Fan Fiction ❯ Burning Bridges ❯ Flickering Between the Lines ( Chapter 2 )

The day dawned chill and grey, but the brethren didn't put off their morning chores, bustling around to distribute the dried fruit that was their breakfast and to cover the firepits. They'd stayed the night in this cave several times before, Duncan had told Hardin, and that was why he and Padric had assumed that he was one of the Cardinal's men, sent to keep watch or even infiltrate them. A few times in the past, the templars had sent out a man in shabby clothing to one of their usual haunts, to ask permission to join their number. The plan hadn't taken into account Sydney's ability to read hearts, however, and the instant he laid eyes upon them, their ruse was uncovered. Though the brethren would not execute a common thief, spies were another matter entirely.

"So, what be yer plans now?" Duncan asked Hardin, as they helped to blot out the footprints around the mouth of the cave, obliterating all traces of their presence the night before. "Which way d'ye be headed?"

"I've got no particular place to go," Hardin replied. "I may as well take Sydney up on his offer; he told me I could stay on for a time, until I've regained some strength."

"Ye seemed plenty strong when ye jumped at me last night," Duncan grumbled good-naturedly.

Hardin grinned. "Where is it that you're all headed, anyway?"

"The spring be almost upon us. We go south to the dark city, to celebrate before the gods."

"Dark city?"

"Aye - in times past, she was known as Leá Monde. Since her fall, we of the brethren be the only ones living to walk within her walls."

"Ah." Leá Monde - Hardin had heard of the once-great city, destroyed in an earthquake around twenty years before. There were bizarre rumors about it... which suddenly made Hardin wonder why Duncan had chosen the words he had. "The only ones living, you say?"

Duncan shrugged uneasily. "That be delvin' a bit too deeply into the mysteries for me to explain," he muttered, "but let's just say, the power is strong in the dark city. Strange things happen there. We be safe though, most likely thanks to Sydney."

He offered no further information, and Hardin didn't ask; he wasn't sure he wanted to know. There were still a couple of weeks until spring, by his estimation, and he could be gone before he had to worry about it.

The brethren travelled on foot, as there was too little money for them to buy horses for them all, and all were equals within Müllenkamp, so Duncan said. As they walked, Padric often fell in beside them, saying little aside from answering the questions Duncan did not - most often because Hardin never asked them out loud. It gave Hardin chills every time, until finally Padric offered to teach him a few mental techniques to contain his thoughts better. It was not a matter of magic, he assured him, just a matter of exerting one's will. Hardin gratefully accepted, and practiced until a few days later, when Padric informed him that he could sense nothing at all.

Hardin vaguely wondered if it blocked out Sydney's abilities as well - not that he'd spoken to the man again after they'd set out. He travelled at the head of their number, rarely saying much aside from giving orders of where to set up camp at night or the like, and always with that shrewd, detached expression on his face, as though he were seeing more than the rest of them saw. Perhaps he did, Hardin thought.

Much of Hardin's time was spent talking with Duncan, Padric, and others of the brethren about what exactly Müllenkamp was about, and why the Cardinal's men had singled them out. From all appearances, they seemed little different from the other small religious sects that Hardin had encountered in Valendia, aside from their "talents", and Duncan claimed that was the reason exactly - their abilities proved that they were closer to the truth about the gods than anyone, and the church didn't want anyone finding out that their religion was built upon mere legends and lies. "Ye've seen our powers, Hardin," he pointed out. "Ye've seen us do things men don't normally be capable of. Must mean we're on to something, right?"

"The priests would say you've been given these powers by demons," Hardin replied. "Why else would you call the force that gifted you with them 'the Dark'?"

"Demons... fah! To their sort, anything that don't be their precious saint be a demon. 'Twas their saints that named it the Dark, not us, and they be all the more uncomfortable that we took it up. Me, I like makin' that lot squirm. Sydney says it just be a natural force, even if its power be negative instead of positive. And at least we have deities, not just the memory of a dead man."

"Well said," another man of the brethren commented. "The woman by whose name we call ourselves lived nearly two thousand years ago - and we can admit that she's gone now. Why should one man spend his life in service to another, when they'll both be dust in the end?"

A few others within hearing range nodded their agreement, but Hardin shrugged. No wonder the King's men had no love for them, if this was the gospel they spread. "And what of all of you? If you believe in serving no man, why do you follow Sydney? What makes the words he speaks have more meaning than those of the Cardinal?"

Duncan chuckled. "That be different. Sydney's no mortal man, y'see."

"I beg your pardon?" Hardin thought it was one of Duncan's jokes at first, but looking around at the others, he saw no one giving any such indication.

