RISEN
PROLOGUE
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Ravan sat in the grave, arms around his brother.
CHAPTER ONE
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Stripping naked in the dim starlight, he laid the priest’s robes carefully next to the corpse. Ravan frowned. He’d never before undertaken such a task as this. It was not that he was particularly averse to handling mortal remains. No, he’d had his fair share of exposure to the dead, on one occasion hiding beneath several fallen men on a battlefield. This, however, was different. He loved this man, and the tender act he was about to undertake was as heavy as anything he’d ever done.
Kneeling, he carefully undressed the dead man. Shortly they were both naked—the mercenary and his brother— one of them beautiful, cold, and asleep forever. He could scarcely bear to look at the thinner frame of his twin, refused to recount the sorrow that had robbed him of his will to live. Draping the robes over the naked body, he dressed himself first.
Before long, he again wore the familiar clothing of a mercenary, absent his armor. Pulling his boots, the ones his brother had worn to the gallows, he stood, prepared himself for what he must do next. Kneeling, he handled his brother’s corpse tenderly as though it were a lover, carefully dressing him one last time in the robes of the church, enshrouding his twin’s kindness along with his body.
It tormented Ravan to see the mortal laceration on D’ata’s chest, the arrow launched by his own accord. Frowning, he passed his hand over the wound, grimly lingering upon it as though he might brush the wound away. He felt unworthy of the sacrifice his brother had made…taking his life as he had, for him.
He stood up, his back and knees aching. Why did he feel so wear, so…old? He was a young man yet felt as though he’d lived forever.
Pacing the distance just so, for he wanted the grave to be perfect, he gauged where he must work. Then, minute by minute, hour by hour, he dug the pit, working well into the night. It was nearly so deep that he could scarcely look from it before he stopped. He pulled himself from the grave and brushed the dirt from himself before approaching the dead man.
Walking to the gelding, the mercenary pulled a bulky, wrapped item from the pack and returned with it to his brother’s side. Carefully, he wrapped the body of his twin in the bolt of burial linen, bought with nearly his last coin. It was Cezanne linen, although he did not know this, and starkly perfect, bright in the darkness of the night. It seemed, in some awful fashion, wrong.
Ravan gazed upon the peaceful face of his brother for a long time before pulling himself from the sad limbo and willing himself to finish his awful task. Then, with a broken heart, he draped the beautiful face of his brother in linen, obscured now forever.
Never again would he see his brother; never again would he look upon the kindness of the one who’d come like an angel at his darkest hour. It was so awfully terminal, but there was nothing that could be done now.
He swallowed his grief and steeled himself before stepping into the grave. Standing on tiptoe, he was able to wrap his arms around the corpse. Easing his brother to his final resting spot, he sat for nearly an hour, holding and rocking the body of a man he’d come to love in a single night. His tears fell freely, silently, streaks of salty mud on the tortured face of the mercenary.
Now, quite earthen and weary from such a heart-rending task, he pulled himself from the grave one last time and entombed his brother. As the pit slowly filled, his mind relived the one night he’d spent in the cell, the night D’ata had come to see him.
How had such a thing happened? How had fate orchestrated such a string of events? He’d been sincerely astounded when the priest appeared. Initially, he’d hid his surprise from the holy man, unwilling to accept spiritual charity, instead mocking the priest’s purpose and kindness.
It hadn’t mattered, though. The tale of two brothers had escaped them both, and the man had, in the span of a singular night, compelled Ravan to love him. It was that simple. Then, his twin had fooled him, opened the gate to a life of freedom, and sacrificed himself.
Sitting at the edge of the gravesite, the mercenary whittled a modest cross from the enormous willow that towered, arms stretching greedily, over the grave. Notching the pieces so that they were well joined, he held them up, looked beyond the simple cross to see that it was acceptable, that it would respect the final resting place of his brother. When it satisfied him that it would, he secured the pieces with the silk cord cut from his own longbow. It rendered him weaponless except for his axe and knife, but that mattered not at all. This task was all important. Nothing could be considered until it was supremely done.
The hours stretched on, and eventually he placed the last of the stones around the grave. Fitting the final one into place, he was surprised, having lost all concept of time, his memories playing like a sorrowful loop in his head. The stones were substantial, each about the size of a man’s head. On some level, he realized this as he hand picked them one by one, sometimes wandering several hundred yards away to find just the right stone. It’d been a tedious task, taking most of the rest of the night, but he was satisfied that it was well worth it in the end.
Squinting, he perused the final resting place of his brother. He brushed his hands once more. Simply dignified, the grave was meticulously arranged, carefully dug, then surrounded with the white and speckled stones. It was, he thought, beautiful and the best form of respect he could provide his brother given such extenuating circumstances.
His task nearly done, he took one of the speckled stones in both hands and pounded the unmarked cross into the damp, newly dug earth at the head of the grave.
Nearby, the horses pawed their impatience. A clear and starry night, it was barely bright enough to cast a sad shadow upon the lonesome scene. Although it’d been light enough for Ravan to accomplish what he’d set forth to do, the lack of any moon made the task of burying his brother just dim enough to be miserable.
