Wild Justice
Summary: Valter was out searching for Ephraim and instead found a lone wyvern rider. A dark, scarred past lingers around her and something plagues her. What is she trying to fulfill? ValterxOCxEphraim
Nine: Bitter Betrayal
Sorry for taking so bloody long to update, writer's block collided into me so fiercely I absolutely had no idea how to begin the chapter. I overrode that hebetudinous writer's block…eventually.
A/N: As you can see, I changed the title. I did such an act because the title wasn't basically upholding the general gist of the story nor the summary. Yes, revenge/justice does play a key role in this story but it will be quite some time before it is shown in all its radiating glory. Plus, I kind of thought the former title was a tad bit corny and unfulfilling. Hope this title is far better (I received it from a quote). In addition to a new title, I decided to spruce up the previous chapters, this one, and the future ones a with a revenge/justice quote that have some connections to each the selected chapter.
The Lex and Terry Listener: Thanks for reviewing and the name-drop; it's been awhile since I played the game, much less than portion of it.
Frodo007: Thank you for the tip, I did not know that. I've seen different authors use the style I was using but your suggestion makes sense. I'll be sure to use in the chapters to come, starting with this one.
Knives91: -grins- Heh, thanks again. Enjoy this next chapter, its length makes up for the elongate wait.
Text:
"Speech"
Thoughts
Flashbacks/Lyrics
Disclaimer: Why must you ask? You're pouring salt on the wounds!
"Valter," she called out, "is that the Grado Keep you mentioned before?"
The said man turned his head slightly towards her, wordlessly nodding. She jogged up next to him, already starting to dislike the silence. They were quiet through the whole ride and no matter how much she felt wary or discombobulated around Valter his talks could be very settling at times.
"So that's the notorious Grado Keep," she stated out loud and Valter grunted in agreement.
"Home sweet home." the Moonstone answered back nostalgically and silence elapsed over them once more.
"To take revenge is often to sacrifice oneself."-Anonymous
"So look what I have here," jeered Zonta at the maroon armored cavalier, "a knight of Ephraim. I was expecting the prince himself but I suppose you'll have to do."
Forde chuckled, a taunting demeanor inclining on his sweating, labored silhouette. "Hate to break it to you, buddy, but Ephraim is way out of your league. I think I'm more than enough for you."
Zonta's mouth twitch at Forde's cocky insult, his pride swelling tremendously inside. "Do you truly think you can take us with those numbers? Imbecile!" He crudely unsheathed his blade and positioned it in front of him. Forde ebbed his lance to meet Zonta's sword, waiting for the mercenary to strike first. Seeing this, Zonta lips curled up into a nasty sneer. "You'll learn the errors of your ways!"
"Huh, you almost sound like Kyle. You two would get along famously," Forde commented dryly. In response, Zonta flashed his sword at him and he blocked the attack with the side of his lance, signaling the beginning of a grand battle.
Zonta feigned to his left and then agilely arched his sword underneath the lance, at Forde's right. Forde urged his horse backward and the tip of the blade narrowly missed slicing his wrist. He inwardly sighed in relief; if the attack had succeed then that would have inflicted a major, heavy wound around his radial artery that causes severe bleeding and eventual death if not treated correctly and quickly. He made a stabbing motion towards Zonta's chest but the professional mercenary brought his sword back with admirable speed and disengaged the assault.
Forde swiftly kicked the sides of his horse with impassive fervor and charged forward at the swordsman, his lance aiming perilously at the enemy. Zonta jumped out of the cavalier's path but Forde just directed his horse at the retreating soldier of fortune with his free hand. The horse obeyed suavely to his rider's demand and trotted onward, straight at the cornered Zonta. Realizing too late the trap he had fallen into, Zonta cursed uncouthly and executed a hazardous slash at the horse that backed up momentarily in affright. However, this course of action gave Forde more space and leeway to maneuver his lance and strike home. Extending the lance, Forde targeted his foe's unprotected region and sank his lance's butt deeply into the left side of Zonta's chest, piercing his heart.
Blood instantly seeped through the gelatinous fabric of his shirt, rapidly trailing through out in every direction possible. The mercenary's eyes bulged, flabbergasted by the sudden act of his demise. The sword slipped carelessly through his fingers and clanged forebodingly to the floor, forgotten. More of the crimson, amiable liquid flowed out of the corners of Zonta's mouth, dribbling slowly down his cheeks. He slumped to his knees, dragging Forde's lance with him. Opening his lips to say his final words, Zonta gazed aimlessly at the blood-speckled stone floor beneath him and his bare weapon lying lonely a few feet away.
"L-Lord Tirado…. It can't be…. Were we merely pawns?" His eyes then rolled to the back of his head and an anguished gasp parted his mouth. His body then went rigid and stiff completely. The signs of death erstwhile appeared in his frozen, disbelieving eyes, overcastting the retreating light with its eternal, lifeless cloud of obscurity.
