Paths of Green and Gold

Bodyguard - hell

They walked in silence.

Thorn was lost in his suffering, each step an enormous effort.    He felt as if there was a thin shimmering barrier of intimate torture separating him from his surroundings; as if his current battle made him indifferent to the world; as if it created an invisible border, inside which only his demons existed to torture him. He didn't expect the trial to be so hard to bear. He felt as if his body refused to live anymore. He couldn't hold any food in his stomach, his heartbeat was uneven, his breath shallow, his painfully strained muscles would suddenly go limp making him stumble or fall to the ground. He felt as if his constantly assaulted willpower was the last thing holding his world and his body together; the only weapon he had left to fight with himself.

["Blood will wash away the lies..."]  

After climbing yet another hill, he finally saw Thoris. Compared to metropolises he visited during his travels, it wasn't much – just a provincial town surrounded with massive defense walls, which made it look more like a citadel on the border between two hostile empires than a village in the middle of nowhere. 

His eyes became foggy again. The air vibrating with midday heat and the exhaustion of the never-ending fight allowed him to only see shaky contours. The road leading to the city coiled and twisted like a massive snake as if trying to match the shaky vision of Thoris. Forests and fields were half-liquid surfaces exploding with blinding colors.

He could hear his uneven shallow breath, and the deafening beat of his heart drumming in his temples, tearing the ribs from the inside, making his limbs pulsate with its rhythm. He could hear the furious hissing of the tract and the rattle of the stone scales sliding over the dry land. The restless howling of the wind mixed with the shrill screams of the creatures hiding in the shadows of his mind. 

His shirt soaked with cold sweat, rucksack straps were painfully cutting into his skin like jagged blades.

The vision of the city dancing in the air shimmering with the heat was swelling, the towers stretching their long necks to pierce the sky. The soldiers patrolling the pulsating walls looked like vermin ready to protect its nest from the approaching threat, to spill onto the fields thirsty for blood.

The ground under his feet turned dark red and the color started flooding onto the fields around as if the earth itself was bleeding. The blood was flowing over the grass, dripping from the trees, drowning the sand and stones of the road. The strong metallic smell of a fresh wound alarmed the tormented warrior. His hand instinctively reached over his shoulder and gripped the familiar shape - the hilt of the great sword which dominated his life.

+++ 

[The two fierce-looking warriors didn't even glance at his shocked mother who opened the door for them. They went straight to him, a thin 12 year old boy with a bruised face. 

"You're coming with us," one of them said grimly. His voice had the immutability of thunder splitting a young tree in half. "There is no time."

The boy tried to hide the fear that gripped his heart trapping the voice in his throat. He nodded and obediently walked to the door, looking straight ahead. 

The warriors led him out of the settlement. Everyone was getting out of their way, trying not to look at their tattooed faces.

He knew the narrow path winding between the oak trees. He knew where it led to - the forbidden place - the camp of the Swords of Caeth.

The path ended with a clearing. A few huts hidden under the trees were lining its edges, and a group of tattooed sword-masters similar to the boy's two guardians stood in the middle talking quietly. When the two warriors approached with the boy, the others fell silent and moved aside clearing the way to the biggest hut. One of the warriors pushed the boy inside.  

When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a figure lying on the bed. He took a few steps forward. His grandfather was observing him intently. The elven warrior's body still looked young and strong but was covered in fresh wounds. The metallic smell filled the air. The boy forced himself to come to the bedside and fixed his eyes on his ancestor's tattooed face. He didn’t want to see all the blood. He fell to his knees, unable to stop the tears that filled his eyes. The lying warrior smiled as if there was nothing alarming in the situation.

"You made it..." he said lightly as if talking about dinner, but his voice was weak.

He gestured towards the great sword at the foot of the bed.

"It's yours... Don't... disgrace it..." Each word cost him a lot of effort. 

The boy wanted to answer, but his throat refused to obey him. He could barely see through the tears. The man looked at him questioningly as if judging if he made the right decision.

"May Caeth... lead you..." the warrior smiled weakly once more and life left his eyes. The boy knelt motionless, tears silently streaming down his face. He respectfully closed his teacher's eyes. 

The long two-handed sword fascinated and scared him. For a long while, he stared at it. Why did grandfather entrust him the blade he used all his life? 

