Breathes
Breathes
Micol Fusca
This book contains seven stories, of which I am the author, published in fantasy anthologies released by some publishing houses. In my opinion they are connected by a common thread. Love as an absolute feeling. I wanted to think of each story as a feather.
Seven feathers, seven stories linked by a common thread: love in its many aspects. Brotherly, unfaithful, earthly, divine... Love is the force that moves the universe, no matter what form it takes. Seven feathers carried by the wind, destined to rest on the palm of your hand and then achieve the essence of dreams. You will meet wizards, witches, knights and warriors. Earthly creatures who bring the divine within themselves. You will meet the courage and the will to believe in feelings and be faithful to the feelings of your soul. The story ”Crocefissa”, (Crucified), already published in the anthology ”Storie di Immaginaria Realtà volume V” published by Giovane Holden Edizioni, was ranked second in the 2018 Streghe Vampiri & Co. Contest.
Breathes
Tales and Universes
Micol Fusca
All rights of duplication, translation and adaptation are reserved. No part of this book can be used, duplicated, or distributed without written permission from the author.
©Micol Fusca
Author: Micol Fusca
Translation: Jessica Falcioni
Cover illustration: Yuri Dovadola
“The greatest courage in the world is to be exactly what your consciousness says to you to be. And the greatest cowardice in the world is to follow others, to imitate others.”
Osho
Sommario
“Breath” (#u9abea52f-321c-52e3-a641-fce8516067f1)
“Crucified” (#ub3489dcb-0445-5b6c-9f92-4fb36f835021)
“The Golden Mask” (#ue47f2f36-7504-55d6-8bd4-1af13d8692ab)
“The Horseman of Death” (#u5459b5ef-5fbc-567b-9067-098b133419b3)
“Beauty and The Beast” (#u65d8f245-8fa5-53d2-9a58-37784d7d71ad)
“Butterfly” (#u23ef804d-6b64-5a6c-bbd1-f82edc70512f)
“The Dream House” (#ue7e19deb-b528-5361-ac29-70270869705d)
Acknowledgements (#u4036f78f-ffb3-592b-b45a-50f8a061bcef)
Biography (#uc9f37d59-a29c-50d0-b8e6-f87e15a7767e)
“Breath”
“To sleep. The most intimate act of which I am conscious: trusting the other without defences, words, constructions, misunderstandings.
Soul and body wrapped in the same embrace, the same breath.
Above all things: age, gender, flesh. I have loved Dalain since his first whisper, I will love him until my last breath. My name is Nephelim. I am a Paladin.”
A night without stars... dark... cold.
He waited for the Red Moon to reach its zenith before he got up. His nurse's tweets had stopped worrying him for years. He had seven.
Though Alissa was an enormous woman, there was nothing scary about her. Hers was the only breast he had ever breast-fed: his mother had died after giving birth to him.
His father had offered asylum to her sister at a difficult moment. Her husband had lost his lands due to the vice of gambling and found herself on the street with a leather bag in which she had hardly put a pair of clothes.
He had been happy to entrust Nephelim to a relative. Veridiana, his cousin, was a year older than him: he knew she was destined to be his wife.
The Elvish tradition of mixing blood only with relatives was felt as an act of conscience towards the race: purity above all values. It was the peasants who copulated randomly, like animals.
So it was what they taught to him.
He walked to the little one's room on his tiptoes: he had been born in the morning. He had not stopped crying from the first breath.
A strange cry, with no voice, that tormented his heart. He peered through the door ajar, watching the nurse cuddling the new-born baby in her strong arms; she was walking back over and over in trying to calm him.
«Has he eaten?» he stepped forward, forgetting to be careful.
Alissa gave him a mischievously annoyed smile, raising her eyebrows. She knew he had been waiting for the adults' sleep to come to her. «He's too weak. He can't suckle,» her gaze grew sad. «The healer doubts he can survive more than a few days. His heart is sick.»
Nephelim approached, bending her lips in a thin line. He was a soldier's son, used to the truth no matter how rough it could be.
«Have you tried?»
The woman gave him an annoyed look. «He should stop crying, smart-ass. He's not strong enough to attach himself to the breast.»
