Galadan had been long and long in the waiting, buried under the pile of corpses, men and wolves both, the smell of blood heavy against his skin.
Heavy and heady, too, that smell. For he can feel it now, there just beyond his fingertips--the end of his long life's work.
And so it is that Galadan springs forth quick and silent, hand reaching for Owein's Horn where it hangs at the berserker's belt, reaching for the Horn that will set the Wild Hunt free to ride and kill until there is none left breathing on this world or any other.
It is a moment to be savored, and Galadan indulges himself for one fraction of a second before he places the Horn to his lips and, with all the power of his bitter soul, sounds the call to ride.
Paul can see it, all around him, as sorrow for Darien melds with the quiet joy of victory. They are appropriate reactions for the end of a battle that has been won at great cost; it is the relief and the exhaustion of the end.
Except it is not the end.
Paul can feel it, power vibrating within him, stronger than ever before. At first he thinks it was just one more sign of his isolation, his otherness, but dismisses the thought impatiently; now is not the time to indulge in feelings of loneliness. Never is the time to indulge in feelings of loneliness. What is, is.
There is a significance to this. Something is coming.
His is not a power of war, it's true. It is a power of the Summer Tree, of the God, of defense, of affirmation of life, and even now that the Dark has been defeated something is coming that may threaten all of that
( ... )
The sound of the Horn soars above everything, thin and cold as the light of torches half-seen through a shadowed forest, candles in the halls of the grieving, bleak sunrises over wintry seas.
In short, it is all light that casts no warmth, it tells a tale of shelters too far away for reaching, intended for someone else. Anyone else.
But Galadan hears it. He hears it well.
As the sound of the Horn dies away, Galadan's hand drops to his side, eyes wide and winter-grey in the light.
"I heard it. How did I hear Owein's Horn?"
It is too great a thing to understand, here and now.
In a moment Owein and the shadowy kings of the Wild Hunt are there, and unsheathing a deadly sword before them all is the child who was once Finn dan Shahar.
And now leads the kings whose presence means death.
Owein cries, in wild joy, and the kings raise their voices to echo him. They ride, blurring like smoke through the sky.
Paul stands after, feeling power within him, settling over the sorrow for now: still it is not over. Not even yet.
"With everything that has happened today," he says, aloud - Jaelle, he is aware, is listening, but he's speaking to himself as much as her - "there is one thing left to be done, and it is mine to do, I think."
He walks through a group of men, standing about helplessly towards the center of the plain. They part as he passes.
It is very quiet.
The last few men step aside, and Paul is facing Galadan, at the center of the circle.
"We meet for the third time," he says, "as I promised you we would."
So many people he has promised: Moiraine, Wellard, Kim, Amairgen . . .
"I told you in my own world that the third time would pay for all."
"Wolflord, I can see in any darkness you might shape and shatter any blade you could try to throw," Paul goes on.
His voice is low, but it has all the intensity in it of his own driven personality, as well as the authority granted him by the god. He is both Paul and Twiceborn in this moment, as balanced as he has ever been.
And still Galadan stands, scarred head held high and proud, light gleaming off the streak of silver in his hair.
He is silent a moment, gathering himself.
His voice, when he speaks, is nothing at all like it was the last time Paul heard it.
The weariness of centuries is on him, now, memories long-denied rising up thick and fast in the wake of his failure, in the wake of the Horn's call.
He opens his hands, fingers splayed and empty at his side.
There is, at this moment, nothing hidden in his sleeve.
"I have no blades left to throw. It might have been different had the dog not saved you on teh Tree, but I have nothing left now, Twiceborn. The long cast is over."
They had told him, what had happened to Finn. When Shahar went back to Vae, after what had happened to both Darien and Finn, he had been told. He had not thought to see either of them ever again-
The babe he and family took in, or his son.
The battle had ended, somehow he had survived, and now he thought the only thing left to do was go home to Vae so they could both mourn, together. Then Owein's Horn sounded across the field, and the Wild Hunt was summoned.
Shahar knew- he knew to fear them. He had heard what had happened at Celidon, and now there would be No One to stop them- But even that knowledge could not make him stand there, eyes to the sky, hoping for one last glimpse of Finn. Of his son
( ... )
There's so much pain that he can barely register it, can barely think (what happened?). More pain than he ever thought he could feel.
