Date: Thu, 2 Jun 2011 23:02:44 -0400
From: M Patroclus <thephallocrat@gmail.com>
Subject: The Exile Chapter 18

THE EXILE
A Gay Fantasy Experiment

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

This crown upon my head weighs me down and wearies me, makes my neck ache
and my back stiff. It is simple and elegant enough in its design, but made
of a thick, heavy metal that I am told is typical of the craftsmanship of
the late Anatherian period.  I cannot deny the symbolic power of this crown
-- indeed, as you have read, I went to great lengths to bring this emblem
of ancient power and glory under my control. It is, however, hardly
practical; I would not wish the pain of it upon my worst enemy. And yet it
occurs to me now that the discomfort caused by the crown's weight is
symbolic as well. The power represented in this band of metal cannot be
born lightly, nor without great cost.

Recently, a famous young artist of Fermanagh was commissioned by my circle
of advisers to paint a portrait of me to hang in prominent display in his
native city, where I am able to visit all too infrequently. It was decided
a life-sized image of me there would serve to reinforce my rule by keeping
my memory alive amongst the minds of the people during my long absences. In
this portrait, I am still completely hairless, the popular conception of me
to this day despite the fact that many years have passed since my curse was
broken, and that now my hair grows as thick as ever before, covering my
ears and reaching my shoulders. In addition, in a display of wisdom
surprising in one so young, the artist has placed an olive branch in one of
my hands and the Prince's Blade in the other. The message is clear: this is
the dual nature of a King, who creates peace and wages war, who brings
order even as he sews chaos, who does good while also causing great
harm. It cannot wholly be one, without the other. This was a bitter lesson
to learn. Valen once tried to teach me of this, though I think in the moral
battle every king must face he let himself fall too far and lost his way,
and he has paid the price for this failure. But even Alander struggled with
this very point, as I have since learned.

As I came to power, my only thought was to ease suffering, to right
injustice, and to create a better order for the world. This, I hope, I have
accomplished, at least in part. However, it has been impossible to make
these things come to pass without cost, and many are those who have been
sacrificed in order for my vision to be realized. Jacek, my first and
oldest friend who once I loved more than a brother, is one such. My
memories of him weigh upon me heavily as do my memories of all who have
suffered as a consequence of my actions, regardless of how noble I
considered those actions to be. Some of these, like Jacek, I loved more
than all other things -- heaven forgive me!

Three summers after my rise to power, I faced the first great crisis of my
reign and Jacek was at the heart of it. Word came that Fermanagh, that old
divided city, the first I visited and the first I conquered, had fallen to
some unknown enemy. My male soldiers there had been broken and even the
Queen's amazarii, whose numbers were still recovering from Valessa's civil
war, could not hold against the foe. And so I came down in full power with
a Broxbournean host at my back and even an additional force from Carmathen
that I had wrangled from the hands of the Council there (this being the
days long before I had dissolved that body). When I arrived, I discovered
with horror that my greatest fears had come to pass. The unknown enemy who
had taken the city were a surprisingly small army, passionate and
embittered, with faces I knew too well. They had all of them been my
brothers and sisters once, members of the people that had called themselves
the Taluid, and Jacek stood at their head. They were the remnants of my
former people, the ones who could not bring themselves to follow me down
the path where I led the others.

It is not so surprising that they should rise against me. In their minds I
had already destroyed everything they had known, loved, and held
sacred. They were left with nothing but hatred, and they had nothing to
lose. In their place, if, say, it had been Jacek or some other that had
been exiled and I the one left behind, never seeing the world outside our
village, I might have been one of them. In every great change there are
those who cannot adjust themselves to the new way of things, who cling with
the fierce stubbornness of which only we human beings are capable to their
traditions and to the past. I have this stubbornness myself, and it was
only the force of my exile and journey through our lands that taught me the
truth. Alander foresaw that not all could accept the path of change, and
that is why he prophesied (though this prophesy was largely overlooked by
our leaders) that the Sha'Eluid would destroy our people, dividing them
against themselves.

