In Darkened Woods Part 2

Marcus Athosen Delrinne had never been accused of possessing great physical strength. Even when he was a boy, his constitution was a serious concern to his parents. From yearly fevers and shakes lasting much of the frosttide to fits of sneezing and blurred vision through the growing season of the year, Marcus always seemed to have some ailment. When his master had gone to pick him up on the eve of his fourteenth year, the older man found a frail, undersized boy weak with sickness being fretted over by his mother.

Suir Jonath Klas refused to take Marcus, despite his father’s threats. The man relented only when the boy, still sick, managed to follow him from the town, wrapped in a blanket. After that, the master relished in every opportunity to break Marcus’s spirit and in the process forged one of the finest servants to the Count he’d ever seen. Marcus would go on to great things, he knew. And in training the boy, Jonath’s station would rise.

But on that morn, Marcus cared little for his last four years. He didn’t cared for the soft voice calling to him from nearby. All he could care for was the images that flashed repeatedly in his left eye. A man on a tolce, being dragged to the ground by a horde of the wildermen. A dark giant crushing a man in its massive arms. A pale woman staring down the distance as crimson formed in the corners of her mouth. A broken man on a throne of brambles. A fractured crown pierced by a knife. A town in fire as a man watches without emotion on his face.

Over and over, the images flashed through his eye. Always the same. Always the same order. Always as it had been since he was a boy. The part of him that was wake knew that the day would be one of pain for him. Whenever he saw the images, his eye would sting and burn, almost as bad as it had the first time.

The sight, as a priest in Elibe had called it. A gift from their Lord, His Permanence, Baedras. Portends of the future to be examined and deciphered. The golden ring in his left eye was a side effect, as was the burning pain and splitting headaches. A small price to pay for a glimpse at divinity, the priest had said.

Of course, the priest didn’t have to live with it. She didn’t have to shield her eye from lights to keep her vision from blurring nor keep numbing ointments on her person to fight the bad days. Marcus was honored, of course, to have such a gift but he had chosen his path in life. He was a soldier, a servant. And he needed his sight, his health, without the gift from the Godking.

His waking mind turned back to that day, eleven years ago, during the first frost after his sixth birthday. He had been playing with the children of the village near the river that ran through his father’s lands. They laughed and chased one another through the snow, playing catch me and shouting. It was a simple time, before he took to illness. Marcus’s sister at the time, long since married off to another family, was keeping watch.

But teenage children were still children, and they had lapses in judgment and attention. Marcus had run along the river, further than he should have from his friends. He wanted to be on the other side, making it harder to catch him. And the options were to use the bridge, which Mergorit would forbid, or to cross where the ice had formed. To a young boy, it was a simple choice.

As he stepped on the ice, though, he heard the cracking. Then the world disappeared from him, and all was water. The current of the river was strong and whipped him beneath the freezing causing his head to crash on a rock. Then, he felt the pull as he tried to draw a breath and the river entered his lungs. Had Mergorit paid attention, he would have been pulled from the water near the bridge.

His fortunes had not been that high, though. Instead, he was pulled by the river for quite a distance, until the young blacksmith’s apprentice saw him while fetching water for quenching. When Marcus was finally revived, he had the ring in his eye as well as a terrible burning in it. From then on, the visions haunted him, the pain tormented him, and his health teetered on the brink of illness.

Training, of course, had fixed that. Carrying Klas’s gear, walking constantly, living rough, sleeping in the stables of inns. The beatings made him stronger, and, by the second year of training, he no longer became ill in the frosttide, nor unsteady in the bloom. He became stronger than the average man, but not as strong as his peers. He still had trouble with his eye, having to take leave of his training due to his sight.

And throughout it all, the visions hung over him, specters of his sleep. He only ever told the priest, though. He didn’t want to be feared mad. It would rob him of his title. His honor. His goal. She had figured it out, of course. She spent almost every second of every day with him. How could she not learn of it? But she never questioned his sanity. She never doubted him.

Marcus loved her for that. It reminded him of how he would listen to everything his younger brother would say without question. And when he finally began to explain exactly what it was that had troubled him after they were granted title, she only smiled and assured him of his ability to handle it. That was a mere six days ago.

Since then, he’d not had a vision. Not until that morning, at least. Instead his sleep had been peaceful. And his sight had improved, to the point that he only had to squint at midday to see clearly.



Nothing lasts. All is Impermanent save Him.



