Disclaimer: I don't own x-men or the previously mentioned characters save
for my own.
A.N. Thanks Sorciere
A.N. This is gonna be really difficult but bear with me. For the understanding aspect of this fic, Desdemona will introduce us to the story. Then her voice will fade away, and we will be back in that day and age, i.e. around 500 BC, with me so far? But, Xavier will also be reading this, so he'll interrupt every now and then. Hopefully you'll understand better then I can explain it. Here goes nothin'.
"The day and age, was that of discovery. Modern thinkers were discovering the uses of columns and the importance of democracy. Ingenious philosophers were debating how man should live. Olympians gathered to test their strength and endurance levels. The secretive meetings of Pthyagrous were being held on the importance of the right triangle.
And mutants?
We were discovering ourselves, and the struggles we would soon have to face.
I myself, remember my first encounter with Him, En Sabah Nur. Its funny really, I KNEW what He was, and yet, I wanted to be like that."
* * *
The sun was high in the noon day sky, beating its warmth on the backs of villagers as they looked up from their work to stare at the long procession. She peeked her head out from behind the light silk that blocked the outside from her. The men who were carrying her litter sweated in the sun, while her brother's chariot rushed on ahead. Her gray eyes filled with the sights of the commoners bending over backward, tilling the clay soil of the Greek peninsula. But as soon as they drank their fill, her eyes grew bored once more. Nothing new to look at, nothing thrilling to be felt. Only the journey's conclusion provided some excitement to her droll life.
Lately, her brother kept her in a large room. A prison filled with treasures of the outside world, anything she wanted. Jewels, silk, exotic animals from the south, the fortune her heart had always dreamed for.
Yet it was still a prison.
No fresh air, no sun to caress her cheek, the simple joys that any peasant could get. She often wished Zeus would find her, and transform himself so that they could escape her brother's palace. Anything would be better then the life she now led; even Hera's wrath would be preferable. But she was glad for this trip to Delphi and the oracle. Pythia was said to be able to commune with the sun god himself. The god of truth would surely know what to do with her and her new talents.
The royal siblings led an ox up the sacred way. Desdemona prayed to the dumb creature to shake its head of the water she spilled on it. For if it did, it was saying that it was glad to be sacrificed to Apollo. If not, they would have to return home, without any questions asked or answered. And she would be replaced into her stone tomb for another year. The ox looked at Desdemona for a second, the water dripping down its mangy brown head. Its great brown eyes stared off, while she was clutching her fingers, begging the creature to shake. With a massive shudder, water droplets went flying everywhere, like the mist of a waterfall it sprayed all those who came too close.
The elderly priest came. His voice intoned the sacred words, preparing the ox for the sacrificial ceremony. With a sharp sickle, the priest yanked the brown head towards the golden chariot above, and sliced open the thick throat. Blood streamed down the brown skin into a waiting earthen bowl below. After the bowl had filled with the dead creature's life force, the priest splashed it all over the decorated alter. After the sacrifice had been seen too, Desdemona and her brother were led into the room where Pythia waited.
A single priest guided them through a micro labyrinth, that's conclusion led the weary travelers the greatest treasure of all, Pythia's wisdom.
The priest, who preformed the sacrifice, granted them entrance, his elderly frame bowing to the Lord and Lady. The room was dark with few flames dancing on their wicks. It had a low ceiling that brushed the top of Desdemona's brother's covered head. They breathed in sweet incense that tickled their pleasure senses. The priestess named Pythia was sitting regally on a golden tripod. She was young, yet held herself with a great dignity that was due to her position. Surprisingly, she was not alone, for behind her in the shadows stood a priest. This one was different from the others, instead of bowing humbly to the royalty; he stood erect, with his eyes gleaming hungrily in the firelight. The Pythia invoked fear into Desdemona's breast, but remembering her training as a dignified upper-class patrician, she stifled her qualms. Her brother's strong voice broke the silence.
"Oh great Oracle, we come to seek Apollo's immortal wisdom. My sister has many gifts, but I am unsure of how to use them. Guide me, what should I do with her mysterious talents."
He bowed at the conclusion of this, Desdemona also lowered her head to the floor, but she peeked out behind her long lashes.
The Pythia started reaching for a withered leaf of laurel, the god's sacred plant. Before her frail fingers could touch the green foliage, the male firmly placed his hands on hers. The Pythia looked up at this sacrilege; her face was blocked from the companion's face. Quickly they heard an intake of breath, and the priestess started humming.
The woman's humming became louder, as she went into her trance, calling upon the god of wisdom to help her divine for the mortal before her. Her eyes opened wide, as a blade was placed next to her back. A thin trickle of red blood marred her creamy back's surface, as the cold metal dug into the warm flesh.
"In his immortal wisdom," she began, her arms rose adding to the theatrics of the moment. "The child's path will open before her eyes with a meeting between strangers."
With that, the Pythia's arms lowered, her head dropped into her lap, and the blade eased every so little away from her scarred tissue.
The siblings bowed their heads and exited out of the diviner's presence, pondering on what the god had meant. The priest removed his blade fully from her back, and strode in front of her. His deformed face looked out from behind his cotton hood.
"Tsk, tsk. Leading that unfortunate mortal down the wrong path, without Apollo's guidance. Not exactly a true follower are we?"
With that he brought out his blood tipped dagger, and bathed it in fresher fluid. The Pythia's head slumped to her lap for a final time
Desdemona and her brother walked silently down to their people. He angrily cursing inside his head, "Hades daughter" would live with him until the chance encounter would come.
But Desdemona's heart soared, soon she would leave; soon she would be treated like a goddess she knew she could be.
They crossed by an open amphitheater where tragedies and comedies would be preformed for their god's approving eye. Lovingly, her gray eyes fell down to the chorus's pit. She dreamed of seeing a performance herself. Trinkets and dazzling objects were nice, but she wanted human contact, to hear the power of the emotional voice, to see the dramatics of life in tales of gallant heroes. Far-seeing Zeus knew her own past life was filled of it. With her parent's mysterious murders, to her Uncle's pled for forgiveness to her youthful brother for killing her patriarchs. Her life already was a tragedy, now she wanted the adventure for herself. Far away shores, mythical creatures, and a lover's sweet embrace… her most treasured dreams.
