Chapter 36
An Observable Change

an is intrinsically drawn to truth. In the absence of inner truthfulness, ignoring the inner voice and living a lie, the nature of his being will suffer the restlessness and discontent of the ceaseless voice telling him he is wrong.

Deacon was vividly conscious of his dark purpose. It bled him of his vitality and self-respect. The complexion that had previously been burned brown by the sun had lost its bronze and by degrees grown pale. His form was still impressive, but it looked defeated now, his shoulders bowed, his face downcast.

He seemed to lack the essential consciousness of well-being, denying himself comfort and sustenance and, of all things necessary to the human form, companionship. He became drawn inward. Even Magenta could not understand the mystery in which he shrouded himself. He seemed striving to be sufficient unto himself, not wanting to be in need of any living creature.

His abject state left his companions wondering what illness had taken him. Though it was evident his sufferings were self-inflicted, he alone was in possession of the cause. Magenta saw with deep concern that his countenance was losing its warmth and that the spirit in his eye was failing. He seemed in a kind of living death. The body corresponds with the spirit, and his body was suffering accordingly.

Deacon moved away from the warmth of the campfire and sat with his back against a tree, among the night’s shadows, which seemed to clasp him too closely and too far away from her. Magenta had prepared him something to eat, but he scarcely touched it. She watched him with growing distress. There were violent alterations in his character. To her it seemed he had taken on another consciousness, another self; he was not who he had been when she had him to herself in the woods. His spirit had fused with the hate that churned in a slow, ever-burning furnace.

“Tell me, Cedrik,” she said, subdued, “can your own heart deceive you?”

“Can my heart lie to me?” he said, lightly. “I’m certain it does.” Observing her downcast features he grew serious. “The thing about the heart,” he began tentatively, “is that it has a necessity for hope. Sometimes it’s difficult to discern between it and truth.” He saw that she struggled with emotion and said nothing more.

When Magenta saw that Deacon had finished eating, she went to him. He had been deeply engrossed in his thoughts for some time when he became aware of her. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at her. She reached out for the plate; with a tight smile he handed it to her, muttering his gratitude. She stood over him as if she would be fixed there forever; he was tense under the agony of it. Soon she crouched down near to him. “Do you suffer illness?” she asked. Her low, sweet voice, her touch upon his arm, brought back emotions he had hoped had left him.

“There are better things you can achieve with your time, than to concern yourself with me.” He could not keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. He paid no more attention to her presence. She drew away. He sat without a sense of feeling.

It seemed he had lost complete interest in her existence, and as if her existence required his belief in it, she began to fade. A melancholy swept over her and seemed to extinguish the life in her. There was a calm, unearthly beauty in her sorrow. Her deep eyes gave the impression of looking beyond rather than into those of their beholders. In this state she held a quiet, complacent sense of forbearance, belonging to her love for him.

One evening Magenta stood away from camp beneath the open sky spread with stars. She looked into the night with a vague, distant look, a wistful and gentle acquiescence to her fate. At a near distance Deacon perceived her there. He stood with his shoulder against a small tree, watching her with strange intentness. She was lovely in the tender light. Every movement woke greater sentiment in him. All the while he grew more sullen and unbearable to himself. The terrible softness of her, he longed for.

The fire was put out and the companions settled into their beds for the night. In his lonely isolation, Deacon lay awake, wishing he was lying beside her with the warm darkness folding them close. His body ached with physical longing, and his heart with something of greater depth.

In her bed, Magenta heard a light step pass the tent. She arose and upon venturing out, saw that Deacon wandered away from camp and vanished in among the trees. She returned to her blankets but was stirred into wakefulness, too alive to consider sleep. She at last flipped back the covers and ventured into the cold night, wearing only her light sleeping shift.

The moon afforded scarcely enough light for her to make her way through the black mass of trees. She soon came to find him in a small clearing—a lonely silhouette standing by a dark pool of water. From her angle she could not see his face, more than the strong line of his jaw. But she could discern from his bowed head that his attention was fully fixed upon the precious jewel he held out from its chain round his neck. It was like none other she had ever seen, with a luminous quality that to her seemed most certainly of elven make.

For a moment she watched him, her presence hidden by the darkness of the night. As she drew nearer he heard her approaching steps and casually, but swiftly, returned the jewel to its place beneath his shirt. Crouching down by the pool, he splashed cool water over his face in an attempt to remove any sign of grief. Drying his face on the sleeve of his shirt, he glanced briefly over his shoulder.

“You cannot sleep,” he said, rising to his feet, keeping his face partly averted. He knew affliction was still too apparent on his features. She hadn’t a chance to respond, when the eyes of both caught the back of something slippery and eel-like surfacing briefly from the water. Deacon grimaced at the thought of the tainted water having touched his face and spat out the taste he imagined was in his mouth. A faint smile lifted one side of his mouth as he stole a quick glance at her, saying in a lighter, more playful tone, “We shall avoid the water tonight, I think.”

