Autumn of Armageddon
by: Karin-sama
shinigamis_wings@hotmail.com


Disclaimer: As much as it pains me to say it, these characters are not mine. Well, a few of them are. If you recognize the name, then it doesn't belong to me, if you've never heard of it before, consider it mine. I took a bit of liberty with the original plot, but I guess that's what fanfiction is all about Also, Jaylin and Zel's song "Distant Serenade" was written by Michael McLean, not me. And my nephew came up with the title in the middle of the night. *Psst - I'm looking for someone permanent to put this if anyone has any helpful ideas?*

Chapter 1: The Tegyrn Legend

"During the days of the blood red sun,
in the heat of a western summer,
the Lord of Fire killed his own true love,
and he shall ever mourn her."
~children's rhyme of ancient Sairaag

"Prepare to die!" The metallic scrape of a sword rang through the typical hush of trees ominously. A young girl crouched at the warning, leaping to the safety of the tree branches just in time to avoid being stabbed through. "What do you call that move?" The disappointed swordsman dropped his attack to ask. The tiny girl slipped down to walk away from her bewildered assassin.

"It's called I don't want to play today." She turned from him, perching herself gracefully on a rock. Now that didn't make sense. She was always ready for a lesson. Something was wrong.

"Why not?"

"I just don't feel like it right now." Sheathing his weapon, he knelt on the ground before her so he could study her eyes. Seriousness replaced all his emotions.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm fifteen autumns old today, Zel." He furrowed his eyebrows as he studied the fallen leaves at her feet. Fifteen autumns? Already? Today? That made him seventeen autumns that day as well.

"Perhaps you will not be chosen," even as he said the words, he knew the effort to raise her spirits was in vain. Of course she would be chosen. She was easily the loveliest creature who ever lived. At least she was to his eyes. Even now, with her features darkened with despair, she was still beautiful. He had known her for three years, yet, only now did he truly notice how enchanting her features were. She was small, extremely small, but perfectly proportioned in every detail from her pale ivory skin to her long straight silver-blue tresses that ghosted about her shoulders like a halo. In fact, she possessed only one flaw, but it was too much to hope that they would notice that. Even he had taken a while to find it out himself. He looked up into her liquid cobalt eyes that were studded with silver. They stared back at him in agony.

"When do they come?"

She fought with her emotions a moment before answering. "They will arrive at sunset." Sunset. Three, perhaps four hours from now. Not enough time to say good-bye. A tear pooled then fell from his eye before he could stop it.

"Now," her own voice cracked and a diamond tear of her own dropped into his hair. "There's no sense in crying. We knew this was going to happen." She was right, of course, but that didn't help anything. Knowing something was going to happen never fully prepared one for it. He sensed her looking down at him, waiting for a reaction. Anger, perhaps, but he felt nothing. Reaching up, he took her hand and pulled her down to hold her close. Three or four hours. It just wasn't long enough, yet he could think of nothing he wanted to say to her, so they just remained still.

"I must go," she kept reminding him.

"I know," was all he would say, but neither of them moved.

"I really must go this time Zel," she twisted from his grasp to sigh at the sun. He snatched up her hand so she couldn't flee from him. At the touch, she turned, and brought his hand up to her lips to kiss it gently. "Good-bye Zel." Those words had never seemed so final. Never. She released his hand, and, surprisingly, he did not try to prevent her from walking away. He just sat there in the grass staring after her.

It was the bugle that thrust him into action. The dreaded bugle that announced loudly the coming of the Mestronians. That sound made his skin prickle and a sudden chill spread through him. He couldn't just stay here and let her go. He had to try to do something. Leaping from his frozen position he sprinted toward Tegyrn.

The ceremony had already begun when he reached the town. A half a dozen young women were gathered in the center plaza near the fountain. From these six only three would be chosen. The others would be forced to labor in the smithies for the rest of their lives. The leader of the Mestronians dismounted his enormous sandy beast that Zel guessed was a horse, but wasn't quite sure. He, in fact, had never seen a horse before, they were animals belonging only to the very rich, or the very powerful. There were three others with the first. In their gloved hands they bore chains. Zel shuddered as he skulked closer, trying not to attract any attention.

"Greetings, Berihn," the elder of Tegyrn bowed to the hooded spokesman who stood as impenetrable as a fortress.