Her brother jolted her back to reality; the sun was going below the surrounding mountains' backs. They would have to stop for the night, in the mourning; they would begin afresh their long tedious journey back home, back to her prison of stone. This was her last night of being out in the fresh air, underneath the hunted Calisto and her child Arcas. Gaining permission from her brother, Desdemona left their camp, and went back to the amphitheater; something there exhilarated her.
She carefully chose her way down the steep stairs that led to the bottom. She gazed back at the temple of Apollo, and started to imagine herself performing before jubilant crowds.
She bowed to her adoring crowd; she turned and lowered her head in tribute to the god's temple. She mimed drinking a goblet of the finest wine Greece had to offer, in tribute to Dionysus. Once more she lowered her head to the imaginary crowd who would hang on to her poetic words as if they couldn't survive without it.
Her gray eyes looked at the worn ground, and slowly were raised to a figure. A man stood there smiling at her unease. She withdrew a little unsure why this man intimidated her so. Her eyes traveled over his body. He was huge hulking figure, with muscles bunching with his every move. Heracles, himself would be afraid of the powerful man. He sent a chill down her spine, drawing in her breath as she stared.
"Come."
His baritone voice shook her inside. She always believed that her brother was a strong figure who wore his power on his shoulders well. People would cringe or smile when he demonstrated his ability to rule, but this man… He invoked it, demanded it, and fully consumed ones loyalty. All she could do was lower her gaze and accept her fate.
Her path was chosen, and she never once considered the faults of this decision.
* * *
"WHAT!!!!"
Xavier's tendons stood out on his neck while his anger spared none of its fury.
He couldn't believe it, this was not supposed to be. It just wasn't done, this was supposed to be the bible to all good mutants. The testament to their goals, the written proof to all that they wanted to believe. This was not the holy words he thought they were instead dribble, trash, complete and utter waste of their deaths. He rolled around in the closed off room he used as his study.
Beast just sat there, looking over the texts, trying to find an answer to his commander's withering hope.
Xavier kept lamenting the stupidity of his goals. His total and absolute trust in a zealot's faith for her messiah. He hung his head in grief, his fury spent.
All those lives.
He promised on their death cries, that he would use the texts, he swore to them. Unshed tears began to flood down his face. Tears for fallen comrades, for lost loved ones, to dear friends. He remembered each of their faces. Their goals and dreams for this existence, wasted, forgotten, unseen. Tears for each of them and then some. He held his head, grief finally unlocked from his stone heart.
Beast continued his search through the runes. He scratched his head; the complexities of the biography of the ancient mutant were perplexing him. Hank looked back up at his friend. Shaking his head, he began afresh the translation of the enigmatic tale.
* * *
The elderly priest came in soon after the royalty past through the sacred doors of the oracle. Quickly he went back to help out with Iole, or to every one else, Pythia. He expertly left behind the tricky maze, and approached the diviner's room. He has always came to her room after she was used by Apollo to speak; it became their little ritual. Before he entered the door, he heard a male voice, "follower are we".
Angrily he went through the opening; no one was to speak to Pythia until she rested. Didn't they realize how difficult it was to predict the god's meaning? His power alone could fry a mortal just by looking at him, let alone have him enter her body and speak through her voice.
He grabbed his eyes in pain, a bright light flashed from the corner of the sanctioned chamber. Dazed from the flash, he looked about him, adjusting his eyes to the sudden lack of searing light. No words could explain his fright. There on the floor, lay his Iole, his precious priestess, lying on the ground while a fresh pool of blood formed around her perfect skin. Grief stricken he went to her, his feeble muscles pulled the girl into his arms, placing her head near his face.
Her pale eyes were still open, looking up to him she whispered "Papa". She stretched out her arms, and placed them near his face, moving his own bloody one to cover hers.
A jolt slammed into his skull, he could feel voices and thoughts ramming into to his failing conscience.
Designs and powers erupted his order as he fell into a timeless abyss of chaos and thoughts foreign to his own.
Faces and dreams, loves and death songs echoed in his mind. His eyes seeing places of long past, the temple, the original, and the initial premonition. Thousands of lives and thoughts, beings he knew not of before screaming their pasts into his brain. A turent of females voicing their opinions all at once.
His eyes glowed with pain.
He couldn't stop the memories, the tales of love and betrayal, of life and its antithesis, over and over again, with a new face, a new feature, a new pattern. He clutched his head in the agony, the sudden spasm of his nerves was far more than he could handle. Old ways were lost while new ones demanded total control. Something broke, something was built, muscles he never moved, flexed, nerve ends reformed and connected with forgotten others. Cells expanded and multiplied. Nucleuses evolved.
* * *
The fresh air was sprayed by a salty wave, as the ship docked. Men left their timbered planks to the rockier beach of Gaul. Some openly kissed the ground, while others came to relieve themselves in the wood close near.
One other person stood on the boat, looking back across the troubled waters to an untamed land.
His hair was tied in braids of his clan, and his colors flew in the breeze, but his heart was lower than Bran's on his return home. Never again to see the isle of Eire, never again to see the sloping green hills, or hear the brave tales of CuChulainn and other hero's of past. No longer will Morgan come to greet the proud warrior that leaned on the side of the trireme.
A dog padded up to him, his warm muzzle brushed against the calluses of old, demanding his master's attention.
"All right Angus, time to go." His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he lovingly stroked his friend's ears.
But still he did not move.
The land was different, - it didn't smell right.
The place didn't have the same air to it like his home. There, one could sense the Tuatha De Danann watching from behind the rock, or gaze in wonder as the stone circles bring mortals into their parties, or even feel the forbidden power of a ring of mushrooms. Here, nothing, no power tickled the senses, nothing at the corner of the eye that you swear you saw but when you look back its gone, no hint of something magical. This land was devoid of anything, stripped clean of the wonders of nature, abused by too many people too fast without its due payment.
But alas, nothing was like his Eire; nothing in the whole world could ever match its beautiful terrors or its simple complexities. The dog whined at his side, the man look back one last time cross the foamy channel, and sighed, a long drawn out wanting sigh. With that last goodbye, he turned and stepped down the board to the new land.
