It was not a pleasant change, but it still brought a bitter laughter into the lancer's lips. Funnily enough, he could no longer find peace and tranquility by resorting to Sextus's house balcony or terrace. The sight of the endlessly extending sky showing off her limitless reach and parading her serene color felt like a belittlement to the warrior's state, promised to be temporary and closing to a conclusion by the promise made by the arena's owner, a promise resembling the unpredictability of the shade of blue the firmament chooses every morning.
At the beginning, he hated the ceilings congesting his view and vision, chackling his stretching hands and blocking them with the hardness of their reality. These walls and ceiling were so grounded, more than the chains he endured once. Those could be broken, could be pardoned, but that sky was absolute in its dominance and tyrant in its extend.
His room was peaceful, his own, requiring a permission every time someone wanted to come in, it was still a disguised confinement. Devoid of memories, empty of warmth, deaf to laughter, rejecting of remembrance, infusing every roaming thought with pain like a punishment.
So out of a new habit, the Celtic took into strolling through the city, observing a municipal life before it was drained by fears and trepidation but this new alternation did not stop him despite Sextus unceasing warnings, like a mother nagging her growing boy.
Recalling the previous more enlightened days of this troubled town, for a brief moment of surrender, he could understand though not agree to Ilianus view of life.
The walk took longer than what the lancer had planned, maybe because there was nothing to watch or draw his attention that allowed time to lead his steps. Few people were sitting at their stalls and shops, and fewer costumers ran their errands quickly as if a volcano was nearing its eruption hour. Certainly, they had every right to cling to this fear, as they were still tasting the first flowing lava out of that unforeseeable mountain.
It was already nighttime when Diarmuid realized he had been wandering the entire day, leaving Sextus like a fretting mother, probably vowing an offer and praying for his safe return. Did Sextus actually do that with every match he faced or was he a true trader with keen eyes and fortunate hands that knew upon whom to place his bets every turn successfully? The lancer did not think about it much. He did not respect Sextus but he did not hate him either. His jokes were funny, his care and trust seemed genuine, his impression was truthful, and his tales could be amusing and this inability to amount whatever he felt toward the man into hatred irritated him the most.
He was at wrong with his king Fionn, yet still could harbor a considerable hatred toward him for the merciless hunt he put Grainne and him through.
So what had changed?
"Only a brave man would dare walk these streets alone at night, so I knew it had to be you."
A voice the Celtic could no longer mistake stopped him, he was not holding any weapons, seeking to be free of the burden of guilt and the reminders they were soaked with, pools from the past and the present, but that did not imply he was not ready for a fistfight despite knowing the enemy was too coward to try this form of fighting.
"Are you not afraid, Celtic?"
The hooded man, who kept pestering the lancer and whom he did not know his name till now despite the man seeming to know many things about him approached like a shadow birthed from the blackness of the hour.
"The shield of night is here for you, but the road is too open and the target is still wide - awake."
Diarmuid stated with a taunting smile and haughty words, and in contrast to the fit of rage he expected from the enemy, though verbal most likely, nothing came. Instead, the man sighed solemnly lowering his head before raising it again to face the former knight.
"Diarmuid the dual wielder, the lancer of the love spot, the first knight of the Fianna…I would never have the audacity to argue about these accusations with you."
The lancer's posture relaxed without him noticing, nostalgia strummed the strings of his heart but the song lacked the notes of pride. How did this man know so much about him? It was understandable if he knew of his current feats as a gladiator, but his past? Only few knew and this was mainly out of mere interest and curiosity. The majority only wanted to delight in watching him fight and slaughter.
"I heard of your tale of love… every person knows of it… every cave and tree in the land of emerald had testified to your affection. Some bards sing and toast to your love, others shun and vilify this amour… but for me it will always be a story of unwavering passion, of saving the helpless, of hearts resonating to the same tunes of adoration… your eloping is not a cowardice in my definition, it is an highly regarded proof of devotion… a tale of revolting against destiny!"
Diarmuid listened silently, his golden eyes donning the mantle of the night. For any lover placed in his situation, this was a high praise, a remedy to the doubts of heart, but strangely, it brought no relief or rejoice to the lover's soul. Maybe because it was uttered by the mouth of a murderous criminal, or because the lover himself could not bring his soul to believe in the essence of his love anymore. Though it surpassed transient whims and brief fascination, persisting through nights of restless hunt and punishing weather, did it deserve to be seen under such a luminous graceful light and be talked about with such admiration and high regard?
