by Remi Michaud
“Yes. Why was nothing done? Why wasn't he arrested?”
She sniffed and her glance was scornful. “He's a nobleman. A minor one but he's still one of them. What good would it have done? Besides it wasn't so bad. I just thought of someone else while he was...while...”
Before she turned away, Jurel saw the tear leaking from her eye and she shuddered. He thought she might fall over. Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed her cheek to his chest. As a floodgate opens to let a roaring deluge free, she began to weep with great heaving sobs, and she clutched his shirt, perhaps afraid that she would be washed away.
“I'm so sorry, Erin,” he said as she wept. “I'm so sorry.”
* * *
They sat together by the pond, staring into its depths, chattering idly. He skipped little round stones while she held her knees tight to her breast and rocked ever so slightly back and forth, back and forth.
“So how's married life treating you?”
“Oh he's a good man. He tries so hard to make me happy. I wish I could be, a little more. For him. It's just...”
“I understand.” And he thought he did but he did not see the quiet glance she shot at him.
“How's your father? Have you seen him since you left?”
He remained silent. It was something he did not want to talk about. It was something he did not want to remember. Besides, no one at the farm knew anything about him, about what had happened. What could he say?
“Jurel?”
With a sigh, he shook his head. “He died. Some time ago.”
“Oh! Oh god, oh Jurel. I'm so sorry.” Her hand pressed against his back. “What happened?”
Oddly, as the memory replayed itself in his mind,
the sergeant barked a command and without hesitation a soldier drew his sword and plunged it into Daved's chest. The tip tore through his back and up, glistening wetly in the light and Daved gasped in surprise
he felt very little. Not that he felt nothing. No, certainly not. It was like the sting of fingers numbed by cold. It bit deep but it was far away, almost ignorable.
But the question was out there. How would he answer? How could he answer?
“He was injured.”
It was an inadequate answer and he knew it. He hoped she would understand.
“What happened to you?”
There it was. There was the question that, above all, he really did not want to answer. There was the real reason he had tried to avoid seeing anyone during his visit. There was the reason he escaped to here in the first place.
“I don't understand. What do you mean?” he asked lamely.
“You seem...different. Changed.”
“Changed? Me?”
“Don't be dense, Jurel. Look at you. Dressed in fine silks like a nobleman yourself. And look, you've got a sword. You of all people. What's more, it looks like it belongs there. I watched you walk this way earlier. You looked like...you looked like a wolf on the prowl.
“There's something about you. A—oh I don't know, a presence. Like you're more here. Does that make any sense? What happened?”
He barked a laugh. Changed. Yes he supposed he was, at that. “It's a very long story.”
Her eyes pled, her entire bearing was that of a woman searching for salvation, looking for some reason to go on. “Please, Jurel. Can't you tell me any of it? I need to understand at least a little.”
He owed her that much. He owed her some reason why, just as they had become close, he had run off, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, only to pop back up a year and a half later, after...well after too much had happened. So he began, starting with how he had met Kurin in Tack, and how they had run when news arrived of Shenk. At that her eyes turned down.
“It was you then. I hoped it wasn't.”
“He attacked me. It was kill or be killed. I had no choice.”
He told more of his story, though he kept great big wads of it to himself. She did not need to know what he had discovered about himself. He ended with his escape from the dungeons—which he embellished a great deal, placing the brunt of the escape on Daved's shoulder. He told her a little more of how his father had met his end, but after that, he petered off, not wanting to say anymore, wishing that he could have what he said back.
“There's more.”
That was one of the things that had attracted him to her in the first place. Her mind was sharp.
“Yes, there is but there's a lot I still don't understand myself. I don't know how to explain it.”
There was a heavy silence, and Jurel had the distinct impression that she was weighing whether or not to press the issue.
“So what will you do now?” she said, seeming to settle on the innocuous question.
“I don't know.”
He was surprised when she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“I've missed you, you know. Your father told me that you had to go. Your father told me...what you said. I tried to be okay with it but I was so angry at you. Why didn't you ask me to go with you? I would have. Gladly.”
“Take you with me?” he gasped. “I didn't know where I was going. It was the dead of winter and it was freezing out. I didn't know if I would survive the day. I couldn't do that to you. Besides, I didn't think you'd want to run off with a monster like me.”
“Jurel Histane!” Her back went rigid and she straightened to face him with some of the fire that he had thought doused by Valik igniting in her eyes. “Never, never say that. We all thought of doing exactly what you did. We all wished that someone would but we were too afraid. That cad had it coming for years. Hells, most of us cheered when we heard what you did to him.”
He stared in numb surprise at her but he had no time to formulate a response. At the crest of the hill, there came a shouted, “Halloo!”
Both of them turned and watched as Darren descended the slope. He approached them with a wide grin and a sparkle in his eye. And Jurel knew it was forced.
“How did I know that I would find you here?” Darren asked jovially.
Jurel let a grin of his own shine through. “Oh I don't know. Maybe because this was always the best place to be?”