She smiled bleakly at the manner by which he sought to put her at ease, though he was not at ease himself and failed miserably to do so for her. But still, something akin to hope rose within her at his sudden warming toward her. Unfortunately he could not, it seemed, sustain the lightness of manner which he so sought, for he all too quickly sank back to his former state of misery.

His eyes fell once more to the still, black water. Magenta joined him in this silent absorption, occasionally glancing over to observe his features. His bitterness, while still apparent, was overshadowed by a heavy weariness, which in turn made her heart very heavy for him.

“You are weary,” she said, softly. At the sound of her voice his eyes returned from vacancy but nevertheless stayed fastened on the water. She turned to face him, wondering what the source of this self-imposed deprivation was. “Why must you punish yourself so cruelly?”

She was not certain, at first, that he would respond. He was still greatly detached from her, his face so ashen as to suggest death. But within him, somewhere, there was something much alive, despite his look of illness. “Our existence is brief,” he said at length. “We must push ourselves if we would achieve great heights.” He turned his eyes full upon her and said quietly, but with great intensity, “I do not wish to fall among the wretched and forgotten.”

She could see now that he belonged to his destination, willing to sacrifice all to get there. “That will not be your fate.” She looked at him in a manner as to suggest wonder and awe. Dropping his chin to his chest, he smiled, a grim smile of self-scorn.

“There are many things in this world that appear fascinating and inexplicit, but on closer inspection turn out to be merely commonplace,” he said, so cynically she knew at once he spoke of himself and her idea of him.

“And I have no doubt you are not one of them,” she said quickly. “You are greater than you know. There is more in your one sentence than in a thousand utterings of most, and you continue to perfect your mind. But you mustn’t neglect the present life for the future life. We must take time for the beauty that lies between us and our goal. If not—we may miss the many wonderful things along the way.”

He could not doubt the meaning of the last of what had she said, and staring in her wonderful dark eyes, the strong feeling of affection for her came over him, battling against the weariness and pain. He wanted so much to rest in the warmth of her love. She was so strong in her self-possession, and she was so determined to think well of him, believing so assuredly that she should belong to him. He always proved wanting, always failing to deny the sudden onset of this love that had so rapidly taken full possession of him. He knew discovering the intricacies of her character would be a lifelong endeavour, one he would gladly embrace, if he did not feel with certainty that she was made of a finer material than himself and deserved infinitely more than he could deliver. So he turned from all tender thoughts, once again turning himself inward and away from her, though he knew her heart was breaking at his absence.

A heavy silence befell them. Her attention was drawn to his chest, where he absent-mindedly had laid his open palm. She knew there were other things that worked on his troubled mind.

“Do you care very much for her?” Magenta asked at length. He saw her eyes fall to where the jewel lay hidden near his heart. Drawing it out he nodded solemnly.

“Very much.”

Her hopes suddenly shrank and sank down. So lost in thought it seemed he was unaware of his surroundings, Deacon fondled the jewel between his fingers, and she saw a kind of pained tenderness cross his features. She smiled a faint painful smile, as if he had unwittingly hurt her. She felt cast aside. It was difficult to draw breath.

“It was to be my mother’s.” A frown creased his brow and the strong muscle in his jaw tightened. “But she died before I gave it to her.”

The tumult of emotion struck Magenta mute, then scarcely above a whisper, she uttered, “It is beautiful.”

“I’m certain the elves would find it less that faultless,” he said, snatching it up and tucking it back into its place with a look that alerted her that he had most likely crafted the jewel himself.

“You made this?” she asked in marvelment, gently laying her fingertips upon his chest, as though she were touching the precious jewel itself. The gesture made his entire frame shudder.

“The evenings are growing cold,” he said, as if desiring to turn the conversation to a more general one.

“Tell me about her,” Magenta pursued gently. “Your mother. What was she like?”

Deacon recalled her memory with a faint, tender smile. “True-hearted. Kind. The sort of woman any honorable man would lay his life down for.”

It was a while before Magenta ventured to ask more. “And your father?” she asked cautiously, not wishing to push him further than he was willing.

Deacon compressed his lips tightly, resting his chin on his chest, which was habitual of him when distressed. “What can be said of a man who pledges himself to a woman, then through no fault of her own, abandons her and his child?” he said bitterly.

Staying very quiet, Magenta waited in vain for him to say more. His mind was full of bitter memories, his face pale and impassive. He sneered inwardly at the disgrace of his father’s course and could not escape the sense of his own insufficiencies.

“Any good there is in me I got from her.” His words came out nothing more than a quiet murmur.

“There is a great deal of good in you,” said Magenta. He was so intensely aware of her nearness that there was no surprise in her gentle touch upon his arm.

“How can you be so certain?” he asked, glancing at her darkly. She looked into his eyes, and it seemed she could see into a soul deeper than that of any human.

“Most make the mistake of believing the eyes to be merely an organ of sight, part of our form,” she said. “But they are so much more. They allow insight into one’s soul, and yours is one of true benevolence.”