Nephelim became obstinate. «Isn't there another way?»
Alissa searched in her memory. «When I was young, I saw a lamb who had lost his mother, who rejected other sheep's breasts. The shepherd wetted its mouth with a cloth dipped in milk. In the end, he decided to feed himself. I could try: if he accepts the cloth, I will try to bring it closer to my breast so that a few drops at a time could go down and slide between his lips». Then he seemed to remember that the landlady's instructions were clear. «Nephelim... I do not think your aunt would approve. A sick child is a problem, a bother. He'd die anyway. »
«Not today.» It was decided by now. He extended his arms out to her, waiting for her to give the baby to him. «My father is far away. It is an order: mine is the only that must be respected in his absence. »
The nurse bowed slightly, with a smile on her face... He was destined to command an army, his temper was known to servants and family. She handed the new-born baby over to him, making sure he welcomed him gently into his arms. Nephelim supported the little head with a firm hand, careful not to weigh him down on his fragile neck.
Alissa walked away with a thrill. «It's a dark, starless night. Not even the Red Moon can brighten the sky. A night of bad luck.» She was suddenly reminded of the child's unexpected question.
« What is his name? »
«Dalain. »
Nephelim smiled.
A night without stars... dark... cold. A night brightened by the Red Moon's ghost. A perfect night.
The sound of a laughter, similar to rain in spring.
«I’ve never seen that book. »
Dalain tried to hide it, knowing that his cousin's gaze had already had time to indulge in the golden embellished leather overcoat.
«I’ve…found it. »
Nephelim sat next to him, patiently. Spring slowly turned to summer and it was lovely to relax in the open air, in the shade of the huge apple tree planted by the deceased Lady. His mother. The attic was his Heart Place: he spent most of the day there.
The book was hers.
Dalain was not able to climb the stairs alone.
« I asked Alissa to bring it to me. I told her to have your permission, to choose the one with the most beautiful cover: green. It's my favourite colour. »
Nephelim's lips bent into a half smile, trying to look less inflexible.
Dalain was careful. He took advantage of the nurse's ignorance to get her to bring him as much as he wanted. Unlike the woman, he had learned to read and count fast.
« You know that "stuff" is forbidden. It should be burned in the fire. »
The child grabbed the book tightly against his chest. He challenged him to make good on his threat, knowing that he would not be able to do it.
«There is nothing forbidden. I have read enough to know it is not dangerous "stuff." It's magic that has been banished from the Kingdom, not its history. »
Loreana was of the same opinion: she loved to collect ancient texts that narrated the past and the Ancient Religion. Her husband considered it a harmless habit.
Her aunt had never been able to get her hands on her things. She was forbidden to enter the attic. A decision that was agreed by both father and son.
Dalain returned to lock himself in silence, watching some of the boys running across them. Many of the servants' children were living at the estate: they were on their way to the pasture, laughing loudly. He understood that theirs was a race.
Nephelim observed him expression becoming sad. He did not used to complain it was only his dark eyes that made the melancholy appear.
He stood up, giving him a hand. «Come. » He looked back, noticing that he was holding his tome again. «Give it to me, I'll hide it over the tree. «Your mother is not used to climb like a squirrel. The idea of uncovering her ankles would make her faint from shame. »
He grabbed the book and hurried up to the highest branches. He found a tangle of young foliage and covered it up from the sight of people passing by.
Once on the ground, he waved back to him, warning him to join him. Dalain got up uncertain, feeling the weight of his gaze: Nephelim's eyes were the colour of iron, grey and strong.
Unlike others, he was not afraid of his cousin. He knew that he would give his right hand, the one with which he held the sword, for him. It had always been so.
They shared the same room since he was born. Nephelim slept in front of him, letting his breath reach his face. He had learned to know every breath to the point of falling asleep only when he was cuddled by what he knew to be the natural rhythm. Every broken whisper was enough to make him quickly recover consciousness.
Dalain hesitated. «Why do you love me? I am completely useless. »
The boy knew he had heard that whisper from the lips of many: servants and relatives. His fragility led many to ignore that the mind was ready to make every whisper its own. That expression made him look more like him than he would have liked. Their facial features, their colours, were not so different: both light skin and hair, both with long facial features and a thin nose.
