A/N: Well, here we go again. I had intended to update sooner, but I got forcably reminded that there are only 24 hours in a day. So now that summer's started, I'm writing more. Now, I'm not sure about the build of tension and the conclusion in this chapter - for that matter, whether it makes sense at all. See, I write several chapters ahead at a time (WitchWolf: all explanations are covered in 7 or 8, so just hold onto that thought...) so by the time I get back to a chapter to post it, it's somewhat like reading someone else's. So tell me what's working, but more importantly, what's not. Onward!
To Aribeth, things happened too fast. One minute she was chanting, calling on every spell she could think of to try and heal the grave wound, the next the roar startled her out of her concentration, drawing her attention upward…and her breath had died on her lips at the sight of the attacking dragon.
Then a flash of brilliant yellow and scarlet filled her vision, a shrieking battle cry echoing above, countering the deep rumbles of the furious male. And then a male human was standing before her in gleaming crimson and brassy armor…the same color as the scales of his dragon…That made sense, now that she thought of it; an easy way to identify a rider when his dragon was not nearby, like a coat of arms.
She blinked, and realized her thoughts had been rambling. The male dragon rider gave a slight bow towards her, clear blue eyes never leaving hers. "My name is Wing-Commander Drake; I serve Juliana," his voice was low and melodious, calm and confident, "That," his eyes lifted to the figure of the black-bronze, who couldn't quite bring himself to harm the smaller female dragon, "is Virenyr, Juliana's dragon. And my Zirella seeks to keep him from destroying the rest of the city he fought so hard to save."
He shook his head to the elf paladin's confused expression, "There is no time for a full explanation. Suffice it to say that her pain is his as well, and that caused his mind to…temporarily shatter."
She felt her eyebrows arch upwards, "Temporarily shatter?" she couldn't help repeat the words.
Commander Drake's mouth twitched at her tone, almost to a smile. Then his gaze turned down to his Flight-Leader, and he shrugged, "If she recovers, he'll be too busy fussing over her to notice anyone else. But if she dies…" he shook his head, "gods all save us; they'll be the only ones who can."
Great. That was exactly what she needed to hear; she had been afraid that her magic hadn't been strong enough before he told her that. Now…her hands trembled as she laid them once again on either side of the wound – a tremor raced along the bronzed skin of the human female, and there was an answering roar from her dragon.
Aribeth removed her hands, breathing hard. She couldn't do this. Not without causing more pain…that seemed to be all she could do now; just destroy and kill.
"Let me help you."
Her eyes flew open at the male rider's words, already protesting; she did not ask for help!
He silenced her with a glance, "Please. Let me help. She…" he glanced down at her, and his eyes softened, "I will not stand here and watch her die," he whispered.
Her heart went out to him, and at last she nodded in acceptance. "Right," he took a deep breath and turned his attention to Aarin Gend and Lord Nasher, "If you two would please find some other way to help…." he suggested, already moving forward to a position just opposite of Aribeth.
The two exchanged a glance and a shrug, and stood, getting out of the way of the two healers. Drake ran his hand over Juliana's tanned skin, now pale with loss of blood, stroking and soothing as he got his thoughts in order. Aribeth was already chanting, eyes closed, hands pressing the edges of the wound together, trying to slow the flow of blood.
The Damalit closed his eyes, and reached up to tilt her head back, fumbling with her gold circlet…he pressed the top edges around the alexandrite, and peeled away the gold….he heard a soft gasp from one of the two onlookers at the sight of the perfect purple-blue gem embedded into her forehead, but he ignored it. This was no time to offer explanations.
Instead, he rubbed the cool stone, closing his eyes as he groped for her mind in the dark; he touched something, some faint, indistinguishable thought, and grabbed on, following it back into the deepest depths of her thoughts, the core of her being. The same alexandrite stone that bound her mind to her dragon's, when touched, allowed one Damalit to brush the mind of another. In normal circumstances, he would have had to ask her permission before coming into her mind, but these were hardly normal circumstances.
He hesitated a long moment at invading her mind, then shook his head and got down to work. He placed figurative chunks of ice on the places that hurt, convincing her that the worst of the pain was dying, gone; there was no better way to describe what he did. He told her that the pain was gone, and she believed him, convincing herself in turn that she could not feel a thing…
He smiled as he withdrew, leaving the blocks in place; she wouldn't react as strongly now to any prodding of the wound, perhaps allowing Virenyr to calm down a bit, and for them to work unhindered.
