Hubris: Pilgrimage - 12. Twelve

The early morning hours turned into mid-afternoon, mid afternoon turned into the early hours of evening and still Barghast had not returned from his venture in the woods.

The people of Timberford gathered outside the grave of Clias. Around noon a half a dozen men and women formed a square in the field with shovels to dig a grave. Crowe watched while a worm of anxiety gnawed at his belly. Cenya led the parade, standing at the front of the crowd. She wore a splendid dress made of fine white silk. Her hobble did not take away from the looks and words of admiration thrown her way. She had been here long before they’d been born and if fate permitted she would be here long after their bones turned to dust. Torches were set in the ground and lit in respect of the dead.

Rake and a group of five other men carried the body out of the tavern on their shoulders; the body had been wrapped in quilts cinched together with a hank of rope. The image pulled at Crowe, transporting him to the day he’d buried Petras. The smell of snow, dust, and soil. The smell of fire, the smell of smoke. Once the body was laid in its grave, the villagers huddled together in a singular show of grief. Mothers and daughters wept in each other's embrace, getting dirt on their skirts. A loneliness so great it made it impossible to breathe swelled in Crowe's heart. Never before had he seen such a show of camaraderie. These people had suffered greatly and drawn closer because of it, forming a family that took care of its own. He didn't have a family or a village to care for him; he’d never had. The one person who seemed to care for him had still not returned - had not kept his promise.

Night would be here within the hour.

Feeling like a voyeur, Crowe broke away from the funeral. He thought he heard Rake call his name but his blood was singing too loud in his ears to be sure and whatever it was he had to say, the practitioner didn't want to hear it. His breath came out in panicked flutters. His hands clenched and unclenched. The rational voice that told him Barghast would return before full dark - and even if he didn't he was more than capable of taking care of himself for the night - folded under the pressure of his terror. In his mind he imagined walking along the Dominion Highway to find Barghast's still body; or maybe he would come down from the temple tonight and beg Crowe to step outside.

Or maybe like Bennett he had his fill of you and left…

Like the crack of a pistol signaling the start of a race, the thought sent Crowe into a frenzy. He broke into a sprint through the trees, heading in the direction of the stream. It was the first place he could think of to look. Branches clawed at his robes, snagged at his hair, clawed at his face. A root grabbed a hold of his foot, sent him flying to the ground. He picked himself up. Never mind his scraped palms and knees. Never mind the iron taste of blood in his mouth. The fear of abandonment eclipsed pain, eclipsed reason. That fear broke out of him in a hoarse scream when he reached the stream and did not find Barghast standing on its banks.

“Barghast!” he screamed. “Barghast, where in the Void are you?” He screamed until the cords in his throat stood out.

The crack of a twig broke the spell. He jumped, his flesh tingling. He stopped, standing stock still. Wide blue eyes searched the trees for movement. He reached for his staff only to feel empty air. His heart convulsed in his chest - he must have left it back at the tavern. He was alone in the woods and night was rapidly falling. If he ran now he had just enough time to make it back to the tavern. If I make it back at all. A sob worked its way up his throat. Tears of defeat seared his eyes. He wanted to fold in on himself, let fate have its way with him.

“Twin o’rre?”

Crowe gasped. It wasn't until he lifted his face from the cups of his hands that he realized he was huddled on the ground. A familiar silhouette approached him from the east, carrying the carcass of an elk.

The practitioner rose to his feet. Fear changed rapidly from relief to anger within the blink of an eye. Helpless directionless anger. “It took you this long to hunt a fucking elk?”

“Twin o’rre?” Barghast frowned in confusion. How innocent he looked, oblivious.

“Don't you twin o’rre me!” the practitioner snapped. “We have to get back to the village. Let's go!”

By the time they made it back to Timberford the villagers were gathered back in the tavern. In spite of the coming of night Crowe smelled open caskets of mead when they stepped inside. The villagers rejoiced when they saw the elk. Barghast flashed his stupid canine grin at them as he set the carcass on the table, but his eyes remained fixed on Crowe as if to say, Look what I did, I can be friendly to others. The dopey grin dropped when Crowe glared spitefully back. The shoulders drooped. He approached the practitioner while the villagers oohed and ahhed over the meat they would feast on in the morning, looking chastened.

“Crowe,” he said, his ears drooping back against his head. He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.

The sorcerer released a breath he didn't know he’d been holding. “It's not you who should be apologizing, it’s me. You did nothing wrong. I…I panicked. You did cut it awfully close. I said I trusted you. I sure have a way of showing it, don't I?”

