The Blood Road

I - The Bitter Taste of Life-2

“Out of selfishness,” Adara said bitterly, though she knew it was false.

“No, Adara. Out of love and a belief in something greater. And that something has turned to ash all about him. He fell harder than any man has…and he needs you to help him rise again.”

Briana walked away, back to her husband and child, to the light of life that pulsed in the Isle of the Blessed, leaving Adara alone again.

For some time, Adara stared up at the Tor to where Lucius stood gazing out at the world, wrestling with his own darkness.

Gods…do not forsake us again, she demanded now. We have put our faith in you, and lost so much. Do not repay it with silence.

I died… This was my choice…my choice…

As he stood beneath the sky at the top of the Tor of Ynis Wytrin, Lucius Metellus Anguis’ arm reached out slowly from beneath his long black cloak and the loose sleeve of his tunic. He held it up, and observed the molten hand and arm, and he did not recognize it.

Most men would recognize their hands, every scar, every oddly-shaped knuckle, every path that criss-crossed the palm. But Lucius Metellus Anguis, the one-time ‘Dragon of Rome’, now felt like a stranger to himself, a misshapen horror who no longer recognized his own hands.

Frustrated and feeling the anger rise again, he lowered his arm and closed his eyes, trying to remember how he had once felt, to feel the kiss of the wind upon his skin, rustling his hair. It was not to be. He felt only the tight pull of his body, his mottled, drum-tight skin, the pain in his muscles, and the spotted vision in his eyes.

“Apollo…Father…why didn’t you tell me?” Lucius found himself whispering.

I did, my son. I did. You chose this pain…

The god’s response was cut off, as if the memory of that moment on far-off Olympus was too painful, the moment when Lucius had rejected his place among the immortals, opting for unimaginable pain.

And it had been unimaginable…a pain like no other.

Lucius remembered more and more as he emerged from the months and months of horrific semi-consciousness in which he had been harassed by dreams of fire and of death. He had wandered alone through the dark wood of his psyche, lost, angry and shouting. Then, one day a few weeks ago, his eyes had opened wide to see worried and scared faces hovering above him in a dark, candlelit room in the healing house.

Etain, the priestess of Ynis Wytrin was the first person he saw and heard speaking, but she had not been speaking to him. Her voice reached to somewhere farther afield.

Lucius remembered his newly-opened eyes swimming in the fire-lit dark, seeing the druid, Weylyn, mixing something as he looked down at Lucius’ body. There had been a tang of vinegar and resin in the air, a scent that followed Lucius around still, in addition to another mixture of wine and myrrh.

“Welcome back to us, Lucius Metellus Anguis,” Etain’s soft voice said as she had looked down at him, her eyes meeting his. “You are alive and with us, but you cannot move, or go outside. Not yet.”

Lucius’ eyes had sought the sunlight at the window, but it burned him, adding to the pain that laced his body.

“Drink this, Anguis…” Weylyn had said, putting a cup to Lucius’ lips. “It will help with the pain.”

In truth, nothing had helped with the pain since the moment Lucius had tumbled from the heights of Olympus and emerged from the blood-red waters of the Well of the Chalice, gasping and screaming in agony, his mind exploding in confusion as he looked up to see the familiar faces of men, women, and weeping children.

He remembered little of the months of standing at Death’s gates, little of the bitter and resinous skin salves the priestesses had spread daily over his burned body. He did remember, however, the short visits by Father Gilmore and his two charges, Rachel and Aaron. Lucius had not seen his own family for so long, his wife and children, but the faces of those two dark youths were clear and radiant to him in moments of darkness. Their faces lingered over his as they prayed with words he did not understand, as they laid their soft, healing hands upon his brow, his heart, and his eyes.

Those had been moments of relief, a light to pull him back from the dark depths he felt himself plunging toward.

Those moments still confused him.

The faces he had wanted to see were Adara’s, Phoebus and Calliope’s. Lucius had not known that Etain and Weylyn insisted it was crucial that the number of people who visited Lucius was limited to prevent infection, and so the days and long months had turned into a sort of waking coma from which he had emerged only a short time ago.

Now that Lucius was awake and finally able to move, he felt his anger more acutely. He knew that his self-pity, and self-loathing was unfair to all those around him, but he could not stop himself. It was easier to lock oneself in the dark, to be alone upon that windswept hill where he wandered painfully every day since he had regained movement in his limbs.

As he lay upon his back staring up at the sky and ravens soaring in the wind, he felt horror at the shocked look upon his children’s faces when they had seen him, or Adara’s quiet, grief-stricken gaze when she had told him their child was lost.

Daily, Lucius thought on that loss, remembered the faces of the dead - his men scattered to the winds, hunted…Barta…the child he would never know…

He thought bitterly of his own hubris that had brought them all to that place and time, that life of pain.

