Chapter Text
The first vision was the same, the one that came so often when he slept. For the gods, time moved differently, and things from the past arose alongside those from the future, at times out of place. A warrior, face unseen, his movements firm and well-trained as his physique. The dome of the great cathedral, shattered. The Lady and her dance, always with a sword that seemed so sharply in focus. A man turned demon, unaware, for the Dark had consumed him upon his very summons. Himself, as a child; a man - perhaps his father? - placing a weary hand upon his head. The gods, gathering what little remained of their most precious creation, for humanity could not withstand what they now must do.
The second vision came afterwards, standing at the forest's edge with his face upturned to the sky, letting the cold rain wake him and wash away the trails of his tears. It was, as usual, announced by the soft jingling of the ornaments she wore.
The Lady had visited him more often of late. For some purpose, he was certain, but that purpose was not so clear. His eyes remained closed, waiting.
Soon.
"Yes, Lady," he replied. "I know."
Do you...?
As always, the words were not spoken aloud, but in his mind, and not even truly words. One previously mortal soul to another, from times long past; if she had spoken aloud, she would speak a dead language in which he was practiced, but not fluent. Even so, his mind could hear the tease in those words, and he lowered his head, opening his eyes to look upon her. Adorned in meager gold and sheer silks, flame-touched even in the darkness of a chill, rainy night.
She paused, waiting for a moment. You could ask.
"I would receive no answer." In spite of his prior distress, Sydney found a slight smile creeping across his lips. "Like the gods, if you would have me understand, you would explain."
She smiled more fondly in return. They were, in a very real sense, two of a kind. Like the gods, I would have you come to understanding on your own. You are still a man. You are still allowed to choose.
"Is that so..." Some of the visions he'd seen could be averted, he had been told that much. But after years of these dreams, with the memory of the skies screaming and the sea afire so close at hand, he was still not so sure what difference he was to make, even with the help of the talents the gods had granted him.
It is. She approached him, untroubled by the rain that did not touch her, and despite his dubious reply, she continued to smile kindly. Little rabbit, the gods have more for you in this life than dreams.
It was a nickname she'd given him in his youth, when the choice had first been offered. When he'd still thought it was truly a choice, and initially chosen wrongly. "I am aware, Lady. The brethren will wake soon, and in spite of the weather, all are quite eager to return to our city." He reached up to flick a lock of wet hair away from his face with a careful, sardonic motion of the metal claws that long ago had replaced his fingers. "And quite eager for the ritual fires and the warmth of spring, I dare say."
Do not dare say you envy me.
The playful comment bordered on sacrilege, but she was no conventional priestess, and he was no conventional priest, and again he could not help but smile slightly. "I do not. ...Though I may muse on what end the gods have deigned to bestow upon me," he acknowledged, growing somber once more.
As I said, there is still much more for you in this life before the visions you have seen draw near. Perhaps it was his imagination, but her smile had the edge of a slight smirk as she turned away, fading. Soon.
Sydney let his eyes drift after her as she disappeared into the darkness of the valley beyond, gently lightening into shapes and shadows as the sun began to rise somewhere behind the clouds. Again, he did not understand why she had come. Perhaps only to offer some companionship. Yet she had implied that something was coming, and "soon".
"Hmm..." Whatever it was, there was little he could do about it. It would come on its own time, or hers, or that of the gods. And the way she had spoken, it seemed she spoke of something less severe than wrath and destruction.
But then again, given that hint of a smirk upon her lips, Sydney had the impression that whatever was about to happen, it would not be so straightforward as to be simple, pleasant, joyful. He had known her nearly his whole life, and he recognized the look of mischief.
-----
Travel through the mountains in the late winter, as the thaw turned soil to mud, while snow had only barely turned yet to rain, was slow and unpleasant under the best of circumstances. Though those following Sydney were of able body, the elderly and those with small children secreted elsewhere for safety's sake, they preferred not to travel the main roads or even well-known paths except where they must, lest the king's men or the cardinal's catch word. Some of the routes they took were less kind to the horses and the wheels of their provisioning cart than others.
With that in mind, it was expected that it might take the better part of the day to reach the cave that sometimes served as shelter when they passed this way. Between the rain having become a storm during the early afternoon, and circling back not much later to avoid crossing paths with a small dispatch of armed men wearing the royal crest - hunting something or someone, from what a scout with a particular talent could tell, but not the brethren of Müllenkamp this time - it was well into a very dark dusk before the advance scouts returned again, this time reporting that the cave was not entirely vacant.
"I could only confirm one," Padric told Sydney. "We did not get close, but we both saw someone slip back inside the mouth of the cave as we approached."
