Fan Fiction ❯ Burning Bridges ❯ Flames Rise in Her Eyes ( Chapter 10 )

The next days were difficult, for Hardin's grief had left him feeling raw, as if his skin had been stripped away. The smallest things could set him off, bringing a tear to his eyes or a sharp word to his throat, but he stifled those things as well as he could; he wanted no attention drawn to his vulnerability. After the first few times someone mentioned a young loved one they'd left behind, or expressed regret that Padric was not there to aid with some task, Hardin took to avoiding the brethren when at all possible, but often it was not.

Fortunately, Sydney protected him from the majority of those provocations. He'd taken Hardin under his wing while they continued their travels, teaching him in the ways of the gods as he had asked and subtly shooing the other brethren away when they might approach him with a potentially sensitive subject. They would never dream of invading their leader's privacy; this left Hardin effectively alone with Sydney for much of the time, and the mage's lecturing contained little that could be considered upsetting, though the tales he told were often unpleasant.

From the heretical mysteries uncovered by their Lady thousands of years ago and her subsequent gruesome death, to Sydney's own terrible visions of the world burning at the hands of a man turned demon, Hardin quickly became aware that the history of Müllenkamp was a disturbing one. Regardless, except for Sydney's prophecies, it was indeed history, and there was no point in being upset over things that had passed long ago.

And as for Sydney's gods themselves, those worshipped by the ancient peoples of Kiltia, the idea did not bother him so much anymore. Fate, prophecy - those things frightened him, but in Sydney's arms he had felt something far beyond Sydney himself, a deep feeling of comfort, understanding, and the most perfect love. Thinking about it even days later was still enough to make him catch his breath, wondering if it could have truly been as he remembered.

Since that time, though, Sydney's lessons had all been of the most mundane variety, impersonal and delivered with no warmth, even when he spoke of those deities who were characterized by their gentle caring and their love for mankind. Though Hardin found it a little disappointing, he was torn between yearning to feel more of what he'd felt before and guarding against it, lest he be overcome by his feelings again. Instruction and reasoning were things he could deal with, but he'd closed himself off to any depth of emotion for so long that he could not remember how to handle it.

The one upsetting thing about his lessons, in truth, was the way Sydney had become so detached. Hardin was incredibly grateful that Sydney had stopped him from making a complete fool of himself, but it troubled him that they'd been so close, even if only for a few moments, and now the mage was as cool and distant as in the days when he'd first instructed Hardin in the use of the new talent the Dark had granted him. Hardin was already confused enough as to what he was to Sydney without that reversion. They were not lovers, at least not yet - there were enough precedents that Hardin thought such a thing could someday come to pass, and he couldn't decide what he felt about that - but the kiss Sydney had instigated certainly had made them something more than mere friends. And yet Sydney now treated him more as a teacher might treat a pupil, never betraying a trace of himself in the words he chose, and that seemed like less than friendship to Hardin. They could not have it both ways, and Hardin wished irritably that Sydney would make up his mind. No matter which way he chose, it could not be worse than the indecision.

Hardin said nothing, however, due to both Sydney's emotional distance and the tightness Hardin saw in the mage's eyes, when his mind wandered from the lessons to simple contemplation of Sydney himself. Few others would have noticed, most likely, but the mage seemed preoccupied and worried, and this opinion was confirmed by what Hardin saw at night. Though Sydney had forbidden him from keeping the night watch as he'd done before, telling him to simply rest and give his soul the time it needed to heal, Hardin's talent had removed any need to physically seek Sydney out to watch over him. He tried to sleep as Sydney had bade him, but sometimes when he awoke in the middle of the night, his scrying revealed Sydney to be lying awake, staring up into the tops of the trees below which they had set up camp, looking troubled. At other times, he found the mage curled up on his side, his face turned down into his pillow to absorb the quiet tears he shed. Strangely enough, though he still removed himself from the midst of the brethren, he slept alone now. In a way, Hardin was glad - childish as it was, he'd have felt rather inadequate if Sydney had turned him down only to seek comfort in the embrace of his many consorts. Even so, it seemed that something should have been done to ease Sydney's pain. More than once his spiritual self knelt beside the mage, reaching out a phantom hand to offer reassurance in the form of a soft caress, only to recall that Sydney would not feel it.

