The Return - 2. Chapter 2

Mordred liked Whispering Cliffs. He found this revelation disconcerting because, he reflected, he did not like people. He stared out over the ocean and pondered this. He watched as the sun rose and cast all the world in a light orange-pink glow, the colors diffused in the early morning fog. Soon enough the fog would be gone, replaced by the heat of lazy, late summer days.

Lazy for most people, that is. A certain someone was even now wide awake and had been for some time.

Something funny happened to Mordred's face. He felt it in the corners of his mouth and he reached up to trace his lips. A smile. He was smiling. So, this was what it felt like. Odd. If the warm feeling spreading outwards from his chest accompanied every smile, then no wonder people smiled all the time. To smile felt the way children's laughter sounded, but without the odd melancholy Mordred felt any time he heard such laughter.

There were so many children in Whispering Cliffs. They followed him and hid when he looked around, giggling as if he couldn't see them, couldn't hear them. There were a handful who were brave enough to approach him and ask questions, endless questions about who he was and where he was from. They were the first ones to notice when Mordred dyed his hair. They asked him why and how multiple times that day, driving him to distraction.

Each time he heard that giggling, a part of him hurt. The pain was distant, though, something old and long-buried, shifting around inside like a wound that wouldn't heal. Mordred usually ignored the ghosts of old memories, of things he didn't quite remember, but this one, dark-eyed girl-child he couldn't forget. He thought at first that it was his own child, but that felt wrong.

From the heat of the sunrise, Mordred surmised that today would be another hot one. The usual nightly gossip in the inn had been muted these past few days as the farmers worried over their crops. If temperatures continued to climb, the summer's harvest would soon wither.

Mordred had plenty of work waiting for him at the forge. He knew that the smith would be awake and working what he could before the heat set in, but he made no move to join him. From where he stood he had a perfect view of the bakery. He lurked patiently until he saw a figure emerge and head for the inn carrying a large basket.

That smile again. Mordred touched his face but didn't linger. He turned his back to the cliffs and took his feet up the front step of the bakery. The door sat propped open, so Mordred flicked the small bell lightly with a finger in passing.

Dmitri's face popped out of the doorway leading to the back. He paused before emerging, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Morning," he said.

Mordred smiled. He smiled again as he saw Dmitri's eyebrows start to rise. Clearly, Mordred wasn't the only one taken aback by his smile.

"The usual?" asked the baker, already reaching for a small square of linen.

Mordred nodded and slid a battered, metal coin across the counter. Even this early in the morning, sweat soaked Dmitri's hair and shirt. Mordred watched as the baker's movements revealed the tight muscles hidden from plain sight. The hot roll in its protective cloth hit the counter and Mordred accepted gladly. Nodding, he turned to leave.

"I know why you come here."

The words stopped Mordred. He turned back, jiggling the roll. "The food?" A scowl appeared on Dmitri's face and Mordred mirrored the expression.

"Don't be trite."

The smile again. This felt more natural to Mordred, perhaps meaning he was growing accustomed to the expression. "Do I make you nervous?"

Dmitri's frown deepened, and Mordred laughed. He stopped abruptly, startled to hear the sound. The smile came back to hide his sudden insecurity.

"Don't come back."

Mordred lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head a little as he studied the man on the other side of the counter. Dmitri had his arms crossed, a defensive posture. His words lacked strength; he looked uncertain, confused, even. For a moment he saw the bronze color in the depths of those brown-gold eyes, which was ridiculous given the available light. Mordred shook his head.

"Very well," he said. He left.

He kept his promise but as the hot days continued, Mordred saw quite enough of Dmitri to make up for the lack of morning contact. The townsfolk banded together to cart water out to the suffering fields. Like most of the men when the sun grew high, Dmitri stripped off his shirt and tucked the cloth into his waistband . Mordred watched, unabashed, whenever he could, because the quiet, unassuming man fascinated him, and not only due to the muscular shoulders and flat stomach. Dmitri didn't have to say a word, but when he arrived those bickering or fighting stopped. Mordred had never heard him raise his voice but he'd seen much bigger men flinch when Dmitri addressed them. The baker had an uncanny intuition when it came to disputes amongst the townspeople, and tempers were just as high as the heat.

