My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,
Where can we finde two better hemispheares
Without sharpe North, without declining West?
What ever dyes, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.
John Donne, The Good-Morrow
The night was neither cold nor dark, nor was it stormy as most tales of love and tragedy and triumph usually begin. It was quite warm, this particular night. And the moonlight bathed all it touched in a silvery, smoky phosphoresence at a clearing in the Hushed Forest where Rag was lying down and dreaming. Rag was awake, by all means, but one need not be asleep to dream, as Rag is oft caught doing. He was staring intently up at the full moon, head nestled on his arms which were tucked comfortably behind his head, his entire manner radiating openness and hope to the sky above him. Rag -- in each slight movement his body makes, and in each sigh, and in each blink of his deep green eyes -- was utterly and completely in love. Never mind that he could not remember the girl's name nor the girl's face; what matters is the feeling his heart was awash with, and he deeply believed it was indeed the sweet, sweet sangria of love.
Rag has been smiling at the moon for hours now as only someone in love could, trying to think of the net, the web that has ensnared his heart. But like a beautiful song he'd heard only from far away, or a rare bloom that grew only in hidden caves behind waterfalls, thoughts of the girl were both tantalizing and elusive. He remembered dark red hair, deepening into sunsets, but cut short, reaching only the chin. He remembered eyes, brown and gentle one minute, but blackening in rage in another. He remembered lips, sweet as sin and red as wildfire. He remembered a thin, lithe body, fragile as a little girl's, but deadly as a dagger plunging into your heart. He remembered all of these things individually, but he can never quite put them together. It frustrated him, but in greater measure, it drowned him completely. And tomorrow, 'Ah, tomorrow,' he kept on whispering like a prayer or a chant, 'Tomorrow, tomorrow, something amazing happens tomorrow.' Rag looked at the back of his left hand once again for the hundredth time since lying down, at the lightly glowing Guild Crest embedded on his skin -- a small silver star on circular field of midnight blue -- and kissed it. He slept with moonlight on his face and a prayer of 'Tomorrow,' upon his lips.
Rag had always been Rag, to the urchins running around the alleyways of Lower Einhoren when he was young, to the blacksmiths and the merchants he'd always seemed to have gotten along well with, but most of all to his constantly disgruntled mother. 'Rag!' she would shout over the din of clanging metals, the afternoon market, and children at play. More often than not, he would either be at Clare's or Harold's, asking them to tell and retell him all about weapon lore or armor lore, how to temper and enchant steel, or many other things Rag's mother does not want Rag to get into. But Rag never listened, naturally. He never learned his letters and up to now he neither can read nor write, but steelcraft he understands as well as the Elves understand the Weave.
His father he never knew, nor did he ever ask of him from his mother. When Rag was even younger and his mother was still working the last few years in the brothel she's worked on her entire life, she'd oft tell stories of his father when they were still in love. 'Raguel was his name,' she'd whisper lovingly to Rag's ear before she passed out for the night, her breath smelling of smoke and stale wine, her grey eyes misted and lost, always seeming to look at something far, far away, piercing through the walls of their small wooden shack at a corner in Lower Einhoren. Perhaps it was Raguel she was seeing. During nights like this, Rag had learned to keep still and let his mother caress his hair until she loses consciousness. 'Gold, gold, spun gold,' he'd hear his mother sing softly. 'Raguel had golden hair just like yours, green eyes just like yours. Brave and bold he was, but I don't want you to be brave and bold, Rag. I want you to stay with me forever.' And then she would weep. Rag made his first promise -- to never to speak of his father again.
Eventually, Rag's mother had to leave the brothel. By the age of nine, Rag was already helping his mother with the work she'd acquired at the Consignment Center under Auguste and Badilus, sorting out wares for the adventurers from all the continents. This is where his fascination with steelcraft was borne from, seeing a variety of weapons, both melee and ranged, and even magical staves and wands. But his most earnest fascinations were swords ands daggers. From the intricacy of the hilt, the pommel, the grip, and the crossguard, to the glinting of the blade to its tip, Rag was held spellbound by everything steel had to offer.