And then something--hands--grasp him, and move him, and he knows he was wrong as he has a brief flash of black when the pain trebles for those few moments.
A voice he knows speaks, and brushes aside his hair with familiar calloused hands.
He forces his eyes open, and he stares up into the face.
"Father," he greets him (what else can he do?), with the very little breath he can manage.
It hurts, but the corner of Finn's mouth curls up somewhat, in answer.
He know that resting is only a stopgap--he is not familiar with personal injury, but he's killed enough to know the fall was (will be) fatal. But his father is here, holding him, and it will give him some short comfort.
Finn owes him that much, and more.
He takes another shallow breath, and closes his eyes.
There's a cleared space on top of the ridge, one with enough room for the wounded to gather.
There are a great many of them.
Jaelle is at one side of the field, and Kim at the other. She's rolled up her sleeves and is working as quickly as she can, to the best of her ability.
She doesn't look at the Baelrath, darkened and dead on her finger.
Down in the morass of men and arms, Paul has been coming to the slow, suffocating realization that in the fighting, he is nothing but a liability.
"Go join the others!" he shouts, to the two men with him. "I'm no help here! I'm going back up on the ridge - I can do more there!"
He jogs back up, meeting up with Teyrnon and Barak on the way; the mage and his source have been meeting with equal frustration.
Beyond the circling enemy swans, the sun has reached its zenith and is heading down. Paul catches sight of Kim with the wounded, and changes direction, going to kneel down beside her.
"I'm useless down there," he says, quickly. "What can I do?"
Kim Ford raised two kings named Arthur at Glastonbury Tor. The Childslayer and the King of the Summer Country, called together into one body, fought beside the men and women of Fionavar.
The war has ended, now, and all of the prices have been paid. As the boat sails into the sky, one Arthur slips away from it.
No one notices but Cavall, who makes a small noise in his throat, and that Arthur once called Childslayer, who scratches Cavall's neck, and looks from Lancelot to Guinevere in wonder. Go in peace, brother, thinks the Warrior. May your rest be as fair as mine.
Comments 82
Heavy and heady, too, that smell. For he can feel it now, there just beyond his fingertips--the end of his long life's work.
And so it is that Galadan springs forth quick and silent, hand reaching for Owein's Horn where it hangs at the berserker's belt, reaching for the Horn that will set the Wild Hunt free to ride and kill until there is none left breathing on this world or any other.
It is a moment to be savored, and Galadan indulges himself for one fraction of a second before he places the Horn to his lips and, with all the power of his bitter soul, sounds the call to ride.
Reply
Paul can see it, all around him, as sorrow for Darien melds with the quiet joy of victory. They are appropriate reactions for the end of a battle that has been won at great cost; it is the relief and the exhaustion of the end.
Except it is not the end.
Paul can feel it, power vibrating within him, stronger than ever before. At first he thinks it was just one more sign of his isolation, his otherness, but dismisses the thought impatiently; now is not the time to indulge in feelings of loneliness. Never is the time to indulge in feelings of loneliness. What is, is.
There is a significance to this. Something is coming.
His is not a power of war, it's true. It is a power of the Summer Tree, of the God, of defense, of affirmation of life, and even now that the Dark has been defeated something is coming that may threaten all of that ( ... )
Reply
In short, it is all light that casts no warmth, it tells a tale of shelters too far away for reaching, intended for someone else. Anyone else.
But Galadan hears it. He hears it well.
As the sound of the Horn dies away, Galadan's hand drops to his side, eyes wide and winter-grey in the light.
"I heard it. How did I hear Owein's Horn?"
It is too great a thing to understand, here and now.
Or ever, quite possible.
For the Hunt comes.
And death, as ever, rides with them.
Reply
And now leads the kings whose presence means death.
Owein cries, in wild joy, and the kings raise their voices to echo him. They ride, blurring like smoke through the sky.
Reply
Jaelle rises first from the side of the dead boy.
Paul stands after, feeling power within him, settling over the sorrow for now: still it is not over. Not even yet.
"With everything that has happened today," he says, aloud - Jaelle, he is aware, is listening, but he's speaking to himself as much as her - "there is one thing left to be done, and it is mine to do, I think."