"Duncan has a way of dropping these serious revelations, doesn't he." Padric shook his head disapprovingly. "He speaks the truth, though. Sydney is immortal."

Again, Hardin saw no indication that the words were a joke, nor was Padric the joking type to begin with. "I'm sure you'll understand if I tell you that's a little difficult for me to believe."

"Yes, every fanatic cult through the ages has said the same thing of their leader," Padric admitted. "But then, how many of their number could say that they've seen their leader take a deadly wound and live? How many have felt his pulse still with their own fingers, only to see him get to his feet?"

Hardin was not sure how to answer that. It was ridiculous - completely preposterous! And yet, those around him were nodding. "It's the truth," one man spoke up. "We've all seen it, every one of us. Tis a gift from the Dark for giving himself fully to its service, I believe."

"If Sydney's not one of the gods himself," murmured a woman, and a few nodded agreement to this as well.

Hardin glanced up at the head of their party, where Sydney walked through the last dirty remains of the winter's snow and the mud as surely as the rest of them, if more gracefully. "You'll forgive me if I don't immediately trust your words as fact," he muttered.

"Believe or no, ye're still a fellow man," Duncan assured him. "Sydney says what goes between a man and the gods, that be their business, no one else's. Ye can make up yer own mind... we just be tellin' ye what we've seen."

True enough that none of them was pressuring him; they spoke freely of their beliefs, volunteering any information if he asked, but never in a patronizing or forceful way. They believed in the power they called the Dark, and they believed in the gods. They believed in Sydney as the hand of the gods, or perhaps even as a god. It was just how they were, and they didn't begrudge Hardin's skepticism, for that was just the way he was.

In turn, Hardin didn't attempt to discount their beliefs, no matter how odd. When he asked questions, it was to learn more about the people he travelled with, not to change their minds. After all, they'd shown him more kindness than he'd seen in many, many years.

Their generosity was shown again a week into their travels, when they came to a small village at the intersection of two highways. They split up into small groups of two or three to avoid notice, and took the coin Sydney gave them to buy supplies for the remainder of their journey to Leá Monde. Once they had scattered, Sydney and Hardin remained, and the cultist gestured towards the town and began walking without even looking at Hardin. "Come with me now."

Hardin was startled, since Sydney hadn't spoken a word to him since the night they'd first met, except to shrug off his attempt to return the blanket that first morning. He obeyed regardless. "Where are we going?"

"To a tailor. We can't have you taking Aryn's wardrobe if you do decide to leave us, and it's still a bit cold to go without clothes altogether."

Indeed, Hardin had nearly forgotten that the clothes he was wearing were borrowed, since Aryn had never said a word of complaint about the matter, and the prison garb he'd been wearing when he'd first encountered the brethren had long since been tossed out. "But I'm not-"

"You've shared the brethren's burdens, you've gathered wood for our cookfires, and you've respected our beliefs," Sydney cut in. "And even if not for all that, a man deserves to have something of his own to wear."

Hardin just shook his head in disbelief, a bemused smile touching his lips. "Thank you."

"In this town, I am known as Lord Stefan," Sydney continued, dismissing his favor as nothing. "Do not be troubled at my disguise - it is only a small thing."

"What do you-" Hardin's words were choked off in mid-sentence as Sydney's appearance changed in the blink of an eye. Suddenly he was taller, his blond hair cut short, and he was clothed in a red velvet coat and brown leather breeches instead of the cloak and cowl he always surrounded himself with when they were on the road. When he turned to face Hardin, he was sporting a thin beard and ice-blue eyes as well.

"As you were told, the Cardinal's men seek us, and neither would the King's men react kindly if they were to happen across me. Since the King's men seek you also, I would offer you a disguise as well, but I don't suppose you want one."

"That's all right," Hardin said quickly.

Sydney gave his slight smirk, which seemed rather strange on his suddenly bearded and unfamiliar face. "It's just as well, since you'll be trying on clothing. Now come."

A long, low stone building stood at one intersection, with a wooden sign bearing a spool of thread and needle hung beside the door, and it was there that Sydney led Hardin, through the bustling streets. A bell on the door jangled as Sydney pushed it open, and the thin, moustached man behind the counter looked up from the shirt he was stitching. "Ah, Lord Stefan!" he greeted Sydney warmly. "Acquired another one, have you?"

"Indeed, Ethan," Sydney replied smoothly. "This is Derek - he shall be my new stablehand, at least for the time being. He has much potential, I believe."

"I see, then - well met, Derek!"

Not knowing exactly what was going on, Hardin just played along, accepting the man's proffered hand. "Well met, sir."

"As always, I'll have only the best attire for those in my employ," Sydney told the tailor. "What have you in his size?"

