Madness is but a dream

[Aeron Ktrenna]

The soft wind carried with it the first, delicate and tantalizing scents of fall. It caressed the petals of the flowers in her garden, whispered to each one of the coming kiss of winter, of the long, deep sleep. She envied them, that woman walking aimlessly amidst the fading blooms of the garden, envied their brief but brilliant existence. Hers was far too long, and yet, would it be long enough? How many years must she live in order to wash her soul clean? Who would tend the garden when she was gone? Would it revert to the wild state from which she had so meticulously driven back? She shook her head in a vain attempt to clear her mind, or force her thoughts to connect. The effort was for naught, in fact, it only seemed to make things worse. She drifted along with her mind once again; backward in time, to a place she had not been in a very long while.

"He escaped My Lady." The man stood trembling upon the ground aside the sleek, bay charger, though he did not stutter in the delivery of his words. He was afraid, he was very afraid, but had he stuttered, his death would have been certain.

"What do you mean," a meaningful pause was felt as a shuddering jump of his heart up from his chest and into his throat, "he escaped?"

"He escaped," the man repeated as if by clinging to those simple words, he might live to see the sun set. Unfortunately, Aeron wanted elaboration and her patience did not go far. Mistakes were not tolerated. The man did not live to draw his next breath.

"You, find that spawn of the king's loins and drag him back here. Alive." The order was barked out at the stunned mercenary staring at his comrade. It was disconcerting the way his comrade's head had rolled beneath the hooves of the bay. She would leave the body for the vultures to pick at. The running joke among the mercenaries of Lyrion's armies was of the constant presence of the carrion eaters that often were seen flying overhead. He beat it the hell out of there as fast as his legs could carry him, not once looking back.
It had been a long hard war, with many smaller battles fought along the way. This land proved to be more difficult to conquer and its people more defiant than Lyrion had thought, her people denying him that final victory with every breath they drew. The king was not only a just ruler, he had the adoration of his people and they rose up against Lyrion with such unexpected fury and fervor in their determination to drive him back. No amount of demoralization be bestowed upon their souls seemed to deter them for long, not even when he'd taken the king himself, and sent the nobles who fought on gifts of the king's body in pieces. No, not even this stopped them from opposing him, every single effort to strip them of their pride and courage, destroy their spirits, only seemed to strengthen them. Give them new purpose.

That night the boy-king was dragged before the ruthless woman who had so brutally murdered his father while he watched. Tyldin was all of twelve years old and his life, up until Lyrion's armies had invaded his father's kingdom, led by Aeron, had been a good life. He stood before her now; his one eye was swollen shut from the beatings already inflicted on his young body. The mercenaries, who had caught him hiding in the woods not far off, had taken her order to drag him back quite literally. His body ached and burned in numerous places, dirt and small stones had been ground into his open wounds from being dragged. It had been his plan to hide there, until the army moved on and then seek out his uncle's estate, two days journey to the South. Tyldin's mother had died several years past, and for the first time since her death, the boy was glad she had died. Better that than to have lived to suffer the fate the rumors spoke of, at this woman's hands. He watched her through the clear grey eyes so like his father's, wondering if she had any kind of feeling for any living thing.
"I'm not afraid of you, you know." Well, that was only a partial lie. Tyldin was only so afraid; he knew what his fate would be.

"No?" She laughed. "Well, then boy, I assume you are not afraid to die, because that is all you have to fear from me." Aeron studied him through twin pools of earthen hues, the light from the torches and candles in her tent, making the gold flecks in her irises glint sharply in contrast. He was every bit as defiant as his father; she saw that in the determined set of his chin. But it was something more that gave her pause here. It was the way he faced her, he was obviously scared, she had seen right through the lie. Still, he lifted his head up, stood straight and tall, nor he did not beg for his life in this moment. He could have. What child would not have whimpered or wept?

"I'm not afraid to die." There was in those grey eyes of his, something of what had been present in his father's, the words spoken by the son almost an echo of the father's.

Late into the night, when the fires where banked and much of the army was lost in sleep, Aeron watched on in grim silence as a would-be king, slipped away in the darkness. She stood for a long time after, staring into the night as if it would whisper wisdom to her from secret places. The boy-king had learned the value of courage this day. Granted, he might not live to appreciate it, but he had, at the least, learned it. It was for Tyldin, a trial of the spirit, one that is either passed or failed.

For Aeron, it had been an epiphany.

