To Discover His Truth

The Prophecy

The scintillating tones of Mavrenn, the Bard’s harp, flowed through the evening camp of the Wanderers. The travelling family gathered around the fire to listen, along with his friends, as Brynnan played.

Brynnan performed songs of peace, some in the language of the Wanderers. But when he paused to rest, Grandmother Eleni asked for songs of hardship, Brigaki dijilia. Brynnan obliged, handling the dialect with grace.

The old woman, wrapped in a thick cloak, hummed along to the songs. Her eyes gazed into the fire as if seeing the past.

Tonight, Nijal planned to do a healing session that combined a medical procedure with ritual. The surgeon asked for Brynnan to be present to give assistance.

“She has a disease of bone and blood, quite advanced. Without intervention, I give her maybe a full turn of the moon. If we are successful, then a few years.” Nijal had explained to Brynnan.

“But why? Death comes to us all. Life loses its savour in cases of intense suffering,” Brynnan said, speaking from personal experience.

Nijal rejoined, “This is unlike you, Bard. You seem to be projecting your own pain, but haven’t you also said life offers hope: death offers none. Would you refuse to play a song because the listener had heard it before?”

Brynnan looked down with a deep sigh, “You are right, of course, Nijal. This is affecting me personally. It has tended to happen more after my year of torture. I know that I have to step back and reevaluate my approach. And I do listen to you, dear friend. You have more life experience than anyone I know. Thank you.”

Nijal squeezed the Bard’s shoulder, saying, “Have courage, my lover.”

As the evening advanced, Nijal and Brynnan left to prepare themselves. They bathed at the stream and rinsed each other from a pot of heated water containing cedar branch tips and resin. The dry, spicy scent refreshed their skin, and the liquid had a calming effect and was a deterrent to infections.

Eleni’s son, Kyan, provided them with clean, plain robes and led them to the wagon.

The inside space was compact but cleverly organized. Eleni sat on a side bed, looking frail but trying to wear a brave face. Nijal unpacked his medical supplies, and Brynnan noticed the blood transfusion equipment that had been used on him when the surgeon performed throat surgery to restore his voice.

“I won’t be putting you into a deep sleep, Ves'tacha Eleni, but I will have Brynnan sing you into a trance where you can still be responsive.”

Eleni warned, “Don’t treat me at the cost of your own well-being. If I enter the Shadow World this night, it is because it’s meant to be. And I can’t see. . . I was always bad at drúkkerébema – foretelling -  when it came to myself.”

Brynnan and Nijal talked to her for a little longer. She was unaware when Nijal fell silent, and Brynnan began to speak the Rain Song. His voice led her through misty, wet forests and down to the plains, where storms cells could be seen from far away as they swept their curtains of rain across the endless grasslands. His spoken words gradually turned into a song with a gentle rhythm. He incorporated polyphonic tonalities into the music, and the ghost notes sounded in his listeners’ ears.

Eleni fell into the trance state, and Nijal took over, weaving suggestions of healing into her mind, even as he threaded the equipment together. He needed a slow entry for the blood, so he taped her arm to a board, using strips of wet willow bark to secure it.

He set his blood from flowing from his own opened vein into a container and from there into Eleni. Brynnan kept up the trance songs.

The process seemed to take a long time. Then the Bard noticed that Nijal was actually turning pale.

“Enough!” Brynnan whispered in the surgeon’s ear. “You are no good to her if you succumb from your own treatment!”

Nijal seemed to come back to a present and aware state. Brynnan helped him apply a tourniquet to his arm so the cannula could be disconnected.

When the surgeon’s small wound was bandaged, they treated Eleni.

“How long before you know?” Brynnan asked.

“Morning should tell me if she will live, then a couple of days more. We will sleep close by and be ready in case of need.”

When they brought Eleni back to full awareness, she blinked, eyes wide and flaring, and looked straight at Brynnan.

In a not-quite-natural voice, she said, “In the dead of winter, you will meet a King who will make you a King; but your realm will be death. Before the winter snows melt, you will lose one you love dearly, and you will find what you are seeking by losing your mind.”

Then the old woman’s eyes returned to normal, and she seemed to return to herself.

“I just spoke of the future, didn’t I? Bari Devláika, Earthmother, forgive me! I normally keep my seeing to myself. Did I upset you?”

Brynnan felt more than upset. He felt shocked to the core. He did not want to become King of the Dead, whatever that meant. He did not want to lose anyone else he loved - It was hard enough being apart from his heart’s love, Lord Samir. And he definitely did not want to lose his mind. It had nearly happened before Samir found proof of the Bard’s innocence. But he had heard that prophecy was a double-edged sword, where you could bring the events into being by trying to avoid them. There was only one thing to do, and that was to disregard it.

“What you said is shocking to me, Púridaia Eleni. Adversity seems to shadow me like a war dog on the prowl; something likely to come out of the darkness at any time with savage intent.”

“I am so sorry, Mule-vi Brynnan. But things happen in a way that is sometimes entirely unexpected. Put it out of your mind!”

“Would that I could, but my mind recalls everything. It is a Bardic curse.”

Nijal said, “Let us allow you to rest, my ves'tacha Eleni. Brynnan and I won’t be far, should you need us. And don’t fret yourself over what you said to Brynnan; I will take care of him.”

