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 project, since I started work on this before I ever *saw* those movies. 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.
CODES:
Hello = Narration
~ Hello ~ = Thought
"Hello" = Character Speaking
*Hello* = Bold
//Hello// = Psychic communication
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry for not updating in *so* long, but I got pretty much snowed under with work and other plotbunnies. Plus, I've been having difficulties with the ff.net review function, in that none my fics receive are actually showing up, and nobody will get back to me about the problem from High Command. That said, if anyone really wants to (and I actively encourage this), then please write any reviews that don't appear in an email, because I *truly* like hearing from people on this fic in particular. It's my baby, and I hate to see it neglected. Which is why I was literally dancing around the room when it broke the 100 reviews barrier. Empress, you're my new buddy, BTW.
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'Of Beast And Blade' By Scribbler
Chapter Twelve ~ 'Fragility'
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'Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear.' -- Oscar Wilde.
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A blood-curdling scream rang piercingly down through the air and down the halls of Belvedere. All who heard it shivered, or else diligently turned back to their work lest they become the next victim of the Silver Sword's capricious whim.
It was not uncommon for him to turn to torturing as a form of entertainment when bored, and boredom seemed to claim him more and more often of late. What were a few measly lives to his happiness? Belvedere was never short of souls on which he could vent his frustrations, and if nobody there took his fancy, then there was always somebody close by outside the stronghold that could be captured and brought to him.
The torture chamber had been specially designed by the Silver Sword himself, and crafted by a mixture of skilled workmen and magic. It utilized all the latest 'technologies' available, as well as some devices he'd created himself in his more inventive moments. Several older apparatus also graced its blood-spattered walls, however, and these were the most well-used favourites he never grew tired of utilizing. 'Why fix what isn't broken?' was a policy he favoured.
Against one side was a beloved iron maiden, spikes slightly rusty with age, but that was no matter. It made the torment even more deliciously severe. Next to it stood a tall rack on a clever swinging mechanism that allowed it to be used either vertically or horizontally depending on what was required. Many other various gadgets were also dotted about, and all bore the same dark brown stains of recent usage.
There was no gaoler to speak of. The Silver Sword enjoyed performing such duties himself, and it was rumoured that sometimes he extracted relevant information from spies and turncoats via magic, before torturing them to death just for the fun of it. However, nobody knew this for sure. That is, unless they were his victim - and then they couldn't very well affirm or deny anything.
Another agonized screech rent the air, tinctured by a despair so intense it almost defied belief. The poor individual who yelled knew there was no salvation for him, and screamed only as a perfunctory measure rather than in any hope of aid or relief.
The Silver Sword stood before his latest prey and smiled. The term 'prey' is used in its loosest sense, as the being chained to the wall had not been hunted as quarry at all, but was rather just a lost traveller who'd unwittingly wandered into the dictator's territory, and was now paying the price for his ignorance.
The tyrant unfolded his arms and cracked a long gut-whip into the empty air, enjoying the look of fear that crossed the unfortunate's face as it snicked so close to his left eye. He was a master of what he did, and knew how to delay pain to increase fear. He knew that it was fear that made a blow - when it did come - twice as sweet and enjoyable.
For him, that was.
The victim in question was a boy in his late teens, with a sallow face and dirty blonde hair that fell into startling purple eyes. He swore he was a simple traveller who'd strayed into these lands by accident, but his apologies fell on deaf ears. The Silver Sword wasn't interested in such petty excuses. Besides, he'd been feeling decidedly edgy lately, and such sadistic entertainment was usually the only thing that alleviated restlessness for him. This boy's timely arrival had provided just the respite that he needed from his monotonous everyday routine.
The boy raised his face. A deep gash traced the line of his nose, and blood leaked from this down and into his mouth.
"P... please... have mercy..." he croaked, sending spurts of crimson flying into the air.
"Mercy?" the Silver Sword laughed cruelly. "Mercy is for the weak and spineless. Those who take no pride in their work. I, however, do."
He cracked the whip again, this time catching the boy across the chest. He yelped, turning his head away but unable to move because of the manacles attached to his outstretched hands and feet, essentially pinning him to the floor and ceiling. Ragged gasps for air rattled in his lungs and caught in his throat as this fresh wave of pain swept through his body, and he closed his oddly coloured eyes to beat it down.
"How dare you look away from me without permission, impertinent wretch!" the older man snarled, pacing closer to the injured youth.
The boy didn't move, a fact that seemed to anger the dictator more than it should have done.
"Have you no respect? Discourteous fool! I'll teach you to obey me! You will know respect! You will grovel before your master."
"Y... you're not my... not my... master..." The boy choked in a last act of foolish bravado.
The only response was a raised eyebrow.
"Talking back to me?" The Silver Sword's voice became deceptively soft. "Well, well, it would seem that you *do* still have some spirit left in you."
The tyrant reached out with one hand and cupped the teenager's chin almost lovingly, bringing his face closer until the youth could feel his breath blowing gently on his bloodied cheek. The boy shied away, repulsed by the pseudo-affectionate contact.
"I'll see to it that's the first thing to go."
Viciously, and without prior warning, the Silver Sword brought his other hand up and slapped the boy across his face. The act was made doubly harmful by the heavy metal gauntlet he always wore, and there was a resounding 'crack' as the boy's nose broke in a flurry of spurting red droplets. He cried out, but received another blow for his troubles, and then another.
The Silver Sword smiled - a disfiguring semblance on his ruthless face.
Suddenly, he stepped back, leaving the youth to hang limply into his chains, letting them support his weight since his legs no longer had the strength to. He backed away, also letting the whip fall to the floor with an echoing slap around the spacious chamber, and leaving it to go unnoticed. To all intents and purposes he was showing mercy.
To all intents and purposes, this assumption was wrong.
Abruptly, the sorcerer raised both arms and began chanting in some strange, foreign tongue. Alien words trickled from his lips, collecting in a pool in the open air before him and burning a near-palpable hole in the fabric of the room the moment they left his mouth. His eyes took on a glazed look, and pinpricks of light began to dance at the ends of his fingertips.
The purple-eyed boy looked on with unconcealed horror. Normal torture was horrendous, but magical torture was even worse.
The dots of light grew larger, reflecting in his lavender eyes with an orange gleam. Slowly they began to revolve around the Silver Swords hands, caressing his palms and playing up his arms. They burned brighter as his voice got louder, until they were too intense to look at any more without being blinded. The man's voice rose and rose, crescendoing louder and louder, and soon he was shouting rather than chanting.
A high keening wail filled the room as the spots of brilliance flared and merged into one large ball at his fingertips. It shot forward, drowning out the Silver Sword's words as it ploughed through the air and crashed into the captured youth in a blaze of brutal glory.
The boy yelled as it struck his chest, and again as the ball of light dissipated, covering all of his body and burning like acid wherever it touched bare skin. Speedily it ate away at his clothing, so as to get at his yielding flesh beneath and scorch it with paranormal abandon. The pain was concentrated and unremitting, and he screamed until he could scream no more.
The Silver Sword stood with his arms still outstretched, laughing aloud. Every now and then he would twitch his fingers, guiding the orange glow to another patch of exposed skin with the power of his mind. He revelled in the agonized shouts of his victim, each one bringing a gleeful flash to his pale eyes. He neither knew nor cared about the identity of the youth. Such things were unimportant. Only the thrill of causing pain mattered to him. The control he had over this boy's life. Ultimate power. Such power was what he'd quested for most of his years, and what he'd fought to keep in the face of adversity and revolt. Rulership. Authority. Power.
Power.
Abruptly, the laughter died in his throat, as the small door behind him on the opposite side of the chamber opened, letting a beam of yellowish light stream into the room from the corridor beyond.
A figure stood in the doorway, awaiting a lull when he might attract the attention of his master.
The Silver Sword growled deep in his throat, annoyed at being disturbed. He half-considered sending an absent bolt of lightning over his shoulder and killing the intruder where he stood, but thought better of it at the last moment. He would see what the person wanted, and then if he was still displeased... Well, there was always space for one more in the Torture Chamber.
He let his arms drop to his sides, and the orange light evaporated almost immediately. The purple-eyed boy fell forward, dangling uselessly in his chains. Most of his clothing had been burned off, and all his skin was horribly blistered and blackened. Even his face was covered in angry welts, and his hair was no more than slightly smoking fuzz cropped close to his skull.
The Silver Sword paid him no heed, spinning on his heel and barking out irritably, "Who dares to disturb me when I am at my leisure? Step forward, or I'll have you gutted where you stand!"
The figure in the door walked slowly into the room, face shrouded in shadow as he left the illumination of the corridor outside. The Torture Chamber was kept dark to instil fear to the victims, but now the Silver Sword found the lack of light a bother, and absently created a Floatlight, not taking his eyes from the person advancing towards him.
The chattering ball of luminosity sped forward, making the person pause as it hovered in his face. Gerris blinked as he was momentarily blinded, and the Floatlight circled his head twice before retreating back to its creator's side.
