of all that is good within these realms. And we have unearthed, at last, the truth beneath the darkness." Here, she paused, and she was rather pale.

Deckard Cain seemed to have taken her silence for his cue to speak—he caught the druid's attention with a softened cough. "You may have begun to wonder, as of late, of the source of such vulgarities within our lands." He said. "We have our theories, which go so far unproven—save for studied guesses. But studied guesses are about as best as we can do, for now."

Saul nodded once—a sign for the elder man to continue his speech.

"It has come, now, to our final guess—our final arrow, and our final weapon against the darkness. We know now that which they have unleashed upon us." Deckard Cain said. His grip of his staff seemed to tighten somewhat—and he inhaled sharply, before speaking once more. "It is the demoness Andariel who makes her lair within the Tamoe Monastery."

There was rather an awkward pause, in which Akara further paled; and in complete contrast against the High Priestess, Deckard Cain had turned a faint shade of green. Saul, however, chose simply to blink placidly.

He'd somewhat expected such news.

And it was with rather a grim smile, that he'd nodded to show acceptance of the news.

Akara stared dubiously at him—she seemed unnerved by his lack of response to this rather new turn of events. Several times he'd caught her frowning; but she'd hastily returned her face to its passive demeanor. Deckard Cain was little more accepting of his silence—the old man stood, immobile, choosing simply to watch the druid with a solemnity beyond even his years.

"Well?" The High Priestess said, at last. She seemed terse now—and it was with rather a stiff arm that she'd straightened the folds of her hood. "What say you to that?"

Saul blinked once. "Oh, am I allowed to speak, now?" He could hardly resist the urge to smile—but he could not, for Akara had shot him a look most reminiscent of her Captain. He cleared his throat—then nodded with as much dignity as he could gather from within his being. "I understood that which you have said. Both of you."

"And?" Akara pressed.

"You want me—" Saul cleared his throat lightly, then clasped his hands together. "—to venture into the depths of the monastery, to find the demoness. And that, as common sense would dictate, would lead to the salvation of the sisterhood." He crooked a tiny smile. "Was that what you wished to tell me?"

The High Priestess exhaled—and for a moment or two, it seemed as if she'd lost all ability to speak. And yet, half a second later, she'd nodded; and it was true that it was a minute movement—and yet, the depth of her eyes had begun to bear a new sort of light. It both mystified, and frightened the druid—he had not thought the revered Priestess capable of such fear.

"That would be a truly valiant deed, yes." Deckard Cain said. "You must forgive my blunt words, Master Vyreant. But we have no time. And in an era such as this—" He paused, lifting a hand to scratch gently upon his left cheek. "—we need such heroes as fate is disposed to gift us with."

Then, in all but a fleeting second, the quality within the old mage's voice was unearthed—it was not fear, nor was it despair.

It was hope.

Saul chuckled softly as he rubbed at the back of his head. "I don't—consider myself a hero. But if it is your will that I cleanse the monastery—then I shall." He turned towards Akara—then sank gallantly onto one knee. "With your leave, High Priestess."

Akara's frown deepened further, if that were possible. She stared at him for several long seconds—and he did not move. And then, almost as if she were a mother blessing her child, she placed her hand upon his head, and whispered—"May bright sun keep the twilight shadows from you, o' brave Saul."

He rose to his feet, and smiled. Somehow, it gave him courage—to know that others hoped, still, for the renewal of their lives.

Yes, it was but hope that would aid him well.

"The demoness Andariel—?"

Saul could barely contain the smirk of faint amusement upon his face—he nodded once, and his manner was that of one resigned to what destiny held in store for him. "That would be the one."

The sorceress stared open-mouthed at him for several long seconds, and she said naught; though she blinked a great many times. Then, in a voice both amazed and anxious—"The maiden of anguish; birthed within the very fires of Hell's crimson river?" She paused—and the colour seemed all but diminished from within her ashen face. "That one?"

Saul nodded once. "Yes, that would be the one." He repeated—and for half a second, he thought he could see a flicker of fear in her pallid blues. And though worry had begun to settle itself upon his nerves, he smiled. "You needn't come with me, you know."