«Because I admire your courage: you fight for your life from the first breath. I do not know if I could carry the weight that weighs you down. It is easy to be strong when you have nothing to fear. You are not useless. I will never be equal in intellect. The Henders have been watching over you for a long time. »
He turned his back to him, kneeling on the ground. Waiting.
«Do you want me to climb on your back? » He came a few steps closer, intimidated.
Nephelim nodded, gazing over his shoulder. «You know how to do it, it's no different than when we climb the stairs. Hold on tight. »
Dalain squeezed his arms around his neck and when he lifted him off the ground, he felt he could touch the sky with his finger. He hooked his legs on the boy's hips with all the strength he had, letting him wrap his arms around them. He was used to being carried by him when his breathe was so short that he could not even walk.
He felt the Nephelim's confidence through the fluid movement of his back muscles against his lean chest. He stood up straight to look out over the meadow and when he started to run a spontaneous smile widened his lips.
As his cousin's long legs were slitting thorugh the sea of grass in front of them, he knew that he had pretended not to care about games like that. He had locked himself in his room, excluding any sound in the backyard, letting his mind run and punch for him.
They reached the barn very quickly, overtaking the group of boys who had gathered there. Some pointed them out to their comrades, surprised.
Dalain felt his heart beating: emotion.
Nephelim was used to running long stretches of country road. His walking pace had become regular: he was able to transmit to him the strength of his moving muscles. It seemed to him that his muscles also responded to some extent and moved in harmony. The sensations that enveloped him had no comparison with those created by his imagination.
He only realized he was laughing when his own voice came to his ears in a euphoric scream.
Nephelim decided to return home as soon as he heard him taking a breath from the laughter that had overwhelmed him. Although Dalain responded well to the medication at the time, he did not want to let his guard down.
He knew he deserved a slap from Alissa, and he did not want to endanger the baby's health.
He found his nanny on the doorstep of the mansion, with folded arms. One of the children must have told her that he saw them running over the barn.
The woman looked at the little boy's red face on horseback, winking like a witch. She took him in her arms without giving Nephelim time to complain, clutching him like a furious hen. «I hope you know what you're doing, wise guy! »
She was the only one who called him like that. She was the only one he would allow doing it. «He's all right, can't you see how happy he is? »
Alissa looked at Dalain with a critical eye: he looked drunk. He kept giggling, clinging to his neck. She took a disdainful look at the older one. «With all the money you spend to get him medicine suitable for a king, you should treat him like a crystal vase!» She returned to focus on the child, looking at his face. «He's all sweaty... he needs a hot bath. Make yourself useful and ask Glinee to bring a couple of buckets to his room. »
Nephelim gave her a half bow. «It is done, my lady. »
The roar of laughter, like rain in spring. Thin, intense. Magic.
An indigo sea caressed by clouds of white foam.
The Eye of Zephirot has shone for thirty years, as bright as the first morning star. Magic had returned to cross the borders of the Western Lands.
The Henders had strengthened their armies, establishing new Readers and Paladins. Their symbols, rod, and sword were forged by the same fire: filled with God's blessing now they were placed next to the precious crystal, the Eye, now of their investiture.
Nephelim had coughed blood, burying the pain of detachment in the darkest part of his soul: it was what he had wished for himself since he had had the power of intellect. The birth of Dalain had only strengthened his purpose.
He found it bizarre that his people should fight magic by using it.
A Paladin had to owe his soul to its protector: accompanying his footsteps wherever his intervention was required.
The Soul Reader saw beyond all appearances: his mind possessed the agility needed to unravel the most tangled skeins.
He was able to discriminate against every emotion, inflection, reaching the most hidden truths.
Nephelim was preparing for a new wait: he hoped not to have to preside over the interrogation of a poor woman, accused of witchcraft for having served a healing herbal tea to the mayor. It had happened many times. Too many.
The nervous smiles of the stable keepers made him fear that the Reader would have been late: they looked away from him, fearing some reproach.
He was happy to see his companion coming down from the Temple steps.
«Whisper Forest. »
He approached him, making it clear that the help of others was not welcomed. Dalain was still light-hearted, so much so that he made no effort while he was helping him up in the stirrups.
