DISCLAIMER: X-Men:Evo belongs to Warner Bros. And Marvel Comics. I have never, and shall never own them, no matter how much I may want to. I've simply warped them to fit my own twisted mind. However, this fic and any original work herein is officially mine, and anyone trying to steal it will find out how painful a weapon a computer mouse can when used by someone with imagination.
WARNINGS: This is an AU (Alternative Universe) fic. Everything has been transplanted into a fantasy universe of my creation. Inspirations, despite what you might initially think, aren't actually from a certain Peter-Jackson-esque film, since I started work on this before I ever *saw* that movie. Influences rather include InterNutter's spiffy fic 'Mein Teuful' (if you haven't yet read this then go do it *now*!) and various other sources I'll explain later.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm sorry this chapter took so long, but university is very time consuming and I've been finding it difficult putting time aside to tweak this fic into a presentable shape. Plus, I've been more than a little sidetracked by InterNutter's Bulletin Board and sketching illustrations for various fics both therein and elsewhere. Anyway, I won't bore you with my hard luck story. Here is the sixth instalment for your entertainment. Read, review, and let me know what you think. Illustrations for this fic are still very, *very* welcome, especially as my birthday is coming up soon (hint hint ::cough cough:: presents for Scribbler). Advanced warning is such a wonderful thing. ;)
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'Of Beast And Blade' By Scribbler
Chapter Six ~ 'An Assassin's Soul'
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'What the inner voice says will not disappoint the hoping soul.' -- Johann Friedrich Von Schiller
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It is said that corruption is a state of mind. A mode that people fall into when tugged in the right direction. Circumstances, situations, surroundings, all serve to mould individuals into certain forms. Certain personalities.
Yet in this way, the question might be asked, is it the circumstances that corrupt the person, or is it the person who corrupts their circumstances? All humans hold a seed of evil within their hearts. How else would they be able to recognise good in the world if they don't first have some experience of the bad. Contentment springs from iniquity, and happiness blossoms into the prettiest bloom when planted in the garden of transgression.
Some places, however, are corrupt right from the moment of construction. It is in their very fabric. Their being. In the stones that hold them up, the light that illuminates their darkened rooms, the fires that warm their open spaces. Everything about them drips vice, and everything in them breathes wickedness. Such places are rare, but not unheard of. And where they do exist, they breed discontent, malice and violence the way that a dead body breeds maggots.
Belvedere was one such place.
The name was ironic. An old Österrikan word for freedom. If there was anything that didn't exist at Belvedere, it was freedom.
You could feel it the moment you walked in through the wrought iron gates. It was a huge complex, made up of a great stone castle surrounded by enough walled-in space to comfortably hold several towns.
Yet the people there - mostly soldiers - all seemed discontented. Probably because of the terrible conditions they were forced to live in. The only way they knew of the change in seasons at that far-removed place was the difference in ailments contracted from conditions in their barracks. Winter consisted of starvation and frostbite, whilst Summer was time for weeping sores and blisters from days long marches around their extensive compound.
Some were voluntary soldiers, but the majority had been conscripted from defeated nations. The only reason a revolt hadn't occurred before now was the unimaginable control their master had over them. The paranormal removal of their free will.
Yet this in itself was only part of their torment, for as well as losing their independence they were also all consigned to remain conscious, helpless spectators in their own bodies as their master decided what they should do with their lives. Most of these men awaited death with open arms, anticipating the release from the living hell of mortal form.
Their eyes followed anyone who entered Belvedere, jealously noting the ease with which their master's 'guests' moved. Watching, and wanting their liberty with envious eyes.
To all this, their 'master' was indifferent. He knew of their pain - how could he not? He was the one who knowingly inflicted it upon them with his magic - yet he didn't care. Some said he enjoyed it. A small amount of entertainment on his endless quest for power.
At this moment, however, entertainment was the last thing on his mind.
The Silver Sword sat on his throne, idly clicking long fingers on one arm, his other hand supporting his head in silent contemplation.
It wasn't an attractive throne, as most rulers seem to favour. Rather, it had been crafted with the sole intent of seeming imposing, and giving anyone seated in it an air of supremacy and intimidation. With it's huge, black wrought iron back covered in intricately woven strands of steel, and protruding arms that ended in burnished copper fashioned into two snarling dragon faces, it certainly did its job. Not that the Silver Sword needed it to seem imposing.
He was a tall man, whose stature instantly dwarfed anyone who stood near to him. Yet even if his physical form had been smaller, the aura that surrounded him would have been enough to daunt the most powerful of warriors. An intangible force encased the man. Some inexorable sense of refined savagery, buried beneath a want for power and control. As dictators before him, his quest for command over others seeped out of his skin, infecting the air around him with its caustic inexplicability and craving.
Yet unlike those before him, the Silver Sword wanted more than just power over lands and peoples. He wanted complete and ultimate authority. The kind that can only be achieved by magic. The kind that, once tasted, turns into a hunger than cannot, and will never, be fulfilled, but which the one afflicted with it will move mountains to possess.
Such was the lot of this once-apothecary's apprentice, who, in the shaded rooms of his employer's humble shop, first savoured the dregs of sorcery and found it to his liking. Consequently he wanted more. And more. And more. Until finally, the little shop could no longer support his voracious appetite, and he'd moved on to pastures new. Then again when he'd exhausted that resource, and again and again, until finally on his travels he happened upon an old ruin in Österrik.
Using his wealth of accumulated magical knowledge, he rebuilt the construction until it was better than new, and embarked upon his current pursuit of power, and the ensuing specialized magical knowledge his numerous conquests brought with them. As a result of his conquests, he'd acquired the new name of 'Silver Sword'. An identity he found much to his liking.
The room in which his throne stood was large and spacious, sparsely furnished with echoing ceilings onto which had been carved elaborate, if gory, depictions of ancient legends. Around the room were several suits of armour, each polished until they shone.
Stretching from the feet of the dais on which the throne rested to the door at the far end was a long, red and gold carpet imported from the Far East. The entire set-up gave off an air of luxury and rulership.
The effect was lost, however, on the Silver Sword. He sat, angrily tapping his fingers, brow knitting as he dwelt on some private thought. So absorbed was he that he didn't appear to hear the large doors creak open, or the small figure come scurrying in. In fact, it was only when the said figure knelt before him and tactfully cleared his throat that his eyes lost their glazed look and he finally noticed what was going on around him.
He stared down at the man. Brown robes with a green belt. One of his scholars then. Irritably he wondered what the little pest could want.
"Yes?" his voice boomed around the chamber, but the irked edge to it wasn't lost.
The man nervously cleared his throat again. "My liege, please, forgive me, but I have news."
"What news?" asked the seated man impatiently; "You know I don't like to be disturbed when I'm thinking."
"I.... I'm aware of that, your majesty, but.... but I.... I thought.... You might wish to know what I and my contemporaries have discovered."
The Silver sword sighed. ~Silly, stuttering fool. Might as well indulge him, I suppose. If I don't like his 'news' then I can always kill him. Plenty more where he came from.~
"Speak your piece, Scholar...."
"Scholar Kelly, milord."
"Fine. Proceed." The taller man waved a careless hand at the quivering scholar to continue.
Scholar Kelly gulped, sweat beading his brow. Why oh why had he been chosen to do this? He hadn't even been the one to make this damn discovery. Why was *he* the one who had to show his lordship their findings and risk his wrath? Why?
"What seems to be the problem?" questioned the Silver Sword, a dangerous sharpness to his tone.
"Nothing!" Kelly replied hastily. Still kneeling, but raising his head slightly, the flustered academic blurted; "My lordship knows of the Texts of Calorsiel?"
The Texts of Calorsiel? The Silver Sword frowned. Yes, he knew of them. Those parchments and their accursed prophecy had plagued him for months. It seemed, from what his previous scholars had translated and deciphered from them, that they referred to his own rapid rise to ultimate power, but also his crushing defeat at the hands of some 'saviour'.
Several scholars had been sacrificed to his wrath before he finally accepted the truth contained within that accursed prediction, and he'd been swift to set those remaining on the task of discovering who was to defeat him, that he might destroy them first and rid himself of any potential threat to his rule.
"Of course I know of them. Do you think me a fool?"
"No, no milord. Not at all," Scholar Kelly stumbled on his words, anxious not to offend the powerful ruler. "I... I only meant.... that our discovery concerns the prophecy. I.... I have here.... some papers you may find interesting...." he fumbled with the folds of his robe, trying to extract a rolled up scroll from a cloth purse attached to the green belt at his waist.
At the mention of a 'discovery' the Silver Sword's attention pricked up. He sat straighter in his throne, gesturing for the weedy man to climb the steps of the platform and show him his find. Scholar Kelly did so, stumbling slightly, and still pulling the scroll free of its bindings upon reaching his master's side.
"H.... here, Majesty." He thrust it reverently at the imposing figure, bending his head and avoiding those piercing eyes in a manner that befitted servitude.
The Silver Sword ran his gaze over the parchment. It was a full translation of the Texts of Calorsiel written in modern Common. He'd read it a thousand times before, each time trying to figure out for himself what it meant, and each time failing and having to resort to scholars to explain its deeper meaning. Still, again he read it. And, yet again, it made little sense.
"This is what you wanted to show me?" he demanded. "I've seen these accursed words more than I wish to already. If you are toying with me...." he left the threat hanging in mid-air.
"No, no, Lordship," Kelly hurriedly replied, "It's just that.... well.... we've found that there were some....um....mistakes made in the original translation you were given."
"Mistakes?" The Silver Sword peered closer at this new copy of the texts. "Explain yourself. And I warn you, be swift, or...."
"Well.... you see, milord," Scholar Kelly indicated to a line of black scrawl, carefully and methodically printed so as not to smudge the parchment. "It.... it concerns this sentence here."
"'Demons shall join the Jinrui, and salvation shall come from the heart of the Pehora,'" his master recited, "Yes? What about them?"
"Well, it.... the texts clearly state that a saviour will come to.... to dethrone you. This sentence refers directly to this, but we didn't understand its true meaning until now."
"Excuse me?"
Scholar Kelly licked his lips. "The words 'Jinrui' and 'Pehora'. Your scholars originally thought of these as ancient words used by Calorsiel that they had no translation for. *We* have found that this isn't the case at all. In actual fact, they belong to a language called Gehín."
"The language of the Guild of Assassins."
"Yes, milord. Gehín is in itself an ancient language. It.... its structure hasn't changed for millennia. The form used today is the same as the form used over a thousand years ago during the time of Calorsiel himself, so.... so if you translate these words into modern Common, you can properly understand what he meant."
The Silver Sword's attention was now well and truly snagged. "And what *do* they mean?"
"Well, Lordship, 'Jinrui' is Gehín for 'mankind', and 'Pehora' means 'three'."
The larger man glanced back at the scroll in his hand and reread the sentence, adding in these alterations: "Demons shall join mankind, and salvation shall come from the heart of the three.' Ach, it still makes no sense."
"Oh, but it does milord," Scholar Kelly amended, and then became flustered as his master shot him a hazardous look for daring to correct him. "Um.... what I mean is.... oh dear...."
"Well? Speak up, man. What *does* it mean?"
Scholar Kelly swallowed the sizable lump that had appeared in his throat. ~If I get out of here alive, then I'm going to kill the ones who sent me to do this!~ he vowed.
"You see, Majesty, the fact that the prophecy contains words from such a secretive and elusive language would seem to indicate that this 'saviour' will originate from the Guild of Assassins itself."
"And how does that help me? There are many assassins in the Guild. How am I to know which one will challenge me?" The Silver Sword snapped.
"Um.... I.... the thing is.... oh dear.... Well, you see this phrase here, 'The unwilling turncoat,' it's not difficult to conceive that it refers to this 'saviour' as well. If that is indeed the case, then.... um.... you're privy to the politics of the Guild more than I since they joined with you, milord. Have there been any.... um.... outcasts lately?"
The Silver Sword said nothing for a moment. Then: "Yes. But surely you know of it too. Haven't you heard of The Rogue of The Guild of Assassins?"
"N... no, Lordship. In our chambers, we scholars.... we hear little of the outside world," Scholar Kelly gulped. "Not that I'm complaining of course, oh no, I wouldn't do something as audacious as that...."
"Cease your babbling, fool!" He was silenced at these abrupt words. "Yes there has been an out-casting made by the Guild recently. What significance does this play in the prophecy?"
"It's probable that this 'Rogue' of which you speak is to be champion who will vanquish you. Or try to, anyway, milord," Scholar Kelly gabbled.
There was silence for a moment. Strained, tense silence. Scholar Kelly risked a glance at his master, and saw that the older man was staring quiescently into space, a thoughtful expression playing about his face. Then, quite suddenly, a smile curved his thin lips into a malicious grin.
"Well, well. The plot thickens," he chuckled. It was not a nice sound, and Scholar Kelly shivered despite himself.
"There.... there is more, milord."
The Silver Sword's head whipped around: "What?"
"Um.... there was another mistake in the translation. In the passage where Calorsiel.... you see.... here...." he pointed to another section of text, and once again the Silver Sword read it aloud.
"'It is she who will begin all and begin new.' Yes, that would seem to refer to The Rogue as my would-be vanquisher."
"But it doesn't, my Lordship."
"Pardon?"
"That's the inaccuracy. It doesn't refer to a 'she' coming to defeat you. That's the mistake the original translators made. The ancient word for 'she' is incredibly similar to the ancient word for 'they'. In light of the true meaning of 'Pehora' it would seem that there are three champions who will attempt to overthrow you. One of them will be from the Guild of Assassins, and the other two will be travelling with her."
"So, am I to understand that instead of one enemy to destroy, I am to deal with *three*?" The Silver Sword clarified.
"Y.... yes, milord. That's right. Three."
The Silver Sword laughed. Scholar Kelly blinked at the unearthly sound. It was well known that his master had altered himself through use of magic to become more powerful, but the noise that now escaped his mouth made it seem like he had been possessed by an evil spirit, who now unleashed the tortures screams of all Seven Hells through his mortal mouth. It was terrifying, and caused his blood to run cold with incomprehensible fear.
"But that's *wonderful* news," his master grinned.
"Wonderful milord?"
