Autumn's End

Chapter 6

Nothing Can Come

Hand in hand, Alamathea and Varyar returned back to the gypsy camp.

It had been two days since they discovered the little cabin in the woods, and ever since then, they had been spending whatever free time they had there. Alamathea had even insisted that they clean it up, though she didn't seem to have a reason for this, and when asked, simply shrugged her shoulders, saying it was what seemed right.

As they walked into camp, there was no longer the rambunctious greeting from the children. Varyar was no longer a stranger, and thus, they had lost interest in him. Still, their arrival did not go unnoticed. Alamathea's family watched with great interest as they entered the circle of wagons. Their eyes followed closely as Varyar led Alamathea to the wagon that they called home.

"I shall come again tomorrow as soon as my duty permits," Varyar stroked her cheek.

"I fear it will seem an eternity until then." Alamathea smiled, leaning into his hand.

Varyar leaned forward, as though to claim her lips in a fiery embrace, but she stilled him with her forefinger, glancing pointedly in the direction of her father, who had begun to glare. Varyar, who had followed her gaze, smiled slightly before turning back to her.

He straightened and lifted her hand to his lips, brushing her skin with a chaste kiss. "Let that be a promise of things to come when we meet again."

He stepped back, her hand still in his. Their fingers remained laced until both their arms were stretched as far as they could reach. Varyar paused and smiled down at her delicate hand, gently caressing her palm with his thumb, before letting go slowly, as if to break that contact caused him great pain. Alamathea drew her hand back, bringing her fingers to her lips, kissing the tips in a sweet gesture of farewell as he turned and began down the path that would take him back to the village.

Alamathea watched him until his tall muscular form disappeared in the trees. Oh, how she longed to run her fingers over his golden skin, to feel his hands trace the curves of her body. The urges to touch and be touched grew stronger everyday. How much longer could they resist one another?

"He deserves to know the truth, Alamathea." Her father came to stand next to her, his eyes fixed on the trees where Varyar had been moments before.

She turned to him, pain filling her heart, for her father's statement was the same declaration that had been plaguing her mind ever since she and Varyar discovered the lonesome little cabin.


"There is no reason to trouble him with that." she said, dismissing him with the wave of her hand. "In a week's time, he will return to his island, where I will become nothing more than a fond memory to him.”

“I hardly believe that,” the gypsy lord said. “Nay. . . he will return again.”

“Perhaps, but it will be years from now, and he will have moved beyond this."

"You do him a great disservice to think so lightly of his feelings." Graddil stared hard at his child's face. "He loves you, daughter. It is written in every move that he makes, it rings clearly in each of his words, and shines from his eyes."

"He is elf kind, I am mortal. Death is inevitable . . ."Alamathea paused, wringing her hands, fighting against the tears that had begun to sting her eyes. "We both know this."

"You owe him the truth, even if you do not share his feelings."

The first tear escaped her dark lashes, and rolled down her cheek. Alamathea shuddered, willing back the sob that suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. Silently she cursed the Valar.

"Alamathea," her father's voice was soft. "Do you feel as he does?"

Despite herself, a sound between that of a sigh and a sob tore from her lips, and she inhaled sharply, desperate to regain control. When at last she did speak, her voice was defeated and tired. "I do."

* * * * * * * * *

Varyar hurried through the gray streets of the fishing village. He knew that by now Maratar would have noticed his absence, as well as his absence over the past several evenings. It was a confrontation he was not looking forward to.

He sighed heavily as he approached the inn where he was staying, steeling himself for what was to come.

As he reached for the latch, he heard the sound of several feet gathering round him, and he turned slowly. . .

Standing in a semi circle round him, armed with various weapons of crude make, were the two men who'd tried to attack Alamathea, and they had apparently brought friends.

Varyar cursed under his breath, berating himself for leaving his sword in his rooms.

"Not so tough when you don't have steel at your side, are you elf?" The smile on the face of Alamathea's attacker was one of cruel satisfaction; his knuckles white as they clutched the hilt of a sharply toothed dagger. "You should have known better than to let down your guard for even a moment. Gathnen and I do not appreciate being made fools of."

"I hardly see how you're appearing foolish is my fault, perhaps you should take this quarrel up with your mother." Varyar smiled smoothly, though inwardly he was gauging the skill of those armed.

The man started forward, but was suddenly stopped by the one who was apparently Gathnen. "You'll have to excuse my brother. Gurthdur is impetuous and hungry for vengeance."

