The Devastation #6

Santiana lay diagonally, and he, glancing sideways, measured the blade and calculated that it would be difficult to manoeuvre for a perfect cut that would take him with them.

He chose the dagger he kept in his boot, but Maed, with that invisible connection that made his hair stand on end whenever his king’s life was in danger, sensed it.

Crouching down, without asking leave, he took his hand and then, with the other, the dagger. He did not dare to meet his gaze; Narg had eyes only to see, and to breathe in, the love that the two young people before him were showing each other in an eternal farewell to a death foretold.

Maed raised him to his feet by his arm. His knees scarce had the strength to bear his weight, and he clung to his neck.

'It has always been Gwion, has it not?' he whispered in his ear.

Maed pushed him away and met the sad gaze of his king, on the verge of breaking.

'If I had known...' He paused. 'If they had told me.'

'You would have opposed it anyway, and I would have dug my brother’s grave,' he interrupted sharply. 'Do not lie to yourself, Narg. Celtión was meant for Cloet, and Gwion was never part of his equation. Besides, my brother’s loyalty was stronger than his love. Never forget that.'

Narg fell into thought and used his sword as a walking stick to steady himself.

'Join him and we shall be together forever,' murmured Celtión.

'Be silent, my princess, and let me quench my thirst at the spring of thy gaze,' he whispered, his voice choked with grief and saliva.

A copious tear fell right onto the scar upon her cheek and he, with the tip of his thumb, dried it with a caress and could not help but feel he was the only one to blame.

For that wound and for all the invisible ones in the princess’s heart.

For the king’s raven ring had opened it, but he, the faithful yet cowardly knight of the elite troop, was responsible for her exile, for her five years in oblivion, for the bitter, short life that was about to end.

For how long had he survived with the fear of losing her, and in that moment he would have given his life to turn back time. To relive that night before they were separated, to summon his courage and, in front of Narg, shout out loud that he, Gwion Gerinson, loved the princess.

Celtión, in his arms, could read in his eyes how much he blamed himself for everything, but she was fine; she felt no pain, and the touch of his calloused hand reminded her of that sensation that made her skin tingle and stirred her soul.

She was certain; she had always been by his side, and with a sweet smile she gently rested her eyelids against his for a few moments.

He rested his forehead against hers in that inexplicable need to be pressed against her body and to stretch out in time what seemed inevitable.

He was about to kiss her to extinguish the fire that was consuming him, but as soon as he brought his lips close, Celtión’s lush eyelashes began to part.

From the corner of her eyelids and through the slit that was opening, an intense orange light illuminated her freckles.

Confounded, he drew back and sought Maed, then Narg, but none of the three comprehended what was transpiring. The wider they parted, the more her visage, bosom, and hands shone, until, wide open, they illuminated the night and Gwion thought he could feel the warmth upon his cheeks.

It blinded him, yet he could not cease beholding her, as if all her sweetness were compressed into that magnetic energy that calmed his nerves and silenced his grief.

With a groan, a spasm and some effort, Celtión leaned back until she reached the pocket of her velvet tunic and slipped her hand inside. Still stained with blood and dried, Gwion recognised the small wild flower, with a yellow centre and white petals, which she placed in his hands.

'It hath been worth it all, my love, we have accomplished it. I care not to be the first raven to fall; the age of gods and tyrants is about to end.'

She was convinced that her sacrifice would bring about change.

The change she had been working towards for the last four and a half years, ever since Marzota had stayed her hand upon her third attempt to die for love and convinced her to be part of the grand plan.

Her great-grandmother Windar would see to it that justice was done—for her, for them, for their love.

Gwion comprehended all, yet ere he might assimilate it, or even react, Celtión cupped his face. The warmth of her skin and the warmth of her blood staining his cheek stirred a sorrow that welled up in his stomach and made his soul tremble.