"Yes. Don't you see? They're all together, and I can destroy them at once rather than picking them off one by one. They're actually making my job easier for me. In fact, I don't even have to destroy all of them. If one of them dies then the prophecy can never be fulfilled."
"But.... but I don't understand, Majesty. They could be anywhere in the realms - "
"No. I know exactly where The Rogue is going. She's coming here. To Belvedere."
Scholar Kelly was confused, and it showed in his face: "To Belvedere, milord? Why would she do that?"
"Because I have something she wants," he laughed again. Scholar Kelly's blood turned to ice in his heart. "Do you know what's even more amusing?"
"N.... no, milord."
"The Guild have already sent their finest assassins after her to execute her under Guild law. And do you know whom they've sent? None other than Emilios the Savage."
"Emilios the Savage?" Scholar Kelly remembered Emilios. The hate-filled little man who'd come to Belvedere a few months ago. He'd been the first to test out the scientists' new 'enhancement machines' in return for a favour he'd done the Silver Sword himself, and had left a changed man - literally.
He shuddered. No person could ever hope to survive if Emilios was on his or her trail. No-one! "Then she is lost already. Her companions too."
"Not necessarily. I have.... inside knowledge that The Rogue is a very resourceful girl. I don't doubt that she's evaded her captors, and is probably not too far away from here, either." The Silver Sword tapped his chin. "No, I can see that *I* will have to deal with these three 'champions' myself. And I know just how to do it, too. Stand aside, man." He rose to his feet, full imposing height becoming apparent. Scholar Kelly trembled, skipping sideways as his master blew past and shoved the scroll back into his hands.
"Milord?"
"Return to your chambers, scholar. I have no more need of you at present. Be off, before I grow tired of you and have your head served on a platter for entertainment."
Scholar Kelly's eyes goggled at this callous statement, and he scuttled down from the dais and out through a little-used side exit into the servants' passageways.
Once safely out of the throne room, he closed the door and leaned backwards on it, letting a relieved sigh escape his dry lips. He'd made it. He'd survived an audience with the Silver Sword. He smiled, a small, triumphant smile.
"Hey, Kelly. Whatcha lookin' so darn happy 'bout?"
The voice dragged him out of him mental reprieve, and he pulled back tired lids to see a young girl dressed in the same robes as himself and carrying a mound of bulky scrolls under both arms. She cocked her head at him, greasy brown hair covering half of her face and a curious twinkle in her one visible eye.
"That's *Scholar* Kelly to you, and I'll have you know that I've just had an audience with the Silver Sword himself, thank you very much," he raised his nose snootily at her, trepidation rapidly disintegrating without his master there to reinforce it.
"Didja wet yerself in fear?" she asked playfully. Kelly looked aghast at such a suggestion.
"No I did not! How dare you imply - "
She darted away, giggling. "Hey, keep yer hair on, Kelly. I wuz only kiddin' ya. Come on, I gotta get back to the chambers with these 'ere scrolls, an' I'll bet that's where your headed too."
"I might be," Scholar Kelly sniffed, "But I wouldn't want to travel with someone...." However, his words tailed off, for the young girl was already gone.
Sighing, Kelly stuffed his own scroll back into its cloth holder and made his way back to the dank, dismal rooms that served as his home and workplace combined. He muttered as he went, words lost in the shadows. Eaten up by the murk surrounding him.
"Wet myself indeed. In my day, we had a little more respect for our elders. How dare she imply that I, Scholar Kelly, would sink so low as to soil myself in front of His Majesty. It's unthinkable... absolutely unthinkable."
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The Silver Sword had no such qualms about travelling companions. Nobody was impudent enough to travel with him unless invited, and he strode through the winding main corridors of Belvedere without so much as a passing glance at those he came across along the way. Most of them darted into rooms and doorways as he went by. To get in the way of the Silver Sword was to sign one's own death warrant.
The majority were all slaves, at any rate, with enchantments over them that caused their feet to move aside of their own accord at his approach. They cowered in anterooms, waiting for him to pass so that they might once again reclaim their limbs as their own.
To all this he was blind. He had his own destination and criteria in mind, and nothing deterred him from something when he'd set his mind to it. That was how he'd become so powerful. He never left his enemies standing. When it seemed they were defeated, he always dealt the final finishing blow. Mercy was a word that didn't grace his vocabulary. An unknown concept.
At last he reached his goal. A small, rarely used wooden door leading to what had once been the cellars. They'd long since been moved to another level of the castle, leaving this space to be utilized as he saw fit. He slid open the wooden bar and strode confidently down the stone steps beyond.
About half way down the pitch black shadows framing the stairway suddenly invaded it, rendering him blind. Without so much as batting an eyelid, the daunting man raised one hand and muttered a string of alien-sounding words. Instantly his palm flared into life, as a glowing ball of light detached itself from his pale skin to float in the air. It sped ahead of him, twittering madly and guiding his way with its ethereal illumination. He followed, face impassive.
In the very bowels of the castle he found what he sought. The cellars had been extensive, and taken up a lot of room below the surface of Belvedere. Now they were filled with something else. Strange shimmery cuboids lined the walls and spread across the damp floor, each as tall as four fully-grown men and glowing with a faint blue luminescence. They lit the chamber with their ghostly light, but not enough to merit the absence of the twittering Floatlight.
As he descended the steps, a figure detached itself from the gloom and headed towards him.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
"It's me, Gerris," he replied.
The Floatlight flew forwards and shone its light on the figure's face. A young man of about twenty winters stood there, brown hair mussed and forming troughs and peaks haphazardly across his skull, and a few days worth of stubble on his jaw. He peered into the gloom, hazel eyes widening in surprise at his visitor.
"Oh, it's you, your Lordship. What brings you to the Menagerie?"
"I have a job in mind, Gerris, and I know you have just the creature to carry it out for me."
Gerris grinned: "I'll bet I do, sir. Just tell me which one you want and I'll prepare it for you."
The Silver Sword stepped forward, brushing past the youth and leaving him to follow behind.
If the Silver Sword had one failing, it was his penchant for exotic beasts. Hence, he'd converted the old cellars into a huge menagerie for mythical and unusual creatures usually consigned solely to fairy tales, legends and distant continents. He'd taken great pains to seek these elusive creatures out, hunting and capturing them and bringing them here that he might gaze upon them and admire them at his leisure. It seemed that his want for control did not limit itself to humanoid activities.
Gerris was the keeper of these beasts, and knew more about them than any scholar or archivist who catalogued their exploits as written in ancient texts. Despite his relatively young age, he was an experienced man, and you would be hard pushed to find anyone in all the realms more capable of handling an animal crisis.
The magical spells woven by the Silver Sword and used as enclosures negated the creatures' magical attacks and kept them from harming anybody who chose to view them, but Gerris still knew all about the individual abilities of each of his charges. He knew the extent of their capabilities, the signs that signalled when they were about to attack, what food they preferred, which were best to be kept together, almost everything there was to know. In fact, it was said that if Gerris didn't know something about a beast, then it just wasn't worth knowing.
The two men made their way across the interlocking chambers in the semi-dark, the Floatlight guiding their way and punctuating the silence that stretched between them with its incessant chirping.
They passed many glowing cube enclosures as they went. A griffon paced angrily from side to side in one, growling softly to itself and raking its formidable claws across the ground in bored fury. In the next a trio of satyrs sat dolefully, scuffing the dusty floor with their hooves and bleating their displeasure at being cooped up. Further along a huge Hippogriff raised itself on its hind legs at the sight of the man who'd imprisoned it, its deafening roars muffled by the magical cerulean barrier separating them. A little further on another enclosure seemed to be completely filled with water, and a soulful mermaid floated flaccidly in its clear depths, drifting golden hair her only movement.
Yet none of these interested the Silver Sword. He knew exactly which animal he wanted, and made a beeline for an isolated cube in the far corner. Gerris struggled to keep up with the pace set by his considerably longer legs, and when he reached the enclosure his master was already staring intently into it.
It contained the beast he was most proud of; one of his first captures many years ago, and he'd carted it around with him when he moved on from places - before he found Belvedere - unwilling to release it as he'd been forced to do with other creatures when he changed location. This beast, however, was just too rare to be cast aside like some common troll or sprite. This beast was the pièce de résistance of his collection. He peered almost lovingly at it.
Two bright green eyes glared at him out of the gloom enshrouding its magical cage. Although it was encased in thick, near impregnable shadow, a shift in the creature's muscles signalled where it lay, legs coiled beneath its massive body in a false stance of relaxation. An air of hidden savagery, like the veiled poise of a tiger waiting to strike, was lavished upon this beast. It's blue-black hide merged with the darkness, but its emerald eyes blazed liquid hatred at the man who had dared to remove its liberty. Almost feline jaws parted in a silent snarl, and rows of wickedly jagged teeth glittered truculently in the Floatlight's reflected gleam.
The little glowing ball uttered a soft squeak and darted behind Gerris, plunging the enclosure into opaque darkness once more.
A short laugh exited the Silver sword's mouth.
"How soon can you ready him?" he asked.
Gerris looked hard at his lord and master. "Are you sure, sir? He's not exactly the most reliable. Wouldn't you prefer a more dependable creature? A nice Hippogriff perhaps - "
"I want *this* one," the taller man didn't break his gaze away from his prize, but his voice dropped to a low whisper; "Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal, sir. I'll get the portal ready to send him out, any particular target?"
"I'll input the target myself when I say the incantation to activate the portal," he replied. "Just do your job and ready him, Gerris."
"As you command, milord." The keeper made to go, but was stopped in his tracks as the silky voice slithered after him.
"Oh, and Gerris. Don't ever question me again. You're not indispensable, you know."
Gerris gulped; "Yes, sir," and hurried away as fast as he could without alerting the capricious lord's attention.
Yet he need not have worried. The Silver Sword was utterly captivated by the contents of the dark enclosure. He gawped at it like it was the only thing in the universe, and all other things were worthless and extraneous compared to it.
For its part, the mysterious creature only growled and bared its fangs at him. It did not share his love, and returned it only with naked hatred. Years of living this life of incarceration in a cage that disallowed it to live its life to the fullest had allowed its odium to grow exponentially, and had anyone been foolish enough to venture into its pen - be it Silver Sword or no - it would have gladly vented its loathing and ripped them to shreds in an instant. And it was this very naked hate that the Silver Sword was counting on.
He stroked the shimmery wall, cooing to it like a baby in a deceptively gentle tone that few ever heard from him without losing their lives shortly afterwards.
"Soon, my precious. Soon you shall have blood. And then we will both be happy. They won't know what's hit them. Soon, kitten. Yes, soon."
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"But I'm *tired*!"
Rogue stalked on ahead, doing her best to ignore Kitty's incessant whining. Kurt hung back, trotting alongside the exhausted Changeling.
"Come on, Kätzchen. It can't be that bad," he soothed.
"'Bad'? It's worse than 'bad'. My feet are killing me, I have blisters on my blisters, my joints are stiff and my stomach hasn't quit growling for, like, hours!" Kitty moaned. "Like, when are we gonna stop, already?"
It had been three days since they escaped from Zanninsa, and the trio of unusual companions had rested little since their night in the Elevada tree. Rogue was still very much in command, and short snatches of sleep were all she allowed, and only when absolutely necessary and suitable cover was available.
Kitty, however, with her usual verbosity was the most outspoken against this lack of relaxation time, and often let them know in not so many words. Now was one such occasion.
"Hello? Are you, like, even listening to me?" she called. Rogue gritted her teeth.
"Shhh, Kätzchen," Kurt held one thick finger to his lips; "She's just as tired as we are. Don't rile her, please."
"If she's so, like, tired then why haven't we, like, stopped yet, huh?" Kitty retorted. "And besides, I'm hungry too. When are we gonna eat? Or is that like, not necessary either?"
"Now Kätzchen...." Kurt attempted to mollify her again.
"Don't you 'now Kätzchen' me, Kurt," the brown haired girl snapped. "I've just about had it up to here with all this walking, and marching, and more walking, and more marching - "
"Will you just *shut* *up*!" Rogue whirled round, her face a mask of anger beneath the deep folds of her hood. "When will you get it through your thick skull that when I say keep going I say it for a *reason*? 'I'm tired' 'mah tootsies hurt' 'mah belly aches', complain, complain, complain, that's all you ever do! I oughta cut out your tongue to make you silent!"
"Rogue," Kurt focused his golden eyes on her.
"What? You're her friend. Tell her to quit yapping and keep walking."
"Rogue."
"All day and all night. It's never ending with her. Yap, yap, yap."
"Rogue."
"She sounds like a magpie in a treasury. Twittering nineteen to the dozen. Yackety, yackety, yackety, yak - "
"*Rogue*!"
She ceased her avalanche of remonstrations and insults long enough to bark; "*What*?"
"Kitty has a point. We *have* been walking for days without a rest, and it *has* been quite some time since we've eaten. Far be it for me to tell you what to do, but we need to halt for more than a few minutes soon or we'll just be putting days on our journey when one of us falls ill from exhaustion." He gazed at her, asking her to relent and see his line of reasoning.
Rogue did, albeit grudgingly. The compassion she'd showed when talking with him had been temporary, and no sooner had their feet touched the ground then she'd resumed her savage aloofness. The ice-queen persona had fallen easily into place, and she became The Rogue again. Cold. Unfathomable. Unsociable.
"Oh, all right. If it'll shut you two up. But only if we find some protection first." She turned to continue on through the seemingly endless forest. "And I'm warning y'all. One more word and I'll gut you and leave you here for the wolves to deal with. Do I make mahself clear?"
"Tadellos. Come along, Kätzchen." Kurt started after her and gestured that Kitty should follow, which she did; grumbling profusely under her breath, but uttering nothing aloud lest Rogue make good on her threat. No matter what covert thoughtfulness she'd shown Kurt, there was no doubt in Kitty's mind that the ex-assassin didn't like her, and only tolerated her continued presence because of him.
They travelled on through the undergrowth, which had become surprisingly thick of late. Fronds of bracken and unidentifiable creepers snaked into their path, creating a veritable barrier of greenery so substantial that Kurt found it impossible to remain on all fours and reverted to walking like a two-legger, tail lashing this way and that as it caught on twigs and plants alike.
