"Saltwater and Blood"
By The Sharra
Part Two: Hunger
"And where does evil lie, in the heart, in the eye, is it a guest without a host?
And does your mind concede to what your body needs, to what a silent hunger craves most?
And bending word to the limb, falling out, giving in, will you see all that Earth would conceal?
Below the melting land and underneath the desert sand?
Is the desperate voice inside you even real?"
--ThouShaltNot, "Come a Time"
Three steel points glinted on the back of the man's hand, their otherwise fine sheen dimmed by the glittering of row upon row of purple scales. Thin, chapped lips curved into a smile as he dragged the razor-sharp tips over the thick hide of his mount. A low, rumbling growl reached his ears before it was snatched away by the biting wind. 'That's the spot, eh, Keraunos?'
The fine, strong wings of his vassal dragon cut through the air as he rose higher and higher into the sky. Large puffs of steam curled from Kauranos' nostrils, the puffs of his breath freezing to a cool, silvery-white.
The warm glow of Shirley's Dragoon spirit stood out like a beacon against the darkness and she nodded shortly as she met his gaze. Though he couldn't make out her expression from this distance, he knew her red-brown eyes were cold, and at the same time a bit saddened by what she was preparing to do. He spared her little pity, giving her a short, sharp nod as he began to slip from beneath the ropes holding him to the dragon.
To say the pair of Winglies had acted foolishly was an understatement. Vellweb was nestled in the middle of a deep valley, surrounded by rolling hills that soon smoothed out into frigid, snowy plains. It was a difficult trek by foot and anyone approaching was easily spotted from a great distance. Though the two soldiers had taken advantage of the break in the snow, hiding themselves on the muddy ground and camouflaging themselves with the muck, the guardsmen posted around the city had spotted them long before they'd taken to the sky.
Shirley bit back a startled yelp as the lean warrior launched himself from the back of the dragon, the wind tearing at his clothing and whipping his hair about wildly as he plummeted downward. Silly to be so concerned about him doing something dangerous, but—did he really have to do that every time? 'Kanzas, you'll send me to an early grave!'
Eos' vaguely irritated thoughts brushed against her mind; a reflection of her own exasperated worry.
The air about her suddenly felt alive with electricity, causing her own wind-blown hair to crackle about her face. She shielded her eyes with one hand against the brilliant purple light that consumed Kanzas' falling figure, spots dancing over her vision as the lightning shot outward. As Shirley dropped from Eos, she sighted down the swiftly moving form of the remaining scout. The young man was as a blur, a silver streak that darted this way and that, causing the White Silver Dragoon to bite her lip in frustration.
By Soa, this was better than sex. The energy that surged through his body caused him to cry out, as did the angry shouts from the Winglies he was quite literally dropping in on. His lips pulled back to expose his teeth in a cruel, feral smile, the thin membranes of his wings hissing audibly as he came up from his dive.
His target, for the most part gave only token resistance, his hands sparking as they were surrounded by a halo of bright light. Kanzas grunted, twisting his body to one side so that the magic shot harmlessly past him. "Too slow!" he snarled.
Another streak of magic followed, a mere second after the other. The sneer on his face widened as that, too, was dodged and he thought to himself, 'Hn. Far too slow…'
Their bodies made harsh contact, armor scraping over armor and steel clashing with steel. The Wingly screamed out a curse at him, thrusting upward with his sword, in an attempt pierce the throat of the man hovering slightly above him. Kanzas slid to the side, gasping reflexively as the sword slid through a gap in his weapon, hissing between two points of the claw. A sharp jerk of his head prevented the fatal blow, white-hot pain trailing along his cheek as the tip of the sword opened a long, deep cut along his jawline.
Couldn't be—shouldn't be. It was unbelievable, the pale-haired fighter thought madly, moving in a wild spiral through the sky; unbelievable, and yet so fitting that these stupid, rebellious little beasts take up arms with the primitive dragons. He heard the soft, inexplicable whisper of the human's arrow as it shot toward him, a silvery thing that seemed far too delicate, somehow. No, it wasn't so much a whisper as a chime, a pure gentle sound that he logically shouldn't be able to hear.
As pearlescent scales gleamed in the moonlight and wings that beat a rapid tattoo brushed the side of its enormous companion, the Shirley's opponent grit his teeth. Logic…? What did logic have to do with any of this?
He didn't want to die and was surprised by the icy wave of fear that seized him. Fear was a funny thing, he thought almost hysterically, it was like your insides wanted to crawl out and leave your body behind so that they could get as far away as possible. 'Archangel, guide and protect Your Servant as I pass through the Gates…'
Finger shaking as he reached out to tap the oval-shaped gem embedded in his gauntlet, he breathed out a faint, "confirmed" into the simple communicator. One last tap, and the gentle glow that had surrounded the jewel snuffed out. The words weren't grand, or noble the way he'd wanted them to be. How sad, as they were probably the last ones he'd ever speak… 'I actually wrote down what I would say to them—' Another arrow flew past, and he flinched, shifting the longspear and moving to brace the wooden shaft against his side. It was time to greet the Creator—
Kanzas closed his hand around his own opponent's ankle as the slim man vaulted upward, smirking absently as he pulled his arm back. The Wingly screamed as the claw sank into the exposed skin behind his knee. Damn freak wasn't the only one with good aim. He could see the fear in those unnatural eyes as the man thrashed about, lips moving to chant a feeble spell. 'You see? We're not just a rumor. Too bad you won't make it back to tell Frahma—' "Atomic Mind!"