She raised her other hand and gently caressed his trembling square jaw. She moved up to his lips. With the tip of her index finger, starting from the corner, she traced his lower lip. Slowly, she brought her own lips closer and, when she reached the centre, parted his mouth slightly.

'Ours is a bond of blood and tears that no one can erase. Love does not end; it is carried to the grave,' she whispered, and kissed him passionately, forcing him to swallow as she breathed her last. 'I will wait for you on the other side, my love.'

Celtión’s lifeless head fell upon his shoulder.

Desperate, he pushed her away and watched her honey-coloured pupils cloud over.

His princess was dead, and Gwion, devastated, could not accept it.

He shook her by the shoulders. Once, twice, thrice, until her mouth opened.

He thought she would speak; he was even about to breathe life into her, when he beheld them emerge.

Long, thick and small, one by one, four black feathers rose, and then it came to pass.

Beneath the timepiece of white and purple sands, where few grains remained to fall, by the campfire, The Oracle stood in a circle.

Intertwined, they held each other’s shoulders with their right hands and kept their staffs, with their glowing gems, steady in the centre.

Their chins rested upon their breasts and the tips of their hoods, joined together, formed a perfect dome in which the deep chant they intoned from their throats resonated.

To the outside, the chant resembled a deep hum, hypnotic and rhythmic, inviting reflection.

They were joined by a company of soldiers lost in that hopeful trance, praying that their king, the great Narg Hugnork, would return safely and in time for his birthday celebrations. But that calm, like the eye of a storm, was interrupted.

It all transpired at once: the wooden beams of the ceiling thundered, the wind swirled the shards of glass scattered upon the floor, the earth quaked, and the entire realm was illuminated by the conflagration of the Everflame from the torch of the statue of Alfredo, at the heart of the labyrinth, which rose towards the firmament.

The first to break the trance was the old man with red irises when he felt the very magma from the earth’s core seething through his body.

He raised his head towards the sky, and, together with the Everflame and the fire of the bonfire, his eyes illuminated the hall with an intense crimson that terrified the soldiers.

The green-eyed and blue-eyed men followed suit after a thick mist rose from between each floor tile and the air became electrified.

The two coloured lights joined the crimson, and the small glimmers from the rocks on the castle walls reflected the white conjunction that condensed into a single point: the clock.

The disc of the clock’s lower golden gear turned two notches, accompanied by a metallic clatter, and as a result, in the glass, right in the slender, needle-eye-like space through which time filtered, a tiny, imperceptible hole opened. There, as if in a sigh, all the light was absorbed.

The man with the white eyes, with a scream of pain, doubled over.

It was too late. They could not have stopped him even if they had been present in the forest. For the first raven had fallen, and with it, the balance between light and darkness had just been broken.

And so, in the utter darkness, half the sand in the hourglass—the grains that had been tinged with purple—turned leaden.

The three elders and the handful of soldiers helped him to his feet. They went out through the main door onto the courtyard steps and, in the distance, saw her approaching.

The wind that lashed the place froze their blood, not from the cold, but from terror.

The fire that enveloped the commander and prince of Welst in the heart of the forest, and the one that lined the path where Cheas and the platoon stood alongside the corpse of the northern beast, flared up again.

The sparks forced them to take several steps back.

They could find no safe place to cross. The king’s life was in the gravest peril in history, and they, the elite warriors, could not come to his aid.

Cloet could scarcely keep his composure, yet he found the reassurance he needed in the Ministerian commander’s countenance.

With his eyes narrowed and Tyr’s charm between his fingers, Arwel considered the possibilities and the resources at his disposal.

He gathered the soldiers and commanded them to wade into the river that flowed behind the Cave of Whispers and bring him their helmets filled with water.

The plan appeared sound, yet Cloet, after considering it for a moment, persuaded him against it.

The damp cloth might not burn up, but the steam generated as it passed through the fire would swiftly heat the metal of the armour, and the burns would be even more grievous, like being simmered in a cauldron over slow coals.