At last, he decided against staying on the ground and scuttled trunk of a nearby tree, a cerulean bullet shooting adeptly up its vertical surface, finding grips and footholds where there were none, and leaping nimbly through the branches overhead of his compatriots.
Rogue and Kitty both watched him, flying gracefully through the air, completely in his element. On the ground Kurt seemed gawky and inelegant, but up there, where leaves criss-crossed and boughs reached high up into the very sky itself, he was the most graceful thing imaginable. Daintier than any squirrel, and more fluid in his movements than a stalking cat.
Kitty smiled. A happy smile, as vicariously she soared with him. She was still afraid of heights, but when she saw the furry boy that way, all her fears seemed petty in the face of his patent glee. He seemed so much happier now, as compared to when they first left the city. Much as she hated to admit it, Rogue's little chat had done the trick, and though Kurt wasn't entirely over his mother's abrupt death he was certainly much more at peace with himself.
Rogue observed him with a sort of detached fondness. That is, until she perceived the emotion and hastily buried beneath contempt for his blatant disregard of surreptitiousness.
~Stupid elf!~ she thought, ~Making so much noise. Don't think about that, does he? Too busy enjoying himself to think about such mundane things as safety!~ Yet in spite of her mental complaints, somehow she couldn't bring herself to call him down from his lofty highway. ~You're getting soft, mah girl. You ain't gonna survive five minutes this way. No siree.~
After a time they gradually became aware of a strange sound upon the air. A shushing noise, coupled with faint croaks and murmurings like muted birdcalls. It rode the late-afternoon breeze to their ears, swirling inside and then rushing away again, giggling.
Kurt - who was some way ahead of the girls - bounded down to one of the lower branches and crouched on his belly, awaiting their arrival.
"Hören Sie! Können Sie das hören? Can you hear that?" he asked when they reached him.
Kitty cocked her head to one side. "Yeah. Like, what is that?"
Rogue said nothing.
"Hey, Frauline. Do you know what that strange noise is?" Kurt dangled one hand lazily off his perch as she passed beneath him. The older girl snorted.
"Of course I do. That's the Danub."
"Like, the what?"
Rogue sighed, barely concealed irritation in her voice: "The Danub. Only the biggest river this side of anywhere. Y'all have got to have heard of it."
"I've heard of it, Frauline." Agilely, Kurt shinned further up a tree he was climbing once more, yelling down to them. "I just didn't realise we'd travelled so far already."
"We're making good time," she replied. "Seems my policy of not stopping is working." This last comment was directed over her shoulder at Kitty, who fumed noiselessly, glaring at her cloaked back.
They continued in silence for a few minutes, the sound of the river growing steadily around them. Kitty struggled to keep up with her companions, hitching up her skirts and pushing violently through the scrub. She received several cuts and scratches for her trouble, but eventually caught up with Rogue when the other girl abruptly stopped.
Kurt dropped to the branch just above her head, and together the pair of them stared out across something that as yet evaded the Changeling's line of sight.
"Like, what's up?" Kitty asked breathlessly. Neither said a word, but Kurt glanced down at her. Soundlessly he raised one furry arm and pointed away from them. Kitty hurried over, drawing level with Rogue and gasped at what she saw.
The mightiest river ever imaginable stretched before them, wide and brimming with crystalline waters of the purest blue, tinted here and there with verdant green. It shimmered in the sunlight, glinting as a diamond might do when placed under intense light. It was at least sixty feet across, and the far shore seemed distant and remote. Truly an awe-inspiring sight to someone whose previous experience of rivers was just a muddy trickle that barely passed as a brook.
Kitty was flabbergasted. Her mouth opened and closed in the manner of a beached fish, and for a few minutes she simply stared, all minor injuries and discomforts forgotten in the face of such natural grandeur and magnificence.
At last, she managed to choke out a single utterance, and it rasped from her throat, summarizing what each of them felt yet none of them could put into words: "Like, wow!"
Her voice jolted Rogue from her musings. The ex-assassin had seen the river before, several times in fact, but it still evoked in her a sense of wonder, of unimportance in nature's great plan for the world. Still, her conjecture was abruptly shattered by the younger female's inarticulate murmur.
"Welcome to the Danub," she said, before striding down the embankment towards the river's edge.
Kurt leapt to the ground after her, having no trees to travel through at the water's edge. He paused long enough for Kitty to stop staring and join him, and together they trailed after the imposing figure.
Rogue halted at the grassy rim. Her cloak billowed around her like it was alive, twisting and turning on the breeze in a swarthy display of acrobatics. She frowned out of her cowl at the water.
"It's too deep to cross here," she surmised after a while. "The current's moving too fast. We'd be swept away before you could say 'Plechtoh and Kirkus.'"
"What should we do then?" asked Kurt innocently.
"Follow its course until we find a safer spot," Rogue answered. "If I remember rightly then there's a shallow part not too far from here. It's still quite wide, but not too fast or deep there. Should be a bit easier to swim."
"Excuse me?" Kitty repeated, horror-struck. "Did you just say swim? I can't even, like doggy-paddle! I'll drown in something that big!"
"One can only hope," Rogue retorted, spinning on her heel and walking away from them. Her cloak fluttered behind her, catching Kitty in her face and making her stumble backwards into Kurt. Deftly he steadied her before she could fall into the mud, but she glared resentfully at the retreating girl's discourteous form.
Kurt looked at her, a wry grin twisting his lips. ~If looks could kill,~ he thought to himself. ~Then Rogue and Kätzchen would have murdered and buried each other long before now, and that's a fact.~
They carried on for quite a long way beside the great river. As Rogue had promised, progressively it did become somewhat shallower, and the noise of rushing water became quieter as the current pulling beneath its deceivingly smooth surface became weaker.
At last they happened upon a small copse closer to the bank than the rest of the forest. The section of river at this point was wide yet quite still, and almost completely quiescent. It was here that Rogue terminated her brisk pace.
"We'll stay here tonight," she stated in a tone that disallowed argument. Glancing at the rapidly colouring sky, she added. "If y'all wanna refresh yourselves with the water then you'd best hurry up. We'll be bedding down soon in those trees, and I don't want nobody fidgeting around and climbing about whilst I'm trying to get some shuteye. You hear me?"
"Yes ma'am!" Kurt saluted cheekily, darting down to riverbank to quench his thirst from the cool, clear liquid.
Rogue glared after him, but there was something strange about her eyes. Kitty, slower to react than the hypersensitive elf and thus still near her, saw it. A kind of strained softness, mixed with a resentment that fought potently against its presence there. These two emotions clashed and wrestled silently behind those emerald orbs, waging a war that the Changeling couldn't hope to comprehend, and she almost gasped to see such a mental struggle in the habitually unambiguous and ruthless teen.
Rogue's gaze slid over to her, and instantly all traces of the struggle vanished. "You waiting for something?" she drawled.
"N.... no," said Kitty, more than a little flustered.
"Then why don't you get?" was the callous reply, thrown flippantly into the air, yet swathed in a pitch that made it unmistakable as an order.
Kitty did as she was bid, scurrying dutifully down to the riverbank where Kurt was already crouched, cupping water into his mouth.
Rogue watched them for a second, then turned and strolled up the slight slope towards the copse where she slumped down beside the trunk of an aging Oak, pulling down her hood and resting the back of her skull against its bark.
She sat there for a moment, looking at nothing in particular and thinking about even less. Flies buzzed around her head, but she didn't brush them away. What was the point? They'd only come back.
A sudden notion popped into her head unannounced, and she reached down into her boot and carefully removed Logan's hunting knife. She held it for a moment, gazing at it and tilting it this way and that so that it caught the sun. Idly, she ran a finger down its keen edge, honed to perfection by years of prolific attention. Abruptly she winced, pulling her hand away and staring as a thin line of red appeared on her fingertip. A small globule of blood welled from it and dripped off her flesh into the sparse, spindly grass. It disappeared without trace into the fronds, and she bunched her fist to stop another from falling.
A faint sardonic smile curved her mouth, and she pulled a section of her cloak up and began vigorously cleaning the blade and snarling metal wolverine's head. When she was done she held it up to the dying light again, and it sparkled and glinted like burnished gold. A beautiful, if deadly, spectacle. Replacing it in her boot, she unsheathed her dagger, and then her sword, polishing them until they shone too.
"That's pretty."
Rogue looked up sharply to see the shrimp standing warily a few feet down the slope. A curl of her lip dismissed the girl as not worth her time, and she went back to cleaning her sword.
Undeterred, Kitty cleared her throat and spoke again. "You've cleaned that up real nice."
"What's the matter? Elf abandoned you?"
Kitty looked down, embarrassed. "Nuh-uh. He's just washing in the water. I didn't like to stay because he's, like.... um...." she trailed off.
Rogue looked up again. "He's naked in the river, and the prissy little Changeling was too embarrassed to stay," she deduced. Kitty's cheeks reddened.
"Yeah."
Rogue looked down again, thrusting the fabric of her cloak into the crevice around the ruby embedded in the pommel of her weapon. Dirt had a habit of getting in there. She was still finding dried chimera blood mixed with the everyday dust.
Her face set into an expression of concentration as she skilfully hooked her finger into it and flicked out flakes of black onto the grass. When she was done she blinked, and had the oddest feeling that she was being watched.
Snapping her head up again she perceived that the shrimp was still standing there, looking intently at her. No, not at her, but at the sword in her hands. The younger girl wore a look of curiosity and vague wonderment on her visage as her gaze traced the shape of the blade, taking in its lethal sheen and murderous sharpness with almost hungry blue eyes. So absorbed was she with what she saw that she didn't realise that the watcher had become the watched. That is, until Rogue cleared her throat loudly and twitched the blade to gain her attention.
Kitty blinked and took a step backwards, taking this as a sign that she wasn't wanted and should leave. However, instead of rebuking, Rogue asked: "You ever handled a blade before?"
Kitty verbally stumbled, unused to being talked to unless she was being insulted. "N.... no, never."
"Wanna try it?"
The offer hung between them, bulbous and full of both promise and retribution. For several seconds neither said a word, both as surprised as the other at the unexpected proposal.
Then Kitty scuffed her foot and mumbled: "Wouldn't mind."
Rogue patted the grass beside her, gesturing that she should sit down. Kitty did, albeit guardedly. Rogue held out the sword, handle first. Gingerly she took it, marvelling at how heavy yet manoeuvrable it was. The metal seemed to be riddled with thousands of tiny air-holes like the bones of a bird. Her eyes grew round. You could almost feel the potential power coursing through the metal. Raw, leaping energy just waiting for someone to take it up and release it in battle.
"You like?" asked Rogue.
"Oh yes," replied Kitty, not taking her eyes off the glittering keenness. "It's like.... I can't describe what it feels like. It's as if the metal were, like, alive in my hand, and if I move then it'll be the sword that's, like, in control and not me."
Rogue almost smiled. That was exactly how she'd felt when first given a sword. She remembered how her blood had been sent buzzing within her veins the moment Logan placed the hilt into her waiting hands. It was like nothing on earth. Indescribable.
The feeling had faded over time, after hours of practise and many missions where the beautiful metal became stained. But it was still there. Each time her hand closed about the handle to her own personal blade her veins sang softly of the power flowing through them. Not the power over life and death that the sword brought with it, but the power of control. Of holding your own fate in your own hands and being master of your own destiny.
"To an assassin, the sword is a way of life," she explained softly. "It's not just a tool, but a living extension of oneself."
"Yes," Kitty breathed. "I can believe it." She straightened the blade so that it stood vertical, almost touching her nose. Rogue reached across, and she started, allowing it to fall forwards and bury its tip in the ground.
"I was only gonna say, your grip needs a little work," Rogue snapped.
"I'm sorry." Kitty looked away and made to give the sword back, but Rogue held up her hands and pushed it away again, back into her hands.
"Don't be sorry, just do what I say. Move your hands this way a bit and tighten your grasp just beneath the hilt. That gives you greater freedom of movement, see?"
Kitty shifted her hands, placing one in front of the other and tensing her fingers beneath the jutting metal of the hilt. She nodded, raising it to a vertical position again.
"Yeah, I can, like, totally see what you mean. That's much better." She lowered it again, awe fading from her face a smidgen. "Listen, Rogue. I'm, like.... that is to say.... um.... I'm sorry."
Rogue was taken aback. "Sorry?" she reiterated. "What for?"
"For being, like, a pain in the butt. I know I'm always complaining about stuff and getting on your nerves, but sometimes I just, like, can't help myself."
"Yeah, I'd noticed."
Kitty's cheeks changed colour again. "Yeah, well, I'm sorry. I.... um.... I'm sorry," she finished, unable to properly say what she wanted.
Rogue stared at her. The shrimp, *apologising*? There was no doubt in Rogue's mind that this single Changeling girl was one of the most obnoxious, annoying and completely impossible people she'd ever met. The idea of her actually acting contritely was so unthinkable as to be almost ridiculous.
Her green eyes narrowed suspiciously. Was this some sort of trick to throw her off her guard? If so, then she was going to be *really* sorry later. Nobody fools The Rogue and lives to tell the tale.
Oh lighten up! Admonished her almost-conscience. How could she double cross you? She's wanted as your accomplice now, where would she go if you were gone? The kid's on the level. Stop being so mistrustful for once and take her word for it.
~You remember what happened last time I trusted someone,~ she mentally reminded it.
And that's exactly why you're going to Belvedere, it replied. But that's not the shrimp's fault.
~I don't wanna be abandoned again.~
Psychologically, she jolted. It had slipped out so easily, yet she'd been ignoring it for so long. Abandonment. Being deserted. Something that had stalked her mind since before she became an outcast, back when *he* was still with her. Before he left to find out. To know. To seek the answers she couldn't help him to find.
He'd left her all alone, and she'd set up the walls to keep everybody out. To stop the pain from happening again. Until this very moment she hadn't even acknowledged why she'd done it, but now it preyed upon her brain, driving itself into the crannies of her thoughts until she could ignore it no longer.
Her almost conscience spoke softly inside her head. Listen, it said, the elf and the shrimp have followed you even though you've been absolutely foul to them. The elf genuinely seems to like you, and now the shrimp - who blatantly doesn't - is apologising for being a pain. Not many people are big enough to do that, so you'd better just accept what she's doing as true and try to accept that sometimes people aren't going to betray you like he did.