The force that had captured Fermanagh would not hear reason, and so I had
no choice but to take up my blade against those I had once called my
friends. I remember Jacek's sneer of hatred as we met in battle. His spirit
had grown as twisted and angry as the brutal, hideous scar across his
face. We fought. It was not the first time I had faced him in combat. It
was not the first time that I slew someone I loved.

But I go not the proper way to tell a story, each event in its proper
order. I was writing last of how I reunited with my father. Is it
surprising how quickly his anger at me, at my disobedience, faded? I
certainly thought it was, at the time. But remember, he was ill and close
to death. Perhaps the traditions that had seemed important enough to
warrant sending me into banishment now seemed, at the close of his life, to
lack the same forcefulness that they once had. Faced with his own end, and
the dissolution of his particular self into that greater universal identity
(to which we all ultimately belong), he found his priorities rather
changed. Then, too, we must remember that there is great power in love -
power to change the way we have always thought. This is perhaps more than
anything else the central theme of my tale, and of my life. Just as my love
for another, a love I had scarcely spoken of or admitted even to myself
(and have barely even written of here, where I have written everything
else) had given me the strength to disobey my culture in a way I had
previously considered unthinkable, now my father had out of his love for me
found reasons to re-think the very traditions he had handed down to me and
all my tribe. In the end, he proved himself the holy man my people had
always revered him to be - for as our own texts affirm, love is a sacred
force, the power of the Creator himself.

Certainly it was the power of love that can explain how quickly Shara
offered me her allegiance. No sooner had my father named me the son of
power than my former bride entered the room with a look of wonder and awe
in her eyes. I was not surprised to find that she had been listening in to
our conversation out of concern for my father, or for me, or for both of
us. Her face was now radiant with purpose, her eyes wide and hopeful.

"Are you truly the one we have awaited?" she asked breathlessly, while my
father gazed on speechless, his mouth gaping open. I said nothing, for the
nature of the question was such that neither a yes or a no would be
entirely correct, and I did not know how to begin to explain this to
her. She seemed, however, to come to her own conclusion without any help
from me.

"I thought I had stopped believing," she said, a hand upon her breast, "I
thought I had banished hope. But now I find that I did not, never for a
moment. It is a strange thing."

"What happens now?" my father asked at last, looking to me for
guidance. His voice was unsteady and unsure in a way I had never heard it
before, with a note of pleading as though he were importuning me for
answers where he himself had none. It was a total reversal: I had become
the father, he the uncertain child. It shook me to my core.

"I must claim the relics that lie within the temple," I explained, "They
are the key to gaining the hearts of the people in the lands beyond. With
them, I plan to overthrow oppression and create a new world. A better
world, I hope." I knew how hopelessly naive my words sounded even as I
spoke them, as though it could possibly be that simple, as though justice
and harmony could be organized with a crown and a wave of my hand. But my
heart burned with purpose, and I would not allow myself to falter now.

"Only the high priest can enter the Holy of Holies," Shara protested,
"Markis, they'll never allow it."

"They must, if that is what is necessary!" my father interjected, coughing
violently, "They will allow it once they recognize who and what he is. Once
he has proved himself the child of destiny."

"But Markis has been banished and stripped of his authority. There are
traditions and forms that must be obeyed," Shara's face was tightened with
worry, "I'm not saying that I don't believe that he is what we think he is,
only... I do not think the Elders will accept him as the one so easily. I
know my brother will not."

"If they have eyes, they will see. If they have ears, they will hear," the
old man quoted, "Do not the holy texts tell us this?"

"You should go, Father," Shara pleaded, "It is your right by virtue of your
office. You may retrieve the relics for Markis and tradition will be
kept. The others will take it far easier that way."

"It is not supposed to be easy!" the high priest snapped, "Not for any of
us, but especially not for the Sha'Eluid. If he is truly the one, then it
must be Markis who removes the relics, not me. Like every leader of our
tribe before me I am bound to the traditions of our ancestors back to the
first generation of Alander. Only the son of power may wipe away the rules
of our customs, for such is his destiny."

