Sherlock Fanfiction: Salisbury Plain
Title: Salisbury Plain
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Molly, Mike, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Wiggins, OCs
Rating: PG
Genre: AU, Slash
Word Count: ~7.5K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: When the hanging stones had only stood on the plain for a few centuries and the thriving community around them was a crossroads for knowledge and goods, there was a learned man who saw what others didn’t and a well-travelled soldier who had seen wonders and wanted to see more. (Or: first meeting in a very different place and time.)
A/N: Written for what_alchemy whose generous prompts for the December 2014 Holmestice Exchange included "AUs with a unique twist, magical or otherwise" which lit a strange, blue spark in my head!
Excerpt: “…a rising sun lit a ribbon of river, pale rays glinted off helms and swords dotting a dark, muddy road.”
(Also posted on AO3.)
Salisbury Plain
The fire was dying.
The man’s eyes closed. The sun no longer filtered through the boughs of oak scrub hiding the cave’s entrance. The cold breath of the long night would accomplish what the fever had not. He laughed. A barking cough echoed off the stone. He had resisted for days. He knew how. He had saved many. Encamped, he would have defeated this, too, but not on a long march.
The charred wood glowed orange. The low flames flickered blue.
The chill crept closer. The wood Cyllin had piled by the wall seemed leagues away. Fevers throve at half-light. The man pulled a goatskin under the furs and drank. It was all he could do. With shallow breaths, he took in the sweet, musky air. He would sleep and Cyllin would have left his good cloak behind for naught.
***
The stones framed the fading grey light. Amidst the gathered shadows, a darker shadow bent over his work. A small flame lit his pale face.
Under one lintel, two small figures appeared.
“Are they gone?” the pale one asked, in a deep voice the stones liked.
“The mourners left, but they’ll be back in a fortnight,” a young woman’s voice replied.
The pale one huffed over his flame. It flickered higher. Orange light danced on the stones.
“It’s so close to the celebrations, you couldn’t expect them to want to leave without seeing,” the woman said.
“I could. Aren’t they supposed to be grieving or something?” the man asked.
“Your brother offered them his hospitality, Scryloc,” the other woman explained and her words wavered faintly with the weight of her years.
“Fool!” Scryloc exclaimed, standing straight and flinging out his arm. Blue light flashed.
“That’s beautiful,” the young woman said.
Scryloc held up his hand, circled the stone table. Jets of blue glimmered between the branches piled there. When the wood had been reduced to a few embers, his hand fell to his side. He stopped pacing.
“What was it?” the young woman asked.
The man tilted his head, a smile flickering about his lips, his eyes still on the mound of whitening ashes. “Something new, Melyd,” he said.
***
Seventeen steps cut into the slope of the hill, their sharp edges hidden in the shadow thrown by the newly-risen half moon. Scryloc didn’t need its light to mount them. He set the jar he carried by the door, unlatched it and ducked to enter the cool dark.
Above the brazier, the stones sparked. The tinder smoked before curling into flame. He added kindling, drew out a twig to light the bronze lamps hanging over his table and brought in the jar.
Circumstances were not ideal for identifying what the blue fire had left behind, but he hadn’t the patience to wait for morning light and he knew ash. If it was the combination of woods that had caused the colour, he would know their proportions before the sun rose. He sifted and sniffed, touched and tasted: birch and blackthorn, rowan and willow and at the bottom of the jar of cinders and ashes, a broken chert, half an arrowhead.
From the bundles along the wall, he chose slim branches of the same woods, broke them into a metal basket on the stone ledge that formed his table, set the fractured arrowhead on the tinder in the centre. From a lamp, he set a twist of straw alight and let it fall among the twigs. It glowed and smouldered, a pale yellow flame taking hold. It flickered along the shredded bark and splintered ends, grew golden and orange; licked around the branches, bolder and brighter. It crackled and sparked. He added more twigs, two at a time.
Scryloc shrugged off his cloak as the room grew warm and leaned nearer to the ruddy fire. He poked the burning twigs with the tip of his dagger. He heard the scrape of metal against stone and saw the first hint of blue.
It grew out from the centre, green at the edges, then, light blue once more. The flame spread, turning from gold to aqua and azure and finally cobalt, like a night sky before dawn. Scryloc lifted his heated blade and hacked off a lock of his hair. An acrid scent filled the room. He dropped the curl into the blue flame: a rising sun lit a ribbon of river, pale rays glinted off helms and swords dotting a dark, muddy road…
Eyes on the flames, he drew a stool close and sat.
Horse and foot disappeared beneath a tangle of bare branches and evergreen, stray gleams flashed through the canopy as the last carts slipped into the shade.
Scryloc slipped into the dream.
***
The man thrashed, stone digging through fur into his back. Heat radiated from his shoulder like a sun. He threw off the cloak above him. His skin glistened blue in the low, flickering light. His fingers clutched a goatskin’s neck, drew it closer, failed to lift it to his lips. He groaned.
He limped higher along the hill’s ridge, shielding his eyes from the sun rising with him.
The steady tramp of feet, the jingle of harness and creak of wheels rose from the valley.
Sweat poured from his brow, between his bare shoulder blades. He leaned on his oaken stick, sword heavy at his waist as he dragged one foot in front of the other.
The path along the ridge grew steeper. He gazed down upon the cool woods.
The thump of arrowheads burrowing into wood and the cries of men with arrows buried in their flesh echoed in his head. Birds rose cawing above the trees like a rain cloud.
The man stumbled. Right hand pressed to his left shoulder, he trudged on, closer to the sun.
It had sparkled through the branches as he tumbled backwards into the cart, hip hitting rough planks, shoulder thudding into yielding muscle. Shouts rang out. The air whistled and hissed. He reached for the black and white feathers at his shoulder and tugged. Beneath him, a soldier moaned.
The man halted by a tall, flat-topped stone. He rested his forehead against the barkless wood of his stick, eyes still on the panorama below him.
A rider galloped from the trees, cloak streaming in his wake. Three horsemen streaked after him, gaining ground with every hoofbeat until the front rider forded the river at the crest of a cascade. The soldiers’ horses reared at the bank. The fleeing rider’s horse picked its way through the frothing water and disappeared into the copse that shaded the bend in the river on the far side. Slump-shouldered, the horsemen waited for the vanguard to reach them. The soldiers dumped two bodies onto the riverbank. Two riderless horses were led away. The train of soldiers continued their journey along the river.
The man sat on the sun-warmed stone, watching.
Anger blocked out pain as the shaft of the arrow broke off in his hand. His cloak was sodden where he pressed it to his wound, all his strength focussed on that act. His head thumped against the floor of the cart. He lay limp, dazzled by the sunlight glimmering though the branches. Each rut and root brought him a fresh jolt of pain.
The carts with the supplies and the sick and injured were the last to rattle out of the woods.
A shadow glided past. The man looked up from his seat, squinting into the glare. High above, an eagle circled. Through the scrub on the hillside, small creatures scurried. The eagle swooped, black against blue. A feather fell. The man reached out as though to catch it.
The beating of wings blew the hair back from his brow. Curved talons gripped his forearm, before he could snatch it away. Dark wings folded and a blue eye regarded him. The man held his breath, lowering his arm to his thigh. The bird cocked its head and struck, beak sinking into his tattered flesh. The man screamed. The beak twisted and dug.
Opening wings blotted out the sun. Fresh blood trickled down the man’s chest. The bird rose into the air, an arrowhead and a few splinters of shaft clamped in its beak. The man slid from the stone to the ground.
***
“Cerrig!” Scryloc called.
A stocky man looked up from the sheaves he was counting and smiled at the figure striding towards him. “Need something from Rhyd?” he asked as Scryloc drew close. Scryloc shook his head, scowling. Cerrig gestured for the lad loading the cart to carry on and stepped forwards.
Scryloc grabbed Cerrig’s arm and pulled him aside. “I need you to take the high road to the ford and check in the caves that overlook the cascade by the bend in the river.”
“The high road takes half the time again,” Cerrig pointed out.
Scryloc’s hand tightened on Cerrig’s arm as his words tumbled out. “There’s a boulder with a smooth top, like a seat, near the right cave. From it, you can see across the river between the woods and the ash grove on the other bank.” He began drawing a rough map in the dirt with an oak branch.
Cerrig glanced at Scryloc’s face and dropped his voice to a whisper. “What have you seen?” he asked.
“In one of the caves, there is a soldier feverish from an arrow wound. Short, sturdy, light-haired with dark blue eyes, although those may well be closed,” Scryloc continued. He released Cerrig’s arm and pulled something from his pocket. He held out his closed fist, palm upwards and uncurled his fingers. A pointed stone with bits of bloodied wood attached lie in its centre.
Cerrig’s eyes grew round. “I’ll bring what’s necessary,” he said, starting to turn away.
“Wait,” Scryloc said, drawing a leather pouch from his pocket. He dropped the arrowhead inside. The tip of a black feather peeped from the opening as he tightened the leather strings. “Take care approaching him. He retains at least his sword. Show the arrowhead and the feather if he is awake. Lay them near him if he is unconscious and wake him from a distance with words, not touch.”
“He has the sight?” Cerrig asked, taking the pouch.
“I believe so,” Scryloc said, “although it’s possible he is unschooled and exercised his gift unconsciously in extremis.”
