As it often does, life got in the way for awhile. Some good, some bad: Time passed and little writing happened. But I promise to get back to it. Looks like Fractured Time isn't going to happen any time soon, but Gwen and Rafe are still hanging up in my head, and it will happen. As soon as I can make it. I swear.
I have an idea for a few short stories, that will hopefully get me back into the writing spirit. I was playing with this one today, cleaning it up a bit. Re-reading it, I'm actually quite happy with it. What a shocker. Although I've been told I have to one day make it a full length novel. At least I don't have a shortage of ideas?
Anyways, it's boringly titled "At Night" and was based on the picture below. It got away from me a little, but I hope you enjoy. And maybe, because it's something new, you will start to forgive me just a little for not writing lately.
I'll do my best to be better!- JD
****
From my perch at the window seat, I can see the
man walking slowly, body bent against the oncoming storm. The wind tears at his
thick cloak, and he reaches up to pull the hood farther over his face; his thin
body braced forward as he trudges to our door. The light is fading fast, yet
there is no hurry in his steps. Although there are rumors that members of the
Holy Order often spend their nights under the moon and stars, even a Priest
should be afraid of the encroaching dark.
When his gentle knock whispers up the stairs,
the beats sounds hesitant, almost as if the knocker was afraid to bother the
inhabitants of the house. It’s a questioning sound, non-invasive, gentle, whispering.
A soft echo through the house, unobtrusively asking if someone would give him
shelter.
We are taught from childhood to give the Holy
Order entry to our homes. To treat them as embodiments of the Goddess herself;
to view their presence in our lives as a miracle. So the Priest’s knock could
demand entry, and we would have to give it to him. Yet I wonder, if this man
would simply walk away if we refused to answer the door? Did he have the power
to call down the Goddess’ wrath if we refused him access to our hearth fires?
Refused him protection from the night? Or was he really just a man? Seeking
entry away from the lonely dark. As I hear footsteps rush to the door, a bright
hum of excited voices even obvious in my attic room, I wonder which of my
questions will be answered tonight.
Standing up, I smooth my skirts, trying to
ignore my shaking hands. There is a drumbeat pulse racing in my throat, and the
pace almost overwhelms me. This is the first time I will ever see one of the
Holy Order. Yet all my life I have guarded the rumors, little more than
whispers, in my heart. Clutching whatever I can learn to my chest like precious
jewels. I don’t know why they fascinate me so, I only accept that it is truth.
Truly, I should have long given up such
childish fantasy. Dreaming of the Holy Order that by gender, I could never be a
part of. Whatever does exist out in the dark, the Goddess has chosen men to
fight her battles for her. Or so they
say. There is the Sisterhood of the Medica. As men have been called to
fight the battles, women have been called to heal them. Ever since I was little,
people have come to me for healing. I seem to have a gift for it. And it does
sooth something inside me, taking away the pain of others. But that choice, I
know, would devastate my parents. My eighteenth nameday is only a few weeks
away and on that day I will be called to make a Choice. I know my parents wish
for me to choose the simple life. I’ve seen the way Ephraim looks at me, and it
wouldn’t take much encouragement to find myself with a simple gold band around
my finger. But … but…
A small, and
rebellious, part of me can’t help but wish the Priest’s visit has something
to do with me. A favored child of the Goddess, one who had excelled in classes …
Could there be more to my future than early hours, harvest seasons and fear of
the dark? Or is it finally time to put away the dreams, and grow up? With a
deep sigh, I head downstairs and brace myself for the reality. Will it
mesmerize or disappoint, I wonder?
My oldest brothers stand at the bottom of the
stairs, stocky shoulders touching and blocking my path to the main rooms. Their
faces are dark and their brows furrowed, radiating an anxious energy that
tastes like old money and the sky before a storm. Isaac and Isiah whisper to
each other, although their gazes never leave my face. Their worry is almost
amusing. Why would they be trying to protect me from a Priest who is divinely
ordered to protect us all? Although what they are protecting us from, I could
not say.
The Book teaches us to fear the dark. To make
sure we carefully lock our doors and windows at night, to prevent even the
shadow of the night from entering our barricaded homes. I may be allowed to
spend the lingering dusk house staring out into the darkening sky, watching the
diminishing sun burnish our wheat fields into a fiery gold. But once the sun
disappears behind the horizon, we disappear into our homes. The thick heavy
shutters are slammed tight, the doors blocked with wooden beams. Until the sun
returns again, nothing is allowed in or out.