Her thoughts were not making any sense, jumbled and scattered, making leaps from one wild extreme to another. Like broken connections, the frayed and torn ends ended abruptly, the thought itself dying in a spasm of convulsions. The faces of the past appeared and walked beside her, offering counsel. They spoke of long ago events as if the past were still the present for them, these wandering spirits, restless and erratic as Aeron, their thoughts jumping about from place to place as well. But it was the child she had spared so very long ago, the future king, whose countenance haunted her most.
She would not have known him, for he came to her as an old man. Long since robbed of the youth she had seen, but not the courage. No, his courage had been honed and sharpened over a lifetime of living; the boy had grown into a man and had gained wisdom in those long years of his life.
Most would have found the idea of being counseled by ghosts of the long dead past, utterly insane. Perhaps Aeron was losing her mind, for unlike the spirit and the body, the mind is far more fragile. But she had spared the life of this restless soul, and it had been a defining moment in her life as well as his. Maybe now, when she was in sore need of such counsel, he came to her from beyond the grave, to repay the very debt that kept him chained and bound to this in-between existence.

Whatever his reasoning might have been, he took great pains to make clear his purpose in coming. For hours, they walked and spoke, long into the deepest hours of the night, carried on such an intimate conversation one could never have had with the living. At times, each grew silent, lost in some quiet contemplation or some understanding gained. What might have been said, what could have been said, no one but the two of them might ever know, for Aeron would never speak of this spectre to anyone. She knew he would not come again, for by this act, he was free.
He left only a few hours before dawn, a quiet fading of his incorporeal form; dissipated like the mist rolling over the ground under her feet. His departure, as his arrival, left her no comfort, serving only to remind her of an existence spent, for the most part, alone.

Aeron returned to her room, took what she needed and left the house. There was, an old abandoned ruin some ten miles or more away, and with luck, she could reach it by dawn. It was a decaying, misery of a house, sullen and angry; the locals said it was haunted. She did not care, for that simply meant no one would come there. She would be alone, and perhaps her jumbled thoughts would stop, reform themselves in logical patterns that made sense, unlike the mad, broken ramblings that danced in erratic steps through her mind now. Carried with her were enough of the potent herbs to knock her out for hours. Aeron intended to sleep undisturbed through the day and the night that followed, for she was exhausted beyond the ability to think clearly, or even think at all.

By dawn, Aeron was collapsed in a sheltered corner of the ruined house, amid the rubble and debris. It was the only section of the house, where the roof was still intact overhead. Her mind was at last still, and oblivion, even the herb-induced oblivion, was pleasant. Her last thoughts entertained the possibility of madness, and in a way, she might have almost welcomed it.

[Aeron Ktrenna]

There were tomes, scrolls, and scraps of parchment scattered about the room that served as an office, in a haphazard fashion, as if someone had searched the room hastily. All this chaos was stolen over a period of years, from various places, including Lyrion’s own work and theories. In her never-ending quest to determine exactly how she had been altered, Aeron considered anything she did, a means to an end, and therefore justified. This was not the first time she had gone through all this material, but it was the first time she sought a very specific answer.
Nothing. Hours of pouring over the volumes and papers had brought no new information to light. Not a single mention of what might or could happen to her, not even in theory, if the mage who had created her, was gone. Apparently, that possibility had never been considered, by any mage. At least not in any of these writings, not that she could see.
So, what was going on with her? Why the apparitions? Aeron was reasonably sure they were not there, not really, just hallucinations.
A resigned sigh was exhaled slowly; a frustrated sound if ever there was one. Maybe she was making this too complicated; maybe it was just a simple case of fatigue. Her mind and body had been pushed until she thought she might break, and this had gone on for an extended period, months on end. Throw into so much chaos and loss, the difficulties of adapting to a very new land, a new way of life, and Donovan, and perhaps that might just account for these hallucinations. Maybe, she really was not sure, and sorely missed the expertise of her healers. Two of them had been very gifted in understanding the mind, how it works.

Another soft sigh of breath and the woman rose from the floor, where she had been sitting cross-legged, surrounded by the work of those skilled and wise. She made her way over to the window, and pressed her forehead against the glass. Somewhere, out there, was a hunter, so he had told her. He came not just for the man, but now he wanted her dead as well. She knew the tactics, had seen them used before, understand the inner workings of this man’s mind, at least to some degree. He might know a great deal about Donovan, but she doubted he knew very little about her, only what he had probably observed. That meant, he had no idea who she really was, or what she was capable of. She was also female, and considering this man’s origins, he would more than likely underestimate her. Or he would be overconfident in his own abilities, she hoped for at least one of the two. Aeron also clung tenaciously to the hope he would come for her first.
Donovan was a proud man, and he could fight, there was no doubt of that. But this man was the kind who dedicated his life to the dance, a thing she understood more intimately than anyone could begin to imagine. Men like that, well, they were not easy to beat, and one was only a match for them in combat if one was as dedicated in the art of it as they were.
She frowned at a pair of specters walking past the window, chatting as if they were a perfectly normal part of the outside view. For a few moments, there was an odd sound, Aeron gently knocking her forehead against the glass pane. A sudden giggle, and another, and then all out laughter followed. For a moment, she was positively giddy, helpless to stem the tide of laughter that consumed her. Oh this was rich, there was a dedicated and brutal assassin out there, hunting them both, Donovan was worried and Aeron? She was losing her mind. At that moment, a disembodied head floated into view, and the woman nearly exploded once again in laughter.