Darren laughed. “Hello dear,” he said to his wife and kissed her on the cheek.
* * *
It is an odd thing how sometimes life repeats itself so perfectly, so exactly, that even though the time is different and experience is a weight that changes everything, there is still that intense sense of doing the same thing over and over, or having seen something for the second time, even if there is an absolute certainty that it was the first time.
So it was as Jurel sat by the shore skipping little round stones and Darren sat beside him holding his knees to his broad blacksmith's chest as though they were ten years old again. They chattered idly about really nothing at all, both of them skirting the real issues, both of them dancing around each other like fighters in an arena.
But ultimately, they ran out of things to say as always seems to be the case when old acquaintances meet. After that first rush of excitement at seeing a familiar face from the past, and after all those things are discussed that are always discussed during the few heady moments after recognition (“How's the wife? How you been? Any kids yet? What are you up to these days?”), there is always that uncomfortable silence and for some reason Jurel began to expect Darren to say something like, “We should get together sometime.”
It would have been easier if that was all Darren said. Instead, after that awkward silence had fallen between them, with an expression like a wounded animal, and keeping his eyes averted, he spoke quiet words that wrung Jurel's very core.
“I love her, you know.”
“I know, Darren.”
“I have for years.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to take her with you?”
Jurel's heart nearly broke. Here was his one-time best friend, the boy who had protected him from the worst of Valik's bullying turned into a man that cou
ld likely break an ox in half, sounding like he was pleading for his life.
“No.”
“She would if you asked her, you know. It's you she loves. She only married me to keep Valik away from her. He's a complete ass but even he has enough sense to stay away from a married woman. His title wouldn't protect him then. We haven't even...uh...formalized our marriage yet, if you get my meaning. It's not that she doesn't care about me, it's just that it's you she's always wanted.”
“I think I get the picture.”
Repressing a flash of annoyance, Jurel sighed and leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him. He had begun to understand something. He had come to find his past again, to find that idyllic time when he had been ignorant of the world, of Soldiers of God and Salosians, of himself. But things were not always what they seemed. Escaping the present is like trying to escape your own skin. Somewhere deep inside, it seemed there was a mutinous part of him, a part that operated under its own agenda. A part of him that wondered if perhaps it would be best to leave the past in the past. That would certainly have included wooing and marrying Erin. And that would explain, far more thoroughly than the reason he tried to convince himself with, why he was here at this farm again.
And it seemed that quiet, treacherous part of him was right. Here he was at the farm, here he was looking for his past but all he found were remains picked to a dry skeleton by the scavenger known as Time. Galbin was gone and so was Daved. With Valik in charge, the farm was a shambles. Erin was married, already lost to him, and all he could think of was Metana. Even when Erin was wrapped in his arms, even when he felt her warmth flowing through him, in his mind he saw raven black hair, spectacular eyes that changed color the way a sea does depending on the sky above, and a smile that always managed to stop his heart. He knew it was not possible. Not after what he had done. But he would not be satisfied with anyone else. He would rather live his life alone, in misery, than settle for second best. He shuddered. After what he had caused, after what he had become, living alone with his misery would still be best for everyone.
His past was gone. He had no choice but to admit it. What use to dwell on it? What use to pine for days long gone, days as ephemeral as yesterday's wind? Was that not the cause of so much bitterness? So much resentment? But then what did he have? Emptiness? Anger? Terror? A bunch of people who wanted him to be something that he fervently did not want to be, to do things that horrified and terrified him?
“Look Darren. There's nothing for you to fear. I didn't come to poach. I came to see if there was anything left here of my past. There isn't. Things are too different. There's no coming back for me. She's yours. Treat her right and in time she'll come to love you. Perhaps not as deeply as you love her but it could still be enough.”
Darren's gaze was sharp as he regarded his one-time friend. “What happened to you?”
“Oh gods. Not you too.”
“Seriously, you don't sound like the Jurel I remember. You barely even look like him.”
Jurel rose to his feet and clapped Darren on the shoulder. “Have a good life, my friend. Be happy and take care of her.”
Then he turned and trudged back up the slope, away from Darren, away from Erin, away from his past. Not once did he look back.
* * *
He was not entirely sure why he had agreed to stay the night. After dinner, a feast that would surely have made a king proud while beggaring his subjects—and was mostly thrown in the trash; the half dozen people at the table barely made a dent in the mound of food—after Valik had sauntered away like the cock of the walk, Ingirt and Erin had implored him and though he managed to decline the first few times, they kept at it until finally he conceded that he would not leave until the following morning.
He had spent the next two hours consoling a broken Ingirt. He should have kept news of his father to himself.
Sleep eluded him for his mind was too full, too buffeted by what he finally understood. He lay tossing and turning in the hastily prepared bed, in the dark staring at nothing, hoping dawn would soon break though he knew it was still hours away. Several times he tried to push away his thoughts, to clear his mind with a meditation exercise Metana had taught him but it did no good. The braces that his mind had created, the buffers it had put in place in an attempt to create a sort of subconscious safety-net were crumbling, tumbling away and it left him feeling raw, chafed, like being dragged across gravel behind a maddened horse.
