Battle Song

Abby Ebon

Summary: Pre-Valdemar. The history of the Need a magical sword, holder of the soul of a mage-smith, is shrouded in mystery. This is one of those, how Need and a Firecat helped a street-rat called Brat became someone most familar to Hawkbrother and Shin'a'in; Warriar, Mother, Crone - the Star-Eyed - as Kalar of Karse once said, the Sun Lord once had a female compainion - lost to history. This is the orgin tale of the Star-Eyed, which I've always wondered at.

Disclimer: I do not own Mercedes Lackey's wonderful works, and I do not claim to.

She is bleeding. Blood pools around her, seeps into the dry earth, and the muddy blood presses against her nose and mouth, slowly smothering her. It surrounds her on all sides- all of it hers.

She is Nëd.

She is too weak to move her head the little ways needed to not drown in her own blood. There is too much of it- and she knows with a sense of serenity that she is to die here. The only question is which turn death will take- drowning in her muddy blood, or from the savage wounds.

Her salvation is mere inches from her, if she could only reach it. The elegant steel blade forged with pure magic, and the black hilt- a blue stone mounted on the top. It is her only chance, yet she is too weak, too tired, to reach for it.

Too tired of life, tired of death, her lips- half coated in bloody mud, twitch into a grim smile her teeth bared, a smile one wares into a battle they know can't win. Or if they don't care if they do or not, so long as they have done what is needed.

She slows her breathing- meditating, and opening herself to any power that could strengthen her to move those last few inches.

After all…she may be tired, but she will not give up without a fight.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

-That dream again. – A girl thinks as she startles awake from the vivid nightmare, she has no name; other then Brat, she presses her lips but a sorrowful whimper escapes, tears threaten, and heart-sick, she calls out silently to the one being she trusts- a cat.

Brat is an orphan, perhaps ten, and to guess fifteen would be pushing it. Being a street-rat, and orphan, is all she has ever known. She is worthless in the eyes of her people, and she knows it. Even the beggars look down on the orphans, and they were no better off. Save that beggars knew something of their families. Most orphans do not.

In this place, of dust and priests, family is everything. So they say the Sun Lord decrees. An orphan is told never to look fro kindness from the Sun God, priests, or the guards, and for the most part this advice has served Brat well.

The cat appeared, arriving in its usual manner- out of nowhere. A soft purr hummed in her ears; the cat, in her mind, is the most beautiful creature ever seen in her world of streets and thieves.

A golden mask of fur covered the cats face, and startlingly intelligent blue eyes, that saw everything, peered up at her. The cat's long coat was white, save for all four of its dainty paws and fluffy tail- all of which was as golden as the sun.

The cat is her truest, and loyalist, friend. For, whenever she is troubled it would appear, sometimes even without Brat 'calling' for it! The cat curled around her legs, unreadable blue eyes stared up at her, Brat smiled softly, an expression she only let the cat see, and reached out a cautious hand to pet it.

It accepted the affection offered, and met her hand daringly as she scratched its ears, the purr growing louder.

The cat stepped lightly onto her lap, for such a large cat, Brat hardly noticed its weight. Brat rewards it with a scrap of dried-and-salted meat, and doing so, and petting the soft fur gives Brat a sense of calm, a peace an orphan rarely gets on the streets.

"Ah'll be alright, it was just…the dream, again…" Brat murmurs softly to the cat, at the urgings of foreign feelings to do so. Sometimes, when times were particularly hard, Brat felt that the feline wanted to know what troubled her.

Which was a silly notion, but it comforted her, to think that something cared about her when she felt helpless. As if to comfort her, the cat rubbed its face against Brat's chin, and Brat giggled, scratching the feline behind its ears.

After licking her chin, the cat curled up into a ball in Brat's lap, content, for now, to be petted.

The ruffle of leather boots was heard, and metal-soled boots clicked on the street after. It sounded as if they were right outside her hide away, between two buildings in an alley. Only she could fit into it, for she was the smallest person she knew. It wasn't comfortable- but it was safe, and that was what was most important to her.

Cat and girl tensed; no beggar (they wore straw-sandals) or orphan (who wore nothing, or rags wrapped around their feet in winter- which it wasn't) wore shoes made out of leather or metal.

