A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) / Chapter originally written on 05.21.2005. Re-polished on 01.12.2006 for the arowrites dot net archives.

Review-replies can be found now on arowrites dot net.

Formatting repaired on 04.13.2010 -- thanks, ffnet, for eating all my scene-dividers sometime in the last four years!

05.02.2010: All scene-dividers have been eaten, again, on all of my stories. I give up. Please just go read this story on arowrites dot net where it hasn't been made incoherent; I am unable to keep up with this site's stupidity.

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Requiem for the Dream
( entry 11: death's white rose )

The ship chosen for the illegal fishing trip was small and borderline rickety. James frowned slightly at the spots of rust, most larger than his spread fingers, as he filed across the gangplank and onto the deck. His fellow soldiers were mostly already aboard, and the few who had come after him followed quietly, talking back and forth in a hushed tone about the newest gossip.

Namely, fourth Admiral Wren. James' inky black eyebrows drew downwards a moment, the slight frown growing another fraction. Admiral Wren, the older brother of Ben, the one who had betrayed his trusting little brother--not once, but twice--without batting an eyelash. He'd abandoned the kid without a word, then executed him, and the power-hungry glint in those cold eyes had not been feigned.

Naturally, to seek power was fine by his book, but something about the blond man just... made his skin crawl. So quick to betray, so lax with thievery, and so loose with his sword--killing more random people than actual criminals. It was incredibly... sloppy. Disgusting, really.

/ I will trust that you know what you're doing, Lord Galcian. But... / he felt helpless, standing by while a poisonous snake slithered up his Lord's arm, forced to believe that his Lord knew better than to get bitten... but worried all the same. Galcian was the strongest man in all of Arcadia, without a doubt, but lately... he'd been rather strange, as well. The Lord was discontent, restless, and it was only punctuated by Ramirez's carefully-denied, but growing, doubts about his own choices to serve and support the former Grand Admiral.

And now there was Wren added into the mix, like a thick poison stirred into rotten stew.

/ Jones will keep an eye on things, she is nothing if not loyal. /

Of course, having to consciously place his trust in the caustic doctor that had clashed with him from the beginning was grating, but, it was also true. Jones would help his Lord if she helped anyone, that much was certain. The Badger Admiral desired power... but not to rule Arcadia.

Ramirez had carefully baited her over the years, hoping to find the slightest trace of will to betray, the smallest excuse to cut her smirking head from her body, and had been sorely disappointed. No, ruling the world would involve dealing with too many live people, apparently, and the coroner had little use for those with a pulse who were not strapped onto her operating table, a glinting scalpel in her hand.

/ She can have Wren, as far as I care. /

The boat, meanwhile, had loaded up and cast off, and part of a net was pushed into his hands.

Fishing was mostly a matter of looping a net from the craft, and the helmsman maneuvered so that the net caught schools of fish. Then the rope web had to be hauled in, ideally without the haulers being bitten, and weighed down onto the deck long enough for the creatures to either suffocate themselves (if there were enough of them), or a spell to be cast. The spell involved was simple and low-powered, and a mere human child could cast it.

Oddly enough, it was a water-based spell... as if fish had a single thing to do with liquid.

Ramirez heaved on the net when the others heaved, let it loose when the others let it loose, and pretty much ignored the physical world as he brooded. That is, until his boot slipped enough to bring his attention back out, and he looked down to find his heel grinding into an unfolded bit of parchment.

Automatically, he stooped and plucked the smeared message from the ship decking, taking note that the un-stamped seal had been sliced in two. At least he hadn't stomped on an unopened letter and broken the seal himself, an invasion of privacy he considered distasteful under any circumstances--accident or not.

But here it was already opened and unfolded in his hand, and no one seemed to be looking for it... Ramirez couldn't help but read it. Maybe a scan of the first line would tell him who it belonged to, at the least, but that idea was dashed with a glance at the heading.

Sir,

And nothing else, it could be anyone. So he read onward, and jade green eyes narrowed over what the smeared, scarce words seemed to imply...

Things progress well. I was nearly caught by the Admiral during her inspection, but managed to keep you from her attention.

I remain your faithful vassal.

The Admiral mentioned was clearly Jones, the only female out of the three... no, four (if one counted Wren's promotion) to hold such a rank. What was it that the author and recipient of this letter had hidden from her? Why keep the addressed "Sir" from her attention?