I wonder what magic it is that brought the
Priest to our door right in the last minutes of light. There is a heaviness to
the air once the sun goes down, a bitter taste that makes the skin between my
shoulder blades itch. Anticipation, waiting … the feeling of being trapped. People used to be free to wonder the
lands at night, to go where they chose. Until the first beast ripped into a
home and the family living inside, destroying the peaceful innocence that
mankind once held. However wrong it is, I still want to rip open the shutters,
tear down the doors. Sometimes the desire to see the moon, the stars, is so
strong, that I feel I might die from it.
That same feeling clutches me now as I stand on
the stairs; like icy fingers down my spine. I once asked my father if he felt
the same, and he only looked at me in silence, worry darkening his brown eyes,
before I laughed the question away, going up to cry unheard tears into my
pillow, unsure as to why I was so heartbroken.
With the same bitterness coating my tongue I
speak, shifting my weight onto one hip and staring down at my so called
protectors. “Are you going to move within the next century?”
“Atarah …” Isiah’s voice sounds even more
worried than he looks, and next to him Isaac shifts nervously. There is a
feeling of connection between the two of them, and it colors their words.
Always making it seem like there is some secret conversation occurring that you
are not a part of. Twins, born within minutes of one another. I wonder what it’s
like to never be afraid of being alone.
“You should go back to your room.”
My eyebrow raises in haughty disdain but I only
sniff and play with an escaped curl of my hair. The color glitters in the dim
light of the hallway. And as usual, I am struck with how different the color is
from my brothers’ dark brown hair, normal
hair.
Even at night, my hair glows with a light of it’s
own. It is supposed to be lucky to be blessed with such hair, the mark of the
Goddess’ favor. But it has never made me feel lucky. Only different. Apart. A stranger looking in. And I
wonder if this is how the Priests feel. Set apart by their holiness. Do they
wish to be normal, to be as ordinary as everyone else? To rip away whatever
gifts have made them special and just simply be? Just simply exist?
The silence grows between my brothers and I,
becoming so present in its nothingness, that it seems to take up the space
between us. Growing ever larger, expanding to the point of breaking. Begging to
be filled. They shift on their feet, but I remain still. If anything, their
anxiety somehow calms the racing beat of my heart. The taste of excitement is
heavy in the air, but a whispering voice counsels patience. I have waited for
this moment for a life time, what more will a few minutes hurt?
The murmur of the Priest’s voice from the next
room runs through me and I stagger, moving down a stair before I realize I have
even moved. My brothers’ eyes widen comically and they move forwards, and then
back, shoulders once again touching. In their concern, in their desire to
protect me, they are afraid my movements are just a trap. Trying to break them
up so I can sneak by.
But I pay them little mind. Instead my whole
body, my whole consciousness is straining towards the next room, picking out
the stranger’s voice from the familiar cadences and melodies of the voices I
have heard my whole life. It is deeper, calmer, filled with a strange sort of something that makes my stomach flip and
my cheeks heat. And yet … while I could pin point each voice of my family, even
imagine the expressions that goes with the sound of the words … the Priest’s
words somehow seem more familiar. As if a sound I have been listening for my
entire life, but only just now hearing.
When my youngest brother Benjamin comes
bursting into the room, my bubble of imagined connectivity bursts and I laugh
to myself. Trust Benjamin to bring me back to myself. The youngest of the five
siblings, there is something special about Benjamin, a purity to his soul that
is obvious to see. While my hair allegedly makes me special, Benjamin is so
obviously the child marked by the Goddess. So young, yet already so good. Maybe
the Priest is here for him?
His laugh rings up the stairs to me, and I’m
overcome with the urge to hold his stocky little body in my arms. To smell the
milky scent of his skin, to touch the feathery dark hair that falls in his
eyes. In a flash, he slips through the twins’ legs and rushes up the stairs to
me, a bundle of energy in my arms before I even think of catching him.
“Ata.” He snuggles into my skin, the sticky
heat of him a welcome balm to my nerves.
