The Hanged Man and The Magician: Kyra.
Kyra had been dreaming of walking through a dripping woods, a one-eyed wolf padding at her side. Old trees creaked in the wind. She could hear voices murmuring. Bodies in the wind turning . . .
With a sick sense of anticipation she looked up. There were bodies hanging in the trees. Men she knew. Men she'd killed.
She placed a hand on one of the trees, felt its rough bark beneath her hands, some of it sticky with blood. Blood she had shed.
The wolf nuzzled her other hand with his nose. Absent mindedly, she stroked its head. It nuzzled harder. She looked down and gave it a good scratch as it arched its back in pleasure. Kept arching. Turned into a man -- a god -- of late middle age, hale and hearty, but with only one eye. She stepped back into the tree, warily. Another one of those dreams. Oh boy.
"Well met, Sun Maiden," rumbled a cynical voice from under the world.
She eyed him carefully. There was something about him that reminded her of Ra; something that reminded her of Riddick; something that reminded her of herself. But she did not know him. Careful respect seemed the best tact. "Well met, sir." Whatever the fuck that meant. "Are you the Emperor?"
He snorted. "Emperors are for the effetes down south. I have been a war leader. I have been a corpse on one of these trees." A blow of his walking stick sent the nearest one spinning. "You can call me the Wand Bearer. Better yet, the Allfather. Odin, when we get intimate. Come with me. I want to show you something."
He took her by the elbow, lead her through the small grove of men she had killed, into a larger forest of the dead.
"Each one of these men died for you," he said, almost wistfully, gesturing with his walking stick at a prodigious amount of corpses. "So much sacrifice. So much power. Many a god started out with less."
She shook her head. "I don't understand, Allfather."
He gave her a measuring look. "It's all about the blood, child. Blood is life. Blood is power. When blood is shed for you, you get some of that power. And someone shed a lot of blood for you. That presents us with an opportunity."
He guided her through the forest. The murmured voices became more distinct, though she still could not recognize words. But she did recognize one of the voices. Riddick. Not Riddick as the face of some mythic demon or hero, just him. God I miss him.
The other man could have been his brother. He was tossing a gold coin into the air and catching it absentmindedly.
"My son over there," the old man gestured, somewhat derisively, "thinks your boy can do it. Save the sun. Save the day. Put off the inevitable victory of the Ice Giants. That southern bitch thinks you're the key to getting him to do it.
"Me, I think they both too much faith in him. I don't think he has enough blood."
She shivered. "What do you mean, Allfather?"
He leaned against a tree. "You're not naïve any more, are you? You know that life and death struck a bargain with each other. 'First you eat me, then I eat you.' Life continually pouring down the maw of death; death constantly throwing life back out again. A continuous spiral, up and down. The dance of forms.
"But now a vast army has been raised by those who think they can repudiate the old bargain. They think they have found a loophole that will give them all eternal life."
Idly, with his staff, he started the near by corpses spinning again, a macabre dance of disintegration. "They are wrong. All they are doing is hastening Ragnarok."
She watched the corpses begin to shred under his steady assault. "Ragnarok?" she asked at last.
"The end. Where we loose."
"Who's we?"
"Life. Death. Time. Existence."
She swallowed. "But if we're going to loose, why fight?"
The old man fixed her with an old look. "Because we're on the right side."
"Just not the side that wins."
"Nope. But defeat is not refutation, child."
Through the trees, she watched the two men talk earnestly. The stranger looked more like Riddick that any person she'd ever seen, and was still tossing a slightly familiar golden disk from hand to hand. She wished she could hear them. She wished she was with them. The old god interrupted.
"But I don't think today's the beginning of the end. You've got a role to play, if you are willing and able . . . So, how about a little something on the side with me? I'll offer you a wager. Make it worth your while."
She was cautious. Remembering a young woman with the moon on her brow, tricked into relinquishing some of her light, dying for it every month. Remembering a goddess ushering her onto a boat, claiming she would be a hero. Remembering a hero leaving her on an island. Remembering that only the hero had offered her a choice, not the gods. At last she asked, "what are the stakes?"
"You are. I'll see to it that you get one good chance with one good spear to do what you were born to do. To kill the king. To be the conduit for power, like the Queen you were born to be. And if you kill the king, I'll see to it that you and your boy live happily ever after.
"You fail, I get your death, fattened by all the men who have died for you."
She gazed into his one eye, decided to do it.
A soft golden light filled the grove, and it was good. But someone woke her up before she could tell the god she'd take his bet. Someone in her room. Then he was pinning her down.
Key SixThe adrenaline scent of Kyra's fear and fury hit Riddick a drug. Intoxicating. He was tempted to frighten her more, just to smell her reaction again. But as the reality of her presence sunk into his nerve endings, the desire drained away.
He leaned over, carefully, breathed into her ear. "Shhhh?" She swallowed, convulsively. He could feel it through his body. She nodded. He released her hands, pulled back slightly. Their eyes locked.
