LMS Writing Part 6
Yaaaay, the madness won't ever stop.
Chapter 19: Borders, Part 4 (1,034 words): Day 8 of NaNo 2017! There will never be enough character death to compensate for the ones I'm adding.
Spoiler! :
Karikoff stumbled forward, clutching the sword embedded in his gust. The color drained from his face for the split second in which horror captured him in its arms, and he looked up at his murdered in an expression that quickly turned to fury. "You bastard," he said, spitting blood on the ground.
The killer took his helmet off. "It's always handy to have the element of surprise," Kasimir said. "I would've been that hapless man if I hadn't already tried something like this on The Mad King." He gestured to the messenger, who scrambled onto his feet and, with a nod from Kasimir, sprinted as fast as his legs would talk him.
Karikoff fell onto his side, head resting next to Kasimir's boot. "This doesn't hurt," Karikoff whispered, anger fading away and being replaced by a pallid calmness. "Not as much as I thought it would."
Squatting, Kasimir stared right at Karikoff's listless eyes. "It's done me a lot of damage," Kasimir confessed. "Cath can throw in one of his own puppets."
Rolling his eyes, Karikoff coughed more blood, which ran down his chin. "You're so important," he said weakly, rolling his eyes. The electricity around him waned to the occasional bright spark, Kasimir waving it away with his hands. "I - just wanted them to pay."
"If you had listened," Kasimir growled, "They would've."
"Not soon enough," replied Karikoff, wiping the blood on his face with an errant hand and looking at the results. "Will I see her?"
Kasimir stood up and shrugged. "No reason why you shouldn't."
Laughing, Karikoff tried to pull the sword from his stomach. He winced. "Best to have died by my King's hand, then?" Karikoff spasmed, somewhat out of mirth. His increasingly misty eyes seemed to be observing something beyond the world. In his laugh, he acted as though he were sharing a joke with whoever he was hurtling towards, like there was something funny in his own death. "I wish I'd done more."
"You've done enough," Kasimir said, reaching down to cover Karikoff's eyes. "Rest."
"I could've - killed - all those bastards - not the plan - but," Karikoff whispered, voice becoming increasingly faint. "Make them - pay - make those bastards pay." His spasming withered, and soon he breathed no more.
Kasimir sighed, wrenching the sword and axe from Karikoff's cold, dead hands, after putting on his helmet again. "I will," he breathed. Swiveling around, he marched off, trying and failing to scrape the blood from the weapons. The mess would have to be dealt with later, Kasimir reasoned. He had fairly good chances of being caught already, and he didn't want to waste his time. Slipping each underneath the backplate of his armor, he pulled a strand of rope from his pocket and wrapped it around his midsection, tying a knot at the space of the hole. Hopefully nobody would pay close attention.
He hated killing, but he did what he had to do. Karikoff had been an obstacle in the road to his country's survival, and he never much liked obstacles.
"Keep yourself calm. You're only tiring yourself out by sprinting that much."
Alarick, wooden sword raised, stood opposite Jonathan, who sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Jonathan's eyes narrowed, and then he dashed towards Alarick, the former's sword thrusting forward at the last second.
Deflecting the blow, Alarick kicked back Jonathan as the latter collided into him. Jonathan flew back, landing on the ground and rolling. "You're predictable!" Alarick shouted in frustration as Jonathan, clutching his chest with one hand, tried to pull himself up with the other. "You can't win with only one strategy!"
Wrath in his eyes, Jonathan hauled himself onto his feet, clutching the sword even tighter. He sprinted at Alarick again, raising his weapon. Alarick attempted to counter, but Jonathan turned sharply to the right, causing Alarick to nearly throw himself forward. It was only Alarick's quick readjustment that kept him from falling over, whereupon he happily shoved into Jonathan, who had been attempting a strike.
Caught by an elbow to the chest, Jonathan staggered back, clutching desperately for air. Gritting his teeth, he flung his sword at Alarick. "That never works," Alarick chided, swatting the sword out of the air with his own, as though Jonathan's were a toy. "If you want to learn how to fight up close, you need to stop thinking like an archer.
"Worked for me so far," Jonathan replied, coughing. He made to run over and pick up his sword, but Alarick kicked it aside.
"Versatility is handy," Alarick said, scowling in response to Jonathan's glare. Alarick pointed his sword at Jonathan's chest. "5-0."
Jonathan threw up his arms. "You win. So be it. I'm done." He tried to walk off, but Alarick grabbed him by the back of his shirt.
"You need to learn," Alarick said, ignoring Jonathan's thrashing as he reached for a book on a table. Whirling Jonathan around, Alarick pushed it into his chest. "A strong body is nothing without a strong mind. And, though you haven't broken much of a sweat, perhaps you're better focusing on the pen than the sword."
Grabbing the book, Jonathan again tried to walk away. "Don't disobey me," Alarick boomed, pushing Jonathan onto the ground and flipping open the book. "Read."
Jonathan complied, scanning through the pages. Each was on the military, whether in tacticians, battles, or key strategies. "How did they train you?" he asked bitterly, after some time.
Alarick laughed. "It was worse," he said. "I went to the best academy they had, and they wanted to break every bone in my body to see how I could handle it. It wasn't allowed, but they came close. Literally or otherwise." In the candlelight, he looked eerie and distant, watching the horizon where the sun had set an hour or two ago.
"Any regrets?" Jonathan asked, scrunching his face as he tried to comprehend the tiny writing.
"It wasn't my choice," replied Alarick, now watching the stars. "They forced me into it."
"And this is...?" said Jonathan, pointing to himself.
"What is necessary," barked Alarick. Their gazes warred with each other. "And you had better not forget that."
The killer took his helmet off. "It's always handy to have the element of surprise," Kasimir said. "I would've been that hapless man if I hadn't already tried something like this on The Mad King." He gestured to the messenger, who scrambled onto his feet and, with a nod from Kasimir, sprinted as fast as his legs would talk him.
Karikoff fell onto his side, head resting next to Kasimir's boot. "This doesn't hurt," Karikoff whispered, anger fading away and being replaced by a pallid calmness. "Not as much as I thought it would."
Squatting, Kasimir stared right at Karikoff's listless eyes. "It's done me a lot of damage," Kasimir confessed. "Cath can throw in one of his own puppets."
Rolling his eyes, Karikoff coughed more blood, which ran down his chin. "You're so important," he said weakly, rolling his eyes. The electricity around him waned to the occasional bright spark, Kasimir waving it away with his hands. "I - just wanted them to pay."
"If you had listened," Kasimir growled, "They would've."
"Not soon enough," replied Karikoff, wiping the blood on his face with an errant hand and looking at the results. "Will I see her?"
Kasimir stood up and shrugged. "No reason why you shouldn't."
Laughing, Karikoff tried to pull the sword from his stomach. He winced. "Best to have died by my King's hand, then?" Karikoff spasmed, somewhat out of mirth. His increasingly misty eyes seemed to be observing something beyond the world. In his laugh, he acted as though he were sharing a joke with whoever he was hurtling towards, like there was something funny in his own death. "I wish I'd done more."
"You've done enough," Kasimir said, reaching down to cover Karikoff's eyes. "Rest."
"I could've - killed - all those bastards - not the plan - but," Karikoff whispered, voice becoming increasingly faint. "Make them - pay - make those bastards pay." His spasming withered, and soon he breathed no more.
Kasimir sighed, wrenching the sword and axe from Karikoff's cold, dead hands, after putting on his helmet again. "I will," he breathed. Swiveling around, he marched off, trying and failing to scrape the blood from the weapons. The mess would have to be dealt with later, Kasimir reasoned. He had fairly good chances of being caught already, and he didn't want to waste his time. Slipping each underneath the backplate of his armor, he pulled a strand of rope from his pocket and wrapped it around his midsection, tying a knot at the space of the hole. Hopefully nobody would pay close attention.
He hated killing, but he did what he had to do. Karikoff had been an obstacle in the road to his country's survival, and he never much liked obstacles.
******
"Keep yourself calm. You're only tiring yourself out by sprinting that much."
Alarick, wooden sword raised, stood opposite Jonathan, who sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Jonathan's eyes narrowed, and then he dashed towards Alarick, the former's sword thrusting forward at the last second.
Deflecting the blow, Alarick kicked back Jonathan as the latter collided into him. Jonathan flew back, landing on the ground and rolling. "You're predictable!" Alarick shouted in frustration as Jonathan, clutching his chest with one hand, tried to pull himself up with the other. "You can't win with only one strategy!"
Wrath in his eyes, Jonathan hauled himself onto his feet, clutching the sword even tighter. He sprinted at Alarick again, raising his weapon. Alarick attempted to counter, but Jonathan turned sharply to the right, causing Alarick to nearly throw himself forward. It was only Alarick's quick readjustment that kept him from falling over, whereupon he happily shoved into Jonathan, who had been attempting a strike.
Caught by an elbow to the chest, Jonathan staggered back, clutching desperately for air. Gritting his teeth, he flung his sword at Alarick. "That never works," Alarick chided, swatting the sword out of the air with his own, as though Jonathan's were a toy. "If you want to learn how to fight up close, you need to stop thinking like an archer.
"Worked for me so far," Jonathan replied, coughing. He made to run over and pick up his sword, but Alarick kicked it aside.
"Versatility is handy," Alarick said, scowling in response to Jonathan's glare. Alarick pointed his sword at Jonathan's chest. "5-0."
Jonathan threw up his arms. "You win. So be it. I'm done." He tried to walk off, but Alarick grabbed him by the back of his shirt.
"You need to learn," Alarick said, ignoring Jonathan's thrashing as he reached for a book on a table. Whirling Jonathan around, Alarick pushed it into his chest. "A strong body is nothing without a strong mind. And, though you haven't broken much of a sweat, perhaps you're better focusing on the pen than the sword."
Grabbing the book, Jonathan again tried to walk away. "Don't disobey me," Alarick boomed, pushing Jonathan onto the ground and flipping open the book. "Read."
Jonathan complied, scanning through the pages. Each was on the military, whether in tacticians, battles, or key strategies. "How did they train you?" he asked bitterly, after some time.
Alarick laughed. "It was worse," he said. "I went to the best academy they had, and they wanted to break every bone in my body to see how I could handle it. It wasn't allowed, but they came close. Literally or otherwise." In the candlelight, he looked eerie and distant, watching the horizon where the sun had set an hour or two ago.
"Any regrets?" Jonathan asked, scrunching his face as he tried to comprehend the tiny writing.
"It wasn't my choice," replied Alarick, now watching the stars. "They forced me into it."
"And this is...?" said Jonathan, pointing to himself.
"What is necessary," barked Alarick. Their gazes warred with each other. "And you had better not forget that."