It was disturbing to have wisdom in a way my father did not, and I could
not bring myself to explain the truth; that I was not destined to defy our
customs because I was the son of power, but rather that I was becoming the
son of power precisely because I was willing to defy our customs. I had
proved to myself, after all, that the words of the Archbishop regarding
those who had the will to act were truer and wiser than I had previously
believed -- not that the man himself was wise, for wise words in the mouths
of the arrogant and selfish are no more effective and equally as dangerous
as would be a blade in the hands of a undisciplined and untrained child.

"I must act at once," I said instead, "We cannot expect the Elders to allow
this; they will not be able to see past the sinner that they exiled. I
cannot wait for them deliberate or to organize against my purpose. I must
go to the Temple, and I must go now."

"You will not be able to enter unnoticed," Shara warned.

For a moment I considered drawing upon Damon once more to travel unseen
(though I feared to let him enter me again -- it still felt like a
violation), but I knew that the time for subtlety had ended. It was time to
toss the dice and test my fate, and I found myself wishing yet again that
Alek was by my side. He had always had good luck with dice.

"So be it," I said, "Let them notice. There won't be time to stop me. I
will not hide what I have come to do."

"But the others..."

"If they have eyes, they will see," I said.

My father smiled at that, and reached his hand out again to me. I took it
again, and found it trembled nearly as much as my own.

"I am afraid," I whispered.

"You stand at the threshold of your destiny. Your mother spoke of this
day," he said, his eyes glazed and distant, "She had such confidence, such
power in her words. You remind me much of her, now. In a way, you always
have." He licked his dry lips, and when he spoke again his voice was a
hoarse whisper that could barely be heard. "When you were exiled, it was as
though she had died all over again. And now you have come back to me. You
have both come back to me..." He coughed again, violently. Shara rushed to
his side and smoothed his brow as his eyes fluttered closed.

"Rest," she whispered, flashing me a worried look that spoke volumes.

"Amongst my followers in the forest there is a talented medician," I said,
thinking suddenly of Jelena (as indeed most often I tried very hard not to
do), "We must send for her soon." Privately, I considered that if Alek's
lover could not save my father, perhaps I would be forced to turn to Damon
once again for aid as he once aided Cedrik. It gave me no pleasure, but
neither did my father's ashy face and ominous cough.  "Watch over him,
Shara," I said, turning to leave.

"I'm coming with you," she said, crossing to me quickly.

"My father--" I protested.

"Will sleep now. He often sleeps these days. He will be fine for a few
hours, and you need me at your side."

"It could be dangerous," I said, attempting to dissuade her, but I knew at
once that my words had only hardened her resolve more.

"I have waited for this all my life," she said, "Our people have waited for
generations. You cannot ask me to stay behind." And she was right. I could
not.

We slipped out into the early morning air, cold and crisp. The first
inklings of dawn were beginning to filter through the treetops, and the
dark of night was grudgingly giving way to its coming. The air was thick
with morning mist, and the village, though quiet, seemed to quiver with the
first indications that it would soon come fully to life. It was, in sum,
precisely that moment of the morning in which the potentialities of the day
seem widest, when the birth of the new day makes almost anything seem
possible. My hand gripped my blade at my waist anxiously, not so much
because I feared violence but because its presence there reassured
me. Shara smiled at me, her face pale, and nodded that she was ready to
proceed.

We walked to the temple. Our pace was not hurried or furtive. We made no
attempt to hide our path or our destination. I resisted the urge to shrink,
pushed shame aside, and stood up as tall as I could. It was not long before
I saw movement in windows in the corner of my eyes, heard gasps and
whispers and people running out of their homes to stare.

I was recognized at once, naturally. I had not been gone so long that the
people who once adored me could not recognize my face. The whispers grew
louder. I heard tones of shock, of anger, of wonder, of fear. No one moved
forward to block my path, however, nor made any attempt to question me, so
Shara and I kept walking. Later I would come to realize that her presence
at my side was the chief reason for their pause, for surely if I had been
alone there would have been a few who would have moved to intercept me. But
here was the woman I had spurned and dishonored (in their minds), and they
did not know what to think of it.