It smacked of trouble, and Ramirez tucked the refolded letter away in his jacket, watching those around him for signs of them missing it. No one had even noticed that he'd stopped working with the net, apparently. Those who weren't hauling fish on board were gathered just outside the cabin, and a small crate of loqua was the center of -their- attention.

Something near a dozen people were on this tiny ship, and it only took half that to man-handle the nets. It seemed that turns were being taken, so his stopping wasn't a big deal at all.

"Hey, James, ya just gonna -stare-, or are ya gonna come -have- some?" came the call from a more-than-slightly drunk recruit.

The Silvite approached thoughtfully, as his mind churned over the find. It wasn't until several moments later that he realized the group was staring at him expectantly, and he had come to a stop by the crate.

"Well?"

"I don't drink." he said, curtly, and sat down beside it as though that had been his intention all along. Here he thought more, and as he watched the loqua pass from soldier to soldier, he grew less suspicious. No, whoever it was had probably just been keeping the mine's lack of proper inter-military enforcement away from Jones so that she wouldn't -shoot- them. It was unlikely to be anything more sinister than that.

After all, the Admirals of Lord Galcian were a feared group, with reason and no matter the reign.

Thus convinced, Ramirez allowed his head to rest back against the railing behind him, and idly watched the lives play out before him.

It was a small room, but with adequate ventilation and lighting for its purpose. The floor and walls were tiled, white and as sterile as the long, waist-high table that centered the chamber. Tiles continued past the draining grate that ringed the entire base of the fixture, on up to where the brushed steel top rounded over them.

On top of this table, which gleamed dully even in the too-bright lighting, brackets were mounted. To each pair there was a single, wide leather strap on one, and a rolling buckle to accommodate said strap on the other. Everything in this room was monochrome, from the bright white tiles to the brushed steel and bleached leather, and lit as brightly as though the sun hovered in the ceiling itself.

The single door was opened now, and into this room and between two guards was drug one man. Two more guards followed behind the first, and a young boy in white, pushing a steel cart, was the end of the procession. The captured man reeked of loqua, was filthy to boot, and he screamed and begged and pleaded as he was forced onto the table by the four uniformed guards. Meanwhile, the boy... perhaps twelve or thirteen, pushed the cart into its place and locked its wheels, bent, and pulled a small stepladder from the bottom shelf of the cart.

This was unfolded on the tile floor by the table as the guards secured the straps, one over the forehead, one on each wrist, one at the hips, and one for each ankle. At a nod from the boy, they all left with out a word, and the door closed ominously behind them. The man, now silent, blinked tear-filled eyes at the too-bright lights, forced to look only up, as the child produced a pair of scissors from his cart and climbed the short stepladder.

Cold metal against skin is what made the drunkard jump, and his eyes move to stare at the boy.

He was a pale, perfect little creature with long platinum blond hair and beautiful blue eyes, and he licked his reddened, moist lips as he carefully... reverently?... worked at cutting the prisoner's clothing off. The man himself was fat and oily, filthy... and lustful. As the child worked, he forgot his location, blood swelling steadily as small, skillful hands stripped him bare, exposed to the harsh light and cold steel. Small fingers lingered near places that when brushed... produced a choked, harsh groan from the occupant of the table, hips straining against their leather strap.

And then the boy stepped down from his ladder.

Bloodshot brown eyes strained to watch as the child went to his cart, and bent over... slowly... to retrieve a basin from the bottom. The man's pulse hammered, and his breath came out in labored pants, as the boy straightened carefully with a deliberately pained-sounding sigh. He returned and climbed the two-step ladder, dipping a sponge in the cold water, wordlessly beginning to clean the prisoner as his long white hair worked its way forward over his shoulders to brush against damp skin.

Once this was complete and the basin was returned again to its cart, the child yet again climbed his stepladder. Only this time, now that the man was more than half-blind with animal lust, the boy made eye contact from beneath pale lids and long eyelashes, and smiled radiantly. He bent slowly, ever so slowly, his lips parting carefully and hot breath washing over that straining, throbbing...

