Part One - Epicenter
Destane hummed as he sat up in his bed, letting each waking breath of air
un-fog his mind from sleep. He pulled the sheets from him, a strange
cheerful bounce alit- ting his step, and pulled back the curtain on his
balcony, gazing out at his city.
A dismal gray blanket embraces the sky.
Loose boards creak in the wind,
omens of a coming storm keeping time to a steady beat.
Clouds are brimmed with rain,
waiting for just the right moment to burst.
It's all so strangely placid, Destane muses.
The world appears to suspend its movement,
and the air exudes such a stark stillness.
Preceding thunder and lightning,
when the sky is torn by angry white streaks,
and a distant rumbling erupts in the silence.
It's the calm before the storm.
All in the Land of the Black Sand.
He looked back to see and an empty indention in his bed.
"So the little kitten roams."
He stretched leisurely, going about his morning business as being the Lord
Of the Land dictated.
"Sir," a faithful female page said quietly, gesturing him to the side,
taking him from a diplomatic conference with local, peace-mongering rulers.
She seemed worried, Destane noticed, afraid of his reaction to whatever she
had to say.
She bowed, then started wringing her hands,
"Um, sir, he didn't show up to breakfast at all, and. well…"
He held up his hand, giving her a surprisingly gentle smile,
"Its fine.'
And he turned around without a second glance whatsoever.
His intuitions lead him to one of the unused storage rooms, white washes
room flooded with light, quite different from the other entirety of the
Citadel, and there, perched and immersed in a sea of white, was his
apprentice.
He was orchestrating.
Or, at least that what it looked like.
His brow was furrowed in concentration and tiny beads of sweat dotted his
forehead, never once sliding into his eyes, closed, as vision wasn't
necessary. His arms were extended in a peculiar fashion, clenching and
unclenching, and too the untrained eye, it would look like he was doing it
just for the hell of it.
But Destane could see the tell tale shakings and quaking of the stone
beneath, the peculiar way the air seemed to shiver and shake.
Mozenrath's fists suddenly erupted blue and the caustic effects were
immediate, the sound barriers of the room being torn with a harsh crash as
the stones were flung to the ceiling, floorboard ripped up, everything
exploding upon combustion's stage.
"My My, aren't we destructive?" Destane said with his customary smile,
clapping as he approached his student, who gave him only the obligated
flicker of attention before turning his back to go and inspect his work.
Destane had known Mozenrath had not gone out into the city.
They did not want him there,
And proved that,
Actively.
He knew it was fruitless in trying to push any of Mozenrath's carefully
concealed buttons as the full extension of his time at the Citadel, his full
healing and recovery of Destane had required his hard be emblazoned in
stone, his countenance stoic, everything business, everything nonchalant.
"Well little kitten, how long have we been in here training?"
He got no answer from the dark fondling of a prince, who was fingering the
edges of the upheaval stone, registering the singeing and quantity of.
Destane oscillated his power briefly in what, in the old days, would choke
and disable his kitten, only proved to get his attention.
Mozenrath turned, dark eyes empty, shrouded.
"Since dawn master".
Brief.
Business.
He rose, turning to leave, now that his private training had been disturbed,
knowing he could not concentrate fully with his master hovering with that
queer smile of his, always knowing he'd have to bend to Destane's tiresome
will when called upon to, because, as although his power as grown more
rapidly than the Lord Of The Black Sands could even predict, he still didn't
have the means to rebel, which he planned to do, resulting in Destane's,
preferably slow, death.
A twisted smile made its way onto his face, the corrupt mockery of
enjoyment.
He turned as a hand placed itself on its shoulder, and let himself be looked
over to Destane's extent.
His sunken in eyes and wispy, shell of an appearance bore too many weights
for his age, Destane make a note of, but he still burned with a cold flame
of determination.
Destane chuckled, knowing suddenly Mozenrath's intentions other than
completion of his training.
" Come, I believe we have kept our guests waiting long enough, don't you?"
Mozenrath silently lifted an eyebrow in response, and Destane explained.
"We are hosting a delegation of ambassadors and sovereigns who wish to make
peace with our humble little kingdom."
Mozenrath shoved his hands in his pockets, issuing a dry, scoffing laugh.
" So your casual takeovers have got them scared I suppose, I guess they
don't take kindly to your hobbies master."
Destane laughed, amused at Mozenrath, clapping a hand to his shoulder.
Mozenrath winced at the contact, inwardly reviled by the maniac, staying
hunched to ghost his expression by the shadow of his bangs.
