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enchanted-prose · 4 years

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#15 Friar’s Lantern

number fifteen: burger king foot lettuce

yay! 200th post!

Word count: 5,705

Characters: Roden, Regar (Original character), the Faola (original character), Ulspierre (stinky peter pan boy, original character), Merry (original character)

Notes: my beta and ffnet readers loved this chapter and i loved writing it :,)

Enjoy!

The constant drumming of horse hooves was enough of a warning; everyone cleared the streets at the sight of the king’s soldiers marching to lower Drylliad.

Jaron had survived worse than a kick to the leg, and he would survive this attack. Even if the Faola hadn’t intended to kill him, any attempt on the king’s life was considered an act of treason. It was Roden’s calling to see that the perpetrator was captured.

Doors rattled shut. Roden pulled his helmet visor over his eyes; the buildings were becoming less structured, and the alleys were crammed with people trying to stay out of the law’s way.

He didn’t blame the urchins quaking in fear.

Carthyan knights were a fearful sight.

“Lord Thomas Row dispatched members of his army,” said Lieutenant Alistair, his voice muffled by his helmet. “His orders were to sweep the city looking for Regar, just in case we fail to find him.”

Roden shook his head, “I know where Regar will be.”

He’d fought the Faola before, only to turn around and fight with the Faola deep in the Vaults. Roden was sure that he’d find Regar there. The Vaults made for an easy escape, and an easy trap if used correctly.

The Vaults was the Faola’s domain.

Drops of dark liquid stained the cobblestones, and pieces of rotting food had been thrown about. A cart lay on its side. Windows were shut against the cool, twilight air.

“Stay on your guard!” Roden barked as he dismounted.

No matter how many times he wore his full suit of armor, he’d never get used to the jarring sound his boots made when they hit stone.

It was even worse when followed by twelve other pairs of armored knights repeating the same motion.

The entrance to the Vaults gaped at him, eerily similar to how the gates to the Devils’ lair were painted. No messages were hammered to the wooden posts beside the door-less hallway. No words begging for the weary traveler to turn back and find shelter in a safer place.

Stairs descended into hazy blackness, and for a moment, Roden swore he saw movement. He’d been surrounded with night-dark rain the last time he’d come to the Vaults. It was strange to return with a band of his men and a series of torches.

Though there were no messages of certain death, there was a chipped saber discarded a few steps down.

With a wave of his hand, a pair of men rushed forwards, carrying torches larger than a man’s head. There were signs of a recent struggle; bloody trails left by clawing fingers, a series of dusty footprints.

Roden held up his fist as he descended into the first level of the Vaults.

“Captain,” called one of the torch bearers. “We won’t be alone.”

And he was right. The light from the torches were met with the bright beams from mining lamps. Whispers hissed through the air, growing louder and louder with each comment.

“Keep the torches,” Roden ordered. “Use them as weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”

The first room was packed with men and women, both masked and unmasked. They lounged in corners and hung from beams. The Faola were too relaxed. Barrels lined the far wall, and mining lamps hung from hooks in the ceiling. Stagnant puddles glimmered. A large man was wrestling a patched bandit. He was speaking in tones too soft to be heard.

Roden was the first to step into the room, he kept his sword extended.

A handful of Faola burst into motion, shoving themselves into a circle in the middle of the room. The others jumped to their feet, swords and daggers drawn. A figure swung down from the ceiling.

He recognized a boy with flaming red hair.

“We understand that there’s been a, ah, situation,” said the boy. He bowed. “We have no quarrel with you, captain, we’re simply peacefully gathering.”

“State your name and business,” Roden countered, stepping aside to let his fellow knights flood the chamber.

“Ulspierre, and my friends and I are here to stage an intervention for a mutual friend. You’re a decent man, Captain Harlowe. My sister speaks highly of you.”

“Cut it with the words, Ulspierre. This goes beyond you.”

Sister. Roden scowled, there’d been a few sisters in the past.

Red hair, hanging around the Vaults. Participating with the Faola.

Ah, Ulspierre was Ayvar’s brother.

A drop of water hit the stone floor, and several more Faola prepared for a fight. Roden tipped his visor up, staring Ulspierre down. It was a simple exchange, a fugitive for peace. Roden wanted the Faola who attacked Jaron, Ulspierre probably didn’t want to die.

It would’ve been easy if Ulspierre gave the Faola up.

“There was an attack on the king,” Roden boomed, taking pride as a few of the Faola flinched. “We know the culprit, and we know he’s involved with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ulspierre scratched the back of his head.

“I didn’t come to-!”

“-Play games, I know. Quite rare, people typically come here to do just that. I know me an’ my Faola friends did.”