The Silver Sword regarded his minion coldly.
"Gerris." His voice carried a dangerous edge. "What is the reason for this interruption? You know as well as anyone that I am never to be disturbed in here."
"I'm well aware of that, my liege." Gerris genuflected slightly, but was inhibited by a bulky mass of... something on his crooked arm. "However, I knew you'd be angry if I didn't come to you immediately with what I've found out."
"Found out?" The Silver Sword's aerobic eyebrow rose again. "What could you possibly have discovered that would make you risk death in here to tell me?" He had to admit, he was intrigued. Gerris was not usually a foolhardy person.
"Milord, it concerns the Displacer Beast."
A proud smile split the Silver Sword's face. "Ah, yes. Has it returned yet? Or will I need to send out a hunting party to recapture it?" He smiled slightly. "I haven't been hunting for so long. Politics are very time-consuming. I could use such a respite."
Gerris gulped nervously. "Milord... it's dead."
The subsequent silence was all consuming. Not a dust mote moved or made a sound.
Then; "*WHAT*?!" The Silver Sword's pale eyes darkened, and sparks of angry magical energy began to inadvertently appear in his hands. Both Gerris and the Floatlight quailed. "How could this happen? How can this be?"
"There's more, your Lordship." Gerris swallowed. "The Rogue and her companions... they live. It was she who slew the Beast."
"Impudent *wench*!" The older man gritted his teeth in fury. "She'll pay for what she's done! My Displacer Beast was unbeatable. It was my prize. And she... she... Make no mistake. I shall tear her limb from limb with my own hands for this... this *outrage*!"
"There may be no need to, sir."
The words caught the Silver Sword's attention, and he looked up curiously at the dishevelled animal-keeper, breathing heavily from his own anger. Savage choler still burned in his gaze, but a smidgen of reason also shone through. He had not become the most powerful man in all the realms by letting his emotions rule him.
"Speak. And be quick."
"The Rogue was badly injured in the fight with your champion, sir. Her companions found shelter for themselves and her, but she is waning. There is no doubt in my mind that she will soon die. For you see, sir, she has contracted the deadly Shaking Sickness."
The angry magic at his fingertips dimmed a little at this, and the Silver Sword's face took on a pensive expression. "Never assume anything, Gerris. To do so is a dangerous pastime. The Rogue is not a force to underestimate. This 'shelter' of which you speak. Where is it? And how have you come across this information whilst *I* have not?"
"Milord, I beg your pardon for my candidness. I know these things because Cronshaw here told me of them." He offered forth the strange mass on his arm.
With an incline of its master's head, the Floatlight shot forward, illuminating the object as larger-than-average raven, with lustrous black feathers and intelligent eyes. It regarded the tall human regally, and the Silver Sword frowned.
"A Kikaka Raven? I was unaware that you could communicate with them, Gerris. Usually trainers take many years to learn how to interpret the language of these extraordinary birds."
"I raised Cronshaw myself, sir, so it stands to reason he'd be more open to me than some dusty old scholar who learned about his ways in a book."
"Quite." The sorcerer folded his arms. "So how does 'Cronshaw' know about The Rogue and her companions?"
"He's been tracking them, milord. I sent him out when the Displacer Beast didn't come back through the portal like it was supposed to. I hope you'll forgive my impertinence?"
"That depends on whether I like what I hear or not," the Silver Sword replied. "Proceed."
Gerris gulped uneasily. "Well, sir, they've been taken in by The Temple of The Way. That's where the three of them are right now."
"The Temple of The Way," his master spat. "That den of do-gooders! Ach, I should have known! It would be just like them to shelter those three. That place has been a thorn in my side for a long time now."
"Milord?"
"It's full of Changelings, Gerris. A veritable stash of power to use against me, should they see fit. And I know there are more than a few who would. They say they are a peaceful place, but I know better. Their magical capacity almost rivals my own when they're all gathered together in one place like that. And now they have those accused three with them!" His hands unconsciously balled themselves into fists, clenching and unclenching irately as he spoke.
Changelings. An unwelcome side effect of his magical dabbling. He'd never meant to create such powerful beings. Their existence was a complete accident - the result of experiments to increase his own magical ability. He hadn't known that combining spells to augment his sorcerous muscle would alter the magical fabric of Earth-Realm itself, or that such a shift would imbue metamorphoses of immeasurable power into normal human beings.
Humans were naturally weak. Pathetic. Just like he'd been before he discovered the delights of sorcery and power. He'd never even considered them, his own race, to be a threat until it was too late. By the time he realized what they were and what they could do, Changelings were appearing everywhere.
Some of them were dangerous, and some were not, but he took no chances. Wherever a new sighting was made, The Silver Sword's armies were dispatched. Whole towns and villages fell as they sought out and destroyed anyone whose abilities may prove a threat to his rule. When The Guild of Assassins joined with him, he began dispensing them also to deal with Changelings. No mercy was shown and no quarter given. Men, women, children - all were murdered in the name of his continued authority. Sometimes soldiers died when people tried to defend themselves, but the Silver Sword didn't care about this loss of life. He only cared about preserving the power he'd gained against the creatures he'd unintentionally created.
The Temple of The Way represented everything he fought against. Especially their 'Temple Mother'. The Silver Sword knew her for what she really was, and despised her for it. Her power was indescribable. Inhuman. True, it was but a shade of what she'd once controlled, many years ago, before even the time of his own birth but still... He was a mere man - a powerful one, granted, but still just a man. And she was a...
He snarled, curling his gauntlet into a fist so tight it would have drawn blood had his flesh been exposed. It was time to do something about The Temple of The Way. Especially since those three from the prophecy were there now too. Unlike Gerris, he didn't trust to fate to finish off The Rogue. He would only be satisfied if either she, or her companions, or all of them perished via his designs. By his vicarious hand.
Gerris watched his master through fearfully curious hazel eyes. The Silver Sword hadn't said a thing for several minutes, and his face remained set in an enraged mask. Far be it for him to interrupt these thoughts - Gerris was much too smart for that - but he couldn't help wondering what was going through the older man's head.
Not that he would have admitted it to anyone - even himself on occasion - but Gerris actually quite detested The Silver Sword. On the outside he was the perfect minion. He had come to Belvedere voluntarily when his village was destroyed by one of the tyrant's marauding armies, and offered up his extensive knowledge of magical beasts and exotic creatures. The Menagerie was already in existence, but The Silver Sword had killed his last keeper for reasons unknown, so there was a spot already open for the likes of Gerris.
However, on the inside he resented the megalomaniac. It had not deepened into hatred, since this was the man who had rescued him from exposure and given him a home. Yet he often asked himself, at what cost? He'd relinquished his freedom in exchange for security. Nobody dared to breach or attack Belvedere, so it was the safest place to be in that respect. But nobody ever got out either. Once you were in, you were there to stay until you died.
Or worse.
Suddenly, The Silver Sword's head snapped up. He barely even acknowledged Gerris as he roughly brushed past, heading for the open door, and the keeper stumbled backwards, making Cronshaw flap his wings to maintain his perch. Yet the bird didn't cry out, as most of his less-intelligent cousins would have done. Instead, he settled for picking delicately at Gerris' brown hair, grooming him and looking for insects among the greasy strands. Gerris' hand involuntarily raised and began stroking the raven's chest feathers, as he was wont to do when the bird desired comfort or reassurance.
"Lordship, what do you intend to do?"
"Something I should have done a long time ago," was the curt, cryptic retort.
Gerris was puzzled. "But sir, what about The Rogue and her companions?"
"Oh, I have special plans for them. The hunters from the Guild of Assassins shouldn't be too far behind them, and Emilios will make a nice addition to my forces."
"Emilios? Forces, sir?"
The Silver Sword pointedly ignored this inane remark. "I am leaving now, Gerris, and I suggest you do the same. That is, unless you wish to become a permanent resident in here?"
"N... no, milord." The keeper swiftly followed his master out of the chamber, steadying his precious cargo with one hand. Abruptly he halted, casting a wary eye over his shoulder. "My liege, what about him?"
The Silver Sword stopped briefly and peered back at the purple-eyed boy hanging limply in his chains. It was hard to see, but in the faint illumination of the Floatlight he could just make out the minimal rise and fall of the unfortunate youth's chest. Despite his horrific injuries, he was still alive.
~Remarkable,~ the tyrant thought idly. "Leave him. He is of no more use to me."
"But, milord - "
The caped man spun around, eyes flashing. "Do you dare to question me, Gerris? Think carefully before you answer."
Once again, Gerris awkwardly genuflected. "Never, my Lordship. Your word is law, and I must obey."
"Well answered. I have no time to spend on worthless practices such as him. He will make good rat food when he dies. Let him suffer for daring to enter my lands uninvited." With that, he spun round and strode out.
