Down The Road To Madness (Story/Traveler)

[Traveler]

Archer cried out in alarm and surprise as the dead, cold hand shot up and gripped him. He tried to pull away, only to be locked into the death-ringed grasp, but her hold was tight. Then a sound came from the long-dead lips, and the knight released a breath as he felt all his body heat seem to drain from his core. His breaths came in shallow pants as he fought against reason to try to understand how it could be that the mighty cats in the tent seemed so unconcerned as a dead body came to life before them.

“Do not be afraid,” her voice was raspy, dry. He struggled between abject horror and relief, mingled with the thought that he must have misjudged her condition and left Lark untreated while she still lived. Her groan seemed mixed with pain and weariness, and Arzhur grasped for the water flask nearby to uncork it and offer it to the woman.

He was halfway to holding it to her when she grimaced and pulled herself up. He reached a hand to help steady her and was shocked at how stiff her body still felt. It wasn’t cold; there was no reasonable explanation for it, yet the woman felt as if she had laid dead on a battlefield for hours. Her flesh was slightly stiff beneath his fingers, yet a soft yield was beginning to be felt. She was cold, but only the cold of the bloodless. And yet, there was no glow of unearthly possession in her eyes. He could not understand how she was alive, and yet… he rejoiced despite his fear.

He must be mad.

As if she heard him, Lark reassured him that he was not, though her explanation in and of itself was insanity. Who had ever heard of a curse that kept someone alive? It sounded like a blessing.

And though every fiber in his being told him that this was something to be feared, from the small hairs on his body standing on end to the buzzing at the back of his skull, when she entreated him to come closer, he obeyed. Inching nearer, his breath hitched in anticipation of some horrible trick, he moved hearer to the woman who had saved him. He could barely breath, and had the giant cats not seemed at ease, he might have fled. In truth, it scared him more than the dragon had; that, at least, he could understand.

“Lark,” his voice finally allowed, “this is… this cannot be.” He shook his head slowly even as his fingers reached out to touch her face, feeling the cold skin beneath his caress. He swallowed dryly, his heart pounding in his throat. His hand trembled as he palmed her cheek. Thoughts of dark magic, of curses and consequences, fluttered about his mind like a sparrow trying to break free of its cage. And like the bird, it slammed against its constraints so hard it chanced killing itself, but he could not stop the fears borne of years of superstition and stories of dark magic, no matter how much he desired to.

“You’re alive… but… Lark. How?”

 

[Story]

He was not yet running away screaming. Lark took that has a positive sign, and then an even better sign when he touched her. She understood fully how unnerved the man must be, and with herself still coming up from the darkening sleep, her fingers snatched woodenly around the flask he offered.

She pulled water down her throat like someone who had been without for longer than just a handful of hours. Her throat convulsed with the motions of drinking, until she had dried his flask and came back up for air with a gasp that heaved her chest. The diminutive woman was trembling as she sat up, trembling slightly, as her dark eyes quested back to his face with a worried look in them.

At least they were not the glassy stare of the dead. There was life returned to her gaze, animation in the expression on her face. She made a guilty sound in the back of her throat when her cheek nuzzled against the palm of his hand, seeking its warmth, even as the rest of her shifted closer. She almost cuddled right up against him if it were not the tense fear she still felt coming off of him.

Swallowing around the dryness in her own throat, she slid her hand down to twine her fingers through his, squeezing reassuringly. She even chuckled darkly. “As a man who has been rescued from a creature that, in some parts of the world, would be considered myth, surely you have a grasp on the concept of the otherworldly? Magic, that is. And while there is magic that is more benign -- more good, that is -- there is power that is not so pure in deed or practice.”

Her voice still sounded shallow from misuse, or at least raspy from sleep. She shifted on the bedroll and groped behind her with shaking limbs for a blanket, dragging it up around her shoulders as she huddled as close to him as she dared without causing him to run away. “Many years ago, a sorceress deemed to lock me in a never ending cycle of death and life, Ser Archer Covington. Such is my curse and my way of life. It is dark magic, forbidden now in the world, that keeps life pumping through my veins. And as vile as I myself find it to be, there is nothing to be done to break the cycle. I have tried. Just... do not be frightened, please.”

