Chapter 7 - Ceorn Lochlaven and Wayfarer's Port
He awoke in a haze.
Nothing all that unusual for him. Ninety percent of the time that he woke up was in a haze. But there was something different this time. It was difficult for him to put his finger on.
His eyes began to slowly clear up, giving him a better view of the room. He was laying on the most comfortable bed he had ever been in. It was fluffy and soft, conforming to the shape of his lean and weary body. He ran a hand through his short cropped, yellow hair and gazed around the room in a stupor.
"What th'Ell?" he grunted, peering about in befuddlement.
It was a medium sized room with a fairly high ceiling. The carpet was red and lush, just the thought of walking on it made his feet tickle. There was a comfortable looking chair over in one corner with a table and counter along one wall. A full length mirror rested next to the deep closet and the canopied bed had red and black colored curtains that were drawn back, held loosely with silken cords.
Sliding out from between the satiny sheets, he was surprised to realize that he was naked. But he shrugged unconcernedly, his nudity bothered him little. Others, perhaps. But himself never. Just to be certain though, he opened one of the drawers in the counter and noted with relief that his kilt was neatly folded inside.
He removed it from the drawer with a sigh and flapped it out. It had been carefully cleaned and pressed, the man was innately grateful to the person who had done the work for him. He wrapped his precious, symbolic garb about his waist and belted it there. As he did so, he noticed a long pinkish scar along his right thigh that hadn't been there before. He stared at it in confusion for a moment before remembering the wound that he had taken while escaping the soldiers. But that had been a terrible wound, the kind that takes weeks to fully heal. He shook it out a time or two, even stomping his foot on the ground. Not even a twinge of pain responded.
Now that he was thinking about it, nothing hurt. Nothing at all.
That was what felt different as he woke up. Coming to his senses without even the slightest twinge of pain.
He rushed over to stand in front of the full length mirror and examined himself from head to toe. His astonishment was complete. Except for the lingering remainder of old wounds that hadn't healed properly, he was in perfect condition. There were faint, pink colored scars all over his body from the wounds that he so vividly remembered. The whip and chain marks were gone. As were the cuts and bruises over his face that he must have received from the circle beating the soldiers gave him. Everything was... fine.
"Gods," he whispered reverently. "Just 'ow long 'ave I been out?"
He closed his eyes and brought both of his hands up before his face. He silently prayed to each of the Gods Above with all of his heart before slowly opening his eyes.
He nearly wept in dismay.
The all too familiar, horrible looking scars that spoke of years of slavery still remained. He could feel the tears well up in his eyes, but he forcefully brushed them away. What had he expected? To have all the memories of the most troubled years of his life be somehow gone?
He forced the thought away and inspected the closet, more for a diversion than because he actually expected to find anything. To his surprise, a plain cotton jerkin hung from a peg in the back of the closet. Taking it up in his hands he felt at the sinewy material and smiled.
Slipping it on over his head and tucking it into his kilt he looked in the mirror again. It was perhaps a bit loose on him. But he smiled and shook his head in silent amusement, reminding himself of an old Clannish proverb. Something about an un-wealthy man and the foolishness in complaining about the few things given to him.
At that moment, the door to the room creaked open. The man spun about in a crouch, reflexes at their peak and his nerves on the absolute edge. Intellectually, he realized that he probably had nothing to worry about. But he found it hard to convince his hard earned reflexes of that.
Ducking his head slightly in the door frame stood one of the largest humans that it had ever been the kelt's privilege to meet. Muscles bulging without conscious thought beneath the clothes he wore. But there was more there than just sheer mass. There was almost a balance and grace about the behemoth. Something very natural and untrained.
Seeing the stance that the smaller man had taken, the big man held up both of his hands in front of him and slowly entered the room, silently showing that he was both unarmed and in no way wanting a fight. The big man turned back to someone still outside the room and whispered to them. As the big man swiveled his gaze back to the keltoi, his face showed a mild amount of surprise as the door closed behind him.
Both warriors eyed each other cautiously. Neither man wanting to make a potentially lethal error. The kilted man said nothing, not wanting to trust this monster or let down his guard in any way. I cannae afford to die now, the kelt thought. I've come too far, 'scaped so much...
Suddenly, the big man dropped his hands to his sides. The kilted one flinched and very nearly surged forward, thinking it some sort of attack but managed to restrain himself at the last moment.
The big man stood within ten feet of the kelt, his legs at shoulder width apart and his massive hands folded behind his back. He stared at the kelt with a slack expression and merely waited a moment or two. He spoke in a comfortable baritone. "It's your move, friend. Do you trust me... or not?"
And he waited.
