I lit the candles to sleep peacefully at night but it was not enough. They haunt my dreams. Molech walking through the fire and among the flames like some ponderous djinn to the cries of agony from his burning followers and the face of Hazael painted against the black and stormy sky, readied to rain death upon me from above, and the land beyond was covered in salt and ash. A broken earth trembling. God watched in silence. I had to endure. And only the light from the candle flame kept me from dreaming that bad dream. That nightmare.
On the day I slew Molech, God blessed me with another child to look after, Lia. Another light to foster. Another I leave the future to. A beautiful child. Desmond and Lia reminded me every day that I cannot afford to be careless. Women and children can be careless but not men. I do not apologize for what I have done to protect them. They will never forget what I have done. I am not sure they can forgive me or myself.
Three days later, it was the dark hours of dawn. The whiskey poured and swirled inside the glass tumbler, reddish amber and gold in the candle flame. Lia picked up the tumbler and it smelled of bitter honey and brown sugar and she took a sip and wiped her mouth with her wrist.
“I kissed my mama goodbye and she wiped my tears from my eyes, saying it would be alright. Mama was strong until the end then it was just me and my dad and that shitty lakeside cabin. I watched him change.” She took another sip of whiskey. “He wasn’t the man I remember, playing with me and tossing me up in the air. I watched him wither into a monster. A shell. I hated him, I wanted to hate him, I wanted to leave him, to abandon him to the hell of his own making but I didn’t. I tried to do the good thing, to take care of him. I still loved him. I wanted time to turn back. Be made right again.”
Desmond poured another inch of whiskey into her tumbler, and his. He drank and she did as well.
“My silence shielded me from dad’s tirade and it was my dad who shielded me from the world.” She sipped once more from her glass tumbler, her blue eyes downcast.
“I watched my daddy die and it was not soon enough,” Lia looked up, surprised and Desmond drank more from his tumbler. “He lived longer than for the good any of us. I doubt he cared. He only cared about himself,” his face tightened.
Desmond was about to drink the remainder of his whiskey but Lia placed her hand over his tumbler. “That’s enough,” she said quietly. Desmond gazed deeply into her eyes, blue and deep and endless as the sea. “That is enough.”
“I was about to finish that,” he said.
“No,” she leaned in closer and laid her hand upon his, it was warm and tender. She gazed into him. His eyes were black as smoke and pensive in a steely equanimity. “You can’t forget,” she said.
“You can’t forget pain. It’ll be lingering like some bitter memory but we can push that away,” she said sweetly and softly.
Desmond rubbed his chin, he studied her. “We?”
Lia rose to her feet and gestured with her finger to follow and Lia walked to her room and left her door open. Desmond pursued and when he entered. Lia had let her hair down and it flowed in the draft and her eyes affixed on Desmond. I need this, she thought. We need this. He shut the door behind him.
Desmond moved closer to Lia. He gently stroked her hair and then her face and they kissed and held each other tight. The inferno rose from within. They undressed and continued to kiss fiercely. Desmond lifted her and fell onto the bed. Lia rolled on top and pinned his hands to the bed and she kissed him from on the neck and to his chest.
“Desmond,” she moaned softly as she rode him. She pressed his hand on his chest. Death hangs over life, she thought, frailty of flesh is little more than a fevered dream. “Oh, Desmond,” she moaned deeply. I want to forget about everything. Death. I want to live, I want to be free, I am free. You’re with me, now. Now and forever.
She rode him hard as the sun eclipsed the horizon and over the mountain peaks and signaled the onset of the first light. They were sweating and naked for all the room was cool. Lia held onto Desmond. It was quiet and still, like the morning lake.
Desmond looked at her. She’s beautiful, he thought, smiling. “Lia, you up?”
“Yeah, what is it Dez?”
“I don’t want to leave this room.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m with you now.”
“Now and always?”
“Now and always.”
There was a knock on the door. Lia got up from bed wrapped in her white sheets and cracked the door open. It was Andrea, her eyes feline-like and green, peered into Lia. “Caught you at a bad time?”
“No,” she said, “no. What is it, Andrea?”
“There’s class today. Raphael wanted us trained together.”
