K
Kitti
Guest
The end of January draws near and that means that submissions for January's MISC are now closed! Thank you to everyone who entered, the judges enjoyed reading the fruits of your labor and we're glad to now share those entries with the rest of the members for voting!
Keep in mind that until the voting has been closed and the winners have been announced, your entry must still remain anonymous - no telling which one was yours until it's over! When you prepare to cast your vote, be cautious and make sure that's really the one that you want to choose. You can't change your mind once you've submitted it.
The theme for January was:
Write a story based on one or more of the following images:
- Andrey Vasilchenko
- Emilis Baltrusaitis
- Mike Lim
The prizes for winning are as follows:
With all the reminders wrapped up, let's get to the entries!
Eyes still blurry as I woke from my imposed slumber, I could only watch from where I lay on the cold and uncomfortable ground that was covered with leaves, twigs, and rocks. It mattered not to me that she was seated with a sword held by her side, hands bloody and dead soldiers were strewn about her like rag dolls no longer in use. No, all I saw was the look on her face, peaceful, almost radiating. She was a warrior, it was clear from the armour she was wearing, yet to me, she seemed more like someone sent from the heavens.
"Ah, I see you're awake, Princess."
Her voice wasn't as I expected. I thought she would sound smooth and gentle, like the expression her face still showed. It was the opposite, really. She was quiet and a little raspy, like someone who had coughed too much and was just recovering from a throat infection.
"Where... Where am I?" I didn't mean to sound so hesitant. Normally I was quite bold, I had no reason to worry about repercussions for the words that exited my mouth. I was Princess Siri of Midden, daughter of the King that ruled the greatest kingdom to have ever been! One may call this statement boastful, but the fact remained that Midden had never been bested in a war. It shone as brightly as the moon in the night's sky, as lovely as a rainbow after a storm, as pleasant as a cooling breeze through a field of flowers!
Well, that is what the bards would sing when they performed before us.
"In the Living Forest," the warrior, as I called her in my mind, replied.
The Living Forest? That was nowhere near my father's castle! It was mentioned to be a dark and scary place, where creatures of darkness lurked and preyed on those travelling through.Strangely enough, it didn't seem anything of the sort right now. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought I was in the woods at home.
Meanwhile, the warrior stood up, flicking her cloak, I suppose so that any dirt that was on it would fall free. She then took a step in my direction before stopping, as if she had just remembered something. Curious, I pushed myself up to a sitting position, hands pressing against rotting leaves and goodness knows what else. As I did, I noticed that I was still in my evening gown from the previous night. It had been a lovely shade of lavender with lush violet and silver embroidery, the design that of roses and leaves. Now, it was dull and dirty, ripped in certain places, stained almost everywhere.
The sound of water trickling pulled my attention away from my besmirched gown, returning it the warrior, who was now washing her hands with water from a waterskin. Once they were clean, she closed it and attached it to her belt before once more starting in my direction, this time actually making it to me.
"Can you stand up?" she asked, eyes focused on me. For once I felt a hint of shyness, my eyes moving from hers rather quickly, looking elsewhere, which turned out to be one of the fallen soldiers. Who were they? I didn't recognize their armour, and they did not seem to have any sigil that would mark them as belonging to any familiar house.
A cough from the warrior caused me to look her way once more. "Yes, I do believe I can." Taking a breath, I pushed against the ground and slowly stood up, feeling rather woozy, as if taking one step would send me tumbling.I stayed completely still, and thankfully that did help a little with the dizziness. "Who are they? Who- who are you?"
The warrior's lips curled into a small smile, not surprised by the questions, I suppose. "Corinna, though I am better known and prefer to be known as Corin."
"I've never heard of you-"
"Which doesn't surprise me at all." Corin did not seem offended as she held out a hand, probably to catch me in case I was to stumble.
"Who are they?" I repeated my question yet again. "Why am I here? I don't understand what's going on!"
"It's not safe to talk here, more may come." Despite the gentle look on Corin's face, it was clear she was stubborn in having her way. I, however, was the princess! She had to listen to me-
"Ah!" I did not expect to be literally swept off my feet, yet there I was in a pair of strong arms, staring up at the warrior, feet clearly no longer on the ground! Some people look best from far, as being close showed off their many flaws. It seemed not to be so in this case. My face was red and hot. Embarrassed, I looked elsewhere, eyes now focusing on the canopy of leaves above us. "I- I can walk!"
"Perhaps, but you're too slow." The lilt of amusement caused me cast a sideways glance at Corin. There it was, the small smile on her face, or a smirk, rather. A very unladylike huff left me. I was not being taken seriously, how rude!
It was only a little ways through the forest before we came upon a small clearing, the sun shining down through the sparse leaves of extending branches. There stood a horse, tied to the nearest tree, head bent low as he chewed at the grass growing near the roots of the tree. The sight filled me with trepidation. Was I meant to ride it? I had never ridden a horse before in my life!
"Up you go." Corin broke the silence as she lifted me up and deposited me onto the beast.
"I can't!" I yelped, panic written all over my face. "I have never!"
"Don't worry," she replied with a small chuckle, shaking her head. "I'll be right behind you."
I had always imagined that one day, when I would be forced to ride a horse, it would be with a handsome young man who would hold me ever so gently, making sure no harm came my way. In my fantasy, there was no such thing as my bottom aching from sitting too stiffly and uncomfortably in front of another woman, all the while being jostled up and down from the horse's strides.
I'm not sure how long we rode, but it had been at least half a day, judging from the position of the sun. As I had never been out of the castle before, the beauty of the outside world was something to behold. Despite my complaints about various aches, I couldn't deny the feeling of elation within me at the sight of the grassy hills and the trees in the far distance as the forest we started from faded from our sights. There were so many scents to take in, from the grass to the leaves to the lovely wildflowers, perfuming the afternoon breeze.
Perhaps the bards sang songs about these lands as well?
When Corin finally stopped the horse, it was nearing sunset and we were quite literally in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing in sight, aside from a pile of rocks and boulders, a few trees here and there. The terrain was flat, grass growing in little clumps.
"Is there no inn?" I asked incredulously. "Why are we stopping here? And will you finally tell me what happened?"
Now it wasn't as if I hadn't asked before. I had, in fact, and multiple times too. However, I hadn't received an answer and eventually bored of asking. What was the most I could do anyway? Threaten to fall off the horse and run away? I'm sure that would come to no avail.
Corin looked at me a moment before nodding. "Very well, Princess." She dismounted, rolling her shoulders as she stepped back from the horse. "We aren't stopping here for long. I'm meeting someone here, and once that is done, we shall leave once more."
"What happened?" I demanded, irritated that my main question was not being answered.
"You were drugged," she replied simply. "Quite an easy feat at a party." Corin ran a hand through her wavy hair, seeming a little careless as she yanked past what I assumed were tangles. "Really, Princess, it would do you better to be a little cautious."
"My father has the most competent guards!" I replied hotly, becoming frustrated.
"Clearly," was the reply, and the smirk was imminent. "You swooned and were carried off by guards who were subsequently killed before you even reached your room. You're quite lucky I recognize you, Princess, otherwise who knows where you would be right now."
I suppose gratitude was expected, but I was stubborn and did not wish to show it, especially with that tone of hers! I was being mocked and I was not amused. No one had spoken to me like this before!
My hands curled into tight fists and I was about to speak my mind when Corin lifted a hand; her eyes were not looking in my direction, rather out at the horizon. Instead of speaking, I looked as well, noticing there were riders coming our way. "Someone's coming! We should hide, shouldn't we?" For all I knew, these newcomers were companions of the men she had killed, men who I was assuming had dragged me from my father's castle!
"No, I know these men. Keep quiet and stay here. I will be back shortly." Corin gave me a distracted smile before turning and walking away from the craggy rocks, heading out to meet the riders. Where they finally met was much too far from me to hear what they were talking about. Frustrated, I let out a sigh. I did not like this, not one bit! I was cold, hungry and tired, and I'm sure I looked hideous as well. I could hardly return home looking as I did!
"What- why?!" I stared at the shadow of the corpses, unable to see anything more with the dimming light.Corin had returned and was now wiping her sword clean of blood. Truth be told, I was a little frightened of her now. She had so easily lopped off the heads of those three riders! I had never seen anyone do such a thing before, not even one of my father's men at court!
What if she killed me that way too?
If I thought I had any choice in the matter, I would have jumped off the horse and run off into the darkness of the night. At that moment, however, I was in no state to be walking, leave alone running.
"They were traitors," Corin replied with a sigh, shaking her head. "They were supposed to lead you back safely, but I believe they would have taken you elsewhere, just like the other men I had killed in the forest. I wouldn't be surprised if more have been sent after you-"
She stopped, perhaps noticing the look on my face. I was scared of her, yes, but I couldn't help but feel something else. Respect? Or something else? Perhaps I was simply confused.
"Don't worry, your head looks much better attached to your neck than on the ground." Corin chuckled as she pulled herself up behind me. "I'm not going to hurt you, I'm here to keep you safe."
I tensed when I felt her hand lightly pat my cheek. "That's- I'm- I'm not worried!" I glared at her, cheeks hot yet again. Goodness, how familiar was she being? I was the princess, to be treated with respect! "I'm just tired! If they were traitors, and you think more are coming, then what do we do?"
"We keep riding," was the reply.
And that we did, long enough that eventually I fell asleep. Once again, I wasn't sure how long I had been asleep, but when I woke up, what little light had been there earlier was completely gone. It was probably past midnight, and we were still riding, though the gait was much slower now. The grogginess I was feeling began to fade, and it was then that I realized I was leaning quite comfortably against Corin, cheek pressed against her chest plate. Her cloak was wrapped around the both of us.
Perhaps it was the sleep, or perhaps it was something else. Unlike my previous embarrassment, I felt nothing of the sort. In fact, I was quite relaxed, in fact, closing my eyes once more, ready to return to sleep. Thoughts of where we were headed and why it was taking so long didn't even leave an itch in my mind. At that moment, I was quite satisfied with where I was.
Keep in mind that until the voting has been closed and the winners have been announced, your entry must still remain anonymous - no telling which one was yours until it's over! When you prepare to cast your vote, be cautious and make sure that's really the one that you want to choose. You can't change your mind once you've submitted it.
The theme for January was:
Write a story based on one or more of the following images:
- Andrey Vasilchenko
- Emilis Baltrusaitis
- Mike Lim
The prizes for winning are as follows:
MISC MANAGERS' PICK
One month of free Donator status complete with perks, a special victory ribbon under your avatar for a month, and a spot in the MISC Hall of Fame thread to immortalize your win.
MISC COMMUNITY PICK
A special victory ribbon underneath your avatar for a month and a spot in the MISC Hall of Fame thread to immortalize your win.
In this thread, with your votes, the winner of the Community Pick will be selected. If entries in the Community vote tie for first place, all of those entries will be rewarded with the prize. Once the voting period is over and the Community Winner has been determined, this thread will also be used to announce the recipient of the Managers' Pick prize.One month of free Donator status complete with perks, a special victory ribbon under your avatar for a month, and a spot in the MISC Hall of Fame thread to immortalize your win.
MISC COMMUNITY PICK
A special victory ribbon underneath your avatar for a month and a spot in the MISC Hall of Fame thread to immortalize your win.
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Please make sure to read over the rules for voting and giving feedback before jumping on in.
Keep in mind that entries may contain graphic material. Only entries containing explicit sexual content will be marked NSFW. -
- All entries will be posted anonymously. Voters will need to make a selection based on the quality of the piece, not the name attached to it.
- There will be two winners for each month of MISC: the Community Pick that receives the most votes, and a Manager Pick that will be decided in secret by the MISC managers. Each will receive separate but similar prizes for their accomplishment. On the rare occasion that there is a physical or monetary prize for the month, it will be awarded along with the Manager's Pick to avoid any temptation to pull shenanigans with the votes.
- In the case of a tie in the public vote, each winner will receive the Community Pick prize package.
- People who have entered the contest can vote, but they can't vote for their own entry or it'll be disqualified. Show some love to your fellow writers or don't vote, whatever feels right to you. Votes will be public knowledge so we can keep track of this.
- You aren't allowed to tell anyone which entry is yours until AFTER the voting period is over. Doing anything to solicit votes is not allowed and will get you disqualified, and perhaps even banned from MISC altogether. Telling your friends "hey, I entered MISC this month, go read the entries and vote" is fine; telling people "go vote for #4, that's my entry" is not okay.
- Voters are highly encouraged to read through every entry before voting. We know we can't enforce this, but try to give everyone a chance before picking your favorite.
- The entry with the most votes at the end of the voting period will be declared the Community Pick for that month. However, if the community makes the same selection as the managers, then the second highest vote recipient will be named Community Pick; we don't intend to make the vote seem like it's playing second fiddle to our pick, it's just how it has to work so prize distribution makes sense when there are gift certificates or similar to be won, sorry! The winning entry will win fabulous prizes (fabulousness not guaranteed) and will win a permanent spot in the MISC Hall of Fame thread for all eternity (or until Iwaku explodes).
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- Voters are highly encouraged to post in the voting thread to explain their choice. Full reviews or critiques of the entries are very welcome, but please keep any criticism constructive and civil. Telling someone that their spelling errors and odd word choice made it hard to read is fine, but telling them that they write like shit is not okay.
- Number/letter grades are also highly discouraged as they tend to be arbitrary and to vary widely in interpretation. This applies to any form of comparative grading. It is better to list strengths and weaknesses from the rubric for each entry based on its individual merit rather than assigning a grade.
- If you would like, you may use the same rubric that the managers will be using, provided below. It's entirely optional; don't feel obliged.
MISC MANAGER'S RUBRIC
TECHNIQUE
- Are there spelling/grammar errors or typos? Many, or just a few? How did it affect your ability to read and follow along with the story?
- Is sentence structure and word choice varied? Does the writer show a good grasp of vocabulary and punctuation usage?
- Are there any odd word choices or places where you stumble? Is everything clear and easy to understand?
STYLE
- Do you get a sense of the narrative voice when reading along? Is it consistent throughout the narrative?
- Do the punctuation and sentence structure show a sophistication of style? Does it seem like deliberate choices were made to create a certain flow?
- Is there use of vivid, engrossing description? Can you easily picture scenes in your head?
- Does the story captivate your interest? Do you find yourself skimming?
CHARACTERIZATION
- Do characters have distinct, believable voices of their own? Is the dialogue natural or does it feel forced?
- Do characters show complexity and depth of emotion? Do you get a sense of who they are and what motivates them?
- Do the characters seem appropriate for the setting?
- Do the decisions made or conclusions reached by characters within the scope of the story make sense? Do we learn more about them through their actions?
- Are the characters likable or interesting? Do you have any strong emotion toward them?
CREATIVITY
- Are the plot and/or setting fresh and original? Do they show imagination?
- Are there any new twists on old ideas or common elements? Has the writer surprised you?
- Are there any subplots or underlying themes that you can identify?
- Has the writer used symbolism, metaphor, allegory, or subtext?
COHESIVENESS
- Does the story adhere to the prompt? How closely? Is there any way you feel it deviates from the spirit?
- Do the ideas involved seem fully developed?
- Is there a plot? Do you get a sense of advancement in the story? Do characters learn or accomplish anything?
- Does the story make sense as a whole and flow seamlessly from beginning to end? Is there anything that feels like it doesn't fit or is unnecessary?
- Is the ending satisfying? Does it feel like a complete story?
With all the reminders wrapped up, let's get to the entries!
There was once a little girl, born deep within the forest. Her father, mourning the loss of her mother, took her far away from the forest, so far that he ended up in a desert. Dry and hot, someplace where children wouldn't thrive on their own. The father, however, forced his daughter to live in this land of sand and earth, with little water to drink.
The little girl couldn't understand why, but she felt a deep sense of longing, like she was missing something. For you see, the forest she was born in had marked her, blessing her with beauty and strength. She survived the desert, but she wanted to return to the home she couldn't remember. Her father forbade her to wander far from their home, lest bandits came and ravaged it. She couldn't understand why he asked for this, the call of the forest echoing within her. But nonetheless, she obeyed and stayed out of sight from the travelers of the desert.
Then, one day, as she was searching for water, men came and followed her to where she and her father lived. The men ransacked the house and slew her father, taking the little girl away from the only home she had ever known. The men took her far, far away, into a shining city that held dark secrets. She was sold to a man, who kept her in a cage of iron and wood, not letting her out for a time. She was scared, but the wood spoke to her and she felt calm until she was finally let out.
She was led to an arena and was told to pick a weapon. She did so, taking a sword in hand. Then the man left and she was beset by monsters. The girl screamed as she waved her weapon around, trying to protect herself. The forest's blessings, however, protected the girl as the monsters finally left her alone, unscathed.
This intrigued the man who owned her. Why was she able to calm monsters such as these? He sent her far more ferocious monsters, ones that listened to no man and came from far away. Missing their home, they relentlessly attacked the girl. She survived by swinging the sword here and there, letting the forest guide her as she slew the monsters. She had caught the man's interest and soon taught her how to fight, personally. They fought each other for a long time until the little girl was no longer a little girl, but a young woman.
Feeling as though they should part ways, the man gave her armor, sword, and shield to protect her on her journey. She thanked the man and began to travel the world as a mercenary. At least, she was hoping to travel around as a mercenary. But the forest called to her and she found herself being drawn in by the greens and browns that made up the forest. Green and brown, brown and green. The trees stretched on for miles and she was entranced by it. She knew not of the blessings the forest gave her, but she did know that the forest was where she belonged.
They say that the girl became one of the fairy folk, slaying anyone who causes harm to the forest. They say she received a new blessing, one from their fairy folk themselves. And they say that, when the wind blows the trees just right, you can hear the girl fighting, forever fighting off the people that trespassed her forest home.
The little girl couldn't understand why, but she felt a deep sense of longing, like she was missing something. For you see, the forest she was born in had marked her, blessing her with beauty and strength. She survived the desert, but she wanted to return to the home she couldn't remember. Her father forbade her to wander far from their home, lest bandits came and ravaged it. She couldn't understand why he asked for this, the call of the forest echoing within her. But nonetheless, she obeyed and stayed out of sight from the travelers of the desert.
Then, one day, as she was searching for water, men came and followed her to where she and her father lived. The men ransacked the house and slew her father, taking the little girl away from the only home she had ever known. The men took her far, far away, into a shining city that held dark secrets. She was sold to a man, who kept her in a cage of iron and wood, not letting her out for a time. She was scared, but the wood spoke to her and she felt calm until she was finally let out.
She was led to an arena and was told to pick a weapon. She did so, taking a sword in hand. Then the man left and she was beset by monsters. The girl screamed as she waved her weapon around, trying to protect herself. The forest's blessings, however, protected the girl as the monsters finally left her alone, unscathed.
This intrigued the man who owned her. Why was she able to calm monsters such as these? He sent her far more ferocious monsters, ones that listened to no man and came from far away. Missing their home, they relentlessly attacked the girl. She survived by swinging the sword here and there, letting the forest guide her as she slew the monsters. She had caught the man's interest and soon taught her how to fight, personally. They fought each other for a long time until the little girl was no longer a little girl, but a young woman.
Feeling as though they should part ways, the man gave her armor, sword, and shield to protect her on her journey. She thanked the man and began to travel the world as a mercenary. At least, she was hoping to travel around as a mercenary. But the forest called to her and she found herself being drawn in by the greens and browns that made up the forest. Green and brown, brown and green. The trees stretched on for miles and she was entranced by it. She knew not of the blessings the forest gave her, but she did know that the forest was where she belonged.
They say that the girl became one of the fairy folk, slaying anyone who causes harm to the forest. They say she received a new blessing, one from their fairy folk themselves. And they say that, when the wind blows the trees just right, you can hear the girl fighting, forever fighting off the people that trespassed her forest home.
"Tell me about your first love."
A laugh echoed through the dark and dank prison cell, the source of which was a small figure huddled in the corner, dressed in a ragged dress. Her once vibrant red hair was dark and greasy, sticking to her face and neck. Her skin, once her pride, was pale, unhealthily so, streaked with dirt and fading bruises. Her eyes, however, were as blue and clear as a cloudless summer sky.
"The first time I fell in love was very odd indeed..."
A laugh echoed through the dark and dank prison cell, the source of which was a small figure huddled in the corner, dressed in a ragged dress. Her once vibrant red hair was dark and greasy, sticking to her face and neck. Her skin, once her pride, was pale, unhealthily so, streaked with dirt and fading bruises. Her eyes, however, were as blue and clear as a cloudless summer sky.
"The first time I fell in love was very odd indeed..."
*
Eyes still blurry as I woke from my imposed slumber, I could only watch from where I lay on the cold and uncomfortable ground that was covered with leaves, twigs, and rocks. It mattered not to me that she was seated with a sword held by her side, hands bloody and dead soldiers were strewn about her like rag dolls no longer in use. No, all I saw was the look on her face, peaceful, almost radiating. She was a warrior, it was clear from the armour she was wearing, yet to me, she seemed more like someone sent from the heavens.
"Ah, I see you're awake, Princess."
Her voice wasn't as I expected. I thought she would sound smooth and gentle, like the expression her face still showed. It was the opposite, really. She was quiet and a little raspy, like someone who had coughed too much and was just recovering from a throat infection.
"Where... Where am I?" I didn't mean to sound so hesitant. Normally I was quite bold, I had no reason to worry about repercussions for the words that exited my mouth. I was Princess Siri of Midden, daughter of the King that ruled the greatest kingdom to have ever been! One may call this statement boastful, but the fact remained that Midden had never been bested in a war. It shone as brightly as the moon in the night's sky, as lovely as a rainbow after a storm, as pleasant as a cooling breeze through a field of flowers!
Well, that is what the bards would sing when they performed before us.
"In the Living Forest," the warrior, as I called her in my mind, replied.
The Living Forest? That was nowhere near my father's castle! It was mentioned to be a dark and scary place, where creatures of darkness lurked and preyed on those travelling through.Strangely enough, it didn't seem anything of the sort right now. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought I was in the woods at home.
Meanwhile, the warrior stood up, flicking her cloak, I suppose so that any dirt that was on it would fall free. She then took a step in my direction before stopping, as if she had just remembered something. Curious, I pushed myself up to a sitting position, hands pressing against rotting leaves and goodness knows what else. As I did, I noticed that I was still in my evening gown from the previous night. It had been a lovely shade of lavender with lush violet and silver embroidery, the design that of roses and leaves. Now, it was dull and dirty, ripped in certain places, stained almost everywhere.
The sound of water trickling pulled my attention away from my besmirched gown, returning it the warrior, who was now washing her hands with water from a waterskin. Once they were clean, she closed it and attached it to her belt before once more starting in my direction, this time actually making it to me.
"Can you stand up?" she asked, eyes focused on me. For once I felt a hint of shyness, my eyes moving from hers rather quickly, looking elsewhere, which turned out to be one of the fallen soldiers. Who were they? I didn't recognize their armour, and they did not seem to have any sigil that would mark them as belonging to any familiar house.
A cough from the warrior caused me to look her way once more. "Yes, I do believe I can." Taking a breath, I pushed against the ground and slowly stood up, feeling rather woozy, as if taking one step would send me tumbling.I stayed completely still, and thankfully that did help a little with the dizziness. "Who are they? Who- who are you?"
The warrior's lips curled into a small smile, not surprised by the questions, I suppose. "Corinna, though I am better known and prefer to be known as Corin."
"I've never heard of you-"
"Which doesn't surprise me at all." Corin did not seem offended as she held out a hand, probably to catch me in case I was to stumble.
"Who are they?" I repeated my question yet again. "Why am I here? I don't understand what's going on!"
"It's not safe to talk here, more may come." Despite the gentle look on Corin's face, it was clear she was stubborn in having her way. I, however, was the princess! She had to listen to me-
"Ah!" I did not expect to be literally swept off my feet, yet there I was in a pair of strong arms, staring up at the warrior, feet clearly no longer on the ground! Some people look best from far, as being close showed off their many flaws. It seemed not to be so in this case. My face was red and hot. Embarrassed, I looked elsewhere, eyes now focusing on the canopy of leaves above us. "I- I can walk!"
"Perhaps, but you're too slow." The lilt of amusement caused me cast a sideways glance at Corin. There it was, the small smile on her face, or a smirk, rather. A very unladylike huff left me. I was not being taken seriously, how rude!
It was only a little ways through the forest before we came upon a small clearing, the sun shining down through the sparse leaves of extending branches. There stood a horse, tied to the nearest tree, head bent low as he chewed at the grass growing near the roots of the tree. The sight filled me with trepidation. Was I meant to ride it? I had never ridden a horse before in my life!
"Up you go." Corin broke the silence as she lifted me up and deposited me onto the beast.
"I can't!" I yelped, panic written all over my face. "I have never!"
"Don't worry," she replied with a small chuckle, shaking her head. "I'll be right behind you."
I had always imagined that one day, when I would be forced to ride a horse, it would be with a handsome young man who would hold me ever so gently, making sure no harm came my way. In my fantasy, there was no such thing as my bottom aching from sitting too stiffly and uncomfortably in front of another woman, all the while being jostled up and down from the horse's strides.