Mercury eyes. Mercury guides souls from one place to another, she thought, incongruously. No, not so incongruously. With a shuddering exhalation, she broke his gaze and buried her face against his chest, hugging him hard, convulsing slightly.
Riddick couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. He wrapped his arms around her, cautiously. She finally broke it off, looked back up at him with tears in her eyes. "I missed you," she gasped, as softly as she could. "I almost forgot you were real." Her hands ran over his bare scalp, wonderingly.
Seemed innocent enough, but he found himself reacting. Not the right time to figure that out. He pulled her hands away, gently. "So . . . You killin' people now?" he asked, softly.
"Not recreationally," she whispered. At his look, she shot back, a little louder, "what, you feel threatened by that?"
A feral smile. More familiar territory. "Been a while since I played who's the better killer." His eyes played over the bruises on her throat, fascinated. Suddenly aware of their position, she blushed.
He felt that blush, and smiled down at her again in a way that transported her to a dream of a boat, a river of stars, breath and hands on her throat . . . . to what Toombs had said, just hours ago; "You better hope he never gets it in his head to think of you all grown up-like." She shook her head, tried to banish the queer cramping inside. "Okay. I promise I won't hurt you. You can let me up now."
His lips twitched. He slowly complied, lifting himself off of her carefully. She sat up, rested her head against his chest for an instant. He found himself putting an arm around her, pulling her close. It felt almost too natural. His other hand stroked down her right arm until he had her wrist. He turned it over, examining the lingering evidence of deep bruises. Touched her neck with feather light fingers. "Who?"
She pulled away. "That's why you are back? To avenge my honor?" Even she was surprised at the bitterness in her voice. He looked at her, with nothing but blackness behind those silver eyes. She shook her head. "Long gone. But you have to go. They are after you. They figured out --" her words choked off.
But he knew. At least, he was figuring it out. Why she had those bruises. What he had to do with them. He took a deep breath, made the decision he had barely known was looming. "Come with me."
"Thought you'd never ask,"she started to say. But the words didn't make it out of her mouth.
He's every temptation I've ever had and he will take me into the dark places. If I don't go with him, I break my word to a vengeful goddess, and she'll fling me back into that nightmare. Where he'll supposedly come to rescue me. I can't stand that. Shit.
He was waiting for an answer. She stalled."You asking or telling?"
He froze for an instant. Damn. What sort of man does she think I am? Oh yeah, escaped convict, murderer, who has taken an inexplicable liking to her. Maybe not the time to disappoint her expectations. He smiled, low and slow, pulled her close again. He purred into her ear, "whatever you want . . ."
She flinched. Was he being purposefully ambiguous? Was he that smart? She almost wished he was telling, that he would scoop her up, take her into the darkness. Then it would not be her fault, what she would become. He would probably be willing to take on that moral responsibility. . .
No. Enlightenment hero, what-the-fuck ever. But she wasn't going to shirk this decision. One good chance with one good spear to kill someone who needed killing, and she'd live happily ever after with her very own monster. If the old god was not blowing smoke. Damn.
She made herself gaze into his eyes. Nodded.
"Good girl," he rumbled, lips too close to her neck. Maybe next time, Set whispered in her memory. She shivered.
He noticed. Normally, fear was pleasing, but hers was beginning to taste bad. At least it was just flashes; hopefully, it would fade quickly. He decided to take charge, see what happened. "Get dressed. Wear something dark. Pack what you need for a few days; I'll get you anything you want next planet fall." He fought the urge to gather her up in his arms, carry her out of here.
She looked at him strangely, still. "Couple things we've gotta get straight right up," she said into his ear.
"I've missed you more than words can tell. I love – I'd love to hang out for a while. But," and she hesitated a long moment "but I don't want you to tell me what to do, and I don't want to play into any rescue fantasies."
Who's fantasizing, he almost said. That's our thing. You get in trouble, I yank you out. Kill a few people on the way. Good times. But hestopped himself.
She'd obviously worked her ass off becoming a fighter. He'd been bigger at eleven than she was now. Could he have done then what she'd done tonight? Or two years ago? He was not sanguine he could have.
She did not want to be rescued. Because she did not want to be the type of person who needed rescue. He could respect that. Though the bruises on her neck said it was pretty stupid.
He decided not to say any of that out loud. Just shrugged. "I can live with that."
She rewarded him with a brilliant, if sardonic, smile, moved to the closet, started pulling out clothes in the darkness. She glanced back at him and something strange shadowed her face before she retreated into the bathroom to change.
He laid back into the narcotic warmth she had left in the bed. Let himself realize how badly he'd missed that warmth.
She left the Imam a loving, short, and cryptic message. She hoped he'd understand, but if everyone, including him, thought it was a suicide note, there were advantages. The fact she'd taken her computer might give him a hint, she thought. They climbed down the tree to the ground, and were quickly swallowed by the darkness.