[Mkguild] Dream's Aria: Dark Interlude (3 of 3)

[Ryx]

            Egland sighed, his past was past, his life and existence was 
dashed.  What, now, those secrets he had for years shepherded carefully in the 
vaults of his mind?  Looking once more at his hands the elk knight continued.  
“He understood my needs, as well, dancing around their edges knowing more than I 
and letting me come to grips with myself, to understand what it was awakening 
within my heart.  For a year we studied and denied the truth.
            “I came across the history of Lequon en Nahmir one day and while 
reading asked Namir, as he had asked only me to call him, about the similarity 
between the name from history and the one he had chosen for himself.  That was 
when he told me about his Prince Lequon, to whom he was Namir.  He related the 
actual steppes version of the history, not the emptied dry treatise I had read.  
That was the day our denials fell apart.”
            Egland shrugged helplessly, staring into the darkness of the water 
lapping at his chest, the armor of his secrets cast aside for the first time in 
a decade.  Not since the day Bryonoth found him grieving the loss of Namir when 
the young priest was assigned far from Yesulam had he spoken to another about 
their relationship as aught but tutor and student.
            Dream’s voice was startlingly close, “And that was what, eh?  A 
fling?  Any empty tryst between friends?” the marten asked silkily but with a 
hidden, dangerous edge.  “What is this I sense, shame?  Disgust?  Unaccepted 
truths of what was?”
            “No!” Egland hissed, leaning away from the unexpected proximity of 
that challenging voice, affronted at the intimation that his relationship with 
Namir was a hollow one.  “Shame in silence!  He was my ajhes ts’amut!” He turned 
toward the minstrel’s challenging voice.  “My ajhes and in silence I held that 
to my heart, even when he was wrenched from me!”  The elk thumped his breast 
with one hand sending forth a wave of water.  “He was my D’ahshan, secreted 
though it was, as it must have been.”  His hand lashed out and poked Dream in 
the middle of the chest with surprising accuracy. “But you, you were his 
Loquon!  I was never that.  You were the ghost that haunted his eyes when he 
looked at me.” Egland’s hand dropped to the water.  “How could I ever compare?  
How could I be his prince when his prince was dead?”
            Rubbing his assaulted chest Dream peered at Egland through the 
darkness, “Dead?”
            “Namir was hostage to the Sutt lord for many years, his Loquon was 
the youngest of the Sutt line.”  Egland rubbed his face with both hands.  
“Assassins cut a bloody swath through that line some seven years agone.  Namir 
was stricken with grief for his lost Prince.”  Egland lowered his hands slowly 
and turned to stare into the unrevealing murk toward the minstrel.  “You.”
            “Me, aye.” Dream nodded from the darkness nearby.
            “You, his Loquon, escaped.”  Egland grunted softly, “You are the 
sole heir to all that your father conquered.”  He looked toward the minstrel, 
“Malger.”
            “Aye, you’ve discovered a secret, a dark past I repudiated long, 
long ago.  Malger en Persionne du Fuane Sutt, last blood of the line and heir to 
a dukedom I’ve no desire to hold.”
            “Archdukedom, by the laws of Pyralia and writ of the King.  He 
petitioned Yesulam nigh nine years ago after the Regent laid the title upon 
him.”
            “I care not.  I divested myself of the name when Namir was banished 
to Yesulam and I to Silvassa.” Dream sighed angrily, then chuffed a rueful 
laugh.  “And here I ended up, fleeing the assassin’s cold blade after so many 
thoughts of ending my own life.”
            “Namir would never countenance such an act, nor Eli.”
            “I am no follower of the way, sir, though force fed it my first 
twenty years.  It was for Namir’s memory I did not.”
            Egland nodded slowly, “For Namir’s memory you do honor.”  He trailed 
into silence for a moment and issued a short cough of pained laughter as well.  
Had laughter not escaped his throat a sorrowed moan would have.  “Hear us!  Here 
these two lost, destitute souls lament love lost.  A Knight of the Holy See and 
spurned Duke’s son, decrying the memory of a love neither could ever 
acknowledge.  Ahh, Eli, what sad brothers we make.”
            Hands grasped Egland’s elongated elk muzzle in a gentle but strong 
touch, “Do not grieve that love, ts’amut, but the blindness that cannot see its 
truth.” Dream said earnestly to the knight’s captured muzzle, breath smelling of 
wine.  “We loved and lost but we did love, and we were loved, with honest 
hearts.”  Egland felt a momentary thrill of fear when his face was touched, fear 
of what might come and anticipation that it might.  His heart raced with the 
compassionate touch of this odd stranger and he sat there in stunned silence 
unable to move.  After a moment the hands dropped to his broad shoulders.
            “What are we?”  Dream asked after a momentary pause, his face still 
close to Egland’s own but lost in darkness.  The knight could not find a ready 
answer, captured by the smaller minstrel’s proximity, his unseen presence.  
“What are we, sir knight?” he asked again
            “Ts –“ Egland choked softly, bowing his head and feeling tears in 
his eyes, but not tears of sorrow any longer.  “Ts’amutai.” He finally managed 
to answer in a hushed voice.
            “Ts’amutai, Princes to a lost King.” Dream intoned, “Brothers.”
 
