Fan Fiction ❯ Burning Bridges ❯ Borne on Wings of Fire ( Chapter 4 )

Life in the keep of Leá Monde was busy for the few days remaining before the celebration, filled with a great deal of cooking, cleaning, and rushing around. Duncan confided to Hardin that things were not usually so hectic - they had been detained in the village they'd spent the winter in for nearly a week longer than they'd intended, due to the cardinal's men lurking about. Hardin helped with what he could, despite Sydney's excusing him; it felt good to make himself useful.

The day before the celebration, Hardin discovered, the brethren fasted from dawn until the sun rose the next morning. Curious about their customs, Hardin asked a few questions, and learned that it was a symbolic gesture: From the barrenness of winter, the coming season would refresh the earth in the same way that the first meal of the coming day would refresh their bodies. Since he was not of their number, they naturally did not expect Hardin to keep the fast with them. Those who remained cooking even offered him some of what they prepared for the following day's meals, but Hardin simply thanked them and refused. His strength had been restored to the point where it would not be a problem to go without food for a day, and he thought it would feel rather impolite to partake while all those around him abstained.

All the chores were therefore lighter that day, though when he sought out Padric and Duncan to inquire further about what the coming day held, he found that they had left Leá Monde with several others, to go to the forest which lay to the east and gather firewood. Sydney was willing to answer Hardin's questions, however, when the two crossed paths in the library.

"Tomorrow is one of the two days of the year in which the world will be perfectly balanced," Sydney told him. "Neither darkness nor light will hold sway over the land, as the hours of daylight perfectly match the hours of night - and though we of Müllenkamp's legacy serve the Dark, a proper balance is of more importance than our own power. It is not only a time of rebirth, but of equilibrium for all forces."

"So then," Hardin inquired, "your magic grows weaker as the days grow longer?"

"On the contrary," Sydney replied, carefully placing aside the book he'd been reading. "As the light grows brighter, the shadows grow deeper. Our powers must increase, to keep the balance. There is more to it than that, naturally, but it is nothing that one who does not serve the Dark would ever need to know."

"Ah. I see." He didn't, exactly, but as Sydney had said, it was nothing that concerned him. "And what of the sudden need for more firewood? We certainly have enough to last for some time, yet."

"We shall rise early tomorrow, before the sun has come, and call upon the elements for guidance and favor until the Dark's season returns. The fire must remain burning all day, and will light our festivities once night has fallen." He paused, regarding Hardin with a sudden smirk. "And in case you were wondering, fear not - the tales of human sacrifice and cannibalism at such rituals are merely inventions of the Cardinal's. You are not to become Müllenkamp's dinner."

Hardin hadn't even heard that particular rumor, and in a way he was glad; if it had been true, it would have been a possible explanation for the curious, critical look he often found Sydney staring at him with. Of course, the alternative explanation was only slightly less unpleasant.

Not that the mage was unfriendly, or in any way had overstepped his bounds again. He had not said another word in pursuit of Hardin, and so Hardin had mostly let his guard down. Sydney seemed pleasant enough company when the two of them spoke - he was intelligent and charming, and quite amusing when he chose to be, particularly when he spoke his thoughts about the followers of St. Iocus. This he did with such cynical irreverence that Hardin was not sure whether he should laugh or be offended, despite his lack of faith. In fact, Sydney had ceased to wear his thick cloak inside the walls of the keep, exposing the whole of the tattoo Hardin had glimpsed the edges of upon Sydney's upper back by night. It was just like Sydney, Hardin thought, to have himself branded with the inverse of the Rood, Iocus' holy symbol, and then flaunt it by going around bare to the waist.

Sydney had a certain manner of quiet and yet shameless defiance that was completely at odds with the well-mannered way Hardin had grown up, and it fascinated him as much as it irritated him. In a way, Hardin supposed, he wished he could be so bold - that he could scoff in the face of the world the way Sydney did - but it just was not in his nature.

But that had nothing to do with the conversation at hand, and Hardin nodded seriously. "I'm glad to hear it - you and your followers have fed me so well in the last few weeks that I wondered if you were fattening me like a calf," he replied, straightfaced.

