The Mask and the Mirror

[msisko]

“I don’t understand, what do you mean alone?”

Dínendal spoke, standing at the base of a fountain in the center of the Luftherian guardians. Around him, the spring-time hues of pink, purple, yellow, orange, red, like the colors of the setting sun painted upon the pedals of flowers, all seemed to cling to trembling vine in the morning breeze. Dínendal exhaled a breath, shaking his head in disagreement, and though he didn’t often challenge the orders that he was given, or even the most simplest of request, this was one that he found nearly impossible to accept. He leveled his eyes to her back, as she stared at the blooming pedals of a nearby blossom instead of towards him, knowing the difficulty she would have in convincing him to obey; knowing the strain this was going to be placing on him. She often behaved in such a manner, finding someplace else to turn her attention as she laid upon him the unsavory or hardly fought battles of their time together, as though nothing more than mere trivialities not warranting of a full conversation. They had been walking, simply discussing the rising Varg situation, the plans being made to combat it, and then she starts with this nonsense of going to Isildier… alone.

“You know my meaning Galandria,” she spoke, using the word of the Artic elves use of shield, a name she had often called him by throughout the years, almost fondly, sometimes sadly, and most notably when the chains of his position are the most constricting and binding to him. The word rings about his ears, and fell upon his mind like a maddening curse. His first steps were quick, as he rushed forward, pulling her around to look upon her, feeling her stiffen in the grip of his hands, feeling himself stiffen beneath the indignant way in which she glared up at him. He instantly let her go, shocked with himself for the force, but he offered no voiced apology, no mumbled request for forgiveness.

“This is madness,” he spoke, forgetting himself in the moment, in his concern, and yet grateful for their solitude. He stared down into her face, holding his gaze there as indignation passed, and gentle understanding bloomed in the face of his Pythia. Understanding aside, he could see in her face the battle she waged herself, the battle that told him that this decision was not hers alone, but came from a higher authority. That the battle he was fighting with here there was one he could not win.

The fountain in the market square shot its torrents, and Dínendal tore his mind free from his reverie, moving his head to take in the markets around him. He, himself would be a site, an obvious warrior, an Aegis by the chest plate he wore, and the long sword strapped to his side, sitting upon the stone rim of the bowel to the market’s fountain, staring down into his empty hands, looking similar to a lost child without his mother, without any idea of where to go, or what to do. Dínendal felt the part at least. Like a ship lost at sea without compass, or a single leaf blown about by the winds of a tornado, with no clear way to advance or retreat. Night and day had repeated itself for nearly half a year since the conversation in the gardens, and optimism was beginning to give way. They say that in the moment of the death of a Pythia, that her Aegis would feel the pain of her death, and know the very location, as though the last moment of his Pythia’s life is played before their very own eyes. He has seen no vision of her death, has felt no pain that was not his own, and yet…

And yet he was growing restless here, alone. Knowing that his place is at her side, and that she rode into dangerous wilds without him, by order of the highest authority… but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. There were times when he considered the consequences of disobedience. When he was sure even death was a penalty worthy the cessation of this need to simply be at her side again, to know that she is safe and unharmed in her venture. But he knows only that she went to the ancient forest. Nothing more. Only that she went alone into the heart of the Varg.

Twilight would mark his return to the Pythia center of the city, but until then, it was nice to get out, to listen to rumor, to search for his missing half the best way he knew, while listening to the last command she gave, to remain. He was bound by it, however, though his loyalty was strong, he felt it begin to waver. He longed for the road, to brave the dangers that lie between here and the ancient forest of Isildier.

The corner of his eye brought to him the visage of a lady, and is attention drifted for a moment. The lady Josrin, known to him by name and face, but in no other capacity, entered the market’s square, looking lost in a momentary wanderlust of her own, as though boredom and idleness tugged the reason from her feet the same as it did his own. He smirked, and as he lowered his eyes away, caught sound of her voice given rise to words… a name he didn’t know, to which he said nothing.

Only then did he realize that he was standing, up on his feet, but the reason for it was unknown. His mind reeled, a sharp, sudden crack, the recoil of pain made the man gasp aloud, drove the warrior from his tall stature upon proud feet, to the bending, humbled posture of a knee, quivering in both fear and pain. Sometimes the bond transmitted pain, and he tried to tell himself that is what he felt: that she was simply in pain… not dead.. not his Pythia.

But the pain made up his mind. This city held him long enough.

Another burst of pain, like a blunt force against the back of his skull drove harsh grunts from his lips before he could steel himself, before he could force himself back upon solid feet, hiding pain and emotional terror behind a mask of cold collectiveness. But his eyes burned with a panic.. whatever it was, even if she yet lived.. for the pain to transmit across such a distance… it must be great.