Finally, he wiped the tears away with a sleeve. He picked up the weapon that was almost as tall as him. The words "My blood for Caeth. My life for Caeth." were carved on the crossguard in beautiful elven calligraphy.

He turned around. His ancestor's body looked so peaceful despite the numerous wounds. His grandfather wasn't afraid of death - he welcomed it. 

He bowed deeply, paying the last homage to the dead warrior, and went outside. The sun was hanging low on the horizon and the forest clearing was already dark, long shadows hiding the battle masters sitting in a circle in front of the hut. He stopped and bowed.

"Thank you." His voice sounded hollow in the silence.

Some warriors nodded, but most didn't acknowledge his presence in any way. The boy knew that he could never be one of them. ]

 +++ 

Thorn looked around still gripping the sword hilt. He vaguely realized that the only threat, the only opponent within reach, was himself, but the smell of blood tantalized his senses. He turned around trying to find his companion. A mane of beautiful red hair flashed before his eyes, but the image melted in a pool of blood. His cousin stood in front of him. He shakily took a step back.

"Aethen..." he whispered, falling to his knees. 

Hypnotized he stared at Selena - at her eyes shining with yellow fire, at a bloody halo surrounding her raven black hair. He shook his head.

No... That was not possible.

He had no strength left to continue walking. Looking at his hands he saw streams of blood dripping between his fingers.

["Blood washes away the lies..."]

The smell was making him sick. He had to get to the city. But should he go to a place where his imaginary enemies could really bleed?

["Blood washes away the pain...."]

A dagger appeared in his hand.

["Blood..."]

It couldn't end like this.

[My Lady, let me be worthy… let me keep serving you....]

The blade fell from his hand disappearing in the pool of blood he knelt in. He gripped his temples and hunched over trying to shield himself from another assault of agony. It felt like the pain would never go away. After what seemed like hours he raised his head and looked at Selena. He wasn't sure what he was seeing anymore.

"I... have to... rest."  Did he really say these words? His voice was drowned in the stormy sea of moans and whispers.   

Selena sank to her knees in front of her cousin. Thorn was white like the surface of the moon. His body was shivering as if overcome by fever. His pale lips kept moving - muttering some words, which were not meant for her. His eyes were looking right through her. What was he seeing? Did he know where he was and what was happening to him? What should she do? Stay here with him and wait through the worst? Or, fearing the worst, run to the town and get help?

"I'll go to Master Vardalien," she said decidedly hoping he would understand her words. "Nobody else could help us around here anyway. I have to leave you for a while. I will be back as soon as I can. Please wait here..." Her voice was calm but determined. 

Thorn looked at her and nodded slowly. He was barely conscious. Cold beads of sweat dripped from his face onto the soaked shirt. His eyes shone with a reflection of the hellish fire raging in his mind.

"I'll be back soon, cousin,” she added. "Please, hold on..."

He was trying to focus his gaze on the silhouette melting in the hot air. The black braid coiled like a snake when Selena turned towards the ghostly city and started running.

With a shaky hand, he wiped the sweat from his face, but it did nothing to erase the bloody halo surrounding his cousin. The blood seemed to pulsate in the rhythm of her steps, sometimes turning bright red and sometimes darkening to almost black. It caressed her skin like an expensive fabric, shimmering with every movement. Running through the long blades of grass, Selena was like an arrow - leaving a bloody trail behind her, as her body changed as if to accommodate the speed. Suddenly the bloody aura around the girl exploded with a blinding light. When his vision returned, all he could see was a wild animal running towards the city, its dark fur dripping with blood.

He closed his eyes, terrified by the sensations. How long was this going on? Weeks? Months? When would this fight be over? The ground around him kept morphing, slithering and pulsating trying to take on a new form. Reality? Or mirage? The blood washed over his skin, and the icy cold earth was forcing him to get up. Was there a solution somewhere in this hell? A gate to salvation? Or damnation? Would he have enough strength to find it?

[Please, wait here...]

She said she would come back. As soon as she could.

[...However, if you wanted to, you could surely find me...]

Did She know he would search for Her? Did She want him to find Her?

[Please, hold on...]