"Hmm..." The tailor looked him up and down - measuring him with his eyes, Hardin thought. "A bit tall, average build... These should be proper," Ethan decided, leading them to a rack of shirts and trousers against the back wall. "I'll be happy to make any alterations necessary, of course."

Sydney nodded. "Well, Derek? Choose whatever you will, and I will provide the coin."

"Thank you, milord." Hardin had never even pretended to be a servant before, but he'd had several of his own at one time. He knew as well as anyone how they were expected to behave. However, he also knew that he had no real allegiance to Sydney, and it was not certain that he would be with the man long enough to repay his expenses in labor, and so he picked out the simplest attire that would be proper for a stablehand in the service of a lord. "Would these be suitable?"

Sydney raised an eyebrow at the plain wool, and considered for a moment. "Suitable, perhaps, but not particularly flattering. This color is more fitting for you, I think," he said, picking out a similar shirt to the one Hardin had chosen, but dyed a deep green, with black trim. "And though spring approaches, it is not yet warm; you will need something a bit thicker to wear while you work outside..."

Hardin could not object to Sydney's suggestions, not while he was posing as his servant, and so he obediently draped more articles of clothing over his arm, being careful to choose the simplest patterns and the most inexpensive materials. Sydney was likely already going to pay more than Hardin thought he should, and he didn't intend to take further advantage of his generosity.

After Sydney was satisfied with his choices, Ethan directed them to a back room where Hardin could change, then returned to the front of the shop to see to another customer. Hardin draped the new clothes over the edge of the tall screen provided, and silently undressed behind it, oddly aware of Sydney's eyes on him the entire time - even if the eyes did not resemble his, due to the illusion. The man sat in a chair a short distance away, smiling very slightly, his chin resting upon one hand, given the appearance of flesh now rather than metal.

As Hardin slipped into the new garments, however, that small distraction was forgotten. Gods, how long had it been since he'd worn anything new? He'd not even worn anything that was not either dirty or threadbare for many months before Aryn had lent his clothing.

"Well then?" Sydney inquired. "Let us see how you look."

A tall mirror hung on one wall, and Hardin was somewhat surprised when he went to it. It was the first time he'd seen his full reflection since his time in prison had weakened his body, and he looked much thinner and more frail than he remembered himself being.

"Already you look better than when we first encountered you," Sydney commented. "Your strength will return in time, do not worry. For now, let your concern be for the fit of your clothing. Hmm... it seems to fit well enough. Turn around, would you?"

So much for Padric's tricks blocking Sydney's powers. Hardin wasn't terribly surprised, and he obliged, glancing over his shoulder at Sydney. He watched as the man studied him, then shook his head. "Though I tried to persuade you otherwise, you've dressed yourself in peasant's clothing. Your bearing is too noble for it, Derek."

"I did not wish to cost you more than I had to, milord." Hardin was sure that Ethan was out of earshot, but if Sydney intended to keep up the charade, he would not do otherwise.

"The cost is nothing you have to concern yourself with. It will be a gift. Why don't I find you something nicer?"

"Well..." Why was Sydney being so kind, he wondered? "If it pleases you, milord."

"It does." Sydney flashed him a charming smile before vanishing through the door to the front room, and Hardin went back behind the screen to remove the clothing he'd been trying on. It wasn't long before Sydney returned, and draped a few more garments over the top of the screen for Hardin. "I think these are much more appropriate for you."

Hardin picked up the jacket Sydney had brought in disbelief. It was dark leather, as were the trousers that went with them, and although they were not fancy, they were well-crafted and soft, and the jacket featured metal fasteners that were certainly there for ornamental purposes only. "Isn't this a mite expensive?"

"And who are you to tell me what is too expensive, Derek?" Sydney remarked with a smirk. "Now why don't you try them on?"

"...Yes, milord." Apparently Sydney honestly didn't object to the cost, if he was willing to continue playing that game and even pull rank over it, and so Hardin changed into the garments Sydney had chosen - with gloves and boots as well. Looking in the mirror afterwards, he had to admit that they did look much better on him than the simple clothing he'd picked out. He had been born to a lower noble family, though the conviction of fraud had muddied his family name. And yet, this sort of attire made him look something like the man he'd once been.

Sydney looked on, nodding in approval and smiling a secretive smile. Though the eyes Hardin saw were not truly his, Hardin got the impression that Sydney was enjoying the view, and he suddenly felt self-conscious. He hadn't meant to notice, but despite Sydney's assurances that he could go without blanket or bedroll, since surrendering his blanket to Hardin, he'd been sharing the sleeping accomodations of some of his followers - women and men both. Hardin couldn't help but notice, since the man drew his eyes whatever he might be doing.