There was a shower of sparks followed by a strange sort of noise—a zip, a buzz, a sharp, crackle like static. He twisted his claw free, tearing skin and muscle and watching the charred body jerk about with a distant sort of amusement. 'Like a puppet on strings.' A puppet that smelled of cooked meat.
And as the Wingly plummeted toward the ground, his companion screamed—
"Soa forgive me," Shirley murmured, making a quick warding sign against evil. Kanzas grimaced absently at the familiar gesture. Always a prayer, always a plea for forgiveness; some distant part of him wondered that she still spent every night praying in the Shrine located in the lower reaches of the city.
Wind whistled in the Dragoon's ears as he swept downward, the fierce calls of the vassals piercing the now quiet night. He snickered softly to himself; how amusing that the Humans' victories were the dragons' own now. Keraunos and Eos had known not to lift a single claw in attack, and though he felt his own mount's disappointment as clearly as if it were his own, that didn't stop the Violet Storm Dragon from trumpeting for all to hear.
"Why did they do something like that?" she breathed as she followed after him, mystified. The healer landed softly on the ground, easily locating the battered, broken body of her enemy. However, as soon as she asked that question, she closed her mouth, realization dawning. 'Such a waste, just to tell the rest of them that Vellweb really does have the dragons.' Even to confirm that the Dragoons actually existed, though Flanvel had already fallen to their attack—no survivors. 'There's no reason for that.'
Those men had been a sacrifice, sent on a suicide mission to confirm the blathering of Winglies who had survived the fall of human slave markets. They had approached the city, knowing they were as good as dead, but before they'd been killed, they'd relayed their discovery to whatever command post they'd been assigned to.
Shirley had long since accepted that as a Dragoon and the rush of aggression that followed every transformation; she was meant to destroy as well as save, but there were still times when she heard the soft whisper of 'murderer' in her mind.
He snorted, kneeling down beside the man she'd killed—or what was left of him. "Barely even real Winglies." What was the word—? "Expendable to the bastards. They probably volunteered for the job."
That hadn't even been a battle so much as a scuffle. Any human fighter worth his salt would have been able to tell their power level was low. Likely, they'd barely been allowed to be born, and had hoped to lighten their families' shame by charging in, dying in some glorious battle where the odds were horribly stacked against them.
Kanzas had learned long ago that there was no honor in death, no glory in war. In the end, there was only your weapon, your opponent, and that flash of terror on their face as they realized their time was up—
The long, elaborate dagger slid free of its sheath at his armored calf, and he flipped it about, running his thumb over the keen edge of the blade.
"What are you doing?" It was a sharp cry, almost angry, really, but he didn't look up as the weapon plunged into the somewhat flattened, side of the Wingly, sawing neatly through skin and fat.
"Bringing Syuveil a present," he snapped back, feeling a rising urge to slap her. Why did she have to get so high-and-mighty about this sort of thing when all was said and done? "Take a deep breath and avert your eyes if you've got such a problem with it, cousin."
Occasionally, he'd helped the scholar with a couple of his 'experiments', so he was familiar enough with what the inside of a corpse looked like. Hell, he probably would've known where to find everything even if Syuveil didn't cut up dead men in front of him.
Dark, dripping, it resembled something that belonged on a dinner plate rather than an actual body part. The impact of the ground had warped it out of shape, and even more fluid seeped from a large gash in the center of the organ. He frowned at the destroyed membrane within the liver, watching the secretions from the gall bladder run down his hand as he held it up.
Slim fingers snapped out, closing about his sinewy wrist and squeezing hard enough that he resisted the urge to wince. Soa, but the woman had even quicker hands than he did. "Let go," was his irritable reply.
She sighed wearily, and then leaned closer to him, so that their faces almost touched. "You do such terrible things to them-- I don't want to see it again. Please."
Kanzas studied his cousin's eyes, her reddish-brown eyes and turned his face to the side so that he wouldn't have to see them any longer.
/"Ma, why are they such a funny color?"/
His mother had slapped him for it, he recalled, then given him a good, hard shake and told him never to mention it again. From the moment he was old enough to understand, the other slaves on the farm had begun to drill certain facts into his skull. He wasn't to question the Winglies, their Masters—Humans were just weak enough as to need their protection; and he was never, ever to draw attention to his cousin's eyes. The first of those obviously hadn't stuck with him, so he figured the second might as well. "Nag." In the end, it was best to just brush her off—like she was a bug of some sort.
He twisted free of her grip and rose to his feet. The dark, electric energy coursing through his body was dulling now, taking with it that surge of raw aggression and leaving only hatred and regret in its wake. Kanzas never really understood that, the regret he felt. Perhaps it was because the soul of the dragon inevitably left, taking the power with it. If he weren't such a pitiless bastard, he'd think he felt very… cold standing there, holding a dead man's liver so nonchalantly in his hand. Really, the only thing that bothered him at that moment was the soft glow of light around him as his wings faded, leaving him bound to the earth once more.
The interior of the leather pouch was oiled, and with good reason. Though he wasn't all that bothered by the idea of bodily fluids seeping through satchels and thus on to the leg of his pants, the odor of the dead was hard to scrub from one's clothing. He'd brought back 'souvenirs' for Syuveil in the past; he'd learned after the first unfortunate incident with a length of intestine that you had better be certain nothing would drip through.