~I don't wanna risk being left again,~ she whimpered in a manner that would have astounded any who could have heard it. ~Not after last time.~
And you won't be. Just trust, OK? Just trust.
~Trust? Trust is worthless. Trust gets you killed.~
No, it replied, trust only kills loneliness. But if you don't trust, then the loneliness will only kill you.
Kitty was beginning to think she'd said the wrong thing until Rogue abruptly stirred and muttered a quick; "S'alright."
The Changeling sighed in relief as her apology was tersely accepted. She hadn't anticipated Rogue saying much, so this offhand receipt was gratefully received. She'd half been expecting yet more rejection from the brusque girl, but something about the conflicting way she'd looked at Kurt earlier had made her take a chance and offer this sort-of treaty between them. A little flame of gladness lit up inside Kitty's chest at the lack of what she'd experienced most of her life. Acceptance.
"Thanks."
"What are you two ladies talking about?" a familiar accented voice piped up.
Both Kitty and Rogue turned to see Kurt approaching them. His fur was slick and wet, and his threadbare clothes hung damply from his body with small dank patches appearing here and there. A contented grin split his furry face, showing sharp white teeth that glinted in the rapidly diminishing sunlight.
Kurt was, by nature, a very clean person. Years of living in a forest had caused him to develop some rather - for want of a better word - feline cleaning-techniques in the absence of water. Their journey thus far hadn't allowed him much time to wash, and so he'd reverted to this form of cleansing for the most part, but somehow it had never satisfied him. As good as his saliva was, it didn't compare to washing with real water, and he'd taken the first opportunity presented to him to have a good, thorough wash in the bracing waters of the Danub.
Now, clean and refreshed, he'd sought out his companions, and - to his surprise - found them sitting quietly together, sharing the shade of a rather ancient Oak tree. Their miens spoke of an uncharacteristic amity that astounded Kurt, and he waltzed up to them, half expecting their customary vocal fireworks and violence to break out at any moment.
Yet it didn't. Instead, the female duo simply watched him draw closer with a mutual interest that both surprised and pleased him. What was even more unexpected was the fact that Kitty was holding Rogue's sword easily in her hands, and the ex-assassin was making no move to take it back or stab her with it (for which, he was glad.)
He grinned at them, and when they didn't answer his question, added: "Are you talking about me? Ach, I hope what you say is nice."
"Like, no way, Kurt," Kitty replied for them both. "We weren't, like, talking about you. We were just talking about.... stuff."
He reached them and hunkered down next to the younger girl. "Stuff, eh? What sort of stuff?"
"Just.... stuff," she answered lamely.
He rolled his golden eyes. "Well that was enlightening."
"Shut it, fuzzy," Rogue snapped, but her tone was less than threatening. More jaded.
"Rogue was just, like, letting me hold her sword," Kitty elucidated.
"I can see that. Hey, don't wave that thing around, Kätzchen. You could take my ear off with it." He clamped his hands over his pointed ears to demonstrate his point.
Now it was Rogue's turn to roll her green eyes. "That 'thing' as you put it could do a lot more than take your ear off if it wanted to, elf."
"Excuse me? If *it* wanted to?" He tilted his head on its side, face puzzled. "Don't you mean if *Kitty* wanted to?"
"No, I meant exactly what I said," she retorted, leaving him even more perplexed at her cryptic response. He blinked, confusion registering clearly in his furry features.
It was up to Kitty to try and explain what the obscure girl was getting at. Even so, she struggled slightly to put into words just what holding a sword and having your blood sing felt like. She tried numerous ways, but somehow to speak of the sensation aloud seemed like sacrilege, and her descriptions only came out as glorified savagery rather than the magnificent feeling that it really was.
"You see, Kurt, when you hold a sword, it's like.... well, it's as if your arm's on fire.... I mean.... um.... your blood, it.... well, it kinda tingles when you touch.... what I'm trying to, like, say is.... it's sort of like pins and needles, but it doesn't stop at your arm, it carries on.... It's like it goes right through you.... do you, like, get what I mean?"
Kurt shook his head; "Nein, I don't, Kätzchen."
"Well, um.... perhaps if you touched it, then you'd, like, understand."
"No," he straightened up, stretching his cramped muscles. "I'm sorry, Kätzchen, but I don't want to hold *any* weapons. It's not that I don't agree with them, it's just that I don't think I could bring myself to touch something anymore that was designed with the sole purpose of killing in mind. Not after what happened to.... to my mother."
"Oh." She couldn't think of anything else to say to a comment like that. How could she explain this strange but incredible feeling to someone who considered merely touching a sword beyond his capacity.
She wondered at her own feelings towards the blade. She'd never shown any inclination towards them before, but somehow the sight of Rogue's shining, lovingly kept sword had evoked in her a sense of stupefaction at the craftsmanship, which she'd never experienced for anything before. It had enchanted her with its savage beauty. Caught her up in its spell of glittering metal.
Rogue watched this exchange through half-lidded eyes. Finally, able to stand it no more, she burst out: "Oh for crying out loud, *I'll* explain it then!"
The other two startled at her cry, but quickly regained themselves and looked at her with two sets of eyes, each eager for insight behind her enigmatic remark and the feelings Kitty was ineptly trying to express.
Rogue slouched against the tree, closing her eyes and searching her memory for the words to explicate what every sword-wielder in history has ever known.
"To an assassin," she began, "And to many other warriors, a sword isn't just some inanimate object used to kill and maim. Sure, that's what it was designed for, and probably the smithies that create them only look to make them as deadly as possible. But to those who use them, they're something different. A true assassin - not just some penny-per-dozen rent-a-blade - treats their sword with respect. It's their oldest and dearest friend. The one they can count on when everything and everybody else deserts them. More than that, it's a part of them. A part of their being, a part of their arm when they swing it, a part of themselves. In fact, Guild Lore believes that, when you receive your own personal blade, a piece of your spirit flows into it, binding you to it until your dying day. From then on, it's not just a hunk of metal. It's a tangible part of your soul. A part that'll defend and protect you no matter what. It won't judge and it won't hold grudges. It's above that sort of thing, beyond it.
"As long as people exist, there will be discontentment. It's in their nature, as is the desire to kill and destroy. It doesn't matter what race they are. Human, Troll, Mage, Elf, it's a basic fundamental part of life. Children who have never known war will still kill flies without a second thought, and many will torture the creatures even before they know what torture is or that it's wrong.
"But people also have in them the capacity for great love and beauty. A person who's truly bonded with their sword embodies both of these. He or she takes this discontentment of the masses and weaves it with their blade into something beautiful. They remove the guilt from those to weak to create this beauty, and shoulder it all themselves. The soul within their sword forgives them for what they do, because it knows that if they didn't do it, then someone else would - perhaps incompetently and painfully so. Thus this piece of their spirit ensures that the sword is used only when this subtle beauty can be created, and never for petty, bloody pain. Needless grief. This is what a true swordsman feels when they touch a blade. Their soul dances crying out for this beauty, but at the same time it warns against what can happen if the metal is used wrongly. That is what I mean when I say that a sword can decide for itself."
Rogue sat for a moment. The words had come so easily, almost as if she weren't speaking them herself, but rather being used as a mouthpiece for a higher power. She wasn't so verbose, but had heard her own voice reel off articulately exactly what it meant to hold and use a sword. She'd surprised herself, but still the words had come. Like water trickling down a stream, swelling to become the ocean. Deep and unfathomable.
It was a few moments before she even realised that with her conclusion silence had descended upon the world. A deathly hush.
Rogue opened one eye, and saw both Kitty and Kurt staring at her, incredulity and awe clearly etched into their twin gazes. She was slightly taken aback by this, and opened her other eye in surprise.
"That was...." Kitty started, then stopped.
"I've never heard it put that way before, Frauline," Kurt supplied. "I always just thought of a sword as a killing implement. It never occurred to me that it could be anything else."
Rogue was suddenly struck by ineloquence, and verbally fumbled, her previous fluency deserting her in the face of their open-mouthed shock. "Yeah, well, it can and it is," she said harshly.
"Does that, like, mean that part of *your* soul is in *this* sword?" Kitty held it up so that the last remnants of sunlight flashed off its steely surface.
The reflection dived into Rogue's eyes and she squinted, momentarily blinded. All at once the tête-à-tête became a little too personal for the ex-assassin, and she lunged forward to grab her sword from Kitty's fingers.
"None of your damn business, shrimp!"
Kitty squeaked and shuffled sideways, away from her. Kurt took the opportunity to leap from where he stood onto the trunk of the oak and scuttle into its branches. He disappeared from view, the only signal of his presence being several assorted birds that fluttered into the air when he bounded past their roost.
The moment of affinity was gone. The temporary peace between the trio dissipated, leaving only one scared Changeling and a grumpy ex-assassin sitting opposite each other as the heat of the evening began to cool into night around them.
Rogue got to her feet, sheathing her much-talked-about sword with a metallic 'snikt' and tossing her cloak carelessly behind her.
"Time to bed down," She declared. "Half-pint, up the tree. Now."
"But...." Kitty protested. However, one look at Rogue's transmuted expression and the objection died in her throat.
Steeling herself, the younger girl also rose and began her shaky ascent of the tree. It wasn't so difficult. Years of aging had created many bumps and pits in the bark which served as suitable holds for her fingers and feet, but still her progress was slow, owing to her - albeit, not as bad as it had been - fear of heights. Her trepidation wasn't as pronounced as before. After the loftiness of the Elevada tree, the Oak seemed spindly and undersized, but it still emerged from her subconscious just enough to cause her some anxiety and restrict her advancement to a steady crawl.
When she reached the lower branches a furry blue hand jutted out to take her own.
"Here, Kätzchen, I'll help you." Kurt pulled her up to sit next to him on a sturdy bough. She wobbled a bit, but remained upright. "I've found the perfect place for you to sleep," he told her, and together they inched along to where the very top of the trunk splayed out into the tree's many branches.
Here, two particularly thick boughs had sprouted at right angles from one-another, fashioning a kind of hollow between them. It was just the right size to comfortably contain a curled up human - or Changeling, as the case may be.
Kurt stayed long enough to see Kitty safely settled, and then scampered up onto a glorified twig some way above that was to be his bed.
Rogue swung easily up into the Oak's leafy clinch, and pointedly chose a spot quite some distance away from the other two. She shoved herself into it, ignoring the fact that it was actually quite uncomfortable, and mollifying her protesting body with the thought that at least she didn't have to spend any more time with those two little annoying inconveniences. Once again, her second of compassion had surrendered to the ice-queen exterior.
Kurt turned over, jostling hither and thither, trying to get comfortable. A voice floated up from where its owner was concealed by the foliage below.
"Hey, Kurt, like, stop fidgeting. You're, like, raining leaves and dirt all over me."
"Sorry, Katzchen," he apologised. "I'm just trying to get comfy. Es ist hard on a branch as thin as this one."
"Then like, choose a thicker branch," she reasoned commonsensically.
Kurt's answer filtered through the shuddering flora: "Are you kidding? I have this habit that, if the branch is bigger than me, I tend to roll off it in the night. Sehr unbequem."
Kitty rolled her eyes. "Well can you like, get settled soon? I don't really appreciate the shower. Plus, I think you're *moulting*! There's loads of fur mixed with these leaves, and it *tickles*!"
"Perhaps it's moulting season for the squirrels?" he offered by way of rationalization.
"*Blue* squirrels?" Kitty suppressed a giggle.
"Well, maybe they're depressed," the reply shot back effortlessly, with all the mischief and fun that she'd come to associate with the elf since they first met.
"Whatever. This stuff itches something awful, though. It's getting in all my clothes and, oh no! Now it's in my hair too!"
"And I'll bet you look lovely with blue streaks, Kleines. Very chic."
"No really, Kurt. I'm scratching like crazy down here. Like, eew! Maybe you have fleas or something."
Kurt looked over the side of his perch, aghast. "Flöhe? Eine was für Idee! What a ridiculous idea, Kätzchen. I only just had a bath."
"Like, whatever. All I know is that your fur is making me itch. Oh man, I'm gonna be like, finding this stuff in my clothes for days now!" Kitty picked clumps of blue fuzz from where they'd floated onto her undyed woollen dress and greasy brown tresses.
Absently she removed the scrap of fabric holding her ponytail in place - which had become rather lop-sided of late - and ran her fingers through her hair to remove it, grimacing at the dust and assorted grime that shook out as she did so. Cleanliness wasn't as important to her as it patently was to Kurt, but it still bothered her to be *that* filthy.
She touched the bald spot on her crown, wincing slightly because the skin there was still raw. The cool air acted like a balm upon it, so she decided to leave her hair loose and allow the burn some time to breathe.
Turning over, she curled into a cosy ball, idly playing with a greasy strand in her mouth before realising what she was doing and spitting it out. "Blech!"
"Kätzchen, are you alright?" Kurt sounded worried at the vomiting noises she was making. But it wasn't the Changeling who answered him.
"Will y'all just shut up and go to sleep! Shrimp, quit your complaining. Fuzzy, stop moving 'afore I cut off your tail and use it as a new belt!" Rogue glowered in their general direction, despite the fact that they couldn't see her.
The tone of her voice was like an instant sedative, and the tree's occupants feel into quiescence in an instant. Rogue's facial muscles relaxed a smidgen, and she leaned back for some, as she classed it, well-deserved rest.
Yet sleep evaded her for quite some time, and even when her eyelids did begin to droop, an errant thought darted about her brain, invading her space and refusing to be quelled until she noticed it. It was difficult not to, and no matter how valiantly Rogue tried, she found herself confronted with this unwelcome notion at every mental turn. It preyed upon her, as does a wolf upon hapless sheep. Flying around and encircling her psyche in a tight grasp. Choking her like some rapid, cloying weed.
A sword is an assassin's spirit. His or her very soul in corporeal form.
But she was no longer a member of the Guild that held such belief. She could no longer call herself a true assassin. She was an outcast, shunned by her own kind. She was The Rogue.
Did that mean she had no soul?
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To Be Continued....
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*TRANSLATIONS*
GERMANIC:
'Tadellos' - Perfectly
'Hören Sie' - listen
'Können Sie das hören?' - Can you hear that?
