by J. C. Owens
He had rejoiced at his prince’s return, lost in the past, hopeful to regain all that he had lost, but it was not to be. On either of their parts.
At first it was because Amadan had little memory of him at all, much less of being lovers, but as he recovered, struggling every inch of the way, it became painfully clear that what they had had was not to be resurrected, for either of them. It had come as a painful shock to Torin, not finding the feelings he’d thought he’d always have for Amadan.
It came as no surprise to Paulsten. The strain between them, born of anger over what had befallen Aidan, wore upon him. His behavior had torn asunder their friendship, leading to a sort of cold acknowledgement and an uncomfortable working situation. He wished it to be different, but had no idea how to fix it, other than to repair what he had done to Aidan.
“If I find him, I will bring him here, if for no other reason than to determine if he really is my brother. I am tempted to lock you both in a room until you see sense.”
Torin snorted, a faint thread of humor working its way through his grim thoughts. “You can try, my king. He is no wilting flower.”
“Good. Maybe he can beat some sense into that thick skull of yours.” Amadan leaned forward over the massive desk. “I love you, my friend. What we had may no longer be possible, but my care for you is always part of me. I want the best for you, and if this—Aidan—is it, then you will have him. Over your own self-destructive protests.”
Torin stared at him, fighting back unseemly tears. “I want the best for you as well, my king. Always. Our—friendship—is everything to me. To have you back…” He choked, fought for composure.
He had thought himself over such displays after so long, but here he was again. Would he never heal from this?
Amadan leaned back in his chair, viewing him with that intense, solemn gaze that never failed to pierce Torin’s emotional armor, leaving him feeling vulnerable and utterly exposed. His king knew him all too well.
“You cannot continue to make me your priority, to use the country as an excuse to leave yourself barren. We have come far, and you have done more than any man could be expected to do. I think now, it is time for you to find out what you want, not what is expected of you.”
“I know nothing else. I don’t even know who I am any more. There is peace now, yet I can find none in my heart. I have been at war for so long, I don’t know how to stop, how to be still, how to find—myself.”
Who was he now? Before the war, the invasion, he had been light-hearted, perhaps a little naive, protected as he was by his noble position at the prince’s side. After so long as his people’s sole hope, he was staggered when the burden was taken from his shoulders, when Amadan became king. He no longer knew how to think, how to act. He had no place that required his skills, in this world he had fought so hard for.
He was lost.
He was Amadan’s head advisor, to be sure, but he was sadly lacking in peace time knowledge. He had been happy to stay at the wall, to oversee repairs and building of new guardhouses.
Now that was done, and he was afraid of where he could go next. Was there even a place for him anymore?
He was a man of action, and he was uneasy with being alone with himself. There were too many shadows in his soul, too much darkness to be comfortable in his own company.
It was evident, even to himself, that he was avoiding everything relating to healing himself, to facing the past and all its attendant horrors.
Many had tried to help, but he was not ready, not yet driven into a corner. He had come to the realization that he could and would do anything for others, but had no understanding of his own self, nor compassion for his pain. It was something to be put aside until there was time to deal with it.
Well, now there was time. Too damned much of it.
He took a sip of his wine, avoiding Amadan’s silent gaze.
A knock upon the door gave him a reprieve, and he thanked the gods for the interruption. Amadan could be merciless when he wanted, and he appeared bent on aiding Torin, whether he wanted it or not.
Paulsten entered the room at Amadan’s summons. His eyes slid to Torin with strange intensity, and he froze, certain that his friend—if friend he still considered himself—was up to something.
“My king, we have found him.”
The wine glass dropped from Torin’s nerveless fingers.
Chapter Eight
The sun was merciless that day, not a hint of cloud to soften the heat. The wind from the desert to the south of the fortress blew hot in itself, providing no relief.
Aidan shifted, sighing, and leaned on his spear, squinting against the glare. Northern-bred, he did not think he would ever become accustomed to the power of the sun here on the southern-most border of Ceratas.
He longed for the green hills and lush valleys he had known, but being here was a suitable punishment for his sins. Here he served his adopted country in blessed anonymity, with none to know his identity or revile him for it. It was the best he could hope for. It left him in blessed isolation, alone behind his ice walls.
An amusing visual, here in the land of heat and sand and ever cruel wind.
He shifted his grip upon the spear haft, from right hand to left, easing his arm. The break had never healed quite right and it grew painful if he overused it. He had led the practice this morning, as he often did.
The poor souls that were assigned to this tip of the country were often untried and with little training. The officers were glad enough to hand them over to Aidan, whose martial training now came in handy. Here he could help. It had gotten him into the ranks and now kept him useful, needed.
It was enough.
He was glad for sentry duty, sought it even, though the others thought him odd, his cold, emotionless demeanor winning him no friends. He loved the solitude of the walls, the peace of the desert, ageless, ever shifting, even in the burning glare of the sun. It held no pity, no sorrow, no emotion; it simply was.