I'm not sure how long we rode, but it had been at least half a day, judging from the position of the sun. As I had never been out of the castle before, the beauty of the outside world was something to behold. Despite my complaints about various aches, I couldn't deny the feeling of elation within me at the sight of the grassy hills and the trees in the far distance as the forest we started from faded from our sights. There were so many scents to take in, from the grass to the leaves to the lovely wildflowers, perfuming the afternoon breeze.
Perhaps the bards sang songs about these lands as well?
When Corin finally stopped the horse, it was nearing sunset and we were quite literally in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing in sight, aside from a pile of rocks and boulders, a few trees here and there. The terrain was flat, grass growing in little clumps.
"Is there no inn?" I asked incredulously. "Why are we stopping here? And will you finally tell me what happened?"
Now it wasn't as if I hadn't asked before. I had, in fact, and multiple times too. However, I hadn't received an answer and eventually bored of asking. What was the most I could do anyway? Threaten to fall off the horse and run away? I'm sure that would come to no avail.
Corin looked at me a moment before nodding. "Very well, Princess." She dismounted, rolling her shoulders as she stepped back from the horse. "We aren't stopping here for long. I'm meeting someone here, and once that is done, we shall leave once more."
"What happened?" I demanded, irritated that my main question was not being answered.
"You were drugged," she replied simply. "Quite an easy feat at a party." Corin ran a hand through her wavy hair, seeming a little careless as she yanked past what I assumed were tangles. "Really, Princess, it would do you better to be a little cautious."
"My father has the most competent guards!" I replied hotly, becoming frustrated.
"Clearly," was the reply, and the smirk was imminent. "You swooned and were carried off by guards who were subsequently killed before you even reached your room. You're quite lucky I recognize you, Princess, otherwise who knows where you would be right now."
I suppose gratitude was expected, but I was stubborn and did not wish to show it, especially with that tone of hers! I was being mocked and I was not amused. No one had spoken to me like this before!
My hands curled into tight fists and I was about to speak my mind when Corin lifted a hand; her eyes were not looking in my direction, rather out at the horizon. Instead of speaking, I looked as well, noticing there were riders coming our way. "Someone's coming! We should hide, shouldn't we?" For all I knew, these newcomers were companions of the men she had killed, men who I was assuming had dragged me from my father's castle!
"No, I know these men. Keep quiet and stay here. I will be back shortly." Corin gave me a distracted smile before turning and walking away from the craggy rocks, heading out to meet the riders. Where they finally met was much too far from me to hear what they were talking about. Frustrated, I let out a sigh. I did not like this, not one bit! I was cold, hungry and tired, and I'm sure I looked hideous as well. I could hardly return home looking as I did!
*
"So then? Who were those men?"
The prisoner in the corner, Siri, shrugged a thin bony shoulder. "What do you think?" she asked instead.
"Well..." There was a moment's silence. "If she knew them, then perhaps they were knights sent from your father. Oh! Was your first love from among them, then?"
Once more Siri laughed. "Silly. She killed them."
The prisoner in the corner, Siri, shrugged a thin bony shoulder. "What do you think?" she asked instead.
"Well..." There was a moment's silence. "If she knew them, then perhaps they were knights sent from your father. Oh! Was your first love from among them, then?"
Once more Siri laughed. "Silly. She killed them."
*
"What- why?!" I stared at the shadow of the corpses, unable to see anything more with the dimming light.Corin had returned and was now wiping her sword clean of blood. Truth be told, I was a little frightened of her now. She had so easily lopped off the heads of those three riders! I had never seen anyone do such a thing before, not even one of my father's men at court!
What if she killed me that way too?
If I thought I had any choice in the matter, I would have jumped off the horse and run off into the darkness of the night. At that moment, however, I was in no state to be walking, leave alone running.
"They were traitors," Corin replied with a sigh, shaking her head. "They were supposed to lead you back safely, but I believe they would have taken you elsewhere, just like the other men I had killed in the forest. I wouldn't be surprised if more have been sent after you-"
She stopped, perhaps noticing the look on my face. I was scared of her, yes, but I couldn't help but feel something else. Respect? Or something else? Perhaps I was simply confused.
"Don't worry, your head looks much better attached to your neck than on the ground." Corin chuckled as she pulled herself up behind me. "I'm not going to hurt you, I'm here to keep you safe."
I tensed when I felt her hand lightly pat my cheek. "That's- I'm- I'm not worried!" I glared at her, cheeks hot yet again. Goodness, how familiar was she being? I was the princess, to be treated with respect! "I'm just tired! If they were traitors, and you think more are coming, then what do we do?"
"We keep riding," was the reply.
And that we did, long enough that eventually I fell asleep. Once again, I wasn't sure how long I had been asleep, but when I woke up, what little light had been there earlier was completely gone. It was probably past midnight, and we were still riding, though the gait was much slower now. The grogginess I was feeling began to fade, and it was then that I realized I was leaning quite comfortably against Corin, cheek pressed against her chest plate. Her cloak was wrapped around the both of us.
Perhaps it was the sleep, or perhaps it was something else. Unlike my previous embarrassment, I felt nothing of the sort. In fact, I was quite relaxed, in fact, closing my eyes once more, ready to return to sleep. Thoughts of where we were headed and why it was taking so long didn't even leave an itch in my mind. At that moment, I was quite satisfied with where I was.
*
"Wait! Are you saying... are you saying that Corin was the one you had fallen for?"
Siri nearly rolled her eyes. "Is it so unbelievable? She was strong and beautiful, and could easily take down any enemy that came her way."
"Yes, but..."
A sound of dry amusement escaped the princess. "Shall I end the story here, then?"
"No! I'm sorry, please continue."
Siri nodded, though she seemed less enthusiastic than before. "Very well. We finally reached my father's castle. You could imagine the relief I felt. Finally, I would be able to eat and change."
"And sleep!"
"Yes," Siri agreed. "None of that came to pass, actually."
Siri nearly rolled her eyes. "Is it so unbelievable? She was strong and beautiful, and could easily take down any enemy that came her way."
"Yes, but..."
A sound of dry amusement escaped the princess. "Shall I end the story here, then?"
"No! I'm sorry, please continue."
Siri nodded, though she seemed less enthusiastic than before. "Very well. We finally reached my father's castle. You could imagine the relief I felt. Finally, I would be able to eat and change."
"And sleep!"
"Yes," Siri agreed. "None of that came to pass, actually."
*
It seemed a little strange, finally returning home. Everything looked the same, but I felt different, as if I had been through a life changing experience. Perhaps I had, but even I wasn't so haughty and vain to think I had been enlightened. Perhaps it was simply seeing how everyone was off and about, doing whatever they normally did, not at all taking note of me on the horse. Weren't they glad to see me return?
My discontent must have been obvious, as Corin spoke. "For someone returning home after an ordeal, you seem less happy than I would've expected."
"You wouldn't understand," I replied immediately, though continued after a sigh. "No one is even noticing I am here! I know I look less than appropriate, but still. I am their princess!"
Corin snorted. "The idea that they should care because of your status is laughable, Princess. They resent you, and were probably glad you were gone."
"That- that's not true!" My fists clenched; I felt both angry and hurt. "I- I never did anything to them that they should resent me."
"Exactly. You never did anything. You gave them no reason to care about you."
"I'm the king's daughter!"
"And I'm a blacksmith's daughter," Corin replied with a short laugh. "Neither of us should be rewarded or appreciated for whose children we are, rather, what we make of ourselves." She paused before pointing ahead to the gates of the castle. "Well, here we are."
It wasn't long before the gates were open and we were led inside. Corin's words were still echoing in my mind, causing my mood to turn sour. It wasn't true, was it? I was always told I was loved, adored, not just by my family, but all the people of our kingdom! Anyone who thought otherwise was a traitor or dullwitted. Yet... Corin was neither. I knew this. If she was a traitor, there was no reason for her to have brought me back. And for her wits, well, the fact that she brought me back proved she had those about her.
I was upset enough that my eyes were watering now, blurring my vision. I did have enough sense to wipe them before we entered the throne room, standing tall. At least my father would recognize my worth!
Except he wasn't there. I blinked once and then twice, staring at the person sitting on my father's throne. Not an inch about him was familiar! "Who are- where- where is my father?!"
"Good work, Corin." The man on the throne cast a glance over me before looking to the warrior at my side, who let go of my arm and knelt down.
"Your Majesty," replied Corin, head bowed.
Dumbstruck, that would be the best word to describe what I felt in that moment. My heart was beating like drums at a battle, yet I couldn't find it in myself to move, save the shaking in my hands, and the cold sweat that trickled down my sides. My eyes shifted to Corin. "You... you... you betrayed me...?"
"No, Princess," she replied immediately, lifting her head to look my way. Her eyes were gentle once more, filled with pity. "I was simply being loyal to my King."
My discontent must have been obvious, as Corin spoke. "For someone returning home after an ordeal, you seem less happy than I would've expected."
"You wouldn't understand," I replied immediately, though continued after a sigh. "No one is even noticing I am here! I know I look less than appropriate, but still. I am their princess!"
Corin snorted. "The idea that they should care because of your status is laughable, Princess. They resent you, and were probably glad you were gone."
"That- that's not true!" My fists clenched; I felt both angry and hurt. "I- I never did anything to them that they should resent me."
"Exactly. You never did anything. You gave them no reason to care about you."
"I'm the king's daughter!"
"And I'm a blacksmith's daughter," Corin replied with a short laugh. "Neither of us should be rewarded or appreciated for whose children we are, rather, what we make of ourselves." She paused before pointing ahead to the gates of the castle. "Well, here we are."
It wasn't long before the gates were open and we were led inside. Corin's words were still echoing in my mind, causing my mood to turn sour. It wasn't true, was it? I was always told I was loved, adored, not just by my family, but all the people of our kingdom! Anyone who thought otherwise was a traitor or dullwitted. Yet... Corin was neither. I knew this. If she was a traitor, there was no reason for her to have brought me back. And for her wits, well, the fact that she brought me back proved she had those about her.
I was upset enough that my eyes were watering now, blurring my vision. I did have enough sense to wipe them before we entered the throne room, standing tall. At least my father would recognize my worth!
Except he wasn't there. I blinked once and then twice, staring at the person sitting on my father's throne. Not an inch about him was familiar! "Who are- where- where is my father?!"
"Good work, Corin." The man on the throne cast a glance over me before looking to the warrior at my side, who let go of my arm and knelt down.
"Your Majesty," replied Corin, head bowed.
Dumbstruck, that would be the best word to describe what I felt in that moment. My heart was beating like drums at a battle, yet I couldn't find it in myself to move, save the shaking in my hands, and the cold sweat that trickled down my sides. My eyes shifted to Corin. "You... you... you betrayed me...?"
"No, Princess," she replied immediately, lifting her head to look my way. Her eyes were gentle once more, filled with pity. "I was simply being loyal to my King."
*
"Then? What happened next?"
"What does it look like?" Siri asked with a bland smile. "I was tossed in here, and have been here for a good few months, persistently bothered by your questions."
"How could that be a love story?!"
She sighed. "You asked for the first time I fell in love. This was it. Not all stories have happy endings. You should know that, sitting in this cell with me."
"Yes, but..." There was a sigh. "Perhaps it was for the best. Falling in love with such a person...huh. Well. Goodnight then." There was the sound of someone moving, and then silence.
Siri remained where she was for a good few moments before she stood up, wincing as her stiff joints protested. She let out a soft breath before walking to the other side of the cell, settling down next to a third prisoner.
"Why am I always the traitor?" The voice was quiet and on the rough side.
"Who would believe I could do all the things Corin could?" Siri smirked, shaking her head. "My stories are best with myself the damsel, and you my traitor first love."
"Either way, tomorrow it ends. Sleep well, Siri."
"Good night."
"What does it look like?" Siri asked with a bland smile. "I was tossed in here, and have been here for a good few months, persistently bothered by your questions."
"How could that be a love story?!"
She sighed. "You asked for the first time I fell in love. This was it. Not all stories have happy endings. You should know that, sitting in this cell with me."
"Yes, but..." There was a sigh. "Perhaps it was for the best. Falling in love with such a person...huh. Well. Goodnight then." There was the sound of someone moving, and then silence.
Siri remained where she was for a good few moments before she stood up, wincing as her stiff joints protested. She let out a soft breath before walking to the other side of the cell, settling down next to a third prisoner.
"Why am I always the traitor?" The voice was quiet and on the rough side.
"Who would believe I could do all the things Corin could?" Siri smirked, shaking her head. "My stories are best with myself the damsel, and you my traitor first love."
"Either way, tomorrow it ends. Sleep well, Siri."
"Good night."
I was normal once. As normal as an awkward teenager could be, anyway, but I guess things change. Well, I changed. Not by choice, mind you, but I changed nevertheless. I can't remember much of what happened, other than I was walking home from work one day, and these guys jumped me. Two mountains compared to me. I tried to struggle, but there was no use. They knocked me out, and I woke up like this. More metal and wires than human. They took me away from everything, and they took everything away from me. My skin, my blood, even my voice, in some sick way, I was like the Little Mermaid, only I wouldn't get a redemption from kissing a prince and defeating an octopus with power issues. I would forever be a Wanderer, a cybernetic warrior for "The Cause", and I couldn't do anything about that.
---
"27, get up." The gruff voice of the strike leader wakes me. "You have your first mission, 27." I nod, stepping from my reboot station and out onto the landing, the echo of my feet hitting the metal sounds through the long corridor of other Wanderers, they line the walls like suits of armor, ready for their next assignment, we are all roughly the same height, same build, as if handpicked through the billions of people in the world. I stare directly forward, at my equipment supply as Office Huck reads off my assignment. "This one is tough." He chuckles at his own joke. "You will be going into the Uptown, to be SS for the Next-In-Line. You will be alone, so don't fuck it up." He taps his fingers on his cuff and the information takes over my vision. The Next-In-Line is the daughter of the current Leader of the Force. Once the Leader is dead, the daughter will take her place. The Force is our ally, under wraps. Wanderers take turns playing Secret Solider for the Parliament of the Force, making sure they aren't killed or otherwise harmed. Well, I guess today is my lucky day. The Next-In-Line is 15, a blonde with a knack for getting Wanderers into trouble in any way she can. She has been known to give herself burns and other marks, claiming one of us hurt her, the Wanderer will be removed from the watch and decommissioned, at the orders of the Leader. I've lost many friends to this girl, and I do not plan on following in their footsteps. No mistakes.
As I collect my equipment and human clothing, I scan through the briefing. One weapon, do not touch the Target, protect the Target. The instructions are simple enough, but who knows what could go wrong if I mess any detail up. Walking down the corridor, I glance at the other rebooting Wanderers, thinking about when they will be rebooted for their next missions. It could be now; it could be years from now. But who knows when it will be, other than the Leaders of the Cause. But for now, I am the one they have called on for reboot. The sounds of my footsteps echo and I exit through the Final Doors, and am met with a sunlight, though it is blinding, it is much better than the darkness of the Warehouse. At the end of the road, a sleek black limo sits in wait for someone. As I exit the gates, a figure in all black steps out from the back seat and stares. I take this moment to produce my identification and greet them with a nod. "Wanderer 27, I presume?" Another nod. "One moment." He leans into the car, nodding and speaking to the inside passenger, who I can only presume is the- "Please, step inside, sit in the farthest left corner." He enters back into the car and I follow. The inside of the limo looks much larger than from the outside, with a small bar to one side, and a TV adorning the other side, with seats lining each of the two sides. As I crouch down into the corner seat, I notice the bottle of water with "27" written in small letters on the lid. "It's an inside joke for Ana, she once offered a Wanderer a bottle of water, not realizing your kind doesn't need that sort of thing." I glance at the small container, I miss water—A girl's laughter, "Hanson, stop, you're getting me all wet!" She laughs harder and splashes a young boy with the pool water, he tries to block it, but is already soaked, they splash each other until a mother's voice calls them in to dinner…. As they sit around the table, the warmth of a family's love surrounds— "27, you're in for a real treat today. Ana is planning on going out with her friends, so you have the luxury of seeing the Mall of Manaka. It is a spectacle for sure, the lights, the sounds, it's everything you could ever dream about, I promise you that… Do you dream? Probably not. I apologize for the rambling, I'm still adjusting to the Leader's lifestyle, it's quite a trip, and he treats all of his workers with such respect--" All the workers except for the Wanderers, you mean. "—He feeds us, basically pays for our lives, without batting an eye. He really is a wonderful man. Have you met him?" Yes. I nod, though our first meeting was not the typical meeting you experienced. The Leader was in attendance for the Revealing Ceremony for the Wanderers Project. He selected the first Wanderer by hand to be his daughter's escort. Lucky… or rather not so lucky Wanderer 13. 13 lasted 4 days, and was decommissioned for 'panty raiding' the young girl, and with no way to protest, he was gone in an instant. Poor bastard. "What a day that must have been for you, meeting the Leader of our Country." Oh yes, watching my life crumble in front of me was such a wonderful day. So precious to my memory. I hated that man. And I hated any person that associated with him. The only thing I could trust was my handy little SR-47 that now hugged my spine. If I could lean back in my new fully metal body, I still wouldn't have been able to with the rifle attached to me. But I guess that is a good problem to have for a warrior-turned-babysitter.
As we round the corner to the Leader's Mansion, I notice that my escort has stopped talking and is now rigid in his seat. Following his gaze, I see the front gates have been burst open and are now laying on the ground. The limo has stopped just short of them and we watch, waiting for movement. There is none. "27, do not move." The order takes over my programming and I am frozen. As the heap of man slides from the car, a bullet slices through the air, and through his chest. He topples over, but not before yelling, "27, help." I am in action, sliding through the limo and taking cover behind the door, no doubt, the shooter has seen my movements and is waiting for me to move into his full range of sight. I look at the body of the young man that was just talking about the generosity of the Leader, and I wonder if his family knows what he has signed up for. No remorse. I turn my attention to the Mansion that looks peaceful as could be, when in the corner of my sight, I see it, a sniper sitting in the upper left window, waiting. I lock on to his heat signature, pull my gun and aim, in the blink of an eye, and the shooter is down. A quick scan of the area tells me that he was the only cover of the front yard, but that means there must be more inside. As a snake slithers through the grass, I weave through the wreckage of the lawn, there seems to be no other enforcement coming in to help. I take a moment to tap into my cuff and alert The Cause of the interference of my mission. Officer Huck, this is Wanderer 27, requesting assistance for mission log 3247…. "Wanderer 27, your mission was non-aggressive, what could possibly have happened?" Hostiles in the Leader's Mansion, requesting assistance for mission log 3247. "27, assistance is on the way, take cover, do not engage hostiles." I can't just leave… but they are the reason… mission…. Morals. Dammit. Wanderer 27 engaging hostiles, possible hostage extraction, assistance requested for mission log 3247. "Wanderer 27, do NOT engage-"A flick of my wrist and Huck's voice is gone. Time to move.
I rush into the Mansion, expecting to find hostiles at every post. Nothing. There are no signs of movement or forced entry, it looks as if the mansion doors were just opened, and nothing else. I scan the area, nothing. What is going on… My footsteps echo up the stairs and I run into the Leader's office, there are no signs of struggle, and no signs of breaking in. What is going on… I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see—Black.
---
"The Wanderer program will be shut down. All Wanderers are to be decommissioned. You will not make this mistake again, I hope." A voice echoes through the Warehouse…
"Sir, I apologize. We thought that the program would be a start for our Mechanic Army, the problem seemed to be with the specimen. They still retained humanity over order-"
"Yes, Doctor, don't you think I realize that. Every one of those pieces of junk metal ignored the orders of their Commander and instead went off on their own. Decommission them immediately."
"Y-yes, sir. Immediate decommission will begin tomorrow."
The Final Doors close and every light shuts down, except the light on Wanderer 27's reboot chamber. An empty shell.
---
"27, get up." The gruff voice of the strike leader wakes me. "You have your first mission, 27." I nod, stepping from my reboot station and out onto the landing, the echo of my feet hitting the metal sounds through the long corridor of other Wanderers, they line the walls like suits of armor, ready for their next assignment, we are all roughly the same height, same build, as if handpicked through the billions of people in the world. I stare directly forward, at my equipment supply as Office Huck reads off my assignment. "This one is tough." He chuckles at his own joke. "You will be going into the Uptown, to be SS for the Next-In-Line. You will be alone, so don't fuck it up." He taps his fingers on his cuff and the information takes over my vision. The Next-In-Line is the daughter of the current Leader of the Force. Once the Leader is dead, the daughter will take her place. The Force is our ally, under wraps. Wanderers take turns playing Secret Solider for the Parliament of the Force, making sure they aren't killed or otherwise harmed. Well, I guess today is my lucky day. The Next-In-Line is 15, a blonde with a knack for getting Wanderers into trouble in any way she can. She has been known to give herself burns and other marks, claiming one of us hurt her, the Wanderer will be removed from the watch and decommissioned, at the orders of the Leader. I've lost many friends to this girl, and I do not plan on following in their footsteps. No mistakes.
As I collect my equipment and human clothing, I scan through the briefing. One weapon, do not touch the Target, protect the Target. The instructions are simple enough, but who knows what could go wrong if I mess any detail up. Walking down the corridor, I glance at the other rebooting Wanderers, thinking about when they will be rebooted for their next missions. It could be now; it could be years from now. But who knows when it will be, other than the Leaders of the Cause. But for now, I am the one they have called on for reboot. The sounds of my footsteps echo and I exit through the Final Doors, and am met with a sunlight, though it is blinding, it is much better than the darkness of the Warehouse. At the end of the road, a sleek black limo sits in wait for someone. As I exit the gates, a figure in all black steps out from the back seat and stares. I take this moment to produce my identification and greet them with a nod. "Wanderer 27, I presume?" Another nod. "One moment." He leans into the car, nodding and speaking to the inside passenger, who I can only presume is the- "Please, step inside, sit in the farthest left corner." He enters back into the car and I follow. The inside of the limo looks much larger than from the outside, with a small bar to one side, and a TV adorning the other side, with seats lining each of the two sides. As I crouch down into the corner seat, I notice the bottle of water with "27" written in small letters on the lid. "It's an inside joke for Ana, she once offered a Wanderer a bottle of water, not realizing your kind doesn't need that sort of thing." I glance at the small container, I miss water—A girl's laughter, "Hanson, stop, you're getting me all wet!" She laughs harder and splashes a young boy with the pool water, he tries to block it, but is already soaked, they splash each other until a mother's voice calls them in to dinner…. As they sit around the table, the warmth of a family's love surrounds— "27, you're in for a real treat today. Ana is planning on going out with her friends, so you have the luxury of seeing the Mall of Manaka. It is a spectacle for sure, the lights, the sounds, it's everything you could ever dream about, I promise you that… Do you dream? Probably not. I apologize for the rambling, I'm still adjusting to the Leader's lifestyle, it's quite a trip, and he treats all of his workers with such respect--" All the workers except for the Wanderers, you mean. "—He feeds us, basically pays for our lives, without batting an eye. He really is a wonderful man. Have you met him?" Yes. I nod, though our first meeting was not the typical meeting you experienced. The Leader was in attendance for the Revealing Ceremony for the Wanderers Project. He selected the first Wanderer by hand to be his daughter's escort. Lucky… or rather not so lucky Wanderer 13. 13 lasted 4 days, and was decommissioned for 'panty raiding' the young girl, and with no way to protest, he was gone in an instant. Poor bastard. "What a day that must have been for you, meeting the Leader of our Country." Oh yes, watching my life crumble in front of me was such a wonderful day. So precious to my memory. I hated that man. And I hated any person that associated with him. The only thing I could trust was my handy little SR-47 that now hugged my spine. If I could lean back in my new fully metal body, I still wouldn't have been able to with the rifle attached to me. But I guess that is a good problem to have for a warrior-turned-babysitter.
As we round the corner to the Leader's Mansion, I notice that my escort has stopped talking and is now rigid in his seat. Following his gaze, I see the front gates have been burst open and are now laying on the ground. The limo has stopped just short of them and we watch, waiting for movement. There is none. "27, do not move." The order takes over my programming and I am frozen. As the heap of man slides from the car, a bullet slices through the air, and through his chest. He topples over, but not before yelling, "27, help." I am in action, sliding through the limo and taking cover behind the door, no doubt, the shooter has seen my movements and is waiting for me to move into his full range of sight. I look at the body of the young man that was just talking about the generosity of the Leader, and I wonder if his family knows what he has signed up for. No remorse. I turn my attention to the Mansion that looks peaceful as could be, when in the corner of my sight, I see it, a sniper sitting in the upper left window, waiting. I lock on to his heat signature, pull my gun and aim, in the blink of an eye, and the shooter is down. A quick scan of the area tells me that he was the only cover of the front yard, but that means there must be more inside. As a snake slithers through the grass, I weave through the wreckage of the lawn, there seems to be no other enforcement coming in to help. I take a moment to tap into my cuff and alert The Cause of the interference of my mission. Officer Huck, this is Wanderer 27, requesting assistance for mission log 3247…. "Wanderer 27, your mission was non-aggressive, what could possibly have happened?" Hostiles in the Leader's Mansion, requesting assistance for mission log 3247. "27, assistance is on the way, take cover, do not engage hostiles." I can't just leave… but they are the reason… mission…. Morals. Dammit. Wanderer 27 engaging hostiles, possible hostage extraction, assistance requested for mission log 3247. "Wanderer 27, do NOT engage-"A flick of my wrist and Huck's voice is gone. Time to move.
