by J. M. Briggs
“We suspect they are headed south, potentially towards Rome. Gwenyvar has always been interested in it,” Medraut offered quickly.
Arto was silent, completely stunned. The words kept repeating in his head, but he felt unable to grasp their meaning. Then Morgana was beside him, worry all over her face.
“Morgana,” their mother called gently. “Please give your brother some space.”
“But-” his sister began to protest.
“Please darling, go and make sure that Merlin has everything under control. I am sure that your good news would be well received by the village.”
For a moment Arto thought Morgana might actually argue with their mother, but she nodded and stepped towards the door. She paused for a moment to glare at Medraut who returned the glare with equal disdain. Then he was alone with his mother and Medraut.
“What do you want to do about this?” his cousin asked calmly, tilting his head and giving Arto a considering look.
“What can we do about it?” Arto asked in return, barely managing a weak shrug. “It is out of our hands.”
Medraut scowled, his usually attractive features twisting into something ugly that made Arto’s stomach twist. He did his best to meet his cousin’s condescending look with a calm expression.
“I should have known,” Medraut snarled. “You’ll do nothing and allow them all to think you are weak!”
“What would you have me do?” Arto demanded, anger breaking through. “Track them south across the sea? Leave the Sídhe alone for months to regain a foothold and enslave more of our people unopposed? And to what end? So I can drag my wife back and try and force her to stay against her will, using ropes if necessary? Kill Luegáed in some foolish attempt to prove myself stronger and better than him, which I might die doing by the way; his reputation as a swordsman was well earned. What is it that you think all of this would achieve?”
“Then what are you doing to do?” Medraut demanded with a clenched fist and a tight jaw as he glared at Arto. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to strike him and the feeling was mutual. Arto half-hoped that Medraut would strike and give him an excuse.
“Cousin,” Medraut said with a stern expression. “We have to talk about this.”
“My wife is gone, as is one of our best warriors. The situation is fairly clear, but it changes nothing,” Arto said dismissively, waving a hand for Medraut to go. The only chance he had of getting through this without striking him was for his cousin to leave now.
“Of course it does!” Medraut snapped, lunging forward and grabbing his arm. “You and Gwenyvar’s marriage helped secure our connections to the northlands. Her father is important and viewed having you as a son to be critical. With Gwenyvar and Luegáed running off that is thrown into disarray.”
“My only goal is to stop the Sídhe,” Arto reminded his cousin fiercely. “A goal that took me away from my wife much of the year. I am under no delusions as to why this occurred.”
“You are now a warrior leader whose wife ran off with his best friend! Do you not understand how weak this makes you seem? How fragile your position is?”
“After everything that I have done you think I will be judged on the choices made by them?”
“Cousin…. You truly have no mind for power,” Medraut sneered. “Your father at least understood that, but then I’m the one he raised as an heir.”
Arto barely held the desire to lash out at his cousin in check. Only the bitter thought that he had already lost family today stayed his hand.
“Enough!” Eigyr’s voice cut in sharply to the surprise of both men who turned to look at her in surprise, having forgotten she was present. “That’s enough,” she repeated in a lower voice, but it still rang with finality. “Medraut I know that you are only trying to help, but Arto is right that there is little that can be done now. Gwenyvar and Luegáed have made their choice and we must find a way to live with it.”
“But-”
“Leave me with my son,” she commanded sternly with a firm look absent of any patience for argument.
After a moment of obvious internal debate, Medraut nodded before turning and leaving the roundhouse without ever looking back towards him.
“He means well,” his mother said with a sigh after the pelt fell back into place. “But I fear that boy has always carried an irrational jealousy of you. Even when your father made him the heir I think he always worried about what would happen if you ever returned to us.” She shook her head, folding her hands in front of her with a weary expression. “I even caught him watching Gwenyvar on a few occasions. He has never understood the price of the power you have or the burden you bear because of it.”
“I would think that the cost would be clear now,” Arto snarled at his mother, anger charging through him in search of a release, but all of it centered on his cousin.
His mother wasn’t distressed by him snapping at her. Instead, she looked at him sadly and said, “Arto, please calm yourself. Do not allow this to become something ugly in you. I know that you are suffering now, but Medraut is your kin.” She shook her head and her eyes lowered to the ground. “And he is still here.”
The words were a brutal reminder of what had started this conversation. Arto fell silent and felt the rage draining out of him despite his desire to cling to it and use it as armor, preferring anger at Medraut over the alternative. Instead, it slipped away like water inside a cracked pot and there was nothing he could do.
“Arto,” his mother called gently from across the roundhouse. He ignored her and did not turn to face her, but Eigyr stepped up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Arto do not be angry with me.”
“Mother I-I’m not angry with you,” Arto insisted as he turned towards her, careful not to hurt her hand.