He could cope in its silent presence.
One of the new guards walked past him, on water duty, and he accepted the offered flask with quiet thanks, drinking long and thirstily. The wind sucked the moisture from a man, leaving him dry in swift order, so water was essential. Replete at last, he handed back the container and turned back to the wall, wiping his lips on his sleeve.
The faintest movement to the west caught his eyes and he leaned forward on the parapet, squinting.
Dust from the main road. Perhaps a merchant caravan returning south. One had gone through two weeks ago, going west through the mountains then turning north toward the capital, coming from the mysterious, allied country to the south, Solare, bringing exotic wares into Ceratas. Now that peace was upon them, trade had prospered and the border was becoming busier all the time. Soon, this little fort would have to be rebuilt as the gateway for trade from the south, but for now, it broke the monotony for those stationed far from home.
Other guards gathered, curious.
They kept a respectful, cautious distance from Aidan. His martial skills had earned him that at least.
They waited, patient, though they had quickly ascertained that whoever the newcomers were, they were moving far too swiftly to be merchants. Perhaps new recruits were being brought? Perhaps a rotation was in order. He heard the excited murmuring beside him, but it had no impact upon him. If a rotation was to come, he would not be part of it. He would file a request to remain here, and shorthanded as they often were, they would gratefully accept, even if they thought he was quite mad.
He had heard the whispers, knew they suspected him of dodging the law by being posted here. They did not know he had volunteered, wanting to be as far as possible from the past.
They were free to speak and think as they wished. He held no care for their opinions.
He needed no one.
The dust intensified as the riders became more visible and there were exclamations of wonder at the banner they flew.
Aidan stiffened,
fingers clutching convulsively at the spear haft, his other hand touching the gun at his waist.
The royal symbol flew proudly above them, once again free to herald their king and his representatives.
The riders reached the gate, sweat evident on both horses and men, looking tired and worn. It was evident they had travelled far, and in such heat, that was foolish indeed.
The great gates swung open and they entered below Aidan’s position. He watched them, motionless, feeling threatened. He tried to shake off the feeling. There could be a thousand reasons why they were here, none of them even remotely involving him.
No need to panic.
The other guards clattered down the stone stairs, leaving Aidan and two others to man the walls.
Greetings were exchanged between the captain of the forces here and the leader of the riders. It was too far for Aidan to distinguish any words, but the look of surprise on the face of his captain signaled that this was no ordinary visit.
His unease deepened.
Withdrawing further onto the wall, he chose a spot where he was hidden from below, training his attention outward, feeling nervous tremors in his bad arm. He was being foolish.
No more than that.
As time passed and nothing occurred, he slowly began to relax, chastising his nervousness. This had nothing to do…
“Aidan!” He twitched, spinning on his heel to see one of the guards gesturing to him from the stairs. “Cap wants to see you. On the double.” He came to take Aidan’s place, eyeing him speculatively.
Aidan nodded to him, keeping his face expressionless. None would know the fear this summons engendered. He descended from the wall, painfully aware that several people in the courtyard were eyeing him, both newcomers and troops. Something was happening.
His heart began to pound and his grip upon his spear slipped with the sweat. He shifted it nervously, then propped it against the exterior wall of his captain’s office. Drawing a deep breath, he wiped his hands upon his breeches, then with head held high, entered the dimly lit interior.
His captain looked up, then gestured him to sit in a chair across from him. A stranger stood by the single window, backlit so that Aidan could barely make him out. Only enough to know that he was no one of Aidan’s acquaintance. He did not know if that was good or bad.
“You have been summoned to the capital. By the king himself.” His captain held out a small scroll, his eyes burning with curiosity he could not voice in front of the stranger.
Aidan sucked in a sharp breath, staring at the scroll as though it were a viper ready to strike. It took a few moments before he was able to force himself to reach out, to take it in hand and then finally, to unroll it.
It was, as the captain had said, a royal summons, and it indicated that he was wanted in haste.
“We will take fresh horses and leave at first light.” The stranger stepped forward, eyes fixed upon Aidan, a faint warning in his stance. He appeared to be a captain, by the bars on his uniform. And it was clear he expected Aidan to react adversely both to the summons and to his words.
Aidan’s fingers shook, but he drew his strength around him like a mantle, rolled up the summons and handed it back to the man. He nodded, unable to speak.
“I am told you have a horse of your own. Pack your possessions. You will not be returning.” The captain’s tone was mild enough, but the threat behind it made Aidan’s heart pound.
“Yes, sir,” he husked, not looking at anyone else in the room. “I will go prepare.”
His own captain looked between him and the newcomer. then nodded. “Dismissed. We will miss your skills. You did well here.”
Aidan bowed his head in acknowledgement, unable to speak for the fear that rose in waves to overwhelm his senses.
He saluted, the turned on his heel and exited the office. He walked blindly across the courtyard, vaguely aware that whispers rose in his path, stares followed him.