"It would see so little kitten. How do you suppose we should entertain our
guests?"
Mozenrath brushed off Destane's insincere tone instinctively, preferring to
be more serious by nature, at least in this case.
" Well, since their not fooling anyone by their desperate search for
security and perhaps financial gain…that's more up to you." He said,
suddenly dismissive.
Destane nodded, oddly complacent as he shook hands warmly with the delegates
who were waiting in the parlor, being served by servants and staff Mozenrath
glared pure death at as he stayed a couple steps behind Destane, looking
around bored as he felt eyes upon him.
Their visitors were confused.
Was this smiling man the ruthless tyrant and mogul of the land?
They sat down nervously, taking the offered tea with stiff nods.
"Now," Destane said in a disturbingly casual manner," What is it that I can
do for you gentlemen?"
Mozenrath inwardly knew the cat-cream look Destane gave the "gentlemen" was
an act, like the luring, careless dance of the cobra before it strikes, he
set his tea aside just as stiffly, not trusting, too uneasy at the oddity of
being allowed in this meeting of rulers of the dessert, of ruler, to be more
exact.
For their "visitors" to be here now was defying the natural order of
Destane's conquer and own strategy, lucky enough that he hadn't gotten to
their domain yet, and just luck.
But this growing act of a victimless crime could prove entertaining yet,
Mozenrath having grown a taste for Destane's sadistic humor in habit.
A otherwise imposing little man of darkened skin, obviously native to
Northern, drier desserts, cleared his throat, pomp and rubies bobbing on his
fat little head as he addressed Destane.
" We have come from our respective nations, collaborating in our cause, to
request…a treaty of some degree. We couldn't help but notice your expanding
empire and think it best for all our interests to combine forces and
resources and perhaps become quite a formidable..force, " he laughed
nervously, "one might say."
While Mozenrath was trying, quite valiantly one supposes, to keep his eyes
open or in sincere postures, Destane was listening with rapt attention,
almost overdone in its expression, chin resting on tented fingers.
The gesture itself halted any forward momentum, and the man fell still
miserably adrift in a sea of his own sweat.
"Wow," Destane breathed ridiculously, making Mozenrath forget any hope of
keeping a straight face, " and think of all the ways I could benefit from
such a generous offer…"
Mozenrath let his sadistic streak take over as he watched the men squirm,
knowing something was amiss with the sincerity off the statement of "awe".
Another delegate gallantly tried to gain safe ground once more, freckled
bald patch perspiring as he stuttered out,
"We, of course, will be quite liberal with our funds and stocks,"
"Our city's wealth is your oyster!" another one piqued desperately as the
patronizing smile on Destane grew, teal, watery eyes darting.
"Well, gentlemen, since I have the faint inkling bribery is on my menu," he
held up his hand to stop any quick and rushed protests, "I'd like to show
you how much I need money and riches. Mozenrath?"
Mozenrath turned surprised, at his addressing and name, and looked
questioningly at his master.
Destane was coaxing, ignoring his guests looks of confusion.
"Go on Mozenrath."
Then Mozenrath's lips curled as he realized what Destane wanted, a cheap
trick perhaps, but wowing to the ignorant none the less.
He extended his palm and soaked up the visiting ruler's astonishment as cold
coins materialized, forming like a fountain from his hand.
"Witchcraft!" the teal-eyed man shouted in alarm, rising quickly, a bone
china saucer clattering to the marble floor with an unpleasant crash.
Destane ignored him, rising himself,
"Well if that's it…"
'Wait!"
"Mozenrath, could I have a word, a favor perhaps?"
Destane turned and led Mozenrath with him, his apprentice not being able to
resist one more antagonizing scatter of coins at the trio. When they were
quite out of the earshot of his guests, Destane turned to him, indifferent
once more.
"Escort them out will you little kitten?"
Mozenrath's brow was worried with incomprehension.
"But, their idiots, you mean your going to…"
"Mozenrath, fools come to fools ends, right in their dens of security."
Still not satisfied, Mozenrath was stopped from speaking again but Destane's
"Hush".
Mozenrath grumbled not so under his breath as he came back in, gesturing
with an over exaggerated flourish to the way to the door.
"Gentlemen, if you'll follow me to the door, I'm sure we can manage a safe
trip and back to your homes, to await Destane's decision."
He suddenly inwardly smirked, envisioning what Destane must have; a big
hell's fury sort of decision.
Mozenrath dropped his polite act when the ruler trio's caravans and
processions were quite ready to leave, and turned back listlessly into the
doors when he heard a snippet of a remark, not meant for his ears but there
none the same.