The boy shouted that the cart was fully loaded. Cerrig waved his acknowledgement. “I hope I find him alive,” Cerrig said.
“Bring the body back if he isn’t,” Scryloc said, obliterating the map at their feet with broad strokes of his stick. “I would that I could go with you.”
Cerrig shook his head. “This close to the celebrations there would be panic and your brother would send half of Sarum searching for you.”
“No doubt,” Scryloc sighed. “Take Figden and an extra cart. Proceed as fast as you can; I’m not sure yet how much I can help from here.”
***
Melyd was on the bottom step when Scryloc rounded the corner of the mound. Behind her a high voice could be heard reciting numbers as it came closer.
“Oh.” Melyd paused on the stair. “Up early or not slept yet?” She took a careful inventory of Scryloc’s face, eye to eye because of the height of the step. She checked her hand as it lifted slightly at the sight of the dishevelled curls. Her fingers twitched as the hand fell back in place by her side.
The counting voice continued, the counter still hidden by the bend in the stairs.
“What do you need?” he asked, body angling as though to slip past her on the steps. They were both slim. He could do it without even touching her.
“Nothing. There were honey cakes this morning and when we didn’t see you there, we brought you some.” She glanced up. “The door was locked. We left them on the landing. Honey, too.”
“In the midst of an investigation. Nothing must be moved,” he explained, although he needn’t have.
“The new thing?” Melyd asked quietly.
“Yes,” he replied and smiled.
A child came into view with a resounding nine. “Tas!” she cried when she saw Scryloc. She came down another step. “Ten,” she announced. She lifted up her arms and bounded off the stairs. Scryloc was quick enough to catch her.
“Fearless Seren,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “We left you honey and the cakes I didn’t eat. Why is your door locked?”
“There is something delicate and dangerous inside,” he replied.
“May I see it?”
“Eventually,” Scryloc replied.
Melyd raised her eyebrows.
“How is the training going?” he asked.
Seren tugged at a leather thong about her neck, put the small tube at its end to her lips. She turned her head suddenly, her thick brown hair whisking past Scryloc’s cheek and blew two high notes on the metal pipe. A piercing cry answered her. She peered up at the sky.
The peregrine landed on the retaining wall along the stairs, a young rabbit hanging limply from the talons of one foot. The bird hopped to the ground and set the animal down at their feet.
Scryloc narrowed his eyes at it. He looked up, thrust Seren at Melyd and ran up the steps.
“Work,” Seren commented to her mother and wriggled down to examine the rabbit more closely.
***
The pins pulled free of the bolt. The smell of smoke and herbs rolled out into the morning air. Scryloc scooped up the bundle of cakes and honey, forgot them on a shelf inside the door. In the rectangle of light sat the metal basket, the ashes fallen about it stirred by the draft.
He whirled around, door shut, bar dropped, hand on dagger. He didn’t stoke the brazier, open the shutters, light a lamp. The tip of his knife scraped along the sooty stone at the bottom of the basket. It sparked blue, coloured the pale ash. With nothing to consume, the spark grew into a flame, spread along the edges of the basket, leaving the centre darker than the room.
The cave amplified sound: the soft hiss of the fire, the rustle of dry leaves, the fitful moaning of the man.
He quieted, alarm overriding pain. With cautious movements, he found the pommel of his sword, the handle of his knife amid the furs. He listened, heard again the slither of supple scales over stone. His fingers tightened on the handle of his dagger. He opened his eyes. A shape rose next to the low, blue flames. Winter sunbeams cast a sinuous shadow across the cave floor.
The man let out a long breath and the tension in his limbs went with it.
“You come in good time, friend,” he said, “the pain grows worse and my water is gone.”
The form drew closer.
“I thought I would fear you more when you came for me,” the man said, “but I’ve become lonely here.” He coughed. “I have bested you often enough when you came for others.”
The goatskin slid slowly from beneath his fingers.
“There’s nothing in it,” he said as his hand settled into the fur. “When the wind is quiet, I hear water trickling over the rock.” He sighed. “I cannot reach it.”
The metal ring at the neck of the goatskin clinked along the ground.
“Thirsty work, is it? Collecting the dead?” The man shifted among the furs, gritted his teeth. “I would have bargained with you for a drink, if it had been even half full.” A twig snapped. “Bargained for my life…because I do not want to die.” He shifted again, gasped, breathed in and out for a long moment. He raised his voice a little. “I travelled…saw wonders. Learned so much I want to use here…where it is not known.”
A chill breeze ruffled the flames.
“The fever is almost gone. I know what to do, but I cannot do it for myself…not alone...not here.” The man turned his head. He groaned. “The pain is sharper than I would have thought…I have sawed off men’s legs and they have lived. If a bit of stone and a stick can cause this much pain, what must they have borne?”
A branch broke. Leaves crackled. The metal ring scraped over the stone.
The goatskin was damp. The man’s fingers closed about its neck, felt the wet muscle uncoil and slide away.
“Shall we drink a toast before you take me?” the man asked. He couldn’t lift the full goatskin. He rolled onto his uninjured side, sunk his teeth into the stopper and pulled. Water spread over the fur before he could spit the stopper out and get his mouth around the neck. He drank, let the water flood his mouth and swallowed more. He drew his lips away, rubbed his face against the cool, wet fur. “What shall we toast? ‘Long life’ isn’t suited to present company.”
The serpent slipped behind the fire.
“Don’t go,” the man called, stretching out his arm. “Wait with me. I will not be too long.” He heard the leaves rustle. The flames wavered. The cave was quiet. “I would rather you had stayed,” he whispered.
The pain bloomed. The man nuzzled at the neck of the goatskin and dozed.
Branches creaked. With a start, the man drew in a breath. The snake dragged something over the stone to the fire and dropped it there. The viper slithered nearer, over the man’s palm and along his arm, under the cloak. A shudder ran through the man and his breath came more rapidly. Otherwise, he did not move. The snake crossed his chest, tongue flickering against his skin so lightly it almost tickled. He closed his eyes.
“I haven’t been here long,” he said softly, “but pain stretches time.” He took a deep breath, held it before letting it out slowly through his mouth. More and more of the snake coiled over him, smooth and cool from the stone floor and the winter air. “For years I lived in a company of men. They came to me to ease their suffering and often I could. And when I had no cure, I closed their eyes. My comrades did not die alone.”
The snake’s tongue flicked across the man’s wound. “I dreamt an eagle dug the arrowhead from my flesh.” The snake curled around the wound. “Cyllin couldn’t reach all the pieces. I told him where I felt them, but he couldn’t find them with his knife. The eagle found them.” He heaved a great sigh. “Dreams are strange, but I don’t think I could dream you. Your kind should be asleep at this season. Are you dreaming me?” The snake reared up, lifting the cloak, blue flames reflected in its eyes. “Death never sleeps, so I suppose you never dream.”
The viper opened its jaws, slowly lowered its head and sunk its fangs into the edge of the wound. The man cried out. The snake drew back, nudged its snout against the warm skin, curled its tail away and down the man’s side. He heard his dagger slide from its sheath.
“You have your own weapons,” the man panted, “why take mine?”
The snake nudged the man once more before turning away, dragging the dagger along with its tail. The blade rattled against the stone.
The man moved his head to watch, his breathing laboured. “Quicker is better. A bite at the neck would have been more efficient.”
The serpent raised the knife and sliced into the lump by the fire.
The man noticed the spikes of fur now. He squinted in the dimness.
The snake bit and pulled and tossed limp fur aside, spitted the carcass on the dagger and held it over the fire.
The man saw the flames curl around the viper’s tail as it held the meat in place. “Fire would harm neither death nor a dream,” he mused, his breath coming more easily with each word. “You took the pain away. Why?”
The serpent rested its blue-green eyes on the man. Fat sizzled into the fire, yellow flames flaring where it hit. They played along the black scales of the snake.
The smell of roasted meat filled the cave and the man realised he was hungry for the first time in days. “A last meal before we go?” he asked.
The snake turned the meat, regarded the man over the top of it without blinking.
The man grew drowsy after the food. He drank the water that had not spilled out of the goatskin. “Why so kind with me?”
The serpent pushed the bones away and slithered between the cloaks.
“I’ve more experience of death than most. I thought I knew you,” he said.
The snake curled around the man’s ankle, under his calf and over his knee, between his thighs.
“You’re heavier than I would have imagined,” the man said. The viper’s snout edged past the sash holding what was left of his tunic at his hip, the coil at the ankle gripping tightly even as the muscles slid upwards. “And stronger.”
“Will you grow large enough to swallow me?” he murmured. The snake’s head brushed against the bottom of the man’s jaw. He tilted his neck. The serpent pushed against the man’s ear.
“There,” the man said. “A bite there will finish me quickly.”
The snake bit.
***
A shrill whistle broke his sleep. The man turned his head. He could hear a bird fluttering among the branches at the mouth of the cave.
“The snake after you?” he muttered and opened his eyes. The fire continued to burn, steady and blue. The aroma of roasted meat lingered. The bird sang more loudly. The man recognised its song.
