Yoko was melancholy, even though she tried to put a cheerful face on to the world at large. She had gone long enough scaring everyone senseless with her dementia that she felt it her duty to make up for it. She recalled some of that time, but not all. It seemed such a surreal, drifting existence where faces came and went but nothing anyone did or said held enough impact to scar her memory. She sat in her room, brushing her hair, mindlessly letting the soothing rhythm of strokes bring her peace. The fire warmed the air. The smell of winter dried flowers she had bought at market was a subtle perfume.
The handle of her door turned without the benefit of a polite knock to request entry. Schneider stood there, looking sullen and brooding.
"Still awake."
She arched a brow at the statement and finished the stroke she had begun when he'd opened her door. "Is there something you want in my room at this hour?" she asked tartly. She expected a leer or a lecherous suggestion. He frowned instead.
"What's wrong now?" she demanded warily.
"Nothing." He almost spat the word, then stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and stalked over to stand before her fire, his hands on the thick mantel over it.
"Oh, don't even come in here with that look on your face and say nothing's wrong. Is Kall okay?"
"Fine."
She put the brush down and glared at his back. "If you're going to just stand there sulking and not tell me what's wrong, then you can just leave right now. I've got better things to do."
He glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes cold and angry beneath half lowered lashes. He pushed off from the mantel and swept past her, apparently willing to follow her terms. He was blatantly insane if he thought he could prick her curiosity and just walk away.
"Oh no you don't." She jumped out of her chair and caught his arm. He stopped. Tense and rigid. He most certainly could have ripped out of her grasp without breaking stride. He was angry. Angry angry. Not worried angry like he'd been over Kall-Su for the last few days, but more the venomous, dearly wanted to kill something anger that took him from time to time. She thought if she'd had a brain in her head she would have been wary of him with that look on his face, but she generally was senseless when it came to him.
"Rushie, tell me what's happened? Something to do with Angelo?"
He hissed at that name. Tossed his head to shake the hair out of his eyes and snarled.
"Its Gara. That boundless, conniving whoreson. He's fucking Arshes."
She took a breath at the bluntness. "Oh. That. Well its been building for years now."
His eyes got big with shock a moment before they narrowed into slits of soul searing accusation. "What? "
"Oh everyone knew it. You can even ask Kall. Gara's loved her for the longest time. She was just too busy mooning over you to realize how much healthier he was for her. She's much better off with him, if you want my opinion." She smiled at him sweetly. One had to admit to being a tad bit prejudiced on the subject, even though she was terribly satisfied with how happy Gara had been acting the last few days. She had noticed it right off.
Schneider glared at her like he wanted her dead. Jerked his arm out of her grasp and teetered between stalking out of the room and strangling her.
"That son of a bitch!" he settled for spitting. "He knew she was mine and he dares to lay a finger on her."
"Yours?" Yoko's anger began to flare up. It began to burn rather nicely in the pit of her stomach. "What is it with you and thinking you own people? Does anybody here wear a slave mark?" She thrust her hand up before his eyes. Then balled it into a fist and shook it at him. "I don't ever recall seeing one on Arshes. Or Kall -- but you seem to think we're all property."
"Would you like one?" he hissed back at her.
She stomped her foot in frustration. "Ohhhh, you make me so mad sometimes. You are so arrogant. And remember that little speech you gave me when you chased me down here? Remember that, you possessive, annoying ass? What the hell does it matter if he's sleeping with her? You won't be doing it yourself, or was that just a convenient little lie to get me to forgive you. Or is it merely that since you had her no one else can?"
"He betrayed me." Quiet simmering anger. But she could see in his face that he remembered very well what he had said.
"He did not. He never would have acted at all if you hadn't been gone all that time. Even then all he wanted was that she be happy. He cares more about her well being than his own. Can you say the same? It has nothing to do with you, Rushie. Not everything does. Can't you see that? And if you even lay a finger on him, I swear I will make you regret it so badly."
"Don't threaten me." He said darkly.
"Or what?"
He glared at her silently. Turned on his heel to leave. Oh, not so easy to escape a discussion not to his liking -- not when she was so ready to take it on. She reached out and caught a handful of his hair. He hissed when it yanked against his scalp and brought a hand up to rub the spot, glaring daggers at her.