Cordelia frowned slightly, and defiance overtook fear as she wrinkled her nose—then shook her head. "Don't be stupid." She grumbled. "I am not about to let you waltz into her lair with naught but your life for company. And there's a good chance you'd lose that one companion, if you were to go alone."

"I didn't expect that you would. Still—" Saul spoke quietly—and he watched his companion with solemn eyes. "—I rather wish that you would choose to remain. It is a dangerous quest. The monastery will not be retaken easily."

She gave him a look both exasperated and scornful—and it reminded him very much of the fiery spirit within his mother. The very thought made him smile. "I don't suppose living in such an age is easy." She said. "The golden days of peace and freedom are long gone, and we have to do what we can in times such as these."

Saul chuckled softly, nodding as he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his head. "Cain and Akara seem to think that—" Here, he paused, wrinkling his nose slightly. "—that I am, one way or another, some form of a hero."

He was surprised to find that the sorceress did not laugh—in fact, she'd hardly smiled at the thought. She merely looked thoughtful as she studied him solemnly; and almost as if it were through her subconscious mind, she twirled a single lock of crimson hair about her index finger. When she spoke, it was in low, softened tones—and her words were spoken slowly, as though she were thinking them over.

"You don't believe you're a hero?"

He blinked.

It was true that he'd chosen his walk in life—to fight the darkness, regardless of the bitterness of battle, and the constant shadow of death looming over his shoulders. And yet, it had never truly occurred to him that he might be called hero.

He shrugged—then smiled rather a wry smile. "To be honest, Cordy—that thought has never crossed my mind. I don't expect to come away from this war alive—and yet I may. And if I do, I don't expect that I should be named hero of my people. I don't want such honour."

She wrinkled her nose, and her eyes narrowed somewhat—but it was with rather a gentle sigh that she'd leaned over, and placed her head upon his shoulder. "Do you think—" She paused, as though the words were hard for her to say. "—that we would survive? We have both chosen our paths—and yet our paths lead to forked ends. At one end lies death—and at the other lies the vestiges of darkness that we are to battle."

Saul took a deep breath—then exhaled. He made a face. "There isn't much of a difference between death and darkness. But you forget—there is a third path whose way remains hidden to your reasoning."

"What's that?" Cordelia lifted her head just a touch; and her eyes met his.

He chuckled. "The path which leads us to the very end of darkness—and which foretells the end of all that is evil in the Sanctuary. That path will find us alive at the very finish."

She gazed at him for several short seconds, pale-blue orbs deepening with thought. She smiled. "That is, by far, the most pleasant of paths we could hope to traverse. But you said you didn't expect to live."

Saul bit gently upon his lower lip—then crooked a faint smile. "For you, I would slay all the shadows of the Sanctuary. And you would be my will to live."

"For you, I would slay all the shadows of the Sanctuary. And you would be my will to live."

Cordelia inhaled sharply. For several long moments, she stared—stared into the eyes of the druid whom she'd come to regard as something of a best friend; a brotherly figure. It was true, indeed, that he'd struck her exceedingly handsome—his words were charming, and his smiles warm. And yet, she'd never dared to think of him as anything more—for more was a word often misused in the presence of foolish young minds. She'd seen many a good friendship ruined; all in the name of love.

He kept still; and though he was smiling, the grey irises of his eyes wavered ever so slightly—as though he were frightened of something. And in those moments, it seemed as if all the world had ceased to spin.

Cordelia started—then lifted her head from the druid's shoulder. She ran her fingers hastily through her hair. "Anyhow." She began—and it was in rather a desperate attempt to change the topic that she'd spoken at all. "We'd best begin to pack for tomorrow. It is going to be a long day."

She could see the hurried flash of disappointment within his eyes—though he hid it beneath the easy confidence of his smile. He chuckled. "Has your mind been made up, then? You are to come with me?"

Cordelia scowled at him. "I am coming with you, Saul, whether you choose to allow it or not."

He rolled his eyes—and with something of a faint smile, he'd nodded.

They sat in silence for several long hours. Overhead, the skies had darkened; night had fallen, and the dawn would bring with it hope anew. The stars burned ever bright—as if they could sense, from galaxies both near and far, the closeness of the end. Almost as if they, too, felt the need to end the reign of darkness.