Lia fully opened the door. “Really?”
Andrea glanced around her room, she noticed Desmond rising from bed and putting on his dark breeches over his legs. “Yes, really,” she said faintly smiling but her eyes did not.
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Just be there, okay?”
“Okay.”
Andrea walked down the wide corridor with her fist clenched in her pocket. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered out of earshot.
Lia closes the door behind her. She looked at the scars down Desmond’s back as he dressed himself, her blue eyes were downcast. What kind of monsters surrounded him?
***
Meanwhile, Michael stood erect on his great stallion on the brown grasslands, overlooking the rolling hills and the distant snow-capped mountains. He searched for the coming of dawn, and watched the gradual extinction of night—the earth’s darkness contracts.
Michael rode out onto the morning lands to the awakening of that day and followed the tracks of the ancient peoples and the decaying bones of slain dragons and the moving herd of bulls or buffalo and the wolves on the plain watched from afar.
He rode on, fast and hard. He reached the lake, misty and blue in the sunshine. The lake he was taught to fish and the same lake he comes to renew himself.
Born again, he thought.
Michael dismounted off his horse and drew his fishing rod from his saddlebag. He dipped the rod into the cool waters of the lake and gripped the rod and muttered a small prayer: “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”
He cast out the line and the hook sank and adrift in the middle of the lake. Brook trout and catfish glide weightlessly in the depths and deeper in the depths of the lake sturgeon, residing in a space older than man, and carrying on the cycle God has set for it. Michael laid his fishing rod on the grassy floor, and struck a match, and lit his cigarillo.
“You really ought to stop that nasty habit,” a familiar voice called out.
Michael turned and looked in the voice’s direction, it was Jackson the Blue Bard in his fashionable azure attire with purple lining and tassels. Michael returned his attention to the lake, his eyes closed and sighed. “I assure you, I will live a thousand years before these things do me in,” he said.
Jackson casually strode to Michael and sat on a rock. He patted off the dust from his costume and got his quill and ledger out. “Do you mind the company? And indulge my trade?” he said.
“Yeah, what’s your trade?” he said sarcastically.
“You know very well what my trade is; I’m a professional myth-maker. A maker of tales, new and old.”
And a spy, Michael wanted to add. “You have done so without my name.”
Jackson nodded. “I don’t get why. Why the modesty?”
“I won’t have my name linked to savagery.”
“Tales of blood is what the people want,” he said. “The world knows your deeds but not the name of the man who has done them.”
“That’s how it is going to be,” Michael said. He picked up his rod. The mist was clearing. The sun rose above the ridge of the mountain. “I never asked for this.”
“And I never thought I’d be traveling worldwide singing and beguiling the masses with my stories. Here I am. The world where I could have become something else ceased existing when I made the decision that cemented the world I reside in. You are the world that you created.”
“Wise blood always runs thick in you, Jackson. Fine.” Michael began to recount his excursion in the Black Hills, his duel with Molech, and the horrors he witnessed and the young woman pursued them.
Jackson wrote in his ledger as Michael related his tale and closed it. He looked up to Michael, his eyes were grim. “It’s not a wonder why mankind was banished from the garden. Man’s desire to be Godlike always springs forth the worst tragedies. Michael,” he said, “you are on the side of the angels but take the time to remember you are not of them.”
Michael nodded. “Before you leave, any idea on what this ‘divine spark’ is?”
The Blue Bard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What dwells in every man is the knowledge that something greater exists beyond his perception and knows his existence while the Godless may live well in their exile but there is always the desire to return and walk with him in the garden,” Jackson said, his voice was low and quiet. “It’s not easy to turn away while some are driven mad.” Jackson laid a welcoming hand on his shoulder. “I must be going, Michael. Take care, my friend.”
Michael grimly nodded and waved goodbye once more. Thirty minutes had passed. He stared into the lake, his mind was adrift in the subtleness of the currents and lost in its depths. The tranquility of the ripples in the lake and the passing of clouds are one, he thought.
In his mind’s eye, a shattered visage of a man passed down his sword to a boy. The man asked, “Are you ready to be my son?”