Roden kept a firm grip on his temper. There were more of the Faola than his knights, and he didn’t want to cause unnecessary endangerment. Ulspierre wanted to be recognized for helping catch Jaron’s attacker, he’d back down once he got what he wanted.

Or at least that’s what Roden hoped would happen.

A few more of the Faola jumped to a fighting stance, only to be met with the sounds of drawing swords. Ulspierre yawned, and sauntered over to one of the barrels. He spun around, revealing a plain chalice, and pried off a barrel lid. Roden grunted. The Faola hadn't moved, and neither had his soldiers. Ulspierre dipped the chalice in the barrel after he'd filled it with amber liquid.

The front room had been converted during the short time Roden had been away. There were shelves with boxes, shelves with bottles.

Though there weren't nearly as many Faola as he'd seen during the first attack on Feall, there was enough to make up a substantial gang. Roden wondered just how much he'd missed in ignoring the Faola's movements.

"Hand over the Faola," Roden ordered again. "I know you have him."

The sheer lack of respect Ulspierre demonstrated in sipping from his chalice plucked at Roden's fragile grip on his temper. Ulspierre shook his head, "Captain, dear captain, this is about networking. Have you heard the term 'pick your battles'? I'd be surprised if you didn't, you seem like the man who needs that tattooed on his arm."

There was only one mark on Roden's arm that served as a reminder of something.

It still stung him at times.

He said nothing as Ulspierre took another drink. The Faola in the middle shifted; somebody's foot hit somebody else's leg, and the harsh sound of a fist hitting a face cracked through the room.

"I'm not an idiot, Ulspierre," Roden explained. "I'd rather not get my boots stained with blood."

"What a coincidence! Neither would I!"

However, he made no move to give up the Faola.

Roden's gaze flicked about the chamber, compiling as many details as he could. There was a large figure in the middle of the Faola. Each of the barrels were scuffed, as if they'd been moved recently. More than half of the Faola had been caught without their masks on.

Perhaps they truly hadn't been planning on a rogue gang member attacking the king.

Somebody shifted, and every blade started at the sound. A fight was brewing in the air.

It would need to be stopped before it began.

"Tell me-," Roden began again.

"Listen to me!" Ulspierre burst, tossing the chalice aside. "It is the same as it was before! We didn't give names before, we don't know who attacked your king. I do know that he's gotten my sister thrown into a tower, and he's almost gotten us killed by you. Right now."

"Give me the attacker!"

Ulspierre drew a short, crooked blade, "Release us and my sister! We take from those who have too much! We never intended to kill anyone!"

Too many times had he lost his temper and taken it out during a sparring session. But this was different, it wasn't a sparring session.

This would soon expand into a matter of life or death.

Roden had too many plans to die at the hand of a bandit.

He could try once again. He could try to mend things before blood spilled. "You won't be touched if you comply, Ulspierre, I promise you that. We’ll forgive your involvement in the attack.”

“Not true,” Ulspierre shrugged. “We had no idea about any attack, your king is good to us, we have no reason to kill him. We’ve been here shuffling barrels all afternoon.”

“Then tell me where your friend is, Ulspierre, and we won’t have any trouble.”

“See, my friend isn’t exactly my responsibility at the moment, he belongs to somebody else.”

“He’s not exactly your friend then, isn’t he?” Roden countered, taking a step towards Ulspierre and the circle of Faola.

Ulspierre’s gloved hands shot up, “It’s my life, sir knight, my choices.”

“No, not just your life. The king was attacked and if you won’t tell me where your patched acquaintance is-,”

The room went completely silent as Roden lunged forward, his blade less than an inch from Ulspierre’s neck.

“-I will have everyone in this room arrested on charges of high treason.”

He was close enough to Ulspierre to see the fear leaping from his eyes. Ulspierre cleared his throat, “Commander! Somebody would like to discuss your methods?”

Roden took a step back as the circle of Faola dispersed, revealing a scarlet haired bull of a man holding a patched Faola by the neck. The Faola weakly slapped at Regar’s grip before going limp.

Commander Regar nodded his head, “I appreciate that King Jaron sent help.”

“Seems you handled the situation on your own,” Roden lowered his sword to keep his arm from tiring, but took care to keep it in view.

He knew he should’ve been relieved that Regar was safe, but a nagging at the back of his mind couldn’t let him accept that this was right. Roden could justify leaving the Faola alone by claiming he couldn’t see them while they redistributed stolen wealth.

But to ignore an attack on the king was too much.

As Roden grew more involved with the Faola, he was realizing that there was an entire rogue kingdom under his nose.

“The attack was much more, ah, personal than you’d expect. My apologies.”

Personal? He didn’t mean to frown as he considered the weight of Regar’s words. The Faola’s attack was based out of revenge; Regar’s tone confirmed that.