"Only a man bending the meaning of honor as he sees fit can speak of this matter with such devoid respect and passion."
To the hooded man's shock, the praised lancer answered coldly and emotionlessly. But the thug could tell it was not due to the waning of love or the forgetfulness of feelings. It was the act not the reason behind it that haunted the warrior still, even as he was enslaved and stripped of his title and prestige. He might pretend to have shed his old skin, but nonetheless he was a poor actor, easily provoked but not dissolving the approbation the man held toward his presumed foe, for now.
"I meant every word I said. You might not have noticed, but this single act was the first awakening of your rebellious instincts. I feel sad and miserable watching you still clawing at a blame you should not imprison your free heart within."
The conversation took a strange turn, it was not an exchange of threats or promises of death as would be expected from two holding to opposite views. Though standing in the same hated front, they did not conform to the same alignment.
"You call betraying my king on his betrothal night a feat of glory?"
Diarmuid did not ask angrily. He tilted his head with a bemused smile. Cracking enemies skulls was not the only fun he liked, cracking their mechanisms of thinking provided no less entertainment, he learned in this province.
"Be it a prince, a king, or an emperor… they are all tyrants who subject people to their wills and whims… orders should be obeyed, rules should be adhered to or a punishments would be faced! A retribution decided and devised by a human no different than the one straying out of the line which their despotism drew!"
Unlike the listening man, the hooded figure was hissing his words with a venom of hatred and frustration. Diarmuid was not completely opposed to his views, but he still felt them shallow. That man's outlook on the world lacked profound understanding. It was like the rebellion of a child coming of age, challenging his parental guides, his heritage supremacy, seeking to establish his own thoughts by any means, considering these unique and daring thoughts he flared and called for a testimony to him being the prodigy of his generation.
"If this is the case, then where do behaviors and consequences stand?
The lancer found himself reasoning with the boy with a calmness he did not expect of himself. As if donning one more time the gown of the mentor he was stripped of long ago.
Maybe it was habit, or perhaps boredom, and more probably the stature resemblance to Oscar, but it certainly was not anger or contempt. The hooded boy, of Oscar's height and delicate tone answered with a confident smile, as if he was relaying the will of gods.
"In the hand of the people!"
"And who is to govern these people then? Sure they are to err and take sides."
"You say this because you have lost faith in yourself, so you project this faithlessness onto everyone else!"
"You are only contradicting yourself at this point."
Diarmuid answered looking past the insult he had just received, forcing a relieving sigh out of the boy who was readying to retreat backward. But this brought joy to his heart, he was ready to try and convince the renowned gladiator and sincere knight into joining their side even if he had to speak and play with words and metaphors the entire night.
"Not all people are pure, this is a known truth. And that is why we have started our fight."
Diarmuid narrowed his eyes, stepping a sole step toward the boy waiting the dreadful completion to his words.
"This is why we are purging this vile place! And this is merely our starting point!"
"Purging", such a harrowing word, resonating and thudding with a horrifying blaring echo, strong enough to split the earth and imitate the heavens.
The boy was standing tall and proud, striding his words on his tongue like he was striding his power on his horse. A broad smile stretching his young lips that were surely, in the lancer's opinion, merely conveying what the teachings they were taught and ingrained into his ignorant mind. Diarmuid raised his head, casting a look filled with pity and commiseration at the unfortunate soul who happened to be trapped with some mad cold – blooded mentor.
"Your visions trophies are the defaced bodies of young kids and maidens."
"Are not the innocent souls the first victims of any conflict or raid? But these you call our victims are not unalloyed seeds, they are the buds of corrupted lifestyle, grown to be unfair and as vile as the rotten soil that spat them out."