It wasn't as if he didn't have reason to be upset, of course - Padric's death had shaken them all, and Sydney had said openly that he suspected the cardinal's men had more in store for them. There were many reasons a man in his position could be anxious, but Sydney denied his anxiety during the day, keeping it hidden within. It was his way, apparently, but it pained Hardin to see Sydney go without the comfort he himself had offered.

His inhibitions having been undermined by his turbulent emotions, Hardin finally spoke up one day, as Sydney was in the midst of one of his lectures.

"Though some would worship Djinn, Dao, Marid, and Ifrit as deities, that is not the truth of them; they are simply the most powerful of the elemental spirits, created as rulers and dispensers of the energy that has been given unto-"

"Why is it that you insist upon suffering all alone?"

Sydney looked up sharply, surprised at Hardin's quiet interruption, completely unrelated to the matter at hand, but he said nothing.

"You told me yourself that there is no shame in admitting weakness or need," Hardin continued, meeting Sydney's piercing gaze with the solemn determination only found in one who has stopped caring about the penalties. "Is it so difficult for you to say simply 'I am afraid', or 'I hurt'...? If I could do it, surely you could as well, for you are stronger than I."

Sydney regarded the larger man with slight curiosity for a moment longer, then spoke.

"Anyhow, though they are not deities, a magic-user must respect the elemental guardians - for from them flow the energies we weave, to harm or to heal..."

Hardin sighed in frustration as Sydney continued on with his lecture, ignoring his words completely. He hadn't expected Sydney to suddenly open up to him, of course, but he'd expected some kind of response, or at least acknowledgement.

But without regard for feelings or personal relations, life continued onward, and so did the brethren. Normally the journey from Leá Monde to the village of Fentegel, nestled among the hills in the rolling southern lands, would have taken six days for such a large group of travellers, but at Sydney's urging, they managed to draw within sight of the village late upon the fifth day. Or rather, they would have, if there had been more remaining of Fentegel to see.

Nothing greeted them upon their arrival but blackened stone, charred timber, and ashes lining the streets. The faint smell of smoke still lingered, and those among the brethren who were knowledgeable about such things agreed that it must have been only a few days ago that the village had burned to the ground. A quick mental scan of the area performed by Sydney told them that no one remained in the immediate vicinity, and it was safe to approach, to get a better look at what had happened.

Hardin, Kermiak, and a few of the others had experience in tracking, and turned up some interesting marks despite the tightly packed dirt of the streets leading into town. A little more investigation revealed clearer prints along the side of the road, and though weathered a bit, they were easily recognizable. "The king's men, or the cardinal's," Kermiak declared, upon examining a hoofprint. "There's little enough difference between the two, as it is. The way the shoe turns in so slightly there - that's the design of the king's blacksmiths." Hardin nodded, confirming Kermiak's appraisal; he knew that distinctive horseshoe pattern as well.

"Almost certainly the king's men, though," Branla added. The young woman did not know much about tracking, but she claimed she was trying to learn, and had been watching the activity with interest. "The cardinal wouldn't dirty the hands of his own men with such senseless violence - not when the king's men are so readily available to him."

That was something that had changed during Hardin's time in prison, apparently - or perhaps it had just been that as one of the king's men himself, he'd been blinded to the reality of the situation just as Father Lachus' men had been, for it seemed unlikely that such a drastic change should come about so quickly. Either way, the brethen's talk of the political situation told him disturbing things; the king was little more than a puppet, it seemed, with his strings being pulled by the cardinal. The parliament was divided over who should rule over them, whether the monarchy or the church, but their infighting was meaningless when one was essentially the same as the other. There were still some proponents of freedom of religion within their number, but one by one they were being silenced, some under mysterious circumstances, until only a few remained. Things did not bode well for Müllenkamp, nor for other religious groups scattered around the country, and though they may have had different theologies, the brethren and Sydney sympathized with those whose beliefs were considered unacceptable by the governing bodies.