"Indeed, Derek, you are quite pleasant to my eyes," Sydney replied simply to Hardin's thoughts. "Your eyes are weary but kind, and hold much spirit, and shrewd intelligence. Traces of a remarkable physique remain despite your current weakened state. I've no doubt you could make an excellent... stablehand." His eyes glittered mischeviously, even through the illusion. "Perhaps even horsemaster someday."

Hardin paused, trying to think of what to say to such an odd metaphorical statement. It was flattering, perhaps, but... horsemaster? His ears suddenly felt hot, and he took a moment to sort out the jumbled emotions in his head before speaking. "Sy... Lord Stefan," he corrected himself awkwardly, "I fear I am more of a... a vagabond, than a servant. I likely will not remain in your service for very long. And as for my thoughts on... the matter... the night we met... it was naught but a misunderstanding. I have not had... work... for a very long time. And..." He coughed uncomfortably, feeling his face grow warm as well as he tried to think of a way to put this within the context of the little charade Sydney was insisting upon. "I initially thought that I might be, uhm, working for a lady, rather than a lord."

"I know," Sydney said with a light shrug, dismissing it. "But does it really matter so much if it is a lord or lady employing you, so long as the work is honest?"

His smile widened; yes, Sydney was definitely enjoying himself, Hardin realized. His obvious discomfort amused the man, and he shot back a quick, terse reply. "It is quite different working for a lord rather than a lady."

"Is it really?" Sydney's arms crossed over his chest as he regarded Hardin with amusement. "Have you ever worked for a lord before?"

"No, I have always enjoyed working for ladies."

"Perhaps my employ might change your mind."

Hardin's face grew hotter. "Quite honestly, milord," he replied, trying hard to keep his voice steady, "I do not believe I am the type of servant you would prefer. If you seek someone to muck out stables for you, I would advise you to look elsewhere."

A delighted laugh burst from Sydney's lips. "Rarely do I encounter one who will speak with me so frankly! And properly within metaphor, no less. Calm yourself, Hardin," he assured him, dropping the charade, "I would not have you do anything you do not wish to do. I merely thought that perhaps you might appreciate the offer."

Hardin tried not to show his immense relief with a sigh. "I'm flattered, Sydney, but I am no lover of men. If you can read my heart, you know that."

"Yes, I can," Sydney replied, still smiling oddly. "Now, let us speak of something else. Do the clothes fit you well? Can you move freely in them?"

Slightly surprised that the fine clothing had not been intended as incentive, Hardin nodded. "But Sydney, I do not deserve-"

Suddenly Sydney held up his hand, cutting him off without a word, and went to the door, cracking it open just a bit and peering into the front room of the tailor's shop. Hardin followed curiously, and stretched as he tried to see what Sydney was looking at. The smaller man moved to the side, leaning down slightly so that Hardin had a clear view.

Two men had entered the shop, wearing crimson cloaks edged with gilt, and sporting swords. Trained as a guard, Hardin noted almost immediately that the weapons were not peace-tied as they should have been within the borders of the village, but the cloaks gave them away as being in the service of the cardinal; they were granted the right to bare steel anywhere they deemed appropriate. Within a village, however, they usually tied their weapons as other men - unless they intended to use them.

"Can I help you, gentleman?" they heard Ethan's voice ask.

"I believe you can. We're looking for a man, roughly this tall," - the man speaking lifted a hand to indicate a man somewhat shorter than himself - "pale of hair and of complexion, with dark eyes. Dark, strange eyes..."

Hardin started at the obvious description of Sydney's true form, and beside him, Sydney let out a low, hissing breath. "Jaeger's tunic..."

"What?" Hardin whispered back, but Sydney, intent on what was happening in the other room, motioned for him to be quiet.

"His hair falls just below his chin, and he travels with something of an entourage," the man continued. "Have you ever sold clothing to this man, or any of his companions?"

There was a pause before the tailor's voice answered. "Not that I can recall."

"Are you absolutely certain?" the man asked, his voice lowering dangerously.

"Yes, quite."

Through the crack of the door, Hardin saw the man's companion step forward, bringing his hand down in a fist on the counter. "You lie," he began hotly. Pulling a swatch of fabric from his belt, he proffered it to the tailor. "Does this look familiar?"

There was another pause, and this time when Ethan spoke, his voice sounded anxious. "Why yes, I use that stitch to identify all my garments."

"So it is yours, then." The first man's voice again.

"Yes, it is."

"This cloth comes from a tunic worn by a man we slew a few weeks past, known to be a follower of the one we seek. Others we have slain have worn garments with the same stitching."

"An unfortunate coincidence that they should come while we are here," Sydney said softly at Hardin's side, "or perhaps fortunate, for the sake of the tailor. This looks as if it may become a bit unpleasant."

