Isca's eyes snapped open, his mind jolted into instant wakefulness by the intensity of the disturbing images projected by the dream. Running a claw through his sleep-tousled hair, he rose and exited the tent, instinctively seeking the chill of the pre-dawn air: would that damned vision haunt him forever? A few deep breaths helped him regain his composure, and a quick glance around the camp showed it to be still mostly deserted, the majority of the allied troops having elected either Lord Roland's generous hospitality, or the dubious lure of Vorador's debauched bacchanalia. From the look of the six Elite who were even now reluctantly staggering into camp, they had opted for the latter, their sleep-deprived, if smug expressions painting a vivid picture of the night's adventures. Isca eyed the fading, tell-tale marks adorning several of the group's chests with sardonic amusement, quickly schooling his features to some semblance of authoritative remonstrance.
"You'd better be in a fit state to travel today," he began sternly, singling out the foremost guard. "What in the world happened to you?"
"We took Vorador up on the offer you turned down," he replied with a blissful grin. "Anyway," he added, affording his superior a mocking glance, "You're a fine one to talk."
As Isca craned his neck to look down at his own chest and shoulders, another of the Elite piped up, "Looks like someone went ten rounds with a spotted hellcat."
Unable to suppress a grin at their good-natured ribbing, he waved the chuckling, stumbling group on, turning his attention back to his original activity. A few minutes' scrounging rewarded him with the items he sought, and, halting only to snag a nearby helmet from its position atop a leaning pike, he returned to the relative darkness of his tent. He paused as the flap fell closed behind him, a sudden, mischievous whim curving the edges of his lips into a wicked grin. Dropping the rest of the items into a pile near the door, he jammed the helmet - a full-visored, pink-plumed Sarafan monstrosity – onto his head, and resumed his previous position on the floor, propping himself up on one elbow for a better view. When it became obvious that his companion was not about to wake, he took to tickling her nose with a strand of hair until at last she batted a hand at the irritation. The clunk of fingers against metal rendered her swiftly awake, and the sight that greeted her horror-struck gaze sent her leaping backwards into a corner of the tent, cloak clasped before her. The woman's shocked yelp would have been instantly recognisable to anyone who has ever succumbed to the twin influences of libido and alcohol as the unmistakeable '"Oh My God I Didn't, Did I?" Morning After Scream'.
When the tinny chuckle emanating from the helmet combined with the clarity of vision that comes with full wakefulness, Freya was at last able to identify her bedfellow. He was not Sarafan.
"Ooh, you swine!" she scolded, as he removed the gaudy helm. "That wasn't funny," she added, hurling his cloak at his head to stress the point. It took her a moment to realise that the action had left her with a distinct lack of clothing.
"Gimme that back!"
Isca waggled his eyebrows appreciatively and stuffed the cloak beneath his recumbent form.
"Fine. Keep it then." said Freya, easily spotting her discarded pile of clothes on the other side of the tent. Approaching them was slightly more difficult, what with Isca making playful grabs at her legs as she attempted to pass him, but she eventually reached the garments, lifting her chainmail shirt as she gave the other vampire a half-serious, quelling glare. Her attention was quickly drawn back to the shirt as a foot-wide section detached itself from the centre and tumbled to the ground with the accompanying tinkle of loose rings. The sound first brought back the unique shrring noise his claws had made as they had sheared through 12-gauge sprung steel, followed by a recollection of the impression she had had when he had followed her into his tent the previous night: it had been like being dropped into a blender with a sexually frustrated Tasmanian Devil.
Isca examined his claws innocently.
Dropping the remains of the armour with an resigned sigh, Freya scooped up her trousers. They at least were intact – they would need new laces for the front closure, but were wearable. Not so her cotton undershirt: it looked like it had picked a fight with a particularly vindictive paper shredder - and come off worse. At her second frustrated growl, Isca relented and stood to retrieve the pile of accessories he had collected from the camp.
"Here. I thought ahead." He advised with a self-satisfied smile.
"That's a first." Freya nevertheless accepted the items graciously, dressing quickly before her lover's apparently insatiable appetites should manifest themselves again.
Isca contented himself with watching for the moment, his mind too dwelling on the events of the previous night. He was never quite sure how he had managed to keep up his friendly, detached act all the way back to the camp, but the look on Freya's face when he had surprised her at the tent had made his strenuous use of self-control more than worth it. He leaned back on the ground, hands beneath his head as he watched his beloved dress. On the surface, he was visibly pleased that the woman had finally seen sense and returned to where she belonged. On some other deeper and more private level, lurked the conviction that she had in some way picked him over Kain, and that made the besotted vampire almost deliriously happy - not that it would ever show.
Having donned the remainder of the clothing and armour Isca had brought for her, Freya spread her arms wide for his appraisal.
"So, how do I look?"
Isca regarded the ill-fitting shirt, mismatched gloves, and enormous shoulder guards critically. "There's something missing."
Reaching behind him, he picked up the Sarafan plate helmet and tossed it in her direction. Freya caught it and stared at him in disbelief.
"You are joking."
"I think it's quite fetching." He countered, his face edging ever closer to that lemon-sucking expression she had witnessed the night before.
