Aaaah… my first fic. This took me ages to write, and now I'm happy that at least the first chappie is done. And hey! I post it on the first day of the new year! Ain't that cool?
Also, here's wishing everyone a very happy and prosperous new year. Live long, live strong.
WARNING: This chapter does not contain any of the main X–Men but rather only their indirect mention.
Very long chapter – 22 pages and 7850 words, so, well, happy reading. Hehe.
Very archaic language and dinosaur–ish style of writing, but I'm crazy about J.R.R. Tolkien, Isaac Asimov and P.G. Wodehouse. Figures?
Oh and by the way,
Italics is for thoughts and/or telepathic communication and/or written notes and/or first person narration (to be used in flashbacks ONLY) and/or a language not English (although many words are not English, not all will be italicised as it'll look really weird, every alternate word in the story italicised 6oo)
Normal is for normal speech and/or standard narration (third person narration, not first person).
Underlined italics is for excess emphasis and/or telepathic emphasis.
Underline is for written special emphasis.
Yup, that's about it. So go ahead…have fun (and please read this prologue carefully even if it's a bit weird – which I know it is – because if read properly then later on the story makes a lot of sense.)
Let the storytelling begin!
PEREGRINATION
by
tinuviel–telcontar
peregrination noun (pAIr-rEE-grin-nAYshuhn) a journey, especially a long slow one
A figure could be seen in the Théatys library, a figure mounted on a wheelchair. He was old, old beyond the comprehension of many. For one of Earth, he often thought, I have lived a long life. Almost too long. And now he saw the end of the road… The final destination. But his mind was weaker than what it was once upon a time: he had viewed the greatest war in the history of many universes, he had seen his little grandson being born, and his students – the very students who flirted and bunked school and threw their cares to the winds – now dealt with their own school–bunking, frivolous progeny. The very students whom he would see running around in their undies and having pillow fights when they were young…But that was such a long time ago. Practically in a different universe.
And what had happened in that period of time? Why was everything so blurry in his mind? Even as he tried to concentrate, the memories seemed to slip away from his mind: the sands of time that poured onto the barren land harder and faster the more he clutched the fist within which they were contained. He was seized by a coughing fit, and he finally desisted. The door creaked open, and a blue head popped through the door, followed by the rest of the youth's body that didn't dare cross the threshold of his grandsire's sacred temple of knowledge.
"Granpa?" said the handsome, brown-eyed boy anxiously, indigo eyebrows furrowed in concern, "Are you alright?"
The coughing fit ended and his Granpa looked at him. "Yes, James. I'm all right. Just a little cough. "
"Should I get your SOS medicine, Granps?" inquired the grandson.
"That will not be needed," replied the wizened walnut. "I only require solitude. That is all."
His words had an element of finality in them. James never understood how the great old man managed to instil the sense of simplicity in his words without being foolish or docile. Rather, the latter was pretty crisp - yet elegant - in his speech. Sighing, the younger one said, "Are you-"
"Sure?" the older man said, turning his wheelchair to face the rows of bookshelves so that his beloved child would see his back, not the grimace of pain on his face. "Yes. But before you leave, do shut the door completely and please make sure that I am not disturbed."
James shrugged nonchalantly and turned to leave. Sometimes the old man was just beyond him. The mood swings, the oft– unthought of cattiness; it concerned Jimmy sometimes, but sometimes it just irritated him. And although he felt weird sometimes, now he was accustomed to it.
He had only taken a step towards the cavernous lobby outside the musty library when he had a sudden urge to stay with his Granpa, to tell him that-
"I – I love you, Granpa… I hope you- I hope you know that," he stuttered hesitatingly; frozen in his position, hand still clasping the doorknob, back towards the older man and not without an odd feeling in his heart.
The old man sighed, but did not move. "I know that and I love you too, Jimmy. You are my only surviving family and you are the only reason why this aged soldier's heart is still beating," he concluded earnestly.
A rather goofy grin appeared on Jimmy's handsome face on hearing the use of his pet name. He hated it when Granpa used his full name (which seemed to be happening more often nowadays). It made him feel so…alien…as if they were slightly acquainted strangers. Or business associates. But when his Granps called him by his pet name, it made him more loved, more wanted, more familial.
Jimmy felt relieved, as if the heavy burden that he carried when he entered the library was lifted up from his heart, and confidently stepped out of the library, noiselessly shutting the door. But just before the door swung shut, he took a final sneak peak at his paternal grandfather: the latter had reached out for a huge raven black book with silver letterings (wholly alien to Jimmy, who was still being educated on the old styles of Síêatyan scripts) on the sturdy cover; and a single téwulcyà petal fell out of one of the pages as the he opened the book. Jimmy knew that this was the famed Annals of Time – quite a tiresome book that chronicled the lives of those famous warriors 'À iquânde' who had saved the Universes from the legendary evildoers – the Azgâi – who had ripped apart numerous families, destroyed planets, ruined entire universes — done what not.
