The Return - 7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Mordred sat up. “Dmitri!” He spun in alarm, eyes taking in the hot, still body beside him. Blinking and fisting his eyes, Mordred stared and stared. Gradually, the golden eyes and pleading face in his dream faded to be replaced by the real thing. He reached over to smooth the back of his hand over one fevered cheek.

Then he pulled back, considering. Had he dreamed? It had felt so real! Part of him wanted to peel back an eyelid to check that Dmitri’s eyes were brown and not the fiery bronze color that Mordred had seen staring back at him. In his dream, the face those eyes had belonged to had been pale and tightlipped in pain, just like the Dmitri he knew.

With a sigh, Mordred rose to brave the dilapidated privy. When he came back, he set the wine-soaked bandages to dry and prepared one of Gavin’s evil teas. He carried all back into the little bedroom and when they were finished, Dmitri lay calm and trembling in the bed, exhausted, but awake. The bandages on his chest steamed, and Mordred just barely restrained himself from poking them. He pressed a cup to Dmitri’s mouth, letting him take a swallow of wine to rinse his mouth. With reluctance, Mordred decided to stay in the dead town a day or two so that Dmitri could regain his strength.

“Eat,” he urged, satisfied when Dmitri obediently opened his mouth to accept the spoon. Mordred smiled.

Dmitri’s hand came off the bed and Mordred rearranged bowl and spoon for easier access, but Dmitri didn’t reach for the food. The strain to lift his arm was as clear as the intent. Mordred leaned closer, nearly shivering at the gentle touch to his lips. Strong, callused fingers traced the outline of a smile.

The pain-filled, drained brown eyes sharpened somehow. They rewarded Mordred with a glint of darker gold even as Dmitri’s breath caught. Mordred did it again. He watched for the returning flicker and was not disappointed.

Dmitri, however, turned paler beneath his fever and snatched back his hand so fast he nearly smacked himself. That was the face Mordred had seen in his dream: desperate and begging, at least until Dmitri turned his face away. Mordred could feel him trembling, but let him hide, at least long enough to scoop up more boiled grain into the spoon.

“Eat,” Mordred insisted. He grinned at Dmitri’s pained look. “The quicker you eat, the quicker you’ll get better, and then you can cook.” He chuckled as Dmitri rolled his eyes.

*   *   *

Tai watched the two men carefully, but they kept to themselves. Only the blue-haired one went outside. He was a tall man with a face at least as suspicious as she. He carried a sword like he knew how to use it, however ignorant he was with horses. There was something strange about the two men; Tai couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew there was something.

Of course, Tai wouldn’t go so far as to say she was exactly normal … But she would take a toss of the dice as to who was weirder than whom.

There were not many ghosts in this freaky town, and so much the better. Tai would wager that there were even fewer ghosts further south. She supposed she even knew why. The Sacred Mountain remained a beacon, beckoning the souls of the dead. The dead greatly outnumbered the living in her home hown; after all, that had been why she’d left.

To make matters worse, the ghost girl was back.

Tai first saw the ghost girl in the tavern on the night of the spring equinox. She’d looked up, bleary-eyed from her fourth thick ale, and stared at the little girl in confusion. Why was a kid at a bar so late? And then something else struck Tai. This little girl seemed very familiar somehow, but her foggy brain did not at first make the connection.

The girl gazed back at Tai, with rather a disdainful stare, as if to reproach Tai for being drunk, or for even being in a bar to begin with. Tai just gave the girl a furious scowl and took another swig. When she looked back, the girl was gone.

Serves her right, thought Tai, and proceeded to get even more drunk.

Towards dawn, Tai staggered out of the tiny cottage she called home and, halfway to the privy, decided that the damn thing was just too far. She stopped and emptied her stomach into the grass. She lay there when she was done, too far gone to stagger back inside, so she was still there when the sun warmed her a few hours later, waking her. She didn't remember much from that dream. Maybe she would have tried harder to piece together the images, but she couldn't have known that those dreams were only the beginning. There was really only one thing that stuck with her that day, a handful of gloomy words: "I was only twenty-one when I died."

Working her shift at the tavern that night, Tai had felt unusually jumpy. She kept spilling drinks and stumbling over chairs, constantly looking over her shoulder for something unseen. The bartender sent her home early and Tai was too unnerved to ask why, or to even collect her customary pint, earning her a concerned look that she was too preoccupied to notice.

On her way home that night, she encountered the ghost girl again, only a glimpse, but enough to make the connection. That little girl was a younger version of Tai herself, as she might have looked without plague scars and without the drawn, pinched features of a woman who neither eats nor sleeps enough. Tai ran the rest of the way home, as if she could outrun the spirit that trailed her.

The first time Tai had seen ghosts, she'd been seven years old, wracked by plague-fever, convinced that she was about to die because she'd looked up and seen her own face reflected back at her. She'd screamed then, and she screamed now: "Leave me alone!"

Go, talk to him, said the ghost girl. She looked frustrated, but that was her normal expression. Tai had even told her that her face would freeze that way, but she hadn’t listened. She never did.

“No. Go away.”

