Leviathan's Daughter
GoldenEagle
Author's Note: This installment is the shortest so far, but I still think it may be longer than most people's. Anyways, on with the story! Oh, and a quick question. I haven't seen the entire series yet, but I think I know that Folken starts out with white wings, but in all the fanfics I've read and all the pictures I've seen, his wings are described as black. I've heard that they changed that color for some reason. Someone, anyone, please tell me why! It would mean a lot to me. Thanky!
Chapter Eighteen
Folken's body ached, his back muscles and those in his wings screaming painfully, reminding him of how long it had been since they had been used. Yet still he beat them as fast as he could, winding down the streets of Hell, his white feathers singed by the heat radiating off the ground. His eyes searched desperately for her.
'She's got to be here!' His mind screamed. Another part of him twisted on itself, forcing doubt into his being. 'You fool. How do you think anything could survive this destruction? Her call was nothing but a last hope your own mind created for you.' He shook his head at the mental conflict as he moved further into the burning city. 'No. She is alive. She cried for me, she called my name.' He was so distracted from his internal anguish that he almost passed over the untouched piece of land below, but he caught sight of it, almost too late, and banked sharply to take another look at it.
He flapped his wings wearily, hovering above, letting his body lower a bit in exhaustion before his wings beat strongly, bobbing up and down in the noisome breeze. He stared down at the small strip, looking for anything. Any sign of life. Just as he was about to turn away, another wrong turn bashing his hopes down once again, he saw it. The slightest ruffle of fabric or hair, blended so perfectly with ash and blood that it almost matched the settings. Folken took a steep dive and retracted his wings, falling the last few feet to the dry strip so he could avoid his delicate feathers from catching aflame.
He stepped forward slowly and searched again, the air so thick with heat that it shifted and distorted the scene. It was then that he saw the body, laying on its side. Blood was everywhere, an arrow rested over to the left. Folken swallowed deeply as he stepped forward. 'Surely... It can't be... This hideous remnant *can't* be her...' But, even as these thoughts rushed through his mind, he could see the outline of her face, the faint scar dimly shown behind the dried blood. As he realized it was her, his being shuttered and he took a step back before he rushed forward, kneeling at her side.
A cold tremor whispered through him, a grim horror as he took in her lifeless form, still warm from the life that had recently dwelled there. Or, then again, perhaps it was the city that kept her body warm, as if to play a last joke on the Prince of Fanalia. The ultimate traitor. He just stared at her for a moment, his hands trembling by his side, his eyes only on her. He had been too late. He had been too late... No. Not yet. He wouldn't let her go. He *couldn't* let her go.
'I need you. I need you.'
************
Death was a slow, seductive thing. It twisted and danced before Persephone's vision. All was darkness, and yet she saw it there. Darker than the darkest night. It looked comforting, quiet. Some place she may find peace in. She sighed inwardly, forgetting all that had filled her life. Death was also an amnesiac, drifting into a person's senses before stealing everything they held dear in their life away from them, completely lost in the splendid dance of its formless being. She reached out, her soul's hand glazing the top of it. It stole her breath and forced her to let out a last sigh, along with that breath, her spirit began to drift away, freed from what it once saw as itself.
Suddenly, she was forced back, painfully, death becoming angry. Its form twisted and burned and became more of a hideous monster than the release it had been before. Persephone shrunk away from it, painfully and hopefully, remembering all that had been in her life worth living for. She remembered her promise to him... Death reached out for her, suddenly blazing in a black, yet blinding, flame, but as before, something again pulled her back, as if dragging her from a cliff's edge. The seductive being called her name once more, and she wanted to go, wanted to fling herself violently into its grasp. Again it muttered her name, knowing it would win, knowing that she would give in-
"Persephone!" The words, the voice, the touch pulled her back again and she became more fully aware of her life once more. "Breath, Persephone! Damnit, that's an order!" The rage, the pain, the dependency in that voice pulled her fully into her body once more. Death gave one final hiss before it dissipated. Its dark form was replaced as she opened her eyes, her true eyes, and saw only flame and flesh and feathers. And along with a glint of metal. A dim part of her took this all in. 'Folken, you came back for me.' With that, Persephone closed her eyes again, lost in a sleep that held neither nightmare nor a seductive death. She melted into his arms as they wrapped around her, willing to let him take hold of her fate. Fully faithful that he would not let death graze her so closely again.
