A Light from the Shadows Shall Spring

R08 - Zahir Road - 


 * ''Formerly a twisting serpentine road that twisted and writhed through shadowy forest groves, over hills, and around bends so sharp as to confuse all but the most experienced pathfinders, Zahir Road has recently been rebuilt by engineers of the Imperial Watch into a modern highway that runs a mostly northwest-southeast route between Wildling Reach, Fanghill and Hedgehem. On the eastern end, an east-west stretch passes between Hedgehem and the Imperial Throughfare, while on the western end, it passes Fanghill, reaching onwards towards Wildling Reach.


 * ''The highway itself has been constructed with smooth cobbles, with a width large enough to permit four carriages at any one time; two on one side of the highway, and two on the right. To prevent flooding, the highway has also been elevated upon a man-made dyke which - given the often moist nature of the moors that roll into the distance all around the highway - are a major boon for those that follow this trade route during the colder months.


 * ''Rolling grasslands stretch away to the north and south of the road, speckled with the occasional homestead or cottage of rural-dwelling Freelanders. Patches of crops are visible, distantly, in either direction--darker, taller splotches against the paler yellow-green of the natural grass. From a vantage point on the road, the grasslands may seem endless, but if you were to be really looking for it, you might be able to spot the dark line of Dawnstar Forest rising to the south. The township of Bramblestone lies directly east of here along the length of the road, while a longer trek westward would take one towards Baluf's Juncture and Eventide Keep.

It is dark on the highway tonight. There is no breeze and, all and all, it is not the most inviting of atmospheres. But inviting or not, Justus walks. His steps are measured, the pack on his back carried with the assurances of long use.

The only light comes from the stars--thin and faint, casting barely enough to see the road at the traveler's feet as he moves along. The lack of the moons makes it seem darker, oppressive and heavy, as if the sky itself has turned to a blanket of shadow.

For a short time, Justus' footsteps are the only sounds to be heard. Not the chirrup of crickets or the calls of night birds, or even the faint rustle of the wind in the grass. But only for a short time, before, distantly, the rocking, rolling sound of an approaching wagon may be heard. If Justus were to turn, he may catch glimpse the tiny pinpoint of light--the lantern that heralds the approach.

Justus does indeed turn, and he watches the wagon with a speculative look. He shifts towards the side of the road, clear from accidental hitting, and instantly slumps his shoulders down. A new picture of weariness in travel is made.

The sound of voices might be made out as the wagon grows closer; hushed, urgent voices, speaking hardly above a whisper. As the distance continues to close, one may hear that urgency morph into the frantic, desperate whisperings of panic. And there's two of them; one the voice of a young girl, the other that of an old woman. There's a break in the conversation, a bout of painful, wracking chest-coughs, and then more whispering. Though none of the words may be made out clearly yet.

Justus casts another look over his shoulder, curiousity piqued. Now he edges out a touch further in the road, provided the wagon is proceeding at a reasonable place. A little less easily over looked.

It is. The horse--a monstrous beast of a shire, black as the night itself and eerily graceful--moves at a good clip along the road, but not quite so quickly as to mow over a passerby. Apparently, the load in the back of the wagon is a heavy one. Atop the shire, the figure of a young woman is just outlined against star-bright night. Her tone has changed to anger, but it is an anger born of fear, and of some deep conflict. "I cannot save him, Mother," she's saying. "Let him go. You will only torture him further."

"Ah, pardon me," Justus calls.

"You *must*." The old woman's voice is faint, thin and edged with physical pain. "You have--" Justus' call parts the night and the conversation like a sharpened blade, and complete silence falls. Nothing stirs, nothing sounds. The woman freezes atop the horse, and there is no further noise from the wagon.

Then, tentatively, "Aye?" It's the woman's voice.

"My ladies," Justus says, "Forgive me. But it seems as if you are in some distress? I'm but a traveller, weary and slightly lost in my journeying from one place to another. But if I can assist?" He's watching the wagon.

In the tense quiet that follows, the horse snorts. "No," the woman snaps. "This matter is private. Bramblestone is that way. A good evening to you, Master." She starts to give the reigns a harsh snap, to urge the shire forward again.

"No! Tifa, he can help us. That is no way to treat a traveler who offers assistance." Still, the mother's voice is thin. It seems quite the effort to get the words out.

Tifa does pause, though. "You are injured, mother. I must get you to a healer, before..."

But the mother will hear none of it. "Have you forgotten that *I* was once a healer? Back here, lad."

Justus chuckles, "It has been nearly twenty years since I've been called that, good mistress." He approaches the wagon and offers a bow to Tifa, "I assure you, miss. I do not intend to slow you down further." With that he's going to the back of the wagon and climbing up. He looks at the mother, trying to assess just what he's cheerfully walked into.

"Damnit," Tifa hisses, dropping down from the horse's back and scurrying around to the back of the wagon. "Fool, mother, you are trying to save his life, and doing nothing but condemning you both."