In the fields they toiled to fill casks of water and empty bucketful after bucketful on the grape vines. Sweat soaked waistbands and handkerchiefs. Women, men, and children all worked side by side, for the crops were their livelihood.

It just so happened that Mordred was perfectly positioned to watch one afternoon as Dmitri reached the water wagon. The men unloaded the full casks, replacing them with the empties. After the exchange, the young driver took the tired horse back to the river where more men waited with more casks in the unending cycle.

Dmitri wore a handkerchief about his head to keep sweat from dripping into his eyes. Like the others nearby, Dmitri removed his and dipped the cloth in the water before wiping his face. When it was his turn, he leaned over one of the casks and dipped his whole head in, straightening to flip hair out of his face, water sliding like a caress along the angles and planes of his upper body. Mordred stared transfixed. At least watering plants didn't require much concentration.

Tired, discouraged people gathered at the inn that night. They smelled of sweat and dirt and fear. Should the crops fail, winter would be long and brutal. There was talk of leaving, of searching for better fortune elsewhere. Rumors of plague nearby and of worsening conditions in neighboring towns spilled around the gathering in muted whispers.

Mordred was certain he was not the only one to lie awake long into the night. Morning found him again at the cliff side, but there was no cheerful baking today. For the past week, Dmitri and his wife had both walked the morning delivery up to the inn because there were no customers to cook for when everyone toiled together. Folk gathered at the inn for a meal and drinks before heading out to the fields. The people were unusually grumpy, reminding Mordred of his dislike for prolonged human company. They whined constantly and, truly, the people who lived here had forgotten real hardship.

He opened his mouth to speak, but heard another voice instead. Dmitri told the person next to him that the crops would not fail, and to have faith. The words spread. By early afternoon they were all watching long, wispy clouds inch across the sky.

Prophesy? Mordred couldn't quite believe it. Good fortune, maybe, but it was absurd to think of a person as a good-luck charm. He watched Dmitri lovingly stroke the leaves of a wilted plant and thought the matter was much worse than that.

Dmitri still had faith. It was unthinkable that he believed so strongly.

Rain filled up the clouds, descending on the town during the night. Mordred woke to rain on the roof and went outdoors, letting the resurrected wind blow the rain right onto his skin, wetting his hair, filling his mouth. He tilted his face up, closing his eyes and thinking about how strange it was to feel relief. Only weeks before he'd been wandering alone without shoes, food, or a roof over his head. He'd lived without worries or cares. Relief over such a simple thing as rain crashed over him, startling in its intensity. He shivered as he realized that the past, the time before Whispering Cliffs, felt more and more like a dream.

He went to the forge and made a sword. He didn't intend for it to happen, merely grabbed a prepared bronze shaft and begun to work. He stared at the fire's reflection on the metal, frowning tightly as the rain drummed overhead. The sword felt both right and indescribably wrong in his hands. He set the weapon aside and slumped on a stool, head in his hands.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, but images danced across his eyelids anyway. He could see his own hands crafting sword upon sword, working quickly and tirelessly. The collection of weapons grew and shrank again and again. Mordred could feel the heat of the forge, the roaring as the bellows pumped in air to fuel the fire hotter and hotter. Metal rang and shivered under his hammer, slapping against the stone. Faster and faster, harder and harder and it had all been for naught!

Leaping to his feet, Mordred strode to the open door and almost collided with someone ducking under the overhang. Brown-gold eyes caught the flickering light of the lantern. Mordred halted, mouth dropping open in surprise.

"I saw your light. Thought you might be hungry," Dmitri explained, shifting his feet in the mud and pushing rain-soaked hair back from his face. He held up a small basket. "Break your fast with me?"

"Breakfast?" Mordred shook his head, but the vision on his doorstep remained. Wordlessly, he gestured inside.

They sat awkwardly on a pair of stools in the workroom. The forge's heat made Dmitri's clothes steam. Mordred smiled a bit, picking at his meat-filled roll and not knowing what to say.