Chapter 19: Borders, Part 5 (1,037 words): Day 9 of NaNo 2017! I'm wondering if I can enter the second part into the YWS Birthday Week contest, so I think I'll abstain from putting it here until the 14th.
EDIT: Here we are!
Spoiler! :
"You're not dead yet," Jonathan commented, somewhat happy (though he dared not show it) to have a distraction from reading. He'd been taught over the past couple of years - mostly due to Terasu and Rowland's mutual dismay that he hadn't learned in the mudpit he'd called a home - but still struggled with the longer words.
"I'm old," Alarick said scornfully. "And my line of work keeps death at my heels."
Jonathan hated Alarick's pessimism; it never proved inspirational, nor did it make him look like a leader. Then again, at least Alarick stayed true to himself. "I still won't be a leader."
Spotting something out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan snapped the book shut and rolled before Alarick could hit him over the head with a wooden sword. "I never was," Alarick said menacingly, kicking the other sword to Jonathan, who stood up and picked it off from the ground. "I've only been an anchor, and that's worked fine."
Jonathan sprinted forward, waving his sword in an arc over his head. He switched his trajectory from Alarick's head to his shoulder at the last second, but Alarick still stepped aside and blocked the blow, sending Jonathan careening off to the side. "1-0," Alarick said, as Jonathan whirled around. "If you want to disarm me, be less predictable."
"This isn't a fair fight," Jonathan said, voice deepening. He began to run in a tight circle around Alarick, looking for a chance to strike.
"2-0," Alarick monotoned, striking Jonathan in the shin with his foot. Staggering, Jonathan stopped and moved away. "Fighting isn't fair."
"You can't stand there like a rock," Jonathan replied, going in for another attack and feinting towards Alarick's midsection. Alarick swung out his sword, and Jonathan dodged it at the last second, aiming for Alarick's extended arm.
Alarick laughed as he pushed himself forward, crashing into Jonathan. "I've always been an anchor," he said, watching Jonathan's sword fly off backwards. "3-0."
Jonathan dashed after his sword, realizing that heavy footsteps followed him. "It's a coward's move," said Jonathan. He snatched up his sword in one graceful movement, but was wholly unsurprised to feel the blunt point of a sword against his back.
"4-0," Alarick said. "I've been taunted far too many times."
"Did Rowland ever mock your fear?" Jonathan shouted, swinging around to aim for Alarick's forehead. Caught off guard, the stunned Alarick had only the reaction time to step back, not fast enough to pull his sword towards his face. Jonathan's sword clipped the edge of his nose. "4-1." Breathing in deeply, Jonathan slouched, feeling a pit in his stomach.
In the light of the candles, Alarick looked pale and somber. "I had expected more from you."
Sitting down, Jonathan sighed and stared at the ground. "You said fighting isn't fair," he said half-heartedly, setting the sword beside him. Rowland's cheery visage and red hair played out in his mind, repeating itself in the setting of hills, plains, mountains, and rivers.
"He was like a son to me," Alarick whispered, looming over Jonathan. A tear slipped down his face. "I am not a caring man, but I tried to be, for him. If you refuse to respect that, I don't see why I bother with you." He picked up Jonathan's sword.
Jonathan didn't respond as Alarick poked his chest. "5-1. We're done." Alarick threw the sword off in a fit of rage and walked away.
"I won't play your game," Jonathan mumbled, when he was certain Alarick was gone. "He was my friend. I can't follow his spirit. Especially not for you."
"Are they not lovely?"
Seated on his throne, the King of Exedor relaxed on an array of colorful pillows, his young daughter resting on one knee. His green and blue robes blended with the cushions, leaving a homogeneous color pattern broken only by the silver crown poised atop his messy hair.
The well-dressed audience, assembled in the massive ballroom, watched the jesters at the center. The trio, wearing colorful outfits, summoned flames to create the image of a soaring bird speeding around the ceiling. Applause echoed through the space as the bird traced figure eights and flipped upside down, among other tricks. Embers drifted towards the ground, crushed into oblivion by the few guards who coated them in the flakes of ice they summoned.
The young Eremia watched mesmerized, her four-year-old eyes bulging. She shouted with glee as the bird zoomed overhead, her father brushing away any embers long before they reached her.
On the other royal seat, Eurynome laughed sweetly, cradling a swaddled infant in her thin arms. "All for you, my princess," she said, the voice almost wiped away by the sounds of the audience.
Eremia tried to push herself off her father's knee, but he held her back. "It's dangerous," he said. "You needn't want to-"
He stopped. Everyone stopped talking, moving, breathing. Color drained from the room, turning it black and white. The windows were consumed by a darkness that seeped from the curtains partly covering them, leaving no indication that there was ever an outside world.
Startled, Eremia pushed aside her father's arm and rose, finding herself to be a teenager again. She wheeled around to find his cheerful, gracious face frozen in time, smiling down at where his daughter had been.
Trying not to panic, she took a deep breath. This was clearly a dream, and she happened to be a lucid dreamer. To test out her talents, she glared at the bird over her head. It gradually regained all the tones of fire, eventually sprouting to life once more. The creature shrank in size as it neared her, perching on her shoulder and making the shrill cry of an eagle. There wasn't a burn in her clothes.
Eremia stepped down the stairs towards the floor, passing over the blue carpet. "What else did happen here?" she asked aloud. "I wish that I remembered more."
Her voice echoed off the walls. Not a response came back. Eremia walked up to one of the revelers, flicking his nose. The jolly-faced man remained unresponsive, caught in the middle of downing a glass of wine (he held another in his other hand).
"Foolish."
"I'm old," Alarick said scornfully. "And my line of work keeps death at my heels."
Jonathan hated Alarick's pessimism; it never proved inspirational, nor did it make him look like a leader. Then again, at least Alarick stayed true to himself. "I still won't be a leader."
Spotting something out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan snapped the book shut and rolled before Alarick could hit him over the head with a wooden sword. "I never was," Alarick said menacingly, kicking the other sword to Jonathan, who stood up and picked it off from the ground. "I've only been an anchor, and that's worked fine."
Jonathan sprinted forward, waving his sword in an arc over his head. He switched his trajectory from Alarick's head to his shoulder at the last second, but Alarick still stepped aside and blocked the blow, sending Jonathan careening off to the side. "1-0," Alarick said, as Jonathan whirled around. "If you want to disarm me, be less predictable."
"This isn't a fair fight," Jonathan said, voice deepening. He began to run in a tight circle around Alarick, looking for a chance to strike.
"2-0," Alarick monotoned, striking Jonathan in the shin with his foot. Staggering, Jonathan stopped and moved away. "Fighting isn't fair."
"You can't stand there like a rock," Jonathan replied, going in for another attack and feinting towards Alarick's midsection. Alarick swung out his sword, and Jonathan dodged it at the last second, aiming for Alarick's extended arm.
Alarick laughed as he pushed himself forward, crashing into Jonathan. "I've always been an anchor," he said, watching Jonathan's sword fly off backwards. "3-0."
Jonathan dashed after his sword, realizing that heavy footsteps followed him. "It's a coward's move," said Jonathan. He snatched up his sword in one graceful movement, but was wholly unsurprised to feel the blunt point of a sword against his back.
"4-0," Alarick said. "I've been taunted far too many times."
"Did Rowland ever mock your fear?" Jonathan shouted, swinging around to aim for Alarick's forehead. Caught off guard, the stunned Alarick had only the reaction time to step back, not fast enough to pull his sword towards his face. Jonathan's sword clipped the edge of his nose. "4-1." Breathing in deeply, Jonathan slouched, feeling a pit in his stomach.
In the light of the candles, Alarick looked pale and somber. "I had expected more from you."
Sitting down, Jonathan sighed and stared at the ground. "You said fighting isn't fair," he said half-heartedly, setting the sword beside him. Rowland's cheery visage and red hair played out in his mind, repeating itself in the setting of hills, plains, mountains, and rivers.
"He was like a son to me," Alarick whispered, looming over Jonathan. A tear slipped down his face. "I am not a caring man, but I tried to be, for him. If you refuse to respect that, I don't see why I bother with you." He picked up Jonathan's sword.
Jonathan didn't respond as Alarick poked his chest. "5-1. We're done." Alarick threw the sword off in a fit of rage and walked away.
"I won't play your game," Jonathan mumbled, when he was certain Alarick was gone. "He was my friend. I can't follow his spirit. Especially not for you."
******
"Are they not lovely?"
Seated on his throne, the King of Exedor relaxed on an array of colorful pillows, his young daughter resting on one knee. His green and blue robes blended with the cushions, leaving a homogeneous color pattern broken only by the silver crown poised atop his messy hair.
The well-dressed audience, assembled in the massive ballroom, watched the jesters at the center. The trio, wearing colorful outfits, summoned flames to create the image of a soaring bird speeding around the ceiling. Applause echoed through the space as the bird traced figure eights and flipped upside down, among other tricks. Embers drifted towards the ground, crushed into oblivion by the few guards who coated them in the flakes of ice they summoned.
The young Eremia watched mesmerized, her four-year-old eyes bulging. She shouted with glee as the bird zoomed overhead, her father brushing away any embers long before they reached her.
On the other royal seat, Eurynome laughed sweetly, cradling a swaddled infant in her thin arms. "All for you, my princess," she said, the voice almost wiped away by the sounds of the audience.
Eremia tried to push herself off her father's knee, but he held her back. "It's dangerous," he said. "You needn't want to-"
He stopped. Everyone stopped talking, moving, breathing. Color drained from the room, turning it black and white. The windows were consumed by a darkness that seeped from the curtains partly covering them, leaving no indication that there was ever an outside world.
Startled, Eremia pushed aside her father's arm and rose, finding herself to be a teenager again. She wheeled around to find his cheerful, gracious face frozen in time, smiling down at where his daughter had been.
Trying not to panic, she took a deep breath. This was clearly a dream, and she happened to be a lucid dreamer. To test out her talents, she glared at the bird over her head. It gradually regained all the tones of fire, eventually sprouting to life once more. The creature shrank in size as it neared her, perching on her shoulder and making the shrill cry of an eagle. There wasn't a burn in her clothes.
Eremia stepped down the stairs towards the floor, passing over the blue carpet. "What else did happen here?" she asked aloud. "I wish that I remembered more."
Her voice echoed off the walls. Not a response came back. Eremia walked up to one of the revelers, flicking his nose. The jolly-faced man remained unresponsive, caught in the middle of downing a glass of wine (he held another in his other hand).
"Foolish."
Chapter 19: Borders, Part 5 (1,023 words): Day 10 of NaNo 2017! This includes the rest of the birthday celebration/dream sequence thing, so I'll abstain from posting it here until the 14th as well.
