A/N: I obviously do not own Kushiel's Dart, Kushiel's Chosen, or Kushiel's
Avatar. That is probably because I am NOT Jacqueline Carey, who wrote
these wonderful stories. That was the disclaimer. Read and enjoy.
His daggers shone brightly in hs hands as he clenched the handles, the leather worn with age. Putting them on the ground beside him, he stared at the edges, polished and deadly sharp. Sharp enough to kill quickly, to slice through flesh almost without a mark, until the bright crimson blood would flow. Flow from the thin red line that would appear. That was his life.
Reaching for the scabbard he always wore over his back, in traditional Cassiline fashion, he took out the sword, its leather grip well oiled and the blade well polished. It was the first thing they taught him at that tall, bleak monastery. To care for the weapons was a simple task, given the boys who had just come, who were not yet worthy to bear them. He had polished daggers and swords for hours, at first resentfully, hating the tradition that had put him there, then lovingly. At first he had resented his being there at all, a Verreil among different boys, all with innocent faces and inquisitive eyes, eyes that shined brightly as they looked at the swords. Not him. He had squeezed his blue eyes shut, letting the blond hair fall over his handsome D'Angeline features. He did not want to be a scion of Cassiel, the bleak, grave figure whose image in the chapel never smiled. Ah, Elua, why did he have to be the middle son?
He had been sent there when he was ten, and he had no choice but to obey the strict rules and learn. In time, he had found a strange sense of beauty in the bleak chores, in the slight glimmers of light appearing on well-polished steel. And then, in the movements. He had learned, slowly and painstakingly, all the forms, all the movements his daggers could make, weaving glimmering threads of light in the morning and evening air. Shining. That was beauty, the only beauty there. He was a D'Angeline; he craved beauty and perfection as he craved food and water. At least that was not denied him. Unlike love. He had not seen his family for more than ten years, hadn't seen his mother's gentle smiles or his sister's laughing face. He had not embraced his brother, nor run free in the hills that were his home. He was a Cassiline.
For ten long years, he had learned the forms and all the movements, even the terminus, of which everyone spoke with a quiet reverence. It would never be used, he knew, but it was there. His knowing it made him a Cassiline as much as the vambraces on his wrists or the daggers at his sides. Or the sword, worn over his back. It was not the gray clothing that marked a true Cassiline, and not even his proficiency with his daggers. It was his willingness, his embrace of death if it meant the safety of his ward. Whoever that may be. Whoever.
But then, there was she... He had been told that he would be a ward for the Delaunay family, and he agreed, proud to go out and fulfill his calling, for the theology was as deeply ingrained into him as the fighting skills. He had stood in the back of the room when she arrived. He had already heard about Phèdre nò Delaunay, Delaunay's anguisette, who was already famous throughout Elua's city. He had not commented, but the frown on his face must have given everything away. He disapproved of her and all she stood for. And then, she had entered the room. Elua, she was beautiful! Even for a D'Angeline, her beauty was paramount. She held herself proudly, her sangoire cloak, the color of blood at midnight, draped around her shoulders. She was absolutely gorgeous. However, as he heard her talk, his admiration turned to loathing. A street whore. Naamah's servant or not, she was little more than a common slut. He hated her. And yet, Anafiel Delaunay had spoken, and both had obeyed.
On their first journey together, to see Barquiel L'Envers at the palace, he stood behind her coldly as they entered the extravagant apartment. He had made up his mind to protect her, that did not mean he had to like her, though his hands trembled at the thought of giving up his life for someone whose smallest gaze made his blood run cold but whom he reviled. And then, it had happened. No sooner had they walked in that she was on her knees, and L'Envers held a dagger to her throat. A droplet of blood appeared before he had even acted. Though nothing came of it and they were both able to return to Delaunay's house safely, he had shivered the whole way back. He had failed. For all his high morals, for all his correctness, for all his resignation and duty, he had failed. She could have been killed, and he with his daggers not even drawn.
He had gone to one knee before Delaunay and offered him his sword, the sword of someone not worthy to bear it. At first, Anafiel Delaunay looked surprised, then concerned as he realized something had gone wrong. But, as Phèdre had shown him the pinprick of blood on her neck, no larger than the dart in her eye, Delaunay relaxed. Joscelin had been given another chance, and excused. He had gone outside to practice his forms, watching his daggers weave their sunbeams across the evening sky. And then, she had come out onto the balcony to watch him. Almost at once, his arms slowed down and the movements grew slower, clumsier. Luckily, she had not noticed. He put every ounce of effort into putting her from his mind, into concentrating solely on the daggers in his hands. Sweat was pouring off him in torrents as he finished.