Months ago, Hardin might have taken such talk as mere gossip and paranoia, but the more he thought about it, the more he recalled signs of just such a situation from when he had been in the PeaceGuard, though he'd never thought much on it at the time. It had been his business simply to follow orders, not to ask why - and he'd done things that in retrospect had been little better than this atrocity that had been laid out before his eyes. "So they torched the village," Hardin muttered. "And all because the people supported you?"

"There's no way to tell for certain," Kermiak admitted, "but it's the most likely scenario. What other reason would someone have for burning a quiet little village in the middle of nowhere?"

"No idea." Still kneeling by the prints, Hardin looked out over the scorched and blackened remnants of the buildings. Though Fentegel had not been a large village, it still stretched out further through the hills than was visible from the west edge of town. "How many lived here?"

"Two hundred, p'rhaps two hundred fifty," Duncan spoke up. He'd been uncommonly quiet ever since Padric's death, and was just beginning to come out of it a bit. "An' few of them truly believed in our gods - they just were willing to give us an honest day's work. It weren't as if they were burnin' witches as the cardinal loves to do."

"Gods..." Hardin's fist struck the ground in a gesture of impotent rage. Over two hundred men, women, and children had died for the crime of being tolerant. What was wrong with the world, that such a thing could happen?

"Some escaped, I believe," Kermiak called back to them. He'd wandered east along the outskirts of the village while Hardin was lost in thought, and now gestured for them to come take a look. "More prints, in the days following the fire, from the looks of it," he pointed out when they'd gotten closer. "Work boots and soft leather shoes, mostly, and some small. Definitely not the footprints of soldiers."

"The survivors are hiding in the forest to the south." Hardin and the others turned at the soft sound of Sydney's voice; none had heard the mage approach. "They must be weary by now, and hungry," Sydney continued. "Kermiak, Branla, go to Domenic and tell him to ready one of the horses. Load a generous supply of our remaining rations, and seek out these refugees to offer supplies and condolences. ...And if necessary, apologies. Take Henna with you - her talent will prove useful in determining their reaction before you approach." A risky wager, for Henna was a heartseer, the most sensitive of those remaining, but her frailty left her nearly helpless in a hostile situation. No doubt this task would have best been suited to Padric; his death had been a great loss on many levels.

Of course, there was a solution that would avoid Henna's necessity, and make the whole ordeal go quicker besides. "Why don't you go yourself, Sydney?" Hardin suggested.

An ironic smile twisted Sydney's lips, and he tugged the dark hood of his cloak up over his head as he turned away. "Somehow I think they might not be happy to see the one indirectly responsible for the deaths of their friends and families. It would be best to have a more neutral envoy, for the time being."

"Hmm." Hardin could see the reasoning behind that, as unfair as it was. But then, there was nothing fair about what had happened to the villagers, either. The whole damned world was unfair, really, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. But someone had to be able to do something.

Sydney had apparently told the rest of his followers to make camp for the evening, Hardin discovered when he and Duncan returned to where they had left the others, and Duncan immediately went to help with the labor, for it was growing dark. Hardin should have joined him, but once at the top of the hill, he turned to glance back at the ruined buildings. If not for his petty crimes, he realized, and his subsequent discharge and imprisonment, he might have been one of those dispatched to carry out these orders. He wouldn't have questioned it, of course - that was how life had been in the PeaceGuard. An order was an order, and one mark of a good officer was that he simply followed them without second-guessing; the commander always knew best. Whether the commander ordered them to bring about justice, meddle with matters of life and death, or to kill in cold blood - it did not matter.

He'd been such a sheep. The thought sickened him, and it was all the much worse to think that he'd probably never have noticed if he hadn't been driven to desperation by his brother's illness. But he had choices now, he reminded himself. He was sworn to no one anymore, and if anyone gave him orders, he had the option to refuse.

His heart troubled, Hardin glanced around the crest of the hills for Sydney - as much as the mage frustrated him, somehow his meticulous self-control helped Hardin to keep a tight grip on his own emotions - but the darkly cloaked figure was nowhere to be found.

