Private Tales The Last Resort

[Draedamyr]

He shifted slowly, looking up at her without making any move to sit upright himself. He released a long breath through his nose.

She was even more pale than usual. Signs of her duel were not as obvious as the bruising that had covered who whole body after the demonic battle on the ridge.

Reaching up slowly, he placed a hand on the outside of her arm. Her skin was cool to the touch. He wrapped his fingers around her arm, gently rubbing his thumb up and down across pebbled skin.

He didn't know what to say. Draedamyr had kept away from war. He had not stepped through a world as dark, chaotic and bloody as the town had become. At his age it wasn't enough to shift his world view off-kilter, but he wasn't sure what to say now.

"Do you have to get up?" he murmured softly.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

Her breath caught for a moment, and she found herself paralyzed, unable to move or speak. She was dreadfully tired, and yet...

She clasped his hand with her own free hand, and squeezed it feebly. There was a great desire to snuggle in close, to go back to sleep in the security of his arms. It was puzzling, to say the least, to feel that w as y about anyone. She was quite clearly capable of standing up for herself, of holding her own ground...and yet...

She shook her head. "I should tend to you," she said regretfully. "You took some hurt in that fighting, and I must mend you properly." She also owed the nameless woman as well, for saving both of their lives. All of them would be dead but for the sacrifices each had made for the others.

She swung her feet out from the simple mattress, and waited while a wave of dizziness washed over her. She had pushed herself hard; harder, even, than with the first demon. The staff had buffered her from her own power, shielding her - albeit imperfectly- from the worst of this prison worlds' laws.

"Strip your shirt off," she said imperiously. The effect was spoiled by dark circles underscoring her pale eyes. The crooked grin did not help much, either. Tired or not.

 

[Draedamyr]

It was still all so confusing. It felt like almost no time at all had passed since their confessions by the fireplace, yet it also felt as if they had been dragged through an entire week of hurt in just the last day. Many questions had been laid on the roadside as they dealt with another demonic incursion. It made him wonder how many "things" were left behind in their world.

For now there were their injuries to deal with. She was right about that.

Draedamyr realised that he had even removed his belts the night before. Reverie was left barely cleaned beside the rough mattress.

"Don't strain yourself if you need to rest," he warned as he unbuckled his belts. He slid his tunic off, leaving the blood-stained and torn up rag beside the bed. He would have to get back to the horse to find a spare.

"I hope our steed won't have vanished?" he asked. Seska had maintained some connection, but that could have been broken in her battle with Lore.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

She winces as she looked at his wound. On it's own, it was not likely to heal clean. Infection would likely set in and then it was a gamble on survival. Surgeons and doctors, such as they were, were no thing to bet on. The Art was the only sure way.

But not without its risks.

"Respite has not moved from where we left him," she said as she looked at him. Her shadowed eyes betrayed the depth of her exhaustion, but her brisk and no nonsense manner were effective screens to hide the fact. "He has gone to get what he needs to live, but the link remains intact."

She traced the edge of the wound. Dried wood flakes away, a thin rill of blood seeping from the injury as he moved. With a shudder, she embraced the Art within her, and delved into the man before her. She was acutely aware of his presence in the sensual grip of magic. She would have said the flow of the Art far surpassed the touch of a man - had, in fact - but a ghost of old desire stirred now.

There was no time for it. There was business to tend to.

She winced as she examined his flesh from a much more intimate angle: within.

"This needs tending to, regardless of my own state." She carefully tried to conceal her weariness. "It might aid me if..." She paused, and looked at him sharply. "You can use more substantive magic, yes?"

 

[Draedamyr]

The elf grimaced as he felt the magic push through his skin. He was no mage, but that was by the standards of his own people. Few elves were kind as blind to the flow of magic as the humans were. He could sense her attention coalescing around the wound itself.

"I can do a few parlour tricks Seska. That is about all. If it needs stitching back together we could see if they have any with a steady hand around here?"

Draedamyr didn't want to get up and go looking around the village. His natural, animal response had kicked it. Find somewhere safe, curl into a ball, hide.

