That must be why everything was so still now, so that he could hear his own heartbeat. How unfair though, that his heart should beat so, and hers should not—and she was so cold, so very cold! The river had made her cold, she could catch a chill, and...
It was Raphael who eventually spoke. He inched over to where the young man sat and leaned close to touch his young friend’s shoulder. “D’ata—” There was a long pause. “D’ata, my friend, she’s...”
The voice sounded very far away, but persisted in meddling with his affairs, and it annoyed him.
“Don’t!” he hissed, “don’t touch her!” His head jerked up and his muddied and tear streaked face was contorted with grief and rage. “Don’t touch her!” he repeated, holding a clenched fist up at him, as though he would hit his dearest friend. His fingertips were blue from the cold.
Raphael hardly recognized the young man, reposed upon the riverbank with the maiden in his arms.
Turning back to his beloved, D’ata gathered her up against him again, rocking her gently. “Don’t touch her, you might disturb her—you might awaken her.”
D’ata wondered—why had Julianne turned so gray? Her gray hair, her gray eyes and skin? Everything was void of color except for the horrible red. He rubbed at the bloody stain, trying to rid the dress of it, but finally abandoned the task. No matter, he loved her just the same, even if she was gray. It was her heart that he loved, the beauty of her soul—and their baby.
No matter, though. They would be together forever, even in a black and white world.
* * *
“D’ata, son...” His father knelt beside him and laid his hand gently on his arm. “Son, come home with me. Julianne is gone.” His head dropped. “God has taken her, my son.”
“No! Get away!” He jerked his arm away. “You lie! You’ve always lied!” He screamed like a wild animal, hissing, his eyes wide and tormented.
“No, D’ata!” his father pleaded, “I love you child. I have always loved you!” He wrung his hands, “Forgive me, son. I would never have...come home with your mother and me, please!”
Monsieur Cezanne wept at his son’s pain. How had they allowed such a horrible thing to happen? He fell to his knees beside his son. “D’ata, I’m so sorry! Please, let me—”
“No! I can’t leave her! They’ll take her away again,” D’ata accused, untrusting. He narrowed his eyes at them. “Get away from me or—or, I’ll kill you! All of you!” He clutched Julianne’s lifeless body, willing them to leave. There was the matter of her being so cold and wet that needed tended to, and the red stain. Such an awful color—that red.
Monsieur Cezanne wept softly, swallowed heavily. “Son, you’ve been here three days; we’ll watch her—We’ll take care of Julianne.”
It was Henri who knelt now, crippled and bent. It had been a struggle for the twisted old man to make the journey, but hearing of the trouble, he’d mounted a horse for the first time in nearly fifteen years and had ridden nonstop to the river's edge. He took D’ata’s hand in his own. Crouching, he leaned his own withered head softly against the shoulder of his young friend. “D’ata, I promise, we’ll take her home with us. We won’t take her away again, ever.” He gently turned D’ata’s face slowly up towards his own, his own weathered face kind and sincere. “See? I have warm blankets here—we’ll take her home with us. I promise.”
There was a spark of familiarity about the one who spoke so kindly to him. D’ata searched the old eyes, set deep into the craggy folds of skin, and asked, “Together? We can stay together? They would accept this?”
Henri nodded. “They do son, as it should have always been—they do. Come home, D’ata, and bring Julianne.”
The river swept on, deep and muddy, silently cementing its sad secret onto its bank for eternity.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
†
The Dungeon: Three a.m.
D’ata stopped his narration, leaning heavily against Ravan. It was as though a great weight had been unburdened, to speak out loud of such a terrible thing.
The prisoner sat as still as stone, afraid to disturb the tragedy that had just presented itself to him. Now he knew. As he felt D’ata’s shoulders sag against him, he suddenly and intimately knew the grief that was still so raw in his brother’s heart. Secretly, he tried to count the years since Julianne died...three? four?