The sight Justus sees there in the back of the wagon is anything but cheerful. The mother lies at the front corner, near the tailgate, atop the bags of flour that must be the reason it's so heavy to pull. Dark stains of blood move away from her body, though the source of the injury is hard to tell. From the waist down she is perfectly still, and one arm is bent at a painfully wrong angle.

But it's the thing in the back corner that brings the air of horror to the scene. Crumpled, curled, horribly misshapen, there is the form of the man in the shadows. The 'he' of the conversation. One arm is tucked up underneath him, but the other lies visible--nothing but a stump of mutilated flesh where the hand once must have been. Where the eyes once were, there is nothing but a pair of matched, gaping holes, and the black-and-white Mark of the Shadow-Touched stands out stark on his cheek. But these are all old wounds--the rest of his body his hideously burned and oozing from a recent fire.

Justus freezes, his gaze drawn by the Shadow-Touched body. The pleasing smile, the benign countance is no more. Now there is just hard eyes and a thin mouth.

"My father... it should have been ended long ago," Tifa says softly. Again, the bitter edges of anger and pain. "It is naught but torture to force him to live like this."

"Hold your tongue, girl," the mother barks, and winces at the pain of putting that effort together. When she speaks again, it is to Justus, and her tone is soft. "Please," she pleads. "Help us."

"I'm not a healer, mistress." Justus says. He slowly moves forward in the wagon, "Especially since you said, yourself, that you were one? What is it you expect of me?"

"She expects of you what she cannot of me," Tifa says, and holds up her hands. They are gloved, but it can be seen from the shape of them that there is no flesh to fill those fingers. "A family of cripples." She laughs bitterly and backs away a step, toward the horse.

"My bag is there," the mother says. "I am injured--I can not do what needs to be done. But I can speak well enough, and you are young enough and able-bodied..." "A woman's beauty is not in her hands, mistress. You may be crippled, but you are hardly dimmed,"

Justus smiles at her. Funny how the smile doesn't entirely reach his eyes. But? The beat has been caught again. The benign demenor is back in place. He makes his way to the bag, "I will do what I can, Mistress. Though, you must be aware that life, for him, might cease to be worth living."

Tifa snorts, and it is doubtful she misses the lack of authenticity in that smile as she swings back up onto that massive horse in a single, deft motion.

"It will *not*," the old woman insists desperately. "He has me, and... his daughter." She seems reluctant to call Tifa by name again. "There are a bowl and a spoon in the bag. Mix sage, kingsleaf, aloe..." As she gives instructions, there is a lurch, and the wagon begins to move again in the direction of Bramblestone.

Justus searches the bag for those items and the bowl. He mixes for a moment, saying nothing. Then he glances up to the wife. "What happened? Exactly?"

"A lantern tipped in the loft of our house. The wind caught it." The old woman coughs. "The thatch went up like a sparked tinderbox. A rafter fell on me, and he... he was trapped inside, until Tifa got him out." Her thin voice trembles, but does not crack. "Good. Now add a little from that waterskin..."

"A lantern," Justus says, "And your daughter's hands?" The water is added. He still does not look at the ravaged man.

"She was born that way," the mother says dully. "Never got over it. Now mix, and I want you to spread just a little of it on his wounds."

Justus pauses, lips pursed together once more. Then he stands and makes his way towards the unconscious man. "When and why did he lose his eyes?" He crouches and takes up a piece of cloth from his pocket. He dips the bowl to this cloth and proceeds to use it to dab the mixture on the man's nearest wounds.

"He was Lessened," the woman says stiffly. "For a crime I do not believe he committed." Pause. "Ten years ago. Bandage that, once you're finished. Tightly enough to stop the bleeding."

Justus shifts as he starts to bandage. In doing so, he does block the woman's view of the man for a moment. It is in those moments that hands stray. He palms a small rock from his own pocket, and then makes a breif foray into patting down the wounded man for loose change.

A wagon is making its way down the road towards Bramblestone, headed by a monstrous shire almost as black as the night itself, moving with an eerie, almost ghostly grace. Atop his back sits Tifa, the young woman's back rigidly straight, eyes fixed on the road. There can be little doubt of her listening on the conversation behind her.

In the back of the wagon, though it's visibility is doubtful from afar, a badly burned woman with a broken arm instructs Justus in the care of her even-worse burned Lessened husband.

The woman seems content to let the subject of her husband's Lessening drop, shutting her eyes for a moment and letting out a breath. "Excellent. Do that to all his wounds."

There is very little that can come out of the pockets of a man as badly burned as that, but a little does. A handful of Imperials--forty, or so--and the wooden spoon about the length of Justus' pinky finger.

Atop Raurin, From the west, a brown shire mare comes trotting down the road, a teenager of about sixteen on her back. Brand is riding at an easy pace, but making good time when he catches sight of the gathering on the road before him. He slows down a little bit, to take a better look before he commits to approaching.