Chapter Nineteen
Langer paced nervously, only a few of the other soldiers waiting with him. The rest of the Zaibach troop and made its way to the location of which they would be picked up. But the boy had stayed, waiting for Folken to return. A part of Langer questioned if such a man had been driven into madness. They often said that geniuses were always walking a thin line between brilliance and insanity. Gods, he had seemed insane when he had left!
Langer just remembered them preparing to leave, the Lord Folken at his side, when the man had suddenly turned, his eyes gone wide, his body rigid. The soldier had just stared at him, waiting, wondering what the blazes was up with his superior. Folken had turned then and sprinted before launching into the air and releasing his wings-
The boy shuttered, the sight of the Fire Wings still in his mind from a few hours before. 'Draconian,' he thought with a shutter. Langer had been raised in a part of Gaea that was not as prejudiced to the mythical creatures. Afterall, Taran's very symbol of protection was that of the Third Guardian, a Draconian with wings of earth and vegetation. Folken was a Draconian, obviously, but not of the kind that were to be feared the most. His revealing of this secret was not a great concern in Langer's mind. Many prophesies had been given in regard to the Atlantians in his region, great prophesies. Foreseeing of a uniting of all four of the Guardians, and then ultimate peace. Yet they had been regretfully recalled about a century ago when the Third Guardian had been slaughtered. They say the place where he had been destroyed still refused to bear life to that day. The Four Guardians of Atlantis. He knew that the wings he had seen over the city were that of the Fourth. All prophesies in regard to that Draconian were sketchy and dark, a god of war and renewal, of death and a chance at new life. The Fourth was the one rumored to be a signal of the End Times. When he showed his wings once more, it meant that Apocalypse was on the verge of awakening. It had been the Fourth that had destroyed the Third, denying Taran of its Guardian. This fire meant a curse, not a rebirth. A demon, not a protector.
Langer started from his memories of childhood stories and looked up, his eyes showing relief before his face went slack in shock. Folken came down, his wings burnt and covered in suit. It was the form in his arms that caught Langer's attention as Folken stumbled forward, too exhausted to stand. Langer rushed forward and helped him to his knees, eyeing the trembling girl in his arms. As he had thought, it was Lord Persephone. He looked down at her severely, trying to read every line on her face. 'So weak and frail, yet the only survivor.' Langer shuddered. 'Is it possible? This scarred and torn girl from the Mystic Moon... Among Zaibach troops...The Fourth?'
"Langer." Folken gasped in, his breath not quite restored, interrupting his thoughts. "Get someone to look at her. Quickly!"
The soldier nodded and turned, his head and eyes focused on Persephone's pale and pain stricken face a moment too long. He then ran, calling on the medical personnel he had thought might be needed to look into Folken's condition if he returned. They came at his cry and rushed past him to Folken's side before halting, their shocked and amazed eyes on the girl in his arms.
"Get her patched up. Make her better." Folken said, still weak from the continuos strain that had been put on his now hidden wings.
The group looked at eachother questioningly. Their eyes all read the same thing: 'He brings us a girl as battered as this? He might as well have brought us a corpse and told us to breath life back into it!'
Folken read the look on their faces and bared his teeth in rage. Faint burns marked his face and hands. "If she dies, you die, with even more pain than what she is in now. Do you understand?" Folken growled out. The doctors stared at him in fear at the force behind his words.
"Yes, Lord Folken." The one that seemed to be in the lead of the few answered shakily. "We'll do our best."
The Lord reluctantly let them take her trembling and moaning body from his grasp before pushing his way to his feet and following her. His steps seemed uneven, as if he had drunken too much wine. Langer saw the warning signs right before it hit. "Lord Folken!" It was all he had time to say before he raced forward and helped the tall form to the ground, unconscious from sheer exhaustion and dehydration. A few more medical officers rushed to his side and, with the help of Langer, pulled the limp form up and dragged him along behind the others. They prepared the two for transportation, side by side.