The shivering of his muscles made the whole world tremor. Or maybe the convulsive spasms of the land made his body shiver, trying to deprive him of whatever will to fight he had left?  

The sticky substance covering his clothes and skin nauseated him. The cold freezing his bones took away his energy. The sounds he couldn't stop hearing drowned the remaining memories, tore him away from his roots, suffocated the voices he strove to remember.   

["The thud of a falling body, a scream of despair, the blade scraping a bone – this is what you are made for. Don't be fooled. You cannot run away. Be yourself."]

A forest of hands grew from the ocean of blood around him. The fingers wrung in agony were desperately cutting the air trying to catch the world in their murderous grasp. 

["Blood washes away the lies..."]

There was nothing real anymore. Just ghosts and demons everywhere... He looked at the coiling monster that was the road. Its green scales shone golden in the midday sun.

[May your paths always be green and golden...]

Laughter.

The ocean of blood turned into an abandoned battlefield. Scattered corpses covered the meadows and fields. The earth was now muddy from the bloodshed. The suffocating stench of death filled his nostrils.

[”Death... death brings salvation... blood washes away the lies..."]

He recognized the faces of the people who died by his blade. There were hundreds, maybe even thousands of them - frozen in agony, marked by decay, covered in dried blood.

Suddenly the dead bodies started getting up. Their movements were slow and clumsy, but they had a finality about them - they couldn't be stopped. Not minding rotten flesh falling off or their comrades who didn't manage to stand up yet, the decaying army moved towards the warrior, stomping every obstacle into the ground. The echo of uneven steps made the world shiver again.

["Death... death... death..."]

Thorn gripped the hilt of the two-handed sword tighter. It was his last link with reality. The army created by his tormented mind surrounded him, getting closer and closer. He couldn't see anything except the disfigured decaying faces. The suffocating stench of death made him fight for every breath.

[My sword for Aethen, my blood for Aethen, my life for Aethen]

He blinked. His grandfather's face was looking at him sternly.

["Discipline and self-control are your real weapons. The sword in your hand is nothing without them."]

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, trying to focus on breathing.

["Death brings salvation..."]

Seductive voices in his head still whispered their sweet promises, but it didn't work anymore. Whatever was supposed to happen, death would mean surrender, and there was no place for that in the warrior's code.

[What if this hell never ends?]

["Death... Salvation... Death..."]  

[I have to find Her...]  

Suddenly he realized the voices and sounds were no more. Silence. The air was even colder than before. It smelled of old stones and dust. He slowly raised his head and opened his eyes. He saw stone walls glowing blood-red. The ceiling was hidden in darkness. There was no exit anywhere in sight.

He felt a gentle touch and saw a scorpion walking up his arm.

What he mistook for silence before was the soft rustling of millions of limbs. He looked down at the stone floor. It was moving. Thousands of black scorpions shining in the red glow of the walls were trying to get closer to him. 

Thorn gathered the last thin threads of his willpower and wrapped them tightly around his body, forcing it to stay still. He didn't know where he was, and there was no way out. Scorpion was one of the symbols of his Goddess. He shouldn't kill these creatures. Not here. Not now. 

More and more of them were climbing up his legs, but he just clenched his teeth and focused on subduing every natural reaction. He didn't move. Cold sweat was dripping down his neck.

Laughter. 

Only a being that didn't understand the idea of happiness could laugh like that.

["It's not your time yet. Go back."] The rustling voice in his head sounded very similar to the sound of the moving scorpions. The walls dripped with blood. He felt a sting on his neck.

Darkness embraced him.

Steps on the grass. Strong hands lifting the tortured body. The smell of a horse.

He couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't move. He was falling into a never-ending well, its walls made of pure darkness. He couldn't see any light. He couldn't see the end.

Brightness subdued by shadows. Heavy eyelids. A cacophony of voices. A mixture of nauseating smells. 

Waves of heat. A new face of hell. The torture took on new shapes. The lack of strength to move and the lack of sight was only the beginning. The assault on his other senses intensified adding to the torment. When the darkness took hold of him, he hoped that was it - that the agony would end. However, his consciousness kept coming back for more, as if it was still hungry for suffering.

The cold of the stone. Hushed voices. The touch of thin fingers on his skin. Or maybe scorpion's limbs? A wet touch.

Darkness.