A rat reached up to chew the old and cracking leather boot on his right foot and the mercenary kicked at the vermin, sending it scurrying away under the straw. “I don’t know what to say...”
There was a long silence and Ravan thought D’ata must have fallen to sleep.
But then his brother replied, “You don’t have to say anything. It’s past now—it’s all right. I’m all right. I am a priest again.” D’ata lied wearily.
The night paused, for a long and sad span of time. Ravan swallowed heavily, wiping the wet from his eyes so that they would not betray him. It was so much easier when pain was his own. “I’m so sorry, D’ata,” was all that he said.
It was the second time D’ata heard Ravan say his name, and the sound was somehow comforting to him. Sad, but oddly familiar, like the sound an autumn breeze makes as it blows leaves from the trees—a melancholy sweetness, a voice of things to come.
“Thank you Ravan,” he replied and turned towards his brother.
After a few quiet moments, Ravan probed, “D’ata, I was wondering?”
“Yes?”
“Do you see in colors now?” Ravan turned his head just slightly, to hear his brother's whispered reply.
“No...”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
†
Ravan left LanCoste to tend the shift the next evening. Adorno was uncharacteristically quiet during the tradeoff. He did not whine as he usually did about being guarded by the ‘monster, hideous fool, cursed creation.’ He had many names for LanCoste.
The giant had no feelings about the verbal onslaught Adorno offered. It simply did not exist as a weapon that might injure him. LanCoste would obey Duval. The situation was appointed—no more, no less. He would do his job, then if Duval wished, he would just as quickly kill him and think nothing of it. Again, emotion did not factor into it.
LanCoste had no memory other than his indenture to Duval. He did not dream, did not consider tomorrow, and had no one that he called friend. Except recently, ever since that day on the battlefield not so long ago. Something had happened to him, since then. LanCoste frowned as he remembered that day in battle, and he struggled to sort out a new and unfamiliar feeling.
* * *
Ravan snapped the arrow off close to the fletching. It had entered left, just below the scapula on the giant’s back, piercing even the plated armor. Such was the deadly nature of a long-bowman’s arrow.
Ravan had shot the enemy archer and secured the battle before coming to LanCoste’s aid.
The archer who delivered the barb was tall, for the arrow was long and weighty, indicating the man had an arm to match it in length and strength. It pierced the vast expanse of LanCoste’s chest all the way through.
By the time Ravan stepped next to him, the giant knelt on one knee, his right elbow resting heavily upon the other bent knee, head hanging, massive and loose. His wound was mortal and he steeled himself for what was to come
Ravan stepped up behind him, drew a sharp breath and snapped the arrow off close to the skin. Then, he knelt in front of his wounded friend, the broken butt of the arrow in his hand. The shaft and barb still protruded from high in the giant’s chest.
“Do you want me to—?” Ravan asked a moment too late.
LanCoste grasped the arrow about the shaft and drew if from himself before Ravan could finish his sentence.
As the weapon left the giant’s body, a gush of air and an alarming amount of frothy blood poured forth and continued to gush with every breath he drew.
Ravan was alarmed to see the big man slowly draw the arrow out, and was even more distressed as he observed Lan
Coste’s struggle to breathe. Instinctively, he pulled the chain-mail from the mercenary. Then, he pulled a knife from his belt and swept it upwards, splitting LanCoste’s shift down the front in one swift movement, stem to stern.
“That was my best tunic,” the giant managed.
It was an uncommon attempt at levity, and Ravan may have been amused if he'd not been looking at the lifeblood running so alarmingly from the arrow hole. “Shut up,” Ravan said urgently. He probed the hole gently with his fingers, observing the gush of air that sucked in whenever LanCoste drew a breath and the subsequent spurt of bright frothy red, gushing as he exhaled.
It was a disturbing amount of blood, even for the size of the great man, and soon the ground they knelt upon was red with it.