Morning came with a burst of new light—the sun shone in prismatic beams of golds and yellows, and even the trees offered little shade from the warmth. The clouds had ceased to appear, and the skies were all but beauteous shades of blues and oranges. It was with gladenned hearts that they'd stepped onto the waypoint—fine weather, at the very least, brought about good cheer.

The marshes were empty—and utterly devoid of demonic life-form. The very aura of darkness reverberated within the grounds—it would take many a great year to completely cleanse the wilderness of hell's influence. And yet, wary eyes would see the growth of flowers—gentle blossoms the colour of a pale winter morning dotting the grounds, from wall to wall. Nature had begun her restoration of the Sanctuary.

Cordelia strode silently along the path after the druid—he seemed completely at ease, for, in addition to his carefree gait, he whistled a low, merry tune. And overhead, Ceres soared—and from time to time, she would swoop down upon them, to cuff the druid playfully across the head with her outstretched wings. Cordelia found this highly amusing.

The minutes passed, in which the two made their way steadily across the marshes. The druid strode along with rather an easy pace. It was not much longer before Cordelia found herself hard-pressed to keep up with him. She frowned—a thought had only just occurred to her.

"Is there a waypoint within the Tamoe Highlands?" She reached out to poke at his shoulder.

He chuckled faintly, then shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"In the monastery, then?" She lifted a brow—for she knew the answer to the question. She'd seen the name of the Monastery etched upon the side of the Encampment waypoint.

"Several, yes." Saul scratched mildly at the tip of his nose. He eyed her suspiciously. "Why?"

Cordelia made a face. "Then why, by Tal Rasha, are we walking there?" Here, she paused—for she'd only just narrowly avoided tripping over a loose stone. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit of a disaster on two feet."

Saul druid laughed out loud, causing the sorceress to scowl. She swung her staff at him—and he ducked the blow easily, though he ceased to chuckle afterwards. "I'm sorry!" He raised his hands in defeat, eyes twinkling in slight amusement. And yet, it was with rather an apologetic smile, and smaller strides that he'd deigned to speak once more. "—and as for using the waypoints—"

"It is one of the laws of the Sanctuary, Cordelia. One who has not journeyed by non-magical means to a certain land will not be permitted to use the waypoints' magic to enter that same land. That is to say, if you were to fancy a sight of the jewel city of Lut Gholein, you would have to travel there by non-magical means. There is, indeed, a waypoint there—but it will not recognise your spirit, nor shall it allow you passage into its keep. This is the only protection a waypoint has against darkness—but it works, and it works well. It does not allow those of shadow to penetrate the lands upon which they are built—not by their magic, at the very least."

Cordelia wrinkled her nose. "What happens if one were to attempt a forced entry, anyway?"

Saul chuckled briefly. "I wouldn't try that, if I were you. Many a good mage have lost themselves within the vast expanse of the realms and the netherrealms, foolishly thinking themselves above the magic of the waypoints. Besides, I'd much rather walk into the monastery. I have been there before, but who knows what shadows occupy it now? It is safer our way."

She frowned. Then, in almost a grudging grumble—"That's true."

"Incidentally—" The druid was smiling again. "—have you ever seen the jewel city?"

Cordelia bit her lip—then shook her head. "No."

And I don't want to see it, thank you very much.

"No."

He thought he'd imagined it, but for a moment or two it seemed as if a flash—a hint of something, had entered into the depths of the sorceress's eyes. And yet, half a second later, it was gone—and hastily replaced with false amusement. She smiled; but it was a touch too robust a smile, and it did not reach her eyes.

Saul found himself concerned—troubled for his companion, though he did not remark upon her sudden change of heart. Other things demanded his attention—for they had come to the end of the marshes; and beneath the stony banks flowed a shallowed river.

To the druid's disgust, the rapids had been stained—tainted with the blood of humans and demons alike. The flowing waters were a dark, bubbling crimson in colour.

Cordelia, too, seemed perturbed by this most appalling of sights. A frown had etched itself upon her forehead. Several times she'd gazed into the bloody depths—only to look away again with fear in her eyes.

Saul narrowed his eyes—then took her trembling hand. "Come."