The ghost girl only huffed, crossing her arms and sulking. Tai ignored her. She’d long since outgrown staring at the ghost to study how her own face would look like under various expressions. Damn ghost.

The front door of the house Tai watched swung open. The sick man stepped outside, with the blue-haired man right beside him. They both carried bags. Tai sat up straighter. So, they were moving, were they? Scurrying from her vantage point, Tai raced for her own pack and the scrawny horse tethered nearby. What she wouldn’t give for one of those horses!

The men set a good pace for all that the second man looked barely able to ride. Luckily, Tai didn’t want to catch up or pass them; she hadn’t agreed to that. Keeping the ghosts from poisoning her dreams was one thing; being compliant to all their demands was something else entirely. Tais still remembered watching her ghostly stalker die over and over and over again night after night. Nope. Didn’t need that again.

“Leave me alone!” snapped Tai, making a chopping gesture at the ghost hovering by her ear. “I’m doing it, aren’t I? I said I would!”

The ghost girl muttered something but Tai batted her away. She’d agreed to go where those two men were going, but she hadn’t specified when or how. The last person she’d gotten close to had called her a quack and tried to kill her. Tai wasn’t in any hurry to repeat that experience. Those two were strange enough, and suspicious, too. Just look at all the times the blue-haired one looked over his shoulder! It was as if he was paranoid or something.

They stopped and made camp early, much to the relief of Tai and her half-dead mount. Her camp was a cold one after the luxury of an actual bed and stove and other comforts she’d enjoyed back at the abandoned town. She sat on the ground and watched the thin trail of smoke from the men’s campfire until the wispy, gray strands vanished into the deepening dusk.

Tonight Tai was awakened not by her own nightmares, but to the sound of someone else’s screams. They drifted like phantoms on the wind, sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but always piercing. They reminded her of home and how the wind could whistle down the mountain, twisting about in the ruins haunting the forest until no one dared venture outside.

Tai shuddered in mingled sympathy and horror. She didn’t sleep.

The ghosts were silent and staying out of sight come morning. She didn’t need their prompting to follow the men’s train off the road to their campsite. When she looked over the smooth ground and saw blood, her curiosity grew even stronger. The ghost girl looked frightened, barely visible peering through the tall grass and bushes lining the stream. Tai could imagine the sick man attacking the other man, but not the other way around. The taller man would have to be real scum to harm his weaker companion, but, were that not the case, why continue to tolerate someone plague-addled?

Despite her fascination, Tai kept her distance as the long days passed. She listened for the faint echoes of screams and daydreamed about a life free from ghosts, like the lives she’d seen trying to escape her own.

*   *   *

The stream dogging the western road had pooled in a depression between two hills and Mordred called a halt. He stared out at the thick carpet of varicolored flowers and smiled.

As Dmitri slid slowly and painfully down from his horse, he asked, “You know we’re being followed, right?”

“Yes.”

Dmitri stared at Mordred, who only shrugged.

“She’s not doing any harm, from how I see it. She’ll go away eventually. Besides, she’s crazy.”

“What are you doing now?” Dmitri called, seeing Mordred striding off into the waist-high grass. There hadn’t been any nightmares for a few nights; anticipating one made Dmitri anxious and he didn’t want Mordred out of his sight. He frowned nervously, eyes scanning the peaceful, empty terrain, but he saw nothing, heard only the gentle shushing of the wind among the grass stalks.

Getting no reply, Dmitri busied himself setting up camp. He had to take frequent breaks, frustrated with his body’s weakness. Pushing himself far too often ended in a fainting spell and then Mordred would hover. One of the down sides of traveling was that there wasn’t much to do once they were stopped and camp arranged, so there was no need to hurry.

Dmitri cleared and dug a shallow pit for the fire, building up the edges to line with stones. Dry dung smelled, but it burned warmly enough and Dmitri set about prepping a stew from the last of their vegetables. Hopefully Mordred would come back with a couple game birds, or a rabbit. The meat would thicken the stew. Just thinking about it made Dmitri’s mouth water.

With the last of his chores complete, all Dmitri could do was wait. Mordred returned as the sun began to dip below the horizon. Glancing up from the random squiggles he’d been drawing in the dirt, Dmitri stared. Mordred’s hair was wet, and a vivid orange-red color. Dmitri automatically accepted the brace of rabbits Mordred handed him. Gratitude for the animals already being butchered helped Dmitri regain his composure. He shook himself and got to work adding the meat to their dinner. He’d cook the rest to carry with them the next day.

“What?” Dmitri asked sharply. Mordred’s stares still had the power to make Dmitri extremely uncomfortable. And warm. He ducked his head, certain now that Mordred would laugh at his blush.

“Dmitri.”

He shivered but kept his eyes on his cooking. From the corner of his eyes he watched Mordred come closer. Desperate to keep some distance between then, he seized on the first thing to pop into his head: “How do you do that, anyway?”

“Do what?” Mordred flopped onto the ground and plucked a long stalk of grass to twirl between his hands.