Fallen leaves crunched crisply underfoot, and he scowled at the sound, attempting to step around the many patches. They were difficult to make out in the darkness, but there wasn't a chance in hell he'd carry a lantern with him in such an open area. It was always, always best to remain hidden—not to mention keep from making noise carelessly.
If he couldn't learn to navigate the areas outside the city better, he might as well consider himself a dead man. So what if it was a bit extreme? All it took was one wrong step on a battlefield, and he'd be damned if the Winglies got him because he stepped in the wrong spot at the wrong time. 'Sooner or later, they will come to this place.' Death by leaves—wouldn't that make for a fine eulogy at his funeral? The other Dragoons could be the ones to give it and it would all be very, very sad.
No, tomorrow night he'd come back here and walk the area, tomorrow night, and the night after that, then the night after that, until he could move around without making so much noise.
He flexed his right hand, feeling the worn padding that lined his gauntlet rub against the knuckles. It was funny how that nice little 'wound' in his palm always seemed to throb, as if it had its own heartbeat; it didn't remind him of a human heartbeat so much as it did the pulse of his dragon spirit when it was alive, and beautiful, and ready to call the storms for him. Reaching over, he brushed his thumb almost lovingly over the dormant sphere embedded in the arm guard. Cool to the touch and impossibly smooth, this was the only remnant of the dragon that had come so close to taking his life. 'How is Hell this time of year, Divine Thunder Dragon?'
Well, sooner or later Kanzas would be there to find out for himself. He'd just have to try so very hard to deal with the anticipation. No, really—it was just unbearable. A sneer twisted his thin mouth, and he pulled his fingers through mussed, reddish hair.
Shirley, in that almost disturbing way of hers, had managed to avoid getting any sort of blood on her during the Winglies' little spy mission. Rather than join him for a quick clean-up at the pond, she'd gone to tell the guards stationed at the ramparts things had been taken care of. There wasn't any reason to, as they would've been able to see the one-sided battle from their vantage point. She just wanted to reassure them that everything was all right...
Not to mention she was more than eager to get back to her new husband. 'It doesn't matter.'
The dark crystal pulsed suddenly and irritated, he slapped a hand over his gauntlet to hide the flash of it. 'I thought she was going back to the city.'
However, the answering glow wasn't the brilliant silvery-white he'd expected to see. Rather, a soothing blue sparked off in the distance, bobbing briefly as its bearer moved along the shore of the pond.
A sharp crackle sounded and he glanced down at the pile of leaves he'd walked right in to. 'Fuck you too,' he thought at them—maybe at her as well.
There were scars on his arm now. They were dark, strange looking furrows that Shirley hadn't been able to completely smooth away with her healing magic. Whenever he touched his arm, he could feel the ridges of scar tissue even through his woolen sleeve.
/"Get back," he rasped out in an odd, strangled sort of voice. He pulled away the arm he reflexively used to catch her; tangling his fingers in the unkempt strands of her hair and using them try and yank her away. "Dragoon or no, I'll break your neck if you don't stop."
How funny that he'd never noticed her eyes were the very color of blood
'She bit me,' he recalled, for what seemed to be the thousandth time. 'Please don't tell anyone,' she'd cried, and surprisingly enough, Kanzas hadn't breathed a word of it.
/All he could think at that moment was 'predator', the slight figure lurching forward even while trying to shove his arm away from her. Her tongue fell upon his hand, feeling like warm rain as it trailed over the blood-smeared skin./
Now and again, he'd catch sight of a glint of moonlight on water, and as he drew closer to the smooth, glassy surface, he noticed something he'd been unaware of while flying with Keraunos mere minutes ago. The fat, heavy moon had a tint of orange to it—a red moon, some called it. They called it a 'harvest moon' here in Gloriano, but back East it was known as a 'blood moon.' Meant winter would be coming soon… Good thing Shirley had reminded him to bring his cloak before they'd left. Not that it would do him much good; once he started splashing about. It was muddy along the banks of the pond, and it almost seemed that being near the water made the chill more biting than it would have been otherwise.
Damia must be freezing her ass off right about now. The smirk that crossed his face faded abruptly, mud squishing and squelching as he quickened his pace at the sight of the shifting body sprawled out on the shore. It took his mind a moment or two to process that this was Damia, as the last thing he'd expected to see was the half-breed sprawled out on her stomach with, well, her head in the pond.
It wasn't cold enough to bother her, the water, and she wriggled a bit further through the mud so as to slide deeper into the pond. The tiny gills on her neck opened and closed rhythmically as they took in water, then pushed it right back out again. Divine Tree, it was almost a relief to ease the dryness in her lungs. The air 'normal' people breathed day after day was arid and stale to her, even before a good rain or snowfall. Water was different—she didn't understand why, but she felt almost a craving to take it in. Each breath she drew from the water was fresh and cool and it made her feel strong.
Kanzas knelt down next to her on the muddy banks, bracing his palms on his knees as he peered down at her half-submerged form. Did she think to drown herself? Too bad. She was a Dragoon and they needed her alive, for what good she'd actually done them these days. 'If you're going to play such a game, Kanzas, you'd better be ready to bring Syuveil into it, as well.' He couldn't quite stop the thought and he scowled, brushing away the feeling of guilt with a shake of his head.