“Something’s wrong,” Ravan murmured as he continued to probe the hole.
“Really?” LanCoste grunted as he lifted his head to regard his friend.
Ravan glared briefly at the stoic and rare stab at humor the giant displayed and noticed the cadaver blue tint on the lips of his comrade.
The giant was weakening and struggling even more to breathe.
LanCoste could now scarcely take a breath, and was fading fast. Ravan grabbed from his saddle the food pouch, pulling from it the salt pork brick. He quickly whittled a narrow slab, using one piece for the hole in the front and one for the hole in the back. Slapping a fatty salt patch over each hole, he bound it securely against the giant’s torso with strips of the already ripped tunic.
Ravan instinctively did the right thing, without even realizing it...he sealed the wounds.
LanCoste swayed heavily, cyanosis getting the best of him, and Ravan supported his friend, fearful should the man go down he would never again rise.
Almost immediately, LanCoste steadied. The seesaw breathing corrected itself and the blue faded subtly from the man’s lips and massive fingertips.
Ravan murmured kindly, “Stay with me, my friend. I won’t let harm come to you. You deserve the sun on your back another day.”
Eyes closed, wretched head sagging heavily, LanCoste heard Ravan, felt the steadying arm around his shoulders, and was bewildered at the kindness.
Men feared the giant, even the other mercenaries. His sheer size made him a formidable warrior and his fearsome appearances and stonewalled stoicism effectively kept others from becoming familiar with him. As a result, LanCoste was isolated, a lone warrior—more so even than the other mercenaries. He truly had no one.
An arrow through the chest was strongly considered a terminal event. Others would have left a mercenary where he fell with such an injury. Yet, Ravan patted him gently on the shoulder and steadied him, whispering words of encouragement and kindness. This stunned the giant more than the injury ever could have.
After he recovered, LanCoste paid closer attention to Ravan. He noticed, with an impassive disengagement, how Ravan watched the other mercenaries, positioned himself to aide in battle and defended a man down. It was uncommon, the allegiance he displayed even to ones who had been unkind to him. He also watched as Ravan forbid the harm of innocents, the elderly, infirm, women and children.
LanCoste observed Ravan run a man through for the rape of a woman after battle; one of Duval’s men had committed the crime. Ravan launched the arrow, shot the man through the back at fifty paces, causing the attacker to fall from the girl.
The maiden knelt and exalted thanks onto him, hands raised and head bowed.
Ravan turned and walked away, as though not knowing what to say, offering no comment at all.
None had ever spoken of the killing to Duval. Death of another mercenary by the hand of one of Duval’s own was forbidden, but no one exposed Ravan for the event. This meant one of two things, allegiance—or fear.
On another occasion, LanCoste saw Ravan sever the carotid of a man who had been crushed by his fallen horse. The man lie paralyzed, twisted and bent, unable to move arms or legs and struggling to breathe. The giant watched Ravan cradle the man and speak softly, as he drew the blade sharply across his neck, speaking in comforting whispers to him while the lifeblood ran mercifully quick into Ravan’s lap.
Therefore, it was this evening, as LanCoste took his place at watch, that he felt nothing as Adorno tossed a single insult his way. Instead, his thoughts were of the unlikely mercenary which fate had brought to him. He recalled again the memory of Ravan saving his life and then struggled with a notion that had haunted him more frequently as of late.
What to call him? Comrade, ally, partner-in arms? What was this feeling he struggled with? He wondered, was this his first and only—friend?
* * *
Ravan, on the other hand, had more pressing feelings tonight, feelings of a different sort. He also had other plans. He'd received more than a belly full of Adorno and was tired of being the misguided weapon of others. He was finally prepared to come to terms with his destiny. Ravan was no longer a child, and with some thanks to Duval, he'd become stronger than even he could have ever imagined.
