Authors note: I wrote this more than a year ago. Unfortunately, personal issues kept me from posting the remaining chapters.
I also had quite a struggle creating a new midgard with new geography, flora, fauna and history. I also struggled with keeping my characters original in spite of this being well a rather complicated fanfiction attempt. However, this story will always remain inspired by the game and the spirit of Lenneth and Lezard hopefully resides in my new characters. I hope you enjoy this part Old time gamers might recognize some familiar stuff. Have fun.
ACCIDENTAL
by diminutive x
Accidental
The gods must have been playing
Cat's Cradle in a corner of night, last November
Stealing celestial strings from the lights of the quasars,
Looping threads alternately round
The waxen fingers of their hands.
It was almost legerdemain
How intricate fingers were outlined
Through the shifting gestures of a finger
Unraveling a house, a dipper, a bird
We are those strings taken from
Stagnant stars when god's made use of time's weariness
Annihilating other strings entangled with us;
Strings indifferent to beginnings and ends—
Choking their fingers, lying atop each other
While extending in all directions
There is no prevarication, though; the gods
Didn't plan a tryst for the two of us, we always meet
At a familiar point, forming a junction
X-shaped when seen from above:
Like intersecting wounds on the ravaged face of a rebel
Like a decussated leaves on the stems of a rose
—Alessandra Rose F. Miguel
DAPITAN vol. 1 no. 3
She was always running in front of him. Every beyond and ever unreachable, her lithe young form fleeing across the darkened fields. Her silver hair would be flying behind her, shimmering pale under the moonless night…And he sought it. That hair was his signpost. The light he desperately sought whenever the road became too dark for him to continue this race.
For it was always a never ending game between them. But once in a while, she turned her head back to glance back at him—the boy she left behind. Her hueless gaze would flash brightly. And her long clear laugh would echo across his ears.
"Gods and Mortals, can't fall in love Lysander!"
Overhead the two constellations glimmered and overlapped.
"The Valkyrie and the dragonslayer fell for each other," he'd stubbornly disagree as he tried to overtake her pace. "Brynhild and Sigurd DID."
"And they died, Lysander!"
"So what?" he'd cry out angrily.
"It means that what you want is impossible."
Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would manage to catch up to her, grab her hand and pull her to him.
"You're not a god yet, my friend," he'd pant out breathlessly, blonde bangs obscuring his eyes. His blue eyes which were drinking in the sight of her face. "I can still catch you."
Then, her red lips would sit up into a trace of a smile, freeing her hands fro his grasp.
"Then run for me, Lysander," she would whisper. "Run."
And she would be back to running ahead of him. And after that, she would never look back.
--
"Wake up, sonny!"
A young man lying sprawled across one of the tavern's table gave an unintelligible moan.
"Hey kid!" the bartender repeated giving a slight kick to the young man's shanks. The blonde man gave a loud snore.
Erupting into loud guffaws the alcohol-hazed regulars of one of Kalkir's many many taverns slapped their legs in merriment and took another swig of West Midgard's hearty ale. Shaking his head in amusement, the old man walked towards the bar to grab one of that amber brew for himself.
It was the twilight hours in the bar. It was a peaceful time in Kalkir—in most of West Midgard. It was the sort of time people took for granted. The sort of time when all that the men worried about was their suspicious nagging spouses or whether they had enough money to buy ale for today—for such hours like these. The hours when all but the old regulars were left inside and everyone was drunk enough to called half-crazy and yet not drunk enough to refrain from exchanging their own brand of manly talk.
"This is no place for lads like ye," the bartender commented wryly to the unconscious blond, wiping some drops from his graying beard.
"Shut up, you old goat!" one severely bloodshot regular slurred. "Can't you see he's one of them knights from Rabanastra?"
"Rabanastra? Them travelers today?"
"Aye."
The bartender and the other remaining customers half-lidded eyes strayed to the tell-tale red armor that the young blonde wore. The former scoffed. "Keh. He's still a young 'un to me."
The others nodded in affirmative. One burly old man leaning heavily against the bar counter sneered through yellowing teeth. "Seems like, Rabanastra's knighting babes nowadays!"
One ruddy faced companion of his, added with a heckle, "That's no mystery—what with the Duke just one wench away from being a corpse!!"
Hearing that, the packs of drunks hooted.