He had walked quite a while to the small village. His wolfhound walked ahead, smelling the roasted deer cooking from a homestead near. The house was round with its chimney in the middle, skins of deer and wild rabbit coated the walls, and heads displayed the powers of the men inside. He came closer to the peat-roofed thatch, fingering his torque along the way. The gold around his neck was all that he had as an identification of himself, it told that he was a mighty warrior who had triumphed on the battle field, his only claim to anything. As he approached the skin used as a door, he could hear singing within. Strong male voices dominated the scene, calling out to each other in a feisty drinking tale, while the men continued to soak their gullets with delectable mead. He stepped into the tent.
Immediately, the warriors sprang into action, they approached the intruder and gazed at him with their swords drawn. Allister looked at the men with his pale green eyes, while they looked back with their blood shot merry drunken ones.
"What's your name and business in the house of Cradawac?" a man asked, his thick blond mustache twitching with each word.
"My name is Allister son of Conbar, I have come for some work and some food, for my belly is mighty hungry." With that he patted his stomach.
The men smiled at that and returned to their seats.
"Welcome my friend, I am Cradawac, and today is the day, my daughter was asked for. So we celebrate. Eat, drink, and be happy in her name."
The older man clapped Allister on the back and led him to the cauldron of warm mead. A girl came out and tried to help him, but he shooed her off, saying that she should rest and plan for her wedding with her mother. The girl smiled meekly and left, her blond braids whipping the air as she went.
"I am so fortunate. First my daughter will leave me!"
His small band of gathering drunken men laughed at this, knowing full well that the big Cradawac loved his family.
"Then a great druid humbles my house with his splendor and even graces us with a sacrifice," he continued in the same tone.
his men looked back into the corner where a figure with a long beard sat. His eyes met Allister's briefly, but that contact was enough to make the Irishman feel chilled.
The druid's face was lost in the flickering shadows, but his tell told druid shave was well visible.
Allister turned and looked back at his host, from the corner of his eyes he saw a shine coming in the direction of the holy man. He felt a little relieved, that this sidhe-forsaken place did indeed posses some magic enough to have a druid…but only a little relieved.
"And now I have a good kelto with the skills of an exalted warrior. I have been blessed thrice over, so I beg of you, drink, drink. And tomorrow we will have games and events!"
At hearing this, the men gave a hearty cheer, for no Celt could ever give up the chance to prove himself.
Allister sat down at his host's side, and began to sip the mead. Slowly he swallowed the foul drink; it was not the best of mead he has ever had. After that, he only pretended to drink the brew, and merrily enjoyed the feast provided before him.
"You do not join in the games, why is that?" A voice questioned, bringing Allister out of his review.
He looked about him; the skies had recently opened up and drenched the land, but now has cleared up. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the druid of yesterday.
"I didn't feel that it would be wise."
He turned back to see young men wrestle in knee deep muck, laughing and falling on their arses. Allister remembered the last contest he went into. In every match he had won, an inhuman feet, that gave him a couple of angry clansman to answer to. No, he couldn't even try to rig the games so he wouldn't win, he was too proud to do that. If he competed, his new found friends would not be so friendly to him later this evening.
"Ah. I see. You're looking for a job, correct?"
The offer surprised Allister. He turned around from the competitors, and really looked at the druid.
The man was not small or hunched like the romi would like to believe druids to be, instead he was a big man. He was tall and mysterious with his flowing robes. The only distinguishable feature on him was his face. A scar went down his left eye to the right part of his chin, and his face was rather hideous even without the old wound. And the eyes, they were very dark, black almost, they seemed to draw a person in, only to leave that person trapped in their depths forever. Allister was unsure, but he needed the job.
"My dog will have to come, too."
* * *
The man's breath cam in quick gasps as he neared his climax, the woman moaned beneath him, already at hers. Together they finished, moaning and screaming as one as pleasure swept through their entwined bodies. The man rolled off to the side, depleted and drained, he sought to catch his breath.
The silk rustled on the bed, as the woman got up to leave. Now that her duty was done, her Lord would need his rest. She quickly climbed into her tossed garments and left the silken bed behind. The man just smiled, all and all, it was an enjoyable midday break. He was about to get up himself and once more retain the responsibility of his tittle, when he heard a voice hidden in the shadows of his quarters.
"I have always wondered if you people do it differently."
The voice was masculine and carried no thread of warmth.
Kazan Rishka enjoyed performing in front of willing observers, but only when they were invited. He angrily cast aside his sheets and rose to his feet. A light began to glow in his right hand, while his eyes glowed with their own inner fire. The flame encircled his fist with a raw blaze of orange that outshone the torches on the walls. Standing before the figure with his hand in a fiery mass normally scared any being too stupid to make Zan use it, but the figure in front of him did nothing.
"Is that all your royal highness can do? And here I thought royals were supposed to wield more power than any peasant. Or at least that's what your kind keep stuffing down our throats."
He laughed a cold deep laugh, not really for the humor of it. He held his own hand high before the prince, and there sprouted a brighter fireball, glowing with immense white fire. The face that was hidden in the depths of dark shadows was revealed before the arrogant highborn, a cruel face that seen it's own hardships. Scar and birth deformities racked the flesh of the tanned man, while the new light reviled his flashy predator grin.
Kazan was not intimidated, especially by a mere peasant.
He sucked in a lung full of air, and concentrated on his power. The room began to get hot, steam was seen to come off the prince, as he bit his lip in deep focus. From his hands came a flood of power, flames licked at the air as it flowed from his palms to the peasant. But he couldn't hold it, he couldn't control the flames in an orderly fan pattern, they began to fall to the ground. The glow began to consume the heavy carpeting underfoot.
Angrily he cried out, sweat reformed on his brow as he tried to put out the spreading flames. But they were moving to fast, multiplying in speeds only it can, hungrily eating away at the ground and the nearby elaborate furniture.
The scarred man laughed again, as he raised his hands and suddenly brought them down once more. The flames extinguished immediately, leaving behind a smell of burnt fibers. "Come, ohh prince, I and shall teach you how to control Shamash's fire." The man extended his arm to the prince.