Gerris trailed behind, somewhat more soberly. Upon reaching the doorway, he transferred Cronshaw to his shoulder and turned to close the heavy oaken door. However, as his hands coiled around the tarnished metal handle, the blistered boy twitched, and Gerris found himself staring into twin pools of lilac. The ill-fated lad gazed pleadingly at the beast-keeper, who squirmed uncomfortably. He looked so pathetic. So helpless. He wasn't much younger than Gerris, but his eyes held the pain of a thousand tortured souls.
Gerris was suddenly and inexplicably struck by the need to relieve the boy's suffering. Yet he knew he couldn't. To actively go against the Silver Sword's orders was akin to committing suicide, and Gerris wasn't ready to die yet.
He began to pull at the door, and it creaked on its hinges as it swung towards him. The boy inside the chamber desperately opened his mouth, but all that came out was a hoarse coughing that sprayed blood down his chin. Geris stopped, indecisive.
"I'm sorry. I can't."
With a hollow click, the door closed, and the chamber was instantly plunged into darkness.
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Ororo walked down the hallway, hands folded into her wide sleeves as usual. There was nobody about, since everyone was at lunch.
Well, nearly everyone. Actually, that was the reason behind her trip. She'd noticed the absence of three particular people, and - knowing where they were - gone to fetch them before sitting down herself.
The storerooms were on the second floor of the temple. Unfortunately, that meant traversing up three flights of spiral staircases to get there. As Ororo climbed breathlessly to the top of the third, she wondered why the architect who'd designed the temple had decided against normal *straight* staircases.
The particular room she was looking for was situated at the other end of the corridor, and, prompted by her rumbling stomach, Ororo hurried towards it.
She was mere feet away when a voice filtered through the closed door. Angry and indignant, she knew at once whom it belonged to.
"Nein, nein und wieder nein!"
"Aw, come on, Kurt."
"Ich besagtes nein! I'm not wearing it!"
"Like, why not?"
"It's pink!"
"Hey, you don't see me complaining."
"Or me."
"That's because you're both girls. You like pink. I don't. It clashes with my fur."
"Like anybody's gonna notice in this place."
"I'm still not wearing it."
"Please, Kurt. Pretty please."
"Nein, nein, nein! No way am I wearing pink, and that's final!"
Intrigued, Ororo pushed the door open and went in. She found Kitty and Jubilee, both now clad in identical temple robes, facing off against Kurt, who was perched atop a pile of discarded fabric in the corner. He still wore the white sheet from earlier, wrapped about his body like a toga. In Kitty's hands was another robe. All three teenagers looked up as she entered.
"What seems to be the problem in here?" she asked innocently.
All three of them exchanged guilty looks, and Kitty tried to hide the vivid garment behind her back.
"Problem? What problem?"
"There's nothing going on in here, Temple Mother."
Ororo folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Oh yes? Then why aren't you down at lunch?"
Jubilee's face fell. "Oh gods! Lunch! I forgot!"
"I'd noticed." Ororo gave a half-smile at having caught them out. "Now tell me - truthfully - what seems to be the problem in here?"
Kitty sighed. "Nothing much. Kurt just refuses to, like, wear this robe." She held it out in front of her. Ororo surveyed it. The fabric was old, but not too shabby, and the colour was vibrant enough.
"Why ever not, Kurt? Is there something wrong with it?"
Kurt's tail waved huffily behind him, sending up a cloud of dust from the clothes he was crouched upon. "Ja, definitiv! It's pink!"
Ororo took the robe from Kitty's hands and perused it. "It's magenta, actually. But I really don't see why that should be a problem."
"Are you kidding?" Kurt said incredulously. "It's *pink*! *Rosafarbene*!"
"And that's a problem for you?"
"Of course! I'm no *girl*! Only girls wear pink!"
"I'd like to see you tell Underling Crisp that. Or any other male member of the temple." Ororo looked at him, a mischievous light in her blue eyes. "You really don't want to wear it?"
"Really."
"All right then. Of course, you do realize that the alternative is to walk around with no clothes on at all."
"Perfect if you wanna, like, scare the natives," Kitty chipped in.
"Oh, ha ha." Kurt sat back on his haunches and folded his arms. "Very funny, Kätzchen. Whose side are you on, anyway?"
Jubilee giggled girlishly behind her hand. "Oh, I don't know about that, Kitty. I think Underling Tabitha would be very appreciative of Kurt walking around stark naked. *Very* appreciative."
Kitty sniggered in response, and - to all their surprises - so did Ororo.
Kurt straightened slightly at this, vague unease appearing behind his golden eyes. "You wouldn't."
Ororo didn't reply. Instead, she calmly laid the offending vestment on a nearby chair, beckoned at the two girls and made her way to the door.
"Come along, you two. We're already late as it is."
"Hey, wait a second! Bitte!" Kurt called after them. "You're not just going to leave me here, are you?"
By way of answer, Ororo half closed the door and reached out top the key resting in the lock beneath the handle. It was clear what she was intending.
"Hey!" In a trice, Kurt was off the pile of discarded clothing and bounding towards the door. However, it shut before he could get there, and he listened as the key was turned and removed.
Kurt simply stared. He couldn't believe it. They'd locked him in! How could they?
He frowned petulantly. It wasn't fair. It was *pink*! Why were they all having such trouble seeing his predicament? Peevishly he folded his arms, bottom lip jutting out slightly as it always did when he sulked.
"That's not fair," he muttered.
"I'm sorry, Kurt." Ororo's voice made him jump. He hadn't realized she was still there. A faint giggling told his sensitive ears that the two traitorous girls were also still outside. Ororo continued. "But I'm afraid I can't have you wandering around semi-dressed. It wouldn't be proper."
Kurt frowned, but then a thought came to him, and he grinned, revealing small white fangs.
"You know, it's pretty useless locking me up. I can just Bamf out of here any time I want to."
"And where would you go, Kurt? I know you must be hungry, but if you teleport to the Great Hall where lunch is being served, then undoubtedly you will run into Underling Tabitha, or one of her matching contemporaries. And if you go anywhere else then you'll be in much the same position as you are now - albeit without clothing so close to hand."
Kurt had no answer to this. So instead, he sank silently back onto his haunches. He had to admit, she had a point.
"Kurt, are you, like, still there?"
"Ja, I'm still here. Still hungry," Kurt replied inaudibly. Then morosely, he added, "Where else would I go?"
~Ach, Ororo's right. I need to eat soon or I'll pass out again. And a lot of good that'll do me when I'm locked in a store-cupboard!~
He cast a glance at the offending robe. It stared back at him placidly. Passive. Inert. And undeniably, unequivocally pink.
"Kurt?" Kitty again. But this time there was a slight edge to her tone. "Kurt, are you OK in there?"
Kurt pricked up his ears. Was that... *worry* that he heard?
~Hang on a second, wasn't she just telling me to put on the verdammt robe? How can she sound concerned about my welfare if I'm doing what she wanted me to do?~
"Kurt?" Scuffle, scuffle. "He's not saying anything. He *is* OK, isn't he?"
"I'm sure he's fine, Kitty." Jubilee's voice. "He's probably just sulking."
Kurt scowled. ~I am not!~ Then he paused, and reflected on what he was doing. A wry expression flitted across his furry face. ~Well, maybe just a little.~
"Or he's fainted! He does that when he hasn't had enough to eat, you know. Oh gods, he may be unconscious and we, like, wouldn't even know it..."
"Nein, Kätzchen. I'm still awake," Kurt called, rapping on the door for good measure. "Don't worry about me."
Scuffle, scuffle. "Kurt? Humph. Why would I worry about you? You're, like, totally making us late for lunch."
"Sorry, Kätzchen."
"What's your problem, anyway? Just put on the stupid robe so we can leave, already. Kurt, you *know* what happens to you if you don't get enough to eat. Please, Kurt. Just wear it. Please. For me? I don't wanna, like, see you get hurt or anything."
Sounds of Jubilee giggling.
"What?" Kitty asked, momentarily distracted. More giggling. Kitty 'humphed' again, and turned her somewhat bruised attention back to the closed door. "And besides, I'm *hungry* you selfish little elf! Get your fuzzy butt into gear so I can get some *food*!"
~But it's pink,~ Kurt though stubbornly. Yet his words were half-hearted. ~It's *pink*.~
"Kurt... please?"
At that moment, Kurt's reverie was swiftly broken by the sound and sensation of his stomach growling. Loudly.
Whether prompted by his dissatisfied digestive system, or the pathetic pleading in Kitty's voice remains to be seen. Perhaps it was a little bit of both - but the fact remains that Kurt decided, just this once, he would swallow his pride.
Still somewhat stiffly, he rose and paced across the room, grabbing the distasteful robe in one tridactyl hand and slipping it over his head in one fluid, effortlessly graceful movement. It was a simple one-piece, and in no time he'd tied the yellow belt around his middle and was back in front of the locked wooden door.
He raised his fist, intending to knock to let them know he was ready, but stopped. A mischievous smile creased his mouth, and he closed his eyes and concentrated hard on the corridor outside.
