Post by david on Mar 24, 2005 19:30:31 GMT -5
Hi guys...ok, here's the part I'm still very uncomfortable with. Some things I like, some things...well, I"m just not sure if I've hit the mark in terms of the interaction between Holden and Arkan. Feel free to read the first chapter again before reading this if it will help...if you can stand to...
Anything You have to say will be greatly appreciated. And again, thank you all for your support, encouragement and suggestions!
Chapter 2
Autumn came early to Riverbluff, a fiery wave of colors washing down from the mountains into the valley touching everything in its path. The rains and crisp nighttime temperatures played a brilliant symphony upon the land, chasing away the hazy green and brown of late summer. The sun, filtering through a canopy of silver maple and beech trees, shone through the window of the little room, giving Arkan’s skin a warm, waxy hue.
“ … can you hear me?”
The old man’s eyes fluttered, then closed against the light. The voice echoed in his mind, distant yet familiar. It reached down into the gray fog that sought to claim him, and a spark of recognition flared. A low, feverish moan escaped his lips, seeping from him like the sweat that drenched his bedclothes.
“Holden?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Try not to speak too much.”
“Is Jaela here?” Arkan whispered.
“She’s gone east into the foothills helping tend to their young,” he replied. “You know my Jaela. She feels the need to mother everyone and everything.”
Arkan nodded. “She is a fine woman.”
Holden’s eyes narrowed. The sigh that followed was heavy, and when he spoke his eyes were fixed on the floor. “You were fortunate that Pelter and I had chosen to go hunting. If not, you’d have been wolf bait by now.”
Arkan’s smile was weak. “I know, my friend. Thank you for taking pity on a foolish old man.”
Holden glanced up and chuckled mirthlessly. He shook his head at Arkan and stepped away from the bed to a small desk in the corner of the room. When he returned, he was holding a wooden bowl filled with fragrant orange powder. He took a pinch between his thumb and forefinger and sprinkled it into a cup of water. “Drink this. Jaela says it helps relieve pain and fever.”
Arkan took the cup in shaky hands. He sipped at the mixture, and was surprised to find the taste pleasant. Almost immediately the medicine began to work its way into his system, easing the throbbing sensation in his head. The burning in his arm seemed to fade somewhat, as well. Arkan touched lightly at his temple. Underneath the bandage, on the left side of his forehead it was moist and pulpy. For a moment he wondered if it was indeed the end, if somehow his brain had been jarred loose from inside his skull. When he brought his hand away he caught a faint whiff of rosemary. Holden had done well, he thought. Jaela was the healer of the two, yet it was he who had carried him to Riverbluff and nursed his wounds.
“Keep drinking, old one,” Holden said. “It’s not a mug of Pelter’s home brew, but it does the job well enough.”
The words forced a brief cough of laughter from Arkan, causing him to wince. “Please, Holden, no more of your jokes. If my injuries don’t kill me your feeble attempts at humor surely will.”
The two shared a smile. Holden pulled a caneback chair near the bed and sat down. He folded his arms across his chest, fixing Arkan with a grim stare. “We were unsure as to whether you would make it through the night, much less recover. You are in far better shape now than when we found you.”
Holden recanted the story of how he and Pelter had stumbled across Arkan just before sunrise three nights before. Tears welled in the old man’s eyes at the mention of Racer’s name, but Holden continued, “I have no idea how long you had been unconscious,” he ventured. “I can only imagine that the magic somehow counteracted the poison.”
Arkan again shut his eyes and turned his head toward the far wall of the little room. Things were not going at all how he had imagined. He had lost precious time after falling victim to those beasts in Tanglewood. Although he could not prove it, he felt sure that the attack was somehow connected to the events taking place in the Barrens. He could feel the power in the west growing, malevolent and hungry, reaching out across the land like a predator seeking prey.
He turned back to Holden, and found the woodcutter apprising him with curious eyes. “I think you give yourself too little credit, friend,” Arkan said, his face softening. “I would not be alive without your care.”