He wanted to be far from this place. The people here were volatile and had already shown the pair more than enough disdain.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

She had no desire to deal with the people here any further, either. Her reasons were the same in many respects, but went a bit deeper. Something had been underway here before all hell broke loose. As soon as people recovered their senses, whatever had been in play would continue again, perhaps more violently than before. She could not stand up to much more fighting. She felt spent, much more deeply than could be recovered from quickly.

Still, there was work to do.

"That is a shame," she replied softly. If he could have held on to a moderate amount of his own mana, she could have foisted even more of the burden of healing if on him. It was still a small enough price to pay to keep him breathing though. "Brace yourself," she said and then waited a few heartbeats.

The flow of magic in his flesh tightened, muscle and tissue writhing within. She had been healed before, l ok ng ago, but bore no memory of the sensation. She knew it was both painful and uncomfortable, and that those sensations persisted long after the magic had faded.

It felt like it took an eternity, though in truth it took mere seconds. She hoped the weariness of force-healing would not render him insensate; for herself, she felt the added weight of exhaustion settle on her shoulders. She made her best effort to not let it show, though, standing upright and withdrawing her hands, breaking contact.

"Better?" Goddess above, but she was tired. "I have to go check on that woman. Did..we ever get her name?" She was already turning away, ready to sit her words.

 

[Draedamyr]

Draedamyr felt that he should have protested. The truth was that he was simply too exhausted to even construct a simple argument against her drawing power to heal his wounds.

At first it was a scratch. Like someone digging their nails into his side. Soon his face was contorted into a pained grimace. His side felt as if it was being burned from the inside, all the sensations of a month of healing compressed into a few scant seconds.

His head lolled back and he reached for thin air. His hand waved around before falling back to the mattress. Drained, he shook as he lowered himself back down.

"You know, I didn't think we did get her name..."

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

"I will get it when I heal her," she said in reply. She did not leave yet, though. She rest a her free hand lightly on the elfin arm of her companion, content to sit in silence for a moment, lost in thought.

They could not continue this way. She was utterly drained, and he was scarcely less so. She could only hope that he recovered more quickly than she knew she would. She would not be facing down any demons for weeks, and it would be unlikely that she would face down any humans in the next few days. Or weeks. The weight hung heavy on her shoulders.

"We need to leave here, and soon. I think these people are going to be shy of outsiders in a major way for a long while. Are you going to be able to move?" Or would she have to figure out a way to move him. It was laughable to even consider it as a possibility.

 

[Draedamyr]

"Give me a few minutes and I will drag myself out of here if I absolutely have to," Draedamyr replied. He was quite certain he would. He was still piecing together the pieces of what had happened here in the last few days and he had no more interest in pulling on that thread until the end.

There was a serious town just a few days north of here. Palmed off to some minor noble, but at least it meant the peasants were hopefully kept in check. Lots of small minds did not equal a single large one.

"We should get back on the road and put some distance between ourselves and..." Draedamyr drifted off. How much had the world been broken? Could they outrun what had happened.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

She did not say anything. There was nothing to say, really, for his expression said it all. Seska could, at least, recall a time and a place when she had felt exactly like he did right this moment. A world shattered beyond repair, with nowhere to go to escape the destruction. The destruction here was different in scope and flavor, but it still represented madness from the standpoint of someone who was set in their ways.

"I will help you if you need it," she said as she stood. She ached in her joints and felt the heavy burden of her exploits the day before upon her shoulders, but at least she could stand straight. "I need to go see to that woman, though. I feel bad that I've left her to suffer as long as I have."

Suiting her words, she turned away and left the room back into the main, bare chamber of the house.The silence was eerie, giving the place the feeling of a mausoleum. Even the sounds from outside were muted or absent. It was unsettling to her for some reason that she could not really put a finger on.

The nameless woman still sat against the door. She paused for a moment, looking upon that motionless shape, and then reached out to touch her flesh. Cold. For a moment, Seska stood there, neither saying nor doing anything, before she fell back on her rump, sitting with her legs sprawled out before her. She felt numb inside, an unfamiliar feeling that was, paradoxically, familiar enough. Tears burned in her eyes, but remained unshed. This woman had been nothing to them, but she had still deserved more than this. The bitter taste of regret and shame for this simple failure could not be ignored. While hundreds had died here, all of them unknown...this one unknown seemed to cut deeper than they should have.