There was Sydney to take orders from now, he thought idly, but that was different. He did as Sydney said not because he had to, but because he wanted to, because Sydney was... what? His friend? He couldn't be sure. Righteous? Sydney had his flaws, but Hardin also knew that as distant and cold as the mage could be, he was not heartless. Even if he did make mistakes at times, he was doing the best he could with the responsibility he'd been given - and if his prophecies of the end of the world were to be believed, he'd been entrusted with more responsibility than most men could carry without breaking. In that light, the burning of a village was only a small thing, but he was so important that even the smallest tragedies surrounding his life were massive to most ordinary people, like those who had lived in Fentegel.

Then again, remembering the state he'd found Sydney in the night before Padric had died, Hardin supposed that those smallest tragedies were massive to him as well - he simply hid himself so thoroughly that most people would never even suspect. And perhaps, Hardin realized, that was why he was not among his followers now.

A moment's concentration, and Hardin felt the vivid pulse of Sydney's spiritual rhythm, centered somewhere in the village below. Focusing in on it, he found the mage standing alone in the midst of town, staring up at the skeletal remains of what had once been a large wooden building, stark and burnt black against the pale red and gold of the sunset. His hood was still raised as Hardin's astral self stepped closer to get a better look at him, and only the straight, tense line of his mouth was visible in the waning daylight.

Yes, Sydney was definitely brooding. Hardin remained invisibly at his side for a bit longer, then let the viewing dissolve. From his place atop the hill, he could identify the structure Sydney had been standing before, and he set out towards it - this time physically. He really didn't know why he bothered to try, honestly, but he hated seeing Sydney this way.

The mage remained silent and unmoving as Hardin approached him, simply continuing to gaze up from within the shadows of his dark hood at the charred skeleton that the soldiers' rampage had left, though Hardin was certain that Sydney knew he was there. After a few moments, the larger man broke the silence. "I suppose you foretold this as well."

"Yes, long ago," Sydney replied simply. "I did not know it would happen so soon."

His face hidden behind the hood, there was no sign of distress apparent, and Hardin hesitated before speaking again. "I know this torments you," he said bluntly. "I know that you care for those who die unfairly. You need not keep this shield of yours raised all the time - there are those who would comfort you, if only you would let them."

Sydney's shoulders rose in a slight shrug beneath the dark cloak. "My comfort comes from the gods."

"Does it, Sydney? As familiar as they may be to you, you are a man. You are no god."

Sydney half turned to him, a small, tired smile touching his lips. "Not to you, no."

"Then why is it that you insist upon being as ethereal and untouchable to me as they are?" Hardin asked, frustrated. "Regardless of your power, and even your immortality, you are still flesh and blood - you feel, as much as you would deny it..."

His mind already on their conversations the day of Padric's death, Hardin found his thoughts drifting to those fleeting moments when he and Sydney had been in each other's arms, his mouth and his hands coaxing forth the most purely physical responses from the mage. Yes, Sydney definitely was flesh and blood, all too human behind that facade of his, and Hardin impulsively reached out to him to prove it, pushing back the hood that hid him to reveal the shining blond hair and deceptively delicate features. He flinched away, startled, but Hardin ignored Sydney's surprise as he tenderly took the mage's weary face between his palms, trapping him so that he could neither escape nor deny. "You're flesh and blood, Sydney," Hardin repeated firmly, looking deep into Sydney's widening eyes. "And I know it."

The dark, colorless eyes glittered suddenly, as if something were awakening behind them, and Hardin realized a moment too late that he'd trapped himself as well. Gods, the thoughts that were pounding in his head suddenly...

Sydney gave a light chuckle, breaking the mood as he averted his eyes. "You certainly do," he said softly, removing himself gently from Hardin's grasp. "Now stop that. This is neither the time nor the place."

Hardin sighed, dropping his hands to his sides once more. "No, of course not." His uneven emotional fits and starts were causing him to behave like an idiot again. "I apologize... I should have said nothing at all, I suppose." It wasn't as if he should actually care about Sydney, he thought with irritation. He had noticed a pattern to Sydney's behavior, and it was not unlike one of the mage's dances - he would approach, seeming to offer something deep, and then retreat before anything came of it.

