Sitting on the steps of Connemara, sipping from a cup of strong coffee, the night’s shadows had gathered closely; and within the darkness that lie at the edge of light cast by the lanterns, Aedon could make out the forms of small creatures on the move hunting for food. There was little to break the absolute silence other than the distant howl of a wolf, and the gentle chirps of hoppers along the side of the building.
Within his house, Izzy slept rather fitfully. This was, indeed, the third consecutive night which found her tossing from side to side, and mumbling softly. He had thought to awaken her, but figured even fitful rest was better than no rest at all. Perhaps this logic would be proven wrong when she awoke, but for now, it was what he had settled on.
For himself, Aedon had found sleep elusive the past few nights. The incident at the Governors meeting had proven more disturbing to him than he would have thought. After all, Aedon was no stranger to battles, tournaments and outright attacks. But in this instance, he was left unsure as to which of the paths before him he would take. Alyssia was a dear friend, and he thought that the attack on her, by John, was wrong, and that there should have to be some reckoning. He knew well the reports of attacks on members of the group she was now leading, and knowing Aly well, was not at all surprised at her words towards John. She had always protected those she cared for with the ferocity of a wolf. John on the other had was a person he had come to care for as a friend. He was quirky, stuffy, and self-righteous, but he had always seemed to stand in for those truly in need of aid. There was something oddly wistful about the seasoned warrior tilting at windmills, all the while in search of goodness and purity.
What was the dis-connection, the flash point between these two?
It had seemed that they had hit it off following Aly’s return to Yew. They had many old memories in common, and though she could easily drink him under the table, the potential for comradery seemed ever present. The attack at the meeting did not come as swiftly as it had seemed. They had words, first after John approached the lass Aimee and Doc intervened. Aly then started asking that John leave them alone. John seemed to back off for a moment, but then moving to the side of the aisle in which Aly was seated suddenly pushed past the first chair and attacked her.
The fight went quickly, and though Aedon had his sword strapped to his back, he would not draw it. Respect for the chamber was but a small part of that choice though. He was not sure on which side he should stand. Perhaps that indecision was the thing haunting his dreams and keeping him sleepless. Was there a choice he could have made that would have been more correct? Perhaps; but either move would entail drawing his blade against a friend.
Taking a deep drink of his coffee, Aedon lowered the cup and stared into the liquid. Within the darkness of the brew an image began to take shape. Flames moved across the surface as ripples on a pond. The specter of the flame caused his hands to shake, threatening to spill the liquid upon the ground. From within the flames a muddled haze took form. He saw warrior in the heat of battle, a great sword raised high, preparing to deliver a killing blow. His face stern, showing no mercy for the victim before him, nor remorse for the bodies hacked and bloodied around his feet. As the warrior delivered his final blow to a man, mud caked, and cowering before him, the warrior turned and seemed to look straight at Aedon.
Raising the weapon before him, Aedon could see that the blade was black as midnight, and that any light around seemed to fall into the blade, rather than dance across the surface. The warrior seemed to be suddenly soaring towards Aedon, threatening to leave the cup in which the vision had been contained. He could feel the nearness of the accursed sword, and the wrath within the emerald green eyes of the one who wielded her. The suddenness of this attack shocked Aedon, prompting him to drop his cup to the steps. As it shattered to pieces, the fire within it surrounded Aedon for a moment. He could feel the flames licking at his clothes and face. His hair seemed to be alive with fire.
And then, it faded.
But, in the distant recesses his mind Aedon heard the battle cry of the warrior. It echoed through his mind, causing a shiver that reached the depths of his soul.
“I am Aodh! I am Fire, I am Death.”
Sitting up suddenly, Aedon looked around his room. The first rays of morning were already falling through the window, crawling slowly across the floor-driving out the shadows before them. Rubbing his face, and trying to shake off the dream, he could not help but notice that his body was soaked with sweat. Next to him, Izzy moaned, caught in the throes of a dream of her own. Reaching over he gently shook her, while calling out softly in a voice still trembling from his own visions.
