Benedict tossed and turned restlessly. Slowly, ever so slowly, he drifted into sleep. His dreams were the same nightmares he'd had before, of slaughters and hot battles, and of that singular night, burned forever in his memory…slowly, all of these images coalesced into another dream. One that would stay with him until the morn, and perhaps for the rest of his days.
He found himself in an incredibly lucid dream, standing amongst the remains of a battlefield. He recognized none of the colors or rainments of the dead soldiers, and none of the faces. The terrain was marshy…wet, hot, disgusting. Oddly enough, there wasn't a hint of buzz…no flies or mosquitoes descending on the dead. Aside from his own footsteps sloshing through the muck, it was silent as…as death.
He realized slowly that he wasn't garbed in their clothing, nor in armor, but instead in the Amber garb he had dressed in as a child, all in browns and oranges and tans, though he was his older self. His sword was missing; it felt unnatural to him, and he started searching among the dead for one suitable for him. A voiced sliced through the quiet…it was old, old as the ages, but strong in some ways, and terrifying in others. It was a voice he'd heard since his earliest days. It was his Grandfather, Dworkin.
"Now, now Benedict. The battle is over…no need for a weapon. Unless you'd raise it to me." Arrogant, confident, definitely Dworkin. Benedict paused, not picking the weapon, and as the ancient man waved his hand, Ben began to follow him, till both were sitting atop a pair of large, smooth, clean gray stones.
As Dworkin sat, he released a deep sigh of contentment.
"You might wonder why we're here…a nameless battle, or why you're dressed like a child, weaponless and all. Hrmph, you're probably wondering why I'm ever here, disrupting your peaceful sleep."
Benedict was inclined to agree with him, and was about to say so…when he discovered that he couldn't speak. It was as if he truly was a child again. So, instead he sat in silence, listening.
"The truth is, if you're here, and I'm here, then I'm dead. Actually, if we're both here…instead of elsewhere…then your father is dead also. However, I suppose my theory that my death wouldn't destroy the Pattern is true. Good."
Benedict blinked in surprise. Dead? he thought numbly, You can't die! Dworkin seemed very calm for a dead man…and he seemed more relaxed than Ben could ever remember seeing him before.
"First off, and I want you to understand this before anything else is said. Your father and I, both of us, have always loved you Benedict. No matter how harsh we've been, or cold, or down right evil, we have always done what we thought was best for you…and we did it with love in our hearts." A pause, as he let the words sink into Benedict's dreaming self. "You're going to hear a lot of things, now that we're gone. Oberon and I have always kept many things back from you all…till you were older, till you'd seem more of the joys of the Pattern before we roped you in with its pains. Unless I've gotten lazy in updating this, you probably haven't even turned thirty yet…and now you're going to have to face things that most haven't had to face till they're easily ten, even twenty times older than you. For that, I am sorry." Dworkin paused again, pulling on his beard for a pair of minutes, before continuing.
"You have a pair of brothers Benedict. Finndo and Osric are their names…and long ago we lost them to their own internal rages. We lost them because of the sword…because of the blood…because of battle. That is why your father and I have always discouraged you from such acts. However, this incident proves that I am not a master of all destiny as some would believe…what with you being one of the best blades ever, for your young age." Dworkin said as he hops off his stone and began to pace around. "Personally, I had hoped you would take interest in your Karm heritage…become a Judge." A sigh, "Such is not to be however. You, sadly, are a warrior born Benedict. Hesitate not to let your blade fly for Amber…you are given my-and Oberon's-blessing." Dworkin had approached silent Benedict, and laid a withered hand beside Benedict's cheek, patting it twice as he said his name and Oberon's.
"Now, and this is where I get really serious. Mirelle's death, though tragic, was important for one vital reason…she confirmed that the thirteen of you-you, Eric, Fiona, all the way down to Random-are the ones spoken of by the Prophecies of the Unicorn. What does this mean? For you, it means a great many things." A pause, as he reseated himself.