"I tell you, I've never seen such a man!" the tailor protested.

"Aiding their kind, and then lying to servants of the Lord," the second man growled. "You dig yourself ever deeper, friend of the Dark."

Sydney took a step back, away from Hardin and the cracked door. "I apologize for the abruptness, Hardin," he murmured, "but you have no need to become involved in this. When you arrive, stay where you are."

"Hmm?" Hardin turned away from the door, distracted. "What do you-"

One metal hand was raised towards him in an odd way, and Sydney began to chant. "To blackened wing and wav'ring light-"

Hardin's eyes widened. "Sydney-"

"Delta-ecksis!"

A flash of light engulfed Hardin, and he raised his arm to shield his eyes. The floor seemed to shift beneath his feet, throwing him off balance, and he stumbled backwards. When the glare had faded, he found himself alone in a hollow between two hills, though he could still hear the noise of the village beyond.

So Sydney could send a man to another location with his sorcery. A handy trick. "Stay where you are, he says," Hardin muttered, staring around suspiciously at his new surroundings. Not knowing where he was, or what was happening in the tailor's shop, he wasn't enthused about the idea.

After a moment's deliberation, he crept to the top of the taller of the two hills. Crouched on his hands and knees to keep from being spotted, he looked at what lay beyond. No commotion was apparent within the village, and he wondered what Sydney intended.

Only a short time had passed before a pair of figures exited the village, heading straight towards Hardin. He removed the peace-tie he'd bound his broadsword with when they'd arrived, but as the two men drew closer, he recognized them as Sydney's. Sydney had found them and warned them that the Cardinal's men were searching, they said when Hardin asked, and to leave the village quickly and gather there in the hollow. Another pair arrived shortly after, and then three more.

Even so, a handful of the brethren had not arrived in the hollow before shouting arose in the distance, quickly followed by flashes of light and a rushing noise, like the sound of a great bonfire. Those in the hollow tensed, knowing what must be transpiring; those still in town had been discovered.

"Should we go to their aid?" one man suggested, and the others deliberated. Sydney could handle himself, they all agreed, but if it were some of the other brethren in danger...

A sudden blur of motion caught Hardin's eye, and he turned to see Duncan, who had been one of those missing, kneeling behind him, clutching a wounded side. "Sydney's found the last of them," he panted as the others gathered around, "and they be bringin' the cart and horses. There be a score of the Cardinal's men, and these lot've faced us before, so they knew my little tricks as well as our descriptions. It be a swordfight from here out, I fear - Sydney's got no intention of summoning or callin' the elements in the midst of town... tho' he's sendin' the wounded to safety..."

Another injured man suddenly appeared beside Duncan, and while some of the other brethren rushed to attend to their wounds, Hardin glanced back at the town. He could see there was a disturbance near the stables, but not much else.

It was an easy enough decision to make. Nearly all Sydney's men were safe, so that left very few in the village, trying to fight off at least twice their number of templars, and likely trying to handle frightened horses as well. These people had given him food, shelter, and clothing, and he was already a wanted man. Hardin rose from his safe vantage point, and began to run towards the village.

With all the commotion, people fleeing from the fight and freed horses running every which way, Hardin remained unnoticed until he'd found Sydney. Two men wearing the gilt-edged cloaks stood in the stableyard, flanking the wide gate to the street. Sydney and the others, Padric among them, were still trading blows with a dozen more within.

It was easy enough to take down the first of the men in the gate, as they were more focused on what was happening within the stables than outside, and the second was so surprised that he fought carelessly, and fell without much effort.

Not far off, two of the templars had nearly overcome Padric, and Hardin lunged at the closer of the two. The man did manage to block, but was thrown off balance by the unexpected attack, and knocked against the other's swordarm with his own as he turned. Padric took advantage of the situation and struck his opponent in the neck before he could recover. Hardin was relieved to see that the man was wielding a sword now as opposed to the mere dagger he'd been armed with when they'd met, and the two of them easily overcame the other templar.

Sydney had a sword now as well, Hardin discovered, and was not bad with it at all, defending two unarmed brethren - Aidan and Domenic, Hardin recognized them - who held the reins of the pack-horses, trying to control the frightened animals, unaccustomed as they were to battle. Three templars faced Sydney, who turned and parried and manuevered so swiftly and gracefully that it appeared almost to be a dance. Still, he was not quite quick enough to prevent one of the templars' swords from striking Aidan in the shoulder.

As Hardin rushed forward to assist them, he heard Sydney begin the chant. "To blackened wing and wav'ring light..."

At the final word, the wounded man vanished - only to appear a few feet away, just beside Hardin, who almost stumbled over him. Sydney's head shot up in surprise, and when his eyes found Hardin, his mouth tightened angrily.