He had followed her silently, a gray shadow, never once commenting until the day when he had accompanied her on an assignation. She was still proud as she walked into the rooms of her patron, never glancing at him. He had taken a seat and waited, arms crossed and brows furrowed as he tried to forget what she was. Naamah's servant. When she had come out, he gasped in spite of himself and one of his hands flashed to a dagger to reassure himself. She looked horrible. Weak, hair disheveled, welts visible all over her body, she was barely able to walk. Without even thinking about it, he picked her up in his hands and carried her out to the carriage. That was when he understood. Understood that her job was as hazardous as his, and as hard. That night, he had eavesdropped on her meeting with Delaunay and had heard her report. Not just a whore, but a spy. And yet, rather than disgust, the droplet of love for her of which he had hardly been aware grew, as did his respect. Hard as it was, immoral as it was, disturbing and (he had to admit it!) disgusting as it was, she had a job to do and she did it.
He had retained his cold façade after that, but inside, he had never been the same. He had followed her to many assignations after that, and beyond. He had been with her as they were taken by the Skaldi, and she had shamed him into living. He had been with her as she found a way out and as they escaped. He had broken all his vows for her, even celibacy. He had pledged himself to her to Hell and beyond. He had never known she would take him seriously on that.
And then, he had broken that vow too. He had abandoned her. Surely, he had thought that she deserved it, kissing him, seducing him with her body, her lips, her eyes. He had left her in the care of her chevaliers, Phèdre's Boys, and had left, maybe never to come back. He had gone to the Habiru temple and prayed. Prayed to the One God whom Cassiel had never rejected, prayed to Elua, prayed to Cassiel to forgive him, though he had been labeled anathema by his order. He prayed as tears filled his blue eyes. And then, it had happened. One of his new-found friends, a young Habiru boy came up to him and, his dark eyes innocent, told him the news. Two of the chevaliers were dead and Phèdre was captured, taken no one knows where. Maybe dead.
He had run out of the temple, ignoring the surprised glances of the Habiru worshippers as he ran deep into the surrounding woods, finally collapsing on the soft earth. He had failed again and this time, there was no one to pardon him. He had done the unthinkable, abandoned his ward, had let her be captured and maybe, a breath caught in his throat choking him. To let a ward be killed, it was unthinkable. It was impossible. But he had done it. He threw down his daggers, not wanting to profane them by laying his filthy hands upon them. He truly had become anathema. He truly deserved it. He had sat there or hours, not daring to pray in fear of an answer. He had stayed still all through the evening and night. It was in the morning, as the sun began to gleam through the dark green leaves that he had picked up his daggers and held them, wondering what to do. The blades shined brightly in his hands as he clenched the handles, the leather worn with age. There was only one thing left to do. To obey but one last vow, to do as he should have had a chance to earlier. To perform the terminus, or what was left of it. To slit the sharp blade in his left hand across his neck, reviling himself and the fact that the other dagger could not find it's way to her.
His daggers shone brightly in hs hands as he clenched the handles, the leather worn with age. Putting them on the ground beside him, he stared at the edges, polished and deadly sharp. Sharp enough to kill quickly, to slice through flesh almost without a mark, until the bright crimson blood would flow. Flow from the thin red line that would appear. That was his life.
Reaching for the scabbard he always wore over his back, in traditional Cassiline fashion, he took out the sword, its leather grip well oiled and the blade well polished. It was the first thing they taught him at that tall, bleak monastery. To care for the weapons was a simple task, given the boys who had just come, who were not yet worthy to bear them. He had polished daggers and swords for hours, at first resentfully, hating the tradition that had put him there, then lovingly. At first he had resented his being there at all, a Verreil among different boys, all with innocent faces and inquisitive eyes, eyes that shined brightly as they looked at the swords. Not him. He had squeezed his blue eyes shut, letting the blond hair fall over his handsome D'Angeline features. He did not want to be a scion of Cassiel, the bleak, grave figure whose image in the chapel never smiled. Ah, Elua, why did he have to be the middle son?
He had been sent there when he was ten, and he had no choice but to obey the strict rules and learn. In time, he had found a strange sense of beauty in the bleak chores, in the slight glimmers of light appearing on well-polished steel. And then, in the movements. He had learned, slowly and painstakingly, all the forms, all the movements his daggers could make, weaving glimmering threads of light in the morning and evening air. Shining. That was beauty, the only beauty there. He was a D'Angeline; he craved beauty and perfection as he craved food and water. At least that was not denied him. Unlike love. He had not seen his family for more than ten years, hadn't seen his mother's gentle smiles or his sister's laughing face. He had not embraced his brother, nor run free in the hills that were his home. He was a Cassiline.
For ten long years, he had learned the forms and all the movements, even the terminus, of which everyone spoke with a quiet reverence. It would never be used, he knew, but it was there. His knowing it made him a Cassiline as much as the vambraces on his wrists or the daggers at his sides. Or the sword, worn over his back. It was not the gray clothing that marked a true Cassiline, and not even his proficiency with his daggers. It was his willingness, his embrace of death if it meant the safety of his ward. Whoever that may be. Whoever.