Then that joke finally subsided, one of the most drunk of the rabble let out a cheerful garble while swallowing his eleventh bottle of beer. "Them travelers from Rabanas—(hic!) –tra told me the Duke is bunching up all the—(hic!) men he can find for the final war! It be happenin' now he says (hic!). And everyone's count'd in, be it horny ones…ruddy ones, young 'uns… big 'uns…," his head slumped heavily on the wooden table. A few seconds later, there was heard a distinct snore.
An uneasy silence filled the room.
After an awkward moment, where each tried to simultaneously down their drunks, and avoid each others gaze at once, the burly yellowish-teeth man ventured a joke. "Old Berkin…," he began however uncomfortably. "…his wife's nagging prob'ly hammered him daft. Spreading stupid wives' tales, eh? He looked around at the unusually quiet bunch. "…eh?"
No one bothered to reply.
Those who remained sober enough to stay awake, merely looked down, content to gaze thoughtfully at the lovely amber of the drink—the special Kalkir brew they had been enjoying most of their lives.
Presently, the bartender called out, absently wiping the surface of his counter. "…ye all."
The still conscious regulars looked up at him. The old man nodded.
As in a shared signal, they all prepared to go out, quietly dragging the slumbering ones behind them.
The bartender sighed.
It will be an early shut-eye in the tavern for this day.
--
Lysander wearily splashed some fountain water across his face, as he sat at the edge of the pool in the middle of the night, breathing heavily, his eyes as bloodshot as the red of his Rabanastrian attire.
He wheezed, rubbing his face vigorously. With a long squint, and a fierce shake of his head, he tried to remove the traces of alcohol which still clung to him. He groaned as the early vestiges of a hangover pricked at his temples. Soon a mild ache in his shanks and buttocks followed.
He winced. Apparently, for reason unknown, the tavern had closed early and that good kind bartender had unceremoniously dumped him here. On the plaza, in the middle of the night, even with the air of the eleventh month harshly biting his exposed skin.
He frowned at the pavement. It sure was shiny, he thought. But definitely not soft.
Sighing heavily, he struggled to stand up, placing a calloused finger over his face. "Why did I get drunk in the first place?" he grumbled to no one in particular.
The only one who answered was the faint tinkle of the fountain in front of him.
Noting the lack of reply his own brain wearily spoke:
A new knight of Rabanastra must never conduct himself in such an appalling behavior. Fool. You said you wanted to change the world, didn't you? And you said you'd do anything! It took you five long years to come to this point! And now that you're a knight, what do you do?! You get drunk! Hah. You're absolutely pathetic. You really are!
"I can't help it," he answered back fiercely. He gazed above towards the waxing moon, his youthful countenance contorted into one of agony. A second later, the icy wind blew across his short blonde hair, and he closed his reddened blue eyes.
He couldn't help it.
Lysander, knight of Rabanastra, couldn't help but feel a certain anguish. Nights like this always haunted him. When the two star-crossed constellations overlapped each other, it reminded him of the endless games he had played with a girl who had long ago died.
--
Sofya the Third laid a trembling hand over Emille's brow. The young woman was sleeping now—comfortably housed in the best inn the town has to offer. She needed it dreadfully. Even though her injuries were already healed by Kalkir's foremost mage-doctors, Emille was still heavily tasked by trauma and fatigue. She had a most tiring day!
Knowing this, the silver haired soldier sighed softly, her eyes softening along with the release of a breathe. Letting the tips of her fingers graze hesitatingly across Emille's face, she gently traced the lines of the young woman's features, committing that face to her memory as the fifth person she had ever known in her life.
Father, Bellum, Dunya, ILya… Emille.
Presently, she looked up and gazed outside the room's window. The waxing moon smiled at her, gently bidding the lateness of the hour, and reminding her of long-overdue midnight training. Removing her wandering hand from her companion's form, she slowly walked towards the room's exit; sheathing Lokapassaa as her other hand turned the other knob.
She had accomplished much in the first day of her journey. Who knew what the morrow would bring?
…another warrior perhaps?
An unfamiliar sense of foreboding swept over Sofya as she descended the stairs of the inn. She frowned uncharacteristically unsure. She knew all about Midgard, but this was the first night she had spent outside the sanctuary of Lord Od's throne. For as long as she can remember, she had habitually spent each day training and each night, staring at the stars at the strike of the hour.
Was the unfamiliarity of the present circumstances the cause?
No…, Sofya disagreed in bewilderment. She had been trained to adapt to any situation. So what was the problem?
Biting her lip in uncertainty, she quietly passed the tavern's common room heeding not the other beings that were still awake, careful not to be seen lest they take interest in her uncommon garb. Her brown cloak was left shred to pieces inside Emille's boutique. Her black shroud was all but forgotten.