Dark eyes sought his own lighter pair. Her hand, now that she was wrapped in a blanket, reached up to cover the hand that cupped her face, holding it there as she waited to see what he would do.

 

[Traveler]

Like a parched desert she drank the water, draining the flask completely. Dead people didn’t drink, and the way she pulled at the water made him worry that she would choke. Thankfully she didn’t, though it seemed she had lost her breath in her rush to wet her body.

When she finished, he took the empty flask from her hand and set it aside. Her eye seemed brighter, though not as bright as he remembered. And then she pressed her face into his hand, and he felt his throat tighten with emotion. She looked so lost – it was hard to reconcile the Lark of tonight with the woman he had begun to know.

She asked if he believed in otherworldly powers and magic. “I do believe in it,” he agreed. He helped her with her blanket, then sat on the bed closer so he could wrap an arm around her shoulders. As she explained what happened with the sorcerer, Archer circled his arms around her in a hug, cupping her face with one of his hands. “I’m not frightened, not… completely,” he confessed, pressing his face against her head and closing his eyes.

He felt her pull away slightly, and he looked down at her face. He had many questions; why did the sorceress do this to Lark, what was the name of the one who did this, how long ago… so many questions, and perhaps, many years to seek to have them answered. “I’m not frightened of you,” he clarified. “I’m not scared of you, Lark.” He sighed, running his hand along her arm to warm her.

“How do I help you?” He kept her gaze, seeing the life coming back to her eyes. “Tell me what to do for you. Whatever you ask; whatever you need,” he continued, “I’m here for you.”

He owed her everything. His life being the least of these. She pulled him from the existence that had nearly killed him and gave him a chance to start over. He was freed from the boundaries of the kingdom he had been born into. When he felt the boundaries lifted, he had experienced a guilty sense of relief that he would not have to return to his king and report his failure. It would have been death to have done so; for all the ex-knight knew his king counted all of them dead.

And through that death came freedom.

Lark had set him free.

 

[Story]

His mere presence in such close proximity relaxed her and yet did not. A paradox of emotion swam through her thoughts now that awareness returned and the prickles of sensation were abating as her body became, once more, a living thing; no different than it had been, though the awful scarring across her throat remained in all its shining glory as a reminder. Indulgently, she moved her head enough to nuzzle her cheek against his chest and breathed him in as if it were something guilty.

But really -- it had only just been too long.

She enjoyed his contact too much. It stirred inside her, made her shift back before she could become too lost in it, and a guilty flash passed over her face, flickered in her eyes, as she smiled with almost girlish nervousness and pulled back from the warmth of his embrace. As she moved far enough away that his hand slid from her cheek, she immediately missed the warmth of his touch, and as she stretched her limbs out and slid from beneath the curve of him arm, she almost slid right back into place.

Instead, she looked down at the crusted blood that caked her front with a grimace and with unsteady hands, she began peeling the ruined blouse away from her skin. She should bathe, she knew, but sleep was pulling at her harder than anything. ..So she fought it and instead peered up into his worried face, her smile softening in understanding. Pulling herself up with a groan, she managed to find her knees underneath her and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek, the lush pair of tiers soft on his rough skin.

“Stay with me, tonight,” was all she said at first, her voice soft, beseeching. As if she had not slept just right beside him for those past weeks while he occupied the bedroll that they were both on now. They would both fit in close quarters.

Ever the stubborn one, though, she got to her shaky feet and moved towards the back of the wagon where her clothes were folded into a trunk. Opening it, she pulled out a clean gown that looked appropriate to sleep in. Without giving him a backward glance, she pulled up on her ruined blouse, grimacing as the blood still stuck to her skin as she peeled it up and off, discarding it to the wagon’s floor. She would need to dispose of it, later.

Her back was a smooth expanse of silken skin decorated with an intricate tattoo that took up its entire expanse. The obsidian sun was an insignia that spoke of her origins, emblazoned in ink from shoulder blades to the small of her back, filled with whorls and patterns that took a closer eye to decipher the real story that it told.

