beorc
"Ewww," Cinna said tactfully.
The corpse's face was bloated and puffy despite the fact that the room was specially cold. It looked dead; there was nothing else one could describe it as, other than very dead. And 'ewww'.
"Well said," Marcus rumbled, looking down. He raised a lock of dank brown hair away from an ear and looked at everybody with a cocked eyebrow. "And if you'll notice, this man is fully human."
Blank examined the face closer. "When he's apparently supposed to be that guy's brother. This guy's human all through."
"But he's got enough scars for three lizards." The blonde's voice was somber and his tail whipped around as he stared at the body. "This man's a fighter. And an assassin."
Cinna looked at the body again. It was swathed entirely in black, except for where they had removed the hood; Treno couldn't bury anybody until they got the go-ahead from their mayor, as there still might be clues abound. In fact, there were most likely still clues abound - nobody had been in there yet but them to examine the body but them. Only in Treno would such a man cause no suspicion; just passed off as another thief, another layabout.
"Don't you think that's a little obvious?" he grunted. "Scars, black clothing - wouldn't trust it. Murderer, yeah, but assassin… stretching there."
"I have a hunch," Zidane said grimly and began rifling through the clothes of the corpse with catlike delicacy.
"I hate it when he says he has a hunch," the redhead complained, adjusting his bandanna.
"Remember the last time he said he had a hunch?"
"How could I forget? My stomach won't ever be the same."
"You weren't the one who had to eat that tree."
"Whiners," Zidane said absently, searching for pockets, face twisting in a grimace. He'd never liked corpses. Could deal with them, certainly, but like them, never.
"Found anything yet?" Cinna said hopefully. "Preferably a lot of gil and a letter saying, 'I was out to kill her and I'm gonna take out a lot of bystanders with me'?"
There was a clink of metal as Zidane drew out a pouch from a fold of cloth near the man's chest. It was bloodied from the spear-wound at his heart.
The red-faced little actor beamed. "Am I psychic or what? I should start up a business reading those wossname cards those women read. You know, the ones who tart 'emselves up with too much makeup and wear dresses that shove up their chests and call themselves 'Madame Zolta' and charge fifty gil a pop - "
"Shut up, Cinna," Blank snapped, his eyes on the pouch. "You'd need more than makeup to get anybody near you labelled 'Madame Zolta'."
Zidane emptied the pouch into his hand with a happy tinkle of metal. There were ten fifty-gil pieces and a crinkled, folded-up piece of paper.
The Tantalus boys crowded around, looking over his shoulder.
"Nodune - Treno, month of melting, fifty gil now, fifty gil later. Fail - skull as new necklace. Roghn."
There was a pause whilst Zidane crumpled the note up carefully and put it in his pocket.
"Right," he said finally. "We have a name. We have the damn evidence. All we need is something to really back it up with. I want you guys all through Treno, now!"
"Since when did he become so bossy?" Marcus grumbled, moving out the door.
"It's the queening," Cinna said wisely. "Women's turned the man's brain."
"What was that, my faithful comrade?"
"I'm leaving, I'm leaving!"
Zidane uncrumpled the note and stared at it for a long time. If only these idiots were just that much stupider to say more! One hundred gil to take Freya out… Was her life so worthless? Suddenly he felt angry and the paper was pressed almost to tearing point within his hands. Zidane hated having no leg to stand on, and in this situation, he was out of control. Who was Roghn and this dead man Nodune, and why did they want Freya's death? Contemptuously, he tucked the gil back in the man's pocket. He could have his blood money; it was the most he deserved after dying this way.
With a sigh, he left the morgue even more confused than before, but more determined than ever.
Rohgn followed the tracks until he felt melted with exhaustion, frustrated and murderous, slumping against a tree and snapping off a twig to chew. He could have followed a Burmecian - any Burmecian - for days on end, their tracks as familiar to him as the back of his hand, their scent like his breath; but his own scent kept on getting in the way and confusing him.
He sighed and leant back against the tree, breathing in and out slowly. Had to clear his head, otherwise it would take far too long; this mission would need guile as well as tracking skills. When he was done? Then the bitch's coat would run red with her own blood rather than everybody else's. He was doing Gaia a favour.