Being a reasonably experienced fighter, Hardin knew he couldn't take the time to wonder why Sydney was angry, for the battle was not over yet. But before he'd even broken away from Sydney's gaze, the mage's expression changed to one of disbelief, as one of the templars took advantage of his momentary distraction to stab him in the chest, burying the blade nearly to the hilt. Like a rag doll, Sydney crumpled to the ground as the templar yanked his sword free.

"Sydney!" Dominic's young voice rang out in dismay, and the other brethren remaining in the stableyard abandoned their individual battles to rush to their leader's aid. Now the lines were clearly drawn - half a dozen templars against Hardin and five of the brethren, two of which were unarmed, and one of which was wounded. Three of the templars were surrounded as the brethren rushed in, and they fell easily. Hardin took care of one of the others who jumped forward to join the melee, and another met Padric's blade in the stomach. That left only one, who was overpowered quickly.

Aiden tried dizzily to stand, holding his wounded shoulder, and another of the brethren went to help him as the rest gathered around Sydney. Pale and still, he lay on his side in a pool of his own blood, and Hardin gazed down at him in horror. If he'd been there, if Sydney hadn't sent him away immediately, he might have been able to keep this from happening...

Padric knelt, feeling at Sydney's neck for a pulse. "He's gone, isn't he?" Hardin asked.

Padric nodded. "Not to worry, though," he commented gravely. "He'll be back soon. Kermiak - see if you can chase down the two horses whose reins Aiden dropped."

The man left to do as Padric said, and Hardin just watched them in disbelief. Surely they didn't still believe this nonsense about Sydney's immortality, did they? He'd seen the templar's blade go right through him, and now...

Hardin blinked. It had to have been his imagination, but for a moment, he could have sworn he'd seen Sydney's eyelids flutter open. That couldn't have happened. It was just those stories they'd been telling him - it had to be.

He leapt back as Sydney's chest suddenly rose, and the man drew in a shuddering breath. Metal claws punctured the dirt of the stableyard as Sydney pushed himself upright to a sitting position, and blood spilled from his lips as he coughed painfully. His breath rasped in his throat as he looked up to meet Hardin's shocked eyes with a look of infuriation. "I... told you..." He coughed again, and wiped the blood from his lips with one of his artificial hands. "...to stay... where you were."

Too astonished to defend himself, Hardin had no response. "Are the others safe?" Sydney asked Padric, his breath coming a bit less raggedly already, and Padric nodded. "Good. Then let us join them."

Sydney got to his feet with only a bit of help from Padric, and seemed to be in near perfect health by the time Kermiak returned with the horses. They had to make haste to leave the village before any more trouble started, and Hardin watched in disbelief as Sydney set a quick pace for the rest of them.

"We're not all mad after all, are we?" Padric commented, walking at Hardin's side.

Hardin shook his head, as much to clear it as in denial. "How is that possible...?"

"Many impossible things are made possible when the gods will it so."

"Apparently." Hardin still doubted the existance of these gods - there had to be another explanation for a dead man rising to walk again before his eyes. Still, there was no possible way that it could have been a trick, unless it had been an illusion like one of Duncan's, and what purpose would that have served?

Sydney walked ahead of the rest of them, making a straight path for the hollow where the rest of his followers were hidden, with no indication that only moments ago he'd been still and lifeless. Anger still radiated from him, which also confused Hardin. "Do you have any idea why he's so angry that I came to aid you?" he asked Padric.

"When he sent Duncan to safety, did he appear right beside you?"

"Yes..."

Padric nodded. "As I thought. A teleportation spell is a bit complicated to manage all on one's own. To ensure a safe arrival, the caster must focus on a place or object - or sometimes a person. Preferably one he knows well, but no doubt he found you to be an easier target to envision than a specific location amongst the hills in the midst of a battle."

So that was why Aiden had not been sent out of the battle, Hardin realized. If Aiden's injury had been more serious, or if one of the templars had been closer, the man could have died there, thanks to his rushing in. "I thought he meant to keep me from being involved in your order's troubles with the law."

"Likely he did. But that was not the only reason." Padric smiled. "All of us have learned on our own time, to follow Sydney's orders exactly, whether there are many reasons, a single reason, or none at all apparent to us."

"That requires a great deal of faith, Padric. Faith is something I have little of anymore," Hardin admitted, "in anyone or anything, be it gods or men."

"Be that as it may," Padric responded, "after what you've witnessed today with your own eyes, can you deny that something beyond what we can see does exist? Something which you may have faith in again someday?"

Hardin paused, thinking it over before nodding slightly. "I suppose I can't deny it at that." Still, their powers did not necessarily mean that there were gods.