Forde wrinkled his nose and brashly yanked his steel lance out of Zonta's cadaver. "Well, I'm glad that's over. Better go find the others and see how they're progressing." He swerved his horse around and came face-to-face with none other than Orson himself. "O-Orson! I didn't hear you approach. Have you seen Prince Ephraim and Kyle?"
Orson shook his dead blandly at the startled knight. "Unfortunately, no. I lost them during the fight and they, in turn, were separated as well, I believe. You're the first I was able to find."
Forde laughed dubiously at this bit of news. "Looks like we're going to have to search for them together, eh, Orson? Time to get moving then."
His horse began heading towards the exit when abruptly Orson plowed his horse directly in front of them and shut the door behind him with his weaponless hand. He spun his silver lance and crossed it over Forde's steel one. A set of unrecognizable emotions flickered across the paladin's pallid features as he steadied his horse to efficiently block Forde's only route of escape. Engaging Orson's lance prudently, Forde judged and maintained his distance from Orson.
"Orson! What is going on?" he demanded rather stridently. The said paladin sighed and lowered his lance yet only by an inch or two.
"I'm filling out my orders, Forde. That's what I'm doing." he stated. Forde blinked turbidly at this.
"Orders? What orders? You haven't got any—" Actualization settled over him and the unspoken, terrible truth had dawned on him. "No! You couldn't have!"
"I did." Orson confessed gravely. Bewildered, Forde stared intently at him for a moment, as if he was seeing Orson for the first time. Snapping himself out of his stupor, he focused his attention of the subject of his fellow knight's betrayal.
"Why Orson? Why are you double crossing us? You're not a man motivated by greed or power, so why have you sided with Grado?!"
Keeping his face impassive as ever, Orson replied, "So I could be with her. My darling wife, Monica. She is all I ever wanted in this world and I can't bear to be parted from her. Grado promised if I handed Ephraim over to them that I would be returned to her and no one would bother us. We would get to live in absolute serenity, untainted by the horrors and damages of war. I'm doing this for Monica."
He then narrowed his silver lance at Forde, flawlessly emphasizing his killer technique at the blonde youth and batted his lance away like it was made of straw. Blood spattered across the extravagant walls and a horse's terrified neighing echoed through the confined regions of the death-marked room, drowning out a young man's heart-wrenching scream of excruciating agony and pain, both physical and mental.
His body was wounded, yes, yet so was his heart for betrayal is never a pleasant event, especially when it comes from one of your acquaintances.
"I'm sorry about this, Forde, but just like with Zecilys, you give me no choice."
Zecilys? He got her too?!
His next thoughts were silenced with the deadly accurate sweep of Orson's lance, embedding its tip abrasively through his armor and into his abdomen. White spots clouded his vision and his state of consciousness eluded him. His eyelids shortly felt heavy and weary and they began to drop. Scarlet droplets stained on unadulterated white armor were the final images his saw prior to his eyes closing shut on him.
My prince, I'm sorry I couldn't serve you fully or capably enough…even at the very end. That is my only regret.
A never ending blanket of darkness consumed him and what happened after that, Forde couldn't apprehend.
Stodgy, caliginous smoke billow out into the Copenhagen blue sky, its onyx, withering coils twisting and twinning around the pallid, laggard clouds drifting overhead, blotting out the simple blue of the sky with its shaded colors of metallic grey and abysmal charcoal. Golden orange flames danced unruly about, its blazing, inferno fingers hungrily licking up the fleshy or bony remains of the carcasses strewn across the blackened and bloodied meadow.
Four figures were assisting the fire's path and made sure it didn't get out of hand and dispersed once its task was complete. The lone female in the group, also the sole member on horseback, turned her attention onto the hooded stranger who had returned to their side after retrieving his own mare that was sheltered in the woods, far from the monsters' attack.
"You, druid," she began. The hooded head of the druid tilted in her direction, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
"Yes?" The young woman blew a wisp of her yellow chartreuse hair out her eyes before continuing.
"Thank you for aiding us in our righteous road of defeating these abominations from our lands! The forces of light give you their eternal gratitude!" proclaimed the enthusiastic troubadour.
Good grief, are all the Raustens like this?
Fighting back the urge to roll his eyes or sneer pejoratively at woman called L'Arachel, Irthos simply bowed his head slightly towards her, humbly replying, "It is nothing, dear maiden of the light. From where I come from, it is costumed to help struggling travelers in peril. I was doing this out of pure instinct and good will." He cringed inwardly at his disgusting politeness, his supposedly "sincere" remarks.
Honestly, 'maiden of the light'? Where in all of Magvel was that all about? Ah, how he despised behaving so modest and rectitude, the act was just simply revolting in his eyes. It was making him want to vomit in self-loathing.
And he did it out of sheer "good will"? Irthos mentally snorted. As if!
Nevertheless, such unfavorable and sanctimonious actions are necessary, if they will ultimately obtain the information I seek from the princess of Rausten. Once I do, I can drop the charade, grab those pesky relics from that pitiful house of mine, and return to Riev with something more than just those mystical artifacts.