Personally Jimmy felt that it was all a little too exaggerated: after all, who ever heard of a soul-sucking princess or a weather–controlling New Yorker? (He knew very little of Earth, but whatever he knew combined with common sense commanded him to be a non believer of weather controlling New Yorkers.) Even in the technologically marvellous world of Síêatys, he was reluctant to believe more in the Annals of Time or whatever they were called – even if they were written by Nèntalè Óriêndrila, whose courage and grit he truly admired. He was more of the techno-minded people of Vìênnen and often thought that the magic oriented ideologies of the Théatyàn people were nothing short of absurd.
Nice, he thought, walking down the huge, high ceilinged - passage, Andy would probably call you a blood traitor, and a grin subconsciously appearedon his face. And was quickly replaced by a would-be blush. Hands in his pocket and the small scowl back on his face, Jimmy thought forcefully, Not Andy. Nèntalè Andrèn. Her Imperial Highness the Royal Child Andrèn. A Princess who is much above your level, Mr. Howlett–Xavier. Much, much above, he reminded himself with what might have been a trace of bitterness. Nowadays he had been thinking of the Théatyàn Empresses' daughter a tad too much. A wild child who obeyed only her dear Unc Nièrry's orders, Nèntalè Andy was a real bomb. In more ways than one. She followed rules that were solely her creation, and now it had become an accepted fact of the Théatyàn and the Vìênnen empires that the youngest daughter of the Emperor of Vìênnen and the Empress of Théatys was not be messed around with.
To sum it all up in two words and an article, thought Jimmy languidly, disposing off the scowl, gazing upwards to view the gaping ceiling at the finely worked fresco of the glorious death of the culture–hero Elenaéné, a spoilt brat. The scowl deepened as he realized he was doing exactly what he didn't want to; id est thinking about Nèntalè Andrèn.
So to prevent himself from contemplating on the blood–haired bombshell, he began making mental notes on the fresco painted right overhead. The mural was not gruesome in an aesthetic way, but it portrayed Elenaéné's death with harrowing details. For instance, the folds of Elenaéné's midnight blue robes which got caked over with the golden blood flowing from her wounds; or the menace of the Azgâi demon–prince Âz–Itdhair's eyes as his evil, glinting diamond blade entered Elenaéné's chest. The look of anguish on Elenaéné's face was gut wrenching: the painting seemed so real to Jimmy that if he did not know that Elenaéné was dead and gone centuries ago – a mere legend in history textbooks – then he would have probably thought that she, a miraculous survivor of a grim past, had made it herself. Her eyes were as round as saucers and there was a look of shock on her face; her hands still gripped the hilt of her glittering indigo sword and her armour was ripped apart in many places, blood flowing freely from them. There was no sign of terror on her face, only an odd, numbing shock that had rendered her helpless in the face of her foe – in the face of her impending doom, her death.
That mural – justly called the Fall of Elenaéné – was only a part of the mosaic The Warriors of Inné Âryeáne that depicted the bereavement of some of the most celebrated heroes and warriors of the Théatyàn Empire in the War of Inné Âryeáne (hence the name). Just as he was noticing the shape of the violently scarlet jewels embedded in Elenaéné's rent breastplate, he bumped into someone. Real hard.
Jimmy automatically said; lowering his gaze, "Oh, sorry, I wasn't loo- " He suddenly blanched. It was Nèntalè Andy, lost in a book with a filthy, fading white cover and the words The Woman in White printed on it in English. An Earthie book. Obviously, she was not looking ahead of her either.
"Wotchit bu- " she started threateningly, but raising her head up she saw who was standing in front of her, and she grinned saucily. "Hail Lord Jim!" and moving back, she made a little mock curtsey, "But if you dare to reciprocate this kind little curtsey of mine, I swear you won't have a head that rests on yer shoulders. " And gave him a very fake glare.
Jimmy kept quiet, continued to look vacantly in front, and commenced walking away from her with hands still in the pockets of his comfortable robes. Andy, who was not used to being ignored (especially by him, she noticed how often he blanched or blushed when they spoke nowadays), tucked the book in the bag slung casually around her left shoulder, and quickly cut Jimmy's path by standing in front of him and grabbing his shoulders with both her hands roughly, so that he wouldn't be able to shrug her off and continue walking.
"Yo–kay," she snarled, "spit it out. What's the matter with you? First you walk out of Mom's history class – she's not boring – and then you land up in this fusty passage and walk with your eyes on the ceiling; and then you bump into me, and when you see me, you don't even curtsey! Man, what's wrong with you, Lord Jim, you look so friggin' ill!"
