Down The Road To Madness (Story/Traveler)

[Story]

She found him amidst a billow of dust that had not yet settled and where the charred remains of an outcrop of trees were now blackened stumps on the very edge of a forest that then led into a treacherous mountain pass, where tall peaks stretched up broad and monstrous until they were peeking down at the smaller things of the world from above the clouds. It was a placed less traveled by humankind; there was no sight of civilization for many weeks’ ride this far into the wild, so it was no wonder that the wyrm had made its home nearby.

Recently disturbed. No doubt by the lone man whom she suspected had near become a charred husk himself, if it were not for the fact that he had escaped well into the tree line before smoke inhalation and second degree burns had felled him right in her path.

Well, not quite.

Lark’s path had been set for her in much the same way that he had found himself in his current predicament: in nature, with fire as her guiding tool. Sweat soaked and naked, the vision had possessed her in a mud-baked yurt an entire continent away from where she had traveled now, leaving her fevered and exhausted, dehydrated from the flames that had created the sweltering environment that smelled of incense and salt, cleansing body and mind, meant to open her thoughts to the very elements themselves.

She had left for the spot that she knew hew would be the very next day, and while she suspected that she had been later in her arrival than she should have been, here they were.

She was keeping him wrapped up in the back of the wagon that doubled as both her living quarters and a complete inventory of exotics that she took with her to market, furthering the ignorant’s perception that she was one of those that wandered and thieved, but Romani Lark was not, even though her darker skin could have said otherwise. Desert kissed instead of a wayfarer’s tan; she had once belonged to an ocean of sand rather than a world of roads and travel.

Among the supply of oddities kept stowed away on shelves and cabinets secured on the wagon’s walls that, through specific mechanisms, could open up to create a mobile shop depending on where she stopped, was a myriad of dried and fresh herbs, bottled up potions and tinctures, and medicines labeled depending on use. Some might have even taken a look at the things within the wagon and deemed the woman a right witch.

And they would not have been wrong.

For him, she had dripped a base of honey and other medicinal herbs into a syrup down his throat to ease the pain and discomfort from smoke inhalation, with a special ingredient meant to clear his lungs and help him breathe easier. She had removed his garments except for his underthings, leaving him with some sense of modesty while he slept, though the areas where he had suffered wounds were wrapped and packed up tight with ever more herbs, and a salve that would leave his skin feeling cool, albeit sticky. Wrappings that would need to be changed again once they had stopped for the evening, whether he woke yet or not.

He occupied a light bedroll on the floor of the wagon, his coverings kept light, as the bandages needed to breathe and not be muffled by anything covering him; the heat needed to escape as well. However, the man was not alone in the back of the wagon whilst Lark drove at the front, her dark head only visible through the open slit between the back of the wagon and the front. There were two massive cats that lounged on either side of his form, their coats the color of pitch and their eyes a chartreuse green when open. They were exotic beasts, like those seen rarely in the wilds of jungles, and yet the pair slept like regular household cats. The larger, male beast was even snoring with the rise and fall of his chest.

Towards the back of the wagon, a hammock hung, swaying to the clip-clop of hooves from the pair of white donkeys that guided them on their long trek back through the forest, fueled by the promise of green grass and sugar cubes to continue on a smooth path even if there was not one so readily available to the travelers. In the hammock was their third human passenger, to say the least. Another woman, although the dark haired girl had been shrunk back as far as she could in her corner as she watched the sleeping man as suspiciously as a feral cat might an intruder on its territory. Wrapped up in a colorful blanket with only her head poking out of the best she had made for herself, the tell-tale evidence of her story was marked across her skin in mottled, healing bruises. Underneath her makeshift cocoon her arm was also slung against her chest, where the bones mended still. Most prominent was the ring of scarred flesh, pinked now as it healed, around her throat, peeking from slender wrists that hid under the blanket, and again around the one bare ankle that had slithered from underneath her to trail against the floor.

@Traveler

 

[Traveler]

Short flashes of images invaded his sleep, tainted with the scent of Sulphur and burnt wood, charred earth, and searing flesh. He dreamed of scaling dark tunnels in the mountains with his men. Four of the king’s knights and a troupe of seasoned guards were sent to defeat this latest threat to the kingdom. They had all been tested; solid soldiers of the crown who had been through countless battles and quests, but the elusive Great Wyrm they now sought was unlike anything they had ever encountered.

It had wisdom borne of hundreds of years of experience. The creature seemed to know their next move before they did. It had laid traps in its mountain lair, and in their desperate attempt to escape, had mixed brutal death with taunting torture, terrifying each victim before devouring them where their screams would echo against the walls and reach their companions. He heard those screams now. Heard still the desperate hoofbeats as he fled with another knight, their mounts stretching their necks as they fled across the grasslands for the forests, and perhaps safety.

The rockfall had worked. For a while, at least. The trapped Wyrm had screamed her anger through the mountain, and her raged cries and desperate digging had shaken the entire land, even as the last two knights fled across the grassland they felt her anger in the earth. When she burst through the peak of the mountain, her wicked wings spread wide across the sunset, Ser Archer of Remington could not keep himself from turning once to look behind them. His eyes had widened at how quickly the Great Wyrm’s silhouette increased, while the peaks of the forest before them seemed to never grow any closer.

That twist in the saddle had sent him to the side, instead of ahead, when the billowing plume of flame began its deadly trace across the grass. It followed the line of the other knight and the now riderless horse as they plunged into the forest. Ser Archer felt his armor-clad form hit the ground and roll, and as he fought for purchase and breath, he suddenly plunged into a dry ravine that served to drain the grasslands in time of flood.

He could feel the flash of heat cut across the sky; felt the flames scorch the grass and the very earth, as he ran hunched over towards the forest. The screams of his companion and their horses had branded themselves in his mind. He heard their desperation and pain; the crackle as armor melted and leather constricted around the strong knight. He recalled the smell of burning hair and flesh. Even stronger, the guilt that plagued him as he finally reached the trees and thought that he had reached safety, for certainly the Wyrm would not attack someone she could not see.

He had been wrong.

As he ran through the ravine bed roots and branches seemed to reach for his feet and push him to the ground. The sound of the Wyrm roaring over the forest shook the ancient trees. Then the sound of a great inhale, followed by the whooshing of fire cracking wood and exploding pitch as the trees along the edge were swept by the infernal breath. He felt the skin on his face tighten as air was consumed by flame. Trees sparked like torches, lighting the air above with an eerie glow. He heard the falling of trees and saw the animals of the forest fleeing with him, some darting past, uncaring of the man as they shared a common terror. Deer ran alongside the fox; rabbits screeched as they ran, their fur charred by the sheer heat in the air. Birds swooped low and horrified, calling their mourning for their abandoned nests. Even the snake made a desperate attempt to flee its cousin’s wrath. It felt like the world was ending and he was in the midst of its dying throes.

They had scaled the tunnels, and now the Wyrm had been alerted to their presence when a soldier’s grip slipped and he fell to the bottom of the creature’s chamber, waking the sleeping beast.

No, that had already happened, Ser Archer’s feverish mind protested, we got out. The rockfall worked…

The creature seemed to know their next move before they did. It had laid traps in its mountain lair, and in their desperate attempt to escape, had mixed brutal death with taunting torture, terrifying each victim before devouring them where their screams would echo against the walls and reach their companions. He heard those screams now.

No! No – the rockfall worked! We got out! Ser Gerand and I, we got out –

The trapped Wyrm had screamed her anger through the mountain, and her raged cries and desperate digging had shaken the entire land, even as the last two knights fled across the grassland they felt her anger in the earth.

I turned, he remembered in his sleep. I turned and fell. He moaned softly, remembering the sound of Ser Gerand’s screams as the fire swept across the grass and covered the knight and his horse. Eyelids flickered open, half seeing the vision of the fiery forest, and half seeing the wagon around him. He saw a glimpse of sleeping cats and wanted to yell at them to run! Flee! Get up and go! He heard the deer shrieking as a branch fell and broke its back, consuming the creature as it screamed for release. Archer groaned and moved his head slightly, catching a glimpse of large, brown eyes staring at him across the void.

So much fear.

Images repeated themselves as he slept. Slowly the awareness of agony grew in his mind, and when he tried to draw breath it seemed his lungs would only allow so much before the effort grew too painful. He saw brief glimpses of the world around him; cabinets and hammocks, eyes of green, and the eyes of fire that had spotted him in the dark. Marked him. He inhaled he aroma of mint and wet stone, sweat and blood. His mouth tasted honey, bitter fear, and ash. The wagon swayed. The earth heaved. The rocks and debris rained down on them across the vast grasslands, and the embers of the Wyrm-lit trees poured embers upon his head.

The world was ending, and he was in the midst of its dying throes. Archer groaned in his sleep. Occasionally he panted, dreaming of his frenzied escape. He heard the sound of twin lungs breathing nearby, the creak of wooden cartwheels and the crack of bursting trees. The world was burning, and he had started the fire. He groaned and then slipped into deeper sleep, shivering from the cold that wrapped his core as he dreamed of flames.