There was something wrong about what he was seeing. Kanzas had drowned a few men in his day and knew there should be more involuntary thrashing than this, especially considering how long she'd been under there. Then there was the fact that it was a bit hard to drown oneself that way. 'Can't even commit suicide correctly.' Any minute now, she'd start jerking about and push herself back to the surface. He tapped his finger on his knee, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as the seconds passed. Five… ten… fifteen…
The first snowfall of the season would come soon, and with it would come the glittering ice that would freeze over her pond. Even she wouldn't be able to deal with the bitter chill that came with it. There would be no more swimming and moments like these. She sighed heavily and deliberately so that a flurry of bubbles would rush to the surface. It was too dark for her to see them, but she could feel them brushing over her forehead on their way upward, almost tickling.
Twenty-five. Thirty. Shifting his weight a bit, he began to tick off each handful of seconds with a click of his tongue. Nasty, noisy habit, that; he couldn't recall when he'd started doing it. Click. Click. Click.
Her small hammer was resting within an arm's reach, not far from a carelessly discarded lantern she'd brought with her. He reached out and grasped the weapon by its carved wooden handle, hefting it easily. Such a thing would be easy for him to wield in battle, but he'd noticed from time to time that it seemed to be rather tiring for her.
Thirty-five. Click. Seized by the sudden realization that her back was rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of someone who was breathing, he leaned in, flipping the hammer around and planting its head in the damp ground, leaning against it to keep from falling forward. 'It can't be.'
Why not?
Another flurry of bubbles shot out from her nostrils as Damia began sputtering and snorting. 'I got mud up my nose!'
For just a moment, the awkward girl might have been something beautiful, her mess of teal hair falling about her, clinging to her face and arms like seaweed as she pushed herself upward using both hands. Her lantern had been snuffed out already, and it almost appeared to him as if she were cloaked in the shadows, some strange, elusive creature--
Not yet noticing the man kneeling directly behind her, she reached up, pressing a finger against the opposite side of her nose so that her nostril flattened down. Then, she blew out a breath of air in an attempt to dislodge the little hunk of mud she'd mistakenly inhaled.
Too late she became aware of the other Dragoon's presence. The soggy dirt went flying, and its escape was shortly followed by a blank, "What in God's name are you doing?"
She let out a horrified squeak. 'Why do these things always happen to me?' A dark flush crept up her neck and with it a rising tide of near panic. Really, she didn't know if she was more upset by the thought that he might have seen her blow soil from her nose, or that he must've been there when she was sucking up pondwater like a fish. "That wasn't funny," she snapped, twisting around and settling down on her backside. "What if I'd hur—" Her heart was pounding furiously, and she noticed that her hammer wasn't next to her, because he'd taken it…
The laughter that escaped his parted lips sounded low and raspy. "Hurt me?" he asked softly, leaning his weight harder on the carved wooden handle. "No, I really don't think you need to worry about that."
Damia had long since become used to Kanzas dismissing her. Up until six months ago, she'd never even touched a weapon and compared to the others, her skill was shoddy at best. Her magic was strong, but her body weak; more often than not, everyone else had to rally to protect her on the battlefield. So far, she'd only been allowed to help liberate the slave camps and stop raids on the nearby villages. "Not yet," she whispered back, before she could stop herself. He wasn't even three feet from her now—what if he decided to hit her for talking back to him that way? She didn't think he would, but the way he'd looked at her the night of the wedding celebration made her wonder.
The feast—now, her thoughts were heading in an entirely different direction, to a place she didn't want them to go. Damia had learned to tune out the soft whispers from others' blood, or to at least keep herself from being too drawn to those who were wounded. Some people were harder to ignore than others, though. Kanzas had always been the worst of them all, but she'd known from the beginning he would be. It almost seemed like his feelings thrummed just beneath the surface of his skin, hidden away and yet displayed so obviously all at the same time.
"Huh. Big words from a chit who doesn't even pay attention to her own dragon spirit."
She flinched as if struck, one hand nervously fluttering up to clutch the pale blue orb and its gilt chain. It was cool to the touch, the surface seeming to almost ripple as she held it. "I—" '—shouldn't even be talking to him if he's going to act this way.'
"— 'had my head up my ass,'" he finished for her. "Apparently."
He watched as she busied herself with the lantern, scrounging about in the soil and muttering so quietly that he could barely make out a word she said. Something about 'stupid' and 'going someplace else.' A quick flick of his wrist and his dagger slid free of its sheath, steel sliding along leather with a soft whispering noise.
"I—" '—really don't want to hear this right now.' It didn't take long to locate the chunk of discarded flint. She brushed the stone over her bodice a few times to remove any dampness from it. It was unnerving to sit around in the dark with Kanzas. Since she'd done that horrible thing—'—tried to bite off part of his arm—', Damia had avoided him like the plague. They saw each other now and again around their towers, and while training, but that was all. No one treated her differently. Belzac always had a smile ready for her, Zieg still took time away from his work with the refugees to help with her weight training. Rose, Syuveil, Shirley; everything was the same. None of them knew what had happened; that was why nothing had changed.
"Oy."
Damia didn't take the proffered blade right away, staring at the extended arm with bemusement and just a little unease. 'Nothing had changed?' Perhaps it was wrong to say that. The problem was that she couldn't precisely put her finger on what was different.
She snatched the weapon away so quickly that he felt droplets of water from her sleeves splatter against his face. Flint rapped against steel, and sparks that had escaped the valuable glass casing of the lantern drifted along before fizzling out. There was some old story his aunt Gwena had liked to tell about Stardust, and he thought to himself that those sparks looked that glittering stuff. There was no reason to try and chase away the firelight; with Damia's observational skills, they'd be as good as dead whether or not the flame gave them away to Whatever-Enemy.