She paused to take in a deep breath and surveyed him at an arm's length; grip still tight on his shoulders. "Look at me, Jimmy," and then, more tenderly, "What's wrong? You seem so…distracted nowadays…"
Jimmy looked in the opposite direction, and furrowing his brows a little, lied quietly, "Nothing, Nèntalè. Nothing at all." He hoped Andy would not sense this little lie of his, but unfortunately for him, she did. After all, she had known this boy ever since he was a nervous little orphan whose mother had died. She was bigger and stronger at that time; and quite a bully too, but as they say, time changes everything; and time definitely changed everything in her case. But time was too weak a force to change one of Jimmy's (according to Andy) most irritating habits: the way he made a formal gesture every time they met. So whenever they made even brief eye–contact, Jimmy would make an eloquent, if not grandly huge, gesture. Although initially Andy found it amusing, she quickly got tired of it and got annoyed with the blue–haired boy every time he "curtsied" in front of her. So ever since they were three till they were a score and three, Jimmy made it a ritual to bow in front of Andy and sometimes even earned a light whack, although both knew that the whack was never meant seriously.
So Jimmy finally decided to enlighten Andy on the cause of his chronic anxiety. Realising that he was about to finally speak up, she moved her hands away from his shoulders to provide for a less threatening gesture and uttered a small, "Well?"
"It's Granpa," said Jimmy quietly, his mahogany eyes meeting her swirling amethyst jewels.
Andy could have laughed out in relief; although, of course, seeing the gravity of the moment she abstained from doing so, being quite a sensitive person underneath that shroud of toughness and I–hate–pink attitude. "Chucky? Whatever happened to him?"
"He's become colder than usual," Jimmy replied in an absolutely depressed voice. "He hardly talks to me nowadays, spends most of his time in that horrid, fusty library, and whenever he falls ill he doesn't call me or take his medicines. All he does is to 'dismiss' me and continue reading his book or whatever he's doing." At this point a hint of savageness entered Jimmy's voice, only to fade away into misty sorrow once again. "That never happened before. Never ever," he concluded in a small voice, hanging his head in a mixture of sorrow and mortification – the former concerning his dear grandfather's behaviour, the latter at saying such a kiddie sentence.
Silence prevailed for a few minutes, during which Jimmy continued brooding on his Granpa's odd behaviour, and Andy chewed on her lower lip a little anxiously. She was genuinely worried about Jimmy, because she knew that more than grandfather–grandson, their relationship was that of father–son. Jimmy had been raised up by the sire of his father after his parents' untimely demise, and Andy knew that when someone mentioned the word 'father' in front of or to Jimmy, it would always be the picture of his darling, wise, great ol' Granps that would pop up in his mind. As such, Andy realised it was painful for Jimmy to stomach such cold manners coming from his generally genial grandpa. It would've been hard for anyone, thought Andy rationally, 'specially considering what a warm person Chucky normally is. And then, almost on impromptu: And considering all of what a sweetheart Jimmy is, he doesn't deserve all of this. To have no mother, no father, no family, no nothin' apart from a bald oldie… Poor Jimmy.
It was a rather awkward situation to stand and talk, so the two of them started walking, virtually in unison, without any need of spoken word, thought or gesture. In some ways, they were pretty similar. Andy, who continued fiddling with her fingers, finally decided to thaw the mile–thick ice between the two of them. She stopped twiddling her fingers, and gently laid a hand on Jimmy's shoulders. The gesture made him stop dead in his tracks, and sighing, he turned towards Andy. His eyes met hers yet again, but once again he lowered her eyes, as if he was ashamed to meet them. Andy tenderly lifted his chin with two fingers–forcing him to look at her.
Bringing her face very close to his, so that their faces were less than half a foot apart, she said, her voice unnaturally deep and mature; almost husky, "Everyone needs their own space, Jimmy. Charles has given you more than twenty years of his life. He is at the nadir of his health, and yet he raised you up with enthusiasm and zest that would shame even a sprightly thirty–something. He is exhausted, Jimmy. Physically and mentally. He has siphoned off practically all his knowledge and strength into making you who you are at this very moment… A great warrior." And then, drawing even closer to him, so that their lips were just at the distance of a finger's width, "You should really stop expecting so much out of people, you know. They're not gods. And nor are you."
He gulped, "Yeah. I suppose so."
Andy pulled away (seeming to realize the tenderness of her position), and gave him a shy smile that quickly evolved into a superior smirk. "Gudies," she said, turning her back towards Jimmy and continuing to walk. Jimmy gave himself a little smile and followed her. The Woman in White was whipped out of the bag and Jimmy swung his eyes upwards. Only that this time the only difference was that both of them had the shadow of small, knowing smiles dancing on their lips and that Andy's book was upside down while Jimmy had a miniscule smirk as he looked at the harrowing death of Elenaéné's second cousin, a very valiant young girl named Yeni Inàré, whose face was burned by the Azgâin poison thrown on her during battle.