And it seemed that Regar knew much more than he showed.

“This bandit is an enemy to the crown,” Roden explained, gesturing to the head locked Faola. “He will be taken and-“

Regar shook his head, “We do things differently in the streets, sir.”

“An act of treason is-“

“I caught the attacker, who swung a sword at me, and it’s my privilege to decide punishment. The rules are different, here. Had you caught the man first, you’d have the responsibility of choosing his fate. But you didn’t, and as one of the victims, I have a say in how this ends.”

Dozens of glittering bandits’ eyes turned to Roden and his men. He knew they wouldn’t hesitate to slit throats if Regar’s demands were challenged.

“The death penalty requires a unanimous vote,” Roden growled. “A vote from a respectable crowd, not a hoard of thieves.”

The Faola began squirming again at the mention of death, only to receive a hard shake from Regar as warning.

Ulspierre wiped away an imaginary tear, “Patchy here is a friend of mine, I’d hate to see his head severed from his body.”

“I had a completely different punishment in mind,” Regar snapped. He pointed a meaty finger at Roden, “You’re an honorable man, can you respect the ancient law?”

Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, blow for blow.

The knights all looked to Roden; they’d fight to the death if he ordered them to. The Faola all stared, and Regar’s patched prisoner stole a glance.

His eyes carried a graveyard’s color.

Roden stood a little straighter, “I hold rank here. The Faola landed a blow, but the punishment for treason can only be sanctioned by the king.”

“Take the bastard’s mask off,” Ulspierre perched on a barrel. “That would put a fat target on his back.”

Regar threw the patched Faola to the floor, and drew his sword. The other Faola slid into a ring. Each one kept a sharp eye on Roden’s men.

The Faola held his hands over the back of his head, curling up like a child. A pang of almost guilt punched through Roden’s ribs. He remembered being the lost thief at the end of a sword, just hoping somebody had the compassion to bring him to the good path.

He’d watch Regar’s every move.

Treason didn’t merit dying in the Vaults like an animal.

“If you’d be so kind as to step out of the circle, captain,” Regar bowed, and drew a dagger from his belt.

“I’ll be watching, Regar.”

Ulspierre stood on his barrel, chalice in hand again, “Take the mask off, commander! Turn him over to the crown when you’re done!”

The Faola curled even further around himself as Ulspierre’s demands to unmask him grew louder and louder. Roden’s knights kept a firm gaze on as many masked men as they could; Roden never stopped watching Regar.

A fit of laughter erupted from the circle as the Faola made one last attempt to escape. He threw himself at the feet of his fellow bandits, only to be dragged back into the circle.

Roden frowned.

“I am not who they say I am, but I cannot let this grievance pass,” Regar announced, reversing his dagger grip. He took the Faola by the collar of his tunic. “You best be grateful I’m dealing with you, and not the king.”

If it weren’t for Ulspierre’s childish laugh ringing through the room, Roden was certain the judgement would’ve been made in silence. The Faola began jostling Roden’s knights, calling to unmask their fallen friend.

However, Regar had a different plan. His words were lost on the jeering crowd; Roden strained to hear.

His attempts were futile.

A million thoughts crossed Roden’s mind. He instantly regretted allowing Regar to hold that much power over a bandit. A bandit who likely wasn’t much older than some of the pages running around the castle.

It would be too easy for Regar to slit the Faola’s throat.

Something wet splashed Roden’s nose. He didn’t have to feel it to know what it was and who it had been intended for. Those who weren’t wearing their masks had taken to spitting on Regar’s victim.

He didn’t need to see the Faola’s face to know what he felt. The mask saved him from further humiliation.

Regar sliced through both of the Faola’s sleeves, and pushed him to the ground.

It was a simple motion that carried the weight of the sky. Regar hadn’t unmasked the Faola.

He’d separated him from the group.

Those sleeves would forever bear the mark of a disowned bandit. The patched Faola could never return to his family of thieves. Not here in Drylliad.

Exile was always a cruel fate, but it was better than facing charges for treason.

“I’ve taken what’s due,” Regar roared over the crowd. “So help me Saints, I run into you running with bandits again, I’ll-!”

His threat was lost as Ulspierre shouted an order. “Chase him down! Treat a stray the way they’re meant to be treated!”

The Faola struggled to keep his sleeves up as he crawled away from the spitting bandits. Crawling, with the dignity of a drowned mouse. He rolled away from a boot, only to be met with another. A metallic ring cut through the musty air; Regar was shoving several masked bandits. Ulspierre stood atop his barrel, twitching his finger to an imaginary tune.

A knight threw back his hand, knocking over a member of the mob.

