by Ava D. Dohn
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“You shiver.” Treston spoke with concern as he wrapped his officer’s cloak around Sirion’s shoulders. “Saying that you are fine does not make it so. Why push yourself so hard when even the surgeons suggest a little more bed rest would do you good?”
Sirion pulled the cloak tight as she fussed over the motherly treatment. “I’m fine… a little tired, maybe, and yes, my knees are a bit shaky after this long walk, but I’m fine. The exercise is doing me good.”
She squeezed Treston’s hand, smiling her appreciation. “Your bringing me here has lifted my spirits so.”
Treston’s worry refused to retreat. “Still, you must be careful not to catch your death of cold. You’re barely back on your feet and being about. It’s still dangerous for someone in your condition to stress oneself. My wife succumbed to the fever in weather little different from this.”
Sirion stopped, eyeing Treston. “My dear man, remember where you are. You fared little better than your wife in that hopeless world of yours… just were forced to live a bit longer in it. I’m a witch… true, not with powers equal to many, but a witch, none the less. I am from these Upper Worlds, born of Mother’s blood and sired by Whispering Shadows, or so go the fables taught by the Ancients such as PalaHar.”
She looked down at her fingers, recalling their tortured crushing and mutilation. “How quickly we children of this world mend! Your kind often languished a lifetime with the scars from war and injury. We – me - my kind bounce back quickly, though it may take a while with certain damage.” She pointed at an eye that shimmered ghostly grey in early evening light. “Yet one day it will heal completely.”
Taking Treston’s hand, Sirion continued their journey through the Silent Tombs. “Do not forget how ancient I am in the eyes of your kind. Born I was before the strife of the Third Age, I witnessing the downfall of both our worlds. More damaged in body I have been than by the tortures of Legion and his madmen. To the point of death, my shattered body has been carried from the horrid field one more than one occasion, my face blown away once when my fighter exploded around me, my arms torn from my body at MegLaMore while holding the fortress gate, and my innards cleaved at Memphis, just to name a few of my more serious injuries.”
She shook her head in contemplation. “The children of this world are made of tough stuff! Hard to break, we are. We weren’t designed to get sick or stay hurt, the same as your Adam had been before he rebelled.”
Sirion looked up at the countless graves and monuments surrounding them, answering a question not asked. “Oh yes, we die - by the millions we have - but countless more have lived. Some of our veterans have suffered mutilation, torture, and defilement countless times, and still they return to the bloodied field. Indeed, I think few of the old guard in the ranks have not suffered major injury - and on numerous occasions - even our king, Mihai, Gabrielle, Zadar, and… and so many others.”
Sirion wheezed. Treston took her arm. “Well, my valiant knightress, may I suggest you save your words for the songs you wish to sing, and I, your faithful squire, shall assist you with your quest?”
The woman was not amused. “I do not stubbornly pretend power when help is…” She coughed, bringing up some bloodied mucus. Quietly nodding, she leaned on Treston’s arm for support.
The two slowly trudged pathways long become familiar to Treston since Sirion’s captivity. He carefully led Sirion along the darkening trails as the sun faded into evening shadows. Each time they came to a chosen grave, Sirion would repeat her little ritual, singing to lost love before carefully placing some flowers on the grave’s earthen mound.
Late evening found Treston and Sirion down in the deep draw, with Sirion singing her songs of lament to Periste. When finished, she stood, placing some of the flowers remaining upon the grave. Treston asked, curious, “Are we not at the end? Yet more flowers you carry in your hand...”
Sirion looked over at him, moonlight reflecting off tears welling up in her eyes. “No, not tonight… Somewhere else I must go, but I fear my strength is waning. Will you assist me, my valiant and loyal squire?”
After making their way back up the draw past the bubbling brook, the two turned toward the west, past the memorial wall and on toward the nearing orchards. At length, they came to several freshly dug graves. There, in the golden glow of a waxing moon, Treston read a hastily placed, engraved plaque fastened upon a rough-hewn, oaken beam:
For the brave and valiant few who suffered the will of foe
to guarantee our security and freedom.
To our fallen heroes of the Zephath...
Sirion slowly sat down between two of the new graves, her fingers caressing the damp, bare mounds. She looked up at Treston, tears streaming down her face. “These are my brothers and sisters. I loved each of them as I have loved you. I watched each of them die… one at a time… one at a time.”
With shaky hands, she placed some of her flowers on the mounds, attempting to sing sweet night songs to them in remembrance. After the longest silence, the girl cried, “Oh my! Oh my!” She began to sob. “I have no songs left to sing. No willpower in my soul or music in my heart to make melody to lost companions!”