"Most of them I do not have the time to speak of…but this I will say. You will meet many siblings…all older than you, all with many more years of experience. Age and experience will matter not however…in regards to them. Eric and the others…they know you. They all, whether they admit it or not, look up to you. You will have to be strong for them all, in the face of adversity…in the face of battle…in the face of death. I do not doubt your ability to show strength however. Battle is something you've grown quite skilled at. No, it is another matter all together that worries me."
Then, rising up in the space between the two rocks, was a stone pillar, resting atop it a stone bowl, filled to the brim with clear water. As the pillar and bowl rose, the water began to spin and an image formed of it. An image of Jess formed, with her sitting in her old chair, bawling her eyes out. Benedict's heart clenched seeing it, and he turned his eyes up to Dworkin again, trying to remain in control of himself. "You, dear grandson, must learn to show compassion…to show love…to show understanding, to not just this poor girl, but to your family as well. If you do not, all shall be lost.
"I must be going soon…as must you. However, a final word before I leave. Within you lies the power of both Barimen and Karm. You have spent your life living under, and learning the powers of, Barimen. It is perhaps time you truly learned what it means to be a Karm also."
As he began to break away, a surge of power began to flow through Ben's veins…he almost felt as if his blood was on fire. "A final gift, from me, to you. Save my Pattern Benedict…and save yourself…."
Seconds later, he was gone, and then everything around Benedict faded to black.
Mere moments later, Benedict sat straight up in bed, gasping for breath. Hot tears were on his cheeks already, and he bit back the words that rose in his throat. Instead, with a wordless cry, he leaned forward, drawing his knees up so that he could rest his arms on them. He covered his face, letting himself cry. The tears slipped through his fingers as he sat there for some time.
After a while, he collected himself again, though the aching wrench he felt in the dream stayed with him. He went to the bath, and showered slowly, his mind going over the dream again and again, committing it to memory. No doubt of this dream ever entered his head-his Ward should have cut out all but the most powerful of spells…spells that Dworkin could toss about like nobody's business. And seeing Jesse like that….he hit his hand against the shower wall, and struggled to bite back his tears again. He finally gave up, and gave into his grief, and regret, and guilt. When he had finished crying again, he stepped out of the shower, and numbly began his morning routine, though he had no idea what time it was. He brushed his teeth, and combed out his hair…which hadn't even reached his shoulders yet. It had only grown out slightly from his time with Jess. He paused again at the thought of her, and the heartache he had caused her. What a fool am I, he thought. He closed his eyes, and collected himself again, It's not too late, though, not too late to make things right. I swear to all that's holy, Jess, Father…Grandfather. I swear I'll make things right again.
He peered at himself in the mirror after making the vow, and considered his bristles. He didn't feel like shaving, and didn't trust his hand to be steady, so he let it be. Maybe he'll actually grow a beard. He didn't know.
He went back to the main bedroom, and considered his uniform. No more, he thought to himself. If Llewella wants me to serve her there, I will, but … He left the thought unfinished, and dug into the pile of clothes he had brought from his proper rooms to here. He chose out a well-fitted off-white tunic, and his russet and brown surcoat. He withdrew out the matching breeches, and his leather boots, and dressed himself as he did when he lived here. He stopped and regarded himself in the mirror, nodding to himself. That felt better. It felt right.
Now…Jesse… After that dream, he couldn't leave her in Shadow. Not any longer. Nor could he deny his love for her, burning bright. He could only pray that wasn't a false vision, or an old one, of her. He could only hope that she still felt the same for him. He regarded the spell he had cast to find Jacqueline. That was a one in a million chance, as she was most likely shielded from any spell of his, or anyone's. He could cast the same to hone in on Jess…and convince her to use the Trump he had left behind of himself. It was a simple thing, and hopefully….it wouldn't take too long. Hopefully, she'd agree to come back here with him. Hopefully, she'd consent to marry him, before everything went to hell.
He hoped.
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