Roden glanced back to the fallen Faola, who’d curled up around himself again.

He thought of Brat, Beetle, and Roach. They’d be dead if not for the Faola. It was a favor to somebody who’d once saved his life when faced with the scum of the Vaults.

“Hold the line!” Roden barked, swinging his sword at anything soft as he stepped over the Faola.

A masked bandit slashed a knife across Roden’s armored shoulder. The teeth-grinding sound of metal sliding across metal was becoming all too common. Ulspierre threw his chalice at one of the knights, and then flung himself into the fight.

The patched Faola had drawn a dagger, and was swiping at the mob from his place on the ground. Roden reached down, picked the Faola up by the neck of his tunic, and shoved him in Regar’s direction.

Jaron wouldn’t be happy reading Roden’s report on this misadventure.

He should’ve taken the Faola into custody and played by the rulebook.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Roden forced his way forwards, calling for his men to follow suit. Their armor would hold up long enough for an escape. All they needed to do was race back up the Vaults’ stairs and into daylight; they’d have better reinforcements then.

Regar tossed the Faola over his back, grabbed an attacking bandit with his other hand, and hurled the bandit into the crowd.

“Up the stairs!” Regar bellowed, now using a captured bandit as a human shield.

Planting his feet at the base of the stairs, Roden stared down the fury before him. He shoved armored soldiers up the stairway and kicked at the masked Faola who were trying to follow.

Battle was chaos, but there was still order. There was still a requirement that needed to be met; somebody needed to win.

There was no order in the Vaults, only Ulspierre giving orders between drunken laughs.

It was too much like the pirates. Too much like Devlin selecting who lived and who died because he was bored. Regar ducked below the stairway entrance, allowing the patched Faola to slide down his back like an eel.

Blood thrummed in Roden’s ears, roaring over the sounds of fists hitting faces. His gauntlets pinched his skin as he tightened his grip on his sword.

He had the power to end it. To end the madness in this level of the Vaults.

He could slice his way down, taking as many mad bandits down with him as he could.

Roden braced himself to charge forward, reason fleeing from his mind. It was peaceful without that call to logic. Without that drive to continue.

All he knew was that he had the strength to-

A pair of gloved hands slipped below his breastplate, dragging him back. The Faola continued yanking him up the stairs, yelling something down to him. Roden turned on his heels, took the Faola by his skinny upper arm, and dashed out of the Vaults.

The Faola slapped at Roden’s hands as they burst out of the dark stairway. Knights, soldiers, and mercenaries surrounded the stairway entrance with weapons at the ready. The patched Faola froze.

“Commander Regar, Captain Harlowe,” Lord Row waved his hand. Beside him sat King Oberson, who looked like he was going to be sick.

Regar stole a glance at the Faola, who nodded.

Roden knew he was seeing a secret conversation. He moved to put his sword to the Faola’s throat, but at the same time, Regar stumbled forward and latched onto Roden’s shoulder.

“Let me go!” Roden shouted over the clatter of his armor. He wasn’t a fool, he knew- he-

“Apologies, Captain Harlowe!” Regar burst, almost pulling Roden to the ground as he reached for Roden’s hand.

All he saw were fragments of an image. Regar was a mountain of a man, and he’d dragged down several knights with him. The Faola had been hiding behind him. His patched cloak fluttered in the dusk breeze.

The Faola had vanished into the Vaults by the time Roden regained his footing, likely to never be seen again.

“What in the Devils’ name was that!?” Roden roared, red seeping at the corner of his vision. “How did you let him go!?”

Punishment had been served, yes, but letting go of a man who’d committed treason wasn’t an easy mistake to make up for.

Regar coughed, “Don’t yell at me, boy.”

Boy? Boy?

He’d heard it over and over. Older soldiers claiming they didn’t have to listen to Roden because sometimes he cut himself while shaving. Claiming they’d seen it all.

He’d lost a bandit who’d overpowered the king with a swift kick to the leg.

Roden had failed at protecting Jaron, and though he’d survive, future attackers wouldn’t be so kind.

Unfortunately for Regar, Roden had enough.

“Alistair!” Roden barked, his voice taking a sharp edge. “You will accompany Commander Regar to the dungeons on allegations of treason, his fate will be decided by the king.”

Row looked shocked, “Captain-!”

“You others, escort Lord Row and King Oberson to safety,” Roden continued over Row’s complaints. “There’s a dangerous man looking for blood.”

A group of knights on horses hit their fists over their hearts, and circled around Oberson and Row. Alistair and his men were almost a little too relaxed as they guided Regar through the crowd.

The rest of the soldiers were under strict orders to search for the Faola with torn sleeves.

However, Roden was no fool. He knew the bandit was long gone.

He was tired.