What could lead him to his prey, in enough time for him to take the role of owl and his quarry to end their life in a small damp squeak?
His lips curved. Maybe not a what.
He'd awoken with the dawn, as was his wont, to climb above the waterfall and clamber to the rocks there to watch the sun rise. Just as it had stained the skies blood-red with deepening pinks and oranges, he was rather surprised to see Freya clamber up beside him, drying her hair with her hands that had been dampened by the waterfall. Her normally sleek hair was windblown and mussed from sleep, her eyes bleary, the tunic she'd slept in crumpled; she smelt of the old hay they'd slept in and she really quite honestly resembled little of the battle-ready creature who wore the crimson helmet. For reasons he would never know, he quite liked her this way - he told himself it was because with her looking like that he'd never be short of a laugh.
Freya stretched luxuriously and gave a blissful sigh as she surveyed the sunlit valley, the dark trees slightly foggy with the rising dew, the morning making everything rose-tinged. "Fair takes your breath away," she murmured wistfully. "Didn't you hate to leave it?"
"You're probing again," he grunted. "Who said I left it?"
"Well, obviously, you were in Treno. And who can blame me for probing?"
"Me."
"It's like your jaw's stapled shut."
"I haven't seen you blabbing out every sordid detail of your history."
"It was not sordid!"
"Oh. Don't want to hear it, then."
She gave him a cuff on the ear. He growled and caught her hand, but it was only slightly in annoyance; Amarant had learned to take Freya's jibes with at least good humour, now, though he was always a little nervy whenever somebody started touching him. In the last ten years of his books, 'touching' meant 'I'm going to knock your block off.'
"Did you mean it?" Freya asked, after a while. He always took a little while to answer her questions, preferring to listen to her voice before he fully took in her words; at first he had called her accent poncy but in conjunction with her low, buttery voice it was more 'cultured'. Amarant caught this thought on it's way careening around in his brain and took out the time to quell it - he was doing far too much learning and adapting to Freya recently. Wistfully he remembered the time when he thought that she was a stiff-necked snobbish bitch who needed a good whack around the head - and he was prepared to give her one.
Damn the little ingratiating Burmecian! She was too much like Lani for her own good.
"Amarant? Away with the fairies, there."
"Oh. Hmph. Mean what?"
"You wanted to know my history."
"I already know it. It's like those stories I used to get told as a child. You've already had your happily-ever-after. What's there to know?" He knew he was being deliberately callous, but for some reason, he usually despised listening about Fratley. Something just rang wrong with him about the man.
She drew her brows together and scowled darkly down at the crashing waterfall, eyes blazing, not quite angry but definitely directly unhappy at something; however, after a few moments Freya shook her head and the expression dropped. "Don't want the wind to change."
"Eh? What the hell?"
"Wind to change. Haven't you ever heard the expression?"
"Never in my entire bloody life." Amarant was glad the subject had changed.
"If the wind changes whilst you screw up your face, it stays that way." She looked at his stupefied expression and began to laugh. "Don't look so stunned about it. It isn't true… though it would explain your looks."
Amarant grunted. "You're just asking me to pull your tail."
"Do, and get my pike where you may not like it."
He stood up and stretched. The dawn had broken now, the clouds scattered into a deepening blue sky, the bird chorus in full throat down in the trees. "… I'm gonna go catch something for breakfast, then send one of those damned moogles to Zidane. Go make a fire."
Freya stood with him and bowed gracefully. "Why, of course, your Amarantship. Would you like me to knit you a pair of socks whilst I'm at it?"
"No. Don't wear socks," he said graciously.
"Evil drahkenspawn," she spat laughingly, and with a bound leaped off the steep side of the rocks, down past the waterfall to land with a thump in the earth below.
Amarant paused for a moment, then shrugged. Deciding to forget the matter he crawled back over the rocks and down into the forest outside Aless.
"Milady?"
Garnet looked up from the sheaf of papers she was reading in surprise and rubbed her forehead. "Beatrix? What's wrong?"
