Chapter 12
Ailment

n a grove of immense trees Deacon stood, trying to quiet his mind. A stream of sunlight filtered brilliantly through the golden foliage. A carpet of leaves lay at his feet. Lightly, he laid his hand upon one of the thick, stately trunks, and with an audible sigh, waited; listening. There was nothing: no divine wisdom, no whisperings, nor any such revelation, only an intense silence that seemed to envelop him. Presently there was a slight stirring, a breezy whisper, imperceptibly soft, more of a sigh, lost almost amongst the rustling of the leaves. Always just a little out of articulative range, it was too elusive for him to grasp.

Standing alone Deacon felt that his presence was an intrusion and that Nature was withholding from him, denying him. The more he seemed to press her, the more she would turn from him. His presence was nothing to her. She was laughing at him.

Deacon took himself down to the part of the woods where the elves forged weapons. Thankfully, no one was there. When Deacon was not with his mother he often came here and laboured all through the day, crafting all manner of things. There were two reasons he worked so decidedly hard: one was to keep himself occupied and his mind free from painful reflections, and the other was to exhausted himself, so that he would sleep through the ghastly, deathful nights, when he was alone with only his thoughts.

With rapid expertise, Deacon turned and hammered the red-glowing metal. His hair, heavy with smoke and sweat, fell into eyes that were intent and concentrated. The sleeves rolled up above his elbows showed muscular forearms covered in a sheen of sweat. His hands, covered in smoke-smudge, were strong and fine, capable of works of great skill.

He had forged two fine swords for his cousins, Cedrik and his younger brother Derek, who was born much later. For their sister, Brielle, he had beautifully crafted a delicate bracelet from the finest of materials, though she was probably fit to wield a sword of her own. It had been several years since he last saw his cousins. His mother could not endure the journey even by portal, which Deacon had sometimes used to visit by himself when she was not well enough to accompany him, but it was a form of travel he rarely used. He despised being dependent on using Éomus’s magic.

Although his visits to the Imperial were few in number and short in duration, Deacon enjoyed every moment with his cousins. Many times he would resolve that this time he would not return to the elven realm, that he would stay with his cousins, seek his own fortune, and take the road he would choose. But then he would think of his mother and her ailing health, left behind to endure without him, and his resolve would fail him.

“Choose your mode of death,” said a young, tall elf, with the steel of his blade held at the throat of Deacon. Deacon looked at Lufian with a blank fixed expression. He saw the shining mockery come over Lufian’s face. “Do not become discouraged. You may yet find means to defeat me …or has Éomus’s training been all for naught?”

Deacon watched him steadily. Then, with a slow motion, he willed a similar weapon to his hand. Lufian gleamed for a moment with pleasure, as if the gesture was made specially to please him. Then he assumed a ready pose. Though it was a pointless exercise, Deacon could never resist a challenge from Lufian, so the two men began to spar.

They were very dissimilar. Lufian was narrow, very thin and fine. Deacon was much heavier and more solid. He had a frictional, invincible kind of strength, whilst Lufian seemed to have a fluid, subtle energy, almost intangible, that worked against the other man with uncanny force, like a spell. He wielded the sword in a tense, fine grip, with quick, dazzling movements, and with such agility and dexterity it was difficult for Deacon to maintain a competitive pace.

With a swift, sudden motion, Lufian flung Deacon’s weapon out of his grasp to the ground. Lufian had not broken a sweat, had not a hair out of place, and was clear and white, but Deacon was flushed red and tense. He seemed astonished. Lufian with the tip of his boot flicked the sword up into his hand and offered it back to Deacon. Deacon stood a moment, sorely affronted; then, with a sudden volcanic speed, he snatched the sword and the contest resumed with greater intensity than before.

Lufian, with a lightning twist of the wrist, sent Deacon’s weapon hurtling through the air. “Once again,” gloated the elf, his point levelled at Deacon. Both glanced down at the weapon lying far from reach. Swifter than thought, Deacon brought it to his grasp with an outreached hand and threw his shoulder into Lufian’s chest.

“It surprises me little that you should have to resort to magic!” snarled Lufian and again knocked it out of Deacon’s hand. A slight fatigue showed at last on Lufian’s clear brow. Deacon was much more exhausted. He could scarcely breathe any more. He snatched up the hilt of his sword, then, without apology or word of any sort, strode away.

“It’s only a game!” called Lufian. He gave the sword a flip in the air and re-caught the handle, a smile crossing his fine lips. In truth, he hardly liked the human, and the sport always gratified his pride.

The sun was beginning to fade, illuminating the woods with the golden hue an autumn sunset lends. Before returning home to his mother, Deacon scrubbed himself clean of the smoke-smudge and grime over his face and arms. Fresh and clean, the evening air cool on his skin, he dashed up the pearlescent stairs leading to the house held aloft by strong branches of the elven-trees. It was a magnificent home with many open rooms, allowing plenty of air and light. Deacon found his mother half-reclining on a long chair beneath a canopy; one look at her and instantly he knew something was wrong. She was listless and pallid in completion. Even the sight of her son failed to rouse her.

