Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 11: A Tribute from Lycaon
Title: A Tribute from Lycaon, Chapter 11 of Lament of the Asphodels
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 3,500
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
A few weeks ago in the Midlands, the Bailiff tied the Barkeep's body to his great silver mare, covering him with a blanket. He hated the man for his many slanders and sins, but even he didn't deserve to have his body left and rotting for days on end. The mare would race through the woods and, in due course, return home so that he could be buried. So he could be at rest.
Even though the bastard didn't deserve dignity, repose, nor a final farewell.
The Bailiff had put the Sheriff to bed hours ago, and he didn't have the heart to wake so early. Once he loosed the mare, they would have to leave on the hour, lest someone come looking for answers too soon.
The Bailiff - or rather, the former Bailiff, owing to his circumstances - considered their situation. They had managed to hide in the countryside for weeks, but solely because keeping the pronouncement quiet had been paramount. The Deputies had assumed quite rightly that the Sheriff would return so long as she remained unaware that she no longer had a title or position, but keeping that secret required withholding information from local authorities, who wouldn't waste resources on a request like finding somebody else's Sheriff, especially if they caught wind that she was on a romantic getaway.
But once the Barkeep's death was deemed a homicide, all the Midlands would know of the pronouncement within the next rise and fall of the sun.
There was only one option. With neither the time nor the means to bribe passage to the Northmost Lands and no real prospects escaping to the Southern Crescent, the only way to avoid capture was to hide and wait out the manhunt.
And there was but one place to do it: Bald Mountain Reserve, a stretch of protected wilderness that went right up to the ocean. Just thinking about the location made his insides wretch and his skin crawl, but his devastating fear of forests was as widely known as the Sheriff's terror of the sea. The very last place the Bailiff and the Sheriff would ever travel in tandem was a dense thicket of woods on a peninsula. And that was why they need to go there, where no one would bother looking for them.
Over the years, countless acquaintances and more than a few friends suggested he overcome his childhood fear of dying alone in the woods by venturing into the forest and facing it head-on. Naturally, he avoided that particular recommendation for one reason or another. Why bother conquering a fear that never impinged on his day-to-day life? It wasn't as if they held court in the jungle. Why relive the childhood trauma of being abandoned in the woods by his parents? He had his fill of that when he accidentally read the story of Hansel and Gretel, which forced him to realize that his parents had not only been cruel, but they hadn't even bothered with an original means to execute said cruelty.
The excuses kept changing because in truth, he was simply too afraid. He had nearly died once in the woods during a time when he was supposed to be sheltered, loved, and protected. Ever since he woke up in the hospital surrounded by inquisitive strangers at age eight, he refused to set foot in the forest again. Even an area too thick with trees would deter him, though that had eased somewhat with time.
The Sheriff - the former Sheriff - could lead them to one of the cabins deep inside Bald Mountain Reserve, for among the many benefits of its wilderness habitat were incredibly tall trees that obstructed the view of the water from nearly everywhere. She would neither hear nor see the ocean, which left them with only one problem: himself. The Bailiff had to find a way because thinking about it was enough to put him in a panic. He sincerely wondered if a lifetime in jail would be worse in comparsion.
There were a number of nerve tonics, but his past experiences taught him not to trust their efficacy. However, the few sleeping draughts he had tried had been very effective. The Swan's cottage would have everything he required. Once his anxiety and paranoia of the forest began to influence his behavior, he would drink the concoction to put himself out. The Sheriff would have to tie him to his saddle - not unlike what he had done for the Barkeep's body - and then she could lead his horse into the densest part of the woods, and he'd be none the wiser.
Even imagining the scenario made him lightheaded. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, desperately searching for the strength he needed to move forward with his own plan.
As if in answer to his prayer, a wolf appeared before him with one black eye and one red. Something about it was familiar, even comforting. He opened his eyes, almost expecting the grey canine to stand before him, but there was only the silver mare and her deceased rider.
Despite the wolf being an image in his head, he was stronger for picturing it.
"Go on then, lass," he whispered to the horse. "Ride well."
He released the silver mare before turning back to the cottage. The Sheriff was in for a rude awakening, and those never pleased her. Best to get it over with quickly.
The Sheriff and the Bailiff no longer possessed those titles, but with no other positions to substitute for personal reference, they continued to think of and speak of themselves as such. They disembarked immediately and rode hard through the night so that they arrived at the edge of Bald Mountain Reserve by the next dawn.
