Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody - Child of Blood

Each morning she ran the steppes and the foothills with her sword across her back, training her body in stamina and speed, growing stronger and faster as she raced in the clear air of the Bolglands. She could feel herself improving; it was a heady feeling, though the regimen was tiring. Now she was seeking a place to run again, but this time, rather than running to new endurance and ability, she felt an overwhelming need to run away.

Achmed’s new kingdom was a nightmarish place, and the dreams that haunted her sleep were growing stronger. Rhapsody could no longer bear the thought of going to bed at night. She had considered bunking in with Jo, but decided against it for fear her night terrors would frighten the girl.

Achmed and Grunthor were away from the Cauldron much of the time now, leaving her with little recourse but sleeping alone, either in the cold halls of the stony seat of power, or in Elysian. So, after dinner the thought had occurred to her that perhaps she could outrun the nightmares, force herself into a state of utter exhaustion and be too tired even to dream.

Standing on the heath now, though, it was difficult to remember that she was there because of any looming unpleasantness. The grassy meadow was awakening from the long sleep of winter, and the setting sun drenched the highgrass with a golden glow that made it seem touched by a divine hand.

The first flowers of spring were beginning to emerge, and their colors dotted the hillside like a shy rainbow waiting for an invitation to become glorious. Rhapsody bent and sang to them, giving them the beckoning they were awaiting. As the blossoms opened in response to her song, one that Llauron had taught her, she marveled at the beauty of these lands, wondering whether the Bolg ever stopped to appreciate it.

She stood up straight and spun around, her arms in the clear air above her, drinking in the sight of night coming to the Teeth and the surrounding fields. The world lay below at her feet, stretching out in a vast expanse for as far as she could see, butting up against the jagged peaks of the mountains that guarded the old Cymrian domain.

Rhapsody tried to imagine what this place had been like then, when the Firbolg still lived far away in the cavelands, and the people of her homeland tended this realm. How unlike Serendair this was, with its rocky steppes and mountainous fields of heather and scrub. Had the Cymrians felt at home here? she wondered, wishing she knew the secret if they had. Were they able to forget the home they had left, and console themselves in this new place, because they had brought their families with them?

A stabbing pain shot through Rhapsody’s heart, and once more the reason for her climb came to mind. She needed to find a way to silence her nightmares.

She had taken to leaving Daystar Clarion out of its sheath, burning brightly in the corner of her chamber within the Cauldron, or her bedroom in Elysian. It provided a source of warmth and some minimal comfort when she woke in the night. That solace was offset by the guilt she felt over using an ancient weapon as nothing more than a night-light, like the candle her mother had left burning when in childhood she had suffered a bad dream. Then it had only been a rare occasion; now it occurred every night, without exception.

The dreams were now only rarely of Michael or his like. Instead, what tormented her sleep were images of home, and people now dead a thousand years or more. Sometimes she would hear them calling her, her parents or her brothers, waiting in endless sorrow for her to return.

Other nights she would dream of the Seren War, the destruction that came to her homeland just after she left, and wondered what had befallen her family. Had they lived to see its end, or had they fallen victim to it? What did her mother mean when she said the family was destroyed in fire? From these nightmares she would wake screaming, particularly when her imagination filled in the answers.

But worst of all were the nostalgic dreams, the ones so real she was sure she was home, that it was this place that was the phantasm, and she was safe within the bosom of her family and the life she had known.

Often in these dreams she spent a good deal of time convincing herself and those around her that her escape had really happened, that her new horrific life was real, begging them to hold her fast from having to come back to it, only to find herself alone and awake in the darkness of the Cauldron again. And then, against Achmed’s direct command, she would dissolve into secret, forbidden tears of utter agony and despair.

Not tonight , she told herself grimly. I will not go through this again tonight . She surveyed the heath, watching the warm spring wind whip across it, billowing the new petals on the flowers, and she plotted a running path. She wished she had changed into her training clothes before she left the Great Hall; she was still attired in the soft gray gown that clung to her torso but flared at the sleeves and skirt. It was not really suitable for running, but it would do.

Rhapsody began to run. In blind, desperate abandon she fled into the wind, racing to nowhere in particular. She spread her arms wide and felt the wind catch her sleeves, snapping them out like the wings of a bird, rushing across her chest and through her hair.

The sensation was immensely freeing. She turned away from the wind and reached back, pulling out the ribbon that bound her tresses into her normal staid ponytail. The wind took her hair down gently, like a lover, and blew the strands all around her, catching the sunlight and reflecting it back to the sky.

She ran with the wind behind her, billowing her dress and hair, until she reached the southern end of the heath. Then she turned and ran back into it again, her hair streaming behind her like the flag on a high mast. She followed the sinking sun across the field, running west, dancing over clumps of grass and large stones. The wind danced with her, blowing her dress in patterns of gray waves on a storm-tossed sea.

Rhapsody twirled and leapt, feeling an inner grace guide her steps, hearing the innate music of the wind. It called to a place in her soul that felt tight, pinched in the effort to keep her heart from breaking. She loosed the bonds and that part of her soul broke free and joined the headlong plunge as she ran toward the night.

She ran around the perimeter of the wide heath, no longer dancing, but intent now on attaining speed. Her nearness to the edge of the chasm didn’t bother her in the least; there were moments when she almost wished the wind would blow her off the plateau and into the crevice. She stood still, letting the disappearing sunlight bathe her face. She imagined herself falling through the Teeth, watching the sky grow farther and farther away from her as she soared to the ground. She ran the sun down, not letting up, as sweat poured from her and cooled when the wind hit her body, the breeze turning chilly with the coming of night.

After three score and twelve laps around the meadow Rhapsody felt she could run it with her eyes closed, and for several moments she did. She could see the shadows moving across the heath, growing longer as they touched the pointed outcroppings of the peaks that made up the Teeth.

Just as she felt the exhaustion that was her goal begin to come over her, she ran through a shadow and almost into an obelisk shape that had appeared in the field from nowhere; in the darkness she had to come to a stumbling halt to avoid colliding with it. Her arms spun wildly as she struggled to regain her balance. The shape reached out and grabbed her shoulders. Rhapsody wrenched herself free and, with a fluid motion born of years in the street, flicked her dagger forward into her palm. She faced the gray figure with wide eyes, panting wildly, working to retain her composure.