'Sehr unbequem' - Very uncomfortable
'Kleines' - Little one
'Flöhe?' - Fleas?
'Eine was für Idee!' - What an idea!
WARNINGS: This is an AU (Alternative Universe) fic. Everything has been transplanted into a fantasy universe of my creation. Inspirations, despite what you might initially think, aren't actually from a certain Peter-Jackson-esque film, since I started work on this before I ever *saw* that movie. Influences rather include InterNutter's spiffy fic 'Mein Teuful' (if you haven't yet read this then go do it *now*!) and various other sources I'll explain later.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm sorry this chapter took so long, but university is very time consuming and I've been finding it difficult putting time aside to tweak this fic into a presentable shape. Plus, I've been more than a little sidetracked by InterNutter's Bulletin Board and sketching illustrations for various fics both therein and elsewhere. Anyway, I won't bore you with my hard luck story. Here is the sixth instalment for your entertainment. Read, review, and let me know what you think. Illustrations for this fic are still very, *very* welcome, especially as my birthday is coming up soon (hint hint ::cough cough:: presents for Scribbler). Advanced warning is such a wonderful thing. ;)
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'Of Beast And Blade' By Scribbler
Chapter Six ~ 'An Assassin's Soul'
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'What the inner voice says will not disappoint the hoping soul.' -- Johann Friedrich Von Schiller
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It is said that corruption is a state of mind. A mode that people fall into when tugged in the right direction. Circumstances, situations, surroundings, all serve to mould individuals into certain forms. Certain personalities.
Yet in this way, the question might be asked, is it the circumstances that corrupt the person, or is it the person who corrupts their circumstances? All humans hold a seed of evil within their hearts. How else would they be able to recognise good in the world if they don't first have some experience of the bad. Contentment springs from iniquity, and happiness blossoms into the prettiest bloom when planted in the garden of transgression.
Some places, however, are corrupt right from the moment of construction. It is in their very fabric. Their being. In the stones that hold them up, the light that illuminates their darkened rooms, the fires that warm their open spaces. Everything about them drips vice, and everything in them breathes wickedness. Such places are rare, but not unheard of. And where they do exist, they breed discontent, malice and violence the way that a dead body breeds maggots.
Belvedere was one such place.
The name was ironic. An old Österrikan word for freedom. If there was anything that didn't exist at Belvedere, it was freedom.
You could feel it the moment you walked in through the wrought iron gates. It was a huge complex, made up of a great stone castle surrounded by enough walled-in space to comfortably hold several towns.
Yet the people there - mostly soldiers - all seemed discontented. Probably because of the terrible conditions they were forced to live in. The only way they knew of the change in seasons at that far-removed place was the difference in ailments contracted from conditions in their barracks. Winter consisted of starvation and frostbite, whilst Summer was time for weeping sores and blisters from days long marches around their extensive compound.
Some were voluntary soldiers, but the majority had been conscripted from defeated nations. The only reason a revolt hadn't occurred before now was the unimaginable control their master had over them. The paranormal removal of their free will.
Yet this in itself was only part of their torment, for as well as losing their independence they were also all consigned to remain conscious, helpless spectators in their own bodies as their master decided what they should do with their lives. Most of these men awaited death with open arms, anticipating the release from the living hell of mortal form.
Their eyes followed anyone who entered Belvedere, jealously noting the ease with which their master's 'guests' moved. Watching, and wanting their liberty with envious eyes.
To all this, their 'master' was indifferent. He knew of their pain - how could he not? He was the one who knowingly inflicted it upon them with his magic - yet he didn't care. Some said he enjoyed it. A small amount of entertainment on his endless quest for power.
At this moment, however, entertainment was the last thing on his mind.
The Silver Sword sat on his throne, idly clicking long fingers on one arm, his other hand supporting his head in silent contemplation.
It wasn't an attractive throne, as most rulers seem to favour. Rather, it had been crafted with the sole intent of seeming imposing, and giving anyone seated in it an air of supremacy and intimidation. With it's huge, black wrought iron back covered in intricately woven strands of steel, and protruding arms that ended in burnished copper fashioned into two snarling dragon faces, it certainly did its job. Not that the Silver Sword needed it to seem imposing.
He was a tall man, whose stature instantly dwarfed anyone who stood near to him. Yet even if his physical form had been smaller, the aura that surrounded him would have been enough to daunt the most powerful of warriors. An intangible force encased the man. Some inexorable sense of refined savagery, buried beneath a want for power and control. As dictators before him, his quest for command over others seeped out of his skin, infecting the air around him with its caustic inexplicability and craving.
Yet unlike those before him, the Silver Sword wanted more than just power over lands and peoples. He wanted complete and ultimate authority. The kind that can only be achieved by magic. The kind that, once tasted, turns into a hunger than cannot, and will never, be fulfilled, but which the one afflicted with it will move mountains to possess.
Such was the lot of this once-apothecary's apprentice, who, in the shaded rooms of his employer's humble shop, first savoured the dregs of sorcery and found it to his liking. Consequently he wanted more. And more. And more. Until finally, the little shop could no longer support his voracious appetite, and he'd moved on to pastures new. Then again when he'd exhausted that resource, and again and again, until finally on his travels he happened upon an old ruin in Österrik.
Using his wealth of accumulated magical knowledge, he rebuilt the construction until it was better than new, and embarked upon his current pursuit of power, and the ensuing specialized magical knowledge his numerous conquests brought with them. As a result of his conquests, he'd acquired the new name of 'Silver Sword'. An identity he found much to his liking.
The room in which his throne stood was large and spacious, sparsely furnished with echoing ceilings onto which had been carved elaborate, if gory, depictions of ancient legends. Around the room were several suits of armour, each polished until they shone.
Stretching from the feet of the dais on which the throne rested to the door at the far end was a long, red and gold carpet imported from the Far East. The entire set-up gave off an air of luxury and rulership.
The effect was lost, however, on the Silver Sword. He sat, angrily tapping his fingers, brow knitting as he dwelt on some private thought. So absorbed was he that he didn't appear to hear the large doors creak open, or the small figure come scurrying in. In fact, it was only when the said figure knelt before him and tactfully cleared his throat that his eyes lost their glazed look and he finally noticed what was going on around him.
He stared down at the man. Brown robes with a green belt. One of his scholars then. Irritably he wondered what the little pest could want.
"Yes?" his voice boomed around the chamber, but the irked edge to it wasn't lost.
The man nervously cleared his throat again. "My liege, please, forgive me, but I have news."
"What news?" asked the seated man impatiently; "You know I don't like to be disturbed when I'm thinking."
"I.... I'm aware of that, your majesty, but.... but I.... I thought.... You might wish to know what I and my contemporaries have discovered."
The Silver sword sighed. ~Silly, stuttering fool. Might as well indulge him, I suppose. If I don't like his 'news' then I can always kill him. Plenty more where he came from.~
"Speak your piece, Scholar...."
"Scholar Kelly, milord."
"Fine. Proceed." The taller man waved a careless hand at the quivering scholar to continue.
Scholar Kelly gulped, sweat beading his brow. Why oh why had he been chosen to do this? He hadn't even been the one to make this damn discovery. Why was *he* the one who had to show his lordship their findings and risk his wrath? Why?
"What seems to be the problem?" questioned the Silver Sword, a dangerous sharpness to his tone.
"Nothing!" Kelly replied hastily. Still kneeling, but raising his head slightly, the flustered academic blurted; "My lordship knows of the Texts of Calorsiel?"
The Texts of Calorsiel? The Silver Sword frowned. Yes, he knew of them. Those parchments and their accursed prophecy had plagued him for months. It seemed, from what his previous scholars had translated and deciphered from them, that they referred to his own rapid rise to ultimate power, but also his crushing defeat at the hands of some 'saviour'.
Several scholars had been sacrificed to his wrath before he finally accepted the truth contained within that accursed prediction, and he'd been swift to set those remaining on the task of discovering who was to defeat him, that he might destroy them first and rid himself of any potential threat to his rule.
"Of course I know of them. Do you think me a fool?"
"No, no milord. Not at all," Scholar Kelly stumbled on his words, anxious not to offend the powerful ruler. "I... I only meant.... that our discovery concerns the prophecy. I.... I have here.... some papers you may find interesting...." he fumbled with the folds of his robe, trying to extract a rolled up scroll from a cloth purse attached to the green belt at his waist.
At the mention of a 'discovery' the Silver Sword's attention pricked up. He sat straighter in his throne, gesturing for the weedy man to climb the steps of the platform and show him his find. Scholar Kelly did so, stumbling slightly, and still pulling the scroll free of its bindings upon reaching his master's side.
"H.... here, Majesty." He thrust it reverently at the imposing figure, bending his head and avoiding those piercing eyes in a manner that befitted servitude.
The Silver Sword ran his gaze over the parchment. It was a full translation of the Texts of Calorsiel written in modern Common. He'd read it a thousand times before, each time trying to figure out for himself what it meant, and each time failing and having to resort to scholars to explain its deeper meaning. Still, again he read it. And, yet again, it made little sense.
"This is what you wanted to show me?" he demanded. "I've seen these accursed words more than I wish to already. If you are toying with me...." he left the threat hanging in mid-air.
"No, no, Lordship," Kelly hurriedly replied, "It's just that.... well.... we've found that there were some....um....mistakes made in the original translation you were given."
"Mistakes?" The Silver Sword peered closer at this new copy of the texts. "Explain yourself. And I warn you, be swift, or...."
"Well.... you see, milord," Scholar Kelly indicated to a line of black scrawl, carefully and methodically printed so as not to smudge the parchment. "It.... it concerns this sentence here."
"'Demons shall join the Jinrui, and salvation shall come from the heart of the Pehora,'" his master recited, "Yes? What about them?"
"Well, it.... the texts clearly state that a saviour will come to.... to dethrone you. This sentence refers directly to this, but we didn't understand its true meaning until now."
"Excuse me?"
Scholar Kelly licked his lips. "The words 'Jinrui' and 'Pehora'. Your scholars originally thought of these as ancient words used by Calorsiel that they had no translation for. *We* have found that this isn't the case at all. In actual fact, they belong to a language called Gehín."
"The language of the Guild of Assassins."
"Yes, milord. Gehín is in itself an ancient language. It.... its structure hasn't changed for millennia. The form used today is the same as the form used over a thousand years ago during the time of Calorsiel himself, so.... so if you translate these words into modern Common, you can properly understand what he meant."
The Silver Sword's attention was now well and truly snagged. "And what *do* they mean?"
"Well, Lordship, 'Jinrui' is Gehín for 'mankind', and 'Pehora' means 'three'."
The larger man glanced back at the scroll in his hand and reread the sentence, adding in these alterations: "Demons shall join mankind, and salvation shall come from the heart of the three.' Ach, it still makes no sense."
"Oh, but it does milord," Scholar Kelly amended, and then became flustered as his master shot him a hazardous look for daring to correct him. "Um.... what I mean is.... oh dear...."
"Well? Speak up, man. What *does* it mean?"
Scholar Kelly swallowed the sizable lump that had appeared in his throat. ~If I get out of here alive, then I'm going to kill the ones who sent me to do this!~ he vowed.
"You see, Majesty, the fact that the prophecy contains words from such a secretive and elusive language would seem to indicate that this 'saviour' will originate from the Guild of Assassins itself."
"And how does that help me? There are many assassins in the Guild. How am I to know which one will challenge me?" The Silver Sword snapped.
"Um.... I.... the thing is.... oh dear.... Well, you see this phrase here, 'The unwilling turncoat,' it's not difficult to conceive that it refers to this 'saviour' as well. If that is indeed the case, then.... um.... you're privy to the politics of the Guild more than I since they joined with you, milord. Have there been any.... um.... outcasts lately?"
The Silver Sword said nothing for a moment. Then: "Yes. But surely you know of it too. Haven't you heard of The Rogue of The Guild of Assassins?"
"N... no, Lordship. In our chambers, we scholars.... we hear little of the outside world," Scholar Kelly gulped. "Not that I'm complaining of course, oh no, I wouldn't do something as audacious as that...."
"Cease your babbling, fool!" He was silenced at these abrupt words. "Yes there has been an out-casting made by the Guild recently. What significance does this play in the prophecy?"
"It's probable that this 'Rogue' of which you speak is to be champion who will vanquish you. Or try to, anyway, milord," Scholar Kelly gabbled.
There was silence for a moment. Strained, tense silence. Scholar Kelly risked a glance at his master, and saw that the older man was staring quiescently into space, a thoughtful expression playing about his face. Then, quite suddenly, a smile curved his thin lips into a malicious grin.
"Well, well. The plot thickens," he chuckled. It was not a nice sound, and Scholar Kelly shivered despite himself.
"There.... there is more, milord."
The Silver Sword's head whipped around: "What?"
"Um.... there was another mistake in the translation. In the passage where Calorsiel.... you see.... here...." he pointed to another section of text, and once again the Silver Sword read it aloud.
"'It is she who will begin all and begin new.' Yes, that would seem to refer to The Rogue as my would-be vanquisher."
"But it doesn't, my Lordship."
"Pardon?"
"That's the inaccuracy. It doesn't refer to a 'she' coming to defeat you. That's the mistake the original translators made. The ancient word for 'she' is incredibly similar to the ancient word for 'they'. In light of the true meaning of 'Pehora' it would seem that there are three champions who will attempt to overthrow you. One of them will be from the Guild of Assassins, and the other two will be travelling with her."
"So, am I to understand that instead of one enemy to destroy, I am to deal with *three*?" The Silver Sword clarified.
"Y.... yes, milord. That's right. Three."
The Silver Sword laughed. Scholar Kelly blinked at the unearthly sound. It was well known that his master had altered himself through use of magic to become more powerful, but the noise that now escaped his mouth made it seem like he had been possessed by an evil spirit, who now unleashed the tortures screams of all Seven Hells through his mortal mouth. It was terrifying, and caused his blood to run cold with incomprehensible fear.
"But that's *wonderful* news," his master grinned.
"Wonderful milord?"
"Yes. Don't you see? They're all together, and I can destroy them at once rather than picking them off one by one. They're actually making my job easier for me. In fact, I don't even have to destroy all of them. If one of them dies then the prophecy can never be fulfilled."