“I’m ready to be your son, father,” the boy answered and accepted the sword. It was heavy, Michael recalled.
“I’m still carrying it,” he whispered to himself. “It’s never been so heavy as it is now. It brought me here. To the end.”
“Michael…” a voice in the wind whispered. “Michael…” A voice he heard, a familiar voice, a voice that left him trembling. A voice deeply intimate with his soul that he cannot hide or escape from. A voice caused his soul to riven and cry out and begged for forgiveness. He sank to his knees and wept.
Lightning struck the center of the lake and a stony path appeared before him. There was a sword in the stone. Double-edged, heavenly forged, sleek, and white as light.
Michael treaded steadily on the path and drew the sword from the stone. As he touched it, his eyes glazed over. Visions of the past, visions of the present, and visions of the future. The bones of prophets moldering in the dirt. Cities burnt to the waterline. The smoke of the gathering armies from the north and wielding the bow and lance and moving haltingly like machines, left a bloody havoc of viscera and guts in its wake. A dead sun hung over the earth. The world was a wilderness. The man who was all men stood at the crossing and he stretched out his hand. Michael hesitated and he accepted his hand.
“I know there is doubt in your heart and you have grown weary with time. Remember you are my son. You are my sword that will execute my vengeance on the wicked and deliver the captives from the hands of their oppressors. The haughtiness of the ruthless shall be punished and they shall know I AM THE LORD!” Then He spoke quietly and gently, “I will be with you for all the days of your life, Michael.”
Michael found himself on the ground in the brown grassy plain with the sword in his hand, his stallion stood nearby He examined the blade and it was engraved with an inscription: DELIVERANCE. He smiled and the smile vanished as it appeared and he vaulted onto his mount.
A rolling sound like thunder was heard in the sky so loud it could crack stone, Ren reared and cried. A long shadow darkened the land, banishing the morning sun, enormous and looming like a mountain. It was swift and moved quickly as it passed and the sun shined again. “Thank God,” he whispered. “It’s alright, Ren, take me home.”
***
Raphael wrapped white cloth around Lia’s hands and in between her long fingers and laced her gloves. Lia’s heart raced, a gentle perspiration dripped off her brow but her face unfazed and still like stone. “I know what you’re feeling,” he said as he looped another string, tightening it. “You’re afraid, I can feel it on you. It’s okay to be afraid. Being afraid keeps us alive but don’t let anyone make you afraid. Fearful. They’re made from the same dust,” he smiled. Lia smelled a hint of mint on his breath, it comforted her.
“I’ve been fighting all my life,” Lia said.
Raphael nodded and went to Andrea’s corner, and he whispered into her ear, “Go easy but if she up the pressure then you’ll do the same.”
Andrea nodded and rose from her stool as Raphael exited out of the ring. He took his seat next to Desmond at ringside and he rang the bell. Andrea and Lia touched gloves and slowly circled.
Raphael chewed on his mints and his attention on the action while Desmond struck a match on his boot and lit his pipe.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?”
Desmond smiled slyly. “It was her idea and we were drinking.”
“At least you’re not denying it. Youth…” he sighed. “Amour fou—it never lasts. Once it ceases and you find yourself at the crossroads. It becomes a real decision to make, and then love takes on a whole new meaning; it becomes companionship, a responsibility. An economy that very few have the courage to practice. Succeed or fail and many will fail.”
Desmond looked at Andrea, she swatted a lazy jab away, and his eyes were downcast. “I know… I know. I don't envy those who treat it as a pantomime. Lord knows I did,” he puffed out streams of yellow smoke. Lia swung her lead hand like a scythe and was quick and nimble on her feet. She whipped out a light jab and then followed up with a hard right. “She saved my life, back in the cave.”
“She did?”
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“Yeah, she did. She’s a fighter.”
“I can see that, Desmond. She’s a natural.”
Andrea moved in and pinned Lia on the ropes. Lia shelled up against Andrea’s onslaught, enduring a torrent of punches to the body and the head. Lia opened up and threw a flurry of six punches.
Andrea ducked and weaved under them, she caught Lia with a hook but she rolled it back and sidestepped off angle, and countered with two explosive rear hands. Andrea pursued. Lia rebounded off her backfoot, caught Andrea with a chopping right, and followed up with a long, lead hook.
