CHAPTER 5

 

 

CONSTANCE FELT the fatal blow as if she were the one stabbed. Rushing from the tent she ran toward the distant battlefield. It took over two candlemarks, but she never slowed her pace. Time was of the essence if she was to be with Lynara during her last moments. The moans of the dying could be heard long before she saw the carnage from atop a small hillock. Constance stared at the devastation before her. Tens of thousands of men, women and children lay dead or dying. Roman or Celt, it made no difference. Death didn't care. It welcomed all gladly. Rushing down the hill, she saw a familiar form staggering toward her.

"Faolin!" she cried, catching the wounded man as he collapsed. "Where is Lieutenant Lynara?"

Eyes glazed with pain, Faolin focused on the woman holding him up.

"Historian?" he asked, his eyes barely able to make out her face.

"Yes, it's me, Constance. Where is Lynara?"

Moving his arm painfully, he pointed to a stack of bodies several hundred paces away. Constance lowered him to the ground.

"Be still, Faolin. I'll be back soon."

The Celt could only nod.

Running toward the pile of bodies, she was appalled at the mutilation around her. Severed arms and legs lay everywhere. Bodiless heads stared at her accusingly. Headless bodies lay crumpled, their arms outstretched as if searching for something that wasn't there. Trying not to step on any of the remains, she hunted frantically until she spotted the blood-stained body of her lover. Constance fell to her knees and gently gathered Lynara into her arms, holding her tightly against her breast. The bright red hair flowed across her arms like rivers of blood.

"Lynara? It's me. Come back to me, my love," she pleaded, tears flowing down her cheeks. Dark clouds moved across the sky and thunder rolled ominously.

The gods are angry, she thought.

Lynara heard the call and felt torn between the vow she had made thousands of years before and the need to be with the one person who had shown her true love. Opening her eyes, she stared into tear-filled eyes and smiled painfully.

"I knew you would come," she whispered and then winced. To understand life as a mortal, Lynara had chosen to experience everything associated with it, including the pains of her injuries and their consequences. Only the knowledge that she would soon be reborn gave her the strength and courage to endure dying — until this moment. Now she had to choose between death and happiness. It wasn't an easy choice.

"I waited for you."

"You had better," Constance threatened, trying to ease her lover's passing. There was no doubt Lynara had suffered mortal injuries. "What happened?"

Although the question was directed at Lynara's battle, the warrior pretended to misunderstand.

"Always the historian!" she teased. "My Queen was surr..."

Lynara gasped as fire burned through her gut. She would have to talk quickly. "...sur... rounded by Romans. We fought our way to her side. She was badly wounded but we man... managed to secure her escape."

"You stayed behind to make it happen, didn't you?" Constance accused.

"We stayed."

Looking around, the historian smiled sadly. There were no Celt bodies within thirty paces. She could easily imagine the magnificent battle Lynara had fought.

"So I see," she said knowingly, torn between pride for her warrior and sorrow for the sacrifice of their future.

*  *  *

Lynara was cold. She knew time was short. If she didn't decide now, it would be too late. She could join Constance and know all that love had to offer or she could die. It should have been easy, but it wasn't. Life meant revealing her greatest secret and she wasn't sure how Constance would feel about her then. There was also the problem of aging. She hated the thought of watching Constance grow old and frail and eventually dying. Human life was so short. Demons normally lived forever.

Making up her mind, she reached up to brush the tears from her lover's cheeks.

"I must go now," she whispered, her brown eyes reflecting her sorrow.

They're brown now, Constance thought, momentarily confused. Again she saw flames dancing hotly within their depths. Giving a slight shake of the head, she kept the eye contact, knowing it was essential she hold on to every precious moment.

"I know." Her eyes flooded with more tears.

"Don't cry. We'll meet in another life."

"I prefer this one."

"Me too, but it isn't meant to be."

Death crept closer and for a moment, Lynara panicked. She had died a thousand times before but had never experienced fear.

I can stop this! her mind cried out. Don't throw away a lifetime of happiness! it screamed.

"I can't do this!" she groaned aloud, the pain of leaving greater than the pain of dying.

"Do what?" Constance asked, lowering her voice to a soft whisper.

Shaking her head, Lynara didn't answer. Her decision had been made long ago. Two weeks with Constance wasn't enough to break her vow, no matter how wonderful they had been.

It's not two weeks! part of her argued. It's a lifetime. What use is a vow if it destroys you? You can make her happy for the short time she has? You will always be a warrior, but love rarely comes more than once in a life, even a demon's life.

*  *  *

"Lynara? What is it? What can't you do?"

"Dying! I can't die!"

