Sacrifices Made
Chapter Nineteen
The Chosen
After pushing our horses well into the night, we stop at the bottom of a cliff face. I’m much slower to dismount than he is. My knees shake upon landing, and I use my horse to steady myself for a moment and get my bearings.
Every bone within my frame shakes as if from a bitter cold, only it’s not the weather plaguing me.
I’ve miscalculated and have gone too long without the elixir.
The worst has set in, and for the past few hours, my vision has been fading, the view before me going blurry. Staying conscious has been a struggle.
My leg has healed some, and there’s a little less pain, but whatever elixir remained in my system has worked to mend the injury, and in doing so, it’s left the rest of my body bereft and yearning for the drug it knows is within reach.
Only, I can’t. The change will be instant and revealing. It’s my only weakness, and giving him insight into this might just be a fatal mistake.
Orán is quick to dismiss our mounts. He speaks to his horse in the same language he used earlier and then lifts his chin northward as if he can understand him and follow his directions, which seems to be the case as he heads off with my own horse at his flank.
I’m just standing, but it feels as if I’ll collapse if I don’t remain where I am.
“We need to climb, Priestess. Can you manage it, or do I need to carry you?”
My gaze travels up the rocky cliff face as I sweep away some of my hair that has blown across my face.
Dread bottoms out in my stomach. The hillside is rather steep.
If I were able-bodied, I’d have no problem pulling my own body weight up to manage it.
But for the past few hours, even maintaining my hold on the reins and staying upright has been difficult.
He must sense this, because for the first time since we started traveling together, his gaze roams over me entirely and comes back to study my expression.
“Something's wrong.”
I limp forward, trying to mask my discomfort. “I’m fine.” I latch onto the mountain wall and find a handhold. He is slow to do the same, watching me scale a few feet before quickly catching up to scale it alongside me.
“If you can’t do this, say the word. There’s no harm in asking for help.”
I grit my teeth and battle through the weakness trying to pull me under. I can do this. I’ve overcome many injuries and other insurmountable obstacles. This might be one of the worst bouts of withdrawal I’ve faced, but not the worst injury or the hardest challenge.
I whisper passages from the Good Book under my breath and scroll through the weathered pages in my mind. It helps keep my mind centered and focused. I make it a quarter of the way to the top before my arms begin to tremble.
“Steady. Don’t lose your footing. It’s a long way down now, and I’d rather not see your petite body splattered on the ground.”
“That’s super helpful. How about you worry about yourself, and I’ll do the same?”
“You're stubborn.”
Grating out each word, I grumble. “You. Do. Not. Know. Me. So don’t profess to act as if you do.”
“I know you're in pain, and your strength is waning. I can see the strain on your face. The agony you're failing to hide.”
“You know nothing.”
“What is it you’re afraid of, Priestess? Being vulnerable to another, or are you afraid to trust me when you believe you’ll only be betrayed? I won’t hurt you, and I’m not the enemy. I already told you that.”
I’m sweating, and conversing with him is only pulling my attention away from the task that already seems impossible.
I’m about to snap at him when my grip slips and I begin to fall.
The foothold beneath disappears, and back I go.
My arms pinwheel, searching the air for deliverance they simply won’t find.
My gaze finds the Grey Horseman’s. His eyes are now a bright light in the darkness, shining like stars as he watches my descent.
He releases himself from the cliff and falls after me.
And then something changes. He changes. His features become slightly more youthful—the creases denoting age and any blemishes disappear.
His tattered robes evaporate in the wind, and a new, bright, and iridescent one appears.
As he falls, large feathered wings emerge from his back and unfurl.
White and silver. So bright they give off light.
They spread wide and catch in the wind. His armor loses its dullness and begins to glow as well.
I reach for him as terror grips me. His large wings beat against the air, and he shifts forward. His own hand extends as I feel the earth rushing up to greet me.
Our fingers touch for a mere moment. But in that touch, I’m instantly transported to another place, another lifetime.
Flashes of images. Cattle in fields of green.
A massive, crumbling stone castle. A large room with thrones on a raised platform and tables filled with food.
