Part 4 (2/2)
”She will in time,” replied Mariwen, rejoining him. ”But only so far as you are willing to listen.”
The conversation threw him into a peculiar state of agitation, and they were quiet for some time. Quite absorbed in her he was not content to walk at her shoulder. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. He did neither. Something in her manner was always capable of keeping him at a distance. Not once had he laid a hand on her. There was an ever present divide between them he could not close, though he desperately wanted to.
He marvelled, not without some bitterness, at the hardness of her heart, despite her fair and yielding form. Soon his gaze s.h.i.+fted from Mariwen-to look upon her gave him a longing in his heart that only caused him pain. She glanced over, and Deacon knew she saw the same dark, disappointed look she had often seen.
”Upon what thought does your mind linger?” she asked. ”I see sadness in your eyes.”
Deacon, conscious of growing pale, was annoyed at himself for revealing any sign of weakness. He glanced at her, then away from her questioning gaze. Finally he spoke brutally plainly. ”I was thinking how much I want to leave here.”
”Why is it that you wish to leave?”
”I cannot breathe here,” he said with a look of ill-disguised aversion. ”But I cannot abandon my mother.”
”Her health fails her still?”
Deacon nodded once, leaving his head inclined, and compressing his lips painfully.
”Do not despair,” she said sorrowfully. ”Your mother is strong and here we have the best healers in all the world.” After a moment of silence, Mariwen asked, ”Is she content here? Your mother?”
”She is.”
”Then why are you not?”
Deacon exhaled discontentedly before answering. ”There is nothing here for me, beyond my mother. She alone keeps me from leaving.”
The last he spoke almost insolently, searching Mariwen's face for any sign of hurt. There was none, and his face grew hard.
”There is nothing here for you?” she repeated plaintively.
”There is nothing,” he said cruelly. She had caused him so much suffering it was easy for him to be cruel.
”Does she know this is your feeling?”
”I would not burden her,” he said simply, but the cost of his effort in sparing his mother was plain on his face, and Mariwen felt a great affection for him in that moment. Gradually their walking slowed until they stopped entirely and stood facing one another under the mottled shade of the trees.
”What makes you so miserable here?” Mariwen asked. ”What is it you seek?”
”I don't know,” Deacon answered. Besides her, he didn't know what he was looking for. ”Glory, honour, renown,” he said, as though they were standard aspirations of men. ”I want to be far from the wretchedness of common existence.” The last he said with a kind of disgust, a fear and detestation of mediocrity.
”What is common about your existence?” she said with a smile.
He had no answer, and she could see how he suffered.
”My mind is restless, I hardly know for what,” he said at last. ”The days are pa.s.sing, and I have not yet fathomed for what purpose they are given to me. I have a longing, a craving, and I cannot tell for what. Do not tell me to listen for it in the rain or the whisper of the leaves.” He was restless and intolerant.
”You must be patient. It is our greatest defence against sorrow and our greatest virtue,” she said in a tone that irritated Deacon in his present mood. He wanted comfort, and she gave him counsel.
Mariwen was young, younger than he, but she thought him to have young eyes as yet and believed she should lead and correct him. Deacon thought it did not bother him, but deep below the surface he was nettled. He hated her way of patiently dealing with him and her lofty sense of superiority.
”And how do you suppose that?” he asked, trying to keep his temper. ”I consider patience neither sustaining nor praiseworthy.”
”Patience enables us to bear all things,” said Mariwen, ”and is the foundation for all the virtues. Therefore, it is the greatest. It is what my people have always endeavoured to maintain.”
Deacon frowned. ”It must be very easy to be patient when you are gifted with time,” he said with a sharpness that silenced her. Mariwen lightly rested her open palm on his cheek, and he felt his chest expand with a rush of fresh air, filling his senses with the scent of the woods. Closing his eyes with relief, he hadn't realized how hard-clenched he was until softened under her tenderness.
”Do not give way to hopelessness,” she said. ”In time all things will come into our understanding.”
In her expression was such sweetness, Deacon began to feel confident in her affection for him. Her fingers brushed over his cheek, light as a feather. The pleasure which her touch afforded was rarely felt by him. The very notion of holding her made his blood beat fiercely. It was so strong a desire he felt he would burst out in brutality, but he would rather go without her forever than do her any harm and knew a strong hand would only drive her further away from him. He would have to be patient and pin her delicate wings subtly with a gentle hand.
Chapter12.
Ailment.
-n a grove of immense trees Deacon stood, trying to quiet his mind. A stream of sunlight filtered brilliantly through the golden foliage. A carpet of leaves lay at his feet. Lightly, he laid his hand upon one of the thick, stately trunks, and with an audible sigh, waited; listening. There was nothing: no divine wisdom, no whisperings, nor any such revelation, only an intense silence that seemed to envelop him. Presently there was a slight stirring, a breezy whisper, imperceptibly soft, more of a sigh, lost almost amongst the rustling of the leaves. Always just a little out of articulative range, it was too elusive for him to grasp.