Kitty nearly jumped out of her skin when, with a puff of sulphurous smoke and imploding light, Kurt materialized behind her. As it was, she had been leaning with her ear pressed to the wood, listening to his progress on the other side. When he appeared with a cheerful "All done!" She jolted, banging the side of her head.
"Yowch! And about time too. I'm starving."
Kurt's midriff agreed with her profusely. All four of them smirked at this unintentional vocalization.
"It would seem that you agree, Kurt."
"Jawohl. Or at least, my stomach does."
Ororo laughed. A tinkling, musical sound. "Then we'd better get it some sustenance, hadn't we? Come along, all of you. If we hurry, we won't miss anything."
With various giggles and remonstrations, the party made their way to the end of the corridor, down the trio of spiral stairs and into the Great Hall without further mishap, Kurt's stomach and Kitty's mouth giving a running commentary every step of the way.
*******************
Ororo couldn't have known that she was incorrect when she thought that only three people were missing from lunch. The fourth didn't always eat with everyone else, sometimes preferring to eat alone in the Infirmary. Especially when she was working on the various potions and lotions kept on the shelves there, or else concocting some new and wonderful medicine. In such cases she always just grabbed something straight from the kitchens and hurried back to her work, not bothering with the idle conversations and table-talk of others.
This, however, was not one of those occasions.
Teah Ashari sat at her desk, quill busily moving across the sheet of parchment laid out in front of her. Every now and then she'd pause long enough to dip the huge feather into an ink well nearby, but other than that she laboured unrelentingly. Lines and lines of neat calligraphy appeared as if by magic, and soon she put aside the crammed sheet in favour of a fresh one.
Yet something caused her quill to stop. It hung, poised in the air above the blanched leaf. A droplet of black began to gather at the tip, growing bulbously until finally, it fell with a faint splatter onto the parchment. The subsequent mess went unnoticed, which was unusual since Teah was, by nature, a fastidiously neat and tidy person, who abhorred messiness and could often be found with a broom or some other such cleaning paraphernalia in her small hands.
Right now, though, her mind was preoccupied with something else. She stared off into space, mouth ajar as it always was when she was deep in contemplation.
For all her small size and immature appearance, Teah was probably one of the most mature and practical people in the whole temple. She didn't resent things being so, but rather viewed it as simply part of her Changeling state and consequently unalterable. The idea that she'd missed out on her childhood just didn't occur to her - or of it did, she dismissed it instantly as ridiculous.
Consequently, it bothered her when she was presented with a crisis she just couldn't resolve, or even understand. Her practical mind thrived on success and problem-solving, but in her current predicament she was, to put it bluntly, well and truly stumped.
Absently she chewed on the end of her quill, then realized what she was doing and hastily spat out the bits of masticated feather, adding to the untidiness already present on her worktop. Surveying the sticky disorder, and realizing she'd never be able to concentrate like this, Teah sighed and laid down the disfigured quill. She pushed back her chair and slid off the pile of cushions she was forced to sit on so that she could reach the desktop.
Teah's desk was located in the main body of the Infirmary instead of in a private room, so that she could better tend to her patients whenever they needed her. She'd arranged this herself specifically, and had yet to regret her decision. Sometimes, when the situation called for it, she also slept in here. The small girl was as dedicated to her patients as any elderly physician with all the experience of age. For Teah, everything came instinctively, like it had been stored inside her mind just waiting to be released when called upon.
At this particular time, however, only one bed was occupied. And it was on this resident that her distracted thoughts rested.
The little girl stood, arms typically folded, staring at The Rogue.
The Rogue.
She still couldn't believe it. The Rogue of the Guild of Assassins, here. When Ororo had dropped by and explained the girl's identity, Teah had been justifiably worried about the safety of the temple. She wasn't stupid by any stretch of the imagination, and had instantly pointed out the possibility of the hunters who would be tracking The Rogue coming here and wreaking bloody havoc. However, Ororo had just smiled in that knowing way she did and told the healer not to worry, and that everything would be fine. Somehow, when Ororo talked like that, one couldn't help but believe what she said, no matter how unreasonable the notion seemed when contemplated alone.
Now though, Teah reflected on their situation. Sheltering one such as The Rogue was a dangerous business. In all honesty, she couldn't understand why Ororo had done it. The Temple Mother wasn't usually one to put her 'children' at risk if she could help it.
She was keeping something from them. You didn't need to be a telepath to see that. Teah knew that Ororo possessed more knowledge than she shared. Jean knew something too. You could see in the furtive glances they cast each other every now and then - especially when talking to that demon boy and Changeling girl who'd come in with The Rogue.
The Rogue.
Teah looked at her. The teenage girl lay on her back, sheets pulled up to her chin until only her face was visible. Rivulets of cold sweat streaked across her pale skin and through her damp hair, and her eyebrows were knitted together in a permanent frown. She was shivering, a typical symptom of Shaking Sickness, and her breath came in short, rasping gasps that rattled loudly in her lungs.
Anyone who hadn't witnessed the illness before would have been shocked by these signs, but not Teah. Where others would have been repulsed by the stench of infection, Teah saw only a patient in need of her attention and assistance.
She supposed that was why the news of The Rogue's true identity hadn't bothered her as much as it should have. Had the girl been up and about, fit and able to wield a sword, then the healer might have been more concerned. As it was, all she viewed The Rogue as was a sick girl who required help just like any other person who came into her care. Just another patient.
Rogue groaned through her unconsciousness, and a bead of sweat ran into the corner of her eye. She didn't even acknowledge it. Her lips moved incessantly, as if she were talking to herself so softly that nobody else could hear. Teah knew better than to listen in on such mutterings. Shaking Sickness and other diseases that entailed unconsciousness were known for rendering victims delirious, and many erstwhile carefully guarded secrets had been accidentally spilled in such uninhibited moments.
She remembered once, when Underling Drake had knocked his head on a stone outside and been brought to her. He'd been out cold, and halfway through her reviving him he'd exclaimed loudly that he'd stolen a pot of honey from the kitchens that very morning and hidden in among the reeds of the pond. He'd been well and truly for it when he later realized what he'd admitted to, and had spent the next three days solid scrubbing blackened pots and pans in the kitchens as punishment, since the pot in question had sunk without trace.
Teah sighed. It was pitiful really. You could tell simply by looking at her physique that The Rogue was a great warrior. For one so strong to be reduced to this was disheartening for anyone to see - a reminder of one's own mortality, and the frailty of life.
Rogue groaned - a weak, pathetic scraping of breath - and tried to move her head. Immediately, Teah was at her side with a cool cloth in hand. She doused it in the bowl filled with icy water on the bedside table and laid it on the teenager's forehead. Rogue shivered again, but from the skin-to-skin contact, Teah felt that she was in actual fact burning up with fever.
As she got closer, the healer inadvertently heard the delirious mumblings issuing forth, no matter how much she tried to tune them out. Rogue's weak voice was almost hypnotic, coming in short bursts, and punctuated by very un-Rogue-like whimpering. Teah found herself listening despite berating herself to the contrary.
"Can't give... up. Gotta... must find... Where are... you...? Why.... why'd you le.... leave me...? ::whimper:: ... Alone... so alone.... ::whimper:: ... not my fault... not my *fault*! Why...? Pi... Piet..."
Teah pulled back, ashamed at herself for listening in on such obvious privacies. It was unprofessional, and she mentally slapped herself on the wrist for it. Whether thoughts, fantasies, or even memories, it was wrong of her to invade The Rogue's personal space that way.
But as she watched the pathetic girl, Teah's remonstrations of herself gave way to concern for her charge's welfare. For the umpteenth time she reminded herself that nobody had ever survived Shaking Sickness without a fully-juiced healer's help. She wished with all her practical heart that she could do what was necessary to save this one female, but could feel deep within her that her healing energy reserves were dangerously low. Fortunately, this didn't affect her everyday normal movements, since her healing strength came from quite a different cache of energy. However, if she were to attempt the process necessary for Rogue's continued existence then she knew she herself would most likely die, and there was a good chance that she would take The Rogue along with her.
No, Teah knew that if The Rogue were to get through this, then she would have to do it on her own. And somehow, this saddened her immensely. The chances of survival were infinitesimal, and she sighed dejectedly. Images of faces flashed across her mind, and what it would mean to them if The Rogue were to die. She folded her arms again, surveying the rapidly deteriorating state of her patient.
"I know there's little hope, my girl, but try to keep going. Try to hold on. Because if you don't, it'll truly destroy that demon boy's fragile mind. And I know that if you go, neither he, nor that girl will be long in joining you."
*******************
To Be Continued...
*******************
*TRANSLATIONS*
GERMANIC:
'Nein, nein und wieder nein!' ~ No, no and again, no!
'Ich besagtes nein!' ~ I'm not wearing it!
'Ja, definitive.' ~ Yes, definitely.
'Rosafarbene.' ~ The colour pink.
'Verdammt.' ~ Damn.