But then, there was she... He had been told that he would be a ward for the Delaunay family, and he agreed, proud to go out and fulfill his calling, for the theology was as deeply ingrained into him as the fighting skills. He had stood in the back of the room when she arrived. He had already heard about Phèdre nò Delaunay, Delaunay's anguisette, who was already famous throughout Elua's city. He had not commented, but the frown on his face must have given everything away. He disapproved of her and all she stood for. And then, she had entered the room. Elua, she was beautiful! Even for a D'Angeline, her beauty was paramount. She held herself proudly, her sangoire cloak, the color of blood at midnight, draped around her shoulders. She was absolutely gorgeous. However, as he heard her talk, his admiration turned to loathing. A street whore. Naamah's servant or not, she was little more than a common slut. He hated her. And yet, Anafiel Delaunay had spoken, and both had obeyed.
On their first journey together, to see Barquiel L'Envers at the palace, he stood behind her coldly as they entered the extravagant apartment. He had made up his mind to protect her, that did not mean he had to like her, though his hands trembled at the thought of giving up his life for someone whose smallest gaze made his blood run cold but whom he reviled. And then, it had happened. No sooner had they walked in that she was on her knees, and L'Envers held a dagger to her throat. A droplet of blood appeared before he had even acted. Though nothing came of it and they were both able to return to Delaunay's house safely, he had shivered the whole way back. He had failed. For all his high morals, for all his correctness, for all his resignation and duty, he had failed. She could have been killed, and he with his daggers not even drawn.
He had gone to one knee before Delaunay and offered him his sword, the sword of someone not worthy to bear it. At first, Anafiel Delaunay looked surprised, then concerned as he realized something had gone wrong. But, as Phèdre had shown him the pinprick of blood on her neck, no larger than the dart in her eye, Delaunay relaxed. Joscelin had been given another chance, and excused. He had gone outside to practice his forms, watching his daggers weave their sunbeams across the evening sky. And then, she had come out onto the balcony to watch him. Almost at once, his arms slowed down and the movements grew slower, clumsier. Luckily, she had not noticed. He put every ounce of effort into putting her from his mind, into concentrating solely on the daggers in his hands. Sweat was pouring off him in torrents as he finished.
He had followed her silently, a gray shadow, never once commenting until the day when he had accompanied her on an assignation. She was still proud as she walked into the rooms of her patron, never glancing at him. He had taken a seat and waited, arms crossed and brows furrowed as he tried to forget what she was. Naamah's servant. When she had come out, he gasped in spite of himself and one of his hands flashed to a dagger to reassure himself. She looked horrible. Weak, hair disheveled, welts visible all over her body, she was barely able to walk. Without even thinking about it, he picked her up in his hands and carried her out to the carriage. That was when he understood. Understood that her job was as hazardous as his, and as hard. That night, he had eavesdropped on her meeting with Delaunay and had heard her report. Not just a whore, but a spy. And yet, rather than disgust, the droplet of love for her of which he had hardly been aware grew, as did his respect. Hard as it was, immoral as it was, disturbing and (he had to admit it!) disgusting as it was, she had a job to do and she did it.
He had retained his cold façade after that, but inside, he had never been the same. He had followed her to many assignations after that, and beyond. He had been with her as they were taken by the Skaldi, and she had shamed him into living. He had been with her as she found a way out and as they escaped. He had broken all his vows for her, even celibacy. He had pledged himself to her to Hell and beyond. He had never known she would take him seriously on that.
And then, he had broken that vow too. He had abandoned her. Surely, he had thought that she deserved it, kissing him, seducing him with her body, her lips, her eyes. He had left her in the care of her chevaliers, Phèdre's Boys, and had left, maybe never to come back. He had gone to the Habiru temple and prayed. Prayed to the One God whom Cassiel had never rejected, prayed to Elua, prayed to Cassiel to forgive him, though he had been labeled anathema by his order. He prayed as tears filled his blue eyes. And then, it had happened. One of his new-found friends, a young Habiru boy came up to him and, his dark eyes innocent, told him the news. Two of the chevaliers were dead and Phèdre was captured, taken no one knows where. Maybe dead.
He had run out of the temple, ignoring the surprised glances of the Habiru worshippers as he ran deep into the surrounding woods, finally collapsing on the soft earth. He had failed again and this time, there was no one to pardon him. He had done the unthinkable, abandoned his ward, had let her be captured and maybe, a breath caught in his throat choking him. To let a ward be killed, it was unthinkable. It was impossible. But he had done it. He threw down his daggers, not wanting to profane them by laying his filthy hands upon them. He truly had become anathema. He truly deserved it. He had sat there or hours, not daring to pray in fear of an answer. He had stayed still all through the evening and night. It was in the morning, as the sun began to gleam through the dark green leaves that he had picked up his daggers and held them, wondering what to do. The blades shined brightly in his hands as he clenched the handles, the leather worn with age. There was only one thing left to do. To obey but one last vow, to do as he should have had a chance to earlier. To perform the terminus, or what was left of it. To slit the sharp blade in his left hand across his neck, reviling himself and the fact that the other dagger could not find it's way to her.