The kilted man stood, completely tense, for another moment or two. Warily he dropped his arms to his sides as well, feeling slightly foolish but still not wanting to make a mistake. He stood up straight and walked towards the big man, one hand extended. "Sorry 'bout that," he began slowly. "Reflexes are ah hard thing t'break."
The big man took the kelt's hand in his and smiled. "That's okay," he said politely. "I know how tough it can be to trust someone new."
They stood there for a moment or two longer before breaking away. The kelt sat in the easy chair and blinked at the resiliency of the padding. The big man smiled and slid easily down to the floor cross-legged.
"My name's, Hal."
The kelt nodded with a small smile of acknowledgement. When he spoke he drawled in a thick accent. "Me name's Lochlaven. Ceorn Lochlaven. A pleasure t’meet ye there Hal." He waved one hand courteously. Hal waved back, an odd expression on his face.
Ceorn studied the big man very carefully.
"So," The kelt began. "If'n y'don't mind, would mind tellin' me what been goin' on?"
After taking a brief moment or two to gather his thoughts, Hal described what had happened just the day before on the road to Wayfarer's Port. As conversation went on, Ceorn slowly began to add his own details to the story as they came back to him through the red haze of his memory. Lochlaven's face twisted slightly when he learned that Tasha had put her life at risk for him.
"Wasn't there somethin' y'coulda done t'stop her, lad?" he asked, concernedly.
A wry expression appeared on Hal's face, his lips unconsciously twisting into a grin. "Keeping Lady Tasha from doing something she feels she needs to do is like wrestling with a grizzly bear. A very tough fight that usually isn't worth the agony."
Ceorn had a good laugh with that. "Sounds like every woman I've ever known."
"I guess," Hal replied, then went on. "Anyway, after you took out the last of the men, we wondered whether or not you would calm down enough for us to talk with you."
Lochlaven smiled faintly at the thought.
Clearing his throat uncomfortably, the big man rushed ahead. "Well, then you were hit in the back with a knife, thrown by the group's leader. Who, I guess, I kinda forgot about."
In a suddenly dramatic change, Ceorn Lochlaven's face flushed a deep scarlet in color and his yellow eyes glinted fiercely in the sunlight streaming in through the window. Hal flinched back warily, but not afraid. "Th'bastard!" Lochlaven cursed explosively, almost rising out of his chair in fury. "I'll kill'im! Attack me from behind? I'll show 'im!! I'll..."
He noticed then the pained look on Hal's face and slowly calmed himself down. "Somethin' you want t'say, Hal?"
Hal cleared his throat uncomfortably once again and ran a trembling hand through his thick hair. When he spoke, it was in a much quieter voice. To his credit, it wasn't shaking... much. "You won't have to worry about him," he said slowly. "I... I already got him."
Lochlaven was silent. "Y'killed him, Hal?" he asked after a brief pause. "Doesn't seem like 'yer style, 'specially after the way y'dealt wit’ the others."
Hal shook his head. "It's not," he insisted, as if trying to convince himself. "I've had to kill beasts and creatures and... things like that before. And, while it wasn't easy to do, it wasn't hard to deal with... in here," Hal tapped at his chest to emphasize his point. "But, I've never needed to kill another person before. And doing that felt... I don't know. Too easy, I guess."
The kelt sat back, contemplating. Slowly Ceorn tried to re-evaluate the man sitting before him. He started with his estimation of Hal's age. Taking it down from his previous guess in the mid-twenties to possibly the late teens. Then he worked with the boy's intelligence. Abruptly he changed his opinion from being somewhat slow-witted but with a keen battle sense, to a young man with a low self-esteem and a temper to accommodate. That done the battle hardened kelt sighed softly.
"Lad," Ceorn began. "It's should never be simple t'kill. I should know, I've done it an awful lot, an' have regretted it most o'th' time. In fact, I've spent most o' me life learnin' 'ow t'kill better." He sighed again, trying hard to ignore the way Hal was looking up to him like some sort of puppy. "Th'first time's always th' hardest, lad. After that, ye' learn that ye 'just done what ye’h'ad to, an that's that." He smiled broadly. "Besides, th' bastard deserved to'die for all th' pain 'e put me an me' friends in th' pit through."
Hal looked at the kelt questioningly, the desire to change the subject apparent in his eyes. "The pit?"
Lochlaven shuddered at the memory. "Until th' day that you and yer friends helped me out, I cannae remember a time in which I wasn't a slave. I was forced to risk me life in a gladitorial arena." Hal frowned in confusion.
"What, lad?”
“What’s a gladiator?”
“For real?”
Hal shrugged, his face embarrassed.
Ceorn sighed. "A gladiator is a slave who’s forced t' do battle wit' another slave in an arena. Sometimes in a private-like place, but usually in an arena."