At length -- it felt like days -- we arrived at the courtyard before our
temple, the meeting place where my people gathered and where I had sat a
thousand times to listen to (and sometimes to give) the sermons on duty and
honor and justice, of the purpose of our tribe and of the coming of the
Sha'Eluid. It was empty and quiet now, though it soon began to fill with
those who followed behind us shocked and dumb-founded. I did not pause, but
continued up the few plain wooden steps to the entrance to the temple
itself.

In construction it was different than any other structure in our village -
more ancient, larger, and built with loving and almost lavish decoration
compared to the simplicity of our other buildings. Though made of wood like
our homes, its foundation was of sturdy stone placed countless generations
ago. You could feel its age as surely as you could feel the age of the
largest trees in our forest. Though it had stood in the midst of our people
for generation upon generation, it still rose proud and strong thanks to
the constant upkeep and care of our Priests. Only they could enter the
temple proper, and since my ascension to that lofty position some several
years earlier I had spent a good deal of my waking life inside its
walls. More than anything else, the temple defined our very identity as a
people and as a tribe. It was the focal point of our daily lives, the
literal and metaphoric center of our village about which all else
turned. Facing it at that moment, with my former brothers and sisters
murmuring and gasping behind me, with Shara turning to give them her
fiercest stare as if to dare a single one of them to speak a word of
objection -- facing the temple, I say, at last after all I had seen and
done and felt was as difficult and frightening as facing my father had
been. This I had not expected, and for a moment I froze at the threshold.

"He cannot enter there!" came a sudden shout from the crowd.

At this I turned to face them, the men, women, and children of the
Taluid. I said nothing, for I could find no words. I simply looked at them,
face after face that I remembered well, each summoning memory upon memory
of my childhood and adolescence. In some, there was the look of
surprise. In some, agony and confusion. In still others, anger and
violence. The silence was thick in the air, and I knew I had to act
quickly.

"People of the Taluid," I said, trying to summon up the voice of confidence
that had poured out of me before the Council of Carmathen and that had
silenced my father's protestations, "Alander taught us the that the son of
power would appear among us, and we thought we understood his words. We did
not. The one awaited has always been nearer than we believed, in the one
place we did not think to look. Look into a glass and you will see the one
Alander spoke of. The tools he gave us, the strength of will and honor,
were not given so that we might aid the son of power when he, by some
divine miracle, appeared. He taught us so that we ourselves might by our
own actions become sons and daughters of power, each and every one. And
why? Because we have a great purpose to fulfill. We shall make Alander's
vision real again."

There were more murmurs, protestations. "You are no longer on of us!" came
a voice above the others. My first thought was that it was Jacek, but
scanning the crowd I could not see his face.

"No, I am not," I said, raising my voice, "I am no longer one of the
Taluid, as you are. I am no longer one who waits. I am the first of a new
people, a new tribe. We shall be known as the Sha'Eluid, and we shall be
the instruments of change we were always destined to be. At our coming the
words of Alander shall be fulfilled at last."

And with that I turned and entered the temple, shouts and gasps following
me. I heard Shara call out at the crowd, though her words were lost to me
in the uproar. I half-feared that there would be violence but reassured
myself that they would not dare to harm her. A Priest might follow me into
the temple, to be sure, but weapons and all form of conflict were forbidden
there. I was safe for now, though I knew well enough that I could not hide
inside the sanctuary of the temple forever. All these anxieties faded away,
however, as the the curtained entrance to the temple itself closed behind
me, seeming to cut me off completely from the strife outside its
walls. Here, the incense burnt slowly filling the space with its
other-worldly scent that I remembered so well. Here, I had once experienced
great peace and joy as a Priest of our people, and these memories helped
calm my nerves and prepare me for what was ahead.

The layout of the outer chamber was unchanged; indeed, it had likely been
the same for countless generations. Candles, tended to with clockwork
precision by Priests in alternating shifts, burned in specially designated
places around the room. The careful placement and constant upkeep of the
flames was necessary to prevent the structure, being made of ancient, dry
wood, from catching flame. There were no chairs or furniture, only cushions
where the Priests would often sit in discussion or kneel in prayer. Upon
the walls hung images depicting scenes from our sacred texts:
representations of Alander, of previous High Priests, and even of the
coming of the son of power. All this I viewed with the hungry eyes of one
who had never thought to see this place, once a second home, ever again.

