Post by david on Feb 28, 2005 20:14:46 GMT -5
This second half begins with a sort of out-of-body experience Arkan has after drifting into unconsciousness...
* * *
“Will the magic die?”
The words drifted through his mind like an echo on the wind. Darkness gave way to light, and Arkan Sael opened his eyes. The sky above was tinged with the soft pink and orange streaks of dawn. He eased his head to one side, expecting another lance of pain but there was none. Lifting a careful hand to his brow he touched gently at the gash that had been opened and found no blood. Feathery blades of grass, long and lush, tickled his face and the spicy scent of evergreens hung heavy in the air. A familiar, leathery nose nudged his ear and snorted.
Racer?
Arkan bolted upright. Not five paces away a boy sat crosslegged, perched on a hump of weathered field stone. His slight form was bathed in sunlight giving him a shimmering, ethereal appearance. Curly hair, the color of ripened wheat, framed his cherubic face and golden ringlets hung loose about large pointed ears.
“Be at peace, Arkan Seal. No harm shall come to you here.”
The old man looked the boy up and down, then turned his attention to himself. His robes were clean and free of blood. The gash on his forehead and the wounds left on his arm from the slunks’ attack were healed. Jagged, blanched trailers ran where the skin had been opened, and his mind drifted back to the attack and his journey south. Rubbing absently at the scars he glanced about and found Racer grazing contentedly in the distance, his long nose buried in a stand of wildflowers.
“Where am I?” he asked.
The boy hopped down and approached the old mage. A wry smile creased his face, and penetrating azure eyes held Arkan’s gaze as he came closer. “You’re atop Candlestick, of course. You almost died back there, you know.”
He eyed the faded wound above Arkan’s brow. His face softened as he took the old man’s hand, examining the whitened tracks left just above the wrist. “Nasty business with those creatures,” he mused. “Tell me, whatever possessed you to travel through Tanglewood at dusk?”
Uncertain, Arkan eyed the boy. He was about to speak when his mind was filled with warm, white light. It reached deep into his brain, probing and opening his thoughts then flowing down into his body until his entire being was awash in a peace the old man hadn’t known in ages. The boy released his grip on Arkan’s hand and the old man gasped and stumbled forward, falling to his knees. When he looked up his eyes were wide and brimming with tears.
“You’re a faery creature!”
The infectious smile widened. “A sprite, to be exact. My name is Twint.”
For a moment, Arkan failed to understand. Then he went cold, a vast emptiness opening inside him. The sprite paused, then spoke as if reading the old man’s thoughts.
“Yes, friend. It is the Becoming … but not for you.”
The sprite looked past Arkan’s shoulder, and the old man turned to follow his gaze. Racer, who had been grazing contentedly in the long grass, began to shimmer and break apart. Whirling pieces of light caught the sun, sending a shower of colors across the meadow, moving faster and faster until the big horse disappeared in a soundless explosion.
Arkan wheeled on the faery creature, his eyes desperate and searching. His thoughts were too many, swirling about in his head like leaves in a whirlwind. His mouth moved but there was only silence, the words dissipating somewhere between thought and speech. In the deepest recesses of his being Arkan felt his mind coming unhinged at its most fundamental level.
“He, too, served the One,” Twint explained. “By acting as your mount, your companion all those years as you went about your work. Now his time in this world is done.”
The old man’s eyes fell as he absorbed the truth of what was happening. When he looked again into Twint’s eyes the little sprite smiled. “Come now, Arkan Sael. You are a man of faith, are you not?”
The sprite chuckled, a soft sound filled with understanding as he cupped Arkan’s cheek with his small hand. He reached down to help the other to his feet, and they walked across the meadow hand-in-hand until they came to the precipice of the towering monolith. A queasy wave washed its way up the old man’s frame as he looked out at the land below. So high, he thought. The sun had begun to push back the dark curtain of night and the first cottony white clouds of a new day wafted by close overhead. They stood gazing westward across the mountains and valleys like twin sentinels heralding the dawn. The chill and damp of night gave way to morning as the sun illuminated the land, caressing and warming it slowly. Creatures that hunted under the moon’s pale glow sought refuge in the crevices and still-dark hollows, while songbirds painted the air with vibrant colors, lifting cheerful voices to welcome light into the world once more.
When Twint spoke again, his voice was a faint whisper.
“Look around you, Arkan Sael. This is the land as it was meant to be. Will you deny this to the generations who live after you?
“Once, there was a time when the magic flourished and served as the land’s lifeblood, coursing through rivers and streams, its force alive and dancing with such vibrancy that the very air sparkled. It had been so since the time of the Awakening, when the One first blessed the land and set His children upon it.”
The sprite squeezed Arkan’s hand as he continued, a sadness replacing the look of innocence Twint wore so well. “Now the sickness spreads. Even now the land sours and crops wither away. The waters lose their purity, turning from wellsprings of life to dark and festering bogs. Lakes and rivers dry up and die, leaving little but rotting bones and the smell of death in their wake.”