“Promise me Dínendal Calaelen,” she whispered, holding his bowed head between her two hands, her forehead pressed against his own… “promise me that no matter what you feel, or what you hear… you will stay away from ancient Isildier.”

- - - Updated - - -

“She vexes me,”

The aged voice whispers as thin hands tremble towards a tin cup. He turns it over, dumping long, white tail feathers, long, slender, polished stones, round stents of metal an d wood onto the parchment strew top of his writing table. Old bones lean heavily upon a walking staff, upon which a ball of clear crystal sits clutched inside the gripping talon of a falcon. His body molding to the straight form of the staff, leaving heavily upon it as the body is ravaged by coughing. The room is dark. The forest blocks out most light, of the early morning sun, casting long shadows that would not dissipate until the noon sun sits high in the sky. The chill of night still hangs beneath the branches, clinging inside the drops of dew that hang to the lowest of leaves in the trees. As he steps out of the small cabin, onto the decking of a small porch, his old ears can hear the sound of the dew falling onto a leave littered floor. Curious how it sounds the same as small mice being snatched up by a constrictor.

His steps are silent, accompanied by the soft thump of his staff against the wooden boards of his porch, as he descends the two steps onto the un-level ground of the forest floor. His bare feet dampened by the dirt, as he stumps his way to the water basin at the corner of the house, used to catch the runoff of recent rain from the wooden slats of shingles. With shaky hand he dips the tin cup into the water basin, while at the same time readies himself to relieve himself against the side of the home.

“She temps me with whispered poetry. Imagery benign in beauty, yet an attack on the mind…” he whispers in further irritation, as he readjusts his small clothing having finished his business, plunging his right hand into the water basin to cleanse it, before heading back into the small cabin with a slow, progressive thump of his walking staff. His mind not on the pains and slow triggers of an old body to the early morning, but on the dreams that continue to plague him. Another nightmare of wolves, and image of that beautiful face that has so haunted him these past fifty years. It was enough to ensure that he awoke in a fervor this morning the same as the one before that.

Once back inside, thin fingers upon which skin stretches taunt over brittle bone stretch out towards a small satchel of crushed herbs and powders, splayed upon a dried leaf and tied together with a thin cord of thread. He picks one of the bundles up with shaking hand, placing the tin cup down upon the table, and promptly emptied the mixture into the water. It immediately sank to the bottom of the cup. He then turned the small leave over in his hand, balled it up and sat it atop of the water’s surface. The leaf sat for a moment before coming to an unnatural flame that effused itself into the water. Steam rose , and with it the acrid scent of a stout brew. He picks up the tin cup, raises it to thin lips, and draws a sip off the top, careful of the heated liquid on sensitive skin. The liquid was bitter, but a taste he was well accustomed to.

“To battle. The hymn of youth she doth sing to my ears,” he continued on in his irritation, moving deeper into the small cabin, releasing the walking staff to let it fall into a notch by an old, wooden chair upon the back of which old, dirty robes lay. Grumbling to himself of the dream he dressed, glad to push off the chill of the rising morning with the thick wool of the robes, once brilliantly white, now dinged and darkened with age and use. “Like some child’s blood she does sense.. but youthful grace has forsaken me, and strength of will alone is not enough to move the world,” he whispers, settling himself down upon the wooden slats with the tin cup of tea, taking another sip, and looking into the dead hearth.

And what does she expect me to accomplish exactly, his mind whispers, throwing the thought into the forefront of his concentration, to rest amongst the irritation. The dreams have been nearly a week in their persistence, as though the product of some damnable calling, and he was trying his best to ignore it. Such things had been rumored to happen, especially in times like these, where whispers of gathering forces crawl the shadows almost as efficiently as the common mouse. Whisperings of wolves and beasts, of carnage and terror beneath the fang have even found their way to his ears out here. And now these damnable dreams.

A hand dipped into his pouches, a fist full of sand extracted, and in his irritation, he flung it into the darkened hearth. As the sand settled upon the half eaten log of wood within, flames begun to burn, the old man’s gaze looking upon the only companion he’s known these fifty years: the fire that warmed his bones and kept pure his mind. The void pulses. He can feel it like a heartbeat in the darkness: unseen, but as present as a lover these fifty years. A heart beat to match his own, to remind him of why he doesn’t simply lie down to die. The flames of the hearth begin to dance as they grow in strength given them by the log, Then to his eyes an image, dancing with the hypnotic sway of the flames, with colors unnatural amongst the orange and blue hews of fire. A man’s face, youthful in age, strong in appearance, clearly of the race appears.