I rush into the Mansion, expecting to find hostiles at every post. Nothing. There are no signs of movement or forced entry, it looks as if the mansion doors were just opened, and nothing else. I scan the area, nothing. What is going on… My footsteps echo up the stairs and I run into the Leader's office, there are no signs of struggle, and no signs of breaking in. What is going on… I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see—Black.
---
"The Wanderer program will be shut down. All Wanderers are to be decommissioned. You will not make this mistake again, I hope." A voice echoes through the Warehouse…
"Sir, I apologize. We thought that the program would be a start for our Mechanic Army, the problem seemed to be with the specimen. They still retained humanity over order-"
"Yes, Doctor, don't you think I realize that. Every one of those pieces of junk metal ignored the orders of their Commander and instead went off on their own. Decommission them immediately."
"Y-yes, sir. Immediate decommission will begin tomorrow."
The Final Doors close and every light shuts down, except the light on Wanderer 27's reboot chamber. An empty shell.
"Found her! She's going this way!"
"Damn. Persistent..."
A trumpet blared as the knights ran forward, hunting down their target. Reah sheathed her sword and weaved around the trees, trying to make her pursuers lose sight of her.
"Chase her! Don't let her get away! Knight she may have been, but she's a highly dangerous criminal accused of high treason! Kill her if you have to!"
A knight mounted on a horse pointed his sword towards the forest. Even with his armor on, it was obvious that he must have been a rather large man. In all likelihood, he was the commander. At his instructions, the knights began to pour into the forest, flooding in to weed out the traitor who'd tainted the title of knight. But Reah was closer than they'd thought. As the knights' ranks searched through the forest, they grew thinner and thinner. The amount of enemies she'd need to fight through decreased as she let them continue combing through the forest.
Footsteps approached, and she quietly unsheathed her sword.
"Hey! I foun-"
And stepped forward.
With a single slash, he was silenced. Blood coated Reah's sword and helmet, the scarlet liquid seeming to almost glimmer in the air as the opposing knight's head fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
"High treason..." Reah spat, her face contorting into a grimace as she killed her ex-comrade. "Sorry, Arthur." An apology was muttered. She wasn't particularly close to him, and to save herself she'd naturally do the same given a second chance, but it still left a bad feeling in her gut to kill one on the same side in cold blood. Even if it was to save herself.
In the first place, she didn't quite understand why she was being chased. She'd been accused of high treason, but rather than an accusation it felt more like a condemnation. As though they already knew she was guilty of it. The problem there was that, well, she had committed no such thing. Not that she was aware of, anyway. Supposedly, she'd killed her own father, a high-ranking officer at a brothel, but that was impossible. What possible reason could she have to kill her own father? Furthermore, she'd never even been to one in her life, much less killed someone there. The only thing she had was a lack of an alibi. Yet somehow, the whole town had been convinced that she was at fault. It didn't make any sense.
"S-stop! Please, don- ugaaah!"
"Fr-freeze, you mo-monst-!"
"...Huh?"
Roused from her musings, Reah jerked her gaze back up as she took a look at her surroundings. As expected, nobody else was here. The knights had all poured into the forest expecting her to run further in. The poor man laying at her feet was only an exception. She reached up for her helmet and peeled it off, her white hair dancing as it was freed from its steel entrapment. Her unhindered ears took in a song. The splashing of blood, the scraping of steel against steel, the heavy impacts as weighted bodies collapsed to the ground. Each piece of the orchestra weaved together the background for a tune hummed in a surreal voice.
It wasn't the kind of voice that was carried through the air. The voice felt like it permeated her very soul, as though it were chains binding her in place, ice encasing her to prevent her movement. Even under her heavy armor, goosebumps broke her skin. Worse still, that voice felt as though it were drawing closer and closer. The source of that soul-crushing voice approached, still accompanied by its human instruments. It was sickly innocent, in a way. Were it not for its ephemeral quality, it'd have sounded much like a young child humming a nursery rhyme. Closer. Closer. The humming grew louder, the wails of the dying more distinct.
Soon enough, a familiar face materialized from amidst the large trees. Reah's sword clattered as it hit the ground, her jaw dropping wide open.
"Wh-who...?"
"Ah, sorry to interrupt you when you were having such a good time."
Blue eyes. White hair. Dark, knightly armor decorated by skulls. That sword decorated with runes. All stained with crimson blood.
This murderous knight was a spitting image of herself. Unlike Reah, though, she wore a warm smile, her eyes wide and bright like a child's. In fact, were it not for her height and armor, it'd have been a stretch to think her any older than fourteen. Though their physical appearances were similar, it was like a completely different soul resided within the other. Even a stranger could have told the two apart despite their identical features. That kind smile parted, revealing yellow, rotting teeth as she began to speak.
"I've been looking for you for a while now, you know? It's been so hard trying to find you! I've always been aching for a chance to meet you Reah."
"The hell...?" Reah's eyes narrowed.
"Aww, c'mon, don't look at me like that! Or, maybe, you've already forgotten? Well, that can't be helped. It's been, ah, twenty years, hasn't it? I'm not very good with math, but definitely somewhere 'round there!" The other knight spread her arms dramatically, as though inviting a hug. "Don't worry Reah, I'll forgive you even if you have forgotten."
Reah's trembling fingers curled into a fist. What was this copycat's deal? Obviously they'd met, about twenty years ago, but she wasn't a knight back then. She was a mere child, nobody anyone would become obsessed over for such a ridiculously long time frame. That is, excepting one person. Her eyes widened for a moment before she shook her head. However, that one person was impossible. Because he...
"No, no, that's it exactly!" As though reading her thoughts, the other knight laughed. "You really didn't forget! Ahh, that makes me so happy you know? I was seriously worried that you'd forget me!"
Her smile grew wider as she began to clap.
"Sis! It's been a real long time, no? I've missed you so much, since the old man sold me off. Aah, dammit, if only I was the one who'd come out first. But it's not your fault, Reah. I mean, you didn't choose to be born first, did you? You didn't right? Don't worry, I'm a good brother! I'll totally forgive you!"
Reah fell to her knees. Her brother? Then, what happened to his voice? His appearance? Why did it match her own, and not his? The answer was simple, if she thought about it. He'd been sold off as a prostitute to a brothel. To make him usable, their father had forcibly created a hole down there to replicate a girl's. In other words, what made him a boy had been totally erased. Naturally then, his appearance wouldn't be all that masculine. But to think he'd have turned into a complete lookalike, it couldn't have just been that. This was intentional.
"Why-"
"Huh? You don't get it?" He cut her off with that flowery voice, a look of genuine surprise on his face. "I was going to kill the old man, but I didn't want to get caught, you know? That's only natural, isn't it?"
Therefore, he'd taken on her appearance. He didn't have to say anything more for her to understand. They were twins, and he'd lost the production of testosterone. In the end, it wasn't impossible to imagine. Even if Reah's mind was screaming in denial.
"But, the old man wasn't enough. I lured him in on my own, killed him on my own, but it wasn't satisfying. Oh, don't get me wrong though! It was totally fun. Unbelievably fun. But it's like food, you know? After you take a bite, you need to take another. And another, and another! Reah..." Cupping her cheeks in his hand, he knelt down in front of her and gave a crooked smile. "Would you die by my ha-?"
Once again, blood soared through the air. Reah's sword separated neck from body, sending that head that so resembled her own spiraling through the air. Reah's breaths were heavy, another splash of blood covering her face and armor. The warm scarlet of her "brother." This was like a scene out of a nightmare. Her brother not only killed their father, but tried to pin the blame on her by mimicking her appearance? What the hell? Was that even possible?
In the end, carving off a family member's head hadn't been any harder than butchering that Arthur guy. It was so easy. Just a bit of force, and off it went. As a knight, she'd battled many times before, but she'd never realized just how fragile humans were. Was it because it was more personal, because she was killing her own people that she understood? The supposed weight of a life took nothing more than a swing to relieve.
She stabbed her sword into the ground, leaning over it as she panted. Was that right? He was her own brother, yet so easily, she'd extinguished his life. She didn't want this. Even if he had framed her, there had to have been some way to prove her innocence. In fact, unless the town would believe her if she brought his corpse in, even now she couldn't prove herself right. And she'd have still committed murder.
No, it was too late for her to return. Her head turned to look at her brother.
"Hey. You just cut me, didn't you?" The body of her brother stood straight up, grasping his severed head in its hand. "You...you just tried to kill me didn't you? That means you're okay with being killed, right? Right? That's fine isn't it, sis?"
Like a zombie, he slammed his head onto his bloody stump of a neck, a light purple glow emanating from the point of severance. When it subsided, it was almost as though nothing had happened at all. Yet blood still poured from the nonexistent wound, painting his armor in his own vitality. The edges of his mouth spread unnaturally wide, a hideous grin sent his sister's way.
"I can't die. Isn't that obvious, sis? I'm not a man nor a woman. I can never impregnate a woman, nor can I ever give birth to a child of my own! It all ends with my generation! I'm absolutely perfect! I mean, only low-lives continue to reproduce and multiply in swarms, you know! Is that obvious enough for you now, Reah?!"
An unnatural laugh. Reah found herself stuck in her brother's soul-shaking voice once again. There had to be a limit to how crazy someone could be. Sure, he'd gotten the short end of the stick, but to think he'd have gone this crazy. Perfect? Unable to be killed? That was nonsense.
At least, she would have thought that, until he'd survived decapitation at her hand. What kind of monst-
"We're not that different, sis. You may not be quite like me, but you're still my sister! And more than that, you're a knight! You fight every day, kill every day! Why would you do that if it wasn't fun? That's just the top of stupidity, isn't it? You might as well say a bard doesn't like to tell stories, or a blacksmith hates making weapons!"
"I killed you! I cut off your head! I definitely hit the mark! Why, why are you still standing?!"
"It hurts, it hurts so much! But you know, your spirit is seriously lacking! After you cut off my head, you should've pounded it into mush, chopped off all my limbs, and turned me into a stew! It still wouldn't have stopped me, but I can't feel your determination if you only give it to me halfheartedly like this!" His stance fell, his sword held firmly at his waist. "If you keep coming like that, I'm gonna tear you apart next!"
Her life was in danger. Her brother, whose head she'd cut off, was going to kill her.
So she laughed.
"Heh...hehehehe..." Her mouth transformed into a cruel smile, yanking her sword out of the ground with one hand. Reah pointed the sword straight at her brother, wobbling a bit as she was thrown off balance by the weight. "You inhuman bastard..."
It was true. She liked to fight. She loved to battle. The knight lived for it. To smash her enemies with her sword. To paint the enemy's flag with their own blood. To crush their bodies with a heavy mace. Honor? Patriotism? Defense? Who the hell was she kidding. That was just crap she used to justify her passions, worth less than dog shit. A fighter existed to fight, to draw blood, to rip the enemy's flesh right off their bones.
That was what a warrior was.
"...I'll cut you apart until you won't even know which part goes where!"
"Hah! That's the spirit sis! Give it to me! Give me your steel, your fury, your love, give it all...!"
The difference between the two no longer existed. Both coins now landed on the same face. Their swords clashed, Reah's with a large overhead swing while her brother swung it from the hip, as though unsheathing it.
"I'll tear you to fucking shreds and kill you!"
Their shouts resounded in unison, and the forest was dyed in scarlet.
"Damn. Persistent..."
A trumpet blared as the knights ran forward, hunting down their target. Reah sheathed her sword and weaved around the trees, trying to make her pursuers lose sight of her.
"Chase her! Don't let her get away! Knight she may have been, but she's a highly dangerous criminal accused of high treason! Kill her if you have to!"
A knight mounted on a horse pointed his sword towards the forest. Even with his armor on, it was obvious that he must have been a rather large man. In all likelihood, he was the commander. At his instructions, the knights began to pour into the forest, flooding in to weed out the traitor who'd tainted the title of knight. But Reah was closer than they'd thought. As the knights' ranks searched through the forest, they grew thinner and thinner. The amount of enemies she'd need to fight through decreased as she let them continue combing through the forest.
Footsteps approached, and she quietly unsheathed her sword.
"Hey! I foun-"
And stepped forward.
With a single slash, he was silenced. Blood coated Reah's sword and helmet, the scarlet liquid seeming to almost glimmer in the air as the opposing knight's head fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
"High treason..." Reah spat, her face contorting into a grimace as she killed her ex-comrade. "Sorry, Arthur." An apology was muttered. She wasn't particularly close to him, and to save herself she'd naturally do the same given a second chance, but it still left a bad feeling in her gut to kill one on the same side in cold blood. Even if it was to save herself.
In the first place, she didn't quite understand why she was being chased. She'd been accused of high treason, but rather than an accusation it felt more like a condemnation. As though they already knew she was guilty of it. The problem there was that, well, she had committed no such thing. Not that she was aware of, anyway. Supposedly, she'd killed her own father, a high-ranking officer at a brothel, but that was impossible. What possible reason could she have to kill her own father? Furthermore, she'd never even been to one in her life, much less killed someone there. The only thing she had was a lack of an alibi. Yet somehow, the whole town had been convinced that she was at fault. It didn't make any sense.
"S-stop! Please, don- ugaaah!"
"Fr-freeze, you mo-monst-!"
"...Huh?"
Roused from her musings, Reah jerked her gaze back up as she took a look at her surroundings. As expected, nobody else was here. The knights had all poured into the forest expecting her to run further in. The poor man laying at her feet was only an exception. She reached up for her helmet and peeled it off, her white hair dancing as it was freed from its steel entrapment. Her unhindered ears took in a song. The splashing of blood, the scraping of steel against steel, the heavy impacts as weighted bodies collapsed to the ground. Each piece of the orchestra weaved together the background for a tune hummed in a surreal voice.
It wasn't the kind of voice that was carried through the air. The voice felt like it permeated her very soul, as though it were chains binding her in place, ice encasing her to prevent her movement. Even under her heavy armor, goosebumps broke her skin. Worse still, that voice felt as though it were drawing closer and closer. The source of that soul-crushing voice approached, still accompanied by its human instruments. It was sickly innocent, in a way. Were it not for its ephemeral quality, it'd have sounded much like a young child humming a nursery rhyme. Closer. Closer. The humming grew louder, the wails of the dying more distinct.
Soon enough, a familiar face materialized from amidst the large trees. Reah's sword clattered as it hit the ground, her jaw dropping wide open.
"Wh-who...?"
"Ah, sorry to interrupt you when you were having such a good time."
Blue eyes. White hair. Dark, knightly armor decorated by skulls. That sword decorated with runes. All stained with crimson blood.
This murderous knight was a spitting image of herself. Unlike Reah, though, she wore a warm smile, her eyes wide and bright like a child's. In fact, were it not for her height and armor, it'd have been a stretch to think her any older than fourteen. Though their physical appearances were similar, it was like a completely different soul resided within the other. Even a stranger could have told the two apart despite their identical features. That kind smile parted, revealing yellow, rotting teeth as she began to speak.
"I've been looking for you for a while now, you know? It's been so hard trying to find you! I've always been aching for a chance to meet you Reah."
"The hell...?" Reah's eyes narrowed.
"Aww, c'mon, don't look at me like that! Or, maybe, you've already forgotten? Well, that can't be helped. It's been, ah, twenty years, hasn't it? I'm not very good with math, but definitely somewhere 'round there!" The other knight spread her arms dramatically, as though inviting a hug. "Don't worry Reah, I'll forgive you even if you have forgotten."
Reah's trembling fingers curled into a fist. What was this copycat's deal? Obviously they'd met, about twenty years ago, but she wasn't a knight back then. She was a mere child, nobody anyone would become obsessed over for such a ridiculously long time frame. That is, excepting one person. Her eyes widened for a moment before she shook her head. However, that one person was impossible. Because he...
"No, no, that's it exactly!" As though reading her thoughts, the other knight laughed. "You really didn't forget! Ahh, that makes me so happy you know? I was seriously worried that you'd forget me!"
Her smile grew wider as she began to clap.
"Sis! It's been a real long time, no? I've missed you so much, since the old man sold me off. Aah, dammit, if only I was the one who'd come out first. But it's not your fault, Reah. I mean, you didn't choose to be born first, did you? You didn't right? Don't worry, I'm a good brother! I'll totally forgive you!"
Reah fell to her knees. Her brother? Then, what happened to his voice? His appearance? Why did it match her own, and not his? The answer was simple, if she thought about it. He'd been sold off as a prostitute to a brothel. To make him usable, their father had forcibly created a hole down there to replicate a girl's. In other words, what made him a boy had been totally erased. Naturally then, his appearance wouldn't be all that masculine. But to think he'd have turned into a complete lookalike, it couldn't have just been that. This was intentional.
"Why-"
"Huh? You don't get it?" He cut her off with that flowery voice, a look of genuine surprise on his face. "I was going to kill the old man, but I didn't want to get caught, you know? That's only natural, isn't it?"
Therefore, he'd taken on her appearance. He didn't have to say anything more for her to understand. They were twins, and he'd lost the production of testosterone. In the end, it wasn't impossible to imagine. Even if Reah's mind was screaming in denial.
"But, the old man wasn't enough. I lured him in on my own, killed him on my own, but it wasn't satisfying. Oh, don't get me wrong though! It was totally fun. Unbelievably fun. But it's like food, you know? After you take a bite, you need to take another. And another, and another! Reah..." Cupping her cheeks in his hand, he knelt down in front of her and gave a crooked smile. "Would you die by my ha-?"
Once again, blood soared through the air. Reah's sword separated neck from body, sending that head that so resembled her own spiraling through the air. Reah's breaths were heavy, another splash of blood covering her face and armor. The warm scarlet of her "brother." This was like a scene out of a nightmare. Her brother not only killed their father, but tried to pin the blame on her by mimicking her appearance? What the hell? Was that even possible?
In the end, carving off a family member's head hadn't been any harder than butchering that Arthur guy. It was so easy. Just a bit of force, and off it went. As a knight, she'd battled many times before, but she'd never realized just how fragile humans were. Was it because it was more personal, because she was killing her own people that she understood? The supposed weight of a life took nothing more than a swing to relieve.
She stabbed her sword into the ground, leaning over it as she panted. Was that right? He was her own brother, yet so easily, she'd extinguished his life. She didn't want this. Even if he had framed her, there had to have been some way to prove her innocence. In fact, unless the town would believe her if she brought his corpse in, even now she couldn't prove herself right. And she'd have still committed murder.
No, it was too late for her to return. Her head turned to look at her brother.
"Hey. You just cut me, didn't you?" The body of her brother stood straight up, grasping his severed head in its hand. "You...you just tried to kill me didn't you? That means you're okay with being killed, right? Right? That's fine isn't it, sis?"
Like a zombie, he slammed his head onto his bloody stump of a neck, a light purple glow emanating from the point of severance. When it subsided, it was almost as though nothing had happened at all. Yet blood still poured from the nonexistent wound, painting his armor in his own vitality. The edges of his mouth spread unnaturally wide, a hideous grin sent his sister's way.
"I can't die. Isn't that obvious, sis? I'm not a man nor a woman. I can never impregnate a woman, nor can I ever give birth to a child of my own! It all ends with my generation! I'm absolutely perfect! I mean, only low-lives continue to reproduce and multiply in swarms, you know! Is that obvious enough for you now, Reah?!"
An unnatural laugh. Reah found herself stuck in her brother's soul-shaking voice once again. There had to be a limit to how crazy someone could be. Sure, he'd gotten the short end of the stick, but to think he'd have gone this crazy. Perfect? Unable to be killed? That was nonsense.
At least, she would have thought that, until he'd survived decapitation at her hand. What kind of monst-
"We're not that different, sis. You may not be quite like me, but you're still my sister! And more than that, you're a knight! You fight every day, kill every day! Why would you do that if it wasn't fun? That's just the top of stupidity, isn't it? You might as well say a bard doesn't like to tell stories, or a blacksmith hates making weapons!"
"I killed you! I cut off your head! I definitely hit the mark! Why, why are you still standing?!"
"It hurts, it hurts so much! But you know, your spirit is seriously lacking! After you cut off my head, you should've pounded it into mush, chopped off all my limbs, and turned me into a stew! It still wouldn't have stopped me, but I can't feel your determination if you only give it to me halfheartedly like this!" His stance fell, his sword held firmly at his waist. "If you keep coming like that, I'm gonna tear you apart next!"
Her life was in danger. Her brother, whose head she'd cut off, was going to kill her.
So she laughed.
"Heh...hehehehe..." Her mouth transformed into a cruel smile, yanking her sword out of the ground with one hand. Reah pointed the sword straight at her brother, wobbling a bit as she was thrown off balance by the weight. "You inhuman bastard..."
It was true. She liked to fight. She loved to battle. The knight lived for it. To smash her enemies with her sword. To paint the enemy's flag with their own blood. To crush their bodies with a heavy mace. Honor? Patriotism? Defense? Who the hell was she kidding. That was just crap she used to justify her passions, worth less than dog shit. A fighter existed to fight, to draw blood, to rip the enemy's flesh right off their bones.
That was what a warrior was.
"...I'll cut you apart until you won't even know which part goes where!"
"Hah! That's the spirit sis! Give it to me! Give me your steel, your fury, your love, give it all...!"
The difference between the two no longer existed. Both coins now landed on the same face. Their swords clashed, Reah's with a large overhead swing while her brother swung it from the hip, as though unsheathing it.
"I'll tear you to fucking shreds and kill you!"
Their shouts resounded in unison, and the forest was dyed in scarlet.
[BCOLOR=transparent]Gwynn sat heavily down upon the exposed roots of of an ancient myrtle tree. Her head fell back against the rough bark of the tree as her eyes closed. Just a moment of peace, was all she was wishing for at the moment. Sleep must have claimed her because she awoke to an odd humming by her ear.
Grabbing her sword before her eyes opened she sat up with her bloodied hands ready for another battle, but she did not see an enemy, but rather tiny balls of light flying about her. She blinked rapidly to be sure she was not imagining the tiny beings, but to her astonishment they hovered watching her closely. She felt the compulsion to grab her shield from the ground by her knee, but seeing how many of them were near, she cast the thought aside.
"What do you want?" she asked, and saw then back away and hold their tiny hands over their ears, if indeed they were ears at all. In the event that they were though, she lowered the volume of her speaking to just above a whisper, "Who are you?"
One of the wings balls of light approached her, carrying a golden ring on a thin thread. She appeared to speak but Gwynn could not hear her at all. Squinting her eyes as if that could help her hear better Gwynn tried to hear the tiny creature. The ball of light flew to her ear and shouted as loud as it could, "I am Hania, Queen of the Light Faeries." She flew back to where she had been to see if the human had heard her.
"Hania, Queen of the Light Faeires," Gwynn repeated and the ball of light moved up and down. "What do you want of me?" she asked softly, "What is this …" she asked lifting a finger to touch the ring.
Again Hania flew to her ear and shouted as loud as she could, "Put on the ring and you will hear us and see us clearly."
Hania flew back and held out the ring. Gwynn slipped the ring onto her finger and suddenly she saw thousands of tiny faeries hovering around her like a swarm of bees. Hania nodded, "And now you can see all of us," she said in her normal voice, "And hear us."
Gwynn nodded, "I can," she said, "But what do you want? Why give me this ring? I am just a woman of low birth, fighting to stay alive."
Hania nodded, "We are in need of a great warrior," she said and flew to there her hand gripped the sword. Motioning to the dried blood that cracked on her knuckles and hand, she looked back up to Gwynn, "You are a mighty warrior."
Gwynn laughed softly, "A warrior yes," she chuckled out, "But hardly mighty. Most of this blood is my own, though yes, a bit is not."
Hania fluttered her wings in an agitated manner, "We have gifted you with the ring of seeing," she said with a stomp of her tiny foot on nothing and her hands on her little hips in obvious indignation, "We need help. Will you save our homes?"
Gwynn was now very confused, "Your homes?" she asked as she used the sword to push up to her feet and stretch a bit. She was instantly assaulted with the fragrant aroma of the myrtle trees perfume and inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes and just enjoyed the pleasure of it for just a moment before returning her attention back to the tiny blond queen before her.
Hania nodded, "Yes...we live in the trees near the castle," she explained, "And we always had an agreement with the Queen of the castle that our trees would be protected in exchange for our blessings...bountiful harvests...peaceful life...and others." She frowned then, "But the queen we have been sharing alliance with, who protected us, is now dead. Her son does not see us, because he does not believe, and we cannot make him heed our pleas. Will you take out message to him?" she asked.
Gwynn lifted a brow, "Wait...you want me to go to the new King, someone I have never met and tell him the faeries want him to see them and protect their trees…"
Hania nodded and smiled brightly, YES! Exactly that!"
Gwynn shook her head, "I did mention I am of lowly birth and therefore would not likely be granted an audience in the first place, and in the second place I will be judged as touched in the head and cast into the dungeon. NO, Hania Queen of the Faeiries, I cannot help you." She said and then started to walk away but the swarm of faeries blocked her way, so she turned around and tried to go the other way. Unfortunately, the faeries were surrounding her completely.