"He might've heard us," Duncan admitted. "Tho' we were bein' mighty careful. May be expectin' us, tryin' an ambush. No camp set up nearby, no fire lit inside. Not someone seekin' shelter."
Sydney considered. Given that the king's men had been spotted nearby, it was a possibility. Yet usually he was given some sort of sign if something was to go poorly. Given the tenor of Müllenkamp's visit early that morning, when she had suggested something was about to happen, he didn't think she was warning him of an upcoming skirmish...
But one could never be too careful. Even a prophet could only see what glimpses of the future the gods offered him, and it was his duty to keep their children safe. "Go ahead and investigate more thoroughly," he told them. "Padric, your talent should be able to tell you easily enough if it is more than one man, if you can approach closely enough, and discern their intentions."
"An' if they be ill, mine should help keep 'em occupied in there, no matter how many they number," Duncan added, shooting a grin up to his taller partner, who returned it.
"As always," Sydney agreed. The two of them were his preferred advance scouts under most circumstances, skilled at fighting and well-learned in the talents the Dark had granted them. "The rest of us will be ready and close at hand if needed." Others among the brethren, listening in to the report from the two scouts, nodded and murmured affirmation, retrieving weapons from the wagon for those who could fight, making room in the back for those who could not.
It proved unnecessary, however; after only a few tense minutes, Sydney received word from Padric. "Only a lone man," he informed his remaining followers. "Of unknown allegiance, but there appears to be no imminent danger. We shall see if it is safe to remain overnight."
"Gods will it," someone spoke up, barely audible over the noise of the pouring rain on the rocks and the thunder, and Sydney smiled at the murmurs of agreement. All of them, including himself, could use rest and warmth.
Padric and Duncan were within sight now, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating a single man secured between them. While they were still a short distance off, Duncan loosed his grip, leaving Padric to hang back from the brethren with their captive while he came to report the encounter. "He had it in 'im to fight," he said, "but no real trouble. Seems t' be alone, according to Padric... at least for now."
Sydney nodded. Now that the intruder had been brought out into the open, where Sydney could see him plainly and focus the Dark, he could sense the man's smoldering anger - but more so his terror, his bewilderment. This man had not come with the intent to harm, or at least not to harm them. In fact, Sydney thought he was beginning to understand something. "Be cautious," he told those closest to himself and Duncan, "but go ahead. Ready yourselves to shelter for the night. I will question our visitor."
An inaccurate way of putting it, to be certain. As he followed Duncan back to where Padric still gripped the man's arms behind his back, Sydney listened to the whispers of the Dark and the thoughts they carried, the man's frantic unspoken murmurings. Physically, Sydney could see nothing remarkable about him. His clothes were little more than rags, filthy from having been worn too long and traveled too far in the unpleasant weather. The man himself was much the same, too thin, his hair unkempt and his face unshaven; likely the rain had washed the dirt of many roads from his skin. But despite his pitiable state, he had lifted his head to look about at his captors, and at Sydney as he approached.
Why? Why? Not soldiers, men, women... peasants... except that one. That one... no peasant. She looks much too graceful. ...I... wonder what I would see beneath that cloak...
Sydney couldn't help but smirk a bit as he raised a hand to push back his cowl. It was far from the first time his mannerisms had left someone a bit confused, and from what he was sensing...
...Rage, yes, muddled by confusion over how they had managed to take him, a moment of embarrassment when the man realized Sydney was no woman. But much deeper were the fear and the misery. The terrible loneliness of having been so long in solitude... And something else - something Sydney could not pin down at once. This stranger, ragged and underfed and unshaven, could have been any number of the others who had stumbled upon them in unfortunate circumstances. Refugees, beggars, madmen. But the way he held his head up, the way he dared to meet Sydney's eyes...
Sydney was no longer smirking, and his decision was not difficult to make. "Take him inside," he instructed Padric and Duncan. "He'll dine with us tonight."
Duncan was surprised - they had, after all, been attacked. Padric was not; likely he, a fellow heartseer, had sensed much the same as Sydney had, and let go readily. "As you wish, Sydney."
"He's around the same size as Aryn. See if he has a spare shirt and trousers to lend him," Sydney suggested as the man warily straightened. "He can't go on wearing those rags he's in now, soaked through or no."
A burst of indignation from the man - I need no one's charity - was smothered quickly by shame - ...I have little choice. Aloud, he said nothing, but merely watched them, uncertain. Sydney found this rather intriguing.
"Not one of the cardinal's, then?" Duncan confirmed.