Dmitri cleared his throat. "I didn't think you'd really stay away."

Mordred frowned, glancing up, but a bitter retort died unspoken. He couldn't have said why, only that when he'd met those oh-so-serious brown eyes he just couldn't snap. He just shrugged, looking away again.

"Look, I --" Dmitri broke off and ran fingers through his hair, making it stick up in the back. Mordred wanted to chuckle, but held it in. His morning's frustrations faded.

"Heavens, this is harder than I'd thought," Dmitri muttered. He straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin to meet Mordred's eyes. Wounded pride burned there, or perhaps shame, or guilt. Maybe something else, even. "I believe I owe you an apology, Mordred."

Mordred nodded, but frowned in confusion. "I don't understand."

"I didn't know if you were right for this town, but, the drought. You worked just as hard as any of us. It was uncharitable of me to expect less, simply because you, uh, make me uncomfortable."

"I do?" Mordred leaned forward on his stool, food long forgotten as he smirked. This expression felt right and natural. He found he liked the way Dmitri almost recoiled, flushing a little.

"I, that's all I wanted to say."

Mordred nodded. He turned his attention back to the roll, tearing off a big piece to keep from laughing. Laughter after so many years of silence still seemed odd, but not here, not with this man. For the first time in his recollection, Mordred actively reached for those distant memories. He wanted to know more about that person he used to be before becoming a wanderer, but the memories slipped away from him as little more than sand through his fingers.

He threw the roll into the furnace and Dmitri flinched. Standing, Mordred retrieved the sword and held it for his visitor to see.

Dmitri was off the stool in a flash, hovering by the door. "What's that?"

"I made it," said Mordred.

Dmitri's hands wrapped around himself, clasping his upper arms. "Why? Why would you need such a thing here? We're a peaceful town."

Gods, he looked so young just then. Worried. Frightened. Mordred thought his heart would stop, thought for a moment he could actually feel each pounding beat. His hands lowered and he leaned the sword against a workbench.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Sometimes I just make things. I don't know why."

"I have to go." Dmitri ducked out into the rain, sloshing through the mud back to his shop. The heat of the dual ovens was not as intense as that of the forge, but no less warm. He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, cold down into places he wasn't sure he could ever warm. He gulped some wine and told himself to calm down.

He was on edge because of the nightmares; that was all.

His wife darted in out of the rain, laughing as she hung up her shawl. Dmitri smiled back and got up to help with the day's baking. He put the worries and uncertainty out of his mind.

He saw Mordred again that evening. But then he was always there. He always looked up, just as Dmitri came in the door, and there was always that feeling that he was waiting for just that moment, that nod of greeting.

"Bake us then drown us, eh?" someone was grousing. Chessa pounded on the drum in time to the rain.

Dmitri shook his head, smiled and nodded as he took care of his duties. He didn't talk much, he rarely did, but this time his heart wasn't in it. The complaints were just so much noise. He sipped the hot cider and only tried to look like he was paying attention.

He knew Mordred was out there, just like every other night. This wasn't any different, but Dmitri knew it was a lie. Something had changed. Mordred was dangerous. Dmitri knew he ought to say something, but he instinctively knew that Mordred wouldn't leave. The other councilors wouldn't understand his concerns, but they'd ask and Mordred would just give them that blank stare of his and say nothing. On the surface he seemed like a gentle, quiet man, a bit of a day-dreamer, but certainly harmless. Dmitri couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than there appeared. That no one else could see this made him want to pace like a caged animal.

Dmitri couldn't explain why he ignored his instincts and joined Mordred at his table. That was something else he'd noticed about the man: he was always alone. The room was crowded, but for some reason Mordred sat alone. Everyone seemed to like him; they talked about him, his hair, his big hands, the things he made or repaired, his silence, but as Dmitri sat down he recalled that no one actually spoke of talking to Mordred. He was just there, like a lamp or a chair.