A swirl of the tongue, a widening of the jaw, the boy's head began to slide upwards and downwards with agonizing slowness, his throat constricting in a steady rhythm to create suction. The man below him screamed, cried, begged, thrashed in his bonds... tighter and tighter, closer and clos--

The door opened as the hot mouth released him, trailing saliva, and a form nearly as monochrome as the room stepped in. The prisoner didn't notice, too busy pleading with the small angel to let him finish, too blind with lust, as the boy in question bowed to the Admiral and wordlessly took his stepladder away from the table.

In fact, the man didn't notice anything except his own straining need until the razor-sharp scalpel penetrated its base, and slit up to the tip.

-That- got his full attention, and a different kind of scream. Megan Jones retained said attention until, hours later, the body ceased to breathe at all. Scarlet blood oozed down the sides of the table and straight down the drain, contrasting with the white tiles in the too-bright room.

The extra basins from the cart now contained a complete human skin, and the small and large intestines respectively.

"Lady Admiral, what about that woman we captured?" the boy enquired politely, setting that last basin on the cart as the Admiral removed her gloves, her tools already cleaned and put back in their case. The child was permitted to ask questions of her and to do as he wished with patients, so long as he prepped them and did not interfere with her work.

For that price, Jones had a competent and trustworthy aide, who wanted for no extra authority and no court favors, and who could more than stomach watching her work. Why he seemed fascinated with the soon-to-be-dead, she didn't know... and quite honestly didn't care.

Megan looked at him, vaguely expectantly, one coal-black eyebrow raising just slightly.

"I surely thought she would already have come to you, Lady Admiral." he clarified in his usual purr, acting for all the world like they were talking of the weather and not the torture and execution of a wanted criminal.

"When Lord Galcian gives the word, Tannusen."

"Aaah," the boy clasped his hands behind his back, smiling charmingly up at her, "soon, then."

"Perhaps. But it is said she harbors feelings for our Lord Galcian, and feelings are an infecting weakness."

"Lord Galcian is not so foolish."

"Perhaps, we shall see."

The door was shut behind them, and the remains of Todd of Esperanza, known rapist, were left behind.

"What the -hell- is going on down here!"

The unwelcome exclamation from the side tunnel drew Ramirez's bored gaze as an angry-looking lieutenant stormed into the wide bottom chamber, face red. The smell of cooking fish permeated the room, and the remains of several Pyri enchantments still lingered in the air, making the Silvite's magic-sensitive skin tingle.

It took the lieutenant a moment, but he finally focused on the supposed recruit, where he currently leaned against the near wall with his arms crossed. Ramirez pushed away from the stone behind him and saluted, holding it until the infuriated officer stormed over, and further still until it was grudgingly returned.

"Well! Better make it good, recruit, or I'll split and cook -you-! Who told you to do this?"

"Admiral Ramirez, sir." he replied calmly, producing from his uniform the paper he'd written and sealed after mess. The lieutenant snatched it from his hand and stared at it a while.

"You take that up to the General's office. Right now." the other growled out, shoving the parchment into Ramirez's chest before turning and storming away. The Silvite sighed lightly, smoothing the letter between his gloved hands and then re-folding it, turning to make his way up to De Loco's former office.

Said office was all the way up at the top of the mountain, and so it took a while to reach by foot and lift combined. Fifteen minutes had since passed by the time the disguised Admiral entered the final corridor, and that was with his admittedly fast-paced stride. The mines hadn't been designed with much besides machines and slaves in mind, clearly. Annoyed despite himself at the simple lack of efficiency... why couldn't the lift shafts go all the way up and down?... he nearly missed it.

Nearly, but not quite. Ramirez's left eyelid twitched, his fingers turned into fists, and he came to a halt just outside the General's office door.

And stared, annoyed beyond all rational reason, at a portable stove.

It had the nerve to -glimmer- in the corridor's inadequate lighting, from where it sat just beside the office door. Like it was waiting for him, as absurd as that was. Ramirez turned his head left, and took a long look down the corridor. Then right... another long look down that direction. No one. Smiling grimly, and not thinking much about what he was doing, the Silvite raised one clenched hand and contemplated it a moment.

The thud of fist impacting metal echoed dully through the corridor.

Followed by a startled hiss that had nothing to do with bruised knuckles.

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Skies of Arcadia Legends belongs to someone else.
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.
Never steal if you value your spleen.