"…the kid."
Curiosity, pride, whatever it was, was stimulated, and Mozenrath decided
then he needed to hear the rest of that conversation.
Swirling his cloak about him, he ripped a nice clean path through the Abyss
to reappear at a street corner, now in earshot of the passing convoy.
'Quite unorthodox, if you ask me."
"A disgrace, a bed warmer in affairs way above his business. A kid really.."
"A shame, a shame I know it."
"Barely alive he was too."
"He'll come to his, following Destane around like some lost pup…"
There was a scattering of laughter among royalty and help alike, relieved by
the escape from the Land and fear.
Mozenrath's blood sang,
And he was out for some as well.
He stormed after them, no longer caring if he was seen, in full sight on a
rampage to confrontation and then…
He landed on his knees and the caravan ahead of him turned, looking in
bewilderment, though Mozenrath was far more surprised as his vision cleared,
the momentary buzz dissolving.
The barrier!
He looked back and it hit him, he had passed through it!
He rose himself up, and ran a shaking hand through his hair, gaping at the
City looming so wonderfully far away, then pulled it back as something warm
and sticky trickled down his face.
He brought back his hand,
Blood.
Something oddly gelatinous slithered down his arm and onto the sand.
The enchantment.
He was free!
But, how?
He was silent for quite a while, walking away on instinct, having to turn
back and look back at the city several times, as the enormity of the
situation crashed over him in waves as he struggled to stay afloat.
So many emotions.
Disbelief.
Relief.
Victory.
Mental Exhaustion.
Joy.
Yes, there it was, shuddering and fluttering like the old bird it was, joy.
He was free. He laughed in his nerves, at the anti-climatic turnout,
at…everything.
He sat down and had to wipe his eyes, which had started to tear of their own
accord, breakers of darkness rolling away in the process, dying with the
city's visibility as he sat sprawled atop a dune, four miles or so away from
the city, its black outline glittering in the distance.
He looked up at the stars for a moment and was thrown back by the force of
his own mental slap.
Destane! He had to have found out by now! Idiot, idiot, idiot. He swirled
his cloak about him, employing his learned skill of teleportation to get him
away from the shadowed city, but due to his lack of focus and overabundance
of emotions, he found himself landing butt first in a patch of scraggly,
unfamiliar grass in the middle of a scraggly, unfamiliar oasis.
He looked to each horizon for the dead city, but saw it not and was relieved
as the tidal wave of emotion rolled off him gradually as he sat, leaving
one, unfamiliar, rubbed out name etched in the sand.
Ahhmal!
His posture jerked as he looked to the sky.
Could he truly?
Was it really…?
But he had to try, he got up quickly, trying desperately to calm his
fluttering heartbeat, knowing only a fool could kill himself in that manner.
But Allah, he felt like a fool, euphorically, yet cautiously, riding on a
growing gust of disbelieving elation.
He put on an extra burst of energy; throwing everything he had into tearing
open a manna portal to Morbia, stepping through it with the first honest
smile he had in a while.
Destane's influence was dying quickly.
He blinked in the sudden brightness of the sun he stepped into, squinting as
he felt the familiar feel of the sun's rule wash over him like a chaste
embrace.
He looked up, standing almost awkwardly on the dune he had appeared on,
gazing up into his mother's palace in the distance, the ruby eyes of the
sphinx that guarded it winking in the sun, and let his hand caress the warm
white stone of the outside wall.
He was almost startled as it melted to his touch, unused to the natural
privileges his genetics let him do.
He didn't even look back to see the stone meld back together behind him,
drinking in the sight of that old tree from ago, stepping up quickly to
trail his hand over the smooth bark, wondering why his recollections felt so
distant.
He gathered himself together, passing the pub with a quick glance, and dove
straight into the city, looking for one thing, one person.
Ahhmal.
It was all he could to do not to shout his jubilation, letting the
excitement build, the days and weeks of emotional training dropping
carelessly.
It was all over now.
He had escaped.
He was free.
All notions of time apart, all doubts, uncertainty's, moments of
faithlessness pooled to the ground as his head filled with thoughts and
plans.
They'd leave this city.
Oh, he'd give him everything he had.
He couldn't wait to see his face.
After they picked up where they left off, oh, everything would be perfect.
He'd make up for all of his wavering convictions; he'd make it perfect.
The spring in his step increased as he neared the area, flooding back to him
like he never left, where Ahhmal lived, ignoring the increased indifference
of passerby's.