“Izzy, wake up. You are dreaming.”
Within his house, Izzy slept rather fitfully. This was, indeed, the third consecutive night which found her tossing from side to side, and mumbling softly. He had thought to awaken her, but figured even fitful rest was better than no rest at all. Perhaps this logic would be proven wrong when she awoke, but for now, it was what he had settled on.
For himself, Aedon had found sleep elusive the past few nights. The incident at the Governors meeting had proven more disturbing to him than he would have thought. After all, Aedon was no stranger to battles, tournaments and outright attacks. But in this instance, he was left unsure as to which of the paths before him he would take. Alyssia was a dear friend, and he thought that the attack on her, by John, was wrong, and that there should have to be some reckoning. He knew well the reports of attacks on members of the group she was now leading, and knowing Aly well, was not at all surprised at her words towards John. She had always protected those she cared for with the ferocity of a wolf. John on the other had was a person he had come to care for as a friend. He was quirky, stuffy, and self-righteous, but he had always seemed to stand in for those truly in need of aid. There was something oddly wistful about the seasoned warrior tilting at windmills, all the while in search of goodness and purity.
What was the dis-connection, the flash point between these two?
It had seemed that they had hit it off following Aly’s return to Yew. They had many old memories in common, and though she could easily drink him under the table, the potential for comradery seemed ever present. The attack at the meeting did not come as swiftly as it had seemed. They had words, first after John approached the lass Aimee and Doc intervened. Aly then started asking that John leave them alone. John seemed to back off for a moment, but then moving to the side of the aisle in which Aly was seated suddenly pushed past the first chair and attacked her.
The fight went quickly, and though Aedon had his sword strapped to his back, he would not draw it. Respect for the chamber was but a small part of that choice though. He was not sure on which side he should stand. Perhaps that indecision was the thing haunting his dreams and keeping him sleepless. Was there a choice he could have made that would have been more correct? Perhaps; but either move would entail drawing his blade against a friend.
Taking a deep drink of his coffee, Aedon lowered the cup and stared into the liquid. Within the darkness of the brew an image began to take shape. Flames moved across the surface as ripples on a pond. The specter of the flame caused his hands to shake, threatening to spill the liquid upon the ground. From within the flames a muddled haze took form. He saw warrior in the heat of battle, a great sword raised high, preparing to deliver a killing blow. His face stern, showing no mercy for the victim before him, nor remorse for the bodies hacked and bloodied around his feet. As the warrior delivered his final blow to a man, mud caked, and cowering before him, the warrior turned and seemed to look straight at Aedon.
Raising the weapon before him, Aedon could see that the blade was black as midnight, and that any light around seemed to fall into the blade, rather than dance across the surface. The warrior seemed to be suddenly soaring towards Aedon, threatening to leave the cup in which the vision had been contained. He could feel the nearness of the accursed sword, and the wrath within the emerald green eyes of the one who wielded her. The suddenness of this attack shocked Aedon, prompting him to drop his cup to the steps. As it shattered to pieces, the fire within it surrounded Aedon for a moment. He could feel the flames licking at his clothes and face. His hair seemed to be alive with fire.
And then, it faded.
But, in the distant recesses his mind Aedon heard the battle cry of the warrior. It echoed through his mind, causing a shiver that reached the depths of his soul.
“I am Aodh! I am Fire, I am Death.”
Sitting up suddenly, Aedon looked around his room. The first rays of morning were already falling through the window, crawling slowly across the floor-driving out the shadows before them. Rubbing his face, and trying to shake off the dream, he could not help but notice that his body was soaked with sweat. Next to him, Izzy moaned, caught in the throes of a dream of her own. Reaching over he gently shook her, while calling out softly in a voice still trembling from his own visions.
“Izzy, wake up. You are dreaming.”