From slack hands the tin cup falls, as the remainder of the body stiffens. Dark eyes fade into formless orbs of darkness as the magic of the void consumes, the mark of his bond only visible upon touching the magic. The vision was unexpected, as they always are, and to such an overpowering degree that the old man could do nothing but sit, and watch what transpired amongst the flames. Davinus saw himself walking through the old wood of his home, along the path to his people. The place named by familiar trees and ferns, as Davinus spent many of his early years in exile amongst them, before coming here.. settling this side of the mountains. The saw the man, more of body than of face, but knew the two to the one. This man walked beside him now: a possible answer to the problem of his strength. Did the oracle listen to the ramblings of an old fool? Did she know the reason he hesitated, and this was what?? An offering of assistance?

And the vision was just thus: a momentary glance, no more than an image of a moment, like a photograph that left more questions than it gave answers, and they reeled within his mind as he stared into the fire. Why would he return home? The western forest held nothing for him anymore, or so he had been stubbornly telling himself these past few years, and lower still this past week, as the dream continued to show images of the familiar groves on the way to his homeland.

“She speaks in broken tongues, this oracle of grace,” he spoke to the fire, “but it would seem her song has been taken up by another mistral, and this one I cannot ignore. To the abyss itself with matters of grace or sin, my heart is cold to them… but my master now speaks: to the home once forsaken shall you go.” Davinus sighed, reaching up from his chair to grip the length of his staff, using it to pull himself up to his feet.

I should pack, he tells himself in the more stable tongue of the mind, whispering thoughts in clarity, it will be a while before I return, if I ever do. A wave of his hand before the flames of the hearth, and they die away to nothingness again, and his eye s fade back to their dull, gray color. A shiver of breath as he stumps through the house, to collect this things, allowing himself just one moment to recreate his tea…

+ + + + +

The passage of time was of question. It could have been a month, maybe two since the old man left house and home to return to the forest of his ancestry. Isildier stood broad and real around him, with thick trunks of ancient oaks rooted deep in their age creating a canopy of dense limbs that even in this time of year were blocking the sun’ s light from completely touching this hallowed ground. Here, the old man stood amongst one of the earliest paths within the forest, one of many that would nest together, like paths of a maze, to lead one through to the citadel of the ancient race of Gypsi. A formidable feat of navigation was to find the way, a near impossible miracle for one to simply stumble upon the lost city. To Davinus, the ancient soils of his home were sacred, hollow grounds, and to be in complete communion with them, the old man removed his traveling shoes, tucking the thin leather slippers onto a pack astride his horse, and continued upon aged, bare feet. The dirt of the forest floor was cold beneath his feet, and through the souls of his feet he felt as though he could feel the ancient pulse of his people.

The void had his eyes, a telling sign that the old man focused magical power into the creation or maintaining of one of his spells. His vision was the same in either state, he could see just as well without the magic as he could with, but the appearance of his eyes marked him, and with greater power, the taint within him would grow to consume. A fate the old man not only longed for, but actively sought these last fifty years in exile. A path that led him back, at what he believes to be the guidance of the void itself, to fulfill the whim of the Oracle. Within these words lies the key to his participation, at least, within these words lies the beginning of his trials. This boy of middle age, with arms like trees braided together and death hanging about his shoulders like a cloak. The face of the man whose visage appears in his dreams. Two faces has he seen there these fast few weeks. This man of corded wood, and a woman…

An hour into the forest has the old man leaning upon staff, walking with feet dirtied by the forest’s floor, with humor lost to the weariness of a day of travel. His voice, a twisted sound of conflicting emotions, of jovial humor and trite anger, echoing in words that seem nearly as cryptic in meaning as they were in sound, as though spoken with broken mind or cursed tongue. Upon any who witness this, it should not be lost to attention that the source of the voice, the old man, seems to be alone, and his attention focused solely upon the beast whom he guides by thin leather reins.

“By the light of the night maidens, I swear to you, I will bestow these reins upon the first we come across who will have one such as yourself,” the old man barked, tugging firmly at the reigns. The horse on the other end simply flared nostrils, and jerked back against the reigns, as though the irritation felt within the old man also soured the beast’s own mood. The day had been long, and both man and horse were tired from their burdens of travel, and yet both stubborn enough to press on in the face of dogged weariness so not to be the first to fall: at least, so it was in the mind of the old man. Davinus leaned heavily upon the staff at his side, thumping along with an unnatural gait, swearing under his breath at the dogged, damnable spirit of his traveling companion…

“I swear it,” he said, stopping at length, leaning his back up against a tree, closing his aged eyes for a moment, “ I would believe you’re mother part ass with as stubborn you are about this.”

