CHAPTER XXIV - Ray's Story Continues
Dear Diary, this is Raymond.
Jaunee contributed a few entries to my journal, though, honoring her request, I have not read them as of yet. It’s been a week since she came to live with me. Unfortunately, as fate would have it, during this time I was away on business. For the first time in a long while, though, I was eager to come home. There is a certain undeniable joy in knowing someone out there is waiting for you when you come home. I have been lonely without her, I can admit as much. If anything is ever to happen to her, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.
Yesterday as she sat near the computer typing, I strolled round and round the house, as I often do when I’m deep in thought. Everywhere I walked I found evidence of her presence. It was like the changing of the seasons from winter to spring; everything seemed a tad brighter and full of life. I was passing my time in contemplation, as I often do, when a young, French- accented, “All done!” Woke me from my thoughts.
“Evening, Jaunee,” I told her as if I was Sherlock and had just discovered a new clue.
“Evening, Ray,” she said cheerfully, and smiled graciously, a smile that only hinted more surely at her guilt.
“I see you’ve had a lot of spare time,” I said in an amused tone.
“Some, why?” She replied in an innocent tone.
“Well, apparently you’ve managed in only a week to gain the attention of each and every one of my security personnel. They just greeted me with a ‘Lucky dog!’ When I asked them what was new. Not only are they all in love with you, but it seems that they’ve gotten used to your cooking and are reluctant to cook for themselves anymore …” I mock-complained. Jaunee giggled.
“Well, what can I say ― I’m irresistible to men in uniform and I like to cook,” she offered.
“And somehow you’ve convinced them all to clean each and every spot of the house because dust makes you sneeze,” I continued, exposing her crimes.
“And what’s wrong with having a clean house?” She replied, and then smiled innocently.
“I clean every week,” I replied defensively.
“If it’s dusty, it’s not clean,” she replied.
“So you’ve rearranged all the furniture?” I tried once more.
“Yes, maximizing work space, efficiency, and stuff like that,” she offered, using terms I would use when rearranging furniture.
“Besides, it looks much better now,” she added with a winning, million-dollar smile. I would have said something sooner, but frankly I love a woman’s touch around my house and I had no intention of discouraging her efforts. But she likes it when I’m a bit goofy.
“Well, eh, ok then,” I said as I lowered my gaze with a defeated smile, playing the game we had so often played. She bounced from her chair and kissed my cheek, making mock house-peace.
“The way I see it, you should be thanking me for cooking and cleaning for you,” she said.
“Thank you, dearest,” I said in defeated tones.
“So, you want a read-marathon or what?” She asked cheerfully.
“Sure,” I replied.
“Wait, where did you stop your writing?” She asked.
“Right after the Demon fight,” I replied.
“Well, I stopped after you were shot by that bolt,” she replied.
“Right,” I replied, remembering fully well that dreadful day.
“I want you to get to the same point before we switch,” she asked.
“Very well,” I replied, and got to writing.
The time is nearly a thousand years ago, right after I found the missing people on Lord Durrant’s list. The place is Drentwych. For about a month or so none of us left our beds, recovering from our injuries. I wasn’t doing so well, for you see, I may have defeated the Demon on the physical level, but in my mind he lingered still. Whenever I closed my eyes and sought a restful state, the nightmares began, always accompanied by a dreadful chill that seemed to emanate from my bones.
In each nightmare I was once again on the terrible battlefield in Drentwych’s cemetery. I felt the sand as I laid on the ground, and the coldness which penetrated to the bone. I felt the night air chill my face. I even remember the expression etched on Simon’s face as he lay next to me. Yet the events in my dreams always unfolded in a different manner; an even more horrific alternative to the already dreadful combat.
In one version it was I who was compelled by the Demon’s power and sacrificed by his blade. The feeling was so terrible and real that upon awaking, screaming, I grabbed on to my slit throat trying to stop the gushing blood, only to realize that it had been but a nightmare. In another version I had lost the confrontation with the Demon, who proceeded to tear me limb from limb. I didn’t die instantly, and the feeling was more real than reality itself. Once again I woke screaming in agony, only after final death should have occurred. In yet another version I had won the fight, only to be eaten alive by the acid which was the Demon’s blood. This was the most terrible version of the nightmare, not because of the agonizing pain I felt at this slow, torturous death, but because in this version, I actually thought I had won, only to be robbed of my victory by this slow death.