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 project, since I started work on this before I ever *saw* those movies. 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.
CODES:
Hello = Narration
~ Hello ~ = Thought
"Hello" = Character Speaking
*Hello* = Bold
//Hello// = Psychic communication
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry for not updating in *so* long, but I got pretty much snowed under with work and other plotbunnies. Plus, I've been having difficulties with the ff.net review function, in that none my fics receive are actually showing up, and nobody will get back to me about the problem from High Command. That said, if anyone really wants to (and I actively encourage this), then please write any reviews that don't appear in an email, because I *truly* like hearing from people on this fic in particular. It's my baby, and I hate to see it neglected. Which is why I was literally dancing around the room when it broke the 100 reviews barrier. Empress, you're my new buddy, BTW.
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'Of Beast And Blade' By Scribbler
Chapter Twelve ~ 'Fragility'
*******************
'Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear.' -- Oscar Wilde.
*******************
A blood-curdling scream rang piercingly down through the air and down the halls of Belvedere. All who heard it shivered, or else diligently turned back to their work lest they become the next victim of the Silver Sword's capricious whim.
It was not uncommon for him to turn to torturing as a form of entertainment when bored, and boredom seemed to claim him more and more often of late. What were a few measly lives to his happiness? Belvedere was never short of souls on which he could vent his frustrations, and if nobody there took his fancy, then there was always somebody close by outside the stronghold that could be captured and brought to him.
The torture chamber had been specially designed by the Silver Sword himself, and crafted by a mixture of skilled workmen and magic. It utilized all the latest 'technologies' available, as well as some devices he'd created himself in his more inventive moments. Several older apparatus also graced its blood-spattered walls, however, and these were the most well-used favourites he never grew tired of utilizing. 'Why fix what isn't broken?' was a policy he favoured.
Against one side was a beloved iron maiden, spikes slightly rusty with age, but that was no matter. It made the torment even more deliciously severe. Next to it stood a tall rack on a clever swinging mechanism that allowed it to be used either vertically or horizontally depending on what was required. Many other various gadgets were also dotted about, and all bore the same dark brown stains of recent usage.
There was no gaoler to speak of. The Silver Sword enjoyed performing such duties himself, and it was rumoured that sometimes he extracted relevant information from spies and turncoats via magic, before torturing them to death just for the fun of it. However, nobody knew this for sure. That is, unless they were his victim - and then they couldn't very well affirm or deny anything.
Another agonized screech rent the air, tinctured by a despair so intense it almost defied belief. The poor individual who yelled knew there was no salvation for him, and screamed only as a perfunctory measure rather than in any hope of aid or relief.
The Silver Sword stood before his latest prey and smiled. The term 'prey' is used in its loosest sense, as the being chained to the wall had not been hunted as quarry at all, but was rather just a lost traveller who'd unwittingly wandered into the dictator's territory, and was now paying the price for his ignorance.
The tyrant unfolded his arms and cracked a long gut-whip into the empty air, enjoying the look of fear that crossed the unfortunate's face as it snicked so close to his left eye. He was a master of what he did, and knew how to delay pain to increase fear. He knew that it was fear that made a blow - when it did come - twice as sweet and enjoyable.
For him, that was.
The victim in question was a boy in his late teens, with a sallow face and dirty blonde hair that fell into startling purple eyes. He swore he was a simple traveller who'd strayed into these lands by accident, but his apologies fell on deaf ears. The Silver Sword wasn't interested in such petty excuses. Besides, he'd been feeling decidedly edgy lately, and such sadistic entertainment was usually the only thing that alleviated restlessness for him. This boy's timely arrival had provided just the respite that he needed from his monotonous everyday routine.
The boy raised his face. A deep gash traced the line of his nose, and blood leaked from this down and into his mouth.
"P... please... have mercy..." he croaked, sending spurts of crimson flying into the air.
"Mercy?" the Silver Sword laughed cruelly. "Mercy is for the weak and spineless. Those who take no pride in their work. I, however, do."
He cracked the whip again, this time catching the boy across the chest. He yelped, turning his head away but unable to move because of the manacles attached to his outstretched hands and feet, essentially pinning him to the floor and ceiling. Ragged gasps for air rattled in his lungs and caught in his throat as this fresh wave of pain swept through his body, and he closed his oddly coloured eyes to beat it down.
"How dare you look away from me without permission, impertinent wretch!" the older man snarled, pacing closer to the injured youth.
The boy didn't move, a fact that seemed to anger the dictator more than it should have done.
"Have you no respect? Discourteous fool! I'll teach you to obey me! You will know respect! You will grovel before your master."
"Y... you're not my... not my... master..." The boy choked in a last act of foolish bravado.
The only response was a raised eyebrow.
"Talking back to me?" The Silver Sword's voice became deceptively soft. "Well, well, it would seem that you *do* still have some spirit left in you."
The tyrant reached out with one hand and cupped the teenager's chin almost lovingly, bringing his face closer until the youth could feel his breath blowing gently on his bloodied cheek. The boy shied away, repulsed by the pseudo-affectionate contact.
"I'll see to it that's the first thing to go."
Viciously, and without prior warning, the Silver Sword brought his other hand up and slapped the boy across his face. The act was made doubly harmful by the heavy metal gauntlet he always wore, and there was a resounding 'crack' as the boy's nose broke in a flurry of spurting red droplets. He cried out, but received another blow for his troubles, and then another.
The Silver Sword smiled - a disfiguring semblance on his ruthless face.
Suddenly, he stepped back, leaving the youth to hang limply into his chains, letting them support his weight since his legs no longer had the strength to. He backed away, also letting the whip fall to the floor with an echoing slap around the spacious chamber, and leaving it to go unnoticed. To all intents and purposes he was showing mercy.
To all intents and purposes, this assumption was wrong.
Abruptly, the sorcerer raised both arms and began chanting in some strange, foreign tongue. Alien words trickled from his lips, collecting in a pool in the open air before him and burning a near-palpable hole in the fabric of the room the moment they left his mouth. His eyes took on a glazed look, and pinpricks of light began to dance at the ends of his fingertips.
The purple-eyed boy looked on with unconcealed horror. Normal torture was horrendous, but magical torture was even worse.
The dots of light grew larger, reflecting in his lavender eyes with an orange gleam. Slowly they began to revolve around the Silver Swords hands, caressing his palms and playing up his arms. They burned brighter as his voice got louder, until they were too intense to look at any more without being blinded. The man's voice rose and rose, crescendoing louder and louder, and soon he was shouting rather than chanting.
A high keening wail filled the room as the spots of brilliance flared and merged into one large ball at his fingertips. It shot forward, drowning out the Silver Sword's words as it ploughed through the air and crashed into the captured youth in a blaze of brutal glory.
The boy yelled as it struck his chest, and again as the ball of light dissipated, covering all of his body and burning like acid wherever it touched bare skin. Speedily it ate away at his clothing, so as to get at his yielding flesh beneath and scorch it with paranormal abandon. The pain was concentrated and unremitting, and he screamed until he could scream no more.
The Silver Sword stood with his arms still outstretched, laughing aloud. Every now and then he would twitch his fingers, guiding the orange glow to another patch of exposed skin with the power of his mind. He revelled in the agonized shouts of his victim, each one bringing a gleeful flash to his pale eyes. He neither knew nor cared about the identity of the youth. Such things were unimportant. Only the thrill of causing pain mattered to him. The control he had over this boy's life. Ultimate power. Such power was what he'd quested for most of his years, and what he'd fought to keep in the face of adversity and revolt. Rulership. Authority. Power.
Power.
Abruptly, the laughter died in his throat, as the small door behind him on the opposite side of the chamber opened, letting a beam of yellowish light stream into the room from the corridor beyond.
A figure stood in the doorway, awaiting a lull when he might attract the attention of his master.
The Silver Sword growled deep in his throat, annoyed at being disturbed. He half-considered sending an absent bolt of lightning over his shoulder and killing the intruder where he stood, but thought better of it at the last moment. He would see what the person wanted, and then if he was still displeased... Well, there was always space for one more in the Torture Chamber.
He let his arms drop to his sides, and the orange light evaporated almost immediately. The purple-eyed boy fell forward, dangling uselessly in his chains. Most of his clothing had been burned off, and all his skin was horribly blistered and blackened. Even his face was covered in angry welts, and his hair was no more than slightly smoking fuzz cropped close to his skull.
The Silver Sword paid him no heed, spinning on his heel and barking out irritably, "Who dares to disturb me when I am at my leisure? Step forward, or I'll have you gutted where you stand!"
The figure in the door walked slowly into the room, face shrouded in shadow as he left the illumination of the corridor outside. The Torture Chamber was kept dark to instil fear to the victims, but now the Silver Sword found the lack of light a bother, and absently created a Floatlight, not taking his eyes from the person advancing towards him.
The chattering ball of luminosity sped forward, making the person pause as it hovered in his face. Gerris blinked as he was momentarily blinded, and the Floatlight circled his head twice before retreating back to its creator's side.