After the appearance of my brother, my mother
is not far behind. Her eyes calmly take in my stalwart protectors, my trapped
location on the stairs and her face crinkles into a soft smile, her brown eyes
warm.
“Boys, let your sister come meet our visitor.
It wouldn’t be fair for her to miss this special night.” There is a warning in
her words. I don’t need to know the meaning to be able to recognize the tone of
her voice. The tips of Isaac’s ears go pink and Isiah drops his gaze to his
shoes, mumbling something into the thick cloth of his shirt.
“What was that, Isiah?” My mother’s voice is
cool, but I can hear the smile as she winks up at me. In a house full of men,
we are confidantes and allies. Eventually I will find out why my brothers
intended to keep me locked up in my bower like some misbehaving child. But for
now, having my mother on my side is enough.
“Sorry.” It’s Isaac who answers her, and the
twins turn and slink into the main room. Leaving
my passageway wide open.
But with the same forced calm of before, I
slowly make my way down the stairs. Benjamin is squirming to be released, but I
keep my arms locked tight around him. However calm I may be trying to act, the
anxious energy before is back. And worse. I’m afraid, without Benjamin’s steady
presence, I might not have the courage to walk into the room.
As I pass her, my mother touches my shoulder,
very gently. It feels almost like a goodbye and when I look at her, her eyes
seem to be full of unshed tears. But then she blinks and the moment is gone.
She follows me into the room and heads for the
hearth, sitting down next to my father. Graceful as a willow.
With a handful of squirming brother, I do my
best to follow her example, whispering promises of treats into my brother’s
hair. If only he will just stay still. His
chubby fist tangles in my hair and I let out an undignified squawk of
protest. He slips away from my grasp, as
slippery as an eel. Racing over to my mother, he jumps into her lap, burying
his face into her chest. But when he peeks at me from his new protector, I can
see his too innocent expression.
The talking builds up around me, first hesitant
and uncomfortable, before regaining the steady rhythm it had before I walked
into the room. I’m standing awkwardly in the threshold and I still haven’t
looked at the Priest. His presence overwhelms the small space and from the
corner of my eye, I can see where he sits, a dark, indistinct shape. One my
eyes beg to take in.
Instead, I drop my gaze to the ground and walk to
sit by Gideon. He touches my knee and behind his dark framed glasses, his eyes
are questioning.
“Are you alright?” His voice is a soft whisper,
hidden underneath the murmur of the main conversation.
I wonder what secret my family knows that makes
them seem so knowing tonight. So understanding of my emotions and moods, when I
don’t even understand them myself. “I’m
fine. May I have some water, please?” My eyes dart away from his, and focus on
the water pitcher next to him. As he pours me a glass, I focus all my energy on
steadying my hands. And thankfully when I reach for the glass to take a long,
cool sip, my hands are just as steady and calm as his. And then I tilt my head
forward, and underneath a curtain of hair, I close my eyes and take a deep
breath.
And piece together the room in my mind. The
roaring fire. My mother and father, closest to the flame, shadows flickering
across the planes and ridges of their faces. Benjamin, drowsy now, clinging to
my mother, fighting the need to sleep, but losing the battle as he tucks his
thumb into his mouth. Isaac and Isiah sit in the back of the room, whispering
about their plans for the next harvest festival, wondering how they can garner
the attention of the girls their age. Gideon, sits next to me, eagerly
absorbing the conversation flowing around us, keeping track of each new piece
of discovered knowledge, writing mental notes to be reviewed earlier.
And finally, the Priest. I don’t even know the
vague shape of him, obscured as he was by his thick heavy cloak outside. But
for now that would be fine, I knew his space. Where he was, a presence to the
left of me, that even with my eyes closed, almost seems to blind me. There was
a patient feeling to him, an inner strength, and yet … I licked my lips,
tasting the air. There was a wildness to him as well. As if the night air had
clung to him, and somehow made him its own. Like the woods, the earthy taste of
the autumn trees, the cool chill of a winter’s night … the silver of the moon
when it’s at its fullest.
Tell me,
Priest. This moon you bring with you … what does it look like?
I open my eyes and glance at him, his face
first in profile, but when he turns to answer a question from Gideon, I bite my
lip to keep from crying out. Or laughing. I know this face, so familiar to me,
almost more than my own. Hadn’t I lived the frustration of dreaming of it every
night, wondering to whom it belonged? Didn’t I have collections of notebooks,
scraps of papers filled with sketches of the same face?