So real were these nightmares that after a while I dreaded falling asleep and would stay awake for days until fatigue finally overcame me. It wasn’t long until madness claimed me, and I could no longer tell dreaming and waking hours apart. It was like living the nightmare, only to awake and discover in horror that I was still dreaming.
The healers feared that we would both die — Simon and I, a fact that had not hindered the town’s celebration of our triumph over the demon. I am ashamed to admit that I would have taken my own life if it were not for the vigilant care of my healers. For I was broken and sought means to escape the nightmare, even at the cost of my immortal soul.
I do not remember clearly, but I do believe I was told that Richard — the Chevalier with the gold cross who had bought my story, had come to see me one day, and that both I and Simon recovered miraculously in the days that followed. Regardless of the cause, I was grateful for the reprieve from the nightmares.
As soon as I had regained a semblance of sanity and began to walk outside, I was greeted fondly by the townsfolk. Simon could not yet walk more than a few steps and relied heavily on his cane. We were suddenly so well-loved by the people of Drentwych that they held a second celebration in honor of our recovery. Both Simon and I were reluctant to attend the celebration at first, but eventually agreed to come.
During the height of the event, the Mayor very enthusiastically announced, “Listen! In the year of our Lord one thousand and eighteen, the Lords of the Land call upon the heroes of Drentwych, Master Raymond Brooks and Master Simon Roads, to grant them their due honor in the Fortress of Wist Hill.”
The crowd cheered, and even I couldn’t help but smile. Being called to Wist Hill under these circumstances meant more than just being honored. It meant recognition by Prince Adwen and his lords. I dared even hope they’d make me a lord, and thus I would be a commoner no longer. I could do so much as a lord. I could hunt the scum of the earth freely, and make Drentwych a better place. I could easily then afford my own hovel, perhaps even a larger house. I would have these things: honor, recognition, wealth and power. Surely then Ivar would be glad to marry off his daughter to one as dignified as I. Once she was mine, I’d make sure she’d lack for nothing in life; Ivar, too, would live his remaining years in luxury.
A hollow laughter in my head reminded me that life wasn’t so easy; the Demon was here to stay. Their claps and cheers took on a darker hue in my eyes. How could they rejoice, I wondered, when the shadow of death so clearly walked amongst them? Only a month ago, a demon cast his infernal magic, right here in town, an event which could have turned into a much greater tragedy. No one is safe, I realized. Not I, not my friends and loved ones; not anybody. We are all doomed, victims of this invisible enemy. I can’t say anything to them, it would only spread panic. The Demon, though, is still alive inside my head, and he never rests. I fled in the middle of the celebration just as the Mayor asked me to give a speech.
“Leave me be!” Was all I said, as some men chased after me to find out what caused my flight. The Mayor quickly recovered, and to assure the murmuring peasants he made up this or that explanation for my absence. I hid in an alley for a few minutes until I recollected my thoughts well enough to block out the sound of the Demon’s horrible laughter. The messenger was quick to find me as soon as I left the alley. He eyed me as if I was deranged, and perhaps he was right.
“Are you all right?” He asked, a certain pity in his voice.
“Aye,” I said and breathed deeply. “It has been a hard recovery since my fight …” I began.
“Certainly, there’s no need to explain,” he answered.
“And I’m afraid I’m still not at peak health,” I added.
“Of course, of course,” he replied.
“Yes, thank you,” I said and took a deep breath.
“Please tell whoever sent you,” I said and he frowned. I must have violated some rule of etiquette. I smiled in embarrassment.
“Please tell his Esteemed Majesty the Prince,” I corrected myself. “That I am honored to be invited to the Fortress of Wist Hill,” I added.
“Of course!” He replied with a smile.
“How fares your arm, by the way?” He asked, glancing at my left arm which was still wrapped in bandages.
“It's much better now. The wounds have closed, only scars remain, though sometimes I feel pain,” I replied honestly.
“Very well, a carriage shall await both you and Master Simon tomorrow morning,” he replied.
“Farewell,” he added, and then bowed low and left.