Her hair was a thick tangle; looking as if it hadn't seen a comb in days, while mud was smeared over a fine, pretty blue dress. 'Elusive?' The light had chased away the mystery that had been cloaking her, leaving in its place a thin, awkward girl who rather resembled a drowned rat. 'Right. I think that's a stick in her hair.'
Within the lantern, one last spark was born, its life snuffed out immediately after.
Stardust—
/"Let's make a wish together!"/
Shaking his head to clear it of the memory, Kanzas reached out to retrieve his weapon from her, closing fingers about a small wrist almost without realizing it. He rubbed his thumb over the slightly clammy skin, noting her slightly pointed fingernails and the sharp intake of breath. "File these down, do you?" the man asked in a conversational tone.
Flicking his gaze upward, he tried to see through the tangle of teal curls; would he find gills on her neck?
Her instinctive reaction was to shrink back; the nervous beating of her heart so loud she was sure Kanzas must hear it. 'He's touching me. He's touching me. He's touching me—' The words running through her mind were juvenile, and she hated that. "Your knife," she managed to squeak out.
"Dagger."
"Take it!"
When he pressed down carefully on one of those fingernails, he felt the pad of his middle finger start to split open. At first glance, they looked square. If one were to look closer, however, they'd notice the nails were too flat near the top, filed into almost a straight line. It was the edges that gave the secret away, the sharp little corners they formed in spite of the care Damia had taken to hide the way they would naturally grow. "Ow," he stated flatly, out of sarcasm more than anything else.
Damia's reply came tumbling out in a nervous rush. She didn't think she could have kept silent no matter how hard she tried, feeling as terribly off-balance as she always did when he bothered to speak to her. He was just waiting to tell, of course he was just waiting to tell someone-- "I don't— only a little, they're really not—"
Just as suddenly as Damia had taken his dagger from him, he ripped it from her grasp, placing still more of his weight upon the hammer he was resting on as he leaned forward and pressed the keen tip of the blade against that little hollow at the base of her throat.
"I went to the south when I was a boy," Kanzas began, "and out there, they caught the fish right out of the water with their bare hands."
'He wouldn't.' "Stop it," she whispered, and she was unable to keep herself from shaking as the cold metal traced over the side of her neck, lifting a length of hair away to expose one of the tiny gills just beneath her ear.
The assassin continued, a distant part of him warning that Belzac wouldn't like this at all. 'Too bad for him, too.' "What they do is wait and wait, and don't you know they're so very quiet? Then, just when the fish thinks its safe--" Here, he tapped the flat of the dagger against the little slit in her neck, watching her squeeze her eyes shut with a hiss, "—they stick their fingers underneath the gills and haul them out. Don't you think that would hurt, Damia?"
When she opened her eyes once more, he thought he might've seen a tempest rise within them, a slowly growing storm to churn the waters. Then, Damia was the one lunging at him, the keen edge of his weapon slicing along her neck as she grabbed hold of the handle he was using to support himself.
"What the f—"
It wasn't often something like this happened to Kanzas—stuttering girl-women gnawing chunks from his body and then trying to knock him flat on his face. Now, making oneself look like an ass was all well and good; it was a practice he indulged in frequently. It was another matter entirely when Damia was the cause. He jerked the dagger to one side as it nicked the skin, an instinctive reaction to prevent any more damage. That was the thing about the neck, it was so easy to nick at some important thing, and then the blood would pour out, out, out—
His grip on the hammer had become lax during their 'conversation', and his balance more and more precarious. In the end, the Thunder Dragoon found himself wallowing in the mud because he was admittedly 'too damned cocky for his own good.'
Hugging her hammer to her almost protectively, the heaviness of it strangely comforting, she glared. "Stop it," she said again, her tone indicating that she was very horrified about this situation—but was seriously considering giving him a solid smack upside the head anyway.
The wet soil was surprisingly cold, squishing and smearing over the dried red that marred his bony hands. He rose, pulling one of those dirty palms down his face and leaving dark smudges in its wake. 'Still working on that backbone.' Teeth gnashing angrily, a rasping sort of growl scraping its way free of his throat, Kanzas glared right back.
'Oh, I guess I shouldn't have done that,' she thought distantly, edging away from him. The growl inexplicably became a low snicker. For the life of her, she couldn't understand what was so funny about the situation. "It's not—"
"No," he rasped out, "it is!" He wanted to gut her like a fish, watch her wriggle and squirm as his fingers gripped her insides. The battle was still hot in his veins, though the storms had decided to sleep for a time. It was so easy for that amusement to become hysteria, to just keep on laughing once he'd started. Ugly, unpleasant laughter that even he didn't like to hear; but who was he to care how he sounded?
Yet again, Damia was the first to back down. "It's not funny!" she repeated, hating herself for running away all over again, but knowing that she should be anywhere but here at the moment. He'd ruined the peace and quiet, and the only way to settle herself was to go far away from him. She jumped to her feet and hurried away, taking the smell of rain with her, along with the silence that had otherwise pervaded the area.
Crickets began to chirp and frogs not yet in hibernation hesitantly began to croak. He almost reached out to grip a length of that fluttering, stained skirt as it brushed along his face, turning his head to flash a vicious grin. "Don't you have a sense of humor?"
She ran more than she actually walked away from the confrontation that was beginning to form between them. Once she was far enough away that she didn't think he'd be paying attention, she gave in to the aching in her forearms. The stone head of the hammer struck the ground with a dull thud, scraping away bits of dirt as she began to drag the weapon along behind her. Then, she seemed to fold in on herself, slouching forward in a sort of embarrassed huddle as she slowed. 'I thought maybe I'd stand up to him this time. I really thought that I could do it.'
