Fingers thick with numb grief fumbled over the paper and dropped it once more to the table. Placing both palms firmly on the table, Cosaint took a deep breath and attempted to steady himself once more. A trembling had started deep in the base of his spine, and it was all he could do to stop the table from shaking beneath his hands. Outside the sounds of renewed fervour in a city which had begun to find its peace threatened to raise the bile from his stomach, and a brief wave of nausea flooded over him once more. Pushing himself away from the table, he surged to his feet and half fell across to the window where he threw the shutters wide open. Wherever he looked beneath, swords were being polished and armour was worn openly despite the lack of an overt threat. Grim expressions adorned many faces, but in what he hoped was but a trick of the light Cosaint thought he could make out a hint of excitement, and perhaps even a sick sense of glee to accompany the resurgence of violent thought in the city.
Disgusted, Cosaint turned away from the window and back to the discarded lantern lying abandoned on his table. Sweeping it from the table he took hold of it between his two hands and tensed his triceps to tear it asunder. Breath caught between his teeth he looked down at the unfinished light and then, letting his breath ease out slowly, allowed it to tumble unharmed to the floor.
This is no fit mourning for you Corthar. Would that your passing were not to herald a return to darker times.
It hurt to think that the worth of a man's life could be summed up by many as a call to arms. Where the people of Armengar should be saying the goodbyes to a man who had been so central to many of their lives, they were now using his name as a nascent battle cry against a foe they had yet to find. How many would show up to his wake, and to the service Fionnuala had arranged to mark the passing of this man? How many of those would be there to remember the past, and not to look to the future?
Days of worry and fret caught up with Cosaint, and he hurriedly sat down before his legs gave way beneath him. Gradually, bit by bit, the trembling ceased, and he reached once again for the lantern and resumed work.
The cold heavy feeling was once again returned, and Cosaint finally admitted that he wasn't going to get any more training done. Stowing his sword in its sheath, he turned back towards the city. It had been like this ever since Midir had left to attend the Moot. Still shaken over the death of Admiral Taliesin, Cosaint couldn't avoid the dread conviction that something might happen to the High Healer while away from Amnor.
Maybe you are just worried that you can't be there to protect him - a tatter of a half remembered conversation intruded on his mind, and closing his eyes Cosaint reflected on how true that was on many levels. Midir was not a child, and was well capable of taking care of himself. Yet to think that like the Admiral he might depart the citadel and simply never return was horrifying beyond compare. Cosaint didn't have many friends, and for one of them to bleed out the last of their life on a distant island would be a blow not easily overcome.
So which is it going to be? he asked himself. Dignity or peace of mind?
With a curse under his breath he set off towards the transport circle to await the return of the absent Amnorians.
A brief flicker of light cut the air and figures materialised within the circle. Squinting to make out details from his vantage point, Cosaint felt a huge weight being lifted from his shoulder as he spotted Midir near the centre of the small group. Dark thoughts flew from his mind in tatters as he walked forward to great the travellers; all his worrying had been for no good cause - foolish fears born of an overactive imagination. So buoyed with relief was he that he was almost upon them before he noted their slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. Something was very wrong.
Time seemed to stand still as he stood before the glum group. Eventually, Midir raised his head to reveal a face devoid of its usual wry humour and uttered a single word.
"Corthar"
Standing off to the side of the group gathered for the wake of Corthar, Cosaint felt as awkward as ever amongst his peers. It wasn't nerves which left him standing silently at the edge of the crowd though. Nor was it the sorrow which he should be feeling which ate away at his composure and threatened to burst through to the surface. Rather anger coursed through him, burning through his veins and leaving him afraid to speak lest he said something he might later regret.
He had come here hoping to hear tales of a man who he barely knew, and possibly gain a better insight into a person whom he had hoped to one day call a friend. He had steeled himself for the talk of war which would doubtless interject since Fraoch had decided to whip the troops up. What he wasn't prepared for was the talk of Dagor. It seemed to Cosaint as he caught snippets of conversation filtering in from the main room that there were more laments for the loss of the Praetorian than there were for one of Armengar's own. Was this the vaunted closeness of the community of Armengar? That some thug who had been stowed away on Amnor for a year might be accorded more meas than Caoimhe's lieutenant and Armengar's head smith.
Pushing his fist too his mouth, Cosaint fought down the bile which had risen to his throat. His entire life he had been made painfully aware of just how little a part of the "brotherhood" of Armengar he was. Only those who fought to cover each other's backs could know what it meant to truly be family. Only those who were willing to die for Armengar could be Armengar. Well where was the brotherhood now? Corthar was dead - his body never to be returned to its home soil - and people wept for some were thing. Finn lay murdered, his assailant as yet unfound, and the Volk didn't seem to care beyond making sure someone was punished. If the bond between them all was so strong, then why were people lining up for a chance to leave Armengar without so much as a by your leave? Lir, Caradawc, Cildara... Aye, well maybe it was better Cildara wasn't here to see Corthar off given their track record. Yet it hurt to think how shallow the façade of unity was. No Lion stands alone...
Disgusted, Cosaint stormed from the building, still clutching the lantern he had formed earlier. More than ever now, he didn't want to look upon the faces of his people. He didn't want to have to wonder just how much grief they truly felt. There was only one person he wanted to talk to right now, and that person would never utter a word again.
My door is always open...
Corthar's voice brought him abruptly to a halt. It was true, there was only one place where he could truly say goodbye to the big man. Turning off the path he had been walking, Cosaint quickly made his way towards the forge. Approaching it he slowed his step. The silence was oppressive, a mute counterpoint to the hammering which played in his memory. Instead of the heat which should be filling his lungs with every breath, the air hung cold and heavy in the gloom. The forge seemed as dead as its master.
Pushing gently on the door, Cosaint watched as it swung open. Beyond the doorway, the forge stood in darkness, the only light coming from the large windows which had previously let the heat of the furnaces escape. It was all wrong. This was not the forge which Corthar had worked. From the back rooms, the sound of apprentices murmuring to each other while they worked on simple pieces should be barely audible over the clang of hammers. The room should be lit with the glow of the forge, and the air should be uncomfortably hot. And over there by the window, Corthar should be working on whatever pet project had grabbed his interest of late. Any moment now, he would look up from his hands and...
Good to see you Cosaint. I meant to have a word
Cosaint closed his eyes and squeezed them tight against the growing tightness he could feel in the back of his throat. In an instant he was transported back a week, to the night before Corthar had departed for the Moots. Even now, he could feel the shock which had struck him momentarily dumb when the smith had greeted him so affably. Not a moments hesitation had the big man shown, in spite of Cosaint's status within the citadel. And now Cosaint would never know if that affability would have persisted. Bracing himself against the door jamb, Cosaint waited for his ragged breath to settle to a more even pace and then opened his eyes.
The forge stood as before; cold, dark and silent.
Making his way slowly over to a work bench, Cosaint placed his lantern down and lit it. The flickering light of the candle cast a warm orange glow over the room, and lent the forge a softer aspect. It seemed somehow a fitter place to say goodbye to a man who he had never really known. For long minutes he stood silently in the half-light, and then feeling calmer made his way back to the doorway. Turning in the entrance, he cast one last look about the forge, allowing it to create one last impression in his memory, and then turned to leave.
And my door is always open if you wanna chat, regardless of the subject matter.
A faint smile touched Cosaint's lips.
"It was nice talking to you Corthar"
Then closing the door on the candlelit forge, he set off back towards the wake.
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