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Poor Nim. Will she ever stop feeling mortified? One can almost imagine her going all "P-lease don't s-stare..."

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Sunlight falls upon your face and hands. It is quiet here, in this place, and peaceful. A peace like none you have ever known.

It is still difficult, dealing with the loss of your eye, plucked out by an arrow fired by the Forest Elf Silje, in that disastrous battle that ended your life. . . the life you knew, at least. The ultimatum had been clear: success or death. Failure was never an option, but you faced failure on the day that the elves led your group of Paladins into a trap and slew all.

Back in the barracks, or in the halls of the High Priest, it had been easy to choose death before dishonor. In the field, with your men screaming and bleeding around you, with the pain and terror and the shit and the blood right in front of you, it had been. . . harder. You had fled, a screaming coward, and you had cast yourself in a blind panic through the woods, begging not to die, cursing yourself, cursing God. . . plummeting over the edge of the ravine and into the deep river, letting the water swallow you up and carry you away.

You expected to die. You did not.

You awoke to singing, to gentle words, and soft hands, to find your wounds tended by a maiden of the River Elves. Nimloth was her name, and if she knew what you were, she did not say so to you, or to the other member of the small band of river hermits that called this river home. Though you tried to die at first, she would not allow you to despair. Slowly, over time, you returned to full health. Slowly, over time, you chose life.

There is a tug on your fishing line, and you smile as you begin to bring in the fish. A fine rainbow trout to add to your basket, along with the others. You heft your catch. You have enough. The folk of the river have taught you never to take more than is needed. The Earth provides, but you must not suckle overlong at her teat.

As you begin to walk back towards the encampment, however, you pause. There is something metallic in the air. The smell of steel. . .and blood. And now you hear screams

The basket is cast away as you run downhill towards the camp. You race towards the village, and as you burst through the rushes, you see what you already knew you would: there are Paladins in the camp. Many of the gentle river folk are already dead. One other is being beaten with a riding crop by the lead Paladin. "TELL ME OF THE APOSTATE!" he roars. "WHERE IS THIS ARMY OF THE ELVEN REBELLION? WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF THEM?"

He knows nothing. None of them do. They are peaceful folk, but their ears are pointed, and thus, in the eyes of the Church, they are enemies. The Paladin growls in frustration and strikes down once. Blood stains his blade.

You shudder. You close your eyes. You remember the lessons of your youth: the Devil takes many forms.

Perhaps, perhaps right now, he has taken the form of the Father Church itself.

There is a scream, a high pitched, womanly scream. Your eyes open again, and black rage rises up within you. You know that voice. Nimloth. She is in danger. . . perhaps already, your former brothers have. . .

No.

Never again. Your life has been one of failure and death, but it ends here.

The Paladin is surprised to see you emerge from the rushes with your fishing pole in hand. He is even more surprised when you use the good, supple cane to lash out at his horse's flanks. The frightened beast rears up, dumping the surprised young knight onto his back, into the mud and muck. Before he can cry out for help, your fish knife has driven hard into the gap between his gorget and breastplate. He dies gurgling, choking on his own blood.

You pick up his sword, the one stained with the blood of the elf. Nimloth screams again. You stalk through the village.

And for the first time in many months, you smile.

-----

Once again, it is peaceful.

You wash the blood of elves and humans off your sword. It is a good, fine, sword. No gold or gems, but it is a sturdy, killing blade, and it did not fail. There is a simple beauty in its raw power, one that strikes joy into your soldier's heart.

Nimloth is quieter now. She sobbed before, but her folk are as supple as the reeds, and their soft hearts surround a steely core. She holds the mace that she took from the dead Paladin tightly: she is uncomfortable with the weapon. You will have to teach her what you have learned, if she is to use it without hurting herself.

"So," she says softly. "You were one of them, once. A swan." She says the word with a harsh, angry spit. Swan. The nickname for the Paladins, named after the white cape they wear, like the wings of that bird.

"Once," you say. "A long time ago." You sheathe the sword in its scabbard. "Then I failed. I promised that I would die before I failed. So. . . now I am dead."

"No," Nim whispers. "You are not dead. You are alive. Before, you were a dead thing, and your soul was dark and dry. Now, I see you alive again, bright as the summer sun." She plucks a flower from a tree branch and places it in your hair. "Spring has come for you."

You turn your face away. She is suddenly very aware of how close she is to you, and to her nakedness. The soldiers who had attacked her had been cruel men, and they had sneered as they sliced off her brightly colored clothes as the described the horrible things they would do to her, and how it would not even be rape, for she was no woman, but a whore, like all elven women. Now she is dressed only in the white cape taken from a slain Paladin, and although she does her best, moments of her nakedness under that flimsy garment still show through, causing her to blush and cover herself up. Strangely, there is no lust in your heart, only compassion, as you gently ease that garment back over her shoulders. "We need to go soon," you say.

You leave the smoking ruins of the camp in silence. The pyres of the dead, both the mourned and the unmourned, smolder away. "Where shall we go now?" Nim asks.

"Anywhere," you say. "Nowhere." You smile wryly. "Perhaps we shall find the rebels. They could possibly use another strong sword."

"Then we shall go there. It is ten days walk," Nim says.

You stop. "You know of the rebels?"

"They use our river to smuggle goods. This bothers you?"

"No, not at all." You shake your head as you remember the elf who died. The Church teaches that elves are cowardly fools. They were wrong about that. Perhaps they are wrong about a great many things.

Perhaps, some day, God will have a Church worthy of him at last.