He stretched out a stick-like arm and rested his hand on Holden’s knee. The bandages above his wrist were clean and free of blood, save for three faint, pinkish stains. Seeing this caused memories from the attack to come flooding back, assaulting his mind in a flurry of frightening images. It was the first time in a hundred seasons that Arkan Sael could remember experiencing fear – blinding, overwhelming fear. Not for the land and its people, but for himself. You are a coward, he thought. A coward and a failure to your purpose.
AND YOU WILL DIE, OLD MAN. YOU AND THE WHELP YOU SEEK SO DESPERATELY TO SAVE…
The voice in Arkan’s head struck unexpected and with iron force. His eyes roll back in their sockets and his body convulsed beneath the blanket, sending the contents of the cup splashing onto the bed. The words dripped with acid, burning into his mind, the hatred in them overwhelming. For long moments he hung suspended on the precipice of blind panic. He was dimly aware of the strong hands gripping his shoulders, urging him back toward consciousness. When the world swam back into focus, Holden was settling him back against the pillows and applying a wet rag to his face.
“Speak to me, Arkan. Do you feel ill again?”
Arkan drew a deep breath and patted Holden’s hand, making a feeble attempt to smile. “I … am as well as can be expected, but still quite weak from my injuries, I suspect,” Arkan lied. “We will talk more, but whatever you fed me seems to have other ideas at the moment.”
Holden eyed the sick man, unsure if he was hearing the truth. He stared at Arkan for long moments, searching the wrinkled countenance for an answer. Deep lines of pain had returned around the man’s sunken eyes and mouth, and Holden realized that despite the progress he had made, Arkan Sael was still a very sick man. He adjusted the blankets about the man’s bony form, and after fussing with several goosedown pillows he stepped back and surveyed the figure that lay before him.
“If you say so, old man. I suppose you do need your rest still.” He stared a moment longer, then backed away toward the door leading from the room. “I will check on you again in a bit. Jaela should arrive soon, but let me warn you she will not be pleased with the condition you are in – or the fact that you’ve been gone so long.”
Arkan managed a wan smile, then waved his fingers in an effort to shoo Holden out the door. The gesture was not lost on the big man.
“Indeed,” he grunted. He stepped through the door and began to ease it shut. Before the latch clicked into place his deep voice called through the narrow slit. “Rest now and we will talk more later.”
The door closed, and Arkan heard muffled footsteps echoing down the hallway. He took a deep breath, hearing the air rattle about in his lungs. His skull felt thick and his body hollow. Tingling sensations replaced his thoughts as he drifted down into sleep. Yes, he thought. We must talk.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when Jaela arrived. Chill winds had blown down from the Chimneytops as the day progressed, and an array of russet and golden leaves swirled about her as she entered the cabin. Her cloak, once a rich ebony, was now ashen with the dust accumulated on her journey. She spied Holden sitting before the hearth, the curved stem of a smokepipe angling down from his mouth. Her eyes softened, and a slow smile played across her face.
“We have a visitor,” he said, his eyes locked on the dancing flames.
The smile disappeared, and Jaela’s eyebrows arched. “I’ve missed you, too, husband.”
The tone in her voice made Holden grin in spite of himself. Another plume of smoke wafted into the air, wreathing his head and shoulders as he stood up out of the chair. The two exchanged a knowing look, and a moment later they were in each other’s arms. Holden buried his face into her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair. They stood that way for long minutes, drinking each other in, neither wanting to let go of the other. Jaela’s hand found her way through his coppery hair, tracing the palm of her hand about the rough features of his face. Then she pulled back enough to look up into Holden’s eyes and the grin reappeared.
“A visitor in the middle of the afternoon, you say? In the midst of harvest?”, she pushed a playful finger into Holden’s side. “Tell me husband, is one of your layabout friends home early from the fields, keeping you from your mill, as well?"
Holden did not meet her gaze, one that faded to undisguised concern in a matter of heartbeats. “Holden, what is it?” Then she gasped in horror. “Jaren! Has something happened to Jaren?”
He gripped Jaela’s shoulders and slowly shook his head. “No, no. Jaren is well,” he said. “He is working the fields across the river.” A deep breath followed. “It is Arkan Sael. Pelter and I found him bloodied and out of his head three nights ago on the plains.”
