The Wicker Man
The Wicker Man was a sacrifice. An effigy, burned to appease the gods. It was an offering, to spare the lives of others.
He was our Wicker Man. No one cast him in the role. No one asked it of him, yet we all knew what part he would play. He was our salvation.
He was only eighteen when the last battle fell. Only a child in the eyes of time. But war had changed us all, made us grow-up, far faster then we should have. War made us forget the childish things we used to know. It made us hard.
The pleasures in life were no longer simple things. Everything was done with an all consuming and burning passion. Love, hate, lust, anger. All consumed us, all burned us, all toyed with us. And we loved every second of it.
We were young and in love. We lived each day, as if it could be our last…his last. Never letting go of each other, for fear that the sun would set on our love and never rise. The sun was red on the day he died.
--
“Mm, don’t want to wake up,” Raja whispered, pulling the furs more over his head, burring his dark hair deeper amongst the quilts and pallet.
Mical smiled and leaned over, kissing his lover before jerking the furs and quilts away, ignoring the cursing as he walked back over to the barrel of water to finish his shaving. “Rise, oh sleepy one, so we can get the fuck out of this barn.”
Raja flipped him off and stood, pulling on his leggings, attempting to tie the lacings before just giving up and pulling on his tunic, eyes searching the room automatically for his weapons, sleep blurred eyes not noticing them stacked on the foot of the bed, next to Mical’s.
Mical watched him in the reflective glass, smirking. He gave him about five minutes of panicking, before taking pity and pushing Raja back on the bed. He quickly did up the younger man’s laces before handing him his weapons one at a time. Belt, shoulder sheath, sword, scimitars, daggers, arrows, bow.
Once he was properly armed, Raja took his place at the barrel, scrubbing sleep from his eyes before working on his own shaving needs, watching Mical dress more then paying attention to where his knife was going.
--
Mical was still laughing as they mounted their horses. Every time he took a look at Raja’s bloodied face he burst into more peals of laughter, so much so that he almost fell off his horse again. Raja simply glared and kicked his horse, sending it into a fast trot, not bothering to wait for Mical to re-seat himself and catch up.
Raja yawned loudly, cracking his jaw as they moved across the countryside, listing slightly to the side, jerking up right only when Mical elbowed him. The morning was passing and time was wearing on both of them as they rode, silence surrounding them.
It was a long trek back to the castle, a long journey back to home and safety.
The recruiting mission hadn’t gone well…in fact, they had been run out of town before they had even opened their mouths. Raja tended to blame it all on the hatred that had been stirred up before their arrival, but Mical knew the truth.
Raja just couldn’t keep his big mouth shut and the townspeople hadn’t enjoyed watching their local hero getting his arse kicked by a knight of the realm. A teenage knight of the realm at that.
Mical glanced up at his lover and elbowed him again, getting Raja to sit straight in the saddle. He moved his horse closer and was about to suggest they stop and rest, when a shout broke through the gloom thathad surrounded them. Both spun their horses around, swords naked in their hands.
A young girl and an older boy came running from the forest next to them, both nearly crashing into the horses. The girl screamed again and the boy jerked her behind them, staring up at the two, armed knights with a look of defiant fear. He would die to protect his sister, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared beyond all belief.
Two things happened quickly. Another shout came from the trees and arrows rained down on the group. Mical grabbed the boy while Raja grabbed the girl, settling the kids on their horses, leaning over enough to shield them while still searching for their attackers.
Mical’s horse whinnied and reared, sending Mical and the boy toppling. It ran off, trailing blood behind it. Mical cursed and drew the boy closer to him, hissing as an arrow sliced past his shoulder.
Raja drew closer to the fallen two and shared a look with Mical. “GO!” Mical shouted and just stared as Raja shook his head and slid off his horse. The girl ran to her brother and clutched at him.
Raja hit his horse’s flank hard, sending him off before standing nearer to the group. “Protect them!” He ordered and raised his shield, moving away from the group, towards the rain of arrows.
“Rajani!” Mical yelled after him, unable to follow, holding onto the children who clung to him.
Raja turned back and his eyes widened. Mical jerked around, shoving the children behind him as riders in black hit the clearing, circling the small group.
The riders made the circle smaller and smaller until the four were standing back to back, staring at the faceless men.
Raja cursed and raised his sword again, Mical’s bow in his hands, ready for action. They were going to die, protecting children they had never seen, for reasons they didn’t know, against the army of a man that wasn’t supposed to be in this forest.
The two groups stared at each other before a gap opened in the Black Rider’s ranks and another horse nudged its way in. A gray mare stood nose to nose with Mical and he rolled his eyes up to look at its rider, recognizing the long red hair. “M’lord,” He whispered, staring at his fallen king.
“Father,” Raja spat, his sword still out, still ready.
Ger, High King, Leader of the Black Riders…and all around asshole, stood there, looking down at his son and once favored knight. “Ndengia ho,” he said, dismissively. He grabbed the reins of his horse, getting ready to turn around, dismissing the group, when a cry rang out.
“Papa!” The group froze and Ger turned. “Papa!” The shout came again and Mical looked down at the little girl who was struggling to get to Ger. The Red King jerked his horse around again, sending several of his comrades to the ground as he scooped the little girl up, clutching her close. “My little Nuni,” he whispered, clutching her close.