Although there were things I never noticed
before. The man looked tired, thin lines just now starting to sneak away from
the corner of his eyes. He was unshaven, with a smudge of dirt running along
the edge of his square jaw. And thin … too
thin. Although there was a wiry strength to his body, without the thickness of
his cloak, I could see that it had been too long since he had eaten a decent
meal. An overwhelming urge to help him, feed him … heal him … rose up in me, so strong
that I had to drop my eyes again. Before I even got the chance to meet
his gaze, to take in the face that I had spent my whole life waiting to see.
Clutching my hands in my lap, I pressed my
fingers together until my knuckles turned white. Was this the secret my family
seemed to know? That this Stranger was no stranger … but something else indeed.
The rush of emotions was so strong that the need to flee screamed in my blood.
Why had they kept this from me? How could I have lived my life, dreaming some
connection to this unknown man, and no one thought to explain to me the …
The what? My fingers twisted tighter together
and I fought to restore some order to my thoughts. This man was a stranger, a
Priest of the Holy Order, consigned by the Goddess herself to protect us all.
To teach us of the dangers of the night, to travel, place to place. No home of
their own, sacrificed to make sure all of our homes were safe. Just as he was
marked by his difference, so too was I. The burnished color of my hair, so
unusual in the dark coloring of all those around me, showed that I was special
to the Goddess. His sacrifice made him special to her as well. Wasn’t this our
connection? Two individuals touched be the divine? So I dreamt of him. I had
dreamt of many things. Some things that even had come true. Some things that I
had somehow managed to prevent.
To see something else in this recognition, to
hope for something else, would be foolish. Like the dreams of girlhood when I
used to wish some prince of a far of land would rescue me from this place.
I was no longer a girl.
When my name was mentioned, my face was calm as
I raised my head. And when I met the startling blue eyes of the man in front of
me, I managed not to show the impact they had. “Yes?” My voice sounded sleepy,
as if I was surfacing from a dream and my mother laughed.
“Sorry, Brother, our daughter has the tendency
towards dreaming.”
He inclined his head in my mother’s direction,
but his gaze remained locked on mine.
There was an unspoken question in the air and I
shifted, wondering what I had missed when lost in my thoughts.
Gideon poked my ribs and when I turned to him,
he hissed at me, embarrassment for me coloring his words. “You’re the only one
who hasn’t yet welcomed him.”
Oh … With a blink, I turn
back to the Priest. “Brother …” My eyes grew wide and he must have seen the
look of panic on my face.
Coughing what sounded suspiciously like a laugh
into his fist, his eyes seemed to glow with humor. “Marcus.”
When directed at me, the lilt of his voice made
me want to close my eyes again. Curl up in the sounds of his rolling vowels and
purr like a cat. My heart stutters in my throat and I speak, afraid he can see
the thoughts running through my brain. “Brother Marcus, may the Goddess forever bless you with the touch of the
sun.”
“And you too, Sister Atarah.” The way he says my name brings a rush of heat through my
body, but he continues his discussion with my parents. I turn to Gideon and he
is watching me with a dumbfounded look on his face.
“What is your problem tonight?” He glares for a
moment, before taking off his glasses and swiping angrily at the lenses. A sure
sign of his mood.
I take the glasses from his clenched hands, and
use my skirt to gently polish the lenses until they sparkle. While I’m not sure
what he has to be mad about, Father will throw a fit if he breaks another pair
of glasses.
After I hand them to him, he nods at me,
balancing them back on the end of his narrow nose. Then he leans back, his
shoulder resting companionably against mine. I suppose he has forgiven me for
whatever embarrassment my forgetful manners had caused him.
“The Brother has been telling us about the next
town over, apparently a family has been killed.”
Like ice water down my back, the news drowns
whatever heat may have lingered in my body. “The Skotos?” I whisper the name, almost afraid to give voice to the
monsters that are said to linger out in the darkness. No one knows where they
come from or what they look like. Only that they kill.
My eyes seek out the Priest … Well, someone
might know what they look like. I gather my courage to ask him about the
family, but he seems to sense the shifting feelings in the room.