Jaela’s eyes widened. Without a word, she rushed past Holden toward the room where the old man lay.
Anything You have to say will be greatly appreciated. And again, thank you all for your support, encouragement and suggestions!
Chapter 2
Autumn came early to Riverbluff, a fiery wave of colors washing down from the mountains into the valley touching everything in its path. The rains and crisp nighttime temperatures played a brilliant symphony upon the land, chasing away the hazy green and brown of late summer. The sun, filtering through a canopy of silver maple and beech trees, shone through the window of the little room, giving Arkan’s skin a warm, waxy hue.
“ … can you hear me?”
The old man’s eyes fluttered, then closed against the light. The voice echoed in his mind, distant yet familiar. It reached down into the gray fog that sought to claim him, and a spark of recognition flared. A low, feverish moan escaped his lips, seeping from him like the sweat that drenched his bedclothes.
“Holden?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Try not to speak too much.”
“Is Jaela here?” Arkan whispered.
“She’s gone east into the foothills helping tend to their young,” he replied. “You know my Jaela. She feels the need to mother everyone and everything.”
Arkan nodded. “She is a fine woman.”
Holden’s eyes narrowed. The sigh that followed was heavy, and when he spoke his eyes were fixed on the floor. “You were fortunate that Pelter and I had chosen to go hunting. If not, you’d have been wolf bait by now.”
Arkan’s smile was weak. “I know, my friend. Thank you for taking pity on a foolish old man.”
Holden glanced up and chuckled mirthlessly. He shook his head at Arkan and stepped away from the bed to a small desk in the corner of the room. When he returned, he was holding a wooden bowl filled with fragrant orange powder. He took a pinch between his thumb and forefinger and sprinkled it into a cup of water. “Drink this. Jaela says it helps relieve pain and fever.”
Arkan took the cup in shaky hands. He sipped at the mixture, and was surprised to find the taste pleasant. Almost immediately the medicine began to work its way into his system, easing the throbbing sensation in his head. The burning in his arm seemed to fade somewhat, as well. Arkan touched lightly at his temple. Underneath the bandage, on the left side of his forehead it was moist and pulpy. For a moment he wondered if it was indeed the end, if somehow his brain had been jarred loose from inside his skull. When he brought his hand away he caught a faint whiff of rosemary. Holden had done well, he thought. Jaela was the healer of the two, yet it was he who had carried him to Riverbluff and nursed his wounds.
“Keep drinking, old one,” Holden said. “It’s not a mug of Pelter’s home brew, but it does the job well enough.”
The words forced a brief cough of laughter from Arkan, causing him to wince. “Please, Holden, no more of your jokes. If my injuries don’t kill me your feeble attempts at humor surely will.”
The two shared a smile. Holden pulled a caneback chair near the bed and sat down. He folded his arms across his chest, fixing Arkan with a grim stare. “We were unsure as to whether you would make it through the night, much less recover. You are in far better shape now than when we found you.”
Holden recanted the story of how he and Pelter had stumbled across Arkan just before sunrise three nights before. Tears welled in the old man’s eyes at the mention of Racer’s name, but Holden continued, “I have no idea how long you had been unconscious,” he ventured. “I can only imagine that the magic somehow counteracted the poison.”
Arkan again shut his eyes and turned his head toward the far wall of the little room. Things were not going at all how he had imagined. He had lost precious time after falling victim to those beasts in Tanglewood. Although he could not prove it, he felt sure that the attack was somehow connected to the events taking place in the Barrens. He could feel the power in the west growing, malevolent and hungry, reaching out across the land like a predator seeking prey.
He turned back to Holden, and found the woodcutter apprising him with curious eyes. “I think you give yourself too little credit, friend,” Arkan said, his face softening. “I would not be alive without your care.”
He stretched out a stick-like arm and rested his hand on Holden’s knee. The bandages above his wrist were clean and free of blood, save for three faint, pinkish stains. Seeing this caused memories from the attack to come flooding back, assaulting his mind in a flurry of frightening images. It was the first time in a hundred seasons that Arkan Sael could remember experiencing fear – blinding, overwhelming fear. Not for the land and its people, but for himself. You are a coward, he thought. A coward and a failure to your purpose.