Still with the tiny smile on her face, eyes resolutely on the miniscule print of the book, Andy asked him "So what exactly was Ol' Chucky doing in the library?"
He replied sagely, "Reading."
"Reading what?"
"Why would you want to know?"
Andy looked at him from above the book, her nose wrinkled, eyes alight. "Oh… lemme guess… Could it be 'cause I own everything on this part of the ground, including this mansion, its various rooms, heck, even the air you breathe?" The soft smile became a smug sneer and brilliant lilac eyes narrowed as they walked towards the north–western wing kitchen.
He knew towards which direction this conversation was heading. Andy had used this tactic many times; he wasn't going to be fooled for the bazillionth time; no, not after the experience of a good twenty years.
"Point," he mumbled, and continued vaguely, "He's reading the Annals of Time, I think."
"You think?" Andy shot back, stowing away The Woman In White in her bag pack, leaving her free to bestow her undivided attention upon the sinewy young sapphire–headed boy who was walking next to her, wearing an irritatingly unfathomable minute smile. She received no response.
Andy was not surprised; there were many people who preferred to shut up than argue with her, And that too, she thought with an inward smirk, even if it involves bruising their ego. After all, there were many people who needed some ego bruising. Andy considered herself the deliverer of all innocent non–egoists; but she also knew that she saw the most egoistical person to ever exist in the annals of the universe when she arranged her hair every morning in the mirror. She was a princess, not a delicate vapid wench whom the natives of her Earth–born grandmother called 'royal ladies'. Unlike them, her life didn't revolve around some pathetic, golden–haired hunk who sang in trained baritones and fought dragons with starry (and obviously fake) swords only to 'rescue' those blots on humankind whom Earthies called princesses. She knew her faults and her drawbacks, it was another thing that she did minimal to improve on them. But then nobody expected it from her, either. She was Andy, after all. And Andy followed her own rules.
"Your views are always appreciated, Nèntalè," said Jimmy meekly, looking not the least bit interested.
Whoever had said that the sweet tongue quelled the anger of many a furious soldier hath said the greatest truth of them all, Andy's mother, the Anènnté Cassiopeia often told her beloved daughter. Andy begged to differ with the great personality, and although what she would've most liked to do at this very moment was to knock Jimmy down, she knew that barbarian tactics rarely worked when it came to teasing someone whom you had a major crush on and who reciprocated the aforementioned feelings. I thought that, it suddenly hit her. Gawd now I'm admitting I have a crush on him. Screw you, Andy. Big time.
"If you ask me, he's probably reading some cruddy erotica," Andy said blandly, although her eyes and her raise–the–eyebrow act completely gave her away.
"Which would be completely misplaced in your library, wouldn't it, Nèntalè?" he backfired.
Screw. Screw. Screw screwitty screw. She took great pride in winning these little 'battle of the wits' with James Jr. and this was the first time he had backfired. He caught her totally unawares – it was almost as if the latter had been preparing this answer for ages. Pent up frustration sucks. Especially pent up frustration of a good twenty years. But if Arnold Swar–whats–it could come back, so could she. She was definitely better than some imbecile clot in her own reckoning.
"Actually," she said sweetly, "they were a gift..from.." and emphasis, "Dunsey."
All of it happened after a split second. She had not even completed her sentence when Andy saw, with satisfaction, the result her words had borne. Nostrils flared with anger, eyes blazed with a fiery rage that she had never seen before, and Andy realized in a split second that she had pushed exactly the right combination of the right buttons in Jimmy's brain. Finally, the famed streak of anger that had been running in his family seemed to erupt in his veins. She smirked to herself and decided to carry on in the same vein. She wanted to see how mad the famous Wolverine's grandson could be, and she also knew that Duncan Matthews Jr. made him go crazy. As it was, Jimmy hated the boy and regarded him with the kind of disdain and contempt that is born in the mind of a man who feels he is superior to the rival of his beloved's heart and knows it to be true; but when Andy – with the sole purpose of irritating the obviously better suitor – started reciprocating the not–so–innocent flirtations of the bugging sand–haired football team captain, Jimmy was beyond rage. It was priceless, watching those two fight over her like feral dogs over a juicy piece of meat, and Andy often found herself connecting to the 'plight' of a certain Jean Summers née Grey, whose apparent dilemma over who to date in the ongoing series of the comic saga X–Men was a blazing hot topic in the girls' locker room these days.
