WARNING: This is the part I told you about, where it veers off to original fiction land. So… please don't kill me. Flames are expected. Just…don't kill me yet. I have to finish this obsession before I implode.
SEMI/CICADAS
Yagate shinu
Keshiki wa miezu
Semi no koe
(There is no sign in the cicadas cry
That they are just about to die)
---Mujo Jinsuko
Her name was Sofya.
And she was the worst maiden a young mage could have ever fallen in love with.
It was five o'clock in the afternoon in the day of Woden.
With deceptive ease, she sat upon the floor, back upon the walls of her room, her knees bent at an angle which could easily spring up into a standing position--best for an ambush, or at least an uninvited guest.
More than ready, she was handling her sword, Lokapassaa, flexing her arms while slicing the air with short, smooth strokes. She watched each movement carefully, her eyes now deepened to an opaque pewter, darkened by the black curtains and the absence of live embers kindling upon the hearth. The smell of sacred oils wafted through the darkened chambers, emitted by the lavender breastplate she wore, along with the shoulder pads, the hand guard, the adamantine helm…
She had just oiled them. Rusty armor was at best a hindrance, at worst a death sentence. It was always best to be prepared. Time did not make allowances for the lackadaisical. And she--more especially because she was the Third--made it a point to engrave that virtue upon her existence. Or else she would die.
Not that she wouldn't die eventually. But at least, she would have fulfilled her purpose.
Unlike them..
She gave a sudden start.
The shrill scream of a whistle pierced through the deathlike hush of her room. Her eyes widened. Lokapassaa was quickly sheathed at her hip. In the space of a split second, she sprang up and flew towards the massive elm doors, easily flinging the heavy material aside.
She looked around.
Sunset Rays. Wide hallway. Gilded portraits. Displayed artifacts. Floor to Ceiling windows. Gossamer curtains swaying with the twilight breeze. Normality.
And yet the whistle blew on!
Unconsciously, Sofya's hand strayed to the hilt of her sword as a cloud of bewilderment surrounded her-----which was crushed a second later by the spark of realization which lit her silver eyes.
Body tensing in anticipation, her graceful form straightened. With swift purposeful strides, her armored elfin boots strode towards the mansions main hallway, up the magnificent gilded staircase, and straight to the gold doors of the room on the east wing.
She scanned it carefully. It was wide, tall and broad---reaching approximately fifteen feet in height, six in width and a foot in breadth. From a distance it was a monstrous spectacle. In front of it, the door was even more so. Carved in the gold were scenes of the gods, of the land's bloody history---decapitated heads and fair maidens scattered liberally across the expanse.
Who knew what waited for her behind those doors?
Taking a deep breathe, Sofya The Third, pressed pale sturdy palms at the gilded facsimile of a Frost Giant. With a minutest amount of force, she pushed at its heavy frame.
Soundlessly, it drew back, opening her way towards the mansion's throne--a regal , red-carpeted place as gilded and monstrous as its entrance door.
"Third."
The curt masculine voice alerted her to the presence sitting upon a chair beside her. Angling her head, she swept a glance to the figure behind the voice. Dressed in refined clothing, was a man of indeterminate age. The lines on his face, the grey of his hair and the crows feet beside his eyes spoke of old age. Yet the robustness of his lithe muscular frame and the ruddiness of his complexion, bespoke of the agelessness of youth. Despite this doubt, he clearly exuded power.
Knowing this, Sofya, in a quick gesture turned her body towards his and gave a low, low reverent bow.
He didn't answer.
Gazing at the crown of her head, he left her to stay in that position for what lasted like a minute, letting the rule of his authority settle all over her.
She didn't complain, didn't tense. She never moved a muscle.
Seeing this, he let out a small smile and the slight nod which freed her enough to straighten her back and gaze at him with a calm expression.
He gazed back, traces of his satisfaction lingering on his lips. Lifting his left hand to massage his temple, he let out a smooth inquiry, "This is your first time to be summoned, am I right?"