GoldenEagle
Author's Note: This installment is the shortest so far, but I still think it may be longer than most people's. Anyways, on with the story! Oh, and a quick question. I haven't seen the entire series yet, but I think I know that Folken starts out with white wings, but in all the fanfics I've read and all the pictures I've seen, his wings are described as black. I've heard that they changed that color for some reason. Someone, anyone, please tell me why! It would mean a lot to me. Thanky!
Chapter Eighteen
Folken's body ached, his back muscles and those in his wings screaming painfully, reminding him of how long it had been since they had been used. Yet still he beat them as fast as he could, winding down the streets of Hell, his white feathers singed by the heat radiating off the ground. His eyes searched desperately for her.
'She's got to be here!' His mind screamed. Another part of him twisted on itself, forcing doubt into his being. 'You fool. How do you think anything could survive this destruction? Her call was nothing but a last hope your own mind created for you.' He shook his head at the mental conflict as he moved further into the burning city. 'No. She is alive. She cried for me, she called my name.' He was so distracted from his internal anguish that he almost passed over the untouched piece of land below, but he caught sight of it, almost too late, and banked sharply to take another look at it.
He flapped his wings wearily, hovering above, letting his body lower a bit in exhaustion before his wings beat strongly, bobbing up and down in the noisome breeze. He stared down at the small strip, looking for anything. Any sign of life. Just as he was about to turn away, another wrong turn bashing his hopes down once again, he saw it. The slightest ruffle of fabric or hair, blended so perfectly with ash and blood that it almost matched the settings. Folken took a steep dive and retracted his wings, falling the last few feet to the dry strip so he could avoid his delicate feathers from catching aflame.
He stepped forward slowly and searched again, the air so thick with heat that it shifted and distorted the scene. It was then that he saw the body, laying on its side. Blood was everywhere, an arrow rested over to the left. Folken swallowed deeply as he stepped forward. 'Surely... It can't be... This hideous remnant *can't* be her...' But, even as these thoughts rushed through his mind, he could see the outline of her face, the faint scar dimly shown behind the dried blood. As he realized it was her, his being shuttered and he took a step back before he rushed forward, kneeling at her side.
A cold tremor whispered through him, a grim horror as he took in her lifeless form, still warm from the life that had recently dwelled there. Or, then again, perhaps it was the city that kept her body warm, as if to play a last joke on the Prince of Fanalia. The ultimate traitor. He just stared at her for a moment, his hands trembling by his side, his eyes only on her. He had been too late. He had been too late... No. Not yet. He wouldn't let her go. He *couldn't* let her go.
'I need you. I need you.'
************
Death was a slow, seductive thing. It twisted and danced before Persephone's vision. All was darkness, and yet she saw it there. Darker than the darkest night. It looked comforting, quiet. Some place she may find peace in. She sighed inwardly, forgetting all that had filled her life. Death was also an amnesiac, drifting into a person's senses before stealing everything they held dear in their life away from them, completely lost in the splendid dance of its formless being. She reached out, her soul's hand glazing the top of it. It stole her breath and forced her to let out a last sigh, along with that breath, her spirit began to drift away, freed from what it once saw as itself.
Suddenly, she was forced back, painfully, death becoming angry. Its form twisted and burned and became more of a hideous monster than the release it had been before. Persephone shrunk away from it, painfully and hopefully, remembering all that had been in her life worth living for. She remembered her promise to him... Death reached out for her, suddenly blazing in a black, yet blinding, flame, but as before, something again pulled her back, as if dragging her from a cliff's edge. The seductive being called her name once more, and she wanted to go, wanted to fling herself violently into its grasp. Again it muttered her name, knowing it would win, knowing that she would give in-
"Persephone!" The words, the voice, the touch pulled her back again and she became more fully aware of her life once more. "Breath, Persephone! Damnit, that's an order!" The rage, the pain, the dependency in that voice pulled her fully into her body once more. Death gave one final hiss before it dissipated. Its dark form was replaced as she opened her eyes, her true eyes, and saw only flame and flesh and feathers. And along with a glint of metal. A dim part of her took this all in. 'Folken, you came back for me.' With that, Persephone closed her eyes again, lost in a sleep that held neither nightmare nor a seductive death. She melted into his arms as they wrapped around her, willing to let him take hold of her fate. Fully faithful that he would not let death graze her so closely again.
