Cosaint's footsteps sounded painfully loud to him as he quickly made his way along the darkened street. How he could hear anything above his ragged breathing and the thumping of his veins was a mystery to him though. They were out there somewhere, and they didn't intend to let him escape. Less than five minutes from safety, but it might as well have been a lifetime away. This time, they were going to catch him. Right there in the centre of Armengar, behind the vigilance of the gate guard and the high walls, Cosaint was about to be brought low by an enemy no sentinel could ever keep from within the city.
A sudden scuff of leather on stone to his right told him that they were close. Any thoughts on resigning himself to the inevitable fleeing his mind, Cosaint peeled off drastically to his left and pelted full speed down the steep slope between the Healer Hall and the main forge. Maybe they wouldn't expect him to go this way. Maybe there would still be someone at the forge, and they'd let him in...keep him safe.
The sound of disembodied laughter echoing off the walls dashed that hope. There would be no escape. They had found him again.
Something was wrong. Cosaint lay still, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark, and tried to put a finger on what had woken him up. True, it had been an unpleasant dream, but his breathing was even and no sweat marked the sheets. There had to be something else.
Slowly he surveyed the barely lit shapes in the room around him, looking for any hint of a disturbance. A chill of fear crept up his neck in spite of himself. Could someone, or something, have got into his room? Quickly, his mind raced over the positioning of his weapons. Equinox would be out in the living area, and besides which it wasn't suitable for fighting in such an enclosed space. His broad sword would be locked away with his armour in the chest at the end of his bed. No good. Guess it would just have to be honest flesh on flesh.
Carefully he eased himself out of bed, conscious of his ever increasing heart beat. Consider it a training exercise he admonished. Imagine Deor is going to light a candle any minute, and ball you out for getting it wrong. What will he say? What have you missed?
A brief smile flickered across Cosaint's lips as the answer came to him in the sharp tone Deor reserved for such lessons. Forget your eyes Cosaint, they are lying to you and they fear to give up their position as your favoured sense. Close them. Ignore their pleas to be opened. You must rely on other means now. Remember, you know the surroundings better than your opponent. Use that. It's dark for him too.
Steadying himself mentally, Cosaint closed his eyes and let the sounds and smells of the night flood in, registering them one by one.
A gentle breeze played over the slats of the shutters on the windows. They were shut.
No smell of sweat or outdoors intruded on the warm air of the room. If there was an intruder here, he had to have come from nearby.
No telltale sound of breathing betrayed the presence of another being. Outside the chirping of insects continued.
The air was still warm and betrayed none of the night chill. If anyone had come in through the door, they had shut it quickly.
No creak of floorboards suggested the presence of anyone in the larger living area beyond the thin wall.
There was no sign, nor sound that anybody else was in Cosaint's home. He must have imagined it.
Sloppy, Deor's voice reprimanded. When two men fight in the dark, the first one to make a mistake is the first one to die.
Composing himself again, Cosaint moved in a crouch towards the doorway and his living room. Think Cosaint, if someone is here, they know what room you are in. And now you know where they are. There is no-one in your sleeping area. You'd have sensed them by now. Now it's up to you to make sure they make the first mistake.
Palming a small coin he moved right to the edge of the doorway. Still no sound to suggest an intruder. Counting backwards from three in his head, he let his breath out in a slow controlled exhalation.
A flick of his wrist sent the coin bouncing off the far wall of the living area as Cosaint spun round the corner still in a crouch, and waited for a reaction. Pressed up against the wall, he strained for any sound that his unwelcome company had registered the movement.
None came.
Well, he mused, either you've got an intruder who'd give Simeadrach a run for his money or there's no-one here. If the former is true, you're better off lighting a candle and hoping he doesn't kill you with his first hit. If the latter is true, then you'd better just light a damn candle.
Turning his face away from his hands, Cosaint struck a match and waited for the flurry of movement which would signify an attacker moving in to strike while he was temporarily blinded.
None came.
Touching the match to the wick of a candle, Cosaint surveyed the room as light blossomed; banishing shadows. Both rooms were empty apart from him. All his windows were firmly locked. The bolt on his door was shot fully to. Nothing on any of the tables was out of place, and the single coin he had thrown lay alone on the rug in front of the hearth. The ornaments Deor had given him on the day he left the Training Hall stood undisturbed across the face of the fireplace.