He thought of Apollo, his true father, and chewed on the resentment of his own godhood which had not allowed him to stop all that had happened. Lucius decided that he deserved all of the pain that was a part of him now, for all that he had done to his friends, and to his wife and children.

So many have been trying to help me… I don’t want it, he would tell himself. I don’t deserve it. “I need to make things right again. I want my life back!”

Only days before, he had sat with Adara beneath the oak, in an effort to comfort her, and it had only caused further pain for them both.

Adara looked at him differently now, and in those once-brilliant and loving eyes, Lucius saw only disappointment and loss, and it was caused by him.

For so long, he had wanted to tell her the truth he had learned in Dumnonia, in the realm of Annwn, but he had not been able to. However, beneath the leaves of Ynis Wytrin’s oak, he had finally told his wife, his true love, who he was.

She had stared at him in that moment, and wept. She had accused the Gods of toying with them, Lucius of lying to her. She would not hear his pleas, his explanations, the confession of the painful weight that knowledge had heaped upon his shoulders.

Neither of them had been able to reach each other through the flames of the fire that had burned their lives down.

They had not spoken since.

So, every day, Lucius Metellus Anguis made his way to the top of the Tor, alone, his mind searching for a way to win his life back, to make the pain stop.

From the valley below, Etain, Weylyn, and Father Gilmore watched the Dragon descend the spine of the Tor, alone, a shadow in Elysium.

“He cannot stay here,” Father Gilmore said.

“He must stay here,” Weylyn countered, rubbing his white beard. “He has much healing to do still.”

“You cannot chain a dragon,” Etain said, stepping forward to watch Lucius more keenly. She had suspected the truth they now knew for some time, though it had been hidden from her sight. “I feel that he is not yet ready, that something stands in his way.”

Weylyn stepped to her side.

“His inner physical healing has been…miraculous,” Father Gilmore said, shaking his head. “He seems ready, Etain. Our ministrations have healed him, and kept infection at bay. The Metelli can go home now.”

Etain turned on her long-time friend, disappointment in her eyes. “I was not speaking of his physical being,” she began to walk toward the apple orchard where white petals were tumbling gently to the grass beneath. “Lucius Metellus Anguis is the son of a god…he is a dragon…” she sighed, “…and both of those carry a weight we cannot imagine.”

“I disagree,” Gilmore said. “All of us carry a weight.” He stopped to look to where Rachel and Aaron played with the Roman children. Ever since they had come here in dire need, the four of them had grown too close for his liking, developing a bond that made him uncomfortable. He knew his charges had played a key role in healing the Dragon and his family - they still did - but that came with repercussions. Rachel and Aaron had to be his priority. They were his duty, and they needed the proper guidance. He felt Etain’s hand upon his shoulder.

“Do not let your worries for the children close your heart to kindness, my friend,” Etain said. “Did not the Christus have a world of worries upon his shoulders and yet seek to help others, to love?”

Father Gilmore was silent, looking down at the grass like a child who knows they have done wrong.

“You are right, I know. I just feel that this will all come to no good.”

“This land needs them, Gilmore,” Weylyn reminded him. “Etain has said it for some time. It is our duty to help them, for in helping them, we help this land, we help Ynis Wytrin, and we help Rachel and Aaron.”

“They did not shy from the horrors of what they saw when the Metelli arrived here, their bodies, home and lives consumed by fire. God urged them to help, as did our gods. We must trust in that,” Etain said to Gilmore.

Weylyn was quiet, watching for Lucius who had disappeared in the darkness of the trees at the foot of the Tor.

Be strong, Dragon…we need you.

When Lucius reached the bottom of the Tor, he found Adara standing in the middle of the shaded path, waiting for him. He pulled his cowl lower over his face so as to hide it.

“Don’t do that,” Adara said, and she reached up to gently lift back the wool. She tried not to weep as she looked upon him. His hair was thin like a newborn child’s, only just recently beginning to grow back. His once-smooth skin was now scale-like and mottled, constantly glistening from the resins and oils the priestesses put on him.

She was afraid to hold Lucius, to squeeze him as tightly as she wanted, for fear of damaging the muscle and bone that had once been as iron beneath his skin, but were now brittle and emaciated.

It was Lucius’ eyes, however, that filled Adara with fear, for she could not see the man she loved in those eyes, she could not see him past the bitterness and resentment and angry emotions.

“I wish you had told me, Lucius…everything…before…before all of this.”

“I wanted to…I…” He closed his jaundiced eyes and felt the shame coming upon him again, fought the urge to hide away from the world.

“Come,” she said, taking his hand in hers.

Together, they walked along the avenue of yew trees until they reached the Well of the Chalice.

The familiar gurgle of the healing pool filled Lucius’ ears as they sought the bench beside the pool and sat together.