The Mist Maven

DAMSEL

Chapter 18

"I told you not to say anything to Eve."  Cymen handed a bloodied sword to Margarethe, in plain sunlight, the next morning.  His heart broke so clearly, right then.  She settled the weapon across her lap and allowed it to stain her white apron.

Cymen was dressed the same as when he arrived the night before.  Looking ready to start something, and finish it too.

"Evenso, you have just finished with so much violence on the battlefield.  You should have slept or prayed, gone before Micco with your misery, instead of doing this!"

"It was a duel.  It was fair."

"You are the head of the holy army.  What chance did that boy have?"

"Eighteen years old, from what I recall Eve screaming.  And, anyways, he lived.  He did fine."

Cymen pulled and popped the knuckles of each hand.

"Oh, you've changed." Margarethe mourned.

"Eve is truly evil.  I see that now.  What woman does that?  When we could have talked, just discussed it.  And you!  You could have sealed shut your mouth, with beeswax!"

Margarethe apologized, but when his temper had cooled, and the woman-monk had a firm enough grip on Cymen's dragon-killing sword, she corrected him:  they had both been intent on fixing a woman who could not be fixed. 

"Yes, we were forcing her to start a war within herself, I agree.  And not one worth fighting."

"Oh, Cymen, don't say that.  She is still beautiful.  Someone you love..."

"Have you already forgiven that?  How can you?  I can't."

"I can forgive you wanting to take that Adam's arm off, but just branding him for the crowds.  And so I can forgive Eve pushing herself too far to wound you, and so escape from the machinations of us both.  But she did not know that it was only necessary to ask.  That's only because we destroyed her trust."

"She's confessed to you about it then?  Those sound like her words, her brand of excuses."

Margarethe informed Cymen that Eve had not told her anything personal about the betrayal, and she would probably never feel the need to apologize to the Father, nor Micco or anyone else from now forth-on.  Nor, was Margarethe allowed to share, confide, or allude to any such reconciliation sacrament, had it taken place.

"I couldn't look away.  She was there, naked for the first time."

Margarethe finished cleaning the sword-blade. 

"Does that make me an evil man, Margarethe?  How can a man want someone, in that moment?  I must be broken, truly wretched.  I should have kept that token for myself.  A gift from kind Prince Poas.  I need it more."

"What, exactly, are you confessing to me right now, Cymen Ruecross?  Lustful thoughts?  Temptation towards murder?  Pick something and soon, because I am tired of mediating between you two, and then you, yourself this time, are scaring the sense out of me."

He stopped pacing, lifted the sword from her care and slid it back into its scabbard, across his back. 

"What is there to say?  She is gone... and I was also unnecessarily distracted from something key Damascus wanted to settle.  We promised to meet about it last night." He shut his eyes for a long moment. "Margarethe, Micco sent me untrained soldiers."

"Not possible.  He's the General of Heaven."

"I toiled, getting them together on the battlefield.  That was the chief reason for casualties... now, reconsider the conclusion you drew for yourself, based on my first-hand witness."  Cymen pointed two fingers and riveted them beneath his eyes.  They were ringed and rugged from his first sleepless night.

"Go eat something.  Take all that armor off, right now.  I will have one of the sisters clean the rest for you."

"No.  It's too soon.  All that fighting, and now it feels too soon."

"It is not too soon.  You've made peace but you have not embraced it soon enough.  Cymen Ruecross, as Mother Superior of the Grand and Frivolous Effort I order you to undress this perfect instant."

But they were outside.  There was a line of laundry behind them, and other sisters doing the work, some lines out.

"Well, I'm the self-made General of the new Harmonic Golden Order, and I say that the conflict isn't finished yet, I'm tired, I'm heartbroken and I am not going to take off my fucking armor until I fucking feel like it!"

Several women around sent up alarums that they had, in fact been listening. 

"Oh Cymen, I caution you to cease your anger when you've begun to sound like Damascus himself!"

He covered his mouth.  Cymen had never got this angry before.  Some moments later, the cold hard ground tugged when heavy armor was thrown upon it, and several snatched bits of laundry revealed a muscled man, certainly in want of marriage for his passion in undressing so fast and then redressing so reluctantly, when he should have felt shame. 

Cymen dragged his sword away, while Margarethe balanced the frenzied laundry line he'd snatched from.  Cymen then bullied past several startled maidens on his way inside the compound, to their scullery.

"Mother Superior, are you alright?" it was asked.

"To have my Winter Mass wish fulfilled so absolutely?  I'm not offended by that body at all.  Never, ever.  And if you can forgive that slip of mine--born of my fear and frustration with this whole thing, then you can forgive the--Captain's--outburst just now.  Oh, me.  People with so much of their lives ahead of them should just be enjoying that their friends are alive and healthy after a Crusade, of all things.  Where is the balance in that?  Fools!"