She stepped out the wide doors, and unto the cool bite of the air. Winter was coming.
She looked out to the sky, where the moon and the stars shone upon her armor and made the reflecting sheen of her eyes glimmer eerily white. She shivered.
…it wasn't foreboding. It was déjà vu.
--
"Glassine?!"
The little boy gave off a sharp indrawn breathe as he took in the sight before him. She had bruises again. Lying crouched inside a big boulder, which stood in the middle of one of the Duke's tenant-owned fields, his silver haired playmate—barely of seven winters—was covered in black and blue discolorations marring her pale skin.
He ran to her, skidding to a stop at her side, unmindful of the bits pf his skin scraped raw by the rough pebbles scattered at his knee. He crouched low beside her.
"Glassine…," he whispered softly, as he took a glance at her figure—at her knees drawn up, at her arms hugging herself and at the curtain of blue-silver hair shielding her face from his worried blue eyes. He absently lifted a hand to touch her.
She recoiled, curling further into herself.
A little whine escaped Lysander's lips. "Glassine…," he crooned impatiently. "Wha' happened?"
From beneath the cover of silver, the girl stubbornly shook her head.
Lysander sighed awkwardly and raised his hand to silently scratch his ears. "Why won't ya tell me?" he reproached her seconds, later. "I thought we're friends."
A slight sob burst from the girl. He started, drawing back in surprise. "Glassine?" he murmured in shock. Then his eyes widened. Did she say something?
Leaning closer, he heard an almost unintelligible moan in between her sobs. Finally he heard it.
"…mistress wasn't feeling well today…so she…" Glassine trembled in fright.
He gasped. Then he shook his little round fist in anger. "That witch!" he hissed. "She'll pay, Glassy!"
Or not…
His mouth pursing in disappointment, his fist fell into a limp heap by her side. What could two peasant seven year olds do with Nobility, however cruel?
But then, Lysander looked up and gazed at his trembling companion. At the black and blue bruises covering her arms. At the fading scars he just recently noticed.
He bit his lip, and opened his eyes wide so the tears wouldn't fall. He was a big boy now. Eight years old. It wouldn't do to be childish now. Forcing a smile upon his face, he poked her gently on the side. "Don't worry," he reassured her. "The gods won't allow ya to get hurt again."
Her sobs paused for a moment. "…the gods?" she hiccupped brokenly.
Finally noticing her interest, his eyes grew bright with glee as he pounded on fist to his chest. "Yeah!" Lysander announced proudly. "Uncle said that the gods are just and…and fair…and powerful!," he cried out, flapping his hands over his head. He leaned over and peered at her face behind the hair. "The gods will protect you, Glassy," he whispered solemnly. "They'll protect us!"
Her silver hair drew back to reveal brimming silver eyes. "Are you sure 'sander?" she sniffed.
He nodded vigorously, his fist falling to the ground. "I'm sure."
That seemed to reassure her for the moment. Her little round face peeked out the veil of her hair, as she lifted one pudgy knuckle to rub at her swollen eyes.
She sniffed loudly, causing Lysander to draw back in disgust.
"Eww…," he whined. "That's gross, Glassy!"
Glassine broke out into a wet chuckle, while rubbing her nose. She looked at him, her silver eyes crinkled into a smile "Tell me more about them 'sander."
"Who?" he asked in confusion, scratching head.
She laughed again, more gaily this time, lightly punching him on the side. "The gods, silly! Tell me more stories about the gods!"
--
"Glassine?"
The name burst forth unbidden from Lysander's lips, surprising the knight of Rabanastra himself. His red-rimmed eyes widened, stinging him with the cool bite of the late autumn air. But he stared on, gaze and thoughts momentarily fixed on the sight before him.
The plaza of Kalkir was quiet at this time in the night and softly laid in shadows. The only light which remained was the waxing moon floating above—illuminating the fountain, bathing the marble cherubs in pale hues, and painting each drop of the fountain into bright glints of silver.
And beyond that…was she.
He felt his jaw drop in astonishment, wondering how in hel's name, did that name slip out at this time?
She was a blue to him, even. Her features were indiscernible through the constant shower of silver. He only knew that she was female because of the hazy curve of her silhouette…covered with armor?
One gloved knuckle reached out to rub at his eyes. Then he froze, realizing what a childish gesture that was. He swore inwardly, letting his hand fall limply to his sides. He was a knight of Rabanastra! It wouldn't do to be childish now.