The goose chase would keep him free to find more pleasurable entanglements for a few hours.

Too much responsibility, not enough results.

--------------------------------------------------

The dancing crowd crammed into the Dragon’s Keep was too enticing. People piled in, and the brash sound of pipes and a lute careened through the air. A familiar dark coat pushed into the crowd.

So, Tobias wasn’t able to keep still either.

Roden watched him shove his way through the doors. A part of him knew he needed to stand beside Tobias and keep him from getting his teeth knocked out. A part of him knew he needed to return to the castle and explain how he’d lost the Faola.

But he didn’t move.

His armor, though abandoned at the nearest garrison, still weighed down his arms. Still clung to his shoulders. He’d failed at keeping Jaron safe, and now he was willingly letting Tobias walk into a tavern filled to the brim with all sorts of people.

No, no, Roden couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Tobias try to blend in and end up crying over a limping frog.

There were too many things to worry about. He stepped forward, forcing himself to continue moving despite wanting to stay still. For Tobias, for Tobias.

Can’t let him get his eye blackened. Can’t-

Cool fingers tucked over the lip of his breastplate, freezing against his burning skin. Roden scowled at the immovable figure before him as best as he could. A splash of blue kept her curls off her neck; he’d cut that scarf himself.

“I didn’t realize my biting wit hurt you to the point of staying away from the Dragon’s Keep,” Merry wrinkled her nose. The left side of her face was covered in red welts.

“Merry, I didn’t-,” he began, freezing in his tracks.

She shook her head, and held up a basket, “It’s alright, I was actually coming to see you. You missed out on tarts the last few days. I, ah, I heard about what happened in the Vaults. Regar’s men are loud drunks.”

His ears burned. He hadn’t realized word of his failure escaped that quickly, “Tobias went in, I need to keep an eye on him.”

“Bad idea, you might be prepared for a battle, but Regar’s men won’t play fair,” Merry tucked her basket in the crook of her arm. “Come on, I had every intention of walking across the city, now you get to come with me.”

Her hand pressed against the small of his back.

“Stop pushing, I’m not your ward,” Roden grunted, and he draped his arm over her shoulders.

“Ah, but I am your friend,” she corrected.

Friend.

There was an unspoken agreement Roden shared with Merry. It came in the form of sharing tarts and poorly made scarves. It came in the form of stopping by every few days to make sure the other hadn’t gotten their head stuck between stair railing again.

In reality, the head sticking incident had been completely Merry’s fault, but if it happened once, it was all too likely that it would happen again.

“Who hit you?” asked Roden as he slipped the basket off of Merry’s arm and into his hand.

She cracked a smile, “So my face is still there, glad to hear that.”

Roden frowned, ready to ask again. He steered her out of the path of an older woman and her several escorts. “I’ll hold you down till you tell me.”

“Nobody hit me, I promise.”

“I’m not an idiot, Merry.”

“It’s embarrassing!” She threw her hands up. “I slept in this morning and today’s fish day, and the other barmaids got to run their errands, but I had to get the nasty crawfish from the river. They were trying to escape and I didn’t want them to pinch me, which made me run into a door frame. Is that what you want to know? Do you like embarrassing me?”

“Is the doorframe injured? I know how hard your head is.”

She stuck out her tongue, “I’d rather have a fat head than cabbage curls like you.”

Hold on, hold on. Roden tilted his head from side to side, unable to ignore the harsh reality of his shortcomings. He’d let the Faola get away because he’d foolishly trusted Regar, and now Regar was holed up in a dungeon for choosing to exile the Faola rather than slit his throat.

It was wrong to fight the smile swelling in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to feel at ease.

Ease was for those who didn’t have an obligation to put the lives of others in front of their own.

The hand at the base of his spine tightened. “Captain?”

“Yes, Murry?”

“It’s Merry,” her frown was too deep to be genuine.

“Murky?”

“Merry!”

“Mucky!?” Roden rolled his shoulders back. “I could’ve sworn it was Merry, why didn’t you tell me I was saying it wrong?”

“Roden! We’re not children!”

“You started it,” he countered. “Mucky.”

Her fist was too small to do any damage, but Roden appreciated that she’d thought her punch could overpower him. He hid his chuckle with a cough.

This was wrong. She was a friend, not a distraction. He was avoiding the inevitable. Avoiding telling Jaron that the Faola had been too slippery, and had gotten away. His head was throbbing.

Why did she have to look at him? Turn away Merry, nothing to see here!

He was a fool to have left his armor at the garrison. It wasn’t fair, he’d forgotten to bring his mask and helmet today. Roden scowled at the stray cat that dashed across the street. It slipped across the wet stones, and vanished from view.