His mother smiled wearily at him, her gray hair hanging mostly loose with only a few small braids around her face. Heavy lines told of her age and he was painfully struck by just how old she looked. They were both silent for a moment and then she raised her hand up to his cheek and cupped it gently.
“I saw the signs,” she confessed softly. “Gwenyvar lived here too long as my daughter for me not to notice.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were gone often; you had a duty to perform,” his mother sighed. “Luegáed loved you dearly; he saw you as his brother. I thought wrongly that they would not betray you as such.”
“She loved me,” Arto insisted, aware of the growing ache in his chest.
“That she did, but you were both very young then and time has changed you both.”
“Maybe this is for the best,” Arto whispered as his eyes dropped to the floor.
“I think they tried to do the best they could,” she offered gently, reaching up and gently brushing his hair. “Do not blame yourself.”
Arto had no idea of what to say to that but found himself nodding to his mother out of habit. She watched him silently with a look of pity that made his skin crawl. He couldn’t take that look right now, she loved him, but he couldn’t.
“I’d like to be alone.”
She didn’t argue. Instead, she calmly nodded to him and walked towards the doorway. “I know that Morgana will be worried about you,” his mother told him gently with a sad smile. “Please don’t keep your sister at a distance; I don’t think she could take it.”
Arto stood completely still as he listened to his mother leaving the roundhouse. He was left alone to wonder as the stillness of his home sank onto him. What was he supposed to do now? The conversations seemed to be finished for now so what was the next step? Were they waiting for him to publically say something? Were the villagers waiting outside with the warriors and the smiths awaiting some explanation?
His fingers twitched to pull back the pelt and he found himself taking a step towards the doorway. Shaking his head Arto stopped himself and lowered his hand. He was being foolish he decided with a deep inhale. His head wasn’t clear and his emotions felt… he frowned and swall
owed thickly, uncertain of just what he was feeling. Closing his eyes, Arto took several deep and slow breaths to calm down and tried to sort out his thoughts.
There wasn’t much now that his anger towards Medraut was fading, just an odd sense of numbness that was completely alien to him. Did he not care that Gwenyvar and Luegáed had run off together, that they had essentially betrayed him? As soon as the thought fully formed the odd numbness began to fall away. His knees felt weak, he realized with detachment, and he sank down on his bed.
Everything on his side was as it should be, Gwenyvar had even patched an older shirt of his and left it lying on the bed. The only thing missing from the shelves was the jet necklace that Gwenyvar’s father had given her when they married. She hadn’t taken any of the other valuables with her. On her side of the roundhouse, it was much the same story. Arto could tell that a few pieces of clothing had been taken, but most of it was still carefully packed in her woven baskets. Her small loom was upright with half a blanket or cloak already finished. It seemed as though she could be back at any moment. Maybe she would be; maybe she and Luegáed would come riding back in tomorrow or the next day and tell him that Medraut had been mistaken.
Maybe- Arto snorted at himself and shook his head. His eyes dropped to the pounded down dirt floor where he suddenly wished that he could see footprints. He’d been trained to track Sídhe, maybe the tracks would have told him something. Against his wishes, Arto’s eyes went to the bed tucked up against the wall. Had they been there together? All those times when he was gone to fight the Sídhe and he’d entrusted the safety of his family to Luegáed had he been giving them chances to be together?
Images of entwined limbs and Gwenyvar’s blissful face flashed in front of him. Closing his eyes did nothing to stop the sudden brutal assault. He inhaled deeply and tried to focus on something else, but the events were not so easily dismissed from his mind. There was a burst of anger that startled him. He wanted to find them and scream at them both, maybe fight Luegáed and demand an explanation, he wanted-
Arto shook his head and tried to dislodge the darkening train of thoughts. It was disturbing. He’d always known that he was capable of violence, he was a warrior and a leader of warriors after all, but he’d never considered raising a hand to a human or worse using his magic on one.
Time slipped away from him as Arto sat in the roundhouse. The rage seemed to have passed at least for the moment. He had no doubt that it would return in the quiet moments of the night when he turned to speak with Gwenyvar and remembered. It was almost regretful that she and Luegáed had run off and not been killed as he initially feared. Then at least his rage would have a target and he would have another motivation to destroy the Sídhe. They had enslaved his sister and killed his father, but this… they were not responsible for this. Unless he held them accountable for him being gone so frequently. If the Sídhe had not invaded then he never would have had reason to meet Luegáed or Gwenyvar. None of this would have happened.
He shook his head again and closed his eyes as he leaned back on the bed. This was… this had the potential to turn ugly. He had to keep control. There were people depending on him; they’d be watching and questioning him. His best friend and one of his chief warriors had run off with his wife. Medraut was right that many would see it as an act of weakness and they’d come too far. They were too close to have others trying to take over or worse stall or even stop the creation of the iron gates.