He took over his patch and climbed on the saddle, taking one last look at the boys. He did not bother to leave, directing his mount towards Porta Grande.
«You're always unpleasant. » Dalain reached him, curling his nose the same way he did when he was a child. An expression that expressed both reproach and amusement.
«I am not trained to collect benevolence. » He waited until he was beside him.
The Reader smiled. He knew the origin of his cousin's unhappiness: he was not happy to escort him outside the confines of the capital. Nephelim would have preferred keeping him confined under a glass bell.
He supported his curious gaze. «A witch. So, say the wives of the Central Counties. »
«Do you already have your own thought? »
«Reports from the priests in the area confirm the hypothesis. Many peasants disappear into thin air without a trace. Others show a violent personality unfamiliar to their temper. »
Nephelim had plucked his eyebrows, waiting.
«A Maldana. She's not the Witch the Henders are looking for. »
The Paladin nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.
They found the witch in a wooden cottage, which was once the Lord of the Shire's hunting lodge, in the middle of the Whisper Wood. They tied their horses to a tree not too far away: they had become bizarre as soon as they reached the thick of the forest.
Dalain had decided to wait until the morning to enter the mist that enveloped the place.
Nephelim carefully observed the bare, thin trees. Hunched trees: the tree-trunk was growing curved, forming a wave that was rising from the ground straight up to the milky sky. He could feel the magic even though he was not skilled in it.
He waited for them, still, in front of the ruined fence. A good-looking woman.
The Reader stopped walking, holding on to the decorated stick: the crystal on the top had turned coloured. He closed his eyes, letting the essence of her filling him.
The dark aura that overwhelmed him became as cloudy as tar. He felt pain, pleasure, greed. She had given herself to the Nameless with full awareness: she was God's vehicle in spreading hate and despair.
Her appearance began to change soon she would reveal herself for her true nature.
«She is yours, Paladin. »
Nephelim drew his sword without delay, letting the blade be brought to life by the same light as the rod. The Reader had delivered his sentence. His task was to carry it out.
The horses had successfully freed themselves: they had succumbed to fear.
Nephelim secured the belt to Dalain's chest, sideways, placing the sword behind him.
When he lowered himself in the clear intent of putting it on his back, the Reader laughed. «We are too old for this. »
«I can walk for days; I've marched into worse situations. Get on. »
Dalain sighed, knowing he had no choice. He grabbed on, letting Nephelim lifting him. After a few miles he got used to the rhythm of the Paladin's walk: regular, as he remembered.
«Have you decided what gift to buy for your wife? There are only a few more moons to her birth anniversary. »
Nephelim turned in an impatient movement. «No. I know you'll think about it. »
«You could pay more attention to her. »
«Veridiana would disdain an affectionate husband, let us spend the time together to respect conjugal vows. She dislikes me. »
The Reader did not take the provocation. «She wishes a child. »
«I have no intention of procreating an unhappy one. » He gave him a hard look, turning his head towards him. «The damn race laws are driving our people to collapse. The obligation to mix blood with family members only makes our children paler and sicker. »
«I am not unhappy. »
Nephelim silently struck the blow.
«You would be a good father. »
«Is that what I am to you? »
«No.» Dalain looked up to the sky, thoughtful. «Can you see the shades of blue above us? »
The Paladin marched on.
Dalain laid one cheek on his shoulder, letting the tranquillity of his walking overcome him. «I still wonder why you love me. »
Nephelim did not answer, of course he would have fallen asleep within a few miles, cuddled by his footsteps. He smiled only when his regular breath came close to his face.
Indigo sea caressed by clouds of white foam. I wish to drown in a thousand skies.
“Which God has established that love must achieve triumph through the union of two bodies?
I will find the Witch if I have to spend my life looking for her. I will bend my knees, offering my loyalty. I just pray that until then I can have one more heartbeat. One breath.
It will come the night when I will watch over Dalain's sleep without fearing the rising of dawn.”
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Micol Fusca
This book contains seven stories, of which I am the author, published in fantasy anthologies released by some publishing houses. In my opinion they are connected by a common thread. Love as an absolute feeling. I wanted to think of each story as a feather.