A prickle ran down her spine, a gentle, tingling current that felt like the air tasted after a thunderstorm. She faltered, her back going ramrod straight as she looked over her shoulder at the distant figure kneeling by the pond.
He was still watching.
"Here. You can have this."
Syuveil stared at the misshapen, dripping thing Kanzas had so unceremoniously taken from the bag and dropped into his hand. "That's disgusting, but thank you."
"Any time."
Syuveil's room was by no means a pleasant place to be, which was quite likely why Kanzas felt so at home there. It smelled of harsh chemicals that made one's throat ache and set their eyes to watering; while the few tables crammed inside were immaculately clean, a fine layer of dust blanketed the floor. He wiped his nose using his gauntlet, hoping to stave off a sneeze. No one needed to know that Kanzas, the goddamned Thunder Dragoon, suffered from hay fever. In spite of annoying things like sneezing and spraying mucus about, he liked Syuveil's tower. There was another stench within the dark room that overpowered all the other odors, and even he felt his stomach roil reflexively at the sickly-sweet smell of death. An overly poetic soldier had told him once that rotting flesh reminded him of dying roses. Rose herself might appreciate that.
'Or not.'
Syuveil placed the liver carefully on a thin, breakable plate of some sort—it had raised edges; Kanzas liked to call it a 'bowl' just to see the scholar have a snit.
"And the Winglies?" the brown-haired man asked, though he didn't need to.
Kanzas smiled—it wasn't a nice smile by any stretch of the imagination. "Don't play the fool."
His attention briefly drifted away from the shadowy bulk that caused the smell, to a frog bobbing in a jar of Soa-knew-what and he reached out to tap it, his finger plinking against the glass. More glass. What was it that made such a worthless thing so important to those around him? The 'scientist'—or so he called himself—coveted the stuff. To Kanzas, glass was just something that was rather nice to look at and even nicer to break.
Locating a chair amidst the clutter, the Jade Dragoon sat, sliding his precious microscope over the table. It had been stolen from the Winglies, of course, back when his old master in Aglis had sold him. The young 'research assistant' had smuggled it away in his knapsack "You know you've always been better at 'playing' games, so spare me the sarcasm."
"Fine, then."
Syuveil pressed his tongue thoughtfully against the tip of a canine tooth, twisting the focus of the lens carefully. "It might've been easier for them to just fall on their own swords." Two Winglies against the city of Vellweb? It was madness.
"Catch on quick."
Making a face as a slight breeze drifted in through the window, bringing a bit of relief from the smell, Kanzas drifted toward the other end of the room, examining the enormous skull mounted on the wall. It seemed to leer at him with that gaping mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth. Bemused, he reached out to stroke the smooth surface. "Evening, Iaspis," he greeted in a soft hiss.
Of course, the head of the Jade Sky Dragon didn't respond.
He hadn't been particularly fond of the dragon, but Syuveil's bond with his vassal had bordered on eerie. He'd told Kanzas that sometimes Iaspis would whisper into his mind, his mental voice as clear and strong as that of the Divine Dragons themselves.
Ignoring Kanzas' apparent interest in the dragon skull, Syuveil reached to one side, feeling out blindly for the razor-sharp scalpel he left on the table earlier. "I wonder sometimes."
Kanzas shot him a quick, questioning look while wiping his palms on his pants. His skin smelled of liver and dying roses—like the tower. Small particles of dust drifted along the air, kicked up by his unhurried steps and illuminated by the flickering light of the torches. "About?"
/The fall of Flanvel Tower had been their first real victory, but it hadn't come without price. Though the tower had been knocked from the sky, Iaspis lay dead, the prone form of the Lady General Ayeka Veron lay sprawled out almost symbolically beside the massive bulk. Her fingers still clutched that thing called the 'Dragon Block Staff', the weapon she'd used to fend off the Dragoons until her dying breath.
The light of the sun was so harsh as to make their heads ache, and as Syuveil pulled his foot back, driving it into the corpse, it caused his leg armor to glint. Glint-kick-flop, Kanzas thought morbidly, rubbing at his shoulder. Glint-kick-flop.
"Syuveil! It's enough! It's enough, she's already dead!"/
To his dismay, he suddenly sneezed. Mucus spattered the skull in a less than respectful manner. Well, that was just splendid, wasn't it? At least Syuveil didn't seem to have noticed. He was too busy looking put-off by Kanzas' lack of attention.
"Have you heard a word I've said?"
"Not a thing. I imagine it was quite fascinating." Belzac and Zieg had bound the corpse of the dragon to that of their own, and together Ge and Cenneth had brought Iaspis back to Vellweb—and the tender mercies of Syuveil's laboratory.
It had been a month since the fall of Flanvel Tower, and the scholar was still deep in his dissection of the dragon's remains. Kanzas didn't know why he did it, and he didn't really care to ask. Well, maybe there was one thing he wanted to know… 'I wonder why he isn't rotting faster than this?' The table he was now lingering by was covered with sections of green scales, slabs of meat and skin, and he poked at them.
The quick flare of his own temper surprised Syuveil. He straightened, narrowing his eyes and spitting out hoarsely, "Don't touch that!"
"No need to—" As Kanzas turned, his elbow connected with a small wooden box resting near the edge of the table. The unintentional smack knocked the container from it, and its contents spilled out over the floor.