"Greetings Elder," he said in a soft voice. His sharp black eyes were already scanning the waiting women for his three. Zel tensed, waiting, his fingers resting lightly on his sword hilt. "Your selection is low this year," he sounded disappointed.

"The quantity of cream is always less than the milk, but it is the sweetest." At a snap from the elder's fingers the women lined up to face Berihn, eyes downcast and tears willed away. Moving along the line, he inspected each in turn, from their gracefulness to their teeth. Nodding he beckoned one of his men over to him. Then he pointed out his first choice. The tall winsome girl stepped forward with no hesitation. Her wrists and ankles were clasped in the cold unforgiving chains, the end of which hung from the man's belt. Again, Berihn pointed and again the girl was chained and led back. In terrible slow motion Berihn lifted his arm to make his last selection. Zel knew who it would be before he had pointed her out.

Crying out, he drew his sword, feeling his strength flow up within him. He ran forward, straight for Berihn. However, all the power and speed he possessed was not enough. His attack was cut off with the clang of metal on metal. In the split second it had taken him to reach the object of his hate, the master of Mestronia had also drawn his sword, deflecting his blow easily. Now, they just stood facing each other, both waiting for the other to make a move to strike.

"How dare you, boy," Berihn hissed, his weapon poised and ready. "What point are you trying to make?" Rough hands grasped his shoulders, pulling him down. The town officials had arrived to settle the matter and restore the peace. His sword was snatched from him and he was restrained while Berihn was allowed to make his last choice. Smirking arrogantly, he sheathed his sword and pointed. Zel hung in head in agony. There was nothing he could do now, and it had probably been foolish to try in the first place. Now, there was no hope for her, and he would be thrown into prison for disrupting a ceremony that had begun at the dawn of time.

Ever since anyone could remember the Mestronians had come to Tegyrn. The village was set in a valley completely isolated from the rest of the known world. In fact, to most Tegyrners the valley was the known world. Every year all the girls who had fifteen springs, summers, autumns, or winters would be gathered in the center plaza near the fountain. The leader would select three to train as slaves. Mestronian slaves were the most expensive and the most thoroughly trained, but they always came from Tegyrn and no where else. They were the most rare and beautiful, desired most of all slaves for their grace and obedience. They were the pride of the village while the young men of Tegyrn were forced to work in the mines of the neighboring mountains for the alloys needed for the forging of blades. The unchosen girls would be apprenticed to smiths to give form to those alloys. For there was nothing more desired than a young Mestronian slave who bore a legendary Tegyrn sword.

Three of those swords were handed to Berihn who strapped them to the back of his saddle. Zel was held powerless while the Mestronians mounted and rode away, the chosen trotting along beside them. She faded into the moonrise, and as he watched he realized that he had never even said good-bye.

The pace the Mestronians set was easy at first. She knew that everything that was done to her hereafter would be part of a breaking. Being forced to trot beside horses was only the beginning of a long and extensive process to drown her will and suppress her spirit. She risked a sidelong glance at the man to whom her chains were clasped, paying special attention to his eyes. There was simply no emotion, they were hard and merciless. She shivered and almost tripped. The man paid no heed. It did not matter to him if she ran alongside his mount or was dragged through the dirt and sand. Just as long as she did not give any trouble.

Then came the memories, as always when one is leaving a home for a new cold life. Memories of her parents. Those were not really as warm as they probably would have been had she lived anywhere else but Tegyrn. They had known from the moment of her birth that she would someday leave them, and made sure they did not get attached to her. There was nothing in her childhood that she could recall where they had made her feel loved or even wanted. They had loved her surely, and in loving her had chosen to keep their distance so their parting would be less painful. She was grateful to them for that, and only that.

Then, of course, was the memory of her years with Zel. Her throat constricted with sudden emotion when she thought of him. Her most loyal and trusted friend. Her only friend. Her best friend.

"Who goes there?" The sudden soft voice caused an intake of breath and a stiffening of her muscles. She had no weapon with which to defend herself except a small belt knife. Fingering it, she turned to face who ever it was who had questioned her.