 

[Story]

His fever broke at some point during the night, well after the wagon and its wares both alive and otherwise had stopped for the evening. Lark had been applying a damp cloth that smelled faintly of mint to his forehead to keep him cool as the fever raged, alternatively keeping him bundled up as the chills took him as heat fled his body and purged it from its sickness, and letting his sweat slicked torso breathe. His bindings were changed, bearing no sign of an infection, and a promise of a good recovery. She even managed to get him to drink in between feverish nightmares, though not enough to keep him as hydrated as he needed to be. For that, she would need him to wake soon, so that he could drink.

She had settled them in for the evening in a small clearing, where a small stream floated further down, no doubt feeding into a larger body of water. Tracks from other fauna in the area littered the area, reminding her that they were still deep in the woods, and much too far away from anything else that could speak. And in a way, Lark preferred the solitude away from other people, where she could be alone in her own meditations.

She had created a modest fire pit, where the smell of herbs and meat and small, root borne vegetables wafted through the air, following wisps of smoke that rose up to greet the treetops. A pot boiled with what was cooking, some sort of stew that she had prepared for their dinner.

Their.

The girl was there too, her wordless passenger alongside this man -- a knight, from what she had gathered from the armor she had removed from him. But the girl had her own story, and one that Lark had barely managed to coerce from her. Whether there was a language barrier or not -- for Lark had tried several languages to try and pry her ears open -- she was met with wide eyed fear and defiance.

None of it surprised her, considering.

She had found her just prior to her voyage here, chained to a table leg on a dirty floor with only rags donning her frame. Delicate as a bird and malnourished on top of it, the neglect and abuse had been obvious. From the battered face, to the infected chafe where she had been kept in chains too long. By the time that Lark had dealt with the girl’s captors and freed her from her shackles, she had been in no condition to move, let alone fight.

But that had been weeks ago. Already, Lark could see the life return to her face, where before there had been a sickly pallor. Though gaunt still, healthy meals, undisturbed sleep and rest, regular bathing, and clean clothes was starting to show a difference.

And like it or not, Lark had been starting to reach the point where a companion was a good idea again. It provided her with a purpose, a project, at least until they could reach a House where the girl would be kept safe and educated, set up to live out a life of her choosing rather than the death she had been fast approaching.

The man -- she had less of an idea of what to do with him other than make sure that he, too, came into his health once more. Then, no doubt, he would return to whatever home that he had voyaged from and hopefully forget his dalliance with a beast he had no business hunting. Lark had a mind to speak to him about such things, at that.

Glancing up from where she polished a sleek dagger, Lark decided that it was then she would check on her two new traveling companions again. Leaving the dagger on a log she had pulled up close to the fire to serve as a seat, she padded on silent feet to the gaping opening of the wagon. Only to stop dead once her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the lantern she had left flickering inside, lips growing thin with irritation at the sight she was met with.

The girl was hovering over the sleeping face of the man, bare heels digging into the wooden bottom of the dagger, both hands reaching up above her head. One of her paring knives was in her grip, and the determined look on her face suggested she was ready to plunge it right into the man’s chest. Sighing a silent curse at her own near sightedness at leaving the abused creature alone with a man, Lark pulled herself up into the wagon and curled her fingers around the girl’s slender wrist in one fluid motion.

Idle pressure she pressed into her inner wrist and the girl made a whimpering noise of pain, her fingers unfurling from her weapon that clattered to the floor just inches away from the man’s face. Lark eased her grip, only to tighten it again in a more comfortable position around her wrist, tugging her back out of the wagon with her. Her mouth lowered close to the girl’s ear, “Girl, I understand your pain, and I pray that you will one day let go of any bitterness towards those who do not deserve it. Now go, prepare yourself food.”

She released the girl who looked equal parts offended and angry, her plump lower lip pouting while her brows drew down. She stumbled backwards, then turned, eventually moving to the fire as she was instructed.

Only then did Lark close her eyes, hands raising to press into her temples. Now, she opened her eyes and turned her sights on her sleeping knight. Rising up into the wagon, she knelt down next to him, removing the damp cloth to feel his forehead. Cool to the touch where the cloth had lain.

 

[Traveler]

Hell must be a place where you relived your worst decisions over and over, until they blended into a reality of regret. If that were so, Archer had one major decision that he had done, and Hell had seen fit to replay those events until he felt he might go mad.

He remembered brief flights of consciousness; drinking water, the feel of cool hands upon his face, the soft chuffing of a creature nearby. The scent of fire was less now, though it could have been the healing of his lungs, and the rolling of the world kept him asleep, as much as his injuries or any herbs had done. Eventually his sleep calmed, and there was nothingness. Blissful nothing.

A sound of pain and sorrow pierced through his mind, causing him to draw a shuddering breath. It was unlike the cries of his nightmares, which were filled with fear and pain. This cry was one filled with remorse, perhaps anger, but it pulled him from the deep dreams of suffering and into the lighter sleep that came when fever broke, and body healed. He had been on the brink; this was a step towards solid ground.

The gentle coolness against his brow caused Archer’s eyes to flutter open, and a low groan fell from his chest. Consciousness brought with it the presence of pain. He wet his lips, rolling his head slightly to the side, and let out another groan. The silhouette of someone against the glow of a distant campfire came into view. It hurt to blink, hurt more to breath. Had he known of the young woman’s recent desire to stab him, he might have asked his savior to allow it to be done, and release him from this torment.

He drew in another breath, a deeper one, feeling the taut fibers in his lungs protest after their abused state, and let it out in shuddering breath. Slowly he moved the arm nearest his caretaker out, feeling for signs this wasn’t just another lucid dream. “Who…” he breathed. “Where…” The effort caused by those few words caused him to cough painfully.

There was no conceivable way he could have survived. The fire had been everywhere. He had felt the explosion of a pitch-filled tree that propelled him through the air. He remembered the sudden stop as he crashed into the large oak, the way the impact sounded, the complete absence of control. It had terrified him, yet he had also been angry at the Wyrm. Angry at it for killing his companions, for being so intelligent, and mostly, angry at it for catching the attention of his king. An order was an order, no matter how frightful, and men had died terrible deaths in pursuit of accomplishing their goal.

No, not ‘their’ goal. Their king’s.

Gradually the woman’s features came into focus. Full lips, dark eyes, and a mane full of inky tresses. There was a determination in her eyes, something he had not seen in the eyes of many women. Her touch was gentle, yet confident, and whatever she was using drew away the pain and heat with each caress.

He could tell that he had been stripped down, at least freed from his armor. But this was not the king’s physician, and he doubted the king even knew the fate of the men he had sent. The smell of herbal tinctures and a wood fire permeated his haze, brought him fully aware, but he felt like he was weighed down, and sluggish of mind. Perhaps she had found him and was returning him to the Kingdom for a reward. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. Thankful to be alive but feeling guilty shame that of all the ones who were sent, only he remained.

 

[Story]

He stirred. Relief washed through Lark as her sleeping man’s eyes twitched from underneath fluttering lids and the lines of his face strained against the nightmares that he was trying to tear himself from. Dark eyes watched as first his face, then the rest of his body, struggled to overcome the trauma and to allow him to venture back into the waking world.

“You do not have to move, or open your eyes, or even speak yet,” she reassured him in a soothing voice, like he was one of her donkeys having a stubborn day. Soft and calm, like a deep pond left undisturbed. It carried a slight accent, indiscernible to the ear, and was perhaps just a mixture of dialects from many different places. But she spoke common clear as the night around them.

The slim hand, warm and dry to feel against his sweat slicked skin, retreated away, only to return again with another cool, damp cloth across his forehead. And then again to slide behind his head, fingers winding through the tangle of his hair to tilt his head up. She pressed a cup to his lips, tilting it ever so slightly. “Drink,” she urged softly. “You are much too dehydrated. When you are able, I will need you to sit up and drink as much as you can, but slowly, or else you will choke and sour your stomach.”

Once he had taken a sip from the cup she held up to him, she would either set it down or allow him to take control of it and hold it himself. Then her hand dropped, taking up the hand that felt around in the confusion and giving it a squeeze, if only to let the man know that he was here - not dead or dreaming.

“You are very fortunate,” she informed him, eyes flicking back up to his face. Only the subtle widening of large dark eyes indicated that she was surprised his had opened fully. Lark took in the blue of his stare, then smiled; a small, grim thing, yet again a soft curve, to appease some sort of comfort in him. “You did not suffer too severe of injury. Given a few days, your lungs will begin to breathe easier. The burns - a little longer, but given rest, water, food, and a daily change of your bandages, you will heal nicely with few scars left. I have also given you an herbal tincture to absolve you of some of the pain and discomfort, but I am afraid that it also has the ability to give you lucid dreaming, and a slow working mind.”