EDIT: Yay! Here we are!
Spoiler! :
Unlike all the other noises she'd heard thus far, this shot through the setting without an echo, as though it were an arrow aimed directly at her. She flinched as it clapped around her eardrums, the flaming bird on her arm crying out in alarm and beating its wings dangerously (if this were not a dream) close to her hair. Eremia scanned the faces of the frozen partygoers, looking for some detail out of place - an object, a person, even hints of light or wind. Nothing save eerie footsteps greeted her efforts, and they appeared to be coming from behind a closed door to her right. She knew, from the times she had spent in the mansion, that there was a long hallway leading out to an open garden behind that entrance. Indeed, hints of sweet flowers tinged the air.
"Little!" the voice said, the word slicing through the air like its predecessor. The footsteps stopped. Eremia, heart beating rapidly, pointed towards the thickset door. Squawking, the bird arced above her head, landing briefly on her index finger before it launched itself to the entrance. She retracted her hand in surprise, holding it firmly in the other as she inspected the fingers for any damage. One felt hot, but there wasn’t any harm done – she muttered to herself a vague excuse about being surprised, embarrassed at forgetting where she was.
The bird's wings stuck into the entrance, burning holes through the wood. An acrid smell emanated over the ballroom, causing Eremia to wrinkle her nose in disgust when she looked up from her hand. She gasped in alarm when she saw flames, but knew that there was no point in holding back. This was all fake, after all, and she wanted to get to the heart of the matter. On hearing her shout, the bird briefly stopped and looked at her, waiting for her approval; she nodded, and it persisted.
By the time the two oversized wings had eaten their way through most of the door, the footsteps resumed. The doorknob trembled, like someone were handling it delicately. Panicked and sweating, Eremia willed the bird to triple its size. Its cry grew deeper as it complied, shoving its way through the gaps it had made in the wood. As soon as the door started to swing open, it exploded in a shower of flaming splinters, shooting both into the hall and the room.
Eremia ducked, falling to her knees and covering her head with her arms. The cloud of smoke and timber exploded over her head, drowning out her ears in their sharp noise. Though she avoided most of the blast, the overwhelming force was enough to break her position, catching her in the chest. Her vision spun as she was thrust back, head landing harshly on the wooden floor.
And then it arrived, and she felt like she was right back in the wagon. As she stared at the ceiling, feeling like somebody had split her head open, she could see Jonah (or what was once him, but she found it easier to call the disheveled creature by the identity it stole), glaring at her with lifeless eyes. It held the weakened, frail, small bird in one hand, throwing it to the side as their eyes met. She was so tired and surprised that she couldn’t say a word, much less call the bird back into play.
The blues, reds, greens, and other colors of the ballroom seeped back from around Jonah's head, consuming their surroundings slowly. Its scowl deepened; the frown seemed to be saying that she was a nuisance, one that should stay away from it and its plans. That was how her mind perceived the gaze - as she realized, her brain was picking up words in Jonah's voice, though Jonah never opened its mouth.
It leaned over in Jonah's normal, childish fashion, and reached out to touch her forehead. "Girl!" it shouted at last, booming through the scene and reanimating all the onlookers. Colors burst out of the walls and people in a kaleidoscopic effect, settling back down as the rest of the memory fell on Eremia.
And then she was a child again, sitting on her father's knee. The bird, back to its grand stature, passed by once more, ballooning in size and exploding into the images of numerous small doves. The audience cheered as the jesters beckoned for the doves to come closer. Each burst into small balls of fire on contact with the jesters' hands, shrinking as the grip around each one grew tighter. A round of applause greeted the showmen as the last of the fire dissipated, their light replaced by the brilliant gleam of numerous candles superimposed on the chandelier and scattered among the walls, casting a myriad of lively shadows.
The jesters bowed, one at a time, waiting for the clapping and cheering to desist. One, in a loud, high-pitched voice, struck up a conversation with the King. Eremia's four-year-old mind was too awed by the sight of the glorious bird to understand a word; mostly, she felt disappointed that it had gone.
"Come now, you need your rest," said a maid, picking up Eremia and lifting her away from her father, who was laughing heartily. The maid set Eremia on the ground, taking her hand as they walked off to the side. Guards stood at attention, fists closed around their spears and sword hilts as they parted to make way for the duo, who proceeded down the steps and arrived at the door.
Pushing the door open, the maid led Eremia down the long, dimly-lit hallway, towards a garden illuminated by the moons and the night sky.
The edges of the world began to fray. The tapestry that was the memory tore at itself, making the setting vaguer and cloudier. Growing older by the second (she didn't know how else to think of it, other than that she was pulling away from the memory and back towards lucidity), Eremia easily wrenched her hand from the maid's. She sprinted for the garden, trying to outpace the wall of dense fog that consumed the hallway. It sped ahead of her, however, and she awoke, seconds away from bursting into the garden and touching the green leaves of the spring trees.
"Little!" the voice said, the word slicing through the air like its predecessor. The footsteps stopped. Eremia, heart beating rapidly, pointed towards the thickset door. Squawking, the bird arced above her head, landing briefly on her index finger before it launched itself to the entrance. She retracted her hand in surprise, holding it firmly in the other as she inspected the fingers for any damage. One felt hot, but there wasn’t any harm done – she muttered to herself a vague excuse about being surprised, embarrassed at forgetting where she was.
The bird's wings stuck into the entrance, burning holes through the wood. An acrid smell emanated over the ballroom, causing Eremia to wrinkle her nose in disgust when she looked up from her hand. She gasped in alarm when she saw flames, but knew that there was no point in holding back. This was all fake, after all, and she wanted to get to the heart of the matter. On hearing her shout, the bird briefly stopped and looked at her, waiting for her approval; she nodded, and it persisted.
By the time the two oversized wings had eaten their way through most of the door, the footsteps resumed. The doorknob trembled, like someone were handling it delicately. Panicked and sweating, Eremia willed the bird to triple its size. Its cry grew deeper as it complied, shoving its way through the gaps it had made in the wood. As soon as the door started to swing open, it exploded in a shower of flaming splinters, shooting both into the hall and the room.
Eremia ducked, falling to her knees and covering her head with her arms. The cloud of smoke and timber exploded over her head, drowning out her ears in their sharp noise. Though she avoided most of the blast, the overwhelming force was enough to break her position, catching her in the chest. Her vision spun as she was thrust back, head landing harshly on the wooden floor.
And then it arrived, and she felt like she was right back in the wagon. As she stared at the ceiling, feeling like somebody had split her head open, she could see Jonah (or what was once him, but she found it easier to call the disheveled creature by the identity it stole), glaring at her with lifeless eyes. It held the weakened, frail, small bird in one hand, throwing it to the side as their eyes met. She was so tired and surprised that she couldn’t say a word, much less call the bird back into play.
The blues, reds, greens, and other colors of the ballroom seeped back from around Jonah's head, consuming their surroundings slowly. Its scowl deepened; the frown seemed to be saying that she was a nuisance, one that should stay away from it and its plans. That was how her mind perceived the gaze - as she realized, her brain was picking up words in Jonah's voice, though Jonah never opened its mouth.
It leaned over in Jonah's normal, childish fashion, and reached out to touch her forehead. "Girl!" it shouted at last, booming through the scene and reanimating all the onlookers. Colors burst out of the walls and people in a kaleidoscopic effect, settling back down as the rest of the memory fell on Eremia.
And then she was a child again, sitting on her father's knee. The bird, back to its grand stature, passed by once more, ballooning in size and exploding into the images of numerous small doves. The audience cheered as the jesters beckoned for the doves to come closer. Each burst into small balls of fire on contact with the jesters' hands, shrinking as the grip around each one grew tighter. A round of applause greeted the showmen as the last of the fire dissipated, their light replaced by the brilliant gleam of numerous candles superimposed on the chandelier and scattered among the walls, casting a myriad of lively shadows.
The jesters bowed, one at a time, waiting for the clapping and cheering to desist. One, in a loud, high-pitched voice, struck up a conversation with the King. Eremia's four-year-old mind was too awed by the sight of the glorious bird to understand a word; mostly, she felt disappointed that it had gone.
"Come now, you need your rest," said a maid, picking up Eremia and lifting her away from her father, who was laughing heartily. The maid set Eremia on the ground, taking her hand as they walked off to the side. Guards stood at attention, fists closed around their spears and sword hilts as they parted to make way for the duo, who proceeded down the steps and arrived at the door.
Pushing the door open, the maid led Eremia down the long, dimly-lit hallway, towards a garden illuminated by the moons and the night sky.
The edges of the world began to fray. The tapestry that was the memory tore at itself, making the setting vaguer and cloudier. Growing older by the second (she didn't know how else to think of it, other than that she was pulling away from the memory and back towards lucidity), Eremia easily wrenched her hand from the maid's. She sprinted for the garden, trying to outpace the wall of dense fog that consumed the hallway. It sped ahead of her, however, and she awoke, seconds away from bursting into the garden and touching the green leaves of the spring trees.
Chapter 20: Given, Part 1 (547 words): Day 11 of NaNo 2017! I didn't have much time and so had to write at the last minute, so it's probably not good, but eh. Thank goodness for buffers.
Spoiler! :
“That’s all I missed?” said Katerina playfully, propping her elbows on a box and her head on her hands. “You’ve made a great enemy.”
“Does she have to be an enemy?” Eremia asked, turning her head around. The hour she’d spent practicing with Iasquam sapped her already poor energy (she was not a morning person), and the drills that he was attempting to teach her had already become lost in the tangles of her memory. For his part, he was sitting cross-legged on the ground, waiting patiently for their break to end. She could feel his soft eyes on the back of her head, but chose to ignore any suggestions he might have until later.
Katerina thought for a moment, staring at the early morning sky. Pinks and reds tinged the edge of the vast, empty landscape. “Terasu holds grudges, and the word is that she blames you for Rowland’s death.”
Scoffing, Eremia turned back. Iasquam nodded and rose, his stick at the ready. “What does she think of me? I have little reason to hate her, cross as she might be, but I would not like to play this spiteful game.”
The clack! of wood against wood emanated into the surroundings as the exercise started.
“You were the closest when Jonah – well – you know,” Katerina said slowly.
Eremia hated thinking about that ugly night and all of its bitter consequences. She scowled as Iasquam parried a shot aimed for his legs. “Does she believe I caused it?”
“Maybe?” said Katerina.
“She visits the hospital often,” Yorew said, striding from behind a tent to where the rectangular training grounds were set. “She’s not well. Don’t worry yourself about her.”
Iasquam bowed to Yorew as the latter entered. This gesture led Iasquam to lose his focus long enough for Eremia to hit him over the head. She blushed and retreated, but said nothing.
