by Caroline Noe
“Elaine,” he murmured. “please be coming back, soon.”
* * *
Left alone in the silence after Leila’s disappearance, Elaine sat, shivering inside, desperately trying to force herself to cry. Unfortunately, she was a victim of years of harsh training. Hot tears would have been such a relief, but they stubbornly refused to fall. Stinging, dry eyes stared down at her blood-stained hands, wondering whose blood it was. Not that it mattered; both the deaths of Neil and Harlin could be firmly placed at her door. She had thrust the Firestone into Neil’s hands in her desperation to get back to Harlin, but the stone had beaten her, even as it died. Her hatred and blame towards Leila’s actions faded in the blazing heat of her own guilt. Her chaotic, shredded mind sent her heart and soul into a freefall of self-loathing.
Even if Harlin had survived the battle, survived the death of the Firestone, he would now be king in all but name; a young, handsome and athletic king, with an entire realm full of women from which to choose a mate. Why would he ever want a scarred wreck, whose actions had brought the nightmare down on himself and his people? Why would she even care, given that judgement was soon to be meted out on her disease ridden body? It was tempting just to lie down in the forest and await death, but she had to know whether Harlin was alive.
The horses had galloped away during the arrival of the vortex, so Elaine was forced to make her way back to the castle on foot. With every succeeding step, she grew more afraid, ashamed and alone. By the time she was found by Myrrdinus, she had convinced herself that Harlin, and his world, would be far better off without her.
* * *
Following Harlin’s speech, the Priesthood of Magikers swiftly vacated the castle, carrying the groggily tearful Gergan with them. Not having made a decision as to his own fate, Sworder availed himself of a priestly robe and slinked out in the middle of the exodus.
Harlin sat in a wooden armchair, watching Melith set about organising a hospital for the battle wounded. Acting as though he had never left the castle, or been cursed with squirrelhood, Grain rounded up a posse of villagers to temporarily staff the kitchen; they had food and lodgings to prepare for a multitude.
As his more than able friends went about their business, their new leader sat contemplating the future and, more specifically, the return of Elaine. Unfortunately, the relatively free time gave his mind enough space to concoct and ponder a number of worrying scenarios:
What if she not wanting stay in this time?
What if she not wanting me?
What if she wounded?
What if me mother taked her away… or killed her?
Harlin shot out of his chair, hollering “Myrrdinus!” as though his life depended on it.
There was a thundering of footsteps, punctuated by an unearthly array of clatterings, sounding suspiciously like a large man and his weapons bouncing down stone steps.
“Dumbwit,” snickered a young female voice.
After a short pause, the footsteps resumed, heralding the arrival of a frazzled, and slightly dented, Myrrdinus.
“What wrongly?” he enquired, being unable to spot the life-threatening danger that should be evident from such a raucous summons.
“I be going find Elaine,” Harlin announced. “Leaving ye protecting everybone.”
“Wonderly,” squeaked Myrrdinus, somewhat shocked by the size of the task.
“No, ye not,” came an older voice.
Harlin spun round, to find Bert frowning at him, arms crossed.
“Ye be leader now. Ye staying here, where ye belong. Myrrdinus going, on horse.”
“Not planning on walking,” Myrrdinus quipped.
“Dumbwit pilt,” muttered Gwyneth, on her way past. “Best somebone going with him, if wanting find her this year. Not be me,” was her parting shot.
* * *
Having suffered quite enough of Gwyneth’s aggressive and vocal rejection for one day, a smarting Myrrdinus rode out in search of Elaine. More accurately, he rode alongside Asher, who was capable of following a straight line from the castle to the clearing. Although the disappearance of Baal and the renders clearly indicated that Elaine had succeeded in destroying the Firestone, it didn’t guarantee that she had emerged unscathed. They only hoped, for Harlin’s sake, that they found her unharmed.
Galloping through the forest, they were almost upon her before they realised it, terrifying her into a state of frozen shock. Veering either side of her, they thundered to a halt and swiftly dismounted. Rushing to her side, both men stopped short of touching her, being unsure of how to proceed. Her appearance shocked them to the core. They had seen her tired, bruised and scared, but nothing like this. She seemed gaunt eyed and truly haunted… and her trembling hands were covered with blood.