Hania just hovered right before her with her arms crossed, "I will go with you," she said, "And when you give him the ring of seeing, he WILL see me, and I can speak to him myself. All you will need do is say you have a gift from a royal ally," she said, "Which is not a lie. Imagine the possible elevation of status the new king will give you, for the blessings of the Faerie queen? You have nothing to lose it seems, and everything to gain."
Gwynn looked at her and the others and then cast her gaze to the heavens as if asking for mercy, "Very well Hania," she relented, "I will take the ring to him. You will speak and I will be free to go back to my life, correct?"
Hania nodded, "Correct." But she knew nothing about Gwynn's life would ever be the same now.[/BCOLOR]
Grabbing her sword before her eyes opened she sat up with her bloodied hands ready for another battle, but she did not see an enemy, but rather tiny balls of light flying about her. She blinked rapidly to be sure she was not imagining the tiny beings, but to her astonishment they hovered watching her closely. She felt the compulsion to grab her shield from the ground by her knee, but seeing how many of them were near, she cast the thought aside.
"What do you want?" she asked, and saw then back away and hold their tiny hands over their ears, if indeed they were ears at all. In the event that they were though, she lowered the volume of her speaking to just above a whisper, "Who are you?"
One of the wings balls of light approached her, carrying a golden ring on a thin thread. She appeared to speak but Gwynn could not hear her at all. Squinting her eyes as if that could help her hear better Gwynn tried to hear the tiny creature. The ball of light flew to her ear and shouted as loud as it could, "I am Hania, Queen of the Light Faeries." She flew back to where she had been to see if the human had heard her.
"Hania, Queen of the Light Faeires," Gwynn repeated and the ball of light moved up and down. "What do you want of me?" she asked softly, "What is this …" she asked lifting a finger to touch the ring.
Again Hania flew to her ear and shouted as loud as she could, "Put on the ring and you will hear us and see us clearly."
Hania flew back and held out the ring. Gwynn slipped the ring onto her finger and suddenly she saw thousands of tiny faeries hovering around her like a swarm of bees. Hania nodded, "And now you can see all of us," she said in her normal voice, "And hear us."
Gwynn nodded, "I can," she said, "But what do you want? Why give me this ring? I am just a woman of low birth, fighting to stay alive."
Hania nodded, "We are in need of a great warrior," she said and flew to there her hand gripped the sword. Motioning to the dried blood that cracked on her knuckles and hand, she looked back up to Gwynn, "You are a mighty warrior."
Gwynn laughed softly, "A warrior yes," she chuckled out, "But hardly mighty. Most of this blood is my own, though yes, a bit is not."
Hania fluttered her wings in an agitated manner, "We have gifted you with the ring of seeing," she said with a stomp of her tiny foot on nothing and her hands on her little hips in obvious indignation, "We need help. Will you save our homes?"
Gwynn was now very confused, "Your homes?" she asked as she used the sword to push up to her feet and stretch a bit. She was instantly assaulted with the fragrant aroma of the myrtle trees perfume and inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes and just enjoyed the pleasure of it for just a moment before returning her attention back to the tiny blond queen before her.
Hania nodded, "Yes...we live in the trees near the castle," she explained, "And we always had an agreement with the Queen of the castle that our trees would be protected in exchange for our blessings...bountiful harvests...peaceful life...and others." She frowned then, "But the queen we have been sharing alliance with, who protected us, is now dead. Her son does not see us, because he does not believe, and we cannot make him heed our pleas. Will you take out message to him?" she asked.
Gwynn lifted a brow, "Wait...you want me to go to the new King, someone I have never met and tell him the faeries want him to see them and protect their trees…"
Hania nodded and smiled brightly, YES! Exactly that!"
Gwynn shook her head, "I did mention I am of lowly birth and therefore would not likely be granted an audience in the first place, and in the second place I will be judged as touched in the head and cast into the dungeon. NO, Hania Queen of the Faeiries, I cannot help you." She said and then started to walk away but the swarm of faeries blocked her way, so she turned around and tried to go the other way. Unfortunately, the faeries were surrounding her completely.
Hania just hovered right before her with her arms crossed, "I will go with you," she said, "And when you give him the ring of seeing, he WILL see me, and I can speak to him myself. All you will need do is say you have a gift from a royal ally," she said, "Which is not a lie. Imagine the possible elevation of status the new king will give you, for the blessings of the Faerie queen? You have nothing to lose it seems, and everything to gain."
Gwynn looked at her and the others and then cast her gaze to the heavens as if asking for mercy, "Very well Hania," she relented, "I will take the ring to him. You will speak and I will be free to go back to my life, correct?"
Hania nodded, "Correct." But she knew nothing about Gwynn's life would ever be the same now.[/BCOLOR]
They say that Balador Val'deeve was a feared warrior. When the lines of an army split to make way for this tall, imposing figure dressed in black robes and generously decorated with skulls, grown men would whimper simply from the sight of him. With his face marked with scars and this unearthly glow of mist creeping out from under every step he took, no one questioned the assumption. Balador Val'deeve frightened people.
Until they engaged him in battle.
'Goodness no, you are swinging the staff all wrong! It should be at an arc!'
Balador grunted in frustration. "Would you stay out of this."
"Are you talking to your BELT?!" shouted his opponent in confusion. The armor clad man paused just long enough for Balador to take a second swing with his staff. This time skull capped wood struck against soft unprotected flesh, earning a stunned shout from the unnamed soldier. He regained his bearings in a furious instant to take a swipe at Balador with his sword.
'Dodge it, DODGE IT!'
'The boy knows how to evade a weapon, woman, shut your trap.'
"I am trying to concentrate!" Balador stressed through his teeth. Quick as a flash of lightning, he slipped inside the man's guard. His swing had been too high; his form too shoddy. A small knife pierced in to the fragile curve between the soldier's neck and shoulder. Blood spurted and pooled. His opponent lay gasping in a surprised stupor.
But Balador was already moving on to the next soldier.
'AAYYIIYIIYII WEEEE!'
'Barty, didn't you hear him, he needs to concentrate. Stop that nonsensical blithering. '
'You are the one who told the boy not to leave his cousin behind. Now we're trapped with the idiot for all eternity.'
"AAAAARGH!" shouted the Necromancer. For those at a distance, the man's bellowing cry sounded like a dark terrifying omen. They'd watch as body after body dropped in his wake. If they survived, they told the tale of Balador Val'deeve and his violent assault. The scores of men slain by a single, ferocious individual.
But those who faced him saw a different man. A man cursed by the endless chatter of voices, his family's skulls, strung along his belt and giving their uninvited commentary at every open opportunity.
They say that Balador Val'deeve was a feared warrior. Everyone with family understood why.
Until they engaged him in battle.
'Goodness no, you are swinging the staff all wrong! It should be at an arc!'
Balador grunted in frustration. "Would you stay out of this."
"Are you talking to your BELT?!" shouted his opponent in confusion. The armor clad man paused just long enough for Balador to take a second swing with his staff. This time skull capped wood struck against soft unprotected flesh, earning a stunned shout from the unnamed soldier. He regained his bearings in a furious instant to take a swipe at Balador with his sword.
'Dodge it, DODGE IT!'
'The boy knows how to evade a weapon, woman, shut your trap.'
"I am trying to concentrate!" Balador stressed through his teeth. Quick as a flash of lightning, he slipped inside the man's guard. His swing had been too high; his form too shoddy. A small knife pierced in to the fragile curve between the soldier's neck and shoulder. Blood spurted and pooled. His opponent lay gasping in a surprised stupor.
But Balador was already moving on to the next soldier.
'AAYYIIYIIYII WEEEE!'
'Barty, didn't you hear him, he needs to concentrate. Stop that nonsensical blithering. '
'You are the one who told the boy not to leave his cousin behind. Now we're trapped with the idiot for all eternity.'
"AAAAARGH!" shouted the Necromancer. For those at a distance, the man's bellowing cry sounded like a dark terrifying omen. They'd watch as body after body dropped in his wake. If they survived, they told the tale of Balador Val'deeve and his violent assault. The scores of men slain by a single, ferocious individual.
But those who faced him saw a different man. A man cursed by the endless chatter of voices, his family's skulls, strung along his belt and giving their uninvited commentary at every open opportunity.
They say that Balador Val'deeve was a feared warrior. Everyone with family understood why.
[BCOLOR=transparent]In a room that had once been spacious, but which these days were cramped with paintings, utensils, and discarded canvases, Yumi sat on a simple stool. The blonde woman was panting as if exhausted. Her long hair was wet and touched the floor. The room reeked of sweat, and paints which made one dizzy. It wasn't a healthy environment to spend any longer period of time in, yet she spent her waking hours in there, painting like she was obsessed.
On the walls hung two of the paintings she allowed herself to almost be satisfied with. One of them depicted an old friend in the act of casting a spell; the necromancer Johann, clad in a stereotypical garb with skulls, surrounded by purple glowing strands of magic erupting from his staff. The other depicted an even older enemy, long gone from her life. The dishonest and traitorous Lin. Yumi had painted her in a relaxing pose, surprised by a fairy, because who else would be surprised by something so mundane?
All the other paintings were strewn across the floor or leaned against the walls. There were more than fifty of them, and they were the reason she could barely get into the room. She'd attempted to capture Mirai on each of them. She'd failed every single time. There was no capturing such a raw and fierce and brutal force of nature. It was like trying to fit a tornado inside a glass bottle. The tornado would shatter its glass prison, sooner or later, and hurl glass shards everywhere. She would get cut, but she lived for the pain.
"Again…" She panted, removing her right hand from her loose brown pants. The legs of her pants were stained with colourful splotches — grey, orange, red and blue. Remnants from all the times she'd tried to paint Mirai. Yumi only wore a beige breast band over her torso, so her stomach and arms tended to have their own stains of colour by the end of each session. Some days she didn't wash them off.
"Again!"
Yumi stumbled to her feet, tearing the unfinished painting from the easel in front of her, tossing it to the side. Retrieving another canvas from the bunch, she refilled the paints she'd spilled on the carpet. It was far from the first time she'd done it. The carpet was no longer whatever colour it had once been. It was a rainbow. Before taking her seat again, she picked up the brush she'd dropped on the floor when overcome by need.
She was by no means a talented painter. If she had been, this task set before her might have been completed by now. On the other hand, reliving every memory and moment she'd had with Mirai might mean that this was to be her prison for an eternity. Yumi had accepted that. She didn't care. She just wanted it all back. One last kiss, or even one last look in her direction. Nobody smelled as good as Mirai did when she was covered in blood.
Yumi began by dipping her brush into the colour grey. Grey was the colour of Mira's armour, flag, and hair. It was a good base. The moment she dotted grey onto the canvas she was brought back to their first meeting. The witch that had put her spell on this exquisite brush had done an excellent job.
She had been a smith during those years; not because someone like her needed the money, but because Yumi tended to get bored. Smithing was one of those odd jobs she'd done over a lifetime. It was never meant to bring her into a position of power. She'd lived for power. She'd gotten bored of it too. Manual jobs put her in the middle of bustling cities, near the people that needed a smith, or a baker, or a tavern keeper, or a bard.
Humans were entertaining. They were always busy trying to survive. Either by working to put dinner on the table for their families or by fleeing from creatures such as herself. It was difficult for her to grasp how anyone had to struggle to stay alive.
Unfortunately for the people those years had been particularly tumultuous. Kings, queens and nobles may be able to avoid the worst aspects of wars, but regular people did not. Mirai was a conqueror. She'd besieged the city where Yumi had been a smith and given everyone a chance to surrender within a day. When they didn't, she broke through the gates with the advanced siege weapons of her army and brought the city to its knees. She killed everyone unless they swore to convert to her religion.
Yumi roamed those bloodied streets after Mirai's attack, high on the smells of death. It wasn't that surprising that the two encountered each other. She didn't believe in fate. She'd lived too long and seen too much to believe in anything so silly, yet when her sensitive nose picked up on the smell of Mirai her body and mind went into overdrive. It was unique, and for someone like her to pick up on a specific smell when the streets were littered with bleeding corpses — well, it had never happened before.
She remembered spotting the woman in her bulky armour, striding up to her and cracking a smile. The conqueror probably hadn't been alone, but she couldn't recall anyone else there. It was the affect she had on Yumi's senses. Yumi had worn her dirty apron and baggy working clothes. Mirai had worn the holy armour of the church, a long golden mantle, and more white than she could stomach.
"State your intentions before I slay you in the name of Meraini, the almighty!" Mirai had commanded when she had noticed her.
What a greeting! What an awe-inspiring aura and attitude!
"I am but a humble smith, my lady," Yumi had said, curtsying. "If I could serve a beauty such as yourself, that would be an incredible honour."
Mirai's response had been to spit at the ground between them and unsheathe her sword. Yumi had her quick-thinking to thank for disarming the sudden tension.
"Whoa, whoa!" She had jumped backwards, preparing herself for a fight. Mirai had hesitated to strike her down for some inexplicable reason. "I see your armour is in need of repairs, but it's mediocre quality to begin with. Unfit for any mighty conqueror. No matter where they come from. I could create a new one for you. An armour that inspires fear and respect! After all, I am the greatest smith in this kingdom."
Yumi might have been able to defeat the conqueror, if she'd unleashed her true form, but it was obvious to her that the beauty carried a blessed sword. It was bound to sting if it struck her. Swords did not sparkle like that by themselves. They required certain components during their creation to do it. Although, she'd seen fakes which peddlers had sprinkled fairy dust on.
"I should kill you for heresy," Mirai had said, but after a moment glaring at her she'd sheathed her sword. "Don't ever compliment me again. You are no man. It's plain as day that you are a woman. However, if it's true that you're the greatest smith in this kingdom, I do have need for you. You have to prove yourself."
"I apologize for the compliment. I'm a barbarian," Yumi had said, raising her hands, yet a grin had spread across her lips as soon as the conqueror had turned her back on her. The woman might know a lot about war, but it was clear to her now why she smelled like she did. It wasn't just the blood she was covered in, even if it contributed to the marvelous sensation.
Yumi stopped painting with the grey and breathed. Their meeting in the ruins of a fairly small city had been the beginning of a new adventure. Not the kind of adventure that fops, chosen ones, and the likes went on, but one of death and blood and battles. They had been so alike yet so different. Mirai had a practical need for a skilled smith. Yumi had a primitive need for a woman with her lack of experience.
She'd applied every little trick that she knew to befriend Mirai. She'd succeeded. Mirai had brought her into her closest circle of allies after two years. By then, they were in a stalemate with one of the mightiest empires in the world. Mirai had lost one of her greatest confidants in a strange accident one night and needed someone to replace him. Yumi was to blame for that, but nobody could prove that she was. She whispered into the conqueror's ears, and she got her to trust her.
It was torture to be anywhere near Mirai, due to her smell, especially during certain weeks every month. She learnt to live for the pain. She put everything she had on a distant dream. If Yumi could corrupt Mirai, and turn her from her faith into sin and depravity then that would be one of the greatest accomplishments in her long life. She could turn her at any moment, of course, but if the woman was unwilling it would be for naught.
Yumi dipped her brush into the colour orange. Orange was the colour of the hilt she'd crafted for Mirai's second blessed sword, and the colour of the necklace she'd given her. She dabbed it on the canvas and was granted another memory. Others might consider the price for these vivid memories too high, but it could never have been too high for her.
The memory brought her to a familiar scene in Mirai's private tent. One late night like many others they had spent together. The conqueror's tent was the largest of them all, with a bed that looked comfortable compared to what Yumi slept in. Mirai had a lot of books and maps stored in chests along with her clothes.
"These have some questionable details…" Mirai said, as she inspected the hilt of the sword and the necklace. "The church will not approve of skulls."
"You are Mirai the conqueror! Who cares if they approve? Meraini has been depicted with skulls on his throne." Yumi smiled, clapping her hands together. "It'll be perfect. Trust me. Anyone who thinks they can play you again because you are loyal to your faith will think twice. You will inspire fear wherever you go if you carry these. I'll understand if you don't want to do it though… I should have spent the metals on something more useful. Ugh, I am an—"
"No, no…" Mirai interrupted, with that comforting naive expression which she never showed anyone else. She may be getting close to twenty years old, but thanks to the sheltered lifestyle the priests had pushed on her she was still a girl. She hung the necklace around her neck. Yumi couldn't grin at her like she wanted, so she had to control herself and simply smile. "I'll wear them. You understand the heart of these matters better than me apparently. You were the one who uncovered their plot, so if this is your advice to avoid further mishaps then I will obey."
God, she wished she could make her obey her every whim. She didn't like using the word god, but Mirai might be influencing her some as well. It went both ways. She was supposed to resist it.
"I will have the hilt delivered to the priests tomorrow." Mirai placed it on top of the chest by the end of her bed and took a seat by her table. "Are you certain that you don't want to craft my new sword yourself? You are the best. You've proven that over and over again."
Yumi wanted to prove herself, no doubt, but she'd rather not interact with priests or the components she needed to craft a blessed sword. It wouldn't kill her, but it would be unpleasant. They had to shove it through her heart to kill her, and even then she would regenerate over the decades.
There was a very specific way she wanted to prove herself to Mirai. If she'd only been a man, she could have flirted with her. She could have bent her over the table. Yumi had to keep her gaze from the bed, or Mirai's figure, when she had thoughts like that. Once she'd slipped up, and Mirai had noticed. Oh, how she'd noticed! She'd threatened to have her strung by ropes to horses and pulled along the ground. Again, this would have been unpleasant to Yumi, but it would not have been fatal.
She took a seat at the other side of the table. As Mirai sighed, and her breasts heaved under the red shirt, she had to fight against the urge to leap across the table and force herself on the younger woman. Yumi shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. It was what they called a headache between the two of them, but that was a lie. She didn't get headaches.
She needed to reach a breakthrough soon, or she would go insane because of the smell alone. It permeated everything. She carried Mirai's scent on her own clothes after she'd been in her tent. The smell was a constant hammer striking her core, like a thirst that couldn't be quenched and kept growing. How had she survived two years under these conditions? It baffled her.
"Do you want a glass of water?" Mirai offered.
It felt so wrong, in the best way, that she was concerned for her like this. She couldn't read her mind. The conqueror may be one of the most influential women in the world, but she had no idea who her best friend was or what she thought about her. She counted it all as sinful desires that had been cleansed by now. Yumi was a reformed barbarian to Mirai.
"That would be nice. Just give me a moment, and I'll get it."
Mirai hadn't offered to fetch a glass of water for her. She knew that when the conqueror offered someone anything it was out of courtesy, but she wasn't about to get it for them. Servants would do that, or in this case Yumi had to do it.
"Can the magnificent bard tell me another one of her fantastic tales tonight?" Mirai asked, as she put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. "I'd like that."
They weren't stories she'd made up. They were tales from her own life, from her past. She knew more facts about the founding of Mirai's church than Mirai did. She'd been there.
"Sure, I can," Yumi said. "I'll do anything you wish."
"Anything I wish?" Mirai bit her lower lip, as she stared at her.
Yumi had to focus her attention on something else — anything! This was a trap! She looked at the necklace that hung around Mirai's neck, but that was an even worse idea as she detected the beginning of a frown on the conqueror's face. She turned away to stare at the hilt on the chest instead, but that lay dangerously close to the bed.
"Should I get the horses?" Mirai whispered, yet there was no anger or disgust in her voice this time. There was the sad disappointment of a girl. "I thought I could trust you."
Yumi was brought out of her trance, back to the present. The painting was no better than the others so far. The witch had told her it wasn't necessary to be a master, even though she'd suggested that she learn before she agreed to their deal. The brush seemed to have a will of its own. Perhaps if it wasn't held by such an inept artist it would have finished the painting of Mirai in this pose by itself, and she could have moved on to a more interesting pose which might contain other memories.
Fifty paintings of the conqueror in the same pose didn't do her justice. It didn't portray her like the innocent girl she was. It didn't portray her unwavering faith and strong will. There was so much this pose missed out on, yet she'd wanted to paint her like she imagined Mirai wanted others to see her. The great warrior in the midst of battle, covered in the fresh blood of her enemies.
Nobody else would do it.
The church had distanced themselves from Mirai. It had created the greatest rift among its members in the church's entire history. Yumi had aimed to corrupt the conqueror, and achieved so much more, yet none of it would ever be satisfactory when she'd lost the most.
Another year had passed in Mirai's company after she'd presented her with her gifts. It occurred to her during those months that she could have put a curse of her own on the necklace. Mirai could have been made further susceptible to her charms.
Why hadn't she thought of that earlier back then?
The worst possible thing that could have happened during that year came to pass. Yumi had wondered why the church had let a woman like Mirai remain unmarried. It became clear to her that they had intended to use her celibacy as a political tool. They found a suitable husband for her from the empire which Mirai couldn't conquer fast enough for their liking. He was the bastard of the current emperor, so it would give Mirai an actual claim to their throne. He was a pawn.
Yumi would have killed him without mercy, but she couldn't do it. He was protected day and night. There was always a group of soldiers following him around. She could have killed them all, yet that would have risked her own position in the camp, as she would have had to expose her true nature. He couldn't be poisoned either as someone always tasted his food for him. The bastard was paranoid, but he was in a camp filled with former enemies. It was logical. She could respect it.
There was a second method she could have used. She had constructed conspiracies before to get rid off her worst enemies within Mirai's ranks, yet that had taken months. It wasn't easy to frame others for her own actions. It wasn't easy to destroy every shred of credibility someone had once had, and make everyone believe that they were guilty of everything that the rumours said about them. She knew how to do it, but time was of the essence. They had given her two weeks before Mirai was to marry. The bastard was unworthy of someone like her. If she did nothing, he would get to revel in her innocence, and he wouldn't appreciate it like Yumi would.
Yumi stopped reminiscing and dipped her brush into the colour red. Red was the colour of blood. It was sustenance to her kind. She would become weak without it, and lesser creatures of the night would perish, but she was not like those. Mirai had often been drenched in the blood of her enemies. She had been more of a goddess in those moments than the god she worshipped herself. Yumi applied red to the canvas and was presented with one of her most treasured memories — her own breaking point.
"It's a scratch, don't worry about it!"
Yumi could hear Mirai's agitated voice coming from inside her tent. Her servants were pestering her again. The conqueror had returned an hour ago, from another bloody battle no doubt. She would have resisted the temptation to go anywhere near her after she'd been in a battle under normal circumstances, but she didn't have much time left. She was getting careless, and she knew it.
Yumi folded the flap of the entrance to the side and entered the tent. The two female servants in their simple dresses glared at her, before they realized who she was, then they turned their attention back to Mirai on the chair. The conqueror was holding a white cloth over her nose, while the servants tried to help her clean her face. There was a bucket of water on the ground.
"Please, leave us," Mirai commanded, with a voice that sounded like she had something stuck in her nose. "Now."
"I apolog—"
"Yes, my lady," the two servants said, grabbed the bucket, and walked past Yumi.
Huh, she'd thought Mirai had meant her. She hadn't been invited to her tent. Maybe they were past such formalities. That was a nice surprise.
"Do you think he'll still want to marry me?" Mirai asked, removed the cloth from her nose and laughed. It was a crooked and bloody mess. Shouldn't she seek out a healer? Her nose appeared to be broken.
Yumi felt her teeth twitch. Those two long fangs she could conceal due to her superior nature. Oh no. She hadn't picked up on the smell at first, because she must be used to it on some level, but this was worse than it had been in a long time. It didn't help that her motivation to control herself was crumbling.
"It's no big deal," Mirai said when she didn't respond. "Some fool hit me in the face with the wrong end of her sword. Could have ended a lot worse. She could have known how to use a sword properly for one."
The conqueror got up from her chair and turned her back on Yumi. She could stare as much as she wanted when she wasn't watching her, so she let her eyes trail over her body. Mirai was a beauty by anyone's standards. A crooked nose wouldn't change that. Her curves were divine — her hips in particular.
"I'm glad you're in a good mood," Yumi said, smirking. "I think you should go see a healer with a wound like that."
She had to act like a confidant when all she wanted to do was sneak up behind her, part her grey hair, and sink her teeth into her slender neck. It was a good place to start. She could take it from there. She knew that once she'd set the ball in motion she wouldn't stop until she was satisfied. Three years was too long for anyone to wait for another.
"Heh, I thought you'd encourage me. If I don't tend to this wound right away, I'll look like a warrior. Not some princess they assume can't think for herself. You gave me the idea. I… I..." She paused, then spun around to face Yumi. She must have stared at her as if starved because Mirai flinched, but she remained calm. "I don't want to get married. I know I shouldn't question the church, but…"
She'd never seen an opening this wide in Mirai's facade before. It broke her own resolve, washed it away. In an instant, she had moved from the entrance to Mirai, like she had teleported instead of walked.
Mirai put the cloth back over her nose and raised an eyebrow. Yumi had showed her a small part of her true nature, and she hadn't been surprised. Was this a dream? She should have threatened her with death by now. The younger woman stood there, doing nothing.
Yumi laid her hand on Mirai's hand and removed it from her face. The cloth fell to the ground. She breathed in the smell of her bloody nose — the smell of a holy woman and virgin. She could suck a thousand bodies dry, and none of them would feel like her. Why didn't Mirai fight her?