The Saints cursed him in making him the size of a bear. Bears couldn’t run and hide.

“Did you know you’re much more likely to catch a friar’s lantern in Carthya than in any other place?” The warmth of Merry’s hand at his back vanished; she was beckoning to him, asking him to cross the street and look at the Roving River below.

Roden stared at her extended hand.

It was an invitation, not an order. He caught himself reaching forward and drew back into himself. “I don’t- I don’t know what that is.”

Her hand stayed, still inviting. “It’s a golden light, swinging in the wind. They’re elusive, some say they’re carried by Death himself. He loves his games, as you know, and takes the form of a friar.

“He calls you through a haze, promising your deepest desires. Ones you didn’t know you had yourself. If you can follow him and catch the lantern, you’ve won the game and won the reward. But nobody believes you. The friar’s lantern takes and takes, it’s hard to consider it ever giving.”

Take her hand. She’s a friend, not a hidden Faola hoping to cut off an arm. Roden reached out again.

Lights danced across the bridge’s wet stones, mimicking their partners glinting off of the Roving River’s bubbling surface.

Merry’s little tale hid too much; the friar’s lantern was an unreachable thing to those who couldn’t soldier through twisting games made of mist.

She twirled towards him the second their fingers brushed together. Roden set the basket of pastries down, and set his hand at her back. The moon would be their music.

“What’s your lantern, Lion Boy?”

“Is it wrong if I don’t know?” Roden felt his brows knit together. “I don’t know if I have a lantern. What’s yours?”

A wicked smile cut across her impish face, “I’d be drawn and quartered before anyone knew my lantern.”

“It’s that serious?”

“You wouldn’t quite understand.”

“Try me.”

Merry only shook her head, there’d be no answer tonight. Did he even want to know what her lantern was?

He watched her struggle to maintain eye contact. Merry’s hand in his was too tense, too afraid of being caged. She stepped forward as he stepped back. Step to the side, step forward. Side, back, side, forward. Squeeze in a cowardly turn.

“I don’t want to be held back,” Merry blurted. “I’m not anybody’s toy. I’m not a pawn.”

“You’re not a toy.”

Had the moment been wild and open, Roden would’ve called for Mott to watch. He’d seen Mott turn Jaron’s words around too many times, and now Roden was doing the same.

Silence hung on the summer air a little too long. Roden cracked a smug grin, “You’re my friend, Merry. I’d rather push you forward than hold you back.”

It was Merry’s fault that their timid dance ended. She threw her arms around Roden’s neck, nearly knocking him off balance. They were friends. There was nothing wrong with embracing her back.

“You’re a good person. Too good,” she wiped her nose. “But your ankles are too small and now I’m uncomfortable. Good people can’t have small ankles.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, and rocked from side to side. Avoiding the bear in the room was a skill Roden had perfected. He knew when other people used it too. Unfortunately, Merry wasn’t as subtle as she hoped.

“And I take it you have tree trunk ankles?” Roden leaned against the bridge wall, a little more aware of the night breeze than before.

“Do you want to see?”

Comparing ankles wasn’t exactly what Roden expected out of his night. He reached forward, and pinched Merry’s round cheek, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to say no.”

“Is it because your ankles are too small?” Merry swatted at his hand.

“That’s too much of a secret to tell.”

“Ah, I figured out my lantern.”

“Don’t tell me it’s to see-“

“It’s to see your ankles.”

“By the Saints,” Roden snatched Merry’s elbows and pulled her closer to him. “You need to see a priest.”

Merry clasped her hands together and looked to the sky, “Holy ancestors, forgive my lust for Captain Roden Harlowe’s needle thin ankles.”

It was too hard not to crack a smile. Roden shook his head; he knew fully well that his ankles were at least twice the size of Merry’s. She held onto his forearms, and Roden wondered if she was seriously considering forcing both of them over the bridge’s edge.

His fool’s paradise shattered when Merry’s thumb brushed over the pirate brand on his arm. Though the fabric of his shirt hid it from view, it was impossible to miss when touched. Merry’s eyes went wide.

Was this the way he looked when he’d touched the scar on her shoulder?

Roden straightened, unsure of what to say. Fire burned across his face. The pirate brand served as a constant reminder of how far he’d fallen. It was a testament to the lengths he was willing to go when he cared enough.

“I think I was wrong about you,” Merry trailed her finger over the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you would understand the stories I have to tell.”

It was then that he realized just how old Merry’s eyes were when she wasn’t sparkling with laughter. A weary traveler, constantly fleeing an enemy.

Or perhaps constantly tracking a friar’s lantern.

“The scar on your shoulder,” Roden murmured.

She shrugged, “I didn’t lie when I said I earned that one from rock hopping.”

“You said there were others.”