“Elaine,” Asher ventured, “be Asher and Myrrdinus.” She didn’t move or answer him, but her eyes rose to meet his. “Ye knowing us, girly? Be ye greening?” Asher touched her hands, but she snatched them away as though burnt.
“Is he dead?” she whispered. Her voice was so quiet that they had to lean in to hear it.
“Who?” asked a confused Myrrdinus.
“Harlin?” ventured Asher, being quicker on the uptake. “He be fine. In castle, leading. Sended us for bringing ye home.” Asher nodded towards the horses. Myrrdinus took the hint and went to fetch them. “Be Queen here?” Asher asked, glancing around.
“Gone home,” Elaine answered, and fainted, so fast and completely that Asher only caught her when she was inches from the ground.
* * *
Elaine recovered consciousness to find herself tucked into a warm bed, covered with furs and woollen blankets. The first thing she noticed when she opened her eyes was that her hands had been washed clean of the blood.
“There she be,” came a soft, familiar voice.
Melith’s smiling face loomed into view, passing in and out of focus as her eyes adjusted to nearby firelight. Through the window, she saw the blue glow of the moon, hanging in the clear night sky.
Melith gently laid a palm on Elaine’s forehead, more in comfort than to test her temperature. “How ye feeling?” she asked and glanced up at someone standing on the other side of the bed.
Elaine turned her head to see Harlin, his olive skinned beauty only enhanced by firelight. His was the face she most wanted to see, and the least.
“Be knowing that Firestone died,” Harlin told her. “Me mother?”
“Gone, back to where she…we… came from,” Elaine whispered.
“Ye going too?” Harlin asked, his heart hammering so loudly that he was sure she must be able to hear it.
All the misery of Elaine’s past conspired to warp his question into the opposite of its intention. He was asking for comfort, but she heard only confirmation of her worst fear: he wanted her gone from his life.
Elaine turned her back on him and closed her eyes against the knife wound of rejection. She would not speak another word for three days, nor would she allow herself to be alone with him.
* * *
As dawn broke on the morning following the disappearance of the Queen, pale sunlight found Gergan tramping through the forest on his way to the coast. The lump on his head – courtesy of Gwyneth – throbbed horribly, making his teeth ache. Having been relieved of his ill gotten gains on the cobblestones of the castle, he now carried whatever meagre possessions he could salvage, feeling utterly sorry for himself.
He had managed to avoid the rest of the former priesthood as they sneaked out of the realm. He was under no illusion that they would be in any way amenable to their former High Priest. It was now every magiker for himself. Nor did he expect any passing villager to show him much forgiveness or sympathy.
Thus, it was, that a rustling in the undergrowth brought forth his usual greeting for such a time as this.
“Be going away or I turning ye into toad!”
“Doubting ye able,” came the disembodied reply. “Ye never been goodly at animals.”
A further rustl
e and a moving aside of leaves revealed Sworder, advancing on his position, sword drawn.
“Maybes not,” Gergan retorted, backing up a few steps, “but able giving ye nasty itching disease.”
Sworder snorted, peered closely at his adversary and sighed. “No point fighting,” he told him, sliding his sword back into its sheath. “Be nough killing out there.”
“Aye,” Gergan agreed, relaxing a little. “Be target practice for too many. Even that fermit Elmin taked a shot at me. Ye leaving realm?”
“Aye,” Sworder told him. “Maked too many enemies working for Queen. Only matter time fore one coming for me.” Whilst that statement may have contained an element of truth, Sworder was actually fleeing the constant laughter that rang in his ears, wherever he went. “Thinked going north,” he continued, “but Harlin soon be gaining all old allies, so no betterly there.”
“Aye,” Gergan agreed. “Only place leaved be Darklands and even magiker die there, alone.” Gergan perched on a log and sighed. “Missing renders.”
“Not Queen?” Sworder asked, leaning against a tree.
“Nay,” Gergan spat. “Truth be telled, hated her. Nasty vicious fyker.”