As all protected lands, Bald Mountain Reserve was encircled by a stretch of impassible landscape. High ridged cliffs flanking a wide river with a furious current cut off approach from the north and the west. The Endless Sea protected the east as well as the peninsula that made up most of the reserve. The only border afforded no natural protection was the south, so the builders of the Midlands long ago augmented nature's defenses with deep trenches and boulders scattered throughout the brush, forcing travelers to face a tedious and cumbersome passage that possessed many deadly dangers to ensnare even the most seasoned hikers.
The limited entryways enabled scouts and rangers to identify all travelers coming and going, lest they be poachers or any other manner of criminal that sought to destroy the beauty and life of the protected lands within. Of course, any scout or ranger worth the salt they sweated would likewise spot any fugitives that passed into the reserve and report it to those in authority, or worse, call in bounty hunters to track and trap the reprobates.
Their long ride in the shadows had prevented them from contact with others, giving them no chance to hear news, so they didn't know if the manhunt for them had yet begun. Still, the Sheriff insisted they acted as if the worst had come to pass, for it was better to travel haltingly in the shadows and succeed in their escape than to race foolishly ahead and be captured for their troubles.
So, already exhausted from their journey, they hit barrier after barrier, forcing them to weigh options neither wished to consider. He suggested abandoning the horses, for they could sneak across the southern border on foot without being detected if they had no steeds to lead. This began a particularly bitter debate between the two, for while the Bailiff saw it as a practical sacrifice, the Sheriff saw it as a form of dismal surrender.
"After you drink your sleeping draught, how will I carry you miles deep into the reserve?" she asked pointedly.
To quell his fears, he had purposely avoided thinking about that part of the plan, so he hadn't considered it. Her point remained valid. He wouldn't be able to walk into the woods, and she couldn't carry his unconscious body and all their supplies.
"Then let's loose one of the horses," he suggested. "It'll be faster than leading them both across the border."
"And what would happen when someone finds the horse we leave behind?" she asked. "Even a kid would know it was lost, and anyone from New Brook could recognize either horse. It would be enough to draw attention here."
He insisted that would be an unlikely course of events, and she retorted that it was too likely to risk. And back and forth it went for the remainder of the afternoon, until they finally agreed that they wouldn't resolve their situation that day, not while they were so exhausted. The best course of action was to find cover and retire, resting until the sun went down. Then they could continue their fruitless mission under cover of night.
Thus, the Sheriff and the Bailiff sought a place to wait out the remainder of the heat and light of the day. A public place, such as an inn or stable, was too much of a risk. The Bailiff's condition prevented them from wandering into the shelter of the trees in search of a clearing; likewise, the Sheriff's fear of the sea prohibited them from seeking out a coastal bluff or similar hiding place near the shore.
She was prepared to hide in the largest shadow to the mountain with little more than hopeful desperation as camouflage, and he nearly submitted to it himself when something caught his attention. She didn't see it - or couldn't see it - and later, when he recounted what he witnessed, she scarcely believed him. But on his honor, he saw a great gray wolf with mismatched eyes of blood and darkness disappearing into the trees. Though she asked many times why he choose to race after an enormous wolf of all things, he never rightfully answered her, for he simply couldn't explain his actions. Neither did he understand why his steed - who was known for her dislike of all canines - didn't refuse his spur.
But once he galloped into the woods - a feat that the Bailiff thought himself incapable - she had to follow, her horse hastily crashing through the brush to find a path through the trees, gradually slowing to a tepid walk. When she caught up with him, he had dismounted to help an old man.
"Thank you kind sir," the old man said once he had his feet under him. "I was once the Ranger in these woods, though I've been retired for many years. Now I'm just a Hermit. I take it as a compliment."
The Hermit had been collecting firewood when he fell and badly injured his leg. Sharp rocks had torn through his trousers, and his blood flowed freely, a sign that the wound needed tending. But there was nowhere to treat him in the middle of the woods. The Sheriff didn't comment, for she feared even saying the word 'forest' might remind the Bailiff where he stood and eliminate his resolve.
"He needs help," the Bailiff said. "Could you treat his leg?"
"Do you have a cabin or anywhere we can take you?" she asked. "Somewhere with clean water and something we can use for bandages?"
"Indeed, I can guide you there," the Hermit replied. "It's not far."
The Bailiff helped the Hermit onto his horse and led the mare by the bridle, and the Sheriff followed on foot, leading her own horse. She couldn't tell if the Bailiff was putting on a good face, but if their situations were reversed, she wouldn't be upright and helping strangers. They had avoided stable masters and innkeepers for the sake of hiding, and she saw no reason to assume the Hermit would behave any differently. If law enforcement or bounty hunters spoke with him, he would likely impart every fact he possessed without hesitation.