He’d never seen such a bitter smile. Merry waved her hand, “It’s not important.”

Kind words weren’t something Roden knew well for a very long time. He’d known curses and cruelty for too long, but he’d been taught tenderness. Taught by Harlowe and Nila.

Roden tugged on one of Merry’s stray curls, “It’s important to me.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t speak to you?” He tilted his head. “I like you. Are you going to shove me off a bridge, Mucky?”

Merry pinched his chin, “No, I’ll do something much worse than that.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“But you should be.”

Roden lunged forward, catching Merry by the waist to toss her over his shoulder. She squealed in protest.

Carrying her on his shoulder was better than searching those travel-worn smiles and false laughing eyes for answers that would never be given freely. He didn’t want her to know that she held too much power over him.

He’d managed to let go of his failure with the Faola for just a moment.

A moment filled with ghostly lanterns and a moon dance.

#the ascendance series #fic friday #i should tag all of these as the streets of drylliad #roden #ocs #tension #also i guess if you dont like humiliation this might be a little hard?#i didnt think it was that bad #lowkey had a blast w this and the next few chapters

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sportymama · 4 years

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Leaving Paine Grande we headed to Campamento Italiano. It was a relatively short hike, but we knew there were two miradors after we arrived and dropped our packs that we wanted to see.

Francés and Británico miradors.

We needed to get to camp after crossing a raging river on a one-person swinging bride. As I am standing, waiting for my turn to pass over this unreliable-looking bridge, I am thinking, “one person of normal size with a 20lb pack, or a small child, or a large grown man with a 30lb pack or …?” What truly does a one-person bridge mean?

It reminds me of how God works in our lives. Sometimes there is no answer right away, and life feels like a risk. Often. But in the end always works out according to plan.

I could allow negative thoughts, doubt, anxiety, fear, despair, worry, denial, disbelief, or uncertainty fill my head. Fill my heart. I could stand on that bridge and see the massive, furious, arctic river below me and the old, weathered, wooden, swinging bridge ahead of me and stop dead in my tracks allowing panic to grip me, but God isn’t a God of panic. He’s not a God of fear or anxiety. He FREES us from all of that!

“This is my command-be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord, your God is with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9

We crossed and checked in to Italiano, set up camp, filled our water bottles, and set out for the miradors.

The Valle Francés was inconceivable! The entire trip, I said over and over how beautiful each place was but this…. We stopped and took tons of pictures and then pressed on towards Británico. Patagonia is full of beauty but also full of unpredictable weather, and as we pushed towards our next mirador, the clouds started rolling in. We continued as the wind ripped at us, and then the rain started. Light at first, and then really picking up. We pulled out our rain gear from our slack packs and decided that, as we looked towards the mountains, it was only getting worse, and the view we were craving was going to have too much cloud cover, so we turned back for camp.

We got back to camp, peeled out of our rain gear, made some dinner, and dropped into the tent.

We continued on to Campo Central the next day, and we knew as we approached that we were nearing the end of this hike but that the most unprecedented part of our journey was ahead. Los Torres.

We waited in line to check-in, found a place out of the wind to pitch our tent, and headed for the showers. Ya know, being clean and showering are things we really take for granted. It’s such a luxury on a backpacking trip! The showers were HOT, and I stood in there way too long!

Afterward, we decided to hike over to the Refugio. The restaurant was warm, and we ordered GIANT beers that tasted like a little bit of heaven. They made us lazy and sleepy, which was exactly what we needed for a quick bedtime. We had an early alarm for our frigid, dark hike to the Towers before the sun rose in the morning.

Our daybreak was cold — possibly the coldest of the entire trek. Most of our days were warm, hot even, with the harsh sun and no ozone. When we did have rain, we welcomed it! We left our tent and belongings at camp, hiking only with our slack packs filled with water, tea, some food items, and warm clothes. We started early, pre-dawn with our headlamps on.

I was walking in constant prayer on our ascent. Meditative. I knew this was our last day, and I was overwhelmed in my heart with gratitude. The reasons many. The time with my husband, the adventurous spirit God created in the two of us, our friendship, and the fact that we can spend days and weeks together in a pocket-sized tent and still laugh, still love, not argue, and grow even closer together as a couple. Thankful that my husband respects and encourages the wild-girl in me. We get one another to our depths. Grateful for the opportunity to start this journey, and the healing that took place on my body to get us to the trail start. I am utterly floored by this Earth and the paradise that God has created for us. Everything so intricate and complex. I was, and am always so taken by the enormous mountains and how small and humbled they leave me feeling, stripped of everything, deprived of ego and pride. Hiking allows us the opportunity to feel God at a whole new level, a deepening, to see His provision in our lives, to hear him in a way that is clear and simple and uncomplicated. It’s easy when you break it down. He provides all we need and loves us so wholly and excessively. I was most grateful for the way the Most-High spoke to my husband. Revealing to him some areas that we were struggling with direction and trying to find closure.