Of course Rag's mother was serious when she said she didn't want her only son to involve himself in bravery and warfare, but it seemed nature had other ideas. Rag was built like a tree, like a house of bricks. He was tall for his age and his arms and fists looked like they could shatter boulders. His legs were lean and muscular, and he could outrun any other child in Lower Einhoren during their races. That is, if he ever participated in them. As it is, Rag's mother made sure he was kept busy by his chores, and even when he's done, he would rather run to the streets of Middle Einhoren, to Clare's or Harold's, and listen to their stories of Guardians and Defenders and all the sorts of weapons they wielded. He loved his mother fiercely and he'd do anything to make her happy, but he was also a child full of dreams. Each one of the heroes in the tale he devoured so greedily would be his father, and, making his second promise, he would wield a sword just like they did.
Rag's fourteenth summer would be his darkest. For one year, his mother had been very ill. Her body had grown weak, but it was shadowed by the weakness in her mind. 'She refuses to fight,' Rag's White Elf friend had told him. 'No matter how many times I heal her, if she does not have the will to fight this sickness on her own, she will not get better,' said she, in that perfect lukewarm combination of cold fact and warm sympathy healers tend to speak. Rag nodded, understanding. His mother had been fighting battles all her life -- with herself, the loss of Raguel, and just simply trying to survive living in Lower Einhoren.
Rag had always thought the two of them together were quite happy fighting these battles. They worked hard to the bone all day and slept late at night. During storms, they would huddle close together to keep themselves warm. Sometimes food would be scarce, but Rag had friends in Middle Einhoren and they were always happy to give him leftovers for him and her mother to share. Rag was quite contented with his life, and he thought nothing else of it. But it wasn't until his mother died that particular summer night did Rag realize how alone he was in the world. That night, as with most tales of tragedy Rag had heard from Clare and Harold, was the coldest, darkest, and stormiest night in his life.
The following morning, he made good his second promise. He approached Fers Hahnt in Upper Einhoren, and signed up to be one of the Imperial Knights. He whispered a silent prayer, asking forgiveness from the shade of his mother, but he had one intense, powerful thought that shook the foundations of his very being. He will be a Defender.
The day Rag joined the Guild, his unit of Defenders was dispatched to the Black Dragon Sanctuary. Fers Hahnt informed them that a rogue band of Half-Elves have taken root at the eastern part of the Sanctuary, and they needed to be handed over to the Firr Mercenaries as soon as they are extracted. His unit had just exited into a hallway past the cloisters, and the floor was littered by bodies of Paragons and Paragon Witchdoctors which had been nesting inside the Sanctuary ever since it had fallen into disrepair. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea letting the Half-Elves stay here, Rag thought. They'd take care of the Paragons and Serpenters infesting this once sacred ground and keep it clean. But if there is one thing Rag has learned from his five years of being with the Imperial Knights, it is that things are not as they seem. There is more to this mission than just rooting out bandits, and rogues from the free races are oft times as dangerous as the monsters they face.
The hallway they were walking on was dark -- it wasn't so much as lack of light, but a pervasive shadow that grew like wild plants through the centuries. It seemed the very shadows were alive and breathing. The Captain of their unit, a Defender probably two years Rag's elder, held aloft the torch he was carrying to fend off the oppressive darkness, sword at the ready on his other hand. His companions took their Captain's lead and readied their weapons as well. Rag felt the air thicken like syrup around him.
Without warning, torchlight was swallowed by darkness, and the weight of another person was on him, catching him off-guard and making him fall flat on his stomach. A dagger blade pressed coldly against his neck as his head was pulled back by his hair. The blade felt like a shard of ice, but the voice that followed shortly froze him even more, 'Do not make a sound,' it said in a whisper. It could have been female, but he was not sure. Judging from the silence around him, it seemed like he was either caught by himself, or his companions were on the floor as well. He could not hear sounds of struggling.