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Description
Poor Nim. Will she ever stop feeling mortified? One can almost imagine her going all "P-lease don't s-stare..."

------------------------

Sunlight falls upon your face and hands. It is quiet here, in this place, and peaceful. A peace like none you have ever known.

It is still difficult, dealing with the loss of your eye, plucked out by an arrow fired by the Forest Elf Silje, in that disastrous battle that ended your life. . . the life you knew, at least. The ultimatum had been clear: success or death. Failure was never an option, but you faced failure on the day that the elves led your group of Paladins into a trap and slew all.

Back in the barracks, or in the halls of the High Priest, it had been easy to choose death before dishonor. In the field, with your men screaming and bleeding around you, with the pain and terror and the shit and the blood right in front of you, it had been. . . harder. You had fled, a screaming coward, and you had cast yourself in a blind panic through the woods, begging not to die, cursing yourself, cursing God. . . plummeting over the edge of the ravine and into the deep river, letting the water swallow you up and carry you away.

You expected to die. You did not.

You awoke to singing, to gentle words, and soft hands, to find your wounds tended by a maiden of the River Elves. Nimloth was her name, and if she knew what you were, she did not say so to you, or to the other member of the small band of river hermits that called this river home. Though you tried to die at first, she would not allow you to despair. Slowly, over time, you returned to full health. Slowly, over time, you chose life.

There is a tug on your fishing line, and you smile as you begin to bring in the fish. A fine rainbow trout to add to your basket, along with the others. You heft your catch. You have enough. The folk of the river have taught you never to take more than is needed. The Earth provides, but you must not suckle overlong at her teat.

As you begin to walk back towards the encampment, however, you pause. There is something metallic in the air. The smell of steel. . .and blood. And now you hear screams

The basket is cast away as you run downhill towards the camp. You race towards the village, and as you burst through the rushes, you see what you already knew you would: there are Paladins in the camp. Many of the gentle river folk are already dead. One other is being beaten with a riding crop by the lead Paladin. "TELL ME OF THE APOSTATE!" he roars. "WHERE IS THIS ARMY OF THE ELVEN REBELLION? WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF THEM?"

He knows nothing. None of them do. They are peaceful folk, but their ears are pointed, and thus, in the eyes of the Church, they are enemies. The Paladin growls in frustration and strikes down once. Blood stains his blade.

You shudder. You close your eyes. You remember the lessons of your youth: the Devil takes many forms.

Perhaps, perhaps right now, he has taken the form of the Father Church itself.

There is a scream, a high pitched, womanly scream. Your eyes open again, and black rage rises up within you. You know that voice. Nimloth. She is in danger. . . perhaps already, your former brothers have. . .

No.

Never again. Your life has been one of failure and death, but it ends here.

The Paladin is surprised to see you emerge from the rushes with your fishing pole in hand. He is even more surprised when you use the good, supple cane to lash out at his horse's flanks. The frightened beast rears up, dumping the surprised young knight onto his back, into the mud and muck. Before he can cry out for help, your fish knife has driven hard into the gap between his gorget and breastplate. He dies gurgling, choking on his own blood.

You pick up his sword, the one stained with the blood of the elf. Nimloth screams again. You stalk through the village.

And for the first time in many months, you smile.

-----

Once again, it is peaceful.

You wash the blood of elves and humans off your sword. It is a good, fine, sword. No gold or gems, but it is a sturdy, killing blade, and it did not fail. There is a simple beauty in its raw power, one that strikes joy into your soldier's heart.

Nimloth is quieter now. She sobbed before, but her folk are as supple as the reeds, and their soft hearts surround a steely core. She holds the mace that she took from the dead Paladin tightly: she is uncomfortable with the weapon. You will have to teach her what you have learned, if she is to use it without hurting herself.

"So," she says softly. "You were one of them, once. A swan." She says the word with a harsh, angry spit. Swan. The nickname for the Paladins, named after the white cape they wear, like the wings of that bird.

"Once," you say. "A long time ago." You sheathe the sword in its scabbard. "Then I failed. I promised that I would die before I failed. So. . . now I am dead."

"No," Nim whispers. "You are not dead. You are alive. Before, you were a dead thing, and your soul was dark and dry. Now, I see you alive again, bright as the summer sun." She plucks a flower from a tree branch and places it in your hair. "Spring has come for you."

You turn your face away. She is suddenly very aware of how close she is to you, and to her nakedness. The soldiers who had attacked her had been cruel men, and they had sneered as they sliced off her brightly colored clothes as the described the horrible things they would do to her, and how it would not even be rape, for she was no woman, but a whore, like all elven women. Now she is dressed only in the white cape taken from a slain Paladin, and although she does her best, moments of her nakedness under that flimsy garment still show through, causing her to blush and cover herself up. Strangely, there is no lust in your heart, only compassion, as you gently ease that garment back over her shoulders. "We need to go soon," you say.

You leave the smoking ruins of the camp in silence. The pyres of the dead, both the mourned and the unmourned, smolder away. "Where shall we go now?" Nim asks.

"Anywhere," you say. "Nowhere." You smile wryly. "Perhaps we shall find the rebels. They could possibly use another strong sword."

"Then we shall go there. It is ten days walk," Nim says.

You stop. "You know of the rebels?"

"They use our river to smuggle goods. This bothers you?"

"No, not at all." You shake your head as you remember the elf who died. The Church teaches that elves are cowardly fools. They were wrong about that. Perhaps they are wrong about a great many things.

Perhaps, some day, God will have a Church worthy of him at last.

------------

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