CHAPTER 4 #4
The minutes that pass take on new meaning as they drag on in a tauntingly sluggish fashion.
I now measure time by the faint tick of his pulse where his wrist rests below my fingers.
Finally, with hours yet before dawn breaks the horizon, his breathing shifts.
His chest rises high with the first full breath he’s taken since I found him unconscious, and a burdensome weight falls from my body, the tension unspooling from my shoulders.
Never again do I want to feel this way. Never again will I allow myself to be helpless when I can be strong, to be at the mercy of the fates when I can control my own destiny.
I haven’t taken time to wonder what I’d given up in the forest, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t bring myself to regret it, and I know that whatever it is I would give it again without a single thought, reckless as it might have been.
Late into the night, or perhaps early the next morning, the shadow master’s pulse becomes strong. Color returns to his cheeks and the unnatural, quiet stillness of his body turns to that of a deep and restful sleep.
I glance at my bedroll and discard the thought before it fully takes form in my mind.
Despite the weight settling over my eyes, I won’t risk falling asleep and waking up to find him dead.
I shake the fog from my head and sit by his side, pulling my knees against my chest and resting my cheek upon them.
The warmth of the fire soaks into my bones and the stars blur in my eyes even as the sun dims their glorious light with the rays of its promise to rise.
I rock on my heels as the subtle light of dawn falls across his eyelids and they flutter awake. It is, by far, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“Vakesh?” It comes out as a croak.
My stomach pits when a low moan is his only reply.
His face twists with uneasiness as his eyes shutter in rapid succession, focusing on my face.
I will myself not to cry, flicking a single rebellious tear from my cheek.
I have cried before, out of anger and frustration, but this is something else altogether.
Something about it weakens me, and I can’t help but hate it.
His brow creases and he shoots upright on his bedroll. I suspect the motion makes his head spin when his hand flies to his forehead, cradling it as he wobbles, struggling to regain his bearings.
“What happened?” he demands, his eyes tracing the wet skin on my cheek with a frown.
I haven’t prepared the story that tumbles from my lips.
It is just the raw and unrehearsed truth of the last day.
The first part he takes fairly well, considering he seemed nearly dead when I found him.
He tenses, his eyes narrow and his brow drawn at my first mention of the crone.
His stiffening spine and the rapt interest with which he regards me at the mere mention of the woman in the woods hollows my gut.
He lets me finish my tale, from beginning to end, without interruption, before asking pointedly, “Tell me again. What did she say? Her exact words.”
He makes me repeat myself three times before he’s satisfied that I have neither left anything out or forgotten a single word that was exchanged between us.
He doesn’t ask me about the bargain or to explain what it was she took from me.
Surely, he’d seen enough of my own confusion when I told him that part of the tale.
After my story has ended and he is finished asking his questions we both grow silent, losing ourselves to thoughtful contemplation.
My stomach growls late in the morning, and though I try to demand he stay off his feet, he insists on joining me to catch a fish for breakfast and on cooking it after.
His joke, that he is still obligated to cook my meals after losing our bet, falls flat.
With every step he takes along the riverbank, I see the strain in his smile and the coil of his muscles. He is no longer at ease here.
By the time the sun sets and I’ve eaten an entire herb encrusted fish by myself, the last two days begin to feel like a dream.
The shadow master is fine and whatever the crone took in our bargain, I can obviously live without.
My lids finally close over my eyes and I’m lulled to sleep by the crackling fire and the knowledge that everything is going to be fine.
Blood. There is so much blood. My hands fly to cover my ears, and I scream, willing away the sound of the blade as it’s dragged across the flame licked floor.
A woman lies before me, unmoving, her hand stretched out toward me. Her beauty is striking, even beneath the wet, crimson ribbons adorning her cheeks. Though the light is gone from her eyes and her lips do not move, she calls to me.
“Shivaria.” The ghostly whisper chills my blood and my screams begin again in a key of true horror.
“Shivaria!”
Eyes flying open, my shaking hands clawing at my neck, I gasp for air. Bile creeps up my panicked throat, and I throw myself out of my bedroll into a nearby bush as I begin to heave uncontrollably. I lose my dinner to the knots in my stomach and the turmoil of my mind.
My nerves do not easily settle, nor do the tremors that wrack my sweat-soaked body.
Once the constrictions of my gut have ceased, I wipe my mouth and take a seat by the edge of the woods.
Keeping my back to the fire, I face the forest, closing my eyes, as I draw long, calming breaths through my nose.
Vivid images of the bloody woman threaten to replay in my mind. I’ve had nightmares before, but nothing like this. Even after waking it all feels too real, like I am still in that room, gripped by fear and screaming at the carnage surrounding me.
Wrapping my arm around my stomach I heave again, struggling to push my dark thoughts into the farthest reaches of my mind.
You are safe. It was just a dream.
I find the shadow master atop his bedroll, poised to sprint across the fire to my side. Plucking my waterskin from the ground, I empty half of it, rinsing out my mouth as I observe him.
“It must have been something I ate,” I lie.
His face is pale with no hint of the smile he usually graces me with. His mouth forms a thin line as he shakes his head.
I fall back onto my bedroll with a graceless thud. “It was just a bad dream.”
His eyebrows hit his hairline. “Just a bad dream?”
“Yes. Just a bad dream.”
Rolling onto my side, I turn my back to the fire and my friend. I have no interest in going over the gruesome details with him. It takes hours to rid my body of the tremors I woke with, and I don’t find sleep until the night sky begins to grey with the faintest light of the coming dawn.
When I wake, late the next morning, the shadow master looks as if he hasn’t moved since I last laid eyes on him. Still crouched with a deadly scowl, he appears to have at least regained some of his color.
“Why do you look like you're about to end someone?” I huff, trying to lighten his mood as I pull myself to my feet.
He blinks twice, eyes flicking from my bedroll to my face, as if he hadn’t noticed me rise. He loses a small bit of the tension in his body with a deep breath and a shake of his head, his face softening.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Never mind.” I shake my head. “I’ll catch us some breakfast.”
The rest of the week goes by too quickly.
I settle into our lazy routine of fishing and laying in the sun.
The shadow master even teaches me to forage fresh herbs from the forest and which ones to combine to make the most delicious foods.
I imagine this is what a perfect life would be like if it weren’t for one thing. The dreams.
The nightmares persist, and, though I don’t wake violently ill again after the first night, I continue to be thrown from the bloody visions in a full panic during the early hours of each morning after.
Every morning is the same, I wake to find the shadow master watching me, poised to launch across the fire.
A thread of something unknown to me lingers deep in his eyes.
Eyes that hold dark and weary circles by the time we pack our bags on the last morning.
I can’t help but wonder if I look the same.
“Here,” he hands me two obsidian blades as he slings his pack over his shoulder, “Keep these.”
“Why?” I don’t mean to argue, but the daggers are a curious gesture.
I am allowed to have weapons, but the Drakai custom has always been that we earn our blades in battle.
“To fend off the demons.” It’s the only answer he gives me before turning north and starting toward the keep.
I don’t ask what he means as I throw my pack over my shoulders and follow him. I don’t want to know what he observed in our time in The Smudge, or what demons he’s seen that have kept him from his sleep.
I fist their hilts tightly, fearing nothing in the waking world and feeling silly that the cool, smooth stone at my fingertips somehow eases my mind. They may not be suited to fight the darkness that plagues me, but I feel my shoulders relax as I will that darkness into the blades for safe keeping.