"Yoko." Warning tone. She ignored it and wound the thick lock around her hand twice to keep hold of it
"No. Not until you promise me no violence against Gara."
"No."
"You will so. He's your friend."
He refused to respond to that. Foolish, foolish man. But there was some bit of hurt underneath the anger in his eyes. Some sense of the betrayal he felt that goaded this black mood. That was the heart of the matter after all, that someone he did consider a friend and an ally had transgressed against him. The anger made her mad. The jealousy made her want to hit him. That little spark of pain -- oh that made her want to do something altogether else.
She pulled on the hair, lifted herself up to her toes and kissed him. He was so surprised at the move he pulled back, but she had hold of his hair so he didn't get far before she wrapped the other arm around his neck and molded herself against him. She felt reckless and daring, and her heart beat as rapidly with agitation as his did. Brazenly she plunged her tongue into his mouth, felt him respond with quickly awakening fervor. Felt it in the hardness between his legs that pressed against her stomach. She had power, she realized of a sudden. A great deal of power that she had always chosen not to use. From the day he had come back from his fifteen year slumber something about her had held sway over him. Something about her always had drawn him like a moth to her flame. And for one reason or another, from fear, from anger, from some silly ideal of honor, she never used it.
"Promise me." She broke the kiss, pulled back just far enough so that she could see his eyes. The anger had been replaced by a smoky haze of craving. His hands pressed against her back. She could feel the individual indention's of his fingers through the material of her nightrobe and gown. He leaned in towards her to reestablish the kiss, but she pulled back on his hair, not willing to continue until she got an answer. A vow that she felt confident he would not break if she could just get him to make it.
"No." With a stubbornness that refused to be leashed or reasoned with.
"Why?" She breathed it against his neck, teasing the skin below his jaw. His fingers tightened on her back, ran down the curve of her hip to press her closer against him.
"I thought you weren't ready?" He said against her ear.
"Maybe I'm still not. It depends on how much you inspire me with your altruism. That sort of thing just makes me all tingly, you know."
He half laughed, lifted her off her feet and backed her the few feet that separated them from the bed. Controlled fall, with him on top and his hands keeping his weight from hurting her. "Then why the hell are you with me?"
His hair fell down around her face, creating a veil that shut out the rest of the world. Everything but his intense eyes. She trembled, felt her recklessness diminishing and fought to shore it back up. He could wrest control from her so very easily if she let him. "Because every once and a while you surprise me. Benevolence is no big thing for a humble man, but when you do it -- it means more."
She trailed her fingers down his ribs and around his back, drawing him closer.
"Just let them be happy. It won't kill you. You have other things to worry about."
"So this is a bribe?"
"No."
He arched a brow at her dubiously. "A reward for my good behavior? What would your father think?"
"Oohhh." That was not the most political thing to bring up, what with Father sleeping not too far away. She pushed at his chest and he rolled off to lay beside her. She propped herself up to glare down at him. "He'd think I was a brazen hussy, is what. I ought to kick you out right now."
"If you weren't a brazen hussy?"
"What are you going to do, Rushie?"
"What do you want me to do, throw them a banquet?"
"That would be nice."
"Hah! In your dreams."
"Rushie!"
"I'll think about it."
Oh, sweet victory. She could taste it. She bent over and kissed him. His fingers pulled at the ties at the neck of her nightgown. She gave in to the recklessness. Elation surged with the surrender, as she realized how very much she wanted this. Him. The bargain -- bribe -- reward was a convenient excuse to overcome inhibitions created of fear and betrayal. And she had an edge now. A knowledge and will to use it that had been lacking before Angelo had hurt her and taken her baby. There was something inside her that was a little fiercer than it had been. Something willing to find an advantage and use it. Perhaps it made her a little more able to deal with him, because Goddess knew he was hard to handle under the best of circumstances. A little more on equal footing, emotionally. Not hard, but willing to make hard choices. This one she made because she wanted him -- loved him -- and thought it might sway him away from violence. And in the back of her mind a little voice cried, fool, fool, he'll only hurt you again. But the new, harder part of her calmly stated that if he betrayed her again -- there would be no further chance at redemption.