The Silver Sword regarded his minion coldly.
"Gerris." His voice carried a dangerous edge. "What is the reason for this interruption? You know as well as anyone that I am never to be disturbed in here."
"I'm well aware of that, my liege." Gerris genuflected slightly, but was inhibited by a bulky mass of... something on his crooked arm. "However, I knew you'd be angry if I didn't come to you immediately with what I've found out."
"Found out?" The Silver Sword's aerobic eyebrow rose again. "What could you possibly have discovered that would make you risk death in here to tell me?" He had to admit, he was intrigued. Gerris was not usually a foolhardy person.
"Milord, it concerns the Displacer Beast."
A proud smile split the Silver Sword's face. "Ah, yes. Has it returned yet? Or will I need to send out a hunting party to recapture it?" He smiled slightly. "I haven't been hunting for so long. Politics are very time-consuming. I could use such a respite."
Gerris gulped nervously. "Milord... it's dead."
The subsequent silence was all consuming. Not a dust mote moved or made a sound.
Then; "*WHAT*?!" The Silver Sword's pale eyes darkened, and sparks of angry magical energy began to inadvertently appear in his hands. Both Gerris and the Floatlight quailed. "How could this happen? How can this be?"
"There's more, your Lordship." Gerris swallowed. "The Rogue and her companions... they live. It was she who slew the Beast."
"Impudent *wench*!" The older man gritted his teeth in fury. "She'll pay for what she's done! My Displacer Beast was unbeatable. It was my prize. And she... she... Make no mistake. I shall tear her limb from limb with my own hands for this... this *outrage*!"
"There may be no need to, sir."
The words caught the Silver Sword's attention, and he looked up curiously at the dishevelled animal-keeper, breathing heavily from his own anger. Savage choler still burned in his gaze, but a smidgen of reason also shone through. He had not become the most powerful man in all the realms by letting his emotions rule him.
"Speak. And be quick."
"The Rogue was badly injured in the fight with your champion, sir. Her companions found shelter for themselves and her, but she is waning. There is no doubt in my mind that she will soon die. For you see, sir, she has contracted the deadly Shaking Sickness."
The angry magic at his fingertips dimmed a little at this, and the Silver Sword's face took on a pensive expression. "Never assume anything, Gerris. To do so is a dangerous pastime. The Rogue is not a force to underestimate. This 'shelter' of which you speak. Where is it? And how have you come across this information whilst *I* have not?"
"Milord, I beg your pardon for my candidness. I know these things because Cronshaw here told me of them." He offered forth the strange mass on his arm.
With an incline of its master's head, the Floatlight shot forward, illuminating the object as larger-than-average raven, with lustrous black feathers and intelligent eyes. It regarded the tall human regally, and the Silver Sword frowned.
"A Kikaka Raven? I was unaware that you could communicate with them, Gerris. Usually trainers take many years to learn how to interpret the language of these extraordinary birds."
"I raised Cronshaw myself, sir, so it stands to reason he'd be more open to me than some dusty old scholar who learned about his ways in a book."
"Quite." The sorcerer folded his arms. "So how does 'Cronshaw' know about The Rogue and her companions?"
"He's been tracking them, milord. I sent him out when the Displacer Beast didn't come back through the portal like it was supposed to. I hope you'll forgive my impertinence?"
"That depends on whether I like what I hear or not," the Silver Sword replied. "Proceed."
Gerris gulped uneasily. "Well, sir, they've been taken in by The Temple of The Way. That's where the three of them are right now."
"The Temple of The Way," his master spat. "That den of do-gooders! Ach, I should have known! It would be just like them to shelter those three. That place has been a thorn in my side for a long time now."
"Milord?"
"It's full of Changelings, Gerris. A veritable stash of power to use against me, should they see fit. And I know there are more than a few who would. They say they are a peaceful place, but I know better. Their magical capacity almost rivals my own when they're all gathered together in one place like that. And now they have those accused three with them!" His hands unconsciously balled themselves into fists, clenching and unclenching irately as he spoke.
Changelings. An unwelcome side effect of his magical dabbling. He'd never meant to create such powerful beings. Their existence was a complete accident - the result of experiments to increase his own magical ability. He hadn't known that combining spells to augment his sorcerous muscle would alter the magical fabric of Earth-Realm itself, or that such a shift would imbue metamorphoses of immeasurable power into normal human beings.
Humans were naturally weak. Pathetic. Just like he'd been before he discovered the delights of sorcery and power. He'd never even considered them, his own race, to be a threat until it was too late. By the time he realized what they were and what they could do, Changelings were appearing everywhere.
Some of them were dangerous, and some were not, but he took no chances. Wherever a new sighting was made, The Silver Sword's armies were dispatched. Whole towns and villages fell as they sought out and destroyed anyone whose abilities may prove a threat to his rule. When The Guild of Assassins joined with him, he began dispensing them also to deal with Changelings. No mercy was shown and no quarter given. Men, women, children - all were murdered in the name of his continued authority. Sometimes soldiers died when people tried to defend themselves, but the Silver Sword didn't care about this loss of life. He only cared about preserving the power he'd gained against the creatures he'd unintentionally created.
The Temple of The Way represented everything he fought against. Especially their 'Temple Mother'. The Silver Sword knew her for what she really was, and despised her for it. Her power was indescribable. Inhuman. True, it was but a shade of what she'd once controlled, many years ago, before even the time of his own birth but still... He was a mere man - a powerful one, granted, but still just a man. And she was a...
He snarled, curling his gauntlet into a fist so tight it would have drawn blood had his flesh been exposed. It was time to do something about The Temple of The Way. Especially since those three from the prophecy were there now too. Unlike Gerris, he didn't trust to fate to finish off The Rogue. He would only be satisfied if either she, or her companions, or all of them perished via his designs. By his vicarious hand.
Gerris watched his master through fearfully curious hazel eyes. The Silver Sword hadn't said a thing for several minutes, and his face remained set in an enraged mask. Far be it for him to interrupt these thoughts - Gerris was much too smart for that - but he couldn't help wondering what was going through the older man's head.
Not that he would have admitted it to anyone - even himself on occasion - but Gerris actually quite detested The Silver Sword. On the outside he was the perfect minion. He had come to Belvedere voluntarily when his village was destroyed by one of the tyrant's marauding armies, and offered up his extensive knowledge of magical beasts and exotic creatures. The Menagerie was already in existence, but The Silver Sword had killed his last keeper for reasons unknown, so there was a spot already open for the likes of Gerris.
However, on the inside he resented the megalomaniac. It had not deepened into hatred, since this was the man who had rescued him from exposure and given him a home. Yet he often asked himself, at what cost? He'd relinquished his freedom in exchange for security. Nobody dared to breach or attack Belvedere, so it was the safest place to be in that respect. But nobody ever got out either. Once you were in, you were there to stay until you died.
Or worse.
Suddenly, The Silver Sword's head snapped up. He barely even acknowledged Gerris as he roughly brushed past, heading for the open door, and the keeper stumbled backwards, making Cronshaw flap his wings to maintain his perch. Yet the bird didn't cry out, as most of his less-intelligent cousins would have done. Instead, he settled for picking delicately at Gerris' brown hair, grooming him and looking for insects among the greasy strands. Gerris' hand involuntarily raised and began stroking the raven's chest feathers, as he was wont to do when the bird desired comfort or reassurance.
"Lordship, what do you intend to do?"
"Something I should have done a long time ago," was the curt, cryptic retort.
Gerris was puzzled. "But sir, what about The Rogue and her companions?"
"Oh, I have special plans for them. The hunters from the Guild of Assassins shouldn't be too far behind them, and Emilios will make a nice addition to my forces."
"Emilios? Forces, sir?"
The Silver Sword pointedly ignored this inane remark. "I am leaving now, Gerris, and I suggest you do the same. That is, unless you wish to become a permanent resident in here?"
"N... no, milord." The keeper swiftly followed his master out of the chamber, steadying his precious cargo with one hand. Abruptly he halted, casting a wary eye over his shoulder. "My liege, what about him?"
The Silver Sword stopped briefly and peered back at the purple-eyed boy hanging limply in his chains. It was hard to see, but in the faint illumination of the Floatlight he could just make out the minimal rise and fall of the unfortunate youth's chest. Despite his horrific injuries, he was still alive.
~Remarkable,~ the tyrant thought idly. "Leave him. He is of no more use to me."
"But, milord - "
The caped man spun around, eyes flashing. "Do you dare to question me, Gerris? Think carefully before you answer."
Once again, Gerris awkwardly genuflected. "Never, my Lordship. Your word is law, and I must obey."
"Well answered. I have no time to spend on worthless practices such as him. He will make good rat food when he dies. Let him suffer for daring to enter my lands uninvited." With that, he spun round and strode out.