“Would you mind bringing some clean water…?” Finally, she looked back at him. There was an interested smile on her face that she kept in an otherwise serene expression as she moved back to the bedroll and sat back down, leaden, with her upper torso still bare.

The gore likely made it hard to appreciate anything underneath. The blood was crusted dark on cinnamon skin, but underneath was a woman’s softness. Pliant curves and soft skin. Her breasts were pert, young, supple, though not large as they rested high on her chest, tipped with small dark nipples.

..Though again, there was too much that distracted from her physique, namely the scar that was worse than the shining brute along her throat. This was a mess of carnage, as if someone had ripped apart her torso and it had never fully healed properly, as if once her sternum had been parted and forced back together. Her eyes were curious as she watched his expression, not quite self-conscious of her body’s mars.

“I want to ask you as well… if you think that you are simply lucky or if there was something else at work that caused you to survive the dragon where others did not. You were the sole survivor of that attack, Archer.”

 

[Traveler]

He felt her pulling into his embrace, as if his heat helped her to return to life. In that simple gesture he felt that he could be valuable to her, if for no other reason than to be here for her each time she awoke. Although… he hoped that dying was not something that she did often. He could not imagine how difficult it must be, if being burned was any indication of the pain that coming back to full function would bring her.

Then she pulled away, and it was only her small smile that told him that she had not become repulsed by his proximity. Though, it seemed she was just now realizing the extent of her previous injury. He watched her consider the blood that plastered her blouse to her skin, then gather her legs beneath her and kiss his cheek. The brush of her body against his was guiltily arousing, though he fought his response, fearing it would be ungentlemanly to let her know how she affected him. Even covered in blood and dirt, she was beautiful.

Her soft entreaty drew his gaze. “I will stay,” he pledged. Tonight and as long as she wished. He swallowed thickly, watching her remove her blouse. He wanted to help her, but worried she would find his touch unwelcome now that she was disrobing.

Even in the dim of the wagon, he could see traces of her tattoo in the filtered firelight. He drew his breath in sharply when she asked for water. “Uhm… yes. Yes,” he turned to leave the inner side of the wagon and went to the small barrel lashed to the exterior of the cart to fill a pitcher with water. He fetched a bowl, then looked around for the feral girl but saw no sign of her.

Once he returned to the wagon he set the bowl on the small trunk that also served as a table. As she turned, her bared body covered in blood and scars, he could not help but let out a breath. “Gods…” he whispered. “What did they do to you?” It both terrified him to think of her being torn apart, cut, and ravaged, and to think that she had somehow been cursed to return from each death. She had scars upon her that spoke of many fallings and risings; a torment where she could never find final rest.

His eyes traced her scars, and unconsciously he had moved up to her and drew the tips of his fingers and the back of his hand across her scars, looking at where she had been torn apart, stabbed, and cut.

“I want to ask you as well… if you think that you are simply lucky or if there was something else at work that caused you to survive the dragon where others did not. You were the sole survivor of that attack, Archer.”

She drew him out of his examination of her, and guiltily he drew his hands away. “Lucky? No… no I don’t think that I was luck that saved me. Fear, perhaps, or the understanding of how fire works.” He smiled at her, a little shyly, and then said, “I wasn’t the only survivor of that attack, Lark. The dragon survived as well.” He smiled wider. “And then you were there. I don’t think that’s… luck.” He looked into her eyes. “I think that was fate.”

For several breaths he stood there, just watching her face, before he reached for a cloth. “Let me help you wash,” he said, “And then you should rest.”

 

[Story]

The woman lacked the modesty that his court ladies would have. She had shed the nuances of chastity long before her first death, having been born both a slave and in a different culture than what now bloomed within the western kingdoms. She had already deemed by his mannerisms and coloration that he shared their sentiments and way of life. If circumstances had been different, Lark might have found any remnants of his upbringing to be endearing.

Even though the faint smile was a possible indication that she already knew.