He turned a corner.
And gasped.
He forgot how to breathe, the grief, the despair, the death of his soul
trampling back in victory to clench his throat, wrench his eyes wide open as
he stared at his boyfriend, his Ahhmal, feeling very small and very much
willing to die as a recognizable black clothed beauty by the name of Shasta
wrenching her lips from a kiss, a kiss shared by the same Ahhmal who looked
at him as if he were a ghost.
He couldn't breathe.
"Ahhmal?"
"Mozenrath?"
Shasta muttered a quick curse, looking away, burying her head in Ahhmal's
chest.
"Dear Allah, Mozenrath is that you?"
Just that statement was enough to make Mozenrath's legs give way.
Ahhmal pulled his way from the girl hanging on him, to rush to Mozenrath
immediately, a voice in Mozenrath's head that sounded suspiciously like
Destane, whispered nastily that it was more out of obligation.
He yanked away from Ahhmal's touch with a keening cry of protest.
'But Mozenrath."
Mozenrath managed to find his voice; a sound so distorted by the wish to die
it was more than strangled.
"Just, stay away from me, you….her."
Ahhmal's countenance quickly changed from disbelief and wild intrigue, to
annoyance.
"Oh C'mon Mozenrath, what do you expect? Four years Mozenrath, and I-"
FOUR YEARS????????????
Mozenrath's vision blackened.
It couldn't be.
He whispered to himself and the sand desperately, "It can't have been that
long…it cant."
"Well I guess time just flies when your having fun don't it?" Ahhmal said
harshly, the bitterness of his tears staining his nature.
Mozenrath didn't answer.
It was wrong.
So wrong.
Ahhmal suddenly knelt down next to him, grabbing him by the shoulders, his
voice loud and cracking with pleading grief.
"Listen Mozenrath, you don't understand what it was like, I didn't know
when…I didn't know where.'
No.
Mirage was supposed to tell, it was meant to be a clean break, and you were
meant to understand. You were meant to wait.
"No." Mozenrath said in a voice hushed by a leaden desolation.
The excuses kept coming; his hands went over his ears.
It was all wrong.
All wrong.
"Mozenrath please, just listen to me!!"
"No!!!" he jerked himself from Ahhmal's trapping hold and turned away,
running, a mantra of disbelief, of betrayal.
His lungs felt on fire as he ran, running on the adrenaline of pain, vision
of the sanded street before him constantly blurring.
No.
He threw himself back against a wall, sliding down to the floor, letting
racking, dry sobs crash off his chest.
"Oh no little kitten, this isn't how it was supposed to go at all?" an
amused voice said from above, thick with poisoned syrup.
He looked up into Destane's Cheshire face, which loomed above him, hands
casually tucked in his back pockets. Ignoring the madness of his pupil's
repeated "No"'s and his lack of reaction, he answered an unasked question.
"You really can't expect to get very far when you run away. I knew exactly
where you were going. Your transparent little kitten." he admonished gently,
tssking as Mozenrath wrenched his hair, his denials of the situation in his
grief getting louder, more painful for the speaker and listener as they were
mixed with asphyxiated sobs tearing out of him.
"Mozenrath! Wait!"
Destane turned to see Ahhmal running up, Shasta jogging up behind him.
He turned back, a knowing smirk on his face, pulling the crumpled young
man's chin up, though Mozenrath's gaze flashed only for a moment at Ahhmal
in recognition, before his hands flew to cover his ears, squeezing his eyes
shut against the barrage of what Ahhmal had to say.
"Mozenrath, who is this-"
"Ahhmal, lets go…"
"Shasta, quiet. Who are you?'
Destane ignored them too, kneeling so he could trace his thumb in the tears
on Mozenrath's cheek, sizzling with white-hot sadness beyond sadness, and
traced an intricate pattern, trailing in stray dirty and dust as his symbol
was marking Mozenrath's skin.
"What are you doing? Mozenrath, is this the guy you've been with all this
time?"
"No!" Mozenrath cried out, knowing it was over, hands tangled in his own
hair, head bent upon his knee.
"See little kitten? Now you're officially the prince of my land, aren't you
proud? Oh, but your not really a prince are you? Your mother forgot you
exist, and it seems your little playmate forgot as well."
He bent down so Mozenrath could be sure to hear him.
"Its kind of sad you know…"
"Mozenrath, please talk to me!"
"Your not a prince, not a sorcerer.."
"Don't do this Mozenrath, please!"