Kazan looked at the floor; his heart grew with hatred to the peasant before him.
He would not be defeated by a peasant.
He looked into the cold eyes of the scarred face, and reached out to the outstretched hand.
* * *
The wind whipped into his face as he rode on, faster he pushed his horse. He had to hurry, had to cover the distance from the emperor's land to the border before sundown. They must not find him; they must not catch him.
His heart felt low enough, yet alone having to be reminded by the guards of his folly. His own men chased him now, thirsting for his blood.
Ironically, he had taught them to do just this, any traitor needed to be hunted until brought back for punishment. Years ago his own hand taught theirs how to track, how to read the footprints of the escapee, how to hunt the fugitive until he believes he was safe and today, they hunt him. He kicked his horse harder in the ribs; he would not be an easy prey.
He built no fire, and tried to leave no marking of his camp as he settled down for the night. The sky was clear above, revealing the ill-fated stars above. The damned soothsayer told his majesty that the battle would be a success, and the king would have a beautiful ceremony on his return home. What the stars failed to tell was that the ceremony was the emperors own death parade.
He smacked his palms together in frustration.
He should of prevented it - he was there, he could have.
But no, he didn't, instead he watched as the arrow passed through the boy's shoulder. The look of surprise that passed on his face, of utter motified shock, that a powerful man gets when he finally learns death comes knocking at his door too.
Xien Tsu shook his head; it was not right to think of dead sprits while on their way to the afterlife.
Tsu grabbed out a candle from his roughly packed travel bag, and placed his fingers on the wick, concentrating he felt the tip of the hair's grow warm, a small flame grew.
"Greetings, good sir." A voice called out from the darkness.
"Come closer, and don't call me good." Was Tsu feeble reply back.
He didn't care who the traveler was, for if it were his own men, they would have placed an arrow between his ribs by now.
"If that is how you feel."
A man approached the candle diameter of light. He was tall, and not armed. Suspicion drove Xien Tsu to look closer, for no man went outside without a blade by his sides. The man was not of oriental decent. He had tan skin and flowing robes of people unknown to Tsu. The foreigner looked back at him, making his own observations.
"I don't think I have ever seen a man like yourself without a braid coming down his back."
"Then you have been lucky. What do you want?" he was growing annoyed with this man. He was to get up at dawn tomorrow to leave, and he didn't want to fall asleep on the horses back.
"My Royal Highness needs a body guard." He started simply.
He matter of factly put it. Tsu smiled, this man wasted no time getting to the heart of matters, unlike court officials. But he did not like the prospect of guarding a man, royalty or not. He could no longer trust himself. Could no longer take the responsibility for another man's life in his hands. He had the job, and he failed. He had proven dishonorable to his benefactor, and should by all means be killed for his folly, not rewarded.
"By guarding the prince, you will gain back your honor, Xien Tsu."
Tsu looked up at the figure in disbelief.
He knew his name, as well as his own thoughts. Only demons could know such things. He laughed then. To face demons and their tricks or to face his hunters.
All his life he has been told that it was a general's duty to die with his fallen lord and master. That it was an honor to ascend the afterlife and to guard his highness till the end. He even swore by his life and honor that he would do this when the time came. But he didn't. He enjoyed life too greatly to give it all up like that, to have someone pierce his heart without resistance, he couldn't do it.
He was too proud when he made that vow, believing that he would never have to fulfil it, for he was just too good. That nothing bad could ever come from him watching his emperor, no arrow would get thorough, no enemy, nor spear, nor stray anything. But one did. And he couldn't go through with his vow, would not stand by to feel the killing blow. He refused, so he ran like a coward.
And now a demon offered to give that all back to him. To be able to make everything right again.
Why not.
* * *
A flash and that was all it took for the demon to transport the two of them to an unknown place.
He smiled; his army was near complete. Soon, he will rid the world of its leaders, and claim it for his own. The world will know its true leader. He who actually is descended from the gods, there equal, no there better! He was the perfect choice to rule not only did he have the true power at his disposal, but he would never die - not in this century any way.
He smiled again his eyes looking over his gathered mutants. The royals sat on silk discussing the way of ruling from the Greek to the Babylonian. The Kelto just cleaned his blade over and over again, rubbing it smooth of its imperfections with a pumice stone. His eyes did not see his favorite anywhere.
"Plague where is Heisei?" He demanded, he brought his hands closer to Desdemona's throat. She just looked into her master's eyes.
"She is feeding the dog. Who is our new friend?" her eyes looked over the oriental man standing behind the tall despot.
"Allister, tell our 'friend' the news."
With that he left to find his last follower.
She stood in the kitchen preparing food for the flea-ridden beast. She softly hummed to herself as she did, her petite form just reaching the top of his table. She brought down some bones with meat still clinging to the marrow. The Irish (thanks Max) wolfhound's head nearly stood up to her ear, which it proceeded to lick while she brought the meal down before his waiting mouth.
"Shinrei"
His voice startled her. He always had that affect on her; his entire place had that effect on her. She timidly came closer to him, maintaining eye contact with the floor the complete time.
"Play for me."
Was all he said to her. He returned back to a separate room, filled with rock chairs and other uncomfortable items. This was his room, no one else was allowed in without his permission. Only she so far has seen the inside of the sparse quarters.
She brought out a Chinese instrument from a corner. She pulled the bow back and forth its three strings producing a calming melody. She dipped herself into her powers and slowly relaxed her master to sleep.
* * *
"We all met En Sabah our own way, coming with him out of our own need for adventure or just to regain our lost selves. With the completion of Xien Tsu to our numbers, we were ready.
But for what, our master told us not."
A.N. Oh my, I think I made my fingers bleed with that one. Note to all you readers, if I ever do another chapter that long, I will just scream and get over it. Serious though, unless I find a really good reason not to, these chapters will not be as long as this one, and I mean really. Okay, well we meet the bad boys; next chapter will be the good guys who are discovered by there own little leader guy. I think I'm going to bandage my fingers now. Have fun reviewing! Oh and p.s. did you understand with the changing of Desdemona's written thought, to the story, to Xavier's time line? !!^_^!!