"But.... but I don't understand, Majesty. They could be anywhere in the realms - "
"No. I know exactly where The Rogue is going. She's coming here. To Belvedere."
Scholar Kelly was confused, and it showed in his face: "To Belvedere, milord? Why would she do that?"
"Because I have something she wants," he laughed again. Scholar Kelly's blood turned to ice in his heart. "Do you know what's even more amusing?"
"N.... no, milord."
"The Guild have already sent their finest assassins after her to execute her under Guild law. And do you know whom they've sent? None other than Emilios the Savage."
"Emilios the Savage?" Scholar Kelly remembered Emilios. The hate-filled little man who'd come to Belvedere a few months ago. He'd been the first to test out the scientists' new 'enhancement machines' in return for a favour he'd done the Silver Sword himself, and had left a changed man - literally.
He shuddered. No person could ever hope to survive if Emilios was on his or her trail. No-one! "Then she is lost already. Her companions too."
"Not necessarily. I have.... inside knowledge that The Rogue is a very resourceful girl. I don't doubt that she's evaded her captors, and is probably not too far away from here, either." The Silver Sword tapped his chin. "No, I can see that *I* will have to deal with these three 'champions' myself. And I know just how to do it, too. Stand aside, man." He rose to his feet, full imposing height becoming apparent. Scholar Kelly trembled, skipping sideways as his master blew past and shoved the scroll back into his hands.
"Milord?"
"Return to your chambers, scholar. I have no more need of you at present. Be off, before I grow tired of you and have your head served on a platter for entertainment."
Scholar Kelly's eyes goggled at this callous statement, and he scuttled down from the dais and out through a little-used side exit into the servants' passageways.
Once safely out of the throne room, he closed the door and leaned backwards on it, letting a relieved sigh escape his dry lips. He'd made it. He'd survived an audience with the Silver Sword. He smiled, a small, triumphant smile.
"Hey, Kelly. Whatcha lookin' so darn happy 'bout?"
The voice dragged him out of him mental reprieve, and he pulled back tired lids to see a young girl dressed in the same robes as himself and carrying a mound of bulky scrolls under both arms. She cocked her head at him, greasy brown hair covering half of her face and a curious twinkle in her one visible eye.
"That's *Scholar* Kelly to you, and I'll have you know that I've just had an audience with the Silver Sword himself, thank you very much," he raised his nose snootily at her, trepidation rapidly disintegrating without his master there to reinforce it.
"Didja wet yerself in fear?" she asked playfully. Kelly looked aghast at such a suggestion.
"No I did not! How dare you imply - "
She darted away, giggling. "Hey, keep yer hair on, Kelly. I wuz only kiddin' ya. Come on, I gotta get back to the chambers with these 'ere scrolls, an' I'll bet that's where your headed too."
"I might be," Scholar Kelly sniffed, "But I wouldn't want to travel with someone...." However, his words tailed off, for the young girl was already gone.
Sighing, Kelly stuffed his own scroll back into its cloth holder and made his way back to the dank, dismal rooms that served as his home and workplace combined. He muttered as he went, words lost in the shadows. Eaten up by the murk surrounding him.
"Wet myself indeed. In my day, we had a little more respect for our elders. How dare she imply that I, Scholar Kelly, would sink so low as to soil myself in front of His Majesty. It's unthinkable... absolutely unthinkable."
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The Silver Sword had no such qualms about travelling companions. Nobody was impudent enough to travel with him unless invited, and he strode through the winding main corridors of Belvedere without so much as a passing glance at those he came across along the way. Most of them darted into rooms and doorways as he went by. To get in the way of the Silver Sword was to sign one's own death warrant.
The majority were all slaves, at any rate, with enchantments over them that caused their feet to move aside of their own accord at his approach. They cowered in anterooms, waiting for him to pass so that they might once again reclaim their limbs as their own.
To all this he was blind. He had his own destination and criteria in mind, and nothing deterred him from something when he'd set his mind to it. That was how he'd become so powerful. He never left his enemies standing. When it seemed they were defeated, he always dealt the final finishing blow. Mercy was a word that didn't grace his vocabulary. An unknown concept.
At last he reached his goal. A small, rarely used wooden door leading to what had once been the cellars. They'd long since been moved to another level of the castle, leaving this space to be utilized as he saw fit. He slid open the wooden bar and strode confidently down the stone steps beyond.
About half way down the pitch black shadows framing the stairway suddenly invaded it, rendering him blind. Without so much as batting an eyelid, the daunting man raised one hand and muttered a string of alien-sounding words. Instantly his palm flared into life, as a glowing ball of light detached itself from his pale skin to float in the air. It sped ahead of him, twittering madly and guiding his way with its ethereal illumination. He followed, face impassive.
In the very bowels of the castle he found what he sought. The cellars had been extensive, and taken up a lot of room below the surface of Belvedere. Now they were filled with something else. Strange shimmery cuboids lined the walls and spread across the damp floor, each as tall as four fully-grown men and glowing with a faint blue luminescence. They lit the chamber with their ghostly light, but not enough to merit the absence of the twittering Floatlight.
As he descended the steps, a figure detached itself from the gloom and headed towards him.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
"It's me, Gerris," he replied.
The Floatlight flew forwards and shone its light on the figure's face. A young man of about twenty winters stood there, brown hair mussed and forming troughs and peaks haphazardly across his skull, and a few days worth of stubble on his jaw. He peered into the gloom, hazel eyes widening in surprise at his visitor.
"Oh, it's you, your Lordship. What brings you to the Menagerie?"
"I have a job in mind, Gerris, and I know you have just the creature to carry it out for me."
Gerris grinned: "I'll bet I do, sir. Just tell me which one you want and I'll prepare it for you."
The Silver Sword stepped forward, brushing past the youth and leaving him to follow behind.
If the Silver Sword had one failing, it was his penchant for exotic beasts. Hence, he'd converted the old cellars into a huge menagerie for mythical and unusual creatures usually consigned solely to fairy tales, legends and distant continents. He'd taken great pains to seek these elusive creatures out, hunting and capturing them and bringing them here that he might gaze upon them and admire them at his leisure. It seemed that his want for control did not limit itself to humanoid activities.
Gerris was the keeper of these beasts, and knew more about them than any scholar or archivist who catalogued their exploits as written in ancient texts. Despite his relatively young age, he was an experienced man, and you would be hard pushed to find anyone in all the realms more capable of handling an animal crisis.
The magical spells woven by the Silver Sword and used as enclosures negated the creatures' magical attacks and kept them from harming anybody who chose to view them, but Gerris still knew all about the individual abilities of each of his charges. He knew the extent of their capabilities, the signs that signalled when they were about to attack, what food they preferred, which were best to be kept together, almost everything there was to know. In fact, it was said that if Gerris didn't know something about a beast, then it just wasn't worth knowing.
The two men made their way across the interlocking chambers in the semi-dark, the Floatlight guiding their way and punctuating the silence that stretched between them with its incessant chirping.
They passed many glowing cube enclosures as they went. A griffon paced angrily from side to side in one, growling softly to itself and raking its formidable claws across the ground in bored fury. In the next a trio of satyrs sat dolefully, scuffing the dusty floor with their hooves and bleating their displeasure at being cooped up. Further along a huge Hippogriff raised itself on its hind legs at the sight of the man who'd imprisoned it, its deafening roars muffled by the magical cerulean barrier separating them. A little further on another enclosure seemed to be completely filled with water, and a soulful mermaid floated flaccidly in its clear depths, drifting golden hair her only movement.
Yet none of these interested the Silver Sword. He knew exactly which animal he wanted, and made a beeline for an isolated cube in the far corner. Gerris struggled to keep up with the pace set by his considerably longer legs, and when he reached the enclosure his master was already staring intently into it.
It contained the beast he was most proud of; one of his first captures many years ago, and he'd carted it around with him when he moved on from places - before he found Belvedere - unwilling to release it as he'd been forced to do with other creatures when he changed location. This beast, however, was just too rare to be cast aside like some common troll or sprite. This beast was the pièce de résistance of his collection. He peered almost lovingly at it.
Two bright green eyes glared at him out of the gloom enshrouding its magical cage. Although it was encased in thick, near impregnable shadow, a shift in the creature's muscles signalled where it lay, legs coiled beneath its massive body in a false stance of relaxation. An air of hidden savagery, like the veiled poise of a tiger waiting to strike, was lavished upon this beast. It's blue-black hide merged with the darkness, but its emerald eyes blazed liquid hatred at the man who had dared to remove its liberty. Almost feline jaws parted in a silent snarl, and rows of wickedly jagged teeth glittered truculently in the Floatlight's reflected gleam.
The little glowing ball uttered a soft squeak and darted behind Gerris, plunging the enclosure into opaque darkness once more.
A short laugh exited the Silver sword's mouth.
"How soon can you ready him?" he asked.
Gerris looked hard at his lord and master. "Are you sure, sir? He's not exactly the most reliable. Wouldn't you prefer a more dependable creature? A nice Hippogriff perhaps - "
"I want *this* one," the taller man didn't break his gaze away from his prize, but his voice dropped to a low whisper; "Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal, sir. I'll get the portal ready to send him out, any particular target?"
"I'll input the target myself when I say the incantation to activate the portal," he replied. "Just do your job and ready him, Gerris."
"As you command, milord." The keeper made to go, but was stopped in his tracks as the silky voice slithered after him.
"Oh, and Gerris. Don't ever question me again. You're not indispensable, you know."
Gerris gulped; "Yes, sir," and hurried away as fast as he could without alerting the capricious lord's attention.
Yet he need not have worried. The Silver Sword was utterly captivated by the contents of the dark enclosure. He gawped at it like it was the only thing in the universe, and all other things were worthless and extraneous compared to it.
For its part, the mysterious creature only growled and bared its fangs at him. It did not share his love, and returned it only with naked hatred. Years of living this life of incarceration in a cage that disallowed it to live its life to the fullest had allowed its odium to grow exponentially, and had anyone been foolish enough to venture into its pen - be it Silver Sword or no - it would have gladly vented its loathing and ripped them to shreds in an instant. And it was this very naked hate that the Silver Sword was counting on.
He stroked the shimmery wall, cooing to it like a baby in a deceptively gentle tone that few ever heard from him without losing their lives shortly afterwards.
"Soon, my precious. Soon you shall have blood. And then we will both be happy. They won't know what's hit them. Soon, kitten. Yes, soon."
*******************
"But I'm *tired*!"
Rogue stalked on ahead, doing her best to ignore Kitty's incessant whining. Kurt hung back, trotting alongside the exhausted Changeling.
"Come on, Kätzchen. It can't be that bad," he soothed.
"'Bad'? It's worse than 'bad'. My feet are killing me, I have blisters on my blisters, my joints are stiff and my stomach hasn't quit growling for, like, hours!" Kitty moaned. "Like, when are we gonna stop, already?"
It had been three days since they escaped from Zanninsa, and the trio of unusual companions had rested little since their night in the Elevada tree. Rogue was still very much in command, and short snatches of sleep were all she allowed, and only when absolutely necessary and suitable cover was available.
Kitty, however, with her usual verbosity was the most outspoken against this lack of relaxation time, and often let them know in not so many words. Now was one such occasion.
"Hello? Are you, like, even listening to me?" she called. Rogue gritted her teeth.
"Shhh, Kätzchen," Kurt held one thick finger to his lips; "She's just as tired as we are. Don't rile her, please."
"If she's so, like, tired then why haven't we, like, stopped yet, huh?" Kitty retorted. "And besides, I'm hungry too. When are we gonna eat? Or is that like, not necessary either?"
"Now Kätzchen...." Kurt attempted to mollify her again.
"Don't you 'now Kätzchen' me, Kurt," the brown haired girl snapped. "I've just about had it up to here with all this walking, and marching, and more walking, and more marching - "
"Will you just *shut* *up*!" Rogue whirled round, her face a mask of anger beneath the deep folds of her hood. "When will you get it through your thick skull that when I say keep going I say it for a *reason*? 'I'm tired' 'mah tootsies hurt' 'mah belly aches', complain, complain, complain, that's all you ever do! I oughta cut out your tongue to make you silent!"
"Rogue," Kurt focused his golden eyes on her.
"What? You're her friend. Tell her to quit yapping and keep walking."
"Rogue."
"All day and all night. It's never ending with her. Yap, yap, yap."
"Rogue."
"She sounds like a magpie in a treasury. Twittering nineteen to the dozen. Yackety, yackety, yackety, yak - "
"*Rogue*!"
She ceased her avalanche of remonstrations and insults long enough to bark; "*What*?"
"Kitty has a point. We *have* been walking for days without a rest, and it *has* been quite some time since we've eaten. Far be it for me to tell you what to do, but we need to halt for more than a few minutes soon or we'll just be putting days on our journey when one of us falls ill from exhaustion." He gazed at her, asking her to relent and see his line of reasoning.
Rogue did, albeit grudgingly. The compassion she'd showed when talking with him had been temporary, and no sooner had their feet touched the ground then she'd resumed her savage aloofness. The ice-queen persona had fallen easily into place, and she became The Rogue again. Cold. Unfathomable. Unsociable.
"Oh, all right. If it'll shut you two up. But only if we find some protection first." She turned to continue on through the seemingly endless forest. "And I'm warning y'all. One more word and I'll gut you and leave you here for the wolves to deal with. Do I make mahself clear?"
"Tadellos. Come along, Kätzchen." Kurt started after her and gestured that Kitty should follow, which she did; grumbling profusely under her breath, but uttering nothing aloud lest Rogue make good on her threat. No matter what covert thoughtfulness she'd shown Kurt, there was no doubt in Kitty's mind that the ex-assassin didn't like her, and only tolerated her continued presence because of him.
They travelled on through the undergrowth, which had become surprisingly thick of late. Fronds of bracken and unidentifiable creepers snaked into their path, creating a veritable barrier of greenery so substantial that Kurt found it impossible to remain on all fours and reverted to walking like a two-legger, tail lashing this way and that as it caught on twigs and plants alike.
At last, he decided against staying on the ground and scuttled trunk of a nearby tree, a cerulean bullet shooting adeptly up its vertical surface, finding grips and footholds where there were none, and leaping nimbly through the branches overhead of his compatriots.