 
            Sir Yacoub Egland was comfortable.  For the first time in a long 
time he felt an easing in his heart and no pain in his body.  Of course, 
however, what he did feel was wet; very wet.  Warm water embraced him from hoof 
to chest and lapped just below his shoulders.
            His head rested on something soft and warm and dry.  Something that 
moved slowly against his cheek and filled his ear with the steady rush of a 
heartbeat.  Without moving the elk knight blinked open his eyes.  One eye was 
greeted with cream-hued fur while the other beheld the slack-jawed countenance 
of the slumbering minstrel.
            The pine marten, who called himself Dream Serpent or Serpent Dream 
without particular care which was pre- or surname, was sprawled along the rim of 
the bathing pool with the boneless grace given to felines and mustelids in equal 
measure.  Egland’s head lay pillowed upon the marten’s furry chest looking 
toward his chin.  He decidedly refrained from contemplating the awakening sight 
he would have beheld had he been facing the opposite direction upon realizing 
that they were both still quite naked.  One of the marten’s hands draped in the 
water in which Egland still reclined while the other was tossed akimbo across 
his antlers.
            While he stared at the marten’s indecorously slack-jawed expression 
Dream awoke, muzzle clicking while he roughed his tongue across his pallate.  He 
blinked once before squinting at the light spilling in from the quartet of 
dew-fogged clerestory windows high above.
 “Mmbwuagh!” Dream exclaimed, throwing his dry arm across his eyes.  “Who put in 
windows?!”  Egland lifted his head once his antlers were released, leaning 
forward to stretch.  “Ugh, my head throbs like Kommoloth’s damned forge.”  The 
marten rubbed his eyes and looked away from the light streaming across his face 
and setting the healthy sheen of his fur aglow.  “Are you well, sir knight?”
Egland studiously looked everywhere but at the unclothed minstrel by the easy 
habit of decades practicing.  “Quite.  A night soaking in hot water does 
wonders.”
Dream chuffed and sat up to stretch as well, turning to drop his footpaws in the 
water.  “Ah yes, tenderized like stew meat, eh?  Your legs?”
“Not for eating, tender or no.” Egland smiled lazily and looked up toward the 
foggy windows.  By the angle of the light it was either noon or shortly after.  
“Coe is going to be terribly wroth!  I’ve been gone from the infirmary near half 
a day!”
“Hmmm, and the better for it too.” Dream slid into the water.
“Yes, my legs are still weak, but do not ache so.”  Something tapped his elbow 
to bring his attention away from the gables.  The marten was proffering a wooden 
basin full of some viscous looking yellow glop the consistency of lard.  “That 
is the most vile looking soap I have ever seen.”
Dream barked a laugh, “Looks revolting, but smells marvelous.  It’s a damn sight 
better than that hard pack you’ve been using, and easier on the fur.”  Egland 
peered at it dubiously.  The minstrel was right, however, it did smell 
pleasantly floral.  “You went looking for a bath and got some hours of anguish 
and memories.  Let’s set that to rights.”  Dream shoved the tun into Egland’s 
hands, grasped his elbow with one hand and pushed him toward the edge of the 
pool.
“Ah, Malger,” Egland grunted with trepidation, looking back over his shoulder.
“Dream, ts’amut, not Malger.” Dream leaned around to dip a gob of the viscid 
looking slime from the tun.
“Dream, then, ah – I can bathe myself.”
Slapping the soap between Egland’s shoulder blades Dream splashed water up onto 
his back, “I do hope so, because there’s a lot of you to wash so get to it.”  
Strong hands began working firmly along his upper back and Egland grumbled at 
himself for finding it inordinately pleasant.  “I wash your back, you wash 
mine.”  Dream’s fingers were slender yet strong and skillfully nimble as they 
raked the frothing soap into Egland’s fur, “Unless, of course, old Nasoj’s 
little gift has made you a good bit more flexible even than myself.  Sound 
fair?”  Enjoying the scrubbing massage Egland could only grunt a begrudging 
affirmative.
With assistance bathing was a passably brief affair, Egland found, but rinsing 
all of the thick flowery fragrant soap from his pelt actually took some laps the 
length of the pool.  Likewise drying took a considerable effort as the water 
wanted to cling to his now clean coat.  So it was when they emerged from the 
baths to find their discarded garments both were more than slightly damp.
Dream scooped up the knight’s discarded tabard first.  While Egland leaned on 
his crutches the marten untangled the heavy drape of fabric and glanced over at 
him.  “Well, now, we don’t stink anymore but this thing,” he shook the tabard 
and made a disgusted face, “needs a good laundering.”  Shaking his head at the 
soiled condition of the tabard Dream approached.  Strangely Egland felt no 
qualms of shame at the marten’s rather blatant examination as he neared.  A 
small smile of vain pride at being thusly admired pulled at the corners of his 
lips.
Dream caught his small, enigmatic smile while he draped the tabard of the 
knight’s shoulders and affixed it in place.  Egland quirked a thickly lashed 
eyebrow with a sardonic twitch of his muzzle and was surprised to see the 
marten’s ears back and whiskers flatted in acute embarrassment.
The minstrel coughed to clear his throat, grinning at his being caught looking.  
“Welladay, ts’amut, the Duke’s moot should be concluding come sunset so I need 
to find fresh raiment for the inevitably inebriating banquet to follow.” He 
crossed to the sapphire and azure heap of expensive fabrics he had warn the 
previous night.  Egland watched for a few moments, not drawn to habitually 
casting his gaze everywhere else, while Dream sinuously shrugged into baggy 
blouse and leggings.  “When would be a fair time to attend you?”
Egland blinked, “Attend me?”  One ear backed in confusion and his antlered head 
tilted.
“Your viola?” Dream laughed while worrying a knotted lace out of his doublet.  
“You’ve still much to re-learn, and I’ve in mind another instrument for you.”
“Any time sobriety befits you, ts’amut.” Egland smiled, placing his right wrist 
upon his left breast and bowing awkwardly on his crutches.
“Ah, that being any time no banquet is in the offing.” Malger set aside his 
uncooperative doublet and circled the brazier to stand before Egland.  With one 
hand he laid the tips of his fingers alongside Egland’s chin.  “Until such time, 
ts’amut, rest easy and recover swiftly.”  Egland smiled fondly at the touch and 
turned away.
As he passed the archway leading out he noticed a torch, unlit and cobweb 
festooned, in the sconce.  He said nothing of it.
 
