The City of Roses was silent. Standing upon the hill, Midhir and the others looked at the skies hidden behind a crimson veil, pulsating with power.
Alistair drew a sharp breath, clenching his fists as he peered towards the spherical barrier surrounding the city. “So this is it?” he asked, his voice but a whisper. His uncertainty and fear was clear in his narrowed eyes, and tight jaw. “This will protect Bareon?”
“Yes. It will hold until the enforcers arrive.” Midhir wiped his left eye, then flinched as he saw his hand covered in blood. He could feel more blood flowing down. The sharp pain he had felt before had reappeared, and this time, it showed no signs of disappearing. “The overgrowth won’t get into the city.” He once again wiped his face, only for more blood to flow.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Lonan forced him to turn around. “You did pay a price,” the historian quietly hissed, his uncovered eye wide open, and his voice trembling with fear.
“I think,” Midhir breathed in, “I think I paid this price before we ever descended to that place.” He pushed the man’s hand away, wiped his face again, then glanced towards the mansion. “You four can report to Lord Orlein. I… need some rest. I need to sleep, properly.”
The bleeding had always stopped. He was simply too tired, too exhausted to properly recover. For just a few moments, he had held more power than he could imagine in his palm and controlled it – bent it to his will.
“I need you to come with us.” Alistair’s sharp voice startled him. “You controlled the power of that altar – only you know exactly what you did.” He turned to face Midhir, his eyes widening slightly as he noticed the bleeding. “And then you need medical attention. Come,” He grabbed his arm, and before he could protest, dragged him towards the mansion.
While Willow and Lonan followed them quickly, Arwen let out a sigh, raising her gaze towards the veiled skies before following them with reluctant steps.
The mansion was eerily quiet. The guards were all looking out the windows, and so did the staff. Their fear was palpable. With Bareon’s history, such events only invoked fear and terror.
They soon arrived at Lord Orlein’s study. Alistair knocked, then opened the doors without awaiting a response, stepping inside with the rest of the group in tow.
Lord Orlein, startled by their sudden entrance, was rather busy signing a large pile of documents. He nearly dropped his fountain pen as they came in and shut the door behind them.
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“Alistair, and-“ He gasped. “Aodan!” He called for his butler at the top of his lungs. The door swung open only moments later, as if the butler had been there all along. “Get our healers, hurry.” The Lord ordered, waving his hand to dismiss the butler, and turned his gaze to Alistair and Midhir. “What happened to you?” He asked, wide eyed and pale faced.
“We-“ Alistair paused for a split second before correcting himself. “He created a barrier around the city using an old altar we found deep beneath Bareon. Then he…” He paused, as if searching for words. “He brought us back to the surface. His eye has been bleeding since.” He helped Midhir sit on a chair off to the side of the room before turning his gaze to his father.
“Father, he’s right. Bareon is built on hollow ground, upon layers of caverns – layers of history. The Old Faith isn’t creeping into the city – it’s always been below us. Temples, altars, and even a space below a lake, where a terrible and ancient creature slumbered.”
“Until we woke it up,” Lonan chimed in with a grim tone.
Lord Orlein took a moment to process everything before hesitantly speaking. “I see. Let’s take this one problem at a time. Midhir, are you certain the city is safe until the enforcers arrive?”
Midhir nodded. “The barrier will hold – no matter what.”
“And your eye – what happened to it?”
Midhir shrugged.
“He used the Old Faith, and their rituals to save the city, Lord Orlein.” Lonan spoke up. “The Old Faith cares little for lives – the Old Ones are creatures beyond comprehension, beyond the concepts of life and death, beyond time itself. There is always a price when borrowing their power. I fear Midhir paid that price.”
“Irrelevant.” Arwen sharply interjected. “The Old Faith doesn’t borrow power from the Old Gods. If it did, the cost would be greater than a bleeding eye. He used power harvested by the altar for millennia, power that was hidden away for exactly this purpose.”
“You don’t know that!” Lonan hissed. “I have studied the Old Faith my whole life – I dedicated decades to uncover all of its secrets. There is always a price – and he’s paying it. Pray to the sun and the daughter that it will only be a bleeding eye.”
“Had he borrowed power from the old gods, then he wouldn’t be here with us right now – and neither would we have survived.” Arwen folded her arms. “You’d never seen a place like that before, your knowledge doesn’t apply there.”
While their discussion continued, Midhir closed his eyes. The pain had begun to fade once more, though the bleeding continued. Their bickering hurt his head, he wanted to shut them both up – tell them they were both wrong.
The Old God was awake, he could feel it. He could see a moving silhouette in the darkness when he closed his eyes. And rarely, when his eye hurt, like now, he could see that eye he stood on – that eye that opened to see him.
The Old God was awake, and when it watched, it hurt.
That had nothing to do with the altar below Bareon. The Witch Circe’s only price had been his name.
A knock on the door caused a momentary silence. “Come,” Lord Orlein spoke.
The door swung open immediately, and the sound of heels clicking on the ground reached his ears. As he opened his eyes, he saw a tall woman step inside. “Reporting for duty, my Lord. Where is the injured?”