Before my departure numerous townsfolk came to visit me. Many of them gave me gifts, and all spoke warm words. Simon seemed a bit envious, for the love of the people seemed to be focused on me. I was their grand hero, the slayer of a demon, while he was an ex-thief — a sidekick. I felt it wasn’t fair; Simon had risked his life just as much as I had, and he’d got the short end of the stick, almost none of the glory, and had suffered greater injuries than I. I may have become scarred and ugly but he was that, and handicapped to boot. Whenever I said a word on behalf of Simon, people just regarded me it as my modesty, which was annoying, but it made me realize a simple truth about people. People want to see things a certain way; greater-than-life-heroes; the world painted in black and white, and they won’t let a simple thing like truth get in their way. Nobody really wants to know me or hear what I had to say. They wanted their own shiny Hero, towering above them, shielding them from the horrors beyond ― and that’s why they gave me gifts and spoke highly of me. They made up a false me, and worshiped him, trying desperately to make me fit my small feet into his huge shoes.
The gypsies gave me a green sapphire necklace which they said was magical and would protect me from the restless dead. Some townsfolk gave me chickens, clothes, and other such mundane things. Ivar came with Ingrid, carrying fancy armor called Lorica Segmentata; Roman Legionnaire’s armor. It featured silver and gold engravings of a dragon and a lion. It was magnificent, and Ivar smiled broadly as he presented this armor to me. It was priceless; a perfectly made artifact.
“I’ve worked on this ever since the Great Battle, son,” he said.
“It’s magnificent, surely your finest work!” I replied.
“It’s yours, Ad- ... er, Raymond,” he replied.
“It’s too much, surely it’s armor worthy of a king,” I replied.
“Indeed it is, and you deserve it,” he said and scratched his beard. “What you did … rivals the glory of Beowulf,” he said. Beowulf was the greatest hero of his people, and this compliment meant a great deal coming from him, for this was not something which is said lightly or at all by his people.
“Surely I …” I began.
“I saw it,” Ivar replied “I will hear no denial of your glory, Odin blessed your hands and you tore the demon apart,” he added. I bowed my head and offered no further argument.
“You may now marry my daughter with my blessing,” he said suddenly after an odd pause. For a moment I was thrilled, for now all my dreams seemed to have come true. I envisioned our wedding, and how beautiful she’d look dressed as a bride. Yet something was terribly wrong with my imagined picture. Instead of a rabbi or a priest, stood the Demon — Grey robed, reading from his infernal tome, asking me:
“Do you, Adam the wretched, take Ingrid the miserable to be your bride? To love her as you two grow sick, wither, and die?” He asked and laughed that terrible laughter of his.
“No!” I replied
“What?” Ivar protested in disbelief.
“Raymond?” Ingrid asked.
“I cannot marry your daughter,” I told Ivar.
“I’m sorry, Ingrid,” I told Ingrid empathetically as I felt my eyes turn red.
“You sought her hand for so long and now she’s not good enough?” Ivar yelled.
“No! You don’t understand!” I protested.
“There is no end to your dishonor — villain,” he said darkly.
“Let me explain!” I protested raising my voice. “Damn you, old man, let me speak!”
“Speak,” he said as Ingrid wept. He held her fiercely by the hand and would not let her flee. I felt so sorry for her ― and for myself. She had suffered so much degradation for loving me and I, in the end could not reward her love.
“I am not well,” I began. “I am injured. Some wounds are of the flesh, but others are of the mind, and may never heal,” I explained.
“You see the battle in your head, don’t you?” Ivar asked, in more empathic tones.
“And hear it, and feel it. Every time I close my eyes,” I said. “It haunts me,” I added and could contain the tears no longer.
“My poor boy,” he said softly. “I have seen this in many warriors whose minds lay broken after a battle,” he explained. I wept softly.
“I will not have Ingrid, my love, suffer the remainder of her years next to a crippled, ugly husband who cannot sleep at night without waking up screaming,” I said. The Demon laughed triumphantly in my head.
“I will gladly do so,” Ingrid replied.
“But I will not have it!” I answered more harshly. “It is my wish that you find a decent husband from your people who will be good to you and make your father proud,” I said.
“You are a hero amongst heroes,” Ivar said. “And there is no man worthier of my armor,” he added.
“I love you, Raymond,” Ingrid said and kissed my cheek.