“Welcome back, sir Egland.”  Said the master physician, a raccoon named Coe, 
upon Egland’s crutching walk through the door, this time without fouling his 
antlers.  “We had some worry after you when you did not return from the baths.”
“I was well, Master Coe.  I encountered a friend after becoming lost in the 
corridors.  We walked and wiled away some hours in conversation.”
“I see.” Coe murmured disapprovingly.  “Who was this talkative walker who 
wanders Metamor’s halls at the high hour and delays a patient’s timely return to 
his physician’s care?”
Egland stopped at the raccoon’s irritated burr.  “The minstrel who has been 
assisting me with my instrument and coming to grips with… well, this.” He waved 
one hand at his physique.
“Dream what’s-his-name, the master of the Sensates?” Coe gaped in aghast shock, 
“Sir Egland I cannot caution you strongly enough to have care with that one, he 
is –“
The Elk rounded on the raccoon, looming over him with a hard stare.  “A friend, 
Sir!  He is a friend, Master Coe, and I daresay I have scarce few of them in 
this accursed place.” He rumbled furiously, voice pitched low out of care for 
the other patients but rough with the elk’s ire, forcing the startled raccoon 
back a pace.  “With my master dead, the Bishop my only remaining leader 
comatose, and me twisted into this freakish body I’ve nowhere to go, and no one 
with which to converse beyond those who seek me out here.
“I’ve the count of my one hand,” the knight held up one hoof-hand angrilly, 
thickened digits splayed, “of this place to even consider the appellation of 
friend, healer.  I will not have you decry the minstrel in my presence.” Egland 
continued to loom forcing Coe back another step.
“As you wish, milord.” The healer said at length in a flat monotone.
“Very well.  I have not broken my fast during my time away.  Have food brought 
to my room.”  Egland finished as he turned away and hobbled toward his recovery 
room, “And send someone to recover my garments, they are in need of laundering.”
Coe, affronted by the sudden and unexpected outburst from the heretofore patient 
and quiet knight, could only nod. “Yes, milord.”
 
Fin.


      

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