He lingered, hands crossed, staring at the freshly turned mound of earth. Reaching up, he grasped something and pulled it from around his neck. Bending over, he carefully hung the small copper ring—the one he’d worn the better part of his life—onto the little wooden cross. The ring was sincerely significant, given to him as a gift when he was quite young by an old man who’d loved him dearly. Years later, it was strung on a silver chain when he’d outgrown it, by a woman who’d also loved him like a son.
It was most fitting that his twin brother should have it. His entire life he’d worn the ring and chain. They’d become symbols for him. When his life had seemed most out of control, when he’d believed he could not persevere, it was the soft grate of the ring on the chain, the ‘whir-whir’ as he’d run it up and down, that calmed him, steadied his mind and quieted his heart. It pleased Ravan to be able to make such a small gesture for his brother.
Now he stood to evaluate his efforts. D’ata’s grave was a good grave, deep and even, worthy of the man now laid to rest in it. Ravan hadn’t known D’ata, had never even known he’d existed until three nights before when the young priest had come to see him in the dungeon, to give him last confession.
At first, he’d not welcomed his brother’s visit, had been unwilling to feed his soul to a holy man, even if it was under such peculiar circumstances such as they were twin brothers. But as the night unfolded they’d each shared their own strange tales, both of them inconceivable but heartbreakingly true, nonetheless.
Now, it was done. Finally D’ata lay next to his beloved Julianne and their unborn child. The roughhewn, wooden cross was in odd contrast to the massive white stone of Julianne’s burial site. The marble angel had watched, observed the strange visitor perform his ceaseless task. Once Ravan had looked up from his undertaking and thought he’d seen the angel cry. But it’d only been the night playing tricks on his eyes.
A long night, a long life, threatened to get the best of the mercenary. This was not right. His brother wasn’t supposed to die in his place, wasn’t supposed to take his place at the gallows. A crafty one his twin had been…and compassionate, loving to a fault. That had been his weakness. That was his undoing. Had it not been so? D’ata had given his life for his brother—the hated one, the feared one, the mercenary.
Clearing his throat, Ravan tried to find his tongue, to offer some final respect, but words refused to come, and for a long moment he simply stood between the two graves, his head bowed, horribly matted hair falling across his battle hardened face. I’ve known you such a short time but believe I’ve known you forever, he thought just then and was surprised to feel tears threatening again.
Brushing them roughly away, he was angry, not so much for the tears but because his brother had been so divinely successful with the ruse, sacrificing himself so superbly in his stead. He was the warrior, not his brother! How had one so tender fooled him so completely? I only just found you–only knew you for one night. It wasn’t supposed to be this way!
Dropping to his knees, he knelt upon the edge of the grave. The earth, turned and damp as it was and packed on his brother’s body, almost seemed inviting. He pondered just stretching upon the grave, sprawling above his entombed brother, and remaining there forever. Ravan was tired. More than anything, he was tired. When, he wondered, had things gone so terribly wrong?
He struggled, tried to remember if there was a time in his life when things weren’t horribly out of control. Now, at twenty-four years of age, he was exhausted, starved, beaten—and free. Wait…hadn’t his brother said that was the greater good? That he would die so that his brother could be free? He’d refused the terrible barter his twin proposed, but D’ata had had his way after all.
Ravan’s eyes narrowed. Would it be for nothing? Would his brother’s sacrifice be meaningless? He shook the cobwebs of the last few, harrowing days from his head, forced himself to think clearly.
For the first time in his life, he was unchained, unfettered, and most importantly, unknown. D’ata’s deed, stepping to the gallows in his stead, had given Ravan the greatest gift. Everyone thought it was the mercenary that’d swung three mornings ago, when in reality, it was his holy twin brother who’d taken his place, leaving him drugged and sleeping in the dungeon.
He placed both palms upon the grave, still unwilling to part from the brother he’d so singularly come to love. Love, that elusive, beautiful target. He’d sought it his entire life—freedom to love. There were a handful of people whom he’d loved and who loved Ravan in return, and he was acutely aware of the grace of this. This one, however, this brother, this twin, was the most divine of them all. He’d made the ultimate sacrifice even though he’d seen him only twice in his life—at his birth and at his death.
Overcome with the benevolence of it all, his head was now clearer than it’d ever been. He stooped, scooped up a small handful of the damp earth. Carefully wrapping it in a remnant of the burial shroud in which he’d swaddled his brother, he tucked it inside his tunic, into a pocket close to his heart. Then he brushed the earth from his hands one last time.
Finally finding his voice, it broke as he whispered, “I should have known you longer.”
Ravan gazed at the stars, spoke to where he thought—hoped—his brother might now be. “May you have the peace you have so long searched for.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “I envy you brother. I would die for what I believe you now have. If not by my side, then it is my sincere wish that you be at hers.”
Turning from the grave, he approached the horses, stepping onto the bay mare. His mount was fresh, and she pranced in place, obviously wishing to be gone from this task and off into what was left of the starry night, but Ravan held her just a bit longer. As a sliver of darkest pink claimed the horizon, he promised the dead man, murmured respectfully to his brother’s grave, “I shall try to be the man you believe I am.” Then he spun and started into the breaking day, north, to find…her.