The awe-struck gaze in Arkan’s eyes faltered as the sprite’s words took hold. He longed for the Becoming and the release it would bring. Yet deep inside he knew that his work was not finished. No one knew exactly what would happen if the magic were to die. That the consequences would be cataclysmic was certain. If the world of Men refused to believe in the magic that had been their gift, the evil that smoldered within the confines of the Barrens would soon erupt, engulfing all the land. At the very least Man, for all his considerable achievements, would be reduced to a race of slaves bound in servitude to darker elements. This much he had seen two nights ago while in the throes of a faeryvision. Man was, and always had been, integral to the balance of magics in the land. But now, after generations of calm the balance was shifting.
Turning Arkan from the panorama below the young sprite eased the old man back to his knees. He placed his small hands on Arkan’s cheeks and without a word leaned down until their foreheads touched. They stayed this way for several moments, the old man drawing strength and reassurance from the faery creature.
“There is still hope, Arkan Sael. Find the Moonchild. As long as good men believe, even if their numbers are few, the magic will live and others will be drawn to it once again.”
The familiar warmth surged once more through Arkan, transfixing him, warming him and filling him with peace and assurance. Then, just a suddenly as the light had engulfed him, it began to fade …
* * *
Arkan Sael found himself groping in the blackness, his body cold and wracked with pain once more. He plummeted though the dark calling for help, crying Twint’s name to no avail. With a gasp his body heaved upward, his eyes flashing open to catch a brief glimpse of the men gathered about him. One was familiar, a big man with copper hair and a long bushy beard. He was crouched on one knee cradling Arkan like a child. Just as quickly, Arkan began to fall back into the abyss, the man’s face growing hazy and indistinct.
“Arkan? Arkan Sael! By the One, man, what are you doing out here? What has happened?”
Arkan managed to speak just before the darkness reclaimed him. His withered hand clutched at the big man’s clothes, and Arkan tasted his own blood. “Jaren ... I must find him. Now!”
A look of confusion crossed the man’s face. Behind him his companion strained to hear was said. He knelt down and placed a hand on the other’s shoulder.
“Holden, what has happened? What could he want with your boy?”
The big man shook his head slowly, his brow furrowed and dark. “I cannot imagine, anymore than I can imagine what an old man is doing traveling the plains alone after nightfall.”
He scooped an arm under Arkan’s legs and lifted him from the frozen ground. “I do know this, though. We must get him out of the cold and tend to these wounds, or he will not live to see the dawn.”
* * *
“Will the magic die?”
The words drifted through his mind like an echo on the wind. Darkness gave way to light, and Arkan Sael opened his eyes. The sky above was tinged with the soft pink and orange streaks of dawn. He eased his head to one side, expecting another lance of pain but there was none. Lifting a careful hand to his brow he touched gently at the gash that had been opened and found no blood. Feathery blades of grass, long and lush, tickled his face and the spicy scent of evergreens hung heavy in the air. A familiar, leathery nose nudged his ear and snorted.
Racer?
Arkan bolted upright. Not five paces away a boy sat crosslegged, perched on a hump of weathered field stone. His slight form was bathed in sunlight giving him a shimmering, ethereal appearance. Curly hair, the color of ripened wheat, framed his cherubic face and golden ringlets hung loose about large pointed ears.
“Be at peace, Arkan Seal. No harm shall come to you here.”
The old man looked the boy up and down, then turned his attention to himself. His robes were clean and free of blood. The gash on his forehead and the wounds left on his arm from the slunks’ attack were healed. Jagged, blanched trailers ran where the skin had been opened, and his mind drifted back to the attack and his journey south. Rubbing absently at the scars he glanced about and found Racer grazing contentedly in the distance, his long nose buried in a stand of wildflowers.
“Where am I?” he asked.
The boy hopped down and approached the old mage. A wry smile creased his face, and penetrating azure eyes held Arkan’s gaze as he came closer. “You’re atop Candlestick, of course. You almost died back there, you know.”
He eyed the faded wound above Arkan’s brow. His face softened as he took the old man’s hand, examining the whitened tracks left just above the wrist. “Nasty business with those creatures,” he mused. “Tell me, whatever possessed you to travel through Tanglewood at dusk?”
Uncertain, Arkan eyed the boy. He was about to speak when his mind was filled with warm, white light. It reached deep into his brain, probing and opening his thoughts then flowing down into his body until his entire being was awash in a peace the old man hadn’t known in ages. The boy released his grip on Arkan’s hand and the old man gasped and stumbled forward, falling to his knees. When he looked up his eyes were wide and brimming with tears.
“You’re a faery creature!”
The infectious smile widened. “A sprite, to be exact. My name is Twint.”
For a moment, Arkan failed to understand. Then he went cold, a vast emptiness opening inside him. The sprite paused, then spoke as if reading the old man’s thoughts.