"Not a lover, not a boyfriend…"
"Look, we can talk, ok?"
"Not a son…"
"Shasta, just... Just go away…"
Mozenrath felt a pressure building, it was ready, the damns were
breaking…Allah let me die…
The world went silent as Destane finished with a smiling whisper.
"Why, your nothing but a glorified whore aren't you?"
"NO!!!!!!!!"
The world went white, sound stopped, and a barrier of light crashed about
them all as Mozenrath felt something break.
He woke up on his back, staring at the sky, crystal clear once more.
He lay there for a measurement he didn't care enough to take, watching the
clouds, feeling a faint humming fade from his ears, even though it seemed
the air was doing it.
He felt odd, queer in a manner waking up couldn't shake, but the sensation
was vanishing even before he heard his name being called.
He sat up slowly; feeling like he could float away at any second, and very,
oh so very, empty, a draft buried deep inside his bones.
Mirage stood there, staring down at him with a mixture of emotions that he
couldn't interpret at the moment.
"Mother, why didn't you tell him, why?" he asked simply, the first babbling
question to come to mouth.
"It doesn't matter now"
The tone of her voice was closed, end of story cold.
"What do you mean?"
"Look around Mozenrath"
He turned and actually took notice of his surroundings and screamed.
Dead.
All of them.
Charred and scarred with singes and burns, the bodies of Destane, Shasta
stared up lifelessly from their glossed eyes, frozen in the horror of their
death.
Then Mozenrath caught sight of Ahhmal.
He gasped and ran to his side, Ahhmal's soot ridden hair scattered in his
face, hiding his dying expression if only for a fracture.
Mozenrath didn't know when he started crying; perhaps when he had shaken
Ahhmal's body for what seemed like forever and had gotten no response, maybe
it was when he had felt the cold bloodstains on that lifeless skin, but it
was most likely when he had realized he had killed his boyfriend, his
ex-boyfriend, his life, his death, his Ahhmal.
Someone pulled him away business like from clutching the body to his chest,
and he looked up with sodden eyes and realized his sin didn't stop there.
Death, sudden and swift had stolen the City of Morbia.
The corpses of the towns people, men, women, children, lay in a wide expanse
for as far as the eye could see. Feet stuck out from doorways, men lay
slumped in their windows, a now unattended ball rolled eerily as its owner
sizzled.
"Congratulations".
He looked up into Mirage's serious countenance.
"You're a sorcerer."
He now knew what he had seen in her face, such deceased and arctic pity, so
defeated.
"Give me your hand Mozenrath"
But she took it when it wasn't offered quick enough and took his palm in a
firm grip.
He didn't care.
The ground still held his stare.
He winced though, when he felt her claw's split his palm's flesh.
Something of soft, warm leather was slipped onto his hand.
"Here, this will help you control your output."
He let the hand fall back into his lap limply, looking numbly down at a
rich, dark brown gauntlet, and flinched as he felt invisible teeth inside
the thing latch onto his bleeding wound, sucking from it, pulsating.
He looked back up at her, and she inwardly recoiled.
She yanked him up and clutched him to her.
She knew know she had failed him.
She let her hands wander up to his hair; feeling the disfiguring scars
underneath his curls, his quaking weeping shook her. He had grown and was no
longer her boy of 16, but a gentleman of 20, scarred so deeply he could
never be revived, and she knew.
She knew she had failed and she had lost something, something that was away
from her before she acknowledged it now.
She felt the wells of her grief tighten, wanting to break but refusing too.
She bled, however, on the inside at the knowledge that her son was no longer
the catling prince of Morbia, no longer immortal.
He was a man.
Just a man.
A rustling from the sunders and sand got Mozenrath's attention momentarily,
and something a pickled gray slide out, an eel like thing, if that. It was
ravaged by disfiguration, muttering and flopping on the ground, hovering
when it could manage.
"What is it?" Mozenrath asked quietly.
Mirage looked at the thing thoughtfully, which had hobbled and slopped its
way too Mozenrath's side, promptly passing out.
"It's the barrier that kept you from releasing your true potential
Mozenrath, at least, in a figurative, but when your power broke free, it was
forced to become manifest in a physical sense. Its you Mozenrath, at least
in a sense."
Mozenrath had seen its baleful looks and realized how much hatred he bore
for himself to have him pictured in this way. He picked the thing up,
setting it in his lap, feeling rather than seeing his mother's gaze.
She died with her son as she recognized something.
He was condemned.
Doomed to live a damned life, an offense to be alive.
Damned from the beginning.
Dean