The boy knew the lancer would not show open understanding even if he secretly agreed but his hopes did not diminish. Diarmuid was an knight, an invader at some battles, the lancer with the highest kill count but definitely not of women and kids and that is what the hooded messenger neglected, trying to play a game of mind, to gaslight the lancer into believing his wars and duels are no different from any other affair of wars and invasions. But the proud features of the beauty – mark holder did not change, remaining unconvinced and starting to contour into disdain. Still, this did not deter the young lad from keeping conveying his alliance point of view:
"Who does death strike first? Is it not the elderly and infants? Is this fair? No! Nevertheless, it is the rule of life and the power for survival that perpetuates it. Any divine retribution befalls these two before anyone else as a warning of mightiness and reach, of just mercilessness! Everyone bows in fears upon these happenings to gods, yet they stand against us though we are following their divine example! We are brave enough despite your mockery to have chosen to take this divinity into our own hands!"
"Divinity", another misunderstood word the was taught and used. At this current time,
Diarmuid could not believe in any divinity, let alone of those murderers. However, the profound determination and unshakable faith in what the boy was doing and envisioning was something to be admired. He spoke more confidently and with great certainty more than Druids. Though standing in the turbid fluctuating present, he seemed to be already grasping the future in his hands. These thugs were men of doctrine, unified by a conviction nothing could change or amend. A blind conviction, a sacrificial doctrine. They were truly terrifying in their strength of mind more than in the power of their physique. The lancer's face revealed none of his thoughts managing to bring at last an expression of loss and irritation on the boy's face, revealed by the sound of him gritting his teeth. Despite this fruitless outcome, the boy was not out of means for persuasion and mind altering thoughts. He relaxed his tensed shoulders, stretching his back like an alley cat then he looked the lancer dead in the eye, reaching to the most important part.
"We are still growing, we are still weak in numbers but not in resolve. And you hold a huge part of that blame, Diarmuid of the radiant face!"
Now the lancer was truly provoked but it caused the accusing lad no fear or hesitation. Instead, he went on, defending his allegations:
"If you have joined us, then with your valor blades and brave heart we could have aimed for the higher ups, not fearing their soldiers and traps. Were you to join us, as popular and beloved as you have become here, many others still scared would have followed after your steps, cowering no more with you by their side! But you still insist on deafening your ears to the helpless cries of justice, only taking the blindfold off your eyes to see the results of a needed unavoidable mean!"
"It seems to me you are looking for a professional assassin to hire, finding those who have joined up not up to the tasks, neither in resolve nor talent."
The smile the young boy bore fluttered, the knight's words were not devoid of truth. The Celtic had somehow become a public beloved figure of the city, changing his "alliance" would have shocked the town's own foundation and defamed the governor's even more, while encouraging every slave to follow in his steps since the man seemed immune to death, surviving every battle and deadly match, arising victorious like a god of life twisting the hands of Hades at every encounter, riding his three headed dog mockingly and barging through the gates of the underworld only to visit it temporarily then leave it more alive and powerful than before.
Did these thugs had a noble goal? Did they seek a world more equal and harmonious? Did such a world really exist? As a knight, always binding himself with vows of fidelity and servitude, such a world did not seem ugly but it was certainly unobtainable. He was a man before he was a knight, he knew of men's fidgeting ambitions and crippling doubts. He learned of their kindness and generosity but he also fell to their treachery and jealousy. In the end, he himself has fallen into the allure of love and the thrill of bending the rules and imprisoned his peace of mind and rest of body to the unceasing doubts and excuses trying to embellish what could only by called by its one real name, betrayal.
Aiming to the sky was not a vice, crowning one's head was not forbidden, springing up a castle or a resort was not a crime but if not obtained by dirty money, then it was made true by wars and battles, by death and torture, by betrayals and bribery; pure today, defiled tomorrow. The mind can be as faithfully defended as easily swayed. So is the heart, born pure and innocent but then constantly coursing with red or blue blood, depending on what dreams glided through the corners of the mind and vice versa.
Diarmuid was not a pessimistic man or a nihilistic one, he himself had enjoyed money, fame, prestige, castles and maidens, but all of these were boons bestowed upon him by shedding his blood and sacrificing his life. He was not ignorant that one could enjoy a luxurious life by honorable or peaceful means but then, why were the scale weighing heavily toward the group of deeds and people who trod down the opposite path?
If that was sadly the ailment of life and if "purging " was the cure, then it was no different from a poisonous medicine.
"No outcomes justify your means."
The lancer tried to end the discussion that was clearly destined to go nowhere, as neither he was interested in the man's offer nor was the boy amenable to his words. But this group of outlaws or criminals were not only elusive in their killing, they were elusive as well in their words and arguments.