The lovely brunette knight was frowning slightly, lips pursed together as if she disapproved. "A Burmecian man is here to see you. He was going to come in directly, but I stopped him. I don't really know how he got in, but he goes by the name of Fratley - "
"Send him in, send him in!" she urged. "Go on, Beatrix, do." She stood up and quickly brushed her plain copper-coloured gown off and sighed, knowing she looked an absolute fright; ever since Zidane had gone away she was up in the tiny hours of the night, and black rings surrounded her eyes.
"Your Highness." Fratley walked through the doors with the utter unselfconscious grace that seemed to possess all Burmecians, and bowed low. "I hope I find you well?"
She nodded at him gently, noting as well the fine lines of worry around the man's eyes, half-hidden by the brim of his hat and locks of brown hair. "As well as can be expected, Sir Fratley. Won't you sit down? Would you like a drink?"
He sat down in the chair offered, and she sat opposite. "Thank you, but no. I ate on the way, your Majesty."
"Call me Garnet, sir. Or Dagger - mostly everybody does nowadays, and I feel we're going to have to spend some time together over this."
"As you please, lady Dagger."
"Well, then." She smiled. "Down to the heart of the matter."
"Yes." He bowed his head, then, and suddenly she felt incredibly sorry for him. "It is with the utmost importance that we find Freya and her assassin, whomever it may be, for both political safety and the personal safety of Freya herself."
"Yes. That is of the utmost importance. I think that we should locate the assassin before we find Freya, though; she is in safe hands, at least." He looked like he wanted to ask a question, but he kept his tongue. "Zidane has located some evidence down in Treno, and he is following it up, but I'd like to ask you some questions."
Fratley shifted in his chair, the spear strapped to his back being moved to a more comfortable position. "Ask away, lady Dagger."
"Who other than you knew that Freya was going to be in Treno?"
He suddenly looked even more uncomfortable than he already was, staring straight past her shoulder, keeping quiet for two more beats than needed to think. "Nobody knew that Freya was going to be in Treno, my lady, or in any country other than Burmecia."
"Pardon?" His face grew red beneath the short soft fur on his face, and she grimaced. "I don't mean to pry, Sir Fratley, but why?"
"… She mentioned she needed some time to herself, but did not mention where she was going." He paused, and his mellifluous voice grew softer, with a tone to it that made Garnet's heart ache in sympathetic pain. "I do not think she wanted me to know where she was going."
What could one say to that? 'I'm sorry' was too trite for words, and to gloss over it would be callous. "I know she loves you, Sir Fratley."
"Yes… she does indeed love Fratley, very much indeed." The words were heartening, but his face and voice were blank. However, as if embarrassed, he immediately changed the subject. "Where is Freya's whereabouts? King Puck is very concerned about her personal safety, especially in light of the recent murders."
"The murders at Treno?"
He shook his head. "Nay, lady Dagger. Recently, it has been discovered that a few retired knights scattered over Burmecia have been slaughtered. They were quite obviously murdered, and with the loss of the last few dragon knights, my entire country is in mourning. Since the Dragon Wars, we have had a very low knight count, but with the loss of these knights we are dwindling in a frightening manner."
Garnet sat stunned. This made the attempt an entirely new game. "Do you think the murderer is the same that attempted to end Freya's life?"
"Yes. The times certainly coincide. The last murder - one sir Surt, living out in the foothills - was found dead, having died a week before Freya left Burmecia."
"And they have all been dragon knights?"
"Aye, lady Dagger."
She pondered this for a few moments, her hands twisting in her lap. "You had better watch your own back, Fratley. As of right now, you and Freya are some of the last left, I'd imagine."
"For some reason, my lady, I do not fear for my own life. I have been watching out these past few weeks, and although on many occasions there has been ample opportunity to kill me, it has not been done. I believe that the murderer is still after Freya. Where is she?" he asked again, gently persistent.
"I don't know," Garnet confessed. "Amarant Coral - a friend of ours - took her into hiding and he refuses to say where for safety reasons. He's promised to keep in touch through the moogles, though, and we await more messages."