"Why were you enslaved?" Hal asked.
Lochlaven swore. "Bloody 'ell boy! You make it sound as if I had a choice!" He shook his head vigorously and continued. "Anyhow, I was one o'th' best gladiators, if'n I do say so meself. That was 'cause I knew how t'fight 'afore e'en gettin' there. And cause I was a crowd fav'rit." At Hal's confused expression, the kelt elaborated. He raised both arms and let the sleeves of his new shirt slide below his elbows, revealing the intricate blue tattoos that were inlaid along his forearms. They looked like droplets of some liquid that extended all the way down to his knuckles, passing through the scars on his wrists.
"Y'see these, lad?" Hal nodded. "These're what th' bastards in th' arena forced on me. They saw th' traditional marks along me chest and decided, without e'en asking me approval, to put these on."
"Why?"
Lochlaven sighed. " 'Cause lad. I only know 'ow t'fight wit' me fists. I don't know 'ow to use a weapon o'any sort. And I ne'er cared t'learn. I had ne'er intended to live a life o'violence. So me fists should ha’been enough." Ceorn's eyes clouded over for a brief moment as he thought of memories of the past and lost opportunities, never to be regained.
Seeing the strangely sympathetic look on Hal's face, Ceorn shoved the errant thought aside.
"At any rate," the kelt continued. "Th' crowds always liked t'see me fight. 'Cause I always went in wit' no weapon, an' always won. 'Cause of this, I got th' opportunity to go travlin' to other arenas.
"I was onna me way back wit' me guards to Kaemar, th'place where I usually am... was kept," he reminded himself carefully, still only half believing it. " 'At was when I finally got a bit lucky.
"It had begun to rain ye see? An me shackles, they were old and rusty to begin wit'. That and th' cold of th' night made th' shackles e'en weaker. So one night, I just gave it all I could. And finally, they gave way. And I was free!" He smiled widely at the pleasant memory.
"So then what?" Hal asked eagerly.
The keltoi scratched absently at one armpit and grimaced before answering. "Well, I killed one o' th' guards and then ran into th' trees as fast as I could. I ran and ran. When I couldn't run no more, I fell asleep. I woke up to the sound o'th guards behind me. Searching' for me. So I got right back up an' ran some more. Finally, after what must'ha been a real long time, I ran into you people, and ye' know th 'rest."
Hal looked impressed and was about to say something when both men heard a muffled conversation happening from right outside the door. Lochlaven was immediately on his guard again, springing out of his chair and poised to fight. Hal was right behind him, hopping up to his feet with a surprising show of agility. Then he paused a moment and listened more carefully to the conversation. A slow, almost smile began to trickle across Hal's face. Ceorn concentrated on the voices as hard as he could but could distinguish nothing that was funny. Quickly, Hal masked the smile and crept up to the door, motioning for Lochlaven to be silent. The kelt, who hadn't been saying anything to begin with, stayed exactly as he was. Poised and alert.
Carefully getting a hold of the door knob, Hal waited a moment, the smile playing across his lips again. At last he jerked the door open and stepped out of the way.
Squawking loudly in surprise, A blonde haired woman, that Ceorn assumed was the woman called Tasha, fell backwards into the room, landing painfully on her rump and staring up at Hal accusingly. A frail, dark robed man stood just out in the hallway and looked at Hal in sudden surprise. Then he looked down to the woman and began to laugh uproariously. He staggered away from the room, clutching at his quaking ribs and wiping at his face as tears of mirth flowed freely.
Hal kept his face as expressionless as possible as he stood directly above the woman. "May I ask what you're doing, milady?" he asked in an exceptionally polite voice.
The woman's amber eyes slowly lost their accusatory glare as a slow flush of embarrassment creeped up her cheeks. "Uhm …"
Hal took a deep breath and sighed disappointedly, shaking his head as he did so.
The kelt, however, was in no mood to appreciate the humor as he got his first good look at Tasha. His gaze slid lingeringly over the fine curves of her athletic body before fixing firmly on her face and nearly melting at it's almost flawless perfection, (Ceorn acknowledged that he might be slightly biased seeing as how he hadn’t gotten too many chances to relate with woman in the gladiatorial pits). The way that her blonde hair fell over her eyes in gentle waves as she slowly tried to return to her feet made Ceorn's heart do a little flip. And her eyes! They were so deep that it seemed he could lose himself in them forever.
Quickly, Ceorn stepped forward and all but shoved Hal aside as he reached down to offer Tasha his hand. "Please there, lass," he spoke, his voice developing a silken quality that hadn't been there a moment before. "Allow me." Holding her arm at the elbow and the wrist, he gently guided her up to her feet. Tasha's face was amazed while the kelt tried to show her all of his teeth at once as he smiled.