The boy struggled against Mical. “Let her go!” He cried, trying to get to his sister.
Raja gripped the boy’s shoulder tightly, staring at his father and the little girl who claimed him as such. “Who. Is. She?”
“Nuni, Princess of the Realm, second heir to Ger.” Mical said softly, not looking at Raja. “She was born four summers ago…just after we left.”
Raja’s sword was suddenly buried in the neck of Ger’s horse, hilt deep. He stared up into his father’s eyes. “Traitor,” he whispered and pulled the sword free, aiming for his father’s thigh.
Nuni screamed and fell to the ground. The boy wretched free of Mical and ran, scooping her up, hugging her chose as chaos reigned above them. Light flashed and he pressed closer to Nuni and the ground, keeping their head out of the line of magical fire.
Raja shoved Mical behind a rock and threw himself to the ground as a spell went flying over his head, setting fire to the trees behind him. He crawled closer to Mical and peered over the edge, staring at the wizards who were preparing spells. He raised his hand and released the energy that was pent up inside him, sending one flying backwards.
Mical pulled a small bottle from his pocket and threw it, a brilliant light flash going off, disorienting the second wizard. He never liked having been born without the powers his best friend held inside him…but sometimes he could make up for it.
He grabbed another bottle to throw, a contained fire that should cause a nice bit of hell, but just as he went to throw it, an arrow sliced into his arm and he cursed, the bottle falling harmlessly onto a patch of grass, unbroken.
He turned and growled at the smirking Black Rider, jerking the arrow from his arm. He grabbed one of his throwing knives, barley aiming as it let it fly, letting a grim smile free as he watched the Rider fall before returning to the main battle, just in time to see Raja launch himself over the rock, towards Ger, who was grabbing the young boy, a bloodied knife heading for the boy’s chest.
Raja grabbed his father’s arm as he jumped, sending the knife off balance and all three of them to the ground. He had landed hard and it took a few minutes for his vision to clear. As it did he realized there was a problem. He couldn’t feel anything from his stomach down.
He raised himself up and stared at the blood pooling around him. He gagged as blood spilled up into his throat, eyes locking on the sword that was sticking out from his stomach.
The others stared as well, the same look of disbelief etched on their faces. Raja had impaled himself…on his own sword. He lifted his head and met his father’s eyes, blood sliding from his lips down across his chin. “Papa,” he whispered softly.
Ger stared at his son and swallowed hard before pulling the sword out of the boy, a hand held against the wound, magic gathering between their bodies, struggling to find release, to find escape. More and more magic Ger poured into the wound, trying to save his son’s life.
Raja swallowed thickly, nearly choking on the blood. He raised a hand and his own magic came forth. The last bit of him that wasn’t lying across the stained ground. He sent it forward, shoving his father away from him, shoving his father’s magic out of him.
He fell back, wind rushing in his ears, darkness eating at his vision. He fell back against the cold earth, stained scarlet with his blood. He fell back into darkness, welcoming it’s embrace as he let his eyes close.
One last act, one last use of the magic that bound father and son, one last gift to the world that he had lived and died to protect. Ger was lying not a foot from his son, a pulsing, burning wound on his chest. As his men and Mical watched, the last few heartbeats of Ger, Red King of Ashadha, were spent.
--
The years of terror are over. People rejoice, as much as they are able while still mourning what they have lost. His name is now a legend, to be passed down, generation to generation. They will remember his great deeds, his last battle. They will remember the cold day when he stared into his father’s eyes and slain the monster he had become.
But they won’t remember the truth. They won’t remember that he was an idiot who didn’t look before he leapt. They won’t remember that he gave up the chance to live. They wont’ remember…who he was.
Rajani de Geryon was not a hero. He was not the man destined to save us all. He was not the greatest warrior ever. He was a boy. He was a child who stumbled and fell and ended up hitting birds more then he hit the bull’s-eye. He was a man, who laughed, loved, cried, screamed, gossiped…and simply existed.
Rajani de Geryon was my best friend, my comrade, my prince, my knight, and my lover. He was everything…and I will remember the look in his eyes as he sent his father flying away from him, signing his death certificate.
I haven’t left this place in twenty winters now. I can no longer remember what happened to most of the players in the scene. Princess Nuni still rules…I think. She was married recently…or was it five summers ago…he’s a good man, he’ll be a good king.
Prince Artan still visits when he’s around. He never acknowledges that he was the young boy but I can still see the ten year old in him. The glamour spell that hid him from his brother and father wasn’t as strong on those that helped raise him.
I know he still grieves, just as I do. I see him sometimes, out in the clearing, kneeling next to the stained earth where his brother died. I want to go to him at those times…but what could I say when I sit out here every night. I have his favorite wine, I have his favorite cheese…I have a bloodied sun.
Everything's perfect. To you, my love…
--
Mical raised the glass of poisoned wine, taking a long drink. The glass fell from his hand as he fell back against the cold stone behind him, the earth welcoming with her embrace as the sun fell.
Prince Rajani de Geryon, the hero of the last great terror. In sleep may he find his peace.
Fin