He took a deep breath. “I expected more of a difference.” He pushed himself to a sitting position and realised that his bladder felt full. His head did not spin. He searched for signs of the snake. His dagger lay on the ground, dirt clinging to the grease on its blade. The man reached for it. The desire to vomit did not overtake him. He tucked the knife into his belt and reached for the goatskin. It was empty.
The blackbird warbled and hopped from branch to branch. The sky beyond the brush appeared blue. The bird found something amidst the leaves, closed his beak about it and tugged. In the silence, the man heard the rush of the water outside the cave. He got to his knees, pulled the cloak about his shoulders and put one foot on the ground. He attempted to stand. His head seemed very far from the ground, but he did not fall. He limped to the cave’s entrance. The air there was cold, but thirst pushed him through the branches.
The sun faced him, low in the eastern sky. The man paused on the small ledge in front of the cave and surveyed the hillside. Nothing appeared familiar from where he stood. Vaguely, he recalled the warmth of Cyllin’s chest and the pommel of Cyllin’s sword thumping against the underside of his thigh. Everything had been grey. He had seen little. Against a low tree, he eased the discomfort of his bladder and turned to the spring on the other side of the cave’s opening. The water was icy. A couple splashes on his face left him gasping. He filled the goatskin and drank, re-filled and stoppered it. The blackbird darted past, landed in a small shrub, turned his blue eye towards the man and sang. The man shook his head, rubbed his wet hand over the back of his neck and into his hair. The bird flitted to a dead branch further down the hillside and trilled, loud and long. A chill was creeping up the man’s legs. He took a step back towards the cave, holding the cloak closed. The bird fell silent. The man cocked his head, moved closer to the edge of the ledge. Below him, to the south, someone was laughing.
***
Cerrig threw his head back and laughed at the bawdy lyrics Lleuwyn was singing at the top of his less-than-tuneful voice. Against the sky, he saw the cloaked figure on the hill almost directly above them. He hit Lleuwyn’s arm and pointed. Lleuwyn drew in the reins and the cart halted.
“Hallo!” Cerrig shouted, waving. He saw the man’s arm move to his hip. “Have you seen an injured man camping hereabouts. I am a healer.”
The blackbird swooped past the speaker, landed on the side of the cart and whistled.
The man peered at the figures below him, well-lit by the morning sun. They were neither soldiers nor known to him and neither had spared a glance for the bird that had darted between them. The rounder one did not look like a brigand, but his companion was young and lean and who else would know someone had been wounded recently. The man moved backwards towards the cave. He was in no state to defend himself well, but he would have more chance to disarm someone from inside the cave and his sword was there, if he could still lift it.
“Please,” the speaker called. “We have travelled since yestermorn to find him and bring him to the circle to recover. If you know where he is, please tell us.”
Cerrig looked up at the steep hill. “It will not be easy for me to climb up to you, but I have proof of my words. Let me show you.”
The man could no longer see the road. He slipped through the branches into the cave, leaned against the stone and listened. The blackbird had ceased its twittering. The two men were talking, but he could not distinguish their words. The sound of the older fellow’s voice tugged at the man’s memory. He set down his goatskin and placed the tip of the sword’s blade in the flames. If it had time to heat before they were upon him, even an imprecise thrust would harm one of them. The man sat down by the cave’s entrance and waited.
He heard the panting first.
“On my honour, I am not young anymore!”
The man peeked through the branches.
The portly fellow was on the ledge, bent over, hands upon his knees and breathing loudly. Slowly, he let himself down and sat upon the flat-topped stone. His face was scarlet and shining with sweat. He wiped it with a corner of his cloak.
The man did not understand why the lad had not climbed the hill, unless he had and was hiding.
“Cerrig!” a voice yelled from a distance. “Are you all right?”
The man scrutinised the red-faced Cerrig. There were enough Cerrigs in the world, but how many had the name and a familiar voice?
“More or less,” Cerrig shouted over his shoulder and wheezed.
He pulled a pouch from beneath his cloak, stretched its drawstrings and shook its contents into his palm. He crooked his thumb over the shaft of a black feather and tilted his hand forward towards the cave’s entrance. “I am to show you these so that you will know me,” Cerrig said. He took a few breaths. “I have to say that what they mean was not explained to me, but I have them from someone I trust and he wishes to help you.”
The blackbird landed directly in front of Cerrig and began to sing. Cerrig paid it no mind. The bird hopped towards the cave and fluttered up into the branches, chirping and whistling.
The man thrust the hand of his injured arm through the branches. “Give me the arrowhead,” he said.
Cerrig started, his brows drawing down. Laboriously, he regained his feet and placed the arrowhead in the outstretched palm. He looked through the branches and saw a bit of sandy hair, one dark eye, then another and the gleam of a dagger’s blade.
He took a step back. “I apprenticed with Old Bart,” he said, “at the circle. I studied with a man named Síon. No one could cut faster or truer than Síon. He was my friend.”
The man pushed aside a branch. “Cerrig,” he said in amazement. “What are you doing here?”
“I never left. Old Bart died. I teach the young ones now.”
Síon shook his head. “Come inside,” he said, moving back. “I’m not sure I could have held out much longer.” He kicked the sword away from the fire, sat and nodded at the feather in Cerrig’s hand. “Is that from the noisy blackbird chirping about here?”
Cerrig knelt. “What blackbird?” he asked and gave the long, faintly iridescent tailfeather to Síon. “Let me see your wound.”
***
“The stairs will be difficult,” Cerrig said. He matched his gait to the slow rhythm of Síon’s oak staff hitting the ground as they walked towards Scryloc’s mound. “But he insisted you convalesce under his care. I was half expecting him to demand you present yourself last night.”
Síon snorted and hobbled forward. “You didn’t tell him what a joy my companions find me?”
“He’s not an easy man to abide and knows it,” Cerrig said.
“I remember the first time I saw his older brother with the crown of summer flowers.” Síon paused for breath. “So tall and slim…”
Cerrig patted his ample stomach. “He still is, unlike me.”
“And those waves of hair down his back, like the setting sun in autumn.” Síon looked up at the pearly sky. “Enough to give you hope, all on its own, for the dark days ahead.”
“Albion still has that, too,” Cerrig said. He leaned closer to Síon. “Not quite as thick as it once was though.”
“I don’t recall a younger sibling,” Síon said and resumed walking.
“You’d been gone a couple years when Scryloc took over his father’s duties,” Cerrig explained.
“Is he like his older brother?”
“No,” Cerrig said.
Síon turned at the smile in his friend’s voice, saw the light in his eyes.
“Nearly as tall, yes. Slim, too, but a stronger frame. Hair, like a raven’s wing, although in the right light, there’s a bit of fire in it. Like the man, the fire is hidden much of the time,” Cerrig said.
“You admire him,” Síon said.
“He sees,” Cerrig replied, “and his view is wide.” They had reached the mound.
Síon contemplated the long curve of the stairs. Through the shuttered windows at the top, firelight gleamed. He set his staff on the first step and pulled himself up. “This may take a while.”
Cerrig beamed at him. “I’ve nowhere to be except here.”
Síon hoisted himself onto another stair and Cerrig stepped up behind him. “You won’t be tumbling down with me in place,” he said, laughing.
Síon glanced at how his friend’s girth spanned much of the stairway. “We used to run up hills and stairs as though they were nothing,” Síon said and took another step.
“I know, I got fat, but you will run again. The hip is only badly bruised, Síon,” Cerrig declared.
Síon nodded. “I’m being the proverbial bad patient.”
“Oh, you have nothing on the one at the top of the stairs,” Cerrig declared and chuckled. “Won’t sit still to be sewn up, doesn’t sleep half the time or eat the other half.”
“What does he do to get hurt so much?” Síon asked.
Cerrig leaned against the stairway wall, watched Síon mount two more steps. “What doesn’t he do? All considered, he should be dead ten times over, even with the best healers in the land at his doorstep, although much of the time he treats himself. He claims he’s indestructible, which might be what’s called for with the woods and roads becoming what they are, as you know better than I.”
On the tenth step Síon sat. Cerrig lowered himself to the stair below. “How did you know what happened to me?” Síon asked.
“Scryloc told me, with little detail, which is typical of him, unless he’s in an expansive mood and then you’d hear what colour the feathers on the arrow that hit you were and what songs the birds were singing,” Cerrig said.
“Black and white,” Síon said.
“What?”
“The feathers on the arrow that hit me were black and white.”
***
Scryloc stood by his open door and listened to the voices floating up the stairs, the banter of friends long separated, but comrades still, old habits of communication seemingly easy to take up again.
The man’s voice, Síon’s voice, was familiar now. Scryloc slipped in and out of Síon’s mind, sometimes unconsciously, heard him speak aloud and in the privacy of his own thoughts. Scryloc’s hand smoothed down the edge of the old oak door. He felt the thump of a wild heart beneath coiled muscle, remembered how it had changed as stoic dread gave way to something else. Scryloc's fingers turned white about the door latch. He stopped himself from rushing down to seize Síon, waited for Síon to come up to him.
Cerrig had launched into a description of Melyd and her duties, explaining Scryloc’s insistence that a healer be placed in charge of the dead after old Arganto died shortly before Bart did. With precision, Cerrig outlined not only how Bart’s body had been flayed and dissected, studied and catalogued before being burned and taken down into the barrows, but how much they had learned each time they applied that method to those who came to die or whose bodies were brought to be buried near the circle.
