***
Jax woke before dawn. Darkness shrouded the land, and his soul cried out to it in terrible recognition. The previous day he had spent working in the village: calming the people, making ready the departure that he knew the villagers must undertake, gathering whatever could be salvaged from the place that he had called home for so long. But he had done this all in a trance. He felt nothing. Emptiness consumed him, and he had no wish to fill the void that pulsed in his heart.
He told himself that he was being foolish; that such things were to be expected in this godforsaken world. That demons ruled this planet, and they took what they wanted, when they wanted; they destroyed without mercy and with great relish. Jax knew that his friends, his life, his world, could be ripped violently out from under him without warning, just as they had been.
He knew, but the emptiness reigned supreme within him.
And so he saddled the finest horse in the village (which was not a great steed, by any means), and left in the darkness. It seemed that the pre-dawn blackness should weep for his loss; for the loss of the villagers. For Sophia. Her tears lasted the entire day that Jax had returned, and, he assumed, all the following night as well. By dawn the day after, however, the well had gone dry, and her strength shone through the misery behind her eyes. The steadfast and beautiful woman had gone about the hefty duties of getting the village back in order and ready to flee with redoubled sternness and determination.
Jax got the feeling that she pushed herself as hard as she could because she knew that Halifax would have done the same. In the name of his memory, she would carry on.
Jax, however, felt that he could not. He felt no determination that drove him onward. He felt nothing. He was devoid of life or love. He was filled with a gaping nothingness that had no need to be filled.
He rode for hours, pushing the poor beast under him to extremes bordering on brutality. He railed and wept at the sky. He cursed the demons and the Hell from which they sprang. He cursed whatever gods there may be for letting such a tragedy befall. He cursed and swore at himself for becoming so attached and caring so deeply. He wanted to hate himself, but couldn’t, for the emptiness overrode all else.
At long last, when Jax had screamed himself hoarse and cried himself dry, he dismounted and lay on the ground. Looking up at the fully lit sky, he slept.
When he woke, the emptiness had begun to drain away. He was amazed that there was a heart in his chest, a beating pulse running through his veins. He was still weak and heart-broken, but he felt life returning to him. Some sort of drive or will or something. He didn’t know what it was, but felt it so tenuously, that he dared not focus on it, lest it shatter and never return.
Jax rose to his feet and looked at his poor horse. The thing had not wandered far, but the old man knew that it was hungry and thirsty, and should have the saddle removed and be rubbed down. He gathered the reins and led the thing away, not able to summon the soft words for it he would usually use to comfort an overworked beast.
Jax walked with his uncomplaining companion through the forest. He knew where he was, and that a small stream ran nearby. When he reached it, he took his time rubbing down the animal and letting it drink and graze its fill.
As he was finally resaddling the mount, he caught a stillness in the air. It wasn’t an unnatural silence, as he had always heard when demons were about, but a silence nonetheless. He recognized it for what it was: there was a predator about. More than likely, it was a mountain lion or some such, but Jax didn’t hear or smell the evidence of any creature of the forest. Putting his hands over the eyes of the horse so that it would be silent, Jax held his breath and listened.
There! It was just at the edge of Jax’s hearing. Something breathing. Not heavily or loudly, but there was a rasp to it that didn’t sound healthy. He put his hand over his shoulder and drew one of his curved swords silently, and crept toward the sound.
When he reached the source of the breathing, he saw, to his utter surprise, a naked boy, not yet twenty years old. He was covered in blood, and looked like he had walked through Hell itself. There was a blade strapped to the boy’s back, the like of which he had never seen, and Jax imagined he could feel some darkness coming off the ebony thing.
He shook the thought, and prodded the sleeping young man with his toe, his sword held at the ready.
The boy didn’t move, didn’t wake. He was passed out and, from the looks of it, nearly dead; no one should be able to suffer such wounds and lose so much blood and survive.
After a moment of indecision, Jax hefted the boy and placed him belly-down across the back of his horse. He was solidly built, this young man, well-muscled and hard as stone. Jax tied him gently to the saddle, and led the animal slowly back to the village.
As he walked, Jax felt, for reasons he couldn’t at all understand, purpose bleeding slowly into him.