"Certainly not." The idea was almost laughable. Almost. The man's bearing, deep down, seemed noble enough that he could have been a knight. But given the thoughts and memories strewn recklessly about in his fear - glimpses of a flickering torch, stone walls, shame and betrayal as he was pushed to the ground, arms wrestled behind his back - he was not capable of hiding such loyalties as the Crimson Blades demanded. "Even if I could not tell if it were so, I would think they've learned their lesson by now."
"Aye, they should've at that," Duncan chuckled.
"So we are safe?"
"Yes, for the time being," Sydney affirmed. "Take him to join the others now, and I will set a ward."
The king's men were, after all, hunting someone in the vicinity - even if it was the stranger they sought, they would likely be more than pleased to stumble instead across the Müllenkamp sect. Not so dedicated to that particular hunt as the cardinal's men, but with the king's pious leanings, it made little difference. For the time being, the stranger and the brethren seemingly wanted the same - a night of rest and safety from those who would see them in chains, or worse.
Sydney pondered vaguely, as he etched the sigil into the earth at the mouth of the cave, what this man might have done that would make the king's men pursue him into the mountains. The impression Sydney had gotten was not one of violence, or madness, or selfishness. The overwhelming sensation was desperation. Perhaps he would be one of those who stayed.
Perhaps that was why, when he met Sydney's eyes, Sydney had felt something beyond the man's surface thoughts and emotions. Almost a sense of familiarity, though he did not think they had ever met - perhaps the lightest touch of prophecy, a hint of what was to come. Perhaps they were to become familiar.
-----
If it was to be, or even if not, Sydney was curious regardless about the man who was sharing their meal and their lodging for the moment. The name was Hardin; he heard that much during dinner, in the conversations before the cookfires. By that time, Hardin already looked much improved, having bathed, shaved, and discarded his rags in favor of proper clothing. Again, Sydney pondered his demeanor. He had had little reason to consider matters of mortal nobility since becoming the high priest of a "heretic cult", but he thought he recalled mention of a minor lord in the northern regions - perhaps not far from the mountains through which they traveled, in fact - with the name of Hardin. Likely not one and the same, this man was too young to have been known so long past as that fragment of dubious memory, but perhaps a son? Whether his memory was correct or not, this Hardin was beginning to look the part.
In appearance, at the least. During dinner, his wariness persisted, fairly radiating unease as he looked over his temporary companions. Often his eyes strayed to Sydney himself, before catching himself and lowering them to his meal. Presumably he had learned of the nature of Müllenkamp.
...It was of course possible that he had already known. Although he was clearly not of the king's men or the cardinal's, he might have been sent by them, as eyes and ears, his initial state all for show. Loyalty was not his motivation, that much was certain, but desperation might cause a man to be blackmailed, coerced...
If so, Sydney needed to know. And if not, if their meeting was naught but chance, it would hardly do to have him remain so fearful. When Sydney happened across Padric after the meal, seeing as he and Hardin seemed to have made amends after their initial rough meeting, he asked Padric to pass along a minor request.
Of course Hardin complied regardless of his wariness, particularly as the rain had ceased. He stepped outside the mouth of the cave, taking a breath of the crisp air before turning to see Sydney waiting. "You wanted to see me, sir?"
To think cold air could still feel so good... Sydney heard the stray thought, and he nodded as the pieces began to fall into place. All the small fragments of emotion and memory swirling close to the surface, the factors that colored his soul, making him the man he was at present - and Sydney's intention was to dig deeper. The Dark, as always, willingly obliged.
"John Hardin," he murmured. "Twenty-four years of age. You prefer to be called Hardin, correct?" It was not truly a question. "No one has called you by your first name for such a long time, you would not even recognize it as your own." No, that wasn't right. "No one except one person... and those memories are not ones you wish to be reminded of."
Hardin simply stared, though Sydney heard the sharp cry of pain voiced by his very spirit. Hardin had been wounded, deeply wounded, and the Dark drew that pain forth, laying it out for Sydney to examine. A stately manor, a courtyard with headstones. Newly carved headstones, a youth and a small child sitting before them. "Your parents died many years ago, when the plague came," Sydney continued, "and you were left to care for Philip on your own." A luxurious bed, much too big for the boy who lay upon it, struggling to breathe. Nights spent awake, sitting in the chair beside. "He was all you had left, and you raised him as well as you could with the assistance of the servants and fortune your parents had left behind."
Disrepair, dust, fine hallways empty. "But money runs out, and eventually the servants left, seeking better employ." The gleaming blade of a fine heirloom sword. "When you grew to manhood, you became a member of the PeaceGuard. It didn't pay so much, but it was enough to keep a roof over Philip's head, and food on his plate." ...Swords. So many swords, from the king's own forges - but by necessity, unmarked. Even a few would have fetched a small fortune. "But then, when he was only eleven years old..."