He turned his attention to the wound itself, and his hands joined Aribeth's around it, easing the edges together. He licked his lips and closed his eyes, "Stars, Sun, Moon, Sky, Winds, Sea, Earth; Humusare god of dragons; Maris goddess of humans; Reas god of war; Dana goddess of harvest; Xutil god of death; Quet'zal lord of all. Full Wing of my gods, hear my cry in this foreign world…"
He thought that perhaps it was a bit of a long shot; their gods were a plain away, and he was no cleric to boot, but it was worth a try. What else could he do?
He slitted open an eye and glanced down at the wound. It looked smaller, shallower. Certainly, less bloody. But how much good were they really doing? Drake winced, and glanced out to where Zirella and Virenyr still battled….It was very much a one-sided battle, he mused. If Virenyr would apply himself, he could knock Zirella out of the sky…but he couldn't. All he could think of was getting to Juliana's side, and maybe destroying part of the city; there was no room in his mind for battle-tactics, not even to counter Zirella's attacks.
He would try to muscle through the smaller brass-red, and she would stand her ground, nipping and swiping at him, never making contact while forcing him to think twice about continuing forward….She swooped and soared, driving him back over the true center of the city. But of course, the farther he got from Juliana, the harder he tried to break Zirella's defense. In less desperate times, they might have just been showcasing a fanciful aerial battle…but these were desperate times.
Drake turned his light blue gaze from the dragons back to the Flight-Leader, and reapplied himself to his prayers. While he was no cleric or paladin, he knew that the gods might just listen to him regardless… and at least this way, he didn't feel quite so useless, so…so helpless, forced to stand and watch this foreigner try to heal his Flight-Leader, his Juliana.
For a long time, what felt like hours, it seemed as though all his attempts were still in vain; the wound refused to stop bleeding, refused to heal. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, even Juliana couldn't recover from such an injury – her lung had indeed been hit, and now blood was accumulating in the porous tissue…soon, he knew she would start to drown in it.
And despite the block he'd placed on Juliana's mind, Virenyr knew the end was close, too.
He paused in his frantic battle, then his eyes – before clouded with rage and battle-light – cleared, and he sighed, directing his question to Zirella, "May I…? I want to be at her side. I promise I'll be good."
She hesitated, not trusting his sudden change, then nodded, "If you can find a place to fit on the roof."
He angled his wings, sliding around her, and flared above the battlements, fanning the air with his wings, hind legs questing downward, seeking a stable landing site. Lord Nasher and Aarin Gend got out of his way as the huge black-bronze settled, tail tucked tight around both sets of legs, the picture of dragon elegance…if the saddle perched above his shoulder and wings was not askew and blood-stained to boot, that is.
Equally comfortable walking forward on four legs or on two, he chose to rear onto his haunches and shuffle forward several steps, close to Juliana. He leaned his long neck down, peering over Drake's shoulder, then nudged his Damalit with the tip of his nose, a decided whimper beginning in the back of his throat. From his position looking up, Drake could just see the flat alexandrite stone embedded into to the flat part of his muzzle, just in front of his eyes…the second half of the same stone that was in Juliana's forehead.
"Drake…" Virenyr's true voice, heard rarely by another human, was a soft rumble, choked with emotion. "Drake…enough. Let me take her…take her home. So that we may die beneath our own sky."
"No," his response was instantaneous and venomous.
Virenyr's head was not that of a black dragon, but of a bronze; he did not have the natural ferocity and savagery of a black dragon. And yet now his eyes were hard, so much like the gemstone in his muzzle, decided, "Yes, Drake. It's over. Xutil walks too close; can't you feel him? I never expected it to end like this….but it has. At least let her die – let me die – under our own sky. One last glorious flight; a fitting end."
Drake looked up, then down at the wound…still bleeding, leeching all the color from her skin. In this, Virenyr was right; Death stalked forward, eager to claim another Damalit this day…He sank back on his haunches, ignoring Aribeth's protests, considering this.
After a long, long moment, he flung his head to one side, scrubbing the back of one hand across his eyes. He took a deep breath, and nodded to himself, "Virenyr…let me try one more thing. And if it doesn't….help, then….then fly with grace."