“Please go, I cannot bear to be around you,” I replied. Ivar took Ingrid by the hand and turned to leave. He had this look in his eyes, this proud look I never thought I’d see directed at me. She however was in great turmoil, and the distress was very evident in her expression. Her eyes were haunting, mirroring my own suffering. As they crossed the threshold of the door Ingrid said to Ivar “May I? Father,” and he nodded slightly, approving. Ivar kept on walking, and the sound of his steps were as the drums of war for Ingrid’s approach. She was a fighter, just like her father, and she had no intention of giving up without a fight. I wanted to lose so badly in this fight, but the Demon’s breath in my ear reminded me that the price of love is terrible tragedy.
“Ingrid I …” I began, and Ingrid uncharacteristically interrupted as a warrior raising a sword for a wild swing.
“No!” She began “I know about the bargain you made with my father. I know he forced your hand.” She said and stood above my bed, scratching her fingers in distress, though she tried to appear composed and resolved. She took a deep breath, her eyes darting everywhere as her mind composed the words that hurt me so in the hearing of them.
“Don’t bother denying it, I know. I’ve always known,” She began again as I inhaled, wanting to say something myself. “And I understand. That’s what I’m trying to tell you; I understand. I always have. You feel ashamed because he denied you your genuine affection towards me for so long, only to change his mind when you proved your worth, as I knew you would — always.” She said, and choked the sobs that sought release. She forced herself to be the strong girl — the Saxon-born.
“Ingrid, I …” I tried to begin again; to explain; to confess, to tell the truth. But she shushed me with a gesture.
“Let me finish what I started,” She begged kindly, and I nodded my consent ever so slightly, closing my mouth. “That’s why I never held it against you, I knew it was him. But I want you to look past that, swallow your wounded pride and look to the future — our future.” She said, and the Demon laughed in my head. I saw in my mind us getting married, and the Demon instead of a Priest joining us in terrible matrimony, the vows all wrong. I blocked out the sight and forced myself to pay attention to her.
“… Healthy, and would bare you many good and strong children,” She said. “I come from noble blood, and we don’t have to live in poverty in the smithy,” she said, listing her perks as if my rejection of her has anything to do with greed or desire for offspring.
“Enough,” I said, as I could hear it no longer.
“I will be a good and obedient wife to you,” she added, her tone becoming desperate as she sensed rejection coming again.
“Enough!” I cried.
“I will be loyal!” She raised her voice desperately.
“No more!” I wept.
“But Adam, I love you! I always have.” She added, sobbing terribly.
“As I love you, my dear Ingrid, and always will.” I said, and she moved to embrace me, by my fault mistaking my words for acceptance. Oh, how the Demon laughed and enjoyed the unfolding of our tragedy. I ignored him; there would be time to dedicate myself to his destruction later. I tried to push her from me ever so gently, but she would not let go.
“No! No! No! No!” She repeated, crying in panic. “Do not discard me,” she begged. I surrendered for I had no more strength in me to fight, to hurt my loved ones, though I knew I must. She cuddled like a child in my embrace, and I combed her hair as I spoke.
“Ingrid, listen to me. I have to tell you. I have to tell somebody. I need you to listen,” I asked her, sorrow choking me as my mind formulated the words that might condemn me.
“The Demon which I fought is still alive,” I said. Her eyes widened in alarm at hearing these words. “I’s inside my head taunting me, and I’ve come to suspect I’m not its first victim,” I confessed.
“I’ll stand by you!” She said, after a small struggle with herself “We’ll fight it together, and die for one another if need be,” she offered. “I promise! I won’t falter. Though I’m a woman, I’m also Saxon. I won’t fail you,” she added.
“You can’t fight it, my love,” I said, and she kissed my lips to the sound of “my love” expressed. Her kiss was soft, yet bitter from our tears, much like our love. It was a rare comfort in an ocean of misery.
“It’s inside my head, and I have to figure out a way to banish it to hell, else I suspect I’ll end up like the mad priest,” I said, and it had now just occurred to me. It was so very likely the mad priest was his previous victim, how didn’t I see it before!
“Alright, I understand,” Ingrid said and she kissed my cheek. “You have to go to war, and I will wait for you,” she added.