"There are some things we can't control, my love."

"For some," Lynara replied mysteriously.

Constance frowned, thinking Lynara was delirious. Neither spoke, unsure what to say. Finally, Lynara broke the silence.

"Don't bury me in the ground. I must be burned."

Forcing back a sob, Constance nodded.

"You will have the biggest fire anyone has ever seen.... A warrior's funeral," she promised.

"Thank you," Lynara said, feeling Death's grip tightening. "I love you so much. It was a glorious two weeks. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, my love, but we'll be together again. I promise."

"I know," the demoness said, smiling faintly. "Until then, be happy."

"I can't!" cried Constance, clutching Lynara tightly, unable to stay strong. "I can't! Don't leave me!" she begged, hating herself for her weakness at Lynara's last moments.

The demoness heard the anguish and relented, but it was too late. Death had arrived to claim its prize.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped as her body stiffened. "I... should have... chosen... you."

Not sure what she meant, Constance sobbed uncontrollably. Several women and a few Celts surrounded her, wanting to offer comfort but unwilling to disturb the grieving woman. They knew the lieutenant and mourned the loss. Finally, one leaned down and touched Constance's shoulder

"We'll prepare her body," the old woman offered.

"No!" Constance snapped. "I'm sorry. No. I'll do it. Please prepare the pyre for her. It was her wish."

Gesturing for the others to get started, the woman remained standing next to the historian, not sure what else to do.

"Faolin," Constance said, as an afterthought.

"We have him. He'll recover with time."

"And the Queen?"

"She escaped."

Constance nodded and then turned her attention back to her warrior. Death was no stranger to her. One didn't live thousands of years without losing loved ones. Time never healed the pain but it had taught her to accept the inevitable and to deal with it. Pushing aside her feelings of loss, she looked at the fallen warrior with the eyes of a historian instead of a lover. The time for grieving would come later.

"It's as if she were sleeping," she murmured.

"She was the bravest of our warriors. She stayed behind to give our queen time to escape," the woman said.

"She could do no less. She was a Celt," Constance replied.

"Ummm."

The historian gave the woman a questioning look.

"What is it?"

"Lieutenant Lynara wasn't a Celt."

"Not a... I thought... well, never mind. I was obviously wrong. Where was she from? I want to make sure my records are correct and then notify her family."

"She hasn't any family, and no one knows where she comes from. Except maybe Queen Boudicea."

"No one? She never talked about her life? Her family?"

"She never talked about anything from her past. Whenever anyone asked, she would say her past was a story best untold. We understood and respected her wishes."

"Then I will ask the Queen," Constance said, vowing to learn more about Lynara.

*  *  *

The fire burned furiously, flames crackling loudly, reaching for the stars. What was left of the army gathered around the pyre, their voices united in the Celtic death song. The mourners believed it helped the soul move from their world to the next. Boudicea made a small speech, keeping her praises simple and then stood quietly beside Constance. When the historian asked her about Lynara's origin, the queen shook her head.

"She never said."

"And you never asked?"

"I didn't need to know her history. I trusted her. That was enough."

Constance shook her head. The logic eluded her. To trust someone you didn't know seemed foolish, especially for a queen. Still, if Boudicea didn't know where she came from, no one would.

"How long did you know her?"

Boudicea shrugged.

"About nine seasons. She came to me shortly after the Romans released me. Her skills as a warrior were superior to my other soldiers. I tried to make her a general, but she refused. She said she was a better warrior than officer. I had to order her to take a commission as a lieutenant."

Boudicea smiled, remembering the day she introduced her to her senior officers. Her generals had been shocked when she announced Lynara would be a general. When the young woman declined the commission, they were appalled she would refuse their queen. Amused by their fickle attitude, Boudicea made Lynara a lieutenant. They were uncomfortable, but no one dared challenge their leader. In time, they realized Lynara was an exceptional warrior and grew to respect her skills in combat and battle strategies.

"Then I will write that down and everything else the others can tell me. Lynara will not be forgotten," Constance vowed.

"Do it well, historian. She deserves to be remembered for her sacrifice."

Boudicea patted her shoulder and walked away, her shoulders slumped and head bowed. The queen felt the young woman's loss deeply.

*  *  *

Two weeks later, Constance received news that the Celtic queen was dead. The Romans had searched relentlessly for her, anxious to capture her so she could be paraded before Nero. Boudicea had stolen their thunder by committing suicide. It was a huge blow to the Roman ego and secured Boudicea's place forever in the histories of her people.

Hearing the news, Constance was saddened. The next day, she packed her scrolls and moved on. In time the memory of the historian amongst the Celts faded, as did that of her warrior.