A.N. Thanks Sorciere
A.N. This is gonna be really difficult but bear with me. For the understanding aspect of this fic, Desdemona will introduce us to the story. Then her voice will fade away, and we will be back in that day and age, i.e. around 500 BC, with me so far? But, Xavier will also be reading this, so he'll interrupt every now and then. Hopefully you'll understand better then I can explain it. Here goes nothin'.
"The day and age, was that of discovery. Modern thinkers were discovering the uses of columns and the importance of democracy. Ingenious philosophers were debating how man should live. Olympians gathered to test their strength and endurance levels. The secretive meetings of Pthyagrous were being held on the importance of the right triangle.
And mutants?
We were discovering ourselves, and the struggles we would soon have to face.
I myself, remember my first encounter with Him, En Sabah Nur. Its funny really, I KNEW what He was, and yet, I wanted to be like that."
* * *
The sun was high in the noon day sky, beating its warmth on the backs of villagers as they looked up from their work to stare at the long procession. She peeked her head out from behind the light silk that blocked the outside from her. The men who were carrying her litter sweated in the sun, while her brother's chariot rushed on ahead. Her gray eyes filled with the sights of the commoners bending over backward, tilling the clay soil of the Greek peninsula. But as soon as they drank their fill, her eyes grew bored once more. Nothing new to look at, nothing thrilling to be felt. Only the journey's conclusion provided some excitement to her droll life.
Lately, her brother kept her in a large room. A prison filled with treasures of the outside world, anything she wanted. Jewels, silk, exotic animals from the south, the fortune her heart had always dreamed for.
Yet it was still a prison.
No fresh air, no sun to caress her cheek, the simple joys that any peasant could get. She often wished Zeus would find her, and transform himself so that they could escape her brother's palace. Anything would be better then the life she now led; even Hera's wrath would be preferable. But she was glad for this trip to Delphi and the oracle. Pythia was said to be able to commune with the sun god himself. The god of truth would surely know what to do with her and her new talents.
The royal siblings led an ox up the sacred way. Desdemona prayed to the dumb creature to shake its head of the water she spilled on it. For if it did, it was saying that it was glad to be sacrificed to Apollo. If not, they would have to return home, without any questions asked or answered. And she would be replaced into her stone tomb for another year. The ox looked at Desdemona for a second, the water dripping down its mangy brown head. Its great brown eyes stared off, while she was clutching her fingers, begging the creature to shake. With a massive shudder, water droplets went flying everywhere, like the mist of a waterfall it sprayed all those who came too close.
The elderly priest came. His voice intoned the sacred words, preparing the ox for the sacrificial ceremony. With a sharp sickle, the priest yanked the brown head towards the golden chariot above, and sliced open the thick throat. Blood streamed down the brown skin into a waiting earthen bowl below. After the bowl had filled with the dead creature's life force, the priest splashed it all over the decorated alter. After the sacrifice had been seen too, Desdemona and her brother were led into the room where Pythia waited.
A single priest guided them through a micro labyrinth, that's conclusion led the weary travelers the greatest treasure of all, Pythia's wisdom.
The priest, who preformed the sacrifice, granted them entrance, his elderly frame bowing to the Lord and Lady. The room was dark with few flames dancing on their wicks. It had a low ceiling that brushed the top of Desdemona's brother's covered head. They breathed in sweet incense that tickled their pleasure senses. The priestess named Pythia was sitting regally on a golden tripod. She was young, yet held herself with a great dignity that was due to her position. Surprisingly, she was not alone, for behind her in the shadows stood a priest. This one was different from the others, instead of bowing humbly to the royalty; he stood erect, with his eyes gleaming hungrily in the firelight. The Pythia invoked fear into Desdemona's breast, but remembering her training as a dignified upper-class patrician, she stifled her qualms. Her brother's strong voice broke the silence.
"Oh great Oracle, we come to seek Apollo's immortal wisdom. My sister has many gifts, but I am unsure of how to use them. Guide me, what should I do with her mysterious talents."
He bowed at the conclusion of this, Desdemona also lowered her head to the floor, but she peeked out behind her long lashes.
The Pythia started reaching for a withered leaf of laurel, the god's sacred plant. Before her frail fingers could touch the green foliage, the male firmly placed his hands on hers. The Pythia looked up at this sacrilege; her face was blocked from the companion's face. Quickly they heard an intake of breath, and the priestess started humming.
The woman's humming became louder, as she went into her trance, calling upon the god of wisdom to help her divine for the mortal before her. Her eyes opened wide, as a blade was placed next to her back. A thin trickle of red blood marred her creamy back's surface, as the cold metal dug into the warm flesh.
"In his immortal wisdom," she began, her arms rose adding to the theatrics of the moment. "The child's path will open before her eyes with a meeting between strangers."
With that, the Pythia's arms lowered, her head dropped into her lap, and the blade eased every so little away from her scarred tissue.
The siblings bowed their heads and exited out of the diviner's presence, pondering on what the god had meant. The priest removed his blade fully from her back, and strode in front of her. His deformed face looked out from behind his cotton hood.
"Tsk, tsk. Leading that unfortunate mortal down the wrong path, without Apollo's guidance. Not exactly a true follower are we?"
With that he brought out his blood tipped dagger, and bathed it in fresher fluid. The Pythia's head slumped to her lap for a final time
Desdemona and her brother walked silently down to their people. He angrily cursing inside his head, "Hades daughter" would live with him until the chance encounter would come.
But Desdemona's heart soared, soon she would leave; soon she would be treated like a goddess she knew she could be.
They crossed by an open amphitheater where tragedies and comedies would be preformed for their god's approving eye. Lovingly, her gray eyes fell down to the chorus's pit. She dreamed of seeing a performance herself. Trinkets and dazzling objects were nice, but she wanted human contact, to hear the power of the emotional voice, to see the dramatics of life in tales of gallant heroes. Far-seeing Zeus knew her own past life was filled of it. With her parent's mysterious murders, to her Uncle's pled for forgiveness to her youthful brother for killing her patriarchs. Her life already was a tragedy, now she wanted the adventure for herself. Far away shores, mythical creatures, and a lover's sweet embrace… her most treasured dreams.