He squinted with his eyes, trying to find reason within the image, simultaneously wondering if the six bottles of ale he had downed were making his mind soggy. It suddenly occurred to him that he was inexplicably rooted to the spot.
Why? Something held him. What?
Something familiar… achingly familiar and infinitely dear.
"I have to get away!" his mind screamed frantically, upon realizing it. A gasp tore itself from his throat. It choked him, as he involuntarily fell a step behind, his eyes grown wide with panic. The muscles in his face twisted. Mirroring the inner maelstrom of his emotions which threatened to engulf his already alchocol drenched brain.
A sense of self-preservation rushed over him.
He stepped back. And then another. He tripped a step, then he swiveled. Then he turned around. With an agonized groan, his legs pumped up carrying him to a swift pace.
He ran! Lysander, knight of Rabanastra ran away for the first time in my life.
--
Sofya started.
That drunk fool was staring at her like he had seen a ghost. She frowned minutely, irritation creeping at her like that muscle twitching in her cheek.
She hated drunks—all of them! Even the tell-tale crimson of his Rabanastrian armor did little to lessen her intuitive disdain.
Look away, you rude fool!
However, the fierce glare she sent his way did nothing to remove those reddened blue eyes which had rudely glued to her face. She hissed in annoyance.
…It wouldn't hurt to use him as fodder for her sword, wouldn't it?, she wondered in aggravation. Then she froze.
He was…looking at her… Why was he looking at her like…that…?
Then he ran away!
Sofya's white gaze followed his receding form as he was slowly swallowed up by the distance and darkness—her heartbeat pounding hard against her temples. For some reason she was not as calm as she had expected to be.
It was there again. That odd sense of preordination. Of déjà vu.
Sofya felt it within her bones, quite as clear as the enormity of her task constantly drilling unto her psyche.
"He ran…away from me," she muttered thoughtfully. She had no knowledge why she knew, but there was something exquisitely wrong about that line.
--
"PUTREFACTIO!"
The stone floors of one of the dungeons in Luther's Tower shook with force, bursting forth angry trebles as the spell of psychic disintegration spread from the circle of runes etched upon the floor towards every crack and crevice of the chamber.
"CALCINA!"
A blast of wind slammed through the closed room, rifling the pages of the grimoires scattered across the floor, their edges stained with the splatters of freshly-spilt blood.
"PUTREFACTIO!!" the sorcerer repeated calmly, amid the chaos surrounding him, at his dark cape sweeping violently behind him and the wind throwing his brown hair into frantic disarray.
"CALCINA"
With that last chant, an eerie green light soon grew from the center of the circle right below the platform where an elevated altar was placed. A freshly mangled corpse was lying upon it. With fresh blood still flowing freely from its innumerable wounds, the light below grew greater and soon a horrible high pitched keening began to wail across the room, far more hideous than any mortal sound.
Luther's lips curled into a smirk and his glasses glinted queerly reflecting the light, casting an unholy glow across his pale features. The reverse alchemy was working, he noted in satisfaction. As usual.
"…Knowledge, Woden wrought from pain. Then by blood, shall knowledge be gained…" he muttered softly, his face grotesquely twisting into a strange smile.
"Not my blood," he inwardly smirked.
Too long had he tarried in his tower, cowardice arresting him, leaving him content to just watch and wait. This procrastination giving life to beautiful and fanciful illusions but not once giving way to an act which will bind her to him. His talent, his greatness, his utter glory and might as Kalkir—nay Midgard's greatest sorcerer was a while forgotten. Luther Valhel reduced to simple laboratory experiments and childish playthings in his dungeons.
But that was the case no longer.. No longer.. Today's events in Kalkir made sure of that.
While these thoughts flashed like quicksilver across his cranium, his coal-rimmed violet irises observed the demonic shapes slowly emerging from the rune circle. Years of summoning had alerted him to the familiar scent of it. He smelled the spirit's hunger for blood.
Using one gloved finger to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, he approached it in utmost tranquility and a slight hint of glee. He bent down and snatched a dagger flung carelessly flung on the floor. Glancing at it briefly, he bowed and offered it to his impatient guest.
"By my hand, I offer thee payment…," he began.
Cardinal rule in summoning. A necromancer must always be polite.
Goddess… you will soon be mine.
--
(Great thanks to the Encyclopedia of Symbolism, Dictionary of Divination, the Norse Guide andThomas Harris' Red Dragon.)