Transfixed by what the Dark was showing him, Sydney barely heard Hardin's warning growl as he stepped back. "...Stop it."
"You didn't have much of a choice, did you, Hardin?" Days of refusal, guilt, listening to those in his unit who had fewer moral conflicts. Seeing the coin they flashed about. Seeing Philip wasting away, as they had to ration the elixir that eased his pain. "You could watch him die, or you could do a little selling on the side."
"It's nothing I want to talk about."
Or that he'd wanted to do, but Hardin had done it. Dark meetings with darker figures. Then - a cloak drawn back to reveal the same insignia he wore. "...And when they found out about it, you had the same kind of choice - none whatsoever." Sitting alone before the inquisitors, hands bound, shaking, clenched into fists. Guilt compounded upon guilt compounded upon guilt. Betrayal upon betrayal. The Dark danced amidst the regret and sorrow that permeated Hardin's being.
"Stop it, damn you!"
Perhaps it was the Dark once more, its love for bloodshed over even its love for pain, that broke the flow of memory; Sydney abruptly noticed that Hardin's hand was on the sword at his waist. After a long moment, Hardin pulled it away. "Stop your unholy scrying!" he demanded again. "You don't need to know any of this, and you certainly don't need to repeat it to me!"
...Was it his own fascination, or the Dark's, or merely the depths of Hardin's pain, that Sydney had momentarily lost himself in it? Regardless, he held up his hands, obliging. "No, likely I do not need to know it. But yet, I do know it, Hardin. Everything you have seen and done was laid out before me the instant I saw you. Thus is the power that the Dark has granted me."
"So that makes it acceptable to prick the old wounds and watch me bleed again, does it?"
It did not, of course. His intention had been only to discern the truth of Hardin's arrival. But now the threads had been woven together - now he had seen what had made a young lord turn sellsword turn smuggler, what had sent him from a family manor and beloved brother to the solitude of the king's dungeon. Behind the angry eyes of the tall, seemingly intimidating stranger who stood before him, nearly drawing his sword only moments ago, Sydney could see gentleness, despair, a determined spirit crushed and nearly buried - but despite all odds, still ablaze.
Perhaps that was what he had been sensing, in that moment of recognition. A soul of the kind so greatly treasured by the gods he served. A soul in need of comfort and reclamation.
Regardless, he had allowed himself to scrye too deeply, unnecessarily. "You've suffered much," he said. "I could tell from the first moment. It is not my intent that you suffer more."
"Then... then..."
It had been a long, long time since Hardin had spoken to anyone, longer since he had spoken of such weighty matters. There were many among the brethren like him, who had once been lost even to themselves, and Sydney acted as he might to one of them, lifting a hand to offer a comforting touch. Hardin was not one of them, of course, and flinched at the feel of cold metal, but did not entirely shy away. ...When... when was the last time...?
Much too long since he had been touched gently, shown kindness, no doubt. "Peace, Hardin," he murmured. "I know you now. I am not your enemy."
I... shouldn't believe him. Yet, somehow...
Seeing him calmed, Sydney allowed his touch to linger a bit longer. It was not a chore, of course - such sadness he had seen, and if he could ease it, he would. "There is much pain in the world, Hardin - pain much like yours. The gods weep for us all..."
As he drew his hand back, Hardin seemed to recall himself somewhat, his expression turning bitter. "If indeed the gods exist, they should do more than weep." He stopped abruptly with the last word, his soul reminding him to whom he was speaking ill of the gods.
But it was to Sydney, and Sydney understood all too well. Though he had grown with his faith, it was misunderstood and misrepresented by outsiders - and nowadays it was not uncommon for even those whose faith had once been strong to find they had lost it.
"They will." Sensing Hardin's weariness, far surpassing merely the mortal body, Sydney sat down, and motioned for Hardin to join him. "The end of the age is nigh," he began, as Hardin settled himself, "but it is not my way to demand a man choose salvation or condemnation in a moment's time, nor do I discard those who do not believe as I and the brethren. I would ask you, though, if you would stay with us for a few days' time. Both body and spirit have been weakened by your imprisonment, and you would be wise to give them a chance to regain their strength. We can keep you safe for a time, if you like. And at any time, if you wish to leave, it would be your choice. Perhaps, though, you will find our fellowship to be pleasant."
"So far I have." The response came as a slight surprise to Sydney, considering how tense the man had been at dinner. "And I owe you much gratitude for what you've done already."