He walks through a group of men, standing about helplessly towards the center of the plain. They part as he passes.
It is very quiet.
The last few men step aside, and Paul is facing Galadan, at the center of the circle.
"We meet for the third time," he says, "as I promised you we would."
So many people he has promised: Moiraine, Wellard, Kim, Amairgen . . .
"I told you in my own world that the third time would pay for all."
Reply
His hands, however, are tighly fisted, flexing and releasing as he watches the Lord of the Summer Tree approach.
The third time pays for all, indeed.
And Galadan's long, careful vengeance is spent, and not well.
There is nothing left.
Nothing.
And so he watches Pwyll Twiceborn, waiting for his death.
It may yet be swift.
Reply
His voice is low, but it has all the intensity in it of his own driven personality, as well as the authority granted him by the god. He is both Paul and Twiceborn in this moment, as balanced as he has ever been.
"I think you know that this is true."
Reply
He is silent a moment, gathering himself.
His voice, when he speaks, is nothing at all like it was the last time Paul heard it.
The weariness of centuries is on him, now, memories long-denied rising up thick and fast in the wake of his failure, in the wake of the Horn's call.
He opens his hands, fingers splayed and empty at his side.
There is, at this moment, nothing hidden in his sleeve.
"I have no blades left to throw. It might have been different had the dog not saved you on teh Tree, but I have nothing left now, Twiceborn. The long cast is over."
He is done.
It is more a relief than he might have thought.
Reply
The babe he and family took in, or his son.
The battle had ended, somehow he had survived, and now he thought the only thing left to do was go home to Vae so they could both mourn, together. Then Owein's Horn sounded across the field, and the Wild Hunt was summoned.
Shahar knew- he knew to fear them. He had heard what had happened at Celidon, and now there would be No One to stop them- But even that knowledge could not make him stand there, eyes to the sky, hoping for one last glimpse of Finn. Of his son ( ... )
Reply
There's so much pain that he can barely register it, can barely think (what happened?). More pain than he ever thought he could feel.
And then something--hands--grasp him, and move him, and he knows he was wrong as he has a brief flash of black when the pain trebles for those few moments.
A voice he knows speaks, and brushes aside his hair with familiar calloused hands.
He forces his eyes open, and he stares up into the face.
"Father," he greets him (what else can he do?), with the very little breath he can manage.
Reply
"Finn." He manages to find a clean spot on the cuff of his shirt, to gently wipe away some of his son's blood.
"Shh. I'm here now, just rest.
"Just rest."
He cannot bring himself to say 'it will be all right'. Shahar cannot lie to his son, even now.
Reply
He know that resting is only a stopgap--he is not familiar with personal injury, but he's killed enough to know the fall was (will be) fatal. But his father is here, holding him, and it will give him some short comfort.
Finn owes him that much, and more.
He takes another shallow breath, and closes his eyes.
Reply
There are a great many of them.
Jaelle is at one side of the field, and Kim at the other. She's rolled up her sleeves and is working as quickly as she can, to the best of her ability.
She doesn't look at the Baelrath, darkened and dead on her finger.
Reply
"Go join the others!" he shouts, to the two men with him. "I'm no help here! I'm going back up on the ridge - I can do more there!"
He jogs back up, meeting up with Teyrnon and Barak on the way; the mage and his source have been meeting with equal frustration.
Beyond the circling enemy swans, the sun has reached its zenith and is heading down. Paul catches sight of Kim with the wounded, and changes direction, going to kneel down beside her.
"I'm useless down there," he says, quickly. "What can I do?"
Reply
There's real pain in the gray eyes, but Kim just gestures at the nearest roll of bandages.
"Pass me those." She takes up a roll of cloth and begins to bandage the leg of a Dwarf.
She doesn't know his name. Usually she knows her patients' names.
It bothers her more than she'd ever thought it would.
Reply
Kim has the Baelrath. "What do you mean?" Paul asks, frowning,
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Reply
The war has ended, now, and all of the prices have been paid. As the boat sails into the sky, one Arthur slips away from it.
No one notices but Cavall, who makes a small noise in his throat, and that Arthur once called Childslayer, who scratches Cavall's neck, and looks from Lancelot to Guinevere in wonder. Go in peace, brother, thinks the Warrior. May your rest be as fair as mine.
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