We both know when we are in a place of discontent, confusion, uneasiness, or dissatisfaction, it comes from us not being aligned on the path that our Creator has us on. Things in our hearts that God never assigned to us. It’s so easy to veer. Easy to get caught up with our own agendas, eagerness, yearnings, and desires. It’s easy to “think” we are walking in God’s will and to B E N D our intention J U S T enough to feign closeness to what God wants for our lives, but when it comes right down to it… it is a skewed view that ends us up on an uneven, angled messed up path. Not matched or harmonized at all with what God’s plan is. We falter and end up thinking, “how did we get into this situation?” “Why aren’t things better?” “How is this still happening in my life?”

The mountains make it simple to listen.

As we continued our ascent, getting to a bouldering area, we knew we were getting closer. The trail was getting more difficult. We were excited about our first view of the Towers. The pinnacle of this entire trek!

When we reached the top, we paused — suspended in a moment awe-inspiring beauty!

Cordillera del Paine is such a spectacular set of mountains! It’s the area known as the Torres del Paine (Towers of Paine), the three massive summits are gigantic granite monoliths that are UNESCO-declared biosphere reserves. The highest peak of the range is Cerro Paine Grande, at 2,884 meters (9,461 feet).

Paine means “blue” in the native Tehuelche language and is pronounced PIE-nay.

It was COLD, and the wind bit at us. We met up with others that had been in our original group the day we started in Laguna Amarga, each of us making this pilgrimage in our own time. Little by little, we trickled in. We took photos, sipped hot tea, broke bread together, all nestled next to an outcropping of rocks away from the wind and elements.

Soon, we knew we needed to return to camp and break down to make our busses back to Puerto Natales.

It was hard to leave. Hard to turn our backs on this extraordinary work of beauty.

Returning to camp was somber. It’s hard when you know a journey is coming to an end. Sometimes I feel like I could wander the mountains forever. Every time I hike I love the stripping away it does on me. Peeling off the lamina. I come back changed in some way. Always. Something is left behind, dropped off, and left in the dirt, unneeded, with new lessons learned, and new promises and assurances put in its place. It gives me time to do some soul searching and reevaluating. Where does God want us/me? Where is He placing us for most use? What’s important? What do we genuinely need? What is superficial and fake and inauthentic in me or in those I have in my life? Where do I draw the line? What boundaries need set or reestablished? What do I need to let loose of? Am I harboring unforgiveness for anyone? Have I put unnecessary pressure on myself or those around me in any way?

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It’s the opportunity for God to pluck me up, and right my path with such clarity, it’s undeniable.

We packed up in near silence, only joking about how stinky we were. We headed to the Refugio and met up with our fellow hikers. It was fun to have one final toast to our accomplishments, to hear the stories from everyone about their journey on this incredible trek — their take-away from the trail. One beer down and we loaded our bus back to Puerto Natales, spending a couple of days here before hopping a plane for Santiago, where we almost missed our flight due to falling asleep in the airport. How were we to know they changed the gate? I joke! We ran for our new gate in a drowsy stupor and reached the jetway only to see closed doors. We stood staring, weary, fatigue ravaging us and just started pounding on the glass doors. As the jetway was moving and the agent approached the doors, she saw us and having mercy on our completely worn-out souls, stopped the bridge, and asked them to let us on the plane. Had we been in the States… no way this would’ve happened. I could’ve kissed this sweet Chilean woman straight on the mouth.

ARE

EXHAUSTED

We laughed & laughed after finding our seats because this is always the way for G and I. Always coming in, hurriedly, screaming, with our pants on fire. We aren’t and have never been “planners,” and this sort of thing is just expected in any given circumstance with us. In this situation, however, we were just plain spent and fell into a delicious, deep sleep on benches in the aeropuerto.

We spent a few days in Santiago in the spa-comfort of a fabulous hotel. Allowing ourselves pampering and delicious PLANT-BASED foods (boy do we always miss greens and fruit) and exploring the city.

Off and away from the mountains….

Grateful, continually. Humbled, unceasingly. Changed, as always.

Patagonia -Coming to an End Leaving Paine Grande we headed to Campamento Italiano. It was a relatively short hike, but we knew there were two miradors after we arrived and dropped our packs that we wanted to see.

#wordpress #Argentina #backpacking #Blogger #Chile #dreams #faith #funny #health #hiking #humor #media #O-circuit #Patagonia #prayer #Santiago #through hiking #Torres del Paine #training #travel

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