Sydney shook his head reproachfully. "Tsk, tsk... Such talk, after we took you in out of the kindness of our hearts! Do not speak so, Hardin, or the idea may begin to appeal to me."

"Hmph." Hardin grinned in spite of himself. "And so, besides you and your savages partaking of the sacrificial rogue, what more is there to the day?"

"Aside from the usual snatching infants from their mothers' breasts and placing curses upon all those we meet," Sydney said dryly, "a great deal of merriment. A vigil will be kept for the rising sun - during which we shall call the elements as I said - and the rest of the day shall be spent at rest or play, however one wishes to spend it. When the evening comes, and the darkness has fallen once more, we shall offer our praise to the gods in dance; and after the dance comes a more ordinary celebration."

"Your followers dance, do they?" Sydney had the grace for it, of course, but some of the brethren... Hardin could not picture Duncan dancing for the life of him.

"Not all of them. Those who have the skill and have learned the steps shall dance, but we do not discriminate against those who lack the ability. After all, even Iocus' extortionists - excuse me, holy priests," Sydney corrected himself smoothly, with another of his cynical smiles, "know that they can wring no money from those who have none. Among the brethren, each has a talent to use in the service of the gods, whether that is dancing, cooking, woodworking, or any number of other skills - and why would the gods require more of a man than what they granted him?"

"I'm sure I do not know," Hardin muttered. If there were gods, that would be one of the first questions he'd have asked them.

From the way Sydney's smile suddenly did not seem to be in his eyes, it was obvious that he'd picked up on the thought, but he said nothing on the matter. "Anyhow, our Lady was a dancer as well as a priestess," he told Hardin. "Some called her dancing scandalous, but it was merely the expression of a gift the gods granted her - a way to focus her spiritual power. It is a tradition we have kept, both the dancing itself and the accusations of lewdness."

The latter would come regardless of the dancing, Hardin thought, between those looks Sydney had been shooting at him and the way he dressed, in leggings of black leather cut so low that they were very nearly indecent. No one but Hardin seemed to find it unusual, though, so he supposed it was only that his upbringing had been more conservative than most. But by the gods, how he sometimes wished that Sydney would at least put on a shirt, no matter how difficult it might be with his metal limbs - his waist was so slender that he could almost have been mistaken for a woman, and Hardin found that strangely disturbing. And naturally, Sydney seemed to enjoy that aspect of it.

"Though you are not one of us, you are welcome to watch the rituals," Sydney told him, looking up at him curiously. "I would invite you to participate as well, if it pleased you... Do you dance, Hardin?"

"...No." Given his status, he should have learned a few dances at some point for social functions, but after his parents passed on, he had never had the time for such social functions anyway.

"I didn't suppose that you did," Sydney commented, still looking him over with a critical eye. "You do not appear to be the dancing sort... but then, everyone has their peculiarities, do they not?"

Hardin couldn't resist. "Some more than others."

"Touche."

The following morning, Hardin opted to rise before dawn with the brethren for the first ritual as Sydney had invited him. Although the others in the sleeping quarters had tried to remain quiet, they still managed to awaken him from his dreams - which were once more filled with memories of lonely confinement, and so he was grateful to them rather than bothered by it. Dark or not, awkward or not, it was a great relief to be under open sky, as the arcane rituals of Müllenkamp began.

As dark as it was, Hardin could not make out many of the details of the sunrise ritual from where he stood, back from the circle in which the brethren sat. They were cloaked all in black, except for Sydney and five others, who wore robes of white, and Hardin might not have even known that they were there if not for the murmured responses to the ceremonial words Sydney spoke in some foreign tongue as he stood in the center of their circle - ancient Kildean, he supposed, if what he'd learned about their order's origins were any indication.

What he did make out was slightly unnerving to him, even though it had been many years since he'd had any real faith in the teachings of those who denounced such groups as Müllenkamp to be heretics and demon worshippers. Though he'd seen many of the brethren demonstrate what Duncan had described as their innate talents, he'd never actually witnessed any spellcasting aside from Sydney's teleportation, and watching them call the elements was fairly disturbing. Flames flickered without fuel, the earth trembled beneath his feet - a small bolt of lightning even shot out of the sky to strike in the midst of them. Perhaps the most worrisome thing about it was that they all seemed to take it as perfectly natural, which made Hardin wonder what else they might find perfectly natural. No wonder they seemed to live so peacefully, if even such things as these were commonplace!