It was a kindness, he decided, that he hadn’t known. Now he could try to cope with these convoluted emotions in peace without fear of lashing out against them. He didn’t have to worry about needing to compete with Luegáed for Gwenyvar or living with her while being both in love with her and angry with her. He’d been able to enjoy the companionship of both his wife and his best friend without worry, fear or guilt over how they felt. Except now he was keenly aware of having lost those friendships, aware that if they were headed where Medraut believed that he would never see either of them again.
Movement by the doorway made Arto sit up quickly and reach towards Cathanáil abandoned next to his bed. He couldn’t even remember placing it there, but at his own sluggish reaction, he was grateful. Merlin stepped into the roundhouse, letting the pelt drop closed behind him.
“I am sorry Arto,” his mentor told him gently, leaning forward on his staff and looking at him. There was no pity in Merlin’s eyes, but a shared sense of sadness that Arto appreciated and regretted putting there at the same time.
“What did I do wrong?” Arto asked, burying his face in his hands and dragging his fingers through his hair. “Why?”
“I suspect you will never have a satisfactory answer to that,” Merlin replied gently and Arto felt his mentor move closer to him. “Gwenyvar loved you, but there are different kinds of love, different intensities. Luegáed loved you as well in his own way and I have no doubt that the love he had for Gwenyvar caused him much pain.”
“I think he tried to tell me, but I wasn’t listening. Was that it Merlin?”
“Arto, you aren’t going to find answers this way.”
“Morgana and Airril are happy!” He snapped, jumping to his feet and pacing irritably around the roundhouse. He was aware of Merlin watching him with worry, but he didn’t care. “Of the suitors father offered she may have chosen him, but they weren’t in love beforehand. She kept secrets from him and then spent years with us traveling and yet…” It seemed like all his energy was being pulled away from him and Arto collapsed back onto the edge of the bed. “They’re happy. They love each other. Airril is devoted to Morgana and she loves and respects him. What did I do wrong?”
Merlin stepped over and placed a hand on top of Arto’s head. It was a familiar gesture from his childhood, but one that Merlin had not indulged in for many years. A pained gasp escaped Arto as his fingers dug into the blankets beneath him. He felt weak and over taxed as if he’d just created two iron gates in the same night. The ache in his chest seemed to have spread all through his body making him feel old and sore. It hurt, it hurt so much. At that moment he’d have rather a Sídhe run him through than confront this. His ragged breaths turned to sobs that he did his best to muffle. Lowering his head, Arto leaned forward and hid his face. Merlin’s hand never left his head and the older mage said nothing as Arto cried.
Finally, slowly, the tears began to lessen leaving a dull bone-deep exhaustion in their wake. Reaching up, Arto brushed away the last of them unsure if he felt better or worse now. He just felt raw. He glanced around the roundhouse, noting that darkness had taken hold and a fire was burning in the hearth. To his surprise, he spotted his sister standing by the doorway, her face illuminated by the last traces of the setting sun as she kept watch. The ache in his chest eased as gratitude towards his family settled in. Arto inhaled deeply, savoring the slightly smoky taste of it and suddenly aware of his hunger. He didn’t want to think about how long he’d been crying, didn’t want to wonder if he was really so weak. Arto managed to give Merlin a small smile of gratitude and was rewarded with another gentle brush of fingers atop his head.
Then a Sídhe horn sounded in the distance and echoed across the plains. Arto raised his eyes and looked up at Merlin who had a badly disguised look of horror on his face. His shoulders slumped for a moment, but Arto pulled back from Merlin’s hand, planted his feet firmly on the ground and stood up.
“Arto-”
“The blood ward should still be active around the village,” Arto cut in sternly as he reached for Cathanáil. “They’re attacking despite the ward which means that this is important. This could be it.”
“Let the blood ward hold them off,” Morgana insisted as she took a few steps towards him.
“No,” Arto replied sharply with a shake of his head. “This is still my fight and this is my home.”
He saw Morgana and Merlin exchange a worried look, but ignored them and headed for the door. Arto paused for only a moment to rinse his face off in the small bowl of water near the fir
e. He secured Cathanáil on his back, squared his shoulders and stepped outside to the sight of the hillside in the distance on fire, illuminating a dark opening in the hill where dozens of Sídhe Riders were pouring out into the Iron Realm in formation for battle.
28
Visions of Darkness
Maybe it was just Aiden, but Ravenslake seemed too quiet. He knew that most of the university students had already left for their winter break destinations, but town even seemed to be lacking in locals. Parking in downtown had been far easier than he could ever remember it being as the sunset in the distance cast a red glow over the brick buildings.
“Violet Blaze again?” Bran asked as he climbed out and looked over at the large neon sign that was already on down the street.
“It’s good food and you weren’t offering any suggestions,” Aiden huffed as he came around to the sidewalk and waited for Bran to get his footing. The sidewalks were mostly clear, but Ravenslake didn’t have the steam piping system under the walkways that the university did.