» Sun Jun 20, 2010 12:53 pm It always began with a sense of urgency, of expectation, and it always ended with her face, changed and lifeless, the eyes wide, not terrified as you would expect, but somehow cold.
If he had known, if he had stayed at home, Therius the farmer's son, Therius the dull, the ignorant, the happy; or if they had never met, maybe she would be alive now , maybe back with her kin in Valenwood, then these nightmares would have nothing to feed on. But no, the good times were good, Therius the legionnaire, turned soldier of fortune, and Tiearen, the archer without equal, his friend, his confidante, almost his soulmate.
Therius and Tiearen, the adventurers, the odd couple. They fought, and killed, and laughed, and drank, they got wealthy, they went hungry, but most of all they complemented each other, two friends, two partners, a team.
It always started in the small hours. An observer would have seen him, lying in his modest cot, start to breathe heavily, to moan softly, then start to mutter and move, would have seen the sweat start to form on his aging skin, the moans getting loader, the movement turn to a thrashing, a punching of the hair, and seen tears mingle with the sweat. "Poor man's having some serious nightmare," you would have said, if you were there.
Nightmares plague us all, from time to time, but a vision of horror, coming every night, takes it toll. Therius the once brave dreaded sleep, for each night he knew with certainty what lay in store. They had heard a rumour, the standard tavern boast, some tale of gold the teller would get if he weren't such a drunk. They packed their weapons, torches, and food and water, set off with high hopes as so many times before, then the rest is a vague shadow.
Therius had vague recollections of entering one of the ancient ruins dotted here and there, that the superstitious and sensible avoid, and he had blurs of memories, of their heroic battle with a veritable horde of foul, walking corpses, of his blade, of her bow and knife, whistling, killing, singing, despatching. Their was a joy in their
fight to survive, a laughter in their fear, then everything changed.
The creature, a hell born horror without physical form, touched her and she fell instantly, glowing with a black light he thought, though that makes little sense to tell. Truth is, he barely remembers destroying the creature, though he knows, as if told by someone else, that he fought like Demon, hacking, trusting, avoiding the creature's fell touch, and triumphing, the spirit banished to the shadows from which it rose.
And here it is, the moment he dreads, the bane of his life. In his dream he looks at her, lying still, wet with sweat and gore, eyes open, cold and empty. How gently he cleans off her face, how softly he kisses her forehead. Can a Son of Cyrodiil love a Bosmer? If missing her everyday, seeing her face in crowds, if screaming her name every night on waking from the depths of darkness is love, then no man loved a woman more.
I still see your face my friend, my beloved Tiearen, how I wish you were still here, by my side.
Time to open the store. Grit your teeth, smile. " Good day sir, how can I help you?" "Be sure to tell your friends,cheapest goods and weapons in the West Weald." "Adventuring in the wilds? I could tell you a tale or two."
What he would like to say to the young fool, demanding specially fitting steel plate befitting his station, is this : "Stay at home, learn your father's trade, be dull and hard working, don't enter tombs and caverns seeking glory and riches, because if you do, and they don't kill you, or possess you, and your rotted remains aren't trodden in by the next young fool, well the only thing you have to look forward to is a retirement like mine."
Smile, grit your teeth, choke back the tears, and ignore the next night's terrors, the images of her face etched on the back of your eyelids, because it is time to open the store, and adventurous young fools need their supplies.