Faith may not have been Hardin's strong point, but humility was a virtue with which he was becoming well-acquainted. Late that evening, when they'd gotten far enough from the village that they thought it safe to camp for the night, Hardin managed to find a moment when Sydney was alone and went to speak to him. "Sydney," he began as the man turned at his approach, irritation still evident in his eyes, "I just wanted to apologize, for not doing as you asked. Padric explained to me... I had no idea."

Sydney didn't respond, and Hardin sighed. "You have done so much for me - even on this very day - and by not obeying a simple request you made of me, I nearly allowed one of your men to die... and could have gotten you killed as well."

A hint of a smile curled Sydney's lips, and his expression lightened somewhat. "Nothing you could do could bring about my death, Hardin. You believe the stories now, do you not?"

Hardin hesitated for a moment. "I believe that I need to do a lot of thinking about what I believe."

His words seemed to amuse Sydney, but the dark eyes grew serious again. "If you believe nothing else, believe this," he said curtly. "When I give an order to those in my company, I expect it to be followed without question. Doing otherwise will do nothing to me, but only serve to bring trouble down upon your own head."

Hardin nodded. The PeaceGuard had taught him to follow orders, even if in the end he had disobeyed his orders out of desperation.

Sydney's expression softened somewhat, and he rested one of his hands upon Hardin's shoulder. "I do understand why, Hardin. You are a good man. I would count myself fortunate if you chose to remain with us."

Surprisingly enough, Hardin found that he was no longer particularly bothered by the metal claws. Or perhaps it was just that the fact Sydney's touch in itself seemed more uncomfortable than his hands, after the talk they'd had in the tailor's shop. He'd said he would not make Hardin do anything he did not want to do, though, so Hardin did his best to ignore it. It wasn't overly hard - the leather of the jacket he wore was thick, and he could pretend that he felt nothing.

Hardin started, realizing for the first time that he still wore the clothes he'd been trying on when Sydney had teleported him from the shop. "Sydney... what happened to the tailor?"

"Ethan is safe, and he has been paid," Sydney assured him. "The two templars who visited him are on their way back to the cardinal, and they will tell him that their informant was mistaken - the garments were not Ethan's work." Sydney gave a small sigh. "It was not for my sake that I disguised myself when within the village, but for those whose shops I frequent," he murmured.

"But..." Hardin was confused. "Didn't Ethan admit to the clothes being his?"

Sydney paused for a moment before answering. "Hardin, there is a gift that the Dark has given me that could be very dangerous if bestowed upon the wrong person: compulsion."

The sudden uneasiness must have been apparent in Hardin's eyes, for Sydney gripped his shoulder tighter, meeting his eyes steadily. "The gift is a precious one, given only to those whom the Dark believes will not misuse it, to reweave the threads of human thoughts and emotions for their own selfish purposes. It is a last resort, and nothing more. Today I used it so that no harm would come to an innocent man, and that is all."

"Y-yes... I understand." Hardin allowed himself to relax a bit. "I will trust you." Gods, but the temptation to use such a power had to be immense! Certainly, though, Sydney would have already used such a power on him if he'd intended to do so.

"Thank you." Hardin let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding as Sydney withdrew his hand. After a moment, though, Sydney gave him a mischevious smirk. "I would much prefer my 'stablehands' to come to me of their own free will, Derek. If you should ever change your mind..."

Of course he was that transparent to Sydney. "I think my decision shall stand, milord," he said dryly, himself wearing the hint of a smile.

Hardin was rewarded with a chuckle from Sydney. "I do so enjoy our talks, Hardin," he remarked. "At any rate, I suppose I shall go and find myself a more willing 'stablehand' for the time being. Sleep well."

They were sleeping in a valley that night, under the open sky, and when they set up shifts for the watch, Hardin volunteered for the first. With all that had happened, he doubted he would be able to find sleep quickly, and he owed Sydney and his men much that day, between his new clothing and the disobedience.

Hardin had done a watch before, of course, and he usually passed the time by walking about the area and seeing that everything was as it should be, whether the area to cover was large or small. It had been a few years, however, and between the fighting and the walking that followed, Hardin was not at his best. He merely found a suitable place from which he could view the whole of the camping site and sat down, leaning against a tree upon a slight rise to the south. The previous autumn's fallen leaves littered the ground that had only recently been exposed from beneath the melting snow, so if anyone came from behind, he would hear them. He would see anyone coming from any other direction long before they were a threat, unless they had archers, and archers would be of little use in the night.