Fortunately, the rest of the day mostly conformed to a more ordinary definition of natural. Without chores to do, the brethren mostly spent the day relaxing, chatting with each other and strolling the streets of the city. It was almost easy to forget that Leá Monde had been desolate for two decades, with the streets full of movement and laughter once more. The women among them had woven garlands of greenery and early blooming flowers into their hair, and many of the men wore wreaths of the same on their heads or around their necks. One of the women, a tall blonde named Kirrienne, even placed such a wreath around Hardin's neck when he encountered her and two other women walking near his favorite spot by the river. He needed to smile more, she said, especially since it was a holiday.

Hardin simply murmured his thanks and continued on his way; he'd thought he was acting fairly cheerful. He wondered vaguely if that was her way of making a pass at him, which might have raised his spirits a bit if he hadn't been thinking that maybe he should have said more to her, if that was the case. She was an attractive enough woman, certainly, and a kind one from what he'd seen of her, but he did not know her very well.

On his way back to the keep, still pondering the matter, he passed Sydney, and the mage seemed to find it quite amusing when he happened to pick up the stray thoughts. "Have another," he told Hardin, adorning him with one of the garlands someone had hung around his own neck. "She is right, you know - today is a holiday. Relax."

It was an easy task on such a day, and Hardin did find that his mood lightened as the day went on. Padric, Duncan, and Kermiak invited him to go outside the city to go fishing with them, and so much of the afternoon was spent lazing on the rocks that jutted out into the ocean beneath the higher cliffs, talking and laughing. The fish were not biting, but none of them really cared.

They returned as the sky to the west grew red with the approaching dusk, the sun a shimmering disc of gold as it sank towards the ocean. It was a beautiful end to the finest day Hardin could recall, and as darkness fell, the brethren began to gather in the courtyard once more for the second ceremony Sydney had described - the dance.

The fire that had been kindled during the early hours of the morning still burned brilliantly, having been fanned higher with the approach of evening so that it flared up nearly as high as the walls surrounding the courtyard. The mellow smell of incense drifted on the breeze, mingling with the crisp scent of the flowers from which their garlands had been made, as Hardin and his companions seated themselves back against one of the walls as the other brethren were doing.

Several of those gathered at the edge of the fire's light had drums set before them, and once darkness had fallen, a single drum began to beat a slow rhythm. One by one, others joined in, adding their own rhythm and weaving the sound of the drums into a complex tapestry that Hardin almost could not believe was drums alone. Steady and smooth, it seemed to be pulsing in time with his own life, the beat of his heart... or was it merely that even his blood ached to join the song?

His attention was drawn away by a sudden motion, as Sydney entered the courtyard and came to stand so close before the fire that a stray breeze could have burned him. He stood there alone for a moment, regarding it with his usual distant gaze, then stepped back to give a deep and graceful bow towards the flames, his head lowered as if in respect. When he raised his head again, Hardin saw a strange, eager smile on his lips. Somewhere at the edge of the circle of light, a pair of flutes joined the drums, and Sydney began to dance.

If Sydney was merely fascinating at other times, Hardin realized, he was nothing short of mesmerizing when he danced. His mechanical arms did not hinder his grace in the least, and Hardin's suspicions that they were somehow enchanted deepened, as they moved in the same elegant way as the rest of the mage's body. His swaying to the beat of the drums was like the limbs of a slender tree blowing in a gentle wind, his face turned up to the heavens as if he were receiving a divine gift. Perhaps he was.

Others were joining Sydney, men and women, rising from their places around the fire to offer their gift of praise to the gods as well. Hardin was slightly surprised when Padric joined them, but for all his hardened warrior's body, he moved with remarkable grace, weaving in and out among the others in the elaborate pattern the dance dictated.