His mind quoted scripture to keep him from feeling too depressed about the change in circumstance. To further that enforce it, he focused on the warmth of the sun on his skin. The soft breeze that ran across him, carrying a chill with it. The quiet, distant calls of birds. Her voice calling to him. The smell of bandle smoke.

Slowly, the young man opened his blue eyes, seeing the threads of the canvas with his right eye and only the color of it with his left. It stung a little as the sunlight washed over it, but he forced himself to pay no attention to it. He had to overcome the issue, not indulge it.



Pity those that cannot endure their lots, for they’ll ne’er know the Glory of Him.



More scripture. And it seemed to sharpen the focus of his eye. It wasn’t a hazy blur anymore. It wasn’t as clear or sharp as his right eye, but he could see the pattern of the thread in most places. It would have to do for the time. He exhaled slowly and blinked several times, feeling the sting every time his eye opened anew. With a small groan, his arms hoisted him to sitting.

“They finally return?” she asked, now holding the canteen out for him. Marcus nodded, taking the vessel and pointing to the rucksack near his clothes. He didn’t need to say anything. She knew what he wanted. The numbing ointment for his eye and a piece of kaspar bark to chew on for the headache.

Popped the cork from the canteen, he took a gulping drink of the cold water. It brought to the front of his mind the pounding he’d managed to ignore in his head. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his face then brushed his long black hairs behind his ear.

The woman handed him the small phial filled with the green tinted liquid and a strip of bark. She sat next to him, holding in her other hand two portions of dried meat and what was left of their wheel of cheese. Marcus flipped open the cap of the phial and dipped the end of his smallest finger into it, losing the sense of touch in it in an instant.

His hand closed the glass cylinder and handed it back to her as the other brought a small drop of the fluid to his eye. His head tilted back, and he touched the finger to the corner. It worked quickly spreading through the moisture to all of the orb, numbing it to almost everything, save the sting. It never was able to end that pain, but it at least made the sensation no worse than having a lash stuck there.

He blinked a few times, acclimating himself to the feeling again before taking the small bark into his mouth. Bitter exploded from it as he bit into it, mixing with his saliva. He hated it, but it would keep the headache far from his thoughts for the day. She held out the meat for him, and he took it, tearing it into slender strips.

“At least neither of us can taste it this morning,” he muttered as he torn a bit off with his mouth. She nodded, silent and distant for the first time since they’d set out. Marcus was unnerved by it, but pushed it aside. She was merely thinking, after all. He continued to eat, tasting nothing of the meat as he chew on the bark. After another moment, he finished, and thrust himself to his feet, feeling the weight of the night’s wine. She watched as he walked to the tree and took a stance to relieve himself.

Marcus sighed, feeling the bitter juice formed of the bark and his spit mixing and diminishing his headache. It wasn’t complete, but it was enough. After feeling the last of his waste drip form him, he turned back around and saw her begin to dress. Were he another man and it another time, he would have enjoy the sight. But he felt shame enough for laying with her, a comrade. He wouldn’t allow himself to so nakedly desire her form.

Instead, he moved to the pile of his clothing, grabbing his leggings and stepping into them. They felt tight, even before he pulled the braided cords to fasten them. But he hasn’t interested in dressing fully just yet. His eyes moved to the fire pit, seeing the perfectly packed pipe resting on a stone. Smiling to himself, he reached for it, brushing passed her as she fitted her tunic.

She playfully slapped the nap of his neck as he went, chiding him gleefully with, “Have you no shame?”

Marcus responded with a childish tone of his own. “Have you none, woman?” they both gave a chuckle as Marcus returned to his posture, pipe hand and an ember rest on the bandle. He took a short, sharp draw on it to set the leaves ablaze before pulling a small bit of the sweet smoke into his mouth. It hid the bitterness of the kaspar for a moment before he drew it into his lungs. Dropping his head back, the young man blew the smoke into the air, sighing contentedly. “Oh, do the Heavens tremble and the kingdoms fall before the beauty of the dawn. The artistry of Our Lord displayed in the skies.” He’d always loved that line from the Book of Radiance.

It wasn’t scripture, per se. But the Church did hold it as a work of divine inspiration. And he read it often in his time ill and on his bed as a youth. She smiled, glad that, despite the vision and the pain and the blurriness of his sight, Marcus wasn’t going to let the day get the better of him. He took another draw from the pipe, staring at the clouds before speaking again. “Come then, Liandra. If we make haste, we’ll be in Philorin before nightfall.”