'You're part of the Imperial Knights,' the voice said once again, close to his ear. 'You have the stench of Hahnt about you.' A light chuckle. 'You must be here for the same reason we are, then.'
Female, Rag finally decided. The weight on his back wasn't that of a man's, and he thought he smelled wild blooms when the voice whispered close to his ear. He suddenly felt conscious of her body on his back, and felt blood rise to his cheeks. He thanked the Sacred Spear it was dark as pitch in the hallways.
A few more moments of uneasy silence and the form eased off from him and the dagger was withdrawn. He heard the blade being sheathed, steel sliding on leather. 'Apologies,' she said. 'You may get up now.'
Rag did so slowly and warily, and as he did, torchlight started to flicker to life once again. But this time, it wasn't their Captain who was bearing it. It was a... child. A boy, armored in light leather of midnight blue and bearing a bastard sword with a length almost equal to his height. The boy looked like he was no older than Rag the first time he joined the Imperial Knights, but it is clear he was the leader of his unit. 'It appears we have the same objective,' the boy said in a tone just a little above a whisper. Rag looked at his companions and each of them were partnered with another, in the same midnight blue as the boy's. He looked at the female beside him -- arms folded across her chest, stance confident and cocky, and listening intently to what the boy was saying. And she has the reddest hair I'd ever seen. His trance was broken when he realized the female was looking at him, one eyebrow raised and a corner of her lips upturned to a smirk. He blushed again, as he turned to listen to what the boy had to say.
Apparently, their Guild has been tracking down the rogue Half-Elves for about a turn of the moon now. Not only were they bandits -- stealing from caravans and merchants on the high road -- but they had killed as well. It would not have been as severe, but what they killed was a band of Priests and Priestesses on the road from Vena heading towards the Spire of Redemption. This information came as a shock to Rag's unit, but their Captain was immediately wary. They were told to bring the Half-Elves to the Firr Mercenaries for judgment. This Guild was here to bestow final deaths upon them, and they do not look like the type to back down. For the first time since taking up the sword, Rag could not trust his strength to carry him through, and he was worried about losing a fight. Still. The rogues have killed Priests. Taboo, even amongst the most dangerous of assassins.
'How do we know you are telling the truth?' asked our Captain.
The boy raised his left hand in response, palm turned away from the group, and a sigil glowed ever so lightly on the surface of the skin. The others from his unit followed suit, displaying the same sigil of a silver star on a midnight blue field. It was a Guild Crest Rag hasn't seen before, but the Captain and some of his companions apparently have, judging from their reactions. The Captain grudgingly put away his sword. 'We walk, then. Imperial Knights, stand down. This is out of our hands. I shall make the appropriate reports to Fers Hahnt.'
'Th... They killed Priests, Captain,' Rag said, voice trembling. Every eye was upon him, and he thought he felt a kick in his heart. He could feel the eyes of the red-haired female burning a hole on his back.
'Yes, so I've heard. We walk, Defender.' The tone in the Captain's voice left no room for argument.
Still, Rag pressed on. Every word felt like he was treading on water. 'I... I would like to stay, Captain. And fight.' His companions, if they found his statement amusing, hid it by bowing their heads. The Captain did no such thing.
'If you stay, you die. Rag, is it? I was told of your stubbornness. Strong, without a doubt, but thick as brick.'
Rag did not back down. He felt another kick in his heart. 'I would like to stay and fight, Captain. I will not die. I will go back to the Imperial Knights.'
If there was any thought in the Captain's mind that Rag was being foolish and can still be swayed, it was gone now. His face was a straight line. 'No, Defender, you will not. And seeing as how you can be foolish enough to disobey a direct order, you may stay here to die if you so wish it.' And with that, the Captain and the rest of the unit filed out of the Sanctuary, bringing the torch with them.
The hallway does not seem as dark now, however. The light from the sigils was enough to see around, even though it did not eliminate the shadows completely. To be more exact, the shadows seemed to flow less thickly around them instead of completely making them go away. Rag did not have much experience with magic, except healing from the White Elves, so he was completely fascinated by the phenomenon.