Gerris trailed behind, somewhat more soberly. Upon reaching the doorway, he transferred Cronshaw to his shoulder and turned to close the heavy oaken door. However, as his hands coiled around the tarnished metal handle, the blistered boy twitched, and Gerris found himself staring into twin pools of lilac. The ill-fated lad gazed pleadingly at the beast-keeper, who squirmed uncomfortably. He looked so pathetic. So helpless. He wasn't much younger than Gerris, but his eyes held the pain of a thousand tortured souls.
Gerris was suddenly and inexplicably struck by the need to relieve the boy's suffering. Yet he knew he couldn't. To actively go against the Silver Sword's orders was akin to committing suicide, and Gerris wasn't ready to die yet.
He began to pull at the door, and it creaked on its hinges as it swung towards him. The boy inside the chamber desperately opened his mouth, but all that came out was a hoarse coughing that sprayed blood down his chin. Geris stopped, indecisive.
"I'm sorry. I can't."
With a hollow click, the door closed, and the chamber was instantly plunged into darkness.
*******************
Ororo walked down the hallway, hands folded into her wide sleeves as usual. There was nobody about, since everyone was at lunch.
Well, nearly everyone. Actually, that was the reason behind her trip. She'd noticed the absence of three particular people, and - knowing where they were - gone to fetch them before sitting down herself.
The storerooms were on the second floor of the temple. Unfortunately, that meant traversing up three flights of spiral staircases to get there. As Ororo climbed breathlessly to the top of the third, she wondered why the architect who'd designed the temple had decided against normal *straight* staircases.
The particular room she was looking for was situated at the other end of the corridor, and, prompted by her rumbling stomach, Ororo hurried towards it.
She was mere feet away when a voice filtered through the closed door. Angry and indignant, she knew at once whom it belonged to.
"Nein, nein und wieder nein!"
"Aw, come on, Kurt."
"Ich besagtes nein! I'm not wearing it!"
"Like, why not?"
"It's pink!"
"Hey, you don't see me complaining."
"Or me."
"That's because you're both girls. You like pink. I don't. It clashes with my fur."
"Like anybody's gonna notice in this place."
"I'm still not wearing it."
"Please, Kurt. Pretty please."
"Nein, nein, nein! No way am I wearing pink, and that's final!"
Intrigued, Ororo pushed the door open and went in. She found Kitty and Jubilee, both now clad in identical temple robes, facing off against Kurt, who was perched atop a pile of discarded fabric in the corner. He still wore the white sheet from earlier, wrapped about his body like a toga. In Kitty's hands was another robe. All three teenagers looked up as she entered.
"What seems to be the problem in here?" she asked innocently.
All three of them exchanged guilty looks, and Kitty tried to hide the vivid garment behind her back.
"Problem? What problem?"
"There's nothing going on in here, Temple Mother."
Ororo folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Oh yes? Then why aren't you down at lunch?"
Jubilee's face fell. "Oh gods! Lunch! I forgot!"
"I'd noticed." Ororo gave a half-smile at having caught them out. "Now tell me - truthfully - what seems to be the problem in here?"
Kitty sighed. "Nothing much. Kurt just refuses to, like, wear this robe." She held it out in front of her. Ororo surveyed it. The fabric was old, but not too shabby, and the colour was vibrant enough.
"Why ever not, Kurt? Is there something wrong with it?"
Kurt's tail waved huffily behind him, sending up a cloud of dust from the clothes he was crouched upon. "Ja, definitiv! It's pink!"
Ororo took the robe from Kitty's hands and perused it. "It's magenta, actually. But I really don't see why that should be a problem."
"Are you kidding?" Kurt said incredulously. "It's *pink*! *Rosafarbene*!"
"And that's a problem for you?"
"Of course! I'm no *girl*! Only girls wear pink!"
"I'd like to see you tell Underling Crisp that. Or any other male member of the temple." Ororo looked at him, a mischievous light in her blue eyes. "You really don't want to wear it?"
"Really."
"All right then. Of course, you do realize that the alternative is to walk around with no clothes on at all."
"Perfect if you wanna, like, scare the natives," Kitty chipped in.
"Oh, ha ha." Kurt sat back on his haunches and folded his arms. "Very funny, Kätzchen. Whose side are you on, anyway?"
Jubilee giggled girlishly behind her hand. "Oh, I don't know about that, Kitty. I think Underling Tabitha would be very appreciative of Kurt walking around stark naked. *Very* appreciative."
Kitty sniggered in response, and - to all their surprises - so did Ororo.
Kurt straightened slightly at this, vague unease appearing behind his golden eyes. "You wouldn't."
Ororo didn't reply. Instead, she calmly laid the offending vestment on a nearby chair, beckoned at the two girls and made her way to the door.
"Come along, you two. We're already late as it is."
"Hey, wait a second! Bitte!" Kurt called after them. "You're not just going to leave me here, are you?"
By way of answer, Ororo half closed the door and reached out top the key resting in the lock beneath the handle. It was clear what she was intending.
"Hey!" In a trice, Kurt was off the pile of discarded clothing and bounding towards the door. However, it shut before he could get there, and he listened as the key was turned and removed.
Kurt simply stared. He couldn't believe it. They'd locked him in! How could they?
He frowned petulantly. It wasn't fair. It was *pink*! Why were they all having such trouble seeing his predicament? Peevishly he folded his arms, bottom lip jutting out slightly as it always did when he sulked.
"That's not fair," he muttered.
"I'm sorry, Kurt." Ororo's voice made him jump. He hadn't realized she was still there. A faint giggling told his sensitive ears that the two traitorous girls were also still outside. Ororo continued. "But I'm afraid I can't have you wandering around semi-dressed. It wouldn't be proper."
Kurt frowned, but then a thought came to him, and he grinned, revealing small white fangs.
"You know, it's pretty useless locking me up. I can just Bamf out of here any time I want to."
"And where would you go, Kurt? I know you must be hungry, but if you teleport to the Great Hall where lunch is being served, then undoubtedly you will run into Underling Tabitha, or one of her matching contemporaries. And if you go anywhere else then you'll be in much the same position as you are now - albeit without clothing so close to hand."
Kurt had no answer to this. So instead, he sank silently back onto his haunches. He had to admit, she had a point.
"Kurt, are you, like, still there?"
"Ja, I'm still here. Still hungry," Kurt replied inaudibly. Then morosely, he added, "Where else would I go?"
~Ach, Ororo's right. I need to eat soon or I'll pass out again. And a lot of good that'll do me when I'm locked in a store-cupboard!~
He cast a glance at the offending robe. It stared back at him placidly. Passive. Inert. And undeniably, unequivocally pink.
"Kurt?" Kitty again. But this time there was a slight edge to her tone. "Kurt, are you OK in there?"
Kurt pricked up his ears. Was that... *worry* that he heard?
~Hang on a second, wasn't she just telling me to put on the verdammt robe? How can she sound concerned about my welfare if I'm doing what she wanted me to do?~
"Kurt?" Scuffle, scuffle. "He's not saying anything. He *is* OK, isn't he?"
"I'm sure he's fine, Kitty." Jubilee's voice. "He's probably just sulking."
Kurt scowled. ~I am not!~ Then he paused, and reflected on what he was doing. A wry expression flitted across his furry face. ~Well, maybe just a little.~
"Or he's fainted! He does that when he hasn't had enough to eat, you know. Oh gods, he may be unconscious and we, like, wouldn't even know it..."
"Nein, Kätzchen. I'm still awake," Kurt called, rapping on the door for good measure. "Don't worry about me."
Scuffle, scuffle. "Kurt? Humph. Why would I worry about you? You're, like, totally making us late for lunch."
"Sorry, Kätzchen."
"What's your problem, anyway? Just put on the stupid robe so we can leave, already. Kurt, you *know* what happens to you if you don't get enough to eat. Please, Kurt. Just wear it. Please. For me? I don't wanna, like, see you get hurt or anything."
Sounds of Jubilee giggling.
"What?" Kitty asked, momentarily distracted. More giggling. Kitty 'humphed' again, and turned her somewhat bruised attention back to the closed door. "And besides, I'm *hungry* you selfish little elf! Get your fuzzy butt into gear so I can get some *food*!"
~But it's pink,~ Kurt though stubbornly. Yet his words were half-hearted. ~It's *pink*.~
"Kurt... please?"
At that moment, Kurt's reverie was swiftly broken by the sound and sensation of his stomach growling. Loudly.
Whether prompted by his dissatisfied digestive system, or the pathetic pleading in Kitty's voice remains to be seen. Perhaps it was a little bit of both - but the fact remains that Kurt decided, just this once, he would swallow his pride.
Still somewhat stiffly, he rose and paced across the room, grabbing the distasteful robe in one tridactyl hand and slipping it over his head in one fluid, effortlessly graceful movement. It was a simple one-piece, and in no time he'd tied the yellow belt around his middle and was back in front of the locked wooden door.
He raised his fist, intending to knock to let them know he was ready, but stopped. A mischievous smile creased his mouth, and he closed his eyes and concentrated hard on the corridor outside.