Sworder laughed. “That she been.”
“I never liking ye much neither,” Gergan admitted.
“Ye and all priests,” Sworder lamented. “And all soldiers. Only renders liked me. Missing renders.” Sworder sat beside Gergan on the log and rifled through a leather bag, emerging with a large pastry. “Halfly apple pie?” he offered, breaking it in two with sticky fingers.
“Thanking ye,” replied Gergan, gratefully.
The pair of sadly disappointed bullies sat noisily munching, whilst their limited brain power worked on a novel and surprising idea.
“If we going Darklands,” Sworder mumbled, his mouth full. “Maybes betterly going together. Just for while.”
“We maybes making for Farlands,” Gergan suggested. “Maybes.”
“Aye, maybes… Gergan?”
“Aye?”
“Ye giving me rash, I killing ye.”
“Fair nough.”
* * *
Elaine had not eaten throughout her three days of silence. Grain, being stubborn, had continued to provide more and more exotic concoctions in the hope of tempting her, only to be summarily dismissed in favour of sips of water.
Melith, knowing the truth, had, so far, kept her own counsel, but was fast approaching the end of her patience. Every one of her friends was concerned about Elaine’s state of health, both mental and physical, and had proceeded to complain to Melith, as though it was her duty to oversee the wellbeing of every truculent and wayward soul in the vicinity.
On day four of the starvation diet, Melith cornered the wafer thin Elaine with a bowl of stew. She was hiding on the battlements, having availed herself of Gergan’s old chair.
“Know what ye say,” Melith began, forestalling any objection, “but if ye eat nought ye die even sooner.”
“It’s too late,” Elaine replied, struggling to her feet. “Whatever I eat now, will just make me sick...You have to let me go.” Elaine held out her hand in supplication, only for Melith to thrust a wooden spoon into it.
“Be sitting downly,” the matriarch ordered. “Nobone here seeing ye. Be trying stew. If ye rightly and be dying, then I staying with ye, by yer side, til over. But not letting ye go til seeing for meself. So, eat.”
Seeing that there was no arguing with her friend, Elaine and spoon sat back down. Melith placed the bowl into her trembling hands and waited. Elaine peered at the stew, the spoon, Melith and back at the stew, as an aroma floated into her nostrils. Surprisingly, it didn’t make her feel instantly nauseated. Dipping the spoon into the steaming liquid, Elaine raised it to her lips and took a tentative sip.
* * *
It was a miracle.
Anyway, that’s what Gwyneth said when she learned of the whole sorry saga and Elaine’s sudden recovery from imminent death. Her mother pontificated that their friend had been under a curse which was cancelled when the Firestone was destroyed, much like the vanishing of Baal and the renders. Grain didn’t offer any explanation at all, deciding, instead, to let his menu do the talking. He simply stood over Elaine until she had eaten herself into a more fleshly form.
Harlin felt conflicted – which was, after all, his speciality. To learn that she was dying and then not dying was traumatic, especially as he had not been told anything by Elaine. That she didn’t trust him enough to confide in him was almost as hurtful as learning of her disease in the first place. It didn’t help that the information came from Bert, for whom tact was not a forte. It went along the lines of, “Elaine been dying of sickly, but not now. She not dying no more. Well, one day, but not now. Rightly,” and off Bert went, leaving Harlin to sit on the floor in shock.
Unfortunately, he decided to spend the next few days mulling over the situation instead of actually taking some positive action. The result was a miserable stalemate that annoyed everyone else. When Serena quietly and gently pointed out that it was only good manners to speak to Elaine, the new leader went in search of the former invalid.
Spotting her crossing the courtyard, Harlin hurried down stone steps, slipped, tripped, staggered and landed at Elaine’s feet in an untidy heap. Peering up at her, he announced, “Er, glad ye feeling goodly…now.”
Elaine muttered, “Thank you,” and took herself off in the opposite direction, leaving Harlin to stew in his own hurt pride. He didn’t try to speak to her again.
