Chapter 28: The Eclipse


It was said in wives' tales, and in the desert legends of old, that the God of Night loved the Gale Maiden. She was flighty; she danced, and she sang, over, and over, across desert sands. Where she went, the winds, too, followed—for she was, after all, the mistress. In the light of day, she was warm and unbound, fierce in the liberty with which she was permitted. And so it was that the God of Day found her, prancing restlessly through the course of time that was his domain. And he, as his nocturnal brother had, fell in love with her.

And so the Day and Night were seperated; and never again were they to speak. In time, the God of Night, with the beauty of the glimmering Mother Moon, won over the heart of the Gale Maiden—and they were wed beneath the light of a thousand stars. Gale was cold in the hours of Night's domain—but equally ferocious; she tore at the bodies of sand beneath the soles of her windswept feet, dancing in whirlwinds of bitter chill. And still, Night loved her, and for an age, they were happy. But Gale's was an erratic soul, and she soon discovered the joys of Day—the joys which Night were unable to offer. And so, one fateful day, she left Night to seek out day.

The days grew cold, and the nights grew hot. It was not too long before the changes began to wear upon the world—for what was out of order was considered unnatural. Balance was yet to be restored. In this time, Night sought his wife, searching the scorching deserts from twilight to dawn, and found nothing of her. And when hope had ceased to burn within his breast, he gazed into the heavens, spent—for day had come, and he had not a single ounce of strength in him, with which he could return to his hours. It was then that the Mother Moon took pity upon him—and, gathering her skirts of silver silk, crossed the skies of day to shield him from the light of Day. And so, Day was eclipsed by his brother, who, then, for the first time, wielded power in the hours of light.

Mother Moon gave Night a rope of frozen glass, with which to subdue the tempestuous Gale—then kissed him, and bade him farewell. She warned him of the limits to his time; she could but block the Lord of the Skies for a span of an hour. And so, in haste, Night searched; and, but mere minutes before the end of the darkness, found Gale, hidden away within the outskirts of the Great City of Schezirith. He took her under his wings, and held her close. And so Gale succumbed to the husband she left—and so he bound her to him with Mother Moon's rope; and together, they faded away into the end of the eclipse.

And so, desert nights were to be, forevermore, swathed in the bitter cold of Gale's moonlit dances.

He could feel jagged splinters against the flesh of his wrist, no doubt roughened fibres from the length of rope they had used to bind him. His person had been placed so that he leaned backwards into the slender trunk of a dry, desert-worn tree, his back pressed firm against the knobbly wooden surface. Even through the lumps of congealed blood clogging his nose, the druid could trace the stench of his mouth—it was all he could do to keep himself from expurging the scanty contents of his stomach.

He wiggled a toe; and then a finger.

Good, he thought. His reflexes, at the very least, had been spared. How had the rest of him fared?

Bracing himself for pains hitherto unknown, he wiggled the toe again—then gnashed his teeth and made to bend his knee. If he were, indeed, injured, this would be the quickest way to tell.

Nothing.

Somehow, and for some reason, the thought of it brought chills along the length of his spine. Nothing; he was unharmed. Tentatively, he moved the other leg, and discovered that which surprised him further.

Nothing, yet again.

He swallowed. Once, and then again, his breath coming in slow, steady takes, as though he were resting upon a bed of silk, as opposed to a gritty surface of sand. The chilling winds of Aranoch nights bit into his skin, but, given the circumstances, he felt they were no hindrance. He repeated the wiggling of his finger—and, tensing his abdomen, then flexed his hands, and both of them, at the same time.

Again, he felt nothing. Was this cause for alarm, now?

Paralysis?

He shook his head furiously, willing the fear to leave his mind as his eyes sprang open, wide with alarm and wet with irritation from foreign subtances. It was but half a second later before the sharp, splitting pain hit the very depths of his skull, forcing his eyes shut as the world began to swim. He tried to curse aloud in agitation, but it came out wrong—a weakened moan, where he had asked for words. Images, memories, from the previous battle flooded his mind. They had lost; they had lost badly.

Not paralysis. But Gods, the images…

Within darkened corners of his mind, striking vivid pictures amidst black and grey, he saw them, in numbers far greater than three, engage the amazon, protecting torso, face, arm, and leg from her arrows with great tower shields. He watched as they flung phials of gaseous acrid poison about the sorceress, and felt his heart within his throat as they knocked her hard, face-first, into the sand.