Síon said little as Cerrig talked. Irritated at the absence of Síon’s voice, Scryloc entered his thoughts. Each time was easier. The vistas in Síon’s mind had become more distinct, the long passageways less dark. Between dreams, while Síon slept, was the best time to explore. Síon was picturing what Cerrig said, intrigued at the changes that had occurred since their student days. Scryloc heard Old Bart’s voice, Cerrig and Síon debating as young men. Memories of studies Síon had made under a warmer sun appeared, fractured bones and traumatic injuries came into view. Síon held tools in his hands, knives and awls that he wielded with an artist’s touch and a slice of clear stone in a bronze frame that magnified minute details better than clear water or amber.
Come up the stairs, Síon.
Síon posed another question and Cerrig answered with relish. Scryloc appreciated Cerrig’s enthusiasm for the changes he had instituted in the work and studies of the circle. It made for a very productive collaboration, but right now Scryloc wanted to speak to Síon, not listen to Cerrig, flattering as his words were. Scryloc closed his eyes.
The blackbird whistled as it landed. Surprised, Síon looked up. The bird fixed him with an azure eye, fluffed his feathers and fluttered higher along the wall, trilling. Unperturbed, Cerrig kept up his discourse.
During the first part of the cart ride from the cave, the blackbird had flown around the cart, settling on it now and then to sing its lowest notes. When Síon had begun to doze, wrapped in all three cloaks, against Cerrig’s side, the snake had hissed from atop Cerrig’s shoulder. Sleepily, Síon had held the cloaks open and the serpent had slid down Cerrig’s arm and into the furs, coiling tightly about Síon, flat head nestled beneath his chin, for the rest of the journey.
Cerrig was as full of questions as explanations. When he asked about the contents of the heavy satchel he was carrying for Síon, Síon described so many exotic items that the blackbird stopped singing.
There would be a careful examination of those instruments and medicines at some point, but the unpredictable mix of Síon’s empirical and poetic images lured Scryloc into listening longer. He smiled at a particularly florid turn of phrase. The swan in the bathhouse had pleased Síon.
Síon had stared groggily across the pool while Cerrig concentrated on cleaning him without wetting his wound, but his gaze had sharpened when the large, black bird separated from the shadows. Each time the swan had spread its wings, Síon had frowned; when it folded them again and glided towards the pool’s steps, Síon had moistened his lips. There, beneath the water, a wide, webbed foot had curved over Síon’s thigh, a long neck had twined across his back and up into his hair. Síon had turned his face and buried it in the feathery breast with a sigh that Cerrig had mistaken for fatigue.
Later, visions of flying with his head tucked beneath a strong wing had filled Síon's sleep. With sharp nips, Scryloc had chased him back from the edges of nightmares and storms at sea. Towards dawn, feathers had turned to scales and the serpent had bitten Síon’s shoulder again.
The rap of Síon’s stick sounded upon the stair. Scryloc drew back into his room, plucked twigs of alder and oak and willow from his bundles and dropped them into the basket of blue flame. He added heather and lavender as they crossed the threshold.
“Cerrig,” Scryloc said, still hunched over his crucible, “have you any foxglove, I’ve used all of mine.”
Síon stopped looking about the room, turned all his attention on the speaker.
“I gave you what I had left last week and Figden’s not returned from Rhyd yet with more. Sorry,” Cerrig answered, moving forward with the ease of familiarity.
“Use mine,” Síon said to the black-robed back. “I have some in my bag.”
Cerrig smiled, hoisted the leather strap over his head and set the case on a bench by the door. Síon leaned his stick against the wall, unknotted several ties, pulled back a thick leather flap and then a thinner skin to reveal a series of compartments containing dried plants and seeds. He tapped one. “Here it is,” he said. A shadow fell over the case. Síon glanced up into eyes the colour of young leaves shading a spring sky. They looked different set in pale skin rather than sooty feathers.
“Are you real?” Síon asked. He heard the echo of his own voice: Don’t go. Wait with me.
Scryloc took a step closer and covered the hand Síon had splayed over his case. “Quite real, yes,” Scryloc said and touched his fingertips to Síon’s wrist and the underside of his forearm, past the scratches there. “I didn’t mean to dig the talons in,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Síon ran his tongue over his lower lip and stared.
“May I see the shoulder wound? It made a clumsy instrument, but I did mean to dig with the beak.”
Síon’s jaw tightened. “That was you,” he said, intonation midway between question and statement.
“Yes.”
“How?” Síon demanded, grabbing the arm nearest his own and digging his fingers into the flesh beneath the black wool.
“I don’t know yet,” Scryloc said, “but I intend to find out.”
Síon shook his head. “It was delirium.”
“No,” Scryloc countered and lifted his other hand to Síon’s neck. “A viper bit you here and…” His fingertips hovered over the cloak covering Síon’s shoulder. “…and here. You were in pain. It was a way to provide relief.” Scryloc sighed. “I should have thought of it sooner.”
Síon turned his head, focussed on Cerrig as though to confirm that he was still there, rosy and real, before looking back to Scryloc. “The blackbird?”
Scryloc nodded.
Síon glanced at Cerrig. “You didn’t see a blackbird by the cave or on the cart, did you?”
“No,” Cerrig murmured, brow furrowed.
“Or hear one just now, on the stairs, singing?” Síon pressed.
Cerrig shook his head.
“Only I see you?” Síon asked Scryloc. His head whipped back towards Cerrig. “He is here now, isn’t he?”
“Scryloc?” Cerrig asked. “He’s standing before us. You’ve got hold of him, Síon.”
“They can’t all be real,” Síon said.
Scryloc raised his free arm. Black feathers instead of fingers brushed against the side of Síon’s face. Síon let go of Scryloc and the other wing stretched out until the tip touched the wall between the windows, cutting Cerrig off from view. Both wings curved around Síon.
“You remember how these feel,” Scryloc said.
Cerrig squinted as the figures before him dimmed.
“You took comfort in this form,” Scryloc whispered in Síon’s ear. A feathery neck wound about Síon’s throat, a hard beak nipped at the edge of his ear. Síon shut his eyes. He knew the shape of this body. The strong wings pressed him close. He could hear the heart beating beneath the warm down.
“Swans are dangerous,” Síon said. His arm curved beneath a wing. “And ill-tempered.” The clawed tips of a webbed foot scraped along the back of Síon’s shin. “And magnificent.” The wings drew back. Síon shivered. He opened his eyes and met ones the colour of a winter lake.
“You know the worst of me, then,” Scryloc said.
Síon thought Scryloc’s hair had the iridescence of feathers, that the shadows beneath his eyes were too dark and his cheekbones too sharp. His gaze dropped to Scryloc’s lips, watched them form words.
“Stay with me,” Scryloc said and tilted his chin upwards so Síon’s eyes would be on his pale throat.
I would rather you had stayed. Síon recalled saying the words. “Until the celebration?” he asked. Will you wind about me every night until then?
“Yes,” Scryloc said.
Síon startled.
“And the next celebration and the next and the next, until you lose track of the cycle of the seasons and remember only celebrating the passage of time with me.” Scryloc’s voice was grave, his eyes restless over Síon’s features. He had tried to slip into Síon’s mind, but could not.
Sion’s blood throbbed as though to the muffled beat of the drums. The crowd about him murmured to the same rhythm, “Farewell, farewell, farewell.” He squinted as the setting sun glowed between the stones.
He turned to the avenue. At its end, flaming-haired Autumn and all his retinue were swallowed by the earth. The last of the torches winked out. The final reverberation of the copper cymbals faded away. The sun was gone.
Sion shook his head, and still the drums beat.
A chord of moon brightened the horizon. Over the crowd hung the mist of their exhalations, “Welcome, welcome, welcome.”
A whistle shrilled. Owls swooped to the tops of the stones, the bells on their feet tinkling. The moon rose higher.
In his black-feathered cloak, Winter stood at the centre of the circle that was now his. He raised his arms. His silver rings and the snowy lining of his garment reflected the moonlight.
Síon walked out of the shadows with a small lamp. He spilled its oil at Winter’s feet. It burnt blue. Sparks danced in the air. A creature with an eagle’s head and a serpent’s tail rose on the outstretched wings of a swan until it was silhouetted against the full moon above the stones. Síon raised his arms to it.
“I will stay with you,” he said to Scryloc.
Scryloc narrowed his eyes. “Until the celebrations?” he asked.
“For all the celebrations and all the times between,” Síon replied.
Scryloc turned to Cerrig. “You have heard your friend’s vow,” Scryloc said. “You must bear witness.”
Cerrig looked from Scryloc to Síon. “Do you know what you do, Síon?” he asked.
Síon set his hand upon Scryloc’s arm. He felt feathers instead of wool. “Yes, Cerrig, I know what I do,” Síon replied.
“Then I shall bear witness to any who ask,” Cerrig declared.
Scryloc let out a long breath. “And Síon and I shall solve the mystery of the blue flame,” Scryloc said and tried again to enter into Síon’s thoughts.
Síon felt his mind opening. “And we shall learn to fly,” he said.
Scryloc felt the statement from the inside out and drew in a sharp breath.
Síon smoothed the feathers beneath his hand and smiled.