From anger to horror all within a hand span of seconds.
"Huh," the redhead stated. At first glance it seemed that the box had held nothing more than dozens of little rocks. He nudged one with his boot and watched it roll over dusty stone. "You ever think" he asked, kneeling down with Syuveil to help collect the pebbles, "that it's a bit odd to get so touchy over a dragon you're cutting apart?"
'I've always tried not to judge you, Kanzas,' the other thought weakly, tracing the pitted, grainy texture of the rock he was holding. He placed it back in the little chest almost reverently. "But you like that." He was fighting the rising urge to panic, along with the harsh cough that threatened to grip his chest. It was getting worse, his illness, his—his weakness. No, he couldn't afford to lose one of these pieces, nor could he fail in his search for the remaining ones. It had to be all of them; if there was any truth to the story, then he couldn't miss a single piece--
"Point taken. Now—you're so bored that you've taken up rock-collecting?"
Apparently, if Kanzas couldn't harp on one thing, he would another. Syuveil frowned. "Just—" There was a brief pause as he sucked in a struggling, weak breath, the sort that carried a cough or a sneeze with it, "help—with—"
Syuveil refused to meet his gaze, but that didn't really matter, for soon he was doubled over as the cough scraped free. It hurt, ached, felt as if claws were ripping at his lungs. He pressed his palm against the floor, using it to support himself until the near convulsion caused by the fit of coughing had passed. His temples throbbed and his head swam, spots dancing before his vision. Unfortunately, he had to admit he was used to the feeling by now. 'I am so tired of this.' Why did the Divine Wind Dragon even choose him if his health would begin to fail so early into the war? It all seemed terribly unfair to him.
The black-clad man reached out and carefully wiped away the splotch of blood from the floor, leaving a dark smear there that oddly enough, managed to look innocuous and inoffensive. 'Oh, no, it seems I must have spilled something there,' Syuveil would be able to say, and they would believe him. Kanzas, after all, had a way with blood.
There was silence as Syuveil pushed up the spectacles sliding down his nose, quiet interrupted only by the occasional plink of a stone being dropped into the box. He began to scrounge around himself, if only so he wouldn't have to look at Kanzas while he spoke. "What do you know of the Divine Tree?"
"There you go playing the fool again."
He sighed and shook his head tolerantly, despite the waves of dizziness caused by the motion. Perhaps he shouldn't say anything at all. Kanzas of all people was the most accepting of his eccentricities—Iaspis, especially. But in spite of his attitude, he had the least belief in things he couldn't see. Yes, his friend would feel the magical properties in what outwardly appeared to be common 'pebbles.' He would accept that there was something different about the objects they were now scrabbling to retrieve—he wouldn't, however, immediately accept what Syuveil was telling him. "My master's wife—back in Aglis… she was very fond of stories."
Kanzas sneered in disdain at the title. Diaz' puppet he may be, but never again would 'master' pass his lips. "We all know of the damned tree the Mother of All spit out, Fate, destiny. Really, I'm concerned that a pair of gods decided to pull us all out of pieces of fruit."
The wheezing that sounded whenever the thin man inhaled grew louder as he sucked in a deep breath, as if to steady himself. Anyway, he didn't see anything wrong with being born from the fruit of the Divine Tree. "She told me once that, 'It's said the fruit fallen from the Divine Tree before it's proper time goes against fate. As punishment for trying to defy its fate and choose its own time of birth, that which was meant to live will never be born at all.' I'm paraphrasing, of course."
Reassured that Syuveil's 'magical rock collection' was now safe in the chest; Kanzas slapped the lid closed and stifled his own need to sneeze. His reply came out rather garbled because of it, but he didn't feel like waiting until he was done to actually talk. "Wingly talk. I don't care to believe in Fate, fruit, or 'Mother and Father.'
Soa, the Father of All, Creator—he had many names, but his wife and consort Miranda held only the title of 'Mother of All. It was she who had birthed the holy seed that would grow into the Divine Tree; Soa himself had planted the seed in barren earth, thus bringing the first living being to the world.
"Caron was her name—er, the mistress."
'I don't care what her name was. She's a fucking Wingly and that's all I need to know.' "You're rambling again."
He received a glare for that. The scholar reached out and took the box from him, brushing at the top of it even though the wood had been polished to a subtle sheen. If something in his tower was kept free of dust, then that meant it was important. "Consider a habit I picked up from you."
"More likely from Damia." It was one of those things you said without thinking, and Kanzas could only blink as the realization of what he'd just said sank in. 'Oh, isn't that interesting?' he thought blandly, though his expression practically dared the other to comment on it. 'I—'
A sandy eyebrow quirked inquisitively- Syuveil might have been disturbed to realize at that moment, his thoughts were an echo of his friend's. 'Oh, isn't that interesting?' "I beg your pardon?"
'—think I—' "Divine Tree. Caron."
"The Mother weeps for those children lost to the world—" Now was the difficult part. It was strange, but he didn't think he could bear Kanzas' mockery. Not about this. Perhaps it was because he was enough like him—'don't believe in what you can't see, what you can't sense.' "If the fruit is returned to the Divine Tree—"
/"And then She'll grant you a wish, Syuveil. Wouldn't it be wonderful if that were true?"/
/"Let's make a wish together!"/
The pebbles had seemed to cling oddly to Kanzas' his fingertips, while the rough, grainy texture had hummed with the faint remnants of energy that had yet to die out. "What have you been up to?" he breathed, having a sudden urge to pitch the box and its precious contents out the window. "You unbelievable—idiot! You don't fuck with things like this!"
