The ground of the upper part of the building that took its sweet time to crumble then hastened its pace, rushing the lower levels deeper into an earthly grave with its destructive gravity. The floor cracked and weaved of these cracks a poisonous spider web, allowing few still tightly embracing stones to offer a temporary refuge for shaky feet drunk on the loss of balance and fidgeting with a twirling down - pulling force. Why did nature, with its usual selfishness, never discerning in her catastrophes and plagues between men and women, young and old, human and animals, decided this day among all the unfortunates days it consumed to please its power with these solely two men, the criminal and the lieutenant? Why did it not desire to feast on the lancer? The one who broke his vows, the one betrayed his king? The one who failed his younger friend and was too late to save him from changing into his sullen image, the image of one who sold his godly spears for the amusement of sick people? Plinius was hanging tightly to the edge, the eroded sharp broken rim weakening his grip more than helping it to push forward. His fingers started bleeding, the nerves and muscles of his hands tautening and exceeding their flexibility. Still, he struggled to keep his composure calling to Diarmuid by his name for help. Caden was in no better condition, bleeding hands and a body drained from all power and pliability from the long fight, an honest fear screaming on his face and resounding in his desperate shouts for help, also calling and shouting crazily at the lancer with his bare name, as if he was calling to a brother or a dear friend, while Plinius called with whispers loud enough to be heard, but asking for the favor and comradery of a fellow warrior and knight.
Only Diarmuid now kept standing, barely balancing himself on a few steps. Why was he granted this unwelcomed boon?
Once again he was facing the curse of making a choice, man's greatest cruse and most dangerous gamble.
If Plinius fell, his armor would not provide him protection. Quite on the contrary, it would shatter along his body and the metallic pieces will shred his wounds further, nulling his chance of surviving. Caden wore nothing heavy, but his body would still be crushed, his athletic training delivering out of his fall, a showy performance in the air. His least and last elegant dance.
Time knew no stalling anymore, and nature disowned mercy.
Plinius, if he was to survive will be honored and celebrated. And he was deserving of that, no proof needed.
Caden, if he was to survive, will be humiliated and scorned, delivered to a death wearing a different gown. Definitely one more bleak and excruciating.
When caged inside a man's mind, time can fly there with the speed of a falcon, misting images quick to sadden or please the memories.
His memory was filled faster than a river feeding a lustful sea with the smiles of the children he friended and entertained with his adventures, of young Oscar training playfully under the sun and cracking jokes at his own lacking of talent and stamina, of Grainne beseeching him with her firm yet pleading eyes and with her smiles and laughter even during their fey escape.
He refused to make a choice. Up until now, since his capture, he was never truly given the freedom of making one so now, while nature mercilessly chose to tear this place apart and cease its existence, he found the freedom to choose; to save both.
His leg was injured but he had endured much more pain than this wound, wounds numerous enough to mar his pride, and he will not allow this to happen again.
"Hold on for a little longer, Plinius! You are a fighter, you can do it!"
Diarmuid spoke this, giving his back to the lieutenant as he ran across the disintegrating floor, spotting quickly the sturdiest stone remaining in its place to rely on, reaching a wailing Caden in short seconds. The boy's eyes were filled with grateful surprise but he was too frightened to even let go of the edge that was hurting him more than keeping him secure. With a reassuring smile, yet not hiding the possibility of failure the lancer kneeled risking adding more weight to the trembling ground and lifted the boy from his shoulders as if he was lifting a baby from his cradle. He anchored him down on the steady stones, the turned on his heels to aid Plinius without wasting any time, only to find that the trained soldier had managed to climb up, crawling on his arms and belly, after he had discarded his heavy armor and weapons. He was smiling at the bravery the foreign knight had displayed and even thanked him though the latter had not done anything. Was this thank for the trust he had in him to hold on? Did he consider it a form of praise and faith in him? He read it needing no interpretation in the soldier's eyes, he was proud of him for choosing to save the weaker of the two first.
Plinius turned his back to lead the other two through the way he came through and which seemed till now, the safest. But Caden remained frozen in his place. Soon he will become a prisoner, fed to ferocious animals, or offered as a sacrifice at the arena's altar like his friends before him, or most scarily, he will be crucified, his youthful corpse left for the crows to dine at and for the onlookers to rot quicker under their disdain and satisfaction.
The lancer was well aware of this, as he was aware that Plinius will not change his mind out of principle, a just one.
"Plinius, wait…"
The lancer whispered, barely hearing himself, but Plinius did not stop and quickened his steps explaining:
"There is no time, carry the boy and let us go join our troops!"
Diarmuid was bent on surviving and rejoining the two friends he hoped they had survived, but not the others. Neither the lieutenant was his friend nor his troops.
The two warriors fate, if lucky, was waiting brightly like the sun ahead, but the boy had no such sun to dawn on him.
