Jovan's Gaze. Aaron Ph.D. Dov
heat from her breath lifted through the darkness, and she bared her teeth ever so slightly, as she always did when she was upset. Upset. No, she was not upset. Jeannine was enraged. Her smiles, the slight touch of her hand upon my shoulder, the way she whispered to me even though we were alone, all these things were gone. In their place was rage and tears and a voice so stinging, I could not bear to hear it.
The day had not started this way. Parting ways at the village square, Erik returned to his home. Jeannine and I returned to ours. Once the house of a local music teacher, we had taken the small home for ourselves when he left to follow our king eastward. The door still had the musical note painted on it, faded and scratched by fifteen years of wind and winter. Still, it was ours, and its one room was enough.
I set my pack at the door, the clank of the sword against the wooden planks a sort of clarion call, announcing my return. Many times, I had returned in the night, and that clank had awoken Jeannine to my presence. I pulled off my coat, and sat at the table at the center of our small home. Our bed was to one side, the hearth at the other. A smaller desk, likely where the teacher's pupils once sat, was covered in the sewing crafts Jeannine enjoyed so much.
Though I had desired some quiet rest, she insisted on feeding me. There was stew on the fire, but it would not be ready until the evening. Still, she had some of the simple white bread which I enjoyed so much, and fruit preserves from our neighbors. That was enough for the moment.
I sat quietly and ate, while Jeannine sat beside me. She often stared at me thus, as though she expected, through close examination, to discover some hidden truth about me that had not come to light in nearly fifteen years in each others lives. I often wondered what it was she was looking for, and sometimes even asked.
"Nothing," was her usual reply.
Once, after a passionate night, I asked her that same question. She replied, "Your soul. I'm looking for your soul."
"Do you see it?" I asked.
She smiled widely, her eyes so soft and soothing in the moonlight. "Yes, but it's not here," she whispered, her hand upon my chest. She touched her breast and smiled. "It's in here. It's mine, and I won't ever give it back."
I leaned in and kissed her. "You may keep it."
And so on this day I asked again, What are you looking for?"
Her reply should have been my first warning. "I'm not sure, but I see something in you. Something new."
I did not follow up that first question, instead returning to my small meal. Did she sense where I had been? Did she feel the crawling, creeping unknown which I was beginning to feel within me? Did she know about my dreams, sensing that my nightmares were keeping me from rest? Was it written upon my face?
I could have asked these things, but instead I finished my bread. I then sat upon our bed, and moments later, without even removing my boots, I was asleep.
The evening came before I awoke, and with it, the rains. It poured down harshly, mercilessly. I awoke with a start, those terrible eyes staring back at me from the depths of my dreams. I must have screamed. Jeannine was at my side, her arm around me as it always was after a nightmare.
"Tell me," she whispered into my ear, as though to share the burden of my dream, and lighten that load upon my shoulders.
I did not want to tell her. I did not want to recount my visit to Skyreach. I did not want to describe the dripping sound which drew me into the upper reaches of the keep, or the deer in a pool of its own blood. I did not want to describe the firestorm, brought on by the plague of magic which cursed the already cursed place. I did not want to tell her of the fire that I was certain had scorched my hand into ruin, yet did not. I did not want to speak of the terrible dreams which hammered at the backs of my eyes, as I slept upon the terrible throne of the Dark Lord. I did not want to tell her about the Kronan wolves.
I did not want to tell her, yet I did. I told her everything. I described, in detail, the eyes of the unknown Lord which stood, stone-still and silent, in the courtyard. I told her everything.
"Go!" she screamed, pointing away from the house. The rain beat against her outstretched arm.
She had thrown me from the bed, and then pushed me to the door. She was not sobbing. That was not her way. Instead, she burned with anger at me. Her tears flowed silently, as though her eyes alone felt sadness, the rest of her swept up in anger.
"I don't want you in this home," she shouted, furious. "I begged you not to go, and you went anyway."
"Jeannine," I began to say, but she would not hear me.
"Get out, Jovan." She shook her head. "I don't want to see you until you leave that horrible place in peace."
"I have," I started to say.
"You were just there, even though you had no reason to go anywhere near it!" Her voice carried, and I saw the nearest house stir through its window. Others were listening. "Do you know what people here say about you? Do you know what they say about us? I have to defend you. I have to say that you're a good man, that you're not really as obsessed with that place as you seem. They're afraid of you, Jovan. I'm not afraid, but stories like that are making me afraid. I don't want to be afraid of you!"
I opened my mouth, but she stabbed at me through the air with a finger.
"No!" She hollered. "No, I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear your voice until you decide that this life," she looked around us, "is more important to you than that disgusting place. Now go!"
Without a word I turned and left. I hung my head, and the rain ran down my neck, down my back. It sent a shiver through me, but I barely noticed. I could feel the chill settle into my bones, but I did not shiver. I was in shock. Once, during the war, I took an arrow through the meat of my left leg. I carried on for hours before I noticed the pain. This felt much the same. Nothingness.
In the darkness, though I could not see it, I sensed those terrible eyes. I could feel them looming over me, glaring at me. Jeannine was right, and those eyes seemed pleased to note it. The keep was everywhere. It had followed me home.
I slowly walked away, the slam of the door like a sword through my chest. The rain made the world seem smaller, the blackness helping to drape the world in curtains of darkness. I felt lost, and perhaps I was. I cannot say how long I walked among the houses, nor how many sets of eyes glared at me, some fearfully, as I passed.
***
I cannot say how long I walked upon the cobblestone road that ran its circle about the village, but I do know where my journey ended. The goblet drawn upon the door was a familiar sight. I was at Gern's tavern. I pushed open the door, and allowed the night to pass in a blur of drink and sadness. Drink and sadness, the companions of many a man sent into the rain.
The evening stretched on, though only in flashes of memory. I recall Erik's angry look, and the grumblings of Gern's two other patrons. I recall a bottle, though I cannot say what was in it. Something strong, old stock from before the war. I recall the rattle of coins upon the table, and a glass pushed aside, shattering on the floor. I recall opening the door, and the look of displeasure on the faces of the three men inside.
All these things seemed to happen out of order, as if the events had been written upon cards, shuffled and dealt. I had trouble focusing, and what words I did speak, what I remembered speaking, came out in mumbled, slurred tones of anger and sadness.
I recall Gern yelling, "Get out!" His finger pointed toward the door, though I saw it through the bottom of an emptying bottle.
The world seemed to spin about me, angry words and broken glass creating a cloud which seemed to turn the world into an endless fog before my eyes. What was happening? Why was I back in the rain?
My mind seemed stuck on the image of the deer in Skyreach