They called in Kyan to care for Eleni and took their leave. The deeps of night surrounded them. The Bard carried Mavrenn with him. They stopped at the tent to contact Geraint and Andri and leave the harp in their safekeeping. After changing their clothes, Nijal grabbed a skin of wine and some food, explaining to the others that they needed to walk in the forest. Kissing Geraint and Andri, the Bard and the Guardian left.

They walked on the riverbank in the starlight, following an animal track. A breeze caused the conifer trees to sigh and wave their tops. An owl called. Brynnan took a deep breath of the night air and exhaled his perplexity away: all the confusion, apprehension and fear. Both men were quiet, not talking until they came to where the water flowed over an overhang on the slope and dropped down a steep incline. But at the top, a gnarled pine tree grew, its roots clawing a hold by the start of the waterfall. A small clear place created a sheltered alcove underneath it. The two men stopped there.

Nijal spread his cloak and stripped off his clothes, with Brynnan following suit. Standing naked in the starlight, feeling the breeze, they touched each other. Darkness hid their expressions, but touch communicated so much more. Nijal framed Brynnan’s face with his hands and drew his mouth close, and with the most feather-like brush of his lips, kissed Bard’s lips. Then he lightly kissed his eyelids and cheeks, and throat. Brynnan, in his turn, lifted his hands and softly brushed them over the Guardian’s nipples, down his sides and paused at his lean hips.

Both their cocks hardened, and they pressed their loins together, feeling each other’s maleness. Then Nijal kissed Brynan more fiercely, nibbling and biting his lips. Brynnan gasped and opened his mouth to receive a deeper kiss, their tongues exploring.

Nijal took the Bard’s hair in a firm grip and pressed him down to his knees. Without interrupting the flow of events, Brynnan scooped up Nijal’s rock-hard cock into his mouth and sucked with abandon. The Guardian, with taut arms, held his lover's head in position as he thrust his hips forward. Then Brynnan felt the cock withdrawn from his mouth, and now hands on his shoulders pushed him to the ground on his back as Nijal followed him down, pausing to kneel between his legs.

Their pack lay at the side of the cloak. Nijal reached into it and brought out a bottle of lubricant. Feeling the slippery fluid applied to his ass, the Bard shifted to allow his lover the best access. The Guardian lay over him and slid his cock inside him. 

Brynnan, looking over Nijal’s shoulder, saw the stars glittering through the gently waving pine branches, with their long, feathery needles enhancing the stars’ shimmering effect. As Nijal began to move, the erotic sensations made the Bard feel as if he were floating into the heavens, dissolving into stars and night. The wind let the pine tree sing its distinct whispering polyphonic chorus, the voice of each windswept pine needle blending into a whole.

As Brynnan lost himself in the experience, the Guardian whispered, “I can see the stars in your eyes.”

When they came together, Brynnan felt himself becoming his lover; becoming night. A sense of rightness possessed him, and his equilibrium returned. The perplexing words of the Seer became just background noise, and he knew that the future would unfold despite them.

He reached out beside them and found his wind-silk cloak, returned to him by Geraint. Pulling it over his lover and himself, he said, “How can I thank you, dear friend? You always seem to know what I need.”

Nijal embraced him, “I am a healer, it is my duty to know, and no thanks are necessary between us. You have served our cause for many years. There should be no debts between us.”

“Nevertheless, it is human nature, if not your race’s nature, to feel obligations, and my Code is based on service and truth.”

Nijal rolled off Brynnan and brought out the wineskin from the pack. He took a drink and passed it to the Bard.

“Yes, you are human,” Nijal continued and rubbed Brynnan’s head affectionately, “But speaking of human, don’t forget that you carry my blood, which protects you from infections. You really didn’t need my medicines.”

Brynnan considered the comment as he took a long drink of wine, “But Andri needed to be validated as a person again, so sharing our burden was beneficial.”

He sighed, “And to think how innocent he was when we first met. He had no conception of what the claw collar could do or what captivity really meant.”

“I think there is still an innocence to him, but he is well aware of right and wrong and the evil that men - and women - can do, now. Maybe I could teach him to defend himself better,” said Nijal, retaking the wineskin.

“He is no warrior!” cautioned the Bard.

“There are many kinds of defence - I will say that you seem to be a Master of them. You use music, subterfuge, courtesy, your body and your fighting skills to survive. We will both teach Andri. But I think some hand-to-hand fighting, in the right circumstances, would help him.”

“Most of all, he needs to have discernment. It cannot be taught. It is a gift,” Brynnan pointed out, “When we encountered the Lady Sarain and her men near us on the trail, our young lad was all for flinging himself at them.”

“We will continue to impose discipline on him. That should remind him to be discerning,” said Nijal, practically.

They finished the wine and food in companionable silence.

As they walked back to the camp, Brynnan asked, “When can we leave? I'm anxious to continue our mission.”

“Can you spare us two more days? We’ll have all day tomorrow, and we can leave sometime during the day after that. I would see if Eleni will recover. A simple blood test will tell if our essences have mixed.”

“Let's check with Geraint, but I support you. Also, Andri seems to be developing a friendship with young Col. They walked together. Perhaps Andri needs to share with someone around his own age.”

“Hmm… what you say has merit. Let us trust things will work out, my friend and lover,” Nijal embraced Brynnan’s shoulders with his arm as they walked towards the tent.