So many joyful people with mugs in hand.
The door flies open, and people start dying.
Men in kilts with broadswords and bare chests battling other men with axes and shields.
Then war grounds, as a battle rages on. Both sides wear face paint.
Rivers of blood and dead bodies. The end of the battle and men in kilts searching for survivors amongst the dead.
A horse-drawn carriage piled high with decaying bodies.
Weeping townsfolk. Two graves, side by side with similar names.
Orán McTierney, and Pollock McTierney. I see them as before, as if time has reversed, and they are no longer adult men, but boys.
Two blond-haired boys running side by side through the forest. Then, with sticks raised and swinging at each other, they battled.
One falls and the other cries out, “Do you yield?” as he points his stick toward the other's neck.
“Yes, now help me up.” A woman calls out, and both turn and run toward the castle.
When the vision ends, I’m held tight within the Harbinger’s thick arms. His once rugged features are no more.
They’re more angelic and nearly faultless.
His body is surrounded by the unearthly radiance, and his mouth, though lush, is set in a hard line.
His eyes are still bright, and then level me as they peer into not just my gaze, but deeper, as if seeing me, truly seeing me for the first time.
The shaking I’m doing is not entirely due to my affliction. It’s my body’s response to him, his nearness, and the sight of the divine being holding me.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’ll be okay.” This last part he whispers under his breath.
I numbly nod.
I've read, and I’ve seen depictions of their true forms. But I struggled to believe they were capable of it.
Sure, as Harbingers, they were a species of angel.
Not Archangels, not Guardians, nor some of the lower castes that serve Heaven in many different capacities.
Yet, for whatever reason, it had bothered me that these angels could kill indiscriminately when, at the same time, they are divine, of God’s creation, and considered to be in the top hierarchy of heavenly warriors, while also being bringers of death, decay, and ruin.
Here, in all his glory, he’s more magnificent than I could have ever crafted in my imagination. It dawns on me then… Maybe I did hit the bottom. Maybe this is all a dream as I take my last breaths.
“Am I dead?”
“No, Love. Though had I gotten to you a mere moment later, you would be.”
“You saved me?”
“Just.”
“Why?”
“Seemed a waste.”
“Waste?”
“Of an interesting life, and I’d rather like those answers you owe me before I let you kill yourself.”
“I was not trying… I had not planned to kill myself.”
“No, but you definitely were making a fine job of it, weren’t you?”
We are flying. Ascending into the dark, ash-ridden sky as his mighty wings drift up and down, propelling us into the night and up the side of the cliff.
Turning my head, I study his wing. The feathers are long.
They shimmer where light strikes them from the hazy moon’s glow.
Layers of iridescent and downy feathers.
Velvety and soft, but also so many that his wings beat against the air with such force that it whips up the wind.
We rise higher and over the ridge. He changes direction and leans. His wings stretch outward again and catch air, stopping their beating altogether as we slowly lower.
The agony returns when our landing jars me. I wince and mewl out the pain I cannot stifle. His eyes immediately study my reaction.
“How bad is it? Can you stand? Walk?”
“Put me down, and we’ll find out.”
He does not look pleased, but he lowers my legs ever so slowly and then releases them. His strong arm stays at my back as if to steady me.
The pain cannot be helped. It spirals up my leg the instant I set it down and try to put weight on it. He gathers me close once more, but I hold out my hand. “I can do it.”
“Can and should are two different matters entirely. Stop forcing yourself to be something you’re not.”
I glare up into his strikingly handsome visage. “Something I’m not?”
“Strong. You are weak. Maybe not always, but currently due to your own foolishness and obstinacy. Had you just let me carry you, you wouldn’t have fallen.
Had you not hunted in grounds full of men’s traps, you wouldn’t have been caught in one.
It is as if you desire to put your own life in peril and are so used to surviving on your own, you don’t know how to lean on another when you need it most.”
I do not know quite how to respond to that. He is right, but there are so many reasons not to trust him. Not to place my life in his hands, and this plan has gone south to the point that I have no option left but to rely on him now.
“Let me at least help you off your feet and find you somewhere to rest for a moment.”