Arcane Dark

Tala rinsed the last of the dried blood from her hand in the basin that sat upon the nightstand. Tiny flecks of grime still clung beneath her nails. Frowning, she lifted her hand for a closer inspection. The urge to furiously scrub her nails with one of the soft bristled grooming brushes that lay near the basin’s edge nearly overtook her, but she shoved the desire to the back of her mind. Just why the compulsive need to rid herself of even the most minute grain of filth plagued her so unexpectedly at times was a puzzling mystery. She practically lived in dust and its cousin known as mud while hopping from plane to plane with Keltcher.

But still. . .

Hunger gnawed at her belly, reminding her that much of her strength had spent healing the silver haired stranger. Tending to his superficial wounds had not been difficult. . . it was the ones unseen that would be problematic. As Aeson had already learned, the recent memories within his mind were unreachable, almost as he had forced himself to forget them entirely. Or at least, had tried to. . .

A lock of her unruly black hair slipped from the leather thong that bound it tightly away from her face. Irritably, she hooked it behind her ear. Where was a decent Scrunchie when you needed one?

Her fingers slipped beneath the cord and untied it, sending her mass of wavy tresses falling forward. It had grown substantially since Keltcher had brought her to this place. At one time, it had probably held some sort of modern style, but now, it hung in softly curling waves nearly to her waist. She’d often considered taking one of her daggers to it and ridding herself of the nuisance completely, but then what she considered to be her one true beauty would be lost.

Rising from the chair in which she sat, she fingered her thick tresses absently for a moment before walking to the gilded armoire and tugging it open. Streaks of the stranger’s blood still stained her clothing and she felt unclean. She pulled her tunic over her head, tossing it onto the floor. Several different styles of black, bell-sleeved shirts along with more practical button down cotton ones hung within the clothing Aeson had ordered to made for her. If she had not known better, she would swear the Kerne had actually shopped at The Limited for them. When asked how he had managed to tailor the garments to the exact replicas of those she once wore, he had merely chuckled and tapped the side of his head with a wink.

Quite simply, he’d read her mind. Funny how he could do that. Tala was well versed in the art herself thanks to Keltcher. Being bonded to the Celt produced a sensation much like seeing through his eyes any time she wished. All she had to do was close her own. . .and think of him.

Her hand reached for her once favorite shirt, a well worn and much loved velvet tunic, the material having grown thin from repeated wear over the years. Although Aeson had offered to make her a replica of the garment in any fabric that she wished, she declined. She would never wear it again. Something about it bothered her now. Even though many years had passed, the faintly metallic scent of blood that only she could detect still clung within the fibers.

Why?

Whenever her fingers stroked the soft sleeve, a tingling rose within her mind, but she brushed it aside. There were more important matters that required her attention.

Like the silver-haired stranger. . .

She had not attended to him in over an hour and given his fragile state of health, time between visits must be short until his strength returned. If it returned. . .

Feeling silly for fussing over forgotten memories, she grabbed the nearest shirt from its hanger and shrugged it over her shoulders. It was a tunic Keltcher had bought for her, the front lacing up completely. Tightly. Form fittingly.

Ugh…

He had commented on what a lovely shade of crimson it was. . .his eyes never leaving her chest while he spoke. Typical. Even an immortal man could be a complete pig. What was he looking at anyway? It wasn’t as if Keltcher had never seen tits before. In fact, he’d seen plenty. The bond they shared was not one of matrimony….or even choice. Aeson had decided her fate without so much as consulting her.

Knowing his every whim and seeing all that he saw could be more than a little annoying. Luckily, she had learned to shut it off when she wished, much to Aeson’s displeasure. The Kerne was always rambling on about Keltcher as the Strength and herself as the Grounding Force, but more often than not, all she wished to ground was Keltcher’s head into the mud. Although the thought of planting an arrow in his butt was enticing as well. . .

The stranger would need clothing. He could not simply traipse about in his armor. Obviously, nothing she owned would fit him properly, but as she glanced towards the beside he found the dilemma had already been solved for her. Apparently, Aeson anticipated this problem and had saved Tala the trouble of much searching by way of intuition or perhaps, simply very good guessing, for spread on her bed were the lavish styles and colors of an attire suited perfectly for one of noble blood. Aeson’s very own clothing. . .