His right hand lifted up to gaze at the copper whistle he held in his palm. Her eyes strayed towards it, recognizing her insignia. She didn't recognize the sound when it called her back in her room, but the sight of those two engraved feathers struck her and brought her mind back to her task.
"Yes, my lord," she answered evenly.
He nodded at that, face becoming serious again. "Do you know why you were brought here, Third?"
She bowed apologetically. "No, my lord…"
He quirked an eyebrow.
"…but I do I have an idea, my lord, obtained from news from the east," she added hastily, lifting wide eyes at him.
He let out a sardonic chuckle. "That is good. I didn't raise you an ignorant soldier."
Leisurely standing up to his feet, he strode to the latticed windows, and looked out at the eastern sky---the bluish, darker side of the sunset afternoon---with his back to Sofya, hands resting as loose fists upon his hip. "And the time has come for the world to benefit of your training."
With his back still turned to her, his right finger raised in a gesture to beckon her close.
"The time has come." Obediently, she walked towards him in easy strides.
"…The time we have long dreaded and knew would certainly arrive."
Sofya looked out of the window, and gazed at the scene before her. The rest of the mansion, the woods, the endless array of villages and cities were scattered across the panorama of darkness and shadow.
"You know of what was written, am I right?" She didn't answer and instead looked at her lord's face and saw the creeping gloom.
Sighing an old man's weary sigh, he lifted his right palm to press at the glass. "The gods shall forsake us. The kingdom shall fall. And men and men shall wage war with each other."
Curling his hand into a fist, he made a rending gesture, as if to tear the scene before them--the village, the mountains, the woods…everything…
"The time has come when all life shall be rent asunder and all shall be reduced to nothing."
With a sad smile, he faced the maiden by his side. "And together we will face it." He lifted his hand and laid it on her shoulder. "Are you ready, Sofya?
She looked at him.
At once, she felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder--along with the task before her feet. At once, she made a vow to bind her. She must not fail. The gods have forsaken them. She must make her own faith, spin her own wheel…
She nodded at her lord.
The reason she lived was for this purpose.
"I promise you father," she vowed in words both deep and dreadful. "I will not fail."
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"The capital Parabellum lies in the eastern side of the Marsh Mountains... fifty-five miles if you try the long way around… it would take two weeks to go there on foot, Sofya!"
The silver-haired maiden, sitting on one chair in the armory, glanced at the owner of the irate voice.
"Do not fret, Lady Bellum. I do not intend to waste a week on such an arduous journey," Sofya muttered curtly, polishing her armor, as she spoke.
But Lord Od's mistress and assistant stood up from her chair, shook her curly blonde locks, narrowed her eyes and mockingly asked, "Then what do you intend to do, Oh so mighty Third? Fly?!"
The Oh so mighty Third gave her a quick side glance, and shrugged indifferently. "Perhaps."
Bellum's jaw dropped.
"Sofya!" she cried out angrily. "You are not a god!"
Sofya's hand stilled for a moment. Her hands curled into a fist.
"The gods are not all-powerful, Lady Bellum," she let out tightly, her eyes glinting.
Noticing the sudden blackness of her mood, Bellum shook her pretty golden mane once again, scolding gently, "That is besides the point, Third. What I want to know how you are going to travel through bog, roads, and mountains without going on foot."
Sofya turned her back on the blonde, polishing her helm once more, the momentary pique gone. "I do intend to fly, Lady Bellum," she spoke calmly.
Bellum almost tore her hair out. "Sofya!" she wailed helplessly.
Sofya sighed. Carefully laying down the armor upon a velvet case, she stood up and approached the magnificent display of shields on the wall. "Lady Bellum," she spoke evenly. "To clarify that statement and relieve your distress, I will inform you that I intend to enlist the services of a certain mage in the nearby city of Kalkir. He is a man--a professor of magic famed for his enchantments--and most of all his expertise in teleportation. Using his skills, I will be able to infiltrate Parabellum and take control of the capital in half the time and effort."