Lark shifted, settling in beside the man now that he had woken. Her legs she had shifted underneath her, covered by the long skirt that flowed around her. A simple garment, made of sturdy material, and allowed for easy movement. The blouse that accommodated it was just as efficient, with a ribbon drawn together at the front so that it fit her figure and melded to her form. It was the accessories strung through her ears that gave her an even more exotic look than even the swarthy complexion; the black hair, dark eyes. Precious metal rings hooped through her lobes, but various other studs crawled up the ridge outside one ear while another metal casing hugged the other. On her upper arm, a silver snake coiled, its eyes a ruby and an emerald, winking at him.

“Do you require more water?”

 

[Traveler]

The voice was alluring; calm and feminine, controlled, and seemingly with patience born of experience. He felt like he was coming out of one life into another. As if the sun would still shine upon the world, but the hues would be forever changed.

When she told him to drink, he was inclined to scold her. Women did not tell me what to do. Only a proper physician should treat a king’s knight, and even then, only one properly sanctioned by the Church. But at the sound of the word, ‘drink’, he felt the thirst hit him overwhelmingly. He felt parched to the very core of his soul, as if it had been in the desert for far too long, and all that remained were bleached, lightweight bones and the echo of his passing. As she helped him tilt his head he tried to reach the cup. The water felt cool, yet stung his blistered skin, and when he brought his hand up to steady it, he was surprised to see a band of pink and red skin around his wrist.

Somehow the heat and flames reached through his mail, scorching him where plate did not protect his skin. He grunted softly, finishing the scant measure, then letting his head rest back upon the cot. Although it still hurt to breath, the moistening of his passageways helped. He felt closer to life, and more aware of the pain throughout his body.

As she told him he was fortunate he turned his head towards her. The exotic piercings in her ear and the wide, dark eyes, made her look like he imagined a gypsy Witch might appear. She seemed to know that to expect of his injuries, comforting him with her words and reassuring him that soon, very soon, he would be well. And then he chuckled deep in his chest. Lucid dreams and a slow working mind…if only his knight commander still lived, he would have vouched on the later.

Archer rolled his eyes to the ceiling and felt the moist regret emerge, blurring his vision and tricking down the sides of his cheeks, to pool near his temples. Oh, if Sir Gerald could have been here, he would have kicked Archer’s ribs and told him to stop being a sissy. Stop laying about, you whining ass! Oh…How he wished he were.

He nodded at the question about water. He wanted more; enough to sleep in, but a cup would suffice. Stubbornly, painfully, he contracted his stomach to bring himself up, as close to a sitting position as his body would allow. It brought a gasp of pain, as skin along his back that had been numb to its pain, suddenly felt he release of pressure and screamed at him to stop. He curled his torso, shutting his eyes against it to not cry out again. Show no fear, feel no pain. A knight represents the crown.

Archer panted until he felt the sensation leveling. Then nodded at the woman. He had tried several times to speak more than a whisper but his throat was still swollen from the heat, and his larynx, still healing, would not cooperate. As he opened his eyes once more, the emerald and ruby eyes of the snake wrapped about her arm seemed to wink at him. He shook his head slightly, convinced he was hallucinating.

Another sip of water, this time less greedily, and then he panted quietly. He could feel the backs of his legs stinging, and his back and neck, where the armor did not cover him enough to protect from the Wyrm’s breath. He could smell the faint remembrance of singed hair, of flesh, and blood, mixed with the tincture she had applied.

Wearily he leaned against her, his shoulder pressed to hers, and took another sip. He felt inhumanely tired, and that made him feel like a lazy fool. As far as he could tell, he was intact. No missing limbs, no bone exposed where flame had cooked him in its attempt to destroy those who dared to seek the dragon. He inhaled deeply, and the fragrance of her skin and hair melded with the others; soothing and calm, reassuring…and powerful. Eventually he closed his eyes again, too tired to fight the draw of sleep.

 

[Story]

If only the woman’s gifts extended to reading the minds of others. Only then might she truly be amused by the folly that bounced through their minds, for she had lived and died through the ages, watching what such sins as pride, envy, greed … all brought ruin down upon those who pursued them. Even her own son was consumed by his own ego and chose to brandish it as if it were a weapon, bringing war and blood and fire.

If Lark knew of the misogyny that lurked within her patient’s head, she would have laughed until her sides ached from it. This new church that had risen during the last few hundred years, screaming of the light chasing away darkness, and bred political intrigue, had grown popular with the western kingdoms as they grew bored of their old gods. And those that came before even gods; the primal forces that their world was built on that was even more sacred than the purity of the nonsense that this church was speeding civilization too.

After all, Lark was a more adept physician than any man who had trained for a handful of years, and no doubt thought that they could pray away ailments from the body.

Instead, her dark eyes were filled with concern when he woke, disoriented as he was. She caught him gingerly across the shoulders and cradled the back of his head as he struggled into a sitting position so that he would not have to hold the position, and held the cup while he drank.

“You will be fine, this I promise,” she reassured him, sensing the pain and frustration that he no doubt felt from his weakened state. Waiting until he had drunk his fill of cool water, she adjusted the paddings that supported his head and guided him back down to lay. “You will need your rest, but I will have to wake you again to hydrate more. And to eat, even though you may not wish to,” she murmured, brushing the tangled strands of hair from his face. She even dabbed the sweat on his brow, the tears that ran down the corners of his eyes.

Their travel became like a routine over the next couple of weeks. Lark changed out his bandages twice a day, even bathing him like a babe during the beginning while he was still too weak to handle himself still. Though whatever medicines that she was giving him worked their own kind of magic; his throat and lungs would not feel so scorched and the burns in his skin no longer stung with the radiating fire of the dragon by the end of it. She still gave him a tincture that eased the pain at night, though it sent him right to sleep, and Lark was concerned by the nature of his dreams by the way he tended to thrash on the bedroll in the wagon.

Some injuries, she knew, would take longer to heal than others. Those of his mind and heart.

The presence of two additional traveling companions made themselves known that first night when they brought with them the bounty of their hunt. Two great cats, like those found in the deepest Ungowli jungles, prowled the perimeter of their camp each night, and often lounged at the lip of the wagon. Their eyes burned with an intelligence far exceeding their like, suggesting further of the mysticism of the woman’s nature even though as yet, she had demonstrated no overt witchcraft in the man’s presence.

The girl that traveled with her did not speak and, when he was awake, avoided him like he was some sort of demon comes to possess her. And if he tried to approach or speak with her, she would either cower in fear or glare with murderous rage, then turn to put as much distance between them as possible. But she had her place there, helping Lark set up and disassemble their camp on a daily basis so that they pushed ever further through the forest and towards civilization. Even Lark did not speak so much, but that likely had more to do with the fact that she embraced her solitary nature, and words were often wasted on deaf ears.

She at least had learned his name. Though the plight of his men they had not spoken of yet, nor of personal matters. What idle talk they had exchanged during his recovery had not strayed further than their immediate circumstances, his care, and other conversation best steered away from anything immediate.

Lark knew that she would need to return the man to the care of his own home, but she was reluctant to bring the girl into any of the western kingdoms just yet. She would rather detour their small party and drop her at a House, where she could learn. It was this that she would like to discuss with the man, as they drew close to the edge of the forests. The pair of donkeys that led the wagon had even started down a known trail instead of them traveling through dense woodland, and the going was quicker for it.

Through her mind’s eye, she knew that the morning would see them in open land and the beginning of farming lands. That was when she would have to choose which way they went from there, and wondered how urgent that the knight pined for his homeland. On that current night, she had dragged a fallen log near the pit of stones she had built into a fire, and stirred a pot with the night’s dinner. Roots and mushroom, with rabbit as their protein, as well as a healthy amount of spices. The girl was off on her own, gathering more kindling and foraging what she could before the light disappeared fully below the horizon and the pair of great cats were out in the forest, hunting.

It left her alone with the knight. At least for the time being.

 

[Traveler]

He had no awareness of how much time had passed since the failed attempt on the great wyrm, only that time had passed, and each waking brought him more clarity of thought and less pain. The burns on his body healed, though they itched and ached as they did. And although Archer had no experience with these types of injuries, he felt it slightly miraculous that he was able to move about as quickly as he had. In fact, there had been days he had woken and had forgotten that he had been injured at all, only to realize once he started to move about that it had not all been a dream.

Other days he laid in place and wondered if this was the realm between life and death. Surely, the green-eyed cats who prowled the campsite and kept watchful eyes on them all could not be real. They looked at him with more intelligence than the dragon had, their eyes seeming to reach into his mind and judge him not a threat to their mistress. As they slowly looked away, dismissing the knight as someone to be concerned about, he always felt a sense of relief. Unarmored and without a weapon in his hand, he was acutely aware how defenseless man was compared to these beasts.

His mind went to the other woman in their group, the younger one with eyes that wanted him dead. He had suffered dreams that she had been left with him and killed him in his sleep, though each time he woke with startled certainty that he was one breath from eternity, he had found himself unmolested and the woman nowhere to be seen. It bothered him that such a little slip of a woman, now invaded his dreams and caused him more unrest than the wyrm had, though sometimes in his nightmares they merged and were one and the same.