He slipped into the small, cramped room beneath the barrack’s stairs that had served as his lodging this past year. Its tiny confines had been his retreat, his protection against others. He could not have borne sharing a room with the rest of the men, and the captain had seen no harm in this small eccentricity. He slumped upon the pallet, head hanging, fingers clenching in his hair.
The wording of the scroll had been ambiguous at best. It could mean anything. He had shot the king, the prince at the time. Was he to be tried for that? Some sort of treason?
He flopped back and curled up on his side in a fetal position, trying to block out the world and his own fear.
He had been foolish to remain in Ceratas. He could have gone anywhere. There had been no fetters to bind him. And yet there had been, conscious or not. He had come to that realization long ago after tortured musings.
The love he bore for Torin. It remained, holding him to some faint, ridiculous hope. He had not been able to cross over the border, for that would be the true end of it all. So he had lingered here, pathetically, as though hoping for some magical resolution.
Now, it could well mean his life.
He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile search for comfort. He could try to escape, but no doubt they would be ready for such an attempt, and even if he succeeded, where would he go that his pain would not follow?
He was so tired. Tired of a past he could not understand, a birthright he would never know of. Of all he had been subjected to in the name of politics. They had done a wonderful job of destroying his self worth, he mused bitterly. They had created who and what he was, and despite all his efforts, the damage never seemed to heal. Torin himself had dealt the final blow. He was worth nothing. Did only harm in his clumsy attempts to aid others.
A tear slid down to the pillow and he turned his face into its softness.
Perhaps death was an acceptable outcome after all.
* * *
They’d travelled through the mountain pass and began to descend the other side. The horse’s hooves slid now and then on stray pebbles. Aidan shifted in the saddle, patting his mare’s neck. It would be sad to return her to Paulsten, and he would miss her gentle, affectionate companionship. At least she would be cared for. One less thing to worry for.
The men with him were silent, and he had begun to realize that they themselves were not exactly sure why he had been summoned so abruptly. They were not cold to him, had displayed nothing but calm efficiency and neutral attitudes, but he could feel their speculation as they stared at him. Wondering.
He pulled the coldness tighter around himself, trying to shield his mind from what was happening. If he was to die, he wanted to die with dignity, and he only hoped he could manage to uphold that wish.
In the end, he was an unwanted complication, a link to the enemy and a past that Ceratas needed to purge.
His death would be a cleansing of sorts.
The mare stumbled a little and his legs tightened. He drew her head up and patted her again, soothing her.
The climb had been steep and she was not used to such terrain. The area around the fortress had been flat for miles.
They finally reached the bottom of the slope, and the captain called a halt, perhaps more for Aidan’s mare’s benefit than any of the others. The other horses, lean and fit, were hardly blowing, but the men dismounted, loosening the saddle girths and giving their mounts small bits of water, letting them cool for a while before offering handfuls of grain.
Aidan dismounted, stiff and worn, leaning against the mare’s side for a moment, grimacing at his aches.
He had lost the fitness of a rider, it seemed.
The captain offered him a canteen of water, and he nodded thanks, sipping the precious fluid sparingly. The man raised a brow, but then he had not spent time at the desert front. He had not known thirst as Aidan had.
He handed the water back, then cared for his mare with loving touches and soft murmurs. Her companionship had often been his salvation in the lonely days when he had first arrived at
the fort.
She, at least, did not judge.
He looked up, patting her neck, and gazed at the road winding away into the rich foothills leading back to the capital.
So long since he had travelled this road, and now, he was going back, over every inch he had gained so long ago.
Precious distance from all that haunted him.
Now he would be forced to face it once more. He bit his lip, straightening a little more. Perhaps it was time. Time for this to be over, for everyone concerned.
* * *
Torin was a wreck.
Even he knew enough to realize that. He could not eat, could not sleep, spent his days pacing the corridors, waiting for word of Aidan’s arrival.
To see him again—then what? How to repair what had gone before, how to discover if there was even anything left to repair. It had been over a year. The boy was beautiful, tempting. Surely others had taken advantage of his naive nature, his sweet tendencies.
He growled. To think of another touching what was his…
What had been his, until he had been asinine enough to cast it aside. A precious gift, and he had been blind as to its worth.
Fool.
Distance and time had made his actions very clear, and he was shamed by all that had occurred. He had always been a man of strong conviction and deep passion, but he had had control of them. That had been vital during the occupation and his leadership of the army, but in the moment he had needed them most, shock and fear had overcome him and he had struck out. At the one person who had deserved it least.
A hand came down on his shoulder and he flinched, stopping dead in his tracks, recognizing that beloved touch so well.
He turned his head, but had no words to heal what was between them.
Paulsten’s eyes were grave, and he missed his friend’s smile, his wry humor that had made everything bearable. He had been his rock during the occupation, and yet when peace was upon them at last, everything had fallen to pieces.