Weary, the old man let himself slide down the trunk of the tree, to collapse a pile of skin and bones, entombed in dirty white robes, at the base of it. Thin fingers scratched at long, white whiskers, also dulled and dirtied with so much time in solitary isolation, not to mention the recent earnest in which his travels had taken. To reach the great forest of Isildier in time. Though the question still lingered in the forefront of his mind, as it had nearly every night since having the damnable dream: Time for what?

Perhaps this younger gentleman would know? Perhaps it was something to learn once they reach the Gypsi homeland, or perhaps another vision would occur… another nightmare by that cursed oracle, to guide him in cryptic, broken images… If he could ever see her, could ever be alone with her for but a moment, he didn’t know if he’d demand an interpretation, or choke the life out of her with his own hands…

Or so was his frustration with the entire situation..

[Katelyn]

The moon hid from the sight just below its florescent girth, the clouds moving just in time to blanket the movement of the Varg, loud snorts of angst could be heard ringing in the distance, but up close… it was horrifying. Her eyes closed as a single tear dripped from her pristine face, beautiful finding residence upon every inch of her snow white skin, fear seeping from her veins to poison her resolve to have left him behind.

They’d left her no choice and she’d not wish him here to be in harms ways with her, but her heart ached to see him once more before they captured her, the sound of breaking twigs just beyond the small tree she’d burrowed her small body into caused her breath to catch, and it was all the sound all they needed to locate her.

She bowed her head, her long silver-white hair rolling around her, silk to the touch as it brushed against her skin, no movement in the air to give it life and yet it found the desire to move of its own accord. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself and slipped down, the inside of the tree trunk cutting into her exposed back, her lovely pale blue dress ripped in so many places that it hung from her thinning form.

A prayer whispered from her lips for him, never for herself as she had a part to play in the narrative laid before her, but he still had a chance for love and life. Her fingers brushed by her pale pink lips, blood forming from a long gash in her cheek that echoed life all around her. Pain wasn’t the opposite of health, but the necessary reminder that life was present and real. She touched the scar as they got closer, the sound of success filling the air as she tried so hard to remained focused on her prayer and not to be consumed by the palatable terror that swept across every sense she held.

Timera sunk into her memories for the last few moments of her freedom.

A handsome boy who wanted nothing to do with tradition broke from the line, his body a little smaller from the others, distain marking his features. She felt the gods of heaven whisper deep in the recess of her soul…

"He is yours child and you are his."

Nothing felt more right, more whole, more pure than the ideal that they would belong to one another, that he would pick up where she left off and he would be her strength and she his heart.

Without hesitation she rushed forward, the wind pushing her back to accelerate her movements toward him. She reached him as the master moved him back in line, threats to the small boy to scare him in to solitude. Her eyes met his, a smile touching her lips as she slipped her hands into his, not a word spoken as the sun broke through the clouds and warmed the earth with renewed radiance. She let her small thumb brush over his hand in a confirmation that she was the one that he would one day come to complete.

Another tear dripped from her swollen eyes, the violent pulling of her hair to lead her from the tree causing the memory to evaporate, a cry slipping from her lips as the large mammoth in front of her yelled in excitement. The darkness grew thicker as the world seemed to close in on her, time of the essence. She tried so hard to hide her fear, to tuck away the agony that ripped at her breast as the beast pulled her closer, his large body pressed to her smaller one, the smell of death and feces filling the air.

She gagged and he laughed, calling out to his companions that the oracles little bitch was his and they would all celebrate tonight for their master would be so very thrilled with their find. A second came up and touched her inappropriately, her body always having been her own. She yelped and fear flooded her heart, her heart screaming for Dínendal as her mind closed off the fear once more, his safety overriding her own.

The first beast slapped the other. “Have you lost your mind? She’s a priceless jewel and you don’t be deflowering her.”

He slapped him again as Timera swung, her large emerald ring cutting the monsters face as he dropped her, cursing loudly in a language unknown to her. She turned to run only to be hit forcefully in the belly with a large tree branch, one of them picking it up to utilize as a weapon. The breath that resided in her lungs raced from her as she crumpled to the ground, pain tearing through her small frame. She tried to cut it off, but her sense of self-preservation kicked in and she moved to get up, her body refusing to quit.

The last thing she heard was the resounding crack to the back of her head as the weapon was used against her once more, warmth seeping from her hair onto the soft bed of leaves the forest offered. Her eyes moved up to the moon and she whispered softly into the night, “I shall wait at the gates for you, Galandria.”

Darkness beckoned and she slipped into its formless embrace.