“I couldn’t hear you at all!” Katerina said in alarm as Yorew sat on the ground next to her. “I guess you’ve come to watch?”
Yorew nodded.
“Be that as it may,” Eremia said, as the exercise resumed, “Terasu is still a general. I have suspicions Alarick does not much like me either.”
“By all my accounts, he’s fuming,” Katerina said, laughing. “He hates it when things go on behind his back.”
A warm wind blew from the south, sprinkling sand into Eremia’s eyes. She raised her hand for Iasquam to halt. Wiping the sand from her eyes, she blinked out the tears and moved so that her back would face the wind. Iasquam took an opposing position in response. “I have my own cause,” remarked Eremia, dodging her opponent’s stick and narrowly clipping a wing with her own, “And, though I may be trained here, I have my own authority.”
Suddenly, Iasquam desisted, making one more attempt at a strike. He took a few steps back and sat down, sighing.
Eremia raised an eyebrow. “Something amiss?”
He looked up from the ground to her, eyes slightly red. “Am I doing well? I don’t know how experienced you are, but I’d like to think you shouldn’t be able to hit me at all.”
Sighing, Eremia said, “I was given cursory lessons by the teachers in my castle. Besides, I just grazed you, and only once.”
“Does she have to be an enemy?” Eremia asked, turning her head around. The hour she’d spent practicing with Iasquam sapped her already poor energy (she was not a morning person), and the drills that he was attempting to teach her had already become lost in the tangles of her memory. For his part, he was sitting cross-legged on the ground, waiting patiently for their break to end. She could feel his soft eyes on the back of her head, but chose to ignore any suggestions he might have until later.
Katerina thought for a moment, staring at the early morning sky. Pinks and reds tinged the edge of the vast, empty landscape. “Terasu holds grudges, and the word is that she blames you for Rowland’s death.”
Scoffing, Eremia turned back. Iasquam nodded and rose, his stick at the ready. “What does she think of me? I have little reason to hate her, cross as she might be, but I would not like to play this spiteful game.”
The clack! of wood against wood emanated into the surroundings as the exercise started.
“You were the closest when Jonah – well – you know,” Katerina said slowly.
Eremia hated thinking about that ugly night and all of its bitter consequences. She scowled as Iasquam parried a shot aimed for his legs. “Does she believe I caused it?”
“Maybe?” said Katerina.
“She visits the hospital often,” Yorew said, striding from behind a tent to where the rectangular training grounds were set. “She’s not well. Don’t worry yourself about her.”
Iasquam bowed to Yorew as the latter entered. This gesture led Iasquam to lose his focus long enough for Eremia to hit him over the head. She blushed and retreated, but said nothing.
“I couldn’t hear you at all!” Katerina said in alarm as Yorew sat on the ground next to her. “I guess you’ve come to watch?”
Yorew nodded.
“Be that as it may,” Eremia said, as the exercise resumed, “Terasu is still a general. I have suspicions Alarick does not much like me either.”
“By all my accounts, he’s fuming,” Katerina said, laughing. “He hates it when things go on behind his back.”
A warm wind blew from the south, sprinkling sand into Eremia’s eyes. She raised her hand for Iasquam to halt. Wiping the sand from her eyes, she blinked out the tears and moved so that her back would face the wind. Iasquam took an opposing position in response. “I have my own cause,” remarked Eremia, dodging her opponent’s stick and narrowly clipping a wing with her own, “And, though I may be trained here, I have my own authority.”
Suddenly, Iasquam desisted, making one more attempt at a strike. He took a few steps back and sat down, sighing.
Eremia raised an eyebrow. “Something amiss?”
He looked up from the ground to her, eyes slightly red. “Am I doing well? I don’t know how experienced you are, but I’d like to think you shouldn’t be able to hit me at all.”
Sighing, Eremia said, “I was given cursory lessons by the teachers in my castle. Besides, I just grazed you, and only once.”
Chapter 20: Given, Part 2 (1,046 words): Day 12 of NaNo 2017! ANGST. I kind of like this because I want to throw some reminders that hey, Eremia is not the best at problem solving, and she's not always nice, and she can be flippant/prideful (though that doesn't make Jonathan totally right here either).
Spoiler! :
His spirits brightened somewhat. “We may continue, then” he said, voice still tinged by depression. “Ready?”
Eremia took a battle stance. “As always.”
They resumed, Eremia trying to strike at Iasquam. He deflected the blows handily. It surprised Eremia that he thought so little of himself. Were they holding real swords, and had he not been restraining himself (his attacks were slow and unwieldy), she would have fallen almost immediately. That she managed to land a blow at all was impressive, and she was certain that she would’ve never had the chance if he stopped holding himself back. His prowess seemed to be clear to everyone but himself, as Eremia could see Katerina nodding in approval beside her. Then again, he considered himself so much less talented than his sister. How strong had she been?
The air brightened as colors spilled from the heavens. When the edge of the sun burned its way into the sky, Yorew looked off to the side and said, “Your young man is here.”
“Jonathan?” Eremia asked all too happily. She completely ignored Iasquam’s accidentally hitting her on the shoulder with his stick as she watched a familiar shape step into the clearing.
Jonathan waved. There were bags under his eyes; his steps were frail and somewhat erratic. He slouched, and his hair was a mess. “Training?” he said to Eremia, raising an eyebrow.
Eremia stammered, “Yes, absolutely,” and turned to face Iasquam. She made a series of quick, furious strikes, aiming for his chest. Alarmed, Iasquam jumped a few steps back and swung outwards, knocking Eremia’s stick from her hands. It flew towards Katerina, who shouted and threw herself onto the ground.
“You don’t need to impress me,” Jonathan said softly, walking over to the tent where the stick was embedded and yanking it out.
“I had no plans to,” Eremia retorted, regaining her composure. “This is my training.”
Katerina, from where she hid behind the box, snickered. Handing Eremia the stick, Jonathan’s normal frown deepened. “Seems cruel to me.”
“Apologies,” Iasquam piped in. “I hadn’t meant to do that.”
Taking a stance between them, Eremia set down the stick and walked up to Jonathan. “I hope yesterday was not bothersome to you,” she spat out, giving him a sorrowful expression. “We have not been around each other long, so I imagine I sounded presumptuous, and -”
Jonathan went around Eremia to approach Iasquam. “It’s fine,” replied Jonathan in a voice that cracked more than usual, raising an outstretched hand to Iasquam. “I feel the same.”
Curious, Iasquam reached out with a wing and enveloped Jonathan’s hand, shaking it. “What about Terasu?” Eremia said quietly, looking away. “I suspect she does not like me.”
Yawning, Jonathan retracted his hand and stretched. “Of course not,” he said simply, “she’s told me as much. But she’s a friend.” He sat down at the edge of the battlefield, picking up small pebbles and tossing them into the sky. “And she needs someone who can be around her more.”
When Eremia, not sure what else to say, picked up her stick again, Iasquam shook his head. “We’ve had too many interruptions,” he said. “Can we find a time when you’re less busy?”
Of course this would be the morning when everyone wanted to talk to her. With the number of friends and associates she was making, that made sense to her. Still, there wasn’t a better time she could think of - the afternoons were getting hotter, and there wasn’t much respite in the evenings. Then again, she may as well get used to the weather (which she suspected would only get worse from here). “You may,” Eremia said, cutting herself off as a stray thought entered her mind. “Can you do something for me?”
Iasquam nodded apprehensively.
“Can you find Aquila? I last saw him yesterday, and I worry for him,” said Eremia, words becoming sterner as she saw Iasquam look away contemptuously. “He seems alone and depressed. So are you, as far as I can see. If nothing else, I would think you have some common ground.”
“He hates me,” Iasquam replied, still looking towards the horizon (the sun had mostly climbed into the heavens). “And I won’t respect someone as crude as him.”
“He was insecure. So are you.” Eremia gritted her teeth, causing her head to hurt slightly. “Find him and either ease his temper or bring him back, unless you would like me to kick you out of here.”
Puffing up his chest, Iasquam scowl hardened. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would,” replied Eremia. “And I will not tolerate your little feud. Go.”
Iasquam threw his stick on the ground and walked off, grumbling to himself as he did so.
“Not a good idea,” Jonathan remarked.
Catching the pebble that he threw towards her, she scoffed. “They need to learn to tolerate each other.” Walking over to where Katerina had stretched out, Eremia sat on a box and glared at no one in particular.
Jonathan hurled a pebble to the sun as he said, “You’re their common tie. And you won’t be around. They’re both aggressive. This can’t end well.”
“My hope is that their emotions are their common ground.” Now that Iasquam had left, and only Jonathan was in front of her, Eremia’s expression softened, smiling ever so slightly. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“Terasu needs someone more reliable,” replied Jonathan with a newfound coldness. “I am not that person. I told her as much.”
Eremia felt hurt; she decided to pull the conversation back to the original topic. “It is done,” she said hastily, trying to defend herself. “I would like them to at least stop being enemies.”
Jonathan sighed. “Pride is an ugly thing. They have it. So do you.” He stood up, a gust blowing through his hair. “I hope you’re right. Katerina, will you join me again?”
He gestured towards Katerina, who shook her head. “Hunting parties are boring, and I think I need to stay here.” She reached up and patted Eremia on the knee; the latter continued to stare at the ground.
“She told me not to talk to you, Eremia,” Jonathan said he walked off, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t listen to her. Just don’t escalate things and expect a solution.”
Eremia took a battle stance. “As always.”
They resumed, Eremia trying to strike at Iasquam. He deflected the blows handily. It surprised Eremia that he thought so little of himself. Were they holding real swords, and had he not been restraining himself (his attacks were slow and unwieldy), she would have fallen almost immediately. That she managed to land a blow at all was impressive, and she was certain that she would’ve never had the chance if he stopped holding himself back. His prowess seemed to be clear to everyone but himself, as Eremia could see Katerina nodding in approval beside her. Then again, he considered himself so much less talented than his sister. How strong had she been?
The air brightened as colors spilled from the heavens. When the edge of the sun burned its way into the sky, Yorew looked off to the side and said, “Your young man is here.”
“Jonathan?” Eremia asked all too happily. She completely ignored Iasquam’s accidentally hitting her on the shoulder with his stick as she watched a familiar shape step into the clearing.
Jonathan waved. There were bags under his eyes; his steps were frail and somewhat erratic. He slouched, and his hair was a mess. “Training?” he said to Eremia, raising an eyebrow.
Eremia stammered, “Yes, absolutely,” and turned to face Iasquam. She made a series of quick, furious strikes, aiming for his chest. Alarmed, Iasquam jumped a few steps back and swung outwards, knocking Eremia’s stick from her hands. It flew towards Katerina, who shouted and threw herself onto the ground.