She wept silently for someone she did not even know.

 

[Draedamyr]

Seska stayed in place long enough for Draedamyr to drift back into a higher state of consciousness. He gathered enough of his facilities to become aware of the silence. No conversation between Seska and the nameless woman, no flutter of magic into the ether.

Using his left arm his pushed himself to his knees and then - slowly - to his feet. He took shaky steps after Seska. He used the frame of the door to keep himself upright as he looked inside. The woman was still propped against the door. She was unnaturally still. Even when completely motionless there was a difference between consciously staying still and dead.

Draedamyr dropped heavily to both knees behind Seska. He placed a hand on her shoulder, reminding himself how slight her form was. He was too much weight for those shoulders to be carrying. This was all too much.

"I wish we we had name," he said softly.

Small margins, tiny margins seperated the living from the dead. A few inches of a blade and he would have bled out before Seska finished her duel with Lore. A few inches and this woman's neck wound would have barely scratched the skin.

"Shit."

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

She did not tense at his touch, did not react in any perceivable way. She just sat there, head bowed and tears making dark stains on her stained skirts. Sometimes tears were needed, pain released in a cathartic flood. Once started, there would be no end until she hollowed those emotions pushed aside out. Until she became an empty vessel.

"Evylen," a voice said suddenly, cutting through the stifling silence.

A man stood in the doorway leading to the yard. He was very clearly a blacksmith, with corded muscle thick and heavy in his arms and upper body. Scars marred his forearms where hot sparks had burned him in the past. He wore very little expression in his face, eyes fixed on the dead woman leaning against his door.

Despite himself, though, emotion bubbled up in his voice, mercilessly pushed down as he spoke. "Evylen is her name," he told them. He took a step forward and then stopped. "Was," he added with a break in his voice. It seemed out of keeping with the the image of a blacksmith, truth to tell.

Seska, for all of this, did not even look up.

 

[Draedamyr]

Feeling that crack in the blacksmiths stoic visage seemed to widen those in Draedamyr's own mind. He spent so little time caring for those he did not know. It was one of his worst qualities.

Evylen had nearly attacked them. Yet her spilled blood had bought them victory. It could have so easily been reversed. Seska could have woken up to be healing Evylen's injuries after leaving his cold body in the borrowed bed.

"Who was she?" Draedamyr asked before he could think better of it. "I have known many of the finest swordsmen that have lived in the last thousand years and she was exceptional."

He couldn't put together this woman with this country town in his mind. It didn't seem to fit. He gently ran his palm down Seska's spine, trying to soothe some of the pain away.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

"A fool," he replied. There was bitterness, buried. The man in the doorway paused a moment, seeming to take hold of his emotions, and then continued in a much more measured voice. There was a note of experience here, of having dealt with crushing grief before and having learned how to move beyond it.

"I told her the sword would not be enough," he added after a moment. He looked at the dead woman with distant eyes, undefined emotion swirling in the dark depths therein. "Live by the sword, and die by it. You can be as good as it is possible to be, but there will always be someone better."

Seska remained silent. The gentle, soothing touch meant more to her than anything. She was unaccustomed, naturally, to having another to lean upon when faced with a difficult situation. She could not find words, though. It was guilt she was struggling with, now. She could have prevented this death. Could have, but had not. It wrenched her soul to know it. The damned thing of it was, she had made similar decisions countless times in the past and it had not - in her memory at least - caused her such discomfort, such a crisis of conscience.

 

[Draedamyr]

Draedamyr didn't have to heart to try and disagree on any points. That even those who did not live by the sword could quite often die by one. It didn't seem right to mention how exceptionally skilled she had been, particularly for a human.

"If she had fled she would still be alive. And everyone else would be dead," Draedamyr said, not meeting the man's eye.

His gentle touch turned into a soft grasp around Seska's arm. He didn't care any more whether he had the strength to walk. He would crawl away if he had to.

"We need to go," he whispered to her.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

The smith did not reply to Draedamyr, choosing pained silence. Seska could only nod in silence to the words the elven swordsman whispered to her. She felt decidedly numb inside. Her state of mind was nto enough, nor had it ever been, to prevent her legs from working, for her arms to help pulling her back up to her feet. One did not live for so long while being a slave to their emotions.

