it did on the mortal side of the
Merging. For every two years he spent in Hell, only a year passed in his home,
and he only aged that one year. All told, Birch had spent twenty years in Hell
but physically aged only ten.
For hundreds of years, White paladins had been crossing
the Merging and disappearing forever. Not one of them had ever returned, and
all were assumed dead. As much honor as assuming the white cloak of beauty
conferred on a paladin, it was acknowledged as a death sentence. Birch was the
first and only paladin to ever return, but even he was at a loss as to how he’d
escaped.
Birch shook his head and sent his close-cropped ponytail
swaying slightly in response. He had unfortunately clear memories of most of
his journey in Hell, but six years of his life there were locked away in his
mind where he could not reach them. For half a dozen years he’d been a captive
in the deepest pits of Hell, yet he could only remember them in his dreams… or
rather, his nightmares. Birch had been tortured and pushed past the breaking
point of most men, but he’d held fast to his faith and his sanity, and somehow
he’d broken free and escaped back to his own plane of existence.
Far below him Birch saw what he believed to be one of the
main reasons for his deliverance. A dark-haired woman stood on the docks,
helping to load supplies onto the ship they would be using. She wore
dun-colored trousers and a white tunic, but no one could ever mistake her for a
man, no matter her clothing. She stooped low over a barrel that had apparently
split open, then she straightened and whipped her head to the side to clear the
hair away. She looked back toward the fortress to where Birch was standing, and
it seemed to him their eyes met, even though she was little larger than an ant
in his view.
Moreen.
The hardest part of crossing the Merging had not been the
terror of what he would be facing, but the sorrow of what he’d been leaving
behind. Birch and Moreen loved each other desperately, but his commitment to
the Prism had always prevented their being together. Despite the many times
he’d hurt her by not staying to be with her, going off on some quest for the
Prism, Moreen had always waited for him, and she’d done so for the ten years
he’d been gone across the Merging.
The thought of her sitting by the fire at their table…
…a glass of wine in hand… eyes longing… waiting…
…for him…
That had been enough to fuel Birch during his moments of
deepest despair and the torture he’d endured.
Since his return, Birch’s life had been a confused trek of
personal anguish. He’d gone home to see his brother Hoil and ended up leaving with
his nephew Danner in tow and on the run from the Men for Mankind Coalition.
Then Birch had returned to Demar to let Moreen know he still lived, but almost
immediately he’d had to leave to return to the Prism to hear their decision
about his future. On the road he’d been attacked by Sal, and recently he’d
learned the demon had also attacked Demar and nearly raped Moreen. She’d
realized what the demon really was and had followed Birch to Den-Furral to warn
him. Too late, she arrived the morning after he’d slain Sal, and Birch had
immediately asked her to journey with him. Being apart from Moreen was like
missing a piece of his soul, and he could no longer bear the pain of
separation.
Birch turned and walked into the room where he’d fought
Sal. There were no torches, but the room was revealed in stark detail to him.
Anyone else staring into the room would have seen only darkness, lit slightly
by a burning-orange light emanating from Birch’s eyes.
His eyes. Birch had been born with deep, dark-blue eyes.
But where once glinted dark, sapphire edges, there now burned Hellish flames
into which no man could force himself to gaze. Meeting Birch’s eyes directly
showed other men a glimpse of the fury of Hell and the pain and tortures Birch
had endured, and none could withstand his
Merging. For every two years he spent in Hell, only a year passed in his home,
and he only aged that one year. All told, Birch had spent twenty years in Hell
but physically aged only ten.
For hundreds of years, White paladins had been crossing
the Merging and disappearing forever. Not one of them had ever returned, and
all were assumed dead. As much honor as assuming the white cloak of beauty
conferred on a paladin, it was acknowledged as a death sentence. Birch was the
first and only paladin to ever return, but even he was at a loss as to how he’d
escaped.
Birch shook his head and sent his close-cropped ponytail
swaying slightly in response. He had unfortunately clear memories of most of
his journey in Hell, but six years of his life there were locked away in his
mind where he could not reach them. For half a dozen years he’d been a captive
in the deepest pits of Hell, yet he could only remember them in his dreams… or
rather, his nightmares. Birch had been tortured and pushed past the breaking
point of most men, but he’d held fast to his faith and his sanity, and somehow
he’d broken free and escaped back to his own plane of existence.
Far below him Birch saw what he believed to be one of the
main reasons for his deliverance. A dark-haired woman stood on the docks,
helping to load supplies onto the ship they would be using. She wore
dun-colored trousers and a white tunic, but no one could ever mistake her for a
man, no matter her clothing. She stooped low over a barrel that had apparently
split open, then she straightened and whipped her head to the side to clear the
hair away. She looked back toward the fortress to where Birch was standing, and
it seemed to him their eyes met, even though she was little larger than an ant
in his view.
Moreen.
The hardest part of crossing the Merging had not been the
terror of what he would be facing, but the sorrow of what he’d been leaving
behind. Birch and Moreen loved each other desperately, but his commitment to
the Prism had always prevented their being together. Despite the many times
he’d hurt her by not staying to be with her, going off on some quest for the
Prism, Moreen had always waited for him, and she’d done so for the ten years
he’d been gone across the Merging.
The thought of her sitting by the fire at their table…
…a glass of wine in hand… eyes longing… waiting…
…for him…
That had been enough to fuel Birch during his moments of
deepest despair and the torture he’d endured.
Since his return, Birch’s life had been a confused trek of
personal anguish. He’d gone home to see his brother Hoil and ended up leaving with
his nephew Danner in tow and on the run from the Men for Mankind Coalition.
Then Birch had returned to Demar to let Moreen know he still lived, but almost
immediately he’d had to leave to return to the Prism to hear their decision
about his future. On the road he’d been attacked by Sal, and recently he’d
learned the demon had also attacked Demar and nearly raped Moreen. She’d
realized what the demon really was and had followed Birch to Den-Furral to warn
him. Too late, she arrived the morning after he’d slain Sal, and Birch had
immediately asked her to journey with him. Being apart from Moreen was like
missing a piece of his soul, and he could no longer bear the pain of
separation.
Birch turned and walked into the room where he’d fought
Sal. There were no torches, but the room was revealed in stark detail to him.
Anyone else staring into the room would have seen only darkness, lit slightly
by a burning-orange light emanating from Birch’s eyes.
His eyes. Birch had been born with deep, dark-blue eyes.
But where once glinted dark, sapphire edges, there now burned Hellish flames
into which no man could force himself to gaze. Meeting Birch’s eyes directly
showed other men a glimpse of the fury of Hell and the pain and tortures Birch
had endured, and none could withstand his
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