“You don’t need to impress me,” Jonathan said softly, walking over to the tent where the stick was embedded and yanking it out.
“I had no plans to,” Eremia retorted, regaining her composure. “This is my training.”
Katerina, from where she hid behind the box, snickered. Handing Eremia the stick, Jonathan’s normal frown deepened. “Seems cruel to me.”
“Apologies,” Iasquam piped in. “I hadn’t meant to do that.”
Taking a stance between them, Eremia set down the stick and walked up to Jonathan. “I hope yesterday was not bothersome to you,” she spat out, giving him a sorrowful expression. “We have not been around each other long, so I imagine I sounded presumptuous, and -”
Jonathan went around Eremia to approach Iasquam. “It’s fine,” replied Jonathan in a voice that cracked more than usual, raising an outstretched hand to Iasquam. “I feel the same.”
Curious, Iasquam reached out with a wing and enveloped Jonathan’s hand, shaking it. “What about Terasu?” Eremia said quietly, looking away. “I suspect she does not like me.”
Yawning, Jonathan retracted his hand and stretched. “Of course not,” he said simply, “she’s told me as much. But she’s a friend.” He sat down at the edge of the battlefield, picking up small pebbles and tossing them into the sky. “And she needs someone who can be around her more.”
When Eremia, not sure what else to say, picked up her stick again, Iasquam shook his head. “We’ve had too many interruptions,” he said. “Can we find a time when you’re less busy?”
Of course this would be the morning when everyone wanted to talk to her. With the number of friends and associates she was making, that made sense to her. Still, there wasn’t a better time she could think of - the afternoons were getting hotter, and there wasn’t much respite in the evenings. Then again, she may as well get used to the weather (which she suspected would only get worse from here). “You may,” Eremia said, cutting herself off as a stray thought entered her mind. “Can you do something for me?”
Iasquam nodded apprehensively.
“Can you find Aquila? I last saw him yesterday, and I worry for him,” said Eremia, words becoming sterner as she saw Iasquam look away contemptuously. “He seems alone and depressed. So are you, as far as I can see. If nothing else, I would think you have some common ground.”
“He hates me,” Iasquam replied, still looking towards the horizon (the sun had mostly climbed into the heavens). “And I won’t respect someone as crude as him.”
“He was insecure. So are you.” Eremia gritted her teeth, causing her head to hurt slightly. “Find him and either ease his temper or bring him back, unless you would like me to kick you out of here.”
Puffing up his chest, Iasquam scowl hardened. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would,” replied Eremia. “And I will not tolerate your little feud. Go.”
Iasquam threw his stick on the ground and walked off, grumbling to himself as he did so.
“Not a good idea,” Jonathan remarked.
Catching the pebble that he threw towards her, she scoffed. “They need to learn to tolerate each other.” Walking over to where Katerina had stretched out, Eremia sat on a box and glared at no one in particular.
Jonathan hurled a pebble to the sun as he said, “You’re their common tie. And you won’t be around. They’re both aggressive. This can’t end well.”
“My hope is that their emotions are their common ground.” Now that Iasquam had left, and only Jonathan was in front of her, Eremia’s expression softened, smiling ever so slightly. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“Terasu needs someone more reliable,” replied Jonathan with a newfound coldness. “I am not that person. I told her as much.”
Eremia felt hurt; she decided to pull the conversation back to the original topic. “It is done,” she said hastily, trying to defend herself. “I would like them to at least stop being enemies.”
Jonathan sighed. “Pride is an ugly thing. They have it. So do you.” He stood up, a gust blowing through his hair. “I hope you’re right. Katerina, will you join me again?”
He gestured towards Katerina, who shook her head. “Hunting parties are boring, and I think I need to stay here.” She reached up and patted Eremia on the knee; the latter continued to stare at the ground.
“She told me not to talk to you, Eremia,” Jonathan said he walked off, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t listen to her. Just don’t escalate things and expect a solution.”
Chapter 20: Given, Part 3 (1,035 words): Day 13 of NaNo 2017! BIRBS.
Spoiler! :
For someone with keen hearing, a grudge, and the ability to fly at a moment's notice, Aquila was surprisingly easy to find - it only took about an hour for Iasquam to finally find him, lurking in the form of an eagle in a small patch of shrubbery, clearly trying to make himself look hidden. Given Aquila's size, Iasquam found it almost funny; he would've laughed if he didn't feel so bitter.
Aquila shifted to half-form and hide him among the bushes, scowling. "Have you come to say goodbye?"
"The lady wants you," Iasquam said, crossing his wings. He had not been looking forward to this conversation, and had spent his past hour conceiving what were first ways to demand an apology, followed by ways to beat Aquila in a fight. Admittedly, considering how small and ineffectual Aquila looked, Iasquam felt that wouldn't be nearly as much a challenge as he planned. As long as Aquila didn't fly, it would be easy to trap him and force him to abandon his little petty feud.
"She couldn't talk to me herself?" Aquila said indignantly, standing up. "But she sent you?"
"I was available," Iasquam said, sounding contemptuous. "You should try to be."
Giving out a cry that sounded like derision, Aquila took a few steps forward. "I've tried, but she knows how bad I am, because she picked you."
While he was leaving, Iasquam had heard something about emotional common ground. Now that he could see Aquila in front of him, managing to ruffle his feathers and have his eyes droop, the comment made more sense. Still, that wasn't an excuse for Aquila's paranoia; it was childish and petty, and beyond Iasquam's respect. "I'm her swordsman. Was that your job?" He asked with honest curiosity, but it came across as biting in the anger that spilled through him.
"No," Aquila confessed, pouting and looking away. "But you can do everything I can and more."
About to make a comment of disapproval, Iasquam decided it would be better to keep his little secret under wraps for the time being. The last thing he wanted was for Aquila to have ammunition, or some other reason to work himself up over. "What do you do?" he finally said, trying to soften his voice.
In return, Aquila exploded into a fit of rage. "I'm the messenger!" he shouted, sprinting towards Iasquam. "Just like you're trying to be!"
At least that planning wouldn't go to waste, Iasquam figured as he easily sidestepped Aquila and raised a leg. Moving too fast to correct himself, Aquila tripped and faceplanted in the earth. By now, a small crowd of bystanders had gathered, watching in curiosity. Somebody ran off, shouting some garbled phrase that sounded like a call for help.
"What is wrong with you?" Iasquam shouted in the old language, placing a clawed foot on Aquila's back. "I never meant you any harm!"
Aquila lashed out with his claws, scratching Iasquam's leg. "Since the moment you saw her you have," he spat in the same language, glaring up at Iasquam. "She probably told you about me and you decided to fix the problem, didn't you?"
Seeing the blood beginning to coat his feathers, Iasquam dug his foot down deeper, knocking the air out of Aquila's lungs. "I never even knew you existed," Iasquam said, clenching his clawed hands together to keep them from enacting the hateful dreams in him. "If you were always this mad, then perhaps I should take your place."
"I knew it," Aquila gasped, shoving his hands into the earth. He flung himself up with surprising speed, sending Iasquam falling onto the hard ground. Reaching back to check for any wounds in his back, Aquila showed his bloody claws. "You manipulated her, and you're trying to get rid of me, and too many people have tried to do that to me." He soared up before Iasquam could grab at him. "Fight me!"
A few deep breaths. Iasquam pulled a sword from its scabbard on his back, pointing it at Aquila. "No! You're a frightened child, and I will not play your little game."
"You'd better," Aquila screeched, diving down to lash at Iasquam. "Because I'm going to end this. Get up here!"
That secret started to worm its way up Iasquam's neck; he buried it, dodging Aquila's attack and scratching a leg with his sword. Drops of blood spilled onto the ground, leading some of the people among the onlookers to shout. One man ran up and grabbed Iasquam, who allowed the man to pull him away while still watching Aquila's movements. He was tired of this fight, and it appeared that Aquila had done a good amount of damage to his own reputation. It was what the child deserved, Iasquam figured.
Now Aquila appeared more desperate, as he lunged for yet another strike. He was forced back at the last minute by somebody casting a net, leading him to squawk in irritation. "Face me!" he said pleadingly as he soared up into the sky. "I - I won't stop!"
"I won't fly!" shouted Iasquam, now amongst the ground. To his right, he could hear a conversation about a healer coming. Scattered bits of dialogue bounced around in his head: Jonathan was running over, somebody had notified Eremia, Madeleine was already preparing a couple of hospital beds. He felt that it'd be more necessary for Aquila rather than himself, as he could only feel a mild pain in his leg. As for the emotional scars that were going to come out of this, Iasquam suspected that it would take far longer for Aquila to burn through the rest of his fears. Also, since the secret had almost broached Iasquam's lips, he guessed that his own stay could be a while.
"And why not?" replied Aquila, faint voice cracking as he looked around and saw the ever-growing audience. He seemed to shrink, both as he pushed his legs into his chest and as he soared upwards. "What keeps you from finishing the job?"
Well, it was endlessly embarrassing, but Aquila wouldn't mock him for it, and Iasquam thought that it might provide just enough leverage to stop him. "I'm afraid of heights!"
Aquila shifted to half-form and hide him among the bushes, scowling. "Have you come to say goodbye?"
"The lady wants you," Iasquam said, crossing his wings. He had not been looking forward to this conversation, and had spent his past hour conceiving what were first ways to demand an apology, followed by ways to beat Aquila in a fight. Admittedly, considering how small and ineffectual Aquila looked, Iasquam felt that wouldn't be nearly as much a challenge as he planned. As long as Aquila didn't fly, it would be easy to trap him and force him to abandon his little petty feud.
"She couldn't talk to me herself?" Aquila said indignantly, standing up. "But she sent you?"
"I was available," Iasquam said, sounding contemptuous. "You should try to be."
Giving out a cry that sounded like derision, Aquila took a few steps forward. "I've tried, but she knows how bad I am, because she picked you."
While he was leaving, Iasquam had heard something about emotional common ground. Now that he could see Aquila in front of him, managing to ruffle his feathers and have his eyes droop, the comment made more sense. Still, that wasn't an excuse for Aquila's paranoia; it was childish and petty, and beyond Iasquam's respect. "I'm her swordsman. Was that your job?" He asked with honest curiosity, but it came across as biting in the anger that spilled through him.
"No," Aquila confessed, pouting and looking away. "But you can do everything I can and more."
About to make a comment of disapproval, Iasquam decided it would be better to keep his little secret under wraps for the time being. The last thing he wanted was for Aquila to have ammunition, or some other reason to work himself up over. "What do you do?" he finally said, trying to soften his voice.
In return, Aquila exploded into a fit of rage. "I'm the messenger!" he shouted, sprinting towards Iasquam. "Just like you're trying to be!"