A long fever gripped Daenara and left her so weak that there was little hope of full recovery. Her days passed in a state of listlessness sad to witness. Deacon did little else but watch over her, staying at the bedside, as though he could will her back to health, and loathed every moment that did not find him at her side. The elven healers had done all they could for the present. There was nothing for him to do but wait.

Éomus was downstairs. He put himself aside for the moment, leaving Deacon to spend what precious time he had left with his mother. She had declined into a state of unconsciousness, and it was not certain she would recover. Éomus had offered to retrieve Deacon’s uncle, but he wanted no one.

In the subdued light of night, Deacon sat by his mother, leaning over her bed. He lay with his cheek on his forearm, his face near to hers. There he waited, motionless, with eyes dark and tender, his countenance grown wan and grim from watching and grief. Her sleeping face was smooth and peaceful. His fingers wandered over her cheek pitifully. He had difficulty convincing himself that he was losing her. Her existence was so very much a part of his own.

“Do not leave me,” he whispered, as one murmurs unconsciously in sleep. There were long intervals between the lift of one breath and the next, so that he feared each was the last. He put his fingers to her lips, tinged a strange hue, and shut his eyes tightly to prevent himself from being overcome.

He soon became aware of Éomus standing near at his side. Slowly sitting up, Deacon pinched his fingers into the corners of his eyes and recollected himself before facing him.

“You should get some sleep,” Éomus said, resting his hand on his shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “The human frame cannot endure.”

Deacon set his jaw against the reference to human frailty but said nothing. Sick with pain he rose feebly. He stood looking down on his mother miserably. He didn’t want to leave her, and sleep was not something attainable, but he knew also that Éomus needed to be with her for a time.

Éomus watched the young man whose look was becoming more inverted each passing day and felt deep concern. He loved him as well as his own, but there was a film of ice between them that he could not break through. He could foresee Deacon closing himself off further still. He feared that Deacon would be consumed to the point of self-obliteration and that he would lose him along with Daenara.

“Deacon,” he said, “loss is a natural part of existence. We mustn’t forget those around us who still live.”

“You speak as though she is already dead,” said Deacon quietly, but with burning vehemence.

“No—but you grieve as though she were. And I fear you are in danger of being overcome by dwelling excessively on the pain.”

For a moment the two men stood opposite each other: one tense and resentful, the other grave and aggrieved.

Daenara stirred slightly. Both looked down on her and decided to take their conversation out of the room.

“Profuse sorrowing,” said Éomus the moment he closed the door behind him, “destroys the strength of the body and the health of the mind. And, if you’re not careful, it has an embittering effect on the soul.”

Deacon turned very cold and hard. It was not in his understanding how Éomus could appear so calm at such a time. His eyes remained fixed on Éomus, expressing hurt and anger as he spoke. “How can you carry on with your usual composure and feel nothing, while the woman you claim to love lies dying in your bed. Are you so cold in your perfection!”

The serene brow showed dismay at last. “You have mistaked me all this while,” Éomus said, in a tone of plaintive reproof. “I live with breath as you, feel want, taste the bitterness of grief. I am subjected to these as you! Only I do not understand why you should add further affliction to grief by turning from me.” He stepped toward Deacon but did not touch him, saying with an expression deeply afflicted, “Why are you so anxious to be from me when I need you now the most?”

For the first time Deacon felt a tide of affection for Éomus come over him. Only by the clenching of his jaw and the unshed tears in his eyes could it be told how much moved he was.

“Will she die without regaining consciousness?” he asked at length.

“I am unable to say.”

The two stood in the hallway, momentarily wordless.

“Take comfort,” said Éomus, resting his hand on Deacon as he spoke. “In times such as these we must turn to higher realms for guidance and courage. May they be your strength when sorrows bear down hard upon you.”

Deacon wanted none of it. What were these gods that they should do as they please with the frail beings they created?

The next morning Deacon rose unrested. His whole being seemed beaten down. Coming to stand at his mother’s door, he knocked lightly; hearing Éomus tell him to enter, he pushed it half-open. The morning sun poured in on a made and empty bed, and for an instant his heart ceased to beat. Abruptly he pushed the door fully open.

He saw Éomus standing by the balcony, and sitting there also was his mother. Almost he lost his breath in relief, and as she rose unsteadily, he closed the short distance between them, taking her in his arms. Only for a moment she held him and kissed him, then withdrew to look at his face. She hadn’t much strength to speak and said, trying to sound quite normal, “You look a terrible sight.” She touched her fingertips to his face, rough and unshaven.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly, overcome. She smiled wearily, and he helped her back into the chair. Her movements were unsteady and full of suffering, killing all joy and relief for him. He would have taken the pain himself if he could.