His hands had stopped shaking now, and the sensation in them had returned almost to normal. He could still feel it if he closed his eyes - the tearing of flesh as he wrenched free a knife from Fraoch's side before the young healer Tadhg moved in to staunch the blood flow - but mostly he was recovered.
You were very lucky Cosaint he told himself. Lucky you kept your composure long enough to get Fraoch out of there.
For the past two hours he had been sitting under the Wishing Tree, hoping for some sort of calm to return to him. In truth, he'd been hoping Midir had been around so he could discuss the problem with him - there was still a healer trapped down in the catacombs, and Cosaint knew that whatever his protestations of retirement, he couldn't just leave him down there; nor would he like to think that he could. But the High Healer was not to be found, and once again Cosaint found himself distracted by wondering just what it was that had kept him so busy of late.
Not that there weren't ample reasons why Midir could be busy elsewhere, he reminded himself. With the Tribe suddenly deciding to vacate the citadel, there would be uproar and even the simplest task could get bogged down in the furore. Scarcely surprising then that there was no-one here tending the gardens.
And so what? You going to sit here all day?. With a grunt, Cosaint hauled himself to his feet. There was far too much to be done to sit around feeling sorry for himself over having to don his armour again. Scabbarding his broadsword by his side, he moved out into the city again.
It wasn't long before he could no longer pretend that he was heading towards the Protector's office to find out if he could help. Instead he wandered through the streets, watching life unfold and listening out for snippets of conversation. The city was abuzz. Within a few minutes, Cosaint had overheard enough crazy theories about what was going on to last him a lifetime. It was just a pity he didn't have a better idea himself.
A rise in temperature and the sound of a hammer striking an anvil alerted him to where he was. From within the smithy, the noises that heralded the forging of a new sword drifted out and brought with it a host of new feelings. It still felt odd to think that Corthar would never again be found standing over that anvil. Now Cluamhach was most often to be found there - working on different armour designs. Little as Cosaint had known Corthar, he knew even less about the younger smith but he couldn't help liking him. There was something very open about him, very giving. A scene from earlier that day quickly played in his mind of Cluamhach stepping in front of Cosaint to guard him from an arrow. He had no shield, and could not hope that his armour would take the blow, but there had been no sign of hesitation or fear as he interposed himself between Cosaint and the archer. Stupid came a voice in Cosaint's head, to be quickly contradicted by another. No, not stupid. Just brave. So very brave.
It was easy to forget how selfless Armengarians could be. Not having gone through the training camp, Cosaint could still be surprised at how much they were willing to lay down their own lives for the good of the group. It was a scary thought at times. Terrifying to think that there was a nation to whom putting themselves in danger for the sake of others was second nature. And it was hard to pinpoint exactly when such behaviour was admirable and when it was a liability. When did such behaviour cease to be a virtue and instead become folly?
Well that one's easy he answered. It becomes folly when the Protector decides to launch a solo attack on Felix and gets himself captured.
And there was the problem really. The same problem Armengar had faced ever since the Calebii left. The same problem the Lions demonstrated over the course of the Gathering of Nations. Virtue was only virtue when fervour was tempered. The most noble of intentions could lead to ruin, and so very often did.
More alleys and turns, and Cosaint found himself staring at the box. Right now Garret would be in there, stewing in his own juices after his attack on Driden. An agrieved sigh escaped Cosaint's lips as he considered the young man who was briefly his sub-ordinate. Determined, brave and sincere, he still needed to get a closer grip on his impetuousity. Was that a crime? No. What was a crime was that a people who were raised for simple times were now faced with decisions beyond their training. What would Garret be thinking right now? Would he be berating himself for a lack of professionalism? Would he feel harshly treated? Or would he just accept what happened outright; unquestioning like a good soldier? It was so hard to tell.
And is it even your concern anymore? Surely when you retired you absolved yourself of any responsibility for those under your command? He almost laughed out loud at the thought. If anything he'd concerned himself more now with how those in the military were progressing in there lives. Life in Armengar was becoming increasingly complex, and the more Cosaint watched, the more it seemed that the people of the city were struggling to keep their heads above the water.
Is that regret? Too late for that. You've chosen your path. Well there was a half-truth. True, some choices had been made and maybe some of what was happening could be laid at his feet. And maybe it was hard to decide what exactly he should be doing next. But there was always time to turn aside. Hastening his pace, Cosaint strode determinedly towards home. Maybe he didn't have all the answers, but he did know what had to be done right there and then.
His table was cluttered with the trappings of the increased use it had seen of late. Half finished letters were strewn across it in defiance of the previous order which used to preside, and hastily formed bundles showing some sort of vague categorisation were stacked in the corners. They could wait. Brushing them aside, Cosaint took a couple of slow measured breaths to calm himself, and then lit a candle and started on a new letter. His quill hovered uncertainly over the first line. It's not too late. You don't have to do it this way. Then his pen decended and he began to write.
Felix...
by Fergal O Brien
 |
Characters | About | Pictures | Events | Tales of Armengar | Madra's Lair | The Tribe | Links | Contact | |