Rogue and Kitty both watched him, flying gracefully through the air, completely in his element. On the ground Kurt seemed gawky and inelegant, but up there, where leaves criss-crossed and boughs reached high up into the very sky itself, he was the most graceful thing imaginable. Daintier than any squirrel, and more fluid in his movements than a stalking cat.
Kitty smiled. A happy smile, as vicariously she soared with him. She was still afraid of heights, but when she saw the furry boy that way, all her fears seemed petty in the face of his patent glee. He seemed so much happier now, as compared to when they first left the city. Much as she hated to admit it, Rogue's little chat had done the trick, and though Kurt wasn't entirely over his mother's abrupt death he was certainly much more at peace with himself.
Rogue observed him with a sort of detached fondness. That is, until she perceived the emotion and hastily buried beneath contempt for his blatant disregard of surreptitiousness.
~Stupid elf!~ she thought, ~Making so much noise. Don't think about that, does he? Too busy enjoying himself to think about such mundane things as safety!~ Yet in spite of her mental complaints, somehow she couldn't bring herself to call him down from his lofty highway. ~You're getting soft, mah girl. You ain't gonna survive five minutes this way. No siree.~
After a time they gradually became aware of a strange sound upon the air. A shushing noise, coupled with faint croaks and murmurings like muted birdcalls. It rode the late-afternoon breeze to their ears, swirling inside and then rushing away again, giggling.
Kurt - who was some way ahead of the girls - bounded down to one of the lower branches and crouched on his belly, awaiting their arrival.
"Hören Sie! Können Sie das hören? Can you hear that?" he asked when they reached him.
Kitty cocked her head to one side. "Yeah. Like, what is that?"
Rogue said nothing.
"Hey, Frauline. Do you know what that strange noise is?" Kurt dangled one hand lazily off his perch as she passed beneath him. The older girl snorted.
"Of course I do. That's the Danub."
"Like, the what?"
Rogue sighed, barely concealed irritation in her voice: "The Danub. Only the biggest river this side of anywhere. Y'all have got to have heard of it."
"I've heard of it, Frauline." Agilely, Kurt shinned further up a tree he was climbing once more, yelling down to them. "I just didn't realise we'd travelled so far already."
"We're making good time," she replied. "Seems my policy of not stopping is working." This last comment was directed over her shoulder at Kitty, who fumed noiselessly, glaring at her cloaked back.
They continued in silence for a few minutes, the sound of the river growing steadily around them. Kitty struggled to keep up with her companions, hitching up her skirts and pushing violently through the scrub. She received several cuts and scratches for her trouble, but eventually caught up with Rogue when the other girl abruptly stopped.
Kurt dropped to the branch just above her head, and together the pair of them stared out across something that as yet evaded the Changeling's line of sight.
"Like, what's up?" Kitty asked breathlessly. Neither said a word, but Kurt glanced down at her. Soundlessly he raised one furry arm and pointed away from them. Kitty hurried over, drawing level with Rogue and gasped at what she saw.
The mightiest river ever imaginable stretched before them, wide and brimming with crystalline waters of the purest blue, tinted here and there with verdant green. It shimmered in the sunlight, glinting as a diamond might do when placed under intense light. It was at least sixty feet across, and the far shore seemed distant and remote. Truly an awe-inspiring sight to someone whose previous experience of rivers was just a muddy trickle that barely passed as a brook.
Kitty was flabbergasted. Her mouth opened and closed in the manner of a beached fish, and for a few minutes she simply stared, all minor injuries and discomforts forgotten in the face of such natural grandeur and magnificence.
At last, she managed to choke out a single utterance, and it rasped from her throat, summarizing what each of them felt yet none of them could put into words: "Like, wow!"
Her voice jolted Rogue from her musings. The ex-assassin had seen the river before, several times in fact, but it still evoked in her a sense of wonder, of unimportance in nature's great plan for the world. Still, her conjecture was abruptly shattered by the younger female's inarticulate murmur.
"Welcome to the Danub," she said, before striding down the embankment towards the river's edge.
Kurt leapt to the ground after her, having no trees to travel through at the water's edge. He paused long enough for Kitty to stop staring and join him, and together they trailed after the imposing figure.
Rogue halted at the grassy rim. Her cloak billowed around her like it was alive, twisting and turning on the breeze in a swarthy display of acrobatics. She frowned out of her cowl at the water.
"It's too deep to cross here," she surmised after a while. "The current's moving too fast. We'd be swept away before you could say 'Plechtoh and Kirkus.'"
"What should we do then?" asked Kurt innocently.
"Follow its course until we find a safer spot," Rogue answered. "If I remember rightly then there's a shallow part not too far from here. It's still quite wide, but not too fast or deep there. Should be a bit easier to swim."
"Excuse me?" Kitty repeated, horror-struck. "Did you just say swim? I can't even, like doggy-paddle! I'll drown in something that big!"
"One can only hope," Rogue retorted, spinning on her heel and walking away from them. Her cloak fluttered behind her, catching Kitty in her face and making her stumble backwards into Kurt. Deftly he steadied her before she could fall into the mud, but she glared resentfully at the retreating girl's discourteous form.
Kurt looked at her, a wry grin twisting his lips. ~If looks could kill,~ he thought to himself. ~Then Rogue and Kätzchen would have murdered and buried each other long before now, and that's a fact.~
They carried on for quite a long way beside the great river. As Rogue had promised, progressively it did become somewhat shallower, and the noise of rushing water became quieter as the current pulling beneath its deceivingly smooth surface became weaker.
At last they happened upon a small copse closer to the bank than the rest of the forest. The section of river at this point was wide yet quite still, and almost completely quiescent. It was here that Rogue terminated her brisk pace.
"We'll stay here tonight," she stated in a tone that disallowed argument. Glancing at the rapidly colouring sky, she added. "If y'all wanna refresh yourselves with the water then you'd best hurry up. We'll be bedding down soon in those trees, and I don't want nobody fidgeting around and climbing about whilst I'm trying to get some shuteye. You hear me?"
"Yes ma'am!" Kurt saluted cheekily, darting down to riverbank to quench his thirst from the cool, clear liquid.
Rogue glared after him, but there was something strange about her eyes. Kitty, slower to react than the hypersensitive elf and thus still near her, saw it. A kind of strained softness, mixed with a resentment that fought potently against its presence there. These two emotions clashed and wrestled silently behind those emerald orbs, waging a war that the Changeling couldn't hope to comprehend, and she almost gasped to see such a mental struggle in the habitually unambiguous and ruthless teen.
Rogue's gaze slid over to her, and instantly all traces of the struggle vanished. "You waiting for something?" she drawled.
"N.... no," said Kitty, more than a little flustered.
"Then why don't you get?" was the callous reply, thrown flippantly into the air, yet swathed in a pitch that made it unmistakable as an order.
Kitty did as she was bid, scurrying dutifully down to the riverbank where Kurt was already crouched, cupping water into his mouth.
Rogue watched them for a second, then turned and strolled up the slight slope towards the copse where she slumped down beside the trunk of an aging Oak, pulling down her hood and resting the back of her skull against its bark.
She sat there for a moment, looking at nothing in particular and thinking about even less. Flies buzzed around her head, but she didn't brush them away. What was the point? They'd only come back.
A sudden notion popped into her head unannounced, and she reached down into her boot and carefully removed Logan's hunting knife. She held it for a moment, gazing at it and tilting it this way and that so that it caught the sun. Idly, she ran a finger down its keen edge, honed to perfection by years of prolific attention. Abruptly she winced, pulling her hand away and staring as a thin line of red appeared on her fingertip. A small globule of blood welled from it and dripped off her flesh into the sparse, spindly grass. It disappeared without trace into the fronds, and she bunched her fist to stop another from falling.
A faint sardonic smile curved her mouth, and she pulled a section of her cloak up and began vigorously cleaning the blade and snarling metal wolverine's head. When she was done she held it up to the dying light again, and it sparkled and glinted like burnished gold. A beautiful, if deadly, spectacle. Replacing it in her boot, she unsheathed her dagger, and then her sword, polishing them until they shone too.
"That's pretty."
Rogue looked up sharply to see the shrimp standing warily a few feet down the slope. A curl of her lip dismissed the girl as not worth her time, and she went back to cleaning her sword.
Undeterred, Kitty cleared her throat and spoke again. "You've cleaned that up real nice."
"What's the matter? Elf abandoned you?"
Kitty looked down, embarrassed. "Nuh-uh. He's just washing in the water. I didn't like to stay because he's, like.... um...." she trailed off.
Rogue looked up again. "He's naked in the river, and the prissy little Changeling was too embarrassed to stay," she deduced. Kitty's cheeks reddened.
"Yeah."
Rogue looked down again, thrusting the fabric of her cloak into the crevice around the ruby embedded in the pommel of her weapon. Dirt had a habit of getting in there. She was still finding dried chimera blood mixed with the everyday dust.
Her face set into an expression of concentration as she skilfully hooked her finger into it and flicked out flakes of black onto the grass. When she was done she blinked, and had the oddest feeling that she was being watched.
Snapping her head up again she perceived that the shrimp was still standing there, looking intently at her. No, not at her, but at the sword in her hands. The younger girl wore a look of curiosity and vague wonderment on her visage as her gaze traced the shape of the blade, taking in its lethal sheen and murderous sharpness with almost hungry blue eyes. So absorbed was she with what she saw that she didn't realise that the watcher had become the watched. That is, until Rogue cleared her throat loudly and twitched the blade to gain her attention.
Kitty blinked and took a step backwards, taking this as a sign that she wasn't wanted and should leave. However, instead of rebuking, Rogue asked: "You ever handled a blade before?"
Kitty verbally stumbled, unused to being talked to unless she was being insulted. "N.... no, never."
"Wanna try it?"
The offer hung between them, bulbous and full of both promise and retribution. For several seconds neither said a word, both as surprised as the other at the unexpected proposal.
Then Kitty scuffed her foot and mumbled: "Wouldn't mind."
Rogue patted the grass beside her, gesturing that she should sit down. Kitty did, albeit guardedly. Rogue held out the sword, handle first. Gingerly she took it, marvelling at how heavy yet manoeuvrable it was. The metal seemed to be riddled with thousands of tiny air-holes like the bones of a bird. Her eyes grew round. You could almost feel the potential power coursing through the metal. Raw, leaping energy just waiting for someone to take it up and release it in battle.
"You like?" asked Rogue.
"Oh yes," replied Kitty, not taking her eyes off the glittering keenness. "It's like.... I can't describe what it feels like. It's as if the metal were, like, alive in my hand, and if I move then it'll be the sword that's, like, in control and not me."
Rogue almost smiled. That was exactly how she'd felt when first given a sword. She remembered how her blood had been sent buzzing within her veins the moment Logan placed the hilt into her waiting hands. It was like nothing on earth. Indescribable.
The feeling had faded over time, after hours of practise and many missions where the beautiful metal became stained. But it was still there. Each time her hand closed about the handle to her own personal blade her veins sang softly of the power flowing through them. Not the power over life and death that the sword brought with it, but the power of control. Of holding your own fate in your own hands and being master of your own destiny.
"To an assassin, the sword is a way of life," she explained softly. "It's not just a tool, but a living extension of oneself."
"Yes," Kitty breathed. "I can believe it." She straightened the blade so that it stood vertical, almost touching her nose. Rogue reached across, and she started, allowing it to fall forwards and bury its tip in the ground.
"I was only gonna say, your grip needs a little work," Rogue snapped.
"I'm sorry." Kitty looked away and made to give the sword back, but Rogue held up her hands and pushed it away again, back into her hands.
"Don't be sorry, just do what I say. Move your hands this way a bit and tighten your grasp just beneath the hilt. That gives you greater freedom of movement, see?"
Kitty shifted her hands, placing one in front of the other and tensing her fingers beneath the jutting metal of the hilt. She nodded, raising it to a vertical position again.
"Yeah, I can, like, totally see what you mean. That's much better." She lowered it again, awe fading from her face a smidgen. "Listen, Rogue. I'm, like.... that is to say.... um.... I'm sorry."
Rogue was taken aback. "Sorry?" she reiterated. "What for?"
"For being, like, a pain in the butt. I know I'm always complaining about stuff and getting on your nerves, but sometimes I just, like, can't help myself."
"Yeah, I'd noticed."
Kitty's cheeks changed colour again. "Yeah, well, I'm sorry. I.... um.... I'm sorry," she finished, unable to properly say what she wanted.
Rogue stared at her. The shrimp, *apologising*? There was no doubt in Rogue's mind that this single Changeling girl was one of the most obnoxious, annoying and completely impossible people she'd ever met. The idea of her actually acting contritely was so unthinkable as to be almost ridiculous.
Her green eyes narrowed suspiciously. Was this some sort of trick to throw her off her guard? If so, then she was going to be *really* sorry later. Nobody fools The Rogue and lives to tell the tale.
Oh lighten up! Admonished her almost-conscience. How could she double cross you? She's wanted as your accomplice now, where would she go if you were gone? The kid's on the level. Stop being so mistrustful for once and take her word for it.
~You remember what happened last time I trusted someone,~ she mentally reminded it.
And that's exactly why you're going to Belvedere, it replied. But that's not the shrimp's fault.
~I don't wanna be abandoned again.~
Psychologically, she jolted. It had slipped out so easily, yet she'd been ignoring it for so long. Abandonment. Being deserted. Something that had stalked her mind since before she became an outcast, back when *he* was still with her. Before he left to find out. To know. To seek the answers she couldn't help him to find.
He'd left her all alone, and she'd set up the walls to keep everybody out. To stop the pain from happening again. Until this very moment she hadn't even acknowledged why she'd done it, but now it preyed upon her brain, driving itself into the crannies of her thoughts until she could ignore it no longer.
Her almost conscience spoke softly inside her head. Listen, it said, the elf and the shrimp have followed you even though you've been absolutely foul to them. The elf genuinely seems to like you, and now the shrimp - who blatantly doesn't - is apologising for being a pain. Not many people are big enough to do that, so you'd better just accept what she's doing as true and try to accept that sometimes people aren't going to betray you like he did.
~I don't wanna risk being left again,~ she whimpered in a manner that would have astounded any who could have heard it. ~Not after last time.~
And you won't be. Just trust, OK? Just trust.