Moving quickly across to a window, Cosaint threw back the shutters and cast about for anything outside which may have disturbed his sleep. Not a soul moved on the street, and far away the vague shadows of sentries moving along the outer walls could just be made out. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the night.
That's it Cosaint, you're going mad. Cosaint felt his stomach sink as he gazed dejectedly around him, and realised that his experiences in the forest had shook him more than he was willing to admit. And to be fair, there was nothing to be ashamed of in that regard. Opponents who to all appearances had been dead, had arisen to once more throw themselves at the small Armengarian force. Further, their reactions to the incantations of Fuildubh suggested that it was not only death which lacked a hold over them. If that were the case...
Cosaint pulled the shutters closed as he suppressed a shiver which had little to do with the encroaching night air. He'd kept himself busy over the past few days; helping Mactire organise the championship and trying to forge the Heart into a more effective unit for the most part; but here alone in his quarters with nothing to distract him there was no denying how very worried he was. What if these creatures were to attack en masse? What if they could just walk past all of Armengar's defences, both physical and magical? What then?
Some things just didn't bear thinking about, but there was no denying that he was doing himself no favours keeping these worries to himself. Even now in the relative safety of his own home he could feel his concerns pressing in on him, threatening to crush him utterly.
You should go talk to Midir, he told himself. Get some of this anxiety off your chest. What is it he'd heard other units say? A problem shared is a problem halved? He was halfway ready to grab his cloak when he remembered that Midir was away at the Heartland Games.
Just as well, too he mused as he sank into a chair, trying to picture the look on the Ard Slaineathoir's face if he had shown up on his doorstep at this hour of the night. And since when do you go running to people for solace? That last thought really brought him up short. Cosaint the independent, the loner and the outcast - three years ago the thought of sitting down with another to discuss his fears and worries would have been out of the question. Three years ago, he'd have done nothing to allay people's unease around him and possibly even welcomed it; part of him had wanted to be hated.
Things were starting to change now though. When he looked back on it, he couldn't really pinpoint when he'd started seeking out Midir's company for the sake of anything other than duty. It had taken a long time for the ice to melt between them when they first started working together. Scarred from a childhood spent as an outcast in Armengarian society, Cosaint had been wary of any approach, suspecting mockery and cruel intent at every turn. Gradually though they had grown to accept one another. Exchange of pleasantries led to genuine interest. Interest led to camaraderie. Camaraderie led to friendship.
Friendship. How many years had he thought he could get by perfectly well without it? How many years had he convinced himself that it was an impossibility even if he did desire it? The besieged people of Armengar had little time for one who refused to learn the arts of war, and no-one wished to be associated with such an outcast. Not even his family. It was amazing how even after so many years, the barbs he had endured still had power to hurt him, surfacing in response to even the most innocent seeming of comments.
Cosaint, we are a large family and we do not scorn one of our own, Simeadrach had said of Sionna a week ago, and it had been all that he could do to remain calm and leave. The scout had meant well and was only trying to calm down a member of his Claw. It would have been to nobodies benefit for Cosaint to have said what was on his mind right then. Let them keep their vision of a perfectly united Armengar - he had felt the scorn of this family, and more than that. Some scars refuse to fade no matter how much time passes.
Hurtful thoughts again. It would be nice just once to focus on something positive without bitterness intruding, but alone without anyone to distract him that was how his thoughts usually ran. All the more reason to be thankful. It was good to know friendship. It was soothing to be able to sit with someone and let a comfortable silence grow, without wondering if they were ashamed of your presence. It felt good to know that someone trusted you enough to discuss their hopes, their dreams and even their regrets. It felt like belonging. And during those brief moments of belonging, Cosaint fancied that he caught some brief glimpse of what it was that everyone fought for; that there was something other than duty and vows.
Something beautiful and yet unknowable...
He still remembered the night Midir had told him about his children. One child lost to a training accident, long before the age of active service. Another child swept away by the tidal wave caused by the arrival of the Holy Isle and a third killed by the undead monstrosities which the Calebii had unleashed on the battle field. It was almost common knowledge - Midir was known by most of the people, and his loss wasn't exactly kept a secret. And yet Cosaint had felt privileged to have Midir tell him first hand about it - to share his sorrow. It was an indescribable feeling - in that moment he had felt both a deep and endless sorrow and a wondrous feeling of elation.