L'Arachel beamed approvingly at him, a continuous exuberance sparkling radiantly in her light chartreuse eyes. "You have a good soul, kind stranger. It brings me great relief and joy to hear that there still are partisans out there wanting to dispose justice upon the guilty!"
She attempted to get down from her horse and inspect if the men partaking in her 'divine' crusade had any wounds but much to her embarrassment she somehow ended up getting her foot caught in the stirrups, resulting in a tangled mess. Her face flushing crimson, L'Arachel did her best to compose herself and muster up her remaining dignity in front of the enigmatic, peculiar druid beside her. Before she could botch up another feeble attempt to get out of this complicating saddle, the dark stranger offered his slender, smooth hand out to her as a gesture of assistance.
"Please take my hand, I can't very well have you fall and break your pretty little neck," he told her cajolingly, his wry-akin voice totally abstract to his seemingly courteous manner. She nodded sublimely and took his hand gratefully yet Irthos could detect a remarkably yet extremely faint rosy hue against her fair complexion. He grinned smugly to himself, knowing how possibly vital this trivial, petty victory could mean in the long run. As he helped lift her off the saddle, his black hood with pumpkin orange trimmings unintentionally slipped off his head, revealing his entirely secluded features to the unsuspecting young woman in front of him.
Her eyes widen slightly at the aftermath of this piece of action, practically paralyzed at the marvelous sight of druid's youthful visage. As the respectable princess of Rausten, L'Arachel had been introduced to countless of handsome, charming young men and a couple managed to provoke a ting of pink on her cheeks but that was it. The man standing before her, his hand enclosed around her smaller one, by far stood most of them up.
Elongate, soft navy-blue tresses delicately framed the outer edge of the attractive lineaments that were sculpted rather divinely on his face. The druid's features were alluringly placid; there was no noticeable ounce of baby fat or blemishes and scars that some other young men around his age had the misfortune of encountering. His cheekbones were tight and defined, his chin strong and steady, a nose that was hawk-like yet it complimented his image rather than marring it. She dared to only take a tiny peek at his lips, they were partially thin but sinfully seducing. When she leveled her eyes with his, her breath lodged inside her throat.
By the fires of righteousness, was it even feasible to have eyes like those?! They were unlike she had ever seen!
His eyes were an unusual shade of gold and they shined with supreme power and uncanny abilities. They gleamed with such intellect, such a thirst for knowledge that L'Arachel wondered if he was a man of earth-shaking academic status, a man of many talents. Those golden, enticing orbs of his were full of secrets, riddling with answers to the thousands of questions L'Arachel always asked through out her years. She knew with once brisk glance from those enchanting, breathtaking pupils he could send a myriad of females weak in the knees and into a melting, lovesick puddle of sheer mush. Unfortunately, she feared she could, in a slight chance, be one of those poor, lady victims…or potentially end up like one of them.
"Lady L'Arachel!"
Dozla's holler broke her free from her captivating trance and turned her head at her bodyguard's direction. Fully aware now that she still was holding on to the druid's hand, she yanked her hand out of his grip fairly feverishly. Though she couldn't see how her countenance looked, she guessed she was blushing madly for a quite visible, mocking grin formed its way on the druid's beckoning lips.
L'Arachel wanted to smack herself in the head for even mentioning his mouth, much less describing it. Perhaps the gods weren't on her side after all, like Rennac erstwhile grumbled about all the time. Suppose that this was their method of teasing and toying with the mortals' emotions.
Aha! Of course! That's why they sent me this stranger to come to me and my companions' aid! His appearance was designed to seem like a blessing when in reality, he's a walking curse in disguise!
Sneaking another glance at the still sniggering druid, L'Arachel reluctantly concluded-with a mental, wailing moan inside her head-, that yes, indeed, the gods and the forces of good were plotting against her by delivering her this darkly mysterious and appealing man to her side.
What was worse, she didn't have a clue why. She was too busy cursing the Fates (she loathed committing such a horrendous act but desperate times call for desperate measures!) for her damnable, miserable excuse for luck, when awhile ago she actually thought she had some to being with.
What did I do to deserve this? I've been obliterating evil in the name of justice and righteousness!
One again, life wasn't looking up for the princess of Rausten. If it wasn't the lack of monsters to vanquish or Rennac consistent complaining, than it's having an unearthly striking young druid (in which later she would soon realize it proves implausible for her to be able to take her eyes off him) who just so happens to be traveling in the same course of direction they were heading.
The gods couldn't be any crueler, could they?
Peach-toned fingers gripped the silky, midnight blue sheets, the knuckles turning milky white. An aggravated sigh escaped the luscious lips of a turquoise-haired female, a few slightly damp and awfully knotted strands dangling irritably in front of her visage. She blew at a lock of her tremendously vibrant hair out of one eye yet it just flopped back to its original position. Groaning for no particular reason, Zecilys leaned her head back and it gently hit the wall behind her and the bed she was stretching on at the moment.