"A birthday gift, you know," she continued coolly and rather carelessly as they neared a dead end that marked the end of the passage but instead divided into two side passages. "So considerate of him, don't you think, Jim? And better still," and then dropping her voice to a false secretive voice with a girlish titter to it that was totally alien to her real personality, "he suggested that we try…take a few tips, you know…So considerate, don't you thi–"
But she was cut short. They had reached the secluded end of the cavernous passage, and the place was as still and as quiet as death itself. Jimmy seized her by the shoulders and slammed her back angrily to the wall as the sad, emotive eyes of the heroes of Inné Âryeáne – his and Andy's ancestors – looked on dispassionately. Their faces looked grim, and yet proud; mirroring the emotions of their hearts. Had Jimmy been in a philosophical and contemplative state, he would've brooded on how their pure, untouched faces seemed to mock him and Andy – calling them juvenile and trifling without uttering a word or implying in any fashion. But now he was blinded by a scarlet rage; and the only thought on his mind was murder; specifically, that of a certain Duncan Kensington Matthews'.
Pinning Andy to the wall, Jimmy looked straight into her eyes, and in place of the cool, mocking disdain he often saw when she looked at him, for the first time he saw the respect inspired by fear that he had never seen in her eyes when she saw anyone. Her mauve eyes were rounder than saucers, a dull flush had crept up into her rosy cheeks, and her full lips were quivering a little. He had never used force with her, and he was pretty strong; he doubted anyone had ever pinned Nèntalè Andrèn to a wall. Quite a new experience for her. Plus, he had pinioned her notorious knees with his own bony ones to the wall, so that all possible manoeuvres involving their lower bodies gave him the upper hand. (Andy had a great reputation in kicking people around the shins; he had escaped becoming her victim for nearly twenty years and had no particular interest in becoming one now.)
"Andy," he said forcefully, as if wanting to push his words down her throat, "Matthews is not the right type of person. He is not a nice guy. He just wants to take advantage of you. So I don't want you to mingle with him, okay?" he said it so quietly he surprised himself, but Andy was only two inches away from the fire burning brighter than the funeral pyre of an imperial child: and she was petrified. She had read the X–Men comics, and had heard much about the great mutant Wolverine, whose anger was matched by none (in the comicverse) save that of his genetic daughter's – and Jimmy's mother's –; and then to add to the concoction of Wolverine and X–23 a huge dosage of Charles M. Xavier's quasi–maniacal son David was to receive Jimmy's highly anger and angst oriented gene pool. At any rate, she did not want to incur the true, ferocious anger of Mr. James Logan Howlett–Xavier. Unfortunately, she had just done that. Fortunately, for her before the situation could develop any further there appeared from the east wing (the passage to his right and her left) the figure of a tall girl. Not that Jimmy and Andy noticed her at first. They were too busy in their own–matters.
"Jimmy, I – "
"Uhh–humm."
Jimmy and Andy turned their heads towards the silhouette in unison, without moving another inch of their closely entwined bodies. Both seemed to be quite at ease, according to the shadow, which assumed the bodily form of a young, normally shy mutant named Audrey Grey–Summers, lovingly known as Miss Aud (for her prim and 'propah' manners) or Miss Odd (a pun on the first two syllables of her name) or just plain ol' Odd/Aud. Good thing too, the Grey–Summers progeny thought with a mental smirk that was ordinarily uncharacteristic of her, it'll be of good use later. The tension between the two youngsters did not go unnoticed by anyone who existed bodily or mentally in the same room as they did – and Miss Aud was particularly observant– after all, flirting was in her genes. (Her mother was Jean Grey, for crying out loud!) Nothing that she could do about it.
To make her feelings known, she put on smirk on her face that seemed to give her such a goddamn sardonic look. "Sorry to disturb your quality time, sir and madam," she enunciated in a crisp, clear and confident Connecticut accent, freely throwing in loads of emphases, "but Anènnté Cassie's calling you, Miss Cassandra." And then raising a deliciously cinnamon brown eyebrow, she continued, "But I'll tell her if you're," and then giving them the one–over, "a bit busy." Because Jimmy's knees were still pressing Andy's, putting their lower bodies in a very close proximity.
It was only then that the dimwits realized that they were in a potentially dangerous position, and they immediately broke away, blushing and mumbling and doing all the foolish things that young lovers do when they've been busy solving issues, and someone has seen them but not really registered their presence, although they do make themselves suspiciously conspicuous to the aforementioned spectator by means of acting flustered and embarrassed. They did all that and finally Andy made a move to exeunt. "Er – um… bye," was the rather vague goodbye that Jimmy received from the fire–headed chica.
"Yeah. Bye." He even forgot the adulations, he had just realized that Andrèn looked very pretty when she blushed.
Still flustered, Andy turned to leave through the east wing with the auburn–tressed Summers girl. James was left standing alone in the passage, gazing after the two girls, with the calm, collected faces of warriors of the grim past staring at him relentlessly. It was only when he looked at the flowing white robes of Yeni Inàré's spirit after Aud had given him the cocky thumbs up whilst trying to catch up with a still–embarrassed Andy, before disappearing round a curve, that Jimmy noticed the blood red jewels on the hem of Yeni's sleeve mirroring him, blushing back at him.