At least that planning wouldn't go to waste, Iasquam figured as he easily sidestepped Aquila and raised a leg. Moving too fast to correct himself, Aquila tripped and faceplanted in the earth. By now, a small crowd of bystanders had gathered, watching in curiosity. Somebody ran off, shouting some garbled phrase that sounded like a call for help.
"What is wrong with you?" Iasquam shouted in the old language, placing a clawed foot on Aquila's back. "I never meant you any harm!"
Aquila lashed out with his claws, scratching Iasquam's leg. "Since the moment you saw her you have," he spat in the same language, glaring up at Iasquam. "She probably told you about me and you decided to fix the problem, didn't you?"
Seeing the blood beginning to coat his feathers, Iasquam dug his foot down deeper, knocking the air out of Aquila's lungs. "I never even knew you existed," Iasquam said, clenching his clawed hands together to keep them from enacting the hateful dreams in him. "If you were always this mad, then perhaps I should take your place."
"I knew it," Aquila gasped, shoving his hands into the earth. He flung himself up with surprising speed, sending Iasquam falling onto the hard ground. Reaching back to check for any wounds in his back, Aquila showed his bloody claws. "You manipulated her, and you're trying to get rid of me, and too many people have tried to do that to me." He soared up before Iasquam could grab at him. "Fight me!"
A few deep breaths. Iasquam pulled a sword from its scabbard on his back, pointing it at Aquila. "No! You're a frightened child, and I will not play your little game."
"You'd better," Aquila screeched, diving down to lash at Iasquam. "Because I'm going to end this. Get up here!"
That secret started to worm its way up Iasquam's neck; he buried it, dodging Aquila's attack and scratching a leg with his sword. Drops of blood spilled onto the ground, leading some of the people among the onlookers to shout. One man ran up and grabbed Iasquam, who allowed the man to pull him away while still watching Aquila's movements. He was tired of this fight, and it appeared that Aquila had done a good amount of damage to his own reputation. It was what the child deserved, Iasquam figured.
Now Aquila appeared more desperate, as he lunged for yet another strike. He was forced back at the last minute by somebody casting a net, leading him to squawk in irritation. "Face me!" he said pleadingly as he soared up into the sky. "I - I won't stop!"
"I won't fly!" shouted Iasquam, now amongst the ground. To his right, he could hear a conversation about a healer coming. Scattered bits of dialogue bounced around in his head: Jonathan was running over, somebody had notified Eremia, Madeleine was already preparing a couple of hospital beds. He felt that it'd be more necessary for Aquila rather than himself, as he could only feel a mild pain in his leg. As for the emotional scars that were going to come out of this, Iasquam suspected that it would take far longer for Aquila to burn through the rest of his fears. Also, since the secret had almost broached Iasquam's lips, he guessed that his own stay could be a while.
"And why not?" replied Aquila, faint voice cracking as he looked around and saw the ever-growing audience. He seemed to shrink, both as he pushed his legs into his chest and as he soared upwards. "What keeps you from finishing the job?"
Well, it was endlessly embarrassing, but Aquila wouldn't mock him for it, and Iasquam thought that it might provide just enough leverage to stop him. "I'm afraid of heights!"
Chapter 20: Given, Part 4 (1,088 words): Day 14 of NaNo 2017! KNIVES. Cataracts didn't help her job prospects much, but she took care of the problem/s.
Spoiler! :
Aquila stopped, hovering in the sky. "Wait, really?" he shouted (being far enough away that it sounded like a whisper). "Are you serious?"
Looking around, Iasquam feared that every pair of eyes was focused on him, and that every facial twitch was a mocking smile. He felt much smaller. "Yes!" he shouted up. To his right, a woman in a white dress pulled at his hand. Amidst the growing din of the crowd, sneaking past the beating of his own heart, she asked him if he had any injuries. Nodding, he gestured to his leg and sat down, the injured digit extended outward.
"That can't be true," Aquila responded, lowering ever so slightly. "But you didn't follow me, so that means - that means - what does that mean?"
Not sure what else to say, Iasquam watched as the woman placed a hand over his bleeding leg. He winced as he saw a bright flash, white energy emanating into the injury. The pain subsided as the woman pulled out a gauze bandage from the folds of her dress, wrapping it around the damaged area. She said something that he could distantly hear about it being minor, and that he should wash off any blood left on the wound.
Trapped in the prison that was his mind, fears bounced around Iasquam and weakened his senses. Everyone knew now that he couldn't fly - that he was afraid to fly - and that showed his weakness. As a hawk, he should be able to fly; all the friends in his old home (before he'd moved to the wasteland of southern Walenty seeking profit) had, and his sister had been the best at it (as she had been the best at everything). But he had been afraid of it since he was a small child, as he had been afraid of falling and smashing to pieces against the weight of the earth.
The malevolent thoughts ate at him. He barely noticed that Aquila had shouted something and flown off in a random direction, and that the crowd had followed him, nets and healers at the ready. Even the woman in white patting his back and trying to soothe him by suggesting he was okay proved insignificant to his mind. When he looked up again, she was gone, and so was everyone else.
He had hoped so much that he wouldn't be in pain anymore, now that he was free from his home. What a cruel world this was.
Cerin, dressed in her usual black-and-purple outfit, hid behind the dressing cabinet in her room, hoping that the lady with cataract eyes wouldn't notice her.
In the national tradition of adorning a royal's life in the color scheme of their nation, the entire room was coated in dark fineries. The thick bed, table and chair, canvas walls, and even the cabinet were black or some dark wood. Understandably, the place came across as bleak, only brightened by the shades of purple running through the rugs on the floor. Cataracts lady, dressed in blue robes, sat gracefully on the side of the black-blanketed bed, holding an opened book in her pale hands. Her eyes scanned the space, focusing on every nook and cranny. "Come now," she said peaceably, patting the side of the bed. "You must have your lessons."
The young Queen of Claec, curled up in a ball and peering from the right edge of the cabinet to the bed, scowled. She had no interest in learning, not when there was no point in it.
The gaze of cataracts lady shot towards the cabinet. Cerin jerked back her head and arms suddenly, accidentally knocking an elbow against the wood. "Come now, my princess," said cataracts lady in the same sweet tone, closing the book and standing up. "You must have your lessons."
Pushing herself back with her arms, Cerin inched towards the open tent flap, sweating and frantically darting her eyes to where cataracts lady started to walk. The topic had to be some petty thing about proper matters or history, Cerin reasoned. It would make no difference in what her horrible regent had done to her parents, and could easily do to her.
"There's no point in hiding," cataracts lady said, grabbing the edge of the cabinet and peering around just in time to see Cerin squeeze through the back and yank herself up.
Cerin had no urge to respond. Turning around, she bolted into the campsite, swinging her arms madly as she barreled down the hill. Her ringlets flapped wildly as she hopped, so that she could bring a leg up and pull off the high-heeled shoe that constrained her. None of the onlookers even bat an eye to the spectacle that she presented, but she could see well-armored soldiers casually closing off the open paths in front of her. She openly swore at this.
"Why do you keep trying?" shouted cataracts lady as Cerin took off in another direction. A knife whizzed past Cerin's head, forcing a man behind her to duck in terror. "How many more times will you run away?"
"None!" shouted Cerin. And, indeed, she felt like this would be the time she could finally escape. It was impossible to outrun the cataracts lady, who appeared to have legs of steel. The place was too well-guarded and too frequently searched for her to hide anywhere. However, a few wagons had stationed themselves at the edge of camp, preparing for the long journey back to Claec. As long as she made her path convoluted enough, and the driver of one of the wagons she would not be using accepted the bribe she'd quietly made the previous day, she figured she could clamber onto one of the others and escape in the chaos.
Another knife, accompanied by the shout. That cataracts lady hadn't already been imprisoned, Cerin knew, was a matter of contempt. As long as the victims were human, Alsather was perfectly content to let them die at his whim. That Cerin herself wasn't dead was hardly an accident, of course.
Breathing smoothly, she appeared to duck into an empty tent, quietly crawling out the other side and sprinting again, keeping her head and body low. She didn't expect cataracts lady to be fooled, and a knife embedding itself into the ground beside her proved as much. Cerin had already attempted a stunt like this dozens of times. What mattered was convincing cataracts lady that this effort, and the ones that followed, were as predictable as usual.
Looking around, Iasquam feared that every pair of eyes was focused on him, and that every facial twitch was a mocking smile. He felt much smaller. "Yes!" he shouted up. To his right, a woman in a white dress pulled at his hand. Amidst the growing din of the crowd, sneaking past the beating of his own heart, she asked him if he had any injuries. Nodding, he gestured to his leg and sat down, the injured digit extended outward.
"That can't be true," Aquila responded, lowering ever so slightly. "But you didn't follow me, so that means - that means - what does that mean?"
Not sure what else to say, Iasquam watched as the woman placed a hand over his bleeding leg. He winced as he saw a bright flash, white energy emanating into the injury. The pain subsided as the woman pulled out a gauze bandage from the folds of her dress, wrapping it around the damaged area. She said something that he could distantly hear about it being minor, and that he should wash off any blood left on the wound.
Trapped in the prison that was his mind, fears bounced around Iasquam and weakened his senses. Everyone knew now that he couldn't fly - that he was afraid to fly - and that showed his weakness. As a hawk, he should be able to fly; all the friends in his old home (before he'd moved to the wasteland of southern Walenty seeking profit) had, and his sister had been the best at it (as she had been the best at everything). But he had been afraid of it since he was a small child, as he had been afraid of falling and smashing to pieces against the weight of the earth.
The malevolent thoughts ate at him. He barely noticed that Aquila had shouted something and flown off in a random direction, and that the crowd had followed him, nets and healers at the ready. Even the woman in white patting his back and trying to soothe him by suggesting he was okay proved insignificant to his mind. When he looked up again, she was gone, and so was everyone else.
He had hoped so much that he wouldn't be in pain anymore, now that he was free from his home. What a cruel world this was.
******
Cerin, dressed in her usual black-and-purple outfit, hid behind the dressing cabinet in her room, hoping that the lady with cataract eyes wouldn't notice her.
In the national tradition of adorning a royal's life in the color scheme of their nation, the entire room was coated in dark fineries. The thick bed, table and chair, canvas walls, and even the cabinet were black or some dark wood. Understandably, the place came across as bleak, only brightened by the shades of purple running through the rugs on the floor. Cataracts lady, dressed in blue robes, sat gracefully on the side of the black-blanketed bed, holding an opened book in her pale hands. Her eyes scanned the space, focusing on every nook and cranny. "Come now," she said peaceably, patting the side of the bed. "You must have your lessons."
The young Queen of Claec, curled up in a ball and peering from the right edge of the cabinet to the bed, scowled. She had no interest in learning, not when there was no point in it.