It was a boy, two years older than she at least, dressed in the garb of a woodsman. Undoubtedly, he lived in the forests that flourished along the sides of the valley for she had never seen him in the village. He was a bit on the short side, but he was taller than she with short purplish hair that hung in his sharp blue eyes in strands. Power radiated from his slender, lithe frame. All in all he made a handsome, if intimidating, adversary. He struck the first tiniest spark of real fear she had ever experienced, yet she was determined to be brave.

"My name is Jaylin," she forced her voice to remain steady as she faced him, her belt knife at the ready.

"What are you doing here?"

"Walking. You?" He seemed to lose a bit of his edge at her unexpected question.

"I live here."

"I guessed as much. Who are you anyway?" He was confused by her boldness, enough that he forgot to be tough and relaxed a bit.

"I am called Zelgadis." She closed the distance between them, her fear put aside as she offered him her hand.

"I am very pleased to meet you Zelgadis." He stared at her hand a moment, then into her eyes, then finally uncrossed his arms to return her handshake. She smiled at him. Her would be enemy lost his resolve and smiled back. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to finish my walk."

"Indeed? Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to accompany you." He might have been in the costume of a woodsman, but he had the charm of a gentleman. Offering her his arm, they continued alone through the forests. She had been fascinated by his nature. Their visits became more frequent until she went out to spend time with him everyday. He taught her much out there. . .

A violent jerk on her chains brought her back to painful reality. Her guard gave her a cold stare. Drawing her courage, she stifled the terror he struck in her. She was going to make it through this, and she was going to be the most valuable slave ever to come from Mestronia. If she had to do this, she might as well do it right. At least she had one asset that no other Mestronian slave could ever hope to have. Her lips curled in a half smile as she looked up to the Tegyrn blade rattling slightly in its polished black scabbard. Of course, at Mestronia, she would only be taught to dance with it. The ancient dances of the blade known only to a minor precious few. Dances of the blade. Well, she knew a different dance.

"You look like you're dancing, Zel," she had praised when he had shown her his impressive swordsmanship. He sheathed it gracefully, beaming at her with affection.

"Do I?" She nodded. He had only been fifteen then, but his fashion of talking spoke of a wisdom beyond his years.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"My father taught me. This is his sword."

"It's beautiful." He reached down for her, pulling her up until she was tucked against him. Gently holding to her wrist, he guided her to the hilt at his waist.

"Move with me," he breathed in her ear. Together they went through the forms, flowing one to the next in elegant rhythm. Thus was the first of many lessons of the sword.

Tears wouldn't come. His agony was beyond tears. He would have followed her had he not been thrown into prison for the night so he just sat there in the cold dark Even the footsteps echoing through the corridor and the grating of the cell door was not enough to rouse him.

"Zelgadis," the elder's voice reverberated off the emptiness of the place. The young man stood to bow respectfully. The elder sighed. "What exactly did you hope to accomplish out there?" Downcasting his eyes, he thought it best not to answer just yet. It was always better to remain silent during a chastisement. "You must have known that Berihn would have killed you and not had any qualms about it. The law gave him every right to do it too. You really should think these things through. Do you understand?"

"Yes elder." The only appropriate statement he could think of.

"This is a ceremony that has been continued for centuries. The girls of this village consider it a great honor to be chosen for Mestronia, and you would deprive them of that?"

"Yes elder."

"But why?" He spoke before he could stop himself, completely overcome with raw emotion.

"I love her. I cannot bear the thought of her alone in such a place being forced to do things against her will. I just couldn't let her be taken without trying to prevent it."

"Listen, boy. She was lost to you before you even met her. You might as well just forget about her. Understood?"

"Yes elder."

"I'm trusting that I can release you now?"

"Yes elder."

"Come along then." He was led out of the prison and turned loose into the woods where he was told to 'stay out of mischief.' He nodded, agreeing with whatever he was told, for the time being at least. Yet already, in his mind, he was thinking of ways to get her back. No, there was no way he could defeat Berihn now, he was too weak and unskilled, but if he worked hard, there would come a time when he would be powerful enough to beat him. It would take meticulous planning, and he didn't have time to waste. Every minute was slipping by, every minute she was getting farther away from him. He had to work fast. In deep concentration, he unsheathed his sword, studying his perfect features in the reflection. It was time to begin.