Only as Dmitri sat on the bench across from this stranger, Mordred smiled at him. The smile still surprised him, that something so soft and genuine could come from the aloof man. That smile also made Dmitri unaccountably nervous, a feeling he deplored. He was a grown man! Older than Mordred by the looks of him. And then Mordred did that thing with his face: lifting an eyebrow and quirking his lip, as if he knew something Dmitri didn't, as if they shared a secret joke. His eyes even twinkled a little, teasing when by all accounts Mordred didn't understand humor.

And just like always, Dmitri's usually glib tongue just went silent. He drank from his mug because he couldn't think of anything else to do. His cider had grown cold.

Over on the raised dais for the bards, Chessa beat out a loud, foot-stomping tune, accompanied by her father on a little tin whistle. Ordinarily, Dmitri would have joined in, but seriousness followed Mordred like a cloud. Engaging in singing and dancing felt frivolous, even faced with that shocking hair. Just how did he get it that color? And why?

"It's not bad," said Mordred and Dmitri abruptly realized that the smith had been talking and he'd not heard a word.

"Yes," he agreed, taking another drink.

"You have no idea what you're agreeing to, do you?" That smirk again.

Dmitri flushed and immediately hated himself for it, which only made the situation worse.

Mordred laughed quietly, soft and low. He laughed, Dmitri realized, with his eyes. They crinkled at the corners. He really did have odd features. Dmitri hadn't met anyone quite like him before.

"Where are you from?" He was immediately sorry he asked, because distance descended and Mordred's face went blank.

He answered with another question, "It doesn't really matter, does it?"

Dmitri almost cursed. He wondered how Mordred could do this to him; make him feel so small and young, as if he should know better than to bother his elders with stupid questions.

Maybe Mordred read something of that on his face, because he asked, "What's wrong?" He actually seemed concerned.

Dmitri wasn't sure what made him say, "The rain. It doesn't feel right." He knew he spoke truly, shaken now.

"It'll be all right."

How Dmitri wanted to believe him! He took the easy way out and stood, leaving his half-full mug on the table. "Good night, Mordred." He left without hearing a reply, shaking his head to his wife's questions.

He didn't understand that man and really did not know how to say that the longer he was around the more convinced he became that they'd met before, just like Mordred had said. There was just something in his smile and mannerisms that reminded Dmitri of something. He reasoned that it had something to do with the time he was sick. That had been Before. His parents had met so many people on their long journey. They'd wanted a better life for themselves and their son and they'd found it here in Whispering Cliffs. He wished they were still here because right now Dmitri really wanted their advice.

Maybe because of the thoughts chasing themselves around his head or maybe because he anticipated them, but the nightmares came back that night.

He woke suddenly and all at once, shivering so hard he could barely stand but sweating at the same time. Staggering to the basin on its stand, Dmitri splashed water on his face. The cold water felt obscenely good. He never could remember the dreams, but the aftermath lingered. The fear and anxiety was stronger than usual, and every normal night-noise felt amplified. He stood there with his hands clenched around the table edge, water sloshing in its basin as his trembling set the whole table to shaking.

He jumped as small but strong hands touched his back and sides. He wanted to scream but could barely breathe through his clenched teeth. He pulled away hard, jumping forward and hitting the table, grunted as his body knocked against the sturdy furniture.

"What's wrong, baby?" murmured his wife, laying her head against his back.

He hated that he couldn't speak, couldn't tell her what he felt. She was his closest friend; they'd practically grown up together. He could tell her anything, but not this. What had he to fear growing up here in Whispering Cliffs? People who came here from other places came after having experienced the plague multiple times, but Dmitri had sickened from it only once and he could barely remember. How could he tell his wife that her gentle, soft voice, her feminine body, only made him want to scream?

"Baby, you're burning up. Dmitri?"

When had she moved? He saw the shadow of a shadow of her hand reaching towards his face and flinched back, letting go of the table. Only then did he realize he lacked strength in his legs and he fell. He was cold and immediately curled up, hugging himself for warmth, tucking his face against his knees. Still no sound escaped his lips. His jaw ached from how tightly he clenched his teeth.