Dmitri’s skin prickled and his mouth went dry. Having Mordred near made him clumsy. “To, uh, get your hair … like that.” He stole a sideways glance and his eyes met Mordred’s.

Dmitri had once thought Mordred if not cold, expressionless, but there was no mistaking the flirtatious grin sent his way now. He blushed and dropped his eyes, stirring the stew seriously in order to look busy, as if he hadn’t just been caught staring. He had to get his body under control! Why did Mordred affect him this way? From the first searching look it was as if all other experiences in his life disappeared. All he wanted was more, and wasn’t that a damned fool thing to think?

"Sediment powder,” Mordred was saying. “With the oils of various plants to get it the right color. Like these.” He held up a handful of flower petals, reaching into his saddlebags for mortar and pestle.

Dmitri grunted, but he allowed himself to be distracted from the food by watching Mordred grind up the flowers. He added what looked like dirt, a little water, a few more flowers, more dirt, some more water, and the process continued. It seemed like a lot of work.

“I swear my wife wasn’t so vain as you,” he said, shaking his head. Mordred started to look alarmed, so he quickly added, “It’s a joke, Mordred. I was teasing you.”

He stared back at Dmitri. “Joke,” he repeated, rolling it around in his mouth as if he’d never heard the word before.

“Yes,” said Dmitri. “Like all those times you came into my shop to ‘buy rolls.’”

“I like your rolls.”

Dmitri blushed in mixed pleasure and embarrassment. Was Mordred implying something? Or had he misread? Had Mordred really not been interested in anything more than food? And why did that thought hurt?

“Well, I -- but, you …” With a sigh, he gave up, keeping one eye on their dinner until Mordred finished what he was doing. Together, they walked down closer to the water.

Dmitri told himself to quit, but he couldn’t stop blushing and trembling as he undressed to his waist, submitting to Mordred’s care. There was no need for conversation; they both knew the routine well after so many days on the road. Only thing was every stray or accidental touch set Dmitri’s skin on fire. The breeze only made the temperature difference more pronounced. Dmitri bit his lip.

Mordred said nothing and his touch stayed impersonal, leaving Dmitri more confused than ever.

Something had to be done to break this stalemate, but what? The whole idea was terrifying. Men just didn’t … with other men. Sure, it happened, but no one talked about it in anything but a hushed whisper or gossip. Certainly it was never supposed to be seen, but somehow Dmitri didn’t believe Mordred knew those hidden rules. Or, if he did, he wouldn’t care. There was an element of thrill about freedom from society’s expectations; Dmitri could admire that. In other people. This was his life. What could he do?

He was no closer to an answer when they settled in for the night. The tension was almost unbearable, and yet nothing had changed.

Dmitri lay awake long into the night. When he could stand it no longer, he got up to take a walk, absently assuring Mordred that he was just fine. If he was grumpy, well, that was Mordred’s fault for keeping him awake, wasn’t it?

He walked down to the lake and started picking his way along the shore. The moon shone brightly overhead, but Dmitri barely noticed. He had naturally good night vision; it never occurred to him to grab a brand from the fire or stick closer to camp.

He shivered as the breeze shifted, blowing in from across the lake. This country, he mused, was very warm in the daytime, just like at home, but the temperature dropped once the sun went down, much cooler than he was used to.

Fog? Dmitri’s eyes darted to the lake. He stopped at the sight of thick, milky-white clouds hiding the moon’s reflection and marching in his direction. Chills raced up and down Dmitri's spine. He began to wish he had some sort of weapon, almost choking on that thought. What am Igoing to do with a weapon?

Shivering in earnest now, Dmitri began to edge back towards camp. Soon he was running, stumbling, surrounded by the sticky fog. Then he tripped, fell, and when he looked up, the face of his nightmares loomed above, fangs glistening, smoke billowing like the mist, eyes blazing, and claws -- claws reaching, slashing, rending --

With a yell, Dmitri threw himself sideways and rolled. The claws came after, gouging deep trenches in the soft dirt. He ran, dodged and jumped, this time in the opposite direction of camp. He could feel the monster's hot breath behind him and threw himself down on the ground again as the monster took another swipe at him, but he went down hard and didn't move again as quickly.

Almost leisurely, the great beast used one of its huge paws to pin him down. It bent its neck to look down at him, the fangs dripping as it stretched its jaw into a hideous grin. The ground sizzled where its drool landed. Dmitri yelled as some hit him and redoubled his efforts to get loose. But the monster only laughed and displayed the claws on its other paw.

The shaking got worse and now the monster seemed to be saying his name. It bent down towards him, closer now, its teeth bigger than Dmitri's head. He breathed in its awful breath, rolling over and retching. Suddenly, the pressure on his legs was gone and he could move. Looking up, he stared into Mordred's worried eyes.

"Dmitri?"

Dmitri looked around wildly, searching for that dragon. "Wh -- what -- what happened?"

Mordred raised a single eyebrow and said, “You’re bleeding."

Self-consciously, Dmitri put a hand to his stomach. His fingers came away wet with blood. Still riding the last dregs of horror, with wide eyes he stared at Mordred. "This was my last shirt," he whispered.

~ TBC ~