She had slunk back to her cot when he had disappeared from the wagon, having shed the last remnants of her sullied garb so that she was naked. The old clothes she had tossed into a corner of the wagon to dispose of later and a fresh set of clothes were neatly folded beside her. Lark was running a brush through her hair when he arrived back into view at the lip of the wagon, full lips curling into a pleased smile when she saw that he brought what she had asked.

Only she stiffened at his alarm, dark eyes trailing down to where his eyes focused, to the old scars that reminded her every day for too long her sordid endings and new beginnings. Her features wrinkled in distaste, though she set the brush aside and instead reached out for him, resting her hand over the one that traced the scars that marred her torso.

“It is nothing, now. Just a reminder of what had been. A part of the curse, if you will. But what is a little scar when one has their youth, no?” She tried to make light with the jest, her features softening again, giving his hand a squeeze. Then, she pulled herself from the edge of the cot and presented her back and its intricate tattoo to his eye again, with the flickering light playing along the dark ink as well as the graceful muscles of her back, the dimples near the heart shaped curve of her bottom.

Her motions were still jerky as she retrieved a washcloth from another trunk, then moved to sit instead at the edge of the wagon, chin tilting to look up at him as she reached out and dipped her cloth into the water, beginning the process of sponging herself off and starting with the most gruesome parts.

Quickly, the rivulets of water ran red, caught by the ground below instead of the interior of her wagon. And while she cleared away the crusted blood from her body, she spoke. “I think that it was intentional and that the dragon has placed its boon upon you, else you would not be alive, but a charred husk. I believe that the dragon has cursed you, I just have not quite put my finger on how yet. The why is simple -- you must bear a burden for your hunt -- but the burden itself has yet to reveal itself.”

Spoken like someone who had years of knowledge of such things. Her voice was heavy, yet soft, understanding. Then she nodded in the direction of the trunk. “Help me bathe,” she agreed.

 

[Traveler]

It was the stiffening of her back as he touched her that reminded him that he was being inappropriately bold. She stilled his hand with her own, keeping him from continuing his somewhat naïve and rude exploration of her scars. Archer’s neck flushed with shame as she reassured him, as one would a child, that the scars were nothing, and he felt the vastness in experience between them like a chasm of the mind. He was thirty; a man in anyone’s reckoning, but around her he felt like a novice.

He could only ‘hmm,’ in response as she gave his hand a squeeze and then pulled herself up and revealed her back to him. When someone had lived multiple lifetimes, what was considered their ‘youth’? And had she sought revenge on the ones who tore her body apart, or had she forgiven them and moved on? She was a book he would never truly read; a forest he would never know the extent of or fully understand.

So much had happened in the last few hours that the once-knight was slow to wrap his acceptance around it all. But as she retrieved a washcloth and began to rinse off her torso, he spared only the briefest of moments lingering his gaze across her tattoo, and went to take another cloth to wet and help her with her bath. The water ran cold upon his hand as he wrung out the cloth, and as he started from the nape of her neck and washed her shoulders, he listened to her speak about the dragon.



He couldn’t help the dry chuckle that arose when Lark said that the dragon placed its boon upon him. A curse, nonetheless… “I don’t know, Lark. The dragon left me for dead, and I would have died after a few painful days in the woods had you not found me…” his hand paused as he considered that thought. “She taunted us in the mountains. Many times she could have killed our men outright, but she made a game of it, chasing them to increase the terror, then giving them the belief that they might escape, before taking that relief away in the flash of teeth and claws.”

His hands dipped the cloth in the water, wrung out the cloth, and continued to wash the middle of her back before moving to her hips. Despite the scars and the intricate tattoo across her back, he could see that she was a beautiful woman. The taut muscles along her back and the dimples above her buttocks looked like they belonged to a young maiden just filling the bloom of womanhood. She had the tight skin across her belly that belied any thoughts she might have once borne children. And unlike the women he had known, she didn’t seem ashamed of her naked state, but rather sat as regal and confident on the edge of the wagon as if she sat on a throne.

Archer pressed his lips together as the thought of a curse once again wriggled its way into his mind. “Do you… do you have much experience with the Wyrms?”