"There is an alternative to marriage…" Mirai whispered. "I've given it a lot of thought."
"Have you now?" Yumi asked, as she pressed her body against Mirai. The conqueror seemed to blush.
"I've had suspicions about you for a long while. Others told me you were not to be trusted, that you were unnatural. I had no reason to believe you over them. I would have had you killed if I'd listened to their advice."
Still, she didn't move or fight her.
"What kind of suspicions?" Yumi grinned, as she brought Mirai's hand to her own lips. "Are you going to tell the priests? Should I be worried?"
"No, I need you more than I need them," Mirai whispered, and she might not have heard it if she'd been human. "Meraini made a pact once with his sworn nemesis. The church prefers to not mention it, but he got what he wanted in the end. He wouldn't have achieved as much without her."
Indeed, Yumi remembered.
"I need you too." Yumi put one of her fingers into her mouth to suck on it. She'd waited years for this taste. It was the taste of god and chaos, of rules and battle. It was Mirai, and she would never be able to get enough of it. She knew it in that exact moment.
"I'm willing to make a trade, but I want something in return," Mirai said, raising her voice so it became shrilly. She let her suck on her finger. "I'd rather deal with a demon than one of them. He will not be my husband because they say so. He doesn't believe in my god or in me. I will show them."
"You've got a devious plan in mind. I can tell." Yumi put a second finger into her mouth. If this was all she would get, she would savour it. She knew she'd lose control soon, knew she was playing with fire. Mirai would get burnt for this. Their relationship would end.
"Kill the bastard, kill their generals, kill the emperor, kill them all. Don't leave a child with noble blood alive," Mirai said and laughed. No, she wouldn't get burnt. She was already fire itself. "In return, I will give myself to you for one night. Not more."
Yumi could do it. She wasn't the violent type, but she had the strength and skills. She could slip past their armies, get into their capital, and wreak havoc. It would be obvious that a monster was on the loose, and she didn't like being out in the open where hunters would target her, but she would do it for Mirai.
"It's a deal," she said, spat the fingers out of her mouth, and leaned into Mirai. Their bodies were as close to each other as they could get as long as they were clothed. She could feel her fangs extending from where they hid as she kissed the pale neck. "I've craved you for three years. If you want me to kill the rest of the world for you to be mine, I will do that too."
"Don't bite me." Mirai put her hand on Yumi's chest, pushing her to get distance between them. "I will burn you alive. I am still faithful to my god, and I do this for him."
Whatever she had to tell herself to sleep at night; Yumi wasn't about to argue with it.
"Very well, but I do this for me and you."
She grabbed Mirai's chin, and the conqueror shut her eyes. Yumi kissed her. At first she was gentle, as she younger woman had no experience with any of this, but soon she prodded with her tongue at her lips. They tasted like Mirai's blood. It sent her over the edge, and she breached the barricade that Mirai was putting up, entering her mouth with her tongue. The conqueror moaned, slightly, and laid a hand on her hip. Her fangs twitched once more and became fully erect.
They had gone at each other like animals that night. Yumi was a patient teacher, and Mirai surprised her by being an eager student.
Yumi stopped painting red on the canvas. She'd gotten stuck in this moment with her previous attempts. She'd had to relieve herself of the pent up need and desire. Vivid images of naked and sweaty bodies intertwined together were spectacular, but they didn't bring her any closer to finishing her task. She could get lost in that night with Mirai. It was some of the best sex she'd had in her entire life. It reminded her of dancing in rains of mixed blood drained from nobles.
She honoured their deal, because Mirai had given her something precious. She thought that if she killed everyone that the conqueror wished death upon she would treasure her. It had been easy to do. Compelled by the idea that they would roll around in her bed again, she wasted no time. Yumi was powerful, so she could sway lesser creatures of her species to do her bidding. They descended upon the camps and the cities with her. Rumours about how the empire had angered one of their gods spread like wildfire.
She took great pleasure in slaying the bastard. Mirai lured him and his guards away from the camp to a location where Yumi could strike unhindered. She prolonged his suffering for days. He had almost stolen what was hers. It didn't matter that she'd won. He had had the guts to stand in her path. There was no forgiveness or mercy in store for him.
It became difficult to hide after she'd carried out her part of the agreement. Hunters had heard about what had happened, and they came searching for her in droves. They knew enough about her kind to realize that someone had been orchestrating the mayhem. However, Mirai treasured her as a secret weapon, and she did as much as she dared to do to keep her happy. The former virgin seemed to have become addicted to sex, like she was addicted to killing.
Two more years passed. There was unrest and rebellions in the empire that Mirai had conquered. The church wanted her to take the throne, but she kept stalling the ceremony. Mirai swore she'd gotten signs from god that it would end with someone's death. She never explained whose death it would be, but Yumi suspected that she knew. She couldn't delay it forever, and the ceremony was held in the middle of summer. A period of peace followed, but it was short-lived.
Yumi dipped her brush into the colour blue. She hated blue, but she couldn't finish any painting of Mirai without it. Everyone complimented her ice-blue eyes. Yumi thought they were the only mediocre aspect about the conqueror. She was larger than life itself. Her eyes were stupid. Despite Yumi's superior nature, she couldn't poke them out and replace them with red. She'd tried, kind of. As she dabbed blue onto the canvas, she was damned with her worst memory.
"Guess I showed them," Mirai whispered, coughed, and sputtered blood onto the marble floor. "Meraini still loves me… Even after everything we did… Or he wouldn't have given me that warning."
Yumi cradled her in her arms. She'd roared at the nearby servants to get a healer rather than stare like they were brain dead. Two men lay dead a few metres from Mirai. They had been priests of her own church. Maybe they had lied about their identities. Yumi didn't know. She knew their heads were no longer attached to their bodies. She'd cut them off in one swift motion. An act born out of the rage she had felt when she saw them stabbing daggers into Mirai.
Yumi was touched though. In what could have been her final moments, Mirai called out for her — not someone else. The servants had watched her kill the priests with a beastial lethality. Who knew if they would bring back a healer or a hunter? They were alone in the corridor for now, but she knew only one solution to this dilemma. She couldn't move Mirai with her current wounds. It would kill her.
"You don't need to die like this," Yumi said, holding her tighter to her own body. "I can save you."
"No, don't. He has chosen this path for me, so I will go to meet my maker." Mirai caressed her cheek, smearing blood on it. She would have found it to be an aphrodisiac under different circumstances, but this was not that. "Don't bite me. Let me sleep."
God, how she wished that she could obey. Yumi was not that strong. She may have powers that few possessed, and she may have lived for centuries, but Mirai's imminent death was unacceptable. She had the cure.
"I apologize once more," Yumi said, as she brought Mirai's neck to her lips.
The conqueror shrieked before she bit her. She didn't let that stop her. She sank her fangs deep into her neck, and she transferred a trace of her own power to transform Mirai into a lesser being of her kind. Yumi was a firstborn. There was no method, known to her, which would give Mirai the same status and immortality. Mirai kept screaming the entire time, like she was trying to kill herself by exerting her last energy before Yumi could transform her.
Yumi won. Mirai lost.
It wasn't a victory she would wish upon her greatest enemy. Yumi refused to paint any more with blue. She was finished with the eyes. They should have been red like the colour of blood. Mirai had killed herself as soon as she got the chance, driven a wooden stake through her own heart. Yumi would have protected her from the hunters, but she failed to protect her from herself. She'd declined the gift of eternal life. She'd gotten closer to Yumi than anyone else, liked what she'd seen, but her mind had always been poisoned.
After her death, Yumi had killed herself as well — not once, but thrice. She'd eventually given up. There was no way for her to meet Mirai in the flesh again. There may be an afterlife, for sinners or saints, but she was welcomed into neither. She was stuck on this plane of existence with the mortals.
Yumi caused the rift within the church. She revealed the truth about Mirai to its followers to redeem her. The hunters had blamed the supernatural massacre in the empire on the conqueror. Yumi had too much evidence for everyone to dismiss her version of the truth, and she had taken credit for the massacre. The conqueror had not been an unnatural beast, but she had fucked one to win her war in the name of her god. She hoped they would choke on that piece of reality. Some of them did.
She spent a lot of years searching for a reason to continue, or a method to restore what she'd lost. Yumi heard about a witch, across the sea, who put powerful curses on kings and queens. She went there in the hopes she would find another impressive woman, but she found a mother living in a swamp with her two daughters. Impressive as that may be; it wasn't quite what Yumi was searching for.
She was invited to stay with them for a while as a guest since she'd travelled so far. Yumi told her story about Mirai one day. The witch offered to curse her so she could relive the memories. She insisted it would be a curse when Yumi smiled and thanked her. The witch wanted ten vials of her blood in return for this curse. People usually cursed their enemies, but they did pay. The price weakened her for months.
Yumi sighed where she sat among the paintings. It was a curse, but she was lost since the death of her conqueror. At least she could relive what she'd once had as long as she had the brush. She rose from the stool.
"Another day…"
This painting was a failure as well.
Maybe she'd do better tomorrow. Maybe she'd get a necromancer to raise Mirai from the dead, but even if that was successful she feared the woman would kill herself again. She could submit to the hunters, but what was the point with that? They'd keep her in a cell for as long as possible. She should snap the brush in half and be done with this. The past was the past.
Yumi didn't leave the room. She sat back down on her stool, dipping her brush in red.
God, she wished someone would save her from Mirai.[/BCOLOR]
On the walls hung two of the paintings she allowed herself to almost be satisfied with. One of them depicted an old friend in the act of casting a spell; the necromancer Johann, clad in a stereotypical garb with skulls, surrounded by purple glowing strands of magic erupting from his staff. The other depicted an even older enemy, long gone from her life. The dishonest and traitorous Lin. Yumi had painted her in a relaxing pose, surprised by a fairy, because who else would be surprised by something so mundane?
All the other paintings were strewn across the floor or leaned against the walls. There were more than fifty of them, and they were the reason she could barely get into the room. She'd attempted to capture Mirai on each of them. She'd failed every single time. There was no capturing such a raw and fierce and brutal force of nature. It was like trying to fit a tornado inside a glass bottle. The tornado would shatter its glass prison, sooner or later, and hurl glass shards everywhere. She would get cut, but she lived for the pain.
"Again…" She panted, removing her right hand from her loose brown pants. The legs of her pants were stained with colourful splotches — grey, orange, red and blue. Remnants from all the times she'd tried to paint Mirai. Yumi only wore a beige breast band over her torso, so her stomach and arms tended to have their own stains of colour by the end of each session. Some days she didn't wash them off.
"Again!"
Yumi stumbled to her feet, tearing the unfinished painting from the easel in front of her, tossing it to the side. Retrieving another canvas from the bunch, she refilled the paints she'd spilled on the carpet. It was far from the first time she'd done it. The carpet was no longer whatever colour it had once been. It was a rainbow. Before taking her seat again, she picked up the brush she'd dropped on the floor when overcome by need.
She was by no means a talented painter. If she had been, this task set before her might have been completed by now. On the other hand, reliving every memory and moment she'd had with Mirai might mean that this was to be her prison for an eternity. Yumi had accepted that. She didn't care. She just wanted it all back. One last kiss, or even one last look in her direction. Nobody smelled as good as Mirai did when she was covered in blood.
Yumi began by dipping her brush into the colour grey. Grey was the colour of Mira's armour, flag, and hair. It was a good base. The moment she dotted grey onto the canvas she was brought back to their first meeting. The witch that had put her spell on this exquisite brush had done an excellent job.
She had been a smith during those years; not because someone like her needed the money, but because Yumi tended to get bored. Smithing was one of those odd jobs she'd done over a lifetime. It was never meant to bring her into a position of power. She'd lived for power. She'd gotten bored of it too. Manual jobs put her in the middle of bustling cities, near the people that needed a smith, or a baker, or a tavern keeper, or a bard.
Humans were entertaining. They were always busy trying to survive. Either by working to put dinner on the table for their families or by fleeing from creatures such as herself. It was difficult for her to grasp how anyone had to struggle to stay alive.
Unfortunately for the people those years had been particularly tumultuous. Kings, queens and nobles may be able to avoid the worst aspects of wars, but regular people did not. Mirai was a conqueror. She'd besieged the city where Yumi had been a smith and given everyone a chance to surrender within a day. When they didn't, she broke through the gates with the advanced siege weapons of her army and brought the city to its knees. She killed everyone unless they swore to convert to her religion.
Yumi roamed those bloodied streets after Mirai's attack, high on the smells of death. It wasn't that surprising that the two encountered each other. She didn't believe in fate. She'd lived too long and seen too much to believe in anything so silly, yet when her sensitive nose picked up on the smell of Mirai her body and mind went into overdrive. It was unique, and for someone like her to pick up on a specific smell when the streets were littered with bleeding corpses — well, it had never happened before.
She remembered spotting the woman in her bulky armour, striding up to her and cracking a smile. The conqueror probably hadn't been alone, but she couldn't recall anyone else there. It was the affect she had on Yumi's senses. Yumi had worn her dirty apron and baggy working clothes. Mirai had worn the holy armour of the church, a long golden mantle, and more white than she could stomach.
"State your intentions before I slay you in the name of Meraini, the almighty!" Mirai had commanded when she had noticed her.
What a greeting! What an awe-inspiring aura and attitude!
"I am but a humble smith, my lady," Yumi had said, curtsying. "If I could serve a beauty such as yourself, that would be an incredible honour."
Mirai's response had been to spit at the ground between them and unsheathe her sword. Yumi had her quick-thinking to thank for disarming the sudden tension.
"Whoa, whoa!" She had jumped backwards, preparing herself for a fight. Mirai had hesitated to strike her down for some inexplicable reason. "I see your armour is in need of repairs, but it's mediocre quality to begin with. Unfit for any mighty conqueror. No matter where they come from. I could create a new one for you. An armour that inspires fear and respect! After all, I am the greatest smith in this kingdom."
Yumi might have been able to defeat the conqueror, if she'd unleashed her true form, but it was obvious to her that the beauty carried a blessed sword. It was bound to sting if it struck her. Swords did not sparkle like that by themselves. They required certain components during their creation to do it. Although, she'd seen fakes which peddlers had sprinkled fairy dust on.
"I should kill you for heresy," Mirai had said, but after a moment glaring at her she'd sheathed her sword. "Don't ever compliment me again. You are no man. It's plain as day that you are a woman. However, if it's true that you're the greatest smith in this kingdom, I do have need for you. You have to prove yourself."
"I apologize for the compliment. I'm a barbarian," Yumi had said, raising her hands, yet a grin had spread across her lips as soon as the conqueror had turned her back on her. The woman might know a lot about war, but it was clear to her now why she smelled like she did. It wasn't just the blood she was covered in, even if it contributed to the marvelous sensation.
Yumi stopped painting with the grey and breathed. Their meeting in the ruins of a fairly small city had been the beginning of a new adventure. Not the kind of adventure that fops, chosen ones, and the likes went on, but one of death and blood and battles. They had been so alike yet so different. Mirai had a practical need for a skilled smith. Yumi had a primitive need for a woman with her lack of experience.
She'd applied every little trick that she knew to befriend Mirai. She'd succeeded. Mirai had brought her into her closest circle of allies after two years. By then, they were in a stalemate with one of the mightiest empires in the world. Mirai had lost one of her greatest confidants in a strange accident one night and needed someone to replace him. Yumi was to blame for that, but nobody could prove that she was. She whispered into the conqueror's ears, and she got her to trust her.
It was torture to be anywhere near Mirai, due to her smell, especially during certain weeks every month. She learnt to live for the pain. She put everything she had on a distant dream. If Yumi could corrupt Mirai, and turn her from her faith into sin and depravity then that would be one of the greatest accomplishments in her long life. She could turn her at any moment, of course, but if the woman was unwilling it would be for naught.
Yumi dipped her brush into the colour orange. Orange was the colour of the hilt she'd crafted for Mirai's second blessed sword, and the colour of the necklace she'd given her. She dabbed it on the canvas and was granted another memory. Others might consider the price for these vivid memories too high, but it could never have been too high for her.
The memory brought her to a familiar scene in Mirai's private tent. One late night like many others they had spent together. The conqueror's tent was the largest of them all, with a bed that looked comfortable compared to what Yumi slept in. Mirai had a lot of books and maps stored in chests along with her clothes.
"These have some questionable details…" Mirai said, as she inspected the hilt of the sword and the necklace. "The church will not approve of skulls."
"You are Mirai the conqueror! Who cares if they approve? Meraini has been depicted with skulls on his throne." Yumi smiled, clapping her hands together. "It'll be perfect. Trust me. Anyone who thinks they can play you again because you are loyal to your faith will think twice. You will inspire fear wherever you go if you carry these. I'll understand if you don't want to do it though… I should have spent the metals on something more useful. Ugh, I am an—"
"No, no…" Mirai interrupted, with that comforting naive expression which she never showed anyone else. She may be getting close to twenty years old, but thanks to the sheltered lifestyle the priests had pushed on her she was still a girl. She hung the necklace around her neck. Yumi couldn't grin at her like she wanted, so she had to control herself and simply smile. "I'll wear them. You understand the heart of these matters better than me apparently. You were the one who uncovered their plot, so if this is your advice to avoid further mishaps then I will obey."
God, she wished she could make her obey her every whim. She didn't like using the word god, but Mirai might be influencing her some as well. It went both ways. She was supposed to resist it.
"I will have the hilt delivered to the priests tomorrow." Mirai placed it on top of the chest by the end of her bed and took a seat by her table. "Are you certain that you don't want to craft my new sword yourself? You are the best. You've proven that over and over again."
Yumi wanted to prove herself, no doubt, but she'd rather not interact with priests or the components she needed to craft a blessed sword. It wouldn't kill her, but it would be unpleasant. They had to shove it through her heart to kill her, and even then she would regenerate over the decades.
There was a very specific way she wanted to prove herself to Mirai. If she'd only been a man, she could have flirted with her. She could have bent her over the table. Yumi had to keep her gaze from the bed, or Mirai's figure, when she had thoughts like that. Once she'd slipped up, and Mirai had noticed. Oh, how she'd noticed! She'd threatened to have her strung by ropes to horses and pulled along the ground. Again, this would have been unpleasant to Yumi, but it would not have been fatal.
She took a seat at the other side of the table. As Mirai sighed, and her breasts heaved under the red shirt, she had to fight against the urge to leap across the table and force herself on the younger woman. Yumi shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. It was what they called a headache between the two of them, but that was a lie. She didn't get headaches.
She needed to reach a breakthrough soon, or she would go insane because of the smell alone. It permeated everything. She carried Mirai's scent on her own clothes after she'd been in her tent. The smell was a constant hammer striking her core, like a thirst that couldn't be quenched and kept growing. How had she survived two years under these conditions? It baffled her.
"Do you want a glass of water?" Mirai offered.
It felt so wrong, in the best way, that she was concerned for her like this. She couldn't read her mind. The conqueror may be one of the most influential women in the world, but she had no idea who her best friend was or what she thought about her. She counted it all as sinful desires that had been cleansed by now. Yumi was a reformed barbarian to Mirai.
"That would be nice. Just give me a moment, and I'll get it."
Mirai hadn't offered to fetch a glass of water for her. She knew that when the conqueror offered someone anything it was out of courtesy, but she wasn't about to get it for them. Servants would do that, or in this case Yumi had to do it.
"Can the magnificent bard tell me another one of her fantastic tales tonight?" Mirai asked, as she put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. "I'd like that."
They weren't stories she'd made up. They were tales from her own life, from her past. She knew more facts about the founding of Mirai's church than Mirai did. She'd been there.
"Sure, I can," Yumi said. "I'll do anything you wish."
"Anything I wish?" Mirai bit her lower lip, as she stared at her.
Yumi had to focus her attention on something else — anything! This was a trap! She looked at the necklace that hung around Mirai's neck, but that was an even worse idea as she detected the beginning of a frown on the conqueror's face. She turned away to stare at the hilt on the chest instead, but that lay dangerously close to the bed.
"Should I get the horses?" Mirai whispered, yet there was no anger or disgust in her voice this time. There was the sad disappointment of a girl. "I thought I could trust you."
Yumi was brought out of her trance, back to the present. The painting was no better than the others so far. The witch had told her it wasn't necessary to be a master, even though she'd suggested that she learn before she agreed to their deal. The brush seemed to have a will of its own. Perhaps if it wasn't held by such an inept artist it would have finished the painting of Mirai in this pose by itself, and she could have moved on to a more interesting pose which might contain other memories.
Fifty paintings of the conqueror in the same pose didn't do her justice. It didn't portray her like the innocent girl she was. It didn't portray her unwavering faith and strong will. There was so much this pose missed out on, yet she'd wanted to paint her like she imagined Mirai wanted others to see her. The great warrior in the midst of battle, covered in the fresh blood of her enemies.
Nobody else would do it.
The church had distanced themselves from Mirai. It had created the greatest rift among its members in the church's entire history. Yumi had aimed to corrupt the conqueror, and achieved so much more, yet none of it would ever be satisfactory when she'd lost the most.
Another year had passed in Mirai's company after she'd presented her with her gifts. It occurred to her during those months that she could have put a curse of her own on the necklace. Mirai could have been made further susceptible to her charms.
Why hadn't she thought of that earlier back then?
The worst possible thing that could have happened during that year came to pass. Yumi had wondered why the church had let a woman like Mirai remain unmarried. It became clear to her that they had intended to use her celibacy as a political tool. They found a suitable husband for her from the empire which Mirai couldn't conquer fast enough for their liking. He was the bastard of the current emperor, so it would give Mirai an actual claim to their throne. He was a pawn.
Yumi would have killed him without mercy, but she couldn't do it. He was protected day and night. There was always a group of soldiers following him around. She could have killed them all, yet that would have risked her own position in the camp, as she would have had to expose her true nature. He couldn't be poisoned either as someone always tasted his food for him. The bastard was paranoid, but he was in a camp filled with former enemies. It was logical. She could respect it.
There was a second method she could have used. She had constructed conspiracies before to get rid off her worst enemies within Mirai's ranks, yet that had taken months. It wasn't easy to frame others for her own actions. It wasn't easy to destroy every shred of credibility someone had once had, and make everyone believe that they were guilty of everything that the rumours said about them. She knew how to do it, but time was of the essence. They had given her two weeks before Mirai was to marry. The bastard was unworthy of someone like her. If she did nothing, he would get to revel in her innocence, and he wouldn't appreciate it like Yumi would.
Yumi stopped reminiscing and dipped her brush into the colour red. Red was the colour of blood. It was sustenance to her kind. She would become weak without it, and lesser creatures of the night would perish, but she was not like those. Mirai had often been drenched in the blood of her enemies. She had been more of a goddess in those moments than the god she worshipped herself. Yumi applied red to the canvas and was presented with one of her most treasured memories — her own breaking point.
"It's a scratch, don't worry about it!"
Yumi could hear Mirai's agitated voice coming from inside her tent. Her servants were pestering her again. The conqueror had returned an hour ago, from another bloody battle no doubt. She would have resisted the temptation to go anywhere near her after she'd been in a battle under normal circumstances, but she didn't have much time left. She was getting careless, and she knew it.
Yumi folded the flap of the entrance to the side and entered the tent. The two female servants in their simple dresses glared at her, before they realized who she was, then they turned their attention back to Mirai on the chair. The conqueror was holding a white cloth over her nose, while the servants tried to help her clean her face. There was a bucket of water on the ground.
"Please, leave us," Mirai commanded, with a voice that sounded like she had something stuck in her nose. "Now."
"I apolog—"
"Yes, my lady," the two servants said, grabbed the bucket, and walked past Yumi.
Huh, she'd thought Mirai had meant her. She hadn't been invited to her tent. Maybe they were past such formalities. That was a nice surprise.
"Do you think he'll still want to marry me?" Mirai asked, removed the cloth from her nose and laughed. It was a crooked and bloody mess. Shouldn't she seek out a healer? Her nose appeared to be broken.
Yumi felt her teeth twitch. Those two long fangs she could conceal due to her superior nature. Oh no. She hadn't picked up on the smell at first, because she must be used to it on some level, but this was worse than it had been in a long time. It didn't help that her motivation to control herself was crumbling.
"It's no big deal," Mirai said when she didn't respond. "Some fool hit me in the face with the wrong end of her sword. Could have ended a lot worse. She could have known how to use a sword properly for one."
The conqueror got up from her chair and turned her back on Yumi. She could stare as much as she wanted when she wasn't watching her, so she let her eyes trail over her body. Mirai was a beauty by anyone's standards. A crooked nose wouldn't change that. Her curves were divine — her hips in particular.
"I'm glad you're in a good mood," Yumi said, smirking. "I think you should go see a healer with a wound like that."
She had to act like a confidant when all she wanted to do was sneak up behind her, part her grey hair, and sink her teeth into her slender neck. It was a good place to start. She could take it from there. She knew that once she'd set the ball in motion she wouldn't stop until she was satisfied. Three years was too long for anyone to wait for another.
"Heh, I thought you'd encourage me. If I don't tend to this wound right away, I'll look like a warrior. Not some princess they assume can't think for herself. You gave me the idea. I… I..." She paused, then spun around to face Yumi. She must have stared at her as if starved because Mirai flinched, but she remained calm. "I don't want to get married. I know I shouldn't question the church, but…"
She'd never seen an opening this wide in Mirai's facade before. It broke her own resolve, washed it away. In an instant, she had moved from the entrance to Mirai, like she had teleported instead of walked.