Andrea wiped the blood off her busted lip with her wrist and raised her hands in the high guard, moving in, closing in on the distance. She exploded up from her crouch with a gazelle hook. Lia slipped the blow with just a turn of her head. She has talent. Good. I won’t hold back.
Jesus. What’s she made of? Iron? she thought. Lia began to circle her in a wide arc, circling and jabbing at once, stinging Andrea’s eyes. Andrea was timing her jab and returned a few of her own. They took the center ring and hammered each other, mirroring one another as they pulled and counter.
“Impressive. Your girlfriend's footwork is incredible.”
Desmond nodded. “They’re going to war, these two; it's going to be a tough one.” He snuffed out his pipe and laid it on the tabletop and he pushed his chair forward. Desmond leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together.
Andrea slammed a lead left hook to Lia’s stomach. She gasped, she keeled over. Andrea punctuated with an uppercut to her jaw. Lia staggered back, her feet still beneath her. Lia pounded her chin, taunting Andrea.
“How’s she still standing?” Andrea whispered under her breath.
Raphael rang the bell. The two walked to their respective corners. Desmond entered the ring and went to check on Lia.
“There’s swelling under your eye,” he said. He placed an ice pack on her face. “It should keep the swelling down.” She laid her hand on top of his as he pressed the ice pack on her cheek and she peered into his steely coal eyes, calm and reassuring and proud of her. Lia wordlessly nodded.
Andrea watched afar from her corner, she rested her arms on the top ropes. She was breathing heavily and sweat dripped off her forehead. The girl’s dangerous. Ferocious like a lioness on the prowl. Is that what I lacked? Is that what Dez sees you in? Her emerald eyes were downcast and she pursued her lips and the solitary bell rang. She moved to the center of the ring.
Desmond exited the ring and he looked at Lia and mouthed: “Knock on her ass.” Lia smiled.
“This is it,” Raphael said. “The first knockdown and we are done for today.”
Andrea and Lia touched gloves for the final time. They circled each other with a renewed vigor and determination.
Lia slipped her jab. She whipped her head back with a thunderous lead hook and drove her to the ropes, punishing her body. Kill the body then the head. Don’t let her breath.
She aimed for Andrea’s head but weaved and evaded her blows and escaped from the ropes and from off her backfoot, an overhand right crashed into Lia’s jaw and she dropped to one knee to the canvas and the ring bell tolled. Andrea remained in an offensive stance and her right hand readied for another blow.
“That’s enough,” Raphael said. “You did well Lia but this is the first step on the great journey of a thousand miles.”
Lia slowly rose to her feet and tried to speak to Andrea but she left the ring, brusquely and bristling. Lia’s eyes followed as she left the room, shifted to Desmond, and gently smiled. He nodded and left to pursue Andrea.
Raphael laid a welcoming and warm hand on Lia’s shoulder. “You did well. Very well, Lia. Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Is Andrea okay? She left abruptly.”
Raphael studied her. “She’ll be alright. Ancient history and all,” he smiled. “Now get some rest, you should be proud of yourself. It was a good fight.”
The squire emerged into the light and out of the dark and spoke slowly and deliberately. “Mister Raphael, Michael has summoned you for a council meeting in the tower.”
“Is that serious, Charlie?”
The squire nodded.
“I must be going, now. Find me after the meeting, okay?”
Raphael left before Lia could say a word. She was alone in the ring, her sweat stained the yellow wash of the canvas. Lia pulled her stool and unlaced her gloves and unwrapped the white cloth around her hands, and grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat off her face and stared into the yellow canvas of the ring, her mind was adrift and remote. New people, new place, and I always find myself here. She rose from her seat and wrapped the towel around her neck. Some things remain a constant.
***
Raphael walked the narrow corridors in the Tower of Conviction; a tall, gothic structure painted against the grey and endless skies. Raphael stopped and peered out of the window and gazed at the rolling mountains beyond the curve of the horizon where the sun peaked at its meridian, where it was faint and hazy and obscured by the grey clouds. A crack sound like thunder riven the sky, it rumbled under his feet. The tower quivered. The dragon’s silhouette flew across like the great white glides beneath the sea. It headed west beyond the white mountains.