Seven feathers, seven stories linked by a common thread: love in its many aspects. Brotherly, unfaithful, earthly, divine... Love is the force that moves the universe, no matter what form it takes. Seven feathers carried by the wind, destined to rest on the palm of your hand and then achieve the essence of dreams. You will meet wizards, witches, knights and warriors. Earthly creatures who bring the divine within themselves. You will meet the courage and the will to believe in feelings and be faithful to the feelings of your soul. The story ”Crocefissa”, (Crucified), already published in the anthology ”Storie di Immaginaria Realtà volume V” published by Giovane Holden Edizioni, was ranked second in the 2018 Streghe Vampiri & Co. Contest.
Breathes
Tales and Universes
Micol Fusca
All rights of duplication, translation and adaptation are reserved. No part of this book can be used, duplicated, or distributed without written permission from the author.
©Micol Fusca
Author: Micol Fusca
Translation: Jessica Falcioni
Cover illustration: Yuri Dovadola
“The greatest courage in the world is to be exactly what your consciousness says to you to be. And the greatest cowardice in the world is to follow others, to imitate others.”
Osho
Sommario
“Breath” (#u9abea52f-321c-52e3-a641-fce8516067f1)
“Crucified” (#ub3489dcb-0445-5b6c-9f92-4fb36f835021)
“The Golden Mask” (#ue47f2f36-7504-55d6-8bd4-1af13d8692ab)
“The Horseman of Death” (#u5459b5ef-5fbc-567b-9067-098b133419b3)
“Beauty and The Beast” (#u65d8f245-8fa5-53d2-9a58-37784d7d71ad)
“Butterfly” (#u23ef804d-6b64-5a6c-bbd1-f82edc70512f)
“The Dream House” (#ue7e19deb-b528-5361-ac29-70270869705d)
Acknowledgements (#u4036f78f-ffb3-592b-b45a-50f8a061bcef)
Biography (#uc9f37d59-a29c-50d0-b8e6-f87e15a7767e)
“Breath”
“To sleep. The most intimate act of which I am conscious: trusting the other without defences, words, constructions, misunderstandings.
Soul and body wrapped in the same embrace, the same breath.
Above all things: age, gender, flesh. I have loved Dalain since his first whisper, I will love him until my last breath. My name is Nephelim. I am a Paladin.”
A night without stars... dark... cold.
He waited for the Red Moon to reach its zenith before he got up. His nurse's tweets had stopped worrying him for years. He had seven.
Though Alissa was an enormous woman, there was nothing scary about her. Hers was the only breast he had ever breast-fed: his mother had died after giving birth to him.
His father had offered asylum to her sister at a difficult moment. Her husband had lost his lands due to the vice of gambling and found herself on the street with a leather bag in which she had hardly put a pair of clothes.
He had been happy to entrust Nephelim to a relative. Veridiana, his cousin, was a year older than him: he knew she was destined to be his wife.
The Elvish tradition of mixing blood only with relatives was felt as an act of conscience towards the race: purity above all values. It was the peasants who copulated randomly, like animals.
So it was what they taught to him.
He walked to the little one's room on his tiptoes: he had been born in the morning. He had not stopped crying from the first breath.
A strange cry, with no voice, that tormented his heart. He peered through the door ajar, watching the nurse cuddling the new-born baby in her strong arms; she was walking back over and over in trying to calm him.
«Has he eaten?» he stepped forward, forgetting to be careful.
Alissa gave him a mischievously annoyed smile, raising her eyebrows. She knew he had been waiting for the adults' sleep to come to her. «He's too weak. He can't suckle,» her gaze grew sad. «The healer doubts he can survive more than a few days. His heart is sick.»
Nephelim approached, bending her lips in a thin line. He was a soldier's son, used to the truth no matter how rough it could be.
«Have you tried?»
The woman gave him an annoyed look. «He should stop crying, smart-ass. He's not strong enough to attach himself to the breast.»
Nephelim became obstinate. «Isn't there another way?»