Today has been such a convoluted, perplexing day for her. Physically, no; mentally and emotionally, a definite yes. She didn't even know where it all began, her thoughts and emotions alone seemed to be dysfunctional and intricate. The day ride to Grado (the weather appeared to be on their side and unexpectedly enough they made it to their destination within the day) was a bit tedious, her leg muscles started cramping up toward the end. She gotten use to the Moonstone's arm around her waist yet it left her with an uncomfortable, awkward feeling inside her. In fact, he left a whole wagon load of impressions on her.
To begin with, she couldn't comprehend on what that man's intentions were. One minute he is pinning her against a wall, ravishing her for his own personal, amorous desires and the next he is defending her name-and forewarning might she add-against someone of equal status. What would drive him to commit such an act? She thought Valter was only lusting after her body and his need to play cat-and-mouse with her. Why should he care how someone else treats her?
…Which now brings her to another enigma about him. After when Caellach left them alone, he could have resumed his actions and pin her back to the wall to ravish her once more. Yet, he didn't and it almost seemed most particularly out of character for him. Then again, she didn't know him well enough to correctly assume his behavioral patterns, despite her hunch nagging at her about their distinct similarities.
"Looks like we're more alike than we realize," she mused quietly enough for only Valter to hear.
"Yes," she heard his voice echo deeply in her ears, "more alike than you can possible imagine, Zecilys."
By all that's green and good, what did he mean by that phrase?!
Zecilys rubbed her temples, her mind agonizing over the potential analogy between her and Valter. Just because they both savored the sensation of the flight didn't mean they were alike or anything remotely to that. They merely shared something in common, that's all. There was nothing else and yet, he implied that there is more, that he apprehended something she isn't aware of. Zecilys wasn't sure if Valter containing such knowledge without her consent either made her fuming or even more befuddled than before.
"Hell's fires, what's amiss?" she murmured with frustration, relinquishing her grasp on the bed sheets. She closed her eyes, trying to obstruct the turbulent thoughts brewing chaotically in her mind and soothe the maximizing pressure disseminating inside of her. Her method backfired. She continued to be in disarray and she emotionally didn't feel any better. She pulled her legs close to her body, encasing herself in ball-like form. Rocking herself back and forth, Zecilys tried to comprehend what was happening to her right this very second.
She never felt so tremendously discombobulated and perplexed, even since the day she realized she fell in love with Ephraim three years ago. If what she felt there was love, then what was this? A meaningless crush? An infatuation? Affection? Obsession?
No, those couldn't be it. They didn't fit the description to what she experiencing at the moment. It was like she was missing a piece of her, like she was starving and what she craved for was forbidden and ambiguous to her. She knew she longed for some entity but what? What was it that was driving her to ache for such a desire she herself couldn't even conceive?
Then it came to her.
His touch. She is yearning for his touch.
She wanted to feel those deft fingers of his roam freely all over her flesh, to have his mouth claim her lips once more in a passionate manner and artistically massage her scalp with his hands, her hair flowing through his fingers. She longed to hear his husky, wickedly bewitching timbre, have his chuckling, taunting witticism echo seductively in her ears. Her body was pleading, no demanding, for more. The fire inside her womb had subdued but only briefly. The fiery enticement would flare violently in remembrance of the very general who kindled it to life.
Curse him. Curse him for doing this to her! He simply wasn't satisfied with just beleaguering her physically, oh no, that isn't enough for the likes of him. He couldn't be content till his mere image and palpation is persistently plaguing her!
Furious, Zecilys got up from the bed, and began pacing through out the extravagant and decadent furnished chamber, ignoring all its luxuries as she pondered aggressively with her thoughts and shameful desires.
How could she even dare to think like that?! To pine for one of Valter's fortes, his ingenious, entreating deeds of sexuality? To allow him have sway over her, to beguile her for additional pleasure?
No, no, no! Don't even tread upon the subject! Just forget about him and that! If I do, then this will all go away! Think about revenge! Recall what occurred on that heinous night and I'll be back on track.
"…Remember what happened—"
"Xais!"
"Zecilys, get back! Go to your parents!"
"I won't leave you! You need my help!"
"No, I don't! Leave now and go find your parents. You must flee this place!"
"Not without you, Xais!"
"I said GO!"
"…Remember their faces—"
"Eroniz has been saddled for your escape. Stick to the forest and follow the river, it's alongside the eastern border to the path that will lead you to the Rausten palace. Once you reach there, inform the Mansel there immediately and report to him the gruesome tragedy that has befallen the Melkbane House."
"But Father, aren't you coming with? What about Mother and Alcyone and Irthos? Will they be accompanying me?"
"I'm afraid you will be undertaking this journey alone. I know in my heart I won't make it and neither will your mother. Alcyone's fate is unknown to me and as for Irthos…."
"What? What about Irthos? Has something betided him?"
"He is lost to us now, Zecilys. Forever lost."
"…Remember the treachery—"
"Irthos…why?"
"Our family was utter fools, Zecilys, fools! They were completely, disgraceful idiots that refused to see such glory in front of their own eyes and they cast such a powerful gift aside. Teacher has given me much knowledge regarding this and taught me how to avoid such errors caused by humanity."