“Majestic things, aren’t they?” Gabriel said, tall and squared jaw, and his hair was a deep brown like a lion’s mane and dropped to his shoulders and his eyes were flat, icy, warrior’s eyes and the pommel of his greatsword peaked over his shoulder and crimson cloak.
“Majestic things? Maybe,” he said, chewing on his mints, “monsters that they are and they are hard to defeat.” Raphael resumed his trek to the room, Gabriel walked beside him and was passing down smaller rooms.
“Don’t remind me. Dragons are what they are because men can’t beat them.”
“Then what does that make us and the rest, Gabriel?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
They stopped at a painting of themselves along with Michael, Uriel, Barachiel, and the dragon they slain. The painting was erected in celebration of their victory on that day. Raphael stared into Michael’s stoical and grim expression while the rest were happy and wept tears of joy.
“He has changed so much,” Raphael said with regret in his voice.
Gabriel studied Raphael. “I’m not so sure. He remained the arrogant bastard I met and to this day, he still is an arrogant bastard.”
Raphael punched him in the shoulder. “You know he’s been different, he has not been the same.”
“Ow,” he said unenthusiastically, then he shrugged. “The only thing I noticed about him was that he remained the same over the years we have known him.” Gabriel and Raphael walked down the hall, nearing the council chambers with double doors carved from cedar wood. He laid his hand on Raphael’s chest. He spoke slowly. “Look, I know you care about him, you want what's best for everyone. You’re a true brother for it. But Michael has something in him. We’ve seen him fight and his eyes go dead. He becomes something else.”
Raphael laid a hand on Gabriel’s wrist. “We should’ve fought with him, sending one man to face down an entire army was insane.”
“It was his choice to do it alone. Remember that… Raphael.” He pushed open the double doors.
Michael sat at the head of the round table, his sword in its scabbard pressed against his shoulder and he wore his black duster and a thin linen shirt, and his dreadlocks swept back. His hazel eyes were cool and serious. He stretched his hand and gestured for them to take a seat.
Raphael situated himself next to Barachiel. He was strong and quick and broad as two men, his eyes were bright and amber. He wore a fashionable blue long coat, a collared gold shirt, and a dark cloak. Barachiel regarded him warmly as he adjusted his spiked warhammer to lean against his chair. Raphael nodded and warmly smiled.
Gabriel took his seat next to Uriel. Uriel was bald as a stone, his face was serene, his beard was groomed and cropped, and his eyes were deep and dark like the night sky. He stood stately in his chair. He wore crimson beads around his wrists, his hands were huge, and his attire consisted of white robes with red linings and a red sash held his sheathed scimitar in its place and adorned with a white hood.
“Now let us begin,” Michael said. “I’ve seen visions of destruction and rebirth—a land scoured in salt and ash. A dead sun hung over the kingdoms on the earth. Armies on the march over the crimson sands in the desert waste. Cities lay in desolation as they gone up in flames like the fire in the furnace and burnt to the shoreline.” Michael spoke slowly. “Hazael is alive. He’s coming.”
All of them glance at one another, confused and in shock.
“How is this possible?” Uriel asked calmly.
“I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do next? What is your plan, Michael? You called us here for a reason.”
“It is out of character,” Gabriel added. “Since when you needed our help?”
“That’s not fair,” Michael said.
“What is fair?”
“Leave the enmity in the past, Gabriel,” Uriel stated. “Now what is the plan?”
“I plan to charter a merchant ship: the Jaybyrd. The captain is a friend, and Desmond will accompany me.”
“What about the girl?” Raphael said.
“The girl?”
“Yes. Lia.”
“What about her?”
“She’s good in a fight. She rescued your nephew. And above all, she’s made of sterner stuff. She went toe-to-toe with Andrea.” You need her strength, Michael, he wanted to say.
Michael studied Raphael and rubbed his chin. “I’ll consider it. Do you have anything to add, Barachiel?”