Though he felt unworthy of such regard, her words somehow comforted and sustained him. He turned fully to face her, his gaze falling to her slender form that was visible beneath her light shift. The touch of his hand brushing down the length of her bare arm gave her unutterable pleasure, made all the greater by contrast with his former indifference. Far from blushing or even averting her eyes, she leaned nearer to him. She had a deep longing for him to embrace her.

Arrested with love and pure adoration, he moved nearer her. “You cannot know what good you have done me tonight,” he said in a voice pitched to a lower tone and with a softer note. Every sharp angle of his handsome face had softened to the sincerest tenderness, and he had drawn so near she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek. For the moment it seemed as if he might kiss her, but he stood frozen within himself, as if standing at some closed door unable to enter. He turned his face aside, but did not withdraw.

For some time he was torn pitilessly in this conflict, when he felt the warmth of her hand at the nape of his neck, drawing him down, and her lips tenderly pressed to his. Submissively he closed his eyes, adrift in her kiss, and felt a complete breakdown of his resolve. He had avoided her touch for so long, now that he had allowed it he could not, it seemed, get enough. Having utterly lost his self-command, he let his arm steal round her, and with the ardour of passion drew her into him, kissing her with all the fervor of one long denied.

Holding her thoroughly embraced, he seemed to lift her nearer to himself, closer and closer, his heart crushed in a passionate grip. As though obeying some sudden impulse he lifted her upon the smooth rock behind her. His lips and caresses increased in their demand until it appeared he might consume her. Though he could not doubt her willingness, he, with a great effort of will, smothered and subdued his passion.

Clinging still, he could not yet force himself to let go. The fever-hot face that rested upon her own was restless, and with an effort painful to see, he released her. “There is nothing to be said in my defence,” he breathed apologetically, drawing back from her entirely. He knew if he stood there longer he must yield.

Presently she came to stand before him. His face was taut, the pulse in his throat the only indication of what he might be feeling, his breath coming in great heaves. Gently she took his arm and drew it round her waist, pressing against him, and he felt what little command he had on his senses slipping away.

“Magenta …” His tone was desperate, pleading. He looked so distressed that she took pity on him and drew back a little. Turning half from her, his body grew very still. His eyes were downcast. It was evident a severe conflict was going on in his mind. She stroked his hair and he accepted her touch, but passively, without responsive warmth.

“You seem so alone in the world,” she said caressively. Deacon appeared to cringe inwardly. For him, her kindness was full of cruelty, her gentle touch causing suffering even as it promised to ease it. Magenta tried to urge him to soften to her, only to meet a refusal, stubborn and sorrowful.

Finally he said, in his usual dispassionate tones, “The way you looked at me, I thought you had seen into my soul, but I perceive now that you have not, or you would not wish to be so near me. You might as well love a shadow as me.” He glanced at her darkly.

There in his eyes she saw a reason for his refusal that was not unfavourable to her. There was a darkness in him. She could not be deceived, even by her love. It distressed her keenly that he should harbour a purpose that disturbed his conscience and kept him from her, yet he would not abandon it. She clasped the hand that hung by his side, but he left it hanging lifeless, without returning pressure.

“What keeps you from me?” she asked, with her eyes fastened on his face, as was her instinctive custom when she sought to discover more than his words would reveal. But he closed his eyes on the answer she sought.

He soon relapsed into dismal silence. She held his hand as though it were the very object to keep him bound to her forever, but he would not soften, struggling with the utter impossibility of unburdening himself to her. He could feel her gaze heavily on him. He would glance at her, but she could not hold his eyes. They fell beneath hers each time. For an instant it appeared as if he might confide the insupportable grief he was utterly weary of holding onto, but he said nothing and averted his face further.

“I wish you would speak the words that lie on your lips,” she said, brushing a strand of black hair from his eyes. She seemed to press so heavily upon him, he felt she was suffocating him. “Have you nothing to say?” she asked despairingly. Both his heart and his eyes were closed to her. He shook his head, clearly unable to say what was in his heart. Her lashes dropped to her delicate cheek. Deacon felt her disappointment and groaned inwardly with annoyance and exasperation.

“Why must you press me to uncover every detail of my character?” he said. “I feel as though, by the foolishness of some impulse, I have found myself in a cage with you.”

Magenta instantly grew pale, whether with hurt or anger he could not tell. She felt as though a shard of poisoned ice had pierced her breast. The words immediately burned his tongue, and he regretted having said them. He quickly tried to recover but she would hear none of it.

As she turned to leave, he took a step so as to bar her way. She spoke in hurt but even tones. “I leave at your bidding; why do you prevent me?” She looked almost ill, but he saw the indomitable spirit looking out from her clear-seeing eyes. Gradually a heavy frown contracted his brow.

“Keep your heart until you find someone worthy to receive it.”

“A woman’s heart does not belong to her but to the one who wrenches it from her, and as it happens, he is often the one who does not wish to keep it.” As she brushed past him, his eyes involuntarily closed, and he felt a hollowing pain, as though she had taken part of his soul with her. He subdued the urge to clutch her and force her to stay. Feeling shattered and destroyed, he sat down by the water. His usually concentrated eyes had become as vacant and blind as the eyes of a man who is dead.