Another handful of coins to join her small treasury and Lily felt wealthy beyond her dreams. She went into town with one of the kitchen girls, Setha to fetch a list of supplies the old woman who ran the kitchen needed. It was the first time she had stepped out of the castle grounds. The city of Sta-Veron was surprisingly well tended after a long winter. The girl Setha chattered incessantly, spreading gossip about the various outstanding citizens, pointing out landmarks, telling of the cities history. Conquered by its present lord many years past, it prospered more now than it ever had.
How many years?
She shivered when Setha told her. Longer than she'd been alive. Setha whispered things about wizards and immortality that Lily had no wish to hear. She tried to concentrate on other things. Setha wanted to stop and buy a sweetmeat and she found that an alluring distraction. She gave over one of her coins and got a handful of copper and a sticky sweet pastry sprinkled with nuts in return. They sat on a stone wall outside a tavern and consumed them, licking their fingers of sugar and honey. The sounds of music from inside drew Lily's attention. She peered in the door while Setha flirted with a passing merchant. Three musicians played by the fire. A rustic, overused tune, but the common folk here seemed to find it pleasing. She watched them, her fingers itching to touch the strings of her own lost instrument. She wanted to go and talk with them, to discover if they lived here in Sta-Veron or traveled with some troupe. Most minstrel's roamed far and wide, hearing and seeing everything. Absorbing all the facets of history to make into song. Oh, to have the freedom to do that. To wonder where she might with no hand to sway her path. Freedom. She would go now, if she knew how to cross the mountains. If she had the money to buy a lyre. If she did not have the slave mark on her hand that would make her victim to any who chose to force the issue.
Setha pulled her away from the tavern door with the lighthearted comment that she had made a assignation for later with the merchant she'd been talking with and wanted to get back to the castle and finish her work so she might make it. They picked up Cook's supplies and walked back to the castle with the burdens. Thyren, who was the laundry mistress, hailed her as soon as she stepped foot back within the kitchen courtyard, wanting help hanging out the linens. All the sheets and bedclothes that needed washing that week were wrung out in wet lumps waiting to be hung from the lines that stretched across the kitchen court. The lines were liken to sails, so full of billowing white sheets were they. It took the two of them to stretch the sheets out and clip them to the lines without the hems dragging in the dirt of the yard. Thyren worked silently. Her face was a perpetual frown. The quiet was a pleasant exchange for Setha's meaningless chatter.
Then Thyren looked up from the sheet she was clipping to a line and widened her eyes in surprise. She didn't say a thing, just looked past Lily's shoulder as if an angel had touched earth in the kitchen court. Lily turned. Her breath caught in her throat. He stood there, just outside the kitchen door, as out of place here in the mud covered kitchen yard as any angel would have been. He hesitated, eyes drifting about the yard, focusing finally, almost uncertainly upon the rows of laundry lines. Lily's heart hammered in her chest. Embarrassment, fear, shame churned in her stomach. She lowered her head so that her hair might fall into her face, an insubstantial shield that she had always used to protect herself. She could still see out, beyond the fall of dark strands. Could still him, walking towards her, pale and fair in the sunlight. Goddess, she had wondered what it would be like to see him in the sun. He took her breath away and she was mortified for that too, that she should assess him as if he were on her own level. A few of the kitchen maids looked out the door, intensely curious. The dark skinned, elvin lady loitered just outside the kitchen door, looking bored and restless.
He stopped a few feet from her, staring at her as if he were trying to ascertain whether she were familiar or not. There was a certain disassociation in his gaze, as if his mind were not fully connected to what his body did.
"M-my lord." She stammered it out. She heard Thyren murmur something of a similar nature from behind her. Clarity returned to his eyes. She could almost see the change as the focus sharpened. Still wounded, she thought, but fighting it. Oh, she had wanted to see him so badly since she had been brought here, but now she realized that while she was the same slavegirl who had dwelled in the place without windows, he was no longer the same man the Master had held prisoned. She wanted to flee. His standing in this muddy yard was so wrong. She couldn't stand it. She could not reckon what he wanted of her.
"He said -- I thought it might be you -- " He spoke, incompletely, as if he could only force some of his thoughts out. He looked away from her, disconcerted and finished with a simple. "Thank you. Just -- thank you."