"And it would have served too, for King Micco to at least awaken when the army returned!"

Margarethe hadn't anything to say to that.  She had not missed that Cymen referred to it as the New Harmonic Golden Order, afterall.  Though, she prayed it was just him being angry.  No, Micco was too good.  A pure angel, been too good to all of them. 

But, was he a better man than Cymen Ruecross?

Damascus had got out of wearing his black and red jingle-bell collar because he was already strutting with a chain round his neck.  Cymen bit one corner of his lip when he saw the lance-edge fastened on, and his friend the Unicorn let him, since the half-chortle had broken a deep frown.

"Yes, I bear my being impaled by aggrieved interlopers quite well, thank you.  But, what about your wound, oh great male-hymen?  I take it that you asked her?"

"I take it that you are constantly listening to things not meant for you.  I am also offended that you think Eve would say no to me."

"Reading is an academic practice.  I read all kinds of things.  The best texts, I find, are ones that don't belong to me, aren't written by me."

Cymen had become solemn again.  Damascus walked alongside him a ways, then lashed his coiled lion's tail against the other male's pants leg.  They could have had leads tied on, the two turned off the lane and into the wilderness within Gafe's white walls instantly at that signal.

"...Not this many men can keep a secret."

Cymen knew that, he said, and got back to cracking one knuckle at a time.

"Once the distraction of the holiday is over, how will we proceed?"

"I intend to leave the clergy to you."

"Margarethe will not trust me, at first."

"Alright then, I'll convince her.  A gift will help, I think.  And maybe also, I can draw on another matter."

They spoke of logistics some more, but Damascus became irritated and spat, "Why!  Why did it take an entire war just to convince you I've been right about Micco all this time--"

"Shh!  I was away.  I didn't ever see it.  Besides, it wasn't a war.  It was legion after legion of our best soldiers walking out of summonings with no training whatsoever.  At first, I thought there was some mix up, but no, Micco hadn't shown anyone a damned thing, all these years!  In some cases, he made up foolishness which did not serve."

"Well, they did swing swords prettily, you said.  Let's give him at least that much credit."

"No, not the way they did it.  Those men could have killed each other while the enemy pounded away at them, Damascus.  His Majesty, therefore, did worse than a disservice."

"A service in the negative, then."

Cymen scratched his red hair.  "Whatever you like.  But I don't see that we need to do any bloodletting.  Lock up the altar servers, you'll take care of the priests, and my best men can get a hold of that halo.  The halo is the thing, Damascus.  Without it, who knows what the people here will dwindle to?"

The Unicorn sighed, "I always felt Humanity was capable of so much more.  Are you sure you don't want to take the chance that real faith in him might be beneath it all?  Then we could keep stuffing Micco with whatever he wants and, after slight reforms that I--as Archbishop of the new Gafe--put in place, we can go our own way, in time.  Perhaps he could still be that inspirational avatar, but on our leash. At first, you know, it was also difficult to for me to really see it.  That was because I was so impressed by what people did with Micco's message.  No one went out prosthelitizing, like in the old days.  People settled down and got straight to work, on salvaging Humanity.  And that faith alone was enough of a beacon to swell our numbers.  They didn't have to fall in line like ducklings, but it happened in any case, Cymen, I watched it happen over a century.  So inspired, they are, by a pristinely good King with what we all assumed was a noble heart.  It awakens the perfect best in themselves.  They believe it's a truly tangible thing, to be aligned with right, and so their faith really lasts, stronger than even the thickest stone cathedral.  This is a new thing!"

"Yes, a new thing guided by a cheap liar.  How can he preach love for one's neighbor when he already treats us all like sheep?  It will get worse, the danger we encountered on the battle-field was a near death blow upon us, if not for you and I joining together to make something of it.  Damascus, are you telling me that for years, you resented what Micco was doing, but now you don't want to bring the angellic fiend to justice?  We're all at risk.  Let me handle it, I'm the one with a real head for war.  Just like out there, I need you, more than ever, to bolster the others and empower my sword when I direct it.  Now turn again here, for we're being spied upon."

"Really, by whom?  And if so, how could you let me keep talking!" Cymen winced at Damascus' exclamation, grabbed him by the horn and tugged him behind a set of trees.  "Cymen, if they can already see us, then why be such an ass to me--"

"No, it's a miracle being worked, on that spot." he pointed.  "We passed it, and I felt it, just then.  A bit like the Ruecross, but somehow... a more far away presence?"