Indeed, this was the worst possible timing. Donovan needed to know; yet, it would only add to his burden of concern. But if she did not tell him, it could be much worse. After her humor had settled back down, Aeron realized she had to talk to him about it. She was, reasonably sure having sorted through just about every scrap of information at her feet, this situation was only temporary, and had nothing to do with Lyrion’s imprisonment. No, she was fairly certain it was the result of too much, too fast, and little time to adjust, mourn, or come to terms with any of it. At least, that was her conclusion based on the information and facts she had at her disposal. In theory, it should pass, but how much worse would it get before it did? That Aeron had no way of knowing, and could not even hazard an educated guess as to the answer.

She had to hold it together, or find a solution, one way or the other. Aeron would, without doubt, have to fight this hunter. And it might very well take all her skills, every trick she knew, and quite possibly even a few new techniques to beat him. If she lost, Donovan would also die, for the man would not stop until he was dead.

Action. She needed to do something and force herself to focus. Aeron’s gaze drifted over toward her sword, leaning against the wall nearby. Without another thought, she stood, retrieved it and made for the barn. She could clear out a space in the hayloft and practice in private, away from prying eyes; the one thing she knew would help her focus.

On her way across the yard, she was using the flat of her blade to swat the air, muttering curses beneath her breath.

If only they would be quiet, just for a little while.

[Aeron Ktrenna]

There are more things between heaven and earth than even those gifted in magic or skilled in the art of it, comprehend. Certain portions of the mind that can become attuned without effort or practice. Perhaps, it is not even the mind, rather something beyond mere physical limitations, but that is a debate better lift to those whose lives are spent in pursuit of such knowledge.
Among those peculiarities, those innate abilities, there are variations and degrees; this can become both a gift and a curse for those who must bear them. Emotions, in any race, transcend many barriers, and can even serve as a form of communication, if someone has the gift to perceive such a thing. Someone far more easily discerns lies and deception with empathic abilities than someone who does not have such a gift.
But for an empath, the emotional pain and the emotional trauma of others, can cause them untold agonies, it can even kill. It can destroy their lives, tear their minds apart and leave them with very little understanding of the line between what is real and what is not. The more sensitive the empath, the worse it can be, for their range of sensations runs far beyond mere emotions. Good. Evil. It all becomes one in the same, and in the extreme can destroy the bearer of the gift. Asylums are full of such poor, lost souls.

Never once had it occurred to Aeron, her proximity to something so evil would do her harm. She had chosen the forest because of its seclusion, because the once-grand estate she had bought offered a sanctuary in a strange, relatively unknown land. All these years spent among both the light and the dark had never truly damaged her. She sold herself the delusion of safety, how strong-willed she was, how adept at keeping the emotions of others distant. No, she never considered the simple fact that maybe, just maybe, those so close, were careful, that they kept the things that could truly hurt her away from her. Even the darkest of her people, no matter how evil and malign their ambitions and intentions might have been, she was treated as a sanctum. Aeron would never realize how carefully she had been protected and guarded, even from herself, and she would most likely never have that rare honor again.

All this time, she was quite aware of the rumors, the whispering voices of others in the town, at the tavern, even her own servants muttered beneath their breath about the evil in the forest. Were it not for the generous wage she paid, none of them would most likely work in that house. But these people could not afford to pass up such a rare opportunity, and for those who performed the duty of running her household, life was much better than prior to her arrival. Good food blessed their tables, the clothing upon their backs was made from better cloth, and they had hope now, the hope of giving their children better lives than they had lived. But even all this did not stop the fear these simple people felt each and every time they walked the road from town to her estate. Some simply chose to live there, sleeping in the smaller cottage off the main house, rather than risk the daily walk back and forth.
Despite their caution, despite the whispered warnings, Aeron had found only a morbid sort of amusement in it all. What did she have to fear of the dark? Nothing, she had told herself and others all these weeks, not a single thing. Not once, not one single time, had she ever taken into account her empathic sense, the possible effect all this might have on her mind. Fatigue, she was still telling herself, exhaustion, the guilt still felt each time she thought of her son, how she failed him, failed to give him all that he needed to become something other than a twisted shadow of bitter night.

