Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
The Fog
The druid was enveloped by unyielding heat. His eyelids pressed, pulling open in slow awakening. He winced, overwhelmed by the flare of the sun, and tucked himself deeper into that cradle of warmth.
The world was a blur coming into focus.
Before him stretched the moors, green and cold beneath the high noon of Nirn. Wild heather blanketed the hills and the wind tousled the mane of a russet mare as she moved at a steady pace beneath him.
His head perked up.
He was cocooned in thick wool, which kept him upright on the horse, but he was not alone there.
The druid’s tired eyes trailed over open skin, settling on the branded sun.
It had been two months since the mark was made, yet the flesh was still raised and red with scarring.
He continued up the Vaich’s angled jaw, to the molten gaze heavy on the road.
The wool bound them together, tied fast at the Vaich’s shoulder. It pressed the druid into the warmth of his chest, firm despite the rhythmic jostle of the horse’s gait. The riding party fanned out behind them, with one carrach for the máraigh. Though, Hirí was not with them.
What had happened? How long had he been asleep? He was dressed—at least haphazardly—as if they had left in haste. But the last he could recall, he had been sent down to his dark grave.
Once more, he lifted his face to the Vaich, and this time, found him gazing back.
“Awake at last.”
The druid tensed, his fingers curling tightly against the wool. “I am sure that is no great celebration for you. Where… are we?”
The Vaich’s lips dared a smirk. “Achnadhuinn. You’ve been asleep two moons’ rise.”
The druid pursed his lips. “Then, I have passed your test and you spirit me back to my cage. I suppose it was a spectacle.”
“The Oracle has lost her eyes,” said the king. The druid stilled in shock. “Whatever she saw, it left her blind.”
“Blind? How is that possible?”
“I ken not. She, like you, refused to wake.”
The vision flooded into him like the cold of the lake.
The druid had yet to make sense of what he’d seen, but vividly recalled the fear and terror; the soundless march and those burning glacial eyes searching… sowing death. His voice caught in his throat. He could do nothing but huddle near the Vaich’s warmth and chafe against the memory.
It was a quiet ride—neither the druid nor the Vaich breaking their strange silence. And strange it was, indeed. They remained, in a way, captor and captive, but the druid’s thoughts slipped out between his bars.
The Vaich avoided his gaze. He wondered what it meant. Did he resent the druid for surviving? The druid could live with that. Though his bones hurt whenever he imagined the king gloating over having gotten anything right.
From the moment he had been brought to Rhyd-hal, the druid had turned his face from fate. But it lashed his porcelain skin, and he found that he bled red.
“You shouldn’t brood,” said the Vaich. “It screws up your mouth.”
“I do not brood,” the druid argued.
“Sure.”
What a smug thing.
“What matter is my mouth to you, anyway?”
The Vaich tensed. “No matter at all. I’ve never seen you use it in a way that wasnae foul.”
“That is a fascinating way of saying it disagrees with you.”
“Aye,” said the king. “It’s disagreeable.”
Bickering was pointless. If the Vaich only knew…
Knew what?
The druid had no claim to knowledge. In fact, he knew less than when he’d come. He was confused about many things, but one settled thick.
Gnawing dread—like iron claws dragged across his skin.
As the sun settled, the king called for a rest. They reached the woods and made camp within.
The Vaich dismounted first, unfastening their wool and leaving it for the druid to bring about his shoulders.
He reached up with strong hands, settling them on the druid’s narrow hips, and with an eased manner, lifted him from the horse’s nape.
There was something careful in the way the Vaich touched. Like someone carrying a precious vase—both fearful… and protective. He set the druid down, seemingly determined to continue avoiding his gaze.
The druid held tight to the wool. “Shall I tell you what I have seen?”
“It would seem the vision was for your eyes only.”
“I saw you.”
The Vaich chuckled dryly, pulling his pack from the horse’s hind. “Did you now?”
“In chaos. And blood.”
He bristled, pausing a moment over the saddle’s leather straps. “You ought to keep your witchery to yourself.”
