Snippet Saturday

From something I wrote quite a long time ago, actually ...

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“Acheron! Acheron!” she cried, rushing towards him through the chaos and din. It was he! She had finally found him… and then he turned towards her. His eyes were hidden by his helmet’s visor, but his mouth showed disapproval, distaste, contempt. He turned away from her and suddenly thrust his sword into a member of Conrad’s band.

The blood rushed to her head and she stumbled, grasping her sword, gasping for breath. He has betrayed us, she thought, he has gone over to the enemy. He is a traitor to us all. She fell against a pillar and felt her chest burning and swelling with anguish. Her eyes burned, her ears burned, her hands shook and she dropped her sword with a clang of metal against marble. The noise enveloped her; she could not breathe, she could not cry, she could not move …

“Tessa! Tessa!” Conrad shouted, but not one syllable reached her ears. He called again, “Tessa!” but to no avail. He rushed towards her, through the crowd, but the traitor Acheron had already reached her; he stood over her, his sword in hand. She turned her head slowly towards Conrad, unresponsive to the looming figure in front of her. He lifted his sword and prepared to strike.

With a great crash Conrad leaped in between the two and drew Acheron’s attention away from the wounded girl. Infuriated, the traitor vented all his attention on the newcomer. He swung his mighty sword with a bullish effort, missing Conrad’s neck by an inch. Another lunge, and suddenly Conrad found himself gasping for breath, dropping to his knees, the blood running from his forehead like a crimson waterfall. 

“Conrad!” Tessa painfully lifted herself up from the base of the marble column and reached out a hand, as if, from such a distance, she could pull him off the floor and into safety. There he now lay on his back, exposed and vulnerable to the whims of the Enemy.  The traitor stood above the warrior, menacingly, as he had only moments before stood over his former sweetheart. Conrad braced himself for the final stroke; Acheron lifted his sword, but suddenly he, too, stiffened and paused in midair. With a great moan, he collapsed to the ground. Tessa had struck.

“For my queen,” she cried. She watched as he let fall his sword and fell to the ground; one groan, one sigh, and a last breath, and all was still. She stared, stunned, at the body, still and silent, of the man who had once promised her his very life's breath. Yes, he had betrayed them all, Arthur, Conrad, Desmona, herself … and yet …

In an instant she fell to the ground, kneeling next to him, panting, exhausted, nervous, afraid. She dragged herself to his side and felt the warmth leave his body. Tears flooded her face as she clutched his shoulders and grasped his helmet to release the head from its cage. He had betrayed them, but now he was dead; could mercy, on her part, intervene to allow for a more just reward?

She fumbled with the clasp, her hands sweating and shaking, and gently pulled off the metal helmet to kiss once more the lips which had so often spoken true and honest words, but …

She stopped and froze. “Conrad,” she whispered uneasily. Conrad grunted, pulled himself up, and dragged himself over towards her.

“Tessa, don’t look …”

“But Conrad, it isn’t he.”

Conrad stopped and leaned over to look at the body. “Truly?”

“I am quite sure.” She calmly sat back on her heels and wiped her face. “His eyes are wrong.” Even through the wounds and sweat and blood, she saw a stranger’s eyes. “They used to be gentle. Warm. Deep. These are forceful, but have no strength of character. It is only his armor …” and her voice trailed off. Her eyes swept the mass of men in the crowded hall, seeking for the answer to the unspoken question. Where was the real Acheron?