At the far end of the chamber lay another curtained door, one I had never
before entered or even touched. Beyond this curtain, I knew, lay the Holy
of Holies - the center of the temple and the most sacred place in our
village. Only the High Priest himself could enter there, and then only on
specific holy days reserved for such a purpose. All that was besides the
point, now. I cast a glance at the entrance to the temple behind me. No one
had yet followed, but I could hear the confusion outside growing more
intense and desperate. There was no time for hesitation.

When I pushed the forbidden curtain aside and peered further back into the
temple itself, I found only darkness at first. Since the Priests were not
allowed to enter this area, it stood to reason that there were no lit
candles beyond. I took one that still burned in the outer section and held
it above me as I took my first step through the doorway.  At first, I was
surprised to see how small of an area it actually comprised, even though,
considering the dimensions of the building as I had often observed from the
outside, this should have been obvious. It was as though I had somehow
expected the size of the room to be proportionate to the level of
importance my people had placed in it.

The second surprise, larger than the first, was that the room was on first
inspection completely empty. My heart plummeted and I nearly dropped the
candle in despair. A million fears passed through my mind in a breath: I
had been wrong about the relics, or they had been moved in anticipation of
my coming, etc. etc. But then, in the midst of my panic, my eyes caught
sight of something unusual in the way the light from my candle played
across the floor. Taking a few more steps, I found it: an opening leading
down into a tunnel formed of stone, and not of wood like the rest of the
building. Indeed, as I made my way downwards and ran my fingers across the
walls, I realized I recognized the stonework. It was the same as that I had
seen in the Anatherian tomb that lay just a few hours journey to the north,
where I had spent my first night with Damon. Grateful more than ever now
for the candle in my hand, I pressed forward into the tunnel and left the
temple proper behind. The sounds of shouting and conflict outside, already
faint, now disappeared entirely and I was left with the sensation of being
utterly alone.

At length the tunnel grew so narrow that I was forced to stoop, and I was
plagued with memories of the night I had wandered the Anatherian tombs,
lost. Then, too, I remembered the secret passage through which the Seeress
had led Alek and I out of Valessa's fortress. As the minutes ticked by, I
found myself marvelling at the many twists and turns of my strange journey
that had led me to that moment and idly wondered (perhaps for the first
time) if one day I ought to write down all that happened, if for no other
purpose but to make order out of my chaotic memories. All these thoughts
were, I believe, an effort to distract myself from the anxieties of the
moment. I did not know what to expect at the end of this tunnel (the very
existence of which had not been known to me, nor to any of us save my
father and his ancestors), but more than that there was the uncomfortable
sensation of knowing that now I had well and truly violated the traditions
of my people. There could be no going back to them as I was before, and
even the life of the lonely exile serving out his penance in isolation was
lost forever.

My eyes peered at the floor before me, making sure of my way in the
darkness. Once or twice I spotted old and faded footprints in the dust and
sediment that lined the stone: my father's feet, perhaps? It was also
possible, I considered, that they were the footsteps of an ancestor long
since dead -- a former High Priest whose name I had memorized in my studies
as a youth. The light from the candle flickered as my hand began trembling
yet again.

At last, just when I had begun to wonder if the tunnel led out of the
village grounds entirely, I came to an abrupt turn which, I saw as my light
rounded the corner, led into an open chamber. In this small room, the
stonework was oldest and crumbling. Several chunks had fallen from the
ceiling and littered the floor, their places taken by earth, sediment, and
large, searching roots. I realized almost at once that I was standing
beneath the great tree in our village square -- the one that, according to
the legend I had learned as a child, marked the burying place of Alander
himself. And now I had seen for myself that the legend was true.

Before me lay the final resting place of my ancestor. I was in the tomb of
Alander, a third and final time - and this tomb, I saw at once, was no
decoy or symbol as the others had been. A sarcophagus, far simpler and less
intricate in design than those I had seen in the tomb where I found my
blade, lay before me that, when opened, revealed the remains of the man who
once had made all our lands tremble and whose very name still carried the
power to inspire change and rebellion. He had been buried in a suit of
brilliant silver armor which must have been made of the same material as
the Prince's Blade, for while there was nothing left of his flesh and even
his bones were brittle and faded with age, the armor still shone
brilliantly beneath the layer of debris. I marveled at that, and also that
this once great man should be reduced now nearly to dust. One day I too
shall fade away in like manner - and so shall you, my mysterious reader. So
shall you.