“I am not a witch,” the druid said. “I believe it is a warning.”
“Now you profess to tell the future?” the Vaich grunted. “Wicked work you are.”
“And how easily you disregard it. If you only wish to do away with me, then say so.” When the Vaich gave no reply, the druid pressed. “It is meandering. I would appreciate a direct answer.”
“A druid who doesn’t want to meander.” The Vaich hoisted the pack over his shoulder. “Bit ironic, isn’t it?”
Frustration rose within him, in his fingers and his toes. He followed, his words quieter as they passed between the other riders. “I am asking for your intention—”
“My intention is the same as it was. You survived. Congratulations to my bonny bride.”
The druid shook his head. “You make it sound simple.”
For a moment, the Vaich looked exhausted, and then deeply annoyed. “It really is simple, druid. You are Chosen of the Moon. Now, no one and nothing can deny it. Not even you.”
The words pinched at him.
“My laird,” called one of the men, eyes flickering over the druid for one brazen moment. “What of the…?”
“He’ll stay with me,” the Vaich replied, ignoring the druid’s quiet protest. “Now, enough rambling. The matter is settled.”
“I see,” said the druid. “Do you intend to marry all those who threaten you?”
The king said nothing, and there it ended.
The evening wore on. The Vaich and the druid were fed first. Though, the druid did not eat. He felt ill from his purging at the Augeri, and though his bones were weak, the thought of meat made his stomach coil.
No one spoke to him. No one seemed to want to address him at all. He had become a contagion they wished not to contract. He inquired after Hirí, but was told only that she had chosen to remain at the Oracle’s side.
The Oracle.
Mention of the afflicted woman made the camp grow somber, as if her health was a curse upon them all. He found it hard to be anything but glad to be rid her worming eye inside his mind. He knew he shouldn’t feel satisfaction at seeing her punished, yet could not deny the quiet pleasure.
After dinner, the camp settled down to sleep. The Vaich’s tent was sumptuous, and the druid was made to take rest there. Unsurprisingly, the Vaich did not come. The druid found that acceptable. It was warm against the chill, at least, and in the dark he had time to think.
He should have died. Yet, there he was unharmed.
It was all wrong.
The world was made of immovable truths, or so he had been told. And he had believed it. He believed in what he saw. What he knew. And now, he could trust neither.
Something had dipped its hand into the cold, and he had felt its fingers in his heart.
The gods were real; they were the wind and the wave and the wolf. They had, for thousands of years, existed silently beside them. And now, for the first time, they had interfered.
For him.
Skyre gazed into the pit. Around him, the camp slept as the fire danced in ribbons of red, hushed and seductive.
I saw you… in chaos… and blood.
He could hear the druid’s voice within the flame. He remembered the way he had looked upon the water, pale and fragile as first snow.
Chosen of the Moon.
Twenty long years, Skyre had known certainty.
But the moment that promised crown touched his head, everything had become confusing.
And he had forgotten, between the words and the whispers, all the promises he had made to himself.
His reign was meant to be an era of strength.
He thought his peculiarity would give him power.
A king who could never die…
“Mirín,” Medhin called out. He did not meet her gaze. Her hand was upon his skin. The touch was tender, he supposed. But he felt no comfort.
“I sent him down into that lake to die,” he muttered. “He wasn’t supposed to come back.”
“It changes nothing. You will wed and all will be settled.”
When the story of the druid’s success in the trial spread, the people would be amazed. Skyre had never done anything great. He had never won any wars, nor performed any miracles. How could he compare?
“You told me I was special. You promised I was the only one.” Her eyes had been many things to him in life. Harbors… captors… now, mirrors. Her words had been law, had been oaths, and once more, pushed into his mind. He wanted an answer. He wanted her to do what she’d always done…
Make it alright.
“And you are,” she said. “There are forces in this world that work against you. This is but a test, and you shall not falter.”
“He says he has received visions.”
“And it is a lie.” Her voice lowered. “All your life, I have taught you what to trust and what to fear. Have you forgotten?”