She was powerful, and ancient, but she was still a person. No matter what any might think.

"It should be easy to leave, now," she said tiredly. She steadied herself against the stolid elf. She made to move forward, but the huge man barred their way without word. She looked to the smithy, and then to Draedamyr with questioning eyes, but it was the nameless man that spoke first.

"Allow me to help," he said in hollow tones. "I know the lay of the land, and can get you past any of the trouble areas." He looked to his deceased sister, and shook his head slowly. "There is nothing for me here, anyway."

 

[Draedamyr]

They were quick to get beyond the bounds of the town. The blacksmith seemed to have no problem carrying the weight of his most precious tools and Draedamyr was keen to put the town behind them. He was certain that given enough time they would find another way to lay the blame for this at his and Seska's feet.

Eventually they were back on the road once the blacksmith had guided them away. To Draedamyr's surprise he stayed with them. Without discussing the matter it became clear that he was leaving the town behind as well.

The elf let Seska ride and rest her legs. They weren't setting a particular harsh pace anyway.

"We didn't... Even ask your name," Draedamyr said, breaking the silence.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

Nothing remarkable about slinking out of a town in silence, which was surprisingly easy considering that they were such oddities in a town full of humans. She could have sworn that their oversized friend would be as much of a standout, given his size, but ultimately it did not matter. No one paid them any mind, if anyone even saw them at all.

There was too much tragedy and sorrow in that place, so much so that the palpable undercurrent of anger remained subdued. As far as the Sidhe was concerned, the longer that particular knot of anger remained suppressed, and the further they could get away from it before it did, the better.

Respite greeted the trio with what was becoming a familiar routine; soft whicker and brief frolic before trotting up alongside the diminutive sorceress and leaning against her in comical fashion, nearly knocking her over. Every. Single. Time. The softest of touches along his dun flanks, and then he settled back until they got everything sorted out. Naturally, it ended up with her on the back of the stallion, but she was neither prepared to, nor inclined, to argue about it right now.

It was a time, for a few hours at least, to reflect in silence on the things they had seen. And, for some, the things they had done - or not done. It wasn't as though anything in this particular vein was new for the ancient sorceress, but a raw wound remained raw no matter how many times you wounded yourself. It still hurt, even if the certainty of it arising again made the pain less.

She could not look at the nameless man without feeling a stab of guilt. It was the thing she could have done, and had not, that stung so.

"That is fine," the man replied to a question that she had not heard, so wrapped up in her inner world had she been. "No time for talking when skulking, anyway. You can call me Red. Is what all the people used to call me, back there." He ran fingers through dark hair, and shrugged. For the life of her, Seska could not see why he had such a moniker, but figured there was a reason for it.

"Red it is," she said softly. "I am so-" she begin, and he cut her off immediately.

"Say nothing about it," he told her, and looked to Draedamyr in a meaningful way. There seemed, for a moment, a connection between the two that was all but palpable despite the fact that neither of them knew each other from another stranger on the street. "It isn't the first...loss...I've suffered, and it won't be the last."

She nodded in silence.

 

[Draedamyr]

Draedamyr fell into silence too. Red it was then. He hadn't expected another companion on the road but he imagined it would only be to the next town. It wasn't a comfortable silence. They didn't know Red and his pain was almost palpable the entire time.

Eventually he decided to break it. He needed to talk to Seska and the blacksmith could simply bear it.

"I had almost forgotten that we were travelling north for your recovery. From our first meeting with the demons," he said. That last part was added for the benefit of the stranger at least.

"You must have exhausted your supply of magic by now?" he asked.

The elf looked up at her, concern etched into his face. The last time she had been deep into sleep for days and days on end. At least she was still conscious.

"We could reach Altruath on the Savre River," he suggested. It was a pleasant port town that was more cosmopolitan. He was tired of getting those sidelong glances from humans.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

She rode in silence for a moment, thinking of the best way to answer that question. With a soft sigh, she said: "Not exhausted. I would fall unconscious if I overtaxed it, dead if I pushed too far." She did not care if their companion could hear them or bot; he seemed wrapped in his own brooding silence.