AND YOU WILL DIE, OLD MAN. YOU AND THE WHELP YOU SEEK SO DESPERATELY TO SAVE…
The voice in Arkan’s head struck unexpected and with iron force. His eyes roll back in their sockets and his body convulsed beneath the blanket, sending the contents of the cup splashing onto the bed. The words dripped with acid, burning into his mind, the hatred in them overwhelming. For long moments he hung suspended on the precipice of blind panic. He was dimly aware of the strong hands gripping his shoulders, urging him back toward consciousness. When the world swam back into focus, Holden was settling him back against the pillows and applying a wet rag to his face.
“Speak to me, Arkan. Do you feel ill again?”
Arkan drew a deep breath and patted Holden’s hand, making a feeble attempt to smile. “I … am as well as can be expected, but still quite weak from my injuries, I suspect,” Arkan lied. “We will talk more, but whatever you fed me seems to have other ideas at the moment.”
Holden eyed the sick man, unsure if he was hearing the truth. He stared at Arkan for long moments, searching the wrinkled countenance for an answer. Deep lines of pain had returned around the man’s sunken eyes and mouth, and Holden realized that despite the progress he had made, Arkan Sael was still a very sick man. He adjusted the blankets about the man’s bony form, and after fussing with several goosedown pillows he stepped back and surveyed the figure that lay before him.
“If you say so, old man. I suppose you do need your rest still.” He stared a moment longer, then backed away toward the door leading from the room. “I will check on you again in a bit. Jaela should arrive soon, but let me warn you she will not be pleased with the condition you are in – or the fact that you’ve been gone so long.”
Arkan managed a wan smile, then waved his fingers in an effort to shoo Holden out the door. The gesture was not lost on the big man.
“Indeed,” he grunted. He stepped through the door and began to ease it shut. Before the latch clicked into place his deep voice called through the narrow slit. “Rest now and we will talk more later.”
The door closed, and Arkan heard muffled footsteps echoing down the hallway. He took a deep breath, hearing the air rattle about in his lungs. His skull felt thick and his body hollow. Tingling sensations replaced his thoughts as he drifted down into sleep. Yes, he thought. We must talk.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when Jaela arrived. Chill winds had blown down from the Chimneytops as the day progressed, and an array of russet and golden leaves swirled about her as she entered the cabin. Her cloak, once a rich ebony, was now ashen with the dust accumulated on her journey. She spied Holden sitting before the hearth, the curved stem of a smokepipe angling down from his mouth. Her eyes softened, and a slow smile played across her face.
“We have a visitor,” he said, his eyes locked on the dancing flames.
The smile disappeared, and Jaela’s eyebrows arched. “I’ve missed you, too, husband.”
The tone in her voice made Holden grin in spite of himself. Another plume of smoke wafted into the air, wreathing his head and shoulders as he stood up out of the chair. The two exchanged a knowing look, and a moment later they were in each other’s arms. Holden buried his face into her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair. They stood that way for long minutes, drinking each other in, neither wanting to let go of the other. Jaela’s hand found her way through his coppery hair, tracing the palm of her hand about the rough features of his face. Then she pulled back enough to look up into Holden’s eyes and the grin reappeared.
“A visitor in the middle of the afternoon, you say? In the midst of harvest?”, she pushed a playful finger into Holden’s side. “Tell me husband, is one of your layabout friends home early from the fields, keeping you from your mill, as well?"
Holden did not meet her gaze, one that faded to undisguised concern in a matter of heartbeats. “Holden, what is it?” Then she gasped in horror. “Jaren! Has something happened to Jaren?”
He gripped Jaela’s shoulders and slowly shook his head. “No, no. Jaren is well,” he said. “He is working the fields across the river.” A deep breath followed. “It is Arkan Sael. Pelter and I found him bloodied and out of his head three nights ago on the plains.”
Jaela’s eyes widened. Without a word, she rushed past Holden toward the room where the old man lay.