"You despicable bastard! I can't believe you would defile our family's name like that!"
"Believe what you want, Zecilys, it doesn't matter to me. Don't force me to kill you, sister. I want you alive with me once this is over so we can start our lives anew. We can shed off the weakness the Melkbane house has for so long burdened us with and finally fulfill our dream together! Imagine it: I, the greatest druid in all of Magvel, and you, Zecilys, the finest wyvern rider there ever was! What say you?"
"I say…die!"
"…Remember when he ripped your heart in two—"
"Aaauuh…you actually…would kill your…own flesh and…blood, brother?!"
"You left me with no choice once you assaulted me like that. Besides, I am responsible for the deaths of my entire family so why not one more? You could have accepted my offer and came with me, sister, but you didn't. Therefore, you have only yourself to blame for your demise."
"…Don't think…I'm through with…you yet!"
"Actually, you are, Zecilys. You're heartbeat is weakening, your strength is fading, and as you know, magic is critical to wyvern riders such as yourself."
"Damn…you, Irthos! Damn you to the depths of Hell!"
"…Remember the Reaper—"
"What's this? A mortal still dangling between the thread of life and death? How amusing."
"Who… are you?!"
"Young girl, they call me the Reaper."
"…Remember the bargain you struck with him—"
"Mortal, I can sense your vigorous, headstrong resolution to survive. Tell me, do you want to live?"
"Yes! More than…anything!"
"Why?"
"So I can kill him…for the crimes he…has done against me…and my family."
"Who is this sinner that wronged you?"
"My younger brother,…Irthos."
"…I see. Very well, I will allow you to live and grant you some of my powers. When you complete your task of avenging your family against your brother, you must offer me something in exchange."
"What do you want…in return?"
"Your soul."
Her soul.
That was price she had to pay to live again, to cheat death, and gain otherworldly strength that lays dormant for the time being. The Reaper wanted her soul from the start and thought it would entertaining to permit her to keep her soul for a little longer, only temporary though. For once she finds Irthos and slays him the Reaper will appear and collect both of their souls, forcing her to meet death that she postponed for herself years ago.
When it was all added up, the Reaper would win in long run. She would get to savor her revenge, yes, but her life will be over soon as Irthos's heartbeat stops. The outcome was inevitable, she had sworn to the Reaper she would pursue her brother and never would attempt to abandon her hunt for her younger brother. If she did, the consequences would be fatal.
It was that very reason she never displayed her emotions or expressed her feelings, especially to Ephraim. She didn't want to leave him with a broken heart when she departed the world, she'd hate to be the cause of any of his suffering. He'd miss her, that's a given. Zecilys didn't know who else would in his company, she barely knew them enough to call them acquaintances.
But what about Valter? Would he feel any tinges of sorrow for her passing? Would he ever miss her?
Scowling, Zecilys shoved those thoughts aside, seething in how she was wondering about him again. If she allowed the mere image of him and all the "memorable" deeds he acted upon to have access to her mind then there's no telling what else she will starting thinking next.
…His tongue explored the moist caverns of her mouth, intertwining it around her own, forcing a pleasurable moan to escape her lips and erupt straight into the hallow, void aperture of his mouth….
"NO!" she cried out agitatedly, her hands rapidly curling up into fists, "Stop thinking about it, you silly fool!"
…He deepened the kiss even further, evoking another moan on her behalf….
Snarling like a savage, instigated beast, Zecilys inanely snatched one of the primly dressed pillows from the bed and hurled it towards the other side of the room. It landed with a 'thump' and slid down the floor, lying there circumspectly. She glowered aimlessly at the ruffled pillow, her ire boiling and churning with temerity through her veins.
Why is she doing this to herself? She thought she could so easily tune those memories out and lock them in the corners of her mind; however, she couldn't and that was what enraged her to the extreme. Is she this pathetic and ineffectual? Did she posses such a weakness for the flesh she would continue to yearn for the caresses belonging to the hands of an enemy? She felt repulsion, contempt even, at herself for nearly surrendering all her self-control to man who she only met just three or four days ago. Sure he had been entering her life unpredictably and quite frequently but still….! She didn't act like this when he first ravished on her flesh for his lust, so by all means she shouldn't be behaving in this dubious, complex fashion! None of this should be feasible!
Zecilys raked a gloved hand through her disheveled, scintillate hair, sighing miserably. "I'm such a mess, aren't I? I hardly seem to recognize myself anymore. What is wrong with me?"
By the Demon King's name, he was becoming to despise emotions. With an incalculable passion.
Number one, they could be so bloody abstruse, cryptic, and not at all lucid. Number two, they were affecting him in an extremely obtuse, cumbersome method that he is half-tempted to unleash his temper on some unsuspecting victim who was unfortunate enough to cross his path or dare to even speak to him.
Valter wished Caellach would be the first person he'd set his sights on, he wasn't quite through with that despicable mercenary, equal rank be damned. Once one did injustice to the Moonstone it was highly unlikely that the injury would be forgotten. He didn't just get mad, he got even. In the best way possible.