"Are you asking me to believe that you are not?" Varyar leaned against the door and crossed his arms, smirking. "Perhaps you are armed with that mace to protect me. If so I am touched."

"Oh, you will be in a moment, elf." He grinned as he cracked his knuckles. "And you won't be smiling like that when we're through. We're going to show you that no elf is match for a man in a fight."

"You're right, no elf is a match for a man. The fight would be over before you even touched your weapon." Varyar straightened and shifted into a defensive stance. "Which is why, I suspect you have me outnumbered seven to one."

Gurthdur, growled before charging forward, followed quickly by Gathnen and the others. Varyar spun to the right, just as Gurthdur's dagger swung hard towards his head. The dagger hit the wood with a loud thunk, and remained embedded there as Gurthdur grunted and pulled at it.

Varyar ducked low, spinning round to avoid a swing from Gathnen's mace and a punch from one of his buddies. He straightened, now behind Gathnen, and thrust his hand hard at the man's back. Gathnen groaned and stumbled forward, the mace falling from his hand. In response, two of his friends wasted no time charging Varyar, one swinging a wooden staff, the other a rusty axe. In one fluid motion, Varyar dropped to the ground, sweeping his leg in a wide arch that knocked the axe-weilder to the ground and causing the other man to jump backwards to also avoid falling.

"Perhaps, this fight would be more evenly matched if one of my hands were tied behind my back." Varyar taunted as Gurthdur finally managed to pull his weapon from the door and Gathnen jumped to his feet, followed by the other man who had been knocked to the ground.

"You'll be lucky to leave this fight with one hand!" Gathnen swung his mace hard, in an attempt to cleave Varyar’s head from his shoulders.

However, to quick for his human opponents, Varyar jumped aside, the mace missing his skull by mere inches. Unfortunately thought, he did not miss the dagger. . .

Now freed from the wood of the door, it's blade slashed down Varyar’s side, leaving a trail of seeping blood in its wake. Luckily, the wound was not deep, but it was enough to remind Varyar of man’s brutality. His hand flashed out much quicker than the human could react, and gripped Gurthdur's wrist, twisting hard until he felt the bones beneath the flesh begin to give.

CRACK!

Gurthdur screamed in agony, and the dagger fell harmlessly to the ground. Two of the young men who had accompanied the brothers, rushed forward, one pulling their wounded friend away, and the other scrambling for the dagger, intent upon joining the fight.

Varyar ignored the burning pain in his side, and focused his attention on the six remaining men. They him circled now, inching closer and closer, each swinging his weapon of choice.

Keeping a watchful eye, Varyar circled, determining who would be the first to attack, and how could he turn such an attack to his advantage?

Just as Varyar had surmised, the man carrying the axe hurled himself forward, his weapon was raised high in the air.

With lightning quick reflexes, Varyar dropped gracefully to the ground, rolling out of the way, the axe landing in the mud to his right. Varyar suddenly gripped the wooden handle of the axe, just above the head, jerking it hard enough to cause the man to lose his balance and stumbled forward. Kicking his leg out hard, Varyar sent his assailant flying into the man across from him; he could tell from the strangled gurgling sound his attacker made, that he had been impaled by the pitchfork the other man had been wielding.

Enraged by the demise of their friend, the remaining five men charged forward at once, but Varyar leapt to his feet, prepared to meet them.

Once again, he kicked out hard, sending one man reeling backwards with a loud crash. Then he spun and swung his fist, landing a painful blow against the chin of another. However, when he began to turn round to face the next attack, he felt four fingers dig deep into his injured side. Lashing out with his elbow, Varyar retaliated by sending Gathnen stumbling backward.

No sooner had Varyar turned to face the others, when a strong set of arms wrapped round his chest and arms, squeezing. One of the brother's companions, a tall, burly man, with thick muscled arms, had grabbed Varyar in a vice-like grip, constricting harder and harder.

With effortless strength and skill, Varyar kicked upward and back down, making contact with the man's knees, but to his astonishment, the pressure on his chest only intensified.

It was becoming difficult for Varyar to breath, his ribs beginning to protest against the pressure of the strong arms that were now lifting him off the ground. Only able to use his legs as a weapon, Varyar kicked again, but still was unable to break the filthy human’s grip. He flung his head back, the force of which could have brokenthis assailant’s nose, but unfortunately, it only met with a solid chest.

To Varyar’s alarm, the crudely constructed buildings began to swim and sway in his sight. . .

How long had it been since he'd been able to take a breath!?

It was becoming harder to make his body obey his commands.