"Oh, you mean scrying.  I thought you said spying?"

"I did say scrying!"

"Shh!  If they can sense us then don't treat me like that, Cymen."  Damascus touched his horn to the ground.  "We must not be suspicious."

"...Sense anything?"

"WILL you be quiet?"

They were trespassed upon, just then, by something distractingly feminine.  There was a delicate slip to all her words, which could delight a willing spirit to clutch over breast and sway, smiling.  "My, Captain Ruecross.  I did not realize you were here as well, or else I would have come with congratulations, fairy-wine to pour a libation over your made naked shoulders, and seven of my best virgins."

Damascus curled his equine lips into a white sneer.  "Oh... wife.  Loveliest creature.  You do joke so... plainly."

Giselle did not acknowledge Damascus.  She stayed fixed on Cymen who walked out into the open.  "Are you well?  Usually you have such a warm life about you.  You once fooled me into thinking you had mist in your spirit."

Cymen flushed, and banished an angry smile.  "It's just heartbreak."

She was taller than Damascus.  He was afraid to stand beside his wife because it caused the smaller Unicorn to look more ridiculous than he already did, which should have been impossible.  Her hide was all rose-red, but darkness stayed about Giselle's startling human eyes and at every extreme of her body.  These parts were bruised royal blue and green like the edges of a caught butterfly's wings.  The horn was ink-black.  Bigger and meaner looking than Damascus in every respect.  Her winning language and everything pronounced so rightly tempered the shock that enjoying a vision of a self-warped creation might be somehow wrong.  Cymen straightened and felt glad to be without his sword.  Listen too long, and Giselle would not just make you feel good, but also protective of her, violent.

"...Don't ever have sex with that woman.  While you still have your own heart."

Cymen nearly swallowed his own tongue.  "Um?"

"No, we do not say 'um' to the Mist Maven.  We give praise to the Perfect Intercessor, and then pledge to remain being so favored by her."

Damascus scrutinized his wife, but said nothing.  Cymen bowed to Giselle quickly and left.

"Damascus.  If Gafe is to fall, then I require that you return with me to the Mists."

"Oh, how I am flattered, but--"

"Only the portion of you our race is in need of, should be flattered.  The rest I can happily leave."

"Ah, now we have the truth.  You came to find me for a reason.  And, because I sensed a compliment somewhere in all your hateable speech, I suspect it is because you are about to do a good deed for your husband?"

"Either that, or I intend to burst your plan to assassinate King Micholangiolo wide open.  Why don't you go on, and guess?  I'll even make it interesting.  If you guess wrong, Damascus, then you can wait for another year."

As for leaving, Cymen didn't go far.  He wasn't sure if he was troubled by Giselle's warning, or if it was another instinct that prevented leaving Damascus truly alone with her, after she'd surprised them.  Nor could Cymen have known how attractive the presence of Unicorns always had been, since the start of time, practically, just before never-ever.  When the holy animals congregated, amazing things always tended to happen. 

For example, Eve decided to be kind toward another breathing creature on that afternoon.  She saved her bread crust after lunch and went down to the pond to feed ducks.  She ended up chasing after them, which caused them to lose a great deal of what she'd gifted on short order, but it was the most respectable thing she'd done in a good while.  And here is an unbelievable second!

"Cymen Ruecross, would you like a bread crumb?"

He turned around so fast that he bumped his head on the back of the stone bench he was hiding behind.  "Hallowed shit!  Eve, what in the world are you doing here?"

She shrugged and ate it herself.  "I thought it might go less awkward between us, if I gave you something in exchange for the necklace."

"I gave you the Hand of Fatima, and you give me a stale breadcrumb?"

"I picked it off the ground first, and before then it was on my plate, thank you very much."

"Eve, go away."

"Why?  Aren't we still friends?"

"Because it is impossible for you to be quiet!"

She began laughing, slapped hands over her mouth and dropped to the ground suddenly.  She winced, and snorted, lay on the ground and rolled, snatched the edge of his pants leg then slapped the ground.  "I think... I finally saw Damascus' wife.  But not... as she would have... preferred.  Ha!"

Cymen chanced a look.  They should have been far out of ear shot in any case, but Cymen knew that spying any nearer to two such clairvoyant creatures would have been far more fruitless.  Giselle stood as defiantly as ever, staring straight ahead with her impressive spiraling black horn.  Unmoved.  Against the gray winter sky, one could hardly make out Damascus.  It was more that Cymen had seen it done before, on the farms of his brief youth, that enabled him to understand exactly what was going on now.  He almost choked, and stole back behind the bench.

Eve yelped, "He looks like a crazed dog!"

"A stuck pig." Cymen agreed.  "Oh, how awful, how terrible for Giselle."