Mirai put the cloth back over her nose and raised an eyebrow. Yumi had showed her a small part of her true nature, and she hadn't been surprised. Was this a dream? She should have threatened her with death by now. The younger woman stood there, doing nothing.
Yumi laid her hand on Mirai's hand and removed it from her face. The cloth fell to the ground. She breathed in the smell of her bloody nose — the smell of a holy woman and virgin. She could suck a thousand bodies dry, and none of them would feel like her. Why didn't Mirai fight her?
"There is an alternative to marriage…" Mirai whispered. "I've given it a lot of thought."
"Have you now?" Yumi asked, as she pressed her body against Mirai. The conqueror seemed to blush.
"I've had suspicions about you for a long while. Others told me you were not to be trusted, that you were unnatural. I had no reason to believe you over them. I would have had you killed if I'd listened to their advice."
Still, she didn't move or fight her.
"What kind of suspicions?" Yumi grinned, as she brought Mirai's hand to her own lips. "Are you going to tell the priests? Should I be worried?"
"No, I need you more than I need them," Mirai whispered, and she might not have heard it if she'd been human. "Meraini made a pact once with his sworn nemesis. The church prefers to not mention it, but he got what he wanted in the end. He wouldn't have achieved as much without her."
Indeed, Yumi remembered.
"I need you too." Yumi put one of her fingers into her mouth to suck on it. She'd waited years for this taste. It was the taste of god and chaos, of rules and battle. It was Mirai, and she would never be able to get enough of it. She knew it in that exact moment.
"I'm willing to make a trade, but I want something in return," Mirai said, raising her voice so it became shrilly. She let her suck on her finger. "I'd rather deal with a demon than one of them. He will not be my husband because they say so. He doesn't believe in my god or in me. I will show them."
"You've got a devious plan in mind. I can tell." Yumi put a second finger into her mouth. If this was all she would get, she would savour it. She knew she'd lose control soon, knew she was playing with fire. Mirai would get burnt for this. Their relationship would end.
"Kill the bastard, kill their generals, kill the emperor, kill them all. Don't leave a child with noble blood alive," Mirai said and laughed. No, she wouldn't get burnt. She was already fire itself. "In return, I will give myself to you for one night. Not more."
Yumi could do it. She wasn't the violent type, but she had the strength and skills. She could slip past their armies, get into their capital, and wreak havoc. It would be obvious that a monster was on the loose, and she didn't like being out in the open where hunters would target her, but she would do it for Mirai.
"It's a deal," she said, spat the fingers out of her mouth, and leaned into Mirai. Their bodies were as close to each other as they could get as long as they were clothed. She could feel her fangs extending from where they hid as she kissed the pale neck. "I've craved you for three years. If you want me to kill the rest of the world for you to be mine, I will do that too."
"Don't bite me." Mirai put her hand on Yumi's chest, pushing her to get distance between them. "I will burn you alive. I am still faithful to my god, and I do this for him."
Whatever she had to tell herself to sleep at night; Yumi wasn't about to argue with it.
"Very well, but I do this for me and you."
She grabbed Mirai's chin, and the conqueror shut her eyes. Yumi kissed her. At first she was gentle, as she younger woman had no experience with any of this, but soon she prodded with her tongue at her lips. They tasted like Mirai's blood. It sent her over the edge, and she breached the barricade that Mirai was putting up, entering her mouth with her tongue. The conqueror moaned, slightly, and laid a hand on her hip. Her fangs twitched once more and became fully erect.
They had gone at each other like animals that night. Yumi was a patient teacher, and Mirai surprised her by being an eager student.
Yumi stopped painting red on the canvas. She'd gotten stuck in this moment with her previous attempts. She'd had to relieve herself of the pent up need and desire. Vivid images of naked and sweaty bodies intertwined together were spectacular, but they didn't bring her any closer to finishing her task. She could get lost in that night with Mirai. It was some of the best sex she'd had in her entire life. It reminded her of dancing in rains of mixed blood drained from nobles.
She honoured their deal, because Mirai had given her something precious. She thought that if she killed everyone that the conqueror wished death upon she would treasure her. It had been easy to do. Compelled by the idea that they would roll around in her bed again, she wasted no time. Yumi was powerful, so she could sway lesser creatures of her species to do her bidding. They descended upon the camps and the cities with her. Rumours about how the empire had angered one of their gods spread like wildfire.
She took great pleasure in slaying the bastard. Mirai lured him and his guards away from the camp to a location where Yumi could strike unhindered. She prolonged his suffering for days. He had almost stolen what was hers. It didn't matter that she'd won. He had had the guts to stand in her path. There was no forgiveness or mercy in store for him.
It became difficult to hide after she'd carried out her part of the agreement. Hunters had heard about what had happened, and they came searching for her in droves. They knew enough about her kind to realize that someone had been orchestrating the mayhem. However, Mirai treasured her as a secret weapon, and she did as much as she dared to do to keep her happy. The former virgin seemed to have become addicted to sex, like she was addicted to killing.
Two more years passed. There was unrest and rebellions in the empire that Mirai had conquered. The church wanted her to take the throne, but she kept stalling the ceremony. Mirai swore she'd gotten signs from god that it would end with someone's death. She never explained whose death it would be, but Yumi suspected that she knew. She couldn't delay it forever, and the ceremony was held in the middle of summer. A period of peace followed, but it was short-lived.
Yumi dipped her brush into the colour blue. She hated blue, but she couldn't finish any painting of Mirai without it. Everyone complimented her ice-blue eyes. Yumi thought they were the only mediocre aspect about the conqueror. She was larger than life itself. Her eyes were stupid. Despite Yumi's superior nature, she couldn't poke them out and replace them with red. She'd tried, kind of. As she dabbed blue onto the canvas, she was damned with her worst memory.
"Guess I showed them," Mirai whispered, coughed, and sputtered blood onto the marble floor. "Meraini still loves me… Even after everything we did… Or he wouldn't have given me that warning."
Yumi cradled her in her arms. She'd roared at the nearby servants to get a healer rather than stare like they were brain dead. Two men lay dead a few metres from Mirai. They had been priests of her own church. Maybe they had lied about their identities. Yumi didn't know. She knew their heads were no longer attached to their bodies. She'd cut them off in one swift motion. An act born out of the rage she had felt when she saw them stabbing daggers into Mirai.
Yumi was touched though. In what could have been her final moments, Mirai called out for her — not someone else. The servants had watched her kill the priests with a beastial lethality. Who knew if they would bring back a healer or a hunter? They were alone in the corridor for now, but she knew only one solution to this dilemma. She couldn't move Mirai with her current wounds. It would kill her.
"You don't need to die like this," Yumi said, holding her tighter to her own body. "I can save you."
"No, don't. He has chosen this path for me, so I will go to meet my maker." Mirai caressed her cheek, smearing blood on it. She would have found it to be an aphrodisiac under different circumstances, but this was not that. "Don't bite me. Let me sleep."
God, how she wished that she could obey. Yumi was not that strong. She may have powers that few possessed, and she may have lived for centuries, but Mirai's imminent death was unacceptable. She had the cure.
"I apologize once more," Yumi said, as she brought Mirai's neck to her lips.
The conqueror shrieked before she bit her. She didn't let that stop her. She sank her fangs deep into her neck, and she transferred a trace of her own power to transform Mirai into a lesser being of her kind. Yumi was a firstborn. There was no method, known to her, which would give Mirai the same status and immortality. Mirai kept screaming the entire time, like she was trying to kill herself by exerting her last energy before Yumi could transform her.
Yumi won. Mirai lost.
It wasn't a victory she would wish upon her greatest enemy. Yumi refused to paint any more with blue. She was finished with the eyes. They should have been red like the colour of blood. Mirai had killed herself as soon as she got the chance, driven a wooden stake through her own heart. Yumi would have protected her from the hunters, but she failed to protect her from herself. She'd declined the gift of eternal life. She'd gotten closer to Yumi than anyone else, liked what she'd seen, but her mind had always been poisoned.
After her death, Yumi had killed herself as well — not once, but thrice. She'd eventually given up. There was no way for her to meet Mirai in the flesh again. There may be an afterlife, for sinners or saints, but she was welcomed into neither. She was stuck on this plane of existence with the mortals.
Yumi caused the rift within the church. She revealed the truth about Mirai to its followers to redeem her. The hunters had blamed the supernatural massacre in the empire on the conqueror. Yumi had too much evidence for everyone to dismiss her version of the truth, and she had taken credit for the massacre. The conqueror had not been an unnatural beast, but she had fucked one to win her war in the name of her god. She hoped they would choke on that piece of reality. Some of them did.
She spent a lot of years searching for a reason to continue, or a method to restore what she'd lost. Yumi heard about a witch, across the sea, who put powerful curses on kings and queens. She went there in the hopes she would find another impressive woman, but she found a mother living in a swamp with her two daughters. Impressive as that may be; it wasn't quite what Yumi was searching for.
She was invited to stay with them for a while as a guest since she'd travelled so far. Yumi told her story about Mirai one day. The witch offered to curse her so she could relive the memories. She insisted it would be a curse when Yumi smiled and thanked her. The witch wanted ten vials of her blood in return for this curse. People usually cursed their enemies, but they did pay. The price weakened her for months.
Yumi sighed where she sat among the paintings. It was a curse, but she was lost since the death of her conqueror. At least she could relive what she'd once had as long as she had the brush. She rose from the stool.
"Another day…"
This painting was a failure as well.
Maybe she'd do better tomorrow. Maybe she'd get a necromancer to raise Mirai from the dead, but even if that was successful she feared the woman would kill herself again. She could submit to the hunters, but what was the point with that? They'd keep her in a cell for as long as possible. She should snap the brush in half and be done with this. The past was the past.
Yumi didn't leave the room. She sat back down on her stool, dipping her brush in red.
God, she wished someone would save her from Mirai.[/BCOLOR]
Vax, fourth son of King Thesid III, lazily stretched out on a palace rooftop (a small corner hidden from interested eyes) and smiled blissfully, savoring the summer sun on his face. Somewhere, a flute softly played and the distant sounds of people at their daily routines droned like a soothing background rhythm. It was good to be the youngest son.
His oldest brother, Thesid IV, (his elder by twenty years) would ascend the throne next month and had been weighed down since birth with the burden of his destiny as if a gigantic fersophet sat on his chest. Thesid barely spoke to Vax any more, imprisoned as he was by the glut of restrictions, protocol, training, and expectations that were the inheritance of the first born. Thesid had been engaged since birth to the princess of a neighboring kingdom--a thin-lipped, haughty young woman with an unforgiving temperament--he didn't envy his brother such a bride! But damn it, he missed Thesid being…well, just being his brother. He had been kind to him when Vax was growing up. He was almost like a stranger to him now.
Vax pushed away a feeling of sadness that threatened to go from a ripple to a squall and instead turned his idle thoughts to his favorite brother, Marit, the second oldest.
Marit would move into the hereditary position of commander of his eldest brother's armies. He had a genius for all things military and was the best swordsman in the kingdom. Vax and Marit shared a mother and both inherited her white-blonde hair, high cheekbones, and silver eyes, though fortunately, they inherited their father's physique in all other ways, for she had been a fragile little thing. Marit too, had been engaged at birth, but upon reaching manhood had lost no time in acquiring a string of lovers (discreetly of course, so as not to offend his future wife). Marit still had time for him, and could laugh and joke. Thank the gods for that!
His third brother, the thin dour Praiden, was unsociable and scholarly, though whether by inclination or dint of his profession, he wasn't sure. Praiden's role would be that of a priest advisor to their brother when Thesid took the throne. Though Praiden was closest to Vax in age, they spoke little. Perhaps it was because they had a different mother, but he felt, simply, that Praiden had never liked him. It had often come to harsh words between them when they met. But, really who did that bastard like?! Praiden kept his own counsel, was quick to point out errors, acted proud, seldom smiled, and was obnoxiously superior in matters of learning. As if it mattered who the 35th King of Mitores had married, two centuries ago!
As for himself, life was most excellent. As a "spare" he was under less pressure and scrutiny than his three older brothers and was afforded much more freedom. ("Spoiled and irresponsible" is how Praiden put it, in his usual sneering tone.) Well, perhaps it wasn't freedom so much as it was being overlooked. But either way it worked to his advantage. He didn't care to be noticed, really, if it meant being a slave to tradition and constantly watched by hundreds of eyes.
Of course, his days were still filled with "proper" things for a prince – weapons practice, world studies, attending court functions, and the like. However, his nights were filled with romps with his heart brothers or play among the silken cushions with his small harem (which he had been allowed to start two years ago). Being the fourth son meant he could chose his own bride, as well. So no harridans for him!
However, his inclinations were far from marriage. Marriage meant additional responsibilities including dancing attendance on one woman, being responsible for the children, and, well, having to grow up. He supposed.
Still, some small part of him fretted that none of his women had gotten pregnant. A prince was supposed to be virile, after all. His brothers had teased him about it.
So he was a little relieved when Glalli, a cheerful dark-haired beauty from a local merchant's family, had proudly told him last week that she was increasing. He had promptly rewarded her with an exquisite necklace of fire-rubies and elevated her status to first concubine. She didn't seem as joyful at receiving the marks of appreciation as he had expected… If she anticipated a proposal of marriage, then she was a fool. He hoped she didn't become possessive and clingy—he had liked her easy-going temperament and would hate to set her aside if she became a thorn in his side.
No, he didn't want to see Glalli's unhappy face tonight. That was one reason why he accepted his brother Marit's invitation to ride out on a routine military mission tonight, headed for the western reaches. Camping under the stars, there would be music and wild stories and playful contests among the men to prove who was the most skillful. The food wouldn't be as good as at the palace -- and sleeping in the tents was not like sleeping in a feather bed -– but it would be great fun!
###
The small ship hovered close to the planet surface and engaged a cloaking device, even though the world below was merely populated by ignorant savages. Subhumans who rode around on horseback waving swords! As such, they posed no danger to the ship and no one cared how the sudden appearance of a space craft might impact such a primitive civilization. It was quite within regulations. However, the simple fact was that it was easier catching prey by stealth.
Guided by the coordinates their scouts had given them, and primed with information from their native spy, it hovered over the encampment far outside the pink and gold city walls.
The captain scanned the sleeping forms below and shook his head. What a waste they weren't here on a slave run. They could make a nice amount of credits, indeed. But the Primes were quite fussy about such things. Oh yes, that there was no evil they wouldn't do, but the appearance of evil? Forget that! Ships collecting warriors for the games were dedicated purely to that function. The slave ships were a separate enterprise. And something no one could directly connect the Primes to.
The licensed procurer shuddered. It was dangerous knowing about that. He shoved such thoughts to the back of his mind and activated the release of pods of gas which fell among the camp below, opening like budding flowers on impact, watching the monitor as bodies crumpled. When all lay still, he suited up and hit the land with four of his androids.
Other game ships made fun of him for being so cheap, but he had the last laugh when he consistently brought back top contenders and the bonus payments were his alone. Smiling smugly at that thought, he picked his way through the unconscious bodies, until they came to the most elaborate of the tents.
Resisting a stray urge to kick one of the bodies that lay in his path, the ship's master smiled at his prize -- lying face-up, sprawled at an awkward angle on bedding clearly meant for royalty. As described, his victim had long blonde-white hair, high cheekbones, and tan skin. A prince who was a military commander and a fierce warrior. The crowds were going to love this one! The savage reportedly wore a one-of-a-kind earring that he believed to be some kind of protective charm. (The superstitions of barbarians were never ending.)
With glove-sealed hands, he brushed back the pale silky hair around the lad's face. There it was. He turned the long earring about in his hand, clumsily. Some kind of black bird of prey it seemed, with a diamond-like eye, glittering balefully at him. It jerked lose in his grasp and it fell to the side, leaving a tiny trail of blood on a pillow. He swore. He hadn't meant to do that, but no matter.
Prey confirmed. It was a match, down to the earring itself. This boy looked so … young. A military commander? But then, he had gone through two body transfers already—he was no doubt three times this lad's age. Honestly, they all looked young to him these days. And the prince was handsome. Quite handsome. And so helpless now. He felt a surging twitch of desire, but bit back on it. It could be worse than death if the Primes got wind of him doing that with the goods. And he couldn't trust anyone to keep silent, certainly not the damn androids.
Focus on the money, he told himself. He'd buy himself a pair of pretties when he got back to home port -- there were those supple, green-eyed twins at the House of Ladir for example, brought in from some backwater world a few months ago. Expensive, haughty pieces, who acted like they were too good for the likes of him, that's what. He replaced his immediate desire with the image of the twins, one male, one female, piteously crying out from under him. Oh yes. He was suddenly eager to get moving. As soon as his cargo won his first fight, he'd get the bonus money. Time to get the hell away from this worthless ball of dust and return home.
"Bring the sword, too," he barked out to his crew, pointing at the curved weapon at the boy's side. That would go in a separate decon cell, of course. He wasn't stupid enough to let prisoners get anywhere near a weapon.
####
Vax woke up with a raging headache. Surely, he hadn't drunk that much last night! He dizzily remembered…a private game of dice with Marit. He had won the rare privilege of wearing Marit's earring charm for one night. Mischievously, while his brother was at the jacks, he had arranged himself in a pretentious posture in Marit's tent, anticipating a laughing bout of wrestling (which he always lost, damn it) and the usual admonishment to take his scampish self back to his own tent.
It was still dark? He felt terrible, the headache unabating. He started to move and inhaled in shock—the feel of cold metal all about him jarred his senses. He seemed to be in some kind of extremely small cell. He searched rapidly with his hands and couldn't find a door or a window. It seemed tomb-like. Was this a joke? A terrible feeling gripped him. His heartbeat raced and he tried not to scream. Screaming was for women and children. Still, a small high-pitched moan escaped him and he began to tremble, sick with apprehension. He hated small dark places.
"Hey there, laddie," whispered a strangely-accented voice. But coming from where?
"Who are you!? Where are you!?" shouted Vax, unable to calm himself, his eyes wild and his hands still scrabbling at the smooth metal walls.
"Easy there," soothed the gravelly voice, "I'm your new best friend, is what I am."
The captain listened in, satisfied. The UT seemed to be working fine (he had to have the translator repaired recently when a gigantic bull-man had dented it during one of his rampages). He'd be giving the "friendly advisor" on board some extra rations with his next meal, for doing as he was told. He'd found it was always easier to let an experienced fellow prisoner explain to the new meat what they were in for. Less bother all around. They'd be back home in a matter of days and by then the new prisoner would have learned to keep his mouth shut. He would help with that.
###
He knew not if it was night or day or what world he walked on. He simply called it Nightmare.
Upon reaching their destination and being processed, Vax had been put in the arena within the week, dying in agony, gutted with a yard of steel through his belly. He cursed his captors as he writhed in pain and then called out, not for his gods, but for Marit. A child's cry. As if his brother could swoop down and save him.
And then prayed to his gods anew upon his resurrection, thereafter.
It had been explained that if he won, he would be rewarded with warm food, blankets, and other benefits. The more often he won, the better the rewards. If he lost – unless he was beyond repair, he simply woke up in the glass coffin that the others called "the regeneration chamber." Naked, helpless, and floating in some kind of fluid with wires dug into his body.
Ready to be used again.
Like those before him, he threatened, cursed, pled, and attempted to escape—and each time failed and was punished. He felt his sanity slipping away; his humanity crumbling. All he knew of reality now was a small dark cell and then a weapon in his hand, kill or be killed, while thousands of evil beings screamed in excitement above him, placing bets, laughing, being entertained.
He lived and breathed slaughter. Sometimes it was one opponent, sometimes it was three. He lost often. Once they had a small army of weak beings, short creatures, the size of little children, who came at him and two other man-sized opponents. He thought he was becoming hardened to the carnage, but it had sickened him to hack and slash through those small bodies.
His handler was angry with him. They thought he had more potential, he was told, and so had placed him in fights with those of his caliber. A high price had been paid for him. He was warned that he was soon to be out of chances to prove himself. The next fight would be his last if he didn't prove to be the victor.
Good. He welcomed death, he longed for it, rather than this living torment. In his next bout, he made sure of it.
###
When he next awoke, it wasn't with his gods or in the regeneration chamber, but chained in the bed of one of the Primes. No matter how many body replacements the Primes received, most of them ran to gross corpulence within a few years, due to physical indolence and pampered living conditions. (Exercise had become tedious after the first century or two.) This one was no exception.
"Had I known you were so pretty, I would never have wasted you in the arena, but I seldom bothered viewing the newcomers," Prime #4 purred, rubbing himself against Vax, and sweeping his prisoner's long blonde hair to one side.
###
He thought he had been in a hell beyond bearing, but realized now what hell truly was. From a prince to a gladiator to a sex slave … the last was an unspeakable fate for Vax. He hung on the edge of madness and quickly gained a reputation for repeated self-terminations until finally his body was unsalvageable.
###
There was darkness and then an unbearable light, lovely, but blinding in its radiance.
The bright light seemed to call to him, but he shrank from it instinctively and as he did, it changed, softening into sunlight over a flame-haired woman warrior. She was sitting against a tree with an incredibly peaceful expression on her sweet face, hands stained with blood, the bodies of her foes lying motionless at her feet, some in pieces. Vax wondered how she could look so pure when she had butchered all those men. And yet, he felt no apprehension or repulsion.
She turned her head and looked at him as if she had heard his thoughts. Her eyes widened in shock and comprehension and then filled with tears. "Brother," she whispered huskily, "I will come for you. Be strong and wait!"
The sound of her otherworldly voice was like an electric shock as if receiving an input of force that he was never meant to handle. There a flow of understanding as if their minds had joined as surely as two hands, and he knew that she understood his torment and was pledging to release him from it. Her mental presence was powerful—he felt like he was floating in a warm ocean of love, like he not known since he was torn from his home world.
"Marit!" he tried to call out, as a vision of his brother passed before him.
And then darkness swallowed him only to spit him out to an awakening. But not to a red-haired warrior woman. (Though he would find later that the image of her burned in his mind forever, as if he had witnessed the explosion of a star.)
###
A weary and beady-eyed technician informed him of his failure to escape his captors when he awoke, not in a regeneration tube as usual, but in the transference chamber.
Fortunately or unfortunately, the bored technician explained, the Primes -- who were annoyed at his tenacity at trying to elude their grasp – had him successfully transferred into a cyborg body. Any free will was now a thing of the past, since any number of safeguards had been built into this structure. (A free piece of advice--never catch the attention of the Primes.)
"Normally," drawled the tech, "this body would be used for other purposes, as the Vrider Series C is an excellent product (nickname: Hunter) and …." The man droned on, while Vax stared down, unbelieving, at his hands of metal. He caught his reflection in a mirror and gasped. He had no face. He was one of those monsters, those things called androids. They had eaten his soul. He lunged for the technician – or tried to – and found he could not.
The man laughed at him. "I told you. There are safeguards now, you fool. No aggressive actions can be taken unless we allow it. You didn't care to be a warrior. Well, we fixed that. You didn't want to warm the Primes' beds. That's solved, as well. But apparently there is no pleasing you. However, you will serve as an example and a warning to others, which at least is of some small benefit to us."
####
His captors were the Primes of a world completely alien to him. A world so advanced in technology so as to make his people look like animals. It was a world without heart, without faith. They called it Iskence-7.
Vax, himself, no longer had a name. It vanished now, along with his youth and his mortality. His current designation was Vrider-351, Series C. Vrider translated roughly into "servant-pet" which was a step up in this soulless society from being a mere unempowered citizen scrabbling for existence, who more accurately could have been called "slave" or "cattle."
The Primes were a group of seven men who (while posing in rigged elections) were the absolute dictators of the planet, each commandeering a separate geographical area. They and the other elite 1% of the planet extended their life for hundreds of years -- beginning in the early days with body part replacements and finally complete transference.
They had wanted power and a high place above all the others of their world. They had wanted fame. They had wanted money. And all this they had in abundance. Iskence-7 was among the first and certainly the most successful to go among the stars, conquering and ravaging planet after planet, until none of the Primes could remember the names of their holdings (they owned companies to keep track of such things).
Having no other calling in life, being neither artists nor scientists nor scholars, being above such things as having a family life or a job they had to work at, and having no worthy opponents besides each other, the corrupt Primes became bored beyond belief.
For entertainment and because of their competitive natures, they started quarreling with each other. Their disputes escalated until the planet was at the risk of destruction via one quick press of a button until their personal assistants, the Stet-veys (one step above Vriders), secretly conferred with each other and then brought it forcibly to their masters' attention that the harmony between the Primes had become endangered only because it was their nature to conquer, not because of any real quarrel between nations.
The Primes listened to the council of their Stet-veys (for had not their servants handled them for many years?) and in order to avoid destroying each other, it was agreed, instead, to engage in mock combat via warriors stolen from other worlds. The opportunity for glory! More money! Bragging rights! Clever ways to cheat!
(That group of Stet-veys had then been executed en masse, despite their potential rescue of the world from destruction, to punish them for their disloyalty in conferring with each other in secret.)