“Yes!” I agreed with all my heart and soul. “When he’s vanquished, I shall return, we shall wed, and I promise you; I shall be a good husband to you. I will always protect you, and respect you. I’ll work hard, and you’ll have no want in life. I promise!” I offered. We kissed, exchanging our vows and for a few moments I knew pure bliss. I fell asleep cuddling her. With first light she left, as silent as spring wind, taking with her whatever measure of joy I dared feel in her presence. One thing remained though. I had hope. I had hope for a better tomorrow. I had something to fight for, something greater than my own life.
“We’re gonna be all right, aren’t we?” Simon asked when he woke up. I had practically ignored his presence up till now. I felt so ashamed that he had to see me in my moment of weakness, and was grateful that he pretended to be asleep when tender words were expressed.
“Yeah, we’ll be fine, Simon,” I said.
“So, the Smith’s daughter, eh?” He asked boldly.
“I don’t want to discuss it,” I replied flatly.
“We’re friends, aren’t we? Saved each other’s lives and all?” He said.
“Be that as it may, I do not wish to discuss it, nor anything else that was said in confidence” I said in firm tones.
“So today’s the big day, isn’t it?” He asked in light tones, suddenly changing the topic. I understood well enough that he wanted to talk, but not why. I just wanted to be left alone to my misery, to plan a war I could not win, against an adversary who played by no rules. Simon however, when feeling miserable, sought the company of friends, even one as lousy as I.
“Yeah,” I replied.
An hour later the sun shone brighter, and the children played merrily outside. Like a world after a great storm, all seemed to bloom with new life. The armed chevaliers saluted me and Simon as we mounted the carriage that would take us to the Fortress of Wist Hill.
People hurried to get out of our way; else they’d be tramped or shoved aside by our escort. All work ceased as the townsfolk formed two lines cheering us on. Even in my dreams, I had never imagined that people would cheer as I came and went. Simon appeared to be daydreaming ― there was something both sad and happy in his eyes. His hand then moved to caress his injured knee. Instinctively, my right hand moved to stroke my left. I understood now that glory had its price. Before long we stood before the gates of the Fortress of Wist Hill, and they opened before us to a fanfare of trumpets.
“Always thought I’d have to impersonate a monarch to be invited to a place like this,” Simon joked.
“Or kill a monarch and be invited here in chains,” I joked back.
“Oh, shut up,” he replied. I laughed, and then quickly adjusted my new armor and my broken sword. Luckily for me no one could see that my blade was broken, for enough of it had remained intact in order for it to fit its sheaf and appear whole.
“Think they’ll let you be a lord for killing me?” The Demon asked in my head. I ignored him. “You know you’re just a fraud, a little boy with a broken tool,” he tried again. I ignored him still.
“No title’s going to save you from me, I’m here to stay, ‘Boyo’,” he taunted. My anger grew, and I hastened my steps towards the Throne Chamber, accompanied by the armed guards.
“Who do you think sent the villains to get him, Boyo? It was I, because I knew you loved him,” he jeered, reminding me of The Forester’s murder scene.
“Shut up,” I replied.
“Didn’t say nothing,” Simon replied defensively.
“Sorry, thought I heard another crack at me,” I lied as the demon laughed in my ears.
“Don’t worry, they’ll all know what a lunatic you are soon enough,” the demon said and laughed harder still.
“Stay behind, his majesty Prince Adwen wishes to see Master Raymond first,” the soldiers who accompanied us commanded Simon.
“All right,” he replied. “Holler if you need me, Ray.”
“Sure,” I replied, and pushed open the heavy wooden doors impulsively. Etiquette demanded that I wait for the trumpets and have the doors opened for me, but I was in a semi-fit of rage, fighting my own internal battle, too preoccupied to keep these things in mind. The doors were heavy, perhaps too heavy for a single person to open them. It was then that I realized I wasn’t supposed to have attempted to do so as casually as I had. Worse still, I succeeded, demonstrating supernatural strength both to myself and my hosts.
The throne room was fairly large, fitted with burning torches. By their light I saw the Lords sitting at heavy tables, fully armored; above them stood the throne of Prince Adwen. He was a pale, black-haired man and fairly strong, his clothes fresh. His face was clean-shaven, in the Roman style. He wore ornate plate armor like mine, only with different engravings, and a fancy shirt depicting his family crest. The Lords rose from their seats, though they appeared angry with me for my breach of protocol.