The night was dark, the stars often obscured by thin clouds that rolled through the sky from time to time, and his thoughts wandered as he surveyed the sleeping brethren. There was no movement in the camp below, aside from the occasional dozing figure turning to the other side. They were so kind, and his time spent with them so pleasant, he found himself wondering if he should remain with them, even if he did not believe as they did. They were not all strong, so another sword would be of use - and besides, their earnest faith made him wish he could still believe in such fanciful things as benevolent gods.

It was so peaceful, in fact, and the night so quiet, that Hardin found himself nearly dozing off only halfway through his shift. It would be best if he did walk, he decided, and so he stood to walk the perimeter. As he did so, he looked down at the faces of those he passed; he could put a name to several of them by now.

One he did not pass, however, was Sydney, even after he'd been all the way around the camp. Still off with whomever he'd found to share his bedroll, Hardin imagined. He chuckled a little, thinking back on their conversation in the tailor's back room. As discomfiting as the subject matter was, the verbal sparring had been somewhat entertaining. It had been awhile since Hardin had had to use his mind for anything other than basic survival, and the mental exercise was a fine change of pace. The cultist's wits were as sharp as his fingers, he thought idly as he wandered up the side of the nearest hill, hoping to get a good vantage point from which to see the stars while the clouds were absent.

He stood there at the crest for a time, picking out the constellations he'd learned as a boy - after long months spent in a prison cell, Hardin had learned to take pleasure in even the most common and mundane things once again - before the clouds rolled in again, and he happened to glance down to the hillside below. Dark as it was, a small smudge near the bottom of the slope stood out as darker still, and Hardin went to investigate.

Due to the cloud cover, Hardin was within ten paces when he stopped, identifying what comprised the vague shape before him. A blanket covered two still forms, and blond hair and metal reflected the waxing moonlight as the clouds began to clear again.

Hardin halted, knowing he should turn and go back to the camp. It was none of his concern, after all, what Sydney's personal life entailed. He had no business observing such a private moment as this.

But even so, he took another few steps forward, some undefined longing urging him on. Maybe it was because he had been so long without that closeness himself, or because Sydney had offered him the same, but he hesitantly approached the two who lay sleeping beneath the blankets, circling them so that he could see their faces.

By starlight, Sydney's face looked angelic. The coldness and shrewdness that marked him while he was awake were smoothed away by slumber, leaving the peaceful face of a child. It was the first time Hardin had seen him not wearing the dark cloak, and he was intrigued to see that not only Sydney's hands were artificial, but both his arms all the way to the shoulder as well. One of the metal limbs stretched out absently upon the ground next to him, the other rested lazily across his chest as he lay on his back, his head nestled in the curve of Aiden's bare shoulder, which Sydney had healed with his own magic after the battle that afternoon. In sleep, Aiden still wore the traces of a smile of contentment.

Hardin found himself envying that smile before he caught himself. It was only natural that he should be a bit jealous, he supposed. It had been a long time since he'd felt that same contentment, regardless of how Aiden had found it. Though he had confessed a love of women, Hardin had never been promiscuous - he was too well-mannered and cautious to take such things lightly.

Sydney did not seem to share that contentment, though, when Hardin looked again. Though his face appeared perfectly at peace, his lips turned down at the corners in what could almost have been a slight frown. A faint glimmering was apparent beneath his pale lashes, and Hardin watched in surprise as a single tear rolled down his cheek, only to be lost in his rumpled hair. The wind, still chill with the last vestiges of winter, dried the trail it had left almost immediately.

Hardin was too amazed to even consider leaving, in case Sydney was waking up. Tears, from Sydney? He wouldn't have imagined it possible. What sort of dreams must the man have, that would make even him cry?

Somehow, Hardin caught himself about to kneel at Sydney's side, to reach out and wake the man from whatever nightmares he walked in, just as he had his brother in their youth, when Philip had cried out in his sleep. Unlike Philip, Sydney would not welcome the interruption, he was sure of that, and Hardin stepped back. If he were in Aiden's position, he could have done so, and taken Sydney into his arms to comfort him, but...

Hardin shook his head in annoyance as he turned to go. As he'd told the man before, he was no lover of men, so it was a ridiculous thing to think. His shift was almost done now anyway, by the position of the stars, and he had intruded for far too long already. But as he went, his eyes were drawn one last time to Sydney's sleeping face, peaceful and melancholy. It was a rare thing to see, he imagined.

The next morning, Hardin made certain to avoid Sydney's attention, knowing that his heart-seeing talent would expose what he had seen immediately. He was not a voyeur by any means; it had just been a strange whim, and he had meant no harm in watching Sydney sleep. Watching Sydney from afar, though, the man seemed no different from any other morning, as cool and focused as ever, with no indication that his dreams had been troubling. Hardin found himself wondering just how often the dreams came.