Consequently enough, the Tiger Eye was residing at Renvall though Valter doubt he was still there. He probably left with that blonde-haired mage knight-called Selene, Selena?-to travel up to Frelia and destroy the country's Sacred Stone hiding in the Valni Tower…so say the claims. So executing his little revenge on Caellach would have to wait. Oh well, if the urge was so great he could always bully Riev around, that revolting old freak was long over do for a verbal lashing anyway. He let the bishop's subtle questioning of his competence slide one too many times when he had more vital entities in mind. Now he had Zecilys secured in a room in the Grado Keep, he could focus his attention onto other matters.
Well, let's just say he tried.
It happened when he went to a secluded area of the castle, a secret grove only he and Slivegio were aware of (it was the second best region of equilibrium to the ruins he was so eccentrically fond of). He would occasionally take a trip there to empty his mind and design his next plan of action. Instead, he constantly found his concentration being interrupted by a certain golden-eyed wyvern rider who sparked his interest days ago and continues to do so for reasons unknown.
He had at first, believed it was her exotic beauty, the abnormality in her brilliant turquoise hair and the exquisiteness of her perceptive golden eyes that piqued his curiosity in her. It wasn't before long it became her personality that drew him to her. He relished her aggressive, vicious combative tactics, her fierce fighting spirit, her relentlessness to surrender-even when fatigue threaten to overcome her-, her irksome yet somehow intriguing stubbornness, and of course, how could he ever forget that lashing, sharply disarming tongue of hers?
Though for all those colorful execrations she so casually spouts out, her mouth is quite delicious.
He frowned sourly, perturbed how Zecilys could affect his conflicting emotions so greatly. And when he resumed in reminiscing her it just brought up a bunch more inscrutable impressions and caused some questions to arise, all of them revolving around her and her state of being.
For instance, why did she become a mercenary if she acclaimed ties with regal status? Shouldn't she be wherever her nobility consists of and be involved with their affairs?
That was just the tip of the ice burg.
He would then brood about how she managed to slip away from all her courtly duties and became a mercenary and then progressing over to her subtle romance with Ephraim, the main target of his duties.
Zecilys...and Ephraim.
His hand encased as a fist, Valter's eyebrows furrowed vexingly at this thought. Noticing the fist and his fingernails squeezing almost painfully into his skin, his relaxed his fingers, easing them apart from the palm of his hand. The darkness of his mood heighten as he tried to unravel the meaning of his sudden yet minor act of rage. Why should he care if Zecilys really loved the little troublesome lordling or not? What difference did it make? And more importantly, why in all of Magvel was he asking so many ridiculous questions concerning her?
"Blasted wench, messing around with my mind," he muttered dourly.
"You asked me for my answer, did you not? I have it, Valter." Her eyes stared defiantly into his, her small grin never wavering.
"I will. I'll give up anything for him. For he is someone worth sacrificing for."
The fist returned.
"Really? You don't say? And this is coming from someone who thinks it is perfectly fine to kiss someone they barely even know and have some 'gaiety' with the people they interrogate, General Mooncalf!" she snapped back sarcastically.
'General Mooncalf'. If the anonymous feelings inside him weren't going to rob what little sanity he had left, than her biting, satirical sense of humor will. Seriously, he could barely get a mellow or cordial enough answer from that woman!
Why should it matter? I shouldn't be bothered by such trifles, especially ones revolving around her. What should I trouble myself over someone petty as her?
She was meaningless. She was just a shadowy visage of a female soldier he happened to take a lusting for. But that was it!
She means nothing to him.
…That was a downright lie and he knew it. For if she was just a face to him, he wouldn't be thinking about her and her peculiar traits. He wouldn't be pondering why he would get so resentful towards Zecilys's adoration for that brat Ephraim. And he would most certainly be sated for stealing a few kisses from her and arousing her for his own pleasure. Ironically enough, all those desirable actions whetted his appetite for her and made him thirst for more. He felt the beast within him emerging, roaring at him to end its hunger, to taste the intoxicating sweetness of Zecilys's lips again and have her in his arms again, and cause her to utter such entreating sounds of delight.
Growling, the Moonstone launched his fist into a tree nearby, his ire radiating off in an incredulous, raging aura. What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn't he avert his attention away from her or be wholly satisfied with his previous time appeasing himself with Zecilys? Why did it feel like it wasn't enough? Why did his covet for her seem to cultivate instead of dwindling?
She was a puzzle he couldn't piece together fully and a passion he could not release himself from. An obsession he was so immensely fixated upon he couldn't tear his focus from her completely without being antagonized solely by the memories of her if she herself wasn't around do the job.
"What won't this all go away?!" Valter hissed, his head looking up to the sky as if searching for a reply. He didn't expect to receive any thus decided he had to find one himself. Even if it meant deciphering these irate, nameless emotions that appeared to be a lot more trouble than they were worth.