Her brother jolted her back to reality; the sun was going below the surrounding mountains' backs. They would have to stop for the night, in the mourning; they would begin afresh their long tedious journey back home, back to her prison of stone. This was her last night of being out in the fresh air, underneath the hunted Calisto and her child Arcas. Gaining permission from her brother, Desdemona left their camp, and went back to the amphitheater; something there exhilarated her.
She carefully chose her way down the steep stairs that led to the bottom. She gazed back at the temple of Apollo, and started to imagine herself performing before jubilant crowds.
She bowed to her adoring crowd; she turned and lowered her head in tribute to the god's temple. She mimed drinking a goblet of the finest wine Greece had to offer, in tribute to Dionysus. Once more she lowered her head to the imaginary crowd who would hang on to her poetic words as if they couldn't survive without it.
Her gray eyes looked at the worn ground, and slowly were raised to a figure. A man stood there smiling at her unease. She withdrew a little unsure why this man intimidated her so. Her eyes traveled over his body. He was huge hulking figure, with muscles bunching with his every move. Heracles, himself would be afraid of the powerful man. He sent a chill down her spine, drawing in her breath as she stared.
"Come."
His baritone voice shook her inside. She always believed that her brother was a strong figure who wore his power on his shoulders well. People would cringe or smile when he demonstrated his ability to rule, but this man… He invoked it, demanded it, and fully consumed ones loyalty. All she could do was lower her gaze and accept her fate.
Her path was chosen, and she never once considered the faults of this decision.
* * *
"WHAT!!!!"
Xavier's tendons stood out on his neck while his anger spared none of its fury.
He couldn't believe it, this was not supposed to be. It just wasn't done, this was supposed to be the bible to all good mutants. The testament to their goals, the written proof to all that they wanted to believe. This was not the holy words he thought they were instead dribble, trash, complete and utter waste of their deaths. He rolled around in the closed off room he used as his study.
Beast just sat there, looking over the texts, trying to find an answer to his commander's withering hope.
Xavier kept lamenting the stupidity of his goals. His total and absolute trust in a zealot's faith for her messiah. He hung his head in grief, his fury spent.
All those lives.
He promised on their death cries, that he would use the texts, he swore to them. Unshed tears began to flood down his face. Tears for fallen comrades, for lost loved ones, to dear friends. He remembered each of their faces. Their goals and dreams for this existence, wasted, forgotten, unseen. Tears for each of them and then some. He held his head, grief finally unlocked from his stone heart.
Beast continued his search through the runes. He scratched his head; the complexities of the biography of the ancient mutant were perplexing him. Hank looked back up at his friend. Shaking his head, he began afresh the translation of the enigmatic tale.
* * *
The elderly priest came in soon after the royalty past through the sacred doors of the oracle. Quickly he went back to help out with Iole, or to every one else, Pythia. He expertly left behind the tricky maze, and approached the diviner's room. He has always came to her room after she was used by Apollo to speak; it became their little ritual. Before he entered the door, he heard a male voice, "follower are we".
Angrily he went through the opening; no one was to speak to Pythia until she rested. Didn't they realize how difficult it was to predict the god's meaning? His power alone could fry a mortal just by looking at him, let alone have him enter her body and speak through her voice.
He grabbed his eyes in pain, a bright light flashed from the corner of the sanctioned chamber. Dazed from the flash, he looked about him, adjusting his eyes to the sudden lack of searing light. No words could explain his fright. There on the floor, lay his Iole, his precious priestess, lying on the ground while a fresh pool of blood formed around her perfect skin. Grief stricken he went to her, his feeble muscles pulled the girl into his arms, placing her head near his face.
Her pale eyes were still open, looking up to him she whispered "Papa". She stretched out her arms, and placed them near his face, moving his own bloody one to cover hers.
A jolt slammed into his skull, he could feel voices and thoughts ramming into to his failing conscience.
Designs and powers erupted his order as he fell into a timeless abyss of chaos and thoughts foreign to his own.
Faces and dreams, loves and death songs echoed in his mind. His eyes seeing places of long past, the temple, the original, and the initial premonition. Thousands of lives and thoughts, beings he knew not of before screaming their pasts into his brain. A turent of females voicing their opinions all at once.
His eyes glowed with pain.
He couldn't stop the memories, the tales of love and betrayal, of life and its antithesis, over and over again, with a new face, a new feature, a new pattern. He clutched his head in the agony, the sudden spasm of his nerves was far more than he could handle. Old ways were lost while new ones demanded total control. Something broke, something was built, muscles he never moved, flexed, nerve ends reformed and connected with forgotten others. Cells expanded and multiplied. Nucleuses evolved.
* * *
The fresh air was sprayed by a salty wave, as the ship docked. Men left their timbered planks to the rockier beach of Gaul. Some openly kissed the ground, while others came to relieve themselves in the wood close near.
One other person stood on the boat, looking back across the troubled waters to an untamed land.
His hair was tied in braids of his clan, and his colors flew in the breeze, but his heart was lower than Bran's on his return home. Never again to see the isle of Eire, never again to see the sloping green hills, or hear the brave tales of CuChulainn and other hero's of past. No longer will Morgan come to greet the proud warrior that leaned on the side of the trireme.
A dog padded up to him, his warm muzzle brushed against the calluses of old, demanding his master's attention.
"All right Angus, time to go." His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he lovingly stroked his friend's ears.
But still he did not move.
The land was different, - it didn't smell right.
The place didn't have the same air to it like his home. There, one could sense the Tuatha De Danann watching from behind the rock, or gaze in wonder as the stone circles bring mortals into their parties, or even feel the forbidden power of a ring of mushrooms. Here, nothing, no power tickled the senses, nothing at the corner of the eye that you swear you saw but when you look back its gone, no hint of something magical. This land was devoid of anything, stripped clean of the wonders of nature, abused by too many people too fast without its due payment.
But alas, nothing was like his Eire; nothing in the whole world could ever match its beautiful terrors or its simple complexities. The dog whined at his side, the man look back one last time cross the foamy channel, and sighed, a long drawn out wanting sigh. With that last goodbye, he turned and stepped down the board to the new land.