Standing alone Deacon felt that his presence was an intrusion and that Nature was withholding from him, denying him. The more he seemed to press her, the more she would turn from him. His presence was nothing to her. She was laughing at him.
Deacon took himself down to the part of the woods where the elves forged weapons. Thankfully, no one was there. When Deacon was not with his mother he often came here and laboured all through the day, crafting all manner of things. There were two reasons he worked so decidedly hard: one was to keep himself occupied and his mind free from painful reflections, and the other was to exhausted himself, so that he would sleep through the ghastly, deathful nights, when he was alone with only his thoughts.
With rapid expertise, Deacon turned and hammered the red-glowing metal. His hair, heavy with smoke and sweat, fell into eyes that were intent and concentrated. The sleeves rolled up above his elbows showed muscular forearms covered in a sheen of sweat. His hands, covered in smoke-smudge, were strong and fine, capable of works of great skill.
He had forged two fine swords for his cousins, Cedrik and his younger brother Derek, who was born much later. For their sister, Brielle, he had beautifully crafted a delicate bracelet from the finest of materials, though she was probably fit to wield a sword of her own. It had been several years since he last saw his cousins. His mother could not endure the journey even by portal, which Deacon had sometimes used to visit by himself when she was not well enough to accompany him, but it was a form of travel he rarely used. He despised being dependent on using eomus's magic.
Although his visits to the Imperial were few in number and short in duration, Deacon enjoyed every moment with his cousins. Many times he would resolve that this time he would not return to the elven realm, that he would stay with his cousins, seek his own fortune, and take the road he would choose. But then he would think of his mother and her ailing health, left behind to endure without him, and his resolve would fail him.
”Choose your mode of death,” said a young, tall elf, with the steel of his blade held at the throat of Deacon. Deacon looked at Lufian with a blank fixed expression. He saw the s.h.i.+ning mockery come over Lufian's face. ”Do not become discouraged. You may yet find means to defeat me ...or has eomus's training been all for naught?”
Deacon watched him steadily. Then, with a slow motion, he willed a similar weapon to his hand. Lufian gleamed for a moment with pleasure, as if the gesture was made specially to please him. Then he a.s.sumed a ready pose. Though it was a pointless exercise, Deacon could never resist a challenge from Lufian, so the two men began to spar.
They were very dissimilar. Lufian was narrow, very thin and fine. Deacon was much heavier and more solid. He had a frictional, invincible kind of strength, whilst Lufian seemed to have a fluid, subtle energy, almost intangible, that worked against the other man with uncanny force, like a spell. He wielded the sword in a tense, fine grip, with quick, dazzling movements, and with such agility and dexterity it was difficult for Deacon to maintain a compet.i.tive pace.
With a swift, sudden motion, Lufian flung Deacon's weapon out of his grasp to the ground. Lufian had not broken a sweat, had not a hair out of place, and was clear and white, but Deacon was flushed red and tense. He seemed astonished. Lufian with the tip of his boot flicked the sword up into his hand and offered it back to Deacon. Deacon stood a moment, sorely affronted; then, with a sudden volcanic speed, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the sword and the contest resumed with greater intensity than before.
Lufian, with a lightning twist of the wrist, sent Deacon's weapon hurtling through the air. ”Once again,” gloated the elf, his point levelled at Deacon. Both glanced down at the weapon lying far from reach. Swifter than thought, Deacon brought it to his grasp with an outreached hand and threw his shoulder into Lufian's chest.
”It surprises me little that you should have to resort to magic!” snarled Lufian and again knocked it out of Deacon's hand. A slight fatigue showed at last on Lufian's clear brow. Deacon was much more exhausted. He could scarcely breathe any more. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the hilt of his sword, then, without apology or word of any sort, strode away.
”It's only a game!” called Lufian. He gave the sword a flip in the air and re-caught the handle, a smile crossing his fine lips. In truth, he hardly liked the human, and the sport always gratified his pride.
The sun was beginning to fade, illuminating the woods with the golden hue an autumn sunset lends. Before returning home to his mother, Deacon scrubbed himself clean of the smoke-smudge and grime over his face and arms. Fresh and clean, the evening air cool on his skin, he dashed up the pearlescent stairs leading to the house held aloft by strong branches of the elven-trees. It was a magnificent home with many open rooms, allowing plenty of air and light. Deacon found his mother half-reclining on a long chair beneath a canopy; one look at her and instantly he knew something was wrong. She was listless and pallid in completion. Even the sight of her son failed to rouse her.
<script>