She didn't know how to respond. So she simply stared at him when she should have curtsied or given him his welcome or told him that he need not thank her at all, she had not done any of the things she had out of some need for gratitude. He looked down under her hidden gaze and his eyes drifted to her hand. To the blaring black tattoo that would mark her for life. He reached down and took her fingers. She was trembling so hard he had to have felt it. He stared at the tattoo and she stared, fascinated at the fringe of lowered lashes that half hid his eyes. She felt something in the air, something invasive and electric that had nothing to do with the erratic beat of her heart. Her skin tingled, hot and cold at the same time. Her hand in his seemed for a brief moment to be bathed in something liquid and cool. Reflexively she jerked it out of his grasp.
"You need never be enslaved again." He said softly, then turned and strode away from her, not towards the kitchen but around the side of the castle. The half-elf pushed herself off the wall and stared at Lily with dark, speculative eyes before sauntering after him. Lily tried to calm her breathing. Tried to gather her wits about her. She looked at her hand and almost her knees faltered under her. The skin was clear of blemish. Smooth and clean and unscarred, as if no mark had ever been placed there.
Lily didn't cry. It was so useless a practice. But wetness streaked down her cheeks now. She held the hand to her breast and Thyren came around the line to look at it, and gasped in awe. The kitchen maids came out and even old cook and they all clustered about to look at what their lord and master had done. Lily half heard their words. Half heard that Lord Kall-Su never set foot in the servant's domain, much less trudged through the mud to the laundry lines to converse with serving girls. They speculated that he was still not quite right from his ordeal , as they called it. But they could never really know. No one could, that hadn't been there.
He had taken the slave mark away. She couldn't get past that miracle. He had taken her hand and given her the greatest gift anyone could ever had bestowed upon her. He had made her more than she was with a moment's concentration of magic and power that Lily could never comprehend. She couldn't make the tears stop, because he had sealed her fate. He had given her freedom and doomed her to misery in one stroke. How could even freedom compensate for the tragic fact that she loved him?
Somewhere along the lush western coast of the continent an old man woke from a ravaged fever. He lay in a burrow nestled out from the sand at the edge of the forest. He had lain there for many days. Weeks almost, while the ocean surged against the sand, endlessly eroding at the shore. His clothes were stiff from salt, his body curled into a fetal position, cramped and stringy as if all the vigor of his muscles had left him. His flesh was sunken and lined, hair tangled and streaked liberally with gray. Not the man he had been scant weeks ago. A man weakened and drained by the toll of too much power passing a vessel that was never intended to possess it.
He crawled to his knees weakly and wailed out his consternation. The birds in the trees fluttered nervously at his keening. Stolen. All had been stolen from him at the last instant. Unfair. The god laughed at him for his failure. The god punished the weak. But it was so unjust. He had served so faithfully, for so many years.
Why? Why? He screamed out. But there was no answer from above. Only the sound of the ocean. To hell with god then, he seethed. That god had never lent him a physical hand anyway.
He stretched power that was weak and strained, feeling after the great solidity that was his asylum and found only the seeping wreck of the wards. The flavor of calamity and destruction. His doing that. A last, futile effort to obliterate the enemy. The work of centuries was nothing more than a crumbled wreck. But that archaic stone fortress was not truly the burrow that had served as his haven throughout the years of Ansasla's devastation. That place lay sheltered beneath the ruins. That place had withstood Ansasla itself, had withstood the nuclear and biological weapons frantic nations had launched in their misunderstood desperation.
He closed his eyes and called upon the homing ability of the sylph he had subsumed years past and pulled himself to that place. A blur of position. A moment of disorientation and the natural beauty of the beach was replaced by something altogether more sterile. Metal hallway lit by only the few remaining running lights along its walls that were still able to pull power from fading nuclear generators. Four centuries of dust coated floor and walls, marred only by the occasional set of footprints that marked his own seldom comings and goings from these passages. A fall out shelter of titanic proportions that had housed the elite of a dying world. The military, the politicians and the religious icons that held sway over the devotion of a people that would very soon mostly be dead. Almost it would have been a success, all that time ago, if the poison hadn't seeped in and taken out most of the people safeguarded within. The rest -- the rest had fallen victim to something else.
Stoop shouldered and limping, Angelino made his way down the seemingly endless array of corridors. He needed to rest. To regain what he could of his failing strength. His allies were gone. His faith in god shaken. His power diminished. All he had to rely upon now was his cunning and his resolve and the assurance of his enemy's arrogance.