The Wind Dragoon drew back, startled by the unexpected reaction. "I thought you didn't believe in the Divine Tree," was his quiet reply.
He pressed his knuckles hard against his knee, so hard that
Kanzas felt shards of pain shoot up his thigh, clear to his hip. "I don't!"
Unable to understand his own, sudden fury, and not really wanting to, he
pressed on. "What is it you planned to wish for? If the eye of the Divine
Healing Dragon won't save your life, what makes you think--"
The fist that flew at his face was almost a blur, and it was only by reflex
that he managed to deflect the punch as the scholar lunged at him, a harsh
curse on his lips. Kanzas' forearm connected with the other man's and he pushed
it to one side, lunging forward and slamming his head against Syuveil's own
with a solid crack. He blinked
dizzily a few times, staring the red splotch on the floor as the sickly man
fell back, gasping. "That hurt, you bastard."
"I know. You bastard."
"Bastard. At least I'm not messing about with the Divine Tree." 'Waste of time, but I hope it works.' And as much as he hated to admit that to himself, he meant it. There were more splotches appearing on Syuveil's floor with every day that passed.
/She was alone beneath the storm-dark sky, alone but for the limp body of her prey sprawled out beneath her. She wore seaglass and finger bones knotted in her wild hair, and sand rasped at her pale, naked body as she leaned forward, languidly sinking a mouthful of sharp teeth into the belly of the dead man.
Shreds of raw flesh slid wetly down her throat and she laughed softly to herself, drunk on the taste of dying hopes and dreams, and the terror he'd felt as she'd ripped open his throat with her nails. The ebb and flow of the tide was in perfect time with the beat of her own heart, the water rushing over the two entwined bodies, carrying sand and blood out to sea with each lapping wave.
Thunder rumbled in her ears, and as the slippery human innards threatened to slide through her fingers, she looked up and laughed again. The sky was singing to her, her belly was full and though she'd been gone but a short time, the eerie, siren call rising from the rushing seawater was beckoning her home./
Damia's eyes flew open as a shudder wracked her entire body. It wasn't the sound of the sea in her ears now, but her own excited, horrified breathing, and the soft flow of the water cycling down from the posts of her bed to the floor. She rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest, mumbling a quiet prayer to herself. It was so dark and empty here in this room. For as long as she could remember, she'd hated the darkness. Not the dimness that cast a pall over everything in the wee hours of the morning, or the late evenings when nighttime had yet to begin. After midnight, real dark-- true dark, when she was left alone in her tower with only her dreams-- 'Nightmares—' to keep her company.
Sometimes, she would go visit Shirley, Rose or even Belzac late at night, only so she could 'accidentally' fall asleep in their rooms. If any of them ever figured it out, she knew the humiliation would be the end of her. 'I couldn't stand it.'
The half-breed shifted a little, pulling her pillow from beneath her head so that she could hug it tightly, wedging it between knee and chest. Her sleep had been untroubled these past months, despite the sudden, jarring change in her life after the Divine Water Dragon had sacrificed herself to Damia. Weak little Damia, 'demonspawn', forbidden-child--
Sometimes, she was on a beach, and the sands were warm, sun pounding down hot on her head. Others, she swam through the cold, frigid waters of the seas to the north, where her mother's people had come from. There was often killing, nameless, faceless people who meant little to her because they really didn't exist. The only thing her dreams had in common was that she was always happy in them. She was dangerous and powerful and she wore seaglass and bones in her hair…
Not even Kanzas wore bones around. Would he give her more respect if she did or just laugh at her and tell her she had no right to be wearing such things? 'It doesn't matter.'
"Then, just when the fish thinks it's safe, they stick their fingers underneath the gills and haul them out. Don't you think that would hurt, Damia?"/
'I think that I'm tired of thinking.' Uneasily, the girl began to tug at the sheets that had gotten tangled about her as she slept. They were gossamer thin creations of silk; she did surprisingly well in the cold and for some odd reason the waters in her tower never seemed to take on the chill of the pond, or the wells that provided a more convenient source of water for the city. So, she didn't really need the heavy furs or layers of clothing that the others were forced to wrap themselves in, but sometimes she thought about putting more blankets on the bed. It would look more normal that way.
Slipping back beneath the covers, she rolled to her opposite side, tucking the pillow back under her head. Through the open window she could see cloudless, ink-dark sky. It looked calm out there, but there would be a storm soon. Garnet-colored eyes-- 'like a Wingly's'—regarded the marble dome of Kanzas' tower. She could barely make out the deep purple color even with the aid of the torches flickering in brackets outside. It would happen in a week, Damia figured, maybe a few days earlier than that.
At least the storm was something to look forward to.
Yes, it's been a while, heh. If anyone remembers this fic at all, then I'll be damned.
I'm obviously differing a bit from what we know about Soa and the Divine Tree. It was mentioned in game that Miranda was named after a minor goddess of her country, so I decided to tinker with the Soa/Creation story. 11,000 years passed after the Dragon Campaign, so it's safe to say the religion did change quite a bit. That and I'm sure mortal-Miranda would be twitchy if she knew just how significant her name was. Mwah.
This is more of a 'what happened behind the scenes' type of story, though there will definitely be wartime happenings, provided I get off my backside and write faster than this… Sorry, Fifi!
Oh! I removed all mention of Kanzas being called the Black Monster before Rose, as I decided that, er, there wasn't any reason for it. La!