As he eased his legs over the side of his cot and moved to sit up, he could hear the fire crackling outside the tent. From what he could see, and the soft cool breeze coming through the flaps, he knew it was night once again. Archer flexed his body, feeling the tight muscles along his sides and spine stretch and release their pain into the night. He groaned, then yawned, and pulled on loose trousers. The night was warm enough to not need a shirt, but in consideration of modesty and the women he was traveling with, he pulled on a tunic as well, before climbing out of the covered wagon and padding towards the fire.

“Good evening,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as he approached the woman who had saved him. The scent of her stew cut through the crisp night air and made him aware of how much he hungered. It was good to finally feel hungry again. He could tell that he had eaten little during his ordeal and any softness in his body had since been chiseled away.

He glanced about for the little murderous eyed one, and seeing the area clear of her presence, relaxed slightly. “My Lady, I owe you a great deal,” he said as he squatted near the fire and held his hands out, warming them within its vibrant heat. How strange; fire had almost taken his life. Now he was seeking out its comfort.

“What is it you expect in return?” His blue eyes flickered to meet her dark gaze. He brought a hand to the scruff on his cheek and rubbed at it, then drew his hand through the shock of unkempt brown hair that had fallen across his eyes. He could think of many things a gypsy woman would want; coin being the least of them. Land, perhaps, or pardon for past crimes. If she had a man in the king’s prison, a trade of Archer for him might be her goal. Lark did not look like one to dabble in slavery, though the scars on the younger woman’s wrists, ankles, and neck had testified to her previous state of disadvantage.

He leaned back on his heels and rested an elbow on his knee. “I do not recognize these forests,” he shared. “Where are you taking us?” And the unspoken question – will I never see my king or homeland again?

 

[Story]

As he emerged from the back of the wagon and made to join her, Lark did not immediately look up, though her lips curled up into a smile just the same. She more sensed his presence, or at least observed his shadow, as it flitted across the ground space she and the girl had cleared earlier when they had stopped from their travels for the day. Indeed, Lark waited until he had found himself a comfortable seat and made himself more at ease before she lifted her attention away from her cooking to acknowledge the man.

Her eyes were like liquid ink as they took in his form squatted near the flames; though while he cut a warrior’s frame, her gaze raked him for any signs of discomfort that might be left over from the burns that she still had wrapped in her special mixture of herbs and medicines that smelled strongly of the aloe plant. Gracefully, she left her own makeshift seat and gestured, leaving the spoon she used to stir behind.

“Sit,” she insisted, voice soft. “Stir, if you please.”

She herself wandered briefly by him, but only so that she could pull one of the blankets used for herself from the back of the wagon to bring back over to the hearth. Embroidered with care, the fabric was made of a rougher hewn than what she used for his bedding. Earthen colors formed intricate patterns and whorls over the surface, soon lost as she spread and folded it on the packed earth beneath them and settled herself down on it, cross legged. Though now she sat closer to he, and gave him her full attention at last.

“You must have questions,” she acknowledged, still in a voice gone soft. No doubt from lack of use, especially during her more recent endeavors. Over the last years of her life, Lark had embraced solitude more fully than formative years, and was now filled with a sense of change that she would be needing to change her ways once more with the appearance of this man.

Though his assertion of her nature was far from the truth. Lark was no gypsy, even though she often practiced their lifestyle; she also embraced other cultures, including her original, which was etched in its raw truth across the span of her back. Hidden now, of course, by the dress she wore. Simple in nature and a dark brown in color, it was neither too loose or tight, and instead sculpted the form that wore it. She was barefoot under the dress, though a pair of sandals sat not too far from where he was.

The woman was not without flaws, however, despite the dark beauty of her appearance and the embrace of youth that kissed her in the form of high, sculpted cheekbones and full, lush lips, as well as the mane of dark hair that cascaded freely down her back.

Her hair did not hide what the light of the flickering flames reflected against. Cut deep across her neck was a shining scar, a lighter hue than the rest of her skin, and smoother. It was an ugly, ragged thing that marred her. Though not as hideous as what lay underneath the blouse of her dress.

“You owe me nothing,” she insisted when he spoke, reassuring what she saw in the crease of his forehead and stretching around his eyes and lips. “You feel guilt still, I know. I am afraid that will take longer than your physical injuries to be be assuaged, and I fear my talents stop at healing the body and not the mind; acceptance of what you endured is something that you will have to work through yourself. But we can talk of it, if you like, so that you can also remember…”

She trailed off, hesitating as her look softened and she reached out to touch the top of his hand with her own, “I fear that you were the only one that I could save. I was delayed on my way to meet your company, as the wyrm you sought declared its distress across many plains.” Then her voice sharpened with her next words, as if berating an errant child, “Your company was not wise to disturb one of the few remaining ancient things of this world. I may have saved you, but that alone will determine the cost of your survival. Consider that your payment. I know not of what you and your men have disturbed by your folly.”

She dragged her hand away, eyes glittering with an intelligent that went far beyond the years written in flesh. An old soul in a youthful frame. Her breath eased out of her chest like a sigh and her attention briefly flickered to the stew she had endeavored him to stir.

“Since I knew not from where you came, we follow the forest east now. I am hoping to bring my companion someplace that will be safer. Worry not, Ser Knight, after we place the first of my company into good hands, we shall go where you wish to. I apologize for any dilemma this may cause you, but we are too far on our journey at this point for us to change it now.”

A small lie, but Lark was determined to stay her original course. Though she did not want to end this bit of news on such a note, so she added, “When we find a town, we can send word of your safety to your family, if this pleases you.”

 

[Traveler]

After a slight hesitation he stood and walked to the log she had vacated, taking her place and reaching out to stir the stew. Though not a task he was recently used to doing, tending campsites was something he had done as a squire. And with tending camps, came making meals. He was surprised when she came to sit on the ground by him, and as she did he felt as if she was the one looking down, not him.

He dropped his gaze when she said that he owed her nothing. Then she offered to let him talk of what he had been through, and he did not know if he dared. He feared unwrapping the layers of that fateful encounter more than he feared facing the dragon once again. The wrong decisions, the overconfidence, the arguments over going forward or retreating…all the echoes of that day had visited him nightly, tormenting him like a devil’s pastime.

And then when she berated it for his foolishness, and warned him against what they might have disturbed, he softly shook his head. “We did it for our king,” was all he could say, as if that would explain everything.

Those words she spoke – she was delayed on her way to meet his company – still lingered in his mind. Did she mean that she was simply delayed on her journey, or that she had specifically come this way to meet them? Had their haste, or her circumstance, changed the threads of fate? But he did not ask her this, not yet. He still felt too sharply the sting of their own schedules and how it impacted their decisions.

“Your companion…you mean the girl? The one who hates me?” He finally found the strength to meet Lark’s liquid gaze. “Please, Lady Lark, call me Archer. I don’t feel much like a knight at the moment, and…if I am not successful in my quest, I am not welcome home. The only acceptable way to fail is to die,” he added. “Apparently I can’t do that either.”

Stirring the pot further, he added. “I am grateful, though, and if it’s not too great a burden I’ll travel with you until I know what I should do.”

 

[Story]

It was a rare lull in their journey thus far even though it had only just begun. It brought with it a foreign thrill that he was now roused and able to talk like this, for though he was not aware, she had traveled quite some distance to meet him there and she was anxious to discover what that meant, if anything; Lark had long ago stopped her attempts to decipher where her meanderings took her.

The veil of dark hair fell over her face as she turned her head back to the crackling flames and the smell of cooking meat and vegetables, watching as his hand stirred. Her shoulders relaxed with the motion. “And what does your king hope to achieve by disturbing a dragon? Surely, he did not believe that you would fell the beast; it is old, and has been hunted before, so survival is in its very instinct…”

She trailed off and shifted a glance in his direction, studying the lines of his face. “And surely its demise would only benefit as a trophy, ill gotten by the folly of an ego alone. But I do not mean to chastise the choices of your king, nor yourself; I only hope to understand where this venture was bound to lead if you were to be successful.”

She reached out after a time and took the ladle from his hands and picked up one of the bowls left out by the fire, filling it with the stew and offering it over to him first before filling a second bowl.

“And I am no lady. Not in the sense that you would be aware, which would be a title befitting someone of noble birth, correct? I am known as simply Lark, though my surname is Tallos…” She idly wondered if he would recognize it. The name belonged to the tyrant who had laid siege to the eastern kingdom of Aiemlan, its new Emperor her own son. “And yes, my companion is the girl. Only I am both sorrowful and remittent to say that her hate is not personal, Archer. You must have seen the scars that mar her. She has been ill treated by the company of men, and has a long journey to healing both her body and mind by her experiences with the world thus far. I would worry not, however; she will not harm you. I’ve made her aware that you are not her enemy.”

She had yet to eat any of her stew. Instead, her attention had fallen back on him, her hand laying soft on his knee, her touch one of comfort, the smile that curled the lush fullness of her mouth reassuring. “Tell me, what kind of home is it that they honor conquest over a life?”