"I am not wearing this."
"It's either that or fry."
"It's got a pink plume!"
Isca nodded in agreement. "Very feminine."
At her mock-despairing gaze, he rose and took the helmet from her. "I just prefer you with your skin intact."
His words unleashed a torrent of guilty associations as Freya remembered how close she had come to allowing Kain to inflict a tortuous death on the man before her. Isca, for his part, instantly wished he could take back his words – although he had spoken true, it had not occurred to him that this particular comment would invoke such disturbing connotations. The vampire shortly found himself caught in a tight clinch as Freya threw her arms about his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. He lowered his own head, returning the embrace with one arm while reaching up the other clawed hand to stroke the distressed fledgling's hair.
"The feeling's mutual," came the eventual muffled reply from somewhere near his chest.
*
When Raziel eventually returned to camp from Roland's celebrations, Isca was not the only one to note the subtle difference in the Dark Lord's demeanour. It was almost as though a night of facing his fears and entering the Sarafan Stronghold for a purpose other than killing or revenge had wrought a considerable transformation in his character. The change was not necessarily for the better either: although the former Soul Reaver was seemingly imbued with steely purpose, this newfound determination only served to emphasize the hard-hearted attitudes he had already begun to evince. Raziel seemed almost callous in his attitude towards the remaining Elite, and treated Freya with scant tolerance. Only Isca, it seemed, was immune from his scathing derision.
Fortunately, now that the battle was over, and the desired outcome had been achieved, Raziel made it abundantly clear that he wished to depart their current timeframe and continue with the mission with which he had been charged. That afternoon therefore saw the remainder of the Clan Razielim return to the Time - Streaming device, the prodigious figures of Dark Lord and his Elite accompanied by a much shorter figure in baggy armour and an incongruous Sarafan helmet. As they entered, Isca's persistent questioning finally convinced Raziel to enlighten them on his plans.
"We need to seek Kain."
"Then look no further," came an amused, carrying voice from the far side of the device. Nosgoth's Emperor stepped into the light.
Freya tensed, as did Isca, who moved almost instantly from his position at her side to stand a little further forward, half-blocking her view. He need not have worried: this was the older Kain, his alabaster skin darkened to onyx, his youthful fervour replaced by fatalism. He was, however, armed with the Reaver, and any situation that now linked Freya with the Emperor and the blade set his nerves on edge.
Raziel regarded him with suspicion.
"How convenient. I assume that your presence here is no coincidence."
Kain strode forward, yellow-green cords of muscle rippling as he moved.
"There is no such concept, Raziel. I had hoped you would have come to appreciate that by now."
He stepped closer, eyeing his son's new form with a glimmer of uncertainty. "Everything is predestined."
"Poppycock."
"Pardon?"
" 'Poppycock', Sire. Rubbish. Rot. Claptrap." Raziel elucidated.
Kain glanced perplexedly at the others in the room, mutely requesting assistance.
"Have you gone mad?"
"No," replied Raziel, circling his nemesis slowly, while Kain watched bemusedly. "No thanks to you, I might add." He stopped before him, meeting his gaze with concrete conviction.
"There is no such thing as destiny, serendipity, fate or karma - we are the masters of our own actions. We may be controlled by others, manipulated by those clever and power-hungry enough to bend us to their will; but there is always choice."
He leaned closer to his sire, his eyes flashing. "You should know that."
Kain wavered, shocked, even as Moebius had been, by the strength of his Lieutenant's convictions.
"What do you plan to do?" he asked, the room's occupants shocked at the cracking of his voice – had Raziel truly frightened him?
"Not me - you." replied Raziel "You are going to undertake the action you should have completed millennia ago." He stepped even closer to Kain, who, to the complete and utter astoundment of all present, backed off nervously. The tipping of the scales of power was almost palpable.
"You are going to restore the balance."
Author's Notes
Sorry about the confusion with the last couple of chapters (ie same one going up twice), folks: flaming server was playing up again. Chapter 14 doesn't exist indeed! Well, I beg to differ.
As you can probably tell, Deionarra's comments about this story getting a bit depressing were taken to heart. Light relief and cheesy grins galore (I hope).
It took me ages to decide how to make this first integral scene play out – I wrote a couple of completely different versions of it – but I eventually decided on the silly, subtle, happy one (as opposed to the scary one or the one that would have made this a NC-17) – hope everyone's content.
Review Response:
Deionarra:
Evil woman! Now I've going to have 'Circle of life' going round in my head all day. This is NOT a suitable song for an evil dictator.
*wanders off looking for that Bolt Thrower album she bought on a whim and never listened to*
Kain's tangent musings – it was supposed to be a temporal paradox thingie – he gets the inspiration for his lieutenants' armour from . . . his lieutenant's armour. Ah well.
Shadowrayne:
Thanks! Will find it tonight!
*approaches megalithic home computer with 2k/s download speed, dreading the amount of time it's gonna take*
MikotoTribal:
X-2! Dark Phoenix! Woohoo!
Ta for the review. Now where's your flaming update, woman?
Me? Cruel? Cliffhanger? Nah! See? It all worked out fine in the end. Oh and the end is coming. I think next chapter will be the last.