“Not much,” he said in a deep and raspy voice, “but this vision of yours, and our chance encounters with these… otherworldly beings; do you have any clue why this infection is seeping throughout our world?”
“I do not, I apologize.”
“There is no need, Michael. They concern me, they’re stronger than the dragons we slain and they are part of the natural world,” he said. “They’re a little dangerous for my taste.” He smiled
Raphael smirked. “There is nothing too dangerous for you, my friend.” He cleared his throat and turned his attention to Michael.“What do you expect us to do, Michael?”
“Do what you can and keep me informed on what’s happening elsewhere in the world while I am away.” Michael rose from his chair and to his feet with his sheathed steel in hand. “We are adjourned. Remember the words of our order and Saint Paul: For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.”
They all rose to their feet and bowed their heads. Raphael walked up to Michael and whispered into his ear. “Take the girl, she will need your strength.”
Michael nodded.
***
Lia wandered around the temple and eventually stumbled upon its library. It was peaceably quiet. The air was still, illuminated by oil lamplights and she wandered down the rows of books and scrolls. She spun the antique globe as she walked past and she took note of a priest alone at a table and reading his well-worn leather bible. The priest peered up and turned his gaze to Lia, his eyes were warm and welcoming. He smiled and nodded.
“I wouldn’t mind the company, you’re welcome to sit and chat if you like,” the priest said.
“Sure,” Lia said, she sat at the table opposite to the priest.
“What’s your name, child?”
“Lia, please meet you.”
“Likewise. Father Mordecai Jameson,” he smiled gently and he flipped a page in his bible.
They sat quietly together as the moment passed. Lia studied the priest and the book he was reading. Lia broke the silence. “What book are you reading? Is it for a sermon?”
“No, uh, it’s for my musing,” the priest said. “For the material I’m reading is the Book of Job, a difficult text to decipher but the wisdom is sobering.” The Priest studied Lia. “Indulge me for a bit.”
“Sure, Father,” she said as she scooted her chair and leaned forward
The priest closed his book. A draft blew past the candle flame and the flame remained. “The Story of Job begins with a direct challenge to God from Satan. Job only had faith in our God because of his earthly riches and blessings. So God permits the ruin of his most faithful servant. Every trial but death. All of his children died. His riches are gone with the wind. And a terrible sickness afflicted him, causing boils to appear from the soles of his feet and onto his crown. His friends urge him to repent. Job's wife tells him to curse God and die.”
“It’s quite brutal and cruel, Father.”
“Indeed it is but often in great despair comes wisdom… despite our will. But why did God choose to elevate this man? To reduce him to a whimper of a man amidst the ashes of his ruin? To raise him as a witness against Him and demand His justice and accountability? That Job demanded an answer to his ruin and sufferance, and God broke his silence out of a whirlwind. He answered Job without answering. Instead challenged him on his wisdom. ‘Where were you when I laid the foundation of the Earth?’ he demanded and he went on. Now Job has heard God and now sees Him and fully restores him. Our lives are by the thread of providence; the hands of fate.”
“What does God want from us?” she said. “Our capitulation?”
“No,” he said, “no. To be fully restored under his grace. A spiritual renewal and rebirth.”
Lia’s eyes were downcast. “Forgive me, I can’t see the wisdom in seeing my parents to waste away. Dying painfully and alone and the horrors I’ve seen.” She shook her head. “I know evil is real. I don’t understand, I don’t.”
The priest lay his hand upon hers, it was warm and gazed into her sad and blue eyes. “I thought the same thing when I was your age. What could a child know about the darkness of God’s plan? I can’t claim to know God’s mind but I assure you of this: your strength is needed.”
“How do you know that, Father? You don’t know anything about me.”
The Priest closed his eyes and smiled. “I can tell, you have it.” He flipped his brass-plated pocket watch to the sound of clicking gears. “I must be going on. It was talking to you.” He rose from his bench and waved goodbye and hurriedly made his exit from the library.
She waved as well. You did the most of the talking, Father Jameson, she quietly laughed and she ceased and stared into the Priest's closed brown leather bible. She thought about the ways of God and the world and the men who reside in the world. Hard times, she thought. Hard men make hard times, she recalled her mama’s words from long ago. The way of the world and men is as the flower in the field; to bloom and wither and to die. And what is dying? To fade into nothingness? We may die alone but I choose to stand among the living. Among men. She rose to her feet and wandered onto the terrace.