"I need to leave the brethren for a time," Sydney said abruptly, jolting Hardin out of his thoughts.

The sudden change of topic caught him off guard, and it took a moment for the words to sink in. "Why?"

"This village was willing to support us, politically and materially," Sydney replied. "We have no normal means of income, as you know, and so we must work for our food... however, we obviously cannot work here. There are other villages not unlike this one, but many days journey away, and the cardinal's men likely have laid traps for us on every road in Valendia. Besides, if we are to support the survivors of this tragedy, we will not have enough rations remaining to reach any one of those villages - even if they haven't already been burned just as Fentegel was." He gave a slight sigh, bowing his head a bit. "I really should have thought it through more, but I did not believe they would move so quickly..."

His voice trailed off into thought, and Hardin shook his head firmly. "You already know more than any other man, and you do what you think is best. It isn't your fault that you did not know this."

A cynical smile curled Sydney's lips. "I know. However, it is my responsibility to protect and care for those who follow me, and now that we have no money and little food remaining..." He gave a light shrug. "I have little choice but to go to an old wealthy benefactor of ours, and request assistance. As much as it galls me that we should become a charity case, it is better than letting them starve."

"Ah." It made sense - showing up at the doorstep of some nobleman with a few dozen "heretics" in tow would not be a very wise thing to do, so of course Sydney must go alone. "So we shall secret ourselves somewhere until you return, then?"

Sydney shook his head. "Impossible. The remaining rations are not enough for everyone to live comfortably on, now that we have some refugees to support as well - even supplemented by what small game might be found in the area. And with the cardinal's men so zealously seeking us, remaining in a large group would simply make the brethren easy to spot; without my protection, I fear they would make easy prey. I intend to have everyone form smaller bands - three to four people together at most - and spread out among the smaller farming estates and villages nearby, seeking work if they can find it. If not, well..." He gave an ironic grin. "We have already been named rogues by the authorities, controlled as they are by the church; if we must steal to eat for a time, so be it. Given the choice between petty thievery and going hungry, there is little else we can do. Once I have spoken to our benefactor, I can find the scattered brethren again with ease, if they return to this area - I have a bond with all those who have sworn fealty to the Dark."

Hardin thought it over. "It seems a rather precarious plan," he commented. "Or is there something else to it that you have not told me?"

"No, you are right," Sydney admitted. "But we must move quickly, and our options are limited... it is the best I can come up with for now. Unless you have a better plan?"

Unfortunately for both of them, he did not, and he shook his head. "So then... how long will you be apart from us?"

"The business itself should not take long," Sydney replied. "No more than two or three days, I expect - but I will need to go nearly all the way back to Leá Monde. Travelling on my own is much faster than with the brethren, so perhaps twelve days, fifteen at the most. They should be able to avoid the templars by themselves for that long, if they are scattered."

The mage looked oddly anxious despite his words, and Hardin wished there was something he could do to help - even if not for Sydney's sake, then for the sake of his friends among the brethren, who had suffered so much already. "I'll do what I can to protect those who are with me, at least," he assured Sydney. "And if there is something more I can do..."

"Actually, Hardin," Sydney interjected quietly, "...I was hoping you might be persuaded to come with me."

"With you?" The suggestion somewhat startled Hardin, for he could think of no logical reasoning behind it. For all his slight build, Sydney could move as quickly as any among the brethren, and Hardin suspected he would only slow Sydney down on his journey. "Why?"

Sydney paused before answering. "Nothing overly difficult," he said at last. "I think that I may have need of you."

Hardin found the statement to be absurd - Sydney needed no protection, nor someone to watch by night, and Sydney alone was the one who should negotiate with this benefactor of his. Hardin had nothing to offer on such an excursion... unless Sydney knew something he had not told him. "Did you foresee something?" Hardin asked hesitantly.

Sydney shook his head, smiling. "You think too much, Hardin. I may be an oracle, but as you pointed out only a short time ago, I am still a man."