 

[Story]

He was a man, there was no doubting that. His touch on her skin had surprised her, a reminder, yet again, of her solitude. What he might have viewed as indifference was truly something else that had her recoiling into herself, a fear of intimacy with anyone. She could still feel the warmth of his fingers on skin that was warmed by his touch.

The cool water only made her skin pebble and tighten along with the breeze that ruffled through her hair. Lark fought the impulse to seek the warmth of his body again and instead sat upright, eyes closed as he ran the cloth down the length of her back, his hands gentled with his efforts to wash the dirt and rot and dried blood from her skin. Her own had stilled its efforts, though the worst was around where her injury had been.

She was too caught up in the sensation of him to pay the motions any mind. Until he spoke of the wyrm.

Her eyes snapped open and she breathed in a shaking breath, her body animating again as she dunked her own cloth into the water, pinkening it with blood, then dipped her chin down to focus on washing away more red stain from her skin.

“I do not have much experience with Wyrms, as they are rare. I was surprised to learn of this one… which is why I am ever curious as to you and your mens’ purpose of hunting one. No doubt, your king has nefarious plans for killing such a beast - intentionally or not - and played it off as mere sport. For the time being, we shall not worry on a dragon’s bane; it has not showed itself yet and we have other things to worry about, such as moving to safer ground. We would not want another mishap like we had today, no?” She teased, but her words were solemn.

Washing away what she could from the front of her torso, she indulged herself by tilting her head back so that she could see his face. Dark eyes that saw too much wandered his expression and sought his gaze as she leaned further in, until she could almost feel his pulse at her back. Searching still, she set her bloodied rag aside and reached for his hand, gently urging his arm forward and guiding his motions down the front of her torso, between the ravine of her breasts, where they stood pert, dark nipples at attention.

She spoke no words as to why she would do such a thing. Only settled in closer with a smile that seemed almost tentative, shy as the young woman she appeared to be, if it weren’t for the knowing in her eyes. Tempered with something else - longing? - that she was not willing to address.

 

[Traveler]

He smiled grimly at her mention of moving to somewhere safer. Was there ever such a thing? Wherever there were people there was danger. He knew, firsthand, that men were crueler than any force of nature or the wild. They intentionally harmed each other. Not for food or survival, but sometimes just for spite.

Archer continued to bath her, taking care to leave her more intimate areas to herself. He still felt the blush of modesty across his neck and face from her exposed proximity, and though she seemed to not mind it, he felt like he was seeing something that he had no right to see. He felt he was taking too much already, as his eyes drank in the intricacies of her tattoo and the lines of her feminine form. Whoever she had shared herself with had been a lucky person, for he saw in her that she had the kind of body that could bring a nation to its knees, even with the scars of her life etched upon it.

Perhaps… because of them too.

His brow knit in concentration as he focused himself on the task at hand, murmuring soft “Mm-hmms” in reaction to her words. He felt the gentle press of her body as she leaned against him. Her proximity forced him to find other areas to wash. More… intimate areas… and he paused for a moment as she reached out and took his hand in hers.

Then she drew his hand between her breasts, and all he could see was the soft curve of her body ending in those dark, enchanting, tips.

His eyes pulled from her breasts, where his hand now stilled, and found her dark gaze watching him. His breaths thinned and his heart pounded frantically against his ribs. Archer’s fingers curled against her skin. He felt time slow to a thick, sluggish halt, as the blood rushed through his ears.

The soft tug of a mile graced her lips, and he felt himself unable to resist the primal draw any longer. Despite her recent injuries, despite the rules of chivalry or the customs of etiquette, he stepped closer and lowered his face. The hand at her chest rose up beneath her chin, hooking a finger underneath it to tip her head further up and meet her lips with his own.

The gentle press of skin on skin sent thrilling shock waves through his body. He had never been around a woman like Lark; not just that she had returned from the dead, but her capable confidence, her fearless addressing of the bandits… even the way she had saved the wild girl from slavery, and him from the dragon’s fire, made her a kind of woman who surpassed anyone he had even known. He wanted to bind herself to her. It didn’t matter where she was going or where she had been. All that mattered was this moment, the look in her eyes, and that quiet invitation from the pulling of her hand that had drawn him to her heart.