By the door, the oak staff bloomed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Molly, Mike, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Wiggins, OCs
Rating: PG
Genre: AU, Slash
Word Count: ~7.5K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: When the hanging stones had only stood on the plain for a few centuries and the thriving community around them was a crossroads for knowledge and goods, there was a learned man who saw what others didn’t and a well-travelled soldier who had seen wonders and wanted to see more. (Or: first meeting in a very different place and time.)
A/N: Written for what_alchemy whose generous prompts for the December 2014 Holmestice Exchange included "AUs with a unique twist, magical or otherwise" which lit a strange, blue spark in my head!
Excerpt: “…a rising sun lit a ribbon of river, pale rays glinted off helms and swords dotting a dark, muddy road.”
(Also posted on AO3.)
Salisbury Plain
The fire was dying.
The man’s eyes closed. The sun no longer filtered through the boughs of oak scrub hiding the cave’s entrance. The cold breath of the long night would accomplish what the fever had not. He laughed. A barking cough echoed off the stone. He had resisted for days. He knew how. He had saved many. Encamped, he would have defeated this, too, but not on a long march.
The charred wood glowed orange. The low flames flickered blue.
The chill crept closer. The wood Cyllin had piled by the wall seemed leagues away. Fevers throve at half-light. The man pulled a goatskin under the furs and drank. It was all he could do. With shallow breaths, he took in the sweet, musky air. He would sleep and Cyllin would have left his good cloak behind for naught.
***
The stones framed the fading grey light. Amidst the gathered shadows, a darker shadow bent over his work. A small flame lit his pale face.
Under one lintel, two small figures appeared.
“Are they gone?” the pale one asked, in a deep voice the stones liked.
“The mourners left, but they’ll be back in a fortnight,” a young woman’s voice replied.
The pale one huffed over his flame. It flickered higher. Orange light danced on the stones.
“It’s so close to the celebrations, you couldn’t expect them to want to leave without seeing,” the woman said.
“I could. Aren’t they supposed to be grieving or something?” the man asked.
“Your brother offered them his hospitality, Scryloc,” the other woman explained and her words wavered faintly with the weight of her years.
“Fool!” Scryloc exclaimed, standing straight and flinging out his arm. Blue light flashed.
“That’s beautiful,” the young woman said.
Scryloc held up his hand, circled the stone table. Jets of blue glimmered between the branches piled there. When the wood had been reduced to a few embers, his hand fell to his side. He stopped pacing.
“What was it?” the young woman asked.
The man tilted his head, a smile flickering about his lips, his eyes still on the mound of whitening ashes. “Something new, Melyd,” he said.
***
Seventeen steps cut into the slope of the hill, their sharp edges hidden in the shadow thrown by the newly-risen half moon. Scryloc didn’t need its light to mount them. He set the jar he carried by the door, unlatched it and ducked to enter the cool dark.
Above the brazier, the stones sparked. The tinder smoked before curling into flame. He added kindling, drew out a twig to light the bronze lamps hanging over his table and brought in the jar.
Circumstances were not ideal for identifying what the blue fire had left behind, but he hadn’t the patience to wait for morning light and he knew ash. If it was the combination of woods that had caused the colour, he would know their proportions before the sun rose. He sifted and sniffed, touched and tasted: birch and blackthorn, rowan and willow and at the bottom of the jar of cinders and ashes, a broken chert, half an arrowhead.
From the bundles along the wall, he chose slim branches of the same woods, broke them into a metal basket on the stone ledge that formed his table, set the fractured arrowhead on the tinder in the centre. From a lamp, he set a twist of straw alight and let it fall among the twigs. It glowed and smouldered, a pale yellow flame taking hold. It flickered along the shredded bark and splintered ends, grew golden and orange; licked around the branches, bolder and brighter. It crackled and sparked. He added more twigs, two at a time.
Scryloc shrugged off his cloak as the room grew warm and leaned nearer to the ruddy fire. He poked the burning twigs with the tip of his dagger. He heard the scrape of metal against stone and saw the first hint of blue.
It grew out from the centre, green at the edges, then, light blue once more. The flame spread, turning from gold to aqua and azure and finally cobalt, like a night sky before dawn. Scryloc lifted his heated blade and hacked off a lock of his hair. An acrid scent filled the room. He dropped the curl into the blue flame: a rising sun lit a ribbon of river, pale rays glinted off helms and swords dotting a dark, muddy road…
Eyes on the flames, he drew a stool close and sat.
Horse and foot disappeared beneath a tangle of bare branches and evergreen, stray gleams flashed through the canopy as the last carts slipped into the shade.
Scryloc slipped into the dream.
***
The man thrashed, stone digging through fur into his back. Heat radiated from his shoulder like a sun. He threw off the cloak above him. His skin glistened blue in the low, flickering light. His fingers clutched a goatskin’s neck, drew it closer, failed to lift it to his lips. He groaned.
He limped higher along the hill’s ridge, shielding his eyes from the sun rising with him.
The steady tramp of feet, the jingle of harness and creak of wheels rose from the valley.
Sweat poured from his brow, between his bare shoulder blades. He leaned on his oaken stick, sword heavy at his waist as he dragged one foot in front of the other.
The path along the ridge grew steeper. He gazed down upon the cool woods.
The thump of arrowheads burrowing into wood and the cries of men with arrows buried in their flesh echoed in his head. Birds rose cawing above the trees like a rain cloud.
The man stumbled. Right hand pressed to his left shoulder, he trudged on, closer to the sun.
It had sparkled through the branches as he tumbled backwards into the cart, hip hitting rough planks, shoulder thudding into yielding muscle. Shouts rang out. The air whistled and hissed. He reached for the black and white feathers at his shoulder and tugged. Beneath him, a soldier moaned.
The man halted by a tall, flat-topped stone. He rested his forehead against the barkless wood of his stick, eyes still on the panorama below him.
A rider galloped from the trees, cloak streaming in his wake. Three horsemen streaked after him, gaining ground with every hoofbeat until the front rider forded the river at the crest of a cascade. The soldiers’ horses reared at the bank. The fleeing rider’s horse picked its way through the frothing water and disappeared into the copse that shaded the bend in the river on the far side. Slump-shouldered, the horsemen waited for the vanguard to reach them. The soldiers dumped two bodies onto the riverbank. Two riderless horses were led away. The train of soldiers continued their journey along the river.
The man sat on the sun-warmed stone, watching.
Anger blocked out pain as the shaft of the arrow broke off in his hand. His cloak was sodden where he pressed it to his wound, all his strength focussed on that act. His head thumped against the floor of the cart. He lay limp, dazzled by the sunlight glimmering though the branches. Each rut and root brought him a fresh jolt of pain.
The carts with the supplies and the sick and injured were the last to rattle out of the woods.
A shadow glided past. The man looked up from his seat, squinting into the glare. High above, an eagle circled. Through the scrub on the hillside, small creatures scurried. The eagle swooped, black against blue. A feather fell. The man reached out as though to catch it.
The beating of wings blew the hair back from his brow. Curved talons gripped his forearm, before he could snatch it away. Dark wings folded and a blue eye regarded him. The man held his breath, lowering his arm to his thigh. The bird cocked its head and struck, beak sinking into his tattered flesh. The man screamed. The beak twisted and dug.
Opening wings blotted out the sun. Fresh blood trickled down the man’s chest. The bird rose into the air, an arrowhead and a few splinters of shaft clamped in its beak. The man slid from the stone to the ground.
***
“Cerrig!” Scryloc called.
A stocky man looked up from the sheaves he was counting and smiled at the figure striding towards him. “Need something from Rhyd?” he asked as Scryloc drew close. Scryloc shook his head, scowling. Cerrig gestured for the lad loading the cart to carry on and stepped forwards.
Scryloc grabbed Cerrig’s arm and pulled him aside. “I need you to take the high road to the ford and check in the caves that overlook the cascade by the bend in the river.”
“The high road takes half the time again,” Cerrig pointed out.
Scryloc’s hand tightened on Cerrig’s arm as his words tumbled out. “There’s a boulder with a smooth top, like a seat, near the right cave. From it, you can see across the river between the woods and the ash grove on the other bank.” He began drawing a rough map in the dirt with an oak branch.
Cerrig glanced at Scryloc’s face and dropped his voice to a whisper. “What have you seen?” he asked.
“In one of the caves, there is a soldier feverish from an arrow wound. Short, sturdy, light-haired with dark blue eyes, although those may well be closed,” Scryloc continued. He released Cerrig’s arm and pulled something from his pocket. He held out his closed fist, palm upwards and uncurled his fingers. A pointed stone with bits of bloodied wood attached lie in its centre.
Cerrig’s eyes grew round. “I’ll bring what’s necessary,” he said, starting to turn away.
“Wait,” Scryloc said, drawing a leather pouch from his pocket. He dropped the arrowhead inside. The tip of a black feather peeped from the opening as he tightened the leather strings. “Take care approaching him. He retains at least his sword. Show the arrowhead and the feather if he is awake. Lay them near him if he is unconscious and wake him from a distance with words, not touch.”
“He has the sight?” Cerrig asked, taking the pouch.
“I believe so,” Scryloc said, “although it’s possible he is unschooled and exercised his gift unconsciously in extremis.”