Upon the chest of Alander's burial armor rested the object which the
Archbishop had so long sought, the one for which I had traveled all this
way back to my homeland and which now sits atop my head. I lifted it
reverently and dusted it off, surprised even then at its weight. Lower,
where I presume the corpse's hands had once been, rested a cylindrical
object that proved on closer inspection to be a lengthy scroll in
remarkably good condition. I handled it gingerly and unrolled it long
enough to read a few words that were written there. It was in the language
of the ancient Anatherians, which my people had preserved as our Sacred
Tongue, and this is what it said:

"Thus I, who once was king and lord of all, have given away all my
dominions, honors, powers, and glory. Once I would have commanded a man's
body; now, I seek to nurture his soul. This I have learned above all:
change comes from within. Of this I write, of all I have seen and done, and
the rise and decline of my Empire, that the one who follows me (who must
surely come) may learn and prosper. May that one succeed where I have
failed. So I pray, in the name of Omnipotence."

My silent contemplation of these words was interrupted suddenly by a voice,
causing me to look up startled. "So many hours he sat before that scroll,
writing and writing away until he wrote himself into his
grave. Foolish. Such a waste." The tomb had been enshrouded in an almost
sacred silence and peace, so that now the sound of Damon's words and the
bitterness they carried seemed almost violent by their very presence
alone. He stood near the sarcophagus, staring down at the remains with a
blank and alien expression.

"It is the story of his life," I said, rolling up the scroll, "And a far
greater treasure than I expected to find in this place, a treasure beyond
price." I clutched it to myself protectively, as if to illustrate my words.

"You will learn nothing of true value from it," he replied tonelessly, "He
was, in the end, a fool. A blind fool." He suddenly looked up at me. "Do
not repeat his mistakes, Markis. I intend a much better end for you
than... than this." He gestured at the corpse dismissively.

My mind filled with a dozen questions, but I held my tongue. I had already
said enough, and had no desire to mar the perfect silence of Alander's
resting place further. Then, too, I was suddenly conscious that I must
return to face my former brethren above. I turned to go, leaving Damon in
his mysterious contemplation of his former master's grave. For a brief
instant, I felt I saw a flicker out of the corner of my eye. For the
smallest of moments I was certain that I had seen, not Damon the handsome
young man, but a woman voluptuous and lovely, with hair black as night and
ample feminine curves. But by the time I had processed this image and
turned back to check, there was no one there, only myself and a man dead
for generations.

On my return journey through the tunnel, my candle flickered and went out,
forcing me to travel the last length of tunnel in utter darkness by tracing
the path of the stone walls with my free hand while clutching my new-found
treasures to my breast with the other. Soon enough, though, I found the
entrance and was back inside the temple walls. I knew at once, somehow,
that I was not alone. He waited for me in the outer room of the temple,
blocking the exit in a tense stance that radiated his anger. As I pushed
the curtain that led to the Holy of Holies to the side, he took a step
forward and pulled his blade free from its sheathe.

"You would defile this place with violence?" I asked, surprised.

Jacek's face was grim and tense in the light of the flickering
candles. "You have defiled it far worse already," he said coldly, "I could
never have imagined that you would sink to such blasphemy, Markis. I feel
truly sorry for you. It is clear the outside world has driven you mad,
destroying whatever was left of the man you used to be."

I set the scroll and the crown down gently and slowly pulled my own sword
out in defense. "One day, I hope, you will understand why I have done
this."

"I doubt it," he said, through gritted teeth.

"I do not wish to fight you," I said hopelessly.

"You have no choice," he returned, but did not move to strike. Instead I
heard his heavy breathing quicken. "I must know. Why did you do it? Why did
you dishonor my sister and abandon us? You were like a brother to us. How
could you do that to her? To me?"