She brushed a hand across the satiny smoothness of the black leather breeches which lay folded beneath an ornately brocaded tunic of silvery blue. Fingering the rich material briefly, she wondered how it would look. . .

“So, how is the stranger?” Keltcher’s voice cut into her thoughts.

Sly bastard. She had not even heard him enter the room. Instinctively, her arms folded over her chest, blocking his view. Just in case he had any ideas.

“He’ll live,” she grumbled, turning to face him with a rather disgruntled look.

The blue green of his eyes narrowed. “I do not approve of Aeson forcing you to use your healing skills upon one we do not even have knowledge of.”

She shrugged rather elegantly, pointedly ignoring his comment. “I’m going to check on him now and bring him some clothes. So, if you don’t mind. . .”

Without waiting to see if he actually minded or not, she pushed past him, acutely aware that he still watched as she sauntered away.

The mouth watering aroma of roasting venison floated enticingly through the hall, reminding her that she had not eaten since healing the stranger. Taking a moment to sample the scented air, she inhaled the tantalizing smells deeply. Definitely venison. With a hint of cracked pepper. . .garlic. . .and was that parsley? She sniffed again. Definitely parsley.

Lanterns that lined the dim hallway flickered to life as she passed, illuminating a clear path to her destination. Motion sensitive fire. What a concept!

The darkness of the corridor need not have been lit, for Tala’ keen eyes afforded her such clarity of vision, her path would have been easily visible. The others, however, required the light simply to move about without knocking each other over. Tala secretly envied and pitied them. So simple were the minds of many, so easily dissuaded from purpose or plan, yet so free from the burdens of special ability, which, at times, Tala believed to be more of a curse than a blessing.

Her footfalls made no sound as she approached the entrance to the bedchamber. The heavy oak door was silent as well as she carefully pushed it open and stepped inside.

The stranger neither stirred nor acknowledge her presence and Tala could only assume he was wound in trance of a deep, healing slumber.

Quietly, she approached his bedside where she laid the fresh clothing over the back of a nearby chair so that the stranger would see it upon awakening. She glanced around the room quickly, her eyes searching for any sign footwear and finding it discarded near the end of the bed in a stinking lump of muddy leather. Wrinkling her nose with disdain, Tala nudged the battle-worn shoes aside with the toe of one boot. This simply would not do. Later, she would still a pair of Keltcher’s boots for him. The Celt was just love that.

Once through with the task of delivering the clothing, she paused for a moment to gaze the sleeping stranger, who was so still that he could have passed for dead once more. A sudden urge to make certain he was, in fact, breathing overtook Tala and she leaned closer, searching for the sounds of living breath. An errant lock of her dark hair brushed against the stranger’s cheek, eliciting a soft grumble as he swiped at his face with one hand, but did not awaken.

Feeling quite a bit foolish for giving in to her healer’s paranoia, Tala almost laughed out loud at her sudden distress, but remembered herself before the sound escaped her. Much of the stranger’s color had returned, restoring his complexion to marble-smoothness, rather than the ashen, bluish tint that had originally clouded the flawlessly white skin when he had been found, barely clinging to life.

The stranger’s breathing was also far steadier and unmarred by hitch or rattle, a sign that the fevered illness that also ravaged his body was improving as well. Tala found herself captivated by the rise and fall of the bare chest, by the quiet rhythm of his breath.

A single strand of silvery hair rested against his cheek, the end curled into the corner of his mouth, flittering tauntingly at every inhalation, yet obstinately clinging in place. Frowning slightly, she reached for the wayward lock, intending to pluck the determined hair from the lips of the stranger before seeking out a hefty portion of the simmering meat from the kitchen help.

An iron clad grip seized her wrist with crushing ferocity before Tala’ fingers came within an inch of the stranger’s face, blue eyes ablaze with the fury of a warrior’s brutal instinct for self-defense. Tala gasped and jerked back reflexively, unable to wrench free of the vice-like grasp.

“Nadorhrim! Amin feuya ten’ vys!” ** he growled, further squeezing Tala’ wrist to the point of pain.

Her own savage instincts rose within her chest, a rumbling snarl bubbling from her throat to match the ferocity of his growl. Familiar heat coiled within her stomach, threatening to overcome her senses. No. . .she would not! Not now. . .

Wrestling with the hand that held her captive, she thrashed like a caged beast caught within the steel jaws of a hunter’s trap, clawing at his pale hand with a fury.