The boy shouted that the cart was fully loaded. Cerrig waved his acknowledgement. “I hope I find him alive,” Cerrig said.
“Bring the body back if he isn’t,” Scryloc said, obliterating the map at their feet with broad strokes of his stick. “I would that I could go with you.”
Cerrig shook his head. “This close to the celebrations there would be panic and your brother would send half of Sarum searching for you.”
“No doubt,” Scryloc sighed. “Take Figden and an extra cart. Proceed as fast as you can; I’m not sure yet how much I can help from here.”
***
Melyd was on the bottom step when Scryloc rounded the corner of the mound. Behind her a high voice could be heard reciting numbers as it came closer.
“Oh.” Melyd paused on the stair. “Up early or not slept yet?” She took a careful inventory of Scryloc’s face, eye to eye because of the height of the step. She checked her hand as it lifted slightly at the sight of the dishevelled curls. Her fingers twitched as the hand fell back in place by her side.
The counting voice continued, the counter still hidden by the bend in the stairs.
“What do you need?” he asked, body angling as though to slip past her on the steps. They were both slim. He could do it without even touching her.
“Nothing. There were honey cakes this morning and when we didn’t see you there, we brought you some.” She glanced up. “The door was locked. We left them on the landing. Honey, too.”
“In the midst of an investigation. Nothing must be moved,” he explained, although he needn’t have.
“The new thing?” Melyd asked quietly.
“Yes,” he replied and smiled.
A child came into view with a resounding nine. “Tas!” she cried when she saw Scryloc. She came down another step. “Ten,” she announced. She lifted up her arms and bounded off the stairs. Scryloc was quick enough to catch her.
“Fearless Seren,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “We left you honey and the cakes I didn’t eat. Why is your door locked?”
“There is something delicate and dangerous inside,” he replied.
“May I see it?”
“Eventually,” Scryloc replied.
Melyd raised her eyebrows.
“How is the training going?” he asked.
Seren tugged at a leather thong about her neck, put the small tube at its end to her lips. She turned her head suddenly, her thick brown hair whisking past Scryloc’s cheek and blew two high notes on the metal pipe. A piercing cry answered her. She peered up at the sky.
The peregrine landed on the retaining wall along the stairs, a young rabbit hanging limply from the talons of one foot. The bird hopped to the ground and set the animal down at their feet.
Scryloc narrowed his eyes at it. He looked up, thrust Seren at Melyd and ran up the steps.
“Work,” Seren commented to her mother and wriggled down to examine the rabbit more closely.
***
The pins pulled free of the bolt. The smell of smoke and herbs rolled out into the morning air. Scryloc scooped up the bundle of cakes and honey, forgot them on a shelf inside the door. In the rectangle of light sat the metal basket, the ashes fallen about it stirred by the draft.
He whirled around, door shut, bar dropped, hand on dagger. He didn’t stoke the brazier, open the shutters, light a lamp. The tip of his knife scraped along the sooty stone at the bottom of the basket. It sparked blue, coloured the pale ash. With nothing to consume, the spark grew into a flame, spread along the edges of the basket, leaving the centre darker than the room.
The cave amplified sound: the soft hiss of the fire, the rustle of dry leaves, the fitful moaning of the man.
He quieted, alarm overriding pain. With cautious movements, he found the pommel of his sword, the handle of his knife amid the furs. He listened, heard again the slither of supple scales over stone. His fingers tightened on the handle of his dagger. He opened his eyes. A shape rose next to the low, blue flames. Winter sunbeams cast a sinuous shadow across the cave floor.
The man let out a long breath and the tension in his limbs went with it.
“You come in good time, friend,” he said, “the pain grows worse and my water is gone.”
The form drew closer.
“I thought I would fear you more when you came for me,” the man said, “but I’ve become lonely here.” He coughed. “I have bested you often enough when you came for others.”
The goatskin slid slowly from beneath his fingers.
“There’s nothing in it,” he said as his hand settled into the fur. “When the wind is quiet, I hear water trickling over the rock.” He sighed. “I cannot reach it.”
The metal ring at the neck of the goatskin clinked along the ground.
“Thirsty work, is it? Collecting the dead?” The man shifted among the furs, gritted his teeth. “I would have bargained with you for a drink, if it had been even half full.” A twig snapped. “Bargained for my life…because I do not want to die.” He shifted again, gasped, breathed in and out for a long moment. He raised his voice a little. “I travelled…saw wonders. Learned so much I want to use here…where it is not known.”
A chill breeze ruffled the flames.
“The fever is almost gone. I know what to do, but I cannot do it for myself…not alone...not here.” The man turned his head. He groaned. “The pain is sharper than I would have thought…I have sawed off men’s legs and they have lived. If a bit of stone and a stick can cause this much pain, what must they have borne?”
A branch broke. Leaves crackled. The metal ring scraped over the stone.
The goatskin was damp. The man’s fingers closed about its neck, felt the wet muscle uncoil and slide away.
“Shall we drink a toast before you take me?” the man asked. He couldn’t lift the full goatskin. He rolled onto his uninjured side, sunk his teeth into the stopper and pulled. Water spread over the fur before he could spit the stopper out and get his mouth around the neck. He drank, let the water flood his mouth and swallowed more. He drew his lips away, rubbed his face against the cool, wet fur. “What shall we toast? ‘Long life’ isn’t suited to present company.”
The serpent slipped behind the fire.
“Don’t go,” the man called, stretching out his arm. “Wait with me. I will not be too long.” He heard the leaves rustle. The flames wavered. The cave was quiet. “I would rather you had stayed,” he whispered.
The pain bloomed. The man nuzzled at the neck of the goatskin and dozed.
Branches creaked. With a start, the man drew in a breath. The snake dragged something over the stone to the fire and dropped it there. The viper slithered nearer, over the man’s palm and along his arm, under the cloak. A shudder ran through the man and his breath came more rapidly. Otherwise, he did not move. The snake crossed his chest, tongue flickering against his skin so lightly it almost tickled. He closed his eyes.
“I haven’t been here long,” he said softly, “but pain stretches time.” He took a deep breath, held it before letting it out slowly through his mouth. More and more of the snake coiled over him, smooth and cool from the stone floor and the winter air. “For years I lived in a company of men. They came to me to ease their suffering and often I could. And when I had no cure, I closed their eyes. My comrades did not die alone.”
The snake’s tongue flicked across the man’s wound. “I dreamt an eagle dug the arrowhead from my flesh.” The snake curled around the wound. “Cyllin couldn’t reach all the pieces. I told him where I felt them, but he couldn’t find them with his knife. The eagle found them.” He heaved a great sigh. “Dreams are strange, but I don’t think I could dream you. Your kind should be asleep at this season. Are you dreaming me?” The snake reared up, lifting the cloak, blue flames reflected in its eyes. “Death never sleeps, so I suppose you never dream.”
The viper opened its jaws, slowly lowered its head and sunk its fangs into the edge of the wound. The man cried out. The snake drew back, nudged its snout against the warm skin, curled its tail away and down the man’s side. He heard his dagger slide from its sheath.
“You have your own weapons,” the man panted, “why take mine?”
The snake nudged the man once more before turning away, dragging the dagger along with its tail. The blade rattled against the stone.
The man moved his head to watch, his breathing laboured. “Quicker is better. A bite at the neck would have been more efficient.”
The serpent raised the knife and sliced into the lump by the fire.
The man noticed the spikes of fur now. He squinted in the dimness.
The snake bit and pulled and tossed limp fur aside, spitted the carcass on the dagger and held it over the fire.
The man saw the flames curl around the viper’s tail as it held the meat in place. “Fire would harm neither death nor a dream,” he mused, his breath coming more easily with each word. “You took the pain away. Why?”
The serpent rested its blue-green eyes on the man. Fat sizzled into the fire, yellow flames flaring where it hit. They played along the black scales of the snake.
The smell of roasted meat filled the cave and the man realised he was hungry for the first time in days. “A last meal before we go?” he asked.
The snake turned the meat, regarded the man over the top of it without blinking.
The man grew drowsy after the food. He drank the water that had not spilled out of the goatskin. “Why so kind with me?”
The serpent pushed the bones away and slithered between the cloaks.
“I’ve more experience of death than most. I thought I knew you,” he said.
The snake curled around the man’s ankle, under his calf and over his knee, between his thighs.
“You’re heavier than I would have imagined,” the man said. The viper’s snout edged past the sash holding what was left of his tunic at his hip, the coil at the ankle gripping tightly even as the muscles slid upwards. “And stronger.”
“Will you grow large enough to swallow me?” he murmured. The snake’s head brushed against the bottom of the man’s jaw. He tilted his neck. The serpent pushed against the man’s ear.
“There,” the man said. “A bite there will finish me quickly.”
The snake bit.
***
A shrill whistle broke his sleep. The man turned his head. He could hear a bird fluttering among the branches at the mouth of the cave.
“The snake after you?” he muttered and opened his eyes. The fire continued to burn, steady and blue. The aroma of roasted meat lingered. The bird sang more loudly. The man recognised its song.
He took a deep breath. “I expected more of a difference.” He pushed himself to a sitting position and realised that his bladder felt full. His head did not spin. He searched for signs of the snake. His dagger lay on the ground, dirt clinging to the grease on its blade. The man reached for it. The desire to vomit did not overtake him. He tucked the knife into his belt and reached for the goatskin. It was empty.