"There is no gratitude necessary for giving a man what he needs," Sydney assured him. "We shall make you comfortable tonight also - though it may be necessary to share a bedroll or blanket." Given the way Hardin had reacted at the sight of him, and the fact that the followers of Müllenkamp were not so prudish as the believers of some faiths... "With you having been alone so long, perhaps that would be preferable to you."
He noticed. The way Hardin turned his face away suddenly did absolutely nothing to hide his embarrassment. "Thank you, but I... I think I have become so accustomed to sleeping alone that I'd prefer to keep doing so. I've gone this long with no blanket, after all."
"As you wish..." Going without a blanket yet again was not necessary, however. "But you are welcome to mine."
Hardin turned back to him in surprise, his soul asking the questions he dared not voice. Is he offering to... Is he a lover of men? ...Did he think I genuinely wanted to... Hardin averted his face again, quickly.
Hmm. So Hardin did hold certain more conventional beliefs, if he was so flustered by the idea. Yet the idea had occurred to him, and Sydney had offered nothing of the sort. "The weather grows warmer as spring approaches, and I have a thicker cloak than the other brethren," he explained. "My followers insisted. I have no need of a blanket tonight." Not to mention - and he would not, lest he fluster Hardin further - several of the brethren were quite willing to share their blankets with Sydney.
"Oh. Then... thank you." His soul rebuked him - He has done so much for me already, and all I can say to him is 'thank you'? "Lord Sydney..."
That was an awkward way to begin, and Sydney chuckled. "You are not even a follower of mine, much less a servant. Just Sydney, please."
"Sydney, then." Hardin paused. Even so, how can I phrase it, to express how much this... wait. "...If you can read my heart, you know that the idea frightens me, but..."
A quick learner. Sydney was moderately impressed by how swiftly he had adapted to something he clearly viewed as impossible, and then unnerving. "Yes, Hardin. I know. And you are welcome."
With that assurance, Hardin relaxed slightly, his thoughts drifting off to less urgent tangents. I don't know how or why, but after only this brief talk, even after he looked into my mind... I think he's someone I could trust. Certainly he's charming, the abilities he claims are real, that would be enough to draw people to follow him - but there is more than his power and his charm. He's young, I would think younger than I, but speaks with wisdom, grace... How did he come to this?
A quick learner, but also quick to forget when his guard was down. "Perhaps someday," Sydney answered his unspoken question, and stood. "It is late, and you are tired. Doubtless the brethren have all retired by now, as we have come far, and we set out again tomorrow before mid-day. Again, you're welcome to join us."
There was a moment of startled embarrassment at the initial reminder, but Hardin recovered nearly as fast. "I just may agree to that," was all he said aloud as he also stood to follow Sydney back inside to where the brethren sheltered. Again, Sydney was somewhat impressed.
Sydney had spoken truly when he offered his own blankets. He could manage with his cloak, and would not ask one of his brethren to go without... and of course, after having given his own over to Hardin, who humbly accepted, Sydney could himself see who might be interested in sharing blankets that night.
But as he stepped back to the edge of the low firelight, watching his brethren settle themselves as well as they could manage on the hard earth, he found he was not in the mood. Perhaps it was only that they had a stranger among them, who did not understand their ways...
Though no longer was Hardin a stranger, precisely. Sydney watched him settle as well, turning to find the most comfortable position on the uneven floor. He hardly resembled the unknown, ragged man that Padric and Duncan had dragged out into the rain only a few hours past, physically or... otherwise. Sydney knew him now, what was in his heart. And if it seemed that he fit in naturally among the brethren as they drifted off to slumber, that was not unusual. He was not the first who had come to Müllenkamp bereft of purpose or hope. Often they decided after a time to stay on, though Sydney was careful not to manipulate such a person for his own benefit. If they desired to live in the shadow of the Dark and serve the gods, it must be their own choice.
...Hmm, yes, choice. Although encountering a stranger in one of their usual shelters was not unheard of, Sydney had nearly forgotten about the visit that morning from the Lady, and her mysterious words. Something was to happen soon, and not the destruction he had seen in his dreams. Something that he, allegedly, was permitted to choose.
He wondered for a moment, but then shook his head, turning away to go and find his own solitary spot for the night. Hardin was simply another man who had fallen under the burdens placed upon him by the world, such a man who might opt to remain with them. If it did so happen that John Hardin was to play some part in whatever was coming "soon" that was "more than dreams", it would still be his choice to make. Sydney was insistent that it must be so.
Perhaps because, despite having embraced the destiny that awaited him, despite what Müllenkamp had told him, he had never quite been certain that he had been given a choice himself.