The Hermit's cabin was a simple place with a sturdy well and post for tying horses. The Bailiff escorted the Hermit inside while the Sheriff saw to their steeds, and it occurred to her that this was a fine place to hide for the day, so long as the Hermit had no other guests.
Meanwhile, the Hermit disappeared into his bedroom, exchanging his trousers for cut-offs that appeared quite strange on him indeed. Then he sat by the fire, which burned well for having been left on its own for the better part of the day.
"We don't have much time," the Hermit said.
"Don't worry, the Sher - my friend is quite adept with treating these kinds of injuries," the Bailiff replied.
"Not my wound," the Hermit said. "I need to speak with you, Graham Humbert."
The Bailiff flinched upon hearing his born name, and his suspicions rose as quickly as a cat's hackles.
"Who are you?" he snarled. "What is this? A trap?"
"Far from it," the Hermit replied. "Please, before Miss Swan comes back. You have to listen to me."
The Bailiff hesitated. If this was a trap, a few seconds wouldn't give them much of a head start.
"Speak quickly," the Bailiff said stiffly.
"You followed the wolf."
"What did you say?"
"The wolf. You followed it to me."
"How did you know about that?"
"Because I've been waiting for you for a very, very long time," the Hermit replied. "You and I have never met before, but we would have. That is why the wolf led you to me. It was the only way for you to know."
"Know what?"
"That you can trust me," the Hermit replied. "You are not Graham Humbert. That is just a name from a past life. A name that you obtained from a curse. Before that, you were known only as the Huntsman, and the wolf was your family. Your guardian."
"Past lives?" the Bailiff repeated. "Are you trying to tell me I'm haunted by past lives?"
"Not haunting you, guiding you," the Hermit explained. "Emma Swan and I met in that life. There I was called the Apprentice."
"Why are you telling me any of this?" the Bailiff asked. "It doesn't make any sense."
"You are facing your worst fear, and that is when all your other lives can be remembered. You will not be able to help Emma Swan until you remember who you are, Huntsman."
"You're mad," the Bailiff said in complete disbelief.
"Follow the wolf," the Hermit whispered.
The Bailiff got to his feet, ready to roar at the man before him, but at that moment, the Sheriff entered. He froze somewhere between fury and panic, and he had no idea what to do next.
"Do you need the sleeping draught?" she asked, concerned.
She thought he was panicking over being in the woods, and he realized that, though much terrified him right now, the forest wasn't even a consideration.
"No," he replied. "I just need to sit down."
"I'll check his wound. Let me know if you need the draught," she said. "Better to take it if you're not sure. Can't have you running off."
"Don't fret," he said as he perched on a wooden chair. "Worry about him. Sounded a bit feverish a moment ago."
The Sheriff put the back of her hand against the Hermit's forehead, but of course there was no fever to find. She gathered a few supplies and cleaned the wound, and the whole time the Bailiff kept a watchful eye on the Hermit, unsure of what to make of him.
If anyone wanted to win the Bailiff's mistrust, a stranger need only blurt out his born name as if they'd known each other their entire lives. Yet, there was something about the Hermit that made him second guess his knee-jerk reaction. He had known about the wolf, and somehow, that won him an undue measure of trust, though it went against his every instinct. He considered the other nonsense that the Hermit had spouted before the Sheriff interrupted, and he learned very little. He disliked riddles and hated puzzles. Those were more after the style of the Sheriff, but for some reason, the Hermit had spoken to her.
Somehow, the Bailiff knew that it was important to keeping the Sheriff safe, and for once in his life, he decided to follow that small voice inside his heart.
"Luckily, you won't need stitches," the Sheriff said as she covered his leg with a bandage. "Keep it clean and dry until it heals, even if that means keeping out of the woods."
"Thank you for your kindness," the Hermit replied. "I would like to repay you. Please, rest here as long as you need. I have food enough for all of us."
"Thank you," the Sheriff replied.
"Perhaps tea is in order," the Hermit suggested.
Despite his wounded leg, the Hermit moved around his cabin swiftly, gathering a number of herbs and spices before he put the kettle over the fire. The Bailiff watched him closely. He wasn't sure what kind of mind game the Hermit had in store, but even the most elaborate tea in the world required only half the labor he performed. He finally laid out the tea and bread for them on a tray with a number of tiny cups, the kind that normally contained milk or honey. A quick glance told the Bailiff that these contained neither substance, for not only did each cup come from a different set with varying signs of wear and age but each one also contained a scentless amber liquid. Once the Hermit poured the tea, the smell of ginger and mint overwhelmed everything else.