"And you as well, Wing-Commander," Juliana's dragon rumbled, the tradition response to the old farewell.
Drake nodded, only a portion of his attention still at this place. He had glanced over to where Zirella had landed some distance away, just across the small half-courtyard of the front entryway. "Zirella, what would you say if…?"
"Drake I can read your thoughts!" she barked, head swinging to face him. "And I would have already protested if I disagreed."
"…Are you sure? I mean…"
"Drake…I know how you feel. And I feel the same. Let's do this."
He closed his eyes, nodding. "Then…then so mote it be." He looked down, and stilled Aribeth's soothing hands, shaking his head, "No. Please…turn her over and support her back; put some gentle pressure on the wound. There's something…" his throat caught, and he dismissed all further attempts at explanation.
Aribeth's brow furled in pure puzzlement, but she did as he ordered, gently turning the Flight-Leader over, one arm on either side of the wound to support her back. A folded cloth was pressed up to the wound, but Drake knew more than anyone that it wouldn't last. He knelt at her side, his eyes drinking their fill of her, one callused hand absently stroking hers.
After only a moment, he leaned forward and brushed his thumb across her alexandrite, then lowered his head, letting his own square-cut emerald make contact with the clear purple-blue stone. He did not know for sure if this action allowed them to communicate mind to mind, or if it was just an ancient gesture, but he lingered over her, pressing all his emotion towards her into her mind – if she could hear it, all well and good. If not, then there was nothing lost and nothing gained.
At last he straightened, then stood, stepping over Juliana's feet to stand before an open part of the roof. He took a moment to come to slow attention: shoulders back, right hand clasping left wrist behind his back, chin up, feet spread wide apart to grant him balance. And then he spoke clearly into the thin air, "Xutil, Lord of Death, I know you are here. I wish to bargain with you."
There was a swirl of black sparks, and then the god of death himself stood before the male Damalit. Despite his conviction, Drake almost took a step backwards; Xutil was almost seven feet tall, clad in ebony-black armor, complete with sweeping spikes on all the joints, from those of the plated gauntlets to shoulders to spikes on the greaves and boots.
The Lord of Death turned his helmeted head, face but a sweeping black mask surmounted by a crown of black spikes, dark pits for eyes glowering out from the full helm. A hissing laugh echoed out of the helm, "It has been many, many long years since someone attempted to bargain with me. Very well, Damalit; what will you offer?"
Drake took a deep breath and stepped forward, conviction blazing in his eyes, "You want a life – namely, hers," he gestured back to Juliana, "But one life is as good as another, isn't it? Take mine."
Whatever the god was expecting to hear, that wasn't it. It seemed as though he raised an eyebrow, digesting this statement. He glanced over to Zirella, and was perhaps comforted by the agreement found in her eyes. Xutil turned back to Drake, "And why should I?"
"Because she is young and does not deserve to die like this. Because she is the Flight-Leader with no chosen successor. Because she is far from her homeland and must not die beneath a foreign sky. Because she would not fight you as she would want." And he would; they both knew that. Juliana would want fight death itself every step of the way, even when it was inevitable.
"That is well and good," Xutil conceded, "But why should you take her place? The same statements can be applied to you just as easily as to her. You have a long life ahead of you, if you back down now. Perhaps her life has run its full course."
"No," he denied it without even being sure why. "I offered you a fair trade, Xutil; my life for hers. Take it or leave it."
For a long moment, the black god was silent, weighing the offer. "Your offer was not prompted by simple camaraderie, was it?" Drake winced as the god's words pounded through his skull, but refused to answer, his eyes narrowing, arms folded over his chest, the picture of a stubborn Damalit. But it was impossible to keep anything from a god. "No, of course it wasn't. I am god of many things, Drake of Flight Askew, and that is one of them."
Aloud, Xutil continued, "I admire courage; there is little enough of it in the worlds without taking those it manifests in. So mote it be." He waved an arm over both Drake and Juliana, "You have your bargain, Drake of Juliana's Flight Askew: Let the Flight-Leader be healed by my command.
"And as for you…I shall let you live…for a time. But your life is in my hand – I may claim you tomorrow or fifty years from now. Our business is concluded." The armored god nodded, and with a swirl of magic, was gone.