###
Thus Vax became a tool. A hideous example to contestants. Try to harm yourself and not only will you fail, but we'll strip you of the body you were born with and destroy your free will.
And Vax waited. One ugly year passed. Then the start of another. It had been a dream then, a delusion, a pathetic hope hallucinated by his screaming mind. There was no saviouress. No rescue. No escape. Not yet, his mind whispered.
###
He looked at the roster. Tonight's event started with a necromancer stolen from some dismal little planet, the Stet-veys had said, and the current champion. Fighters that used magic were a rarity. The audience was excited. Betting ran high. Prime #1 wore a self-satisfied look on his face that appeared whenever he had tinkered with the odds of a fight to his financial advantage.
Vax had been taken to the necromancer's magic-null cell by one of the Stet-veys, and stripped down -- displayed -- while the Stet-vey droned the usual warning. The prisoner looked at him with disinterested stoicism. At a signal, Vax shrugged on his unnecessary clothes and turned to leave.
The necromancer made a tiny gesture with his left hand and Vax's escort stumbled and hit his face on the doorway, causing his nose to bleed. While the Stet-vey was wiping his face and uttering curses, the prisoner said, without a flicker of expression, something that only Vax's enhanced hearing would pick up. "It begins now. She wants you to know."
Meaningless words from an offworlder.
Yet. Vax felt something like sorrow mixed with a tiny fraction of hope. No, it couldn't be. It was just the ramblings of one more doomed soul. And yet, the words reverberated in his being over and over. "It begins now. It begins now." He pushed it away. He had rejected hope a long time ago. But he did something unusual that night. He watched the games.
For a change, most of the Primes were in attendance. It was highly unusual to place an unknown newcomer against a champion, unless it was a grudge match between Primes. Upon the necromancer's entrance, he could tell that this dark magician was making the people a little nervous. However, if the man's magic was being hampered, he wouldn't have a chance against the reigning champion, much less be able to impact the onlookers in their protected area.
The sour face on the necromancer's owner, Prime #2, confirmed Vax's opinion, but the Prime couldn't back down now. Prime #1 had a gloating look - he had bragged that his champion could beat any man or woman, dead or alive.
Along with the others behind the safety barrier, Vax watched the dark-cloaked necromancer gracefully stride forth into the arena in full regalia: his staff of skulls emitting an eerie light, the heads on his belt grinning in anticipation of the fight. His bearing was magnificent.
The bell rang and the crowd screamed for the champion as he swaggered out, fully armored (a gift from his Prime), a gleaming axe in both hands and more weapons at his belt. Massive, yet agile, he grinningly toyed with the necromancer as he pursued him around the arena, posturing for show, his opponent barely dodging his attacks and his magickal powers evidenced only as puny trails of eldritch light.
However, a hum generated through the auditorium and suddenly, it was clear that any restraints on the necromancer's abilities had been lifted.
It was quick and colorful.
Cleaners had to be sent in to pick up the former champion's twisted and desiccated carcass—Prime #1 tore the hairpiece off of Prime #2--and all sorts of disparagements on each other's family trees were exchanged. The overlords got together and reluctantly agreed to modify all the magic users in stock. (Truly, the only real reason they could all come to agreement so quickly is the danger the prisoners might represent to the Primes' safety, should they ever go rogue.)
Modifications were scheduled for commencement. Security on the cells was tightened as inevitably rumor would start to spread, even among the captives, despite the intended secrecy.
Then there came the argument over the young, white-haired female captive in Cell 52.
"She's not a magic user, we've tested her and there's no confirmation of any magical powers," argued Prime #4, his sagging face looming large on the screen. "Besides she claims to get her strength from her devotion to a demon. That's insanity, not magic!"
"Or a clever ploy to intimidate her enemies," mused Prime #5. "Upon her rise to power, her armies conquered all challengers on that primitive little swamp world."
"Fanatics," scoffed Prime #3, "it's always the same. The natives were ripe for a war. She just knows how to work a crowd."
"Hmm, we could use someone like her in P.R.," stated Prime #1, "Do you think she could convert over?"
Everyone looked questioningly at Prime #4 who kept the woman in his stable of fighters. "Gentlemen, you are crazy," he shook his head, "it would take years of training and conditioning with no guarantee it would ever work."
"However," he harrumphed and intertwined his fingers, working them back and forth, "I was thinking maybe—well, she IS in fine fighting form and …."
"You want to breed her? Way out of the question, Prime #4! We have no idea what aberrations are in her bloodline." All of the other men scowled at him.
"No, no, nothing like that," he protested, "Um, actually, I'm about ready for a body change."
Seeing the expression on their faces, he blustered, "Come on guys, our men-only rule is centuries old! I think …."
Seeing that their faces only became stormier, he tried another tack, "Okay, how about this? A one-night only switch, where I fight any one of you. In the warrior body of your pick, of course. I think that would be very exciting."
This offer did not pass without interest. It had been a long long time since any one of them had taken any kind of physical risk and to do so in a different body… Even just for one night… The idea started to take momentum.
The consensus was, finally, no magic and no weapons. Fight until first blood. Private viewing only. The game was on!
###
Vax was once again hustled to the newest acquisition, currently housed in Cell 3 (whose former occupant had expired at the staff of the necromancer).
"Vrider-351, strip," ordered the bored Stet-vey, a particularly obnoxious specimen of his breed, with a thin snaking mustache, who often had this duty with Vax.
Without really looking at the occupant, Vax wearily divested himself of his garments, while the Stet-vey droned on about the dire consequences of misbehavior. He displayed his metal arms and hands that would never again feel the soft brush of flesh against flesh. Not his unknown child's face, or friends, or lovers, or family —all lost to him, anyways. His face was a featureless metal mask, no lips with which to kiss; his voice came from a metal box in his throat; his heart encased.
Vax wearily focused that which served as his eyes upon the woman prisoner and then froze as she looked upon him. He would have doubted it was the flame-haired woman from his long-ago dream except she smiled at him, though not without sorrow, and spoke, "You were strong. You waited. Though it took decades, you waited. And soon, together, we will end this evil."
Decades. A strange feeling gripped his cyborg body, causing it to recalibrate and adjust temperature. He had been here just under two years! What was she talking about?
"Damn it!" fretted the Stet-vey as he toyed with the translation device fastened to his collar, "I can't understand a word she's saying. The maintenance department will hear about this! What did she just say?"
Vax lied as he dressed himself. "Perhaps she's stunned. It sounded like nonsense to me, too."
The Stet-vey shot the prisoner a sharp glance, before signaling the door to open, Vax at his side. They had made this tour of new prisoners together so many times that some might consider them almost companions.
"Excuse me for asking, sir," started Vax casually, "but do you have any idea how long I've been here?"
The Stet-vey shrugged as they walked down the long halls, their heels ringing. "What do you care?"
"Just curious. Perhaps after a year or two in service, they'll let me see the outside world again," he lied.
The Stet-vey stopped and leaned against a sheened metal wall, looking at him incredulously. "You. You really don't remember? Or is it you just don't know?"
Vax felt a sickening prescience. "Remember what, sir?"
The Stet-vey halted, considering. It really wasn't for him to say, but it was too delicious to resist -- for anyone with a malicious streak. (And a Stet-vey without a malicious streak, was like a politician without greed.) If the cyborg really didn't know, then….
"Shortly after your transference to Vrider, they shut you down and put you in storage. That was probably close to oh, I don't quite remember. Sixty or seventy years ago with the birth of the new Vriders, the Series D. It was only recently that Vriders - Series D was found to have a serious defect -- they were recalled from service and you were re-activated."
The Stet-vey watched him, wicked and curious, to see if the hitherto dull, emotionless cyborg could crack.
Vax swayed for a moment and a strange sound escaped his lips. Seventy years! No! He thought he had inured himself to pain, but this! All dead or soon turning to dust. Everyone he ever cared about. And he hadn't known. He hadn't sung their mourning songs. He hadn't made offerings to the gods. Worst of all, was imagining them alive and well, still thinking of him. But no, the man he had been was wiped from all living memories. It was like he didn't truly didn't exist anymore.
The Stet-vey chuckled nervously and moved away from Vax, one hand hovering over the controls on his left wrist which would override Vax's system in case of a malfunction. "Don't blame me, cyborg; I don't make the rules."
####
The next night, after extended activity in the transference chamber, seven fighters entered the arena, among them the necromancer, the white-haired demon girl (as they called her), and the red-haired warrioress. Also among them, but not new, was a tall youth with tan skin, silver eyes and white-blond hair. A few Stet-veys had been permitted to attend the private showing, to oversee multiple recordings and enforce that rules were followed.
The Primes who had transferred into the bodies appeared very excited and the fighting was a chaotic parody, which surprised none of the viewers. Prime #4 won, to the disgust of all, for he was considered the least among the Primes. And not only that, but he won with the body of a woman, the white-haired demon girl.
It was a chore for the Stet-veys to coax the hyper Primes, silly, boastful and prancing, back to their own bodies, but wearily, they finally herded them into the transference chambers and order was restored.
The next day, a truly startling thing happened.
The Primes decided to release several of their captives. Notably, the seven whose bodies they had used during their "gladiator match." Was this sentimental folly or what? Indeed, it was considered pure lunacy by others privy to the decision. Nonetheless, there was a mercenary ship setting out the next day and the deal had been made. Not only that, but the Primes were in close company all day with most of these fighters, dining with them, and holding private conversations. Unusual, but not untypical of their self-centered indulgences.
Vax found himself summoned to the reception chamber of Prime #7.
His mind had been in a whirl. He suspected. No, he hoped. But he dare not articulate, even to himself what he hoped. He was ushered into presence of Prime #7 and the red-haired warrioress. The door shut behind him and he was alone with the two. He knelt, waiting for permission to rise. He heard Prime #7 say, "Well, I'll leave you two, then." Heard his footsteps disappear into silence. Felt the woman come near and pull him to his feet.
What was this? He stared into her face.
"Vax," she shook him slightly. "Vax, you can come with us! You can return to your home world."
He stared in disbelief and a slight start at hearing his name used again, instead of his Vrider designation.
"It's true! I swear it," she insisted. "And even if you don't believe, I swear, I'm hauling you over my shoulder tonight and taking you out of here!"
"Why?" he gasped.
"Why would they let you go?" she inquired, "because…."
"No. Why – would you care?" His metal face stared at her, frozen and impassive as ever. "Besides…"
He wanted to say "Besides, if you're doing me favors, then just let me die."
But how weak, how self-pitying that sounded.
Instead he shrugged wearily. "Besides -- it's been decades or so I'm told. My family and friends are probably all dead."
He looked into her eyes and thought, "Don't make me say it. Don't make me say that I would be a monster, a freak, a terror among my own people. This alien body would only be something they sought either to run from or to destroy."
"You have choices, Vax," she said gently. "We can take you anywhere you want to go, so far as we are capable, and leave you with enough provisions to last for quite some while. Or you can work with my people in a capacity that I think you would find satisfactory. Or you can return to your own people. I have had some news of them which --."
"Return to my own people!" Vax finally shouted at her, angry and heart-wounded. "In this monstrous form. What can you be thinking?!" He raised his metallic hands, bared to the wrist. "A freak, an abomination. No, I can never go back. Maybe—I can work with you—this body can serve in some capacity."
She lay a gentling hand on his arm. It had a strange effect. Whenever she touched him, he felt like he was real again, flesh and blood, and not some freak, more machine than man.
"Vax, they didn't destroy your body," she told him, her eyes intent on his, brimming with sympathy. "They lied to you to torment you. Because that's what they do. Or did, anyways. They intended to use it last night. That's how we were able to access it. We can transfer you before we leave, but you will only have a normal lifespan after that—whereas the body you inhabit now will last for quite some while longer and …."
Vax collapsed to his knees, one hand on her arm, dragging her down with him.
She didn't fight it, but knelt, cradling him. "Yes, Vax. Your body was healed and is uninjured. We can return to you to it, although there are no guarantees that something might not go wrong during transfer, though it is extremely rare."
Vax let her hold him, relaxing into her strength and the scent of her long soft hair.
"Yes, hold me," he thought helplessly, "it's been so long since someone's touched me other than to strike out at me." His breath came unevenly, even as his system fought to regulate it.
"I don't wish to seem ungrateful," he finally said, pulling softly away from her and standing up, offering her a hand. "I could probably do much good in this form, but PLEASE. Please if there's a chance…if I could be myself again; if I could go home?"
His words seem to tremble in the air.
She let Vax pull her up to a standing position and smiled. "Of course, Vax. We want you to be happy. My name is Sarita, by the way."
He didn't know why she cared and how she knew the things she did, but he didn't doubt her. He felt the truth of her words, as always, as if they were written in his soul.
"Come, let's arrange that right away, for I have news of your home, which you'll want to hear. You'll understand that much has changed in your absence." She looked at him with concern and nodded in direction of the transference division, indicating they should go now.
Of course. The births—and deaths. Did the kingdom still stand? How had his family fared? Whatever the news, he would bear it – whether it brought joy or sorrow. He began walking with her towards his renewed destiny. "Tell me everything, Sarita."
She looked at him in surprise, her color rising very slightly. It was the first time he had addressed her by name and, impossibly, his inhuman voice somehow seemed to caress the word as he said it.
###
It was during their voyage on the outbound ship, that Vax learned the story behind his rescue and more of Sarita's identity. She worked with an organization that had long had their eye on Iskence-7 and its corrupt Primes. And not just Iskence-7, but they traveled from place to place, fighting corruption where people had become powerless and abused. He wasn't quite sure (from some of the things she said) if she was completely human, but it didn't matter.
She had been able to touch his essence all those years ago when he was first transferred, floating in a place between human flesh and the Vrider shell. Then he had disappeared from contact when they retired him for many years.
Besides getting Vax his body back, her group had incited the Primes to participate in a mass body transference in order to fight their mock battle. During this, the Primes were effectively destroyed by one of Sarita's co-workers (who been posing undercover as a technician for years). Instead transferring the Primes into the fighters' bodies, the undercover agent sent the corrupt Primes into a cattle pen, standing at the ready.
Then, certain citizens of Iskence-7, who were aged but capable, had been transferred into the Primes' bodies, leaving their own bodies behind. It was all part of a long-planned rebellion. It was time for the outsiders to leave the natives of Iskence-7 to work it out among themselves, since that the new leaders (posing as the old Primes) were abolishing the raiding of other planets, the slave trade, and many other horrors.
There was time in-between such talks for Vax and Sarita to get to know each better. And if they ended up in each other's arms, who could blame them?
Vax found out that he had been gone, by his home world's reckoning, only 22 years. Not 60 or 70 as the lying Stet-vey had represented.
He also learned he had a son, who seemed by all reports to be a worthy young man.
Then there was the bad news of an uprising not 10 years after Vax had been abducted. The mother of Vax's son had been killed in the fighting, the harems being one of the targets of contention. As well, his aged father and his eldest brother, the king, had perished when the insurgents, composed of religious fanatics, had infiltrated the palace. This was deeply sorrowful news.
His brother Marit, had ridden back from the south with troops as quickly as he could, finally quelling the rebellion and ascending to the throne. He would be close to 47 years of age now. Vax couldn't quite picture it and it saddened him that Marit had grown old without him, but his heart rejoiced that he yet lived. Marit had no children as of the last report. Vax's son was his heir, for Vax's third brother, Praiden, refused to give up his priest's robes either to marry or stand in line for the throne.
####
As a long-standing tradition, once a week King Marit would hear selected petitioners, those without counsel to represent them. Vax, in disguise, had managed to be among them this day. Sarita, with her cunning ways, had slipped into the audience that ringed the throne room.
Vax abandoned his disguise before entering the room and simply wrapped the cloak's hood over his face to mask his features. As he waited in line, his heart raced, fighting back tears as he gazed at his brother. Ah, there was a touch of frost about him, and lines in his face now. He hoped he would have a chance to tease him about those. What if he rejected him, turned him away, reviled him? He would bear it, for now Vax had looked upon his face once more.
After an agony of waiting, he was brought before Marit, and kneeled before his liege.
"Well sir, and what is your petition?" asked Marit, a bit wearily, but not unkindly.
Vax bowed his head, then throwing back his hood, he raised one hand to touch the lobe of his ear and whispered. "Are you angry with me for the loss of your black bird? If so, I petition your forgiveness."
The king's face turned sheer white as he stared at him and involuntarily gasped out. "Oh gods! Can it be?! Vax!"
####
Vax had much to explain, but he need not have doubted Marit's love. A more joyful reunion could not be imagined.
He spent long hours in Marit's company and then with the rest of his family, telling them a version of his story that could be understood. Vax was very pleased to meet his son, who at first exuded a mixture of subtle hostility and longing towards Vax, making interactions a bit difficult.
"You're lucky I had seniority and could get a field commission," Sarita remarked during the second week of his return. "I have a degree in psychology, I can help you understand these things."
"What do I care about this – psychology?" asked Vax, tossing her onto the bed laughingly. "I'm a prince and everyone shall do as I command."
"Oh, indeed, sir," she mocked him, as she bounced up and grabbed him by the hair, wrestling him into submission, "once a prince, always a prince, is that how it is?"
"Ow," protested Vax, as he let her have her way, "I hope you don't intend to behave like this in front of our children."
"Every chance I get," murmured Sarita.
His oldest brother, Thesid IV, (his elder by twenty years) would ascend the throne next month and had been weighed down since birth with the burden of his destiny as if a gigantic fersophet sat on his chest. Thesid barely spoke to Vax any more, imprisoned as he was by the glut of restrictions, protocol, training, and expectations that were the inheritance of the first born. Thesid had been engaged since birth to the princess of a neighboring kingdom--a thin-lipped, haughty young woman with an unforgiving temperament--he didn't envy his brother such a bride! But damn it, he missed Thesid being…well, just being his brother. He had been kind to him when Vax was growing up. He was almost like a stranger to him now.
Vax pushed away a feeling of sadness that threatened to go from a ripple to a squall and instead turned his idle thoughts to his favorite brother, Marit, the second oldest.
Marit would move into the hereditary position of commander of his eldest brother's armies. He had a genius for all things military and was the best swordsman in the kingdom. Vax and Marit shared a mother and both inherited her white-blonde hair, high cheekbones, and silver eyes, though fortunately, they inherited their father's physique in all other ways, for she had been a fragile little thing. Marit too, had been engaged at birth, but upon reaching manhood had lost no time in acquiring a string of lovers (discreetly of course, so as not to offend his future wife). Marit still had time for him, and could laugh and joke. Thank the gods for that!
His third brother, the thin dour Praiden, was unsociable and scholarly, though whether by inclination or dint of his profession, he wasn't sure. Praiden's role would be that of a priest advisor to their brother when Thesid took the throne. Though Praiden was closest to Vax in age, they spoke little. Perhaps it was because they had a different mother, but he felt, simply, that Praiden had never liked him. It had often come to harsh words between them when they met. But, really who did that bastard like?! Praiden kept his own counsel, was quick to point out errors, acted proud, seldom smiled, and was obnoxiously superior in matters of learning. As if it mattered who the 35th King of Mitores had married, two centuries ago!
As for himself, life was most excellent. As a "spare" he was under less pressure and scrutiny than his three older brothers and was afforded much more freedom. ("Spoiled and irresponsible" is how Praiden put it, in his usual sneering tone.) Well, perhaps it wasn't freedom so much as it was being overlooked. But either way it worked to his advantage. He didn't care to be noticed, really, if it meant being a slave to tradition and constantly watched by hundreds of eyes.
Of course, his days were still filled with "proper" things for a prince – weapons practice, world studies, attending court functions, and the like. However, his nights were filled with romps with his heart brothers or play among the silken cushions with his small harem (which he had been allowed to start two years ago). Being the fourth son meant he could chose his own bride, as well. So no harridans for him!
However, his inclinations were far from marriage. Marriage meant additional responsibilities including dancing attendance on one woman, being responsible for the children, and, well, having to grow up. He supposed.
Still, some small part of him fretted that none of his women had gotten pregnant. A prince was supposed to be virile, after all. His brothers had teased him about it.
So he was a little relieved when Glalli, a cheerful dark-haired beauty from a local merchant's family, had proudly told him last week that she was increasing. He had promptly rewarded her with an exquisite necklace of fire-rubies and elevated her status to first concubine. She didn't seem as joyful at receiving the marks of appreciation as he had expected… If she anticipated a proposal of marriage, then she was a fool. He hoped she didn't become possessive and clingy—he had liked her easy-going temperament and would hate to set her aside if she became a thorn in his side.
No, he didn't want to see Glalli's unhappy face tonight. That was one reason why he accepted his brother Marit's invitation to ride out on a routine military mission tonight, headed for the western reaches. Camping under the stars, there would be music and wild stories and playful contests among the men to prove who was the most skillful. The food wouldn't be as good as at the palace -- and sleeping in the tents was not like sleeping in a feather bed -– but it would be great fun!
###
The small ship hovered close to the planet surface and engaged a cloaking device, even though the world below was merely populated by ignorant savages. Subhumans who rode around on horseback waving swords! As such, they posed no danger to the ship and no one cared how the sudden appearance of a space craft might impact such a primitive civilization. It was quite within regulations. However, the simple fact was that it was easier catching prey by stealth.
Guided by the coordinates their scouts had given them, and primed with information from their native spy, it hovered over the encampment far outside the pink and gold city walls.
The captain scanned the sleeping forms below and shook his head. What a waste they weren't here on a slave run. They could make a nice amount of credits, indeed. But the Primes were quite fussy about such things. Oh yes, that there was no evil they wouldn't do, but the appearance of evil? Forget that! Ships collecting warriors for the games were dedicated purely to that function. The slave ships were a separate enterprise. And something no one could directly connect the Primes to.
The licensed procurer shuddered. It was dangerous knowing about that. He shoved such thoughts to the back of his mind and activated the release of pods of gas which fell among the camp below, opening like budding flowers on impact, watching the monitor as bodies crumpled. When all lay still, he suited up and hit the land with four of his androids.
Other game ships made fun of him for being so cheap, but he had the last laugh when he consistently brought back top contenders and the bonus payments were his alone. Smiling smugly at that thought, he picked his way through the unconscious bodies, until they came to the most elaborate of the tents.
Resisting a stray urge to kick one of the bodies that lay in his path, the ship's master smiled at his prize -- lying face-up, sprawled at an awkward angle on bedding clearly meant for royalty. As described, his victim had long blonde-white hair, high cheekbones, and tan skin. A prince who was a military commander and a fierce warrior. The crowds were going to love this one! The savage reportedly wore a one-of-a-kind earring that he believed to be some kind of protective charm. (The superstitions of barbarians were never ending.)
With glove-sealed hands, he brushed back the pale silky hair around the lad's face. There it was. He turned the long earring about in his hand, clumsily. Some kind of black bird of prey it seemed, with a diamond-like eye, glittering balefully at him. It jerked lose in his grasp and it fell to the side, leaving a tiny trail of blood on a pillow. He swore. He hadn't meant to do that, but no matter.
Prey confirmed. It was a match, down to the earring itself. This boy looked so … young. A military commander? But then, he had gone through two body transfers already—he was no doubt three times this lad's age. Honestly, they all looked young to him these days. And the prince was handsome. Quite handsome. And so helpless now. He felt a surging twitch of desire, but bit back on it. It could be worse than death if the Primes got wind of him doing that with the goods. And he couldn't trust anyone to keep silent, certainly not the damn androids.
Focus on the money, he told himself. He'd buy himself a pair of pretties when he got back to home port -- there were those supple, green-eyed twins at the House of Ladir for example, brought in from some backwater world a few months ago. Expensive, haughty pieces, who acted like they were too good for the likes of him, that's what. He replaced his immediate desire with the image of the twins, one male, one female, piteously crying out from under him. Oh yes. He was suddenly eager to get moving. As soon as his cargo won his first fight, he'd get the bonus money. Time to get the hell away from this worthless ball of dust and return home.
"Bring the sword, too," he barked out to his crew, pointing at the curved weapon at the boy's side. That would go in a separate decon cell, of course. He wasn't stupid enough to let prisoners get anywhere near a weapon.
####
Vax woke up with a raging headache. Surely, he hadn't drunk that much last night! He dizzily remembered…a private game of dice with Marit. He had won the rare privilege of wearing Marit's earring charm for one night. Mischievously, while his brother was at the jacks, he had arranged himself in a pretentious posture in Marit's tent, anticipating a laughing bout of wrestling (which he always lost, damn it) and the usual admonishment to take his scampish self back to his own tent.
It was still dark? He felt terrible, the headache unabating. He started to move and inhaled in shock—the feel of cold metal all about him jarred his senses. He seemed to be in some kind of extremely small cell. He searched rapidly with his hands and couldn't find a door or a window. It seemed tomb-like. Was this a joke? A terrible feeling gripped him. His heartbeat raced and he tried not to scream. Screaming was for women and children. Still, a small high-pitched moan escaped him and he began to tremble, sick with apprehension. He hated small dark places.
"Hey there, laddie," whispered a strangely-accented voice. But coming from where?
"Who are you!? Where are you!?" shouted Vax, unable to calm himself, his eyes wild and his hands still scrabbling at the smooth metal walls.