 

[Traveler]

What would have been their reward for slaying the dragon? Perhaps a feast and medal, and then obscurity until they were once again needed by their king. His eyes met her as he contemplated this reality. Surely the king had grander reasons for wishing the great beast dead. To protect the kingdom, or to gain vengeance for a past wrong? But as she described the dragon’s potential demise, her reverence for its longevity evidence in her tone, he began to question their mission himself.

Her surname was one that sparked fear in the hearts of the living. His eyes flickered to her face, tracing over her peaceful countenance and those doe dark eyes. It must have been a common name; no sane person would consider this rescuer of strays a relation to that tyrant. He thought of the stories he had heard; family piked along city streets, resistors pulled apart by bulls, and other atrocities better whispered in hushed voices where little ears would not hear. Aiemlan had inherited a demon for its king.

“I did see her scars,” he admitted, glancing over his stew bowl for sings of the wary girl. The warm vessel in his hand had done more than warm his belly. Eating out here instead of on the cot, and having this quiet moment to speak to Lark, was bringing him back to life. His eyes strayed to the wagon, and he finally put a piece of information together; the cot he had been sleeping on was hers. ‘This woman… gave me her bed.’ She didn’t even know him, and had he passed her on the street ‘before’, he would have nary spared her a second glance.

As he finished his stew, she asked him another question, her hand laying softly on his knee. He turned to regard her as he set down his bowl, his own hands going to his knees and covering hers. “What kind of home, My La – Lark?” He shook his head. “Is a kingdom a home? I suppose, by extension knights represent their king, and if a king like ours had the resources to hunt down a dragon and make it a trophy, it might warn other kings to stay away. We’re…strong enough,” he supposed.

“Take your namesake, for instance. King Viktor is a fierce man, slaughtering thousands to achieve his goal.” He shook his head. “I don’t even know what the battles we for, but the stories are told are atrocious. Whether or not the prior king had symbols of strength around him, that tyrant might have still shed blood to achieve his goal. Innocent blood.

“Now, had he had an upbringing that valued life over conquest, he might have turned out differently. But… who can say? I haven’t any children of my own to judge by, and I left my own father when I was ten.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, looking at his healer. “I imagine it’s much like it is for your companion. She’s been kept a captive, taught to fear men because the men in her lives warranted fearing. She hates them so much that it’s only by your presence and influence that she doesn’t scratch my eyes out and stretch my entrails across the plains.” He raised an eyebrow.

“So I don’t know what kind of ‘home’ I’ve come from, Lark. I don’t even know that conquest was the message my liege hoped to send by having us pursue the great wyrm. All I know is; I failed my king. And by our laws, I cannot return with honor to anything I left behind.”

His fingers curled softly around hers. “So I’ll ask you again – If it’s not a great burden, I’d like to travel with you until I know what I should do.”

 

[Story]

The stories that pulled at his inner thoughts were half truths with some full truths mixed into it. Viktor was the product of his father in that he found his honor in the form of conquest and sought to prove himself as a warrior might. She knew that her son was zealous in his quests to overcome other tyrannies, of which he felt were far more oppressive than his own way of being.

But that could have just been the way of men. Unsupervised, they thought that they were all right in their own ways of thinking of what was right or wrong. So while he ravaged the world with his own brand of rule, there were others still that could have been worse to come by. As one who had seen the rise and fall of men and women alike, these things did not surprise Lark any longer. Indeed, very little stirred her attention, as time had worn thin in her soul.

Her lips did slide up into a rueful grin as she followed the way his gaze strayed into the forest’s edge of where they made their camp. No doubt searching for the girl. Though …

Lark jerked her chin up to check the horizon. Full dark was nearly on them and the girl’s scavenging ways were usually finalized before then. Worry, motherly in nature, worried in her stomach enough that she set her own half finished bowl to the side and made to rise, only to be stopped short by the calloused warmth of his hand over hers. She stiffened first, then her mind registered the sound of his voice in her eyes. She separated that from the touch, though her hand did turn underneath his, her touch a curious caress across the hardened lines of his larger hand.

“That is foolishness. A wyrm has more knowledge than a thousand kings, because no doubt it has lived through the lives of a thousand kings. It would be more worthwhile to ask the dragon to share its knowledge instead of killing it in cold blood and gain nothing but a swollen ego. Sometimes, the conquest is not worth the payoff, and a different approach would prove to be far more beneficial for both.” Her eyes danced, her lips smiled. Even when he spoke of Viktor, though that caused her to lift her brows.

“King Viktor now, is it? I did not realize he had donned such a title for himself other than Master, if I remember correct. I must apologize, for I have removed myself from the frivolities of men and politics. And…” She ducked her head again as her smile deepened, her fingers moving to lace through his and giving his hand a squeeze. “I suppose she has become something of a daughter. I know not her name. I have tried various languages to see if she might understand and speak, or she may just be a mute. I promise, though, she will not have a chance to scratch your eyes out or stretch your entrails. I do not think that she sees you as a threat, you have been lying prone for so long. Much like my cats, she seems to be feral, after a sort,” she admitted consideringly. “Nevertheless, I could not allow her to die.”

She shrugged one shoulder only and turned her face up to his, “You are welcome to travel with us for as long as you desire, but I do fear that you may bore with our lives. I am transient as it is. I bring medicine and my services to many rural areas, and I tend to travel broad and far. Should you change your mind all the way across the world, I fear you may need to find your own way back. And…” She raised his hand that was now in hers, thumb dragging across the back of his hand. “Your hands will be put to work.”

 

[Traveler]

“A boring life might be what I need.” He smiled down at her, thankful for her permission to accompany them. Her. His eyes trailed across their campsite and found her cats. One of the creatures yawned, displaying long, sharp teeth. ‘With them,’ he amended his thoughts. He had never been a ‘cat’ person, though these were far cry from the small felines who roamed the city alleys and farmers’ fields. They were altogether majestic, more suited to sit by the throne of a queen than to tarry in the wagon of a gypsy-hearted healer.

Their journey was bound to be to places he had not yet explored, and he heeded her warning that he would have to find his way back if he changed his mind. He wasn’t sure what he would go back to without the Wyrm. Archer was not willing to spit in the face of a second chance at life. More than likely if word returned to his king, they would consider the entire party lost.

As far as the world was concerned, he had died. He should stay dead.

Besides, he had never had a time when he did not answer to a master. Whether it was his father, his teacher, or the king, he had always been under another’s will. Perhaps this would provide him a chance to figure out who he was when he wasn’t bound by rules and etiquette.

“Work doesn’t scare me,” Archer chuckled, his eyes tightening with mirth. “I may be noble born, but you don’t get to call yourself a knight for being lazy.” He brought his hand and hers to his lips, resting them there a moment. He could smell the scent of smoke, of herbs and tonics, and a hint of floral lingering on her skin. His eyes closed briefly, memorizing that moment. The fire’s crackle was sharp in the night air and reminded him that they were not alone. For the girl’s sake, he lowered his hand and released Lark from his grip.

“Where is that feral almost-daughter of yours? Should she not have returned from the woods by now?” His eyes narrowed slightly. Though the cats were not bothered, signaling that they were under no threat, there was always the chance that the girl could have fallen in some hunter’s pit trap, or wandered too far to find her way back. The other option was that she opted not to return, now that the man was moving about.

“Your cats…they can track her if she gets lost, can’t they?” He had not wondered where his sword or armor was, or even if they survived the Dragon fire, since he had woken. Now he felt uncomfortably vulnerable. He flexed his hands unconsciously, wishing for something in them to focus his concern into. Though the girl wasn’t his responsibility she was part of their little group. He felt that weight of burden that came when your fellow traveler might be in jeopardy. After a moment he returned his attention to Lark.

“You mentioned bringing people medicine and services. I know you’re a healer; I’ve been the recipient of your talents. And you seem to have enough means to live a comfortable life. But…if it’s not too personal a question…how is a woman like you alone?

 

[Story]

Boring was not the word Lark would have used for the life that she lived. Not all the time, anyhow. There were lulls in between, she could admit that, but those lulls were what brought her peace when she felt her sanity dwindling as a reminder that she was stuck in a way that this man would never know. To live for as long as she had, seen as much as she had, it took its toll. And regardless of the face of serenity and calm that she wore, Lark was like a quiet pond on the inside. Come a storm, it made quite the disturbance, and the existentialism became overwhelming. It was something she had learned to struggle with and eventually cope with. This last time, she had meditated for a few years atop a mountain, with only the sound of silence to keep her company.

She had was at least past the days where the cold creeping of death as it lulled her down into darkness had been an addiction, like most fell prey to opiates and other intoxicants. She had liked her game, for a while. The slice of a wrist to watch her life leave her body, how it had felt like she was falling. The plummet of adrenaline as she crashed into the ocean. The stab of a sword through the heart. Just to see if, perhaps, that time would be the last time.

He may have asked why she was alone, well.

The vendetta she had against life was not something she wished to discuss with the near stranger that held her hand so tenderly, stirring something like dormant so that it was slowly unfurling from within like a serpent, tongue flicking with curiosity as sensation shivered through her hand where he pressed his lips. His release of her hand left her craving more. Not just intimacy, but physical touch.