Brat had to be careful, patrols came regularly, and the patrols took the beggars and other orphans away. No one knew to where they went after the patrols took them. Some said that those people were lucky- they were trained to become useful, to be soldiers, or priests, maybe they even learned a craft. Brat didn't believe those rumors.

Unnoticed to Brat (who was too busy trying to be silent, unnoticeable and to control the rate of her breathing) one of the cat's beautiful blue eyes opened, and the air seemed to shimmer for a moment, then Sheba calmly closed her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Leather-boots had spun around to face metal-soles, so Brat assumed that was who had spoken; leather-boots had a softly foreign, feminine voice, which surprised Brat, few foreigners came to her town- it was well inside the Sun God's dominion.

Metal-soles laughed, and Brat heard the thump of a body hitting the dirt- and the cry of one who knew they were about to die. Then someone with metal-soled boots ran away. Metal-soled boots were expensive, and Brat shook with fear long after the sounds had faded.

The knowledge that there was a body outside her shelter finally drove away the fear.

Bodies for a street-rat meant free stuff, and newly-dead or not, survival was more important then respecting the dead. The dead didn't need the things that they had had in life. Or so Brat told herself, as she slid between the walls- and emerged, blinking a few more times then was needed, as she stood in the bright sun light.

The body was, indeed, both female and foreign, she was dressed in armor which was stranger still for a foreign woman- and a sword lay on the ground a few feet away from her. Brat sighed, she couldn't use the armor- there would be too many questions if she tried to sell it, and the sword looked…familiar.

None the less she searched the body. The woman didn't have any valuables, no money, and no food- so the owner of the metal-soled boots hadn't wanted those things. What else was there? Brat didn't know, and rich people often behaved strangely. Brat shrugged it off, and went to the sword- there was a blue stone on the black hilt, it might be valuable.

Brat reached for the sword, her small grimy hands covering the hilt, a voice echoed in her mind.

: A bit young to be a warrior or mage, aren't you? But there is the promise of both in you…something rare indeed… and there is no one else, so you'll do little one. : Brat tensed all over, no one had spoken, because no one was around (she had made sure of that before she'd left her hide away). The 'voice' was female, and conveyed a sense of being old, even if it was grating like hard steel on old armor. Yet Brat knew it had come from her mind, but it wasn't her.

: I am Need, and I am the sword, child. If there is a woman in need near you, we will answer that need. I will help you. Do you understand? : The cat meowed softly, as if questioning why Brat was just standing there, and then it caught sight of the sword, glared at it harshly, and hissed at it.

Oddly Brat understood the sword. She would help those women in need, with no other payment then a job well done. Need would help her alive as best as it could, but not even the sword could save its last barer.

Brat swallowed, and Need felt her nervousness, and taking pity on her, sent Brat feelings of calm. : We shall start with something easy…: Need reassured her, and Brat felt the sword cast itself outward, supposedly searching for a woman in need. Brat waited, tense, and breathless, knowing that something in her life had shifted. She was no longer just a street-rat and orphan; she was something else, someone with a destiny…a purpose…

Someone useful…

Brat didn't know it, but as she stood waiting and breathless, Sword and Cat argued.

: You meddle in Fate. You meddle in a God's Plan. She is Ours, and I protect her. : The feline 'said' harshly, to the artifact of foreign-magic. To her disgust the blade snorted back a laugh in the mental link.

: She doesn't see you for what you are. If you told her the Fate you and Yours will for her, she'd choose my path. : Need told the cat smugly, she had searched through her bearer's memories, and knew the child better then anyone could claim to.

: She is young yet. She knows not what you ask of her. She is Ours- chose another woman. There are plenty here, others who are not God-touched. Let her be! : The cat hissed again at the sword, hastily following her charge as the sword made her leave the alley.

: She is mine now. You and Yours will have her back when she is ready. : Need told the cat, as she guided the girl-child to a well in the edge of town. Where a little girl had tried three times to get water, and had failed each time.

Fearing to go home empty handed, she had exhausted her self, and was in need. Not a need dire, but a need all the same, that, Need felt, her charge could answer.

: Then I will follow, to ensure her safety. : The cat told the sword, watching as her charge brought water out of the well for another girl. The cat felt the sword's silent approval, of its charges deed, and growled to itself.