Oh, yes. They had lost—and pathetically so, at that. The very idea of it burned, just as utter humiliation, just as blind guilt, and just as feral rage burned. They had lost to a band of tomb-raiders. He had failed to protect Cordelia.

Oh, how it burned.

The slender fingers that were bound beside his own twitched ever so slightly, nails scraping against the flesh of his palm. For the moment, he found he had not the effort to discover if it were the amazon, or the sorceress—he was not quite sure if his voice had deigned to return just yet.

She moaned a little, and he could feel the shift of fabric against his shoulder; and her fingers, once more, brushed against his—but there was now something familiar about the way the supple fingertips found the crooks of his palm-lines. Her head drooped, slowly, slowly, to her side; then fell, quite without warning, into the crook of his shoulder. She shuddered, the motion rippling beneath her skin as though she were cold.

He was sure, now. Chewing lightly upon his tongue, the druid flexed his fingers once more, then clenched his jaw, and forced his eyes open. The waves of nausea would have overpowered him, if he had not chosen to ignore them by counting to ten. He blinked, with each whispered number, and, thank the Gods of the Sanctuary, the overwhelming urge to vomit subsided, and twos became ones once more.

Cordelia had her eyes open, though they were fixed straight ahead, upon the flickering lamp-lights of the looters' makeshift camp. From his angle, he could see a bleeding and swollen cut just above the arch of her left eye, but he was almost uncomfortably certain that she was hurt in more ways than this.

He cleared his throat, gently, pressing his cheek into the top of her head as he did so. "Cordy."

She stiffened at the sound of her name, though she did not lift her head from his shoulder. Her fingers tensed away from his behind them, but he caught a hold of her little finger with his, and kept it locked within. "Were you awake the whole time?" She murmured.

"No. If I had, we would've been broken free by now."

"…that isn't funny, and you know it." Her voice spoke volumes of pained indignance, though he could see the faintest curl of her lips—she was, at the very least, mildly amused. "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head—and then, having remembered that she couldn't see him, muttered, "No. Are you?"

She shrugged, though he could hear the sharp hiss of pain that filtered through her teeth as she did so. "Nothing that can't be put back in place." A pause, before, "We need a plan."

"I agree."

"Okay, then." The sorceress shifted again, wiggling a little in her spot as though to find a more comfortable position. She did not lift her head from his shoulder—and he was grateful for it. "Any thoughts?"

He crooked a small, somewhat cheeky smile, though it was hardly the time, nor place. "Your husband-to-be will send some men, I'm sure, once he figures out that you've disappeared from within your gilder cage. Yes, don't give me that look—" He smirked a little, shaking his head just a touch. "—I know you didn't tell him."

For several long moments, she merely lay in silence, her gaze taking on a contemplative cast, though she ignored his last words. When she spoke, her voice was solemn. "I'm sure he will send someone, if not a whole army, but in case he does not—"

"—he will."

She lifted her head a little, turning her face just a touch, though she did not meet his gaze. "Right." Then she fell silent.

He watched as she, very slowly, chewed upon her lower lip, her eyes fixed resolutely upon the looters' camp once more. Several minutes passed, and she made to lift her head from his shoulder—perhaps she had found enough strength to sit upright. But if the druid were quite frank with himself, he'd say it was for another reason entirely; she had found propriety. If Jerhyn were to discover them in so close an embrace, her reputation, and that of the Medjai, would be tarnished. If he knew her well enough, he'd say she were not one to desire such a position as to become the blemish upon the surface of the Medjai.

Yet he wondered, even as he looked upon her visage. Would she throw it all away for the love of a man?

He flexed his fingers once more, but she did not bother to respond, with speech, or otherwise. And so, he spoke—but his voice trembled; the question upon the tip of his tongue held an answer he both desired, and feared. "Cordy—do you love him?"

Her answer was prompt enough, and she spoke with a quiet sort of bluntness. "No." There came no elaboration.

He had expected such an answer, even in the midst of nagging doubt. But he held his tongue, and reigned in the beast within his chest, merely content to sit upon her response for several long moments, before he could hold himself no more. "How do you marry someone you don't love?"

"I surpress my heart and feelings." Again, her tone was frank, her words brisk, yet solemn. "I don't suppose it will prove to be too hard a task when the time comes."

"You shouldn't have to." He muttered.

She was silent just then, as though deep in thought. He half thought she would cry, but she did not. Instead, she straightened, and, as far as the ropes would allow, turned towards him, so that she faced him squarely. He could see, now, the grim resolution within the depths of her eyes, and within the hard line of her pursed lips.