 

[Story]

There was no scar left behind from the crossbow bolt that had killed her; nothing but what remained of the blood that he washed away and smooth skin. Almost as if the attack did not happen at all, if not for the bloodied puddles they left behind on the ground.

And for once in a truly long time, Lark felt herself as vulnerable in her naked state, especially with the kiss of the night’s air at her front and the heat of his chest behind her. She shuddered with the trail of his knuckles against her flesh, eyes closing as her breath left her in a trembling sigh. Feeling light headed and euphoric, her chin tipped up with ease and her eyes turned to liquid heat as they opened, just a crack, to peer back up into his face.

What she saw made her breath hitch in her throat and full lips part. Right before his lips caught hers in a sweet kiss. It was almost hesitant, she felt, just as her own tender brush of her trembling mouth against his.

By the gods, but she felt like a maid.

Grinning to herself, she snaked one hand up, catching the nape of his neck, her head tilting back further as her lips tugged at his from this odd angle, deepening the press but also savoring the intimacy of the act.

And like a cat, she arched back against him so that her back pressed fully into his chest and her body strained to be touched. But … also like a cat, a keening sound that was a cross between a growl and wail sounded just beyond the lip of the wagon where they were.

Startled, Lark jerked her mouth away from his and the kiss that she was not yet ready to end, her head whipping forward to settle on the girl, who was dripping wet in her dress that clung to her slender frame. Looking like a drowned animal, she looked at them both as if they were performing some sort of heinous act. She even snarled aggressively at Archer as she approached the wagon, hesitating before she launched herself into the wagon, dripping water in her wake.

Lark was quick to leave him, shifting up and around him to get to her feet as she moved to kneel before a trunk and pull out a robe, wrapping the colorful ensemble around her nudity with an apologetic half smile shot in his direction.

Then she was up on her feet again, though her step was still uncertain as she dared to turn and attempt and approach to the girl who huddled in the corner, on her hammock, glowering at the male intruder in her space. Then with a growl, she snatched up her blankets, and slunk around them both again, to make her way back to the ground.

“I buried bodies,” she finally said, woodenly, which brought a look of surprise to Lark’s face that the girl spoke.

 

[Traveler]

She pressed herself against his chest, and Archer felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. There was sunrises and springtime in the air, and despite their recent struggles with the bandits he felt as if the doors of opportunity had just been flung wide open, and the world laid before them ready to be explored.

Then a keening sound something like despair and anger cut through the air, and Lark jerked away from his kiss. Archer’s blue eyes turned towards the wagon entrance and something like the resignation of a parent when their toddler has interrupted the first ‘alone’ time they had with their wife in months. Was he disappointed? Certainly. Did he feel compassion for this slave-woman, who had probably always equated men with evil deeds, and perhaps always would? Yes… but he was irked at her sense of timing.

And like a mother rushing to her child, Lark left Archer’s side to tend to the feral lass’s desires, quickly covering up her nudity with an apologetic smile to the man whose kiss had been interrupted. He turned to the basin, picking it up from the floor to tend to it, and grabbing the soiled clothes that needed to be washed. Whatever had started to bloom between himself and Lark had been interrupted and would not spring forth again while the wild girl’s eyes were near.

He was tired of her glares; he had not once tried to harm her, yet her animosity extended to him based solely upon his gender. Was he to blame for every crime committed by men in her life? When the girl snatched her blankets and began to leave, he was surprised that she cared to speak to them. “I buried bodies,” she finally said, woodenly.

Without thinking, Archer heard himself speak. “Why? They were our enemies. They were without honor,” he said, turning to look at the girl. “Why would you waste your energy burying someone who wanted to hurt you?”

True, her effort bought him and Lark time to spend together unburdened by her judging eyes, but he could not see the sense in what she had done. Even as a knight, he would never have taken the time to bury someone he did not at least respect, and those brigands… they deserved to be ripped apart by the carrion animals of the wild and strewn about the forest. And true – part of his retort was spurned by his interrupted kiss, but he also felt a tinge of curiosity that this wild woman would do something so… so civilized.