Circling each other, they clapped their hands and whirled on to face their next partner with a practiced precision, and yet there was an untamed, wild quality to it that Hardin had never seen in the dances of the courts. The beat of the drums was becoming faster, slowly but steadily, and the dancers' graceful movements kept pace. Each dancer slipped past the next as one without a care, as if the courtyard belonged to him or her alone, and still even the best of them looked clumsy next to Sydney's fluid motions. His up-turned eyes were seemingly fixed upon something far beyond the mortal realm as the dance grew ever wilder.

The drums pounded with urgency and excitement as the dance continued, and Sydney and his followers leapt and whirled at a frenetic pace. The mage's eyes closed in rapture, and still he moved amongst the other dancers flawlessly. Hardin found himself straining to not let the man out of his sight for a second as he danced beyond a taller man for an instant, or a tongue of flame from the fire at the center flared up between them. Sydney had said earlier that their dancing was a gift of praise to the gods, and it seemed that his followers were offering their all just as he was. And if that were so, it was no wonder that he was their high priest, for if there were gods, Hardin doubted they'd be able to take their eyes from him any more than he could.

After a time the drums' pace slowed again, and the melody of the flutes halted. The dancers slowed, and began to return to their places at the edge of the circle, but the drums continued their steady rhythm. Finally only Sydney was left standing before the fire on nearly the opposite side from Hardin, holding a length of pale silk in one gleaming hand. That eager smile remained on his lips, and his eyes glittered expectantly. Raising his arms above his head, crossing them casually at the wrists, he approached the fire, his slender waist swaying with each step, the silk fluttering about his shoulders.

So mesmerized was Hardin that at first he didn't notice anything strange about the lone woman who stood before Sydney, posed as he was with her arms raised and swaying hips; after all, her back was turned to him, and her hair pulled up, and he could not see her face. She wore very little, from what Hardin could tell through the flames, aside from myriad golden ornaments dangling from hair and hip. A tattoo covered most of her back in the same manner that Sydney's did, though the Rood she bore was not inverted as his, and a scarf of some thin fabric trailed from her fingertips as she twirled in the midst of the flames, an echo of Sydney's movements.

...In the midst of the flames?

Hardin blinked, but the woman was still there. The flames rose all around her, even within her, and Hardin fancied he could see Sydney's body right through hers, but she was there, mirroring Sydney's movements, and even managing to match his grace. Despite the heat of the blaze, Hardin's blood ran cold. Though the woman's back was turned to Hardin, he could see Sydney's face clearly, and his smile was that of a man greeting an old, beloved friend as the two danced to the drums' beat.

Sydney was dancing in a circle around the phantom woman, drawing the scarf through the air in an arc as he spun, the half-cape he wore flaring out behind him. Hardin watched, spellbound, as Sydney's light steps led him around the fire almost to where Hardin sat. He and the woman turned their backs to each other, but still remained perfectly synchronized as they wound their scarves around their wrists, raising their arms overhead again as they swayed in unison.

Sydney's eyes snapped up suddenly to meet Hardin's, holding him fast with their intensity. Still hips swayed and back arched; Sydney didn't miss a step as his eyes pierced into Hardin's soul, hard and sensual and inviting.

Hardin's mouth felt suddenly dry. Sydney was... beautiful. There was no other way to put it. Eyes burning with passion, lips parted seductively, perfectly poised and floating across the floor as though his feet didn't touch the ground... He was beautiful, and though Hardin's mind hadn't comprehended it until that moment, he found that it was almost a physical ache, the need to reach out and meet those lips, to touch the skin that glinted gold in the light of the fire...

...What was he thinking?

With a great effort, he was able to wrench his eyes away from Sydney's stare, and he searched for something else, anything else, to focus on. Every beat of the drums seemed to speak to his desire, and finally he gave up on dignity and simply closed his eyes, willing himself to ignore the flickering light, the throbbing rhythm of the drums, the soft rustle of fabric as Sydney danced only a few feet away.

It seemed like hours had passed before the drums ceased, and the murmurs and soft laughter of the other brethren joined the crackling of the fire. Daring to open his eyes again, he found that Sydney had gone, and the woman had vanished. Many of the brethren were standing before the fire, tossing the garlands of flowers they'd worn into the blaze, but Duncan still sat beside Hardin, peering curiously at him. "Be something wrong, Hardin?"