Lady Bellum merely stared.
Minutely unnerved by her reaction, Sofya added, "Do not worry. His services will only last as long as the amount of time he needs to get me to Parabellum. I do not wish to be bothered with another being's presence. So do not worry about precaution."
Hearing that, Bellum shook herself out of her trance and started frowning at some abstraction. Looking up at Sofya face, she began carefully, "That is what I have wanted to talk to you about, Third…" She laid a hand on Sofya's adamantine shoulder pads. "What has Lord Od told you about your task?"
Sofya's memory drifted to their conversation a few hours ago.
"And together we will face it…Are you ready Sofya?"
Sofya shrugged. "…The Lord Od told me the generalities."
Bellum nodded, walking off. "I see." Taking a short sword from a wall, she examined the blade absently, her eyes growing serious. "Sofya… you need to gather an army."
The Third started at that, her silver eyes growing wide. "What?"
Bellum nodded once more. "Lord Od decreed that a small army hand-picked and led by the Third is necessary for this war. This will be your main task, Sofya the Third."
Sofya's eye flashed. "Why does this task require me to gather…companions?," she coldly inquired, her facial muscles tensing up at the last word.
"Because we need, them Sofya--"
She cut off the blonde's words, with an angry whisper, "Dunya and iLya worked alone!"
"And they died," Bellum retorted viciously.
Sofya looked away, her knuckles tightened into fists, "Unlike them I shall fulfill my purpose."
Bellum's face softened. "Then fulfill it, Sofya the Third," she said smoothly. "Lead your army."
Sofya stood frozen beside the wall, her eyes blank with ire and her tall frame seemingly stretched to the rack. After what seemed like a moment, her body finally relaxed and she turned her attention back to the weaponry on the wall.
Noticing this, Bellum went back to her previous position in the chair, relieved enough to joke. "Think of this way. You are comparable to the beautiful Valkyries of the Aesir. Gathering the souls of the brave dead for distant Ragnarok"
"I will not be compared to a god, Lady Bellum," Sofya spoke in her usual cold manner, as she handled one blade.
"But Gods do not die, Sofya!"
Sofya however did not deign to reply.
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"LUTHER!! DON"T!"
The bespectacled young man gazed at his former teacher with no emotion in his blank amethyst eyes.
The dying man gave off a slight wheeze, his chest punctured by the wolf bite marks marring his chest. He lay upon a clearing in the forest nearest the city.
"Don't leave me here.. I can't move…Luther… please…," he begged hoarsely at him, clutching at his body desperately as if to hold off the life's blood slowly seeping away from his frame and unto the ground.
The young man merely lifted an eyebrow, one hand lifting up to adjust his round glasses, and his mouth opening to drawl out in a mocking tone, "But you can always teleport, Professor. Aren't you the best mage in this town?"
Tears leaked out of the old man's eyes, and he broke down in a thready sob. "Luther, my boy. Have pity on me. I'm your old teacher. Please... Five years you've been under my wing… I taught you so mu-" His words were cut off by the sight of Luther turning his back on him and casually walking off back to the direction of his tower indifferent to the old man's pathetic plea.
"Luther!!" he cried out, in a last attempt. "Don't leave me! I'm more useful alive than dead!"
The young man stopped.
With bated breathe, the old man waited for his sentence.
After what seemed like eternity, Luther Valhel slowly turned around. His glasses glinted.
The old mage's eyes grew wide as his former student approached,
Looking down at his bloody middle-aged frame, Luther smiled. "Perhaps you are right, old fool." With a merciless grip, he took one of the injured man's arm and roughly dragged him across the gravelly soil.
Gazing towards the darkness of the forest around him, his purple eyes gleamed queerly, as he dragged the semi-corpse along the road that led to civilization.
"Perhaps you are right."