And somewhere to his right, a voice suddenly rang out, accompanied by the tinkling, ringing bell–like laughter Aud had inherited from her mother,
"My name is Andy, not Cassandra, you cretin!"
One and a half degrees to the south–west, the library was still after Jimmy's departure. The old man was sitting motionless, immobile in his electrolysed wheelchair. The book he had been struggling to remove from the shelf just overhead lay on his lap. His fingers tenderly grazed the spine of the book, along the lines of beautiful prose that were written in a long, fluid handwriting. The characters were not of earthly origin, and the grammar was strangely melodious, almost as if all the prose had been written in song – form.
The old man sighed, absorbing the essence of the silken letters. The paper was smoother than satin, and Charles Francis Xavier was grateful that Óriêndrila had written the magnificent tale of his dear X–Men in such a long–lasting method; for the words would last as long as the Children of Síêa would reign upon the nine realms of the eternal, infinite universes.
But Charles Francis Xavier was afraid of forgetting. He wanted to remember every word said, he wanted to recall every thought contemplated, he wanted to relive every action done. The wars of his life had crippled his body, not his mind. Even if it meant having to read from a book, Xavier wanted to remember. His memories were just too good to forget. Those little gestures, those big wars, those happy moments, those fleeting sorrows – Xavier was slowly slipping away.
Even as he was contemplating, he realised that his initial aim – reading the book – lay forgotten.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and began reading. Slowly, excruciatingly. He never knew his eyesight had become so weak.
The first page read :
Né sýaldun Anníèr
Síêa ùturin tebérg lierre
Xavier translated at once:
Unto the One we surrender ourselves,
the blessings of The Lady we seek
And then, in the fiery yet gentle Síêatyan script, he read by the warm light of the blazing white Théatyàn sun, written painstakingly in Óriêndrila's graceful, smooth hand:
-- ANNAL THE PROLOGUE --
Now, even as his memory was fading, he realised why it was.
And in a race against his time, he read on.
§§§
--ANNAL THE PROLOGUE--
COUNCIL
The wind blew noisily. It was a cold, bleak wind that seemed to bear only the news of death, sorrow, and pain. It blew in a small opening of an orchard, where eight hooded figures stood erect in a perfect circle, absolutely unperturbed by it. Even the trees bowed to it, great trees that do not grow and grace the sickly soil of the Earth. And yet the figures stood tall, slender but strong. The ring that they had formed was perfect and uniform, save that they had left one place empty – as if anticipating the arrival of someone. Their faces were bowed towards the ground, and their hands clasped together in the front. Thus they stood for a while. The wind howled in their ears, and the strong yet thin fabric of their robes flapped continuously. No stars were visible in the sky, and the rain clouds thundered, as if with anger. Still each of the eight figures was lost in its own inner thoughts, contemplations, debating what was right and what wrong.
Then the figure that stood northernmost in the circle raised its head, though only high enough to reveal full lips that glistened in the dark night. A golden gem became visible upon its chest. A lock of caramel–brown hair fell discreetly on its robes and the figure made a signal for the others to begin the 'meeting'. The other figures too raised their heads. Their faces were invisible, but in the gloom the gems on their chests shone out; creating an effect that only the word eerie could describe.
Né sýaldun Anníèr
Síêa ùturin tebérg lierre
Unto the One we surrender ourselves,
the blessings of The Lady we seek.
These words sounded in the orchard, and the wind slowed down to a gentle breeze. Deathly silence reigned. Then a figure with a bright, sunny azure blue stone glimmering upon its robes raised its head, and said quietly, lips unmoving,
"Where are we to go from here, Nèntalè? Is there a path that we can tread upon, a path that will lead us not unto annihilation?" The desperation in the figures voice betrayed it, a fire ablaze in the little of its forget–me–not blue eyes that the First Speaker could see told the truth, despite the calmness of its body language. It did not move its hands or gesticulate in any way, but its words had more impact than actions would have had.
The First Speaker remained silent. By now the other figures too snapped out of their reveries and seemed to have found their voices.
"True," murmured the one with a bright stone of silvery adamant. The Speaker lifted its head and said, "True is what the prophecy of Aèaneswà saith; for battle with the Azgâi can only result in destruction and death." And more softly, sighing to itself: "Only in death and destruction." It said nothing more.
One, with a bright purple–pink stone, said, "Yes. We must find out a way that will not lead to death of more innocents. As it is, we have lost too many. Our friends, our family, our near and dear, all their lives are at stake; we must formulate a plan keeping all of this in mind."