He had walked quite a while to the small village. His wolfhound walked ahead, smelling the roasted deer cooking from a homestead near. The house was round with its chimney in the middle, skins of deer and wild rabbit coated the walls, and heads displayed the powers of the men inside. He came closer to the peat-roofed thatch, fingering his torque along the way. The gold around his neck was all that he had as an identification of himself, it told that he was a mighty warrior who had triumphed on the battle field, his only claim to anything. As he approached the skin used as a door, he could hear singing within. Strong male voices dominated the scene, calling out to each other in a feisty drinking tale, while the men continued to soak their gullets with delectable mead. He stepped into the tent.
Immediately, the warriors sprang into action, they approached the intruder and gazed at him with their swords drawn. Allister looked at the men with his pale green eyes, while they looked back with their blood shot merry drunken ones.
"What's your name and business in the house of Cradawac?" a man asked, his thick blond mustache twitching with each word.
"My name is Allister son of Conbar, I have come for some work and some food, for my belly is mighty hungry." With that he patted his stomach.
The men smiled at that and returned to their seats.
"Welcome my friend, I am Cradawac, and today is the day, my daughter was asked for. So we celebrate. Eat, drink, and be happy in her name."
The older man clapped Allister on the back and led him to the cauldron of warm mead. A girl came out and tried to help him, but he shooed her off, saying that she should rest and plan for her wedding with her mother. The girl smiled meekly and left, her blond braids whipping the air as she went.
"I am so fortunate. First my daughter will leave me!"
His small band of gathering drunken men laughed at this, knowing full well that the big Cradawac loved his family.
"Then a great druid humbles my house with his splendor and even graces us with a sacrifice," he continued in the same tone.
his men looked back into the corner where a figure with a long beard sat. His eyes met Allister's briefly, but that contact was enough to make the Irishman feel chilled.
The druid's face was lost in the flickering shadows, but his tell told druid shave was well visible.
Allister turned and looked back at his host, from the corner of his eyes he saw a shine coming in the direction of the holy man. He felt a little relieved, that this sidhe-forsaken place did indeed posses some magic enough to have a druid…but only a little relieved.
"And now I have a good kelto with the skills of an exalted warrior. I have been blessed thrice over, so I beg of you, drink, drink. And tomorrow we will have games and events!"
At hearing this, the men gave a hearty cheer, for no Celt could ever give up the chance to prove himself.
Allister sat down at his host's side, and began to sip the mead. Slowly he swallowed the foul drink; it was not the best of mead he has ever had. After that, he only pretended to drink the brew, and merrily enjoyed the feast provided before him.
"You do not join in the games, why is that?" A voice questioned, bringing Allister out of his review.
He looked about him; the skies had recently opened up and drenched the land, but now has cleared up. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the druid of yesterday.
"I didn't feel that it would be wise."
He turned back to see young men wrestle in knee deep muck, laughing and falling on their arses. Allister remembered the last contest he went into. In every match he had won, an inhuman feet, that gave him a couple of angry clansman to answer to. No, he couldn't even try to rig the games so he wouldn't win, he was too proud to do that. If he competed, his new found friends would not be so friendly to him later this evening.
"Ah. I see. You're looking for a job, correct?"
The offer surprised Allister. He turned around from the competitors, and really looked at the druid.
The man was not small or hunched like the romi would like to believe druids to be, instead he was a big man. He was tall and mysterious with his flowing robes. The only distinguishable feature on him was his face. A scar went down his left eye to the right part of his chin, and his face was rather hideous even without the old wound. And the eyes, they were very dark, black almost, they seemed to draw a person in, only to leave that person trapped in their depths forever. Allister was unsure, but he needed the job.
"My dog will have to come, too."
* * *
The man's breath cam in quick gasps as he neared his climax, the woman moaned beneath him, already at hers. Together they finished, moaning and screaming as one as pleasure swept through their entwined bodies. The man rolled off to the side, depleted and drained, he sought to catch his breath.
The silk rustled on the bed, as the woman got up to leave. Now that her duty was done, her Lord would need his rest. She quickly climbed into her tossed garments and left the silken bed behind. The man just smiled, all and all, it was an enjoyable midday break. He was about to get up himself and once more retain the responsibility of his tittle, when he heard a voice hidden in the shadows of his quarters.
"I have always wondered if you people do it differently."
The voice was masculine and carried no thread of warmth.
Kazan Rishka enjoyed performing in front of willing observers, but only when they were invited. He angrily cast aside his sheets and rose to his feet. A light began to glow in his right hand, while his eyes glowed with their own inner fire. The flame encircled his fist with a raw blaze of orange that outshone the torches on the walls. Standing before the figure with his hand in a fiery mass normally scared any being too stupid to make Zan use it, but the figure in front of him did nothing.
"Is that all your royal highness can do? And here I thought royals were supposed to wield more power than any peasant. Or at least that's what your kind keep stuffing down our throats."
He laughed a cold deep laugh, not really for the humor of it. He held his own hand high before the prince, and there sprouted a brighter fireball, glowing with immense white fire. The face that was hidden in the depths of dark shadows was revealed before the arrogant highborn, a cruel face that seen it's own hardships. Scar and birth deformities racked the flesh of the tanned man, while the new light reviled his flashy predator grin.
Kazan was not intimidated, especially by a mere peasant.
He sucked in a lung full of air, and concentrated on his power. The room began to get hot, steam was seen to come off the prince, as he bit his lip in deep focus. From his hands came a flood of power, flames licked at the air as it flowed from his palms to the peasant. But he couldn't hold it, he couldn't control the flames in an orderly fan pattern, they began to fall to the ground. The glow began to consume the heavy carpeting underfoot.
Angrily he cried out, sweat reformed on his brow as he tried to put out the spreading flames. But they were moving to fast, multiplying in speeds only it can, hungrily eating away at the ground and the nearby elaborate furniture.
The scarred man laughed again, as he raised his hands and suddenly brought them down once more. The flames extinguished immediately, leaving behind a smell of burnt fibers. "Come, ohh prince, I and shall teach you how to control Shamash's fire." The man extended his arm to the prince.