Alissa searched in her memory. «When I was young, I saw a lamb who had lost his mother, who rejected other sheep's breasts. The shepherd wetted its mouth with a cloth dipped in milk. In the end, he decided to feed himself. I could try: if he accepts the cloth, I will try to bring it closer to my breast so that a few drops at a time could go down and slide between his lips». Then he seemed to remember that the landlady's instructions were clear. «Nephelim... I do not think your aunt would approve. A sick child is a problem, a bother. He'd die anyway. »
«Not today.» It was decided by now. He extended his arms out to her, waiting for her to give the baby to him. «My father is far away. It is an order: mine is the only that must be respected in his absence. »
The nurse bowed slightly, with a smile on her face... He was destined to command an army, his temper was known to servants and family. She handed the new-born baby over to him, making sure he welcomed him gently into his arms. Nephelim supported the little head with a firm hand, careful not to weigh him down on his fragile neck.
Alissa walked away with a thrill. «It's a dark, starless night. Not even the Red Moon can brighten the sky. A night of bad luck.» She was suddenly reminded of the child's unexpected question.
« What is his name? »
«Dalain. »
Nephelim smiled.
A night without stars... dark... cold. A night brightened by the Red Moon's ghost. A perfect night.
The sound of a laughter, similar to rain in spring.
«I’ve never seen that book. »
Dalain tried to hide it, knowing that his cousin's gaze had already had time to indulge in the golden embellished leather overcoat.
«I’ve…found it. »
Nephelim sat next to him, patiently. Spring slowly turned to summer and it was lovely to relax in the open air, in the shade of the huge apple tree planted by the deceased Lady. His mother. The attic was his Heart Place: he spent most of the day there.
The book was hers.
Dalain was not able to climb the stairs alone.
« I asked Alissa to bring it to me. I told her to have your permission, to choose the one with the most beautiful cover: green. It's my favourite colour. »
Nephelim's lips bent into a half smile, trying to look less inflexible.
Dalain was careful. He took advantage of the nurse's ignorance to get her to bring him as much as he wanted. Unlike the woman, he had learned to read and count fast.
« You know that "stuff" is forbidden. It should be burned in the fire. »
The child grabbed the book tightly against his chest. He challenged him to make good on his threat, knowing that he would not be able to do it.
«There is nothing forbidden. I have read enough to know it is not dangerous "stuff." It's magic that has been banished from the Kingdom, not its history. »
Loreana was of the same opinion: she loved to collect ancient texts that narrated the past and the Ancient Religion. Her husband considered it a harmless habit.
Her aunt had never been able to get her hands on her things. She was forbidden to enter the attic. A decision that was agreed by both father and son.
Dalain returned to lock himself in silence, watching some of the boys running across them. Many of the servants' children were living at the estate: they were on their way to the pasture, laughing loudly. He understood that theirs was a race.
Nephelim observed him expression becoming sad. He did not used to complain it was only his dark eyes that made the melancholy appear.
He stood up, giving him a hand. «Come. » He looked back, noticing that he was holding his tome again. «Give it to me, I'll hide it over the tree. «Your mother is not used to climb like a squirrel. The idea of uncovering her ankles would make her faint from shame. »
He grabbed the book and hurried up to the highest branches. He found a tangle of young foliage and covered it up from the sight of people passing by.
Once on the ground, he waved back to him, warning him to join him. Dalain got up uncertain, feeling the weight of his gaze: Nephelim's eyes were the colour of iron, grey and strong.
Unlike others, he was not afraid of his cousin. He knew that he would give his right hand, the one with which he held the sword, for him. It had always been so.
They shared the same room since he was born. Nephelim slept in front of him, letting his breath reach his face. He had learned to know every breath to the point of falling asleep only when he was cuddled by what he knew to be the natural rhythm. Every broken whisper was enough to make him quickly recover consciousness.
Dalain hesitated. «Why do you love me? I am completely useless. »
The boy knew he had heard that whisper from the lips of many: servants and relatives. His fragility led many to ignore that the mind was ready to make every whisper its own. That expression made him look more like him than he would have liked. Their facial features, their colours, were not so different: both light skin and hair, both with long facial features and a thin nose.