“Let go, you pale freak!” she barked.

The feral gaze of blue flame eyes locked with her own. And then. . .the memories came. . .

****Showers of arrows skimmed the smoky air, raining down. Too many injured. So many dead. So many. Eyes staring into the black void of night, eyes that would never close. Death staring up from every angle. Red rivers of blood soaking blonde locks. Dark stains of ebbing life force pooling, gathering. Shouts of orders. . .shrieks of agony. So many dead. . .so many. Stone walls crumbling into shards of rock. Blazing. . .throbbing. . .closer. . .LOUDER. . .!****


With a gasp, she wrenched free of his grip, staggering away from the bedside, roiling nausea sweeping through her. The hand that had fiercely held her prisoner dropped limply onto the coverlet, its owner falling into the depths of slumber once more.

Tala struggled to regain her balance, supporting herself via the nearest bedpost. Her heart still hammered in her chest, her breath coming in ragged pants. By the gods, she had not been prepared for the onslaught of horrid images that assaulted her mind!

“I need a minute here,” she said aloud, as if explaining herself to unseen visitors.

After the barrage of thoughts, she had to think. Just for a moment. Glancing over her shoulder, she regarded the now sleeping stranger almost curiously. What sort of plane did this creature come from? It was not as if Veiro was not without war, yet disputes were often short-lived and resolved with ease, not with such. . .violence. Sure, the occasional human would get his undies in a bunch over something completely ridiculous and haul off and kill a few people, but that was nothing compared to what she had just witnessed.

Moving cautiously to the side of the bed, she sat beside the silver haired stranger, studying his features with interest. She didn’t even know his name….much less what exactly he was. ..

Time to find out.

Closing her eyes, she calmed her racing mind as best she could, murmuring an incantation in Pictish as her fingers came to rest upon the sweat-dampened temples. Deep within the corridors of his mind, she wandered abstractly, probing here and there for the answers that she sought.


****The face of grinning youngster smiled impishly.

“Rumil,” a resonantly purring voice commanded sternly. “If you abandon your watch again, I shall see that you are reprimanded for it!”

“But the watch is long and boring!” the youngster complained, rolling his eyes in much the manner of an exasperated teenager.

An indignant huff issued in the wake of the protest. “You shall do as I have decreed or I shall turn the matter over to Lord Celeborn.”

“Haaalllldddiiiirrrr!” the youngling protested with an expressive whine. “I have no time for anything other than duty anymore! I shall waste away to a mindless soldier!”

A rather amused snort came from the owner of the sultry voice. “You are a warden of the Golden Wood. It is an honor that should not be abused by the longing for Elfling nonsense.”

The youngster’s lower lip protruded into a decidedly juvenile pout. “You do not understand anything, Haldir.”

“Cease your whining and return to your watch before I box the tips of your ears!” the one called Haldir practically bellowed, startling his young charge into submission as he scurried up the tree to a platform nestled within the cover of lush branches.

He sank upon the wooden structure with a sulking frown, elbows propped upon his crossed legs, chin within his hands.

“Orc breath. . .” he grumbled, glaring pointedly at the figure below the platform.

A swish of a billowing red cape followed by a most intimidating sneer of a glare. “I heard that, Rumil!”*****


She withdrew her hands.

Haldir. . .

“Well, Haldir. . .” she said to the sleeping Elf. “You’re a handful.”

* * * * *

He was terribly groggy. And terribly hungry.

With a grunt, the Elf rolled onto his side, his gaze falling upon the neatly folded stack of clothing beside his pillow. The materials were rich and intricately woven, clearly having taken many hours of labor for the design alone. But they were not Elvish in nature. Haldir had never seen anything so lovely, not even amongst the fineries of Lord Elrond’s royal court. Who would present such a fine gift to an unknown being?

Someone had even taken the liberty of dressing him in comfortable, cotton night clothes. He wondered how they had managed such a feat without waking him.

Having lain stricken with pain and illness for what had to be at least several days now, his mind had tired of lying still, even if his body would have favored rest over activity of any kind.

And then there was the matter of food. . .

He took great care when leaving the comfort of his bed, however, making certain that his legs would not betray him as they had many hours ago. Although still weakened, his stance felt stronger than he had expected, which pleased him greatly. The accelerated healing of his kind was hard at work, mending his broken body faster than any mortal could ever conceive.