He heard his wife swear, and Ania never cursed. She touched his forehead again, his cheeks and face, making Dmitri want to scream and cry, to smack her hand away, to do something! But he could do nothing except shiver, his thoughts engulfed by the fear which had driven him from sleep. He felt his wife's feet hurrying past him and later a door.

Nightmares were nothing new to Dmitri, but he couldn't remember them ever being so strong before. When he'd still lived at home, his mother would come in and sit with him. She'd stroke his hair and hold his hand. When he was still small he'd crawled into her lap. She'd never said anything; she didn't have to. As he'd grown older the nightmares had faded and all but disappeared. Sometimes he had trouble sleeping, but that happened to everyone from time to time.

Help. Help me, he thought as he panted between body-shaking tremors. Help me. Help me, help me, help me. But he knew no one was coming. He could swear he heard laughter but he couldn't move. He couldn't move. He couldn't even open his mouth enough to call for his mother and he wanted her so badly!

When Ania returned with the town healer, Dmitri was rigid and delirious. He didn't react when Ania lit the lamps. He didn't seem to register their presence at all.

The healer took one look at him and said to Ania, "Let me see your arms, Ania."

Fear replaced the worry on her face but Ania kept her mouth closed. She draped her cloak over her hope chest. Her night dress was the only covering remaining. The doctor didn't have to speak. She saw the truth in his face.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She nodded. She looked at her husband and saw the marks. They were large and raw, covering his visible skin in purple-blue, raised marks that were not quite a rash. She no doubt had the same rash. Soon, the entire town would hear the news. They might be the first to become ill, but they would hardly be the last.

The plague had come again to Whispering Cliffs.

Mordred knew something was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew and he sat up in bed right away, grabbing after his clothes in the rainy gloom. Not only had John the Smith given him a job, he’d given Mordred a place to live as well. It was really only a small room at the back of the forge, little more than a bed and a couple of shelves, but it had a door. There were a few articles of clothing remaining from the last apprentice John had employed and if they were overly large they were at least free. Unfortunately, they seemed to grow feet and run away after Mordred slipped out of them at night.

The only bad thing about the room was the lack of a window. Normally this wasn’t a problem because there was enough light to see by anyway, but he could tell it was still night and he stubbed his toes rather painfully twice before finding and pulling on his britches. He tucked his shirt in and buckled his belt, finding one boot over by the wash basin and the other kicked under his bed. Once he was dressed he just stood there for a long minute.

Great. He was awake and dressed, now what? The urgency which had woken him was fading now. He wanted to kick something and curse, but his toes objected and somehow, after spending so much time in Whispering Cliffs, cursing just didn’t seem right. After a few minutes just standing there at a loss, Mordred grabbed his cloak and decided to go for a walk.

The time was actually fairly close to dawn. As he stepped outside he saw the difference in the sky. The rain which still poured down only made it seem later. Yawning, Mordred started slogging through the mud. He felt like complaining about the weather as well, but he knew it would do no good. There was no one to hear.

He often walked during the early morning hours, especially since the beginning of the heat wave, and his feet just naturally followed the usual path. The end was always by the cliffs and overlooking the ocean. He stood and watched the dawn through the concealing rain, glancing behind him from time to time at the bakery. With the shutters closed against the rain he couldn’t quite be sure, but he thought he saw lights. That was good. He could go over to the inn and have breakfast with all the other early risers. He had promised to stay away from the bakery, after all.

Still, some promises were made to be broken. When he arrived at the inn, he found chaos instead of the usual calm order. Guests were throwing their belongings onto their wagons or horses with little care for neatness. The young stable boy had wide eyes, spooking at the slightest thing. Mordred didn’t try to stop him and speak to him. Stomach twisting into knots, he stepped into the kitchen. Both cooks were there, their assistants stirring two of the largest pots Mordred had ever seen. He’d repaired them only a couple weeks before and knew exactly how much could fit in there. The contents made his eyes water and he saw scarves wrapped around the faces of the workers. He almost flung himself into the main room.