Even if he called him again, the man was hasting his steps and would not stop or turn. No thoughts filled the lancer's mind, no hesitation impeded his beating heart, no remorse hunted his soul. He could feel nothing but the blood, his clan's blood running and throbbing like a burning wine through his veins. His hand that grasped the red spear without a command of any part of his being except that vividly rushing blood, moved forward and stabbed the walking lieutenant in his back.
His hand was not shaking, and his eyes were devoid like a starless sky. His lips did not offer an apology, his pride was muted.
He had just stabbed a man in the back.
He had just broken another one of his chivalrous vows.
But Plinius should not be a witness to the boy's survival.
The stabbed man, turned slowly swaying under the weight of the long lance, his eyes were hoping it was the boy who had thrown it, but knew this accuracy and quickness pertained to the lancer, the Celtic knight, the honorable gladiator, the proud warrior.
A look of disbelief smeared his pained features, he reached with his hand to his back then looked at the blood that stained it. He will not survive but this did not matter. The hated to believe act was his last thought, the shattering image like this building haunted his fading vision. He did not twist his lips in mockery or scorn as he fell down, drowning in his blood instead of the darkness that awaited his fall, and that enraged the lancer more than he had thought. He wanted to be held responsible, he wanted to be degraded and cursed through his entire lineage but the silent treatment the righteous soldier gave him, was the worst condemnation he could receive.
"I knew you still had it in you! I know you would not betray us! You have always been one of us!"
Caden exclaimed happily as he if he was not facing an imminent death few moments ago. The lancer looked at him and recognized the same ambitious zeal in his eyes, unchanged or softened, as he went on alluding the act:
"You gave that man his just verdict! You slew a cruel and dishonorable foe! Now, you and I, and if Aengus regrouped, we will start another rebellion, more merciless than the last one!"
Diarmuid did not care for one word the boy had been uttering enthusiastically, as the latter was looking up to him as if he was the promised savor, a legend coming alive. Diarmuid approached the boy, who thought the Celtic was coming to carry him and escape together.
"Our shared blood will never betray us!"
With a hopeful cheerful smile, the boy finally awakened from the near death shock he experienced and reached his hand to the lancer, staggering to stand on his feet and Diarmuid did not disappoint him till that moment, putting his hand on his shoulder to which the boy held in his other hand, steadying it on his shoulder, like a student finally winning his mentor's approval, like a lost soul who had finally met its completion.
But there was only one thought hovering over the lancer's mind, strangling his heart. His beauty mark, the mole that gave him his honorable nickname glowed beneath the shyly seeping moonlight. He tightened his hand around the boy's shoulder but could not smile. Lowering his head he nudged him slightly with his long shaft, without injuring him, just pushing him few steps back, before the hand that was keeping the boy aground and happy, pushed him back into the abyss he was supposed to fall into in the first place if not for his interference.
What kind of a sick twisted play was that?
What foolish hypocrisy was he reciting?
He had killed a man from the back, no honorable or noble duel taking place between them. He did this to save the boy but the manner was still flowing with cowardice and shame. It was a part of his image no one should know of, not even his mind should recognize or recollect it. But the boy…
He witnessed it, and although he found nothing wrong with it and did not denounce him for it, viewing it a brave act that restored his faith and reason in the lancer, he still saw it, aggravating the lancer self – loath with the approbation it received.
No one should know of this act. No witness should tell of it whether with pride or shame.
To save the boy he killed the man, and to save himself he called said boy. Unable to see the last expression on his face; was it betrayal, anger, hatred?
In a mocking gesture, the collapsing building seemed to have made an alliance, the former palace crashing more gently now, and time walking slower than before. But maybe it was all in the lancer's head and nothing had change, not the collapse, not the time, not the fought battle, not the two slayed men… only him.
Tonight, his crimson spear that was compared to roses in its color and beauty, and at the same time to cinders with its flames and blasting had lost its color, elegance and power. It have turned into an opportunistic rat, like a coward hyena, an obsidian crow foretelling, rather, witnessing an ominous happening.
The floor was not the only thing shattering around the former knight, his soul, his heart, his mind, even his body, they all shattered into small fragments, resembling dust and gravel, easily blown by the weakest whiffs of air, not even into large pieces that could be re –gathered. They scattered like a broken mirror glass, foretelling seven years of bad luck, but to him it equaled an eternity. They dissipated like tainted sand that could not be washed anew by the sea, evaporated like a filthy smutty rain that would not fall purely again.
At his times of despair, the shadow of Grainne would visit him, comfort him. He saw her, amidst the falling pillars and walls, but she was out of his reach, so far, not approaching. Fear was not present in her eyes so her refusal to come could not be explained by the torn building, but by the torn man.
Nothing could sum or frame the filth Diarmuid had lined himself with inside.
And though he understood this, so painfully and agonizingly, and though he would never forget or forgive himself for this, his legs did not stay still waiting to join the two killed men in this play of shame. He found himself running in the direction of the path Plinius had pointed at, seeking it unconsciously as he wanted to believe that he did not deserve to survive.