The gaze of cataracts lady shot towards the cabinet. Cerin jerked back her head and arms suddenly, accidentally knocking an elbow against the wood. "Come now, my princess," said cataracts lady in the same sweet tone, closing the book and standing up. "You must have your lessons."
Pushing herself back with her arms, Cerin inched towards the open tent flap, sweating and frantically darting her eyes to where cataracts lady started to walk. The topic had to be some petty thing about proper matters or history, Cerin reasoned. It would make no difference in what her horrible regent had done to her parents, and could easily do to her.
"There's no point in hiding," cataracts lady said, grabbing the edge of the cabinet and peering around just in time to see Cerin squeeze through the back and yank herself up.
Cerin had no urge to respond. Turning around, she bolted into the campsite, swinging her arms madly as she barreled down the hill. Her ringlets flapped wildly as she hopped, so that she could bring a leg up and pull off the high-heeled shoe that constrained her. None of the onlookers even bat an eye to the spectacle that she presented, but she could see well-armored soldiers casually closing off the open paths in front of her. She openly swore at this.
"Why do you keep trying?" shouted cataracts lady as Cerin took off in another direction. A knife whizzed past Cerin's head, forcing a man behind her to duck in terror. "How many more times will you run away?"
"None!" shouted Cerin. And, indeed, she felt like this would be the time she could finally escape. It was impossible to outrun the cataracts lady, who appeared to have legs of steel. The place was too well-guarded and too frequently searched for her to hide anywhere. However, a few wagons had stationed themselves at the edge of camp, preparing for the long journey back to Claec. As long as she made her path convoluted enough, and the driver of one of the wagons she would not be using accepted the bribe she'd quietly made the previous day, she figured she could clamber onto one of the others and escape in the chaos.
Another knife, accompanied by the shout. That cataracts lady hadn't already been imprisoned, Cerin knew, was a matter of contempt. As long as the victims were human, Alsather was perfectly content to let them die at his whim. That Cerin herself wasn't dead was hardly an accident, of course.
Breathing smoothly, she appeared to duck into an empty tent, quietly crawling out the other side and sprinting again, keeping her head and body low. She didn't expect cataracts lady to be fooled, and a knife embedding itself into the ground beside her proved as much. Cerin had already attempted a stunt like this dozens of times. What mattered was convincing cataracts lady that this effort, and the ones that followed, were as predictable as usual.
Chapter 20: Given, Part 5 (1,014 words): Day 15 of NaNo 2017! PUPPY DOG EYES. Halfway through!
Spoiler! :
The wagons were in-sight now, horses at the ready. Cerin picked up speed, running as fast as her small legs would take her. Nobody, despite the steady stream of soldiers she passed, tried to stop her. Not even a word against her drifted through the air - the cataracts lady had gone silent, though she still made her presence known with a knife or two. Doubt crept into Cerin's heart, nestling among the veins and whispering unwelcome questions into her blood. It was her best plan, but was it good enough? It had to be, Cerin convinced herself - or, if not she would try to escape again, and again, and again, as long as necessary.
She threw herself into the first wagon that she saw; Cerin rolled into it as smoothly as she'd hoped. The horses instantly whinnied, leading her to dig her fingers into the wood as the wagon shot past the edge of the camp, spilling its cargo onto the ground. Standing up and coughing, waving away from her face the dirt wafting around in a huge cloud, Cerin watched as soldiers poured from the newly-made gap in the perimeter. They thrust spears swiftly, but the wagon was too far away and moving too quickly.
As the wagon swerved around in a wide loop, Cerin felt herself pushed against by the wall by the sheer force. Dodging the barrels and sack of flour that hurtled towards her, she kicked them out when she could, watching them crack and spill their contents onto the ground. Teeth rattling and body numbed, she still mustered the energy to push herself towards the back. Cerin reminded herself once again that this had to work, taking a few deep breaths and stretching. Soldiers ducked out of the way when the wagon careened towards them, nearing its compatriots. She could hear spears and arrows made thunk! sounds in the wood behind her, giving her the last bit of motivation she needed to hurl herself from the back of the wagon and land on her two feet in front her target.
The frightened horses, tied to poles barely attached to the ground, frantically whinnied at spotting her landing. She jumped away before they crushed her with their hooves. Dashing around the side, Cerin hoped that she was indistinguishable amidst all the carnage and dust. The rest of the plan flashed in front of her head in the seconds before she enacted it. She would get into this one, and she would hide among some of the barrels inside. When the wagon finally left, she would wait until it had made good distance from the camp, seize control from the driver, and ride off in whatever direction looked best. It had to work, it had to work, it had to -
"Come now," said the cataracts lady, standing inside of the wagon that Cerin had propped one foot on. Holding out a hand, the cataracts lady smiled gracefully. "That was a wonderful try."
Cerin's heart sank through her chest and into her legs. Wobbling, her grip on the wood weakened, and she stumbled back onto the ground. All around her were soldiers. "You could have killed me!" Cerin said desperately, spinning around in frantic search for an escape route.
The cataracts lady shrugged. "I believed you were not stupid enough to be driving the first one." She pointed off in the distance. Cerin's eyes followed, and she gaped when she saw the plume of fire off towards the horizon, releasing a huge cloud of smoke into the air. "We had to set an example."
Taking a few steps back, Cerin collided into a couple of the soldiers. "And if it was me?" she said, voice quavering as she tried to squeeze between the immovable guards.
"Were," the cataracts lady corrected, stepping off the wagon in noiseless steps. "Perhaps we had best discuss your grammar."
"That doesn't answer the question!" Unable to move anything beyond her arm in the gap they made, Cerin ran towards another part of the circle, with similar results. "And either way is still correct!"
Grabbing Cerin on the shoulder, the cataracts lady wheeled her around by surprising force for someone so frail-looking. "My liege would have lost a useful pawn," said the cataracts lady silently, vehemently, staring down Cerin. "These games bore him. You will be under much stricter surveillance past this point. Should you attempt to do something like this again, we will place you throw you into the prisons until Alsather should wish otherwise. And he is tired of wishing."
Cerin, the dream of freedom stripped from her and destroyed, stood limp. The hopes that she had clung onto lay rotted and meaningless before her. She was going to die some day, when Alsather had decided that nobody would accuse him of regicide. That was the only reason he kept her alive, she knew, because he had told her as much. It was both her greatest fear and the only truth that she had. Mind dead and heart broken, the most she could do was silently look at the flaming wagon and weep, shoulders shaking as the cataracts lady took her hand and walked her away.
"They've been talking some time now."
"Hm? Oh, yes, yes, they seem fond of each other."
Katerina sat on the grass outside the hospital, having pulled her legs to her chest. She rocked back and more gently as Eremia buried her nose in a book.
"It worked, you know."
Rising her head, Eremia sighed. "He was right," she commented faintly.
"They're boys," Katerina said. "Besides, Aquila probably spent his whole life being told how great Exedor's royalty was, so I'm not surprised he freaked out over it."
Watching the clouds overhead, Eremia mumbled, "My family is great."
Eremia glanced, out of the corner of her eye, Katerina's expression brighten. "You never talk about them much. What were your parents like? Did you have any cousins or uncles or anyone like that? Anybody you had a crush on?" Leaning against Eremia, Katerina presented her greatest pleading eyes.
She threw herself into the first wagon that she saw; Cerin rolled into it as smoothly as she'd hoped. The horses instantly whinnied, leading her to dig her fingers into the wood as the wagon shot past the edge of the camp, spilling its cargo onto the ground. Standing up and coughing, waving away from her face the dirt wafting around in a huge cloud, Cerin watched as soldiers poured from the newly-made gap in the perimeter. They thrust spears swiftly, but the wagon was too far away and moving too quickly.
As the wagon swerved around in a wide loop, Cerin felt herself pushed against by the wall by the sheer force. Dodging the barrels and sack of flour that hurtled towards her, she kicked them out when she could, watching them crack and spill their contents onto the ground. Teeth rattling and body numbed, she still mustered the energy to push herself towards the back. Cerin reminded herself once again that this had to work, taking a few deep breaths and stretching. Soldiers ducked out of the way when the wagon careened towards them, nearing its compatriots. She could hear spears and arrows made thunk! sounds in the wood behind her, giving her the last bit of motivation she needed to hurl herself from the back of the wagon and land on her two feet in front her target.
The frightened horses, tied to poles barely attached to the ground, frantically whinnied at spotting her landing. She jumped away before they crushed her with their hooves. Dashing around the side, Cerin hoped that she was indistinguishable amidst all the carnage and dust. The rest of the plan flashed in front of her head in the seconds before she enacted it. She would get into this one, and she would hide among some of the barrels inside. When the wagon finally left, she would wait until it had made good distance from the camp, seize control from the driver, and ride off in whatever direction looked best. It had to work, it had to work, it had to -
"Come now," said the cataracts lady, standing inside of the wagon that Cerin had propped one foot on. Holding out a hand, the cataracts lady smiled gracefully. "That was a wonderful try."
Cerin's heart sank through her chest and into her legs. Wobbling, her grip on the wood weakened, and she stumbled back onto the ground. All around her were soldiers. "You could have killed me!" Cerin said desperately, spinning around in frantic search for an escape route.
The cataracts lady shrugged. "I believed you were not stupid enough to be driving the first one." She pointed off in the distance. Cerin's eyes followed, and she gaped when she saw the plume of fire off towards the horizon, releasing a huge cloud of smoke into the air. "We had to set an example."
Taking a few steps back, Cerin collided into a couple of the soldiers. "And if it was me?" she said, voice quavering as she tried to squeeze between the immovable guards.
"Were," the cataracts lady corrected, stepping off the wagon in noiseless steps. "Perhaps we had best discuss your grammar."
"That doesn't answer the question!" Unable to move anything beyond her arm in the gap they made, Cerin ran towards another part of the circle, with similar results. "And either way is still correct!"
Grabbing Cerin on the shoulder, the cataracts lady wheeled her around by surprising force for someone so frail-looking. "My liege would have lost a useful pawn," said the cataracts lady silently, vehemently, staring down Cerin. "These games bore him. You will be under much stricter surveillance past this point. Should you attempt to do something like this again, we will place you throw you into the prisons until Alsather should wish otherwise. And he is tired of wishing."
Cerin, the dream of freedom stripped from her and destroyed, stood limp. The hopes that she had clung onto lay rotted and meaningless before her. She was going to die some day, when Alsather had decided that nobody would accuse him of regicide. That was the only reason he kept her alive, she knew, because he had told her as much. It was both her greatest fear and the only truth that she had. Mind dead and heart broken, the most she could do was silently look at the flaming wagon and weep, shoulders shaking as the cataracts lady took her hand and walked her away.