"Have we not invaded villages and conquered clans? Have we not built our kings' castles upon the ashes of their defeated predecessors whom we have killed in the name of these same kings? Have we not spread terror and fear among villagers and clansmen? Now we grasp to the same helm, and swing the blade at no different people in helplessness or power, but not for a life of sheer survival, but for life of equality!"
The hooded lad was reiterating the knight's thoughts though with a different phrasing and to a different end. His use of the word "We" affirmed the lancer's hunch that the boy was from the British Isles just like himself and maybe that was the reason for appearing interested in and relaxed with the dual wielder.
"Diarmuid the lancer, please remember who you were! I know you are not satisfied with what you have become. Maybe destiny had brought us together to heal this corrupted world!"
The boy's perseverance was annoying but admired. He never gave up, fixed on succeeding in his mission and reminding the lancer of his younger self while he was making a name for himself through recklessness and making a gamble out of his own life.
"And who had foretold you of this prophecy?"
The lancer chuckled, many tales and speculations were weaved around his tear- drop mole, and the only truth about it was revealed to be the tears it would take their shape to hide and protect. Nevertheless, the lad was not offended by the his kin's mockery and he answered with unwavering determination and faith.
"My faith in you."
The former knight did not answer. Many had believed in him and while he proved his trustworthiness to countless strangers he had also let down the most important to him. This boy knowing of his tale, had twisted it to fit his the glamorous but actually sick picture he was trying to paint so his unconditioned belief in him was not a surprising occurrence. Receiving no reply, the boy went on holding one last torch he hoped to ignite mightily.
"You owe no one anything, Diarmuid."
The lancer knew part of this was true, but not all of it, and that was the reason it was so painful and repugnant to talk about. At that moment, he felt he was supposed to be called a coward not an example the thugs were attempting to recruit and manipulate.
"Germanous thumping up for your life at the trial? Any idiot would be forced to do the same for you have committed no crime, you killed a lustful monster… and the blonde's act was not a show of generosity or wisdom… he simply had no other choice because the truth always reveals itself! Him returning you looted spears? That was no grace either… he was merely a thief giving back what he had stolen! You risk your life and stain your pride to entertain the masses for Sextus's profit… he owes you, not the opposite! Give him one test, show him one loss or weakness and see how he will abandon you! Even back at Britain…"
"Be careful, boy!"
The lancer threatened for the first time during the draining conversation, but the boy did not move an inch nor allowed fear to show on his face as he went one, a little quicker than before, as if preparing mentally to avoid an attack by the end of his speech:
"You served Fionn, you were his right- hand man and first knight, you were his protector, his glory pertains to you! The cups of wine you shared and the toasts you made together surpassed those made by a king and his knight! You were friends, companions! And still, he never forgave you and defiled your entire honorable past along his side with lies and ill – intended rumors. He gave your friendship no weight or merit, he gave your service no gratitude! You seized the castles he resided in, you unified the clans he governed... Even your friends turned their back on you in the name of the oaths of knighthood forgetting it equates to friendship vows!"
Diarmuid wanted to argue, to clarify to the boy that this was the life of a knight, the life he chose. His vows of knighthood amounted to his faith in gods. Even when love intervened and infatuation broke the vow, it had never lost its meaning in his heart and remained standing still waiting for the time to grant it another chance, yet the words did not leave his mouth. Encouraged by the Celtic's silence, the lad cladded in ominous black approached him taking off his hood to reveal boyish features with dark eyes glittering like a star granted by the night sky and long curls of hair resembling Oscar's but darker in shade.
"Diarmuid, the first knight of the Fionna, I, Caden the Celtic slave, plead to you to join us!"
The addressed man did not look for long at the intrepid extended hand before he spoke in a level tone.
"Are you not afraid of losing this hand?"
"If I had any small doubt that you would harm me, I would have not offered you this hand."
Once more, the lad showed his unwavering belief in the enslaved lancer, leaving the latter's heart an open portal for doubts to crawl through. His act and words toward his elder kin were genuine but he was far from saving by the example he looked up to as he was unable to conceal his debased nature before he disappeared into the night.
"You will join us Diarmuid, regardless of the method I will have to use! I promise you this as a fellow Celtic and a former squire!"