Page 67 of Captive
As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, the settlement gathered. Warriors formed circles around the pyre, their weapons held in salute. Shamans sang, their voices weaving patterns that made the Heart Tree's power pulse in response. The ceremony had weight—history and meaning that transcended simple funeral rites.
Sebastian remained at the periphery, exactly where he'd stood throughout the day. His wounds still bled, his body screamed for rest, but he refused to move. This mattered. Not for Oakspear, his part in that was done, but for Boarstaff.
He watched the warchief standing with his people, grief held in check by necessity and duty. Watched him maintain composure when everything inside must be screaming. Watched him honor the fallen with the stoic strength his position demanded.
The pyre was lit as twilight painted the sky in shades of amber and purple. Flames caught, spreading across the carefully stacked wood. Smoke rose, carrying Oakspear's spirit toward whatever lay beyond.
Sebastian stayed through it all. Through the songs and the stories, through the crackling of fire and the scent of burning herbs. Through the slow collapse of wood into embers, through the gradual dispersal of mourners as night deepened.
When the last warrior finally departed, when only glowing coals remained, Sebastian remained standing—blood-soaked, poisoned, exhausted, but upright.
He'd witnessed what mattered. That was enough.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Embers from Oakspear's funeral pyre drifted skyward through the twilight, carrying the warrior's spirit to join their ancestors. As the last wisps rose toward the darkening sky, Boarstaff stepped away from the gathered mourners. In the shadow of the Heart Tree, he allowed himself a moment none of his warriors would witness. A moment of raw grief, of hollow emptiness, of longing for a future that would never be. Their limited time together had built something between him and Oakspear that defied simple definition: understanding without words, strength shared in silence, comfort found in darkness, now ended by a single act of sacrifice.
He drew a deep breath, steadying himself as he had countless times on the battlefield. The hollow ache in his chest threatened to consume him from within. Memories of shared touches and whispered promises flooded through him, each one a fresh wound.
Grief was a luxury a warchief could ill afford, especially now, with their borders threatened and a settlement looking to him for strength. He squared his shoulders against the weight of it all and turned his attention to the lone figure who had remained throughout the ceremony.
At the ceremony's edge, Sebastian stood motionless, covered in the blood and grime of his journey. Unlike the other mourners who had shifted positions throughout the day, he had remained as if carved from stone, respecting their customs by maintaining careful distance.
As the crowd dispersed, Boarstaff studied Sebastian with a new perspective. Nothing remained of the rigid noble they had first captured. The metal in his body had changed dramatically. What had once been harsh inserts of brass and copper now looked more like ore veins in living stone, integrated and warm. The brass at his collarcaught the dying light, highlighting the elegant line of his jaw and throat. Despite his exhaustion, Boarstaff couldn't help noticing the way Sebastian's muscles moved beneath that changed skin, the lean strength that had replaced aristocratic thinness.
Dark fluid continued to seep from the deep puncture wound in his side, staining the waistband of his borrowed pants. Exhaustion showed in Sebastian's posture. He hadn't fed since before his confrontation with Zarek. Despite everything, Boarstaff found himself concerned for the vampire's wellbeing - a strange inversion of what should have been. Something about seeing Sebastian wounded stirred a protective instinct he had no business feeling.
"You've barely moved a muscle in hours," Boarstaff observed, his voice rough from the day's rituals.
Sebastian offered a small shrug, wincing as the movement pulled at his wound. "Vampire," he said simply. "We don't fidget or shift our weight like other peoples. Stillness was one of the first lessons beaten into us." He paused, then added more softly, "Though these days it's more choice than regulation."
Boarstaff nodded, his eyes returning to the glowing embers. "The wound in your side is worse," he said after a moment. "I can see the darkness spreading beneath your skin."
Sebastian glanced down at his blood-covered body. "So, it has," he acknowledged quietly.
"You need healing," Boarstaff said, straightening. "And proper cleansing. Those wounds need attention." The care in his own voice surprised him.
"I can find a stream at the edge of the settlement," Sebastian suggested, already turning toward the forest path. "I don't want to cause any more disruption tonight."
"No." Boarstaff's decision crystallized in that moment, though he hadn't planned it before speaking. "The pools will serve better."
Sebastian went still, surprise evident on his face. "Your people would never allow that."
"Some won't," Boarstaff agreed, already anticipating the council's reaction. "But the pools are for those the Heart Tree's guardians deem worthy. And today, you carried one of our fallen home when you could've just gone back to your people."
The sacred pools were reserved for warriors and elders, places of cleansing both physical and spiritual. No outsider had been permitted entry in living memory. But they had never encountered anyone like Sebastian before.
Sebastian's expression shifted to one of cautious confusion. "Why offer this?" he asked quietly.
"Because change needs to be seen," Boarstaff replied simply. "And you've earned at least that much."
As they walked toward the underground springs, Boarstaff dispatched runners to inform the council of his decision and request clean garments. The protests began almost immediately, elders and warriors materializing from across the settlement despite their exhaustion.
"Warchief!" Thornmaker intercepted them, his expression thunderous beneath ritual scars. "You can't allow a vampire in our sacred spaces. Not even after what he did today."
Several elders joined the spearmaster, their indignation evident. "Those pools have been blessed by seven generations of shamans," called out Ironbark, his weathered face tight with outrage. "No outsider has ever—"
"The contamination could spread to our water sources," added Moonwhisper, her voice sharp with fear. "What if his vampire nature poisons the springs themselves?"