I sighed, feeling empty and weary. Perhaps his words should have caused me
pain, but I had experienced pain enough since my exile began that I
suddenly found I could find no more for Jacek. The truth of what I felt for
him could not be expressed in such a simple emotion, the kind you feel for
a few seconds or minutes before it passes. It was the kind of background
suffering that endures for years and lifetimes, lasting so long it becomes
part of the very fabric of the self, fading into the background, unable to
be fully expressed or understood or even seen.

"I could not wed her," I said at last, "Because I was in love with you."

He did not seem surprised, to his credit. Only stared at me with
candlelight flickering in his eyes, whispering, "Cruel. Cruel." But what
exactly he referred to, whether to himself, or to me, or to the world in
general, I was not sure and there was no time to ask. His blade flashed
towards me, and our battle began.

My memories of that day are vivid - each detail as I have expressed it here
exists in my mind's eye with such clarity that I still sometimes find
myself thinking that it must have happened only days ago. Impossible to
think that many years have passed. And yet, of my battle with Jacek in our
temple I remember little. The metallic ring of blade against blade, the
furious shuffle of feet, the heavy breathing and groaning of two men
exerting every effort into the struggle. I know I was still weary from my
long night without sleep and the feeding I had given Damon, and how I
managed to hold my own against my former brother (who, we both knew, had
always been the stronger swordsman) I cannot tell. As we wearied, our form
became less focused, our movements more erratic and desperate. At some
point, our blades locked against each other, our weight shifted and we were
pushed off balance, collapsing ignominiously to the floor and knocking over
several candles. We were back to our feet and back into the thick of our
duel within seconds, but in the furor of the combat it took us some time to
notice that the fallen candles had set the temple itself alight.

I remember when I felt the heat of the growing flames and smelt the burning
wood and the moment I realized what had happened. I saw the same
realization in Jacek's face, but this knowledge did not cool our resolve -
if anything, it added a further level of urgency and desperation to our
fight. The rhythm of our meeting weapons increased in tempo, and now we
shouted out with every strike. I was quickly losing energy and strength,
feeling certain that soon I would not longer be able to lift my sword. I
heard Damon's voice at my ear, then, calling out words of encouragement,
begging my permission to enter me again and help me win the fight. I could
not spare a moment to fully heed his words, let alone give him an answer
for his request.

I felt a sudden burst of energy, as though reaching a second wind, but
whether this was from adrenaline or some aid from my mysterious servant I
was not sure. It did not matter. Jacek's weapon twisted past my defense,
piercing my side and slashing outward, tearing skin and bringing up a well
of blood. But this attack had opened up his own defenses, and I brought my
blade swinging upward and across his face. He cried out and staggered back,
a hand reaching up to clutch his face. He flailed wildly and fled the smoke
and flames. I stumbled after him, a hand upon my own wound and my skin
screaming out in pain at the heat, and only just barely remembered the
treasures I had come to claim. They were miraculously still untouched by
the fire, and I gathered them up and all but threw myself out of the
curtained entrance to the temple as the flames consumed all behind me.

I remember lying on the ground and being held in Shara's arms, hearing the
sound of combat all around us. People ran to and fro, in and out of my
field of vision. I saw several giants rush past, locked in combat with some
of my tribesmen, allied with others. For a brief second, I thought I saw
Alek and Jelena rushing past, but was not sure. I could not speak, nor
could I understand Shara's words though I could tell she was speaking to
me.

Above all this chaos and confusion was the temple, wreathed in flames and
sending a column of smoke into the sky. My a moment the structure looked as
though it came from another, higher plane, as though it were made purely
from fire, a place of glory worthy to house even the Creator itself. Then
there was a groan as the wood buckled and and our most sacred place
collapsed in on itself, disappearing forever.

My hands and clothes were covered in blood, but darkness and oblivion
covered even that as I slipped away from consciousness. I could hear
Shara's voice, her words still senseless but comforting, long after all
other sounds had drifted away and I was gone.

__________________________________________________________________________

**** Yes, I'm still working on this thing. Feel free to contact me and tell
me not to give up!  - thephallocrat@gmail.com.****