"It is not a bad living, you know." She began, slowly; clearly, she was choosing her words wisely, sorting emotions from objectivity in her attempt to speak in favour of the latter. "Many women would give all to be in my shoes. To marry into the royal house of Lut Gholein, to be the Queen Consort of His Royal Highness, Jerhyn, the soon-to-ascend King. She would have the finest of silks, the warmest of furs, and the most extravagent strings of pearls, and diamonds, and gems. There will be jewels, and there will be that crown—and then there will be the children, all of which are promised inheritances of all the wealth that may be found in so fine a nation. She would be his beloved, and she would sit on the throne, to be no less to him than his partner in rule, and in all other matters. She would be his right hand." Here, she paused, and he could see that her lower lip trembled; she wavered just a touch, though there were the faintest traces of a smile, both longing and sad within the curve of her lips. "Yes—I find many women to envy my position, Saul. He isn't terribly ugly, either, so I really shouldn't complain."

"Well." He wrinkled his nose slightly, and then, for lack of anything better to say, muttered, "—you can't say he's a more handsome creature than me."

That brought forth a quiet chuckle, though she was quick to surpress it. "Yes, but I'm not bethrothed to you."

It was his turn, now, to smile the sad smile. It felt almost as if someone had forced a hand into his throat, to squeeze muscle and bone tightly together, constricting voice and breath. "D'you think—given, that it were… possible…" He murmured, looking her in the eye as he did so. "…in completely different circumstances, Cordelia, would you have loved me?"

She made a low, softened 'Ha!', shutting her eyes as she bent her head forward, as though she could no longer bear to meet his gaze. "I don't think your knowing the answer would make things any more easy for the both of us, Saul." The words were whispered but lightly, though even he could sense their weight.

That, however, was a conversation for another time.

The woman bound at his other side coughed, stirring from her sleep with a hoarse, irritable moan. It was to his horror that the druid came to realise that he'd almost entirely forgotten the welfare of his other companion—she had, after all, made it all too clear, and on far too many occasions that she was quite able to care for herself. He winced, then turned about to catch a glimpse of her, and was met with the sight of her spitting blood from her mouth. There were traces of clotted blood upon the line of her scalp, and her platinum-blonde locks, soiled with mud and limp with sweat was matted to her scalp.

She glared at him, as though daring him to make some comment on her appearance, but he had nothing to say. It was she who spoke first. "I cannot believe that the two of you have been sitting here all this while, with nothing to discuss save the state of your own romantic affairs. Ugh—" She turned aside, and spat again, wincing, as though the motion hurt her. "—you really are a couple of lovesick mewlings."

"I'm glad you're unhurt, too, Aya." He muttered, aside, then flinched as she gave a derisive snort. "We just got sidetracked, is all. There's no need to be spiteful."

"And there could've been a better time for you to pour out your heart and soul, but—" She paused, her countenence becoming wary as she stiffened in her slump; then she straightened, as best as she could, even as the softened thuds of booted feet upon the sand arose within the air. "Have you come to see if we've died?"

He cocked his head gently at her words, but soon realised they were not meant for him. Cursing his slowness at comprehending, the druid turned from her, and found himself face-to-face with the man who had, with the command of so many men, guaranteed their loss.

Up-close, Saul saw that Bhrett, having removed his turban, was of greater age than he'd initially supposed. Long, deep-brown hair fell in waves about his waist, combed sleekly back at his forehead, half of it tied back. Silken streaks of silver-grey lined the sides of his head, but served only to elevate his appearance—he could just as easily be the ruler of Lut Gholein, if put in Jerhyn's clothes.

The tomb-raider grinned. "I very much doubt one could die with so little effort on my part."

"Well, we are all of us very much alive." Cordelia muttered, dryly—gone was the sensitive nature from before, with which she had discussed the matters of her heart. "What do you want?"

For his part, Saul found himself rather intrigued, if not slightly frightened of the manner in which the sorceress conducted herself towards those so very obviously beneath her. It was almost as if she thought Bhrett a common sand maggot—and it didn't take a child prodigy to point out that she wanted very much to squash him into the ground. The thought of it very nearly made him laugh, though, with some effort, he managed to hold it all in; he didn't think it would be considered very wise to snicker while in such a state. Araeya, for one, would find it exceedingly stupid, and he was sure of it.