“I wish I could repay you with your kindness
for giving me shelter tonight.” He dips his head, displaying a strange sort of
shyness. I wonder if, in another world, what life he would have lived? “Perhaps
with a story?”
Gideon sits up straighter next to me, pushing
his glasses up higher on his nose. Always trust my brother, an unquenchable
thirst for new things. “Tell us about the Divinities.” His voice is a fervent
whisper, but when everyone turns to him, he swallows and speaks louder. “Could
you tell us about the Divinities … please?”
Marcus nods again, and his gaze flutters over
me. “How about the tale of Terrowin and Emeline?”
The firelight glints of his hair, and for the
first time I notice the color. Fire and
smoke. His hair is darker, not quite the fiery gold of my own. Is he
thankful for the Goddess’ touch? Or does a part of him, even if he hides it,
hate it as much as I do?
But how silly a thought. This man was a Priest.
Given gifts far beyond the color of his hair. Gifts to use against the
encroaching dark. Gifts that descended from the Divinities, the favorite
children of the Goddess.
Was his
hair was as soft as I imagined?
Terrowin
and Emeline. If
I was alone I would have savored the names, whispered them aloud. Did they
taste as wonderful and strange as I believed they would?
“Did they fight in the First Battle?” Gideon
again.
My gaze had dropped to my lap, my fingers
twisting in the folds of my long skirt. But I could hear the smile in Marcus’
voice.
“Yes, but the story I tell dates further back.
To when the two first discovered they had been chosen by the Goddess. When they
were students at the Arcanam.”
I don’t need to look at Gideon to know that he
is already enthralled with the story. Ever since he found out about the ancient
and revered school, he has collected any knowledge on the subject that he could
find. And shared with me everything he learned. Endlessly.
The Priest’s gentle voice fills the room, and
even my twin brothers, are silent, listening to his tale. It’s a sad one and
unexpectedly, tears fill my eyes. As he continues to speak of the two lovers,
who fought to overcome the barriers that kept them apart, I struggle to
understand what piece of his tale affects me so much.
I’ve heard a number of these stories. Enough to
recognize the common elements that weave through them all. We have never had a
Priest visit our home, but the scholars at the school, or the street side
preachers at the market, all have similar stories to tell. Designed to ingrain
in our minds a certain truth. A fear of the dark, a respect of the Holy Order,
the importance of obeying the rules. Nothing wrong with conforming, with
following the status quo, but I had always been distracted by the message
behind the meaning. But with Marcus’ story …
The tears burned my eyes and I blinked rapidly,
trying to prevent their downward journey down my cheeks.
“What happened to them?” I barely recognized my
voice when I spoke, but the question had escaped. There was no taking it back.
“Terrowin and Emeline, what happened to them after the First Battle? Did they
ever find each other again?”
The Priest’s calm blue eyes met mine and they
seemed unbearably sad. I fought the desire to take back the question, to
apologize for interrupting the rhythm of his story. But I couldn’t. I needed to
know. The two star-crossed lovers … had there ever been any hope for them?
“They
say Emeline died in the Last Battle and it was Terrowin who found her body. He
buried her body underneath a cypress tree, never moving from her side until a
fortnight had passed. People brought him food, water … he refused all of it.
And then, when the fourteenth day had passed, they say he disappeared.”
My fingernails bit into the tender of my palm.
“Where did he go?” Gideon’s voice was quiet,
and I marveled at the emotion in it. A story that even had my analytic brother
lowering his voice.
Marcus’ gaze shifted away from me, and I found
I could breathe again. “It’s said he was the first Wandering Priest, dedicating
his life so no one would feel the pain of loss that he did.”
Their voices became a distant hum. In the
strange and shifting mercurial mood of mine, I was suddenly angry. So he had
given up? Abandoned life because he had lost the woman he had loved? What was
the point in that? Of forever traveling, never making new connections. Never
truly living. The anger burned hot. Would Emeline have rejoiced in the fact
that her death had ended what was Terrowin’s life? That because she had died,
he had given up on living too?
“He was wrong.” There was my voice again, harsh
and deep. Like a stranger’s. Marcus looked at me, but there was no surprise on
his face. Only a calm acceptance, as if he understood what I meant, even before
I thought it. “He took the coward’s way. Turning his back on life, she wouldn’t
have wanted that. She wouldn’t have tolerated
that.” They must have pierced, my angry, spiteful words. But Marcus didn’t
react.