******
"They've been talking some time now."
"Hm? Oh, yes, yes, they seem fond of each other."
Katerina sat on the grass outside the hospital, having pulled her legs to her chest. She rocked back and more gently as Eremia buried her nose in a book.
"It worked, you know."
Rising her head, Eremia sighed. "He was right," she commented faintly.
"They're boys," Katerina said. "Besides, Aquila probably spent his whole life being told how great Exedor's royalty was, so I'm not surprised he freaked out over it."
Watching the clouds overhead, Eremia mumbled, "My family is great."
Eremia glanced, out of the corner of her eye, Katerina's expression brighten. "You never talk about them much. What were your parents like? Did you have any cousins or uncles or anyone like that? Anybody you had a crush on?" Leaning against Eremia, Katerina presented her greatest pleading eyes.
Chapter 20: Given, Part 6 (1,044 words): Day 16 of NaNo 2017! BIRBS MENTIONED.
Spoiler! :
"My father and mother were the two most loving parents I could have," said Eremia dreamily, gently pushing Katerina off with one hand. "I suppose that was compensation, since they were hardly ever around."
Katerina nodded, her smile fading. "My parents sent me off to live in Wyandanch for my training when I was a little girl. I never saw them much, so we're in the same boat."
A question leaped onto Eremia's tongue and just as quickly escaped. "Did you ever see the King?"
"A few times," mused Katerina slowly, waiting just long enough for Eremia's curiosity to turn to an impatience that manifested itself in waved hands. "Usually surrounded by his bishops."
"Did he ever notice you?" Eremia went back to her reading, taking a few glances at Katerina to watch the latter's expression.
"Of course not," Katerina replied, laughing. "He was too busy being led around the streets and asking the Pillars for blessings."
Craning her head to the side, Eremia squinted at the horizon and spotted the vague, misty outlines of the Pillars. The black towers shot upwards into the sky without limit; as she'd heard, there was none. That they were visible from a large part of the world had always baffled her, but she'd always admired them. They were, as she believed, the protruding part of the core upon which The Creator and His Sons had made the world.
Muffled footsteps. Eremia saw Katerina looking behind her and did the same. Approaching them was Madeleine, seeming pale and tired. Madeleine waved weakly, arm flopping to the side as she eased herself onto the ground beside them. "Evening," she said, propping up an elbow on her leg and resting her head on her hand.
"How've they been?" Katerina said first, cutting through the suspense that coated the air.
"Fine," said Madeleine. "Aquila's calmed down some. They're actually striking up conversations now."
Eremia immediately perked up. "Are they no longer enemies, then?" she asked, focusing her gaze on Madeleine.
Madeleine's face briefly contorted in rage. "They lived their trial by fire."
"We have to confront our fears," Eremia returned, trying not to grit her teeth (she felt it would make her look undignified). "Is that not right?"
Brow furrowed, Madeleine grew even paler in the sunlight. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, almost unsteadily. She composed herself in a deep breath. "As for you, feel fortunate that they didn't tear each other's throats out. That was beyond reckless."
Katerina, who appeared frightened, pushed herself forward so that she would not be in between them.
"Had I not intervened, it would have happened eventually. Given the time period, it would have been much worse." Eremia's temperature rose, and she donned her biggest scowl.
"Perhaps," said Madeleine. "But Jonathan told me all about your decision, and he thought it would've been better if you'd talked to the both of them, since they have respect for you."
The impetus of her energy withered, leaving Eremia to blush and stare at the ground. "Is he here?"
Madeleine snorted. "Alarick has him training again. The kid's tired and bitter enough, but Alarick's made sure to keep him out of my hands."
A couple minutes passed by in silence. Madeleine finally rose up, brushing off grass stains. "It worked," she said at last, staring down at Eremia's curling herself into a ball and reading. "You took a great risk, and it paid off. He's not happy with you, sure. I'm not happy with you either. Honestly, it's mostly that you're trying to justify yourself that gets on my nerves. What you've done barely touches the levels of stupidity that some of us have had. The years before I came to the Confederacy are a good example of that."
"So, don't feel this need to act like you're always right. You're going to do much worse, and I'll tell you right now that you'll have worse reasons. And that's fine, because you're flawed. Everyone's flawed. I wish you would apologize for once, but you've done well enough that you don't really have to; I at least want to see you recognize you can't always be perfect."
Hesitating, Madeleine waited for an answer. Eremia knew she was looking for an apology, or maybe just any sign of recognition. "...Sorry," she said at last, shoving aside her selfish side. "It was foolish of me."
Now Madeleine walked away, appearing satisfied. She turned just before the corner of the hospital tent. "Also, it's pretty clear you're sweet on Jonathan, and vice versa. All I have to say is that you'd better watch out for Terasu. You also don't need to always put his logic above your own, because the Creator knows that he's not perfect either, not by a long shot."
Katerina reappeared after Madeleine left. "I went off to do a little eavesdropping," she said without embarrassment, beaming in what appeared to be an attempt to remove Eremia's frown. "Sounds like Aquila wants to help Iasquam" - she still struggled with the syllables, saying them slowly - "learn how to not be afraid when he flies. You want to talk to them?"
Would they be angry at her? Would they decide that she had been reckless, as she knew was the case? At the same time, she didn't have much else to do. Besides, in their focus on the bridge of trust that they were beginning to build, they weren't likely to criticize her for her part in it. If they did, then perhaps she deserved it. Eremia closed the book, holding it in one arm, and accepted Katerina's outstretched hand. Katerina pulled Eremia up.
Holding each other's hand as they walked towards the tent, Eremia felt the weight lifted off her shoulders and replaced by a growing calmness. She would still have to apologize to Jonathan, and Eremia was not looking forward to it. However, at least it would lift one of the many pains that he had, and demonstrated her love in an action she was not used to, but was ultimately for the best.
In that moment, Eremia believed that she had almost everything that she wanted, save for Jonah; she was not going to let anything else she had slip away.
Katerina nodded, her smile fading. "My parents sent me off to live in Wyandanch for my training when I was a little girl. I never saw them much, so we're in the same boat."
A question leaped onto Eremia's tongue and just as quickly escaped. "Did you ever see the King?"
"A few times," mused Katerina slowly, waiting just long enough for Eremia's curiosity to turn to an impatience that manifested itself in waved hands. "Usually surrounded by his bishops."
"Did he ever notice you?" Eremia went back to her reading, taking a few glances at Katerina to watch the latter's expression.
"Of course not," Katerina replied, laughing. "He was too busy being led around the streets and asking the Pillars for blessings."
Craning her head to the side, Eremia squinted at the horizon and spotted the vague, misty outlines of the Pillars. The black towers shot upwards into the sky without limit; as she'd heard, there was none. That they were visible from a large part of the world had always baffled her, but she'd always admired them. They were, as she believed, the protruding part of the core upon which The Creator and His Sons had made the world.
Muffled footsteps. Eremia saw Katerina looking behind her and did the same. Approaching them was Madeleine, seeming pale and tired. Madeleine waved weakly, arm flopping to the side as she eased herself onto the ground beside them. "Evening," she said, propping up an elbow on her leg and resting her head on her hand.
"How've they been?" Katerina said first, cutting through the suspense that coated the air.
"Fine," said Madeleine. "Aquila's calmed down some. They're actually striking up conversations now."
Eremia immediately perked up. "Are they no longer enemies, then?" she asked, focusing her gaze on Madeleine.
Madeleine's face briefly contorted in rage. "They lived their trial by fire."
"We have to confront our fears," Eremia returned, trying not to grit her teeth (she felt it would make her look undignified). "Is that not right?"
Brow furrowed, Madeleine grew even paler in the sunlight. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, almost unsteadily. She composed herself in a deep breath. "As for you, feel fortunate that they didn't tear each other's throats out. That was beyond reckless."
Katerina, who appeared frightened, pushed herself forward so that she would not be in between them.
"Had I not intervened, it would have happened eventually. Given the time period, it would have been much worse." Eremia's temperature rose, and she donned her biggest scowl.
"Perhaps," said Madeleine. "But Jonathan told me all about your decision, and he thought it would've been better if you'd talked to the both of them, since they have respect for you."
The impetus of her energy withered, leaving Eremia to blush and stare at the ground. "Is he here?"
Madeleine snorted. "Alarick has him training again. The kid's tired and bitter enough, but Alarick's made sure to keep him out of my hands."
A couple minutes passed by in silence. Madeleine finally rose up, brushing off grass stains. "It worked," she said at last, staring down at Eremia's curling herself into a ball and reading. "You took a great risk, and it paid off. He's not happy with you, sure. I'm not happy with you either. Honestly, it's mostly that you're trying to justify yourself that gets on my nerves. What you've done barely touches the levels of stupidity that some of us have had. The years before I came to the Confederacy are a good example of that."
"So, don't feel this need to act like you're always right. You're going to do much worse, and I'll tell you right now that you'll have worse reasons. And that's fine, because you're flawed. Everyone's flawed. I wish you would apologize for once, but you've done well enough that you don't really have to; I at least want to see you recognize you can't always be perfect."
Hesitating, Madeleine waited for an answer. Eremia knew she was looking for an apology, or maybe just any sign of recognition. "...Sorry," she said at last, shoving aside her selfish side. "It was foolish of me."
Now Madeleine walked away, appearing satisfied. She turned just before the corner of the hospital tent. "Also, it's pretty clear you're sweet on Jonathan, and vice versa. All I have to say is that you'd better watch out for Terasu. You also don't need to always put his logic above your own, because the Creator knows that he's not perfect either, not by a long shot."
Katerina reappeared after Madeleine left. "I went off to do a little eavesdropping," she said without embarrassment, beaming in what appeared to be an attempt to remove Eremia's frown. "Sounds like Aquila wants to help Iasquam" - she still struggled with the syllables, saying them slowly - "learn how to not be afraid when he flies. You want to talk to them?"
Would they be angry at her? Would they decide that she had been reckless, as she knew was the case? At the same time, she didn't have much else to do. Besides, in their focus on the bridge of trust that they were beginning to build, they weren't likely to criticize her for her part in it. If they did, then perhaps she deserved it. Eremia closed the book, holding it in one arm, and accepted Katerina's outstretched hand. Katerina pulled Eremia up.
Holding each other's hand as they walked towards the tent, Eremia felt the weight lifted off her shoulders and replaced by a growing calmness. She would still have to apologize to Jonathan, and Eremia was not looking forward to it. However, at least it would lift one of the many pains that he had, and demonstrated her love in an action she was not used to, but was ultimately for the best.
In that moment, Eremia believed that she had almost everything that she wanted, save for Jonah; she was not going to let anything else she had slip away.
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