"It is time to begin," a harsh voice boomed above the nervous chatter of young girls. Trembling, they lined up to face their instructor. "The beginning, you will find, is the most difficult, and painful, but if you are obedient it will grow easier with time. You must learn now that you no longer belong to yourself. You are the possession of your master to do with as they please. Their word is law, and you are to follow that law with swiftness, grace, and silence. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Jaylin muttered absent-mindedly, receiving a deadly stare from the man who stood before her.

"I beg your pardon, slave, did you say something?" She felt a prick of fear at his tone.

"Yes."

"Yes?" Confused she thought desperately for what he wanted her to say.

"Yes I said something." In a flash of motion she was thrust to the ground with her own swordtip pressed into her neck. Idly she wondered how a human being could move with such speed.

"When addressing your owner always say as little as possible and end all statements with master, and another thing. You remain silent unless asked a direct question. If you fail to do so we will make you permanently mute. Now, do you understand?"

"Yes master."

"Good." She was released and she scrambled to her feet as the man pivoted to again face the others. "That goes for you all." Torn between agreeing and being dashed to the floor for not remaining silent the other girls remained perfectly still.

"Now, shall we continue?" The headmaster paused to replace Jaylin's sword in the sheath at her hip. She lowered her eyes in embarrassment and the beginnings of enmity for this person. It took all of her will to resist the urge to shift her sheath. If her plan was to be a good slave, she was starting off poorly. In the end, she played her fingers over her hilt. The sword. Her sword. Something she would always have. Her constant companion. The only friend she would ever have again. It's name, she decided at that exact second, will be Zel. She knew that she would not remember him, not any part of him, but if she called her blade by his name she could retain at least that tiny comfort of him. It would be the only part of her past that she was determined to keep. Everything else, she knew, even her own name, would be obliterated by what was yet to come. Zel, she thought, it's name is Zel. I have to remember.

"Meleyal," Berihn himself had come to teach her the dances of the blade. That was the only name she responded to then. Any previous identity had been erased by extensive training, or rather, breaking. Of course, her name could and more than likely would, change many more times before her death. The rights of any of her owners would be to call her whatever he pleased and she would be expected to answer to it. That was only one of the many pieces of slave etiquette.

She said nothing, was expected to remain silent, only stepped into position. Arms clasped behind the back, left foot straight and right foot at a forty five degree angle to the left, heel of right touching toe of left, eyes downcast. Of course, that was the standing position. Any other time she was not wanted she was supposed to kneel somewhere out of the way.

"Draw," came the cold command from Berihn as he studied her every motion from a few feet away. It should have made her feel uneasy, would have, in fact, had she been Jaylin of old. Now there was only Meleyal who felt no emotion. Mechanically, but not ungracefully, she drew her blade. A motion she had performed countless other times with. . .with. . .well, she couldn't exactly remember with whom. It didn't matter anymore. The feel of the sword was all that mattered right then. It's balance perfect in her grip. This was the last part of her training. Once this was mastered she would finally be prepared to be sold. Such a thought was exhilarating. The familiar ring of the draw echoed as Berihn also brandished his blade.

"Now," he began. "Move with me." Every part of him had her deepest attention with those words. His tall slender powerful frame fluidly flowing from form to form. A wonder to behold. The sword just an extension of his arm. Enchanted, she copied his every move knowing that her attempts at matching his skill were clumsy and inept. Almost without cause, her right wrist twisted oddly with the motion of the sword and her grip on the hilt relaxed. The weapon clattered loudly and reverberated in the hush that followed her mis-step.

Berihn stopped and faced her, eyes frozen black. She cowered from him, not from fear of being punished for her mistake, because slaves were never exposed to pain in their teaching, but fear of displeasing him. During her breaking, she had come to love and admire this man with such strength that the mere thought of his displeasure could hurt far worse than any whip. He held her paralyzed with his gaze as he stepped closer. Still, she was motionless as he knelt and retrieved her blade from the stone floor. Her mouth open in shock, she trembled in anticipation of what was to come.

"What," the words came in a calm soft, but not soothing, voice. "Happened?" Since she really didn't know, she licked her lips nervously and bit her lower lip, looking down. The Tegyrn legend was pressed into her fingers. Berihn stepped back a few paces to observe her.