Hal stood off to the side, his face also amazed but unable to look away. Out of the corner of his eye, Ceorn saw the way Hal's fist unconsciously clenched and unclenched as Ceorn moved in on Tasha like a predator. Unable to stop himself, the kelt took a step back from Tasha and folded his arms across his chest and posed, instinctively positioned so that his best side was shown to her. Lochlaven was just about able to hear Hal grinding his teeth.
Tasha was blushing a deep red in color from the unceasing look in the kelt's eyes and turned her gaze away. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the help."
Loch
laven laughed slightly, an obviously forced chuckling sound that sounded far too practiced to have been in any way natural. "Please, lass. Don’t ye' be callin' me 'sir'. I work for' a livin' don't ye’ know?" He chuckled again.
Tasha joined him, much to Hal's obvious (at least, obvious to everyone except Tasha) dismay. "Well, if I can't call you sir... what would you like me to call you?"
The kelt took another step back and bowed deeply. "Ceorn Lochlaven, th' Crimson Bloodied-Fist, at yer’ service, lass." He straightened up from his bow and looked her right in the eyes again. "And now, to be fair, could I know yer' name? I'm certain 'however," he added, slyly throwing a glance at Hal. "That 'tis as beautiful as you 'yerself."
Hal seemed to be gagging off to the side.
Tasha blushed an even deeper red, if such a thing was possible. "My name, as you might remember from yesterday, when Hal introduced me before the battle," Lochlaven made a brief but apparently fruitless pretense of searching through his recollections before motioning for her to continue. "Is Tasha Pellaren, of the Vineyard Grove."
Ceorn smiled again. "Ach! Now I remember. A pleasure, lass." With that, he gracefully leaned over, retrieved a hold of her wrist and softly kissed the back of Tasha's hand. He took a moment longer to inhale loudly and lean back with a searching frown. "Now that's a stunnin' perfume that' yer’ wearin' Tasha. What is th' name of' th' fragrance, if'n I may ask?"
Tasha looked from side to side in momentary confusion. "I'm not wearing any perfume, Ceorn."
Ceorn said nothing for an embarrassingly long moment as he racked his brain for an appropriate line to follow up that misfire. Then, too late for it to be natural, he laughed again. "No perfume?" he began with a stuttering chuckle. Off to the side, he could see Hal beginning to smile again. "Then I'm indeed impressed if'n that is how y'normally go about life... " He stumbled a bit more, struggling for an appropriate word. " 'Smellin," he finished lamely. He let her hand drop suddenly, mentally berating himself for being an idiot.
Tasha laughed aloud in honest amusement. "Please, Ceorn. There's no need to feel embarrassed. I do appreciate the thought." She reached up and pat the kelt on the cheek softly, bringing the now familiar glint back to the kilted warrior's eyes.
Hal appeared thunderstruck. His eyes were almost bulging out of his head while his jaw was hanging free and dangling somewhere around the area of his knees. A low moan escaped his lips as Ceorn arched an eyebrow at the big man in mock curiosity.
Ceorn gracefully offered his chair to Tasha and insisted that she make use of it while he assumed his pose once again while raptly hanging on her every word as she described how Hal had carried the kelt's dying body to the nearest clerical temple, all by himself, to have Ceorn healed the night before.
"In actuality, Hal probably saved all of our lives that day." Tasha concluded looking at her immense friend for the first time in minutes and completely missing the dejected look in his eyes. Hal seemed impressed that she had remembered that he was even in the room.
Ceorn looked at Hal in yet another different light, and quickly saw the look of despair in the big man's eyes. He felt a momentary twinge of guilt at what he was about to do, but could no more have stopped himself than he could have convinced his body to cease its breathing.
Lochlaven strolled up to Hal and, making sure that Tasha was paying very close attention, placed both hands on Hal's powerful shoulders. "Hal," he began very formally. "I' appears that I owe ye me life. From this day forth," he continued grandly. "I pledge myself to travel wit' you, go from place to place and watch yer' back 'til such a time comes along in which I can save yer’ life in return. This I swear, upon me' honor, me' family and me' life." He bowed his head then so he wouldn't have to see the pained look in the big man's eyes.
Hal grimaced as if he had been stabbed. He took a long time to formulate his answer, looking over the kelt's head at Tasha the whole time. Sneaking a peek back at her himself, Ceorn saw that she was frantically motioning for Hal to accept. Not that Ceorn had actually left him much choice.
Hal then said the only thing that Ceorn assumed the big man could have brought himself to say with honesty.
"Gee. Thanks."