The night shirt and soft cotton pants were shed and folded neatly near the bedside despite their rumpled countenance, the bandage binding his head unwound and cast aside. Catching a glimpse of himself in the full length, gilded mirror beside the armoire, Haldir paused to examine his milky white skin for signs of scarring, long fingers running down the smoothly muscled planes of his stomach and over the curve of his naked hips. Although the reflection behind him revealed a thick, jagged line of pink near the center of his back, he was unconcerned, for the scar would fade within a matter of days, leaving the pale flesh as flawlessly beautiful as it had always been.

Haldir’s hands traveled further down his body, massaging the dull ache that still lingered in his thighs from lying stiffly amongst the corpses of his kin for such an agonizing length of time. Gently probing fingers flinched from his warm flesh at the still-hazy memory of those slain in battle, yet the imagery was lost to him as quickly as it had came. Disconcertment settled uneasily where recollection strove to resurface, but to no avail. For now, he would leave it as such, contending only with the task of healing his body. His mind could wait.

Turning his gaze back to the naked elf in the mirror, he turned his head to one side and then the other, noting with a degree of smug satisfaction that his facial features were untouched by the scars of battle.

A silver comb lay on table near the mirror and he plucked it from its resting place, running it through the silken straightness of his sleep tousled locks until they shone with moonlit splendor, falling far beyond his shoulders, covering his back like a cloak of the palest flaxen hue.

Although aware and appreciative of his strikingly imposing resplendency, Haldir rarely used it for personal gain any longer as he once had. His heart had matured along with his mind and both lay loyally in the hands of Lothlorien’s fate. Such things were unimportant now, but at times, a twinge of longing did yet enter his being, but it was more for that of affection rather than lust. Haldir could not recall feeling such an emotion for another being, save his brothers and even this was love of a different nature. Yet still. . .

What foolishness! He would not allow his mind to dwell on such inane concepts, lingering in the halls of memory where nothing lived except bitterness and strife. Raising his chin defiantly, he stared at the noble image in the mirror, the hinting of a proudly arrogant smile lifting the edges of his lips as he loftily tossed his mane of lustrous hair. Haldir of Lorien stood before the fading light of the evening sun, naked and unadorned, but whole once more, even if only for a mere moment.

* * * * *

Keltcher paced restlessly within Aeson’s chambers, his hands clasped behind his back, dark hair falling across his eyes.

“What are you saying, Aeson? That this bonding of minds has been all for naught? After all of this time?” The Celt’s words were harsh, his tone biting.

“Calm yourself, Keltcher,” the immortal ruler said, laying hand upon the young man’s shoulder in order to halt his pacing.

Keltcher shrugged his hand away irritably. “You say that I am not for her. What does this mean?”

Aeson sighed airily. Eventually, he knew that the upcoming Mage would have to be told that the woman he shared the mental link was not to be his. Not in the way the Celt wanted. Existence had other plans for her. . .plans that did not include a magickal immortal lover.

“Destiny, Keltcher, is simply of part of the Great Existence. One cannot bend Fate’s will to his own no matter how much power he has over the forces of nature,” Aeson said. “You were bonded to her as much for her well being as for your own. And now that time has passed. You must accept this.”

Blue green eyes narrowed into a seething ocean of unspoken anger. “Accept. . .? How can you ask me to accept this now? For years, I have seen what she has seen. . .felt every emotion that she has endured regardless of if I desired to or not and she has done the same of me! I cannot simply let that go, Aeson. . .Existence or no!”

“Keltcher, if you choose to fight this, know that Fate will do everything in Her power to stop you. There will be no protection from your magick. Existence itself will be altered simply by your ill intent.” Aeson said. “All is connected in the Web of Life and all that we do affects everyone and everything around us. You know this. A single vibration, no matter how faint, is felt throughout the entire expanse of Existence. . .a chain of events set into motion. The actions of one affect us all.”

He did not want to hear this. He could not bear to hear it. Shaking his head as if to clear it, Keltcher faced the window leading to the expansive balcony that overlooked the rolling countryside.

“Never were you fated to love her. Not in that way,” Aeson said gently.

No, he thought, he had not intended on loving her.

But, he did. . .

* * * * * * *

TBC.....


Nadorhrim! Amin feuya ten’ vys - Cowardly dog! You digust me!