Chapter Nineteen
Langer paced nervously, only a few of the other soldiers waiting with him. The rest of the Zaibach troop and made its way to the location of which they would be picked up. But the boy had stayed, waiting for Folken to return. A part of Langer questioned if such a man had been driven into madness. They often said that geniuses were always walking a thin line between brilliance and insanity. Gods, he had seemed insane when he had left!
Langer just remembered them preparing to leave, the Lord Folken at his side, when the man had suddenly turned, his eyes gone wide, his body rigid. The soldier had just stared at him, waiting, wondering what the blazes was up with his superior. Folken had turned then and sprinted before launching into the air and releasing his wings-
The boy shuttered, the sight of the Fire Wings still in his mind from a few hours before. 'Draconian,' he thought with a shutter. Langer had been raised in a part of Gaea that was not as prejudiced to the mythical creatures. Afterall, Taran's very symbol of protection was that of the Third Guardian, a Draconian with wings of earth and vegetation. Folken was a Draconian, obviously, but not of the kind that were to be feared the most. His revealing of this secret was not a great concern in Langer's mind. Many prophesies had been given in regard to the Atlantians in his region, great prophesies. Foreseeing of a uniting of all four of the Guardians, and then ultimate peace. Yet they had been regretfully recalled about a century ago when the Third Guardian had been slaughtered. They say the place where he had been destroyed still refused to bear life to that day. The Four Guardians of Atlantis. He knew that the wings he had seen over the city were that of the Fourth. All prophesies in regard to that Draconian were sketchy and dark, a god of war and renewal, of death and a chance at new life. The Fourth was the one rumored to be a signal of the End Times. When he showed his wings once more, it meant that Apocalypse was on the verge of awakening. It had been the Fourth that had destroyed the Third, denying Taran of its Guardian. This fire meant a curse, not a rebirth. A demon, not a protector.
Langer started from his memories of childhood stories and looked up, his eyes showing relief before his face went slack in shock. Folken came down, his wings burnt and covered in suit. It was the form in his arms that caught Langer's attention as Folken stumbled forward, too exhausted to stand. Langer rushed forward and helped him to his knees, eyeing the trembling girl in his arms. As he had thought, it was Lord Persephone. He looked down at her severely, trying to read every line on her face. 'So weak and frail, yet the only survivor.' Langer shuddered. 'Is it possible? This scarred and torn girl from the Mystic Moon... Among Zaibach troops...The Fourth?'
"Langer." Folken gasped in, his breath not quite restored, interrupting his thoughts. "Get someone to look at her. Quickly!"
The soldier nodded and turned, his head and eyes focused on Persephone's pale and pain stricken face a moment too long. He then ran, calling on the medical personnel he had thought might be needed to look into Folken's condition if he returned. They came at his cry and rushed past him to Folken's side before halting, their shocked and amazed eyes on the girl in his arms.
"Get her patched up. Make her better." Folken said, still weak from the continuos strain that had been put on his now hidden wings.
The group looked at eachother questioningly. Their eyes all read the same thing: 'He brings us a girl as battered as this? He might as well have brought us a corpse and told us to breath life back into it!'
Folken read the look on their faces and bared his teeth in rage. Faint burns marked his face and hands. "If she dies, you die, with even more pain than what she is in now. Do you understand?" Folken growled out. The doctors stared at him in fear at the force behind his words.
"Yes, Lord Folken." The one that seemed to be in the lead of the few answered shakily. "We'll do our best."
The Lord reluctantly let them take her trembling and moaning body from his grasp before pushing his way to his feet and following her. His steps seemed uneven, as if he had drunken too much wine. Langer saw the warning signs right before it hit. "Lord Folken!" It was all he had time to say before he raced forward and helped the tall form to the ground, unconscious from sheer exhaustion and dehydration. A few more medical officers rushed to his side and, with the help of Langer, pulled the limp form up and dragged him along behind the others. They prepared the two for transportation, side by side.