«Because I admire your courage: you fight for your life from the first breath. I do not know if I could carry the weight that weighs you down. It is easy to be strong when you have nothing to fear. You are not useless. I will never be equal in intellect. The Henders have been watching over you for a long time. »
He turned his back to him, kneeling on the ground. Waiting.
«Do you want me to climb on your back? » He came a few steps closer, intimidated.
Nephelim nodded, gazing over his shoulder. «You know how to do it, it's no different than when we climb the stairs. Hold on tight. »
Dalain squeezed his arms around his neck and when he lifted him off the ground, he felt he could touch the sky with his finger. He hooked his legs on the boy's hips with all the strength he had, letting him wrap his arms around them. He was used to being carried by him when his breathe was so short that he could not even walk.
He felt the Nephelim's confidence through the fluid movement of his back muscles against his lean chest. He stood up straight to look out over the meadow and when he started to run a spontaneous smile widened his lips.
As his cousin's long legs were slitting thorugh the sea of grass in front of them, he knew that he had pretended not to care about games like that. He had locked himself in his room, excluding any sound in the backyard, letting his mind run and punch for him.
They reached the barn very quickly, overtaking the group of boys who had gathered there. Some pointed them out to their comrades, surprised.
Dalain felt his heart beating: emotion.
Nephelim was used to running long stretches of country road. His walking pace had become regular: he was able to transmit to him the strength of his moving muscles. It seemed to him that his muscles also responded to some extent and moved in harmony. The sensations that enveloped him had no comparison with those created by his imagination.
He only realized he was laughing when his own voice came to his ears in a euphoric scream.
Nephelim decided to return home as soon as he heard him taking a breath from the laughter that had overwhelmed him. Although Dalain responded well to the medication at the time, he did not want to let his guard down.
He knew he deserved a slap from Alissa, and he did not want to endanger the baby's health.
He found his nanny on the doorstep of the mansion, with folded arms. One of the children must have told her that he saw them running over the barn.
The woman looked at the little boy's red face on horseback, winking like a witch. She took him in her arms without giving Nephelim time to complain, clutching him like a furious hen. «I hope you know what you're doing, wise guy! »
She was the only one who called him like that. She was the only one he would allow doing it. «He's all right, can't you see how happy he is? »
Alissa looked at Dalain with a critical eye: he looked drunk. He kept giggling, clinging to his neck. She took a disdainful look at the older one. «With all the money you spend to get him medicine suitable for a king, you should treat him like a crystal vase!» She returned to focus on the child, looking at his face. «He's all sweaty... he needs a hot bath. Make yourself useful and ask Glinee to bring a couple of buckets to his room. »
Nephelim gave her a half bow. «It is done, my lady. »
The roar of laughter, like rain in spring. Thin, intense. Magic.
An indigo sea caressed by clouds of white foam.
The Eye of Zephirot has shone for thirty years, as bright as the first morning star. Magic had returned to cross the borders of the Western Lands.
The Henders had strengthened their armies, establishing new Readers and Paladins. Their symbols, rod, and sword were forged by the same fire: filled with God's blessing now they were placed next to the precious crystal, the Eye, now of their investiture.
Nephelim had coughed blood, burying the pain of detachment in the darkest part of his soul: it was what he had wished for himself since he had had the power of intellect. The birth of Dalain had only strengthened his purpose.
He found it bizarre that his people should fight magic by using it.
A Paladin had to owe his soul to its protector: accompanying his footsteps wherever his intervention was required.
The Soul Reader saw beyond all appearances: his mind possessed the agility needed to unravel the most tangled skeins.
He was able to discriminate against every emotion, inflection, reaching the most hidden truths.
Nephelim was preparing for a new wait: he hoped not to have to preside over the interrogation of a poor woman, accused of witchcraft for having served a healing herbal tea to the mayor. It had happened many times. Too many.
The nervous smiles of the stable keepers made him fear that the Reader would have been late: they looked away from him, fearing some reproach.
He was happy to see his companion coming down from the Temple steps.
«Whisper Forest. »
He approached him, making it clear that the help of others was not welcomed. Dalain was still light-hearted, so much so that he made no effort while he was helping him up in the stirrups.
He took over his patch and climbed on the saddle, taking one last look at the boys. He did not bother to leave, directing his mount towards Porta Grande.