"The tradition of tea is quite different where I come from," the Hermit explained. "Each of these can augment the brew, but only if the drinker is ready."
"What are they?" the Sheriff asked.
"The tea is ginger-mint, for clarity of mind and rousing hunger," he replied. "Each of these cups bares the color that symbolizes the tonic they contain. Green for honesty in memory, the truth of the past. Blue for strength and courage in the present. Red for hope in the future."
"Tonics?" the Bailiff asked, taking no care to hide his suspicion. "I'm guessing these aren't jasmine or turmeric."
"No," he replied. "These are powerful remedies, and you both have need for all three. But, please, if they offend you, you need not drink them. Enjoy the tea."
The Sheriff had no reason to fear the Hermit's intentions, and truth be told, neither did the Bailiff. He had wrestled with his doubt and decided to trust the wolf. So he added the red tonic to his tea before taking a sip. The ginger and mint had a new, spicy taste, like cinnamon and hot pepper.
"Really?" the Sheriff asked him skeptically.
"I think we could both use some hope," he replied.
They whiled the afternoon away, listening to the Hermit describe all the animals in the forest and the landscape. The Sheriff said nothing to the Bailiff, but his strength impressed her. Never before had she seen anyone so boldly and calmly face their fear, and the only sign that anything was amiss was the occasional tremble of his hands. She was almost envious of him.
The Hermit had to tend to things around his property, so the Bailiff rested on the couch while the Sheriff kept an eye on the old man.
She must've fallen asleep at some point, for suddenly it was nigh dusk, and the Hermit was nowhere to be seen. She found the Bailiff fast asleep on the couch by the fire, and for a fleeting moment, she feared that the Hermit might've drugged their tea and fled to report them.
But when she turned around, he was sitting at the dining table with a smile on his face.
"Do you remember me, Emma Swan?" he asked.
The last man to use her full born name was her father, and she disliked its sound upon a stranger's lips. Her expression betrayed her sentiment, for the Hermit continued before she had a chance to respond.
"You do not," he replied. "That is troubling."
"Who are you?" she asked. "How do you know my name?"
"Please, sit."
She joined him at the table but only to gage his intentions. There was a strong possibility that her parents had sent this man to help her. The only contradiction to her theory was the cabin itself, which was clearly well-lived in and had been for some time.
"When we last met, I was called the Apprentice," he said. "Do you remember me at all?"
"No," she replied immediately. "Listen to me, my traveling companion and I are in hiding. It's important that no one knows we came through here. Whatever you think you know about me, forget it."
"I give you my solemn vow that I will tell no one of our meetings," he said.
He was telling the truth.
"I am only here to help you and your traveling companion get to where you are going," he continued. "I had hoped the tonics would help revive your memories, and they may yet succeed, though how long it will take, I cannot say. But in the meantime, you must know that not everyone in this life is real. Some people are like empty slates, mere echoes and copies of real people."
"If you're trying to scare me, you've failed," she retorted as she stood up. "We're not hollow puppets."
"Indeed not," he said. "In time, as you begin to remember, your mind will begin to identify those people in your life who were false inventions or replicas. Then they will manifest themselves - in life as well as your recollections - without faces."
"Faceless people?" the Sheriff asked. "What does this have to do with you? Why do you care?"
"Because, Emma Swan, in another life, we were friends, after a fashion," he replied. "And if I can help you in this life, or any other, then I will."
Again, the man told her the truth.
"You know my name," she said. "Do you know his as well?"
"I do."
"And do you know why we are here?"
"Not the specifics," he replied. "I know you were the Sheriff and the Bailiff. Until recent events forced you to become the Fugitive and the Accomplice."
"The Accomplice?" she repeated.
"That is what the news calls you," he replied. "Have no fear. No one will know you and through these woods."
The Sheriff - or as she was more aptly called now, the Fugitive - knew that this man spoke the truth. But the fact that she would speak with a complete stranger on these matters so frankly and trust him was ludicrous, superpower or no.
Unless you knew him in a past life, her mind nagged her.
"Have faith, Emma Swan," the Hermit said. "One day, you will understand why I sent you on this path, and you will cast the ghosts that haunt you aside for better and brighter days."
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Chapter 12: The Marionette of Aletheia
(coming soon...)
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Lycaon was the king of Arcadia. He cooked Nyctimus, son of Zeus, and served him to his father to see if the deity was truly all-knowing. As punishment for this act, Zeus transformed Lycaon and all his descendants into wolves.