Looking toward the sky, Sirion began to wail. “Why does the urchin child live when the brave and valiant wither about me?! Give me rest! Oh, God, please give your wicked little child rest! Let me die the death of the unforgiven - for unforgiven I should be. Let me hide in forgotten lands, to ever rest in forgotten dreams.”
Flinging her arms high, Sirion screamed out to the stars, beseeching them. “You have made a road impossible to travel - a journey my mortal strength cannot withstand. Please! Take this cup of torment away from me! Let me die!”
Treston caught the girl up as she collapsed in his arms. She looked up into his face, whimpering. “I’m afraid… so afraid. Hold me please, for I fear your Kriggerman, yet long for his deathly touch. What do I do? What do I do?”
Holding Sirion close, he gently rocked her back and forth. “My world had many gods and lords, but one in particular I find even haunts yours. My mother sang of it when I was but a little lad. Would you like me to sing her song to you?”
Sirion smiled, saying she would. Snuggling her head in Treston’s arms, she closed her eyes.
Treston cleared his voice, offering his apologies for not being a polished songster.
“Listen, my little child, and here me sing
A love song for only your ears.
Winter winds howl and darkness creeps close,
But the hearth-fire makes it cozy in here.
A man went a walking to the song of a bird.
He wandered far and lost sight of his home.
He fell into danger from a trove of old trolls,
Who tried to frighten him clear to his bones.
“Let’s smash him then cook him and eat him up clean,”
Cried the monsters, as they drew out their knives.
“Do be careful, my good fellows.” grinned the toothy young man.
“If you’re smart and truly value your lives.”
They all laughed and moved forward, holding blades high in hand.
But fear soon replaced the mirth in their eyes.
For the man grew in stature ‘til almost touching the clouds.
He laughed, “I am the Lord of Distress in disguise!”
And the trove of old trolls cowered, all frozen in place,
‘Til the last one down the man’s palate did slide.
For the fear of distress is a most crippling foe.
Even monsters must by it abide.
So, my child, please listen and learn from my word,
From the Lord of Distress do not quail.
When you see him out walking to the song of a bird,
Keep your distance from him and prevail.”
Thrice more Treston sang the verses of the little ditty given him so long ago. Each time the
lyrics, ‘From the Lord of Distress do not quail’, were sung, Sirion slunk further into Treston’s arms until, finally, after he completed the tune the last time, she was fallen fast asleep.
It was a long, arduous walk back to the motor-coach for Treston, what with his desire not to wake Sirion. The woman was rather small in stature and underweight from her previous ordeal to boot. Even so, a half league on darkened pathways did make a difficult journey for the man. He was greatly relieved to see that his companion remained fast asleep after he lay her down in the rear seat of the machine.
For the longest time, Treston stood there, staring down at his charge, pondering this world and its people, his own life past and present, and what the future might hold. Who were these people, anyway? Fearless, resolute, and formidable, ruthless in combat and passionately gentle in love, having bravery harboring on madness while harboring the insecurity of a forlorn child, what were they about?
No better example of this kind was there than Sirion - tough as nails yet as soft and gentle as a mother’s touch, willing to die for her kindred but unable to live for herself, able to look beyond the straw-man and see Treston as some noble savior while castigating herself for secret failures. Yet, somehow, through all the strife and tribulation she, like Lowenah’s other children, had held it together, brought things to a finish, at least within sight of the finish, and now he, this miserable straw-man, was risen up and gifted to be part of this great host that was about to change history.
As he considered these things, Treston could not help but think of Lowenah. How the Maker of Worlds had suffered, fighting the Rebellion without, and her own demons within. Yes, he had seen it, at the Council of Eighty, and at other times. Self-deprecating she could be at times, but always springing back, taking the lead and building up her children when no hope remained in them. He smiled to think he had been allowed to become part of this mad wild circus of poets, dreamers and clowns.
Treston looked away toward the eastern Heavens, his eyes searching far across the universe as he called out defiantly to the Wicked Host. “Fallen man of stone and dust, where hath your powers delivered you this day? Look and see, and become afraid, watch your cities burn and your worlds dissolve to nothing! We come! The ghost hunters from Avaddohn’s Abyss… avenging our blood… hungering to devour your soul. Do not tempt our path, for the Dragonslayers shall give you no quarter!”
He angrily shook his fist toward the sky. “Phoenix burns! And all men, good and evil, with it...!”
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