"Nothing from you just yet, Red." Bhrett knelt upon the ground before Cordelia, taking her face with his fingers and thumb on either sides of her cheek, then leaned close into her, and with his free hand, smoothed crimson locks from her forehead. "But maybe, just maybe, when the sun sets—"

"Over my dead body." She hissed, between clenched teeth. "Or, rather, I should prefer if it were over your dead body."

"A pity." Bhrett sighed, shaking his head just a touch as he gave her cheek a gentle pat, then released her entirely. "I should hate to force a woman."

Saul was annoyed, now. He was quite sure it showed in the way he'd straightened, but he had no cause to hide it. "By the Gods, Bhrett, if you so much as touch her again, I will see to it that you are unmanned." He grit his teeth, narrowing his eyes as he stared towards the other. "Permanently."

The tomb-raider laughed, his eyes rolling back as he shook his head; whether it was from disbelief, or amusement, the druid did not know. Nor did he care, for that matter. "Oh, calm yourself, man, I have no real desire to steal your woman." He glanced aside towards Araeya, who merely scowled. "Or women, as it were. I will, however, have your aid in a matter I deem of grave importance."

"What tomb—or shall I say, grave, are you heading off to plunder now?"

"Ah, you caught that!" Bhrett grinned, his teeth white and clean despite the blackness of his intentions. "Wonderful. This shall go on much easier, then."

"Huh." Saul grunted, scowling. He could tell when he was cornered. "Go on."

"You see." The other began, lifting a hand to rub at his stubbled chin. "Our presence is required in the ancient tunnels beneath the sands of the Lost City of Schezirith. It was once a city of great, sparkling diamonds—even greater than the port of Lut Gholein." His eyes glittered, as they did, only in the face of riches and wealth. For a fleeting second, Saul wondered whether the desert ruffian had known of the gold amassed within the depths of the forgotten tower in Entsteig; whether he would've gone, as Cordelia had done, into its catacombs, braving horrors untold, all for the sake of gold and glory. "It is said that the tunnels are but corridors into greater chambers that make up the burial halls of the heathen kings of old. If that is true, we are sure to discover a trove of treasure."

"And if it's not true?" Saul countered, grimly. "The tunnels could be but sewers, and I doubt much would be found in there. And even if they were burial halls, how are you to be sure that they have not already been emptied of everything of worth?"

"Oh, we can't be sure." Bhrett's tone was mild, even jovial, to a very small degree. "That's why we bother in the first place. There's the thrill of the chase, and the thought of our great reward at the end of it all is enough to sustain us. If we are detined to find empty hallways and death within those chambers, then so be it."

"While you are quite willing to die for your cause, I am not." Saul began. He was starting to feel just a touch uncomfortable. "I have no desire to plunder the graves of the dead—I'm afraid my mother taught me better manners than that."

"And mine was cold in her grave long before I learnt my manners." The tomb-raider was stern, now. He would not take no for an answer—not now that they had discussed the matter thus far. "We leave at dawn."

And, just like that, he pushed himself upright, and turned away, his cloak swishing about his legs as he strode towards his camp, his head held high.

Beside the druid, Araeya released a low grunt of annoyance, then muttered, darkly, under her breath—"I wonder if anyone's raided her grave."

By the time Bhrett and his men saw fit to stop and rest their limbs, the sun had made its way into its zenith at the heart of the brilliant blue sky. The day was hot, as was the norm within the desert, but even more just then—there were no clouds to bring the comfort of shade to weary travelers.

He had, just before their untimely loss to the bandits, asked that Ceres fly high into the heavens, out of the range of arrows and other such attacks that would serve to bring her down. To his understanding, lone birds were often shot at, and even more so in the company of those who had just cause to be wary of the outside world. She had resisted at first, but Saul could only suppose that she'd listened, and left; he had found no sign of her, whether dead or alive. The men had not discussed it otherwise, and he was glad of it—he didn't think he'd enjoy news of her death.

They had been inclined to untie him, so that he was able to walk free amidst them. Bhrett would, of course, have had realised that he would do them no harm while both Cordelia and Araeya were in the grasp of his palm. Saul was not, at any rate, inclined towards the fighting of twenty men, and on his own. too.

"We are soon to arrive at the entrance of Schezirith. Take heart." Bhrett had come up towards him, one hand clasped gently over the hilt of his sheathed scimitar. He had resumed his turban and cloak, and there hung a piece of cloth over his nose and mouth, shielding both from the harshness of the desert.