'Your Captain was right, you know,' said the boy, whom Rag did not notice was beside him. They all moved so quietly, reminding him of Dhan assassins, but they were not. At least, he felt they were not. Dhans rarely mingled with Humans, even within Guilds. And this boy was strong, he could tell. Rag felt compelled to bow before him. 'You will die before this mission is over.'
'It... It doesn't matter, Sir -- Captain -- Commander -- Sir,' Rag said almost immediately. He felt his voice crack. He was very thirsty. He looked around and saw five Humans before him. The red-haired one was the only female. She was smiling at him. He felt shamed, and near weeping, but he knew why he stayed. He smiled back at her. 'I made an oath when I took up the sword -- to protect the weak. I... I plan on carrying it out... to the death.'
The boy regarded him, not with amused, indulgent eyes like he had been used to getting from his superiors at the Imperial Knights. The boy seemed to be studying him, looking into his very soul. Rag felt like hiding from the stare, but he stood fast, bearing the weight of eyes on him. 'If you survive, I would like for you to join our Guild. Otherwise, I will have to cast a confounding spell on you.'
My eyes brightened. 'I --'
'IF you survive,' the boy interrupted, holding up a finger. He turned to the red-haired female. 'Sister Defender, brief him of our mission. One more pair of hands should not drastically alter our plans. Treat him as one from your legion.'
'At once, Brother-Commander,' she responded as a soldier would. Unexpectedly and to Rag's surprise, the female grabbed his hand and led him away from the group. He felt his heart pounding madly against his chest. She whispered once again to his ear, 'Don't you think this is going to be fun?' And they ran faster as she led him deeper into the darkness.
'My parents doted on me when I was young,' Maeve said. They were on the bed, at a cell reserved for resting in between missions. Maeve was cradled in Rag's arms. She lifted her arm straight up, fingers spread, palms towards the ceiling. Rag looked at the pattern of shadows Maeve's hand made on the wall. He reached up for it and entwined his rough fingers with Maeve's. She continued. 'I was their princess, and I grew up not wanting for anything. I should be grateful, really. They were not bad people. But I wanted adventure. I wanted swordfights and duels; I wanted to hear the song of steel on steel.'
Rag kept silent. His hand covered hers on his chest. He was conscious of the beating of his heart. He did not want to interrupt Maeve. It has been a year since he joined the Guild, and this was their first night as lovers to each other. It was his first time to be with a woman as well, and Maeve understood that vulnerability. She held his hand every moment -- slowly and first, then picking up the pace when she felt Rag was ready. In the end, the experience was wonderful for the both of them. Every nerve in their body was lit from within, and it did nothing else but affirm their love for each other.
It was Rag's attraction to Maeve that made him speak up against his Captain in the Imperial Knights in the first place, and if Brother-Commander had read that in him when they first met -- as he had no doubt he did -- then that deep attraction gave him strength to stay on in the Guild despite the many things he'd been made to do to guarantee his loyalty. And when finally, just a turn of the moon ago, he received his Guild Crest, he confessed his love for Maeve as well -- who acted as his Legion Master all throughout his period of initiation. 'Took you long enough, you big ox,' Maeve said as she jumped to embrace him in front of a questing unit in the Dolmen of Heroes, after his final mission as an initiate. Every one of their friends within the Guild cheered them on, knowing love has blossomed between the two ever since Rag first started his training.
'I spoke of it only once, my intention to join the Imperial Knights. My father sternly refused, as I'd expected. My mother kept silent. I wanted to find the proper words to tell them how much I want this -- how much I felt this path was right for me -- but they eluded me. I never spoke of it again.
'Perhaps it was because of that, that my mother started to pair me up with Knights from prominent families. Her attempt at a compromise, I suppose.' This made Maeve chuckle, and Rag could not help smiling a bit as well. He felt her warm flesh press to his side, and he felt himself stirring once again. He kissed her hand instead. 'They were all charming, to be sure. Dashing, rich, smart, and they could tell me stories of battles to fill my every hour. But they all bored me. Their stories were not what I needed.'