«You're always unpleasant. » Dalain reached him, curling his nose the same way he did when he was a child. An expression that expressed both reproach and amusement.
«I am not trained to collect benevolence. » He waited until he was beside him.
The Reader smiled. He knew the origin of his cousin's unhappiness: he was not happy to escort him outside the confines of the capital. Nephelim would have preferred keeping him confined under a glass bell.
He supported his curious gaze. «A witch. So, say the wives of the Central Counties. »
«Do you already have your own thought? »
«Reports from the priests in the area confirm the hypothesis. Many peasants disappear into thin air without a trace. Others show a violent personality unfamiliar to their temper. »
Nephelim had plucked his eyebrows, waiting.
«A Maldana. She's not the Witch the Henders are looking for. »
The Paladin nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.
They found the witch in a wooden cottage, which was once the Lord of the Shire's hunting lodge, in the middle of the Whisper Wood. They tied their horses to a tree not too far away: they had become bizarre as soon as they reached the thick of the forest.
Dalain had decided to wait until the morning to enter the mist that enveloped the place.
Nephelim carefully observed the bare, thin trees. Hunched trees: the tree-trunk was growing curved, forming a wave that was rising from the ground straight up to the milky sky. He could feel the magic even though he was not skilled in it.
He waited for them, still, in front of the ruined fence. A good-looking woman.
The Reader stopped walking, holding on to the decorated stick: the crystal on the top had turned coloured. He closed his eyes, letting the essence of her filling him.
The dark aura that overwhelmed him became as cloudy as tar. He felt pain, pleasure, greed. She had given herself to the Nameless with full awareness: she was God's vehicle in spreading hate and despair.
Her appearance began to change soon she would reveal herself for her true nature.
«She is yours, Paladin. »
Nephelim drew his sword without delay, letting the blade be brought to life by the same light as the rod. The Reader had delivered his sentence. His task was to carry it out.
The horses had successfully freed themselves: they had succumbed to fear.
Nephelim secured the belt to Dalain's chest, sideways, placing the sword behind him.
When he lowered himself in the clear intent of putting it on his back, the Reader laughed. «We are too old for this. »
«I can walk for days; I've marched into worse situations. Get on. »
Dalain sighed, knowing he had no choice. He grabbed on, letting Nephelim lifting him. After a few miles he got used to the rhythm of the Paladin's walk: regular, as he remembered.
«Have you decided what gift to buy for your wife? There are only a few more moons to her birth anniversary. »
Nephelim turned in an impatient movement. «No. I know you'll think about it. »
«You could pay more attention to her. »
«Veridiana would disdain an affectionate husband, let us spend the time together to respect conjugal vows. She dislikes me. »
The Reader did not take the provocation. «She wishes a child. »
«I have no intention of procreating an unhappy one. » He gave him a hard look, turning his head towards him. «The damn race laws are driving our people to collapse. The obligation to mix blood with family members only makes our children paler and sicker. »
«I am not unhappy. »
Nephelim silently struck the blow.
«You would be a good father. »
«Is that what I am to you? »
«No.» Dalain looked up to the sky, thoughtful. «Can you see the shades of blue above us? »
The Paladin marched on.
Dalain laid one cheek on his shoulder, letting the tranquillity of his walking overcome him. «I still wonder why you love me. »
Nephelim did not answer, of course he would have fallen asleep within a few miles, cuddled by his footsteps. He smiled only when his regular breath came close to his face.
Indigo sea caressed by clouds of white foam. I wish to drown in a thousand skies.
“Which God has established that love must achieve triumph through the union of two bodies?
I will find the Witch if I have to spend my life looking for her. I will bend my knees, offering my loyalty. I just pray that until then I can have one more heartbeat. One breath.
It will come the night when I will watch over Dalain's sleep without fearing the rising of dawn.”
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Micol Fusca
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Зарубежное фэнтези
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: TEKTIME S.R.L.S. UNIPERSONALE
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: This book contains seven stories, of which I am the author, published in fantasy anthologies released by some publishing houses. In my opinion they are connected by a common thread. Love as an absolute feeling. I wanted to think of each story as a feather.