No-one, least of all Harlin, knew what was going on inside Elaine’s mind. The slicing movement of the shards had almost ceased as she approached her death. It was as though the fatal sentence had convinced her that justice was served and her atonement complete. When she learned that she had been reprieved, the shards begin to spin, faster and faster, slicing ever deeper into her thoughts. She grew ever more solitary, watching as Harlin pulled further and further away from her aching heart.
* * *
For years to come, Harlin’s people would tell their children that summers grew warmer and lasted longer, once he began to lead. That first summer of freedom, the sun seemed to tarry, hanging in the sky throughout endless sultry evenings. There had been much to change, to restore, but there was also much to celebrate and nothing more so, than the marriage of Drevel to his beautiful lady, Serena.
Being such a wonderful day, with a clear blue sky, the wedding had taken place outside. Chairs, blankets and tables, full of food and drink, had been positioned near the castle, a newly constructed bower being the site for the exchanging of vows. Cascades of flowers adorned every wall, rock and slope, flowing down to the soft, green grass, where thousands of people awaited the arrival of the happy couple.
A mighty cheer erupted when Drevel appeared, striding proudly through the forest, a gloriously bedecked Serena cradled in his arms. They had waited a decade for this happy day, enduring separation and the ignominy of life as dog and frog.
Elaine waited for the multitude to pass on their joy and good wishes to the happy couple. Spotting a lull in wellwishers, she quickly weaved her way to her friends, nodding as she passed revellers, but speaking to no-one.
“Drevel, Serena, I wish you every good thing,” she told the couple. “You deserve it.” Forcing her eyes to meet those of Drevel, she added, “Thank you, Drevel, for always standing by me, as a dog or man. You were always loyal.”
And then she was gone, rushing back through the crowds as though being pursued by an enemy. Serena called after her, but Elaine didn’t turn or slow her flight. Serena’s concern for her friend was clearly written in her expression; Elaine had locked herself behind mental iron gates and not even Melith had been able to make her open up. She would not even remain in the same room with Harlin.
“Be giving her time,” Drevel told his new wife, draping a huge hairy arm around her delicate shoulders. “Nobone knowing all what happened to her.”
“Aye, not knowing,” Serena agre
ed. “And be bad we not knowing. She not needing more time, me lovely, she needing love.”
As the joyful ceremony advanced, punctuated by laughter and singing, a rather less gleeful Myrrdinus was arguing with his own intended. Having aroused his ire by swanning around in a dress with a rather revealing neckline, Gwyneth, to make matters worse, had been caught displaying her ample figure to a goggle-eyed young man from a nearby village. They were dancing merrily, the young man’s hands engaged in squeezing various parts of her, when Myrrdinus thundered onto the scene. One look at his face convinced the rival that ‘discretion was the better part of valour’. He scarpered, post haste, to the guffaws of celebrating villagers.
Taking a firm grip on her wrist, Myrrdinus dragged the truculent Gwyneth behind a large tree.
“What ye doing?” he demanded, one hand either side of her body, holding her prisoner against the bark.
“None business of yers!” Gwyneth countered, staring up at her red-faced captor with a palpable air of defiance.
“Ye be me wife!”
“Not! That temple thing not counting!”
“Gwyneth…”
“Leave me lone,” she demanded, trying to wriggle free of his grasp and failing. “Ye not want me truly. Be only yer pride.”
“Be not true!” bellowed Myrrdinus, his voice rising in volume from the perceived injustice of her accusation. “Be begging forgiveness many times, on me knees, in front yer parents and everybone! Have no pride leaved. Not knowing what else to do.”
“Be many beautily women in villages,” Gwyneth sniffed, unconvinced by his desperation. “Ye be happy marrying one of ‘em.”
“I loving ye,” he replied, wide eyed with earnestness.
“No, ye not,” she countered. “Be only passing thing.”
Myrrdinus let fly an exasperated howl.
“Ye be talking too muchly,” came a familiar voice.
Myrrdinus turned his head. Gwyneth peeped below his huge bicep to see her mother walking past, hand in hand with an amused, but silent, Asher.
“Just kiss and stop her mouth,” the ample cupid advised.