My mother, however, was not as understanding.
“Atarah.” Her voice was sharp, and the rebuke settled me. Somewhat.
But I couldn’t sit here anymore. “My apologies,
Brother.” I refused to look him in his eyes. Exhaustion weighted my bones and I
wondered if I have ever before been so weary.
“None were needed, it is a story that is meant
to inspire emotions and opinions.”
Abruptly, I stood, and my eyes flickered to my
mother. She sat watching me, concern clear on her face but I shook my head.
“Excuse me, I’m …” I sucked in a breath. “Tired.” Without another look at the
priest, I walked slowly from the room. Only running when I was out of sight,
escaping to my room.
Hours later, something wakes me and I throw off
my heavy blankets. I’m burning up and I feel like the walls of the room are
pressing in on me. I haven’t had a fit like this since a child. They had been
so bad that my mother often let me sleep with her and father. My tossing and
turning body must have kept them up at night but they never complained. It
would have been too dangerous to leave me alone at night. As a child, the urge
for fresh air, for freedom had been so strong, that I had torn my fingers
tearing at the barricaded windows, just wanting to be free.
Older now, I knew that outside there was
danger. But it still didn’t stop the longing in my blood. Or help me fight the
fire that seemed to burn under my skin. With a sigh, I stood up, pacing around
the small space of my room. As the only girl, I was given the smallest bedroom,
nestled up in the farthest reaches of our house. My ceiling rose in a circle
point above me, the wooden beams so close I could now almost reach them. As a
child, this had been a magical room. Fit for a princess, or maybe a fairy
queen. Now it seemed nothing more than a prison. As I paced, my body continued
its slow burn, begging for fresh air, for a glimpse of the night sky. Even the
wooden floor beneath my bare feet seemed to scald.
Although not as much as my memory of my
behavior earlier that night. It struck me then, how childish I had been.
Reacting to an imagined connection between a stranger and myself, wishing for a
parallel in the fantastic love story, hoping for something in my own life.
Angry at the eventual tragedy of it all.
The truth was, it wasn’t my hair alone, that
marked me as one of the Goddess’ chosen children. But it was the only marker
that I was comfortable with accepting. Even my family had learned to ignore my
rapid shifts in behavior, my tears from thoughts that weren’t my own. Although
they knew to listen to my dreams, or to the words I would say when the strange
fits overtook me. Words that came from some far of place. Words I had no
control over.
The local bishop had called my gift a blessing.
Believing it was a sign that the war against the skotos was ending. That I held part of the key to their final
defeat. I hadn’t had the courage to tell him the things I saw in my dreams. The
war wasn’t ending. It was just beginning.
We would need more than Wandering Priests and stories by the fireside if we
were ever going to defeat the shadows.
Closing my eyes, I pressed my palms against my
eyelids, willing away the visions that had awoken me. All featuring one person.
The person who should be sleeping downstairs next to the fire. I didn’t want
this gift, and I had tried to fight it all my life. But the taste of Marcus’
blood on my lips was something I never wanted to experience outside my dreams.
So once again, I headed down the stairs, wondering how to tell someone that I
had seen the hour of his death.
But when I walked into the main room, the
Priest was already awake, staring into the dancing flames of our hearth fire.
“Dreams can be noisy things.”
Pausing at the doorframe, I gripped the wood to
steady myself.
“I’m sorry that mine seem to have disturbed
you.”
“Your
dreams?”
He finally turned to me and there was the
smallest of smiles on his face. “Oh … should I apologize? Did you believe they
belonged to you?”
Was he … teasing
me? Forgetting my fear, or the nervousness that seemed to seize me around
him, I walked into the room. “How do you know about my dreams?”
“My
dreams.”
Shaking my head, I kneeled next to him. “Fine, your dreams.” Arguing semantics was not
going to get me any answers.
“Well if there are my dreams, of course I would
know about them.”
Irritation spiked through my blood, but before
I could speak he reached up to cup my cheek in his hand. The coolness of his
skin sent an entirely new type of fire flooding my veins.
“It must have been lonely, growing up with
these dreams. Not knowing what any of it meant.”
So many questions, but I had lost my voice.
Instead I was drowning in fathomless blue eyes.