His lungs screamed for air, and his mind began desperately searching, grasping for anything that would free him of the solid arms.

Air!

The need to breathe becoming the only thought that raced through his mind.

His fists began to relax and his legs to dangle. Distantly, Varyar though he heard the sound of laughter.

Then, in the dim haze of his mind, he felt himself falling. . .

Suddenly, the arms were gone and he found himself on the ground.

Varyar looked up to find that his attacker was stumbling backward, clutching at a rope wound tightly around his neck. With great force, the man fell into the mud and Varyar found himself staring the Harbor Master of Cirana in the eye.

Maratar’s sword was drawn and his face full of fury.

"The next one to lay a hand on my warden shall feel the bite of my sword." Maratar released the giant, giving him a sound kick in the rump as he staggered to his feet.

"You won't get away with this!" Gathnen growled. "When our leader hears of. . . "

"Your leader and I are old friends,” Maratar stepped closer to the man, "I doubt he'll be pleased when I tell him that one of my people was attack, unarmed and outnumbered."

Gathnen's eyes narrowed, as if weighing the validity of this statement. For a moment it looked as though he was going to challenge, but instead, his gaze shifted to Varyar, and with a look that was filled with contempt and loathing, he spat, hitting the ground inches from Varyar's hand. Then, before either elf could respond he motioned to his companions to gather their fallen before turning and hurrying away.

Varyar watched after them for a moment, until they disappeared around the corner of one of the nearest buildings. He swallowed hard. "Maratar. . . "

Maratar, pointed the tip of his sword at Varyar's chest, and then flicked it toward the inn, silencing any words that Varyar wished to speak. "Get inside, we'll talk once you're cleaned up."

Varyar held his side as he rose gingerly to his feet. Though he was sure that none of his ribs were broken, he felt as though he'd just been trod upon by a mumikil. He didn't dare speak again, but simply followed Maratar through the door, feeling very much like an elfling, especially when Maratar slammed the door hard behind them, saying nothing to Varyar, but called immediately for the healers.

Varyar shifted uncomfortably under his superior’s gaze; the movement causing him to wince and inhale sharply. He exhaled slowly, trying to ease the pain. "Sir, I didn't intend for this to happen. I was just...."

He fell silent the moment he saw the look on Maratar's face. He'd only ever seen that look two times before, and both times it had bode very badly for those it was fixed on.

They remained in silence until the healers came, and even then Maratar watched in silence. Varyar could feel the Harbor Master's eyes glaring down at him as the healers examined his wounds. His chest and sides were already turning an angry reddish blue, and the gash on his side was bleeding freely. The healer's ignored the glowering elf in the corner as they cleaned the wound and placed a poultice over it. Then they forced him to lift one arm and then the other, as they poked tentatively at his ribs, checking to see that the bones were still intact.

Though their ministrations caused him great discomfort, Varyar was far more disturbed by Maratar's silence. Suddenly the idea of confrontation seemed almost welcoming. At least it would have been better than this chill of silence that spoke of great disappointment and anger. Varyar chanced a glance at the Harbor Master's face again, and winced at the _expression in his eyes.

"Nothing is broken, though you'll be sore for a few days." One of the healers stated, mistaking his reaction for pain. "The cut is not terribly deep, though you will have to keep it bandaged for a few days."

Varyar nodded absently, allowing the healers to ease him onto his bed. He kept his eyes trained on the door as they gathered their things and left. One stopped just before leaving and turned to Maratar.

"He needs his rest," he said, handing Maratar a small packet. "Brew this in water and see to it that he drinks it all. It will take some of the pain away and help him to sleep."

Maratar nodded, and as soon as the healer left, he began brewing the tea. Varyar's fingers twisted the blanket's edge as he watched his mentor boil water and pour the contents of the package into a cup, swishing the liquid inside, as he crossed the room. Varyar looked up as Maratar was handing him the draught, about to speak, but before he could form any words, Maratar thrust the cup into his hands.

"Drink,” he coolly instructed, crossing his arms again. “You will sleep tonight, and tomorrow, we shall speak of this." Maratar waited at the bedside until Varyar had swallowed every last drop of the steaming tea, then, without a word, he took the empty cup again and left.

Restless and in pain, Varyar settled miserably against the pillows. He hoped that the healers were correct and that the tea would aid sleep, for he knew that without it he would never find rest. Although, he doubted that even the strongest sleeping draught could bring the carelessness of reverie he so desperately craved. However, despite his doubts of the healing agent, the warmth of the tea soon spread through his body, lulling his body into complete relaxation and eventually sleep.