The chilly wind blew against his back. He ignored the cold and the shivers. His gaze leapt from the weapon to the monument, then back to the weapon over and over again as he slowly circled the monument.
The symbols were etched all over the chalk monument. Some of them were identical to the ones etched on the weapon, while others were different, but had comparable elements. He didn’t need to be a historian, or a linguist to understand these all belonged in the same language.
He ran his fingers along the dull edge of the sword-spear, wondering what they meant. Once he was back in Bareon, he had to show this to Arwen and the others, as well as Lonan. He was a historian after all – perhaps he knew.
He needed to show them this discovery… if they survived the night. The grim thought lingered at the forefront of his mind for a while as he stepped back from the monument. All of them had to survive – he included.
Gripping the broken shaft of the weapon with both hands, he turned his gaze towards the edge of the forest which about half a dozen steps away from the monument. Just like the monument they chased the terrorists to, this one was also in the middle of a circular opening in the forest, under the starry sky.
It was the night of a full moon, and its light illuminated his surroundings. He carefully put the glowing flower’s stem in his pocket while avoiding crushing the petals. The blue and crimson light it emitted was bright enough to let him see where he was stepping.
He turned his gaze up, above the forest canopy. One part of the sky was cloudy, and tinted red. It was the smoke rising from Bareon, and the flames illuminating it.
“Right…” he whispered to himself, lowing his gaze to the dark forest.
With a tight jaw, he approached the treeline. His heart raced as he stood at the edge of where the chalk roots were overtaken by the bulging roots of the forest.
It was so very dark under the forest canopy. The trees seemed huge, and just a few steps ahead he couldn’t even see their silhouettes. It almost felt like looking at the infinite emptiness. Moonlight couldn’t penetrate the canopy of leaves after all, and even the blue and crimson glow of the flower seemed to be absorbed by the almost tangible darkness.
A part of him wanted to wait here until dawn, until the sun came out, and dispersed this tangible darkness. But another part of him knew how dangerous waiting was. There was no guarantee that the area around the monument was safe, in fact, it could even be more dangerous.
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He pressed his palm against his aching left eye. If these monuments served as connections to the Old Gods, he wanted to be as far away from them as he could, lest the stirring Great one decide to pull his consciousness away again.
Staring into the darkness beneath the forest canopy, he drew a deep breath, summoned what remained of his courage, and stepped into the forest.
The air grew heavy and moist as he took slow, deliberate steps. The darkness was tangible and thick, reminding him of the mist that appeared in Lohssa. It swirled around him, like ink thrown into water.
A primal fear gripped his heart. Beads of sweat rolled down his chin. It took every bit of willpower to make his way through the forest.
He saw things moving with the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look there, everything seemed normal – there was nothing there. Nothing but trees and roots, and the swirling, tangible darkness. With a tight jaw, and hands clenched around the broken shaft of the sword spear, he hurried, making his way through the Old Growth.
It was difficult to guess the time beneath the forest canopy, and even more so when he didn’t know what time he stepped into the forest to begin with. Was dawn close, or hours away? Was it even the same night as the one the city started burning? He wasn’t sure – his sense of time had been lost after falling asleep in the temple, after killing the serpentine creature.
All he had was hope – hope that Bareon hadn’t been reduced to ashes, that Arwen, Alistair, Willow, and everyone else had survived the night. That small flame of hope he carried in his heart dimmed with every passing second.
The forest suddenly came to an abrupt end as he stepped around a tree and came face to face with a wall half-destroyed by the roots of the trees. A large manor was placed a little back, above the wall.
Distant shouting reached his ears, accompanied by the sound of footsteps. He quickly hid behind the tree trunks as three cloaked and hooded figures slid down the wall. Arrows and a few fire resonances flew in the air after them.
“Stop them!” someone shouted at the top of their lungs. The cloaked figures rushed into the forest as several guards appeared at the top of the wall, trying to climb down.
Midhir drew a sharp breath, tightened his grasp on the broken shaft of the sword-spear, lifted it over his shoulder, and whacked the first cloaked figure as he ran past the tree he was hiding behind with the dull edge of the blade.
The cloaked person fell down without so much of a sound, allowing him to quickly leap over him, and face the other two.
Wrath lit up his eyes. He tugged at the thread of power within, allowing a small stream of it to flow into the gem embedded into the sword-spear. White flames lit up the slightly curved blade.
One of his opponents gasped, while the other drew a sharp breath. That split second of shock and hesitation cost them their freedom, as Midhir didn’t hesitate. He struck one of them in the shoulder, cutting through cloth and flesh, then spun the weapon around and struck the other’s neck with the dull edge of the blade.
Screams echoed in his mind as he allowed the flames to subside.
He turned his gaze to the guards as they finally climbed down the wall, rushing over to the three fallen terrorists. They were just as surprised to see him as the terrorists were.
“Take me to Lord Orlein,” Midhir sighed. “There is a lot he needs to know.”