No more could he carry the destiny of others upon his shoulders. Ravan was ready to make another run—a run for a life of his own. He was no longer the boy who’d fled the Inn, stumbling through the cold forest, chased by men and hounds. He was Ravan—mercenary, warrior, and harbinger of death. Most significantly, however, he was now a man possessed of his own free will.
It was time—time to make his stand, to get away, and it would be a run like never before.
These were his thoughts as he approached Nicolette’s room late this night. She'd made him realize this over the past few months. Words, looks, a touch of her hand. Even as her wedding approached it was she who’d changed things.
The guards at her door looked quizzically at each other as he approached.
His long dark hair free and wild, his eyes murderous with fire, his heart full and ready to be damned, he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as he strode purposefully towards the door.
Glancing briefly at one another, the guards instinctively backed away without saying a word.
Slamming the door open, he swept into the room. She wasn’t there, but her window was open, the curtains gently swaying in the frosty breeze. He stepped to the window and stopped in his tracks when he saw her. She was standing on the balcony railing four stories up, hands outstretched in the night’s cool breeze as she gazed upward at the new full moon.
For a moment, he just stood frozen, watching her. He could not tear his eyes from her. “Nicolette...” his voice sounded strange to his own ears.
Slowly, she turned. Without saying a word, she seemed to float down from the banister and reached a hand out to him.
Ravan took it and pulled her to him, embracing her in a deep and passionate kiss.
She started to reach for the ties of his trousers, but he grabbed her hand, “No—we are leaving.”
Staring up into his eyes, curiosity tugged at the edges of her blood red lips. Nodding and without saying a word, she moved towards the door without even stopping to pick up a cloak.
He held firmly to her hand and stopped her. Looking around the room, he walked to her armoire and threw the doors open. Rifling through the gowns, he finally snatching from a hook a thick hooded cloak, lined with wool and edged with fur. He flung it over his arm and started for the door. “You are with me now,” he stated as though the whole world already knew this to be true.
Nicolette swept from the room with him, half running, half dragging along behind him, her face stoic and altogether calm. The guards simply looked at each other, confusion on their faces.
As fast they could, the couple ran down the back stairs of the castle, spiraling down, taking the servants routes to the ground floor. From there, they bolted for the stable and Ravan approached his warhorse.
The magnificent animal stomped its feet nervously in recognition and eager anticipation as Ravan quickly bridled and saddled it. By then, there was noise from the castle as people came awake with the alarm.
The stallion
tossed its head, eyes wide, impatient that they'd so recently ceased their murderous campaigns to only stand about in a stall. Then, strangely, it calmed as Nicolette reached a small hand out towards it. As he pulled the cinch tight, Ravan glanced over his shoulder at the animal’s strange and suddenly docile behavior, but by now, nothing surprised him about Nicolette. It stood prancing in place as he swung onto the stallion, his arrows quivered, his sword in its scabbard.
“I want you, Ravan,” Nicolette said, looking up at him, so small, so peculiar, and utterly at peace.
He nodded and leaned over, reaching one arm around her waist. Hoisting her behind him onto the great beast, he said, “Hold on tight.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed.
Ravan unsheathed his sword and dug his heels into the sides of his beast.
The animal snorted, eyes rolling white and wild. It lunged like a deranged beast from the stable into the courtyard. Its iron hooves pounded the stone beneath, sending sparks flying up behind them as though from a forge.
By now, word of Nicolette’s abduction was beginning to spread throughout the castle as fast as a bad rumor. The alarms were sounded and the four guards at the gate stepped hesitantly into a nightmare’s path as the murderous wraith charged down upon them.
Several of them held up spears, uncertain how to stop the black demon, but senselessly, they were compelled to try.
It was a fatal mistake. Ravan’s sword was finely saw-toothed—its edges delicately splintered from the limbs it had severed, and it remained true to its master tonight. He halted the horse and maneuvered it easily. The stallion reared, front legs violently pawing the air, and when it came down, Ravan decapitated one of the men.
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