"But all the same, our near and dear are not the only ones to be accounted for. There are almost octillion planets with their inhabitants to be accounted for. What might be beneficiary to us might not be so for them. They are, after all, our subjects…and our allies too," said a calm and collected voice bodily bearing a raven black stone that shimmered and swirled in it's depths as though it was being stirred an invisible spoon.
"True thou saith," agreed a form bearing a gem of the same hue as the sky at night does – midnight blue tinged with indigo.
The figure with the purple stone reiterated, with a touch of impatience, "But all the same, our people are superior, they have more power; only if they survive can those octillion planets be saved from the meaningless wrath of the Azgâi and aft–"
"No!"
Purple gem was cut short rather abruptly by another speaker: this time, the one who so passionately ejaculated the negative was one with a fiery red stone that whirled in its case and had marvellous specks of gold and orange spiralling with the angry scarlet. The latter raised its head to reveal amethyst eyes that were singularly striking – they put even the most splendid amethysts of our sickly Terra to shame and, as a matter of fact, they were admired wherever their bearer took them. But what was more unique about them was not just their pinkish–purple tinge, but that their pupils were exactly like those of a cat's; narrower than the thinnest slits of any of the feline family during day, and during night they became so enlarged that all that could be seen of the iris was a thin mauve band surrounding the dilated pupil.
Now they were narrowed with anger and distrust, and the Red stone surveyed the territory its words were going to penetrate, drinking in the cloaked features of each of the figures standing in front of it, as if it had never seen them before.
It started off cautiously, slowly, "We have reached a certain position wherein it is impossible to retract from the battlefield. If we do so, we not only sacrifice the lives of our subjects – whom we are supposed to protect –," Here it shot Purple gem an extremely sharp glare, "but also the lives of our near and dear, our loved ones." It paused for a moment, to let the impact of the words sink in. It knew that this was a known fact among all its comrades; for tyrants such as the Azgâi never pity anyone, not the least their sworn enemies, the royalty of Síêatys, Síêa's very own descendants who were having a heated debate upon the further plan of action of the ongoing war.
Nobody expressed an affirmative – not even a syllable was said or heard by any. But Red stone knew that it was making sense to its comrades; it knew its arguments were winning. It could feel it.
"Furthermore, let me reiterate that what counts is not whether or not our lives go into this, but whether or not we have put in our blood, brain, sweat and tears into achieving our goal; achieving our revenge; and whether or not we have achieved our victory over the accursed Azgâi. Our lives are nothing but an instrument for the Destiny that controls the tides of time; our lives are nothing but a tool that is used by Né to protect others – others who are inferior to us – our lives are nothing but a means of the destruction of the Azgâi, of the evil that has ravaged the universes for years innumerable."
After another short meditative pause, it continued, "And when we have dedicated our lives to vanquishing this foul infestation among the all–consuming fabrics of time, why must we back out – nay, even contemplate the idea of living useless lives of cowardice? For is it not said that with 'great power cometh great responsibility'? How can we disappoint those octillion planets with this foolish, unneeded cowardice? It is not the way of the Síêatyan warrior to ever shirk from responsibility. We have the power, we have the dedication, we have the means to completely destroy the Azgâi! Then why this imprudent, time–consuming debate of whether or not we must battle the Accursed ones?" It finished heatedly, passionately, wildly.
"We don't."
Red gem, which, in the heat of its passion and anger had made its way to the empty centre of the shadowed ring, whipped its head back to see the one who had contradicted. It was a hooded wraith that bore a gem of pirouetting colours – honey brown, sunshine yellow, fiery orange, with a strong gleam of bloody crimson in it. The crimson seemed to become stronger and stronger the more Red stone looked at it. Nothing else could be seen of this shadow wraith, save its gleaming gem.
"We don't have what?" Red stone countered bluntly.
"We don't have the last bearer. We don't have the one link that will complete our chain of strength. Our téwulcyà. The ninth gem lies still in its case, rotting."
A grimace would have been visible had the masks been removed from the fair and noble faces of the warriors. The word 'rotting' was a little too strong for their liking.
"It will lay in its case till the one destined to bear it comes into existence," Red stone proclaimed haughtily.
"The one who is destined to bear it does exist, Fólméyánde," said the wraith; the smirk on its face seemed to almost drip into its whisky–smooth voice. "And you know it. We all know it. We only choose to …" It let its voice trail to add to the dramatic value of the statement. "… ignore."
"The one who is supposedly the future bearer of Éïrálatné is most certainly not capable of doing so. We all know that."
"Not al–"
"Silence!" The First Speaker seemed to have finally found its voice. The order was not bellowed, but barely murmured; everyone obeyed it: they knew all too well the great power of the First Speaker. The First Speaker turned its head by barely an inch towards Fólméyánde, and quietly said – nay, whispered, "It is not within your power to say yea or nay when it comes to the question of the ninth gem. It is not within any of our powers to change the prophecy that has already been made by minds stronger than ours. The only one who can change the prophecy is the object, and – "
"It has no idea," mumbled the one with the silvery gem. "It is absolutely ignorant of the truth."