Then, they peeked again, together.  The male unicorn bucked over his mate, but his short feet waggled clear off the ground, his forelegs knelt on either side of her bulging stomach.  He struggled not to slip off.  The only sign that Giselle appreciated his horrifying effort was a long stretch of her neck, which seemed already so out of character for her, to be casual about anything.  Then, when Giselle had enough, she strutted ahead, four legs taking one confident stride, and Damascus was forced to scramble off.

"Oh Lord!" Cymen exclaimed over and over.  Eve took him by the hand and they ran.

Eventually, they made it back to the safety of respectable buildings and... energies.

"It's not like that, you know."

Cymen asked Eve what she meant.

"Ah, I suppose my joke was too soon."

It took such an innocent mind a while to catch it, then Cymen cursed her and left.  Eve was shocked to experience him that way and withdrew after a time, feeling shaken.

However, it was not lost on her that teasing, or getting at the state of intimacy between souls where they wanted to be silly, was a form of affection. If affection could be affected. Eve attempted to goad Cymen another time, when she found him drinking.

This was a tavern in Gafe, a very pointless one since, after safely getting inside humanity’s mousehole, few people ever wanted to scurry back out into violent, vortextual reality… staying ‘overnight’ didn’t really ever happen. Anyways, back to her point, Eve’s sorry process: she had gone in there herself for a sip of something one evening after miracle-work (slight miracle work that did not involve scissors), and here she discovered a certain red-headed knight more ringed around the eyes and unblinking than she had ever seen him before. The cup was his object of obsession just then, and it was empty. She was daring enough to walk over, on her bare toes, look down into it while Cymen watched her, even put her nose over it to smell if the mead was really done.

“It’s sour—you’ve been sitting here for hours.”

“I’ve broken my vow, is why.”

“And you still sound drunk, which is funny. Which should not be possible.”

“Eve, go away.”

“I thought you were too knightly to ever actually say such a thing-ling to my face?”

“Arrghh… You make me wish for Damascus’ company.”

She hefted up her skirts and sat on the bench across from him. She then leaned over her elbows on the rough table, also like to a man. “Unicorns drink?”

“Well, we only have two to worry about. Giselle does drink, but Damascus does not.”

“How do they get along?”

He squinted an eye, then put unshaven chin in palm. “Guess it’s much as we do.”

“Aww, how sweet—”

“So they don’t.” now, he glared.

Eve, at this turn, almost lost her courage, almost willfully ceased one of her games mettling mettle.

“Take a walk with me.”

“You sound sincere.”

“I think… I mean to apologize. Look at what I’ve done to you.”

“Now, you speak as if you stepped on my big toe. Nevermind.”

“Maybe I’ve never done this before, had a chance to make things up to a friend whose heart I’ve broken. Please give me a chance?”

He thought for a while, turned his cup around, looked a little at the tavernkeep, who turned his back around and pretended to dry off something else rather than serve Cymen anymore (or really, bear the pain of not serving him anymore).

“A knight, drunk on being dry? Did you irritate him with speeches about how you’re afraid to drink anymore, and that he’d be a hellion for daring tempt you?”

“I didn’t—”

“Rather than just leave out the door there? Cymen, has this been your whole afternoon? Your morning, also? The entirety of your day?”

“Come on, we’re walking.”

They wandered off farther together than they intended at first, beyond the stone bench where they had first seen Damascus and Giselle together. Beyond unicorn tracks which never faded, and so forth about the previous painful day, which now mattered less. And then, it started to rain. For the way they felt about this fresh forgiveness going between them, it turned out that they didn’t care.

Eve laughed aloud at something as weird and four-legged as Giselle being called a Mist Maven when she was only Eve, and also for this Mist Maven to have been married (really, she wanted to know, animals “married?”) to Damasscus, when he was—ick—only Damascus. Cymen finally laughed very hard for her. He shouted at her for getting ahead. He chased after her, danced a little for himself in the sudden white mist of raindrops falling harder than ever, or else, the natural rain itself was slowing. Then, there was a long roll of thunder beneath their feet, though the ground did not move. And, they could not have heard it. They only knew of it. They knew of it, but then wanted to forget it. It was so unnatural, it could have been excused, like a belch being passed. But then, it was worse when it happened again. A presence as if someone was watching, and knew them, and was unhappy with them personally.

"Cymen?"

"Eve? What is it?"

"Well I was going to ask you... is it the Father himself around... finally angry with us?"

"NO. BUT IT IS GOING TO FEEL THAT WAY."

The raindrops around them split, as if bubbles all popped at once. But these were the hard points of dazzling, sunlit crystal going everywhere...