And what about yourself, Midir had asked, finally breaking the silence. Have you had any children of your own? I've done my duty, had been the only response Cosaint could muster and Midir hadn't pushed the matter. Looking back on it now, Cosaint wished he had told him the whole story but it wasn't something he was comfortable thinking about. Moreover, in that moment he had felt more afraid than he had in years, and he couldn't for the life of him tell why. Maybe when Midir gets back, he thought. A sorrow shared...
Hoisting himself up out of his chair, he surveyed the room one more time. Reassured that there had been no intrusions he licked the tips of his fingers and reached to pinch out the candle flame. A thrill of fear ran up his spine at the thought of the room being plunged once more into darkness.
Oh that is pathetic, he rebuked himself. A grown man afraid of the dark. Nonetheless, he felt relief flood through his body when his hand instead picked up the candle holder and he carried it through to his sleeping quarters. Lying back down in his bed, he watched the flickering of the soft shadows cast by the candle and waited for sleep to come again. At length he felt fatigue wash over him again, and darkness beckoned once more.
A slight tug on his skin as he rolled over brought a hazy thought to his sleepy mind; some sorrows must never be shared...
They were close. His heart beating in a desperate tattoo and his legs pumping with every last bit of strength he possessed, he knew with an awful certainty that he couldn't outrun them. Tears ran from his eyes unnoticed as he stumbled and gasped his way forward. He couldn't give up. He couldn't let them catch him.
In desperation he scaled the gates of the smithy and dropped into the courtyard beyond. Pain shot up his legs as his feet collided with the hard cobble stones. Ignoring the alarming way in which his vision swam, he surged forward towards the forge. Maybe he could hide there. Maybe they wouldn't find him.
A brief flutter of movement ahead laid that idea to a rest with brutal finality. Studying the shadows around him, he could make them out - huddled in the dark places with cloaks pulled up to cover their faces; awaiting their quarry. Staggering backwards towards the gates he turned to run. Down over the gates they came - silent and determined.
And then they were on him - tearing his shirt from his torso and bearing him to the ground. Their cherubic faces lit with fixed grins they pinned his limbs and waited for his feeble struggles to finally cease. Lying their, helpless and exhausted he could only watch as the crowd parted and one short figure came striding forward bearing a knife. He tried to scream but found a hand clamped over his mouth. The tears flowed hotly down his face now and his bladder loosened as he watched the figure crouch down over him.
The children of Armengar watched as the knife slid across the ribs of the five year old freak, and laughed a harsh humourless sound as his back arched with the searing agony.
This time Cosaint was out of his bed before he was even fully awake, casting his sheets aside in a panic and stumbling over towards his washbasin. The cold water mixed with tears and perspiration to flow down his drenched torso. Gulping down ragged breaths of cold he struggled to master the old feelings of fear, betrayal and humiliation. And as the fear subsided, it was replaced by familiar anger.
How could they have done that to him? He had just been a child. They had just been children. And every day of his life ever since, he had toiled and sweated that he could be of some use to them. That he could service a city which had born a race of monsters. That he could protect a city which had robbed him of his pride, his youth and his freedom.
Loathing rose up like a sour lump in his throat, barging it's way past walls erected through years of concerted will. Half-falling into the privy, Cosaint fell to his knees and heaved until all that came up was a vile taste. For what seemed like forever, he could only kneel there, eyes staring unseeing downward.
Slowly, tentatively as he regained a measure of his composure, trembling fingers reached out to probe the left side of his torso. There, slick with sweat and tears and burning with remembered pain was the scar he had born for 18 years.
"Never hate, Cosaint," he whispered as his fingers traced the line of puckered flesh down the length of his ribcage, "This is what happens when we hate"
The words echoed harshly off the unpainted walls - a sibilant mantra to keep the dark thoughts away.
"Never hate, never hate, never...."
 |
Characters | About | Pictures | Events | Tales of Armengar | Madra's Lair | The Tribe | Links | Contact | |