"Easy there," soothed the gravelly voice, "I'm your new best friend, is what I am."
The captain listened in, satisfied. The UT seemed to be working fine (he had to have the translator repaired recently when a gigantic bull-man had dented it during one of his rampages). He'd be giving the "friendly advisor" on board some extra rations with his next meal, for doing as he was told. He'd found it was always easier to let an experienced fellow prisoner explain to the new meat what they were in for. Less bother all around. They'd be back home in a matter of days and by then the new prisoner would have learned to keep his mouth shut. He would help with that.
###
He knew not if it was night or day or what world he walked on. He simply called it Nightmare.
Upon reaching their destination and being processed, Vax had been put in the arena within the week, dying in agony, gutted with a yard of steel through his belly. He cursed his captors as he writhed in pain and then called out, not for his gods, but for Marit. A child's cry. As if his brother could swoop down and save him.
And then prayed to his gods anew upon his resurrection, thereafter.
It had been explained that if he won, he would be rewarded with warm food, blankets, and other benefits. The more often he won, the better the rewards. If he lost – unless he was beyond repair, he simply woke up in the glass coffin that the others called "the regeneration chamber." Naked, helpless, and floating in some kind of fluid with wires dug into his body.
Ready to be used again.
Like those before him, he threatened, cursed, pled, and attempted to escape—and each time failed and was punished. He felt his sanity slipping away; his humanity crumbling. All he knew of reality now was a small dark cell and then a weapon in his hand, kill or be killed, while thousands of evil beings screamed in excitement above him, placing bets, laughing, being entertained.
He lived and breathed slaughter. Sometimes it was one opponent, sometimes it was three. He lost often. Once they had a small army of weak beings, short creatures, the size of little children, who came at him and two other man-sized opponents. He thought he was becoming hardened to the carnage, but it had sickened him to hack and slash through those small bodies.
His handler was angry with him. They thought he had more potential, he was told, and so had placed him in fights with those of his caliber. A high price had been paid for him. He was warned that he was soon to be out of chances to prove himself. The next fight would be his last if he didn't prove to be the victor.
Good. He welcomed death, he longed for it, rather than this living torment. In his next bout, he made sure of it.
###
When he next awoke, it wasn't with his gods or in the regeneration chamber, but chained in the bed of one of the Primes. No matter how many body replacements the Primes received, most of them ran to gross corpulence within a few years, due to physical indolence and pampered living conditions. (Exercise had become tedious after the first century or two.) This one was no exception.
"Had I known you were so pretty, I would never have wasted you in the arena, but I seldom bothered viewing the newcomers," Prime #4 purred, rubbing himself against Vax, and sweeping his prisoner's long blonde hair to one side.
###
He thought he had been in a hell beyond bearing, but realized now what hell truly was. From a prince to a gladiator to a sex slave … the last was an unspeakable fate for Vax. He hung on the edge of madness and quickly gained a reputation for repeated self-terminations until finally his body was unsalvageable.
###
There was darkness and then an unbearable light, lovely, but blinding in its radiance.
The bright light seemed to call to him, but he shrank from it instinctively and as he did, it changed, softening into sunlight over a flame-haired woman warrior. She was sitting against a tree with an incredibly peaceful expression on her sweet face, hands stained with blood, the bodies of her foes lying motionless at her feet, some in pieces. Vax wondered how she could look so pure when she had butchered all those men. And yet, he felt no apprehension or repulsion.
She turned her head and looked at him as if she had heard his thoughts. Her eyes widened in shock and comprehension and then filled with tears. "Brother," she whispered huskily, "I will come for you. Be strong and wait!"
The sound of her otherworldly voice was like an electric shock as if receiving an input of force that he was never meant to handle. There a flow of understanding as if their minds had joined as surely as two hands, and he knew that she understood his torment and was pledging to release him from it. Her mental presence was powerful—he felt like he was floating in a warm ocean of love, like he not known since he was torn from his home world.
"Marit!" he tried to call out, as a vision of his brother passed before him.
And then darkness swallowed him only to spit him out to an awakening. But not to a red-haired warrior woman. (Though he would find later that the image of her burned in his mind forever, as if he had witnessed the explosion of a star.)
###
A weary and beady-eyed technician informed him of his failure to escape his captors when he awoke, not in a regeneration tube as usual, but in the transference chamber.
Fortunately or unfortunately, the bored technician explained, the Primes -- who were annoyed at his tenacity at trying to elude their grasp – had him successfully transferred into a cyborg body. Any free will was now a thing of the past, since any number of safeguards had been built into this structure. (A free piece of advice--never catch the attention of the Primes.)
"Normally," drawled the tech, "this body would be used for other purposes, as the Vrider Series C is an excellent product (nickname: Hunter) and …." The man droned on, while Vax stared down, unbelieving, at his hands of metal. He caught his reflection in a mirror and gasped. He had no face. He was one of those monsters, those things called androids. They had eaten his soul. He lunged for the technician – or tried to – and found he could not.
The man laughed at him. "I told you. There are safeguards now, you fool. No aggressive actions can be taken unless we allow it. You didn't care to be a warrior. Well, we fixed that. You didn't want to warm the Primes' beds. That's solved, as well. But apparently there is no pleasing you. However, you will serve as an example and a warning to others, which at least is of some small benefit to us."
####
His captors were the Primes of a world completely alien to him. A world so advanced in technology so as to make his people look like animals. It was a world without heart, without faith. They called it Iskence-7.
Vax, himself, no longer had a name. It vanished now, along with his youth and his mortality. His current designation was Vrider-351, Series C. Vrider translated roughly into "servant-pet" which was a step up in this soulless society from being a mere unempowered citizen scrabbling for existence, who more accurately could have been called "slave" or "cattle."
The Primes were a group of seven men who (while posing in rigged elections) were the absolute dictators of the planet, each commandeering a separate geographical area. They and the other elite 1% of the planet extended their life for hundreds of years -- beginning in the early days with body part replacements and finally complete transference.
They had wanted power and a high place above all the others of their world. They had wanted fame. They had wanted money. And all this they had in abundance. Iskence-7 was among the first and certainly the most successful to go among the stars, conquering and ravaging planet after planet, until none of the Primes could remember the names of their holdings (they owned companies to keep track of such things).
Having no other calling in life, being neither artists nor scientists nor scholars, being above such things as having a family life or a job they had to work at, and having no worthy opponents besides each other, the corrupt Primes became bored beyond belief.
For entertainment and because of their competitive natures, they started quarreling with each other. Their disputes escalated until the planet was at the risk of destruction via one quick press of a button until their personal assistants, the Stet-veys (one step above Vriders), secretly conferred with each other and then brought it forcibly to their masters' attention that the harmony between the Primes had become endangered only because it was their nature to conquer, not because of any real quarrel between nations.
The Primes listened to the council of their Stet-veys (for had not their servants handled them for many years?) and in order to avoid destroying each other, it was agreed, instead, to engage in mock combat via warriors stolen from other worlds. The opportunity for glory! More money! Bragging rights! Clever ways to cheat!
(That group of Stet-veys had then been executed en masse, despite their potential rescue of the world from destruction, to punish them for their disloyalty in conferring with each other in secret.)
###
Thus Vax became a tool. A hideous example to contestants. Try to harm yourself and not only will you fail, but we'll strip you of the body you were born with and destroy your free will.
And Vax waited. One ugly year passed. Then the start of another. It had been a dream then, a delusion, a pathetic hope hallucinated by his screaming mind. There was no saviouress. No rescue. No escape. Not yet, his mind whispered.
###
He looked at the roster. Tonight's event started with a necromancer stolen from some dismal little planet, the Stet-veys had said, and the current champion. Fighters that used magic were a rarity. The audience was excited. Betting ran high. Prime #1 wore a self-satisfied look on his face that appeared whenever he had tinkered with the odds of a fight to his financial advantage.
Vax had been taken to the necromancer's magic-null cell by one of the Stet-veys, and stripped down -- displayed -- while the Stet-vey droned the usual warning. The prisoner looked at him with disinterested stoicism. At a signal, Vax shrugged on his unnecessary clothes and turned to leave.
The necromancer made a tiny gesture with his left hand and Vax's escort stumbled and hit his face on the doorway, causing his nose to bleed. While the Stet-vey was wiping his face and uttering curses, the prisoner said, without a flicker of expression, something that only Vax's enhanced hearing would pick up. "It begins now. She wants you to know."
Meaningless words from an offworlder.
Yet. Vax felt something like sorrow mixed with a tiny fraction of hope. No, it couldn't be. It was just the ramblings of one more doomed soul. And yet, the words reverberated in his being over and over. "It begins now. It begins now." He pushed it away. He had rejected hope a long time ago. But he did something unusual that night. He watched the games.
For a change, most of the Primes were in attendance. It was highly unusual to place an unknown newcomer against a champion, unless it was a grudge match between Primes. Upon the necromancer's entrance, he could tell that this dark magician was making the people a little nervous. However, if the man's magic was being hampered, he wouldn't have a chance against the reigning champion, much less be able to impact the onlookers in their protected area.
The sour face on the necromancer's owner, Prime #2, confirmed Vax's opinion, but the Prime couldn't back down now. Prime #1 had a gloating look - he had bragged that his champion could beat any man or woman, dead or alive.
Along with the others behind the safety barrier, Vax watched the dark-cloaked necromancer gracefully stride forth into the arena in full regalia: his staff of skulls emitting an eerie light, the heads on his belt grinning in anticipation of the fight. His bearing was magnificent.
The bell rang and the crowd screamed for the champion as he swaggered out, fully armored (a gift from his Prime), a gleaming axe in both hands and more weapons at his belt. Massive, yet agile, he grinningly toyed with the necromancer as he pursued him around the arena, posturing for show, his opponent barely dodging his attacks and his magickal powers evidenced only as puny trails of eldritch light.
However, a hum generated through the auditorium and suddenly, it was clear that any restraints on the necromancer's abilities had been lifted.
It was quick and colorful.
Cleaners had to be sent in to pick up the former champion's twisted and desiccated carcass—Prime #1 tore the hairpiece off of Prime #2--and all sorts of disparagements on each other's family trees were exchanged. The overlords got together and reluctantly agreed to modify all the magic users in stock. (Truly, the only real reason they could all come to agreement so quickly is the danger the prisoners might represent to the Primes' safety, should they ever go rogue.)
Modifications were scheduled for commencement. Security on the cells was tightened as inevitably rumor would start to spread, even among the captives, despite the intended secrecy.
Then there came the argument over the young, white-haired female captive in Cell 52.
"She's not a magic user, we've tested her and there's no confirmation of any magical powers," argued Prime #4, his sagging face looming large on the screen. "Besides she claims to get her strength from her devotion to a demon. That's insanity, not magic!"
"Or a clever ploy to intimidate her enemies," mused Prime #5. "Upon her rise to power, her armies conquered all challengers on that primitive little swamp world."
"Fanatics," scoffed Prime #3, "it's always the same. The natives were ripe for a war. She just knows how to work a crowd."
"Hmm, we could use someone like her in P.R.," stated Prime #1, "Do you think she could convert over?"
Everyone looked questioningly at Prime #4 who kept the woman in his stable of fighters. "Gentlemen, you are crazy," he shook his head, "it would take years of training and conditioning with no guarantee it would ever work."
"However," he harrumphed and intertwined his fingers, working them back and forth, "I was thinking maybe—well, she IS in fine fighting form and …."
"You want to breed her? Way out of the question, Prime #4! We have no idea what aberrations are in her bloodline." All of the other men scowled at him.
"No, no, nothing like that," he protested, "Um, actually, I'm about ready for a body change."
Seeing the expression on their faces, he blustered, "Come on guys, our men-only rule is centuries old! I think …."
Seeing that their faces only became stormier, he tried another tack, "Okay, how about this? A one-night only switch, where I fight any one of you. In the warrior body of your pick, of course. I think that would be very exciting."
This offer did not pass without interest. It had been a long long time since any one of them had taken any kind of physical risk and to do so in a different body… Even just for one night… The idea started to take momentum.
The consensus was, finally, no magic and no weapons. Fight until first blood. Private viewing only. The game was on!
###
Vax was once again hustled to the newest acquisition, currently housed in Cell 3 (whose former occupant had expired at the staff of the necromancer).
"Vrider-351, strip," ordered the bored Stet-vey, a particularly obnoxious specimen of his breed, with a thin snaking mustache, who often had this duty with Vax.
Without really looking at the occupant, Vax wearily divested himself of his garments, while the Stet-vey droned on about the dire consequences of misbehavior. He displayed his metal arms and hands that would never again feel the soft brush of flesh against flesh. Not his unknown child's face, or friends, or lovers, or family —all lost to him, anyways. His face was a featureless metal mask, no lips with which to kiss; his voice came from a metal box in his throat; his heart encased.
Vax wearily focused that which served as his eyes upon the woman prisoner and then froze as she looked upon him. He would have doubted it was the flame-haired woman from his long-ago dream except she smiled at him, though not without sorrow, and spoke, "You were strong. You waited. Though it took decades, you waited. And soon, together, we will end this evil."
Decades. A strange feeling gripped his cyborg body, causing it to recalibrate and adjust temperature. He had been here just under two years! What was she talking about?
"Damn it!" fretted the Stet-vey as he toyed with the translation device fastened to his collar, "I can't understand a word she's saying. The maintenance department will hear about this! What did she just say?"
Vax lied as he dressed himself. "Perhaps she's stunned. It sounded like nonsense to me, too."
The Stet-vey shot the prisoner a sharp glance, before signaling the door to open, Vax at his side. They had made this tour of new prisoners together so many times that some might consider them almost companions.
"Excuse me for asking, sir," started Vax casually, "but do you have any idea how long I've been here?"
The Stet-vey shrugged as they walked down the long halls, their heels ringing. "What do you care?"
"Just curious. Perhaps after a year or two in service, they'll let me see the outside world again," he lied.
The Stet-vey stopped and leaned against a sheened metal wall, looking at him incredulously. "You. You really don't remember? Or is it you just don't know?"
Vax felt a sickening prescience. "Remember what, sir?"
The Stet-vey halted, considering. It really wasn't for him to say, but it was too delicious to resist -- for anyone with a malicious streak. (And a Stet-vey without a malicious streak, was like a politician without greed.) If the cyborg really didn't know, then….
"Shortly after your transference to Vrider, they shut you down and put you in storage. That was probably close to oh, I don't quite remember. Sixty or seventy years ago with the birth of the new Vriders, the Series D. It was only recently that Vriders - Series D was found to have a serious defect -- they were recalled from service and you were re-activated."
The Stet-vey watched him, wicked and curious, to see if the hitherto dull, emotionless cyborg could crack.
Vax swayed for a moment and a strange sound escaped his lips. Seventy years! No! He thought he had inured himself to pain, but this! All dead or soon turning to dust. Everyone he ever cared about. And he hadn't known. He hadn't sung their mourning songs. He hadn't made offerings to the gods. Worst of all, was imagining them alive and well, still thinking of him. But no, the man he had been was wiped from all living memories. It was like he didn't truly didn't exist anymore.
The Stet-vey chuckled nervously and moved away from Vax, one hand hovering over the controls on his left wrist which would override Vax's system in case of a malfunction. "Don't blame me, cyborg; I don't make the rules."
####
The next night, after extended activity in the transference chamber, seven fighters entered the arena, among them the necromancer, the white-haired demon girl (as they called her), and the red-haired warrioress. Also among them, but not new, was a tall youth with tan skin, silver eyes and white-blond hair. A few Stet-veys had been permitted to attend the private showing, to oversee multiple recordings and enforce that rules were followed.
The Primes who had transferred into the bodies appeared very excited and the fighting was a chaotic parody, which surprised none of the viewers. Prime #4 won, to the disgust of all, for he was considered the least among the Primes. And not only that, but he won with the body of a woman, the white-haired demon girl.
It was a chore for the Stet-veys to coax the hyper Primes, silly, boastful and prancing, back to their own bodies, but wearily, they finally herded them into the transference chambers and order was restored.
The next day, a truly startling thing happened.
The Primes decided to release several of their captives. Notably, the seven whose bodies they had used during their "gladiator match." Was this sentimental folly or what? Indeed, it was considered pure lunacy by others privy to the decision. Nonetheless, there was a mercenary ship setting out the next day and the deal had been made. Not only that, but the Primes were in close company all day with most of these fighters, dining with them, and holding private conversations. Unusual, but not untypical of their self-centered indulgences.
Vax found himself summoned to the reception chamber of Prime #7.
His mind had been in a whirl. He suspected. No, he hoped. But he dare not articulate, even to himself what he hoped. He was ushered into presence of Prime #7 and the red-haired warrioress. The door shut behind him and he was alone with the two. He knelt, waiting for permission to rise. He heard Prime #7 say, "Well, I'll leave you two, then." Heard his footsteps disappear into silence. Felt the woman come near and pull him to his feet.
What was this? He stared into her face.
"Vax," she shook him slightly. "Vax, you can come with us! You can return to your home world."
He stared in disbelief and a slight start at hearing his name used again, instead of his Vrider designation.
"It's true! I swear it," she insisted. "And even if you don't believe, I swear, I'm hauling you over my shoulder tonight and taking you out of here!"
"Why?" he gasped.
"Why would they let you go?" she inquired, "because…."
"No. Why – would you care?" His metal face stared at her, frozen and impassive as ever. "Besides…"
He wanted to say "Besides, if you're doing me favors, then just let me die."
But how weak, how self-pitying that sounded.
Instead he shrugged wearily. "Besides -- it's been decades or so I'm told. My family and friends are probably all dead."
He looked into her eyes and thought, "Don't make me say it. Don't make me say that I would be a monster, a freak, a terror among my own people. This alien body would only be something they sought either to run from or to destroy."
"You have choices, Vax," she said gently. "We can take you anywhere you want to go, so far as we are capable, and leave you with enough provisions to last for quite some while. Or you can work with my people in a capacity that I think you would find satisfactory. Or you can return to your own people. I have had some news of them which --."
"Return to my own people!" Vax finally shouted at her, angry and heart-wounded. "In this monstrous form. What can you be thinking?!" He raised his metallic hands, bared to the wrist. "A freak, an abomination. No, I can never go back. Maybe—I can work with you—this body can serve in some capacity."
She lay a gentling hand on his arm. It had a strange effect. Whenever she touched him, he felt like he was real again, flesh and blood, and not some freak, more machine than man.
"Vax, they didn't destroy your body," she told him, her eyes intent on his, brimming with sympathy. "They lied to you to torment you. Because that's what they do. Or did, anyways. They intended to use it last night. That's how we were able to access it. We can transfer you before we leave, but you will only have a normal lifespan after that—whereas the body you inhabit now will last for quite some while longer and …."
Vax collapsed to his knees, one hand on her arm, dragging her down with him.
She didn't fight it, but knelt, cradling him. "Yes, Vax. Your body was healed and is uninjured. We can return to you to it, although there are no guarantees that something might not go wrong during transfer, though it is extremely rare."
Vax let her hold him, relaxing into her strength and the scent of her long soft hair.
"Yes, hold me," he thought helplessly, "it's been so long since someone's touched me other than to strike out at me." His breath came unevenly, even as his system fought to regulate it.
"I don't wish to seem ungrateful," he finally said, pulling softly away from her and standing up, offering her a hand. "I could probably do much good in this form, but PLEASE. Please if there's a chance…if I could be myself again; if I could go home?"
His words seem to tremble in the air.
She let Vax pull her up to a standing position and smiled. "Of course, Vax. We want you to be happy. My name is Sarita, by the way."
He didn't know why she cared and how she knew the things she did, but he didn't doubt her. He felt the truth of her words, as always, as if they were written in his soul.
"Come, let's arrange that right away, for I have news of your home, which you'll want to hear. You'll understand that much has changed in your absence." She looked at him with concern and nodded in direction of the transference division, indicating they should go now.
Of course. The births—and deaths. Did the kingdom still stand? How had his family fared? Whatever the news, he would bear it – whether it brought joy or sorrow. He began walking with her towards his renewed destiny. "Tell me everything, Sarita."
She looked at him in surprise, her color rising very slightly. It was the first time he had addressed her by name and, impossibly, his inhuman voice somehow seemed to caress the word as he said it.
###
It was during their voyage on the outbound ship, that Vax learned the story behind his rescue and more of Sarita's identity. She worked with an organization that had long had their eye on Iskence-7 and its corrupt Primes. And not just Iskence-7, but they traveled from place to place, fighting corruption where people had become powerless and abused. He wasn't quite sure (from some of the things she said) if she was completely human, but it didn't matter.
She had been able to touch his essence all those years ago when he was first transferred, floating in a place between human flesh and the Vrider shell. Then he had disappeared from contact when they retired him for many years.
Besides getting Vax his body back, her group had incited the Primes to participate in a mass body transference in order to fight their mock battle. During this, the Primes were effectively destroyed by one of Sarita's co-workers (who been posing undercover as a technician for years). Instead transferring the Primes into the fighters' bodies, the undercover agent sent the corrupt Primes into a cattle pen, standing at the ready.
Then, certain citizens of Iskence-7, who were aged but capable, had been transferred into the Primes' bodies, leaving their own bodies behind. It was all part of a long-planned rebellion. It was time for the outsiders to leave the natives of Iskence-7 to work it out among themselves, since that the new leaders (posing as the old Primes) were abolishing the raiding of other planets, the slave trade, and many other horrors.
There was time in-between such talks for Vax and Sarita to get to know each better. And if they ended up in each other's arms, who could blame them?
Vax found out that he had been gone, by his home world's reckoning, only 22 years. Not 60 or 70 as the lying Stet-vey had represented.
He also learned he had a son, who seemed by all reports to be a worthy young man.
Then there was the bad news of an uprising not 10 years after Vax had been abducted. The mother of Vax's son had been killed in the fighting, the harems being one of the targets of contention. As well, his aged father and his eldest brother, the king, had perished when the insurgents, composed of religious fanatics, had infiltrated the palace. This was deeply sorrowful news.
His brother Marit, had ridden back from the south with troops as quickly as he could, finally quelling the rebellion and ascending to the throne. He would be close to 47 years of age now. Vax couldn't quite picture it and it saddened him that Marit had grown old without him, but his heart rejoiced that he yet lived. Marit had no children as of the last report. Vax's son was his heir, for Vax's third brother, Praiden, refused to give up his priest's robes either to marry or stand in line for the throne.
####
As a long-standing tradition, once a week King Marit would hear selected petitioners, those without counsel to represent them. Vax, in disguise, had managed to be among them this day. Sarita, with her cunning ways, had slipped into the audience that ringed the throne room.
Vax abandoned his disguise before entering the room and simply wrapped the cloak's hood over his face to mask his features. As he waited in line, his heart raced, fighting back tears as he gazed at his brother. Ah, there was a touch of frost about him, and lines in his face now. He hoped he would have a chance to tease him about those. What if he rejected him, turned him away, reviled him? He would bear it, for now Vax had looked upon his face once more.
After an agony of waiting, he was brought before Marit, and kneeled before his liege.
"Well sir, and what is your petition?" asked Marit, a bit wearily, but not unkindly.
Vax bowed his head, then throwing back his hood, he raised one hand to touch the lobe of his ear and whispered. "Are you angry with me for the loss of your black bird? If so, I petition your forgiveness."
The king's face turned sheer white as he stared at him and involuntarily gasped out. "Oh gods! Can it be?! Vax!"
####
Vax had much to explain, but he need not have doubted Marit's love. A more joyful reunion could not be imagined.
He spent long hours in Marit's company and then with the rest of his family, telling them a version of his story that could be understood. Vax was very pleased to meet his son, who at first exuded a mixture of subtle hostility and longing towards Vax, making interactions a bit difficult.
"You're lucky I had seniority and could get a field commission," Sarita remarked during the second week of his return. "I have a degree in psychology, I can help you understand these things."
"What do I care about this – psychology?" asked Vax, tossing her onto the bed laughingly. "I'm a prince and everyone shall do as I command."
"Oh, indeed, sir," she mocked him, as she bounced up and grabbed him by the hair, wrestling him into submission, "once a prince, always a prince, is that how it is?"
"Ow," protested Vax, as he let her have her way, "I hope you don't intend to behave like this in front of our children."
"Every chance I get," murmured Sarita.
It's the binding of the breast
and the bleeding of the womb
that's the hardest for a woman of the moon.
If smiths had any sense, they'd never shape
the plate according to a woman's chest,
or else fell blows would glance toward the chin;
and if the day were wet, the stub of cloth
should slip instead of stick within the ring
and never was a red day dry as flame.
Oh! and don't forget
there's the pennyroyal cup --
warrioress, more than battle,
a virgin mother's necessary loss,
it terrifies and amazes,
it terrifies -- and amazes...
eventually, it amazes.
and the bleeding of the womb
that's the hardest for a woman of the moon.
If smiths had any sense, they'd never shape
the plate according to a woman's chest,
or else fell blows would glance toward the chin;
and if the day were wet, the stub of cloth
should slip instead of stick within the ring
and never was a red day dry as flame.
Oh! and don't forget
there's the pennyroyal cup --
warrioress, more than battle,
a virgin mother's necessary loss,
it terrifies and amazes,
it terrifies -- and amazes...
eventually, it amazes.