Hardin didn't understand exactly, but somehow the words touched him deeply. "Then I shall go with you," he agreed. "Whatever pleases you."

"I'm glad." Sydney's grateful smile seemed sincere enough, and for a moment Hardin thought the mage might actually show some kind of affection in the form of an embrace or perhaps even another kiss, from the way he leaned forward ever so slightly. The movement turned into a small shrug, though, and Sydney glanced off to the west, to the sun slipping below the horizon beyond the hills and heaps of charred timber. "Be sure to sleep well tonight, Hardin, for we must make haste. We'll leave at dawn and continue on into the night, for the cardinal's men will not be so likely to prowl after the sun goes down; that is when we will make the best time."

It was only later, when Hardin was readying for bed, that he realized Sydney once again had not addressed his concern. Between his own heated emotions and Sydney's sudden change of subject, the original reason he'd gone to talk with the mage had been forgotten. Ah well - if their journey was to last for a dozen days, and only a few of those spent with whoever Sydney's benefactor was, they would have plenty of time alone. Perhaps Sydney would be more likely to speak honestly if it were only the two of them.

Not that he wanted to pester the mage, he reminded himself firmly. He really shouldn't speak of the matter again - he probably shouldn't have said anything in the first place. If Sydney found his comfort in the gods rather than among mortal men, then that was his business.

It wouldn't have bothered Hardin at all, if he'd actually believed that Sydney was getting the comfort he needed. From the subtle tension in his face by day to his solitary tears at night, Hardin wasn't convinced at all.

Regardless of Sydney's advice, Hardin did not sleep as well as he would have hoped to, faced with a swift journey the following day. The residual smell of smoke from the nearby village reached his nose even in his sleep, tinging his already troubled dreams with the yellows and oranges of flame. Again he was in the small stone chamber behind the iron bars, slouching against the far wall with his arms wrapped around his knees. Deep within his own idle fantasies of escape and freedom, no longer entirely conscious of the ever-present cursing and clatter. Day and night meant nothing in prison, except that it determined which of the guards would be on duty - whether you would be ignored or abused for daring to speak to them, which was pointless anyway. With nothing else to occupy his time except anger and helpless concern for his brother, Hardin spent the majority of his time like this - daydreaming, half dozing, and slipping off into the oblivion of sleep whenever he could. It passed the time, and time was not something he wanted to remain aware of.

This day, however, something was unusual enough that he was gradually pulled back to his dismal reality. It took him a moment before he recognized the smell of smoke - not the vague, greasy smoke given off by the oiled torches set in the walls outside his cell, but the sharp, dusty scent of wood smoke. The realization jolted him fully awake, and his head jerked up to see that the dull stone of his cell was faintly reflecting a flickering light.

Though the prison was constructed of stone and metal for the most part, there were wooden support beams throughout the dungeon, running across the ceiling and up the walls outside the cells, and Hardin looked out through the bars to see that many of them had already been caught up in a great blaze. The others were catching quickly, raising the temperature so that it was nearly unbearable and filling the cells with smoke. The panicked cries of the other prisoners were drowned out in the crackling of the flames and the occasional crash as one of the support beams fell, taking a portion of the ceiling with it.

Coughing, Hardin covered his mouth and nose with his shirt, trying to filter out the smoke as well as he could. Certainly the guards would do something - the gods only knew how many people would die if they did not evacuate the prison immediately! Even if they were all felons, they did not deserve to suffocate and burn...

A futile thought, he realized, his heart sinking. To the guards, the men imprisoned here were no longer human beings, but creatures which could live or die with little consequence. They'd probably gotten out as soon as the blaze became unmanageable, and they were unlikely to return. All Hardin could do was flatten himself on the floor, trying to get below the thickest of the smoke, and pray that someone would come, or that the fire burned itself out before he and the others in the cells were overcome by smoke or roasted alive.

"Elabrin ti vamota, ext tarin eckra ti radiniata Tamulis-"

The strange words left Hardin's lips before he even realized he was murmuring them, and he suddenly stopped short. Where had that come from? He didn't even know what the words meant, though they had the sound of the brethren's chants, which he now knew were in a dialect of ancient Kildean - and he certainly could not speak that tongue!