And even now, as the voices became louder, incessant, the dead faces more gruesome, she still did not make the connection, still inwardly denied it was remotely possible. After all, her will was a formidable melding of flesh, spirit and steel, what could breech that?
She had divulged the secret she hid to no one, the voices and the shades of the dead and the living haunting her. This too shall pass, she had thought, believing fully life would return to normal sooner now.

Delusions are the sheltering embrace of madness, false promises the mind makes to the soul, offering the sweetness of the lie that is accepted in place of the cold, ugly truth.

[Aeron Ktrenna]

Another night, Aeron walked the forest paths alone, driven out on some fool’s mission, so it would seem. She strode along the paths as if nothing could hinder her progress; not fear, not the darkness and most certainly not the constant prattle of the ever-present disembodied voices. So unaware, so vulnerable to the eyes watching her, the silent, black-shrouded figures following on either side, their progress through the forest matching hers step for step. Six such figures there were, and Aeron so blissfully, perfectly unaware.

It came soon enough, the inevitable attempt, for her spiraling journey down into madness was known, it had been observed. If ever the opportunity for this attempt was golden, it was now, so was the wisdom in the decision to make the move.
Each side shifted closer to the moving woman, drawing the proverbial noose tighter around her neck. To their eyes, she still seemed to be oblivious to their presence. Nothing about her movements said otherwise, there were no sly glances to either side, she pressed on straight ahead.
One cut in front of her, one slid in behind and the remaining four closed in on her right and left. The woman’s steps came to an abrupt halt, and for a moment, she stared at the one before her with a most bewildered expression upon her ageless face. Then, it came, that slow upward curve of her lips into the semblance of a smile. Both arms lifted at the same precise moment and two daggers were released from the hidden sheathes at her wrists, flying free with a force and speed to the left and right sides of her body. Each dagger found a mark, and four ink-shrouded figures remained. Nor did they hesitate for even a second, not so much as a glance at their fallen comrades, before all of them moved in on her. She gave them no time, the voices were silent and Aeron took several running steps forward, crouched and launched her body into the air as if her muscles were tightly coiled springs. Upward she flew, high enough above their heads to be well out of reach, tucking into a roll through the air and landing some ten feet in front of the man who had barred her way. No mortal could move with such speed, she was a moving blur to the eyes, but they caught sight of steel flashing brightly in the pale light of the moon. It sang that blade, as it was released, that sweet, high sound steel makes as it brushes against leather.
He spun, they all moved forward at the same time, closing the gap, determined to carry out their deed. She watched him come, bided her time until it seemed she would surely run out. A lift to her right foot, she moved directly at him and dove into a forward roll, her sword arm extended off to the side, allowing that arm and blade to roll with her body easily. Swift could not describe that motion, and she rose but halfway, sword arm coming about with a precision to be envied, flowing into a lunge as her lowered body shot forward at an upward angle. The business end of that blade found its mark; the man barely suppressed the hiss of pain as steel slid into his groin area, a mortal blow he knew. But that was not enough, for she added a vicious and cruel twist of her wrist, before it was yanked out in a savage sideways pull. He toppled to the side and two more were right behind him. Aeron rose in a fluid move and waited perhaps one or two seconds before she arced over backward, avoiding both sweeps of their swords. Her legs followed the path of her arc in a snapping motion; each booted foot was aimed for each man’s chin. She caught one; the other stepped back, only moving to press the advantage he had in that moment.
Aeron executed another back handspring to put distance between then and landed, only to rush the man the second her feet touched the ground. His sword came up to parry her driving blow, the edges of the blades meet in a clang of metal and the heat of sparks. She never gave him a moment to think; he followed the deft and sudden circling motion of her wrist, her sword, with his wrist and sword, a move that left his upper chest open and vulnerable for a few precious seconds. Her left hand was up as if to ward of blows, but he caught too late the sudden bend of her wrist. With mere feet separating them, the dagger thrown from her left hand was buried in his throat. She had been aiming for his chest, but that worked just as well.

It was only ten minutes later that the woman stood in the midst of carnage; the blood-slick ground had caused her to slip more than once. She had already searched the dead men, and found nothing. No identifying papers or marks, nothing that would tie them to any group or person. She had no way of knowing where they came from, though she had her suspicions.
But the voices were still silent, and it was in this battle, Aeron began to understand. And none of it was remotely pleasant, judging by the grim look upon her face. She chose to leave them as they were, lying in their own blood upon the cold, hard ground. It would serve as a warning, for these men were but the message. Very well, Aeron had left her own message.