"Again," came the order. He folded his arms, waiting for her to begin. She did know the forms that made up the dance, yet this was the first time she had ever tried to actually do it. Nervously, she firmly gripped onto the hilt, determined not to drop it again. Drawing a breath, the first form came easily, then the next, and the third. All seemed to be going well, and she almost caught what could have passed for a slight smile on her master's face, until the very same thing happened for a second time. Her eyes closed in embarrassment. To her the clatter of the sword was louder than the first time. How could she possibly have done it twice? She had never done anything wrong more than once. Hurriedly, she retrieved her weapon, ready to go once more.

"Wait," she was held motionless. "Sheath the blade." Always obedient, she did as told while he came up to face her. Gently, if firmly, he took her right hand to examine it closely. "What is wrong with your wrist, Meleyal?" He had used her name. She was supposed to answer direct questions.

"I do not know, master," she whispered after long hard thought to his inquiry. So quickly she gasped, he snatched up her left hand to examine it as well. Confused and scared, she tried not to shake. Apparently, he saw what he was looking for. At least, that was the only reason she could think of as to why he let her go so abruptly. It didn't account for why his eyes had grown so wide or why he was backing away from her.

"Left handed," the words were a curse. "Demon." Moving his hands in the signs to ward off evil he backed out of the practice room and shut the door with a clang. The lock clicked into place and she was left alone, tears brimming in her cobalt eyes. That was when the memory came. Or perhaps it was a dream, she couldn't quite tell the difference anymore.

"Here," he said, handing her his sword. "Go through the forms. I'll watch you." Smiling, her fingers played over the hilt. It was familiar to her now. He had taught her, but this was the first time when he would not be guiding her movements. He stood a pace or two away, arms crossed in an old habit, watching with his odd cocked smile.

She remembered that she had dropped the sword then too. More than once. He had taken her hands like Berihn had to look at them. Yet his reaction was more gentle.

"You poor thing," he told her.

"What is it Zel? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing really, at least, as far as I'm concerned. The world, however, will have a different view."

"I don't understand."

"Well, here, let me show you. See how this bone is slightly curved? You can tell even through the skin. It will prevent you from ever using your right hand in swordplay."

"This is bad?"

"No, it just happened. However, I'm the only one who thinks that way anymore. Out there, out in the world, if that is discovered about you, they will take you for evil. Anyone who is left handed is associated with the demon race."

"Why?"

"Because they are different from most everyone else."

"I don't understand them at all."

"That's all right. You don't even have to go out there, if you don't want to. You could stay here with me, for always."

"No, I can't."

"Whyever not?"

"I'm fourteen autumns old. The Mestronians will come next year. I will either be picked for a slave, or apprenticed to a smith." She knew that he didn't want to hear that, in fact, she didn't want to hear it either, but it was the truth. And there must be nothing but the truth between them. Yet, in revealing this to him, she had caused some tension.

"In any case," he shook her last sentence off and tried to recreate the mood that had begun when he had first handed her his sword. "How about we do the forms again? Except, use your left hand this time, and we'll see what happens."

"Zel, you don't think I'm evil do you?"

"No, it makes no difference to me what hand you use, to me, you can always be who you are. I'll never judge you for that."

How kind he had been, how gentle. If only she could remember if he had truly been real, or just someone she had made up to keep her from being lonely. She did not know him, but she called him Zel. That was the only name she knew. It drew comfort whenever she invoked it, and that boy had always represented comfort to her. At any rate, he wasn't here now, and she was locked in this room. She had never been locked in anywhere. Slaves of Mestronia never had to be restrained or locked up because they had no desire to leave. At least, after they were broken. Before they were kept in chains, but they learned quickly. This was just another reason Mestronian slaves were valued so highly. Their loyalty to their masters was unconditional and complete. They would never betray him, they would always obey him, and they would never run away. Yet her master had locked her in this room simply because one small insignificant bone in her right hand was not formed perfectly. The injustice burned. He didn't even trust her enough to believe she wouldn't leave the room if he didn't want her to. The lock was raised, she heard it. Hopefully, she knelt awaiting whoever would come through the door. She saw no one, but a hand reached in and tossed a garment to the floor, then the door was slammed and the lock quickly replaced. Curious, she picked up the bit of cloth. This time she did not stop the tears from escaping down her cheeks. From now on, she would wear the Black.