Not that he had much time remaining to dwell on it; the dungeon he was held in was below ground, airtight except for the one narrow doorway which led to the upper levels of the prison, and with noplace to escape to, the smoke was growing thicker. Another support beam crashed to the floor just outside the iron bars, and the bricks and mortar it had kept in place fell as well, filling the already saturated air with dust. Gasping for breath and getting nothing for his trouble but lungs full of ash and smothering heat, Hardin closed his watering eyes, simply giving in to what was now inevitable. A solid wall of flame now danced just outside his cell; even if someone had come to the prisoners' aid, they could not reach his door to open it.

Even over the roaring of the fire and the crashing of more support beams, the faint jingling noise was perfectly audible, and Hardin half-heartedly opened his eyes to see what the unfamiliar noise might have been. They widened despite the abrasive dust and smoke that stung so painfully, when he saw the slender figure standing before him.

Sleek and smooth, her skin was as golden in the light of the flames as her many ornaments, the curves of her body not quite hidden by the translucent silks she wore. They swirled about her as she knelt gracefully before him, placing a single ringed finger under his chin to draw his face up to look at her. The firelight was reflected in her russet hair and in her dark green eyes as she spoke.

"Vyldar, palidas."

The words meant nothing to him, but her meaning was made clear through the motion of her hands. As she commanded, Hardin rose to his knees before her; he recognized the woman now. Standing again, she turned her back on him, setting the ornaments at her waist in motion, and the jingling sounds filled the air, drowning out the sounds of the fire. The red Rood on her back rippled in the heat, and the iron bars of the cell dissolved into nothingness at her touch. Heedless of the flames flaring up before her, she glanced back at Hardin with a coy smile, gesturing for him to follow as she walked forward through the fire and vanished.

Somehow, Hardin now found that it was not so hard to breathe as it had been, though the smoke still billowed and the heat still nearly overwhelmed him. He took a moment to pause, to stare after the woman in shock. Priestess or not, she was mad - he could not walk through a wall of solid flame!

The fire flared up before him as the blaze touched a fallen torch that had not yet been lit, and he backed away from the burst of heat. Expecting to feel the far wall of the cell behind him, he was startled when his back pressed against something much softer - something that jingled as he jostled it - and slender arms encircled with golden armlets reached forward to surround him.

So then, you wish to remain here forever? Her words were not truly words, but ideas formed only within his mind, and yet they were tinged with cool laughter.

To suffocate helplessly or to burn by his own choice - those were his only options?

Having been surrounded by golden metal and golden flame only moments ago, the sudden darkness startled him as his eyes flew open. Hardin let out a deep breath, relaxing as the nightmare revealed itself. All was peaceful on the hillside despite the faint smell of smoke and soft crackling of the campfire off to his right, perfectly harmless despite their terrible influences on his dream. With a sigh, Hardin began to roll onto his side, hoping he would be able to get to sleep again quickly - but his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the campfire.

She was standing in the midst of it, the flames licking up around her translucent form. Over her shoulder, she gave Hardin another of the coy smiles, then whirled about playfully amidst the chiming of her golden ornaments.

Hardin bolted upright beneath his blankets, gasping for breath. He turned his face hesitantly to examine the campfire, but this time he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Even so, he stared intently at it for a time before letting himself relax, assuring himself that Sydney's tale of the woman and her disturbing manner of death had captivated his imagination - that was all.

But then, he had seen her shade just like that once before, during the ceremony at Leá Monde, and he was certain that he had not been dreaming then. The transition from dream to waking this time had been imperceptible, no more than a blink of his eyes... could he be certain that he'd still been asleep at all?

You fool... even if it was no dream, it's not as if she's a demon, Hardin reminded himself irritably. She was a woman. A powerful one - even more powerful than Sydney, most likely - but she was not a monster and she was not evil. She would certainly not harm anyone here, among those who honor her name.

Lying back down to sleep, Hardin nevertheless was unable to close his eyes, keeping them watchfully on the fire for many hours. The flames continued to dance before him, but the Lady did not join them.