jelleneth

Torian Dawnsinger let his feet take him down the well-worn paving stones without giving them, or the surrounding countryside much thought. All of his concern was wrapped up in the small bundle he held in his arms and the half-dozen others like her that were packed into a tight circle around him, silent in their misery and fear.

The child stirred, making a pitiful mewling sound and curling tighter around herself and Torian walked into the scout's back before he realized the man had stopped. His snarl of iritation died in his throat as Jessian lifted a hand, head cocked and ear twitching. The small train of refugees fell silent, straining to hear whatever he was listening for.

Torian could just make out, far in the distance, a warbling call of birdsong. Jessian's eyes widened, nostrils flaring. "Get them off the road. Now!" His hands went immediately to his bow, readying an arrow as he fell back behind the group. Torian did not question the order, simply passed the girl in his arms off to one of the sturdier older children, freeing his hands for a fight if one came. As the last of their number vanished into the trees he spotted the first shambling members of the damned march heading down the road toward them. They fell deeper into the woods, the Farstrider now bringing up the rear. No one spoke for another three hours until they came, at last, to a small clearing with a, blessedly, uncorrupted pond at its heart. Only then did the younger children dare to ask for a rest which the ranger granted, albeit reluctantly.

Torian stooped at the pool to fill a waterskin before returning to the children. The little one's fever seemed to have broken. A small blessing. Her eyes fluttered open, and she drank a bit of the offered water before slipping back into sleep. Another child tugged at his sleeve. "How much further?"

He glanced up at the ranger who made a small, non-comittal gesture. "At this pace.. sometime tomorrow evening. At the earliest. Provided they haven't relocated deeper into the woods."

"And our parents will meet us there?" Those large, innocent eyes searched his face, piercing his heart like a bolt, bringing the pain and despair flooding in. He did not let it reach his eyes, kept them gentle, comforting.

"Of course they will." He could feel Jessian's glare on his back and rose to join the other man out of earshot of the young ones. "Something on your mind, ranger?"

Jessian pitched his voice not to carry, hissing at the priest through his teeth. "You're not doing them any favors. They're going to have to find out the truth sometime."

"And they will." Torian replied calmly. "In a place where they are safe and protected and surrounded by other survivors. Not a moment before that if I can help it. Let them hate me for lying. But let them hold that hope until we arrive safely at the camp. It will keep them going. Despair now is almost as deadly an enemy as the Scourge."

The ranger pursed his lips, seemed for a moment as though he were about to argue the point, then simply sighed and stalked over to kneel beside his faithful lynx, draping an arm over the beast's neck. "As you would have it, healer. I'm just the guide."

They did not speak again for the rest of the evening.

The refugee camp was a small tent city surrounding a large and well appointed cottage set deep in the woods. The property itself belonged to the Quel'wythar family. Jessian had donated it, turning what was once his private retreat from the city into a make-shift hospice. This was Torian's first stop. He placed the little one on one of the few empty beds and immediately moved to the basin standing nearby to wash his face and hands in order to join his fellow priests at their work. A hand on his shoulder made him pause. Thalia, one of the newer priestesses in training, a tiny fire-haired little thing. She was looking at him now with concern, a healer's gaze, taking in the dark smudges beneath his eyes, his sunken cheeks, the slight shaking of his hands. She shook her head.

"How long has it been since you've slept more than an hour or two at a stretch, Torian?"

He began to answer her with iritation but then shook his head and laughed instead, a dry humorless chuckle. "Days at least."

A nod. "I thought so." She pulled him gently from the basin and he allowed himself to be guided back towards the door. "We can manage without you for an evening. Go. Sleep. Eat something. I don't want to have to drag you into one of these beds when you collapse from self-neglect."

The lecture made him smile, even as it stabbed at him, reminding him of his father's less than gentle commands during his training. "All right." He nodded, moving the rest of the way from the cottage on his own.