"Amarant?"
"A compatriot of ours for a while. He helped us in our quest. He and Freya seemed to get on quite well."
"Aye, I know the name - Freya spoke of him - he just does not seem the type to offer assistance…" His face suddenly clouded over. "Do you not think perhaps it is a ploy - "
"No," Garnet said firmly. "I know Amarant. He would never doublecross Freya like that. Don't even suggest it."
He pinched his temples and sighed. "I am so sorry, lady Dagger. Please forgive my paranoia. In these dark days I would stoop to any level if just to find my lady."
Her heart was immediately sore again. Garnet remembered the endless months fearing Zidane was dead and never to return, and even worse, the secret voice in the back of her heart that told her that he just did not want to be near her.
"We'll get Freya back," she comforted him. "The moment Amarant sends us a message, we'll pass it on to you. In the meanwhile, will you do me the honour of staying here for the present?"
Fratley nodded. "As long as you need me, lady Dagger."
"Good." She stood up and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't fear, sir Fratley. I know how you feel, and I think that soon this will all be put behind us."
He looked up at her and she had to listen very hard to him saying under his breath, "That is what I fear."
Freya's first sparring lesson with Amarant had been quite a shock. They'd chosen a flat area of grass around the lake to practice on, but when she turned to go and retrieve her armour, he stopped her. "That's not how you learn," he said firmly. "No armour. In fact, no clothes. Strip."
"WHAT!"
The redhead busily shed himself of his vest and pants and cords, and Freya attempted not to look like a doe faced with a crossbow as a sea of rippling green muscles was revealed. He noticed her staring and put his clothes to one side, left in just a loincloth. "Don't look so stricken, woman. You're wearing bindings and a cloth, aren't you? I'd make you take off the bindings, but - "
"But never in your wildest dreams," Freya intoned darkly, face on fire, pulling her tunic over her head to reveal her lithe body. They were as different in body structure as chalk and cheese; he was stocky and she willowy.
Amarant laughed crudely. "Not in my dreams. I prefer my women busty - and preferably drunk."
She stripped off her breeches and stood defiantly in front of him, as if daring him to comment. Seemingly oblivious to the fire in her eyes, he walked around her, inspecting her form. "Not bad," he commented.
"Amarant Coral, you are immensely lucky I don't have my - "
"I meant your muscles, chit. As for the rest of it - " He let his eyes rove over her again. "You need some feeding up. Too skinny."
Her gaze might have lowered the temperature of the Ice Cave.
Yes, the first lesson had been quite a fright to both of them. At first, Amarant had been able to floor her in twenty seconds flat. He used the most dreadful techniques, and grabbed her in places that chilled her to the bone with embarrassment; however, when she complained, he hook his head. "You're not supposed to be fighting prettily. You're fighting to stay alive. Fight dirty. You've got claws there - use 'em."
Thusly, Freya had almost won her fifth match by tugging out a lock of his hair and kneeing him in the groin. He'd congratulated her - once he got over writhing around on the ground and whimpering darkly something to the point of, "I'm going to wring your... wretched little neck… when I get up."
After that, she really quite enjoyed it.
Living with Amarant was… critically different to any way she'd ever lived her life before. It was composed of rituals, and an odd technique of giving space whilst keeping close; never once did he get on her nerves just by being there (though it was quite easy for him to get on her nerves when he opened his mouth). He demanded nothing of her, when she demanded everything of him; companionship and trust. His cooking and his communication were atrocious, but Freya was working on the latter when the two sat down in long, companionable silences. It was so easy to talk without words, she'd learnt. Saying Amarant never talked was a rampant lie - he could say more with a look than many people could in fifty words.
… Fratley had been the same…
Had been.
She knew him now, enjoyed being around him, enjoyed getting up to watch the dawn, enjoyed wrinkling her nose when presented with a very rare haunch of some animal he'd hunted outside of the valley.
They'd never gotten around to erecting a shelter. They just shared the cave. They shared mostly everything, except bathing times, although there had been some close embarrassments in that respect. It was just a matter of learning to vacate the area.