The bitter winter winds chilled her to the bone. She stood tall, her arms crossed and she bore witness to the white rock mountains and the forestline beyond standing to the gray sunlight. A long shadow flew across the sky and its roar was heard and felt, like ships hewn apart by the heartless sea. Lia remained, unafraid.
***
Desmond struck a match and lit his pipe.
“Was I ever enough for you?” Andrea asked, tears in her voice.
He puffed out a stream of blue smoke. “The truth?”
“Yes. I want the truth.”
Desmond laid his pipe on the table, and his obsidian eyes were averted, and he took a deep breath and met Andrea’s gaze. “I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he said. “I acted like a fool. I was at war with myself, heart and mind. I wanted to pull away. I hated this feeling of being naked and judged for my weakness. I didn’t know how to handle it all. I wasn’t graceful.”
“Being graceful comes with time and practice and prudence, Dez. But I couldn’t really reach you. There were times I thought I did. I remember that night well.”
“I’d rather not. I barely remember it as is.”
“I wanted to help you, Dez. That is all I wanted to do.”
“Funny. I wanted to do the same thing.”
Desmond held her hand and gently pressed his forehead against hers. Forehead to forehead.
“You’re always so sweet, Dez.” She pulled away. “And this new girl?”
“She saved my life. She took my sword and killed a man that would've taken me.”
“This girl has grit, I’ll grant her that.”
“She kicked your ass.”
Andrea smiled. “Well, I’m still standing,” she laughed. “Take care of her, okay?”
“You take care of your girl.”
Andrea raised her forefinger to her lips and smiled shyly.
Suddenly the ground rumbled and the dust shook off the ceiling. Desmond pulled Andrea close to his chest and looked around and then the rumbling stopped.
“What was that?” Andrea said, trembling.
“Whatever it was passed, now.”
A few hours passed. The evening sun hung over the ranges of the mountains, boiling and malevolent, and the clouds were cleared and the heavens ran a deep color of blood. Desmond opened his window and sat at his desk adjacent to the window. He opened his ledger and with his pencil evoked his own creation. An economy of existence. Where the rain and the winds and the rocks are at his dispensation and the image of his heart lives on in his pencil strokes and lines. The only good thing he had left me, he thought.
Someone knocked on his door.
“Who is it?” he almost shouted.
“It’s me,” his uncle said. “A bad time?”
“No. Come on in.”
Michael entered the room, pulled a chair, and sat beside his nephew. He enjoyed the view of the landscape.
“How did the meeting go, Uncle?”
“As well it can be expected. We’re going to Lincoln’s Cove in three days.”
“You’re looking for a fine night of debauchery, eh Uncle,” Desmond said, slyly grinning.
“No. Perhaps another time but no. We’re boarding the Jaybryd and sailing around the barbarous coasts to the desert lands of Hazael, the Storm Lord.”
“What?”
“He’s alive. I'm not sure how but he is alive.”
Desmond ceased the scratching of his pencil and turned to his Uncle. “How do you know this?”
“God granted me a vision, boy. A vision of destruction and eventual renewal. Desmond?”
“I’m sorry but this is a lot to take in but I always have your back. We’re blood.”
Michael humbly smiled. “You’re a lot like your Grandfather.”
“I don’t know much about him,” he said.
“Your grandfather was a good man. The strongest man I knew. He came from a pile of rocks in the North Sea. His father, your great-grandfather fell in with thieves and cutthroats. They butchered him in the center of the town square, over bad debts. And his eldest son swore vengeance, and then they killed him too. Your grandfather was all alone, these bandits wanted to murder him out of some principle that only made sense to them. It's a perverted, twisted logic. He sought asylum in the church but they refused him. He was on the streets, starving and stinking and haggard like a dog. Unsure, he will see the sunrise tomorrow. The clock clicked away. But a friend of his father came by. They broke bread and drank wine and got him off the island.”
“What a story,” he said.
“He never lost his faith in people, Dez.”