A week ago he would have argued with her, sworn that he knew his own limits, called on her rank and her birth and her youth as evidence that he was more qualified to make such decisions. Now? He was just too tired. His eyes scanned the crowd milling about between the tents, looking for the boy with the basket of bread and fruit. A quick bite, and then sleep. Maybe he was tired enough not to dream.

When he spied a familiar face on the edge of the crowd he thought, at first, that it might have been a trick of the light, or his weary mind conjuring familiar features on a stranger's face. Then the figure turned and there was no mistaking the haughty and imperious visage of Aerlion Brightwatch.

The man looked as though he had aged a century in the week since Torian had last seen him. And he was alone. It was that last fact that drew the priest to him, drew him to follow the Magister into his tent, heart jerking in his chest when he found no other occupant. There was no greeting or polite banter, his words fell out of him without his consent; barbed, venomous and hungry. "Where is she?"

Aerlion turned, swaying on his feet, eyes flitting like frightened rabbits around the tent before finally settling on Torian. "Dawnsinger? Where did? Who? How did.."

He gripped the man by the shoulders, giving him a fierce shake. "Rosal!" The words came out in a frenzied rush, pleading with the man to tell him the empty dread filling his chest was misplaced. "Your wife! Where is she?"

The mage hung limply in his grip for a moment. "The Rangers were leaving. They were the last. And she, she turned and she ran back.." His eyes found focus, locking on the priest's face with a crazed intensity. "I shouted for her. She wouldn't listen. Kept going on about a necklace. The Rangers were leaving! They were leaving.."

"You left her.." His hands dropped from Aerlion's shoulders, leaving the mage to sink to the floor, shaking and stammering. He could see the scene perfectly in his own mind. Her slender form vanishing into the crowds, coppery hair whipping behind her, face turning to look back, to call to a man who was already gone. "You left her."

He did not hear the repeated rationalizations pouring from the mage's mouth. He heard nothing but her voice calling out, saw nothing but her face, felt nothing but the wrenching thunder of his own traitor heart still beating when by all rights it should have stopped days past when the heart he wed it to had surely.. surely..

His hands closed around Aerlion's throat. He had trusted this man to care for her. Trusted to his wealth, his station, his power to protect her and keep her safe. He had trusted. He had been a fool. Her face kept dancing across his vision. He did not see the mage's eyes widen in shock and horror, did not feel the hands scrabbling at his arms, clawing, freezing, burning, in vain. He felt, saw, heard nothing. Until it was done.

When his vision cleared again he felt nothing at all. The corpse on the ground with it's blackened face and bulging eyes stirred nothing in him. No hatered, no remorse, no pity, nothing. The blistered skin on his arms may as well have belonged to another person. He called for the Light to heal the burns. It would not come. He felt nothing at all. Hollow, empty, nothing. He pulled his sleeves down to cover the marks, and pushed his way out of the tent. Sleep.

The elves in the crowd were ghosts to him, indistinct obstacles between him and his cot, he pushed past them without a thought until something tugged at his sleeve and brought him up short, the tugging bringing the pain of the burns roaring in at full force. He spun to find the source of it and his gaze fell on a tear-streaked young face.

"I can't find them.." she sobbed. "I looked and looked.." The child tugged at his sleeve again, and the pain lanced across his arm. Instinctively he jerked it from her grip and she stumbled back, blinking up at him, hurt and confused.

He knelt beside her, clenching his teeth around the pain as she returned to cling at him. "They're gone." He whispered, words coming out more harshly than intended. The apology he sent after them sounded hollow. The child pulled away from him, that same expression on her face again.

"You said.."

"He shook his head. "I know. And I'm sorry. But the city is gone. The King is dead. The Sunwell destroyed. We're all that's left. We have to keep going. Somehow.."

"Liar!" The word tore out of her, her little hand striking out and Torian fell back onto his rump, clutching at his bleeding nose as she vanished into the crowd.

He pulled the tattered shreds of his dignity around himself and moved toward his tent again, aching for emptiness.