"Have the ancient tunnels been found yet?" Saul straightened in his seat ever so slightly, rubbing at the sides of his arms as yet another gust of warm air tickled at his sleeves. "I daresay Schezirith had now become a wide expanse of sand. We should have a better chance of reaching in good spirits if there is a proper map to follow."

"My men have mapped the area out." The elder responded briskly, adjusting the lines of his polished leather glove as he squinted out across the sand dunes. "We will find our way there swiftly—worry not."

"I'm not worried." The druid muttered, dryly. "Just slightly annoyed, but I don't really have a choice in the matter now, do I?"

Even through the rough linen covering his nose and mouth, Saul could see that Bhrett was amused. He certainly sounded amused as he snickered, shaking his head several times as he made a quiet 'tch' under his breath. "No, you don't. Might as well just take it all in as best as you can, lad."

"And how—" Saul began, knowing his tone to be just a touch bitter as he spoke, "—might I do that, without so much as a sign to when I may go free? You forget, Bhrett, that my ideals are not yours. You can't keep us here forever."

The elder bandit shrugged once, his expression seeming to change into one of more solemn qualities as he pulled a turquoise-handled dagger from his belt. He ran calloused and tanned fingers over the hilt of twisted dark silver, within which a great many turquoise stones had been set; then stopped his thumb just as it came upon the headstone of the hilt—a smooth, rounded mother-of-pearl.

He paused—then leaned over, holding the blade out towards the druid as he did so. "It is true that your ideals are not mine. However—" Here, he paused, motioning for the druid to take the blade. "—you are already in such a state. Complaining, or refusing to co-operate won't change a thing, save perhaps my mood, and I'm not always as genial as I have proven to be." His tone was friendly enough, though Saul could see, now, that there was a gleam—a dangerous gleam, within the depths of his eyes.

"Right." Saul muttered, shaking his head as he reached out to take a hold of the blade. Personally, he would've preferred his own to it, but, as it were, the bandits of Aranoch were not inclined to return his things as of yet.

Bhrett had but seconds ago turned from him—but, almost immediately, returned to his side, a grimace carved deep within the lines of his forehead. The druid could not help but to frown at this new development; something, clearly, was very wrong. But he had barely had time to form the question upon the tip of his tongue before the earliest blemish of a darkening sky surrounded them. Twilight had come, hours before it was due.

An eclipse of the sun.

"That is an unnatural eclipse." Bhrett's tone was sour, and his stance grim. "The one we see but once every five years is not due until three months from now."

"And this eclipse serves to prove…?"

The faintest of smirks came to rest upon the lips of the bandit—then disappeared, in favour of a more serious expression. His eyes were narrowed, though whether from wariness, or annoyance, the druid could not tell. "Nothing, save that something dark is at work. Now come, we had best be on our way."

And, even as Bhrett made towards his company, calling for them to move out, Saul found himself wondering at whatever luck it was that had brought him to such a state. Then he remembered Bhrett's words—then sighed, shaking his head.

How bad can this be? It may yet serve as an experience worth remembering.

Yes, He would hold onto those thoughts, which were somewhat more happy than his previous ones. And he would go into battle, deep within the vaults of Schezirith, and hope against hope that they were not merely marching stupidly towards uncomely deaths.

Author's Note: Wooohoooo! And that's another chapter from me! I'm so sorry this one took so very horribly wrong. The usual things have been plaguing me; assignments, assignments, sickness, more assignments—you get it. I did, however, enjoy writing the fluff between Saul and Cordy. Oh, yes, it's going to get even juicier from here onwards. Ha!

Thanks go out to: Ophelion, for, as always, keeping me company throughout dry spells for writing.

Thanks also to Luna, skopde, Fallen Dragonfly, Medalia, Tel Loiryn, JupponGatana for reviewing so diligently. 8D

Thanks to FantasyFreak4Life; I'm sorry you gave up on Saul and Cordy, and just as they were due to start, too, but I doubt a romance that blossomed as quickly as you wanted would've been believable for the rest of my readers.

Thanks also to Treuan Xela for the review, and to Twilight Bunny for the Kei-dedication piece on deviantART.

Also, last but not least, thanks go out to Druss the Legend for C2-ing this fic, and to all those who fav-ed and alerted me! Thanks so very much, and keep em' coming please!

Until then, watch out for my next chapter, "The Women and the Men", due sometime… soon. Yeah, soon. Until then, ciao!