Perhaps she had derived herself for longer than she had thought.

Her fingers curled as if she wanted to savor the feeling and returned to her laps, though the liquid dark of her eyes had kindled a new curiosity as she roved over his face.

“What does it mean… to be noble born nowadays?” This, too, had changed over time, though not as much as one would have imagined. At the mention of the girl, Lark’s eyes did not stray to the line of trees and into the forest, but rested on the cats that stalked around the camp. Suspicion lurched in her belly as she honed in on them, though their presence could have meant anything. They followed the girl now. Lark suspected she had some sort of innate affinity for the beasts to abandon their place at Lark’s side to follow her, but was not bothered by the abandonment.

They did not have to wait long to know. Right before her eyes, the male’s head twitched and then jerked. He took off through the woods before the female did. Lark’s hand reached down to squeeze Archer’s shoulder, then she was on her feet with barely a glance in his direction.

“Stay here,” she commanded. Much like the great cats, Lark moved with purpose and quickly, stopping only briefly by her wagon to tuck a twin pair of daggers against her wrists before she slunk into the line of trees to follow the cats.

She didn’t make a sound. Not even when she stepped right into the path of a man whose booted feet cracked the twigs beneath him. He barely had the chance to grin with teeth rotting from his mouth before it was a permanent mask on his face. Lark had only to step past him, the flick of her blade so fast that the line of crimson across his throat took a few seconds to widen, opening a floodgate of blood that streamed down his neck. Blood bubbled against his lips, right before he fell down to the forest floor.

She wanted to call back to the knight to give him warning that bandits, it seemed, had tracked him out, but also did not want to give her position away.

Though the piercing sound of a terrified scream might have alerted him just the same. It certainly alerted Lark, who picked up her pace as she moved deeper into the night.

Back at the camp, though, the sound of a branch snapping sounded behind where she had left the knight, followed by heavy footfalls of more than one man. Two stepped out from the outcropping of woods behind them, their eyes distracted first by the wagon before falling on the man by the fire. While one moved near the wagon, the other moved towards the knight, with every intention to slit the man’s throat.

 

[Traveler]

“Noble born means what it has always meant,” he answered. “Privilege and obligation. Like all noble families, mine had to swear allegiance. In King Taylik’s case that meant that any family who had more than one son has to send one into service. My oldest brother will inherit the direct title and lands. My second oldest chose the priesthood. So, when I turned ten, I was sent to the capital. My family sent money for my upkeep until I came of age, then I was on my own.” He smiled at her. “I think I’ve seen my parents twice in that time.”

A moment after their conversation turned to the girl, one of the cats alerted and ran into the woods. Archer felt Lark’s touch on his soulder, warm and reassuring, and heard her command . He once again wondered who she was to order him about. But then he remembered all she had done. Most likely, any knighthood that Archer could claim died along with him in the dragon fire.

His thoughts went back to his weapon. Did he still have it? Did he remember seeing the sword? He didn’t have long to ponder those thoughts; a shrill scream pierced the night, and as he began to step towards the woods the sound of snapping branches whirled him around.

Two shadows stepped into the campfire light and became men. As their eyes adjusted, Archer had just a moment to consider his available tools to use against the dagger wielding men.

There were none - unless he chose to use their supper, and though Archer was well-versed in innovation, he was not a good pot thrower. Instead, he let the first man approach him and swing his dagger at the knight’s throat. Archer moved to the side, grabbed the offending arm with his nearest hand, and slammed his opposite palm against the man’s elbow, snapping the joint beyond it’s flex. The attacker screamed out as Archer slid his hand along the man’s forearm and snatched the knife from his failing fingers, then reversed his grip and sank the dagger into the bandit’s eye.

He wriggled the blade from bone and shoved the corpse towards the second man, who shifted his attention from the wagon to the man who had slain his companion. As the second man charged, his hand reaching for a short sword, the shadows of two more stepped into the light.

‘Fuck! Not good, not good,” Archer thought. With neither a proper weapon nor his armor, and still stiffened from his healing, he didn’t feel ready to take on the men. But if he didn’t push himself to succeed, he feared that the women would be taken, and he would rather succeed and die than let them be subject to the bandits’ touch. He thought that the young woman would probably feel the same.

As more sounds of turmoil rose in the forest behind him, Archer steeled himself for attack. He had the dagger and his training; he prayed it would be enough. The bandit’s stench hit him as the breeze shifted. For a moment he thought that the bandit was the living dead, but then realized that the smell was coming from the furry tails hanging from the man’s belt. They were poachers or worse, and there would be no parlay.

 

[Story]

Kings and Queens and the game of pawns and power. Lark almost snorted her derision, but had hid as much behind a grimly lit smile. Oh, but she had her share of stories to share when it came to the game of men, and even women, and their volley for power and gain. And for what? Nepotism, it felt like, and an ever changing landscape that usually ended in bouts of battle and war; lives lost, history repeats, all for a chance of an outcome of who was right and wrong.

And for what?

To give purpose, perhaps. For things? For greed? Lark much preferred her simpler lifestyle, something that was a choice all her own, for one did not live as long as the witch did without enjoying the flavor of other things in life. Luxuries, this man might say; empty things, she would counter, that serve no purpose except for frivolity. Not that it mattered. Live as long and forget what the meaning of it all was.

The other thing about age and longevity, at least in her own personal experience, was that it dampened the things that she had formerly cared about. There was a callous numb around her conscience as she moved through the underbrush with only a whisper, avoiding the foliage that wanted to slap at her legs and ducked underneath the branches and limbs that would have otherwise tangled in her hair. Silent as the cats that moved as shadows ahead, she found two other bandits picking their way through the woods that were dead before they could react, snuck up on with the stroke of one of her blades between the ribs, their mouths agape but with nary a sound to call forth more.

Such was the way of an assassin. It was never forgotten, those practices, only honed and laying dormant.

She realized the error of her ways perhaps too late, but she hoped not. She had left her man behind in the camp injured still, but had not realized the pattern before she had set off without a word. She could use the excuse of solitude as many times as she wished, but she uttered a curse under her breath at her own oversight at just leaving him there. She stopped in her trek to follow the footfalls, listening for sounds of the girl again, of a struggle, then she put two fingers to her lips so that a high pitched whistle sounded.

Only a few moments later, the male of the cats dropped down from the branches. Dark eyes stared deep within the creature’s own intelligent eyes without fear. Silent still, she gestured back the way she had come, and as if understanding the silent cue, the cat pounded back through the woods and back to the encampment.

The beast prowled like the natural hunter it was, circling back around the long way to make its first attack come from behind. The last of the poachers coming up on the camp would not see it coming when the great beast dropped from a low swinging branch, only a growl his warning before the massive claws sunk into his back and his mighty jaws sunk into the side of his neck. A strangled cry was the only thing he provided as warning before a spurt of blood answered to his demise. Ripping flesh and soaking blood through the man’s pungent clothes, the cat ripped his throat out before licking his chops and turning his head to the men he had now attracted, at least for now, away from the human with only his dagger.

 

[Traveler]

As Archer circled the two bandits before him he felt the presence of another threat behind, but this one seemed less dangerous to him specifically than to them all, and he trusted his gut, keeping his eyes on the raunchy men before him. Then the shadows seemed to shift and the knight saw the man further from himself being jerked back, his strangled cry the only sound he made as life was ripped from his throat.

This brought the attention of the man who was closest to Archer, and as he turned, the knight stepped forward and reached around the man’s arm, thrusting his dagger through the softest part of his jaw and into the bandit’s skull. He hastily retrieved the dagger, spewing blood across his arm in a warm, sticky flow as the bandit fluttered his useless hands towards his wound, then sunk to the ground with eyes wide and unbelieving.

Archer felt like he had been coated in the man’s stench but he was grateful for the large cat’s assistance. He quickly looked around, unfocusing his eyes to look for movement in the trees instead of detail. It seemed that the four dead were the only ones they had to contend with. A girl’s cry in the forest drew his attention. “Lark!” He knew she had gone after the girl; if there were four here, how many more were secreted in the woods?

He ran into the woods, leaving behind the blinding light of the fire and blinking rapidly to force his eyes to adjust more quickly. A few steps in he stopped and listened, then began to urge himself towards the sounds he heard. Soon he came upon the first of her kills; a man whose throat had been slit from ear to ear.

Appreciation bloomed in the knight’s chest that it was not her body he had found, and he knelt in the grass to use the moonlight to seek her path. A few bent blades where someone had passed caught his eye, and he began to follow. A few moments later and he came upon another two bodies, these sporting dark moisture where their vitals had been punctured, stilling their breaths forever. Archer felt his heart race as he paused to listen for more signs of Lark or the feral girl. The sound of a cry came again, fainter, and he turned his course and moved deeper into the forest, hoping that the cat would find them if he could not, and find them before it was too late.

 

[Story]

Lark was unaware of the small bloodbath that was occurring within their camp, only that she hoped that the hunter had found the knight before any harm had come to the man. She herself had urged herself forward, following the signs, as well as another scream that was cut off with a warbled stop, which only hastened her to pick her way through the densely packed woods.