They crossed the river by means of a crumbled bridge of dark-drey stone. It was a slippery path to traverse, for moss had grown wild upon the stones; these, too, had been dyed crimson. Every several steps or so along the fallen bridge lay piles of broken corpses—the men of Tamoe had fought, and fought bravely. And yet, their eyes were widened, the ghosts of their last hours etched upon the faded irises. In death, they found no respite.

It was a true measure of how gruesome the sorceress found the river that she did not stumble at all.

The highland winds were dry and chilly, for the forces of Nature had set themselves upon those of darkness, and upon those who'd so blatantly lain to waste the goodness and greens of the wilds. The barren lands were desolate; and within even minute blades of grass rested the unholy aura of hell's shadows.

And it was within these shadows that Nature had been corrupted.

Saul was careful to hold his anger as he walked—it pained him to see the extent to which Nature had suffered. What had once been a green wonder to behold lay now in desolate darkness—and naught was allowed to flourished within the highlands, for naught found nourishment within the earth. The water-sources had been poisoned; even the sun had fallen prey to the gloom—for it was but a dim representation of its true glory.

They had not walked long within the highlands before the piercing cries of hellspawned demons filled the air. The druid stiffened—then drew his blade from its leather sheath. He's never been one to enjoy bloodshed—but he found that he would be glad to slay these demons. Those who tainted Nature, and those who filled the wilderness with shadows and darkness deserved naught but death—banishment from the Sanctuary into an eternal hell of lightning and fire.

Cordelia, too, seemed poised to kill—her eyes were narrowed in disgust and fury. In one hand, she held her staff firm, and in the other was a slender blade of entwined gold and silver. She was breathing heavily—as though the magic within her had overcome her being. Standing by her, Saul found that he could feel her mana—her life-force crackling dangerously.

The first lines of the enemy army came upon them in a sea of blue-robed rogues and yellow-skinned devilkin demons.

Saul gritted his teeth—then charged, bearing his staff aloft. Several of the yellow demon rats bared their teeth—and yet, within mere minutes, they had fallen, dead, onto the ground. Thoughtlessly, the druid wove through the horde, his staff and dagger coming into contact with body after body. Several times he felt the sharp sting of steel against his skin; yet he did not cease to battle. A feral rage had overcome him—and the sudden desire to avenge Nature's torment had brought him far from reason.

Once or twice, he'd caught sight of Cordelia within skirmishes of her own. The sorceress held an expression both terrible and beautiful within her face—her eyes were wide with unspoken fury. She wove to and from the demon-clans in the midst of crackling ice-bolts and exploding fireballs, and many fell in the wake of her vicious onslaught. She seemed oblivious to all about her—and yet, a heavy line of concentration creased her brow.

A sudden, sharp pain brought the druid back to his reality—he growled, then drove the blade of his dagger through the abdomen of the corrupted rogue before him. She released a shrill, pained cry—and Saul thought he could see a weak flicker of jade within her crimson eyes. He grunted; then withdrew the dagger, wincing slightly. The blade was awash with ebon blood.

The rogue exhaled heavily—and the crimson of her eyes faded away. And then, with the weakest of smiles within her jade green orbs, she was still.

Saul was only faintly aware of the throbbing pain within his side—he grimmaced faintly, then reached downwards. He gritted his teeth—then, with one hand, tugged the offending spear-head free of its sheath of muscle and skin.

And even as the throbbing chills of pain ravaged his body, the druid tossed the accursed spear onto the ground—then bit his lower lip before charging once more into the fray of battle.

It seemed as if half of forever had passed before the twilight shadows descended upon the highlands. The skies had darkened—and the stars twinkled lifelessly upon their blanket of prussian blue. The waning moon remained hidden away beneath clouds of grey—and thus, the shimmering silver orb was eclipsed. The battle had long since ended, and the grounds were littered with the corpses of the fallen.

Cordelia strode alongside her druid companion, her staff held loosely by her side. Her footsteps were silent—and yet, they were quite loud enough to cause softened echoes within the crisp night air of the highlands. She was wearied, it was true; but the battle of the day was not quite finished.

They had not yet made their presence known at the Monastery Gates.