Kitty nearly jumped out of her skin when, with a puff of sulphurous smoke and imploding light, Kurt materialized behind her. As it was, she had been leaning with her ear pressed to the wood, listening to his progress on the other side. When he appeared with a cheerful "All done!" She jolted, banging the side of her head.
"Yowch! And about time too. I'm starving."
Kurt's midriff agreed with her profusely. All four of them smirked at this unintentional vocalization.
"It would seem that you agree, Kurt."
"Jawohl. Or at least, my stomach does."
Ororo laughed. A tinkling, musical sound. "Then we'd better get it some sustenance, hadn't we? Come along, all of you. If we hurry, we won't miss anything."
With various giggles and remonstrations, the party made their way to the end of the corridor, down the trio of spiral stairs and into the Great Hall without further mishap, Kurt's stomach and Kitty's mouth giving a running commentary every step of the way.
*******************
Ororo couldn't have known that she was incorrect when she thought that only three people were missing from lunch. The fourth didn't always eat with everyone else, sometimes preferring to eat alone in the Infirmary. Especially when she was working on the various potions and lotions kept on the shelves there, or else concocting some new and wonderful medicine. In such cases she always just grabbed something straight from the kitchens and hurried back to her work, not bothering with the idle conversations and table-talk of others.
This, however, was not one of those occasions.
Teah Ashari sat at her desk, quill busily moving across the sheet of parchment laid out in front of her. Every now and then she'd pause long enough to dip the huge feather into an ink well nearby, but other than that she laboured unrelentingly. Lines and lines of neat calligraphy appeared as if by magic, and soon she put aside the crammed sheet in favour of a fresh one.
Yet something caused her quill to stop. It hung, poised in the air above the blanched leaf. A droplet of black began to gather at the tip, growing bulbously until finally, it fell with a faint splatter onto the parchment. The subsequent mess went unnoticed, which was unusual since Teah was, by nature, a fastidiously neat and tidy person, who abhorred messiness and could often be found with a broom or some other such cleaning paraphernalia in her small hands.
Right now, though, her mind was preoccupied with something else. She stared off into space, mouth ajar as it always was when she was deep in contemplation.
For all her small size and immature appearance, Teah was probably one of the most mature and practical people in the whole temple. She didn't resent things being so, but rather viewed it as simply part of her Changeling state and consequently unalterable. The idea that she'd missed out on her childhood just didn't occur to her - or of it did, she dismissed it instantly as ridiculous.
Consequently, it bothered her when she was presented with a crisis she just couldn't resolve, or even understand. Her practical mind thrived on success and problem-solving, but in her current predicament she was, to put it bluntly, well and truly stumped.
Absently she chewed on the end of her quill, then realized what she was doing and hastily spat out the bits of masticated feather, adding to the untidiness already present on her worktop. Surveying the sticky disorder, and realizing she'd never be able to concentrate like this, Teah sighed and laid down the disfigured quill. She pushed back her chair and slid off the pile of cushions she was forced to sit on so that she could reach the desktop.
Teah's desk was located in the main body of the Infirmary instead of in a private room, so that she could better tend to her patients whenever they needed her. She'd arranged this herself specifically, and had yet to regret her decision. Sometimes, when the situation called for it, she also slept in here. The small girl was as dedicated to her patients as any elderly physician with all the experience of age. For Teah, everything came instinctively, like it had been stored inside her mind just waiting to be released when called upon.
At this particular time, however, only one bed was occupied. And it was on this resident that her distracted thoughts rested.
The little girl stood, arms typically folded, staring at The Rogue.
The Rogue.
She still couldn't believe it. The Rogue of the Guild of Assassins, here. When Ororo had dropped by and explained the girl's identity, Teah had been justifiably worried about the safety of the temple. She wasn't stupid by any stretch of the imagination, and had instantly pointed out the possibility of the hunters who would be tracking The Rogue coming here and wreaking bloody havoc. However, Ororo had just smiled in that knowing way she did and told the healer not to worry, and that everything would be fine. Somehow, when Ororo talked like that, one couldn't help but believe what she said, no matter how unreasonable the notion seemed when contemplated alone.
Now though, Teah reflected on their situation. Sheltering one such as The Rogue was a dangerous business. In all honesty, she couldn't understand why Ororo had done it. The Temple Mother wasn't usually one to put her 'children' at risk if she could help it.
She was keeping something from them. You didn't need to be a telepath to see that. Teah knew that Ororo possessed more knowledge than she shared. Jean knew something too. You could see in the furtive glances they cast each other every now and then - especially when talking to that demon boy and Changeling girl who'd come in with The Rogue.
The Rogue.
Teah looked at her. The teenage girl lay on her back, sheets pulled up to her chin until only her face was visible. Rivulets of cold sweat streaked across her pale skin and through her damp hair, and her eyebrows were knitted together in a permanent frown. She was shivering, a typical symptom of Shaking Sickness, and her breath came in short, rasping gasps that rattled loudly in her lungs.
Anyone who hadn't witnessed the illness before would have been shocked by these signs, but not Teah. Where others would have been repulsed by the stench of infection, Teah saw only a patient in need of her attention and assistance.
She supposed that was why the news of The Rogue's true identity hadn't bothered her as much as it should have. Had the girl been up and about, fit and able to wield a sword, then the healer might have been more concerned. As it was, all she viewed The Rogue as was a sick girl who required help just like any other person who came into her care. Just another patient.
Rogue groaned through her unconsciousness, and a bead of sweat ran into the corner of her eye. She didn't even acknowledge it. Her lips moved incessantly, as if she were talking to herself so softly that nobody else could hear. Teah knew better than to listen in on such mutterings. Shaking Sickness and other diseases that entailed unconsciousness were known for rendering victims delirious, and many erstwhile carefully guarded secrets had been accidentally spilled in such uninhibited moments.
She remembered once, when Underling Drake had knocked his head on a stone outside and been brought to her. He'd been out cold, and halfway through her reviving him he'd exclaimed loudly that he'd stolen a pot of honey from the kitchens that very morning and hidden in among the reeds of the pond. He'd been well and truly for it when he later realized what he'd admitted to, and had spent the next three days solid scrubbing blackened pots and pans in the kitchens as punishment, since the pot in question had sunk without trace.
Teah sighed. It was pitiful really. You could tell simply by looking at her physique that The Rogue was a great warrior. For one so strong to be reduced to this was disheartening for anyone to see - a reminder of one's own mortality, and the frailty of life.
Rogue groaned - a weak, pathetic scraping of breath - and tried to move her head. Immediately, Teah was at her side with a cool cloth in hand. She doused it in the bowl filled with icy water on the bedside table and laid it on the teenager's forehead. Rogue shivered again, but from the skin-to-skin contact, Teah felt that she was in actual fact burning up with fever.
As she got closer, the healer inadvertently heard the delirious mumblings issuing forth, no matter how much she tried to tune them out. Rogue's weak voice was almost hypnotic, coming in short bursts, and punctuated by very un-Rogue-like whimpering. Teah found herself listening despite berating herself to the contrary.
"Can't give... up. Gotta... must find... Where are... you...? Why.... why'd you le.... leave me...? ::whimper:: ... Alone... so alone.... ::whimper:: ... not my fault... not my *fault*! Why...? Pi... Piet..."
Teah pulled back, ashamed at herself for listening in on such obvious privacies. It was unprofessional, and she mentally slapped herself on the wrist for it. Whether thoughts, fantasies, or even memories, it was wrong of her to invade The Rogue's personal space that way.
But as she watched the pathetic girl, Teah's remonstrations of herself gave way to concern for her charge's welfare. For the umpteenth time she reminded herself that nobody had ever survived Shaking Sickness without a fully-juiced healer's help. She wished with all her practical heart that she could do what was necessary to save this one female, but could feel deep within her that her healing energy reserves were dangerously low. Fortunately, this didn't affect her everyday normal movements, since her healing strength came from quite a different cache of energy. However, if she were to attempt the process necessary for Rogue's continued existence then she knew she herself would most likely die, and there was a good chance that she would take The Rogue along with her.
No, Teah knew that if The Rogue were to get through this, then she would have to do it on her own. And somehow, this saddened her immensely. The chances of survival were infinitesimal, and she sighed dejectedly. Images of faces flashed across her mind, and what it would mean to them if The Rogue were to die. She folded her arms again, surveying the rapidly deteriorating state of her patient.
"I know there's little hope, my girl, but try to keep going. Try to hold on. Because if you don't, it'll truly destroy that demon boy's fragile mind. And I know that if you go, neither he, nor that girl will be long in joining you."
*******************
To Be Continued...
*******************
*TRANSLATIONS*
GERMANIC:
'Nein, nein und wieder nein!' ~ No, no and again, no!
'Ich besagtes nein!' ~ I'm not wearing it!
'Ja, definitive.' ~ Yes, definitely.
'Rosafarbene.' ~ The colour pink.
'Verdammt.' ~ Damn.