In response Barghast took his hand. He led the practitioner to a clear corner of the room. He sat down before pulling Crowe into his lap. Before the practitioner could protest, strong arms enclosed him, pressing him against Barghast's chest until their hearts beat against one another's. All Crowe could do was turn his head. Let go. Embrace it. He’s trying to apologize to you even though he's done nothing wrong. Crowe let his head rest in the space between Barghast's shoulders and cheek. Barghast released a sigh of contentment. He fur smelled strongly of male musk and the wild. It made Crowe think of the days during his younger years when Bennett and he would cavort through the woods behind Crowe’s house, climbing trees and being rowdy.

After a moment Barghast sniffed. He turned Crowe’s hand over, exposing the scrapes to the low light. His eyes darkened from amber to copper. “Twin o’rre,” he rumbled mournfully.

“Hey.” Crowe scratched the Okanavian’s chin fluff, earning himself a growl of pleasure and a tail wag. “It’s not that bad. It's just a few scrapes.”

Barghast lowered his muzzle to the practitioner's palm. He let out a sigh of contentment. He examined Crowe’s hand. A second later his jaw stretched open so the practitioner could stare back into the tunnel of his throat. The needlepoints of his teeth caught the dim light of the tavern. Crowe felt oddly calm when the lycan’s maw closed around his hand all the way to his wrist. A thrill of pleasure went up his spine when the sandy tip of Barghast tongue passed over his flesh.

The sound of drunken laughter and the jingle of a piano faded into the background. Crowe could focus only on the Okanavian and nothing else; they were alone again. Just the way it should be, a secret little voice said in his mind. The lycan covered his hand with warm saliva until the flesh glistened. For several minutes his tongue worked at the wounds, his face fixed in that peculiar expression of rapture that both frightened Crowe and excited him.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into an hour. When Rake came over with two tankards he found them sitting shoulder to shoulder in the corner. He held up the two steins. He grinned at Crowe. “Convey to your lycan friend we are grateful for the meat. We’ll have it prepped and ready to be smoked by morning. Tomorrow Cenya and I won't be able to enjoy any of it.”

The practitioner frowned. “Why is that?”

Rake's smile fell. “We’re going with you and Tannhaus to the temple.”

Crowe blinked in surprise. “Are you sure? It will be dangerous. We won't know what to expect and I don't know if we can trust Tannhaus.”

“You're right,” Rake agreed. “It will be dangerous. I'm not even sure if Cenya can make the journey. Even if we leave here during the first hours of morning it will take us most of the day to get there. We’ll probably end up camping in a cave for the night just to be safe and then finish the rest of the journey in the morning. You don't look happy…”

Crowe rose reluctantly to his feet. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. This is your town. You’ve lived here your whole life and you’ve survived this curse for weeks. If you and Cenya decide to go, I won't stop you, but I can't guarantee either of yours safety.”

The man nodded in agreement, passing the steins to Crowe. “I’ll relay everything to Cenya. I figured you would like some ale. It tastes like dog piss but it will get you drunk.” He gave them a final respectful nod before backing away. Barghast sniffed his drink cautiously. He snorted, sneezing violently. Crowe giggled in spite of himself. He took a sip of the mead. Rake was right, the mead did taste like dog piss, but he would need every drop of it if he was going to get sleep tonight. He raised his glass towards Barghast. He clinked their steins together. “To Barghast,” he said.

This earned him a toothy grin. Barghast said the only common word he knew. “Crowe.”

They watched each other over the brims of their cups as they drank.

                                  …

“You can't do this.” Tannhaus shook his head in denial. His eyes bugged out of their sockets. “You can't make me go back to that…that place!”

“You were all too eager to go there the first time,” Rake said without sympathy.

“That was before we knew what was there!” the scientist protested.

“Which you can't claim to remember due to a convenient case of memory loss…”

“What difference does it make what I can and can't remember?”

“Enough!” Crowe’s voice rang through the room, wringing silence from the chaos. Five pairs of eyes turned to face him. The room felt tiny with five bodies crammed into its narrow space. He glared at Tannhaus. “You're right, we can't make you go.” Rake made a sputtering sound; the practitioner cut him off with a glare before returning his attention back to the scientist. “You should want to go because it's the right thing to do. After all, you and your team are the catalyst that caused this nightmare to begin with and you know far more about the temple than we do.”

“This isn't right.” Tannhaus hunched in on himself as if he wanted the mattress to swallow him whole.

“Stay if that is your choice.” This time there was nothing gentle in Cenya's voice. “I have left instructions in our absence just in case. You will be allowed to stay in this room until nightfall. At morning’s first light you will be asked to leave this town and never return again. You will not be given provisions for your journey. You will be entirely on your own.”