'Am I what you need, Maeve?' Rag asked, which he immediately regretted. It sounded foolish to his ears. Weak, needy, and childish.
Maeve nipped at his chest in response. 'You are a little boy, Raguel, son of Raguel. You may be a year older than me, but I fear I am more advanced in years than you.' Rag felt blood rise to his cheeks. No one has called him by his full name ever since his mother died. Maeve kissed him once again. 'This is what I need, I know it in my heart of hearts. A cold, small cell to rest in between missions, a gathering of one of the most powerful Guilds in the continents of which I am part of just outside that door, the smell of oiled steel and boiled leather, the endless questing on dangerous territories. And me in your arms, foolish, silly, thick-as-ox boy from Lower Einhoren.' And she bit Rag once again, this time at a little spot on his jaw. He smiled and closed his eyes, enjoying the smell of her hair.
'Do you miss your parents?'
'I do,' she said without hesitation. 'I write to them a lot, even though they never respond. And I see them whenever I can, from a distance, of course. I make sure they are safe always. I don't expect to go back to them, and I am not sure if they would like to see me... I've always seen myself dying in battle, sword in my hands and blood in my face.'
'I'll protect you,' Rag said, holding her tighter. The thought of Maeve dying was inconceivable. He will never let go of his sword as long has he is sure Maeve is safe.
'Foolish, silly boy,' Maeve chuckled yet again, as she found another spot of flesh to bite. 'I would want nothing else than to fight by the side of my beloved.'
They settled into comfortable silence for a while, just playing with each other's fingers, legs entangled with the sheets. It might have been minutes, or it might have been hours, but Rag was not conscious of the passage of time. Maeve broke the silence again. 'One thing concerns me, Rag,' she said, voice sounding uncharacteristically like a child's. 'The confounding spell. We can't see each other outside gatherings, even if we wanted to.'
'I... I've thought about it,' Rag confessed, holding Maeve's hand even tighter. 'When I was still an initiate, whenever every mission ended, a small part of me would... would be afraid, thinking of the long hours I'd have to go through lost and confused. I'd find strange, alien emotions welling up in my chest, I feel like I wanted to tear off my armor, down to my guts just so I would know where they were coming from. It hurt a lot, Maeve.' Rag paused, remembering turns and turns of the moon he spent alone in the Hushed Forest where he'd made his shelter ever since leaving the Imperial Knights -- and Einhoren. 'But then... But then I'd be with the Guild again, within the bounds of magic without the confounding spell and I'd remember, and I'd be whole again. It was the most amazing thing I'd felt back then. Each time I'd leave, that was what I would think about, Maeve. That... That something amazing would be waiting for me in the Guild. All I had to do was be stubborn and keep on getting up. Tomorrow, I'd say to myself. Tomorrow, tomorrow. My mother always said I was good at... at being stubborn.'
'I remember,' Maeve chuckled. 'It was that same stubbornness that brought you to me. Gods be damned, it made me fall in love with you.'
Maeve raised her left hand to the light and looked at her Guild Crest. As it glowed, Rag felt a prickling in his own left hand. He eased his arm off from under Maeve and looked at his own Crest -- newly embedded and glowing with fresh magic. Rag felt blessed. He knew he was where he belonged. He made his third promise -- to protect Maeve no matter what.
'It will be an hour before the gathering officially starts,' Maeve said, with little urgency in her voice.
'We have to get ready, then. The Commanders will...'
Maeve got up first, pushing Rag's form back to the bed with gentle force. She straddled his body and laughed, pinning him down by his wrists. 'Foolish, silly, little boy Rag.' She kissed him on the lips. 'My strong, beloved, stubborn Raguel.' Her brown eyes met his green ones. 'It will be an hour before the gathering officially starts.'
'Oh,' he said. And then, 'Oh,' again. And then he smiled.
//END
