New Fear, New Hope

[Creslyn]

He sat beside Brallas, no longer speaking, just staring into the flickering flames. They'd talked most of the shift, just little things, here something to laugh over and there a shared sorrow. He sat there thinking about what had passed, and what was to come.

Old hopes he remembered well. Leaving the city of merchants, just wandering, seeing new sights and experiencing everything he could lay hands or mind on. Wanting to learn, to grow, to become more than he was. Wanting to make his parents proud of what he'd done, what he'd become. To see the light brighten in Jaille and Galliene's eyes when they saw what he'd found and brought home for his sisters. To bring a smile to serious Kiel's face with tales of the wonders that lay beyond the lands his brother knew. Well remembered, but felt no longer. How could he bring back what he'd found, what he'd learned? He had found new joys, triumphs to make his parents proud, trinkets to make his sisters laugh, and tales to make his brother smile. He'd found all of them, but mostly what he'd found was death.

Arriving in the small town several days south of the city of splendors he'd thought it a quiet place. It had its share of problems, but what place didn't? After spending some time there, learning about it and the surrounding lands, he'd volunteered to help deal with those problems. Proud of himself, sure of his skills and full of the arrogance of unblighted youth, he passed the tests and signed his name to the militia and volunteered for a patrol. Four hours later his pride was humbled, his confidence shattered, and stripped of arrogance he watched, silently, the survivors carrying the slain to the house of the dead. They were the first, and the shock wore off soon enough. He didn't know the slain very well, and though it hit him hard, he recovered. He learned, he grew, and slowly, slowly his confidence returned, but they wouldn't be the last.

Old fears returned in the form of images of the dead passing through his mind, who they were, why and how they had died. The number was lost in the haze that numbed his mind, but several stood out clearly, far too clearly. The cudgel shattering Joram's skull, the arrow tearing through Mennil's throat, spears, blades, teeth and claws reaping lives he valued. He wasn't there to see Dram fall trying to save Sherlen's son, or Hiram pierced by the manticores spikes, nor Kallen's final moments of agony, but he felt them all. Those and more. The long, long procession of friends passing to the house of the dead, while he could do nothing but watch and mourn. Seeing all those new, untested faces and knowing that many of them wouldn't be there some day soon. Not wanting to get to know them for that very reason, not wanting to learn to like more people who would die and twist his soul further. Finally, there was the mission to the House of Stone.

Too many entered, not enough left. Closing his eyes he could still feel the looming darkness, and smell the death both old and new that permeated the place. Feel again the confusion of battle in such tight quarters, bones rising from where they lay to bring a taste of the death they had known so long to all who dared enter. See again the creature that came on them, leaving a shadow of fear where it passed, casting death before it. Taste the acrid fumes that burned his throat and threatened his soul, even as it tore the life from his friends. Knowing the fear of it, that it wasn't dead, and would be there waiting for their return. Knowing that worse lay in wait for them. Knowing that he would have to go back.

He remembered looking down at their faces, then up at the stars in the night sky, and feeling sheer relief that they were out of there, that it was over, and then the shame of feeling so while people he cared for lay cooling at his feet. The horror when the shock wore off. Bitterness that they should have died for nothing. Smoke's questions, yet not the answers he gave. The looks and quiet words later, compliments on his courage in choosing to return. If only they knew.

He didn't want to return. Wanted not to go so fiercely the shame burned him, but how could he say no? They needed one with his skills, and he couldn't let them walk in there without them even when he knew he couldn't give what they needed. Not learned enough, not powerful enough, not sure enough of himself and his talents, but too many had died and there was noone to go in his stead.

He had almost resigned himself to the knowledge he was moving to his own death, and the fear would have crushed him were it not for one thing. At least she wouldn't be going, for pride, honor or any other fool reason. Comfort unlooked for, a sharing between friends after a time of horror, or so he believed. He didn't have the courage to ask, and wouldn't press the matter, but he treasured the memory and it fanned a small spark of hope for the future despite all his fears. Gods, he hoped there would be a future.

Brallas nudged his shoulder, and he snapped out of the memories to see the dawn rising. Slowly he gathered up his gear, watching the relief shift move to their positions, then trudged back to town.

[Tynndahl]

an amazing narrative creslyn. quite well done.

[Audark]

You beautifully captured the procession of bodies that seems to define the life of those in the Daggerford militia. And by my count, that makes three of Twisted's characters to be mentioned among the dead two mentioned explicitly and one "cooling on the ground". sorry Twisted, hope to see another character back in DF sometime soon.

[psycho_leo]

Great stuff Creslyn. Keep it up.

[Johan Batara]

Great stuff.

[Audark]

EDIT: post no longer relevant

[Mizbiz]

wow

[KnightLight]

Bah, coward.

[Twisted Ascension]

Creslyn can write? Wow.

This was a great read, bro. Good job. I enjoyed reading it.