~Trust? Trust is worthless. Trust gets you killed.~
No, it replied, trust only kills loneliness. But if you don't trust, then the loneliness will only kill you.
Kitty was beginning to think she'd said the wrong thing until Rogue abruptly stirred and muttered a quick; "S'alright."
The Changeling sighed in relief as her apology was tersely accepted. She hadn't anticipated Rogue saying much, so this offhand receipt was gratefully received. She'd half been expecting yet more rejection from the brusque girl, but something about the conflicting way she'd looked at Kurt earlier had made her take a chance and offer this sort-of treaty between them. A little flame of gladness lit up inside Kitty's chest at the lack of what she'd experienced most of her life. Acceptance.
"Thanks."
"What are you two ladies talking about?" a familiar accented voice piped up.
Both Kitty and Rogue turned to see Kurt approaching them. His fur was slick and wet, and his threadbare clothes hung damply from his body with small dank patches appearing here and there. A contented grin split his furry face, showing sharp white teeth that glinted in the rapidly diminishing sunlight.
Kurt was, by nature, a very clean person. Years of living in a forest had caused him to develop some rather - for want of a better word - feline cleaning-techniques in the absence of water. Their journey thus far hadn't allowed him much time to wash, and so he'd reverted to this form of cleansing for the most part, but somehow it had never satisfied him. As good as his saliva was, it didn't compare to washing with real water, and he'd taken the first opportunity presented to him to have a good, thorough wash in the bracing waters of the Danub.
Now, clean and refreshed, he'd sought out his companions, and - to his surprise - found them sitting quietly together, sharing the shade of a rather ancient Oak tree. Their miens spoke of an uncharacteristic amity that astounded Kurt, and he waltzed up to them, half expecting their customary vocal fireworks and violence to break out at any moment.
Yet it didn't. Instead, the female duo simply watched him draw closer with a mutual interest that both surprised and pleased him. What was even more unexpected was the fact that Kitty was holding Rogue's sword easily in her hands, and the ex-assassin was making no move to take it back or stab her with it (for which, he was glad.)
He grinned at them, and when they didn't answer his question, added: "Are you talking about me? Ach, I hope what you say is nice."
"Like, no way, Kurt," Kitty replied for them both. "We weren't, like, talking about you. We were just talking about.... stuff."
He reached them and hunkered down next to the younger girl. "Stuff, eh? What sort of stuff?"
"Just.... stuff," she answered lamely.
He rolled his golden eyes. "Well that was enlightening."
"Shut it, fuzzy," Rogue snapped, but her tone was less than threatening. More jaded.
"Rogue was just, like, letting me hold her sword," Kitty elucidated.
"I can see that. Hey, don't wave that thing around, Kätzchen. You could take my ear off with it." He clamped his hands over his pointed ears to demonstrate his point.
Now it was Rogue's turn to roll her green eyes. "That 'thing' as you put it could do a lot more than take your ear off if it wanted to, elf."
"Excuse me? If *it* wanted to?" He tilted his head on its side, face puzzled. "Don't you mean if *Kitty* wanted to?"
"No, I meant exactly what I said," she retorted, leaving him even more perplexed at her cryptic response. He blinked, confusion registering clearly in his furry features.
It was up to Kitty to try and explain what the obscure girl was getting at. Even so, she struggled slightly to put into words just what holding a sword and having your blood sing felt like. She tried numerous ways, but somehow to speak of the sensation aloud seemed like sacrilege, and her descriptions only came out as glorified savagery rather than the magnificent feeling that it really was.
"You see, Kurt, when you hold a sword, it's like.... well, it's as if your arm's on fire.... I mean.... um.... your blood, it.... well, it kinda tingles when you touch.... what I'm trying to, like, say is.... it's sort of like pins and needles, but it doesn't stop at your arm, it carries on.... It's like it goes right through you.... do you, like, get what I mean?"
Kurt shook his head; "Nein, I don't, Kätzchen."
"Well, um.... perhaps if you touched it, then you'd, like, understand."
"No," he straightened up, stretching his cramped muscles. "I'm sorry, Kätzchen, but I don't want to hold *any* weapons. It's not that I don't agree with them, it's just that I don't think I could bring myself to touch something anymore that was designed with the sole purpose of killing in mind. Not after what happened to.... to my mother."
"Oh." She couldn't think of anything else to say to a comment like that. How could she explain this strange but incredible feeling to someone who considered merely touching a sword beyond his capacity.
She wondered at her own feelings towards the blade. She'd never shown any inclination towards them before, but somehow the sight of Rogue's shining, lovingly kept sword had evoked in her a sense of stupefaction at the craftsmanship, which she'd never experienced for anything before. It had enchanted her with its savage beauty. Caught her up in its spell of glittering metal.
Rogue watched this exchange through half-lidded eyes. Finally, able to stand it no more, she burst out: "Oh for crying out loud, *I'll* explain it then!"
The other two startled at her cry, but quickly regained themselves and looked at her with two sets of eyes, each eager for insight behind her enigmatic remark and the feelings Kitty was ineptly trying to express.
Rogue slouched against the tree, closing her eyes and searching her memory for the words to explicate what every sword-wielder in history has ever known.
"To an assassin," she began, "And to many other warriors, a sword isn't just some inanimate object used to kill and maim. Sure, that's what it was designed for, and probably the smithies that create them only look to make them as deadly as possible. But to those who use them, they're something different. A true assassin - not just some penny-per-dozen rent-a-blade - treats their sword with respect. It's their oldest and dearest friend. The one they can count on when everything and everybody else deserts them. More than that, it's a part of them. A part of their being, a part of their arm when they swing it, a part of themselves. In fact, Guild Lore believes that, when you receive your own personal blade, a piece of your spirit flows into it, binding you to it until your dying day. From then on, it's not just a hunk of metal. It's a tangible part of your soul. A part that'll defend and protect you no matter what. It won't judge and it won't hold grudges. It's above that sort of thing, beyond it.
"As long as people exist, there will be discontentment. It's in their nature, as is the desire to kill and destroy. It doesn't matter what race they are. Human, Troll, Mage, Elf, it's a basic fundamental part of life. Children who have never known war will still kill flies without a second thought, and many will torture the creatures even before they know what torture is or that it's wrong.
"But people also have in them the capacity for great love and beauty. A person who's truly bonded with their sword embodies both of these. He or she takes this discontentment of the masses and weaves it with their blade into something beautiful. They remove the guilt from those to weak to create this beauty, and shoulder it all themselves. The soul within their sword forgives them for what they do, because it knows that if they didn't do it, then someone else would - perhaps incompetently and painfully so. Thus this piece of their spirit ensures that the sword is used only when this subtle beauty can be created, and never for petty, bloody pain. Needless grief. This is what a true swordsman feels when they touch a blade. Their soul dances crying out for this beauty, but at the same time it warns against what can happen if the metal is used wrongly. That is what I mean when I say that a sword can decide for itself."
Rogue sat for a moment. The words had come so easily, almost as if she weren't speaking them herself, but rather being used as a mouthpiece for a higher power. She wasn't so verbose, but had heard her own voice reel off articulately exactly what it meant to hold and use a sword. She'd surprised herself, but still the words had come. Like water trickling down a stream, swelling to become the ocean. Deep and unfathomable.
It was a few moments before she even realised that with her conclusion silence had descended upon the world. A deathly hush.
Rogue opened one eye, and saw both Kitty and Kurt staring at her, incredulity and awe clearly etched into their twin gazes. She was slightly taken aback by this, and opened her other eye in surprise.
"That was...." Kitty started, then stopped.
"I've never heard it put that way before, Frauline," Kurt supplied. "I always just thought of a sword as a killing implement. It never occurred to me that it could be anything else."
Rogue was suddenly struck by ineloquence, and verbally fumbled, her previous fluency deserting her in the face of their open-mouthed shock. "Yeah, well, it can and it is," she said harshly.
"Does that, like, mean that part of *your* soul is in *this* sword?" Kitty held it up so that the last remnants of sunlight flashed off its steely surface.
The reflection dived into Rogue's eyes and she squinted, momentarily blinded. All at once the tête-à-tête became a little too personal for the ex-assassin, and she lunged forward to grab her sword from Kitty's fingers.
"None of your damn business, shrimp!"
Kitty squeaked and shuffled sideways, away from her. Kurt took the opportunity to leap from where he stood onto the trunk of the oak and scuttle into its branches. He disappeared from view, the only signal of his presence being several assorted birds that fluttered into the air when he bounded past their roost.
The moment of affinity was gone. The temporary peace between the trio dissipated, leaving only one scared Changeling and a grumpy ex-assassin sitting opposite each other as the heat of the evening began to cool into night around them.
Rogue got to her feet, sheathing her much-talked-about sword with a metallic 'snikt' and tossing her cloak carelessly behind her.
"Time to bed down," She declared. "Half-pint, up the tree. Now."
"But...." Kitty protested. However, one look at Rogue's transmuted expression and the objection died in her throat.
Steeling herself, the younger girl also rose and began her shaky ascent of the tree. It wasn't so difficult. Years of aging had created many bumps and pits in the bark which served as suitable holds for her fingers and feet, but still her progress was slow, owing to her - albeit, not as bad as it had been - fear of heights. Her trepidation wasn't as pronounced as before. After the loftiness of the Elevada tree, the Oak seemed spindly and undersized, but it still emerged from her subconscious just enough to cause her some anxiety and restrict her advancement to a steady crawl.
When she reached the lower branches a furry blue hand jutted out to take her own.
"Here, Kätzchen, I'll help you." Kurt pulled her up to sit next to him on a sturdy bough. She wobbled a bit, but remained upright. "I've found the perfect place for you to sleep," he told her, and together they inched along to where the very top of the trunk splayed out into the tree's many branches.
Here, two particularly thick boughs had sprouted at right angles from one-another, fashioning a kind of hollow between them. It was just the right size to comfortably contain a curled up human - or Changeling, as the case may be.
Kurt stayed long enough to see Kitty safely settled, and then scampered up onto a glorified twig some way above that was to be his bed.
Rogue swung easily up into the Oak's leafy clinch, and pointedly chose a spot quite some distance away from the other two. She shoved herself into it, ignoring the fact that it was actually quite uncomfortable, and mollifying her protesting body with the thought that at least she didn't have to spend any more time with those two little annoying inconveniences. Once again, her second of compassion had surrendered to the ice-queen exterior.
Kurt turned over, jostling hither and thither, trying to get comfortable. A voice floated up from where its owner was concealed by the foliage below.
"Hey, Kurt, like, stop fidgeting. You're, like, raining leaves and dirt all over me."
"Sorry, Katzchen," he apologised. "I'm just trying to get comfy. Es ist hard on a branch as thin as this one."
"Then like, choose a thicker branch," she reasoned commonsensically.
Kurt's answer filtered through the shuddering flora: "Are you kidding? I have this habit that, if the branch is bigger than me, I tend to roll off it in the night. Sehr unbequem."
Kitty rolled her eyes. "Well can you like, get settled soon? I don't really appreciate the shower. Plus, I think you're *moulting*! There's loads of fur mixed with these leaves, and it *tickles*!"
"Perhaps it's moulting season for the squirrels?" he offered by way of rationalization.
"*Blue* squirrels?" Kitty suppressed a giggle.
"Well, maybe they're depressed," the reply shot back effortlessly, with all the mischief and fun that she'd come to associate with the elf since they first met.
"Whatever. This stuff itches something awful, though. It's getting in all my clothes and, oh no! Now it's in my hair too!"
"And I'll bet you look lovely with blue streaks, Kleines. Very chic."
"No really, Kurt. I'm scratching like crazy down here. Like, eew! Maybe you have fleas or something."
Kurt looked over the side of his perch, aghast. "Flöhe? Eine was für Idee! What a ridiculous idea, Kätzchen. I only just had a bath."
"Like, whatever. All I know is that your fur is making me itch. Oh man, I'm gonna be like, finding this stuff in my clothes for days now!" Kitty picked clumps of blue fuzz from where they'd floated onto her undyed woollen dress and greasy brown tresses.
Absently she removed the scrap of fabric holding her ponytail in place - which had become rather lop-sided of late - and ran her fingers through her hair to remove it, grimacing at the dust and assorted grime that shook out as she did so. Cleanliness wasn't as important to her as it patently was to Kurt, but it still bothered her to be *that* filthy.
She touched the bald spot on her crown, wincing slightly because the skin there was still raw. The cool air acted like a balm upon it, so she decided to leave her hair loose and allow the burn some time to breathe.
Turning over, she curled into a cosy ball, idly playing with a greasy strand in her mouth before realising what she was doing and spitting it out. "Blech!"
"Kätzchen, are you alright?" Kurt sounded worried at the vomiting noises she was making. But it wasn't the Changeling who answered him.
"Will y'all just shut up and go to sleep! Shrimp, quit your complaining. Fuzzy, stop moving 'afore I cut off your tail and use it as a new belt!" Rogue glowered in their general direction, despite the fact that they couldn't see her.
The tone of her voice was like an instant sedative, and the tree's occupants feel into quiescence in an instant. Rogue's facial muscles relaxed a smidgen, and she leaned back for some, as she classed it, well-deserved rest.
Yet sleep evaded her for quite some time, and even when her eyelids did begin to droop, an errant thought darted about her brain, invading her space and refusing to be quelled until she noticed it. It was difficult not to, and no matter how valiantly Rogue tried, she found herself confronted with this unwelcome notion at every mental turn. It preyed upon her, as does a wolf upon hapless sheep. Flying around and encircling her psyche in a tight grasp. Choking her like some rapid, cloying weed.
A sword is an assassin's spirit. His or her very soul in corporeal form.
But she was no longer a member of the Guild that held such belief. She could no longer call herself a true assassin. She was an outcast, shunned by her own kind. She was The Rogue.
Did that mean she had no soul?
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To Be Continued....
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*TRANSLATIONS*
GERMANIC:
'Tadellos' - Perfectly
'Hören Sie' - listen
'Können Sie das hören?' - Can you hear that?
'Sehr unbequem' - Very uncomfortable
'Kleines' - Little one
'Flöhe?' - Fleas?
'Eine was für Idee!' - What an idea!