Kazan looked at the floor; his heart grew with hatred to the peasant before him.
He would not be defeated by a peasant.
He looked into the cold eyes of the scarred face, and reached out to the outstretched hand.
* * *
The wind whipped into his face as he rode on, faster he pushed his horse. He had to hurry, had to cover the distance from the emperor's land to the border before sundown. They must not find him; they must not catch him.
His heart felt low enough, yet alone having to be reminded by the guards of his folly. His own men chased him now, thirsting for his blood.
Ironically, he had taught them to do just this, any traitor needed to be hunted until brought back for punishment. Years ago his own hand taught theirs how to track, how to read the footprints of the escapee, how to hunt the fugitive until he believes he was safe and today, they hunt him. He kicked his horse harder in the ribs; he would not be an easy prey.
He built no fire, and tried to leave no marking of his camp as he settled down for the night. The sky was clear above, revealing the ill-fated stars above. The damned soothsayer told his majesty that the battle would be a success, and the king would have a beautiful ceremony on his return home. What the stars failed to tell was that the ceremony was the emperors own death parade.
He smacked his palms together in frustration.
He should of prevented it - he was there, he could have.
But no, he didn't, instead he watched as the arrow passed through the boy's shoulder. The look of surprise that passed on his face, of utter motified shock, that a powerful man gets when he finally learns death comes knocking at his door too.
Xien Tsu shook his head; it was not right to think of dead sprits while on their way to the afterlife.
Tsu grabbed out a candle from his roughly packed travel bag, and placed his fingers on the wick, concentrating he felt the tip of the hair's grow warm, a small flame grew.
"Greetings, good sir." A voice called out from the darkness.
"Come closer, and don't call me good." Was Tsu feeble reply back.
He didn't care who the traveler was, for if it were his own men, they would have placed an arrow between his ribs by now.
"If that is how you feel."
A man approached the candle diameter of light. He was tall, and not armed. Suspicion drove Xien Tsu to look closer, for no man went outside without a blade by his sides. The man was not of oriental decent. He had tan skin and flowing robes of people unknown to Tsu. The foreigner looked back at him, making his own observations.
"I don't think I have ever seen a man like yourself without a braid coming down his back."
"Then you have been lucky. What do you want?" he was growing annoyed with this man. He was to get up at dawn tomorrow to leave, and he didn't want to fall asleep on the horses back.
"My Royal Highness needs a body guard." He started simply.
He matter of factly put it. Tsu smiled, this man wasted no time getting to the heart of matters, unlike court officials. But he did not like the prospect of guarding a man, royalty or not. He could no longer trust himself. Could no longer take the responsibility for another man's life in his hands. He had the job, and he failed. He had proven dishonorable to his benefactor, and should by all means be killed for his folly, not rewarded.
"By guarding the prince, you will gain back your honor, Xien Tsu."
Tsu looked up at the figure in disbelief.
He knew his name, as well as his own thoughts. Only demons could know such things. He laughed then. To face demons and their tricks or to face his hunters.
All his life he has been told that it was a general's duty to die with his fallen lord and master. That it was an honor to ascend the afterlife and to guard his highness till the end. He even swore by his life and honor that he would do this when the time came. But he didn't. He enjoyed life too greatly to give it all up like that, to have someone pierce his heart without resistance, he couldn't do it.
He was too proud when he made that vow, believing that he would never have to fulfil it, for he was just too good. That nothing bad could ever come from him watching his emperor, no arrow would get thorough, no enemy, nor spear, nor stray anything. But one did. And he couldn't go through with his vow, would not stand by to feel the killing blow. He refused, so he ran like a coward.
And now a demon offered to give that all back to him. To be able to make everything right again.
Why not.
* * *
A flash and that was all it took for the demon to transport the two of them to an unknown place.
He smiled; his army was near complete. Soon, he will rid the world of its leaders, and claim it for his own. The world will know its true leader. He who actually is descended from the gods, there equal, no there better! He was the perfect choice to rule not only did he have the true power at his disposal, but he would never die - not in this century any way.
He smiled again his eyes looking over his gathered mutants. The royals sat on silk discussing the way of ruling from the Greek to the Babylonian. The Kelto just cleaned his blade over and over again, rubbing it smooth of its imperfections with a pumice stone. His eyes did not see his favorite anywhere.
"Plague where is Heisei?" He demanded, he brought his hands closer to Desdemona's throat. She just looked into her master's eyes.
"She is feeding the dog. Who is our new friend?" her eyes looked over the oriental man standing behind the tall despot.
"Allister, tell our 'friend' the news."
With that he left to find his last follower.
She stood in the kitchen preparing food for the flea-ridden beast. She softly hummed to herself as she did, her petite form just reaching the top of his table. She brought down some bones with meat still clinging to the marrow. The Irish (thanks Max) wolfhound's head nearly stood up to her ear, which it proceeded to lick while she brought the meal down before his waiting mouth.
"Shinrei"
His voice startled her. He always had that affect on her; his entire place had that effect on her. She timidly came closer to him, maintaining eye contact with the floor the complete time.
"Play for me."
Was all he said to her. He returned back to a separate room, filled with rock chairs and other uncomfortable items. This was his room, no one else was allowed in without his permission. Only she so far has seen the inside of the sparse quarters.
She brought out a Chinese instrument from a corner. She pulled the bow back and forth its three strings producing a calming melody. She dipped herself into her powers and slowly relaxed her master to sleep.
* * *
"We all met En Sabah our own way, coming with him out of our own need for adventure or just to regain our lost selves. With the completion of Xien Tsu to our numbers, we were ready.
But for what, our master told us not."
A.N. Oh my, I think I made my fingers bleed with that one. Note to all you readers, if I ever do another chapter that long, I will just scream and get over it. Serious though, unless I find a really good reason not to, these chapters will not be as long as this one, and I mean really. Okay, well we meet the bad boys; next chapter will be the good guys who are discovered by there own little leader guy. I think I'm going to bandage my fingers now. Have fun reviewing! Oh and p.s. did you understand with the changing of Desdemona's written thought, to the story, to Xavier's time line? !!^_^!!