She would go home, clean the cuts and lacerations, for she was not entirely unscathed. But, she was alive, and what’s more, she was on solid ground again. A lesser soul would have continued that spiraling, downward slide into madness, a journey that would inevitably lead to death.

But Aeron was a tempered soul, resilient in all the ways of survival. This was but one more trial, and she had not ever been known to fail. The voices were shut out and banished, along with the twisted evil they bore. Aeron made herself remember who and what she was, and clung to that understanding with a tenacious, unyielding grasp.

Much was learned on this night, by not one, but two.

[Aeron Ktrenna]

Dreams. All through the long nights, her dreams were a jumbled, erratic mess of images, most of which made little or no sense at all. Impossible events, improbable things, none of which seemed real, and yet some of those visions were very real. She would wake in the middle of the night, alone in her bedchamber, tangled up in sweat-soaked sheets, evidence of her own violent reactions during these periods. It was no wonder Aeron had slipped into madness for a time, between the nights and the malignant sensations she had perceived and had not been prepared to expect. Faces mingled with landscapes, and it was not very hard to conclude why this was happening.

Most of these events had never occurred, not in the sense of reality as it was. This was the conclusion she had reached as Aeron stood at the old wall, looking for a gate that had never actually existed. It never existed because that future had never happened, not in this timeline at least. It was enough to drive one utterly insane. But, it made sense, if one understood the laws and theories of the magical practice she was so familiar with. The power so crucial to the rest, the lines and pockets she had nourished and carefully groomed back home, might never have been as stable as she had originally thought them to be. There was no doubt in her mind whose hand had tipped the delicate balance, and she was now very aware he still existed. It did however ease her mind and soul greatly to know her son was still alive. Somewhere, out there, he walked and breathed, and so there was a chance she could bring him back from the precipice of destruction. If she ever found him, if she ever found a way out of here, there was an entirely new hope for him.

Her fingertips traced the old, broken wall, a touch that caused the decaying mortar to crumble and fall to the ground below. Nothing. There was nothing here, not even the remotest sign or indication of power. It had never happened, for in truth, she had not the means to make it happen. If she had, Aeron would have been long gone from this place. Nothing and no one would have had the power to make her stay, abandon those lost and possibly adrift, tossed about like sticks in a river of magic gone wild. So, the jumbled images were accepted at face value, little more than bits and pieces of a future that had not happened, and would never happen. How long, how many weeks or months she had lived this way, Aeron was not sure. There were gaps in time she could not account for, as if last month was but yesterday. The attack in the woods but a few nights ago had happened, had it not? The woman was not precisely sure, but if it had actually been real, then someone was following her progress; someone from beyond these lands knew where she was. And if that were true, the others would eventually find her. All she had to do was stay alive until they found her, a simple enough task. After all, she had spent her entire existence, thousands of years in combat, and risen to the level of a formidable, dangerous opponent. Risen to that level because for her, it was all about passion, about the dance, and it sang sweetly in her blood. Staying alive she could do.

But this? She regarded the humble stonewall, a simple relic of an old abandoned farm. And that is all it was, nothing more, proof positive of the unaltered present. It was probably best not to dwell on those gaps, those jumbled images in her dreams, better to move forward and forget. She might never truly comprehend why this had happened. In time, she would be found, and return home where she belonged.
For now, her life was not entirely unpleasant. It was more like a well-deserved rest from the hectic, fast-paced life she had known. Her current residence was nearing the completion of the renovations she had in mind; there were one or two friends, people to pass the time with.

She broke off a piece of mortar from the wall, and crumbled it to powder between her strong, supple fingers, watching as it drifted in the light breeze. A slow smile touched the woman’s full lips. Dust, only dust it was, completely at the mercy of the wind. All those images were indeed only one possible future, a road she had never taken. Nor would she travel that road should her steps bring her to it, a certain wisdom gained in all this madness. One is never too old to learn from any insight one might be fortunate enough to receive.

Aeron would never be at the mercy of the winds of fate. She would stand and let the winds buffet her, the effort futile, for never would she bend or give ground.
Turning away from the old wall, her smile grew wider, and she carried herself with the air of confidence almost lost and forgotten in the insanity of the last months. Whatever happened in the future, whatever unexpected events lingered on the distant horizon, she would deal with it all one effort at a time.
And, eventually, her world would be righted, and all things would be as they should. It was all just that simple.