The sorceress gazed solemnly towards the rather hunched figure beside her. His eyes were narrowed, and his shoulders tensed—as though he held a great ache within his being. Yet he walked without complaint. She found herself marvelling at his determination; at his strength. And when he'd turned to catch her eye, she'd smiled—and had received the faintest of smiles in return. And then, almost as if she'd meant to do it all along, she reached out—and with tentative fingers took a hold of his hand.

They made their way steadily across the grounds in such a fashion—and she was glad of it, when, at last, the great grey walls of the Tamoe Monastery loomed over them. Saul had spoken of a waypoint within a circular courtyard of the outer compounds of the Monastery—and to the rogues, it was known as the Outer Cloister. The waypoint would be the finale—the well-earned break at the end of a hard day's battle.

The great twin-doors of lacquered oak stood, towering over the two in almost an imposing fashion. Like the grey stone walls surrounding them, these doors retained traces of past glory—but beneath the cloak of hell's shadows, they were no longer recognisable.

Yet upon these doors grew several vines of climbing ivy—and upon these vines came the roses; large, crimson blossoms the colour of blood. And these were perfect flowers—they had not traces of death upon them, nor had any withered away into the brown earth. From within the ruddy blossoms came the sweet, cloying fragrance of springtime blooms; a natural, and yet unnatural perfume.

Cordelia frowned slightly—it was true, indeed, that the roses were beautiful. And yet, she found them strangely disquieting; as though they were wrought of dark magic instead of Nature's good soil.

Saul growled quietly under his breath—and it was clear that he felt the same.

"These are not of Nature." He hissed.

Cordelia nodded stiffly—and, without quite meaning to, she tightened her hold of his hand. "What are they?"

Saul narrowed his eyes—then, quite without warning, lifted his blade. In a single, swift movement, he'd slashed through the wall of ivy upon the door—and one by one, the roses fell as autumn leaves would. Yet, the ruddy petals had no sooner come into contact with the ground, before bursting into flames of gold and red.

And all that remained of the crimson roses were but blackened ashes.

Cordelia bit her lip. "What are they?" She repeated, her voice a quiet whisper. "Saul—?"

The druid shook his head slightly—and in his eyes, the sorceress saw disgust, mingled amidst hatred and sorrow. "Black magic—the roses are Andariel's trap. A fool's folly—for only mere fools would fall for such tricks." Here, he paused, and turned fully to face her. "The roses are accursed, Cordy. He who touches them shall perish within the raging inferno of hell's fires. It is a curse in one of the oldest tongues of Entsteig—Kai'duvah. I could hear the roses whispering—beckoning."

She inhaled weakly—for the truth and severity of the situation had begun to make itself known to her. The Sanctuary was threatened thus; and even Nature was used in the name of darkness. It was a prospect terrible to behold—and for several long moments, the sorceress found that she could not speak.

"Come." Saul whispered—and his voice was low, and solemn.

The double-doors swung open—and it seemed as if the evil within were beckoning towards them. The chilly winds tugged at the cursed-rose ashes upon the ground—and in several short gusts, had drawn the blackened remains into the courtyard through the entryway.

Cordelia gave his hand a gentle squeeze—and then nodded.

And together, they stepped through the threshold; and together, they plunged into the darkness of the Tamoe Monastery.

Author's note: FINALLY! Good Lord, I had the WORST bout of writer's block as I was writing this chapter. The title is, admittedly, one of my favourite titles so far—and I just wanted to do justice to it by writing an equally good chapter. Here's hoping I didn't disappoint!

Many thanks, as usual, to Ophelion for the wunnerful review! I'm glad I tickled your funny bones, and the gallant-Saul-sinking-onto-one-knee scene is for you. I'm glad you loved that, too, and I hope reading it a second time brings shivers to your spine! (But not until you faint!)

Thanks also to taimench for the favourite!

Also! I'd like to take the opportunity to thank all of you who've read my story thus far. You've contributed to my number of hits. (1000++, can you imagine?) However, I'd also like to BEG all of you lurker-readers to review! You can't imagine how depressing it is to realise that people read your story, but just aren't bothered to drop a note to comment. I'm really, really in need of good ol' critique—and it'd be really helpful, plus motivating to hear from you guys. So please, take five minutes, and drop me a line. Pretty, pretty please with sugar on top?

Until then, it's Emmy signing off for now. Cheerio!