"No, not really," Hardin lied. "I just... wasn't expecting that. The woman in the fire," he amended quickly. Yes, that could do for an excuse.

Duncan looked startled. "Woman in the fire? You saw her?"

Hardin began to feel even more unsettled. "She was there... did you not see her?"

"I've ne'er seen her myself," said Duncan, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "An' I ne'er heard of her appearin' to anyone outside the brethren. Tis Müllenkamp herself, ye know."

"That was Müllenkamp?" A shiver ran down Hardin's spine, though he'd wondered as much himself. The spirit of an ancient priestess, thousands of years dead... "What does it mean?"

"Well, from what I hear, she only appears to those among the brethren that be needin' something. Faith or confidence or what have ye. She reveals herself to them as a promise, that the gods be knowin' what they need. But..." His voice trailed off.

"But she shouldn't appear to someone who hasn't touched the Dark," Hardin finished. "Much less someone who has no faith in the gods in the first place."

"P'rhaps she meant to give ye some," Duncan offered.

That thought didn't ease Hardin's mind in the least. "There are plenty in this world with as little faith as I, and more need for it. Why single me out?"

Duncan shook his head helplessly. "I be no oracle, Hardin. Ye'd do better to ask Sydney if ye get a chance."

Sydney... Hardin cringed inwardly from the thought of facing him after what had just happened. The second Sydney saw him, he would know... if he didn't already.

A large hand clapped his shoulder, and as edgy as he was, he flinched at the touch. "Or you can simply not worry about it," Padric suggested, sitting down beside him. "If the gods want to tell you something, they'll find a way to make themselves clear eventually."

Of course Padric would understand, Hardin remembered. Padric could read his thoughts, he knew what was going on, and understood that he couldn't talk to Sydney... Padric could read his thoughts, Hardin thought in disgust as something occurred to him. And here he was, sitting down next to him, touching his shoulder...

From the way Padric's eyes narrowed, Hardin knew he'd picked up on that thought at least, and he was suddenly furious. He couldn't even keep a simple thought to himself. "What happens now?" he asked flatly, standing up and turning his back to his two friends. Going to the fire, he took the wreaths Kirrienne and Sydney had given him from around his neck and tossed them into the blaze as the others had done. The smoke from the two wreaths mingled as the flowers and leaves withered, and Hardin found it strangely ironic. "Is the holiday over, or is there something more?"

"Ye just saw the ceremony," Duncan told him, apparently not noticing that anything was wrong, and actually grateful that the subject had changed to something he could explain. "What comes now is the celebration. We're likely a mite looser than the religious folk ye're used to, when it comes to celebratin'. No one minds if ye overdo the drink, nor if ye find one of the woman to be willing. Ye're free to do what ye like, more 'r less, so long as it hurts no one else."

"I could use a few drinks, I suppose." As for the other... Hardin didn't want to think about it. Perhaps it might help him to forget about... but no. Even if Kirrienne had been making a pass at him earlier, he barely knew her, and it would be a terrible thing to use a woman in such a way even if he had.

Some of the brethren were bringing in tables from the dining hall, and loading a few of them with food, as well as a generous amount of drink. A few drinks, or maybe more than a few, could calm Hardin down, and he decided that was all he needed, along with some time to think. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone for awhile."

"Fine by me," Duncan said with a shrug, and Padric nodded. The larger man still had a slight frown on his face, and Hardin felt a little guilty. Padric, if you can hear this, I'm sorry, he thought, concentrating on the words as he'd done with Sydney the night before their arrival. I didn't mean to accuse you of... anything.

Padric didn't change expression or indicate in any way that he'd heard, but Hardin could hear his voice within his mind. I understand; it must be difficult. Be true to yourself, though, Hardin - do what comes naturally, without fear of him... or of yourself. ...And nay, I won't say a word to Duncan. "Take care, Hardin."

"Yes, you too," Hardin nodded. Thank you.

Now we get into the real plot... ;) And yes, Müllenkamp has the Rood, not the Rood Inverse, which startled me when I first looked closely at the pictures of her. But that's a whole other fanfic to be written...
This chapter is a bit short, yes, but if it hadn't been, the next chapter (in which Hardin does something very, very foolish) would have been much shorter. ;)