“I shouldn’t have come, but I needed to see
you. Just once.” His thumb brushed over my lips. “It’s not our time yet, but I
needed something to help me survive what will come.”
“A reckoning …”
He dipped his head, leaning closer to me. “The
war you see in your dreams, it is coming. More swiftly than any of us wish to
admit. I found myself … afraid of what was to come. I didn’t think there would
be any harm.”
I leaned in further. “Terrowin and Emeline.”
“The days were men and women fought side by
side to defeat the evil that seeks to annihilate those of the light.”
“I don’t want to end up like them.” I turned my
face into his palm, pressing my lips against the calloused skin. “I don’t want
you to end up like him.” The plea was whispered.
There was a sudden stillness in the air, as if
everything around us had frozen. Waiting on us to start it moving again.
His hands gently, ever so gently, titled my
chin up. “I won’t.” And he pressed his lips into mine.
Closing my eyes against the feeling, I sighed
against his lips. With his touch, everything within me settled. The fever from
before passed, the terrifying swinging emotions faded. My whole being focused
on the man next to me. The one who already meant so much. The one who would
become so much more.
His lips finally released mine, and he pressed his
face into my hair, breathing my name into my ear. For a moment, he clutched me
against him, as if I was his savior and he a dying man.
And then he let me go, and around us the world
sprang back into movement. There was a lightening to the air and I knew the sun
was rising. Soon my mother would head down the stairs, into the kitchen to
start preparing breakfast. My father would grumble, to offset her cheery mood,
but he would diligently check the fire before heading to join my mother,
watching her as she cooked. The world had ceased to be just ours.
He stood, pulling me to my feet. “I have to
go.”
There was no point in arguing with him, not
when I had seen the truth of it. But still, the words hurt.
Threading his fingers through mine, he waited
to speak before I looked up at him. “I’ll come back again.”
“How long?”
“You’re the dreamer.” He smiled, and like our
kiss, I memorized the moment, to lock away and keep with me forever.
“It doesn’t work like that.” My voice sounded
whiney, petulant.
He laughed, and the sound was as beautiful as
the rising sun. “Soon. Although don’t be too hasty for my return. For what it
would mean.”
I frown, agreeing with his words, but wishing
they didn’t have to be true. What game was the Goddess playing, creating this
connection that foretold such doom.
“Grow up, live your life, enjoy your family.”
Grow up? My frown only grows
deeper and he laughs, kissing the furrow between my brows. “You didn’t seem to
mind my age earlier.” I try to keep the frown on my face, but the corners of my
lips tilt up.
“Fair enough.” He continues to hold my hands
for a moment longer, before releasing me with a sigh, turning to gather his
things.
“The bishop wouldn’t be happy to hear I made
this journey, I am supposed to be traveling back to the Arcanum to report my
findings.” He wraps the cloak around his thin body once again, and he becomes
the stranger I had seen the night before. How could this man I just met,
already mean so much?
“Promise me you will be safe.” He tilts his
head, looking at me with the same calm expression as he had the night before. I
know he won’t answer me, won’t make me a promise he can’t fulfill.
I don’t move as he carefully removes the heavy
bar across the door. But when he goes to open it, so the weak morning sunlight
sneaks through the crack, lighting the dim room, I speak.
“I’ll be waiting.”
From over his shoulder, he looks at me one last
time. And in his eyes, I see a love deeper than that of any story. He is
connected to me, this Wandering Priest. And I to him.
“I know.” And he gives me one last smile before
walking away.
Leaning against the doorway, I stare out at the
grassy fields, watching his narrow body until it disappears from sight. Behind
me, the house begins to wake and I can hear the sounds of my family shifting in
the rooms above me.
Had so much changed in one night? Had it only
been a few hours in which I had experienced a lifetime of emotions? With a
whispered prayer, I beg the Goddess to watch over my Priest. To keep him
protected, and to shine the sun on him wherever he goes.
And then I head back into the house, adding
wood to the fire before I go to the kitchen to begin breakfast. After my
erratic behavior, it will be my apology to my family.
The dreams aren’t precise things. But I know I
will see Marcus again. Until then, I will listen to his words. I will enjoy my
family, savor these days of peace of love. In two weeks, I know the choice I
will make.
Because the next time my Priest walks into my
life … there will be a war following at his heels.
The End (for now).