Carefully checking that Amarant was sound asleep in the still of the night, Freya wrapped the brief cloth she used for towelling herself down around her body and stood up quietly. Ever cynical about all matters mystical, there were just some things she could not share with him, and the full moon was one of them. He would not understand why her eyes got dreamy around the rise of the moon, and he would quite not understand why she had to go and do what she was about to go and do.
Freya climbed carefully down the slick rock behind the waterfall and moved out into the open, looking up at the glorious full disc sailing the cloudless skies, lighting up the valley with pale light. She could understand why Amarant called it heaven - the waterfall and the water sparkled with such beauty that it brought a lump to her throat. Maybe she was oversentimental because of the night it was; Burmecians were closer to the turning of the seasons and the waxing and the waning of the moon than most of the other races, and she knew that mostly every other Burmecian woman under this sky would be doing much the same as she did now.
She dropped the cloth on the bank and walked naked into the water, breaking off the soaproot that grew between the wet rocks. Freya pounded it between her hands until it gave off the desired lather and washed herself from head to toe, shedding the dirt that came from living out in the open, blissfully purifying herself. The soaproot was easily rinsed off afterwards underneath the waterfall, and after that she sat on a rock out of the water and combed her claws through her hair until it was no longer tangled. It lay on her shoulders in long burnished-silver locks, slicked to her head.
The night air was cool and the water had been chilling, so drying merely with the wind was out of the question; Freya stood up and delicately picked her way over to the bank.
The Burmecian frowned. Either she hadn't placed her cloth where she thought she'd placed it, or -
"Looking for this?"
Freya immediately turned her body away, until she noticed that Amarant had his eyes screwed shut. She snatched the brief cloth away and held it to her, panting with fright. "What are you doing down here?"
"The cave was empty. Obviously, I wondered if you'd been murdered or something." There was a slight tremor in his voice and his eyes were still screwed shut.
"You can look now," she snapped. "I'm decent."
Amarant opened his eyes and took one look at the scrap of cloth, then looked away pointedly. Oddly enough, that angered her more than if he had been leery.
"For the love of the gods," she said shortly. "You see this little when we're wrestling. Why such a prude?" A thought struck her. "Am I so ugly?"
"Probably," he responded, just as curt. "I haven't looked yet."
That stung. "Then maybe you should so we can clear the matter up." She let the cloth drop, managing to keep her dignity and the urge to immediately turn away.
He turned his head back, obviously about to say something, but his eyes froze on her body. Amarant remained stock-still in the moonlight, like a statue, and she felt herself begin to shiver from the cold… or maybe from her moontime. Damn! Why did he have to catch her?
"It shouldn't matter anyway," she heard herself saying. "After all, you like your women buxom…"
Freya felt her chin being cupped in his hand, not necessarily gently, and a very angry Amarant look into her eyes. "What are you trying to pull?" he hissed. "What do you want?"
She suddenly felt all the resolve leak out of her and a terrible guilt sink in. What was she doing? There was a name for what she had just done, and it wasn't a pretty one. And to Amarant, too… dear gods!
"I want to go back to bed," she whispered, trying to take her eyes away from his. "I want… I want to go back to Burmecia. I want Fratley back," she confessed in a rush, voice breaking. "I don't have a happy ending - I was in Treno because I'd left him. Gods, I'd give anything to have him back, anything! I couldn't take it any more… him there, but like a zombie, not like… I just…"
To her dim horror, she felt herself move forward, and a very taken- aback Amarant slid to the ground with her as she buried her head in his shoulder. Then he watched in utter astonishment, the anger melting out of him, as she finally wept in his arms for the lover that, for her, had died a very long time ago.
Eventually she fell asleep in his arms, having cried herself into a stupor, and Amarant gently disentangled her body from his without thinking too much about what he was touching. Then, after retrieving a blanket from the niche where she kept her armour, he draped it over her.
"Stupid little chit," he muttered, full of pity with a slight touch of wistfulness. "Must be bad if you tried to turn to me for goddamn comfort."
Then, merely out of habit because he'd done it every other night before, he sat down and watched her sleep.