Only to freeze as she caught sight of the struggling figure of the girl in a man’s grasp. He was filthy, his long hair tangled about his face, his clothes dirty. He held a large dagger to her throat as he held her up on the tips of her toes or else her jugular faced the jagged, rusted edge. His other hand had clawed its way up the skirt of her dress, pawing between her legs. The girl let out another strangled sound and turned her head, leaving a thin trail of blood as she did so, and sunk her teeth into the hand that held her in place. The man shouted, the dagger leaving its place at her throat with a violent curse.

It was all Lark needed to move forward, but the bandit caught sight of her and fisted the hand that had been groping the girl into her hair instead, pulling her head back enough that she squealed and blinked back tears, his knife again going to her throat.

That was when she caught sight of the female cat, a crossbow bolt sticking from her side, the big cat unmoving. Lark’s heart lurched, but there was no time to worry now; she had to keep her attention on the man that held the girl.

“Oh, look, another bitch. You wanna join the fun, cunt?” Her turned his head, spitting on the ground, and grinned at Lark with teeth stained from ill hygiene. Then he puckered his lips and whistled, so that two other men lurched from the trees, aiming crossbows at her. From this range, they would not miss either. “Looks like we found ourselves a party, eh, lads?”

So the filthy man was their leader, from all appearances sake. Lark pursed her lips in grim satisfaction and held up her hands, her own daggers flashing steel, to show him that she meant no harm. Only no one seemed to notice that the ornament in the design of a snake slunk down to her ankle, cool metal slinking across skin and then disappearing underneath the dead leaves beneath her feet. While their eyes were on her, it slithered towards the man and the girl.

“Drop your weapons. Raise up your skirt, show us something pretty,” the man suggested, tightening his grip in the girl’s hair. “You’re a fuckin’ pretty one too. I bet that mouth could do wonders for a man’s cock,” she chuckled, shaking the girl’s head and teasing the edge of his blade down her throat. “This one would probably try and bite it in half, you feral little bitch.”

Lark let him talk it out. She even dropped her daggers so that they fell to the ground and stooped to take up the hem of her skirt. But what she was really waiting for was the snake, winding its way over. She ignored his impatient bark and took her time, rolling it up to her knees, then….

He screamed as the serpent’s pointed teeth sunk into his ankle. The poison, she knew, would be immediate, but his death less so. The spasms started first, violent enough that he dropped away from her, his weapon dropping to the crowd. The girl was quick to follow it down and whisk it up, her cry a near growl in her throat as she ended the ruffian’s death, in a way, more violently and abruptly than the cursed thing that had bit him. She hacked his throat, spraying blood, and with another outraged cry, went in for the overkill.

...All the while Lark had also dropped back down as a bolt sailed just above her head. Her fingers slid around the hilt of one dagger and she turned, letting it fly, the point whistling through the air to embed into the throat of the one that had shot at her.

It was a shame she was not quick enough for the second, for as she stood with her second dagger in hand ready to aim, she felt a punch through her chest and a blossom of pain. Dark eyes fell down in a darkening vision to watch brilliant red spread across her blouse. Head cocking, she watched it for a moment for, then let the cold and dark take her right to the ground, the bolt sinking further with the impact of her fall.

 

[Traveler]

A man’s shout drew his attention, and throwing caution to the wind, Archer sprinted in the direction of the noise. He brushed branches aside as he leaped over logs, finding the most direct path to the commotion. He heard the smooth run of the cat beside him, and then it roared as it pushed ahead, sensing what the man feared.

As he grew closer he heard the snarl of a voice, then more, and the voice of the girl as she screamed out her anguish. He burst through the edge of the woods in time to see a bolt sink into the throat of one of the men. In the periphery of his vision he saw the girl, her arms raising up and down as blood sprayed the air. Then a sound as bolt sped by, impacting soft, yielding flesh.

“Lark!” he turned to her aggressor, even now stepping into the stirrup of his crossbow to pull the line and set another bolt. Archer raced across the distance, fleeter without his usual armor, and bowled the man to the ground. He was vaguely aware of a giant cat’s roar and a flash of fur, but his focus was set in determined rage against the filth that shot his rescuer.

They wrestled on the ground, Archer’s dagger hand gripped in the clutches of the other man’s two hands. The knight managed to straddle the other, then punched his jaw with his free hand. As the other man was distracted, Archer reached over with his free hand and snatched the dagger, then drew it savagely across the man’s neck, ripping and tearing more than cutting in his fury.

Lark’s cat roared. The sound of the feral girl’s frantic stabbing began to slow, and Archer stood. He moved swiftly to Lark’s side, then kneeled and gently lifted her from the ground and off the press of the dirt against the bolt. He pulled her onto his lap. “Lark,” he whispered, barely believing. His hand pressed around the wound, trying to still the flow of her hot blood. The scent of iron and life assailed his nostrils. On the battlefield death was a given, but here… traveling from one town to another… its senselessness assaulted his sense of right and wrong.

Taking the bolt out wouldn’t help her, it might make her bleed out more. But leaving it in was not an option either. The bleeding began to slow. His eyes went to the feral girl, though he felt she would be no help. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t turn her blade upon him next.

He lowered his face to Lark’s ear when he felt a soft rise of her chest. “Hold on, Lark…don’t go.” But then he felt her breath release in the long, final end that he had heard too many times. “Lark? LARK!” He pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse and getting none. His body shook as he wept, unwilling that she should die while he lived.

The world, it seemed, was not inclined to be fair.

After a painfully long period of negotiation with the cats they allowed him to approach the still-breathing female. She roared when he pulled the bolt free, one hand pressed against her side to provide counter pressure. And though she turned her mighty head to snarl at him, teeth and claws did not follow. A moment later and her mate was at her side, licking the wound to sooth it.

Archer took the remaining bolts and the best crossbow, then slung it over his shoulder before returning to Lark. He gently removed the bolt from her body, feeling the pain for her now that she no longer could. Then, lifting her in his arms, he started to make his way back to the campsite, before turning to look at the girl. “Come on,” he said quietly, “I won’t hurt you.” Then, not waiting for her reply, he wove his way to their camp.

It was a mess. Though the fire still burned, the stew had been thrown, and dead bodies laid about the glade. Archer climbed the steps of the wagon to lay Lark upon the pallet. He wrapped the blanket around her, and before covering her face, placed a kiss upon her brow. “Forgive me,” he whispered. Surely, if he had only been faster, she might have lived. Or… if she had not stopped to rescue him…

He wearily exited the wagon and saw the limping cat and her mate coming into the light. Half the night was spent dragging the rogue’s bodies away, and searching them for coin or other things of use. He tidied their camp, put wood on the fire, and tended to her horses, before finally sitting in the door of the wagon to rest. Behind him it felt as if Lark’s presence still waited. ‘She deserves a better place to rest than this,’ he thought. He tried to remember everything she said about her home. Tomorrow he would continue; perhaps the cats would know which way to go.

 

[Story]

Death was something that Lark was intimately familiar with. More intimate than a lover’s caress or a mother’s devotion to her children. This was a blanket that should have snuffed out everything and brought her into the next cycle, or nothing at all. Like an addiction, she welcomed the cold and the pain, then finally the nothing as it took her over, the last workings of her mind only wondering if this would be the last time she felt the creep of her own life draining from her body.

The girl was not as calm about the circumstance as the dying woman cradled in the knight’s arms. Once she had splattered herself in the blood of her own dead, the amber of her stare, not so unlike the great cats, turned on him like he was the predator. The front of her dress was dark with the dead man’s blood, soaked to the point that it plastered itself to her front to reveal that she was less of a child than Lark likely made her out to be. There was a feral intensity as she lifted her weapon and glared at him even as she moved closer to get a closer look at Lark.

A low keening sound started in her throat as she dropped down to a crouch before the woman, her own fingers pushing against the threading pulse on the scarred side of the woman’s neck until she felt it die with the vague rise and fall of her chest. A certain expression of being lost crossed the girl’s dark features, enough that she dropped the weapon and simply rocked for a long while as he gathered her up and made his way back to the encampment with her.

Numb, she half crawled and half walked herself over to where the female cat and her mate were still crouched, finding more comfort in the presence of the beasts than she likely ever would with her own kind. Only while she had not spoke yet, she was not a mute, and held secrets that only the two felines comprehended. Underneath flesh, the runes had been set, locked and the key thrown away.

Her voice low, she hummed a prayer in another language and pressed her palm against the feline’s bleeding side as she growled and tossed. Still sitting on the dirty heels of her feet, she rocked as she chanted, blood seeping in from between her fingers, and yet it slowed as the chant persisted.

The female cat continued to growl, her pain making her shift and lick the girl’s hand, then finally open her jaws and place her teeth gingerly on her wrist, but never breaking skin or coming close. The girl gasped at the last bit, but pushed her hand deeper, pinching the flesh close, before finally collapsing backwards as it sealed shut.