In the midst of his thoughts there came the sound of his door opening.
A whisper, “Jurel?”
“Erin? What are you doing here?”
A faint snick as his door was gently shut and then light footsteps crossed the room to his bedside. His blanket lifted and he was shocked when she snuggled in beside him, pressing herself close. He was doubly shocked when the pale moonlight filtering in through the crack in the window drapes revealed that she wore only a thin shift and he could see every curve of her, every contour, every soft corner reflected like fresh milk. Her hands played across his chest, her lips brushed his neck as she nuzzled him, her breath tickled warmly.
If a beautiful, mostly naked woman crawls into a man's bed and makes her intentions perfectly clear, what is that man expected to do? Especially when that man has been searching for an outlet, a way to connect with something or someone from his past?
He felt himself tremble, heard a low growl escape his throat. He turned to her, pulled her close, drew her lips to his. She moaned as their lips connected, as she pressed herself closer. Her hands began exploring, tracing his muscles, running the length and breadth of him. She moaned as she gripped him, began to move her hand rhythmically. With her other hand, she lowered his trousers. He rolled on top of her and, between her thighs, he let himself be drawn forward by her guiding hand. Her heat enveloped him. He moaned, a low animal sound.
“Yes,” she moaned against his lips. “Yes. Oh I love you, Jurel.”
It was like a slap in the face. He froze, and opened his eyes to the woman under him. Her lips parted slightly, she smiled, her eyes like hot embers. He lurched backward, falling off the bed in a tangle of blankets and trousers.
“What's the matter?” she asked.
Panting, he closed his eyes. Waves of hot and cold chased each other up and down his limbs.
“We can't,” he groaned. “Gods help me, I can't.”
She sat up and pulled the blankets close as though for protection, like a shield, from a mortal attack. “I don't...”
“We can't Erin. We can't do this.”
“But I love you.” Her voice was small. “I thought you loved me too.”
“I did. I thought I did. There's been too much, Erin. Too much has happened to me. I can't.”
“I have thought of you every day for the past year and more. I have waited and hoped and prayed for your return. Every day, I longed for you. Every day, I went to bed disappointed and alone. When Valik was violating me, it was you I was thinking about. It was you who was my solace.”
“And now you're married. To a good man. To my friend. He'll treat you well, better than I could. And...” He paused. What he would say next would be that mortal attack; no blanket would shield her. All things considered, it would also be mostly a lie. Perhaps that would be all right. Perhaps it would be better this way. If it kept her safe, if it kept her comfortable and at peace, then it would be worth it.
Screwing up his courage for the inevitable outburst, he finished what he meant to say. “There's someone else. I love her and she loves me. I'm sorry.”
There was no outburst. There were no histrionics. There were not even any tears. There was only an eternity of silence compressed into one wounded moment before she hitched her breath, and before he could say anything else, she flew from his room, slamming the door shut behind her.
* * *
He tossed and turned, cursing Erin for putting them in that position, bitterly berating himself for letting it happen. He muttered curses as he tried t
o find a comfortable position but for some reason, no matter which way he turned, there was either some part of him stretched too far, or some unruly, ridge-like wrinkle in the linens pushing up into his flesh.
He struggled with images of Metana, the hurt look she had given him before he sent her away, the hurt look he imagined she would give him if she knew what he had done that night. He struggled with images of Erin, and a thousand others from his childhood, that floated up from the depths to haunt him like vengeful ghosts. He struggled for a long time before he finally succumbed to a fitful doze.
* * *
He did not know what awakened him. Not at first. His eyes flew open and he stared into the bruised gray darkness of predawn light that filtered through a crack between the curtains covering the window. He listened, his ears straining for whatever it was.
There was a creak, a floorboard protesting under load.
His instincts screamed.
He rolled from the bed and as he hit the floor on his hands and knees, there was a dull thump from above. He surged to his feet. For an instant, he could not understand what he was seeing. His rumpled bed had a knife hilt sticking out of the mattress right about where his heart would have been if he had not moved. He raised his eyes and standing across the bed from him were two shadows. One of them moved. The dim light caught rugged, ragged features and Merlit's beady little eyes.
The other began to circle the bed toward him with one hand extended. A very long, very sharp shadow stretched down from that hand.
It was too much. Oh but it was too much. Ever since Metana, nothing had gone right. Ever since his father, ever since Kurin, ever since...ever since...
Every person has a limit, a point, when reached, pure instinct takes over. A point when the part of the mind that is sane and rational steps back in disgust, says “Screw this. I'm outta here,” and the deepest most turbulent emotions boil to the surface unabated. Logic and thought breaks down, dissipates into a formless mist, and action becomes the order of the day. Jurel had reached that point.