Justus takes the small objects and places the small stone in the man's pocket. "What of your wounds, mistress?" He continues to bandage the Lessened man with a tight jaw.

Tifa does not slow down, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the approaching boy before giving the reigns a snap as if she would actually speed up. Only the wagon's load of people and flour is too heavy for the beast to go any faster.

"I... will be fine," the woman grunts as the wagon trundles through a ditch, jostling her against sacks of flour and the side of the wagon. "Tifa will get me to a healer. But he does not have the time."

Atop Raurin, Brand takes a moment to consider what's going on before deciding to take the risk and ride a bit faster. "Is everyone alright there?" he calls, peering over.

"I'm almost done, mistress," Justus notes, "Then, perhaps you...." He pauses as he hears the voice of another. "Or that person can assist your husband while I assist you?" The alternative is provided.

The woman pauses. "...Aye. I could instruct him in aiding me." She does not seem to notice Justus' quick suggestion of moving away from the Lessened man. "Master!" she hails Brand.

Tifa winces at the call. "Mother!" she hisses. "We are nearly to the healer. We don't need to bring anymore strangers into this business." But the protest is lost in the noise of the wagon's wheels.

Atop Raurin, Brand's eyes widen as he sees the injured man and woman, paling a bit, before saying quietly, "I'm no healer, but can I help?"

Justus continues to tend the Lessened man, quick and deft. And especially quick. If his expression gets slightly strained at the loss of the chance to get away from the burned man, it is mild at least.

"No," Tifa says firmly.

"Yes," the old woman counters. "Tifa, stop the wagon. Let the lad help--it will take but a moment."

Tifa pauses on the edge of finding another excuse against stopping, finally alighting on a demand. "If you hitch your horse next to me, we can go double time."

Atop Raurin, Brand worries at his lower lip, then nods, slipping down off of Raurin and leading the shire to the front of the wagon. "Alright," he says, hitching her in time with the black shire before moving to the wagon.

"There, mistress. I've bound what I can." Justus pulls back. "What else did you need of me, then?"

Tifa pulls the shire to a stop, gloved, crippled hands working as well as they can to help Brand in the hitching. "Now go. Help my mother in the back." She scrambles back onto the shire's back and waits for Brand to climb into the wagon before urging both horses forward.

The woman in the back of the wagon peers blearily at Justus. "To know why you stopped to help, and ask if there's anything I can do to repay you."

Atop Raurin, Brand crawls up into the wagon, looking at the woman and man, still pale. "What can I do?"

Justus shifts as Brand crawls up. He smiles at the woman, "I stopped to help because I would not see two women in pain. As for repayment? Can you smile, mistress? Believe that tommorrow will hold something better, perhaps fan the memory of a past that is brighter to bring it to this moment and allow it to ease sme of your pain?"

And the woman does smile, flashing toothless gums in something more warmth and gratitude than happiness. "Thank you, Master." She raises her good arm to shake his hand, glance darting past him to the lump of deformed flesh that is her husband.

In the front, the solid line of Tifa's back eases a little--perhaps at the words, or maybe it's just sheer exhaustion.

After that, the old woman turns to Brand, and begins to explain how to mix the herbs together to bandage her wounds.

Justus takes the woman's hand and kisses the back of it lightly. "Have faith, mistress." He repeats. He looks to Brand and flashes the young man a smile, "Good luck, boy. Be good." He says cheerily. Then he's striding to the back of the wagon and slipping off.

Atop Raurin, Brand listens as best he can, nodding before he reaches for the herbs, pausing every now and then to ask for directions as he grinds them together. "Name's Brand, not boy," he says reflexively to Justus before he starts applying the bandages.

The old woman laughs quietly. "It's been years since anyone's done that. Light's keep." Then, looking to Brand, she says, "Brand, mm? Thank you for your help, Brand."

Atop Raurin, Brand nods, licking his lips. "What happened?" he asks quietly. "Who did this to you?"

The old woman shakes her head. "It's not an issue of who. It was my own stupidity, that's all. Left a lantern burning in the loft and the wind went and spilt it. Set the whole house alight."

Atop Raurin, Brand nods with a frown, hopping off the wagon as they arrive. "My family is here," he says. "Dad works as a blacksmith. He'll be able to help you out, if you ask, I'm sure."

The old woman shakes her head feebly as her daughter climbs down off the shire for the final time to go off in search of a healer. "I will see... what happens. Thank you for your help."

Atop Raurin, Brand nods, and takes his horse, leading her away toward one of the houses. "Good night."

"Light keep you," the woman calls after him, and carefully, painfully inches across the wagon to take up a vigil beside her husband, shifting his eyeless head into her lap to stroke the hairless forehead. "Enjoy the night."

Return to Season 7 (2008)