Unbeknownst to him, Valter just fed himself another lie. He did have a sliver of comprehension of what is occurring within him yet denied its existence. The notorious, ruthless Moonstone of Grado refused to admit that he could contain feelings other than bloodlust and a taste for the flesh.
Such an idea is simply inconceivable.
"Milord! Milord! Prince Ephraim!"
Kyle's fairly frantic timbre reverberated through out the vacuous hallway, eerily finding no carcasses or bloodstains around the spacious area. Apparently there were some regions of Renvall that were unsuitable for fighting or constructing ambushes.
The rigid, diligent cavalier urged his horse onward, allowing it to go into a steady trot. Ephraim should be nearby…and where Orson and Forde? Orson's disappearance was understandable, he might have encounter Prince Ephraim along the way. As for Forde, that reckless, brash fool probably got lost somewhere and was wandering around the keep, committing other acts of idiocy.
Grumbling in how Forde would pay for his lack of soberness, Kyle surveyed the passing doors and arches, searching for any signs of his companions. Prince Ephraim, Orson, Forde, even Zecilys.
The hands on the reigns tighten, his face darkening at the mere mentioning of the mercenary's name. He knew it puzzled everyone why he sorely disliked Zecilys the minute he laid eyes on her. From the moment he realized she harbored some…inexcusable feelings for his prince, he knew she was nothing but trouble. And he was correct. Her abduction is what landed them in this mess, regardless if Ephraim wanted to siege this rotten keep or not! Kyle apprehended it was unreasonable of him to blame Zecilys for getting them in this perilous predicament; however it was her affections that were spelling doom for the prince of Renais. When he was told they were childhood acquaintances he feared the situation could be direr than it appeared. It seemed like he was the only one who noticed, and is concerned about the relationship between her and Ephraim.
"Hey, Kyle!"
The said cavalier whirled around with an annoyed expression on his demeanor, knowing exactly whose voice it was.
"What is it, Forde?" he responded flatly. Forde blinked momentarily at his rival's curtness, then continued to what he was about to ask.
"Why do you hate Zecilys so much? She's a friend of Ephraim's and is a valuable asset to the group. Why all the embitterment?"
Wordlessly, Kyle yanked the fabric of Forde's sleeve, drawing him closer until they were barely nose-to-nose. "Sssh! Not so loud, Forde!" A mildly shock look washed over to the crimson knight and he arched a quizzical eyebrow at his partner.
"Okay, but why do I have to be so close to you?"
"Because I don't want anyone to hear!"
"Um, okay. You don't have to bite my head off."
"Do you want to hear my reason or not?" Forde nodded vigorously, his eyes begging blatantly for Kyle to explain.
"I know she has feelings for Prince Ephraim. I think she's in love with him."
The blonde knight's eyes widen incredulously and a regaled grin formed its way on his face. "Come off it, Kyle. Zecilys? In love with Ephraim? I don't see that happening!" Kyle grind his teeth in annoyance, infuriated by his comrade's disbelief.
"I'm serious, Forde!" he hissed spitefully, "What's worse, I believe he likes her back!"
Now his carefree rival looked plain confused. "And that's terrible because…why?"
"Because she will probably encourage Prince Ephraim to go with her on her travels after when this is all over-presuming if we all survive this calamity-and have him abdicate the throne just for her! He'll supplant who he rightfully is just so they can be together! It is one thing if she kept her noble heritage and didn't roam around Magvel as a mercenary-yet she didn't! It will be scandalous if our prince was to marry someone like her; she isn't claiming to have any ounce of the noble blood in her! She seems to deny any reminisce of her family or her former life at all! She's hiding something from us and it could very well harm Prince Ephraim!"
Forde stared owlishly at Kyle, as if he just grew five other dissimilar heads. "So basically, you're saying Ephraim deserves better and you loathe Zecilys because she likes Ephraim and her love is influencing his actions and affections towards her?"
"Yes!" he cried out exasperatedly, flinging his arms up into the air in a gesture of 'finally, he gets it!'
"You're daft, Kyle. They don't love each other. They're just friends. Frankly, you need to loosen up and stop worrying over that illusion."
"WHAT?!"
Trust Forde to be so oblivious to the world around him. Even now I still can't comprehend he didn't believe me and was able to wave it off like that! Doesn't he care for our prince's future?!
What he saw between Zecilys and Ephraim was most decidedly improper and unhealthy-a hazardous companionship he vowed to never let his lord stumble wholly into. She would tempt him to throw away the crown and join the life as a soldier of fortune, for her!
Zecilys would be Ephraim's downfall.
Judging by our situation, I'd say she almost is at the moment. Kyle double-checked his surroundings for any other concealed mercenaries. When he deemed the area safe, he lowered his guard and renewed his callings for his prince.
"Kyle? Is that you?"
Jerking his head up at the familiar baritone, Kyle guided vehemently his horse towards the owner of the voice. As he approached an open archway a standing figure clutching a lance thoroughly soaked in blood meet his view. The eerie light from the flickering flame of the candles decorating the walls reflected off the person's silhouette.