“No provisions?” Tannhaus' cheeks burned with indignant fury. “There's not another settlement for miles! We’re in a war for Elysia's sake! How can you expect me to survive out there on your own?”

“You won't survive out there on your own,” the practitioner agreed. “Which is why it's better you come with us, because then you won't be alone.”

The scientist scoffed. “You're the herald of Monad. What do you need me for?”

Crowe turned away. He wasn't going to answer the same question twice. In the end Tannhaus was coaxed from his bed and into a fresh set of clothes. While he still remained painfully thin, many of the bruises and cuts had vanished. While he was naturally pale, color had returned to his cheeks. He was healthy enough to walk. He was certainly more capable of walking than Cenya. Expressing his concerns to Rake had not changed her mind from going.

They packed what limited provisions they had into duffel bags: salted pork, crackers, oil and a lantern, blankets and an extra layer of clothes. Crowe, Barghast, and Rake waited with a cowed Tannhaus outside the tavern while Cenya gathered the rest of their things.

“I know there's Eben and he's watching over everything while you're gone, but are he and Cenya the only practitioner's here?” Crowe asked.

“There used to be a few more,” Rake replied. “But they left Timberford for Caemyth when Drajen gave the order for the Theocracy to burn every known practitioner to ash.”

Crowe tried to suppress a shiver and failed. Our people have been pushed to the brink of extinction. Pope Drajen plans to wring all the mana out of the world.

The door to the tavern swung open with a clatter. Cenya hobbled out with her staff in hand, a bag slung over her shoulder. She moved towards the well with a determined look screwed on her face. Tannhaus walked with his shoulders hunched and his head lowered as if he was afraid someone would start beating him at any second; Rake watched him as if he'd like to do just that. Word of Crowe's journey had spread through the village of Timberford overnight. Now the villagers gathered around the well to send them off. Men, women, and children of all ages gathered around the mother of Timberford, paying their respects. Cenya smiled graciously and kissed cheeks.

Watching from a distance, Crowe felt hands seize him by the robes. Blinking in surprise, the practitioner found himself looking into the reddened eyes of Clementine, the woman who had almost given herself to the night in the name of her husband. “Please,” she hissed. She leaned in so close he could smell the stale sweat wafting off her body. He resisted the urge to extricate himself. “You helped the scientist. You saved his soul when he didn't deserve it; when he's the one who caused all this.” From a seated position on the edge of the well, Tannhaus raised his head to glare at the woman through the tangle of his hair. “You can help my husband,” the woman continued to plead with Crowe. “You can cure him. You can cure them all. You can end this curse with your blood…”

Crowe opened his mouth to speak but words did not come out. The words, There’s not enough of me to go around, weighed heavy on his tongue. Clementine's body vibrated with a raw desperation that made him think back to the shadowed days with Petras when the panic attacks would descend over him like a monsoon. Before he could warn her to step back, a massive paw seized him by the front of his robes and ushered him back several steps as if the woman was the ultimate threat. Barghast towered over her, a silhouette of power and vitality. His teeth were clenched in a snarl, his fur standing on edge, his broad chest puffed out. Clementine scrambled back with a cry. She tripped over her dress twice in her haste to get away. Crowe didn't know if he wanted to scold the lycan or thank him.

Barghast made a lowing sound, his shoulders sagging in resignation. He shot a darting glance at Crowe. The childish look of reproach from someone who could tear him apart with his bare hands made the practitioner chuckle in amusement. Monad, what have you sent me? Barghast faced the trees, turning his back to the practitioner. He looked like a child who had been told to stand in the corner and face the wall. Crowe drifted slowly behind him until he stood within reaching distance. Above the ridge of Barghast's shoulder blade he spotted a six inch scar that parted the lycan's flesh like lightning. Just when Crowe thought he had discovered all of Barghast's scars, a new one presented itself, revealing a past narrative of strife. What was your life like before you joined me? Did you have a family? Who did you leave behind so you could travel with me?

Butterflies fluttered in Crowe's stomach. He gulped. He rested a hand on Barghast's shoulder, running his fingers over the calligraphy of scars. I’d make them all go away if I could. He felt something unclench in the Okanavian beneath his touch. “I know you're tired of this place,” he heard himself say in a tense voice. “I am too. As soon as we defeat the evil in the temple we will leave this place.” Even now he could feel the lycan watching him from the corner of his eye, listening.

He listens to you even though he can't understand you because he cares what you have to say, Bennett said. The thought made the practitioner blush. His hand fell away from Barghast's shoulder.

At last the group was ready to begin the hike to the temple.