“I applaud a man who’s brave enough to do away with set codes of protocol, a man who is sharp and straight to the point,” the Prince said, while still sitting.
“Thank you, Milord,” I replied.
“And he does not bow either,” the Prince added. “Perhaps he feels so elevated that he needs not pay homage to his Prince and lords?”
“I mean no disrespect, Milord,” I apologized, feeling my face turn red and hearing the demon’s laughter in my ears. I bowed awkwardly; this was my first time. The Prince seemed displeased still, and grunted as I bowed.
“Tell me your story, Raymond of Drentwych,” he commanded.
“Yes, Milord,” I replied. “I am a soldier in your service. I was stationed in Drentwych,” I began.
“Yes, yes, that we know. Get to the part we don’t know,” the Prince replied impatiently.
“Simon and I worked for Lord Durrant. We sought the missing people,” I said.
“You mean you sought the missing merchant,” the Prince interrupted.
“Yes, we …” I began.
“And you failed to locate him,” he added.
“Yes,” I said.
“Go on with your story, then,” the Prince commanded.
“The clues led us to the church, which in turn led us to the Demon,” I said.
“The priests were involved?” The Prince asked, leaning forward in his seat. I got the distinct impression that he had murder on his mind. The Lords murmured.
“One, Milord,” I replied.
“Who?” The Prince asked.
“He was taken care of,” I said.
“Good. Now go on,” the Prince responded, satisfied.
“Lord Durrant engaged him first in combat,” I elaborated.
“And you two did not fight at his side?” The Prince asked, and I once again felt that he had murder on his mind and this time I was the intended target. I grew a bit fearful.
“No, for Lord Durrant commanded us to stay put while he engaged the demon in combat,” I replied.
“He did such a thing?” The Prince asked.
“Aye, he was a man most noble and brave, and he fought staunchly against the Demon,” I lied.
“And then when he died?” The Prince asked.
“Both Simon and I engaged him,” I said.
“Violating the Lord’s orders,” the Prince said.
“Yes. We wanted to save the town or die trying,” I replied.
“Good,” the Prince responded.
“The Demon was substantially weakened by Lord Durrant’s mighty blows, so we managed to finally defeat it,” I lied.
“And that’s how you both were so injured …?” the Prince queried, “… and were in need of a month’s recovery?”
“Yes,” I answered. The Prince stared at me, thinking.
“You are a man of honor, Raymond of Drentwych,” he stated.
“Thank y—” I began.
“I’m not finished!” The Prince spat out angrily. “But you speak falsely, and badly so,” he added more softly. I clenched my fists in a mixture of stress, shame, and anger. The Prince smiled at my display of emotion.
“It is admirable how you tried to honor Lord Durrant at the expense of your own glory. But I know the truth. I know that it was you who found all the clues and I know that it was you who engaged the Demon in battle after Lord Durrant most foolishly died without so much as an attempted blow,” he said. “I know that it was you who tore the mighty Demon apart, limb from limb, until he laid on the ground a broken mass of gore and blood,” the Prince added darkly. I stared at him mutely.
“Well! Confess your glory or remain silent,” the Prince commanded. I remained silent. “Never have I seen a man who does not boast of his glory. Why, most men when slaying a rooster would turn it in tale to a fearsome dragon, but not you. Why?” He asked.
“Because I remember no glory,” I said.
“Explain,” The Prince commanded.
“I remember many details in my … in our struggle with the Demon, and there was no glory there. There was bloodshed to be sure, and sweat and tears. Some people perished, others survived with injuries, but glory? No, I found no evidence of it,” I said.
“Well said,” he commended me. “Bravo,” he added as he clapped. “This is why I like you, Raymond. You are a pious man of true honor,” he said. I stared at him darkly; I felt he was trying to flatter me and I didn’t like it.
“I am satisfied, you may proceed,” he instructed the Lords, and then he rose from his chair and left through a side door.
The Lords then presented me with a gift: A Helmet forged of pure silver in the shape of an eagle. It was a masterpiece, and I stared at it in wonder. With gleeful faces and merry smiles, they bade me try it on, clapping as I did so and they saw that it fit. I felt almost like a child impressing his p