"Prince Ephraim! Are you alright?" gasped the emerald armored knight at the sight of his battle-weary but unyielding prince.
Ephraim nodded. "Fine, but I've been better. Have you seen Forde or Orson anywhere?"
Prior to Kyle could open his mouth and say 'no', someone from his opposite side interrupted him. "I'm here, my lord." Both Ephraim and Kyle swerved their heads towards the directions of speaker.
"Orson!" said Ephraim, "I'm glad you made it." The aging paladin replied with a bow of his head.
"Have you seen that knucklehead Forde anyway?" Kyle inquired, disconcert by his absence. For a brief moment, the curly-haired cavalier thought he saw a grim, reproachful expression cross Orson's features but it vanished rapidly. He blinked abruptly, wondering about the authenticity of what he witness. It must have been the trick of the candles. Shrugging, he passed the image by without another thought.
"No, Kyle, I haven't. He must be somewhere in the castle. We could have recently missed him."
Ephraim frowned, a troubled gaze apparent on his face. "This bodes ill for us. We have to find him quickly, with all haste. Time is precious and if we don't hurry, Grado's reinforcements will arrive."
"Yes, sir!" replied both horseman and they began following their prince's lead. It wasn't before long Kyle felt a pointy object pricking against the skin of his neck and the whisper of:
"Hold your tongue and do not move at all, Kyle, if you want Ephraim to live just a little bit longer." The green clad cavalier shifted his focus unto his assaulter, his eyes widening with each second.
"Orson?" he croaked out, "What are you—"
"Silence."
The demanding, apathetic tone of the traitorous paladin was enough to convince him to stop talking. Kyle easily processed what Orson's next plan of action would be: get Ephraim's attention.
"Prince Ephraim," started Orson.
"Yes, Orson—" Ephraim's sentence faltered, seeing Orson's blade up against Kyle's bare neck. "What is the meaning of this?! Orson, have you betrayed us?"
Orson edged the tip of his sword closer to Kyle's throat, the steel nipping playfully at his flesh. "Indeed I have. Let's make this quick, Prince Ephraim. If you give me your bracelet I will spare Kyle's life."
"Don't do it! Forget about me and save yourself, Prince Ephraim!" shouted Kyle valiantly, looking the Renais prince directly in the eye. "Flee this place and find Forde before the reinforcements come!"
"It's too late for that," Orson said staidly, "they already are here. Look outside if you don't believe me, my lord."
Ephraim shook his head, hurt evident in his ocean-blue eyes. "No, I believe you, unfortunately. Remove your sword from Kyle's neck and I will hand over my bracelet to you, Orson." It was Orson's turn to shake his head.
"No, that will not do. If I did that, Kyle will surely try to prevent the exchange from happening. Now give me the bracelet or forfeit Kyle's life."
"Alright. I'll do it." The viridian haired prince slipped the elegant, mystical trinket off his wrist, grasping it sorrowfully in his hand. Unable to bear this any longer, Kyle closed his eyes and prayed to every deity he remembered that this sacrifice will succeed and Ephraim would make his getaway with Forde. He grudgingly also added that he hoped they would be reunited with Zecilys, providing if she is still breathing.
Forgive me, my prince, for what I am about to do but this is my sacred duty. As your subordinate, your life comes first. I am dispensable.
Opening his mouth to say his final words, Kyle prepared himself for his last act as a knight of Renais. This was the end of line for him.
"Ephraim, run!" he bellowed out clamorously and allowed his neck to sink into Orson's sword.
Panicked hollers of "No!" from both men, blood spurting onto the cobbled-stone floor and in the face of the white armored paladin, and the woeful, begotten silence of death followed his gallant sacrifice. Then….
"She loves you, Prince Ephraim!"
Those were the definitive words of Kyle, the chivalrous and unwavering staunch knight of Ephraim. Ignoring his inner disagreements of Zecilys, he gave Ephraim what he knew what his prince wanted to hear: The woman he fancied loves him back.
The green knight died in peace, gratified that his task was complete. The rest was up to Ephraim and his lazy, blonde-haired rival.
It wasn't till I started writing this chapter I realized character death would also be involved. This was a difficult chapter to write because I was dealing with emotions I haven't experience yet and was treading prudently when Valter was brooding about his feelings for I didn't want to get him out of character. So that another reason-besides the malicious writer's block-why this chapter took awhile to write.
No, no, Valter and Zecilys aren't in love (yet!) but Valter's getting jealous of Zecilys's infatuation with Ephraim and he can't figure out why (I mean, this type of feeling isn't an every day occurrence, especially for him). So rudimentarily, this chapter focused on heightening character's relationships (the Irthos/L'Arachel is going to be most entertaining, that is, if you enjoy a flustered L'Arachel) and getting a bit more insight with Zecilys and what she's going through and why Kyle resents her so much.
I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, character death in all, and will continue reading and reviewing. Can't believe how rapidly school is creeping on me…blah, why does summer vacation have to seem so bloody short? I'll stop digressing prior to anyone falls asleep. Adieu everyone!