The blackbird warbled and hopped from branch to branch. The sky beyond the brush appeared blue. The bird found something amidst the leaves, closed his beak about it and tugged. In the silence, the man heard the rush of the water outside the cave. He got to his knees, pulled the cloak about his shoulders and put one foot on the ground. He attempted to stand. His head seemed very far from the ground, but he did not fall. He limped to the cave’s entrance. The air there was cold, but thirst pushed him through the branches.
The sun faced him, low in the eastern sky. The man paused on the small ledge in front of the cave and surveyed the hillside. Nothing appeared familiar from where he stood. Vaguely, he recalled the warmth of Cyllin’s chest and the pommel of Cyllin’s sword thumping against the underside of his thigh. Everything had been grey. He had seen little. Against a low tree, he eased the discomfort of his bladder and turned to the spring on the other side of the cave’s opening. The water was icy. A couple splashes on his face left him gasping. He filled the goatskin and drank, re-filled and stoppered it. The blackbird darted past, landed in a small shrub, turned his blue eye towards the man and sang. The man shook his head, rubbed his wet hand over the back of his neck and into his hair. The bird flitted to a dead branch further down the hillside and trilled, loud and long. A chill was creeping up the man’s legs. He took a step back towards the cave, holding the cloak closed. The bird fell silent. The man cocked his head, moved closer to the edge of the ledge. Below him, to the south, someone was laughing.
***
Cerrig threw his head back and laughed at the bawdy lyrics Lleuwyn was singing at the top of his less-than-tuneful voice. Against the sky, he saw the cloaked figure on the hill almost directly above them. He hit Lleuwyn’s arm and pointed. Lleuwyn drew in the reins and the cart halted.
“Hallo!” Cerrig shouted, waving. He saw the man’s arm move to his hip. “Have you seen an injured man camping hereabouts. I am a healer.”
The blackbird swooped past the speaker, landed on the side of the cart and whistled.
The man peered at the figures below him, well-lit by the morning sun. They were neither soldiers nor known to him and neither had spared a glance for the bird that had darted between them. The rounder one did not look like a brigand, but his companion was young and lean and who else would know someone had been wounded recently. The man moved backwards towards the cave. He was in no state to defend himself well, but he would have more chance to disarm someone from inside the cave and his sword was there, if he could still lift it.
“Please,” the speaker called. “We have travelled since yestermorn to find him and bring him to the circle to recover. If you know where he is, please tell us.”
Cerrig looked up at the steep hill. “It will not be easy for me to climb up to you, but I have proof of my words. Let me show you.”
The man could no longer see the road. He slipped through the branches into the cave, leaned against the stone and listened. The blackbird had ceased its twittering. The two men were talking, but he could not distinguish their words. The sound of the older fellow’s voice tugged at the man’s memory. He set down his goatskin and placed the tip of the sword’s blade in the flames. If it had time to heat before they were upon him, even an imprecise thrust would harm one of them. The man sat down by the cave’s entrance and waited.
He heard the panting first.
“On my honour, I am not young anymore!”
The man peeked through the branches.
The portly fellow was on the ledge, bent over, hands upon his knees and breathing loudly. Slowly, he let himself down and sat upon the flat-topped stone. His face was scarlet and shining with sweat. He wiped it with a corner of his cloak.
The man did not understand why the lad had not climbed the hill, unless he had and was hiding.
“Cerrig!” a voice yelled from a distance. “Are you all right?”
The man scrutinised the red-faced Cerrig. There were enough Cerrigs in the world, but how many had the name and a familiar voice?
“More or less,” Cerrig shouted over his shoulder and wheezed.
He pulled a pouch from beneath his cloak, stretched its drawstrings and shook its contents into his palm. He crooked his thumb over the shaft of a black feather and tilted his hand forward towards the cave’s entrance. “I am to show you these so that you will know me,” Cerrig said. He took a few breaths. “I have to say that what they mean was not explained to me, but I have them from someone I trust and he wishes to help you.”
The blackbird landed directly in front of Cerrig and began to sing. Cerrig paid it no mind. The bird hopped towards the cave and fluttered up into the branches, chirping and whistling.
The man thrust the hand of his injured arm through the branches. “Give me the arrowhead,” he said.
Cerrig started, his brows drawing down. Laboriously, he regained his feet and placed the arrowhead in the outstretched palm. He looked through the branches and saw a bit of sandy hair, one dark eye, then another and the gleam of a dagger’s blade.
He took a step back. “I apprenticed with Old Bart,” he said, “at the circle. I studied with a man named Síon. No one could cut faster or truer than Síon. He was my friend.”
The man pushed aside a branch. “Cerrig,” he said in amazement. “What are you doing here?”
“I never left. Old Bart died. I teach the young ones now.”
Síon shook his head. “Come inside,” he said, moving back. “I’m not sure I could have held out much longer.” He kicked the sword away from the fire, sat and nodded at the feather in Cerrig’s hand. “Is that from the noisy blackbird chirping about here?”
Cerrig knelt. “What blackbird?” he asked and gave the long, faintly iridescent tailfeather to Síon. “Let me see your wound.”
***
“The stairs will be difficult,” Cerrig said. He matched his gait to the slow rhythm of Síon’s oak staff hitting the ground as they walked towards Scryloc’s mound. “But he insisted you convalesce under his care. I was half expecting him to demand you present yourself last night.”
Síon snorted and hobbled forward. “You didn’t tell him what a joy my companions find me?”
“He’s not an easy man to abide and knows it,” Cerrig said.
“I remember the first time I saw his older brother with the crown of summer flowers.” Síon paused for breath. “So tall and slim…”
Cerrig patted his ample stomach. “He still is, unlike me.”
“And those waves of hair down his back, like the setting sun in autumn.” Síon looked up at the pearly sky. “Enough to give you hope, all on its own, for the dark days ahead.”
“Albion still has that, too,” Cerrig said. He leaned closer to Síon. “Not quite as thick as it once was though.”
“I don’t recall a younger sibling,” Síon said and resumed walking.
“You’d been gone a couple years when Scryloc took over his father’s duties,” Cerrig explained.
“Is he like his older brother?”
“No,” Cerrig said.
Síon turned at the smile in his friend’s voice, saw the light in his eyes.
“Nearly as tall, yes. Slim, too, but a stronger frame. Hair, like a raven’s wing, although in the right light, there’s a bit of fire in it. Like the man, the fire is hidden much of the time,” Cerrig said.
“You admire him,” Síon said.
“He sees,” Cerrig replied, “and his view is wide.” They had reached the mound.
Síon contemplated the long curve of the stairs. Through the shuttered windows at the top, firelight gleamed. He set his staff on the first step and pulled himself up. “This may take a while.”
Cerrig beamed at him. “I’ve nowhere to be except here.”
Síon hoisted himself onto another stair and Cerrig stepped up behind him. “You won’t be tumbling down with me in place,” he said, laughing.
Síon glanced at how his friend’s girth spanned much of the stairway. “We used to run up hills and stairs as though they were nothing,” Síon said and took another step.
“I know, I got fat, but you will run again. The hip is only badly bruised, Síon,” Cerrig declared.
Síon nodded. “I’m being the proverbial bad patient.”
“Oh, you have nothing on the one at the top of the stairs,” Cerrig declared and chuckled. “Won’t sit still to be sewn up, doesn’t sleep half the time or eat the other half.”
“What does he do to get hurt so much?” Síon asked.
Cerrig leaned against the stairway wall, watched Síon mount two more steps. “What doesn’t he do? All considered, he should be dead ten times over, even with the best healers in the land at his doorstep, although much of the time he treats himself. He claims he’s indestructible, which might be what’s called for with the woods and roads becoming what they are, as you know better than I.”
On the tenth step Síon sat. Cerrig lowered himself to the stair below. “How did you know what happened to me?” Síon asked.
“Scryloc told me, with little detail, which is typical of him, unless he’s in an expansive mood and then you’d hear what colour the feathers on the arrow that hit you were and what songs the birds were singing,” Cerrig said.
“Black and white,” Síon said.
“What?”
“The feathers on the arrow that hit me were black and white.”
***
Scryloc stood by his open door and listened to the voices floating up the stairs, the banter of friends long separated, but comrades still, old habits of communication seemingly easy to take up again.
The man’s voice, Síon’s voice, was familiar now. Scryloc slipped in and out of Síon’s mind, sometimes unconsciously, heard him speak aloud and in the privacy of his own thoughts. Scryloc’s hand smoothed down the edge of the old oak door. He felt the thump of a wild heart beneath coiled muscle, remembered how it had changed as stoic dread gave way to something else. Scryloc's fingers turned white about the door latch. He stopped himself from rushing down to seize Síon, waited for Síon to come up to him.
Cerrig had launched into a description of Melyd and her duties, explaining Scryloc’s insistence that a healer be placed in charge of the dead after old Arganto died shortly before Bart did. With precision, Cerrig outlined not only how Bart’s body had been flayed and dissected, studied and catalogued before being burned and taken down into the barrows, but how much they had learned each time they applied that method to those who came to die or whose bodies were brought to be buried near the circle.