Wraith shook its head and slowly said, "No. The Last One does know, but only in the dormant subconscious of its mind. Its mind is tearing it apart. All its Síêatyan memories are slowly fading."
"The memories we can fix," said Grey stone. "That need not be a cause for concern."
"But whether or not our candidate is capable is a cause for concern," said Purple stone, sounding a tad doubtful.
"Our supposed Éïrálatné is capable. Capable beyond our wildest dreams: but traumatized by demons within and without," said Wraith thoughtfully.
Fólméyánde snorted indiscreetly. "Traumatized by demons all right. But I'll vote for external demons. Those X–Geeks took a real whopping from Raven and Erik's Brotherhood and Acolytes."
Azure stone said carefully, "But they only took a whopping when Scarlet Witch fought on the Brotherhood's side. They defeated the Brotherhood every other time, didn't they?"
"But Wanda's the only one worthy of fighting amongst the Brotherhood. Besides, if they can't fight Wanda, how the hell can we even contemplate the idea of them standing up against the Azgâi?"
"They fought against En Sabah Nur…" Silver stone trailed off thoughtfully.
"And won by a hair's breadth. And everyone knows that Apocalypse hasn't died. He's only dormant, not dead. And no Azgâi is safe if it isn't dead. And they didn't take on Apocalypse one–on–one. It isn't really a fair fight; they're a team and he's alone. "
Of course, big sister, said the Wraith psionically to Red stone, but don't forget to take into account that they're a couple of irritating brats who probably must've bugged that bastard into surrendering by begging him to 'em give dating tips
Fólméyánde telepathically grinned ear to ear, but kept her outer attitude poker straight.
"They are skilled in taking down their opponents as a team, and they will need a lot less training than normal Síêatyan apprentices would, " said the First Speaker. There was an air of finality in its tone.
"So that means that we're taking those – those – those arrogant brats under our wing?" Fólméyánde all but screamed. Her voice reverberated eerily in the empty orchard.
"We are," said the First Speaker calmly. "and there will be no more debate on that."
Silence once again. This time it was the silence that was more unbearable than the noise of the explosion that would follow it; an uncomfortable, stifling quietude that reflected the condition of the minds. The calm before the storm, the serene eye of the hurricane.
Fólméyánde unfortunately broke it, with a very pissed off, "Fine. I'm leaving. Since I have no real say in matters, you guys are absolutely free to make all the decisions yourself. Good day, and good luck."
The First Speaker had not even uttered a "Andy, wait!" and Fólméyánde had vanished into thin air.
The other figures gazed at Fólméyánde's empty place and then back at the First Speaker.
"Need I say that the council is over?" came the weary response to their expectant stares. Again, there was no visible reaction.
"Dispatch to your respective positions," said Silver stone quietly but firmly, being first–in–command of the armed forces. "Like it had been planned beforehand."
A final affirmative, and they all left wordlessly. No sooner had they disappeared than the First Speaker collapsed to the ground, but not before Silver stone, who had lingered behind to remain with the First Speaker till the latter left, had caught her safely. In the process, the hood that covered his head fell off, and so did hers.
"Cassie? Are you all right?" came the worried query.
But the First Speaker remained silent, firm in her quietude. She was gazing at the empty space that had been left empty for the much–debated bearer of the ninth stone, the Éïrálatné. A single téwulcyà flower grew on the barren ground – traditionally a promising sign of hope and the fair future – the future that she hoped was in store for all of them.
"D'you think we can make it, Ace?" she asked her enfolder in a voice barely audible.
Ace whistled sadly. "No," he said oddly; tranquilly, "but a positive attitude never killed anyone, did it?"
"It might just kill us," she observed pessimistically.
"But at least we'll die happy," said he, looking at her, a rare smile gracing his fair features. And then, after passing on that dangerous infection called cheerfulness to her, he whispered, "Let's go."
Hm, she said psychically, and closed her eyes. She only hoped that she had not led the Síêatyans – her kind, her family, her people – into backing the wrong horse all this while. She only hoped.
And in the twinkling of an eye, they were gone.
But the wind continued its peregrination.
§§§
Author raves and bores the friggin' DICKENS out of everybody : Finally! The prologue that took me 7 months to write! (Believe it or not.)
I'm sooo glad it's all done, now I can start penning the second chapter which contains (hopefully) the X-Dorks dealing with…er… someone's death (nyeahnyeah I ain't gunna tell you x–).
But please do honour me by reading on and clicking on that fantastical light indigo button that says 'go' in response to the little bar stating 'submit review'. To cut the long story short, REVIEW!
please?
lurrve,
--tinuviel-telcontar--