“No… You said the Moon is ever veiled in shadow.”
“Her servants work by cover of night, and all their words are darkness.” She glanced in the direction of his tent, where the druid lay sleeping.
“He has become their tool, and they mean to wield him against you. He will whisper their poison into your ears. It is power they seek. You cannot give it to them.”
He looked at her skeptically.
“Trust in me, Skyre. I would never lead you astray.” She guided him near, and he could do nothing but lay his head against her, as his eyes drew back to the fire.
It was no longer a matter of trust.
The druid drifted in and out of a lucid sleep. Before the mist and fog gathered on the field of his mind, he was stirred. He awoke startled, but was silenced by a finger pressed to his lips. His eyes questioned, but the Vaich shook his head.
Not here.
Grasping his wrist, the Vaich tugged him from beneath the pelts and through the flap of their tent. They went out into the silent wood, their feet careful over the brush, so as not to wake the camp.
Once they were far enough away, the Vaich gestured him through the trees. “Go.” The druid’s brows furrowed. When he did not move, the king said it again. “Go! What are you waiting for?”
Still, the druid did not move.
“This is what you wanted,” said the Vaich.
“I don’t understand.”
“Go, and be swift! If they catch you, I cannae stop them from bringing you back. I can only divert their attention temporarily.”
The druid’s gaze shifted through the trees, out towards the wild world. The world he had been born to… the world that still called to him.
“You are… letting me free?”
“Yes!” the Vaich hissed. “So go!”
For a moment, he thought it another trap, but that look in the Vaich’s eyes… it wasn’t malice, but a plea. The fear he had seen there that night in the feast hall had become most clear.
What had happened at the lake… it terrified him.
And maybe he had every right to be afraid. Maybe they should have shared it. The druid desired to go… to run. He wanted to be free, yet he would not let himself move.
“I… cannot.”
“What?” the Vaich growled. “What do you mean? You begged me to leave! I’m giving you your only chance!”
“That was then… and this is now. I cannot turn from what I’ve seen.”
The Vaich snarled, loosing his dagger and in a moment had crossed the space between them. He held the golden blade to the druid’s throat.
“Don’t you understand? Don’t you realize what will happen if you remain? It would be better for everyone if you disappeared! Dinnae tell me you wish to stay!”
“I do not wish it,” the druid choked. The Vaich’s fingers tightened on the base of his neck. “But… I cannot flee. Something calls to me and it will not let me go. I must understand why… why it needs me—”
“No one needs you! You’re a disturbance. A problem I was never meant to have.”
The blade dug in. The hate in the Vaich’s molten eyes mixed with terror. Slowly, carefully, the druid reached up, wrapping his fingers around his wrist. The king froze and with a gasp, he tore himself away, the dagger landing amongst the grass.
The druid stumbled, swallowing down air, leaving them both panting.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “I know now, there is no running from this. Even if I should—it shan’t let me.
I believe not in prophecy, but truth… and I cannot deny my eyes.
I must see this through, so tell me now…
If you presume to be my villain, then claim yourself as such, and I shall do the same. ”
The Vaich’s lip curled once more in rage, but just as quickly as it came, his shoulders slumped. He drove his fingers into his raven strands. “If you are meant to live, then I cannae kill you. Vaich or otherwise.”
“Then, I will be your bride, and stay peaceably at your side, if only to uncover whatever truth I’m meant to find.”
The Vaich shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “Stay if you wish, but there can be no peace between us.”
Neither moved. They simply stood there, sharing an unknowing. A fog in which they waded together.
Silently, the druid bent low, retrieving the fallen dagger. The Vaich tensed, but the druid’s steps were steady. He held the blade forwards, balanced on his palm, not in declaration, but offering. “We needn’t be at odds, you and I,” he whispered against the dark.
The Vaich flinched as if struck, but slowly, he settled. “Keep it,” he said, turning his back to him. “You may need it yet.”
With that, he made his way back towards camp, leaving the druid alone in the grove. And there, beneath the moonlight, he remained.