On the other side of the door was silence so profound Mordred lifted a hand to his ear, wiggling a finger in the canal to make sure he hadn’t somehow gone deaf. Then he took another look at the gathered people. There were six of them: a man Mordred didn’t know, and five members of the town council. They looked absolutely panicked and Mordred immediately looked for Dmitri, knowing that the baker would calm them with a word or look. He anticipated it, looked forward to it, but Dmitri wasn’t there. That bad feeling came back with a whoosh like a punch to the gut.

“What do we do?” someone whispered, loud as a shout in the hushed quiet.

“There’s nothing to do,” said the strange man. A small bag rested at his feet. He shook his head. “We can only let it run its course.”

“Gods’ Mercy,” said someone and all six dutifully made that movement Mordred had first learned from a traveling merchant. He mirrored the gesture. Without having to ask, he knew. Only the plague could inspire such fatalistic terror.

He suddenly realized, as if for the first time, that Dmitri was not there. No. He might have said that aloud because those tense, frightened faces all turned towards him. He waited for their condemnation, their hatred, waited to see what punishment they would enact. He was a stranger in their town and the plague had come on his heels. He blamed himself, and he expected the councilors to do the same, but an outcry against him was not forthcoming.

Nika, the innkeeper, shook her head but she started giving orders to the others: “Jakob, Michael, start spreading the word. Tell the sick to come here. I remember my father opening the inn during these times. We’ll do so again.” She nodded decisively, but Mordred wasn’t fooled. He saw the fear in her eyes and heard it in her voice. No doubt the others did so, too, but they voiced no protests as more instructions spilled forth assigning each town councilor a job.

Mordred didn’t stay to hear. He spun around and ran and he didn’t stop even at the bakery door. He pushed inside but of course it was empty. He gave no thought to the mud tracked in on his boots as he crossed the small room, circled around the counter and its empty trays and stepped into the back room. This was where the actual baking took place. Three large bread ovens sat cold and silent in the dim morning light. Mordred went right past them and out the door on the other side. Then he saw the stairs and climbed up, knocking on the door but walking right in.

“Hello?” he called. “Dmitri? It’s --”

He stopped. Ania, Dmitri’s lovely wife, stood in the bedroom door. She wore only her night dress, holding a wet rag in one hand. The light came from lamps behind her, casting her face into darkness. In her home she wore no scarf to hide her baldness.

“You,” she said. She stood still, like a ghost. Even her voice seemed to come from far away.

“Can I help?” he asked quietly, easing into the sitting room and closing the door carefully behind him.

Ania said nothing, merely returning to the bedroom. Mordred took a deep breath and followed. The curiosity of what Dmitri’s home looked like was only a passing thought. He went straight to Dmitri’s side, cloak left somewhere on the floor behind him

The baker lay on his side, lost and small amongst all the blankets tucked around him. Shivers wracked his body, bringing motion to the whole bed. Sweat plastered his hair to his body. Mordred didn't need to peel back the covers to see the angry marks. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. All he could do was stare. The plague! Would it kill him? Would the fever suck all the moisture from his body, baking his brain until he fell into a slumber that none ever woke from? Would he live but lose his wits and become a thing less than an animal that must be killed to prevent further atrocities?

"No." He mouthed the word, going to Dmitri's side and sat down on the edge of the bed. A soft sound drew his attention to the woman, to Dmitri's wife. Tears trickled down her face as she wrung out a cloth and wiped the sweat on her husband's face. This was Dmitri's wife -- his wife -- and Mordred was trespassing on her pain, but he could not just leave. He should have never come to Whispering Cliffs, he knew this, but he couldn't leave.

"Please let me help." She looked up at him and her desolate beauty struck him like a blow. He looked away, knew she would soon tell him to get out, and knew he should leave. He couldn't.

A small hand squeezed his shoulder as the wet rag, now warm, touched his hands. "Stay with him." Ania smiled.

Mordred knew he could not be so brave. His fingers closed around the cloth just as his soul clutched at the hope he saw in the woman's face. He saw pain, too, a pain that called to the craftsman in him to fix. She patted him on the shoulder and stepped from the bedroom. Moments later he heard her working at the small stove in the other room. Mordred went to the water basin, soaked the cloth, and returned to Dmitri's side.