“Yes, friend. It is the Becoming … but not for you.”
The sprite looked past Arkan’s shoulder, and the old man turned to follow his gaze. Racer, who had been grazing contentedly in the long grass, began to shimmer and break apart. Whirling pieces of light caught the sun, sending a shower of colors across the meadow, moving faster and faster until the big horse disappeared in a soundless explosion.
Arkan wheeled on the faery creature, his eyes desperate and searching. His thoughts were too many, swirling about in his head like leaves in a whirlwind. His mouth moved but there was only silence, the words dissipating somewhere between thought and speech. In the deepest recesses of his being Arkan felt his mind coming unhinged at its most fundamental level.
“He, too, served the One,” Twint explained. “By acting as your mount, your companion all those years as you went about your work. Now his time in this world is done.”
The old man’s eyes fell as he absorbed the truth of what was happening. When he looked again into Twint’s eyes the little sprite smiled. “Come now, Arkan Sael. You are a man of faith, are you not?”
The sprite chuckled, a soft sound filled with understanding as he cupped Arkan’s cheek with his small hand. He reached down to help the other to his feet, and they walked across the meadow hand-in-hand until they came to the precipice of the towering monolith. A queasy wave washed its way up the old man’s frame as he looked out at the land below. So high, he thought. The sun had begun to push back the dark curtain of night and the first cottony white clouds of a new day wafted by close overhead. They stood gazing westward across the mountains and valleys like twin sentinels heralding the dawn. The chill and damp of night gave way to morning as the sun illuminated the land, caressing and warming it slowly. Creatures that hunted under the moon’s pale glow sought refuge in the crevices and still-dark hollows, while songbirds painted the air with vibrant colors, lifting cheerful voices to welcome light into the world once more.
When Twint spoke again, his voice was a faint whisper.
“Look around you, Arkan Sael. This is the land as it was meant to be. Will you deny this to the generations who live after you?
“Once, there was a time when the magic flourished and served as the land’s lifeblood, coursing through rivers and streams, its force alive and dancing with such vibrancy that the very air sparkled. It had been so since the time of the Awakening, when the One first blessed the land and set His children upon it.”
The sprite squeezed Arkan’s hand as he continued, a sadness replacing the look of innocence Twint wore so well. “Now the sickness spreads. Even now the land sours and crops wither away. The waters lose their purity, turning from wellsprings of life to dark and festering bogs. Lakes and rivers dry up and die, leaving little but rotting bones and the smell of death in their wake.”
The awe-struck gaze in Arkan’s eyes faltered as the sprite’s words took hold. He longed for the Becoming and the release it would bring. Yet deep inside he knew that his work was not finished. No one knew exactly what would happen if the magic were to die. That the consequences would be cataclysmic was certain. If the world of Men refused to believe in the magic that had been their gift, the evil that smoldered within the confines of the Barrens would soon erupt, engulfing all the land. At the very least Man, for all his considerable achievements, would be reduced to a race of slaves bound in servitude to darker elements. This much he had seen two nights ago while in the throes of a faeryvision. Man was, and always had been, integral to the balance of magics in the land. But now, after generations of calm the balance was shifting.
Turning Arkan from the panorama below the young sprite eased the old man back to his knees. He placed his small hands on Arkan’s cheeks and without a word leaned down until their foreheads touched. They stayed this way for several moments, the old man drawing strength and reassurance from the faery creature.
“There is still hope, Arkan Sael. Find the Moonchild. As long as good men believe, even if their numbers are few, the magic will live and others will be drawn to it once again.”
The familiar warmth surged once more through Arkan, transfixing him, warming him and filling him with peace and assurance. Then, just a suddenly as the light had engulfed him, it began to fade …
* * *
Arkan Sael found himself groping in the blackness, his body cold and wracked with pain once more. He plummeted though the dark calling for help, crying Twint’s name to no avail. With a gasp his body heaved upward, his eyes flashing open to catch a brief glimpse of the men gathered about him. One was familiar, a big man with copper hair and a long bushy beard. He was crouched on one knee cradling Arkan like a child. Just as quickly, Arkan began to fall back into the abyss, the man’s face growing hazy and indistinct.
“Arkan? Arkan Sael! By the One, man, what are you doing out here? What has happened?”
Arkan managed to speak just before the darkness reclaimed him. His withered hand clutched at the big man’s clothes, and Arkan tasted his own blood. “Jaren ... I must find him. Now!”
A look of confusion crossed the man’s face. Behind him his companion strained to hear was said. He knelt down and placed a hand on the other’s shoulder.
“Holden, what has happened? What could he want with your boy?”
The big man shook his head slowly, his brow furrowed and dark. “I cannot imagine, anymore than I can imagine what an old man is doing traveling the plains alone after nightfall.”
He scooped an arm under Arkan’s legs and lifted him from the frozen ground. “I do know this, though. We must get him out of the cold and tend to these wounds, or he will not live to see the dawn.”