"I had my staff with me, this time," she said simply. "It is a unique artifact. It empowers my magic so that I have to use less to achieve the same effect. A boon on a prison world, such as this."

She stroked her horse's neck absently as she spoke, then looked back to the blacksmith, idly. He was looking at her sharply now, something in his eyes portraying the intense thinking going on inside.

"I...cannot keep this pace of magic use up firever," she said despite all the evidence to the contrary.

 

[Draedamyr]

"Then we should try and make sure that sword and magic are not required for some time," Draedamyr replied.

It would never last long. The blade was how he earned his coin. He charged a suitably high price for his skill and would be in no need for a while, particularly if he could visit a merchant in Alliria who looked after some of his money.

"I know one of your kind," Red declared without warning.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

She stiffened in the saddle involuntarily. It was too late to take that reaction back, of course, but now there was a thread of concern running through her thoughts.

What did he know? Her people were full of dark secrets and had a history checkered with atrocities that would make even the more egregious of the human kind seem pale by comparison. Quite aside from the fact that they were very, very few. She only knew of a handful within the world, which wasn't to say there weren't more.

"My kind?" she asked in her high pitched voice. She was rather proud of how calm she sounded. It had been an interesting month, after all.

"Yes," he said simply in response. "You don't look like her very much, but..." he shrugged. He seemed to realize that blurting it out suddenly might not have been the wisest course of action, for his eyes darted to the elfin swordsman warily. He suddenly seemed to firm his resolve on his action, eyes locked on the diminutive sorceress. "Sidhe."

Who? So very few of them left, and only a handful imprisoned on this world by mere chance. It was time to be cautious, now.

She said nothing.

Feeling the pressure of silence, for a moment, Red continued. "She helped my sister, many years ago. She didn't want to. Kept talking a bunch of nonsense to herself the whole time..." He looked intently at Seska, coloring faintly as he asked the next question. "You aren't crazy too, are you?"

 

[Draedamyr]

"She is not," snapped Draedamyr. His expression quickly softened when Red looked towards him. What the blacksmith had left behind came quickly flooding back. The elf averted his gaze, not something he often did.

He knew the name of her kind. Draedamyr couldnt recall using it at all. It lent credence to his story.

Draedamyr looked towards Seska, knowing that this news was likely to unsettle her. She had told him that her people were few, but from what she had explained of her history it was hard to imagine a pleasant reunion with one of her kind.

"Interesting news, where did you meet her?" Draedamyr asked.

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

"It was an old legend," the blacksmith said, defensively. "About a witch that lived in the woods. A fickle witch that could only be found when she wanted to be, and even if she was, it was anyone's guess as to what would happen, then."

Old legends. It cut to her heart to think that, in truth, all of her people were little more than old legends and myths, handed down generation to generation where they were remembered at all. Most didn't. They predated mankind by a fair bit, and even most of the older, fairer races (as they liked to call themselves). Myths, legends, ghosts and relics from a different time.

Taking her silence to mean she needed to know more, Red continued. There was hurt there, in this tale, but it was well covered.

"Evelyn was sick. So sick, the healers in the town could do nothing for her. Our parents were alive then - I was barely old enough to hold a hammer, and she was still clinging to Mother's apron strings at the time. It was the plague, the coughing sickness that wasted away its victims." He closed his eyes, recalling a distant time that was more hopeless than now.

"There was the legend. Few here even think of it anymore, except as a bedtime story to scare their children...but I remembered it. I went into the forest, carrying my sister with me. What could I lose? They said she would die, anyway. What could I lose..."

But he lost something then, too. It was writ on his face, though he likely did not know it showed so plainly.

 

[Draedamyr]

Here. He had said few here. If the legend had been in circulation in the towns here then the Sidhe couldn't be living far away.

Draedamyr glanced towards Seska to see if she had picked up on the implication. Even if they were a week's ride away that had to be close relative to the way her people had been scattered.

He let the silence play out for a time. The three of them continuing along the path. He waited until Red sighed and drew himself more upright. Magic had a price, but dealing with sorcerers often carried an even greater one.

"You don't have to tell us what you lost that day," he said, voice remarkably soft for the aloof elf, "but I could be grateful if you told us where you found this Sidhe."