She lingered behind even as both cats rose up to return to the camp, the female nuzzling into the girl’s long dark hair, then nudged her as if to try and get her to follow them as they wandered back to the encampment to find their Mistress. Breathing deep, she gathered herself up on shaking legs and stumbled back to where the dead lay. Placing a smudge of blood on her forehead, she turned her gaze up to the canopy of trees and make a sign across her chest. Then, upper lip curling, she spat on his sightless stare before she, too, turned and made her way back to the encampment.

By the time she had arrived back, the strange man had placed Lark’s body in the wagon for safekeeping, and the pair of great beasts had hopped into the back to blank the corpse, the female protectively nuzzling against the dead woman, and even growled at Archer as he sat down too near.

The girl looked at him, wary, at first, then still covered in gore, approached him and placed the cleaner of her two hands on his arm. At first, the words that flowed from her mouth, choppy from lack of use, were in her own native tongue. Then after a moment’s hesitation, “She lives. The spirits insist, do not mourn. Wait.”

The common was thickly accent, but there. The girl glowered again at him, then backed away to sit near the fire.

 

[Traveler]

He thought of the sound the girl had made; a primal sound of mourning, so ancient that its language was imbedded in every cell of the living. It had shot down his spine when he heard it, and now that her sorrow was ingrained in his mind, he couldn’t unhear her cry. Somehow, she had vocalized his emotions at the loss of their leader.

And then he realized, he had somehow begun to think of Lark as the one who would lead them to safety, the one who would help him to find his place in the world…and she was gone.

When he saw the feral girl wander back to the camp, he felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. The girl had looked at him as if she wanted to plunge the knife into his chest as well, but their shared sorrow over Lark’s death had stilled her hand. He watched now, as she moved back to the light, then approached him.

The blood that covered her was not her own. Chilled, he leaned back slightly in the wagon. One hand gripped the side as he considered his options. He did not wish her ill, and when she reached out with her open hand, he nearly drew back. But rather than striking him, her touch was gentle.

And then she shocked him as her lips formed words. She spoke, telling him to not lose mourn, because the woman life. He watched the young woman back away, then he turned to look behind himself. The cats had taken their place near Lark. Protecting her body. He shook his head. No, she couldn’t still be alive. He had felt her pulse fail; he had felt her body stiffen in his arms as he carried her.

She was dead. There was no hope.

He eased off the wagon, drawing two blankets with him, and slowly approached the fire. Kneeling down near the girl, he slowly held a blanket out to her. “I… did not know you could speak,” he said quietly. “What’s your name?”

Gently, hoping to not startle her, he made his way to he opposite side of the fire and sat before pulling his blanket around his shoulders. The low fire crackled in the night and marked the minutes as they passed. The night seemed colder somehow, as if all the life had been pulled from their marrow.

 

[Story]

The girl did not look like she was too interested in ridding herself of her gored attire and she sat down on her knees and prodded the fire with a stick, her brows drawn together as she watched the flames leap and lick the air. There was intelligence there, beyond the intimidating expression she used to scare any away. At least now, she was not demonstrating fear or open hostility. Her eyes did jump up to this man as he offered her a blanket, glancing at it briefly, then up to him again.

She did not take the blanket from him. Instead, she turned back to the fire.

“Yours. Have them both, stupid man” was all she said, dropping the stick to be consumed by the flames and reaching out her hands to warm them, her eyes wandering to the dried blood that was caking black up her own. It nearly concealed the scars that ringed them, and beyond that, the faint runic traces that had the same scarification sheen, barely visible. “No name. We are not friends; you are man. Do not speak or I will eat your tongue,” she intoned, keeping in line with her savage appearance.

She was dark skinned, but not like Lark. She bore the jungle or someplace wilder than even that in her looks, a deeper mocha and eyes that were nearly yellow. Her black hair was crimped and heavy, waving around her face like it was in dire need of a brushing. Full lips that pouted naturally, high cheekbones and a regal curl of her neck. Once, she might have been something, but that was not a thing that had seen much of civilization.

Eventually, she slipped her feet underneath her again and sighed, attention flicking briefly to him as she rose. A warning not to follow her as she slunk back to the line of trees. She would take care of the dead, then check the camp again. Before she disappeared entirely into the shadows of the impending night, she paused and spoke, “We move from this spot soon. Is no good, yes?”


~~~


Death was a cold place, a place of nothing. It was not at all a holy light or a shining utopia; it was not rebirth, as some might have imagined it. It was a swallowing cavern of darkness, where a person ceased to exist. Waking from death was not like waking from a sleep, either, stretching and yawning, basking in the aftermath of sweet dreams.

Not at all.

It was a startling thing, abrupt, and invading. It found her again, the jolt of life, some hours later when everything was just as pitch black as her mind. Air inflated her lungs and she sat bolt upright, clawing at her throat as her body struggled to remember its life from before. Her eyes were wide, sightless, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then there were the spasms as atrophied muscles clenched and pumped blood, pain rolling fresh through her body as it struggled against the numb forcing feeling back into her nerve endings.

She almost screamed out loud from it, comforted only by the press of warm, fur coated bodies that pressed up against her and held her into place as the worst of it passed through her, leaving both exhaustion and adrenaline behind. Choking on a sob, Lark lifted shaking hands and pressed them to the phantom pain that speared through her chest. Impulsive even though she knew there was nothing there, her hands yanked down the front of the blood stained top that tugged at her skin as she broke the blood encrusted garment away from her.

Only the more garish scar that bloomed like a horrific flower across her chest remained, ancient in its origin. Sighing her relief, she slumped back, acclimating a few minutes longer before her voice strained in the dark, “Archer? Girl?”

 

[Traveler]

That look of hers was sharp; filled with distrust and disdain. Then she spoke again, and her words were harsh. He blinked, pulling the offered comfort away. Then she declared them ‘not’ friends, when he had only sought an ally, and threatened his tongue if he spoke again.

Archer quirked a brow. ‘Suit yourself,’ he thought, and pulled the blankets around himself before finding a comfortable spot near the fire. His troubled blue eyes studied the flame, then looked away, remembering he needed to retain his night vision. He drew a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of their small party heavy on his shoulders. Troubled full lips rolled above his strong chin, and as his hooded gaze followed the girl as she began to slink away. He saw the profile of the wild girl as she turned from him. The profile of her finely wrought face was exotic, much like Lark’s but untamed, and he sorrowed for whatever had dragged her from the life she should have had and thrust her into the life she had. When she paused and asked him if they would leave soon, he began to answer her. Remembering her threat, he simply nodded, and watched her go.

Late that night an owl hooted, waking Archer from his sleep. He rekindled the fire and walked the perimeter, but found no signs of threat or the feral girl. The cats raised their hats when he paused at the wagon door, but seemed otherwise undisturbed.

He settled back to sleep until the morning, only to be waken once again. Not by an owl, but by the shifting of the wagon. He glanced over, keeping his body still, and waiting to hear if the large cats were worried. After a moment the movement stilled, and the knight lowered his eyelids, though his limbs remained on alert. It was an hour before dawn; soon they would be leaving, once the roadway was light enough to travel safely.

Just as he began to drift into sleep, he heard a voice.

Archer’s eyes flew open. ‘Had that been the girl?’ But… she called him ‘stupid man’, not by his name. Slowly he got to his knees, then stood, dagger in hand. “Who’s there?” he called out, moving from the fire. He passed the door of the wagon and saw movement inside. He saw the cats returning to their favorite spots in the wagon, and it looked as if they had laid upon their mistress, shifting her dead body.

Risking the cats’ ire, he crept up the steps, sheathing his dagger. Her body deserved the honor of being laid properly, not shifted by animals that might begin to see it as a treat.

He saw her blouse was torn. It had been pulled away from her body… turning a scowl to the cats, he moved nearer her body, then sat on the edge of her bed to begin to put her cold flesh back in place.

 

[Story]

His hands would not get as far as to touch the rigid, crusted piece of blouse that he tried to adjust. Lark’s hand shot up in the dark and grasped his hand, still cold from death. Her fingers were rigid as they wound around his hand, squeezing it as the woman that had been dead in every way just hours before groaned and stirred.

“Do not be afraid,” she beseeched him first with a voice gone raspy. With that, she released his hand and groaned again as feeling rushed into her limbs as she moved on her bed, the pins and needles making her squirm in place. The female cat lifted herself up and descended again at Lark’s hand, nuzzling the top of the once dead woman’s head as she struggled against the pain of life.

Finally, though, Lark’s dark eyes found Archer’s face in the back of the cabin and, grimacing, she pulled herself up into a sitting position and reached out to him again, a strained look on her face while her eyes quested for what emotion would befall him. Her lips were quick to move, though, an explanation already spilling forth.

“Do not… be alarmed. A curse, this is, that denies me passage in death. You are not mad; I know the look. It is… a very long tale, Archer Covington. Come here, please…”

Lark was not sure why she cared so much about what this man thought, but the fear that sliced through her was so rare that it should have been foreign. It had been too long since she had felt it, which only incurred more of the emotion as her eyes sought his, vulnerable and almost pleading.