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?"
There's a knife near at hand, one that she's seen to keeping clean-- or at least as clean as is possible under these conditions. Kim ties off the bandage with a pressure knot over the wound, then cuts it free.
Without answering Paul, she stands up and moves to the next patient.
It's one of the Dalrei, as it turns out -- one of the younger Riders, bleeding out from a deep axe wound in his side. No more than sixteen, she thinks, as she stares down at him in some despair. Barely older than Tabor, or than Finn would have been.
He knows a hopeless case when he sees one. Look, there's a hell of a universe next door - "Teyrnon!" he shouts, while Kim is still standing there staring; the mage and his source hurry over, kneeling beside the boy. Barak closes his eyes as Teyrnon places his hand over the wound, speaking half a dozen muttered words.
The wound closes itself, slowly, but Barak looks half-dead of fatigue. "I can't do much more of this," Teyrnon says, grimly, but Barak glares at him through weary eyes.
"Yes, you can! Who else, Seer? Who else needs us?"
Paul looks away from where he can see the white form of the High Priestess in the distance, bending over a lios alfar; shifts his gaze, instead, to the dulled stone on Kim's finger.
He's capable of putting two and two together - although in this case it's more like one and one.
She hesitates, for a moment-- for Kim would rather do almost anything than relive that memory, especially now.
But if there's anyone on this field who needs to know, it's Paul, and so after that moment passes she sighs and tells him what had happened at Calor Diman, concluding with,
"So I rejected it. I -- I couldn't. No, that's not right-- I didn't. And now the swans are alone in the sky, and the Warstone's dark. I feel sick, Paul."
But he hides it - it can do no good now, there's no way to change what's happened - and pulls her into a quick embrace.
"No one here," he tells her, "or anywhere else, has done as much as you. And we don't know if what you did was wrong - would you have gotten to the Dwarves in time if you'd used the ring to bind the creature from the Lake? It isn't over, Kim."
He tries to make himself believe it, and repeats, more firmly, "It's a long way from over."
It takes her a second to realize it, and when she does, Kim could almost laugh at the bitter irony of it-- to see this now, here, on a battlefield. The most important battlefield of all, perhaps.
"I just realized something," she says, in a strained voice. "You're blaming yourself for not being what we need in war."
A beat.
"Don't, Paul. Your power isn't that. Mine was. Yours is something else."
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.
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"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?"
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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.
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Kim has the Baelrath. "What do you mean?" Paul asks, frowning,
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Without answering Paul, she stands up and moves to the next patient.
It's one of the Dalrei, as it turns out -- one of the younger Riders, bleeding out from a deep axe wound in his side. No more than sixteen, she thinks, as she stares down at him in some despair. Barely older than Tabor, or than Finn would have been.
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He knows a hopeless case when he sees one.
Look, there's a hell of a universe next door -
"Teyrnon!" he shouts, while Kim is still standing there staring; the mage and his source hurry over, kneeling beside the boy. Barak closes his eyes as Teyrnon places his hand over the wound, speaking half a dozen muttered words.
The wound closes itself, slowly, but Barak looks half-dead of fatigue. "I can't do much more of this," Teyrnon says, grimly, but Barak glares at him through weary eyes.
"Yes, you can! Who else, Seer? Who else needs us?"
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She has rarely, if ever, felt so helpless.
"She'll show you who's worst off. Do what you can for them, but don't exhaust yourselves-- you two are all we have in the way of magic."
Especially now.
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He's capable of putting two and two together - although in this case it's more like one and one.
"Your own magic? What's happened?"
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But if there's anyone on this field who needs to know, it's Paul, and so after that moment passes she sighs and tells him what had happened at Calor Diman, concluding with,
"So I rejected it. I -- I couldn't. No, that's not right-- I didn't. And now the swans are alone in the sky, and the Warstone's dark. I feel sick, Paul."
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But he hides it - it can do no good now, there's no way to change what's happened - and pulls her into a quick embrace.
"No one here," he tells her, "or anywhere else, has done as much as you. And we don't know if what you did was wrong - would you have gotten to the Dwarves in time if you'd used the ring to bind the creature from the Lake? It isn't over, Kim."
He tries to make himself believe it, and repeats, more firmly, "It's a long way from over."
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"That's what I'm afraid of."
Another group of the auberei arrives, carrying Mabon of Rhoden upon a stretcher, bleeding from half-a-dozen wounds and cursing quietly, steadily.
Kim moves as if to go to him, but before she can take more than a step a white-faced Sharra and Loren Silvercloak are at his side.
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He can feel the pulse of Mornir, but not the power; there's no ravens, or Ravens for that matter, to guide him at this moment.
There is nothing he can do. And the forces of the Dark are not diminishing, and Kim stands powerless at his side.
"God damn it!" he says, suddenly, and feels his fists clench at his sides.
(A very small part of him perhaps hoped for a bolt of lightning, at that. None comes.)
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"I just realized something," she says, in a strained voice. "You're blaming yourself for not being what we need in war."
A beat.
"Don't, Paul. Your power isn't that. Mine was. Yours is something else."
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It doesn't make it any easier.
"Wonderful," he snaps, feeling the bitterness threatening to choke him. "Makes me so useful to everyone down there, doesn't it?"
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"Where's Jen?"
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