Síon said little as Cerrig talked. Irritated at the absence of Síon’s voice, Scryloc entered his thoughts. Each time was easier. The vistas in Síon’s mind had become more distinct, the long passageways less dark. Between dreams, while Síon slept, was the best time to explore. Síon was picturing what Cerrig said, intrigued at the changes that had occurred since their student days. Scryloc heard Old Bart’s voice, Cerrig and Síon debating as young men. Memories of studies Síon had made under a warmer sun appeared, fractured bones and traumatic injuries came into view. Síon held tools in his hands, knives and awls that he wielded with an artist’s touch and a slice of clear stone in a bronze frame that magnified minute details better than clear water or amber.
Come up the stairs, Síon.
Síon posed another question and Cerrig answered with relish. Scryloc appreciated Cerrig’s enthusiasm for the changes he had instituted in the work and studies of the circle. It made for a very productive collaboration, but right now Scryloc wanted to speak to Síon, not listen to Cerrig, flattering as his words were. Scryloc closed his eyes.
The blackbird whistled as it landed. Surprised, Síon looked up. The bird fixed him with an azure eye, fluffed his feathers and fluttered higher along the wall, trilling. Unperturbed, Cerrig kept up his discourse.
During the first part of the cart ride from the cave, the blackbird had flown around the cart, settling on it now and then to sing its lowest notes. When Síon had begun to doze, wrapped in all three cloaks, against Cerrig’s side, the snake had hissed from atop Cerrig’s shoulder. Sleepily, Síon had held the cloaks open and the serpent had slid down Cerrig’s arm and into the furs, coiling tightly about Síon, flat head nestled beneath his chin, for the rest of the journey.
Cerrig was as full of questions as explanations. When he asked about the contents of the heavy satchel he was carrying for Síon, Síon described so many exotic items that the blackbird stopped singing.
There would be a careful examination of those instruments and medicines at some point, but the unpredictable mix of Síon’s empirical and poetic images lured Scryloc into listening longer. He smiled at a particularly florid turn of phrase. The swan in the bathhouse had pleased Síon.
Síon had stared groggily across the pool while Cerrig concentrated on cleaning him without wetting his wound, but his gaze had sharpened when the large, black bird separated from the shadows. Each time the swan had spread its wings, Síon had frowned; when it folded them again and glided towards the pool’s steps, Síon had moistened his lips. There, beneath the water, a wide, webbed foot had curved over Síon’s thigh, a long neck had twined across his back and up into his hair. Síon had turned his face and buried it in the feathery breast with a sigh that Cerrig had mistaken for fatigue.
Later, visions of flying with his head tucked beneath a strong wing had filled Síon's sleep. With sharp nips, Scryloc had chased him back from the edges of nightmares and storms at sea. Towards dawn, feathers had turned to scales and the serpent had bitten Síon’s shoulder again.
The rap of Síon’s stick sounded upon the stair. Scryloc drew back into his room, plucked twigs of alder and oak and willow from his bundles and dropped them into the basket of blue flame. He added heather and lavender as they crossed the threshold.
“Cerrig,” Scryloc said, still hunched over his crucible, “have you any foxglove, I’ve used all of mine.”
Síon stopped looking about the room, turned all his attention on the speaker.
“I gave you what I had left last week and Figden’s not returned from Rhyd yet with more. Sorry,” Cerrig answered, moving forward with the ease of familiarity.
“Use mine,” Síon said to the black-robed back. “I have some in my bag.”
Cerrig smiled, hoisted the leather strap over his head and set the case on a bench by the door. Síon leaned his stick against the wall, unknotted several ties, pulled back a thick leather flap and then a thinner skin to reveal a series of compartments containing dried plants and seeds. He tapped one. “Here it is,” he said. A shadow fell over the case. Síon glanced up into eyes the colour of young leaves shading a spring sky. They looked different set in pale skin rather than sooty feathers.
“Are you real?” Síon asked. He heard the echo of his own voice: Don’t go. Wait with me.
Scryloc took a step closer and covered the hand Síon had splayed over his case. “Quite real, yes,” Scryloc said and touched his fingertips to Síon’s wrist and the underside of his forearm, past the scratches there. “I didn’t mean to dig the talons in,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Síon ran his tongue over his lower lip and stared.
“May I see the shoulder wound? It made a clumsy instrument, but I did mean to dig with the beak.”
Síon’s jaw tightened. “That was you,” he said, intonation midway between question and statement.
“Yes.”
“How?” Síon demanded, grabbing the arm nearest his own and digging his fingers into the flesh beneath the black wool.
“I don’t know yet,” Scryloc said, “but I intend to find out.”
Síon shook his head. “It was delirium.”
“No,” Scryloc countered and lifted his other hand to Síon’s neck. “A viper bit you here and…” His fingertips hovered over the cloak covering Síon’s shoulder. “…and here. You were in pain. It was a way to provide relief.” Scryloc sighed. “I should have thought of it sooner.”
Síon turned his head, focussed on Cerrig as though to confirm that he was still there, rosy and real, before looking back to Scryloc. “The blackbird?”
Scryloc nodded.
Síon glanced at Cerrig. “You didn’t see a blackbird by the cave or on the cart, did you?”
“No,” Cerrig murmured, brow furrowed.
“Or hear one just now, on the stairs, singing?” Síon pressed.
Cerrig shook his head.
“Only I see you?” Síon asked Scryloc. His head whipped back towards Cerrig. “He is here now, isn’t he?”
“Scryloc?” Cerrig asked. “He’s standing before us. You’ve got hold of him, Síon.”
“They can’t all be real,” Síon said.
Scryloc raised his free arm. Black feathers instead of fingers brushed against the side of Síon’s face. Síon let go of Scryloc and the other wing stretched out until the tip touched the wall between the windows, cutting Cerrig off from view. Both wings curved around Síon.
“You remember how these feel,” Scryloc said.
Cerrig squinted as the figures before him dimmed.
“You took comfort in this form,” Scryloc whispered in Síon’s ear. A feathery neck wound about Síon’s throat, a hard beak nipped at the edge of his ear. Síon shut his eyes. He knew the shape of this body. The strong wings pressed him close. He could hear the heart beating beneath the warm down.
“Swans are dangerous,” Síon said. His arm curved beneath a wing. “And ill-tempered.” The clawed tips of a webbed foot scraped along the back of Síon’s shin. “And magnificent.” The wings drew back. Síon shivered. He opened his eyes and met ones the colour of a winter lake.
“You know the worst of me, then,” Scryloc said.
Síon thought Scryloc’s hair had the iridescence of feathers, that the shadows beneath his eyes were too dark and his cheekbones too sharp. His gaze dropped to Scryloc’s lips, watched them form words.
“Stay with me,” Scryloc said and tilted his chin upwards so Síon’s eyes would be on his pale throat.
I would rather you had stayed. Síon recalled saying the words. “Until the celebration?” he asked. Will you wind about me every night until then?
“Yes,” Scryloc said.
Síon startled.
“And the next celebration and the next and the next, until you lose track of the cycle of the seasons and remember only celebrating the passage of time with me.” Scryloc’s voice was grave, his eyes restless over Síon’s features. He had tried to slip into Síon’s mind, but could not.
Sion’s blood throbbed as though to the muffled beat of the drums. The crowd about him murmured to the same rhythm, “Farewell, farewell, farewell.” He squinted as the setting sun glowed between the stones.
He turned to the avenue. At its end, flaming-haired Autumn and all his retinue were swallowed by the earth. The last of the torches winked out. The final reverberation of the copper cymbals faded away. The sun was gone.
Sion shook his head, and still the drums beat.
A chord of moon brightened the horizon. Over the crowd hung the mist of their exhalations, “Welcome, welcome, welcome.”
A whistle shrilled. Owls swooped to the tops of the stones, the bells on their feet tinkling. The moon rose higher.
In his black-feathered cloak, Winter stood at the centre of the circle that was now his. He raised his arms. His silver rings and the snowy lining of his garment reflected the moonlight.
Síon walked out of the shadows with a small lamp. He spilled its oil at Winter’s feet. It burnt blue. Sparks danced in the air. A creature with an eagle’s head and a serpent’s tail rose on the outstretched wings of a swan until it was silhouetted against the full moon above the stones. Síon raised his arms to it.
“I will stay with you,” he said to Scryloc.
Scryloc narrowed his eyes. “Until the celebrations?” he asked.
“For all the celebrations and all the times between,” Síon replied.
Scryloc turned to Cerrig. “You have heard your friend’s vow,” Scryloc said. “You must bear witness.”
Cerrig looked from Scryloc to Síon. “Do you know what you do, Síon?” he asked.
Síon set his hand upon Scryloc’s arm. He felt feathers instead of wool. “Yes, Cerrig, I know what I do,” Síon replied.
“Then I shall bear witness to any who ask,” Cerrig declared.
Scryloc let out a long breath. “And Síon and I shall solve the mystery of the blue flame,” Scryloc said and tried again to enter into Síon’s thoughts.
Síon felt his mind opening. “And we shall learn to fly,” he said.
Scryloc felt the statement from the inside out and drew in a sharp breath.
Síon smoothed the feathers beneath his hand and smiled.
By the door, the oak staff bloomed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~